fury, and at once forgetting all feelings of safety, I sprung forwards to the aid of Stratton; ere I could lift my hand, a blow on my breast and forehead laid me prostrate by the struggling form of the murdered man. I must have lain insensible for a long period, for as I gradually recovered my consciousness, I became conscious of a change of place; the dark sides of the cliffs no longer frowned over me, I lay immoveable in what seemed to be a cart, which was proceeding slowly along; while the voices of several persons surrounding me only increased my perplexity. Either I was bound by cords, or my weakness from loss of blood kept me motionless. The words of murder-trial-death-frequently struck upon my ear in connection with that of Stratton and myself; I was perfectly at a loss to account for the change; I attempted to speak, but could only murmur in a low, indistinct tone. After some time, exhausted and stiff with the position in which I had laid, I perceived we were passing through a town, and soon stopped before a low, heavylooking building; the attendants who accompanied me rung furiously at the bell for some minutes, when a tall, surly-looking man unlocked the door and demanded their business. What, what," said he, " more of these sea-thieves, these salt-water sharks, these-" "Here, look to your prisoner, goaler," said a stern voice; at the same time the men in the cart began to unloosen my cords. "Prisoner," said I, " who is a prisoner? not I, it was not I that did it; what mean you?" shaking off the rude gripe of one of the men. "Come, come young man, you'll hang for it, an all's right, a pretty one you, to kill men in the dark; come" said the fellow, dragging me along until I found myself in the yard of the gaol. I appealed to them-I told the tale. "A pretty tale that," said one with a sneer. I was maddened; in my rage I stampedI raved-'twas useless; the evidence was thought more than presumptive-I was found there, by the murdered man's side, my hand had grasped his dress-no other person could be suspected; and the circumstance of our quarrel on the moor, was an additional proof. The horrid lock was turned upon me in my dark, stifling cell; it was too much, I fainted. Slowly I recovered myself-and how shall I describe my anguish. But I must draw a veil over the months I languished neglected and friendless in my cell how I was tried and acquitted. - What then to me was the bright sun and the surfed ocean-my spirits were broken. Stratton lies beneath the marble stone-the worm is his bridal guest-the shroud is the eider down of his nuptial bed-peace be to him. Ellen-my love -my everlasting love-she, too, slept under the green mound, beneath the dark mourning boughs of the melancholy yew tree;the maids of the village wept for thee, and drest thy temple of peace with the flowers of hope, and they died not, for the dew fell upon them nightly; and as I sat there, their odour came to me like the voice of the departed-I wept ; once only knew I the joy of tears-farewell, my beloved-thou art for ever tabernacled in my soul. Soon I bid adieu to the scenes of my boyhood-the merry, laughing sky seemed to me the mourner's pall, and the soft voice of Ellen came to me in every dash of the blue waters, in every sigh of the winds, every rustle of the leaf. Long oblivious disease fell like a mercy-gift upon me, and then I had only the delirious dreams of departed joys, but they were balm to my soul; I drank in the draught, and as I slowly returned to life, the dreams of fancy settled into the calmness of a subdued hope. Ellen I am thine for ever-in the many years of my existencein all the varied circumstances of it-the vow of my young heart has given an elevation to my mind, and the bitterness of my sorrows has raised me superior to the troubles and sufferings of life. 1 SONNETS ON THE SCENERY OF THE MALVERN HILLS. I. The Worcestershire Beacon, at Noon. WHO treads with upward steps thy sov'reign height, II. The Priory Church of Great Malvern. We in our generation are too proud :- : E. S. ויי ON THE HABITS OF THE BRAKE NIGHTINGALE (PHILOMELA LUSCINIA, SWAINS.) "Qualis populeâ merens Philomela sub umbrâ Virgil, Geog. IV. 511. Or the habits and manners of the Brake* Nightingale, little is as yet known beyond mere conjecture. The reasons for this are manifold; as besides being mostly a nocturnal bird, it is one of very retired habits, hiding itself in thick braky woods, which it seldom leaves. Before proceeding to detail its habits, I shall make a few remarks on the situation of the genus Philomela in the systematic arrangement. Philomela (Swains.) is the most eminently typical genus of the Philomelinæ, the second typical sub-family of the Family Sylviadæ (Vig.), the fourth group-and a typical one-of the Dentirostres (Cuv.), the second tribe of the Order Insessores (Vig.), Brachypteryx (Horsf.), Ficedula (Aldrov), Synallaxis (Vieill.), Salicaria (Selby), and Egithina (Vieill.) also belong to the Philomeline: Swainson also places the genus Phœnicura (Redstart) in this sub-family; I, however, think with Selby, that this genus is more properly ranked amongst the Saxicolinæ. The Nightingale was by the ancients sometimes called Philomela-its present generic scientific name-and sometimes Luscinia-its present specific scientific name. The former was mostly used in poetry. The latter is derived from lugens, mournful, and cano, to sing; the English name comes from night, and galan, a Saxon word signifying to sing. The Brake Nightingale arrives in the middle of April, and commences singing about the twenty-sixth of that month, or, should the season be late and the weather unsettled, as in the present year, it remains silent until the beginning of May. Like most other songsters, it ceases singing after the young are hatched. The females-as is the case with many other Sylviadæ (Vig.)