been lavished, and no expense spared; so that when Maddelena attained the age of womanhood, there was scarcely a more accomplished, and not a more beautiful and gentle maiden to be found in the whole of Pisa. She was the image of her mother in figure, mind, and temper; and this had bound, if possible, more closely the ties of paternal affection. Jacopo, in the warmth of his love had never allowed her to leave his sight, or at least to be far from him. She was seldom to be met with in the public places, to which, in those days, the youth of her age so generally resorted. The lists, the dance, and the marriage-feast were seldom graced by her presence; and even when she did make her appearance there, it was more as a spectator than a partaker in their gaieties; for Jacopo, though he lived in that dissolute age, knew and dreaded the danger to which youth and beauty are exposed to in their communion with the world.

Under the protection and guidance of this fatherly solicitude, Maddalena had arrived at the age of seventeen, and her heart was still her own. Many of the richest nobles of Pisa had made proposals for her hand, which Jacopo had deemed it prudent to refuse. Nay, scarce was there a finger in all Pisa that could touch the lute, which was not, some night or other of the year, sweeping its chords beneath her latticed window. She used to smile as she heard the serenades to her own beauty, at times admiring the musician's skill, and sometimes blushing as she heard herself, in the same stanza, compared to the rose, the lily, and the morning star.

and bright on the picture of an old crusader, giving a shadowy and unusual look to the countenance. This, togegether with the wild imagery of one of the Provençal ballads she had been reading, deeply embued her mind with a melancholy and tender feeling. She threw down the ballad-she gazed on the bold and rugged outlines of the warrior's face she attempted again to read --she desisted-and her eyes were rivetted on the dark contour of the warrior's countenance, made more striking by the moonlight which rested upon it. Her mind could not settle. The hour and the scene altogether had wrought her up into that feverish feeling of romance which all young hearts have known, and they the most who have held least intercourse with the world.

One night in December-it was a cold and silent night, and the moon was up, which steeped, as it were, the pure white marble of Pisa in her own still purer and whiter light-Maddalena sat alone in her panelled chamber, in anxious expectation of the return of her father, who had been absent for some hours. The moonlight, streaming through the casement at which she sat, fell full

While she continued in this state, half in pleasure, half in pain, the tones of a lute, in a slow and solemn Italian air, softly arose from below the casement at which she sat. At first the musician's fingers seemed scarcely to touch the chords. A single note was only now and then heard, like the distant murmur of a stream in the desert; then it gradually rose, and rose, and swelled into deeper softness, till the music at length burst into all the voluptuousness of perfect melody. Love could not have fixed upon a better hour to insinuate himself into the most impenetrable heart. A maid alone and in moonlight, with her senses floating on the lovely sounds of music, and her heart steeped in romantic feeling, rather woos than shuns his approaches; and we need scarcely inform our readers of either sex that so it was with Maddalena.— While the stranger sung in a clear and manly voice the words of a plaintive canzonetta, she drew back the casement, and half afraid, yet anxious to catch a glimpse of the musician, she leant herself timidly over it. The minstrel's eyes were fixed intently on the spot where she was; and when he saw gently open the lattice, the notes of his lute seemed to swell into greater rap

her

re, continuing on the air even after e musician had ceased. Maddalena uld perceive, standing in a shadow of e moonlight, occasioned by a projectg part of the building, a young cavaer, wrapt in a loose cloak, and underath it and across his breast one of ose old fashioned lutes which we may e every day represented in the prints the wandering Troubadours. The The outh sighed, looked fondly, knelt, and lked of love. She spoke not, but she stened.

We write not for the stupid elf, squire, dame, who has yet to be told that ve needs but a beginning; or who innot guess, till they have it staring em out of countenance in black and hite, that Borgiano (for so the youth as called) and Maddalena were lovers efore a week had past. It is time, howver, to inform our readers that the outh was of Florentine extraction; that had come to Pisa to avail himself of er schools, which had even then obtain1 great celebrity throughout Europe; nd that he was in the middle of his udies when the incident which we have -lated took place.

