God be praised! we reached Waging, Stain, Ferbertshaim, and
Wasserburg safely. Now for a brief report of our journey. When we
arrived at the city gates, we were kept waiting for nearly a
quarter of an hour till they could be thrown open for us, as they
were under repair. Near Schinn we met a drove of cows, and one of
these very remarkable, for each side was a different color, which
we never before saw. When at last we got to Schinn, we met a
carriage, which stopped, and ecce, our postilion called out we
must change. "I don't care," said I. Mamma and I were parleying,
when a portly gentleman came up, whose physiognomy I at once
recognized; he was a Memmingen merchant. He stared at me for some
time, and at last said, "You surely are Herr Mozart?" "At your
service," said I; "I know you, too, by sight, but not your name.
I saw you, a year ago, at Mirabell's [the palace garden in
Salzburg] at a concert." He then told me his name, which, thank
God! I have forgotten; but I retained one of probably more
importance to me. When I saw this gentleman in Salzburg, he was
accompanied by a young man whose brother was now with him, and
who lives in Memmingen. His name is Herr Unhold, and he pressed
me very much to come to Memmingen if possible. We sent a hundred
thousand loves to papa by them, and to my sister, the madcap,
which they promised to deliver without fail. This change of
carriages was a great bore to me, for I wished to send a letter
back from Waging by the postilion. We then (after a slight meal)
had the honor of being conveyed as far as Stain, by the aforesaid
post-horses, in an hour and a half. At Waging I was alone for a
few minutes with the clergyman, who looked quite amazed, knowing
nothing of our history. From Stain we were driven by a most
tiresome phlegmatic postilion--N. B., in driving I mean; we
thought we never were to arrive at the next stage. At last we did