To-morrow perhaps I shall come to his organs, that is, write to you about them, and I reserve for the last the subject of his little daughter.  When I said to Herr Stein that I should like to play on one of his organs, as the organ was my passion, he seemed surprised, and said, “What! such a man as you, so great a pianist, like to play on an instrument devoid of sweetness and expression, with no gradations from piano to forte, but always going on the same?” “That does not signify; the organ always was, both in my eyes and ears, the king of all instruments.”  “Well, just as you please.”  So we went together.  I could readily perceive from his conversation that he did not expect me to do great things on his organ, evidently thinking that I should handle it in the style of a piano.  He told me that by Schobert’s own desire he had taken him also to the organ, “and very nervous it made me,” said he, “for Schobert had told everybody, and the church was nearly full.  I did not doubt the man’s spirit, fire, and execution; still, this does not much suit the organ.  But the moment he began my opinion was entirely changed.”  I only said in reply, “Do you then think, Herr Stein, that I am likely to run wild on the organ?” “Oh! you!”—­When we came to the organ-loft, I began a prelude, when he laughed.  A fugue followed.  “I can now quite understand why you like to play the organ,” said he, “when you can play in this manner.”  At first the pedal was a little awkward for me, as it was without the breaks, beginning with C, then D E in one row, whereas with us D and E are above, just where E flat and F sharp are here; but I quickly mastered it.

I went also to try the old organ at St. Ulrich’s.  The stair that leads to it is really dreadful.  I requested that some other person might play the organ for me, that I might go down and listen to it, for above the organ has no effect; but I profited very little by this, for the young leader of the choir, a priest, made such reckless runs on the organ that it was impossible to understand them, and when he attempted harmonies they proved only discords, being always false.  Afterwards they would insist on our going to a coffee-room, for mamma and my cousin were with us.  A certain Father Emilian, a conceited jackass and a sorry witling, was very sweet on my cousin, and wished to have his jest with her, but she made a jest of him.  At last, when rather tipsy, (which soon occurred,) he began to talk about music, and sang a canon, saying, “I never in my life heard anything finer.”  I said, “I regret that I can’t sing it with you, for nature has not given me the power of intoning.”  “No matter,” said he.  So he began.  I made the third, but I sang different words—­thus:  “Pater Emilian, oh! thou numskull”—­sotto voce to my cousin; then we laughed on for at least half an hour.  The Pater said to me, “If we only could be longer together, we could discuss the art of musical composition.”  “In that case,” said I, “our discussion would soon come to an end.”  A famous rap on the knuckles for him!  To be continued.