Having made his preliminary dispositions, Silva began the siege with skill and immense labor, necessitated by the position and strength of the fortress. His first efforts were directed against the only point which seemed to admit of successful assault. Beyond the tower, before referred to, which closed the western path leading toward the palace and the summit of the fortress, there stood a rocky eminence of great extent, but lower than Masada by more than five hundred feet. This elevated platform was known as Leuke, or the White Promontory. As soon as the Roman commander had reached this post he began to construct thereon a huge earthen mound. By the persevering labor of his soldiers the level was raised about three hundred and fifty feet; but the ground was not yet solid enough, nor was the height sufficient to enable him to work the battering engines. Above this mound, accordingly, he built another platform, composed of huge rocks, and measuring more than eighty feet in length and breadth. Here he planted some of those terrible engines which had already wrought so much havoc and spread so much dismay during the military operations before Jerusalem. And in addition to these formidable preparations, a lofty tower, completely encased in iron, was erected, from the top of which the Romans, by means of slings and cross-bows, drove the defenders from the walls, and suffered not a man to show his head.

manner. Long beams were placed end to end, and laid in two parallel rows, distant from each other the intended breadth or thickness of the wall. The interval between was filled with earth; and to prevent the earth from bursting out, transverse beams were added to strengthen those which were connected lengthwise. Thus the construction of this rampart resembled a solid edifice; while the blows of the engines, falling on a yielding surface, lost their power; indeed, the repeated shocks helped to combine the materials more strongly together, and give additional compactness to the entire fabric. When the disconcerted commander discovered this, he instructed his soldiers to hurl against this new obstacle a quantity of lighted brands. The wall, abounding with wood, now caught fire, and, burning from one end to the other, projected a tremendous flame. At first the wind, blowing from the north, carried the flame directly toward the position of the besiegers, and threatened the destruction of their own engines. But suddenly shifting round to the south, as if by divine direction, the flames were hurled back again, and consumed the bulwark of the garrison from top to bottom, until the whole became a mass of smoldering ashes. The Romans, thus apparently favored by Providence, retired to their camp with joyful elation, with the fixed intention of advancing to the assault on the following morning; adopting the precaution, meanwhile, of stationing strong and vigilant outposts to prevent the flight of the garrison.

But during that night such a deed of desperate self-sacrifice and horrible heroism was to be consummated beneath the Syrian stars as has few parallels in human history, and which will render that night memorable to the end of time. We shall describe it in our next.

A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.-A little Swed

skies, being asked of what she was thinking, said: "I was thinking, if the wrong side of heaven is so glorious, what must the right side be!" Of course the wrong side, with her, was that which looked on our world. Surely the right side, that looks toward the throne of God and the Lamb, must be glorious indeed.

Unknowing where they stray;

Yet sure where'er they stop to find no rest.

The evening gale is blowing,

It plays among the trees;

Like plumes upon a warrior's crest,

They see yon cocoas tossing to the breeze;

Ladurlad views them with impatient mind;
Impatiently he hears

The gale of evening blowing,
The sound of waters flowing,

As if all sights and sounds combined

To mock his irremediable woe;

For not for him the blessed waters flow,

For not for him the gales of evening blow;
A fire is in his heart and brain,
And nature hath no healing for his pain.

The Moon is up, still pale
Amid the lingering light;

A cloud ascending in the eastern sky
Sails slowly o'er the vale,

And darkens round and closes in the night.
No hospitable house is nigh;

No traveler's home the wanderers to invite; Forlorn, and with long watching overworn, The wretched father and the wretched child Lie down amid the wild.

Before them, full in sight,

A white flag flapping to the winds of night Marks where the tiger seized a human prey.

Shunning the perilous spot,

At other times abhorrent had they fled;
But now they heed it not.

Nothing they care; the boding death-flag now
In vain for them may gleam and flutter there.
Despair and agony in him

Prevent all other thought;

And Kailyal hath no heart or sense for aught Save her dear father's strange and miserable lot.

There in the woodland shade,

Upon the lap of that unhappy maid,
His head Ladurlad laid,
And never word he spake,

Nor heaved he one complaining sigh,
Nor groaned he with his misery;
But silently, for her dear sake,
Endured the raging pain.

