It is fond of being caressed, and, when no one takes notice, it attempts

to call their attention by uttering a short grunt, frequently repeated,

and sometimes gives vent to its impatience by a rather loud and deep

barking sound. The observer should be careful to examine the eyes of the

Lemur, their peculiar lustre having at times almost a startling effect,

their depths seeming to be lighted up with a silvery fire.

* * * * *

We now come to the last of the monkey tribe.

Just now the Zoological Society is rich in treasures, possessing some

of the rarest birds and quadrupeds at present known to science. The

hippopotamus, for example, though not scarce in its own country, is so

difficult a subject for transmission, that we may congratulate ourselves

on the two magnificent specimens in the Gardens. The giraffe, too,

partakes of similar conditions, and is, therefore, most valuable. But

perhaps the two most remarkable creatures at present in the Gardens are

the apteryx, a bird which is undoubtedly on the road to extinction, and

is notable for laying an egg that weighs one-fourth as much as the mother

bird; and the Aye Aye (_Cheiromys Madagascariensis_).

[Illustration: THE AYE-AYE.—_Page 269._]

This wonderful animal derives its name from the exclamations of surprise

uttered by some natives of Madagascar when the creature was first shown

to them. It is eminently nocturnal in its habits, and on account of its

dark fur and quiet movements is not likely to attract observation. It

was first discovered by Sonnerat, who kept a couple of specimens for

some time, feeding them upon boiled rice. They fed themselves in a very

curious manner, using the long slender fingers of the fore paws for the

purpose of conveying the food to the mouth.

A single dead specimen was brought to France by the discoverer, and the

stuffed skin placed in the splendid museum in Paris; and for many years

this was the only specimen in Europe. The accounts of the habits of the

animal were exceedingly meagre; nothing was known of its customs when in

a state of freedom, and the only trustworthy information which could be

obtained was that which described the colour of the fur.

We hope now to gain more extended knowledge respecting the Aye Aye.

On the 12th of August, 1862, a fine female Aye Aye landed in England. She

was in a delicate state of health, for on the voyage she had produced a

young one, which only survived its birth for a short time. However, by

means of careful treatment she soon improved in health, and is now in

very fine condition.

By day she does not appear to the best advantage. She hates daylight,

and very much resents its unwelcome intrusion upon her privacy, curling

herself up in the darkest corner of the cage, and shading her face with

her magnificent black tail. She is a stronger creature than might be

supposed from her dimensions, and displays much muscular power in pushing

her way into her house.

As she lies in repose the enormous bushy tail is curled round and laid

over the face, so that barely any outline is perceptible. It is curious

to see how, even in this condition, the large ears are gently moved

at every sound, and when the creature is roused from her torpor the

brilliancy with which the eyes gleam from among the heavy fur of the tail

is really remarkable.

At night, however, the Aye Aye becomes a different being. She moves about

with ease and agility, making no rapid or sudden rushes, but quietly

walking about the cage, being perfectly indifferent as to the position

in which the body may be. She can walk steadily upon the smooth floor,

she can walk upon the rough branches of the tree which is laid across her

cage, or she can walk along the roof of her house, hanging suspended like

the sloth. And she appears to be equally at ease in either attitude, and

walks with equal adroitness.

As to the food of the Aye Aye, it may safely be pronounced to be of a

mixed animal and vegetable character. Until this specimen was brought to

England, the Aye Aye was thought to feed only on insects, the long third

finger being supposed to be used in taking them out of the recesses of

the rough bark. The specimen, however, which is at present living in the

Zoological Gardens totally rejects insects of every kind, and feeds only

on a mixture of honey, milk, and the yolk of hard-boiled eggs, beaten up

into the consistence of thick cream.

The mode of feeding is very peculiar. Mr. Bartlett, who has paid much

attention to this zoological treasure, has published in the Proceedings

of the Zoological Society a very interesting paper on the habits of the

animal, and gives the following description of its mode of feeding:—

“In feeding, the left hand only is used, although she has the full use of

her right one. The mode of taking her food requires careful attention, in

consequence of the very rapid movement of the hand during the process.

The fourth finger, which is the longest and largest, is thrust forwards

into the food, the slender third finger is raised upwards and backwards

above the rest, while the first finger or thumb is lowered so as to

be seen below and behind the chin. In this position the hand is drawn

backwards and forwards rapidly, the inner side of the fourth finger

passing between the lips, the head of the animal being held sideways,

thus depositing the food in the mouth at each movement; the tongue, jaws,

and lips are kept in full motion all the time. Sometimes the animal will

advance towards, and lap from, the dish like a cat; but this is unusual.”

The keeper tells me, however, that, though she generally prefers the left

paw for feeding herself, she frequently employs the right hand for that

purpose.

These observations are very valuable, and, when taken in connection with

certain habits of the animal, lead us to suppose that in the wild state

its mode of feeding is as unique as its appearance.

