YHE CHAFFINCH. 283 
Poor chaffinches, poor choristers, poor little suffer- 
ers! 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. I 
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, “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 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 imme- 
diately fancy we can see both mirth and pleasure 
joining in the party. Would, indeed, that both of 
these were the constant attendants on this much to 
be pitied group of captive choristers! How the 
song of birds is involved in mystery! mystery pro- 
bably 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 be- 
