THE BATTLE OF THE ORGANS.

Sir Thomas More and Lord Bacon—the two most illustrious laymen who have held the Great Seal of England—were notable musicians; and many subsequent Keepers and Chancellors are scarcely less famous for love of harmonious sounds than for judicial efficiency. Lord Keeper Guildford was a musical amateur, and notwithstanding his low esteem of literature condescended to write about melody. Lord Jeffreys was a good after-dinner vocalist, and was esteemed a high authority on questions concerning instrumental performance. Lord Camden was an operatic composer; and Lord Thurlow studied thorough-bass, in order that he might direct the musical exercises of his children.

In moments of depression More's favorite solace was the viol; and so greatly did he value musical accomplishments in women, that he not only instructed his first and girlish wife to play on various instruments, but even prevailed on the sour Mistress Alice Middleton "to take lessons on the lute, the cithara, the viol, the monochord, and the flute, which she daily practised to him." But More's love of music was expressed still more forcibly in the zeal with which he encouraged and took part in the choral services of Chelsea Church. Throughout his residence at Chelsea, Sir Thomas was a regular attendant at the church, and during his tenure of the seals he not only delighted to chant the appointed psalms, but used to don a white surplice, and take his place among the choristers. Having invited the Duke of Norfolk to dine with him, the Chancellor prepared himself for the enjoyment of that great peer's society by attending divine service, and he was still occupied with his religious exercises when his Grace of Norfolk entered the church, and to his inexpressible astonishment saw the keeper of the king's conscience in the flowing raiment of a chorister, and heard him give "Glory to God in the highest!" as though he were a hired singer. "God's body! God's body! My Lord Chancellor a parish clerk?—a parish clerk?" was the duke's testy expostulation with the Chancellor. Whereupon More, with gentle gravity, answered, "Nay; your grace may not think that the king—your master and mine—will with me, for serving his Master, be offended, and thereby account his office dishonored." Not only was it More's custom to sing in the church choir, but he used also to bear a cross in religious processions; and on being urged to mount horse when he followed the rood in Rogation week round the parish boundaries, he answered, "It beseemeth not the servant to follow his master prancing on a cock-horse, his master going on foot." Few incidents in Sir Thomas More's remarkable career point more forcibly to the vast difference between the social manners of the sixteenth century and those of the present day. If Lord Chelmsford were to recreate himself with leading the choristers in Margaret Street, and after service were seen walking homewards in an ecclesiastical dress, it is more than probable that public opinion would declare him a fit companion for the lunatics of whose interests he has been made the official guardian. Society felt some surprise as well as gratification when Sir Roundell Palmer recently published his 'Book of Praise;' but if the Attorney General, instead of printing his select hymns had seen fit to exemplify their beauties with his own voice from the stall of a church-singer, the piety of his conduct would have scarcely reconciled Lord Palmerston to its dangerous eccentricity.

Amongst Elizabethan lawyers, Chief Justice Dyer was by no means singular for his love of music, though Whetstone's lines have given exceptional celebrity to his melodious proficiency:—

"For publique good, when care had cloid his minde,
The only joye, for to repose his sprights,
Was musique sweet, which showd him well inclind;
For he doth in musique much delight,
A conscience hath disposed to do most right:
The reason is, her sound within our eare,
A sympathie of heaven we thinke we heare."

Like James Dyer, Francis Bacon found music a pleasant and salutary pastime, when he was fatigued by the noisy contentions of legal practice or by strenuous application to philosophic pursuits. A perfect master of the science of melody, Lord Bacon explained its laws with a clearness which has satisfied competent judges that he was familiar with the practice as well as the theories of harmony; but few passages of his works display more agreeably his personal delight and satisfaction in musical exercise and investigation than that section of the 'Natural History,' wherein he says, "And besides I practice as I do advise; which is, after long inquiry of things immersed in matter, to interpose some subject which is immateriate or less materiate; such as this of sounds: to the end that the intellect may be rectified and become not partial."

A theorist as well as performer, the Lord Keeper Guilford enunciated his views regarding the principles of melody in 'A Philosophical Essay of Musick, Directed to a Friend'—a treatise that was published without the author's name, by Martin, the printer to the Royal Society, in the year 1677, at which time the future keeper was Chief Justice of the Common Pleas. The merits of the tract are not great; but it displays the subtlety and whimsical quaintness of the musical lawyer, who performed on several instruments, was very vain of a feeble voice, and used to attribute much of his professional success to the constant study of music that marked every period of his life. "I have heard him say," Roger records, "that if he had not enabled himself by these studies, and particular his practice of music upon his bass or lyra viol (which he used to touch lute-fashion upon his knee), to divert himself alone, he had never been a lawyer. His mind was so airy and volatile he could not have kept his chamber if he must needs be there, staked down purely to the drudgery of the law, whether in study or practice; and yet upon such a leaden proposition, so painful to brisk spirits, all the success of the profession, regularly pursued, depends." His first acquaintance with melodious art was made at Cambridge, where in his undergraduate days he took lessons on the viol. At this same period he "had the opportunity of practice so much in his grandfather's and father's families, where the entertainment of music in full concert was solemn and frequent, that he outdid all his teachers, and became one of the neatest violinists of his time." Scarcely in consistence with this declaration of the Lord Keeper's proficiency on the violin is a later passage of the biography, where Roger says that his brother "attempted the violin, being ambitious of the prime part in concert, but soon found that he began such a difficult art too late." It is, however, certain that the eminent lawyer in the busiest passages of his laborious life found time for musical practice, and that besides his essay on music, he contributed to his favorite art several compositions which were performed in private concert-rooms.

