to be one of those botanic gardens which were of earlier date in
Padua than elsewhere in Italy or in the world. Or, not
improbably, it might once have been the pleasure-place of an
opulent family; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in
the centre, sculptured with rare art, but so wofully shattered
that it was impossible to trace the original design from the
chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, continued to
gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A
little gurgling sound ascended to the young man's window, and
made him feel as if the fountain were an immortal spirit that
sung its song unceasingly and without heeding the vicissitudes
around it, while one century imbodied it in marble and another
scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. All about the
pool into which the water subsided grew various plants, that
seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the
nourishment of gigantic leaves, and in some instances, flowers
gorgeously magnificent. There was one shrub in particular, set in
a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of
purple blossoms, each of which had the lustre and richness of a
gem; and the whole together made a show so resplendent that it
seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had there been no
sunshine. Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and
herbs, which, if less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous
care, as if all had their individual virtues, known to the
scientific mind that fostered them. Some were placed in urns,
rich with old carving, and others in common garden pots; some
crept serpent-like along the ground or climbed on high, using
whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed
itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus quite veiled
and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so happily arranged