a boat came near us, though we lay there six or seven hours, nor were any of us permitted to set foot on shore. It was a dreary Sabbath spent under the shadow of the green flag. We heard no sermon but that which our circumstances seemed to proclaim to us, isolated as we were from our fellows and looked upon as unclean; viz., that we have need to be purified in the blood which cleanseth from all sin, before we can hope to set foot on the shores of that land, into which "there shall in nowise enter anything that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination or maketh a lie, but they which are written in the Lamb's book of life." We sailed rapidly down the Skaggerrack, and Sambo the steward had orders to awaken me at five next morning, when I expected we should be entering the Sound. Sambo was a Negro from the Danish colonies, and had his share of the good-natured vivacity of his race. Long before the appointed time, I was aroused by a somewhat unceremonious shaking. Get Massa! get up." up, "Is it five, Sambo?" "No, but so lubbly; Massa muss come see." Hastily dressing myself, I was preparing to issue from my cabin, when I met Sambo hurrying to me again. Relieved to see that I was ready, he exclaimed, "O yes! dat's it. Dust de berry moment; dust lubbly. Massa, see, Danish Sambo know how for speak English." Sambo was certainly right. We were just entering the Sound in the brightness of one of the most charming of mornings. The Sound is only three miles wide, so that we commanded a beautiful view of the rich, but level corn-fields of Sweden to the left, and of the wooded and undulating slopes of Denmark to the right. The Sound was literally crowded with sail; every vessel that passes through it being obliged to cast anchor off Elsineur, for the payment of the dues which the authorities claim as an immemorial privilege. The sight was one of exceeding beauty, as we threaded our way through the crowding sails, and were moored to the wharf of Elsineur. We The steamer, in ordinary circumstances, proceeds to Copenhagen; but owing to the fearful prevalence of cholera there at that time, it ventured no farther than Elsineur. were obliged, therefore, to change steamers, and had two hours' delay in Elsineur, which enabled us to visit the beautiful Castle of Kronborg, and ascend to its summit. The view from this point was extensive and striking, as the eye ranged along the Sound with its countless vessels, or wandered across it to Helsinborg, and the rich plains of Sweden, or strayed over the wooded and corn-clad slopes of Zealand, with its frequent villages dotted along the coast. The scene formed a striking contrast to the rugged cliffs, and beachless seas, and long-withdrawing Fjords of Norway, from which we had just come. By seven o'clock we were under way again for Copenhagen. We called at all the villages along the coast to pick up passengers. As boatful after boatful was taken on board, a deepening gloom seemed to gather round us. The passengers consisted chiefly of Copenhagen merchants, who had fled from the infected city with their families, but whose presence was required by the calls of business. Most of them wore crape round their hats, and other badges of mourning. They gathered themselves together in silent groups. Men only raised their eyes from the sea to look wistfully into one another's faces, or uneasily towards the desolated city we were approaching. Their markets and their merchandise seemed to have lost their interest for these silent men of the Merchants' Haven, for such is the meaning of their city's name in Danish, Kiöbnhavn. One could not help feeling how soon and how easily God can make all that most occupies and interests us on earth a mere shadow compared with the intense realities of a near eternity. The towering spires of the city, when they appeared rising majestically from the sea, awakened no joy among the passen gers. We soon found ourselves traversing the silent streets of the stricken city, on our way to the Police-office, where our passports had to be viséed. The officials looked at us with surprise, and told us that they had had light work lately, as for weeks past strangers had scarcely been seen in Copenhagen. Under the guidance of an intelligent Dane, whose acquaintance I had made in the boat, I turned my steps to the Frue Kirke, which is adorned with statues by Thorwaldsen. We then visited the Thorwaldsen Museum, a large building filled exclusively with the works of the immortal sculptor. We dwelt with peculiar interest on the unfinished bust of Luther, with which he was engaged when he suddenly expired at a good old age. The number of his works is such as to impress one with an idea of the unceasing activity of his prolific chisel. The exterior of the building is adorned with reliefs representing the arrival from Rome of Thorwaldsen, of his works, and of his marble blocks,-events on which the Danes look with profound interest. Thorwaldsen was himself a native of Denmark, though his father was an Icelander. A considerable part of his life was spent in the studios of Rome. We drove through the exterior parts of the royal Christiansborg palace, at the door of which a neat and simple carriage was waiting for the King. My friend then conducted me to a vast store of the biscuitporcelain ware, for which the city is famous, and where I procured some pieces beautifully modelled after Thorwaldsen's choicest works. We next visited the Exchange; but, like every other part of the city, it was deserted. Wherever we went, we found that one mournful idea filled every mind. So deep and dark was the gloom that sat upon all faces, one could have fancied that a wide-spreading pall had been stretched over all the city. Few were to be seen in the streets, and those few moved noiselessly and shrinkingly along, as if afraid to be stopped or touched by their fellows. One street seemed quite deserted; its windows were all open, infected beds were lying along the sides of the street, and here and there a woman was engaged in scouring or whitewashing the deserted chambers. We heard a heavy roll behind us; it was the dead-cart, with several rude coffins, but partially covered by a grey coarse cloth. Four thousand persons had died up to that time, and it was said that 40,000 had fled the city. No such mortality had been known in Copenhagen since 1711, when the plague desolated the city. It was no time to tarry unnecessarily there; and with two companions whom I had joined, and who were obliged like myself in hastening homeward to visit the infected city, I set sail from it the same afternoon, thankful that the scourge was beginning to abate, and at the same time wondering that we, that any man, should ever allow anything to take precedence of preparation for the unseen world which may be so near us. "Therefore be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh." - Our steamer, the Slesvig, was a fine Glasgow-built boat, which quickly cleared the harbour. The view of Copenhagen, as we receded, was very fine. We gradually dipped it till only the spires were visible rising out of the water. The evening sail was pleasant past the Möen, and other islands, with their chalk-cliffs and wooded summits. Next morning at daybreak we were steaming into the beautiful. harbour of Kiel, and were soon rattling in the train across the peninsula, passing innumerable cranes, with their formal nests on the tops of the cottages in the marshes. At Altona we took leave of Scandinavia, and from Hamburg made an easy passage to Old England. R. H. L. ENGLISH CLASSICS. ALL are familiar with,-all constantly use the terms and epithets, "Classic, classics, classical." We know how and in what circumstances to apply the designations, but perhaps have never stayed to define the terms, and to mark the exact limits of their significance. And this the more, that in our country the epithet Classic has a technical and special reference as applied to the literatures of ancient Greece and Rome. By the term classic we indicate acknowledged and undisputed excellence. We do not, for example, term a history or a poem classical till some time has elapsed since its publication, till it has run the gauntlet of the critics, and passed the ordeal of sober and matured taste, and not till all the factitious and temporary associations connected with its production, such as the personal merits and popularity of the author, or the momentary interest of the subject treated, have been softened and modified by the lapse of time. For example, popular as is now Macaulay's "History of England," great as has been its success, we cannot strictly call it classical,—we cannot yet place it among English classics, because we are not, by the nature of the case, the judges in the matter. We may sanguinely predict for Macaulay enrolment and acknowledgment by future generations of Englishmen among the list of English classics. We may be confident that, when judged by its own merit as an historical authority and romantic narrative, his History will be estimated equally highly as now by us, prejudiced as we are in Macaulay's favour,-by our knowledge of him as a contemporary, by our admiration of him as a poet, a reviewer, an orator, and a statesman. We may be confident that his |