several doors of the Abbey at nine o'clock, although the door-keepers
were not at their posts, and the orchestra was not finished. At ten
o'clock the scene became almost terrifying to the visitors, who, being
in full dress, were every moment more incommoded and alarmed by the
violence of the crowds pressing forward to get near the doors. Several
of the ladies screamed; others fainted; and the general dismay increased
to such an extent that fatal consequences were anticipated. Some of the
more irascible among the gentlemen threatened to burst open the doors;
'a measure,' says Dr. Burney, 'which, if adopted, would probably have
cost many of the more feeble and helpless their lives, as they must,
in falling, have been thrown down and trampled on by the robust and
impatient part of the crowd.' However, except that some went in with
'disheveled hair and torn garments,' no real mischief seems to have been
done. The spectacle was gorgeous. The King, Queen, and all the royal
family, were ushered to a superb box, opposite the orchestra, by the
directors, wearing full court suits, the medal of Handel struck for the
occasion, suspended by white-satin rosettes to their breasts, and having
white wands in their hands. The body of the cathedral, the galleries,
and every corner were crowded with beauty, rank, and fashion, listening
with almost devout silence to the grand creations of the great composer,
not the faintest token of applause disturbing the impressive ceremony."

The splendid and solemn tones of Mara's voice enraptured every heart,
and her style was the theme of universal admiration. A few, however,
resisted the charm of her singing. Miss Seward was breakfasting one
morning with Mr. Joah Bates, one of the conductors, and delicately
flattered his wife's singing of the Handelian music by saying that Mara
put too much gold and fringe upon that solemn robe of melody, "I know
that my Redeemer liveth." "Do not say gold, ma-dame," answered the tart
musician; "it was despicable tinsel."