[S]hall I talk to you of the abbey-music, 

The last is the more popular theme; and therefore, if you please, it shall be ours. People universally assert, that the world never produced anything of equal effect in the art. Indeed, I believe, that at these festivals, music touched her ne-plus ultra of excellence; for though, perhaps, every solo song has, from the impossibility of any single voice filling completely so immense a space, been heard in smaller scenes to greater advantage; yet, the sublimity of the harmonies, so full and complete in all those great effects which Handel’s matchless genius conceived, though, from the comparative nothingness of the best band those days could afford him, he heard them not complete with his mortal ears; the exclusion of every thing harsh, and disagreeably noisy, by the care taken that no order of instruments, or of voices, should preponderate; the exquisite delicacy with which the songs were accompanied, and the picturesque power of several of the chorusses, that endued the ear with the powers of the eye;—all these admirables produced one grand result, that completely satisfied my imagination, high as report had taught me to set its claims. 

Now as to the individual performers.—I allow to your favourite, Harrison, correctness, elegance, and taste, and all the coyer graces of his science; but his voice, however sweet, and, even in its tone, however enriched with that free and perfect shake, is very limited in its compass, and very moderate in its powers; while his manner is wholly destitute of that fine enthusiasm, which is vital to the just execution of Handel’s glowing ideas, that breathe the soul of every passion in turn. 

Mrs Billington’s voice is of great sweetness, compass, power, and execution; and her skill cannot be questioned, who played finely on the harpsichord at ten years old. Already she almost rivals Mara in the saramouch part of her performance; but has, however, too much sense to gambol like her in the sacred songs.—I breakfasted with Mr Bates, the director, and heard his seraphic wife excel in several of Handel’s finest airs, Mara, and every other syren of the orchestra and stage. I observed to him, that Mara put too much gold fringe and tassels, upon that solemn robe of melody, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” Do not say gold, Madam, he replied, it was despicable tinsel.

Yet justice will confess, that she has a rich fulness in all the natural parts of her voice, which leave her fair public rivals, and the misshapen and snuff-begrimed Rubenelli, at considerable distance.