whose rugged Neptunian features, sea-wrinkled, tell of a rough water-life, boasts a bass of resonant, almost pathetic quality.  Francesco has a mezzo voce, which might, by a stretch of politeness, be called baritone.  Piero’s comrade, whose name concerns us not, has another of these nondescript voices.  They sat together with their glasses and cigars before them, sketching part-songs in outline, striking the keynote—­now higher and now lower—­till they saw their subject well in view.  Then they burst into full singing, Antonio leading with a metal note that thrilled one’s ears, but still was musical.  Complicated contrapuntal pieces, such as we should call madrigals, with ever-recurring refrains of ‘Venezia, gemma Triatica, sposa del mar,’ descending probably from ancient days, followed each other in quick succession.  Barcaroles, serenades, love-songs, and invitations to the water were interwoven for relief.  One of these romantic pieces had a beautiful burden, ‘Dormi, o bella, o fingi di dormir,’ of which the melody was fully worthy.  But the most successful of all the tunes were two with a sad motive.  The one repeated incessantly ‘Ohime! mia madre mori;’ the other was a girl’s love lament:  ’Perche tradirmi, perche lasciarmi! prima d’amarmi non eri cosi!’ Even the children joined in these; and Catina, who took the solo part in the second, was inspired to a great dramatic effort.  All these were purely popular songs.  The people of Venice, however, are passionate for operas.  Therefore we had duets and solos from ‘Ernani,’ the ‘Ballo in Maschera,’ and the ’Forza del Destino,’ and one comic chorus from ‘Boccaccio,’ which seemed to make them wild with pleasure.  To my mind, the best of these more formal pieces was a duet between Attila and Italia from some opera unknown to me, which Antonio and Piero performed with incomparable spirit.  It was noticeable how, descending to the people, sung by them for love at sea, or on excursions to the villages round Mestre, these operatic reminiscences had lost something of their theatrical formality, and assumed instead the serious gravity, the quaint movement, and marked emphasis which belong to popular music in Northern and Central Italy.  An antique character was communicated even to the recitative of Verdi by slight, almost indefinable, changes of rhythm and accent.  There was no end to the singing.  ‘Siamo appassionati per il canto,’ frequently repeated, was proved true by the profusion and variety of songs produced from inexhaustible memories, lightly tried over, brilliantly performed, rapidly succeeding each other.  Nor were gestures wanting—­lifted arms, hands stretched to hands, flashing eyes, hair tossed from the forehead—­unconscious and appropriate action—­which showed how the spirit of the music and words alike possessed the men.  One by one the children fell asleep.  Little Attilio and Teresa were tucked up beneath my Scotch shawl at two ends of a great sofa; and not even his father’s clarion voice, in the character of Italia defying