heir
sober foreheads.

That afternoon the gondola and sandolo were lashed together side by
side. Two sails were raised, and in this lazy fashion we stole
homewards, faster or slower according as the breeze freshened or
slackened, landing now and then on islands, sauntering along the
sea-walls which bulwark Venice from the Adriatic, and singing--those at
least of us who had the power to sing. Four of our Venetians had trained
voices and memories of inexhaustible music. Over the level water, with
the ripple plashing at our keel, their songs went abroad, and mingled
with the failing day. The barcaroles and serenades peculiar to Venice
were, of course, in harmony with the occasion. But some transcripts from
classical operas were even more attractive, through the dignity with
which these men invested them. By the peculiarity of their treatment the
_recitativo_ of the stage assumed a solemn movement, marked in rhythm,
which removed it from the commonplace into antiquity, and made me
understand how cultivated music may pass back by natural, unconscious
transition into the realm of popular melody.

The sun sank, not splendidly, but quietly in banks of clouds above the
Alps. Stars came out, uncertainly at first, and then in strength,
reflected on the sea. The men of the Dogana watch-boat challenged us
and let us pass. Madonna's lamp was twinkling from her shrine upon the
harbour-pile. The city grew before us. Stealing into Venice in that
calm--stealing silently and shadowlike, with scarce a ruffle of the
water, the masses of the town emerging out of darkness into twilight,
till San Giorgio's gun boomed with a flash athwart our stern, and the
gas-lamps of the Piazzetta swam into sight; all this was like a long
enchanted chapter of romance. And now the music of our men had sunk to
one faint whistling from Eustace of tunes in harmony with whispers at
the prow.

Then came the steps of the Palazzo Venier and the deep-scented darkness
of the garden. As we passed through to supper, I plucked a spray of
yellow Banksia rose, and put it in my button-hole. The dew was on its
burnished leaves, and evening had drawn forth its perfume.

IV.--MORNING RAMBLES.

A story is told of Poussin, the French painter, that when he was asked
why he would not stay in Venice, he replied, "If I stay here, I shall
become a colourist!" A somewhat similar tale is reported of a
fashionable English decorator. While on a visit to friends in Venice, he
avo