My Uncle's Diary.*

BY ION, D.D., CAMBRIDGE.

Dec. 10th.-Time advanced: the autumn passed, and winter came. We had had several meetings, and no one's suspicions appeared raised. Unfortunately for us both, however, I had become so engrossed in Alice, that I omitted to pay that attention to Miss Crayley which she considered her due, and she made me feel the fatal error most bitterly through my long life of solitude.

I was about to leave the place at Christmas, and it wanted little more than a fortnight to that time, and I had arranged a last meeting with my beautiful Alice as she was just on the point of starting for London. At dinner, she tried to smile and look happy, but I marked her dejected appearance through it all. I witnessed the sudden dimming of that bright eye as the involuntary tear flooded it. I saw the blanching of that cheek, and heard the tremulous sound of that silvery voice, striving to infuse into it its wonted merriment. She did not trust herself to gaze on me. My own feelings were such as I dare not hope to describe. A strange inexplicable sickness of the heart stole over me, and numbed my acute sense of pleasure or

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pain. It was the presentiment of coming evil. We conversed but little; and it seemed to me as though all the company had caught the infection. I experienced that uncomfortable sensation which steals over one when we are prevented from talking by the consciousness of sorrow or depression of any kind. Every moment the silence is prolonged makes matters worse. The dinner passed. Why did my spirit yearn to extend it so? why did that gloom overpower me, when I saw her figure recede from the room? Never again did I behold her thus! That look of mingled anguish and hope which she cast upon me as she quitted us, was the last distinct glimpse I ever obtained of her face. Methinks even now I behold the half-opened door through which she glided. I see her there on the threshold. She turns her head back and gazes upon me.

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Dec. 16.-This is the anniversary of the day on which I last met Alice-I keep it every year in solitude and retirement. But I cannot do better than look back to-night and describe our stolen meeting after the last meal we ever partook in each other's society. It was a bitter evening; the very heavens seemed to frown, and predict the storm that was lowering upon us. A bleak tempestuous wind roared round the old house as I took my way to the wood on that dark cold night. The tall trees bent, driven by the wind, down almost to the very

ground, and then upraised themselves, only to be again laid low. They appeared to struggle with the blast, and now to be victorious, now to be overcome. Black clouds obscured the surface of the sky, and large flakes of snow wandered through the air, tossed in a thousand directions ere they reached the ground, from whence they were again raised and drifted into piles at the foot of each large tree, or sloping bank, or hedge. The moon described a slight semi-circle behind a mask of hazy clouds which deepened as they receded from her into dense threatening masses. Well do I recollect that night: the whistling and roaring of the wind is fresh in my ears, the distant notes of the anvil in the iron foundry, the crackling of branches, the tossing of withered leaves in the wood, the bending of the trees, are all fresh in my remembrance. The hour struck, and, in another instant, Alice was by my side. We had much to converse of, many arrangements for the happy future were to be made. I thought her nobly beautiful, as she stood in that cold wintry blast, gazing full upon me in the imperfect light, and breathing such inspired words of hope that I scarcely seemed to dare to sorrow while she spake. Truth beamed from every sentence; her words did not permit me to indulge at the moment in any of those wild imaginings, doubts, and misgivings, which have ever seemed as the very bane of my existence. "As surely as now in the face of heaven I plight myself to you, dearest Henry, so surely will I be true to you, until, what at present seems an impossibility, until you give back to me my vows, my promises. Then, Henry, strive to banish these sorrowful anticipations. We cannot part without a pang; but let us look forward trustfully, hopefully to the future, which, if we be constant, will bring nothing but joy. We part, for years it may be; you leave me to work your way in the world, to earn for yourself a position, a name; and will not your labours be ever sweetened by the recollection that if you are unable to accomplish all you hope, still I will be true to you as I will prove, when, in a little while, I am my own mistress, free to bestow my hand where my heart is placed-"

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'Six long years, at least," murmured I. Nay, place no such distant goal before you: labour and time will fly ere you have time to feel its passage."

"But never to behold you, Alice, never to be greeted by one smile from you, to be banished from your presence, must I go, a solitary, lonely being: perhaps leave England

"All this must be done, if you love me, Henry," she said, calmly; "is not your love equal to a trial?"

"Any trial," I answered passionately,

"forgive me if I poison these last moments with my selfish repinings, thus forgetful of all that you must suffer."

"I will write to you often, dear Henry," she answered sweetly, stifling every consideration of her own feelings, in her endeavours to reassure and inspire me with a portion of that confidence and hope she herself seemed to feel. No murmur broke from her lips; she would not permit herself to repine, and yet I felt how much she suffered. The hand I retained within mine own became cold as stone, and hot, by turns, as her heart was swayed by fear, or bounding for an instant with hopeful joy. The time was drawing towards a close, and I perceived that her tones became more and more tremulous as she grew more earnest and hurried in her injunctions. There was more of tenderness in every word, as though in each syllable she would make me feel how much her future happiness was bound up with mine.

