It is, of course, nearly impossible to characterize the sonatas in words, or to distinguish any striking feature in one which may not be found in another. There are two sonatas in E-flat (Pet. 1 and 3) among the last he wrote. These appear at first sight more profound than the earlier ones, but it is hard in studying them to find them so. They are more fully scored, more fully developed, perhaps more moderately gay. But it is still the Haydn which spoke in the earlier ones. Premonitions of Schubert are again evident in the second of these sonatas (Pet. 3), in the second section of the slow movement, and in the brief passage in E-flat minor in the minuet. There are very fine moments in the first movement, too. It will be observed that the second theme is very like the first. This is frequently the case with Haydn, a feature which points to his dependence on Emanuel Bach. Even in his symphonies it shows itself, conspicuously in the great symphony in D major, No. 7, in Breitkopf and Härtel’s edition. In the sonata in question, however, there is no lack of secondary material of varied and decided character; for example, the transitional section between the first and second themes; the broad closing theme of the first section, with its alternate deep phrases and high answers; and the carefully wrought measures which open the development section. The effect of the measures which bring this section almost to a close and then lead on into the recapitulation is almost magical. We approach the romantic. The strange power of silence in music is nowhere better employed, a power which the old convention of constant movement had kept concealed, at least in instrumental music. Mention has been made of the pauses in Emanuel Bach’s music and in Clementi’s; but here in Haydn’s sonata is a passage of more than twenty measures in which silence seems to reign. Something calls on high and there is silence. Then from some deep down range there is a faint answer. And so the high calls across silence to the deep, again and again, as if one without the other might not prevail against some spirit of silence. Such a passage as this, and many another in Haydn’s music, suggest Beethoven. One is quick to exclaim, ‘Ah! this foreshadows the great man to come!’ Almost as if the music had no merit but by comparison. Yet Haydn’s music should be taken at its own value. Only in that way may the charm of it, and the genuine beauty as well, be fully appreciated. Surely it has a life and a spirit all its own, without which music would be poorer.