And now the moon was hid on high,
No stars were glimmering in the sky;
She could not see her father's eye
How red with burning agony.
Perhaps he may be cooler now,

She hoped, and longed to touch his brow
With gentle hand, yet did not dare
To lay the painful pressure there.
Now forward from the tree she bent,
And anxiously her head she leant,
And listened to his breath.
Ladurlad's breath was short and quick,
Yet regular it came,

And like the slumber of the sick,
In pantings still the same.
O, if he sleeps! Her lips unclose,
Intently listening to the sound,
That equal sound so like repose.
Still quietly the sufferer lies,

Bearing his torment now with resolute will;
He neither moves, nor groans, nor sighs.
Doth satiate cruelty bestow

This little respite to his woe,

others assert that it is the female bird that sings, and that her song is especially sad and melancholy; others, again, affirm that nightingales do not migrate to warm climates like many other birds, but bury themselves deep in the ground during the winter months, adducing as proof, that when they first appear they have a very

below?

Perchance, thought Kailyal, willingly deceived,
Our Marriataly hath his pain relieved,
And she hath bade the blessed sleep assuage
His agony, despite the Rajah's rage!
That was a hope which filled her gushing eyes,
And bade her heart in silent yearnings rise
To bless the power divine, in thankfulness;
And, yielding to that joyful thought her mind,
Backward the maid her aching head reclined
Against the tree, and to her father's breath
In fear she hearken'd, still with earnest ear.
But soon forgetful fits the effort broke,
In starts of recollection then she woke;
Till now benignant Nature overcame
The virgin's weary and exhausted frame;
Nor able more her painful watch to keep,
She closed her heavy lids, and sank to sleep.

NIGHTINGALES AND THEIR NESTS.

FROM

ROM the middle of April to near the end of June the nightingale may be heard in his haunts in different parts of England. His song is so superior to that of all other singing-birds, and in fact so remarkable, that even from those the least open to the influences of the beautiful phenomena of nature an involuntary exclamation, "What was that?" is extorted when the outburst of one of his glorious notes is heard for the first time. The notes of the nightingale are, indeed, unlike those of all other birds both in tone and metre; and they have found poets in all ages to weave the recollection of their beauties into verse; fabulists to surround them with extraordinary circumstances, and unite them to the narrative portions of national mythologies; and rustic populations to associate them with omens and superstitions. The simple truth has long been so interwoven with fable, that few, except professed naturalists, have any correct knowledge on the subject. Many people, for instance, believe that the nightingale only sings in the night; and that it never sleeps, which latter notion has given rise to the superstition that its heart and head, if placed under the pillow at night, constitute a charm which effectually prevents not only sleep, but even drowsiness;

that, moreover, their feathers are so beautifully fresh and unruffled, that it is impossible that they should have performed a long migratory flight. All these suppositions and assertions, even including the last, are entirely untrue, and founded upon mere poetic fancies or ignorant superstitions. In disproving the fabulous portion of the story of the nightingale, it does not follow that we shall necessarily strip the subject of its poetry and true interest, but rather add to it. Buffon, who did so much to sift the solid fact from the alloy of fiction in the whole range of natural history, has yet added immeasurably to its attrac tions; for it may be truly said, that he found the science in the form of a dry catalogue of facts or falsehoods, and left it invested with all the interest of a romance.

In reference to the popular error respecting the melancholy character of the song of the nightingale, he describes the fine bravura style of the greater portion of the notes as consisting of "des coups de gosier éclatants, des fusées de chant, où la netteté est égale à la volubilité; roulades précipités, brillantes et rapides, articulés avec force, et même avec une certaine dureté de goût." In this brilliant piece of word-painting he has exactly described, as no other writer has ever done, the more striking portions of the song of the nightingale as they are poured forth with unrivalled richness, and flexible

volubility, and power. Nor did the great naturalist overlook the softer portions, and occasional plaintive notes, which give contrast and variety to the song. He tells us also of those "accents plaintifs, cadencés avec mollesse, sons filés sans art, mais enflés avec âme, sons enchanteurs et pénétrants, vrais soupirs d'amour et de volupté."

Buffon is, however, not always completely correct in what he says of this wonderful bird-music, as when he asserts that the nightingale never repeats himself, or that, if notes are repeated, it is with a new accent or fresh embellishments; the fact being, that the song consists of a certain

number of notes which are invariably repeated in the same order of succession. The number is, however, so considerable, and the pauses between the notes sometimes so long, that few persons listen to the end of the performance so as to detect when the repetition begins, though when the song is completed, a long silence generally ensues. It has been suggested that the pauses between the notes are caused by the waiting of the songster for the response of some distant rival, which he hears distinctly, though too distant to be detected by the inferior powers of the human ear.

