It was only a few months afterwards, that chance threw in my way a daughter of my uncle’s.  I met her at the house of a common friend, who knew and deplored the unhappy schism which prevailed between the two brothers.  He was equally attached to both, and I believe pleased himself with the idea, that an occasional intercourse between the younger branches of the families, might, some day or other, bring about a reconciliation between the heads.  My cousin Harriet was a year older than myself.  She was in her nineteenth, I in my eighteenth year.  I loved her.  Yes; the first feeling that glowed within my bosom was that of love.  She was beautiful—­fascinating—­accomplished—­amiable—­and I loved her.  It was not long before I was satisfied.  I had kindled a reciprocal passion in her breast.  The mute eloquence of her look and manner was only the harbinger of that same thrilling eloquence, which fell from her tongue when I won the declaration of her affection.

Her father knew we met at this friend’s house; but whether he was told, or whether he penetrated, the secret of our attachment, I never learned.  I only know, that, at the very moment when separation was madness, his mandate went forth, prohibiting all farther intercourse between us, and that it was obeyed.  Not by me; for I was incapable of submission:  but by my gentle Harriet, who thought herself incapable of disobeying.  We met no more where we had been wont to meet; and my young heart’s spring of happiness seemed for ever withered.

But here again, I began to reflect, my path was crossed—­my hopes were blighted—­by my uncle.  I heard, too, that his tongue had been free with my name; that the blistering censure of his austere virtue had fallen upon my actions.  I writhed under the contumely.  My wounded spirit was insatiate for vengeance.  I meditated, deeply, how I could inflict it, so as to strike the blow where he was most vulnerable.  I did not brood long over my dark purpose.  The love I still bore his daughter, was now mingled with the hatred I bore towards himself; and I exulted in the thought, that I should perhaps be able to gratify, at one and the same moment, two of the fiercest passions of my nature—­lust and revenge!

I SUCCEEDED!

In these two words let me shroud a tale of horror.  Harriet was my victim!  Ask not how. I triumphed! She fell!  An angel might have fallen as she did, and lost no purity.  But her stainless heart was too proud in virtue to palter and equivocate with circumstances.  She never rose from what she deemed her bridal bed.  And ere twenty summers had fanned her cheek, the grave-worm banqueted upon its loveliness.