Sharing in the musical tastes of his family, Roger North, the biographer, was the friend who used to touch the harpsichord that stood at the door of the Lord Keeper's bedchamber; and when political changes had extinguished his hopes of preferment, he found consolation in music and literature. Retiring to his seat in Norfolk, Roger fitted up a concert-room with instruments that roused the astonishment of country squires, and an organ that was extolled by critical professors for the sweetness of its tones. In that seclusion, where he lived to extreme old age, the lettered lawyer composed the greater part of those writings which have rendered him familiar to the present generation. Of his 'Memoirs of Musick,' readers are not accustomed to speak so gratefully as of his biographies; but the curious sketch which Dr. Rimbault edited and for the first time published in 1846, is worthy of perusal, and will maintain a place on the shelves of literary collectors by the side of his brother's 'Essay.'

In that treatise Roger alludes to a contest which in the reigns of Charles II. and James II. agitated the musicians of London, divided the Templars into two hostile parties, and for a considerable time gave rise to quarrels in every quarter of the town. All this disturbance resulted from "a competition for an organ in the Temple church, for which the two competitors, the best artists in Europe, Smith and Harris, were but just not ruined." The struggle thus mentioned in the 'Memoirs of Musick' is so comic an episode in the story of London life, and has been the occasion of so much error amongst writers, that it claims brief restatement in the present chapter.

In February, 1682, the Benchers of the Temples, wishing to obtain for their church an organ of superlative excellence, invited Father Smith and Renatus Harris to compete for the honor of supplying the instrument. The masters of the benchers pledged themselves that "if each of these excellent artists would set up an organ in one of the halls belonging to either of the societies, they would have erected in their church that which, in the greatest number of excellencies, deserved the preference." For more than twenty years Father Smith had been the first organ-builder in England; and the admirable qualities of his instruments testify to his singular ability. A German artist (in his native country called Bernard Schmidt, but in London known as Father Smith), he had established himself in the English capital as early as the summer of 1660; and gaining the cordial patronage of Charles II., he and his two grand-nephews soon became leaders of their craft. Father Smith built organs for Westminster Abbey, for the Church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, for St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, for Durham Cathedral, and for other sacred buildings. In St. Paul's Cathedral he placed the organ which Wren disdainfully designated a "box of whistles;" and dying in 1708, he left his son-in-law, Christopher Schreider, to complete the organ which still stands in the chapel of Trinity College, Cambridge. But notwithstanding his greatness, Father Smith had rivals; his first rival being Harris the Elder, who died in 1672, his second being Renatus Harris, or Harris the Younger. The elder Harris never caused Smith much discomfort; but his son, Renatus, was a very clever fellow, and a strong party of fashionable connoisseurs declared that he was greatly superior to the German. Such was the position of these two rivals when the benchers made their proposal, which was eagerly accepted by the artificers, each of whom saw in it an opportunity for covering his antagonist with humiliation.

The men went to work: and within fourteen months their instruments were ready for competition. Smith finished work before Harris, and prevailed on the benchers to let him place his organ in the Temple church, well knowing that the powers of the instrument could be much more readily and effectively displayed in the church than in either of the dining-halls. The exact site where he fixed his organ is unknown, but the careful author of 'A Few Notes on the Temple Organ, 1859,' is of opinion that it was put up "on the screen between the round and oblong churches—the position occupied by the organ until the present organ-chamber was built, and the organ removed there during the progress of the complete restoration of the church in the year 1843." No sooner had Harris finished his organ, than, following Father Smith's example, he asked leave of the benchers to erect it within the church. Harris's petition to this effect bears date May 26, 1684; and soon afterwards the organ was "set up in the Church on the south side of the Communion Table."

Both organs being thus stationed under the roof of the church, the committee of benchers appointed to decide on their relative merits declared themselves ready to listen. The trial began, but many months—ay, some years—elapsed ere it came to an end. On either side the credit of the manufacturer was sustained by execution of the highest order of art. Father Smith's organ was handled alternately by Purcell and Dr. Blow; and Draghi, the queen's organist, did his best to secure a verdict for Renatus Harris. Of course the employment of these eminent musicians greatly increased the number of persons who felt personal interest in the contest. Whilst the pupils and admirers of Purcell and Blow were loud in declaring that Smith's organ ought to win, Draghi's friends were equally sure that the organ touched by his expert fingers ought not to lose. Discussion soon became violent; and in every profession, clique, coterie of the town, supporters of Smith wrangled with supporters of Harris. Like the battle of the Gauges in our time, the battle of the Organs was the grand topic with every class of society, at Court and on 'Change, in coffee-houses and at ordinaries. Again and again the organs were tested in the hearing of dense and fashionable congregations; and as often the judicial committee was unable to come to a decision. The hesitation of the judges put oil upon the fire; for Smith's friends, indignant at the delay, asserted that certain members of the committee were bound to Harris by corrupt considerations—an accusation that was retorted by the other side with equal warmth and want of justice.

