mass of information, which cannot soon escape him, for he possesses in his memory the transfer of a commentary, which explains all the incidents embraced within the prescribed period. On closing the book, he finds himself master of a thousand interesting facts, which, otherwise, he might never have known; he discovers himself unconsciously pursuing new trains of thought, and revelling in a world of bright and beautiful ideas, which seem to have been called forth as by the enchanter's wand.

The superiority of Scott is equally manifest in his descriptions of scenery. In these, especially in his poems, he is not surpassed by any modern writer. He is said to have visited most of the places particularly described in his works, and to have noted down on the spot every rock, tree and shrub growing upon it, every variation in its light and shade, and its different appearance at different seasons. This can alone account for the accurate minuteness and vividness of his descriptions. So perfect is the illusion produced by reading some of these, that the reader can almost hear the running water from fountain, rivulet or mountain torrent, mingling with the song of birds, or the herdsman's call; and he can see the tree tops waving over grassy vales, from the sides of the mountain crowned with the turreted castle. Or, if it be a battle scene, he beholds the marshaling clans, the banners floating in the breeze, and the armor glittering in the sunlight; he can hear the war-cries of the hostile chieftains, the answering shout from the thickening ranks, the wild notes of the bugle and the shrill piping of the bag-pipe, all rising in discord and harmony together, and floating upon the air from mountain to echoing mountain. He is transported, as by magic from the actual reality which surrounds him, to a seeming reality, which engrosses all his senses, and imbues him with the enthusiasm of the actors of whose imaginary struggles he is a witness. The spell is complete,—and this we call the perfection of description.

H. D. C.

THE WHIRLWIND.

BY JAMES HUNGERFORD.

THE whirlwind! the whirlwind! a monarch is he!
And he sways a wide region-the land and the sea!
And who is so dauntless, that bows not in fear,
When he passes along in his mighty career?

When the sky has a hazy and slumberous air,
Trust not to the calm, for the whirlwind is there!
He is gathering his powers, ere he marshals them forth,
For his journey of storm over ocean and earth!

The soft winds that nourish the blossoms and flowers,
Shrink away from the forests, the fields and the bowers;
To their caverns of coolness in terror they hie,
For they know that the king of the tempest is nigh!

He comes on his chariot, the pyramid cloud,
And the voice of his coming is haughty and loud;
For he vaunteth his strength, and he shouts in his glee,
That no spirit of storm is so mighty as he.

Who bend not before him, where'er he may go,
With the breath of his anger he levels them low;
For an absolute monarch is he, and his path,
Like the path of a despot, is ruin and wrath.

Aye! he makes for himself a wide track as he goes;
The high and the proud like a reaper he mows,
The tallest of trees in the old forest lands,
And the palace that proud in its masonry stands!

Then he hurries away where the wide waters sweep,
And sinks the stout ship in the fathomless deep;
And his broad pinions lash the wild billows amain,
Till they leap in their terror, and howl in their pain.

Yet the monarch of winds, in his lordliest hour,
Still spareth the lowly that brave not his power;
Scarce stirs he the stream that meanders the dell,
And the small barque that rides on its fairy-like swell.

Far away from the breath of his meteor gale,
The flower and the shrub are unhurt in the vale;
And the cot, that stands low 'neath the sheltering hill,
Is safe when the tempest is working its will.

The whirlwind! the whirwind! a monarch is he! And he sways a wide region-the land and the sea! And who is so dauntless, that bows not in fear, When he passes along in his mighty career?

THE LADY HELEN.

BY WM. H. CARPENTER.

CHAPTER I.

In the year 1603, and in the realm of merry England, two children were playing together one summer's day in the court yard of Castle Dacre. The one was a bright, bold lad of sixteen, the other, a fairy girl of twelve. They were both beautiful, and there was an air of noble manliness about the boy, that contrasted well with the tenderer loveliness of his more youthful companion. The boy had been shooting at a target, but suddenly growing weary of his pastime, had thrown the bow aside, and was chasing the merry girl out at the gates, and down the green slope to the water's edge. Running along the bank to where an attendant was sitting in a boat, she suddenly sprang in, and, bidding him push out into the lake, clapped her hands together and laughed long and loud at the manifest discomfiture of her companion.

"Nay, that is not fair, Helen!" cried the boy, "I could have caught you if Jekyll had not been in the boat."

"Ah yes, if; but then Jekyll was in the boat, and now catch me if you can."

Jekyll, do pull ashore, there's a good man, and I will give you a piece of silver."

"Rank bribery!" said the girl, laughing, "Jekyll shall do no

such thing until you, William Seymour, promise me to shoot straiter, and stronger, and better than you have done."

"If you will come back, Helen, and not tease me, and so make me miss the mark, I will."

"And you'll hit the white?"

"I'll try."

Well, then, Jekyll, you may put me on the bank again; for I want William to be as skilful as Robin Hood and the old foresters were, who they say could split a willow wand at fifty paces."

"There's none of our people can do that except Launce," said the boy. "I'll get him to teach me, if it will please you."

"Do, do!" exclaimed the girl, tossing back with a joyous. laugh the wealth of brown hair that hung in disorder over her brow. "And then we will go into the grand old woods yonder, and you shall be dressed in Lincoln green, with a score of merry men like Robin Hood; and I will be maid Marian in gay boddice and embroidered kirtle."

"I should like that," said the boy spiritedly, "for we could build us a bower there and live in the forest like they did at Sherwood; and in the morning I would bring you fresh, beautiful flowers; and then I would blow my bugle and go out and kill the deer; and when I came home again, I would sing you greenwood songs like this I am about to sing to you, Helen, if you will listen."

Oh that I will," said the girl," if it is a good song."

"Well, then, sit down beside me under this tree, and pray do not look at me too hard or you will put me out.

"In merry Sherwood forest

Once loitered archers three;

And they stood beneath the sheltering gloom

Of a far outspreading tree.