the inquiry into a negotiation, by endeavouring to induce Mary voluntarily to resign her crown, and she continued to delude her captive by simulated negotiations during the whole period of her imprisonment. In every letter written by Mary to Elizabeth innocence is asserted in the strongest terms; in no letter of Elizabeth to Mary is a shade of guilt imputed. In her negotiations with the French ambassadors, Elizabeth never hinted that Mary's guilt was the cause of her detention; on the contrary, she declared to the last that she was willing to liberate the Queen of Scotland, provided that she could obtain satisfactory securities against any attempt on the English crown. In June, 1569, Elizabeth declared that Mary should be set at liberty if it could be proved that she had not transferred her rights of inheritance to the royal family of France. The necessary proofs were furnished on the 17th of the following August, and on the 28th of September a majority of the English privy council decided that Mary might be set at liberty, provided she consented to marry an English subject. If these circumstances be taken together, there can be no room for a reasonable doubt of the innocence of the Queen of Scotland. But her case does not rest here. Bothwell, after his escape from the battle of Carberry Hill, took shipping for Norway, but was seized on the coast of Denmark. He died in April, 1576, at the castle of Malmor; but before his death, he executed an official declaration in which he confessed his share in the murder of Darnley, and exonerated Mary from all cognizance in the conspiracy and participation in the crime. The captive Queen naturally manifested an extreme desire to have this conclusive evidence brought before the public; she wrote to the Archbishop of Glasgow in urgent terms to obtain a copy. Some time afterwards Mary again wrote to the Archbishop, "I have been informed that the King of Denmark has sent to this Queen (Elizabeth) the last will and testament of the late Earl of Bothwell, and that she has suppressed it in the greatest possible secrecy. It seems to me that the voyage of De Monceaulx is no longer necessary since the Queen-mother (Catherine de Medicis) has sent thither, as you inform me." Sir John Forster, in a letter to Walsingham, states that an attested copy of this important document was produced on the trial of Morton, many years after the period to which we now refer, but no authentic copy of it is to be found in the archives of England or Scotland; indeed there is little doubt that it was designedly destroyed. Prince Labanoff, however, has obtained an original copy from the papers of Baron d'Esneval, the French ambassador to Denmark in 1585; this copy is authenticated by the following endorsement, "The said Earl has himself written the notes in the margin." Prince Labanoff announces the speedy publication of this important document, which he declares will complete the justification of Mary Queen of Scots. We deem the case sufficiently perfect now, for, had Mary not been assured of her own innocence, she would never have manifested so earnest an anxiety to have Bothwell's real or supposed dying declarations authenticated by unquestionable authorities. We have answered Lord Brougham's vague assertions by uncontrovertible evidence, and we hope that he will take some opportunity of withdrawing the charges he has so lightly hazarded, otherwise the world will conclude that he has failed as signally in the inculpation of Queen Mary as he did in the exculpation of Queen Caroline. SUMMER BIRD S. BY MARTINGALE. "A man's best things are nearest him, MONCKTON MILNES. To every human being possessing right thoughts and right feelings, the recurrence of a cloudless and brilliant morning, especially after the prevalence of days of gloom and sadness, is a matter of the purest joy. This is particularly the case with the denizens of the crowded city and the smoky manufacturing town, - amid, in one instance, the busy haunts of commercial enterprise, and, in the other, the incessant whirl and rattle of almost interminable machinery; in both instances, the heart, at the favourable opportunity, is glad to escape "to fresh fields and pastures new." The re-awakened spirits, indeed, partake of a bounding elasticity; and there is felt, as it were, a longing for the wings of the dove, not to flee away and be at rest, but to visit all delightful places in the far, pure country,—its woods and copses-its meadows and pastures-its quiet green lanes and peaceful field-paths-" its mountains and all hills, its fruitful trees and all cedars." As the rain descends upon the just and upon the unjust, so there is a universality of goodness in the radiance of an undimmed sun. His beams visit everywhere. They illume the halls and galleries of the palace; they dispel the gloom and sadness of the cottage. They gladden the chamber of sickness; they smooth the brow of anguish. They cheer the hovels of want and wretchedness with the hope of better days; they smile through the prison-bars of the captive to set him free. And while they deepen the hue of the rose that blooms on beauty's cheek, every bud and blossom, every leaf and flower, every blade and stem, shares in the vivifying impulse emanating from the boundless flood of the glorious light and warmth of heaven. But this impulse is not confined to inanimate objects. It is equally felt by those which are animate,-by birds, insects, reptiles, vermin, amphibiæ, fishes, and so on,-each fulfilling its transient or lengthened period of existence; each carrying out the purposes for which it was called into being by the benevolent Author of nature. The field-ornithologist, who derives his knowledge from actual observation, as well as the mere lover of external nature in all her varied