But in spite of some striking anticipations of later effects, Haydn is for the most part, and in the long run, a true child of his own epoch, writing with its concern for clearness of form, its somewhat gingerly treatment of contrast, its quaint, old-fashioned, and yet awakened spirit. He assimilated the best capacities of music as he found them, and by dint of his skill and perseverance, moulded them until they issued forth in what was to all intents and purposes a new art. But the novelty in this art was not the novelty of a new vision, a new character, a new personal ideal; it was the novelty of a more perfect adjustment than had yet been achieved of expressive impulses and formal principles already widely disseminated. Haydn’s great achievement was the development of popular types of expression into a true art by the application to them of schemes of design, or form, which in his day had just become possible for the first time as a result of the pioneer work in harmonic and rhythmic organization done by his immediate predecessors. Lacking either of these two constituents, Haydn’s art could not have existed; and coming into being as a resultant of both, it had qualities of its own, different from those of either one of its factors alone. It marked, indeed, the beginning of secular music as a mature art. The final emphasis in any definition of Haydn’s qualities, whether of expression or of form, depends on the point of view from which it is made, on whether he is considered as a follower of Palestrina or as a forerunner of Beethoven. In comparison with Palestrina he is a modern. In common with his immediate predecessors, but more fully and definitely than any of them, he turns away from the ecclesiastical inspiration and the contrapuntal forms of the sixteenth century, to establish himself solidly on the untrammeled expression of universal human feeling, through forms based on harmonic and rhythmic principles. He sacrifices the dignity, the peace, the detachment, of Palestrina, in order to voice the self-consciousness, the mobile vitality, the turbulence and struggle and ebullient life of the modern man. For this reason, as well as because of the forms he uses, he is “the first of secular composers,” “the father of instrumental music.” Yet he is not free as Beethoven is free, nor is his individualism the fierce nonconformity of the great anarch of outworn conventions and restricting formulæ. His methods, compared with Beethoven’s, are rigid, narrow, inelastic; the music they shaped had something of the angular outline of all childlike art. Had it not been for their regularity, however, Beethoven’s felicitous daring would have miscarried; without their order as a point of departure, his “splendid experiments” would have led, not to freedom, but to chaos. Mozart’s playful nickname of “Papa Haydn” is more than a term of endearment; it is a condensed philosophy. Haydn was indeed the father of instrumental composers, in