After dark, I stepped into a boat, and rowed about in the gulf. What a glorious night-picture! The sky of Italy set with sparkling stars—a magic transparency in the atmosphere—away at the extremity of the headland a flashing beacon—lights in the castle of Calvi—one or two sleeping ships on the water—herdsmen's fires on the dark hills above—the waves phosphorescing round the boat, and the drops sparkling as they fall from the oars—in the deep stillness the sounds of a mandoline borne from the shore. CHAPTER VI. A MUSICAL FESTIVAL. The poetry of this evening was not yet exhausted. I had scarcely fallen asleep in my little locanda, when the twanging of citherns, and the sounds of voices singing in parts, awakened me. They played and sang for at least an hour before the house. It was meant for a young girl who was one of its inmates. They sang first a serenade, then Voceros or dirges. Singular, that a young girl should be serenaded with dirges; and the proper serenade itself with which they commenced was as mournful as a Vocero. It is impossible to tell how overpoweringly touching is the solemn melancholy of this music in the stillness of the night; the tones are so wailing, so monotonous, and long drawn out. The first voice sang solo, then the second joined, and the third, and at last the whole band. They sang _in recitativo_, as they sing in Italy the ritornello. In the ritornello too, sentiments not meant to be melancholy are sung in an almost plaintive strain; but when this in itself melancholy kind of music is applied to the Vocero, the whole soul is thrilled with sadness. I had heard night-singing in other parts of Corsica, but none of such a powerful and solemn character as this; I shall never forget the dirges of that night in Calvi. Often yet I hear their echo; and one word particularly, _speranza_, becomes frequently audible to me in the plaintive tones in which it was sung.