the signal for stormy applause.  How, in the press of all this pleasure in which he was plunged, he continued to compose the great number of works produced at this time, is a marvel.  He must have been little less than a Briareus.  It was in England that he wrote the celebrated Salomon symphonies, the “twelve grand,” as they are called.  They may well be regarded as the crowning-point of Haydn’s efforts in that form of writing.  He took infinite pains with them, as, indeed, is well proved by an examination of the scores.  More elaborate, more beautiful, and scored for a fuller orchestra than any others of the one hundred and twenty or thereabouts which he composed, the Salomon set also bears marks of the devout and pious spirit in which Haydn ever labored.

It is interesting to see how, in many of the great works which have won the world’s admiration, the religion of the author has gone hand in hand with his energy and his genius; and we find Haydn not ashamed to indorse his score with his prayer and praise, or to offer the fruits of his talents to the Giver of all.  Thus, the symphony in D (No. 6) bears on the first page of the score the inscription, “In nomine Domini:  di me Giuseppe Haydn, maia 1791, in London;” and on the last page, “Fine, Laus Deo, 238.”

That genius may sometimes be trusted to judge of its own work may be gathered from Haydn’s own estimate of these great symphonies.

“Sir,” said the well-satisfied Salomon, after a successful performance of one of them, “I am strongly of opinion that you will never surpass these symphonies.”

“No!” replied Haydn; “I never mean to try.”

The public, as we have said, was enthusiastic; but such a full banquet of severe orchestral music was a severe trial to many, and not a few heads would keep time to the music by steady nods during the slow movements.  Haydn, therefore, composed what is known as the “Surprise” symphony.  The slow movement is of the most lulling and soothing character, and about the time the audience should be falling into its first snooze, the instruments having all died away into the softest pianissimo, the full orchestra breaks out with a frightful BANG.  It is a question whether the most vigorous performance of this symphony would startle an audience nowadays, accustomed to the strident effects of Wagner and Liszt.  A wag in a recent London journal tells us, indeed, that at the most critical part in the work a gentleman opened one eye sleepily and said, “Come in.”

Simple-hearted Haydn was delighted at the attention lavished on him in London.  He tells us how he enjoyed his various entertainments and feastings by such dignitaries as William Pitt, the Lord Chancellor, and the Duke of Lids (Leeds).  The gentlemen drank freely the whole night, and the songs, the crazy uproar, and smashing of glasses were very great.  He went down to stay with the Prince of Wales (George IV.) who played on the violoncello, and charmed the composer by his kindness.  “He is the handsomest man on God’s earth.  He has an extraordinary love of music, and a great deal of feeling, but very little money.”