History: It's Where You Find It

Happy New Year, Nineteen Teen readers! I hope 2016 will be all that you hope for!

There’s one thing Regina and I are hoping for this year here at NineteenTeen —to hear from you! If you have a topic or question about an aspect of history, then please, let us know! We’ve been doing this for over eight years, which says something—that history is a beautiful, rich subject to be explored! But even crazy blogging history geeks like us can use a little help now and then when it comes to topics to discuss, so talk to us!

Inspiration for this blog can truly come from unexpected places. Last fall I was at a concert given by the Handel and Haydn Society, and as always read through the program because it often includes terrific historical background items in with the composer biographies and musical commentary. In a regular feature of interesting bits of history from the Society archives, I found something very interesting indeed: for ten years, the organist of the Society was a young woman who, when she started, could not have legally bought a beer in present-day Boston.

Sophia Hewitt, born in New York in 1799, came of a musical family—her father was a conductor and composer, and all her siblings were either composers, teachers, or performers—and was a very talented pianist and organist. The family moved to Boston some time during her childhood, and so talented was young Sophia that the newly formed Handel and Haydn Society invited her to become its organist in 1818, when she was just 18. She declined the offer, but the Society was persistent and renewed the offer two years later, and this time she accepted.

The post of organist was an important one—it was her job to lead rehearsals and serve as de facto conductor. The orchestra was very happy with Miss Hewitt (or, as she became upon her marriage a few years later to the first violinist, Mrs. Ostinelli) and she served for ten years, through the birth of her only child Eliza (who went on to become one of the great operatic voices of 19^th century America). In 1830, when the president of the Society wished to replace her with a new (male) organist, all thirty-eight male members of the Society--the females were not allowed to vote--petitioned to keep Sophia in her position. They were overruled.

Sophia continued to have a busy musical career across New England, teaching and performing, until her early death in 1845. But I just think it’s pretty awesome that in 1820, such a young woman was regarded with such professional respect.

Run across any interesting bits of history lately that you'd like to share?

In Which I Natter on for a Bit about Writing

This past Sunday I was happy to attend the annual performance of Handel’s Messiah by the Handel & Haydn Society of Boston. My DH and I been doing this long enough to get to know some of the returning soloists, and I was pleased that this year’s tenor soloist was James Gilchrist, whom we first heard in the Messiah a few years back. I love his voice; it has a mobile, conversational tone of great sweetness—and I don’t mean icky saccharine sweetness, but a gentle strength that conveys emotion beautifully. And his phrasing and enunciation are perfect—his every word is audible, and never gets lost. That’s a hallmark of the H&H Society’s choir as well—their diction is never, ever muddy, but always crystal clear. That clarity—that precision—makes for an amazing listening experience.

So I spent a very happy two-and-a-half hours on Sunday afternoon, listening to an exquisitely sung performance...and it got me thinking about writing (because hey, in my world, everything leads back to that.) Earlier this fall I had the privilege of getting a critique from a brilliant editor of the first twenty pages of a work in progress, and it made an enormous impression on me—enough that I’m re-editing the rest of the book based on her feedback. Her suggestion? Stripping away anything—unnecessary narrative or dialogue, too much explanation, down to one too many words in a sentence—that might get in the way of each moment when telling a story. In other words, precision and clarity.

And sitting there listening to the crystalline singing in that darkened hall, I itched for my computer so I could chip away at the extraneous matter in my stories, and achieve that same crystalline quality. And was delighted that listening to music in a dim concert hall could inform putting words on a page. Clarity. Precision. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my edits. ☺

Hallelujah!

A few weeks ago I got to do something I’ve always wanted to do: attend a live performance of Handel’s Messiah, performed by Boston’s famed Handel and Haydn Society in Symphony Hall. I was so not disappointed: it was gorgeous, moving, and a total, total delight!

But being the history geek I am, I was almost as struck by the fascinating history of this piece of music. For one thing, this year marked the Society’s 158th annual performance; since 1854 it’s been a part of Christmas in Boston...that's a lot of performances! The Handel and Haydn Society also gave the first American performances of Messiah, with selections performed at its very first concert in December 1815 and the oratorio performed in its entirety in 1818.

The story of Messiah is equally interesting. George Frederick Handel wrote the music for it in just 24 days, after being sent the libretto by his friend and previous collaborator, Charles Jennens. It premiered in Dublin in 1742, and so anticipated was the concert that an ad in one of the city’s newspapers requested that ladies planning on attending the concert not wear hoops, so that more seating could be fit into the concert hall!

Though the London debut was not greeted with as much enthusiasm, within a few years it had achieved the status it now occupies in vocal music. Early on, many objected to an oratorio which contained passages from the Bible being performed in secular playhouses by professional singers, who were regarded along with actors and dancers as being of suspect morality; amusingly, one alto so moved a concert-goer that he shouted, "For this thy sins be forgiven!" after her solo.

There is also a story that the tradition of audiences standing during the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus dates to a performance given for King George II, who was so moved by it that he sprang to his feet (or maybe he’d just dozed off and was startled by the chorus’ exuberant opening). Of course, if the King was standing, everyone else had to stand too, and thus was a tradition born…except that there are no contemporary accounts confirming this story, and the first mentions of audiences standing date from the 1780s. Nevertheless, it’s a fun story!

I’m sure many of you have seen this before, but it seems an appropriate way to end this post. I hope you enjoy this brief musical interlude in the midst of this busy pre-Christmas week!


　
P.S. To follow up on Regina's reminder about our beloved Miss Austen’s birthday, check this out: has a new portrait of the author been discovered? http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-16027710