in the river, the greater part of the ledge is naked. The central torrent may possibly spread two hundred feet along the ledge. The rest, which are about thirty in number, rush down at different distances, and in torrents of various dimensions. Some of them are minute rivulets, which meander like fluttering ribands. The declivity in general is regular; steep, but rarely perpendicular, except in the centre of the ledge, where the great body of the river falls. Here the surface is broken into two principal ledges. The water rolls over the higher one into a very rugged chasm, from which it mounts again and rushes over the lower ledge. Circular cavities, that seem bottomless, are frequent here as in all other cataracts, In the spring, the whole ledge is said to be covered with the torrent, and the river bed which, in most places, is now dry, is then several feet under water. When we consider that the breadth of the ledge is near one thousand feet, and its height cannot in any place be computed at less than fifty, we may easily imagine the great magnificence of this fall at that season. The ledge does not form a straight line between the banks, but, sloping from each side, forms an obtuse angle in the centre.

For the Literary Magazine.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Continued from page 288.

A WRITER, whose talents I admire, and whose virtues I would desire to imitate, expresses himself in the following manner: "It is in proportion to their innocence that men are attached to their native land; it is the want of it which makes so many Europeans quit their country, and wander over the different parts of the earth." The first, perhaps, is true; the most simple people are generally the most innocent: those feel the fewest wants, and are most

likely to remain contented with what their native country can supply. But of the truth of the latter part of the observation, I have my doubts. Have we any occasion to look further for the causes which make them forsake their country than those I have already enumerated? and ought we to attribute that to the depravity of a people which we see may naturally be the consequence of their wretchedness? Yet it is impossible to acknowledge the truth of the one, without admitting, in some degree, the truth of the other. But much I question if these people are not sufficiently innocent to remain where nature originally placed them, did not the inconveniences and oppression they suffer, and the dangers they encounter, counterbalance all the motives which nature has placed in their bosoms to attach them to that soil which is so dear and so attractive to the heart of man.

What sentiment, other than the love of their native land, could induce men to inhabit parts of the earth so extremely different in their nature? and what but this would restrain them from attempting to fix their residence in a country more favoured than their own? The inhabitants of the bleak, unfriendly regions of the north, where ice and snow deform the face of nature the greater part of the year; where the gloom of night and the glare of day hold by turns, for a long time, an undivided reign; where on all sides appear little else than

"The gather'd winter of a thousand years,"

remain there. Many of them know there are climes more friendly than their own, where most of the inconveniences they are subjected to might be avoided, and the number of their enjoyments increased, yet they cling to the soil which has hitherto supported them; that climate, with all its gloom, its tempests, and its inconveniences, is the one they prefer to the most fertile,

the most enchanting spots on earth: and why? it is their native land. This is the charm which fascinates them; this it is that warms their bosoms amidst surrounding snows and pelting storms, that cheers the gloomy hours of long-protracted nights, and makes them bear the perils they encounter, and the hardships they suffer, with courage, with patience, and with cheerfulness.

:

Let me turn my eyes to a spot far distant, and far different from this, Sicily; an island abounding in the richest productions of Nature; blessed with a happy climate, where much may be enjoyed; but where the most terrible phenomena of nature are frequently experienced the terrors of Etna, we should suppose, would be sufficient to keep mankind at a distance from it, while there remained one tolerable place on the globe to reside in; yet Sicily is inhabitated; Etna has blazed, and cast forth torrents of liquid fire; earthquakes have shaken it to its foundations; cities have been overturned, and with them fields, and men, and beasts buried beneath torrents of lava; these terrible scenes have been exhibited at intervals for many ages, yet for many ages it has been inhabited. Some suppose the extreme fertility and beauty of the country is a sufficient compensation for the dangers they have continually to apprehend, and doubtless this consideration has considerable weight; yet it seems hard to conceive how men can be induced to reside in a place where all the possessions which they have laboured for years to acquire, are liable to be swept away in a moment. Let us add one more motive, custom; still the problem is not solved, and we look in vain for one sufficiently powerful for its solution. I feel myself at a loss, I confess, and can only observe, that were it not for the love which they bear their native land, strengthened by subordinate motives, Sicily would long since have wanted inhabitants.

