A correspondent asks: “What is the meaning of ‘Creole?’ To whom is it applied, and why?” The word is French—the Spanish being nearly the same. It means primarily to create, but also to nourish, educate, bring up. It was first applied to children of French and Spanish parentage born in the West Indies or in Louisiana, because they were brought up in the country to which their parents came as colonists. The name is honorable. The influence of climate and other circumstances made these children of European parentage differ somewhat in appearance from their ancestors. They were less hardy and robust, but more beautiful. The term “Creoles” is sometimes applied to all born in tropical climates, as they have some common characteristics. HELEN’S TOWER. By CHARLES BLATHERWICK. Helen’s tower, here I stand, Dominant over sea and land. Son’s love built me, and I hold Mother’s love engraved in gold. Love is in and out of time, I am mortal stone and lime. Would my granite girth were strong As either love, to last as long, I should wear my crown entire To and thro’ the Doomsday fire, And be found of angel eyes In earth’s recurring Paradise.—_A. Tennyson._ Halfway up Belfast Lough, on the high ground to the left you may see a remarkable landmark. This is Helen’s Tower, built by the present Earl of Dufferin as a tribute of filial affection to his mother, the late Countess of Gifford, and formally named after her on attaining his majority. Looking across from the grey old walls of Carrickfergus, it may be seen crowning the highest hill on the Claudeboye estate. Clear cut against the sky, there it stands, lashed by the winds or touched by the sun, ever firm and enduring—a fitting memorial of one of the best and noblest of women. Lady Gifford was a Sheridan, one to whom wit and beauty came as natural gifts, yet one who dipped deeply into the font of human knowledge, and by pure sympathy with all that was good and beautiful in life, exerted a lasting influence on all those whose privilege it was to know her. A short drive from Bangor, or, still better, a pleasant two-mile stretch across the turf from Claudeboye House, will bring you to the foot of the hill. Here, glimmering amid ferns, sedges, birches, and firs, very calm and peaceful on a golden autumn day, with Helen’s Tower reflected on its face, is a quiet lake. Then a smart climb through a fir wood, and the tower—a veritable Scotch tower, with “corbie stairs” and jutting turrets all complete—is before you. At the basement lives the old keeper with his wife; and here, after inscribing your name in the visitors’ book, you follow him up the stone steps. The sleeping chamber first. A cosy little room, remarkable for the fine specimen of French embroidery which decorates the bedstead, with the quaint inscription on the tester— “_I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tent_ _A . day’s . march . nearer . home._” From here you are taken to the top.