of giving me another.  I see from your letter that you have not yet read Vogler’s book. [Footnote:  Ton Wissenschaft und Ton Kunst.] I have just finished it, having borrowed it from Cannabich.  His history is very short.  He came here in a miserable condition, performed on the piano, and composed a ballet.  This excited the Elector’s compassion, who sent him to Italy.  When the Elector was in Bologna, he questioned Father Valoti about Vogler.  “Oh! your Highness, he is a great man,” &c., &c.  He then asked Father Martini the same question.  “Your Highness, he has talent; and by degrees, when he is older and more solid, he will no doubt improve, though he must first change considerably.”  When Vogler came back he entered the Church, was immediately appointed Court Chaplain, and composed a Miserere which all the world declares to be detestable, being full of false harmony.  Hearing; that it was not much commended, he went to the Elector and complained that the orchestra played badly on purpose to vex and annoy him; in short, he knew so well how to make his game (entering into so many petty intrigues with women) that he became Vice-Capellmeister.  He is a fool, who fancies that no one can be better or more perfect than himself.  The whole orchestra, from the first to the last, detest him.  He has been the cause of much annoyance to Holzbauer.  His book is more fit to teach arithmetic than composition.  He says that he can make a composer in three weeks, and a singer in six months; but we have not yet seen any proof of this.  He despises the greatest masters.  To myself he spoke with contempt of Bach [Johann Christian, J. Sebastian’s youngest son, called the London Bach], who wrote two operas here, the first of which pleased more than the second, Lucio Silla.  As I had composed the same opera in Milan, I was anxious to see it, and hearing from Holzbauer that Vogler had it, I asked him to lend it to me.  “With all my heart,” said he; “I will send it to you to-morrow without fail, but you won’t find much talent in it.”  Some days after, when he saw me, he said with a sneer, “Well, did you discover anything very fine—­ did you learn anything from it?  One air is rather good.  What are the words?” asked he of some person standing near.  “What air do you mean?” “Why, that odious air of Bach’s, that vile—­oh! yes, pupille amate.  He must have written it after a carouse of punch.”  I really thought I must have laid hold of his pigtail; I affected, however, not to hear him, said nothing, and went away.  He has now served out his time with the Elector.

The sonata for Madlle.  Rosa Cannabich is finished.  Last Sunday I played the organ in the chapel for my amusement.  I came in while the Kyrie was going on, played the last part, and when the priest intoned the Gloria I made a cadence, so different, however, from what is usually heard here, that every one looked round in surprise, and above all Holzbauer.  He said to me, “If I had known you were coming,