Lusciola Luscinia is not Lusciola Philomela, one of the various birds
called Bulbul in the East. The true Philomel hardly enters Venetia,
hardly crosses the Swiss Alps, ventures not into the Rhineland and
Denmark, but penetrates (strangely enough) further into South Sweden
than our own Luscinia: ranging meanwhile over all Central Europe,
Persia, and the East, even to Egypt. Whether his song be really sad,
let those who have heard him say. But as for our own Luscinia, who
winters not in Egypt and Arabia, but in Morocco and Algeria, the only
note of his which can be mistaken for sorrow, is rather one of too
great joy; that cry, which is his highest feat of art; which he
cannot utter when he first comes to our shores, but practises
carefully, slowly, gradually, till he has it perfect by the beginning
of June; that cry, long, repeated, loudening and sharpening in the
intensity of rising passion, till it stops suddenly, exhausted at the
point where pleasure, from very keenness, turns to pain; and -


'In the topmost height of joy
His passion clasps a secret grief.'


How different in character from his song is that of the gallant
little black-cap in the tree above him. A gentleman he is of a most
ancient house, perhaps the oldest of European singing birds. How
perfect must have been the special organization which has spread
seemingly without need of alteration or improvement, from Norway to
the Cape of Good Hope, from Japan to the Azores. How many ages must
have passed since his forefathers first got their black caps. And
how intense and fruitful must have been the original vitality which,
after so many generations, can still fill that little body with so