the other hand, gardening is confined by the natural features of the landscape. The artist can not create a mountain where nature has not put one, nor remove a mountain to extend his plain; he can not introduce a view of the sea, if the sea is not within sight, nor take a navigable river, with its white flitting sails, through a highland scene, where nature has not already led it; and even small changes, such as conducting a rivulet by a new channel, or smoothing a hillock, or elevating a mound, is a work of expense and delay. While the competition of gardening with painting is confined to landscape painting, and even there is limited by the natural features of the scenery, and the qualities or ideas it is capable of expressing are of less variety, it effects more completely and with vastly greater copiousness of detail, what it pretends to. A beautiful landscape is unspeakably superior to a landscape painting of the same subject-even more than realities are superior to shadows.

The truths of this branch of art have been chiefly the discovery of recent times. Even in the days of Louis XIV. the most ridiculous and childish notions prevailed in regard to it. Instead of consulting the meaning of nature, and seeking to elucidate and simplify her expression, the gardener deemed himself called upon to torture her into the utterance of every whimsical conceit of his own brain. The trees could never be permitted to grow as trees, but must be compelled into the shapes of birds, and beasts, and

statues, and tables, and letters of the alphabet, while such as declined servility to the pruning-knife had, at least, to take their place in rank and file, in square and column, like soldiers on drill. That despotism which then had secured her fetters upon mankind, feebly attempted also the dominion of nature, and the sterility which she invariably works in society and human thought, was reproduced in the bondage of taste.

In the present day the art has attained a high degree of excellence, having disentangled itself from unmeaning laxity on the one hand, and from tasteless pedantry on the other. The artificial of the seventeenth century can never reappear until luxury has again extinguished all true appreciation of nature and propriety.

-Loudon's Suburban Gardener. Thomas Whately's Observations on Modern Gardening. A Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening, adapted to North America, with remarks on Rural Architecture: by A. J. Downing. Another work by the same author, on Cottage Residences, and their Garden Grounds.

SECTION V.-MUSIC.

From all the sounds that reach it in its mortal dwelling, the human spirit chooses out those most nearly corresponding to its own constitution, and disposing them symmetrically upon the descending current of time, constitutes for itself an art embracing all the

treasures of that region of sense. The principle whereupon it proceeds in selecting, is of the utmost mathematical precision. No sounds that are mixed, or otherwise call for irregular and difficult action of the organs of hearing, are admitted as pleasing. The quickness with which the sense operates is very great, whether regularly or irregularly-the multitudinous and mingled sounds of a busy street, the clatter of a mill, or the noise of a grindstone, although unpleasant, are apprehended by it with astonishing rapidity; but when in condition to admit any given sound, it more readily and agreeably receives others of the same kind; and their nearness of kindred is the measure of their agreeableness.

No mere single concussion of the air produces a musical tone; it only gives a rap, or report. To obtain a pleasing sound there must be rapid waves of air formed with perfect regularity into one effect, of precisely the same duration, but swelling and diminishing gradually in magnitude and intensity. Unmusical sound consists of slower, or isolated impulses of air, or of those which do not follow each other in precisely the same length of time.

A wheel, with teeth disposed at regular intervals along its edge, being made to revolve evenly, and strike a piece of quill with every tooth, when moving slowly, will give a distinct succession of strokes (each being equal to half the vibration of a chord), which are not musical, because, though in regular times, not

rapid enough to be apprehended as one sound. Let the motion of the wheel be accelerated until thirty-two strokes are made in a second: they will then cease to be heard separately, and the one resultant sound will differ from the separate raps of which it is composed, in being more agreeable to the ear-by being, in fact, a musical tone. In proportion to the increased rapidity of revolution, it will rise in shrillness until the strokes amount to about thirty-two thousand in a second; after which it ceases to be admitted by the human ear, at least as music.

The same effect may be produced by vibrating an extended cord or wire. If the vibrations are slow, they can be seen and counted. When amounting to sixteen in a second, they give forth a low musical tone, which, as they increase in rapidity, becomes sharper, until they reach sixteen thousand three hundred and eightyfour in a second, where the region of music ends. The number of vibrations above and below these, are not all inaudible, for sounds can be heard from eight vibrations in a second, and some ears can detect a kind of hissing sound made by twenty-four thousand in a second; but these are of no account in music.

The rapidity of vibrations may be accelerated by either increasing the tension of the cord, or diminishing its thickness and weight, as well as by shortening it. In the former case, the number of vibrations increases directly as the square root of the force of tension—that is, the octave can be produced on a cord strained by

four times the force under which it yielded the funda mental note.

The same effect is produced if waves of air are made with the same regularity and celerity by any other means. Such is the nature of a single musical tone.

The agreeableness of a succession of notes is due to a similar exact and material combination. If the string of a violoncello be made to vibrate by drawing the bow lightly across it, near the bridge, there will often be heard, not only the note given by its whole length, but also at the same time, more feebly, those given by the half, the third, and the fourth part; and the string will be found, upon examination, to be vibrating, not as a whole, but in portions, as the half, the third, etc., with points of rest between them. A similar motion may be communicated to a string by touching it at any aliquot part of its length, and then drawing the bow across the part thus marked off. The shorter the cord, if the impulse is the same, the more rapid are the vibrations. Consequently, the different parts of the same cord give forth different tones, according to the length of the portions into which it divides itself; and these being proportionate, the notes are accordingly harmonious. The vibrated string yields the harmonies of its own proper note. The perfect accords of the first, third, fifth, and eighth, thus formed by nature, constitute the basis of the musical scale. The octave is assumed as the unit of measurement.

The ear, being accustomed to these intervals in the