But Handel had other associates, and we must now visit Thomas Britton, the musical coal-heaver.  “There goes the famous small-coal man, a lover of learning, a musician, and a companion of gentlemen.”  So the folks used to say as Thomas Britton, the coal-heaver of Clerkenwell Green, paced up and down the neighboring streets with his sack of small coal on his back, destined for one of his customers.  Britton was great among the great.  He was courted by the most fashionable folk of his day.  He was a cultivated coal-heaver, who, besides his musical taste and ability, possessed an extensive knowledge of chemistry and the occult sciences.

Britton did more than this.  He gave concerts in Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell, where this singular man had formed a dwelling-house, with a concert-room and a coal-store, out of what was originally a stable.  On the ground-floor was the small-coal repository, and over that the concert-room—­very long and narrow, badly lighted, and with a ceiling so low that a tall man could scarcely stand upright in it.  The stairs to this room were far from pleasant to ascend, and the following facetious lines by Ward, the author of the “London Spy,” confirm this: 

     “Upon Thursdays repair
     To my palace, and there
     Hobble up stair by stair
     But I pray ye take care
     That you break not your shins by a stumble;

     “And without e’er a souse
     Paid to me or my spouse,
     Sit as still as a mouse
     At the top of the house,
     And there you shall hear how we fumble.”

Nevertheless beautiful duchesses and the best society in town flocked to Britton’s on Thursdays—­not to order coals, but to sit out his concerts.

Let us follow the short, stout little man on a concert-day.  The customers are all served, or as many as can be.  The coal-shed is made tidy and swept up, and the coal-heaver awaits his company.  There he stands at the door of his stable, dressed in his blue blouse, dustman’s hat, and maroon kerchief tightly fastened round his neck.  The concert-room is almost full, and, pipe in hand, Britton awaits a new visitor--the beautiful Duchess of B------.  She is somewhat late (the coachman, possibly, is not quite at home in the neighborhood).

Here comes a carriage, which stops at the coal-shop; and, laying down his pipe, the coal-heaver assists her grace to alight, and in the genteelest manner escorts her to the narrow staircase leading to the music-room.  Forgetting Ward’s advice, she trips laughingly and carelessly up the stairs to the room, from which proceed faint sounds of music, increasing to quite an olla podri-da of sound as the apartment is reached—­for the musicians are tuning up.  The beautiful duchess is soon recognized, and as soon in deep gossip with her friends.  But who is that gentlemanly man leaning over the chamber-organ?  That is Sir Roger L’Estrange, an admirable performer on the violoncello, and a great lover of music.  He is watching the subtile fingering of Mr. Handel, as his dimpled hands drift leisurely and marvelously over the keys of the instrument.