ude.

The conversation naturally fell upon music; it is almost the only thing
which Italians in general can be said to know--and even that knowledge
comes to them, like Dogberry's reading and writing, by nature--for of
music, as an _art_, the unprofessional amateurs know but little. As vain
and arrogant of the last wreck of their national genius as the Romans
of old were of the empire of all arts and arms, they look upon the
harmonies of other lands as barbarous; nor can they appreciate or
understand appreciation of the mighty German music, which is the proper
minstrelsy of a nation of men--a music of philosophy, of heroism, of the
intellect and the imagination; beside which, the strains of modern Italy
are indeed effeminate, fantastic, and artificially feeble. Rossini is
the Canova of music, with much of the pretty, with nothing of the grand!

The little party talked, however, of music, with an animation and gusto
that charmed the melancholy Maltravers, who for weeks had known no
companion save his own thoughts, and with whom, at all times, enthusiasm
for any art found a ready sympathy. He listened attentively, but said
little; and from time to time, whenever the conversation flagged,
amused himself by examining his companions. The six Milanese had nothing
remarkable in their countenances or in their talk; they possessed the
characteristic energy and volubility of their countrymen, with something
of the masculine dignity which distinguishes the Lombard from the
Southern, and a little of the French polish, which the inhabitants of
Milan seldom fail to contract. Their rank was evidently that of the
middle class; for Milan has a middle class, and one which promises great
results hereafter. But they were noways distinguished from a thousand
other Milanese whom Maltravers had met with in the walks and cafes of
their noble city. The host was somewhat more interesting. He was a
tall, handsome man, of about eight-and-forty, with a high forehead, and
features strongly impressed with the sober character of thought. He had
but little of the French vivacity in his manner; and without looking at
his countenance, you would still have felt insensibly that he was the
eldest of the party. His wife was at least twenty years younger than
himself, mirthful and playful as a child, but with a certain feminine
and fascinating softness in her unrestrained gestures and sparkling
gaiety, which seemed to subdue her natural joyousness into the fo