Amongst the charms of an Italian evening, I ought to mention the street-singing and serenading. That has happened to music in Italy, which happens to language and style, to poetry and painting, and indeed to every thing else in this world. When a certain point of perfection has been attained, the progress afterwards is in a contrary direction; and a corruption of taste is introduced by the very attempt to pursue improvement beyond that line, which limits all human exertion by the irreversible fiat;—" thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." But though music must be considered as on the decline in Italy, there is, notwithstanding, a general diffusion of musical taste and musical talent, extending to the lowest ranks. I have often set my window open at night to listen to the "dying falls" of a favourite air, distributed into parts, and sung by a party of mechanics returning home from their work, with a degree of skill and science that would not have disgraced professional performers. The serenade is a compliment of gallantry, by no means confined to the rich. It is customary for a lover, even of the lowest class, to haunt the dwelling of his mistress chanting a rondo, or roundelay, during the period of his courtship.

One of these swains infested our neighbourhood, and my Italian master caught the words, which were pretty enough.