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the inhabitants of earth, while none can stay his hand, or say unto him, what dost thou?"

Years passed on, and the heir of house become its possessor. The playfulness of the sportive Alphonso had softened down into the staid, but still cheerful Mr. St. Belmont. The grief which the death of his father occasioned, had long since passed away. He had for years been united to the object of his early attachment, who, in all that was amiable and good, was the complete counterpart of himself, and already had been made more happy, if addition to such bliss was possible, in the possession of two lovely children.

William Henry, his first-born, looked the prototype of his grandfather, after whom he was called; while all the beauty, intelligence, and mildness of female loveliness, beamed in the laughing eye of the charming Urina, the namesake of her mother. Such a combination of blessings now clustered around Mr. St. Belmont, that no inconsiderable degree of danger existed, lest the sentiment of the dweller of Uz might be employed by him, "I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply my days as the sand;" but this was not permitted. Sudden as the destructive earthquake, which not unfrequently yawns while the summer sun is beautiful and the skies serene, afflictions came upon him. His aged mother fell unexpectedly beneath a stroke of apoplexy, and was borne to the silent dwelling-place of her forefathers.

It was about this period, that my acquaintance with Mr. St. Belmont commenced, and never will the moment or manner be blotted from my memory. It has been, and will continue to be, one of those sunny spots in the dark circumference of my existence, to which I have looked, and shall look back with delight, while every fresh contemplation of it will, in imagination, roll back the lapsed periods of mortality, and place me again on the enchanting spot, and in the company of Mr. St. Belmont.

There are, in providence, labyrinths, such as the unassisted powers of man cannot explore, amidst whose mazes, mere human wisdom is utterly bewildered. Its turns and windings, however, may be tracked with comparative ease, if we take hold of and retain the clue with which we are furnished, as Dædalus did of the web by which he explored the labyrinth of Crete. In one of those unexpected changes to which the affairs of man are subjected, my place of residence was changed from the north, to one of the southern counties of our island. I had fixed my tent but a few weeks, when

I became desirous to reconnoitre the vicinity of my abode. Turn which way I might, I was furnished by nature with landscapes "rich and various." Therefore, in my almost first ramble, I was led by carelessness, rather than directed by choice. It was a fine evening in the early part of September, when I walked forth, and, possessing in my constitution a considerable quantum of the recluse, it might have been that the indefinable but inherent disposition of my nature led me to saunter to a point which, because of its retired situation, was the less likely to be broken in upon by mere pleasuretakers.

I was sauntering beside an arm of the romantic river Avon, on the borders of which a fine copse flourished with more than poetic beauty; while here and there several large oak and beech trees threw their majestic limbs abroad, as if, in voiceless but impressive action, to declare their right of dominion. Their dark shadows were pleasingly intermingled with the gorgeous brightness of a fast-setting sun; and powerfully impressed the mind by the emblematical teaching of the lights and shades which exist in earthly affairs. My thoughts had just entered the arcanum of the moralist's enjoyment, when my ear was suddenly struck upon by some pleasing, but indistinct sounds, which evidently proceeded from the thicket by which my path was skirted. A soft music-like echo followed the tones, and seemed to reverberate from the surface of the stream which wound round one end of the copse. My curiosity was excited, and, listening, I soon very distinctly heard a human voice, reading or reciting, I knew not which, with a classic elegance which is better conceived than described, the following nervous passage from the "Night Thoughts" of Young :

:

"Happy day, that breaks our chain ! That manumits; that calls from exile home,

That leads to nature's great metropolis, And readmits us, through the guardian hand Of elder brother, to our Father's throne, Who hears our Advocate, and, through his wounds Beholding man, allows that tender name. "Tis this makes christian triumph a command; "Tis this makes joy a duty to be wise. "Tis impious in a good man to be sad."

I perceived, by the sound, that the person from whom it proceeded advanced towards me; and from the pleasing sensations produced upon my mind by the manner of the unknown individual, I felt interested to learn who he might be. The tones in which the lines were delivered were not melancholy, and yet there was a soothing sadness in the cadence, blended with a cheerfulness of expression, which well accorded with the beautiful language which

THE GENUINE PHILOSOPHER.

had been uttered, and assured me the person could feel and understand, as well as recite.

