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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.

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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

IN WORDS.

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. Our 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

• El Secreto a Voces." By CALDERON.

VOL. XXXII-NO. CLXXXVII.

B

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 qui ver, 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;

But of what availeth reason, Which for love itself is vain.

Flora Sings.

After all thy various trials,
Doubtings, dangers, and denials.
Rest at length poor weary heart.
Or if thou for thy confusion
Must indulge some new illusion,

Hopeful dreamer that thou art;
Think not with thy fond complaining
Thou canst cure thy bosoma's paining,
Change a bright eye's cold disdaining-
Calm thy heart, or cool thy brain.
It were treason unto reason,
If love came but in love's season.

Chorus.

Ah! but what availeth reason,
Which for love itself is vain?
Flora Sings.

If without being worthy of her,
Thou dost dare to be the lover

Of Atlanta, young and fair;
Suffer silently thine anguish
For the cause whereby you languish,
It were idle to declare.

Blame the star whose fatal warning
Shone upon thy natal morning,
Not the maiden's gentle scorning,

Which her heart cannot restrain.
Call for aid upon thy reason,
To protect thee from such treason.
Chorus.

But of what availeth reason,
Which for love itself is vain?
Flerida, Whose words are these?
Frederick.

Senora, they are mine. Flerida. I always note that in the songs they

sing me,

And which they tell me have by you been written, Your one unchanging plaint is ever love.

Frederick. I am poor. Flerida.

Of what importeth this to love? Frederick. To merit being loved, it much imports;

And thus, you see, that I do not complain

Of feeling love's sweet bitter pain, senora,
But that I do not merit being loved.

Flerida, And canst thou, Frederick, love so base an object,

That can be influenced by thoughts of gain? Frederick. It were a crime to charge her innocent heart

With such a thought.

Flerida.

Frederick.

Whom do you blame?

Flerida. And why?

Frederick.

Myself!

Because I dare not speak of love, I do not say to her nor to her kindred, But even to her very menial slaves; Knowing the lover that has nought to give Has little chance of gaining what he asks. Flerida. A lover who doth own himself to be So helpless, can at least declare the name Of her he loves: It surely cannot shock The most extreme respect that he should speak it Who doth pronounce himself so badly used. And so, good Frederick-loving but not meritingIt doth appear most strange that no one yet Has learned the name of her you love so well. Frederick. So guarded in my silence is my love, That many times I have resolved, senora, Never to speak-lest in some thoughtless hour My secret might escape me with my words:

So sacred is this hidden love I cherish,

That even the very air on which I live,
When it doth seek the prison of my breast,
I question whence it comes: For I have grown
Suspicious even of the breath of heaven.
Lest it should learn, and bear to other ears
The knowledge of my love, and my despair.

"Enough, enough," cried Flerida, "your language is as affected as your scruples are ridiculous. But how does

it happen that you presume to speak to me with so much passion of your love? Do you forget who I am?"

"Pardon me," replied Frederick, "if I am in fault. But did you not ask me, senora, and have I not an.. swered you?"

"You have answered me a great deal more than I inquired of you," said Flerida, as she turned to Arnesto, her steward, and commanded him to pay to Frederick two thousand ducats, in order that he might conciliate the attendants of his mysterious lady. "For I don't wish," she continued, "that, under pretence of his poverty, he should speak to me again with so little judgment as he has done to-day; being so very timid with his mistress, and so bold with me."

While Libia, one of the ladies in waiting, was wondering at the displeasure which was apparent in the language and countenance of her mistress -while Laura was suspecting its cause -while Frederick was endeavouring to turn it aside by some polite compliments, such as his anxiety to kiss the earth where she trod, as the contact of her beautiful feet with the ground produced more flowers than spring up after the sunny showers of April and while Fabio, his valet, was improving and parodying the compliment of his master, by assuring the duchess that he was anxious to kiss the ground beneath her feet, but that he dared not to approach it, as it was heaven and not earth where she walked-while all this was passing, Henry (the disguised Duke of Mantua) was announced. After being courteously received by Flerida, and after having received an invitation to remain at her court until the affair of the duel, mentioned in the letter of the duke, should blow over, Flerida sat down, surrounded by her ladies, beneath the pleasant shade of a spreading tree, and calling upon Arnesto, who stood, with the rest of the gentlemen, at a little distance, to propose a question, they commenced one of those games of wit, which were then so much the fashion in all courtly circles, in the following manner :

Arnesto. Though my white hairs might excuse me From my share in this sweet pastime:

Still, to gratify, senora,

Thee in ought, I put the question-
"What is Love's most bitter pain?"

Flerida. Sir, it is for you to answer: [To Henry.
Henry. I?
Flerida.

To thee, as guest and stranger,
We grant precedence.
Henry.

Not to forfeit

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Of loving without hope or cure.

