Couriers were dispatched to London to convey the news of Handel's great triumph to the newspapers; bulletins were posted at the clubs--the infection caught! On the return of the master a welcome was given him such as he had never before known--Dublin should not outdo London! When the "Messiah" was given in London, the scene of furore in Dublin was repeated. The wild tumult at times drowned the orchestra, and when the "Hallelujah Chorus" was sung, the audience arose as one man and joined in the song of praise. And from that day the custom has continued: whenever in England the "Messiah" is given, the audience arises and sings in the "Chorus," as its privilege and right. The proceeds of the first performance of the "Messiah" in England were given to charity, as in Dublin. This act, with the splendor of the work, subdued the last lingering touch of obdurate criticism. The man was canonized by popular acclaim. Many of his concerts were now for charity--"The Foundlings' Home," "The Seamen's Fund," "Home for the Aged," hospitals and imprisoned debtors--all came in for their share. Handel never married. That remark of Dean Swift's, "I admire Handel--principally because he conceals his petticoat peccadilloes with such perfection," does not go. Handel considered himself a priest of art, and his passion spent itself in his work. The closing years of his life were a time of peace and honor. His bark, after a fitful voyage, had glided into safe and peaceful waters. The calamity of blindness did not much depress him--"What matters it so long as I can hear?" he said. And good it is to know that the capacity to listen and enjoy, to think and feel, to sympathize and love--to live his Ideals--were his, even to the night of his passing Hence. [Illustration: GIUSEPPE VERDI] GIUSEPPE VERDI Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing while the lights burned low, "Non ti scordar di me"? * * * * * But O, the smell of that jasmine-flower! And O, the music! and O, the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, "Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me!" --_Bulwer-Lytton_ GIUSEPPE VERDI He sort of clung to the iron pickets, did the boy, and pressed his face through the fence and listened. Some one was playing the piano in the big house, and the windows with their little diamond panes were flung open to catch the evening breeze. He listened. His big gray eyes were open wide, the pupils dilated--he was trying to see the music as well as hear it.