With regard to singing only at night, I can state from my own experience that the nightingale sings with the greatest power and brilliancy at about nine in the morning; but so many other birds are then joining in the woodland concert, that only experienced connoisseurs stay to distinguish the melody of the nightingale from the general buzz of song, though it is, in fact, distinct enough, rising above the accompanying chorus like the notes

of a prima donna, whose brilliant and passionate bursts of declamation ring out clear and distinct above all accompanying sounds of an orchestra. It is not, as Barrington ingeniously observes, that part of the charm of the song arises from being heard at night, when all other birds are silent, but that then it receives its chief attention from those who are ignorant of the fact that the night-song of the nightingale is not its only song, and, in fact, only a continuation of the one generally commenced shortly before twilight. Occasionally, in the warm, still, balmy evenings of high summer, the nigtingale will burst into a new song after dark, which, however, seldom continues later than eleven o'clock, though on such evenings I have heard occasional brief outbursts till after midnight, when, on account of the general stillness, it is heard for a considerable distance; for the volume of sound, it has been calculated, fills something more than a mile in diameter, or quite as much as the human voice. That great surgeon, the celebrated William Hunter, and more

recently Dr. Troschel, in his essay on the muscles of the throat in singing birds, sought to account for this extraordinary vocal power in so small a bird by anatomical investigation, and found that the muscular tissues of the throat were much stronger in proportion to its size in the nightingale than in any other bird.

In its wild state the nightingale, in England, sings but for a short season, from about the middle of April to the middle of June; and in other countries the duration of the singing season is not longer. Aristotle, who appears to have been aware that the song of the nightingale was not confined to the night, states that in Greece this bird is in the full force of his song during fifteen days and nights without intermission, and that this occurs at the period when the trees are just developing their foilage; but, no doubt, even there the song continued, though no longer in its full force, till toward the end of June, or rather later. In Italy the nightingale first appears in May, and does not leave till November. In France he arrives about the same time, or rather earlier, and leaves in September. In Belgium, and the parts of England which he favors with his presence, he arrives in April, and leaves in August.

The modern idea that the song was that of the female no doubt has its remote origin in the Greek fable of Philomela, and has been maintained by rare and not well-authenticated phenomena, in which the female bird has been heard to sing. Buffon tells us that he himself heard a hen nightingale sing in a cage, and that she was kept for several years; adding, that she always ceased her song, and prepared for building, at the breeding-season, just at the time when the male birds are in full song. Aristotle also states, that in Greece the females cccasionally sing, though very rarely; and it might as well be asserted, because, among barn-door fowls, hens have been occasionally known to crow, that it is the hen, and not the cock, to whom we are indebted for the cheerful sound that, according to the old hunting-song, “proclaims the morn." The song is, in fact, the instinctive rejoicing of the male bird during the incubation of the female. It is at once a love-song and a challenge; a declaration of his happiness and a defiance to others to intrude on his domain, which consists of a pretty wide expanse round

the nest, within which no rival ever intrudes with impunity. Daines Barrington argues that as the male nightingale sings better and longer when in a cage, it is clear that he does not sing to please the female; but it is well known that instincts of that kind may be perverted from their natural course; and it would be absurd to argue that, because bees are made to produce more honey by artificial management than in the wild state, they do not collect it to serve as the food of the larvæ, of which each cell is the cradle, or infant home.

According to connoisseurs, nightingales differ materially in the perfection of their song, which is generally judged by the full quality of the tone, the length of the notes, and the energy with which they are delivered. Some are not thought worth keeping in confinement, from the comparative poverty of their song, though composed of the same notes as those of the finest songsters. The difference is supposed to be caused by the opportunities, or otherwise, which the young birds have enjoyed in hearing the great masters of the art; those of the last broods, reared in a cage, and never having heard the song of the parents, singing a wild ramage, scarcely recognisable as the song of the nightingale.

The nightingale builds in the lowest branches of shrubs or brambles. The nest from which our illustration is drawn was constructed near the root of a stunted and late-flowering blackthorn. It is formed of very neatly interwoven twigs and dry bents of grass, with here and there a few dead leaves ingeniously interlaced. It is said that the nest is always made to slope slightly to the east, a fact which I have never observed; though a French author goes so far as to state that careful observation will show that it is so arranged as to receive both the earliest and latest rays of the sun, and to exclude those of the midday. The eggs are three or four in number, and of a rich, soft, olive tone, without speck or spot, their surface having a slight polish, like that of the most delicate porcelain. After the last brood has taken flight, the nightingale family almost immediately disappears; and it is now pretty clearly ascertained that he winters among the olive-groves of Syria, and the more sheltered portions of the north coast of Africa, especially about the Delta of Lower Egypt.