At a distance of about one hundred yards from the spot where the sounds first reached me, there was an opening which led into branching paths, cut in the thick underwood, forming so many sylvan piazzas in various directions. As these were evidently public walks, I turned into one of them, and soon perceived the person by whom I had been fascinated. He was habited in deep black, and was of the most gentlemanly and prepossessing exterior. As nearly as I then could judge, he was somewhat turned of forty. His countenance wore an attractive smile of serious serenity. He was intent upon the volume which he held in his hand, and did not immediately observe my approach; when he did, however, there was a nameless suavity in his manner, an easy nobleness in his address, which at once proclaimed the gentleman and the scholar. A few common-place observations on the fineness of the evening, the beauty of the scenery, and other equally ordinary subjects, dismissed all the shyness which, in the bustle of polite life, would have existed, until a formal introduction had removed it. Subjects of a more interesting nature soon engaged our attention, and, at the end of nearly an hour, I closed, with regret, my first meeting with Mr. St. Belmont.

Several months elapsed from this period, during which our intimacy was so far increased, as to have grown into a sort of friendship. We met frequently in our favourite walk as summer advanced, and an interchange of visits had also been enjoyed. Two or three evenings early in June passed, and I had not met him in his accustomed haunt. Fearing that indisposition was the cause, I strolled towards his mansion, when, just as I entered one of the footpaths leading to the hall-door, I saw Mr. St. Belmont's carriage drive up hastily, from which he alighted. I was turning back, but he perceived me, and despatched a servant to say, if I had half an hour to spare, my company would be a favour. I attended immediately, and as I entered the drawing-room he met I perceived no change in his demeanour or expression, while with a cheerful smile he observed, "I have another evidence, sir, of the uncertain and mutable nature of earthly good. This time last week I rose the possessor of a fortune which appeared inexhaustible, but it has made to itself wings, and fled away."

me.

I was amazed, not more at the communication made, than at the manner in which it was made. He appeared no more af

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fected than he would have been in reciting a tale in which he was not concerned. I soon learned, that an extensive mercantile speculation in which he had engaged, had recently failed: the consequence was, that from a fortune of a princely cast, he wes reduced to a mere handsome independence. He had just returned from town, whither he had been sent for in haste, when his carriage drove up as I have stated, and yet, with all the calmness of genuine philosophy, he conversed upon the wreck of his property, the reduction of his establishment, the putting down of his carriage, &c., as if the mind had never been thrown out of its happy equilibrium. "I have still," he observed, more than I absolutely require. My wife and children are yet spared to memy boy is provided for-my paternal abode is still left-my health is unimpaired-Oh! I have much more cause for contentment and gratitude, than for discontent and mur. muring. I will enjoy what a kind Providence has spared, rather than repine at what has been taken away." The reduction which he had resolved upon was shortly afterwards made, and, as if no change had been known, all things moved on at Hall.

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William Henry St. Belmont had chosen the profession of arms, and, sometime before the failure in his father's possessions, a commission had been purchased for him in

regiment. He had served with honour, and had obtained promotion before his twenty-first birth-day anniversary, in the passage of the Bidassoa, as well as in the battles of St. Race and Toulouse. Immediately after the convention of Paris had been signed, the young warrior returned to his family for a short period, and was hailed, by Mr. and Mrs. St. Belmont, with those lively and unequivocal demonstrations of affection which parents only can give, and which absence and danger seem unconsciously to increase: nor did his lovely sister, whose infant charms were fast ripening into womanhood, remit any labour, to prove "how much and how fervently a

sister can love."

