tenor of his life and hers. It is that which worries him worst of all, and which will kill him in the end.
Now-shall I confess it?—a double doubt, a duplicate question, a Siamese-twin mystery—as it were,—will haunt me like a double-team of nightmares, while memory lives within me. As I leave the shores of Mexico, I carry away with me many a pleasant recollection on which I shall dwell with satisfaction in after years; but there is a lurking bitter in my cup of bliss; a sharp set thorn—as it were,—close under the rose of my happiness. Here is where my doubts come in.
As we journeyed one day through the mountains of Jalisco, we saw a son of the soil,—in scanty raiment clad—with unkempt hair and dilapidated sombrero—setting off a face which still bore the stamp of the grand pride of the haughty race of conquering Castile,
—earnestly engaged in the humble occupation of driving a pig to market. He had lassoed the pig by the hind leg, and was endeavoring to make him keep the track by jerking the rieta with his left hand, while he encouraged him to advance by the vigorous application of a cornstalk to his hinder parts with his right.
