some internal emotion which she could no longer suppress, and flinging down the book with a pettish air she suddenly rose. Helen, startled by the fall of the book, turned to discover the cause. "It is nothing," said Agnes laughing," but an experiment of mine to see if any thing can rouse you from your lethargy. Well! if I ever saw such a melancholy moping pair; do, Helen, try if a song will reanimate Cecil's penserose humour." Helen with a faint smile complied, running on the keys of the pianoforte a few chords of a plaintive air which she had learned from Cecil. She sang in a voice naturally sweet, but rendered more touching by the emotions that struggled in her bosom, a few stanzas of Camoens' touching canzonets. The subject was that of a forsaken girl complaining of the falsehood of her absent lover. "Shall I too be forgotten, Cecil?" whispered Helen to her lover as he hung over her chair; "shall I too be forgotten and left to sigh ditties of blighted love to the pale moon when you are gone?" Helen! this is unkind; 'tis cruel at such a moment. truth, my devotion?" Doubt my goes "Hist! I know that man's affections are the sport of chance; he into the world amongst the beautiful and gay, he sees around him bright eyes and warm hearts-the temptation is too strong for his will, he forgets the once loved cheek that grows pale, and the eye that becomes dim watching his return; he returns not, or if he does he is cold and changed, his vows are forgotten, he has learned to love another!" "Helen, Helen, what a picture!" ""Tis not filled up yet. What becomes of the forsaken one? does the world contain a balm for a broken heart? can the affections she has garnered up for one be bestowed upon another? No! The casket has been robbed of its gem. The light that shone upon her existence is quenched, and what remains for her but to die?" "Helen, think you that I could ever prove untrue?" "I think better of your mind, Cecil, than to suppose that you could contemplate such an act; but you have the same feelings, the same passions, the same foibles as others of your sex. Would you be a phenomenon amongst men?" Cecil replied not, and again the conversation sunk into an indistinct murmur. The following morning the young soldier quitted the village of D—, and Helen was left to her own meditations, unless when relieved by the lively sallies of her cousin, who, now become more animated than usual, rallied her incessantly on her love-sick reveries. In a very short time after Cecil's departure, Helen's heart was gladdened by a letter from him, in which he informed her he had joined his regiment in Dublin, which he found extremely gay, but that he could experience no happiness while removed from her who was the sum of his earthly felicity. Long and frequent were the consultations the cousins held upon this epistle. Helen saw only in it the same warm affectionate sentiments which had ever governed her lover's actions, while Agnes insisted that already he had entered the whirl of pleasure and had begun to forget the quiet village of D- and all its rustic associations. Each damsel seemed satisfied that her own interpretation was the true one; until the lapse of autumn and the approach of winter without bringing a second letter from Cecil afforded strong grounds for suspecting that the unfavourable conjectures of Agnes were nearer the truth than those of her confiding cousin. Helen now seldom spoke of Cecil; nor did his silence seem to affect her in any manner, save by an increasing love of solitary walks; in all other respects she was unaltered: she played, sang, and entertained her father's friends with her usual ease and gaiety. Thus it is with the human heart; to the casual observer it seems like a smooth and unruffled sea, but few eyes can discover the strong under current that silently and secretly tends towards one point, fretting and chafing in its course the channel that itself has made. Helen's evening walks were often prolonged until the failing daylight had left the world in darkness, and the fast falling dews chilled her frame; then she would return, and, without making any change in her dress, resume her usual household avocations. It was after one of those protracted rambles that a slight cold, which confined her to her room for a few days, gave the first indica tions of the secret ravages which her constitution had sustained. When she next took her place at the family breakfast table there was a frightful change visible in her appearance, her cheeks had become hollow and colourless, and her eyes, though they shone with their usual brilliancy, were sunk in their sockets. Yet she smiled with her accustomed cheerfulness, and when