The demon of war again burst from his lair, and sent his yell of misery through the world, when the prisoner of Elba, regardless of the solemn contract which he had made at the period of his abdication, like some destructive meteor struck out of its orbit, appeared again in the French capital. Wellington, who had already signalized himself so greatly, and gained honour and fortune through the folly and cruelty of his fellows, was again called to lead the warriors of Russia, Austria, Prussia, and others, connected with some chosen bands of

own country, to the scene of mortal strife, to crush the destroyer of nations, and wrest from his giant grasp the sceptre of France. Among numbers who went forth in the "pride of their glory," was William Henry St. Belmont; nor did a nobler figure, or a braver heart, grace the ranks of England. The field of conflict was entered, where laurels were to be won, or death was to be suffered. The western bank of the Sambre, and the positions of Quatre Bras and Frasnes, had already been the scenes of conflict, in each of which St. Belmont was engaged. But these, together with the contests at Bois de Bossa, Ligny, and Genappe, were only faint preludes to the memorable day of the 18th, the morning of which broke forth in awful tempest, as if nature herself mourned at the approaching slaughter of thousands who on that day would drench with blood the plains of Waterloo. The triumph was decisive and glorious, but the price at which it was purchased was exorbitant indeed, both in its nature and extent. The advocates of war may dwell with enthusiasm upon the honour which has accrued from it to our country, but (audi alteram partem) what thousands of brave men were torn from their peaceful homes, to meet the bands of their unoffended and unoffending fellow-men, to hack and be hacked, to mangle and be mangled!

"How many mothers have bewailed their sons!
How many widows weeped their husbands slain!"
I was at
Hall on the day the
despatches arrived, which furnished an
account of the victory, to which a partial
return of the killed and wounded was ap-
pended. Mr. St. Belmont and myself were
alone in the library when the packet was
received. I observed that he opened it
in his usual deliberate manner, and, as he
did so, I felt only less concerned than he
possibly could, respecting its contents. He
had scanned over the brief account which was
given of the success that had attended the
allied armies, and then turned with a sigh to
the list of the brave fellows who had fallen
in the contest; among the number was his
only, his beloved son! I perceived at that
moment all the father kindle in his eye,
and then a paleness, more terrible than
death, covered his face-" My boy, my
William," he observed, "is no more! but,"
he added, and he pressed his forehead as he
spoke, "shall a living man complain? Oh
no! Thy will be done." He seemed to
struggle awhile with his feelings, and then
continued in the language of the poet-

"Good when he gives, supremely good,
Nor less when he denies :
E'en crosses from his sov'reign hand,
Are blessings in disguise."

"Let us seek assistance,” he added “my friend, in this time of trouble, whence only it can be obtained." We knelt,—he prayed; and oh, with what fervour he bowed submissively to the lacerating stroke; and rose refreshed. Every appearance of shrinking humanity seemed to have passed away; he was indeed himself again, nay, more than himself. I thought, as I gazed upon him, of Anaxagoras, who, when information was brought him of the death of a beloved son, which intelligence it was supposed would have greatly afflicted him, answered, "I knew that he was mortal." But how superior was the philosophy of Mr. St. Belmont? his was not the philosophy of insensibility, but of resignation, hence submitting himself to Him, who is "righteous in all his ways, and holy in all his works," he responded the language and followed the conduct of David, "I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me."

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Some time before William had left his father's house, to unite himself to the army, he had received a visit from an old schoolfellow. He was of titled parentage, and about the same age with St. Belmont. At college, the pursuits of the young men had been similar: there they often met, and there laid their plans for future life, without once calculating upon the variety of circumstances which might arise to demolish their air-built castles. A close intimacy of some years' standing had endeared them to each other, and, like many attachments formed betwixt the masculine gender, in youth, it was pronounced by each to be of an indissoluble character.

Reginald Werner was of highly fascinating manners; his countenance was interesting and manly, while his whole figure was such as could scarcely fail to recommend itself to the female part of society. Nor were all the embellishments of Werner only of a showy or mere external order. His mind was finely strung, and highly cultivated. To whatever object he directed his energies, he relaxed not in his endeavours, until he had attained to its possession, while the ardent temperament of his nature allowed no bounds to be placed to the gratification of his wishes. He saw the beautiful sister of his friend, the lovely Urina, and passion took immediate and full possession of his soul. He prolonged his stay at Hall, fixed a period for his departure, and then again appointed another. Every day, and every interview, only tended to rivet more effectually the chains by which he was bound. He loved not alone, however— Urina felt an affection equal to his own.

