y by the sapient device of taking out all the best numbers
and leaving only those that appeal to the religious instincts of
Clapham. I cannot resist the suspicion that but for the words of "He
was despised," "Behold, and see," and "I know that my Redeemer
liveth," Clapham would have tired of the oratorio before now, and that
but for its having become a Christmas institution, like roast beef,
plum-puddings, mince-pies, and other indigestible foods, it would no
longer be heard in the provinces. And perhaps it would be better
forgotten--perhaps Handel would rather have seen it forgotten than
regarded as it is regarded, than existing merely as an aid to
evangelical religion or an after-dinner digestive on Christmas Day.
Still, during the last hundred and fifty years, it has suffered so
many humiliations that possibly one more, even this last one, does not
so much matter. First its great domes and pillars and mighty arches
were prettily ornamented and tinted by Mozart, who surely knew not
what he did; then in England a barbarous traditional method of singing
it was evolved; later it was Costa-mongered; finally even the late
eminent Macfarren, the worst enemy music has ever had in this
country, did not disdain to prepare "a performing edition," and to
improve Mozart's improvements on Handel. One wonders whether Mozart,
when he overlaid the "Messiah" with his gay tinsel-work, dreamed that
some Costa, encouraged by Mozart's own example, and without brains
enough to guess that he had nothing like Mozart's brains, would in
like manner desecrate "Don Giovanni." Like "Don Giovanni," there the
"Messiah" lies, almost unrecognisable under its outrageous adornments,
misunderstood, its splendours largely unknown and hardly even
suspected, the best known and the least known of oratorios, a work
spoken of as fine by those who cannot hum one of its greatest themes
or in the least comprehend the plan on which its noblest choruses are
constructed.

Rightly to approach the "Messiah" or any of Handel's sacred oratorios,
to approach it in any sure hope of appreciating it, one must remember
that (as I have just said) Handel had nothing of the religious
temperament, that in temperament he was wholly secular, that he was an
eighteenth century pagan. He was perfectly satisfied with the visible
and audible world his energy and imagination created out of things;
about the why and wherefore of things he seems never to have troubled;
his soul asked no