Our evenings have since passed much the same. The King has almost given up cards. The Red Room is always open and the band always playing. 

On Monday we had Rossini. The King all graciousness to him. He sang, which went to our musical hearts, ‘Otello’ and ‘Figaro,’ etc., but the courtiers and the rest of the society were indignant at his familiarity. Being fat and lazy, and consequently averse to standing, he took a chair and sat by the King, who, however, gave him the kindest reception, and, less petit than his suite, understood the man, and treated him as his enthusiasm for music disposed him to do. I hope to hear more of him, for it is an unspeakable pleasure.