The Diary of an invalid, being the journal of a tour... in Portugal, Italy, Switzerland and France, 1817-1819

urn:iso:std:iso:639:ed-3:eng

227-228

text excerpt

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.

excerpt from 'The Diary of an invalid, being the journal of a tour... in Portugal, Italy, Switzerland and France, 1817-1819' pp. 227-228 (231 words)

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1518781410684