During his London visits Haydn had often expressed his admiration for the English 'God save the King,' and he regretted that his own country had no National Anthem of its own. This thought weighed the more with him after his return because war had broken out with France, and he felt that the people needed a means of giving expression to their loyalty. He accordingly wrote the song 'Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser,' or 'The Emperor's Hymn,' which was performed for the first time simultaneously at the Vienna National Theatre and the principal theatres of the country on the Emperor's birthday, February 12, 1797. This beautiful air was always a favourite one with Haydn during the remainder of his life.
A portrait of Haydn at this time shows a man of short, substantial build, and a somewhat ill-proportioned frame. The face, of which the aquiline nose, projecting under-lip, and massive jaw were strongly marked features, was very dark, and its habitual expression was dignified and earnest, with an inclination to sternness. The dark grey eyes, however, shone with a benevolent light that afforded an insight into their owner's true nature—indeed, he used to say of himself humorously that 'anyone could see by the look of him that he was a good-natured sort of fellow.' He always wore a wig, with side-curls and a pigtail, and the wig partly concealed his broad forehead. His dignified expression relaxed in conversation, but although he was not at all averse to joking, his laughter was always moderate and controlled. Towards children he showed a love and sympathy that never failed to win their confidence and affection. The title of 'Papa Haydn,' by which he was known both to young and old during his lifetime and with which his memory has ever since been coupled, was the natural outcome of the universal affection in which he was held by all classes. He was the 'father' of his chapel, sympathising with them in their difficulties, and interceding in their behalf with the Prince whenever occasion arose. In the same way his interest went out to all young and struggling men of talent, to whom he gave advice and help. But the title 'Papa Haydn' may claim to possess a further significance in its use at the present time, 'as if musicians of all countries claimed descent from him.'
Along with his indomitable industry went a love of order and method by which every action was ruled, every habit framed. He rose very early to begin work, for Nature seemed sweetest to him in her waking hours; but he would never put a pen to paper or see a visitor until he was fully dressed; and even when old age prevented his leaving the house he maintained the same degree of punctiliousness in regard to his appearance. His devoutness formed an indissoluble part of his nature, and he regarded his genius as a gift of God which he was bound to use thankfully for the benefit of mankind and to the glory of Him who gave it. He never wrote a score without the words 'In nomine Domini' appearing as an inscription, whilst 'Laus Deo' came at the end.
Haydn's love of humour is brought out in many of his compositions, notably in the 'Surprise Symphony,' where the drums come in with a tremendous bang at the end of the andante movement. He is said to have invented this part in order to arouse the attention of the audience and make the ladies scream. Again, in the 'Toy Symphony,' he shows a child-like appreciation of drollery in producing genuine music out of such toy instruments as tin whistles, jew's-harps, toy trumpets, etc. The 'Toy Symphony' was composed at Eisenstadt, where, having visited a village fair and purchased a number of toy instruments, Haydn was seized with the idea of making his orchestra play upon them—an order which upset their gravity so much that they could hardly keep time for laughing. A little story illustrative of his love of fun may be told here. During his second visit to London he came in contact with a certain amateur violinist whose professed fondness for the extreme upper notes of his instrument was such as to incite Haydn to perpetrate a joke at his expense. He therefore wrote a seemingly simple sonata for piano and violin, which he called 'Jacob's Dream,' and dispatched it anonymously to the conceited violinist. The player was charmed with the manner in which the piece began. It was apparent that the composer thoroughly understood the instrument! As he proceeded, however, the notes rose higher and higher, like the steps of a ladder, and at length, seeing that there was no prospect of their ever descending again, the perspiration broke out on his forehead, and, flinging the music from him with disgust, he declared that the writer knew nothing whatever of the violin!