aspects, finds deep interest throughout every portion of the year, because each presents, more or less, an almost inexhaustible fund of gratification,-an additional chapter to complete the volume of acquired but substantial wisdom. He marks the peculiarities of all seasons in their harmonious progression; the varied hues and tints, the different changes and phases, the unerring processes from youth to maturity, from maturity to decay, as they are presented around his path in striking abundance. Loving the birds which never leave our shores, and which he regards as the happy members of the domestic family, he may possibly deplore the departure or the absence of the several species of winter visitors the fieldfare, with its congener, the redwing; the Royston crow; the wood-pigeon; the pochard; and the occasional visitors, the crossbill and the silktail; or several species of the more rare aquatic wanderers, in the same manner as the sportsman regards the loss of the woodcock, the snipe, the wild-goose, the widgeon, the wild-duck, and that tiny favourite, the teal. Nor, in all seasons, can he fail to reflect on the causes which influence the migration of his many favourites from country to country. He may not be enabled to comprehend the innate laws by which they are directed, the impulse by which they are guided, and, apparently, the impossible length of flight of the small-winged and comparatively feeble species. But, as no feathered creatures are subject to a state of torpitude, like fishes, reptiles, insects, and amphibiæ, he must arrive at the inevitable conclusion, however mysterious and inexplicable, that not only are trackless oceans crossed with safety, but at the time and with weather, too, the most favourable for the accomplishment of a long and laborious journey; resting himself perfectly satisfied with the conviction that their course is directed and impelled by an Almighty hand, for the fulfilment of benevolent purposes, and in perfect accordance with the objects of unerring wisdom. Diving into the depths of the harmonious woods, which are about to put on their richest robes of summer, or strolling along the narrow green footways, which go twisting about hither and thither like a brook-stream in search of a peaceful home,-a syivan solitude,-a fit spot for mute contemplation, or, as the leaves are gently stirred by the passing breeze, for fancy to take wing and flee away into the regions of old romance; the first joyful summer sound that falls upon the attentive ear is that from the chirp of the CHIFF-CHAFF, or LESSER WILLOW WREN (motacilla trochilus) a dimunitive creature, yet, as a stranger, thrice welcome, the harbinger of sunny skies and days of beauty and sweetness. Perched on the higher part of an aspiring tree, or actively flitting about from branch to branch, its song, though extremely simple, embracing, indeed, only two notes, “"chiffchaff," is thrown over the dense underwood with a joyousness which speaks of its own happy condition, and, at the same time, indicates to its mate its own whereabout. In the more obscure hollows of the wood, amid shattered rocks and peaceful nooks, it can awaken the echoes, and there it seems to possess more of heart and of happy and conscious security: a truly simple song, and affording a striking contrast to that which is heard in a neighbouring locality, the harsh note of the WRYNECK, (jynx torquilla,) another of the earliest summer visitors. But, amid the several migratory birds which gladden our summer seasons with their presence, there are none more interesting than the hirundines, the swallow tribe; the HOUSE-SWALLOW (hirundo rustica), the MARTIN (hirundo urbica), the SAND-MARTIN (hirundo riparia), and the SWIFT (hirundo apus). Exclusive of the good which these migratory visitors do in clearing the atmosphere of annoying insects, especially around our dwellings, they possess a peculiar charm by the manifestation of other qualities-their beauty, their harmlessness, their Sociability, the marvellous agility of their flight, their graceful evolutions, their unwearied industry, and their gladdening song. The Chiuuey or house swallow is the first comer of the hirundo tribe, and the most expert upon the wing, taking in its flight a wider range than the rest of its congeners. Its heartfelt song, warbled forth while at rest on eaves or chimney, may charm the ear; but its activity on the wing is not less attractive. During the most favourable weather, the swallow seems all heart and joyousness; visiting all localities; skimming the gravel-path of our pleasure-grounds, then wheeling round a clump of evergreens; gliding over park and paling; sweeping along the green shady lanes, on the line of hedge-rows, in the lee of the wood; over peaceful pastures, circling the cattle assembled beneath the shade of trees; skimming over rivers and lakes, occasionally dipping its wings; stretching far away over heaths and commons, and returning to its home with untiring wings; wonderful, too, in the construction of its nest, and affectionately faithful in the provision for its offspring. The flight of the house-martin, with its snow-white breast, embraces a more confined range, but it is equally graceful, but somewhat less daring; while that of the sand-martin is less still, and more like that of the butterfly; presenting a striking contrast to the rush of the swift, the last of the tribe in its arrival, and the first in its departure, with the racing and screaming around buildings, and, during a fine summer evening, floating on unmoved and outstretched wings, at an immense height, in the full enjoyment of perfect freedom and in the participation of the glory of the evening. There is not, however, during the early portion of summer, a more welcome sound than the voice of the