art. The scenes of nature, though varied, are uniform; while the
productions of art are subject to the caprices of whim, and the
vicissitudes of taste. A rock, a wood, or a valley, however the scenery
may be diversified, always conveys a perfect and distinct image to the
mind; but a temple, an altar, a palace, or a pavilion, requires a detail,
minute even to tediousness, and which, after all, gives but an imperfect
notion of the object. I have as often read descriptions of the Vatican,
as of the Bay of Naples; yet I recollect little of the former, while the
latter seems almost familiar to me.--Many are strongly impressed with the
scenery of Milton's Paradise, who have but confused ideas of the
splendour of Pandemonium. The descriptions, however, are equally minute,
and the poetry of both is beautiful.

But to return to this country, which is not absolutely a Paradise, and I
hope will not become a Pandemonium--the ceremony I have been alluding to,
though really interesting, is by no means to be considered as a proof
that the ardour for liberty increases: on the contrary, in proportion as
these fetes become more frequent, the enthusiasm which they excite seems
to diminish. "For ever mark, Lucilius, when Love begins to sicken and
decline, it useth an enforced ceremony." When there were no
foederations, the people were more united. The planting trees of liberty
seems to have damped the spirit of freedom; and since there has been a
decree for wearing the national colours, they are more the marks of
obedience than proofs of affection.--I cannot pretend to decide whether
the leaders of the people find their followers less warm than they were,
and think it necessary to stimulate them by these shows, or whether the
shows themselves, by too frequent repetition, have rendered the people
indifferent about the objects of them.--Perhaps both these suppositions
are true. The French are volatile and material; they are not very
capable of attachment to principles. External objects are requisite for