All the circumstances which led to a mu

THE GENUINE PHILOSOPHER.

tual understanding, and formal engagement between them, are not necessary to be detailed; it is sufficient to state, that, before young St. Belmont departed for his regiment, he was allowed to look forward to a not very remote period, when he should be allowed to address Werner as a brother. But, ah! he had mistaken his character, and Werner, perhaps, had mistaken his own. The beauty and intelligence of Urina St. Belmont would have been sufficient to lead captive any heart, although poverty had been her only inheritance; but the vast possessions of her father, and the magnificent fortune which it was known she would receive as a marriage dowry, rendered her superlatively attractive in the eyes of Werner. A few months had passed, since Werner had left Hall, during which period he had freely mingled with the fashionable and the dissolute, by which the worst passions of his nature were fostered; and, like plants of hasty growth, they sprang up in foul corruption: when news reached him of the loss Mr. St. Belmont had sustained in his property, from which circumstance he was aware the expected fortune of Urina would be seriously affected. This intelligence produced a considerable change in his feelings towards the lady; still he loved her, or imagined he did, and the thought of giving her up had not once entered his mind. It is true, an intimacy of too tender a nature had, during his absence from

Hall, commenced between himself and an "honourable" Miss; and this circumstance, together with the loss of property and absence from the object of his first passion, tended, no doubt, to produce feelings in his mind not precisely understood by himself.

Once more he visited Hall the sight of his betrothed, lovely in innocence revived all the dying passion of his soul; for a time it ruled with uncontrollable sway. But when he learned certainly, what report had brought to him, the considerable shock which the affairs of Mr. St. Belmont had received, and that it was impossible that more than a few thousands could be received with Urina, his views were changed. The wealthy "honourable" stood in his mind's eye, who, if she did not possess the subduing charms which nature threw around Urina, possessed the charms of ton: interest and passion were at war :—had one spark of pure affection possessed his craven soul, the point had soon and honourably been decided; but he had mistaken nature's wildest passion for love, and there he split. The remnant of honest feeling which he possessed, held him a moment,

2D. SERIES.- No. 8.

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but at length he crushed it; and, with Shakspeare's Richard, he determined,

"Since I cannot prove a lover,

I am determined to prove a villain !' and he did prove a villain! So fully had he possessed himself of the heart of the unsuspecting Urina, and so deeply had he imbibed the diabolical arts of fashion. able life, that in an unhappy hour he triumphed over innocence and virtue; and then, robber-like, with all the demon of seduction in his spirit, deserted her.

The crime, however, was known only to themselves. Werner left the victim of his baseness, and, in the smiles of the wealthy "honourable," forgot-no, he could not forget-but succeeded in lulling for a while the clammerings of conscience, and strove to forget the beautiful, the injured Urina. But the eye of Him who never sleeps had marked his conduct, and blasted his project. He allowed him indeed to possess the object of his sordid and despicable mind, and cursed him in its possession.

Eight months only had passed since the crushing intelligence of young St. Belmont's death had been received, when the public prints announced the marriage of Reginald Werner to the Honourable Miss

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Mr. St. Belmont saw, but could not give credence to it. Too soon, however, confirmation strong as holy writ" was received by him of the fact. An action for breach of promise might have been instituted against him, and damages to a considerable amount have been recovered, but the father of Urina scorned such revenge, and would not that his daughter's name should be handed round the world, "a theme for fools to prate on." Denouncing him as a villain, he left him to the lacerations of his own guilty mind, and to the justice of Him who hath said, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay."

Here again I beheld and admired the conduct of Mr. St. Belmont. I saw his noble soul rise above this fresh affliction. It yielded for a moment to the pressure, and then, with superhuman elasticity, rose to its usual equanimity. His principal concern now was in what way he should disclose the baseness of Werner to Urina. To hide it altogether was of course impossible; but how to conceal it for a little time, so as gradually to prepare her mind for it, was difficult to devise. No suspicion had ever entered the mind of the affectionate father, of the irreparable injury which the villainsoul'd Werner had inflicted upon his child. Her recent love of solitude, and almost incessant tears, had been imputed to other causes-the indifference Werner had manifested, and the death of her brother.

