I have something amusing to tell you in conclusion. I wish, O my Fanny, that as a contrast to your Sunday harmony you had heard the music we perpetrated last Sunday evening. We wished to sing the Psalms of Marcello, being Lent, and the best dilettanti consequently assembled. A Papal singer was in the middle, a _maestro_ at the piano, and we sang. When a soprano solo came, all the ladies pressed forward, each insisting on singing it, so it was executed as a _tutti_. The tenor by my side never alighted on the right note, and rambled about in the most insecure regions. When I chimed in as second tenor, he dropped into my part, and when I tried to assist him, he seemed to think that was my original part, and kept steadily to his own. The Papal singer at one instant sang in the soprano falsetto, and presently took the first bass; soon after he quaked out the _alt_, and when all that was of no avail, he smiled sorrowfully across at me, and we nodded mysteriously to each other. The _maestro_, in striving to set us all right, repeatedly lost his own place, being a bar behind, or one in advance, and thus we sang with the most complete anarchy, just as we thought fit. Suddenly came a very solemn solo passage for the bass, which _all_ attacked valiantly, but at the second bar broke into a chorus of loud laughter, in which we unanimously joined, so the affair ended in high good-humour. The people who had come as audience talked at the pitch of their voices, and then went out and dispersed. Eynard came in and listened to our music for a time, then made a horrid grimace, and was seen no more. Farewell! Health and happiness attend you all!
The letters of introduction that R---- sent me, have been of no use to me here. L---- likewise, to whom I was presented by Bunsen, has not taken the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the other way when we meet. I rather suspect the man is an aristocrat. Albani admitted me, so I had the honour of conversing for half an hour with a Cardinal. After reading the introductory letter, he asked me if I was a pensioner of the King of Hanover. "No," said I. He supposed that I must have seen St. Peter's? "Yes," said I. As I knew Meyerbeer, he assured me that he could not endure his music; it was too scientific for him; indeed, everything he wrote was so learned, and so devoid of melody, that you at once saw that he was a German, and the Germans, _mon ami_, have not the most remote conception of what melody is! "No," said I. "In _my_ scores," continued he, "all sing; not only the voices sing, but also the first violin sings, and the second violin also, and the oboe sings, and so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the double-bass sings too." I was naturally desirous, in all humility, to see some of his music; he was modest, however, and would show me nothing, but he said that wishing to make my stay in Rome a agreeable as possible, he hoped I would pay a visit to his villa, and I might take as many of my friends with me as I chose. It was near such and such a place. I thanked him very much, and subsequently boasted considerably of this gracious permission; but presently discovered that this villa is open to the public, and any one can go there who chooses. Since that time I have heard no more of him, and as this and some other instances have inspired me with respect, mingled with aversion, towards the highest Roman circles, I resolved not to deliver the letter to Gabrielli, and was satisfied by having the whole Bonaparte family pointed out to me on the promenade, where I met them daily.