Suffer me for a moment to wander from my subject, and make a

few passing observations on the power of custom, considered as it influences the decision of the present question. As it affects the last chapter, I confess, it appears not improbable that it may reconcile the inhabitants of the island in question to the terrors they frequently experience, as soldiers become accustomed to face the dangers of the battle, from which the mere man would fly; but I cannot believe it can inure the inhabitants of Greenland to the intense cold of their long and dreary winter, in so great a degree; for twenty years have I experienced the summer's heat, and winter's cold, yet never did custom so inure me to either, as to feel their effects with any lesser degree of intensity; nor do I expect to pass the next winter without warm clothing, nor travel barefoot through the snow, notwithstanding the extreme severity of the last; still do I pant beneath the scorching influence of a summer's sun, though twenty years of my life have been spent in accustoming myself to bear it: and, reasoning from analogy, I infer, that the inhabitants of Greenland feel the intense cold of their climate, at least in a proportionate degree. Man in all countries is formed of the same materials, his body is nowhere frost-proof; and though these people may be better than any other able to support the rigours of their winter, yet would they feel much gratified if they were excused from the arduous and terrifying trial, and, all other considerations set aside, were they gradually accustomed to a temperate climate, they would not forsake it for their own. Custom does not, as we have seen, inure the inhabitants of Europe to bear the evils of oppression with patience, nor prevent them from flying to a country where they may be avoided.

What then is the most powerful motive which binds men to their native land, in spite of its natural inconveniences? To me it appears to be that which I have so often repeated; and were it not so, what

would be the consequences? Suppose, for a moment, that patriotic sentiment extinguished in the human breast, we should behold a most singular spectacle: the inhabitants of the earth all in motion, weighing the advantages which one country possesses over another, and preparing to remove to some spot which in their judgment appeared to be the best; there would they flock and crowd the land, while the countries they before inhabited would become and remain a lonely desert, until the evils arising from over-population compelled them to return to their former abodes. But Nature, wise in all her operations, has implanted the sentiment in consideration in the human breast, which in most cases makes us prefer the natural ills we endure in our native country, to leaving it in search of one where they may be avoided. May 8th, 1805.

VALVERDI.

To be continued.

For the Literary Magazine.

ON THE MERITS OF CICERO.

I HAVE contrived to read the greater part of the works of Cicero through, merely by taking up the volume, at any odd, unoccupied moment, during the intervals, for instance, between my two dishes of coffee, or three pieces of bread, at breakfast. This morning I opened at the second Tusculan, and being somewhat in a sulky mood, by reason of some little domestic inconvenience not worth relating, I failed to discover all that wisdom and eloquence, of which I usually find a rich repast in these volumes. On the contrary, I really conceived a notion, from this dialogue, that Cicero, however great in other respects, was, upon the whole, both in theory and practice, but a poor philosopher.

It was, indeed, somewhat unlucky that I just now lighted on this dialogue, which attempts to prove, that

pain is no evil, for I had, at that moment, just escaped from the twinges of a tooth-ache, from which I had reason to expect but a short respite, and which would effectually mar the pleasures of a scheme to which I had intended to devote the ensuing day.

The orator appears to me to begin with a pompous maxim, which he cannot support, and has not the candour to resign. In endeavouring to maintain it, he falls into pitiful evasions, substitutes brilliancy of expression for solidity of argument, and, in fact, deserts the ground on which he had first set out.

This dialogue is, indeed, a complete chaos; a confused collection of assertions, not merely without proof, but absolutely contradictory to each other; a useless detail of all the philosophical opinions then known; a compilation of stories, either real or fictitious, whence no consequence can be inferred, because we are in the dark with respect to the point from which the speaker sets cut, as well as that to which he intends to conduct us ; and a series of repetitions, which all the eloquence of Cicero cannot prevent from being tedious. short, there is in it a total want of order, which is unavoidable where an author neither defines his terms, divides his subject, nor arranges his ideas.

In

All this is certainly very severe; but it must be acknowledged to be just, if he seriously meant to maintain the extravagant opinion, that fain is no evil. It has, however, been imagined, by some, that his intention was only to expose to contempt the pompous maxims and futile reasoning of some of the philosophers of his age. To me, I confess, this ridicule is not very obvicus; but to his contemporaries, who knew the persons, and had attended the lessons of those to whom he alluded, it might be sufficiently apparent.

The vanity which Cicero betrays in quoting his own verses, and then making his auditor enquire whose

they were, and in the immediate conviction which the latter is made to express, is very reprehensible. Vanity was a defect in the character of Cicero too prominent ever to be entirely concealed; the manner in which it here obtrudes itself may be ridiculous; but, in other parts of his writings, it appears in a very offensive point of view, and particularly in his letter to Lucceius, where he acknowledges that he writes what he was ashamed to speak; and plainly requests that historian to applaud his public conduct, even beyond what he might think it deserved, and to indulge his friendship, though at the expence of truth. Vanity alone, in the degree in which it tyrannized over Cicero, and which overwhelmed him with so many fantastic miseries and mortifications, is sufficient to disprove his title to the name of a practical philosopher, or wise man. His lamentations on his banishment, and on the death of his daughter, with the strange means he proposed to consecrate her memory, and the exultations expressed on his recal, and in the review of his consulship, are equally unmanly and extravagant.

In truth, I am strongly inclined to think that, taking all circumstances into view, the wisest man of Cicero's times was Atticus. Atticus, it appears, was far from being void of patriotism and benevolence, but these passions led him to benefit his countrymen, his friends, and himself, by means far more efficacious than those adopted by the Ciceros and Brutuses of the age, and he appears to have been quite superior to the meretricious charms of power or popularity.

