ling in golden prospect before the spiritual eyes of his imagination.—I think not. When my limbs were able to bear me out, I paid my first visit to the grave of Agata. I did not go by day ; but I stole forth in the silence and dimness of the evening, when no human eye observed my actions, and then— ******* *__. j took a handful of the earth from her grave, put it into a little tortoise-shell box, which the poor girl had bought for me with the only money I could ever persuade her to take, and tying on the cover with a lock of her hair (the theft of a sportive hour), placed the box into my bosom. . From that time Cadiz was hateful to me ; though under the pure sky of Spain, I seemed to inhale an atmosphere lhat was oppressive. I confined myself closer than ever to my business; and when the solicitude of my friends would force me out, I stole alone to the ramparts. There 1 would sit for hours, scarcely conscious of the breeze that fanned my hectic cheek, and holding in niy hand the little box, which I would gaze on till the tears streamed down upon the lid,—when I would wipe them off with Agata's handkerchief, lest they should sully its brightness. Always then I felt relief; and, then, I would fall on my knees, and clasping the box in my hands, pray to God for forgiveness.—My health was fast decaying, when my employers offered me the sole agency of their business at Cumana. I cared not for the lucre of the office; but I should change the scene,—and that to me was every thing. So I accepted the offer. The last rays of the setting sun were shining on the little hill I have so often mentioned, when I paid my last visit to the grave of Agata. It was a beautiful spot :— The grass grew fresh above it, and the odorous flowers, emblems of her own loveliness, clambered up its sides, and twined around the little cross at its head. They seemed planted there by the hands of angels. I knelt down, and prayed long and fervently.—As I rose relieved, I saw a snake steal from under one of the flowers and curl around the cross. It was a horrid sight! so like myself, as I had crept, with hidden fang, upon her loneliness, coiled round the cross of her faith, and blasted with venomous breath the bud of her beauty. I screamed with horrour, that the rocks around me echoed, and grasping the serpent in my hands, I tore him, trampled his writhing body under my feet, (but not upon the grave of Agata,) till it was one heap of bloody clay. When the deed was over, I looked upon my stained hands with the delight of a madman :—"Would to God, dear sainted Agata!" I cried, throwing myself flat upon the blessed sod, and apostrophizing the spirit of my victim, "that my serpent blood, thus spilled at thy grave, would atone for thy death! Gladly would I shed it, drop by drop, and as the last spot crimsoned the flowers, rejoice that my sacrifice was accepted, and that I now could dwell with thee, in Heave; Agata! But, ala,s! it is better as it is—better that I should linger, solitary, through long years of penitence, lengthened out by the torments of conscience! too small atonement for my foul offence !"—and kissing the green turf, I plucked one flower, placed it in my bosom near tht little box, and tore myself from the spot. SIXTY YEARS OF THE LIFE JEREMY LEVIS. BOOK SIXTH. CHAPTER I. PaUanguenne, vU uu Medecin qui m« plait; jc pense qu.il reuisira, car il cst touflbn. 7> Mtdecin mulgri I in. "Herb's the doctor, sir! here's the doctor! Now you'll see! None of your little, wrinkled, black-faced Spanlards, that are as good as a dose of jolop for a well body only to look at; he'll cure you in less than no time, sir.—Walk in, Doctor." . This was said by good Mrs. Ptisan, my English nurse, as she opened the door of my sick chamber to let in the man of squirts. And how was this? Why, I had scarcely been three months at Cumana, befor6 every body began to discover that I was in a very bad way. I was emaciated, and subject to fits of deep dejection, which, though they found it very easy to rouse me from them, would invariably return the moment the excitement ceased. It could be owing to nothing but the climate—O, nothing in |