282 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
difference, nevertheless, exists between the two birds: the lark never 
sings in the night; hers is not the nocturnal melody, the hidden 
meaning of the grand effects of evening, the deep poesy of the 
shadows, the solemnity of midnight, the aspirations before dawn 
—in a word, that infinitely varied poem which translates and 
reveals to us, in all its changes, a great heart brimful of tenderness. 
The lark’s is the lyrical genius; the nightingale’s, the epic, the 
drama, the inner struggle,—from thence, a light apart. In deep 
darkness, it looks into its soul, into love; soaring at times, it 
would seem, beyond the individual love into the ocean of love 
infinite. 
And will you not call him an artist? He has the artist’s tem- 
perament, and exalted to a degree which man himself rarely attains. 
All which belongs to it—all its merits, all its defects—in him are 
superabundant. He is mild and timid, mistrustful, but not at all 
cunning. He takes no heed to his safety, and travels alone. He is 
burningly jealous, equalling the chaffinch in fiery emulation. “He 
will break his heart to sing,” says one of his historians.* He listens ; 
he takes up his abode, especially where an echo exists, to listen and 
reply. Nervous to an excess, one sees him in captivity sometimes 
sleeping long through the day with perturbing dreams; sometimes 
*® Everybody knows the beautiful story of the ‘“ Musician’s Duel’’—the rivalry between 
a nightingale and a flute-player—as told by Ford and Crashaw.— Translator. 
