Chit-chat. 9 



Dov. Ay, either : be it Minerva's, or that of Tereus, the 

 " merry nightingale," as Coleridge most cordially calls him. 

 Not only the notes of birds, but scenery itself; nay, every- 

 thing, takes its tone infinitely more in accordance with our 

 own present feelings, than from any thing inherent in itself: 

 or as he, who so pithily knew that " brevity is the soul of 

 wit," more quaintly expresses it : " there is nothing either 

 good or bad, but thinking makes it so." I actually once 

 heard an ignorant pert officer say, he knew not why people 

 liked the robin, unless it was for his impudence. 



Von Os. Puppy ! 



Dov. Why, you have snuffed the candles out ! 



Von Os. I believe, many birds, formerly not uncommon, 

 have of late years disappeared ; or become, in these parts* 

 extremely rare. I remember bevies of quails common enough. 



Dov. When a fly-fishing boy on the Vyrnwy, I have occa- 

 sionally put up the bittern (/4'rdea stellaris). 1 have not now 

 seen him many years ; though I have sometimes heard him 

 boomping in the sedgy pools, as I have gone out into the gar- 

 den at night, with poor Warren, to 



Von Os. " See a Trossach." 



Dov. Our ancestors set the back claw in silver for a tooth- 

 pick, and believed it had the virtue of preserving the teeth ; 

 and they supposed it always gave an odd number of bombs 

 at a time, three or five. Willughby found this not the case. 

 It sits in rushes, with head and neck erect : in autumn, at 

 sunset, it will soar spirally to a vast height, with an unusual 

 sound. This is what the vulgar call the night-raven; saying 

 it portends death ; and, flying in the night, resembles " a 

 flagging collar." Pliny calls him taurus (the bull), btdorius, 

 and botaurus; the Welsh, derin-y-bisomp. 



Von Os. The Welsh language is most amazingly expressive 

 in its radicals, and surprisingly beautiful in its combinative- 

 ness : the name of every animal, plant, or place is self- 

 descriptive. In the abundance and powers of its vowels, the 

 euphonious change of its consonants, and the melting union 

 of its confluents, it really rivals the matchless Greek itself. 



Dov. Among the treasures of its poetry, dormant in the 

 dust of great men's libraries, is a curious epigram on the 

 silkworm, composed entirely of vowels. Observe, I can recite 





it without closing or moving lips or teeth : — 



" O'i wiw wy i weu e a, a'i weuaw 

 O'i wyau y weua ; '1 »9Dl 



E' weua ei wi aia', 

 A'i, weuau yw ieuau ia." 



" 1 perish by my art; dig mine own grave; 

 I spin the thread of life ; my death I weave." 