Love, more perhaps in Italy than in ny other country, has always had free berty to run its own course. Plant it ut in two bosoms, and they are sure, spite of the keenest vigilance, to have eir meetings, their sighs, and their ths. Jacopo knew no more of what as going on between his daughter and orgiano than the nightingale which t and sang above the bower, the scene 7 their earliest and only interview. Women, if the truth must be told, were en the same as they are now; daughrs, in love matters, cheated their grayaired fathers, and wives not unfrequenttheir fatherly husbands.

Jacopo had been invited one evening the house of the nobles, where seve1 of the principal men of Pisa were sembled. Meali Lanfranchi, one of ese, had paid court to the old gentlean, and completely cheated him out his affection. A proposal was made

by him for the hand of Maddalena, which was readily enough agreed to by Jacopo, who saw no reason, nor did he rack his brain for any, why he should not unite himself in the person of his daughter with the first of the Pisan nobility. Meali was a branch of the Lanfranchi family, one of the oldest and most powerful in the state. He had lived but little in his native place, and having newly returned to it after a long absence, he was, of course, the theme of much and general observation. His faults were either altogether unknown, or glossed over in the novelty of his return; and whether it was that Jacopo was dazzled with his rank, or captivated by his address, it was agreed before they parted that an interview should take place on the following day. Lanfranchi, satisfied with the progress he had made, went exulting to his palace, and Jacopo, musing and chuckling all the way over the elevation which he fondly anticipated for his daughter. He found her in a thoughtful mood, and waiting his return.

Borgiano had that evening made a more open avowal of his love than he had hitherto done. He had sworn his plighted faith, and had entreated a return from her; but however pleasing the request might be, it had distressed Maddalena. It was true she loved him, yet she had scarcely ever dared to own it to herself. With the strange caprice of

every maiden who loves for the first time, she had dwelt with fond delight on her affection, and every thing connected with it, when alone, and when it was seen only in the lights and shadows which fancy chose to bestow. Yet when her lover made the avowal, which she could not but expect, she was strangely disconcerted, and even de➡ pressed in spirits. In this state Jacopo found her on his arrival at home.

"Maddalena," he said, patting her at the same time under the chin, "what would you say, Maddalena, if you were now to become a wife ?" "A wife, father?"

Aye, a wife, Maddalena; and a wife to the first noble in Pisa. What think you of that, my girl?"

"I think, father; I only think I would rather be your child than wife to the first noble in all the world."

"Well, well, Maddalena, your affection is not unreturned, and I like you not the worse for this coyness; 'tis your sex's best failing. But we shall talk more of it to-morrow, when your lover comes. And then, my girl, when he is here, there will be soft words and stolen glances. You will be gay as a lark in a May morning, and your lover -But good night, good night," he said, suddenly stopping when he saw that his daughter took little heed of the rhapsody he was pouring upon her ears; and imprinting a paternal kiss upon her cheek, which had flushed into a burning crimson when she heard him talk of the morrow and a lover, he left her to herself.

Next morning Lanfranchi, punctual to a moment, was at the house of his new friend Jacopo, who of course received him with the kindest welcome.Maddalena stood with her arm leant upon the lattice, her eye turned to the broad expanse of field and vineyard, gradually lessening perspectively till they joined in with the blue towering Appenines in the distance: and, strange for a female in the immediate presence of an avowed lover to whom she had no heart to give, she looked all unconcern. But it was only the appearance of a command, and not a real mastery which she possessed over her feelings. And Lanfranchi, though a man of the world, and little accustomed to lay any restraint upon his inclinations, felt confused under the composed look and commanding beauty of Maddalena. She ventured to cast but one glance on her professed suitor. He was a man apparently about thirty years of age, with a keen grey eye, whose expression, though subdued at present, seemed rather of command than of entreaty, and suited well with the dark and oversha

dowing mass of his eyebrows. A green silk doublet, bespangled with gold, hung down from his shoulder, and in his hand he bore a round cap of the same colour, which was ornamented with an eagle's feather.

