time after time in the later days of Handel. Mrs Delany wrote of it: "Saul-one of my beloved pieces." And in the fullness of time the oratorio found a constant public long after other works of Handel, which had been highly successful when produced, such as Radamisto, were forgotten.

The reception of Saul disappointed Handel, whose financial position was not in a state to stand failure, and, if he did not lose much money over the work, he certainly did not make any. The reception of Israel in Egypt, which immediately followed, was even more heartbreaking. The public dismissed it as unwanted, from the first performance. A few lone critics acclaimed it, but the boxes remained empty. Handel, in a fit of desperation, lost his nerve to some extent. After its cold reception at the first performance he began to pull the work about; he introduced secular airs from his Italian operas without reason. Still the public failed to respond. It did not understand. The oratorio was withdrawn, a failure, before April was out.

Yet in Israel in Egypt Handel produced some of the greatest pictures of natural happening that he ever achieved. His choruses and double choruses were directly designed to attain this result. In the double chorus "And there came all manner of flies and lice in all their quarters," there is to be found, clear and unmistakable, from the instruments, the buzzing of flies. Much of this effect which Handel prepared with such success, has been lost in later years by the predominance of the singers over the orchestra in point of numbers. In 1739 Handel had on an average from twenty-five to thirty-five singers in his chorus, and precisely the same number in his orchestra. Thus the voices and the instruments had an even balance, which enabled him to get the effects required from each, at their appointed time. But, as the years moved past, it became customary to sacrifice the beauty of his instrumental music to big effects in the double choruses. The numbers of the singers grew till, in their preponderance, they drowned all orchestration. Thus, at the Westminster Abbey celebration in 1784, the chorus had grown from the 25 to 35 of Handel's day, to 275, and the orchestra to 250. But at a recent Handel Festival, the chorus had swollen to

Handel's Nature-Effects

3500, and the orchestra, being only 500 strong, was hopeless to cope with such a volume of sound, so that much of the beauty of Handel's instrumental work was only heard in the solos. This defect is always noticeable in Israel in Egypt, for with such a volume of singers, swept to all energy by the ecstasy of Handel's conception, it is almost impossible to hear the buzzing of the flies which the composer so expressly designed for the instruments, in order to get his dramatic picture.

Israel in Egypt teems with such imitations of nature, impressive in their realism. "He gave them hailstones," is one of the greatest replicas of storm in the history of music. In "He sent a thick darkness," is all the heaviness of profound and pressing night, and again in " He led them through the deep one hears the rolling of great waters. Yet so lacking was the imagination of the time that this complete mastery of the effects obtainable in music passed unperceived. Save for a single performance the year following, Handel did not put Israel in Egypt on again for seventeen years.

John Beard was the only person who really profited by Israel in Egypt. He was now Handel's principal male singer, and the master had written several of the best songs in the work specially for him. Moreover, the day of castrati was passing, and this oratorio really brought Beard into his own. At that time he had a rapidly-growing popularity, and he had completely taken the place of the Italian singers in the public favour. "Beard did more justice to sense than any of our performers," wrote Horace Walpole to a friend at a later period, for though he laid a stress on every syllable, yet at least the audience, such as were capable, could suppose the right accents." He had also a remarkable knowledge of music, for there was little else that had ever interested him in life save singing. He could sing any song at sight, and in a voice more powerful than sweet."

1

It so happened that when these two oratorios were passing through their brief and troubled lives, Beard was one of the most widely discussed men in London, owing to his domestic

1 Pohl, "Mozart und Haydn in London."
2 Rees, "Encyclopædia.'

affairs. Society execrated him, for he had committed a wanton act against all its proprieties. A few months previously he had married a young Society woman, Lady Harriet Herbert, who had been a widow for four years, after a previous married life of only as many months. For a member of Society to marry a singer was a scandal almost past forgiveness in the salons. Society's gallants might intrigue with the ladies of the theatres without besmirch, for were not the latter common prey? But for a demure little creature of twenty-two, as was Lady Harriet, to marry one who lived the promiscuous and unstable life of the stage, was another matter.

The affair was discussed for weeks, written about, made fun of. Lady Mary Montagu wrote in one of her letters: "Lady Harriet Herbert furnished the tea-tables here with fresh tattle for the last fortnight. I was one of the first informed of her adventure, by Lady Gage, who was told that morning by a priest, that she desired him to marry her the next day to Beard, who sings in the farces at Drury Lane. I told her (Lady Gage) honestly, that since the lady was capable of such amours, I did not doubt if this was broken off, that she would bestow her person and fortune on some hackney coachman or chairman; and that I saw no method of saving her from ruin, and her family from dishonour, but by poisoning her; and offered to be at the expense of the arsenic, and even to administer it to her with my own hands, if she would invite her to drink tea with her that evening." 1

In marrying Beard, this unhappy little widow, therefore, brought a hornet's nest upon her head, and Society, if ready to pay to hear her husband sing, forbade her the drawing-rooms. She was ostracised. She went dolefully here and there seeking this friend and that, only to find the closed door. Her name was bandied about with those of the women of the town, than whom the superior people thought her no better. It was a slow gliding from the heights she had known, a social decay. Ultimately, driven by the need of some feminine society, she began to consort with actresses. It was social suicide. If she had been shunned before, she was now made outcast, and those to whom she had given the deep affection

1 Lady M. Montagu, "Letters," vol. ii. p. 38.