THE NIGHTINGALE. (Philomela luscinia.)
“Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even song.”
Milton.
The Nightingale has little to boast of in respect to plumage, which is of a pale tawny colour on the head and back, dashed with a slight shade of olive; the breast and upper part of the belly incline to a grayish tint, and the lower part of the belly is almost white; the exterior web of the quill feathers is of a reddish brown; the tail of a dull red; the legs and feet ash-coloured; the irides hazel; and the eyes large, bright, and staring. But it is hardly possible to give an idea of the extraordinary power which this small bird possesses in its throat, as to the extension of sound, sweetness of tone, and versatility of notes. Its song is composed of several musical passages, each of which does not continue more than the third part of a minute; but they are so varied, the passing from one tone to another is so fanciful and so rapid, and the melody so sweet and so mellow, that the most consummate musician is pleasingly led to a deep sense of admiration on hearing it. Sometimes, joyful and merry, it runs down the diapason with the velocity of lightning, touching the treble and the base nearly at the same instant; at other times, mournful and plaintive, the unfortunate Philomela draws heavily her lengthened notes, and breathes a delightful melancholy around. These have the appearance of sorrowful sighs; the other modulations resemble the laughter of the happy. Solitary on the twig of a small tree, and cautiously at a certain distance from the nest, where the pledges of his love are treasured under the fostering breast of his mate, the male fills constantly the silent woods with his harmonious strains, and during the whole night entertains and repays his female for the irksome duties of incubation. The Nightingale not only sings at intervals during the day, but waits till the blackbird and the thrush have uttered their evening call, even till the stock and ringdoves have, by their soft murmurings, lulled each other to rest, and then pours forth his full tide of melody:
“—— —— Listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.”
Thomson.
It is a great subject of astonishment that so small a bird should be endowed with such potent lungs. If the evening is calm, it is supposed that its song may be heard above half-a-mile. This bird, the ornament and charm of our spring and early summer evenings, as it arrives in April, and continues singing till June, disappears on a sudden about September or October, when it leaves us to pass the winter in the North of Africa and Syria. Its visits to this country are limited to certain counties, mostly in the south and east; as, though it is plentiful in the neighbourhood of London, and along the south coast in Sussex, Hampshire, and Dorsetshire, it is not found in either Cornwall or Wales. As soon as the young are hatched, the song of the male bird ceases, and he only utters a harsh croak, by way of giving alarm when any one approaches the nest. Nightingales are sometimes reared up, and doomed to the prison of a cage; in this state they sing ten months in the year, though in their wild life they sing only as many weeks. Bingley says that a caged Nightingale sings much more sweetly than those which we hear abroad in the spring.
The Nightingale is the most celebrated of all the feathered race for its song. The poets have in all ages made it the theme of their verses; some of these we cannot resist giving:
“The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
Which late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes——.”
Sir Philip Sidney.
“—— —— —— Beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk; all but the wakeful Nightingale;
She all night long her amorous descant sung.”
Milton.
“And in the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the lovelorn Nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.”
Milton.
“O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love. Oh, if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the muse, or love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.”
Milton.