eyes; and whatever the white hair, the wrinkled forehead, the
furrowed cheeks and the stooping form might tell of the long years
of his life, those eyes were full of youthful ardor and strength--
only the body of this white haired man was old; in his soul he had
remained young--a youth of fervid imagination, procreative power,
and nervous activity.

This venerable man with the soul, the heart, and the eyes of a
youth, was Joseph Haydn, the great composer, whose glory, even at
that time, filled the whole world, although he had not yet written
his greatest masterpieces--the "Creation" and the "Seasons."

He was working to-day at the "Creation." [Footnote: Haydn commenced
the "Creation" in 1797, and finished it in April, 1798.] The poem,
which had been sent to him from England, and which his worthy friend
Von Swieten had translated into German, lay before him. He had read
it again and again, and gradually it seemed as if the words were
transformed into music; gradually he heard whispering--low at first,
then louder, and more sublime and majestic--the jubilant choirs of
heaven and earth, that were to resound in his "Creation."

As yet he had not written a single note; he had only read the poem,
and composed in reading, and inwardly weighed and tried the sublime
melodies which, when reduced to time and measure, and combined into
an harmonious whole, were to form the new immortal work of his
genius. While thus reading and composing, the aged musician was
transformed more and more into a youth, and the glowing enthusiasm
which burst forth from his eyes became every moment more radiant,
surrounding his massive forehead with a halo of inspiration, and
shedding the purple lustre of ecstatic joy upon his furrowed cheeks.