THE 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- 