For the Literary Magazine.

SKETCH OF THE PROGRESS AND PRESENT STATE OF THE ARTS

IN FRANCE.

THE character and personal qualities of Francis I drew into his

service able artists, whom he invited from Italy about the middle of the fifteenth century. These artists caused others to appear in France, who surpassed their masters. Vouet, Le Poussin, Le Sueur, Le Brun, and Mignard, were the first generation. By these the French school was raised to preeminence. At first, several painters, animated by the love of their art, united in forming a regular method of instruction. This association was erected into an academy in 1653, and twenty years afterwards Colbert joined to it a school of fine arts at Rome.

Louis XIV and his minister were not so fond of the arts as Francis I, but they contributed more towards their stability, by founding institutions. Painting and the arts in general declined since that reign, though the causes have not been properly explained.

The principal of these was that arbitrary authority over the arts exercised by one, whose genius, nevertheless, greatly contributed towards their fame. Charles Le Brun, enjoying the favour and protection of the sovereign, became the distributor of works and rewards, and required that every ar- . tist should bend to his taste, and allow his pre-eminence. He even gave directions for the ornaments of the iron-work of the gates of Versailles, and even the Girardons submitted to work according to his plans. Thus, instead of the genius and originality which the great artists of that age would have displayed in their respective performances, we observe a cold monotony in the execution, a flat uniformity in the designs; for it was to flattery only that artists were permitted to devote their pencils. Some suffered persecution, and others abandoned the capital. But after the death of Poussin, Le Sueur, and Le Brun, the decay was sudden and deplorable; for the arts were at the lowest ebb during the reign of Louis XV.

About the middle of that reign

M. Vien, an artist whom France still possesses, raising himself above the ridiculous taste which prevailed, applied himself to the study of principles, and, joining example to precept, led mistaken genius into the right track, and purified the school by superintending its instruction. The minister of the arts, M. Dangiviller, had the wisdom to second this fortunate change, by giving employment to artists of approved talents, and encouraging them to proceed in this hopeful career. By these means the school arrived at such a degree of splendour, that, in 1789, every department of the arts was cultivated with equal success, and France had at no period so many distinguished artists.

Painting, with some slight deviation, is nearly at the same point now as in 1789. The same means exist, increased by youthful talents, which have already acquired celebrity.

Some processes for the employment of colours on porcelain, the application of painting to panoramas, improvements made in the restoration of pictures, are not, properly speaking, discoveries in painting; they are services rendered by chemistry, natural philosophy, geometry, and skill, to the art, and for which it cheerfully acknowledges its gratitude.

In order to advance and encourage the art, and to perfect its instruction, it is necessary to support and improve the schools of Paris and Rome, and to bestow employ. ments, honours, and rewards, on distinguished talents. All these means are at the disposal of government. If neglect, carelessness, injustice have invariably caused the decline of the arts, the contrary methods must make them prosper.

Painting and sculpture are sisters. It would be impossible to trace their history without introducing the same facts, nor treat of them without calling to mind their consanguinity.

What has been said of the one, is equally applicable to the other, as well as to all the rest of the arts. Sculpture, however, has peculiar

difficulties to surmount, and the means of its encouragement are fewer.

Without being oppressed by distinguished talents, as painting was by Le Brun, the progress of sculp ture was restrained by the mediocrity of the artists of the present age, who long kept it in ignoble slavery. Their pupils have once more restored the art to its former liberty, in spite of the obstinate resistance of their masters.

As in painting and architecture, so the first French sculptors, Sarrazin, Germain, Pilon, and particularly Jean Gougeon, were far superior to the Italians, their masters.

But the art, which began to droop under Louis XIII, still farther declined during the reign of his successor. The sculpture of the gate of St. Denis is the only production worthy of notice during the reign of Louis XIV, when it appeared at a lower ebb even than the others. The want of freedom in the designs of the sculptors greatly contributed to that effect; as a proof of which we find, that Le Puget preferred the the free exercise of his genius at Marseilles to the servitude of Versailles. It was during the reign of Louis XV that sculpture descended to the lowest state of degradation. From this state it was, however, raised during the reign of his successor. The revolution which had commenced in painting was seconded by different sculptors, who shook off a humiliating yoke, and their independence was announced by the statues of Voltaire, Bossuet, Pascal, La Fontaine, and particularly the fe male bathing (by M. Julien), which might justly be esteemed the workmanship of a Grecian artist.

Such was the state of the art in 1789; but sculpture sustained great shocks by the destruction of the noble and rich by the revolution. From this order of things, however, which threatened it with utter ruin, proceeded the greatest encouragement it has received for a century; this was the re-execution of all the sculpture of the Pantheon.