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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.
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,
Observe the words I tell thee now,
Remember 1 when thy trembling steps
Dearest! unplait thy braided locks,
Then, if my weeping mother says,
Go, smooth my pillow with thy hands,
Let me still feel that lov'd support,
Wait till you see the priest is robed,
Then, dearest! give my nithered lips
When four young friends support my corse;
Thron stones against that mournful group; w
Clip every tress that was thy pride,
And when they lay me in the church,
Their plumage, robb'd of all their young,
And when the burial chaunt is hush'd,
Sweet is the vernal rose
Filling with §o breath the dewy vale,
They bloom, and, blooming, fail:
LINES, BY L. E. L.
..My heart is as a grave,
With its dark thoughts like cypress,
Yet, flowers are on that grave,
And hidden treasures in it,
My heart is as a gem,
Thy image has been there;
The beauty of the spot
As that garden of the East,