measure, and they should be two years old, and heavy into the bargain, for horses will set seriously to work on a 40 lb. to the bushel sample, who only think about it, "tenui meditantur avena," and trifle with lighter husky stuff. If his labor be hard, a horse should have a peck and a half per diem, and after he has done his work some bruised beans may be added, not before, or cholic is the corollary. The beans must be old and then they comfort a beast, as tawny port does a senior fellow at Brasenose; insomuch that, once upon a time when oats were at a killing price, Hieover fed his stud entirely on beans and bran, and compares the benefits to a course of brandy with, or of one of sherry without, water. The bran is as essential an addition to high feeding as rice is to curry; and kin to bran is chaff, and very useful it is as a mixture-but then chaffing must not be carried so far in mangers as it is sometimes in cavalry messes. Horses are very fond of carrots--and so unfortunately are coachmen's wives. Enough of this; the great secret of getting horses into tip-top condition is good care, sufficient corn, and fast work: give them plenty of these, and they are seldom sick or sorry; but should such a sad casualty befall them--for even horse-flesh is grass-send them at once to field. "No disease, your ladyship may depend upon it, is so dangerous or so expensive as a doctor-groom.

The transition to stables is easy; and although horses do live in them, more die from them than is dreamed of in some men's philosophy, so seldom do they unite what is essential to health and comfort: they are constructed by blundering builders or ornamental architects, who borrow more from Vitruvius than the Veterinary College. The first requisite is dryness--your damp is a sore decayer. Ample means for ventilating should abound, so as to insure an average heat of about 60° Fahr. An iron rack in the corner prevents waste of provender and cribbiting; and gas is preferable to candles, as a little straw makes a great fire. Everything should be kept in its right place: buckets in the way break shins, and are neither ship-shape nor stableman-like; above all, no nails; and, mark! no lodgings in lofts: a married coachman, with an active wife and restless cubs above, will banish innocent sleep, Nature's best restorer below, to say nothing, if the good housewife deals in fresh eggs, of her poultry's partiality to oats. As a standing rule, the pavement of the stalls should be perfectly level. On the relative

merit of stalls versus boxes, which perplexes the Haymarket, we differ entirely from Hieover; he is an examiner of motives, not muscles, and, exceedingly well as he anatomizes a "leg," has by no means got the length of the horse's foot. Mr. Miles must be his monitor; his capital book, we learn, is now in its sixth edition, so completely has the public verdict ratified our summing up of its humane and philosophical principles, (Q. R. No. clv.) Hieover is already far too knowing to be ashamed, and by no means too old to learn more; Ancora imparo was the motto of Michael Angelo when rising eighty.

From a lesson which the Captain gave to a bright ornament of French law, it would appear that the schoolmaster abroad will have no sinecure, since even the judgment of Paris is no longer infallible in horseflesh and these matters are better managed in our shop-keeping, horse-dealing nation than across the water. Once upon a time it fell out that Hieover was driving his tilbury over the hideous roads of la belle France, and encountered a bebloused charretier, who gave him just one foot of room less than the width of his axletrees; consequently, the British gig was smashed, and cost twenty pounds in repairs. Our countryman, not satisfied with soundly thrashing the Frenchman and his dog, went to law for damages, but did not obtain one farthing, because the lighter vehicle ought to have given way to the heavier. On his pleading ignorance of the Code Napoleon, the judge rejoined, “Il faut donc qu'il l'apprenne." Presently, trotting home by night on the soft side instead of the centre of a paved road, down came his valuable horse into an open drain, getting up thirty pounds per knee the worse for the fall. Again he went into court, and again redress was denied, because he had not kept the right side of a French grand chemin, and the judicial admonition was repeated, "Il faut qu'il l'apprenne donc."

Soon after it chanced that M. le Juge's wife, whose passion was riding, pined for an English palfrey. Hieover, remembering a beautiful lady's horse at home, which had gone broken-winded and was worthless, sends over his groom, buys him for an old song, and lets an English girl ride him about; "le beau cheval, doux comme un agneau,' attracts all eyes, and M. le Juge begs to send a friend to inspect him. "I have not," complacently observes Hieover, "spent so much money about horses without being able to make a broken-winded fit to be examined." The horse passes; and one hundred and fifty

In the character of the English people there are general features scarcely recognized by foreign nations, or at times even by ourselves. Among these is our love of music. Until lately the opinion appears to have been generally prevalent that whatever leaning we might have towards poetry and romance, however we might shine in wild adventure, or display that irresistible energy which leads to conquest and dominion, we were little susceptible of the pleasure which springs from listening to the concord of sweet sounds. And this idea, it must be owned, arose and spread naturally enough. We are a reserved people, fond of conventionalities and appearances, very much addicted to keep our thoughts to ourselves, and above all things ashamed to betray emotions before strangers. Elsewhere in the world the exhibition of passion and sentiment is supposed to be a merit, and therefore people covet the reputation of being impressionable. There are advanThere are advantages and disadvantages in this. It produces a willingness to recognize openly and frankly the claims of art, but leads, at the same time, in those who are really ignorant and unsusceptible, to a gross affectation of superior taste, to a ridiculously false enthusiasm, and to those extravagancies of manner and language which distinguish the shallow pretender from the man of real judgment and sensibility.

Most of the continental nations had, until lately, little else to think of but amusement. Politics were interdicted to them by their governments, and, where political investigations are forbidden, literature itself becomes worthless. Pleasure, therefore, of all kinds, became the sole object of life, and music and the drama were called in to fill up the intervals of intrigue. If they produced no great statesmen, they could boast of the composers of successful operas; the place of politicians was supplied by singers; and if the most execrable discord prevailed in the state, they were certain to find a full blaze of harmony in the theatre. All their talk, VOL. XVII. NO. IV.

