My father had a brother, his elder by many years; a man of stern and rigid character, as I then considered him; but, as I would now call him, of upright, firm, and honourable principle.  He loved my father, but did not love his weakness; and the display of it, in his indulgence towards me, was the cause of many a serious, if not sometimes angry, debate between them.  Well do I remember (for it rankled like poison in my swelling heart) a declaration he once made in my presence.  It was a fine autumnal evening, and he was seated with my father and mother in a balcony, which opened from the library-window upon a spacious lawn.  I entered the room, and advanced towards them, unconscious, of course, that their conversation had been about me; but my uncle looking at me with a severe expression of countenance, and at the same time addressing his brother, exclaimed, “Well, James, neither you nor I may live to see it; but if the grace of God, or his own better reflection, as he grows older, do not work a change in this young squire, a duel, Jack Ketch, or a razor, will work his exit some day or other.”

My father smiled—­I saw my mother wipe away a tear—­at that moment I could have struck my uncle dead.  I muttered a few words—­I knew not what, and left the room.  Boy as I was, (for I had barely completed my seventeenth year,) I felt all the vindictive passions of manhood kindling within me.  It seemed as if a sentence had been passed upon me, the more terrible, because a secret voice whispered to me, it was prophetic! That impression never forsook me!

I questioned my father haughtily, a few days afterwards, as to the reasons of his brother for thus speaking of me; and I even dared to insinuate, that, had he felt what a father should, he would have resented the indignity.  He answered me (I write it with shame and contrition) most mildly, most affectionately.  The gentle being—­I see him now, as he tenderly took my hand—­apologized to me—­to me! who ought to have stood trembling in his presence!  I followed up my blow.  With cold, but subtle malignity.  I played off my revenge towards my uncle, through the idolatry of my father’s love towards myself.  I barbarously gave him a choice of misery; for I disdainfully replied, that he must henceforth determine, whether he would lose a brother or a son, as I had determined to remain no longer under his roof, unless I had the assurance that I should never again see my uncle there.  He looked at me.  My God! what a look it was! so full of meek sorrow and appalling obedience!  Without uttering a word, he sat down to his writing-table.  The tears fell upon his paper; but they did not blot out a few bitter words addressed to his brother, which severed for ever in this world two noble hearts; cast, indeed, in different moulds, but which kindred blood had cemented, in the close bonds of fraternal love, for more than forty years.

This was my first revenge.  But was I satisfied?  No!