ART AND THE INFINITE. 281 
than sing. His heart chanted a voiceless strain, which I heard per- 
fectly well :— 
“ Lascia che to pianga ! 
La Liberta”’ 
Liberty !—Suffer me to weep! 
I had not expected to find here once more that song which, in the 
old time, and by another mouth (a mouth which shall never again be 
opened), had already pierced my heart, and left a wound which no 
time shall efface. 
I demanded of his custodian if he were for sale. The shrewd 
fellow replied that he was too young to be sold, that as yet he did 
not eat alone; a statement evidently untrue, for he was not that year’s 
bird; but the man wished to keep him for disposal in the winter, 
when, his voice returning, he would fetch a higher price. 
Such a nightingale, born in freedom, which alone is the true 
nightingale, bears a very different value to one born in a cage: he 
sings quite differently, having known liberty and nature, and regret- 
ting both, The better part of the great artist’s genius is suffering. 
Artist! I have said the word, and I will not unsay it. This is 
not an analogy, a comparison of things having a resemblance : no, it 
is the thing itself. 
The nightingale, in my opinion, is not the chief, but the only 
one, of the winged people to which this name can be justly given. 
And why? He alone is a creator; he alone varies, enriches, 
amplifies his song, and augments it by new strains. He alone is 
fertile and diverse in himself; other birds are so by instruction and 
imitation. He alone resumes, contains almost all; each of them, of 
the most brilliant, suggests a couplet to the nightingale. 
Only one other bird, like him, attains sublime results in the 
bold and simple—I mean the lark, the daughter of the sun. And 
the nightingale also is inspired by the light; so that, when in cap- 
tivity, alone, and deprived of love, it suffices to unloose his song. 
Confined for a while in darkness, then suddenly restored to the day, 
he runs riot with enthusiasm, he bursts into hymns of joy. This 
