does the sun begin to set, than the nightingale renders the whole air musical with its song. There is a little valley just below the town, warm, tranquil, and wooded, and here they congregate in multitudes, and wait for the night to begin their tuneful competition. I have, indeed, occasionally heard them in the day, even here, where the day is intensely hot, but it is only for a moment--a sort of rehearsal for the evening; and I must confess, that however beautiful the notes may be in themselves, they want half the charm in the broad light. They seem peculiarly appropriated to the night. There is a sort of plaintive melody about them, that is lost in all the gay buz and bustle of sunshine. But at night, when the dull crowd, whose feelings are more purely animal, have left Nature to her own quiet pensiveness--when there is no sound to distract, and no light to dazzle--the song of the nightingale comes like the voice of the spirit rising alone to heaven, with that kind of melancholy, solitary sweetness, which harmonises so sweetly with anything vast and beautiful. I am not very well sure that I could make my feelings on the subject understood, and therefore I will not try, but go onto the butterflies, some of which are extremely beautiful. There is a superstition amongst the common people concerning one of these insects they call "the angel." They suppose that the etherial spirits visit earth under its form, and that whoever is fortunate enough to have one of them in his house, is exempt from the friendly visits of all evil spirits, and from many of the common misfortunes of life. On which principle, they do not at all scruple to catch them--and, angel or no angel, stick them on a cork with a large pin. But this is nothing to a diabolical way they have of making fishing-lines in Spain. FLEURETTE.