ard, as was natural at a time when he was with all his
might trying to take his principles in a firm grip. If we take a typical
symphony of this time, we find, first the adagio introduction. This
feature, as we all know, was turned to noble use by Beethoven, notably
in the seventh symphony; but it is not an essential. Mozart scarcely
used it, and even with Haydn I fancy the Prince must have liked it, or
we should not find it so often. The allegro is in what the text-books
call the "accepted" form, first and second subjects--often not clearly
differentiated, but more and more so as time passed--"working-out"
section and recapitulation with or without coda. Here we have complete
unity, and as much variety as the composer wanted. With all the richness
and variety, the intellectual structure is so firm and distinctly marked
that the mind grasps the whole thing at once. Then comes the slow
movement, sometimes with two distinct themes, sometimes with only one,
varied at each repetition, and with episodes composed of fresh matter
between the repetitions. The minuet and trio are little, if at all,
different from those of Emanuel Bach. The finale is generally a bit of a
romp; the structural plan is that of the first movement, or a rondo. So
much for the form. As for the music, it is, I say, free from
counterpoint, and is more and more filled with the spirit of folk-song.
The themes sing and the music takes its impulse and motion from them;
the web is no longer made up of contrapuntal workings: counterpoint is
never more than an accompaniment, a helpful device. What Wagner called
the melos, the melody, or melodic outline, that begins at the beginning
and ends only at the end--this is the thing. The influence of the
folk-song is certainly most marked in the slow movements, just as that
of the dance is shown in the finales. Haydn's adagios, at his best,
speak with the deepest yet the simplest feeling. A fairly close analogy
is that of Burns, who, with little natural inspiration, found
inspiration in his native ballads, and often worked up the merest
doggerel into artistic shapes of wondrous poignancy. Haydn's habitual
temper was cheerful, and his music rattles along with a certain gaiety
of gallop very far away from the mechanical grinding or pounding accents
of the contrapuntalists. (I don't mean the great men; I mean the
Wagenseils, Gossecs and the rest, who were trying to do the new thing
without shaking off the old contrapuntal f