A HISTORY OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 
347 
most peculiar lay from the inimitably rapid, and distinct, often long-continued 
repetition of a monosyllabic sound, that perhaps succeeds—-rattled forth with 
truly marvellous perspicuity of utterance, and melody of tone. “ One would 
hardly imagine,” remarks Montbeillard, “ that so varied a song as that of the 
Nightingale is confined within a single octave; yet this is the result of the 
attentive observations of a man of taste (M. le Docteur Raymond). He remarked, 
indeed, some sharp tones which formed the double octave, and which were 
emitted like lightning; but this happened rarely, and when the bird by a power¬ 
ful effort raised his voice to the octave.” 
In the first instance, I have observed that the song of the Nightingale sur¬ 
prises, sometimes, rather than pleases; but it rapidly improves in estimation. 
A writer in the Court Journal , however, who signs himself Anti-Philomel, is 
of a different opinion. “ In point of fact,” says this reviler, “ there is nothing 
either sad or sentimental in the song of the Nightingale. It is an incessant 
tinkling, trilling, monotonous, yet laboured effort of execution; and, with the 
exception of the 4 jug, jug, jug,' which occasionally interrupts the thin and 
Rossinian character of its strains, there is not[a poetical note in its whole gamut. 
Philomel is the Henrietta Sontag of the woods-—unimpassioned, artificial, but 
miraculous in point of delicacy of execution; and the fact of her being a night 
vocalist, instead of establishing her claims to sentimentality, 
‘ Most musical, most melancholy,’ 
proves only the self-conviction of the bird, that its strains are incompetent to 
vie with those of its fellow-choristers-—or, perhaps, an invidious desire of dis¬ 
tinction. The ancient apologue, of the Nightingale expiring in the successful 
effort of rivalship with the poet’s lute, proves that it has even been suspected of 
a paltry and narrow jealousy of competition. 
“ Who,” it is contended, “ that has ever listened to the mellow vesper hymn 
of the Blackbird, or the Thrush-notes gushing in bursts of gladness from the 
heart of a Hawthorn-bush, but must acknowledge that there dwells more poetry 
in their music than in all the demi-semi-quavers of the c plaintive Philomel/ 
What lover of poetical justice but longs to transpose the line of Petrarch-— 
‘ E garrir Prague,—e pianger Filomele,’ 
and distribute the garrizitura (chatter) to the tinkling Nightingale ?” Why, 
with every due appreciation of the undoubted merits of the two songsters 
appealed to, I have only to add, De gustibus nil est disputandum. I prefer the 
loud, cheering, animated burst of liquid melody of the gay Blackcap, to either 
the deep-toned warble of the one, or the discontinuous broken music of the 
other. 
The lack of continuity is unquestionably the principal failing of the Nightin- 
