IT was that delicious season of the year, when nature, having laid aside the mourning weeds which she had worn for the sweet children that had perished on her bosom during the winter, and having shed the soft sparkling tears, in which her deeper agony imperceptibly dissolves, looked smilingly in the face of her celestial bridegroom, and felt within her maternal breast the awakening of new life. "April had wept itself to May," and May, as if conscious of the sorrow she had overcome, and that the malignant influence of her wintry enemy was now no more, dressed her countenance in perpetual smiles, and, with the happy feeling of security, danced on the fresh grass, and beneath the halfopened green buds of the reviving trees. It was at such a time, and on a bright golden morning worthy of the season, that the beautiful Flerida, Duchess of Parma, accompanied by the ladies of her court, strayed through the delicious gardens that lay around her palace, and which were divided from the stately city, which she governed with such a gentle hand, by a smooth, transparent stream, spanned by a marble bridge. So wonderfully had nature and art combined their resources in the formation of these gardens, that they realised all that the visionary has dreamed, or the poet has described. So regularly did the warm, well-tended earth, and the sheltered trees put forth, in unfailing successions, their flowers and fruits all the year round, that the place seemed the habitation of Armida-while Diana might have rested in its shady groves, and Venus bathed her ivory limbs in

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the crystal water of its fountains. If human happiness depended on the delicious balm that nature sheds from a southern sky, or the inexpressible beauty with which she decks the bosom of the earth in summer, or even the consciousness that we can enjoy such blessings, without purchasing them at the bitter price of days and nights of hopeless and depressing toil, Flerida must have been most happy. But the melancholy that was depicted in her countenance, her languid gait and dejected air, showed but too clearly how little human happiness depends upon the accidental circumstances of nature, or of fortune. fair friends, with that quickness of perception, and that intuitive sagacity for which they are so celebrated, will at once surmise that the beautiful Flerida was in love; and as we cannot bear to be upon any terms but those of the most complete confidence with our readers, we are bound to acknowledge that they are perfectly correct. Yes, indeed, Flerida was in love-desperately, hopelessly in love-wounded in the midst of her very court by that daring little democrat, who attacks peasants and princesses, duchesses and dairy-maids, with the same indifference, and whose unceremonious visits to the palaces even of queens, under the character of "the boy-Cupid," has so often set Olympus in a roar. Wounded Flerida was, beyound all question; but unfortunately the immortal arrow that had pierced her breast was plucked by the archer, either in his haste or in his indifference to human suffering, from the wrong quiver. And here we must be allowed to say a word to all

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the sculptors, painters, and poets, who have either carved, coloured, or described "the blind bow-boy" from the beginning of the world to the present hour, and to set them right upon a matter of costume. They have all presented him to our eyes, such as we see him, "in old marbles ever beautiful," with a single quiver hanging from his winged shoulders. This, indeed, is the small, bright, ivory quiver, whence the diamond shafts of hope are taken, that are winged with success, and bear their own healing balm upon their points. But in truth, on the other shoulder he bears a second quiver, larger and darker than the first, which, though hitherto unnoticed by the eyes of men, can be borne testimony to by their hearts, for in it are the arrows of despair-sharp, envenomed, and incurable-for which the heart has no shield, and time itself has no antidote.

That it was out of the latter quiver that the arrow which rankled in Flerida's heart was taken, may be easily guessed from the circumstance of her being blind and insensible to the beauty that surrounded her, and to the influence of the delicious season that had returned to bless the earth. For the first perceptible effect of the diffe rent arrows we have mentioned is felt in the change which the appearance of nature undergoes in the eyes of the sufferer. If the dart has proceeded from the white, joyous quiver, then suddenly the face of creation wears an expression of miraculous beauty; every flower rivals the loveliness of the rose, and every bird sings with the sweetness of the lark. The desert smiles with sudden fertility, and the monotonous sea bears golden isles of promise on its barren waters. If, on the other hand, the cruel indifference of love has drawn the deadly shaft from

the poisoned quiver," all nature seems to share the wound-the fairest flowers wither and fade away; the trees lose their foliage, and the turf its verdant freshness; the song of the lark sounds harsh, or is unnoticed; and the world seems as bare and desolate as the heart, where no grain of hope may ever ripen again.

Flerida had been just sought in marriage by the Duke of Mantua. She had never seen her suitor, neither had the duke ever beheld Flerida, except in the faint, dim shadow of her portrait-which, however, was beautiful

enough to awaken in his heart the seeds of an undying attachment. Flerida, without either refusing or accepting his proposal, indeed without almost thinking on the subject, nourished the secret passion which she felt for a gentleman of her court, named Frederick, who discharged the duties of her secretary. The inequality of their position, the duty which she felt incumbent on her, of making her marriage conduce to the power and prosperity of her people, but, above all, the certainty which she felt that Frederick had placed his affections upon some lady of his own rank, whose name she had not been able to discover-all awakened within her those feelings of dejection and despair that we have endeavoured to describe. The name of this chosen mistress of Frederick's affections was Laura, the most beautiful of the ladies in attendance on Flerida, and in whom the duchess reposed the greatest confidence. The love of Frederick was reciprocated by his mistress, but owing to their being wholly dependant on Flerida, and to the circumstance of Laura's father, Arnesto, being anxious that his daughter should wed Lisardo, her own cousin, they agreed to keep their affection a secret from all but each other, at least for a time. The day before that on which our story opens, Henry, the Duke of Mantua, not being able to resist the curiosity which he felt of beholding the original of that beautiful portrait, which had so great an effect upon his heart, came to Parma, with letters as if from the duke, recommending him to Flerida as a gentleman of his court, who, on account of a duel arising out of a love affair, was obliged to absent himself from Mantua for a few days. He took up his residence with Frederick, to whom alone he entrusted his secret; and to whose inquisitive valet, Fabio, he was an object of especial curiosity and speculation.

Flerida, lost in melancholy reverie, strayed through her delicious gardens, and was only wakened to consciousness occasionally, by the appropriateness of some sentiment sung by the chorus of musicians who attended her, and by the sweet solitary voice of Flora, one of her own ladies.

Chorus of Musicians,

Ah! my heart, in love's sweet season Thou hast reason for thy pain;

Reason for the gentle treason

That has lured thee to love's chain;