prey. Oh! if the dead may speak, by what rich noises is that solemn temple haunted! What a countless throng of shapes is there, kings and poets, philosophers and soldiers! What a catalogue might not be reckoned, from the founder of the towers of Belus, to the Persian who encamped in the Babylonian squares, to Alexander, and Socrates, and Plato, to Cæsar, to Alfred! Fair names, too, might be strung upon the list, like pearls or glancing diamonds, creatures who were once the grace and beauty of the earth, queens and gentle women, - Antigone and Sappho, Corinna and the mother of the Gracchi, — Portia and Agrippine. And the story might be ended with him, who died an exile on his sea-surrounded rock, the first emperor of France, the king and conqueror of Italy, the Corsican soldier, Napoleon.

1822.

-

THE SPANISH STUDENT.

AN ADVENTURE AT PADUA -FOUNDED ON FACT.

THE grass is now growing in the streets of Padua. Ranges of houses are crumbling into dust. The marble palaces of its princes are silent; and Learning has fled, like a false friend!

Yet, still its University remains: its doctors and professors are still there; and there still is the large clock, which thunders the dull hour into the ears of its straggling disciples. But where is the fame of Padua ? Where is its learned splendor? Where are its eighteen thousand scholars, - Italian and Greek, Persian, Frank, and Arabian? They are gone, loaded with the wealth of science: they cultivate the seeds of learning at home, and the school of Petrarch and Galileo is deserted!

It is now many years ago since a young Spanish student was seen, one sultry afternoon, descending the side of one of the Euganean hills on his return to Padua. He had been at Arqua that morning to visit the tomb of Petrarch, and was going back to the University, in which he had lately been admitted a

scholar. The youth was of a good family, and was a native of Castile, and he had been sent to Padua, in order to acquire a knowledge of languages, as well a some of the latter discoveries in science, which were not then known (or at least not taught) in the colleges of Spain. He was a serious, graceful young man, with a proud mouth and a large black eye that wanted nothing but the illumination of love to make it altogether irresistible. His name was Rodrigo Gomez; and, on the afternoon of which we have spoken, had any lady seen him treading firmly and lightly along (as though all the blood of Castile were in his veins), and looked for a moment at his expressive face, where the constant olive was now mixed and dashed with dark red, like the flush of a ruby brought out by the light, she might have pleaded a beautiful excuse for inconstancy or love. Rodrigo was not aware, however, of these things, but pressed forward with a quick step to Padua. He saw before him rich pastures stretching out into misty distance, and the gay villages of Italy scattered on each side. He passed Cataio, and the gloomy castle of the Obizzi; and keeping onwards by the canal, continued to make the best of his way homewards. Having gone a mile or two further, however, the intense heat of the day oppressed him, and he resolved to rest himself at a small inn (which he had perceived when he had passed that way before), and to complete his journey in the evening.

He was now about five or six miles from Padua, and he entered the village inn. It stood a little out of the road, and was sheltered by some large chestnut-trees from the heat of the sun. He called for refreshments,

when bread and fruit and a bottle of light wine were placed before him. In one corner of the room sate a dark sullen-looking man, whose air appeared somewhat above that of a peasant, drinking; another sang a romance to a few listeners at the door of the house; and two noble-looking men, who appeared to eigners, were conversing at a table near him.

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Sing that song again, Stephano,' said one of the party at the outside of the inn, 'and I will give thee some music to it:' and upon this he took a violin out of a small bag that he held in his hand, and proceeded to draw from it some exquisite tones. 'That fellow has a fine hand,' said one of the gentlemen near Rodrigo in Spanish. By St. Jago he would beat the nightingale. Listen!'-And the fellow played until the hearing of Rodrigo was entranced. He had heard fine music in Spain, and was painfully subject to its power. Now he listened to the masterly capriccios of the musician, and then to the tender symphony, till at last the song commenced, and the words riveted his attention. It told of the Beauty of Padua,'- her faults, her snares, her bewitching eyes, and her voice sweeter than music, which none had been ever known to resist. It spoke of her as a Calypso -a Circe creature who outwent all sculpture, and painting, the flights of passion, and the dreams of poets; and then some plaintive burthen followed, which it was difficult to understand. But a second verse succeeding, the student listened more attentively, and caught words like these:

'Tell me where her beauty lies!

In her lips, or in her eyes?

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In her bosom white and deep,
Where her favor'd lovers sleep;
In her love-enchaining smile?
In her truth, or in her guile?'—

and then the burthen was repeated, and the ditty

closed.

'And, prythee, who is the beauty of Padua?' said the elder Spaniard, when the song was over.

'He means Cornelia,' replied the landlord of the inn (a little stout humorous-looking man) who had just entered the room.

'I do not know her, friend,' retorted the stranger 'who is she? I never heard of more than one of that name, and she died long ago.'

'And pray who was she, if I may be so bold?' said the host. We have only one of that name who has been remarkable.'

'She was a famous woman, and mother of the Gracchi!'

'Oh! - a relation perhaps. But this lady has no children: plenty of lovers, though.'

'And now, our good host,' said the Spaniard, 'sit down (here, upon this bench,) and help us to drink some of this excellent wine. Ha! 't has a rare flavor, i' faith. This is your true Montepulciano ———'

'You are a judge, Signior,' interrupted the landlord. 'No, no; I have tasted the true grape in my time, though, I confess. This wine reminds me of some which I drank at the Prince of C's, at Naples. It must be of the same vintage. But, to leave that subject-prythee sit down by me, friend, and tell us, without more ado, who your Cornelia is."