At Oxford, in July, he received the honorary degree of Doctor of Music, and three great concerts were given in his honor, with special performers brought from London.  In fact the whole visit to England had been such a success that he repeated the trip in 1794, and received even greater honors.  His symphonies were heard on all London programs.  He was the lion of the season, and was frequently invited to Buckingham Palace to play for the King and Queen, who always urged him to live in England.  Haydn was now sixty-five; he had composed quantities of music, but his greatest work, “The Creation,” was not yet written.  While in London, Salomon had shown him a poem founded on “Paradise Lost,” written years before in the hope that Handel would use it for an oratorio.  Haydn decided to try his hand at oratorio on this subject.  As he went on, it grew to be a labor of love and prayer.  It was finished and performed in Vienna, March 19, 1799, and made a profound impression.  The composer at once began work on a second oratorio, founded on Thompson’s “Seasons.”  The desire for work was strong within, but his health was failing. “‘The Seasons’ gave me my finishing stroke,” he often remarked to friends.

Haydn was acknowledged on every hand as the father of instrumental music.  He laid great stress on melody.  “It is the air which is the charm of music,” he said, “and it is the air which is the most difficult to produce.  The invention of a fine melody is a work of genius.”

Full of years and honors, respected and beloved, Father Haydn passed away.  As Vienna was at that time in the hands of the French, he was given a very simple burial.  In 1820 Prince Esterhazy had the remains reinterred in the upper parish church at Eisenstadt, where a simple stone with Latin inscription is placed in the wall above the vault to mark the spot.

VI

WOLFGANG MOZART

The early December dusk was closing in over the quaint old city of Salzburg.  Up on the heights above the town the battlements of the great castle caught a reflection of the last gleams of light in the sky.  But the narrow streets below were quite in shadow.

In one of the substantial looking houses on a principal thoroughfare, called the Getreide Gasse, lights gleamed from windows on the third floor.  Within, all was arranged as if for some special occasion.  The larger room, with its three windows looking on the street, was immaculate in its neatness.  The brass candlesticks shone like gold, the mahogany table was polished like a mirror, the simple furniture likewise.  For today was Father Mozart’s birthday and the little household was to celebrate the event.

Mother Mozart had been busy all day putting everything in order while Nannerl, the seven year old daughter, had been helping.  Little Wolfgang, now three years old, in his childish eagerness to be as busy as the others, had only hindered, and had to be reprimanded once in a while.  One could never be vexed with the little elf, even if he turned somersaults in new clean clothes, or made chalk figures all over the living-room chairs.  He never meant to do any harm, and was always so tenderhearted and lovable, it was hard to scold him.