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Updated: May 9, 2025
A gentleman of a rotund person, clothed in correct evening dress and whose speech was of a thickness to indicate recent indulgence in intoxicating liquors, alighted from the carriage. "I do not believe thish ish the place. No, thish ish not the place I told you to come to, driver. I'm glad it isn't anyway, as I'm afraid we're too drunk to sing a serenade. Here's another man as's drunk, too.
The honest old burgher cannot take his afternoon's pipe on the bench before his door but he is persecuted with the scraping of fiddles, the chattering of women, and the squalling of children; he cannot sleep at night for the horrible melodies of some amateur, who chooses to serenade the moon, and display his terrible proficiency in execution on the clarionet, hautboy, or some other soft-toned instrument; nor can he leave the street door open, but his house is defiled by the unsavory visits of a troop of pug dogs, who even sometimes carry their loathsome ravages into the sanctum sanctorum, the parlor.
The last movement, "The Return and Feast of the Lanterns," is on the sonata formula. The second subject is adapted from the serenade theme. The result is a carnival of technic that compels the layman to wonder and the scholar to homage. A transcription for a piano duet has been made of this last movement.
What he especially wants is that it should be full of sentiment; and so the pianist arranged it with directions and many pauses, which satisfied the Norwegian. Almost every night the serenade 'A la bella Italia' is sung. Somebody who wants to amuse himself goes to the piano, the Norwegian strikes a languid attitude and chants his serenade.
"I've heard rumours of a serenade last night," said the professor's wife. Albert grew pale, but Helena took up the gauntlet. "It was well meant, but they really might have been sober. This excessive drinking among students is terrible." "What did they sing?" asked the professor's wife. "Oh! the usual songs: 'My life a sea, and so on," replied Helena.
As we stood, the nightingales gave us capricious pause; one alone, distant and clear, fluted its faint piping like the phantom of the finished strain. Another sound broke the air and floated along on this too delicious accompaniment: music, fine and far. Some other lover sang to her his serenade.
There was no tom-tom serenade such as usually heralds the coming of night; no fires were lighted; the evening meal was forgotten. An ominous silence pervaded the barrio. Night came soft, fragrant night, with its thousand wonders. The inquisitive moon peeped over the palm fronds, peeped again, and decided to remain.
"Good-night to you, and may you not have a lion's serenade." "No, I hope not; their music is too loud to be agreeable; good-night."
This Signor Pasquale made a mental note of, and as the essence of gallantry purposed to surprise his love with a serenade on his part, which he had himself composed and carefully practised up with his faithful friends.
In considering his Sinfonietta, the Serenade, the Hiller Variations, the Prologue to a Tragedy, the Lustspiel Overture, the two concertos respectively for pianoforte and violin, we are struck not as much by the easy handling of old forms, as by the stark emotional content of these compositions.
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