nation. Piero, 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 p