THE CHAFFINCH. 339 



joys the light of day. Its eyes have been seared with a redhot iron 

 in order to increase its .powers of song, which, unfortunately for the 

 cause of humanity, are supposed to be heightened and prolonged 

 far beyond their ordinary duration by this barbarous process. Poor 

 chaffinches, poor choristers, poor little sufferers ! My heart aches 

 as I pass along the streets, and listen to your plaintive notes. At all 

 hours of the day we may hear these hapless captives singing (as far 

 as we can judge) in apparent ecstasy. 1 would fain hope that these 

 pretty prisoners, so woe-begone, and so steeped in sorrow, to the eye 

 of him who knows their sad story, may have no recollection of those 

 days when they poured forth their wild notes in the woods, free as 

 air, u tlie happiest of the happy." Did they remember the hour 

 when the hand of man so cruelly deprived them both of liberty and 

 eyesight, we should say that they would pine in anguish, and sink 

 down at last, a certain prey to grief and melancholy. At Aix la 

 Chapelle may be seen a dozen or fourteen of these blind songsters, 

 hung out in cages at a public house, not far from the Cathedral. 

 They sing incessantly, for months after those in liberty have ceased 

 to warble ; and they seem to vie with each other which can carol in 

 the loudest strain. There is something in song so closely connected 

 with the overflowings of a joyous heart, that when we hear it, we 

 immediately fancy we can see both mirth and pleasure joining in the 

 party. Would, indeed, that both of these were the constant attend- 

 ants on this much-to-be-pitied group of captive choristers ! How the 

 song of birds is involved in mystery ! mystery probably never to be 

 explained. Whilst sauntering up and down the Continent in the 

 blooming month of May, we hear the frequent warbling of the 

 chaffinch ; and then we fancy that he is singing solely to beguile the 

 incubation of his female, sitting on her nest in a bush close at hand. 

 But on returning to the town, we notice another little chaffinch, often 

 in some wretched alley, a prisoner with the loss of both its eyes, and 

 singing, nevertheless, as though its little throat would burst. Does this 

 blind captive pour forth its melody in order to soothe its sorrows ? 

 Has Omnipotence kindly endowed the chaffinch with vocal faculties, 

 which at one time may be employed to support it in distress, and at 

 another time to add to its social enjoyments ? What answer shall 

 we make ? We know not what to say. But be it as it will, I would 