"It is growing late," she said, "too late for me to linger here: yet, Henry, I would prolong every moment into a day, each day into a year. We must part now; Henry, dear Henry, you will be true-"

"True! Hear me, Alice. This is no rash resolve. I am young; I have never loved before; but I know the workings of my own heart. I have found room there for one image around whom every thought henceforward clings. I live but in that image. A new existence has dawned before me. I labour for an object, and let that object be once withdrawn, my worldly ambition is then at an end. And should any unforeseen circumstances intervene to separate us, this heart, Alice, will still hold true to your memory. I shall forget the world and live but for this sweet past which will never be effaced from my remembrance. Solemnly, Alice, I give this heart to you, and however fortune may dispose of us both, yours it shall ever remain. Do you believe me, love?"

"Yes, Henry; promise me one thing, that you will not listen to what others may tell you of my conduct; never think me untrue until you have from me some positive confirmation that it is so?"

"Never, never, will I cease to believe in the truths of your affection until proofs stronger than words appear before me.'

"We must part soon, Henry," she said, still lingering: "Shall we ever meet again?"

"Oh, wherefore dash all my hopes, thus, by these foreboding words?"

"We shall meet, dear Henry," she said, soothingly, "never, never to be parted more, that is, if it be God's will," and I felt her hand tremble. Was there in her heart a fearful presentiment like unto mine that already on the tablets of the future, a

stern sentence had been traced that never more upon this earth should we meet thus in love? Falsehood and treachery were now sitting together and weaving a portion of the tissue that was to drape her form to me in years to come. At that hour, in the lonely echoless solitude of that wood, beneath the o'er arching depth of blue, that floats before the mysterious and unknown eternity beyond, in the presence of her Maker, Alice felt all she said;

and had no shadow fallen between her and myself, obscuring my truth with its deceptive form, she would have remained constant to this day, and I should have been a proud and happy man instead of a lonely misanthrope-a stumbling-block to the happiness of others, and capable of deriving no happiness from himself.

Our interview was nigh over. I cannot dwell upon the feelings which inspired me at that moment. In both our hearts the deepest sorrow prevailed. We felt we were destined never to meet again; we parted; we exchanged farewell once more; and, in the midst of the chilling blast, whistling round us with such violence as almost to drown our words, walked to and fro, again reiterating our promises, now bursting into impetuous forebodings, and then breaking off in the middle of our sentences; now comforting one another. The danger of prolonging that unhappy interview was set aside, we never thought of it. I only felt that Alice, drowned in ill-concealed tears, was by my side. We were together for the last time, and though we knew not that such was to be the case, what wonder is it that we sought to extend these brief moments? But all must have an end. Suddenly recollecting herself, Alice wrung my hand and tore herself away. I saw her depart, and every step that separated herself seemed to plunge me into deeper misery. I remember that as she entered the gateway of the shrubbery, she stood for a moment, and turned; I bounded forward, called her by her name, bade her return once more, but no! we were not to meet again.

Plunged in despondency, I entered the house, and went to my room. As I crossed the large hall, I saw a female figure glide from the library into the drawingroom. It did not strike me at the moment, but I have since recalled the circumstance, and I became convinced that it was Miss Crayley, entering on the first step of the plot which was destined to lead to our separation. I did not suspect her then of such baseness, though I never could bring myself to like her.

Dec. 17.-The morrow came. I went as usual to my pupils, and sat down in gloom of soul to discharge my duties. A cheerful fire blazed in the room; the voices of the

children were merry, their observations light and glad-hearted. But every sweet sound jarred upon me; every ray of pleasure that glanced from their bright eyes seemed a mockery to my soul. I felt that there was something gone from about me; a cold vacuum was in the air, chilling all nature. I knew that she was gone.

How my heart leapt at every movement! The opening or shutting of a door, the sound of footsteps in the hall, the laugh of some one passing on the stair, all startled me. I expected chance would show her to me. I fancied she might flit by, as persons opened the door of my little study; but I listened and hoped all day; and in the afternoon, the sound of carriage-wheels rolling over the court-yard told me that we were indeed separated. No window looked forth upon the highway; I could not even see the thing that conveyed her from my presence. Little, little, did I imagine, at that moment, with what feelings she had left my home. I was soon undeceived. I thought that she had, at least, to endure nothing more than the misery of our separation; but... My pupils had left me, when a servant opened the door, and told me that the Hon. Mr. Courtenay, the uncle of Alice, desired to speak with me, in the library. I knew little of this gentleman. He had only within the last few days been a resident at the house. I turned some. what sick at heart; I seemed to feel that this summons was in some way connected with Alice. But rousing myself, I determined to put the best face upon the affair; and accordingly obeyed. Mr. Courtenay, when I entered, politely rose from his seat, bowed, and then motioned to me to sit down opposite him, by the fire. I returned his bow, and took my seat. Then, in the mildest and most considerate manner, he related to me that Lord Carden had accidentally become acquainted with all that had passed. I listened to him without speaking a word. My agitation was great, but I did not choose to betray it. He continued, affecting not to observe me, and told me that Lord Carden had questioned his daughter how matters stood; and that she, in obedience to his commands wishes, I should say," remarked he, had given up all my letters.

