A LAMENT FOR THE PRISONER. 227 



that winter is on the eve of departure, and that sunshine and 

 fine weather are not far off. His first song tells me, that in a day 

 or two more we shall hear the cooing of the Ringdove, and see it rise 

 and fall in the air as it flies from grove to grove, and that this pretty 

 Pigeon, so shy and wary during the winter, will, in a day or two 

 more, allow me to approach within ten paces of it, as it feeds on the 

 new springing verdure of the lawn. 



The Chaffinch never sings when on the wing, but it warbles 

 incessantly on the trees and on the hedge-rows, from the early part 

 of February to the second week in July, and then (if the bird be in 

 a state of freedom) its song entirely ceases. You may hear the 

 Thrush, the Lark, the Robin, and the Wren, sing from time to time 

 in the dreary months of winter ; but you will never, by any chance, 

 have one single note of melody from the Chaffinch. Its powers of 

 song have sunk into a deep and long lasting trance, not to be roused 

 by any casualty whatever. All that remains of its voice, lately so 

 sweet and so exhilarating, is the shrill and well-known monotonous 

 call, which becomes remarkably distinct and frequent whenever the 

 cat, the owl, the weasel, or the fox, are seen to be on the move. 



We are told that in the winter season the female Chaffinches 

 separate from the males, and migrate into distant countries. I have 

 not been able to ascertain that so ungallant a divorce takes place in 

 this part of the country. The Chaffinches assemble here with their 

 congeners during the period of frost and snow, and you may count 

 amongst them as many females as males. 



Sad and mournful is the fate which awaits this harmless songster 

 in Belgium and in Holland, and in other kingdoms of the Continent. 

 In your visit to the towns in these countries, you see it outside the 

 window, a lonely prisoner in a wooden cage, which is scarcely large 

 enough to allow it to turn round upon its perch. It no longer enjoys 

 the light of day. Its eyes have been seared with a red-hot 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 i^ay hear these hapless captives singing 

 (as far as we can judge) in apparent ecstasy. I would fain hope 

 that these prisoners, so woe-btgone, 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, the 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 at liberty have ceased 



