30 ON THE NATURAL HISTORY OP THE NIGHTINGALE. 



high over all the warbling of the grove, a louder, more distinct, and 

 more articulate song is heard, in broken and detached staves ; now 

 gently stealing on the ear in low, soft, swelling music; now loudly 

 shaking, thrilling, piping, rattling, — exulting in the maziness of 

 sound ; now dwelling slowly over each lengthened note, and anon 

 rolling, with inimitable perspicuity and rapidity, through most 

 complicated passages. At times, we hardly can conceive it to be 

 the voice of a bird, and wonder what strange sound now steals 

 upon us ; and then, perhaps, we again are lost in increasing amaze- 

 ment, when at length we behold the little throat whence issues so 

 incomparable a flow of loud and varied melody. 



General character of its song. — The characteristic trait of the 

 Nightingale's song consists in hisyery superior powers of execution. 

 He has an endless variety of inimitable rolls and quavers, all of 

 which are delivered with a perspicuity and richness of tone quite 

 peculiar to himself. No verbal description, however, will convey a 

 definite idea of the musical powers of this bird ; he must be heard 

 to be duly appreciated. His singular, clear, piping notes, contrasted 

 with bold shakes, and long-continued, quick, distinct repetitions of a 

 monosyllabic sound, are wholly and entirely unlike the songs of 

 every other British bird, nor can they be mistaken for any other ; 

 (a few notes of some Canaries, perhaps, approaching nearest to 

 them). Loud, and interrupted by frequent pauses, like the broken 

 stanzas of the Thrush, his various notes are in general more con- 

 tinuously connected, and each separately is dwelt upon more repeat- 

 edly, than in that bird. As he is the finest, so, when in full song, 

 he is the loudest minstrel of the wood, to whose powerful music all 

 the rest are a mere accompaniment ; and in the silent midnight, 

 when nought else breaks the calm and universal stillness that pre- 

 vails — save, perhaps, a cold, chilly breeze, at intervals, rustling 

 through the dry, dead leaves, that, curled up and crisp, still loosely 

 attach to the vigorous and sturdy bushes of oak — his clear, soft, 

 plaintive swells, loud shakes, and sudden cadences, re-echoed all 

 around by other rival songsters of his race, form a soft, witching 

 concert from the moonlit woods, that stirs and elevates the very soul 

 to harmony, 



Illustratedj in some degree, hy a comparison of it with those of 

 other birds. — The Nightingale's son^^ invariably improves upon ac- 

 quaintance. At first, all are surprised by it — astonished at the vo- 

 lume of his voice — and some hardly know ev^n whether to like it ; 

 so different does it prove from what they had expected. To resort 

 again to comparison, it may be said to be delivered somewhat in the 



