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, For my hopes are with thee still. When the reckless world is sleeping, And the star of eve shines gay; While the night winds softly creeping O'er the waters, die away; When the moonbeams softly playing, Silver o'er the glistening rill; 'Tis to thee my thoughts are straying, For my hopes are with thee still. When the fragrant breath of morning Wanders o'er the silent dews; And flowers the vale adorning, Do their balmy sweets diffuse. When the orb of day appearing, From behind the distant hill, Gilds the landscape bright and cheering, E'en my hopes are with thee still. _Leeds._ J.B. WALKER. * * * * * ANTIQUITY OF MALT LIQUOR.