After the squabble had been protracted through many months, Harris created a diversion by challenging Father Smith to make additional reed-stops within a given time. The challenge was accepted; and forthwith the Father went to work and made Vox Humana, Cremorne, Double Courtel, or Double Bassoon, and other stops. A day was appointed for the renewal of the contest; but party feeling ran so high, that during the night preceding the appointed day a party of hot-headed Harrissians broke into the Temple Church, and cut Smith's bellows—so that on the following morning his organ was of no more service than an old linen-press. A row ensued; and in the ardor of debate swords were drawn.

In June, 1685, the benchers of the Middle Temple, made a written declaration in favor of Father Smith, and urged that his organ should be forthwith accepted. Strongly and rather discourteously worded, this declaration gave offence to the benchers of the Inner Temple, who regarded it as an attempt at dictation; and on June 22, 1685, they recommended the appointment of another committee with powers to decide the contest. Declining to adopt this suggestion, the Middle Temple benchers reiterated their high opinion of Smith's instrument. On this the Battle of the Organs became a squabble between the two Temples; and the outside public, laughing over the quarrel of the lawyers, expressed a hope that honest men would get their own since the rogues had fallen out.

At length, when the organ-builders had well-nigh ruined each other, and the town had grown weary of the dispute, the Inner Temple yielded somewhere about the beginning of 1688—at an early date of which year Smith received a sum of money in part payment for his organ. On May 27th of the same year, Mr. Pigott was appointed organist. After its rejection by the Temple, Renatus Harris divided his organ into two, and having sent the one part to the cathedral of Christ's Church, Dublin, he set up the other part in the church of St. Andrew, Holborn. Three years after his disappointment, Renatus Harris was tried at the Old Bailey for a political offence, the nature of which may be seen from the following entry in Narcissus Luttrell's Diary:—"April, 1691. The Sessions have been at the Old Bailey, where these persons, Renatus Harris, John Watts, William Rutland, Henry Gandy, and Thomas Tysoe, were tried at the Old Bailey for setting up policies of insurance that Dublin would be in the hands of some other king than their present majesties by Christmas next: the jury found them guilty of a misdemeanor." For this offence Renatus Harris was fined £200, and was required to give security for his good conduct until Christmas.

An erroneous tradition assigns to Lord Jeffreys the honor of bringing the Battle of the Organs to a conclusion, and writers improving upon this tradition, have represented that Jeffreys acted as sole umpire between the contendants. In his 'History of Music,' Dr. Burney, to whom the prevalence of this false impression is mainly due, observes—"At length the decision was left to Lord Chief Justice Jeffries, afterwards King James the Second's pliant Chancellor, who was of that society (the Inner Temple), and he terminated the controversy in favor of Father Smith; so that Harris's organ was taken away without loss of reputation, having so long pleased and puzzled better judges than Jefferies."

Careful inquirers have ascertained that Harris's organ did not go to Wolverhampton, but to Dublin and St. Andrew's Holborn, part of it being sent to the one, and part to the other place. It is certain that Jeffrys was not chosen to act as umpire in 1681, for the benchers did not make their original proposal to the rival builders until February, 1682; and years passed between that date and the termination of the squabble. When Burney wrote:—"At length the decision was left to Lord Chief Justice Jefferies, afterwards King James II.'s pliant Chancellor," the musician was unaware that the squabble was still at white heat whilst Jeffreys occupied the woolsack. On his return from the Western Campaign, Jeffreys received the seals in September, 1685, whereas the dispute about the organs did not terminate till the opening of 1688, or at earliest till the close of 1687. There is no authentic record in the archives of the Temples which supports, or in any way countenances, the story that Jeffreys made choice of Smith's instrument; but it is highly probable that the Lord Chancellor exerted his influence with the Inner Temple (of which society he was a member), and induced the benchers, for the sake of peace, to yield to the wishes of the Middle Temple. It is no less probable that his fine musical taste enabled him to see that the Middle Temple benchers were in the right, and gave especial weight to his words when he spoke against Harris's instrument.

Though Jeffreys delighted in music, he does not seem to have held its professors in high esteem. In the time of Charles II. musical artists of the humbler grades liked to be styled 'musitioners;' and on a certain occasion, when he was sitting as Recorder for the City of London, George Jeffreys was greatly incensed by a witness who, in a pompous voice, called himself a musitioner. With a sneer the Recorder interposed—"A musitioner! I thought you were a fiddler!" "I am a musitioner," the violinist answered, stoutly. "Oh, indeed," croaked Jeffreys. "That is very important—highly important—extremely important! And pray, Mr. Witness, what is the difference between a musitioner and a fiddler?" With fortunate readiness the man answered, "As much, sir, as there is between a pair of bag-pipes and a Recorder."