“I am curious to see how your teaching has succeeded,” said Händel, while he seated himself: “Come, then, let her sing.” Joseph sprang joyfully to the harpsichord; Ellen went and stood beside him, and began.
How it was with the composer,—how he listened, when he heard the most splendid part in his forthcoming Messiah—the noble air, “I know that my Redeemer liveth;”—and how Ellen sang it, the reader may conjecture, when, after she had ceased, Händel still sat motionless, a happy smile on his lips, his large flashing eyes full of the tears of deep religious emotion. At length he drew a deep breath, arose, kissed the forehead of the maiden, kissed her eyes—in which likewise pure drops were glancing,—and asked in his mildest tone: “Ellen, my good—good child, you will sing this part to-morrow, at the representation, will you not?”
“Master Händel—Father Händel!” cried the maiden; and overcome with emotion, she threw herself sobbing on his neck. But Joseph sang—
“Erwach’—erwach’—zu Liedern der Wonne;
Frohlocke!—frohlocke du!”
“Amen!” resounded through the vast arches of the church, and died away in whispered melody in its remotest aisles. “Amen!” responded Händel, while he let fall slowly the staff with which he kept time. Successful beyond expectation was the first performance of his immortal master-piece. Immense was the impression it produced, as well on the performers as upon the audience. The fame of Händel stood now immovable.
When the composer left the church, he found a royal equipage in waiting for him, which, by the King’s command, conveyed him to Carlton House.
George the Second, surrounded by his whole household and many nobles of the court, received the illustrious German. “Well, Master Händel,” he cried, after a gracious welcome, “it must be owned, you have made us a noble present in your Messiah; it is a brave piece of work.”
“Is it?” asked Händel, and looked the monarch in the face, well pleased.
“It is, indeed,” replied George. “And now tell me what I can do, to express my thanks to you for it?”