characters,--impiety--parricide--irreligion. Torn as the banner was, it still hung near the altar, till you dragged it away, to wrap yourself from detection in its folds,--and _you_ talk of treachery?--there is not a more traitorous wretch on earth than yourself. Suppose that I was all that is vile and culpable, was it for you to double-dye the hue of my crime in the crimson of your sacrilege and apostacy? And for murder, I know I am a parricide. I cut my father’s throat, but he never felt the blow,--nor did I,--I was intoxicated with wine, with passion, with blood,--no matter which; but you, with cold deliberate blows, struck at the hearts of father and mother. You killed by inches,--I murdered at a blow,--which of us is the murderer?--And _you_ prate of treachery and murder? I am as innocent as the child that is born this hour, compared to you. Your father and mother have separated,--she is gone into a convent, to hide her despair and shame at your unnatural conduct,--your father is plunging successively into the abysses of voluptuousness and penitence, wretched in both; your brother, in his desperate attempt to liberate you, has perished,--you have scattered desolation over a whole family,--you have stabbed the peace and heart of each of them, with a hand that deliberated and paused on its blow, and then struck it calmly,--and you dare to talk of treachery and murder? You are a thousand times more culpable than I am, guilty as you think me. I stand a blasted tree,--I am struck to the heart, to the root,--I wither alone,--but you are the Upas, under whose poisonous droppings all things living have perished,--father--mother--brother, and last yourself;--the erosions of the poison, having nothing left to consume, strike inward, and prey on your own heart. Wretch, condemned beyond the sympathy of man, beyond the redemption of the Saviour, what can you say to this?”--I answered only, “Is Juan dead, and were you his murderer,--were you indeed? I believe all you say, I must be very guilty, but is Juan dead?” As I spoke, I lifted up to him eyes that no longer seemed to see,--a countenance that bore no expression but that of the stupefaction of intense grief. I could neither utter nor feel reproaches,--I had suffered beyond the power of complaint. I awaited his answer; he was silent, but his diabolical silence spoke. “And my mother retired to a convent?” he nodded. “And my father?” he smiled, and I closed my eyes. I could bear any thing but his smile. I raised my head a few moments after, and saw him, with an habitual motion, (it could not have been more), make the sign of the cross, as a clock in some distant passage struck. This sight reminded me of the play so often acted in Madrid, and which I had seen in my few days of liberation,--El diablo Predicador. You smile, Sir, at such a recollection operating at such a moment, but it is a fact; and had you witnessed that play under the singular