ing to the eastern horizon, with the majestic white cliffs of
Culver at the extremity of the bay on the left, and the long range of
cliffs of every hue and colour gradually declining in height as the
eye glances along to the cottages of Sandown, and then again
imperceptibly rising to their highest point of elevation.

The situation of the village of Shanklin is as romantic as any of the
lovers of nature can desire. The salubrity of the atmosphere and the
proximity of the village to the sea may account for the extraordinary
growth of the myrtle-tree, which attains here an astonishing height.
Virgil tells us this plant is best cultivated on the sea side; but
every maritime situation is not congenial, unless a protection is
afforded from the cold northerly winds.

The chief attraction of Shanklin is the Chine. This is a natural
fissure or cleft in the earth, running from the village to the sea in
a circuitous direction and increasing in width and depth as it
approaches the shore. It was most probably formed by the long
continued running of a stream of water from the adjoining hills; this
now forms a cascade at the commencement of the path which has been
formed in the side to facilitate strangers in exploring their way
through the rocks and underwood. But the admirers of sublime nature
will mourn the ruthless devastation that has thus been made,
ostensibly for the public benefit, to serve private interest. In the
Chine is a chalybeate spring, highly impregnated with iron and alum,
and of course beneficial in cases of debility and nervous affections.

C.R.S.

* * * * *

LINES TO ----.

Life's earliest sweets are wasted,
And time impatient flies;
The flowers of youth are blasted,
Their lingering beauty dies.
Yet my bosom owns a pleasure,
That no icy breath can chill;--
'Tis thy friendship, dearest treasure,
For my hopes are with thee still.

Though mine eye, by sorrow shaded,
Drops the solitary tear,
O'er remember'd joys, now faded,
To young love and rapture dear.
E'en the retrospective feeling,
Leaves a momentary thrill;
All the wounds of sorrow healing,
For my hopes are with thee still.

Though I've bid adieu to pleasure,
With her giddy, fleeting train;
And her song of joyous measure,
I may never raise again.
Yet the chilling gloom of sadness,
Waving o'er me, brooding ill,
Emits one ray of gladness,