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Suspicion, and especially in affairs of love, is sharp-sighted. Miss St. Belmont proved it so. Her father had, by gentle and far-fetched hints, been endeavouring to prepare her for all the dreadful tale. He had not proceeded far, when the "horrible truth" broke in upon her. "Werner is false !" she shrieked out, and fell fainting into her father's arms. Delirium followed; and, for a while, her life was despaired of. A few weeks elapsed and she slowly recovered. But shame and confusion covered her. Her secret yet remained in her own bosom; but it could not always be hid, and, as she looked tremblingly into the future, melancholy fixed his black impress on her. To divert her mind from what her parents supposed to be the results exclusively of blighted affection, they advised her to visit a friend at a few miles' distance. She was now altoge ther a passive thing, and therefore, following the wishes of those whose happiness was more dear to her than her own existence, she consented, and went. The information which the parents received every day, during the first week of her absence, was so favourable as to lead them to indulge the pleasing hope that their drooping flower might yet revive, and be spared to bless them.

Mr. St. Belmont had for some time discontinued his walks in the copse where we first met: now he resumed them. He looked forward with pleasing anticipations of enjoying life, while it might be continued, in the endeared society of his wife and daughter. He was sauntering one evening with his only companion, a book, by which his mind was so fully engrossed, that he wandered further and longer than he had intended, and therefore, on perceiving it, turned instantly towards home. The broad shadows of evening already gave to the surrounding scenery a sort of indistinctness, which might easily lead the mind to imagine the exist ence of moving beings among the waving saplings. Mr. St. Belmont had more than once stopped, influenced by such deception. Again he stopped, and again passed on, smiling at the optical illusion of which he was the subject.

At length he saw, or thought he saw, a figure glide, with the swiftness of the wind, past the end of the avenue in which he was. He hasted forward, to be satisfied. The object, if an object it was, had disappeared; he supposed he had again been mistaken, and again walked slowly. In another moment it passed from behind a clump of trees; and he became convinced that he was not deceived. The figure was of female form.

The dark drapery, in which it was

arrayed, floated in the light air which its speed occasioned. Presently he lost sight of it again; and in a few seconds more, a loud shriek, and a splashing noise in the river, alarmed him for the safety of the unknown being; with increased haste, he pushed to the spot, and perceived a part of the head-dress of the object of his pursuit, resting on the water. He waited not to seek for assistance, but, plunging into the stream, soon raised the apparently lifeless body, and bore it to the shore; when, O dreadful! he discovered, with feelings which attempted description would disgrace, his own daughter! He again caught her in his arms, and carried her immediately home. Every required assistance was soon obtained, and the unfortunate Urina recovered-and then, feeling that life would not long continue, the dreadful secret of her situation was revealed.

Oh! if the abandoned in vice, the confirmed debauchee, could have witnessed the scene which followed, it would surely have been a lesson to their souls of sovereign use, such as would have led them to detest their own villanies, and to have changed their seductive smiles for tears of bitter remorse, nor longer have allowed themselves to cheat themselves into the darkest deeds of vice of which human nature is capable, by employing the mild term of gallantry, to gloss over acts at which angels might weep, if angels had tears to shed.

The

The departure of Urina from the house of her friends was unknown to them. horrors of her mind had possessed her spirit with fatal energy, and gave to her physical powers unusual strength. Without knowing what her own purpose was, she fled, she knew not whither, until she had gained the side of the river into which she instantly plunged, and from whence her father had happily rescued her.

Mr. St. Belmont bent over his child, and blessed her but no fearful imprecation trembled on his lips on the author of her ruin; he rather shrunk from the awful prospect which opened before him, of interminable misery. The duration of Urina's sorrows was brief: at the end of two short weeks, her recently fair and beautiful form was an inanimate mass of corruptible matter, her bright eye shot forth its fires no more, the melody of her voice was hushed in the silence of death; the dusky tomb closed upon, and hid her for ever from the world. But before her spirit took its flight to the invisible state, her humble soul was prostrate before the cross of reconciliation; and while, by faith, fleeing to the hope set before her in the gospel, the peace of par

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