""Tis false," I exclaimed.

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"his

Nay," calmly replied Mr. Courtenay, "I will endeavour to convince you that I am speaking the exact truth. Here is a letter, in which she explains herself, and asks for a return of her letters."

I took it from his hand, glanced over it, and saw that it was indeed her handwriting. She had enclosed in it a lock of my hair, which I had given her. There, traced with her hand, were the commands. In it no explanation was given, I saw nothing

more than that she bade me return all she had written; all her fondest vows, her promises, all were to be given up. I crushed the paper in my hand, tore it into a thousand atoms, and rushed from the room, to fetch her letters, which, trembling with agitation, 1 sealed into a packet, and then returned to Mr. Courtenay. I placed them before him, merely with the remark

"I trust to your honour not to read them."

"I shall not read them, young man," he replied; "most assuredly not. They are your own. Nay," he exclaimed, as he saw me, without pausing, hurl them into the fire; "be not rash."

I prepared to leave the room. "One word," he continued, extending his hand in the kindest manner possible. "Do not go away impressed with the idea that I am not your friend. I sympathise with your condition most cordially; but while I do so, cannot but regret that you did not both act with the openness and candour which became you. It might have saved you both much misery. You are each young. That, indeed, is Lord Carden's principal objection to the whole affair. But if your love be such as to stand the test of time, if it urge you to persevere and raise yourself in the social scale, then hope for the best. In the meantime, let me beg of you, as a man of honour, to hold no further correspondence with her. You are, I am sure, unwilling to destroy the peace of a whole family, by persevering in this clandestine course. I may consider that I have your word, Mr. St. George?"

"You have," I said, somewhat haughtily; for I was in no mood to unbend.

Mr. Courtenay then proceeded to arrange about my leaving, and offered to give me a strong recommendation to another family then engaged in seeking for a tutor; but I refused all his offers, and left the room. I have often since reproached myself for my unyielding manner to Mr. Courtenay, in this scene. He was a perfect gentleman, and evidently entered unwillingly upon his task.

Dec. 19. I remained one week longer in the house of Lord Carden, shut up in my closet, never seeing any one, and refusing to descend to such of the family as still remained in the house. How I lived, I know not. The shock of finding her I had believed so true, so suddenly changed, seemed to overpower my better reason. Sometimes I argued that she was forced into it; and then I became calm. But still she was gone from my sight, and I possessed no token that she loved me. Then, in bitterness, I would exclaim: "How could I expect that she would in reality bestow a thought upon her brother's tutor? My better feelings would sometimes prevail, and tears would

come to my relief. I sat at one corner of the fire all day long, brooding over my misery, scarcely raising my head when the servants entered the room, to bring me my meals, which I mostly dismissed untasted. My frame seemed sinking, my heart full to bursting; while my throbbing temples beat so that I fancied I could hear them. Sometimes, after all the family had retired to rest, I would rise, and rush out into the open air, wandering backward and forward over those scenes where we had been together, the spots where we had met. I would stand, fancy I heard her voice, then dart away from the spot. At one moment, I vowed I would forget her, that I would banish her image from my heart; but then all the sweetness of her love came like a refreshing balm over my wounded spirit, and I would reproach myself for that dire impatience which was urging me to commence the process of forgetting her to whom I had so solemnly pledged myself. "In her heart she must be true; she cannot be false," I said. Then, the circumstances related by Mr. Courtenay, her own letters, came to my remembrance. I should have suffered myself to sink, day by day, into the tomb, had not a bright ray of her love suddenly fallen me in my solitude and darkness. On morning, I heard a gentle knocking at my door; on opening which, I discerned Miss Crayley standing, pale and agitated, without.

"May I speak with you one moment, Mr. St. George?"

"Can you tell me news of her?" I asked, faintly.

"It is from Alice I am come," she said.

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"Alice! poor Alice! Thank Heaven!" to my own heart I murmured. Where is she?"

"In London, Mr. St. George."

"Is she well? oh, tell me! Is she happy?" I asked eagerly.

