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This storm was from the S.W. to the W. The S. W. wind comes from the coast of Wales, distant 100 miles, and the W. wind from off Liverpool, distant from 30 to 40 miles. In subsequent storms, Mr. Dalton found that there was

one grain of salt water in 200 grains of rain water, and that the salt water had been brought mechanically by the wind at least 30 miles.”—- Manchester Memoirs, New Series, vol. iv. p. 330, 370.

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CHAPTER III.

STATE OF THE FINE ARTS.

It is matter of congratulation that the structure of mind in these islands unites the various qualities requisite for forming a great and a noble nation. Had Great Britain not yet attained her present national pre-eminence, it might have been foretold that the spirit which has so often stimulated her to victory; the energy and enterprize which has so far extended her commerce; the comparative rectitude in principle; the benevolence which flows in so many charities; the intellect evinced by her scholars; and the excellence of her artists, must eventually place her in the first rank of ancient or modern nations. Which nation, of all those who have taunted her upon her atmosphere of fogs, and

her dulness of imagination, possesses a school equal in power, thought, purity, and genuine merit to the school of England 7 In water colour drawing she is confessedly unrivalled. The Royal Academy, the British Gallery, the Society of British Artists, the Water Colour Exhibition are all rich cabinets of art, possessing treasures which would be prized in any nation, and in any country.

No new name occurs this year, but the artists of last and of former exhibitions lose no part of their reputation. Sculpture is decidedly on the advance among us, and for the state of architecture we may look around at the magnificence which ennobles our Streets.

PO ETR Y.

THE LOVER'S LAST DIRECTIONS.

A remarkable specimen of Cephaloniote superstitions : from Sheridan's Translation of the Songs of Greece.

CoME quick, when told that I am sick,
Or thou wilt come in vain;

Observe the words I tell thee now,
And we may meet again.

Remember 1 when thy trembling steps
Have past the outer gate,

Dearest! unplait thy braided locks,
E'er told thy lover's fate.

Then, if my weeping mother says,
“He slumbers in his bed,’

Go, smooth my pillow with thy hands,
And lift my languid head.

Let me still feel that lov'd support,
Till life's last spark has flown—

Wait till you see the priest is robed,
And hear his awful tone ;

Then, dearest! give my nithered lips
A cold and holy kiss;

When four young friends support my corse;
Dearest! remember this :

Thron stones against that mournful group; w
And when they pass thy door, -

Clip every tress that was thy pride,
And my delight before.

And when they lay me in the church,
As fluttering captives tear

Their plumage, robb'd of all their young,
So pluck thy silken hair.

And when the burial chaunt is hush'd,
The holy tapers dim,
Gaze on thy lover's grave, and feel,
E’en there thou art with him.
THE
THE ORANGE TREE.
By W. Sotheby.

Sweet is the vernal rose
That scents the morning gale:
And sweet at day-light close
The silver lily blows,

Filling with §o breath the dewy vale,
They flourish, and decay:

They bloom, and, blooming, fail:
Leaf after leaf, fades, falls, and dies away.
Thy morrow, like thy day,
Beholds thee gifted with perpetual growth,
Thee, child and mother, both :-
And every season sweet,
Spring, summer, autumn, not in slow advance,
Nor singly, thee, with separate offerings, greet,
But, like the Graces, that in the linked dance
Join hand in hand, and wreathe their mingled feet,
With all their treasures, all at once, endower:
The golden fruit, green leaf, and silver flower.”

LINES, BY L. E. L.

..My heart is as a grave,
Where Hope and Love lie sleeping;

With its dark thoughts like cypress,
Watching and weeping.

Yet, flowers are on that grave,
Albeit sad they be;

And hidden treasures in it,
Sweet memories of thee.

My heart is as a gem,
Sullied and broken ;
"But bearing signs that make it still
A precious token.

Thy image has been there;
Nothing can quite efface

The beauty of the spot
Which has been thy resting place:

As that garden of the East,
In itself no longer fair,
Has yet perfume on its beds,
For the rose has once bloomed there.
CANZONET.

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