her friends expressed concern for the delicate state of her health, she laughed at their fears, and said that she intended to be the merriest of the village group at their Christmas sports. Christmas came, but the graceful form of Helen Johnstone was missing in the merry dance, and her light laugh and sweet voice were unheard in the festival. The cold hand of consumption, though arrested by the skill of medicine, still clutched its victim with tenacious grasp. Helen's constitution had been excellent, and it was only by slow degrees that the insidious enemy could sap its foundations; and when at Christmas she found she was still unable to quit her chamber, she looked forward to the fresh flowers and balmy breezes of spring to restore her to health. The dreary frowns of winter had passed away, and were succeeded by the changeful moods of spring; by spring we mean April, that fickle time when nature's tears and smiles mingle as kindly as the parting kisses of a venerable matron and her gentle child. But | Helen Johnstone had not received that benefit from the change of season she had anticipated. Wasting, wearing almost imperceptibly away, the lamp of life now hardly flickered in its socket. Yet she still retained that strength of mind which sustained her spirit to the last. She had not for months mentioned the name of Cecil, until one morning, reclining on a sofa supported by cushions, no one being in the room but Agnes, she suddenly asked what day of the month it was. "The twelfth of April, love," replied her cousin. "The twelfth! ha!" "What is there singular in this day, Helen?", "Nay, little; only I was just thinking that it was on this very day twelve months I first saw Cecil in this room." "Helen, dear, you must forget such subjects." "Forget! Oh, yes! forget-forget-forget-I shall soon be where all will be forgotten. Yet 'tis strange-this day twelve months-and the morning was as bright and beautiful as this. Agnes, I should like once more to look upon the fair face of nature. I think with your assistance I could walk to the window: I feel quite strong today, and the sight of the green budding trees and opening flowers would cheer me." Accordingly, aided by Agnes, the poor invalid reached the window; for a few moments she gazed in silent rapture upon the scene, How beautiful!" she exclaimed, "how beautiful to the exile seem the valleys of the land he is quitting for ever. What an earth were this did not our wayward passions mar its fairest features. Look, Agnes, at those violets that nod their purple heads along yon, bank, I almost fancy I breathe their rich perfume. They were planted by Cecil." 66 Helen, I fear you will over-exert yourself by speaking too long." “No, Agnes, it does me good; 'twas the silent worm that gnawed away my heart in secret." As she spoke, a flush, deeper and more sudden than the hectic of her disease, flooded her cheeks and brow. "Agnes! Agnes!" she exclaimed, almost breathless, "see that dog that comes running along the path, is it not like-it is-it is-Juba, and, merciful heaven! Cecil!" and the agitated girl sank bank in her chair almost fainting. "You positively must not see him, Helen," said her cousin eagerly. "Not see him, Agnes!" replied the proud girl, rising to her full height without assistance. Think you, now that the momentary weakness of my woman's heart is past, that I shall shrink from a meeting? No, you shall see how firmly I will act." Resuming her seat she awaited with apparent calinness the approach of her faithless lover. The door opened and Cecil hastily entered; he had advanced a few steps, when, perceiving Helen, he stopped as if petrified; at length, rushing towards her, he flung himself at her feet, and grasping one of her thin wasted hands, he exclaimed in a voice almost inarticulate with emotion, " Helen, my beloved, is it thus we meet?" Helen, by a strong effort retained sufficient composure to withdraw her hand, and pointing to a chair said, in a cold tone, "Mr. Cecil, pray be seated, the time for this foolery is long past." 66 "Past! and why is it past, Helen? was it thus we parted?" "Mr. Cecil, we must change the subject; I have learned a lesson, Sir,-" "But one word, Helen, before I am condemned. Why did you not reply to my numerous letters?" "Sir, do you mean to add duplicity to wrong?" 