To dear Italy or France!
I am sick to the soul,
Politics and sea coal,
So give one the vapours,
Their cursed news-papers,
Their mobbing,
Stock-jobbing
Are horrors to me;
I wish the whole island were sunk in the sea.
During my performance, the Signor appeared perfectly astonished, and at length seizing my hand with rapture, “welcome,” he cried, “O son of harmony! it cannot be longer disguised, you are a brother—you are one of us”—then expatiating on the dignity and importance of the order of castrati, he desired me, if not too much exhausted, to sing again his favourite air, which when I had done he cried out with transport;—“nec vox hominem sonat! I can hardly believe it is the same pipe! such a volume of voice, such an open and perfect shake! such light and shade! never was voice less cloudy! such clearness, brilliancy, neatness, expression, embellishment, intonation, firmness, modulation, smoothness and elegance! and then your portamento is as round and tight as a portmanteau, and you take appogiatura, as easily as a body would take a pinch of snuff!”—