When Jacopo, in order to give him an opportunity of declaring himself, had left the apartment, Lanfranchi changed immediately his former awkwardness and want of confidence for the manner and freedom of a man who had only to speak in order to be obeyed. Gazing on Maddalena with the licentious look of a professed libertine, he seized her by the hand, and poured forth a torrent of vows and protestations. The maid gave a sort of involuntary shudder, and started back, but Lanfranchi still pressing his suit, attempted to put his arm round her waist.

"Is this the manner, Sir, you repay my father's kindness, by insult to his daughter?" she said; and she accompanied these words with a look of offended dignity, which for a moment confused Lanfranchi, and ere he could recover from his surprise, she left the apartment.

Jacopo, as he entered the room, smiling, smirking, and looking sufficiently wise, found Lanfranchi standing as if a spell had hardened every limb of him to stone. But whatever the old man's thoughts were, he determined to remain silent on the subject till the other should inform him of what had passed. Lanfranchi, however, bade him adieu, without adverting even to the object of his visit, but not without many invitations from Jacopo to return on the morrow. The morrow came, and so did Lanfranchi; but Maddalena remained inflexible in never leaving her apartment as long as his visits lasted. She was convinced that her father would never force her into a marriage so much against her inclination. All this time (what will not love effect?) Borgiano and the maiden had their stolen interviews, and surely not the less delightful that they were stolen. Often, when all were at rest,

and the moon threw her faint light across their path, they wandered in the garden, which sloped beautifully down to the banks of the river. There daybreak often found them, and that hour -the loveliest hour of all-when the sun rises from behind the Appenines, like a new-born spirit starting from the mountain tops, and his freshened beams rest on the glittering rocks of Carrara and the white marble buildings of Pisa, or float on the green waves of the farrolling Tuscan sea-that hour was the least beloved by them, for it told of parting.

Matters were in this situation when the report of the invasion of Charles the Eight of France, who had already entered the Italian frontier, spread consternation far and wide throughout the whole land.

Some beheld in this wild and ambitious scheme, the foreboding clouds of that ruin and desolation which, a month or two afterwards, it spread over the fairest cities in Italy. Others, who with reason or from imagination looked upon their wretchedness as already beyond the possibility of being increased, turned to the Gallic invader as to a saving angel, and flocked to do him homage.

The gradual and ambitious encroachments made upon the territories of Pisa by the Florentines, had, previously to Charles's invasion, kindled into a flame those sparks of emnity which had so long lain smothered in the bosoms of the two states. Pisa had now taken the alarm, but as yet ventured upon no act of open hostility. She lay like a tigress in her den, determined to avoid any offensive measures on her part, but resolved to offer the firmest resistance to any assault upon her liberty. knew that her ill-disciplined and worse organized army, formed but a feeble barrier against the regular condottiere of Florence. This consciousness of her own weakness, more, perhaps, than any other consideration, served to continue, so long, her sullen and unwilling forbearance.

She

To her inhabitants, in such a state of mind, Providence seemed to have interposed in directing Charles's march across the Alps. Scarcely, therefore, had he quitted Lucca on his way to this city, when its inhabitants gathered around him, pouring forth the most tumultuous expressions of their joy, and hailing him as the saviour of their country. The wavering and deceitful policy of this monarch, whose good deeds seldom went farther than the promise, was not wanting on the present occasion. He met the ardent solicitations of the Pisans, and gave them the assurance of his protection. This favourable reply raised them from the lowest despondency into the wildest exultation. Regarding it as their emancipation from slavery, they broke forth into the utmost excesses; every badge which distinguished the Florentines throughout the city was demolished: and it might well be said, that the matin bell of liberty to the one state pealed a death note on the ear of the other.

