“You have seen Sunshine and rain at one:  her smiles and tears Were like a better day:  Those happy smiles That played on her ripe lip seemed not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, As pearls from diamonds dropp’d.”

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

1. Lis Oubreto de ROUMANILLE.  Avignon. 1860. 12mo.

2.  T. AUBANEL. La Miougrano Entreduberto. Avec Traduction litterale en regard.  Avignon:  J. Roumanille. 1860. 12mo.

3. Mireio. Pouemo Prouvencau de FREDERI MISTRAL.  Avec la Traduction litterale en regard.  Avignon:  J. Roumanille. 1859. 8vo.

4. Las Papillotos de JACQUES JASMIN, de l’Academie d’Agen, Maitre es Jeux-Floraux, Grand Prix de l’Academie Francaise.  Edition populaire, avec le Francais en regard, et ornee d’un Portrait.  De 1822 a 1858.  Paris:  Firmin Didot, Freres & Cie. 1860. 12mo.

5. Les Piaoulats d’un Reipetit. Recueil de Poesies Patoises.  Par J.B.  Veyre, Instituteur a Saint-Simon (Cantal).  Aurillac:  Imprimerie de L. Bonnet-Picut. 1860. 8vo.

Few persons, when they consider the present greatness and prosperity of the French Empire, bear in mind the heterogeneous elements of which it is composed.  For us, Paris is France, and the literature of the realm is comprised in the words, “Paris publications.”  We think not of the millions of Frenchmen to whom the language of the capital is a sealed letter,—­of the Germans of Alsatia, the Flemings of the extreme North-East, the Bretons of the peninsula of Finisterre, the Basques, the Catalans of the mountains of Roussillon, and, more numerous than all these, the fourteen millions of the thirty-seven departments south of the Loire.  These speak, to this day, with fewer modifications than have taken place in any other of the European languages during the same lapse of time, the very tongue in which wrote Bertran de Born and Pierre Vidal, the idiom in which Dante and Petrarca found some of their happiest inspirations, and which, we are told, Tasso envied for its poetic capabilities.

True, the Provinces of Gascony, Provence, Auvergne may be traversed by the stranger almost without his suspecting that other than the French, more or less badly spoken, is in common use.  In hotels and shops he will hear nothing else.

The larger towns in direct communication with the capital, and all that is purely exterior in the people, are becoming more and more French every day.  But in the family interior, far from the noise of affairs, the bustle of towns, in hamlets, among the vine-growers and tenders of the silk-worm, in the mountains and retired valleys, the home-tongue is again at ease.  Simple, ingenuous, amber-like in its sunny tints, it is a reflection of that ardent poetical imagination which made the courts of the Counts of Toulouse the nurseries of modern poesy, when the rest of Europe