on, are questions of another order. But the special interest which attaches to this narrow portion of a great subject, arises from the circumstance that no people present more markedly than this secluded Cornish race the characteristics of that practical republicanism and self-government which appear likely to establish themselves over so large a portion of the world, as the ties of feudal subjection wear out, and the stronger bonds of those systems of centralised authority, which now so extensively prevail, snap, as it seems probable they will do, from overtightening. If we endeavour to picture to our imaginations, a people liberated for good or for evil from these ancient restraints, we are apt to conceive it as habitually managing its own affairs: little disposed to place itself under the guidance of leaders, except such as it selects from its own body, and subjects to very jealous control; ready in comprehending, and adapting, the minor devices which enable men to act more easily in concert; addicted to industrial co-operation, and mercantile adventure in partnership; with no great appreciation, it may be feared, of aristocratic polish and refinement, such as flourished in the older world, but capable through self-education and self-respect of attaining a certain amount of both. Such, according to the estimate which now prevails in many minds, may probably be the republicans of the future, under whatever form of external government their democracy may subsist: and such, to a great extent, are our Cornishmen, and similar races of industrious men dwelling somewhat apart from the great centres of productive industry, at the present day. How the prevalence of such a state of society can be reconciled, or whether it ever can be reconciled, with our huge accumulation of individual wealth and the habitual luxury of our few, is a question the solution of which may tax the wisdom of some generations

yet to come. But in the mean time, every evidence which a comparison of the past with the present affords of the increase of self-restraint, self-respect, self-government in its various forms, in that class of our people who are on the whole removed alike from the influence of wealth and from the pressure of want, is not only a good sign for the present, but of happy augury for the great undeveloped future.

WE are so much accustomed to depend on the four great literary languages for the whole body of our information and amusement, that it occurs to few to consider that ignorance of other European dialects involves any inconvenience at all, except to those who have occasion to visit the countries in which they are spoken. Yet there is much of really valuable matter which sees the light only in the minor tongues, especially those of the industrious North, and with which the world has never been made familiar through translation. Joachim Frederic Schouw, the Danish botanist, is one of the writers of our day who has suffered most prejudicially both to his own fame and to the public from having employed only his native language. For his writings are not only valuable in a scientific point of view, but belong to the most popular order of scientific writing, and would assuredly have been general favourites, had not the bulk of them remained untranslated. His "Tableau du Climat de l'Italie' has, however, appeared in French, and is a standard work. A little collection of very brief and popular essays, entitled 'The Earth, Plants, and Man,' has been translated both into German and English. One of

these, styled 'The Plants of Pompeii,' is founded on a rather novel idea. The paintings on the walls of the disinterred houses of that city contain (among other things) many landscape compositions. Sometimes these are accessory to historical representations. But they often merely portray the scenery of ordinary out-door life. As to their merit, the old decorators of the Pompeian chambers have indeed left us some of the most charming specimens of ancient art which the world possesses. Still there is a singular contrast between the exquisite sense of beauty which pervades their compositions, reproductions no doubt to a great extent of older models, and the coarse and perfunctory way in which they are often executed. The daubers among them had an evident taste for those trivial tricks of scenic deception, which are still very popular in Italy. Their verdure, sky, and so forth, seem often as if meant to impose on the spectator for a moment as realities; and are, therefore, executed in a 'realistic' though sketchy style. Consequently,' says Schouw, the observation of the plants which are represented in these paintings will give, as far as they go, the measure of those which were familiar to the ancient eye, and will help to show the identities and the differences between the vegetation of the Campanian plains a hundred years after Christ, and that which adorns them now.'

* Is not the world of 'high art,' at least in sculpture, really limited, and can we do otherwise than repeat the masterpieces which we possess? Most, at all events, of what is popularly received as original, is in truth mere imitation. Since the time of Canova, there have been three female figures executed by sculptors, we dare not say of surpassing merit, for fear of encountering controversy, but certainly of surpassing popularity: Danneker's Ariadne; Kiss's Amazon; Powers's Greek Slave. Of the first, the 'motive' -we might almost say the model-is to be found in that well known Pompeian fresco, of strange loveliness, the Girl on the Chimera.' Of the second in a small bronze Amazon from Herculaneum : figured in vol. 3, plate 43, of the Reale Museo Borbonico. While the third only transfers the familiar type of the Antinous to the other sex.

E E

Let us now follow the Professor through this confined but elegant little chapter of his investigations. But by restraining ourselves to this alone, we should be dealing with only part of a subject. In most regions, two thousand years have made considerable changes in the appearance of the vegetable covering of the earth; but in that land of volcanic influences in which Pompeii stood, great revolutions have taken place, during that time, in the structure of the ground itself. Sea and land have changed places; mountains have risen and sunk; the very outlines and main landmarks of the scene are other than

what they were. Let us for a moment imagine ourselves gazing with Emperor Tiberius from his 'specular height' on precipitous Capri at that unequalled panorama of sea and land formed by the Gulf of Naples, and note in what respects the visible face of things has changed since he beheld it.

The central object in his view, as in that of the modern observer, was Vesuvius, standing out a huge insulated mountain mass, unconformable with the other outlines of the landscape, and covered then, as now, with its broad mantle of dusky green. Then, as now, its volcanic soil was devoted to the cultivation of the vine. But in other respects its appearance was widely different. No slender, menacing column of smoke rose perpetually from its summit. Nor was it lurid, at night, with that red gleam of the slow river of fire,

A cui riluce

Di Capri la marina

E di Napoli il porto e Mergellina.

It was an extinct volcano, and had been so for unknown ages. Nor did it exhibit its present characteristic cone, nor probably its double top; Vesuvius and Somma were most likely one; and the deep half-moon-shaped ravine