Hogarth replied with vivacity—“You have been eight-and-twenty years in England; have you not yet found out that the patronage of a stupid great man does no harm to a work of art? You know me, Händel; and know that I abhor nothing so much as servility, be it to whom it may. Yet, I assure you, should I deal only with those who understand my labors, and have no good word from others, I should be glad if I obtained employment enough to keep wife and child from starving. As to luxuries, and my punch clubs, that have pleased you so well, I could not even think of them. You know as well as I, that talent, a true taste for art, and wealth to support both, are seldom or never found together. Let us thank God, if the unendowed are good-natured enough not to grudge us our glorious inheritance, while they deny us not a portion of the crumbs from their luxurious tables.”
Händel was leaning with both arms on the table, his head buried in his hands. Without looking up or changing his position, he murmured, “Must it ever be so; must the time never come, when the artist may taste the pure joy he prepares through his works for others! Hogarth,” he continued, with sudden energy, while he withdrew his hands from his face, and looked earnestly at his friend, “Hogarth, would you consent to leave your country, and exercise your art in other lands?”
“What a question! Not for the world,” replied the painter.
“There it is!” cried Händel, hastily: “you have held out, and begin now to reap the reward of your constancy; but I left my dear fatherland, just as new life in art began to be stirring. Oh, how nobly, how magnificently, is it now developed there! What could I not have done with the gifts bestowed upon me? Have my countrymen achieved any thing great—they have done it without me, while I was here, tormenting myself in vain with your asses of singers and musicians, to drive a notion of what music is, into their heads. I have scarce yet numbered fifty years. I will return to my own country; better a cowherd there, than here again Director of the Haymarket Theatre, or Chapel-master to His Majesty, who, with all his court rabble, takes such delight in the sweet warblings of that Italian! Hogarth, you should paint the lambling, as the London women worship him as their idol, and bring him offerings?”
“I have already,” answered Hogarth, laughing; “but hush, our friends!”
Here the door opened, and there entered Master Tyers, then lessee of Vauxhall, the Abbe Dubos, and Doctor Benjamin Hualdy; they were followed by Joseph Wach, a young German, who had devoted himself to the study of music under Händel’s instruction, and Miss Ellen Farren, the young lady of the house. Master John arose; and Tom filled the empty porter mugs, and produced fresh ones.
Händel gave his pupil a friendly nod, and asked: “How come you on with your part? Can I hear you soon?”
“I am very industrious, Master Händel,” replied Joseph, “and will do my best, I assure you, to be perfect. You must only have a little patience with me.”
“Hem,” muttered Händel; “I have had it so long with the stupid asses in this country, it shall not so soon fail with you. Enough till to-morrow; to your prating with your little girl yonder.”
“Ah! Master Händel,” cried Ellen, pouting prettily, “you think, then, Joseph should only be my sweet-heart when he has nothing better to do?”