At first sight the songs of the various Italian provinces appear to be greatly alike, but at first sight only. Under further examination they display essential differences, and even the songs which travel all over Italy almost always receive some distinctive touch of local colour in the districts where they obtain naturalisation. The Venetian poet has as strongly marked an identity as any of his fellows. Not to speak of his having invented the four-lined song known as the "Vilota," the quality of his work unmistakably reflects his peculiar idiosyncracies. An Italian writer has said, "nella parola e nello scritto ognuno imita se stesso;" and the Venetian "imitates himself" faithfully enough in his verses. He has a well-developed sense of humour, and his finer wit discerns less objectionable paths than those of parody and burlesque, for which the Sicilian shows so fatal a leaning. He is often in a mood of half-playful cynicism; if his paramount theme is love, he is yet fully inclined to have a laugh at the expense of the whole race of lovers: A feast I will prepare for love to eat, Non-suited suitors I will ask to dine; They shall have pain and sorrow for their meat, They shall have tears and sobs to drink for wine; And sighs shall be the servitors most fit To wait at table where the lovers sit. As compared with the Tuscan, the Venetian is a confirmed egotist. While the former well-nigh effaces his individual personality out of his hymns of adoration, the latter is apt to talk so much of his private feelings, his wishes, his disappointments, that the idol stands in danger of being forgotten. There is, indeed, a single song--the song of one of the despised mariners--which combines the sweet humility of Tuscan lyrics with a glow and fervour truly Venetian--possibly its author was in reality some Istriot seaman, for the _canti popolari_ of Istria are known to partake of both styles. Anyhow, it may figure here, justified by what seems to me its own excellence of conception: Fair art thou born, but love is not for me; A sailor's calling sends me forth to sea. I do desire to paint thee on my sail, And o'er the briny deep I'd carry thee. They ask, What ensign? when the boat they hail-- For woman's love I bear this effigy; For woman's love, for love of maiden fair; If her I may not love, I love forswear! When he is most in earnest and most excited, the Venetian is still homely--he has none of the Sicilian's luxuriant imagination. I may call to mind a remark of Edgar Poe's to the effect that passion demands a homeliness of expression. Passionate the Venetian poet certainly is. Never a man was readier to "dare e'en death" at the behest of his mistress-- Wouldst have me die? Then I'll no longer live. Grant unto me for sepulchre thy bed, Make me straightway a pillow of thy head, And with thy mouth one kiss, beloved one, give.