saa aoe 
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‘ey: 
THE NIGHTINGALE. 
ART AND THE INFINITE. 
THE celebrated Pré-aux-Clercs, now known as the 
Marché Saint Germain, is, as everybody knows, on Sundays, 
the Bird Market of Paris. The place has more than one 
claim on our curiosity. It is a vast menagerie, frequently 
renewed—a shifting, strange museum of French ornithology. 
On the other hand, such an auction of living beings, 
of captives many of whom feel their captivity, of slaves 
whom the auctioneer exposes, sells, and values more or less 
adroitly, indirectly reminds one, after all, of the markets of 
the East, the auctions of human slaves. The winged 
slaves, without understanding our languages, do not the 
less vividly express the thought of servitude; some, born in 
this condition, are resigned to it; others, sombre and silent, 
dream ever of freedom. Not a few appear to address themselves to 
you, seem desirous of arresting the passer-by’s attention, and ask only 
for a good master. How often have we seen an intelligent goldfinch, 
an amiable robin, regarding us with a mournful gaze, but a gaze by 
1? 
no means doubtful in its meaning, for it said: “Buy me! 