Flerida. I think its greatest pain is loving

In gloomy suffering and silence,

Without the power of explanation:

Laura. And I, to love, and be beloved:

Flerida. That's a somewhat novel reason:

"Twill be hard to prove, dear Laura, That to love and be beloved

Is the greatest pain of loving.

Laura. I will prove it, notwithstanding.
Arnesto. Now let each one prove his meaning.
Henry. Since I made the first beginning,
"Tis for me to prove the anguish

Of being hated where we love.

Fabio. Now we'll hear enough of nonsense [aside. The greater wit the greater folly.

Henry. Love is a planet, shining far
With varying beam in heaven above,
And so the greatest pain of love

Is to love against one's star:
He who doth yoke him to the car

Of some proud beauty's scornful eyes,
Which glance upon him to despise,
Vainly by his star is warned.
He who loves where he is scorned,

Struggles with opposing skies;

Flora. He who lifts his heart above
To some proud eye's scornful glowing,
Has at least the bliss of showing

That he suffers for his love,
Which may yet her pity move-
But that more unhappy one,
Who feeleth scorn, yet loveth none,
Suffers without any merit,
Neither can her heart inherit
Aught the other may have won.

Lisardo. He who loves, and yet is hated,
She who hates, but cannot love,
Both a separate anguish prove,

Which in time may be abated
With the thought that they are fated
By the will of heaven above.
But the jealous pang we feel

When we happen to discover

From some dearer favoured lover,

What his eyes cannot conceal,
This nor soothing time can heal-
Nor thought of Heaven's impartial plan,
Love is but the work of Fate,

Destiny controlleth Hate,

But Jealousy is born of Man!
Libia. Many times the world has seen,
When the torch of love expires,
Jealousy relume its fires
Brighter than they once had been,
Love returns to glad the scene;

Awakened by its glowing breath,
But absence, which the wise man saith,
Is the grave of love, may strive,
Vainly such a boon to give-

Absence is Love's quickest death,
While Jealousy doth make it live.
Frederick. He who scorned still adores,

She who worshipped still doth scorn-
He whom Jealousy's sharp thorn
Woundeth with its poisoned sores;
He who the absent maid deplores-
All live beneath Hope's horoscope;
Time may bring them some relief,
But nought can cure the deadly grief
Of him who loveth without hope.
Flerida. He who without hope doth grieve,
Can at least his state declare,
And by telling his despair
May some soothing calm receive;

But he whose heart is doomed to heave
In secret, shares a sadder lot,
To the anguish of not feeling,

Hope, is added the concealing

Even that he feels it not.

Laura. He who loves, and is beloved,
Ever lives in hope and fear,
From the midst of pleasure near
Some fancied evil, far removed,
Wounds him like a hidden spear;
In his passion and his langour

He feels at once the double pain
Of him who loves, but incets disdain,
And the proud disdainer's anger;
As to jealousy, heaven knows,
He feels its added pang as well;
He cannot for a moment dwell

From his loved mistress, but the throes

Of absence in his bosom swell.

'Tis true Despair can find no scope
Whereon its trophy to erect;
But having nothing to expect,

He cannot feel the joy of Hope;
If silence be a grief, 'tis his,
He cannot speak his bosom's bliss;

And thus he feels the pain of each
Who wanteth hope, or wanteth speech.
"Twould seem, indeed, a man like this
Is wholly out of misery's reach,
So much doth love his bosom bless-
But, in the midst of all his joy,
There comes the shadow of annoy,
Lest Fate, perchance, may make it less;
And thus his breast contains each feeling
That our several lips have stated,

Of being loved, and being hatedBoth of speaking and concealingJealousy and absence mated.

It was thus, in scholastic subtilties, and graceful combats of the wit, that Flerida and her courtiers amused themselves on that sunny morning of May. After Laura had concluded her ingenious argument in support of the startling paradox she had laid down, that

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the greatest pain of love was in being loved," Flerida arose, accompanied by her train, and in the little confusion that followed, Frederick was enabled to arrange a simple stratagem, by means of which he could receive a letter which his mistress Laura had promised him, and which she had concealed upon her person: this was merely to place it in her glove, which she would drop, as if by accident, and for which, Frederick should substitute his own, when apparently returning it to her. This little ruse succeeded admirably, and without the slightest detection, notwithstanding the jealous eagerness of Lisardo, who, as the declared admirer of Laura, considered that it was his privilege to restore the glove to its fair owner. The duchess having shortly after retired with her attendants, Frederick, who was dying with impatience to read the letter he had just received, was at length left alone with his valet Fabio.

Frederick. Oh! how delighted I am to be at length alone; I can now read this letter.

Fabio. Well, if this does not make me lose my senses, it is very likely because I have none to lose. Frederick. What excites your wonder?

