A HISTORY OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 347 



most peculiar lay from the inimitably rapid, and distinct, often long-continued 

 repetition of a monosyllabic sound, that perhaps succeeds — rattled forth with 

 truly marvellous perspicuity of utterance, and melody of tone. " One would 

 hardly imagine," remarks Montbeillard, " that so varied a song as that of the 

 Nightingale is confined within a single octave ; yet this is the result of the 

 attentive observations of a man of taste (M. le Docteur Raymond). He remarked, 

 indeed, some sharp tones which formed the double octave, and which were 

 emitted like lightning j but this happened rarely, and when the bird by a power- 

 ful effort raised his voice to the octave." 



In the first instance, I have observed that the song of the Nightingale sur- 

 prises, sometimes, rather than pleases ; but it rapidly improves in estimation. 

 A writer in the Court Journal, however, who signs himself Anti-Philomel, is 

 of a different opinion. " In point of fact," says this reviler, " there is nothing 

 either sad or sentimental in the song of the Nightingale. It is an incessant 

 tinkling, trilling, monotonous, yet laboured effort of execution ; and, with the 

 exception of the 'jug, jug, jug,' which occasionally interrupts the thin and 

 Rossinian character of its strains, there is notja poetical note in its whole gamut. 

 Philomel is the Henrietta Sontag of the woods — unimpassioned, artificial, but 

 miraculous in point of delicacy of execution ; and the fact of her being a night 

 vocalist, instead of establishing her claims to sentimentality, 



' Most musical, most melancholy,' 



proves only the self-conviction of the bird, that its strains are incompetent to 

 vie with those of its fellow-choristers — or, perhaps, an invidious desire of dis- 

 tinction. The ancient apologue, of the Nightingale expiring in the successful 

 effort of rivalship with the poet's lute, proves that it has even been suspected of 

 a paltry and narrow jealousy of competition. 



" Who," it is contended, " that has ever listened to the mellow vesper hymn 

 of the Blackbird, or the Thrush-notes gushing in bursts of gladness from the 

 heart of a Hawthorn-bush, but must acknowledge that there dwells more poetry 

 in their music than in all the demi-semi-quavers of the ' plaintive Philomel.' 

 What lover of poetical justice but longs to transpose the line of Petrarch — 

 ' E garrir Prague,— e piangcr Filomele,' 



and distribute the garrizitura (chatter) to the tinkling Nightingale ?" Why, 

 with every due appreciation of the undoubted merits of the two songsters 

 appealed to, I have only to add, De gustibus nil est disputandum. I prefer the 

 loud, cheering, animated burst of liquid melody of the gay Blackcap, to either 

 the deep-toned warble of the one, or the discontinuous broken music of the 

 other. 

 The lack of continuity is unquestionably the principal failing of the Nightin- 