Jacopo was within the sphere of this persecution, but on account of his age, and the influence he possessed with many of the nobles, he was allowed two days to deliberate whether he should leave the city unmolested, or brave the fury of the populace, by remaining within its walls. Lanfranchi had all along continued his suit to Maddalena, with as little success as he had at first commenced it; though his addresses had assumed a more determined tone, and he demanded her union with him, more as if he were condescending on his part than she granting a favour on hers.

On the night after Charles had made his entrance into Pisa, Lanfranchi came to the house of Jacopo. He was dressed out as a reveller, and indeed from his eye and gait, it was evident he had lately risen from a company of Bacchanals. The old man, attended by his daughter, sat in an apartment the farthest from the street, (for not a Florentine dared to be seen,) whose dark

hangings and sombre tapestry gave a melancholy hue to the faces of its inmates, and contrasted strangely with the gay colours of Lanfranchi's dress. As the old man rose to receive him, his guest seemed to cast upon them both the eye of a serpent, which already has its prey within its power;-pityless, remorseless, determined,-his look was like that of one, whose word carried life or death. Jacopo seemed almost to tremble under his scrowl, and the heart of Maddalena almost leapt from its seat as her eye met his.

"Cheer up, good father," said Lanfranchi in a merry tone-Nay, look not so dull, man, ne'er a dog in all Pisa dares to bite when I say hold; and the boldest hand in the city shall not touch a single hair of that white head of thine, if I say no."

The old man remained silent.

"Rouse thee, man, or I shall think thee coward if thou quakest so. As father of my bride, I pledge my word you shall be safe were you ten Florentines, aye, by the holy virgin, were you ten thousand Florentines."

At this last sentence, the tears burst forth from Maddalena's eyes.

"What! weeping and groans on a bridal eve? throw them away, my pretty ladybird, we shall have no clouds over our honeymoon :" continued Lanfranchi in the same tone-and advancing to where Maddalena was sitting, he attempted to put his arm round her neck, but she repelled him-" Desist, sir; for though you were hateful to me in your prosperity, you are doubly so in our distress."

Lanfranchi burst into a scornful laugh -"How pretty the fair thing looks in a passion; by my faith she might enact tragedy."

Jacopo's blood was fired within him, at this last insult.

"Villain!" cried the old man,"dost thou think to trample upon us in our misery; and triumph over us in our misfortunes? She shall never be yours."

“ Villain—ha,—villain; I think that

was the word you used. Why you mìserable dotardvillain, forsooth- a gentleman can't make love to your daughter, and tell her how beautiful she is, but you must call him-villain! Hark you, old man, you have been drinking freely, and I pardon you; besides, there's not a Florentine now in the city that does not hate us Pisans. I tell you plainly, your daughter shall be mine to-morrow!"

"Never! never !" exclaimed Maddalena.

"Hush! peace! my pretty prattler. By to-morrow's night she shall be mine, old man, or death may chance to you, and worse perhaps to her."

"Holy virgin!" said Maddalena, kneeling before a small image of the Madona, "shield his gray hairs-save, oh save my father; let not him die for the misfortune of his daughter."

"A pretty enough orison, and prettily told," said Lanfranchi, scornfully; "but even that will scarcely save you.'

Maddalena still knelt; her hands were clasped over her face, down which her tears fell heavy and fast.

Lanfranchi looked upon her more with the eye of wild licentious appetite than of love; more of keen-searching mockery than of pity.

Pray on," he said, "aye, pray loud, and well too; it may be the last prayer your father can partake in."

"Have you no pity?" exclaimed Maddalena, seizing at the same time, witu both hands, the corner of his doublet; "Spare him-stain not your hands with his blood.-I am your victim, slay but me, heaven will pardon you the murder."

"That may be all in good time, thou prattler," Lanfranchi replied, in a deep calm tone of voice; and tearing his doublet from her hands, he left the house.

When he was gone, the father and the daughter remained silent. The old man's thoughts of himself and his own safety were drowned in one resistless and pervading feeling of horror for the