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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



tradesman. " Interested " in so doing, they 

 are, doubtless; but not in the way they wish 

 the world to believe. They well know, — 

 cunning Isaacs ! that the more retail book- 

 sellers there are, the more outlets present 

 themselves for the circulation of their books. 

 So far, and no further, does their " kind 

 interest" extend. 



Among all existing monopolies, Pater- 

 noster Row ranks first and foremost. The 

 words liberality of feeling, as applied to this 

 locality, are quite out of place. As a market 

 for books, it is indeed unrivalled ; but 

 nothing beyond. There is no living author 

 that will not readily attest this. 



Were a Publisher to forego any part of his 

 full profit to benefit the Public, and were 

 he to issue a book one farthing cheaper in 

 consequence of there being no allowance 

 made to the retail dealer, then should we 

 believe the moon was made of green 

 cheese, and that the end of the world was 

 near at hand. A better joke has not been 

 launched for a century. 



We shall keep an eye on these noble, 

 kind-hearted gentlemen, and narrowly watch 

 over the best interests of— the Public. 



BIRDS OF SONG. 



Give me but 

 Something whereunto I may bind my heart, 

 Something to love, to rest upon, — to' clasp 

 Affection's tendrils round. Mrs. Hemans. 



No. XVIII.— THE NIGHTINGALE. 



Whilst our favorite, the Nightin- 

 gale, is yet with us, and ere his sweet voice 

 altogether ceases to be heard in our latitudes 

 — parental cares, alas ! have almost silenced 

 him for the season — we are most particularly 

 anxious to clear him, once and for ever, of 

 the ridiculously-false charge of his being a 

 " melancholy bird," and his song indicative 

 of grief. Surely not ; surely not, ye lovers 

 of melody. Whence this strange and un- 

 fair reading of our " pet's" musical voice, we 

 know not. When he sings, all nature is 

 " happy." When silence prevails through- 

 out the night, and his love- chant is not 

 heard upon the breeze, are we not melan- 

 choly from the loss ? Assuredly, yes. 



It is a strange fact, that many of our best 

 poets have ranged themselves together on 

 the dark side of this lovely bird. Pollok, 

 for instance, whose inspired powers none 

 can dispute, apostrophises the nightingale 

 thus : — 



" Sad bird ! pour through the gloom thy weeping 

 song; 

 Pour all thy dying melody of grief; 

 And, with the turtle, spread the wail of woe." 



Thus gloomily, too, sings our sweetest of 



bards — Milton :■ — 



" Hail, lovely nightingale ! 

 Most musical, — most melancholy bird!" 



Indeed, nearly all the heaven-born poets 

 follow, as if by mutual compact, in the same 

 morbid strain ; which to us is marvellous. 

 Let us charitably hope, out of deference to 

 the taste of the older poets, that our modern 

 nightingale is quite a differ ent bird from that 

 immortalised in days of yore. It must be so. 

 Let us confirm the thought, by quoting from 

 one of our later poets, Coleridge. His ideas 

 of love and music — sweet association ! — are 

 very closely akin to our own : — 



" List to the i merry nightingale,' 

 Who crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 

 With fast thick warble, his delicious notes ; 

 Fearful, lest that an April night 

 Should be too short for him to utter forth 

 His love-chant, — and disburthen his full soul 

 Of all its music!" 



This view of our hero is graphically 

 correct, and ought to be the popular one ; 

 for cannot we all aver that never was bird 

 more merry, bird more happy, bird 

 more affectionately joyous?"* Unlike us 

 erring mortals, who may indeed be said to 

 " mope " when we are affectionately joyous, 

 being subject to necessary and highly proper 

 conventional observances, Philomel, recog- 



* In a little hook, translated from the German 

 by Sarah Austin, and entitled " A Story without 

 an End" — a book, by the way, which everybody 

 should get by heart — we find an account of a 

 young and noble child wandering about, in 

 ecstatic innocence and delight, among birds and 

 flowers; and some of his pleasures are very 

 delightfully recorded. As these pleasures refer 

 particularly to the nightingale's joyous habits, 

 and prove him to be anything but a melancholy 

 bird, they could not be introduced at a more 

 apposite season. — " There was no end to the 

 child's delight. The little birds warbled and 

 sang, and fluttered and hopped about; and the 

 delicate wood-flowers gave out their beauty 

 and their odors. Every sweet sound took a 

 sweet odor by the hand, and thus walked 

 through the open door of the child's heart, and 

 held a joyous nuptial dance therein. But the 

 nightingale and the lily of the valley led the 

 dance; for the nightingale sang of nought but 

 love, and the lily breathed of nought but inno- 

 cence ; and he was the bridegroom and she was 

 the bride. And the nightingale was never 

 weary of repeating the same sentiments a hundred 

 times over, for the spring of love which gushed 

 from his heart was ever new; and the lily bowed 

 her head bashfully, that no one might see her 

 glowing heart. And yet the one lived so solely and 

 entirely in the other, that no one could see 

 whether the notes of the nightingale were floating 

 lilies, or the lilies visible notes ; falling like dew- 

 drops from the nightingales throat. The child's 

 heart was full of joy, even to the brim." — No doubt 

 it was. That boy was one of Nature's own child- 

 ren. We should not grieve had we a dozen such 

 boys. — Ed. K. J. 