"Nay, you must listen quietly to me, and I will tell you briefly what you are to know. This letter I have written will explain the rest," she continued, drawing one forth.

"Alice has sent you this locket," she continued, coldly, "with her hair; and she begs you will once more give back the ring. This is the last time you will hear directly from her; in future, all must be conducted through me. She has promised her father never to write to you; and she has already partly disobeyed him, in sending the locket," she added, with a strange smile. "However, I cannot remain longer; I must go. They will suspect there is something the matter."

"I thought you also had abandoned me, Miss Crayley," I said.

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If so, why am I here!" she answered,

colouring violently; "but I shall be watched, and must go. On no account correspond with Alice. Write to me anything you may wish, to this address," she added, giving a paper. Now, good bye! We shall meet again."

She lingered for a moment, glancing at me in a most strange way; and then hurriedly departed. I cared not; I was again happy. All the full tide of its bounding ambition had returned to my heart. The world was again joyous, and I prepared for my approaching journey with alacrity; and on the morning of my departure, received from Mr. Courtenay a valuable introduction to a merchant's house, in London, where I soon, thanks to some then unknown influence, obtained a most lucrative position. I afterwards, in a long course of years, discovered that Mr. Courtenay himself was a sleeping partner in the very house, amd bound up with all its interests. His generous forgiveness of my rude neglect of his kindness inspired him with the desire of benefiting me in every possible way.

When a sort of prosperity again began to dawn upon me, I remembered my home, and those who, in exile from their country, were expiating the fault I had committed on setting out in life. Yet they had forgiven me, and, by every opportunity, conveyed to me assurances of their perfect happiness. I now began to forward, from time to time, remittances, which were calculated to render their position more comfortable, when suddenly a letter from my only sister arrived to tell me, that having inherited from a maiden aunt a very considerable fortune, they begged I would cease to toil for them, and think in future only of myself.

For four years, I steadily pursued my career in London, with no token that Alice still remembered me, but an occasional careless note from Miss Crayley, generally half filled with excuses for not having written before, and a brief-the briefest possible-acknowledgment of Alice's desire to be ever affectionately remembered. My love, however, buoyed itself up, and so well that it scarcely seemed to need this slender support. It was an all-engrossing feeling with me. For it I laboured almost night and day, caring for no general society, frequenting no place of amusement; but working until the frame was exhausted, and then, after the necessary refreshment of sleep, working again. Many wondered at my perseverance, so young and once so dissipated. But they knew not the glorious attraction that kept me in my steady course. They knew not that influence which breathed around me, by day and by night, sweetening every toil, raising the dejected spirit, giving life and vigour to every im

pulse, and nerving the frame to any amount of exertion. Like an angel it stood in my path, shedding upon me its refulgent light, smiling before me, and whispering comfort every hour of the day. Oh! it was that never-failing love for Alice which bore me above all the temptations around me, kept me aloof from all but those with whom necessity compelled me to associate, and hovering about in my waking hours, came at night, and raised sweet visions of a happy future which never arrived.

Dec. 21.-At length I was appointed supercargo to a merchant vessel, bound on a valuable expedition to the coast of China; but when the time of my departure arrived, a letter came to announce the rapidly declining health of my sister Emily, and beseeching me to attend her sick bed, which they too truly feared would be her last. My return, like the prodigal son, to the home of his father, I cannot describe. Forgotten that day has never been. What changes seemed to have come upon them all in those few years! My mother's blue eye had lost much of its brightness; her countenance was careworn; yet when she smiled through her half-glad tears upon her repentant son, I knew the smile again; and my father, as he pressed my hand affectionately between both his own, made me feel that all my waywardness was forgotten. My brother was expected home from school every day. Yet Emily, most changed of all, from the light, glad-hearted, merry girl to the pale, emaciated woman, passing away gradually from this life, yet making her gentleness, her meekness, her pious resignation to the will of her Father, felt by all about her. Long, long, did she hang around me that day; but, alas! one short week was all. Her days were numbered, and her sweet spirit fled upwards.

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Dec. 22.-My birthday! Mine has been a chequered career; yet never did I feel a mournful sorrow like unto that which I experienced at my sister's death. I felt how I had neglected the very one who might have proved to me an adviser and a friend. The coming year was all overshadowed by her death; yet in a worldly sense, what privileges did it not bestow! I was heir to her property: wealth was mine once more. Yet I continued my laborious career. Emily had provided amply for my parents and my brother. Their position, therefore, as far as worldly comforts went, gave me no concern.

Before I quitted the country, I resolved to have an interview with Miss Crayley, who now happened to be in London, on a visit to an aunt. She acceded at once to my proposal, and met me in the Park, as I had no other possible place of rendezvous for her. We conversed long together of