whatever.  I have the honor to take my leave.”  I wrote the whole history yesterday to Herr Herzog in Augsburg.  We must now wait here for the answer, so you may still write to us at Mannheim.  I kiss your hand, and am your young brother and father, as in your last letter you say “I am the old man and son.”  To-day is the 16th when I finish this, or else you will not know when it was sent off.  “Is the letter ready?” “Yes, mamma, here it is!”

77.

Mannheim, Nov. 20, 1777.

The gala began again yesterday [in honor of the Elector’s name-day].  I went to hear the mass, which was a spick-and-span new composition of Vogler’s.  Two days ago I was present at the rehearsal in the afternoon, but came away immediately after the Kyrie.  I never in my life heard anything like it; there is often false harmony, and he rambles into the different keys as if he wished to drag you into them by the hair of your head; but it neither repays the trouble, nor does it possess any originality, but is only quite abrupt.  I shall say nothing of the way in which he carries out his ideas.  I only say that no mass of Vogler’s can possibly please any composer (who deserves the name).  For example, I suddenly hear an idea which is not bad.  Well, instead of remaining not bad, no doubt it soon becomes good?  Not at all! it becomes not only bad, but very bad, and this in two or three different ways:  namely, scarcely has the thought arisen when something else interferes to destroy it; or he does not finish it naturally, so that it may remain good; or it is not introduced in the right place; or it is finally ruined by bad instrumentation.  Such is Vogler’s music.

Cannabich composes far better than when we knew him in Paris, but what both mamma and I remarked here at once in the symphonies is, that one begins just like another, always slow and unisono.  I must now, dear papa, write you something about the Holy Cross in Augsburg, which I have always forgotten to do.  I met with a great many civilities there, and the Prelate is the most good-natured man in the world—­a kind, worthy old simpleton, who may be carried off at any moment, for his breath fails sadly.  He recently—­in fact, the very day we left—­had an attack of paralysis.  He, and the Dean and Procurator, begged us when we came back to Augsburg to drive straight to the Holy Cross.  The Procurator is as jolly as Father Leopold at Seeon. [Footnote:  A cloister in Lower Bavaria, that Wolfgang often visited with his father, as they had a dear friend there, Father Johannes.] My cousin told me beforehand what kind of man he was, so we soon became as well acquainted as if we had known each other for twenty years.  I lent him the mass in F, and the first of the short masses in C, and the offertorium in counterpoint in D minor.  My fair cousin has undertaken to be custodian of these.  I got back the offertorium punctually, having desired