“Only at French sentiment and the romance of the Chaussee d’Antin. You English,” she continued, shaking her head at Maltravers, “have spoiled and corrupted us; we are not content to imitate you, we must excel you; we out-horror horror, and rush from the extravagant into the frantic!” “The ferment of the new school is, perhaps, better than the stagnation of the old,” said Maltravers. “Yet even you,” addressing himself to the Italians, “who first in Petrarch, in Tasso, and in Ariosto, set to Europe the example of the Sentimental and the Romantic; who built among the very ruins of the classic school, amidst its Corinthian columns and sweeping arches, the spires and battlements of the Gothic--even you are deserting your old models and guiding literature into newer and wilder paths. ‘Tis the way of the world--eternal progress is eternal change.” “Very possibly,” said Signor Tirabaloschi, who understood nothing of what was said. “Nay, it is extremely profound; on reflection, it is beautiful--superb! you English are so--so--in short, it is admirable. Ugo Foscolo is a great genius--so is Monti; and as for Rossini,--you know his last opera--_cosa stupenda_!” Madame de Montaigne glanced at Maltravers, clapped her little hands, and laughed outright. Maltravers caught the contagion, and laughed also. But he hastened to repair the pedantic error he had committed of talking over the heads of the company. He took up the guitar, which, among their musical instruments, the serenaders had brought, and after touching its chords for a few moments, said: “After all, Madame, in your society, and with this moonlit lake before us, we feel as if music were our best medium of conversation. Let us prevail upon these gentlemen to delight us once more.” “You forestall what I was going to ask,” said the ex-singer; and Maltravers offered the guitar to Tirabaloschi, who was in fact dying to exhibit his powers again. He took the instrument with a slight grimace of modesty, and then saying to Madame de Montaigne, “There is a song composed by a young friend of mine, which is much admired by the ladies; though to me it seems a little too sentimental,” sang the following stanzas (as good singers are wont to do) with as much feeling as if he could understand them! NIGHT AND LOVE. When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes! As stars look on the sea! For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest where they shine; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light Beneath the heaven of thine. There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch on men; When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep,-- Sweet spirit, meet me then. There is an hour when holy dreams Through slumber fairest glide; And in that mystic hour it seems Thou shouldst be by my side. The thoughts of thee too sacred are For daylight’s common beam;-- I can but know thee as my star, My angel, and my dream!