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
    That for man are planned;
  Seeing him unarmed,
  Unfearing, un-alarmed,
  With their tears have warmed
    His unconscious hand.

  Angels, hovering o’er him,
  Kiss him where he lies. 
  Hark, he sees them weeping,
    “Gabriel,” he cries;
  “Hush,” the angel says,
  On his lip be lays
  One finger, one displays
    His native skies.

* * * * *

STATE OF SOCIETY IN NEW SOUTH WALES.

The following exhibits but a lamentable picture of the “milk and honey” of this favoured land: