ple of a nation do not appear there to most advantage. Enow worthy
representatives of that spirit and principle are doubtless there; but
they are there too much as though they were not. It is an atmosphere
which no individual powers can penetrate, and where it needs more than
an ordinary sun to make itself felt or seen. We are satisfied that, on a
just estimate of the whole case, the provinces, as distinguished from
the metropolis, would be found in many instances, perhaps in most, to be
the home which a wise lover of himself, and a sincere lover of his kind,
would do well to fix in;--not indeed as the scene of a brilliant or
sybarite existence, but as the post of that salutary influence which
sinks deepest; and of that usefulness and happiness which last the
longest; as most visibly incorporated with, and represented by, our
fellow-beings.--_Edinburgh Review._

* * * * *

INFANCY.

(_From the Feuilles d'Automne of Victor Hugo, translated in the Foreign
Quarterly Review._)

In the dusky court,
Near the altar laid,
Sleeps the child in shadow,
Of his mother's bed:
Softly he reposes,
And his lids of roses.
Closed to earth, uncloses
On the heaven o'erhead.

Many a dream is with him,
Fresh from the fairy land,
Spangled o'er with diamonds
Seems the ocean sand;
Suns are gleaming there.
Troops of ladies fair
Souls of infants bear
In their charming hand.

O, enchanting vision,
Lo, a rill up-springs,
And, from out its bosom
Comes a voice that sings.
Lovelier there appear
Sire and sisters dear,
While his mother near,
Plumes her new-born wings.

But a brighter vision
Yet his eyes behold;
Roses all, and lilies,
Every path enfold;
Lakes in shadow sleeping,
Silver fishes leaping,
And the waters creeping,
Through the reeds of gold.

Slumber on, sweet infant.
Slumber peacefully;
Thy young soul yet knows not
What thy lot may be.
Like dead leaves that sweep
Down the stormy deep,
Thou art borne in sleep,
What is all to thee?

Thou canst slumber by the way;
Thou hast learnt to borrow
Naught from study, naught from care;
The cold hand of sorrow,
On thy brow unwrinkled yet,
Where young truth and candour sit,
Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ
That sad word, "To-morrow."

Innocent, thou sleepest--
See the heavenly band.
Who foreknow the trials