-arrive eight or ten days later than the males, at which time the latter commence singing. They leave us at the end of August. The Nightingale is a very local bird-that is, it is only partially distributed over the countries it visits or inhabits; thus in England it has never been heard further north than Doncaster ; * The trivial name Brake Nightingale is infinitely superior to the vague and † The Yellow Bunting (Emberiza citrinella) is an exception to this rule. unmeaning name Common Nightingale. nor does it occur in any part of North Wales. The limit of its western range is Somersetshire, beyond which it has never been met with. The reason of this is by no means well explained, and indeed it would seem to be perfectly arbitrary, as some of the counties which are not favoured by its melody are remarkable for balminess of climate and softness of air; its favourite food and the thick tangled underwood and rank luxurious vegetation, to which it is so partial, are also at least as plentiful in these parts as in the counties to which it chiefly resorts; nor can it be the coldness of the climate in the northern counties that prevents its visiting these, as it is found in much more northern latitudes in other countries. It seems, however, generally to prefer inland districts to those which are on the coast. Leaving this point as one of those mysteries of Nature which it is beyond the power of man to unravel, let us now proceed to consider those parts of our songster's economy which are better understood. A small wood near Foston Hall, abounding with underwood and vegetation of a rich and luxurious growth, has, for several years past, been a favourite spot with a pair of Nightingales, which there find a safe asylum in a thick clump of firs, situate on a rising ground; the surrounding parts are somewhat damp and marshy, which is also favourable for this bird of night. The spot is, in short, perfectly adapted for a pair-and probably not more-of Nightingales, and, indeed, I know of no place so well suited for this bird many miles round; except, perhaps, a small clump of firs near Doveridge Hall, the seat of Lord Waterpark, which was visited by a pair of these birds a few years ago: they were, however, soon caught and caged by a neighbouring birdcatcher, and died from the want of that food to which they had so long been accustomed-the fate of by far the greater number of Nightingales that are caught in the course of the year. Almost every one must have heard and admired the song of the Nightingale; I will, however, attempt to describe it for the benefit of those who have not yet enjoyed that treat. The strains are loud, rich, mellow, silvery, and clear, and so far from being a miserabile carmen, as sung by Virgil in the lines above quoted, I know few songs which are its equal in sprightliness and vivacity, with the exception, however, of one part, consisting of three or four lengthened notes, beginning very piano, and gradually rising to crescendo and forte, which are certainly of a peculiarly melancholy character. The song of this bird does not equal that of the Yellow-bill Thrush (Turdus merula), nor the Garden Thrush (Turdus musicus) in mellowness and loudness, but it certainly excels all others as a whole -- at least all other British birds, for Audubon says it is quite absurd to think of comparing the song of the Nightingale to that of Orpheuspolyglottus (Swains.) (Ornithological Biography, Vol. I. p. 113.) In my opinion there is only one drawback upon the song of the Nightingale, and that is, the unconnectedness of the strains. July, 1835.--VOL. II. NO. XII. 3 F This defect is, however, obviated when several are singing together. Beautiful as is the song of the Nightingale, it doubtless owes much to the time at which it is heard, and the silence and stillness of the hour. In the words of Shakspeare "The nightingale if he should sing by day, Merchant of Venice, Act V, Scene 1. I cannot, however, fully subscribe to this, as I have frequently listened to and admired the song of the Nightingale in broad daylight, when the finest choristers of the woods were carolling on all sides. The melody of the Nightingale may be recognised whilst hundreds of other birds are singing, even by the most listless observer. That the fact of the Nightingale singing in the day as well as at night, was well known to the ancients, although Virgil is the only ancient poet who mentions it is proved by the following passage, which occurs in Pliny's Natural History:"Lusciniis diebus ac noctibus continuis quindecim garrulus sine intermissu cantus, densante se frondium germine, non in novissimum digna miratu ave," lib. 10, cap. 29. The term of fifteen days given by Pliny in the above quotation is probably not incorrect, as the Nightingale proceeds to build in the beginning of May, at which time also, its song commences, and the young are hatched about the eighteenth of the same month, when the male invariably ceases singing; should the female be killed or the nest destroyed, the male again continues his melody. A rainy night does not prevent the Nightingale from singing, as I have frequently remarked from personal observation. The Nightingale seldom commences his song in the evening until all other birds are silent, or if he does, it is only for about ten minutes, when he again ceases. Scarcely have the garden and the yellow-bill thrushes retired to rest, sounding their loud and peculiar alarm notes, than Philomel takes up his dismal tale. It seldom sings on dark windy nights; but if, in this state of affairs, the moon should appear, it instantly begins warbling, and once commenced, almost invariably continues the whole night, not ceasing till two or three hours after sunrise. If on a dark and windy night the Nightingale does not sing, it may generally be roused by imitating its strains; if this be done on a favorable night, it will commence instanter, but on a cold chilly night it is sometimes very difficult to rouse, although I have seldom failed entirely. The shutting of an adjoining gate, the striking of a church clock, the passing of a cart or coach, -if near a road-or even the hearing passengers walking along the road, will frequently cause it to commence singing! -the very incidents which, one might have supposed, would disturb so shy a bird. It is, however, probably on the same principle that Canaries and other cage birds sing when a noise is made, or when they hear the |