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Fabio. What? Why your patience and want of curiosity for this letter, which you must have received over night, it seems you have not yet opened. Frederick. Do you know what this letter is? Fabio Be it what it may, is it not certain that you have kept it by you unopened all this time?

Frederick. I have but this moment received it. Fabio. You will make me lose my wits; since no one has spoken to you since morning, it must doubtless have been the wind that brought it to you.

Frederick. No, Fabio, it is not to the wind that I am indebted for this letter, but to the fire which burns and consumes me.

Fabio. The fre?

Frederick. Yes.

Fabio, I am now beginning to believe that what have long suspected is true.

Frederick. What is that?

Fabio. That your are mad; or that you have become a phantom lover, worshipping some hobgoblin lady, whom you have created in your mind.

Frederick. Peace, fool: retire.

Fabio. Well, I ought to be a squire of purgatory, since I live in a state neither of rewards nor punishments.

Frederick (reads). "My lord and master, my torment is increasing very much, since my father, contrary to my wishes, is forcibly treating of my marriage, and has appointed to-morrow for the signing of the contract." (Aloud.) Ah! me, what a short time I have to live, only from this until to-morrow, Fabio!

Fabio, What's the matter?

Frederick. I must soon die.

Fabio. You will do very wrong, unless you cannot help it; for I can assure you, sir, that dying has now become exceedingly vulgar.

Frederick. How can I avoid it, when this letter is the sentence of my death?

Fabio, How? Nothing easier; since you have your sentence in that letter, can you not add a little postcript, which will entirely change its meaning to something more agreeable?

Frederick. Without hope or life I proceed (reads) -"And thus, although I risk the unhappy secret of our love, in what I propose, it is still necessary that I should speak to you to-night, for which purpose I have arranged that the garden-gate will remain open, and sooner than I shall lose you, I shall lose my life; on the faith of which, I desire you to be prepared with suitable acknowledgments for the portrait I have sent you." (Aloud.) Was there ever such a happy man as I am? Fabio! Fabio!

Fabio. What is the matter now? You are not dying, I hope?

Frederick. No, I live.

Fabio. See the effect of good advice.

Frederick. I feel almost giddy with excess of joy; for this night I am to speak to the beautiful being whom I adore. Oh! thou shining champion of the skies, who, in thy golden chariot, slowly drivest over the plain of heaven, shorten thy tedious course, for thou knowest how many eyes are weary of thy light this day. And ye, beautiful stars! who are the planets of the heart, revolt against the regal despotism of the sun, and in his stead, establish your shining republics in the heavens, for the sun has robbed you of your rights, and prides himself in your broken power! [Exit.

After this speech, which tended considerably to strengthen Fabio's suspicion of his master's insanity, he withdrew, giving that amusing and inquisitive personage a full opportunity of expressing his opinions on the subject. His reflections and observations were, however, brought to an abrupt termination, by a message from the duchess, requiring his immediate attendance. Fabio, who would have been too happy to impart anything he knew to any person, for the mere pleasure of talk

ing, professed himself most anxious to satisfy the curiosity of Flerida, particularly as her questions were prefaced by the gift of a chain, which he assured the duchess he valued very much for two reasons, namely, that it came from her, and that it was of gold. The only subject, however, that Flerida felt any curiosity about was, unfortunately, the only one of which Fabio was entirely ignorant, and that was the name of the lady to whom his master Frederick was attached. "In fact," said Fabio, "I scarcely think he knows it himself; he trusts it to no one. He laughs alone, and he weeps alone. If he receives a letter, I cannot make out whence it comes; if he answer it, I never can discover whither it goes; and it is only this very day that I have been able to obtain the slightest clue to his affection: for after having read a letter which Barabbas in person must have brought to him, he stated that a divine beauty expected him this night to speak to him." This information was wormwood to the jealous heart of Flerida: she restrained herself, however, and asked Fabio if he knew the house, or even the street, in which the lady lived." She lives in this palace," replied Fabio; " and I know it for the following reasons:-My master suffers without change he enjoys without fruition-he adores without desirehe loves without hope; and night and day he writes as much as would fill a huge portfolio. Discreet follies such as these are only to be met with in a palace." After Flerida had directed Fabio to watch, with the utmost exactness, every action of his master, for which she would take care to reward him amply, she withdrew to devise some means, as well of preventing the dreaded assignation, as of discovering the name of this fair unknown. was not long in thinking of an easy plan, by which the former of her wishes, at least, might be satisfied. It was, to write an answer to the letter which she had received from the Duke of Mantua, which she would dispatch by Frederick that very evening; and as the distance was more than twelve leagues, it would be impossible for him to return before the following day. Accordingly, when Frederick waited on her as usual, in order to obtain her signature to some documents, he was overwhelmed with confusion and dismay, at receiving a letter from her hands, with the positive command of delivering it to the person

She

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