1 "Helen, I speak the truth! letter after letter I wrote to you without receiving a line in reply, till maddened at your neglect I received leave of absence, and hurried over to learn from your own lips the cause of it." A visible tremor ran through Helen's frame; turning to Cecil with a look in which joy and agony were strangely blended, she laid her cold hand upon his, and speaking slowly and earnestly said, "Cecil, as you have hope in heaven, as you value the peace of this spirit, which is even now hovering over the threshold of eternity, deceive me not; is this truth you tell ?". "It is, so help me heaven!" "I never received but one letter of yours, and though I told it not to the world, the thoughts of your faithlessness broke my heart. I am dying-dying, Cecil, but I shall die happy in the consciousness that I am still beloved by you." She leant her cheek upon her lover's shoulder, exhausted by her emotions; while her fast dropping tears fell like rain upon his bosom. Fearful of further agitating her, Cecil bore her gently to the window, where the bright beams of the mid-day sun were playing through the young green leaves of the vine that wreathed round it. "I am better here," said Helen, "I will sit in this sunshine; I feel its warm beams vivifying my chilled heart. Open the window, dear Cecil, the fresh air will revive me,-there, how sweetly and freshly it comes! Cecil, your hand, let me feel you near me; ah! the sweet songs of those birds, their music will be soon lost to me; in the cold grave there is no sweet music-Ah! that pang-Cecil, don't go I am happy-how happy-let me-" The gentle girl's head sank, her bright eyes grew dim, a shadow came over her beautiful features-it was DEATH. We dare not profane the solemn scene by going further with the picture. A plain white slab in the village churchyard marks the resting-place of all that is mortal of Helen Johnstone. Cecil after her decease rejoined his regiment, and in the red field of glory won those laurels which may hide, but not heal, the wounds of his seared heart. There is but one other circumstance connected with this "ow'er true" tale worth recording. Many years after the events here related, Colonel Cecil, then a retired veteran, received a packet containing all the letters which he had written to Helen Johnstone, but which the writer (who was then on the bed of death) acknowledged she had, from motives of envy and jealousy, intercepted. This wretched woman was Helen's cousin Agnes. ABD-EL-KADER, THE PRESENT EMIR OF MASCARA. "Di loro indugio Abd-el-Kader altero TASSO, Ger. Lib. Canto vii. "The haughty Abd-el-Kader impatient stay'd, HOOLE's Translation. THE precarious and unsettled state of the French possessions on the coast of Africa,-the almost continual warfare which, during the last seven years, has existed between the invaders and the natives,-the disastrous and shameful failure of the expedition of Marshal Clausel against Constantina, and the late humiliating treaty of peace con-cluded by General Bougaud, and ratified between France and the Emir of Mascara, have rendered the name of Abd-el-Kader so familiar and so renowned, that a brief relation of his private and public life, and of his military career and exploits, cannot but be interesting. In performing our task of historians, adopting for our guide that celebrated sentence of the Roman orator,-"Amicus Socrates, amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas,"-and unbiassed by either party, we will lay before our readers all that we have been enabled to learn from official sources, and from the writings of our French neighbours on the subject of this memoir; and here we candidly acknowledge that, without such an assistance, we could not have easily succeeded in collecting either the materials or the dates of the important events which we are going to relate. Abd-el-Kader (Abi-Sidi-el-Adi-Mahommed, Ben-Sidi - Mahhi-elDinn) was born in 1808 at La Zayouat, commonly called Si-Moustapha-el-Mokhetar. Sidi-Mahhi-el-Dinn, his father, a renowned and highly revered Marabout, of the province of Oran, lived as a dervish on the alms and donations of the faithful Osmanlis, who from all parts flocked almost daily to his residence. Such was his religious and public influence, that a word of him was sufficient to arrest any persecution of the Bey; and he enjoyed also the strange privilege of sheltering in his house both criminals and fraudulent debtors. The superstitious veneration of the people towards Mahhi-el-Dinn went so far as to attribute to him several miracles, and especially that of multiplying in the pockets of his visitors the money which they carried with them. It was, in fact, to these foolish fables and impostures, that the shrewd Marabout owed his immense wealth, which, in course of time, rendered less difficult his elevation to the throne. Mulay-Ali, nephew of the Emperor of Morocco, having abandoned the beylick of Oran, in order to avoid the continual encroachments, vexations, and extortions of the French army, Mahhi-el-Dinn, being AUG. 1837. I |