CUCKOO (cuculus canorus). Familiar to the ear from the days of childhood, the peculiar song of this vagrant visitor, from the many associations with which it is connected, sounds like the voice of an old friend, and claims the attention with a degree of interest in which the days of youth and joyousness come back upon the recollection with augmented power; presenting, perhaps, a striking contrast to those of more matured existence, with blighted hopes, departed joys, or days misspent or misapplied; sounds which, as it were, go creeping along the hedge-rows, through the coppices, amid dense underwood, or by the margin of some immense sylvan scene, however much we may disregard the peculiar fact that the cuckoo imposes the care and provision of its young upon other birds,— the hedge-sparrow, the titlark, the wagtail, or the white-throat. But the NIGHTINGALE (motacilla luscinia), shy in its habits, as simple in its plumage, surpasses all the passeres in the sweetness of its song. In this respect, indeed, the bird of night is wholly unrivalled. And truly delightful it is on a lovely evening when summer is young, and perfumes are diffused around from fresh leaves and rich buds,-in the soft stillness of the twilight, when all nature is calm and beautiful, -to visit the long-drawn aisles of the sylvan sanctuary, and listen to the melodious anthem gushing from the liquid throat of the bird of night. The solemn stillness, the dreamy softness, the deepening gloom, prevail around, as if there was a pause in the intricacies of some profound mysterious rite. Then the gloom becomes deeper and deeper, the silence more and more impressive, the mystery more and more profound. The monarchs of the wood seem to have laid aside their robes of state, and to have lost their character in the dense and thickening throng. All nature, holding her breath, seems to be attentively listening. Then bursts upon the ear the matchless strain after strain in endless variety. The echoes, enamoured of the sound, repeat its sweetness again and again, until it dies away in the obscure distance. It is erroneous to say, as many writers VOL. XVIII. N have said, that the song of the nightingale partakes of a melancholy character. It is quite the reverse. It is a burst of joyous affection, of heartfelt gladness, of indescribable rapture, as it rises and falls, advances and recedes, swells and dies away, distinctly threading all the mazy intricacies of melody, bringing out, as it were, from the groundwork of song, the tracery and embroidery, the flowers, and wreaths, and chaplets, and festoons of beauty and of sweetness, with tones so liquid and so distinct, however elaborate, as to fully merit the characteristic of what the musician calls perfect execution. So far from the song of the nightingale being melancholy, it is an undisputed fact that this matchless songster, when a thrush, during the fading twilight, has perched itself on the topmost branch of a tall tree, and pours forth its most joyous strain, will fairly sing his pretended rival down, and make him steal away in the neighbouring thicket. This is especially the case when the mate of the nightingale is hastening the important work of incubation, during which period his song is the fullest and the most ardent. It is somewhat remarkable that, as the glow-worm puts out her lamp about midnight, so the song of the nightingale ceases about that hour, and is resumed between two and three o'clock, awakening the whole wood to join in the chorus of the matin hymn. But much depends upon the state of the weather. The strains which had hitherto charmed the ear of night, become less frequent when the care and provision of a young progeny claim and receive the most assiduous and affectionate attention. Next in the order of arrival are, the BLACK-CAP (motacilla atricapilla), and the WHITE-THROAT (motacilla sylvia). The former frequents orchards and gardens, creeping about the fruit-trees in search of insects, occasionally uttering a subdued piping sound. Its movements are incessant, and its song is desultory. But when the female bird is sitting, her partner often assumes a quiet attitude, and pours forth the fullness of his heart in modulations marked by their softness, gentleness, and affectionate tenderness, excelling, indeed, many of the passeres in melodious sweetness; presenting a striking contrast to the white-throat, whose song, heard on lonely commons and downs, and in deserted and obscure lanes, is anything but sweet and pleasing to the ear. On the contrary, the LITTLE WILLOW-WREN or SEDGEWARBLER (motacilla trochilus), is a merry fellow; singing nearly all night long with a hurrying melody which seems, at times, to embrace the songs of several other birds. Little need be said of the STONECURLEW (charadrius ædicnemus); it dwells in the uplands and only visits a few of our counties: little also of the GRASSHOPPER-LARK (alauda trivialis), whose habits are extremely shy, and whose whispering notes are only heard when the bird is concealed. In the secluded woods, however, when all is calm and still around,-even the song of the WOOD-WREN (sylvia sibilatrix),—and neither the sound of footfall nor the croak of raven disturbs the mute serenity, the "coo" of the TURTLE-DOVE (columba turtur), is heard with peculiar pleasure, as the attention becomes enchained in a crowd of delightful associations. In all ages and countries, the "coo" of the turtle-dove has been deemed the expression of innocence, affection, and faithfulness, as the birds themselves are represented as true emblems of those qualities. And who has failed to notice, particularly during the prevalence of night, the "crex-crex" of the LANDRAIL (rallus crex), which, issuing from the tall meadow grass or taller corn-fields, can be heard at an immense |