Haydn was now sixty-five, but the crowning work of his life had yet to be achieved. Whilst in London Salomon had shown him a poem, founded upon 'Paradise Lost,' which had been written many years before, in the hope that Handel would have set it to music. Haydn carried the poem home, and later on conceived the idea of writing an oratorio on the subject. From the moment of its inception the task of composing the 'Creation,' as the new work was called, became a labour of increasing love with Haydn. 'Never was I so pious,' he writes, 'as when composing the "Creation." I knelt down every day and prayed God to strengthen me for the work.' The oratorio was first publicly performed in Vienna on March 19, 1799, and created a profound impression. Haydn himself was almost overcome by the sensations which the occasion aroused. In a short time the 'Creation' was heard in every principal city of Europe. In places where no means existed for its production choral societies were formed for this special object, so that for many years the work took equal rank in popular favour with the 'Messiah.' As a work of art, however, the 'Creation' differs essentially, both in character and style, from Handel's masterpiece. We have here none of the declamatory passages which are so prominent in the 'Messiah,' the story of the Creation being unfolded to us in a series of wonderful tone-pictures—strengthened where necessary by choruses, but keeping throughout to the epic character of the poem. Many of the passages are strikingly beautiful. Who that has heard them can ever forget the airs, 'With Verdure Clad,' and 'In Native Worth,' or the splendid chorus, 'The Heavens are telling the Glory of God'?
Whilst music-lovers were descanting on the beauties of the 'Creation,' Haydn was busily composing a second oratorio founded upon Thomson's famous poem, 'The Seasons.' The desire for work was as strong as ever, but his health was declining, and the strain involved by so great an undertaking proved too much for his strength. '"The Seasons" gave me my finishing stroke,' was Haydn's often-repeated remark to his friends after the oratorio had left his hands. But no trace of diminished power is visible in the work itself, and the success which attended its production was such as to place it on a level with the 'Creation.'
With these two great works the flow of composition from the master's pen fittingly closed. Upon the subject of his life-work as a whole we may not dwell in this brief story. The history of music has accorded to Haydn the high position which his works entitled him to occupy, and the feeling of gratitude for those great gifts having been vouchsafed to us is one that has grown deeper and deeper with the passing years. Musicians and music-lovers all the world over give expression to this gratitude by pointing to what he has accomplished for the symphony, the quartet, and the sonata—to mention the three branches of composition to which his genius was specially directed. Acknowledged on every hand as the father of instrumental music, Haydn compels our admiration by 'his inexhaustible invention as shown in the originality of his themes and melodies; the life and spontaneity of the ideas; the clearness which makes his compositions as interesting to the amateur as to the artist; the child-like cheerfulness and drollery which charm away trouble and care.' His insistence on the importance of melody was a marked characteristic. 'It is the air which is the charm of music,' he once remarked to the composer Kelly, 'and it is that which is most difficult to produce. The invention of a fine melody is a work of genius.'
The honourable peace which should have been the companion of his old age was marred by much physical suffering, through which, however, at intervals his genial nature forced its way like sunshine through clouds. Nor were his declining years without the solace of numerous friends—indeed, by none to whom his great gifts and kindly personality had brought pleasure and instruction was the old composer forgotten, and nothing gave him keener delight than to gather his friends about him to talk over the chief events of his life, and to exhibit his collection of diplomas, souvenirs, and other mementoes, which had been presented to him by his royal and noble patrons.
Perhaps no more touching example could be given of the affectionate esteem in which Haydn was held by all classes of music-lovers than that afforded by the last occasion on which he appeared in public. He had been for a long time living in retirement in the house which he purchased on the outskirts of Vienna, but having expressed a wish to be present at a performance of the 'Creation' at the University on March 27, 1808, he was carried to the hall in his arm-chair. The enthusiasm evoked by the spectacle of the aged composer being borne into the arena was in itself a convincing proof that his popularity had not lessened. But the emotions of the audience were more deeply stirred when, at the passage 'And there was light,' Haydn lifted his hand and, pointing upwards, exclaimed, 'It came from thence!' At this point his agitation was so great that it was deemed prudent to remove him to his home; and as the carriers lifted him up and bore him towards the door, the people flocked about his chair to touch his hand and bid him farewell. At the door itself the crowd was denser than ever, and pressing through the throng came Beethoven, who, bending over his old master, kissed him fervently on the hand and forehead. As he passed through the exit Haydn turned to take a last look at those who were standing and waving their farewells, and as he did so he raised his hands as if in the act of blessing them. The next moment the heavy portière fell, and Haydn passed for ever from the public sight.