Down on the Piliero, whither I have been to take
my passage for Paola, I catch but an echo of the jubilant uproar
which used to amaze me. Is Naples really so much quieter? If I had
time I would go out to Fuorigrotta, once, it seemed to me, the
noisiest village on earth, and see if there also I observed a
change. It would not be surprising if the modernization of the city,
together with the state of things throughout Italy, had a subduing
effect upon Neapolitan manners. In one respect the streets are
assuredly less gay. When I first knew Naples one was never,
literally never, out of hearing of a hand-organ; and these organs,
which in general had a peculiarly dulcet note, played the brightest
of melodies; trivial, vulgar if you will, but none the less
melodious, and dear to Naples. Now the sound of street music is
rare, and I understand that some police provision long since
interfered with the soft-tongued instruments. I miss them; for, in
the matter of music, it is with me as with Sir Thomas Browne. For
Italy the change is significant enough; in a few more years
spontaneous melody will be as rare at Naples or Venice as on the
banks of the Thames.
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