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consequently, turned upon what to them were the great events of the day — the achievements of a favorite cantatrice, the squabbles of managers, the loves and friendships, the hatred and jealousies, or occasionally, perhaps, the virtues and moral qualities of performers and singers.

In topics like these it is impossible for a free people to take an equal degree of interest. It is no doubt perfectly true that art of all kinds has flourished most in democracies, a truth which may appear to be inconsistent with what we have just been stating. There is, however, no inconsistency in the matter. In a well-organized state there is a time and a place for everything; for severe study and serious business as well as for the arts; and those elegant amusements and enjoyments which contribute to fit men for the sterner duties and more laborious pursuits of life. Without, therefore, meriting the name of a musical people, which, it is to be hoped, will never be justly applied to us, we are perhaps more fully alive to the true delights of music than any other nation in Christendom. Travel through France, through Germany, through Switzerland, Italy or Spain, and you will meet with infinitely less entertainment for the ear than in England. We dare say there are those who will turn up their noses at the bare idea; but a nation's real taste for music may always be measured by the number of barrel organs put in requisition. All the grinders of tunes, all the retailers of stereotyped airs, all the small artists who vend harmony, as it were, by the ell, flock to this country as to the best market in the world. In street music, in street singing, we accordingly outdo all other nations, so that these islands may be compared to one vast cage out of which torrents of melody are perpetually gushing.

The same remark precisely will apply to the higher efforts of musical talents, so that, though great singers may commence their career in other countries, they inevitably verge ultimately towards England, where they are

supposed to reach the summit of fame. The continent is only a sort of preliminary school. There the first crude efforts of the singer are made, and the separation takes place between mediocrity and genius. But when all that art, and study, and experience can effect has been accomplished, the artist turns towards England, where the brightest laurels are to be gathered; after which there is nothing to be aspired to but repose, retirement, and the enjoyments of private life.

This, we are well aware, is not a popular opinion, but if our readers will be at the pains to examine and think for themselves, they will find it is a true one. Where was the scene of the greatest triumphs of Catalani, Pasta, Sontag, Malibran, Grisi, Alboni, or Jenny Lind? Not in Paris, Berlin, or Vienna, but London. No one can doubt this, because the facts of the case are on record. But if we wish to know the feeling which pervades Italy, for example, we have only to mix there with the young aspirants for fame, when we shall find that every heart beats to be distinguished in Inghilterra, to which they invariably look as the goal of all their efforts. We once remember conversing in Tuscany with a beautiful singer who had never travelled further than Naples, and knew little or nothing of the general character of the European nations. But in her comparative obscurity all the great traditions of the musical world had reached her, and she would dwell for hours on the brilliant visions which floated before her when she thought of England. The fascination may reside, no doubt, partly in our wealth, yet only partly, since it is far less the fortunes they make here than the admiration and the glory which attend the making of them, that constitute the attraction.

It will, from what has been said, be evident that we are not disposed to assign a low place to music in the list of national amusements. We regard it as a highly pure source of pleasure; and as they who administer delight to us deserve to be rewarded to a certain extent, perhaps even with affection, we cannot otherwise than approve of the enthusiasm excited among the true lovers of music by Jenny Lind. Music, however, addresses itself more to the imagination than the intellect, and more to the senses than to either; and it is only the sensorous sphere of our nature that it can be said to refine and purify. The intellect lies beyond its reach, but as it moves among our passions, and fans them with its breath, it appears to melt and bear away all the grosser elements,

while it excites and invigorates whatever is healthful in them. Nearly all persons know some voice with which they associate whatever is most pleasing and rapturous in life. They have heard it perhaps in their happiest hours, when the whole instrument of their mind was attuned to harmony, when their passions had been lulled by enjoyment into luxurious repose, and when the various softer sentiments, melting imperceptibly into each other, appeared to have lifted up the soul to the very summit of happiness.

It is from this portion of our life's experience that we derive the power to sympathize heartily with a public singer. The spell she exercises does not reside entirely in her. We contribute much towards the completion of the process, and her voice, as it diffuses itself over the theatre, becomes as it were ten thousand voices, modified by partiality and fondness, which speak in different tones to every heart. In this consists entirely the triumph of music. It is as the handmaid to something else that it conquers. The taste goes for much, but the heart goes for infinitely more; and as we listen we gather up, as it were, and bind together all the delicious threads of our former existence, and bind them secretly around the one we love. No one can have ever penetrated into the metaphysics of music without becoming conscious of this. We are very far, however, from insinuating anything to the disparagement of the public singer, and only endeavor to account for what must be otherwise inexplicable.

There is another observation which we may as well throw out, now that we have got upon this part of our subject-it is this, that Jenny Lind, belonging to a northern race, speaks more directly to the sympathies of a northern nation than a woman cast in the fiery mould of the south. There is far more in what may be termed the idiosyncrasies of our race than our philosophy has yet led us to acknowledge. For example, no art purely Hellenic has hitherto been thoroughly naturalized in the north. Even religion itself has acquired, in passing the Alps, a new character, and been invested with different attributes, and learned to speak to the heart in a language unknown in other latitudes. The causes of these phenomena may lie too deep for scrutiny, but they are not on that account the less real or influential.

At the same time, there exists among us a small number of individuals bearing within them the germs of southern affinities, introduced by the mixture of blood, or some