The observer will see that the branches within its cage are cut about

as if they had been exposed to the fire of a rifle company, the boughs

being deeply wounded and grooved, with splinters projecting in various

directions. These wounds are made by the teeth of the Aye Aye, which,

though no larger than a fine cat, possess strength of jaw and sharpness

of tooth sufficient to inflict such wounds. It has been suggested that

the creature partially feeds on the sap of certain trees, and that by

wounding their substance with its teeth it causes the juices to flow,

and then conveys them into its mouth by means of the long fourth finger.

As Mr. Bartlett well observes, “I observe that our specimen returns

frequently to the same spot on the tree which she had previously injured.

I am also strengthened in my opinion by noticing the little attention

paid by the animal to the food. It does not watch or look after it; for I

have on several occasions removed the vessel containing its food during

the time the animal was feeding, and the creature continued to thrust its

hand forward as before on the same spot; though, after awhile, finding no

more food, she discontinued, and moved off in search for more elsewhere.

This apparently stupid act is so unlike the habits of an animal intended

to capture or feed on living creatures, that I am inclined to believe

that the Aye Aye feeds upon inanimate substances. I have frequently seen

it eat a portion of the bark and wood, after taking a quantity of the

fluid food.”

She also uses her slender fingers in cleaning her face and ears, and in

combing out the long hairs of her beautiful tail.

The animal nature of its food is proved by the observations of the Hon.

H. Sandwith, M.D., &c., who kept a fine male Aye Aye for some time, and

carefully watched its habits.

Seeing that the animal was constantly using its powerful teeth for the

purpose of gnawing its way out of the cage, Dr. Sandwith thought that he

would put some branches in the cage, so that it might eat them instead of

gnawing the woodwork of its habitation. After the sun had set, the Aye

Aye came from his darkened nest, and straightway proceeded to examine the

branches, which happened to have been bored by a large grub.

Then was seen the use of the strange second finger, which is not half as

thick as any of the others, and, indeed, looks more like a piece of bent

wire than a jointed member. With this finger the animal tapped rapidly on

the bough, and then listened, as if to judge by the sound whether the

branch was tenanted. Having satisfied himself on this point, and having

several times thrust his finger, probe fashion, into the holes, he began

to bite away the wood with great energy, and in a few minutes succeeded

in exposing a large grub, which was picked out of its hole by the same

useful finger, and so put into the mouth.

The animal would also eat mangoes, dates, and similar fruit, biting a

hole in the rind, and scooping out the interior with the ever-useful

finger.

The visitor should, if possible, obtain a view of the teeth, which are

sufficiently powerful to bite through the hardest woods, such as ebony or

teak—woods which woefully try the temper of our steel-made tools. In the

front of the jaw there are four incisor teeth, chisel-shaped, like those

of the rabbit and other rodents, but of enormous depth and thickness.

Like the rodent teeth, they are furnished with a pulpy substance at their

root, from which fresh tooth-substance is developed, so as to supply new

tooth from behind as fast as it is worn away in front. They are arranged

in a rather curious fashion, so that, when seen directly in front, they

look like four rounded points converging towards each other, and really

give no conception of their formidable powers.

Between the incisor and the grinder teeth there is a large gap, just as

in the rodent tribes, and the skull is arched exactly like that of a rat

or rabbit, in order to afford room for the large incisor teeth. There are

no canine teeth, and altogether the number of teeth is only eighteen. The

muscles which move the jaws are powerful in proportion to the work which

they have to perform, and, to a considerable extent, cause the peculiar

width of the head.

Those who are unable to see the animal itself will be able to form a very

correct idea from Mr. Wolfe’s admirable drawing, which is hung by the

cage. No previous figures gave a true idea of the animal’s real shape,

as they were necessarily sketched from the stuffed specimen, and, of

course, looked shrivelled and death-like.

The Aye Aye is about the size of a large cat, and its face is full,

wide, and rather destitute of hair. The upper part of the face is dull

flesh-colour, which changes to pink upon the muzzle. The general colour

is dull black, the hair being very long, rather scanty, and decidedly

coarse. Upon the back many of the hairs become quite white towards the

extremities, and have a very fine effect when contrasted with the sober

black of the general fur. The tail is deep black and large, like that

of a fox, but the hairs are arranged in a different manner, as may be

seen from the illustration. Whenever the animal is angry, and spreads

its tail, the hairs are seen to be grey at the base, and black as they

approach the tips.

The ears are very large, black, and nearly hairless, but studded with

little knobs; and the eyes are very large, very full, and of a beautiful

chestnut colour. The fingers are very long and slender, and are held in

a curious kind of clutching attitude, as is shown in the illustration.

When the face is seen directly in front, two of the teeth gleam whitely

between the lips, and if the animal should chance to yawn their

formidable arrangement becomes visible, and it is easy to see how deeply

they can bite into the tree.

The keeper seems to be on very good terms with the animal, which he calls

“Jack” in bold defiance of her sex.

It is possible that we may obtain a male specimen of the Aye Aye, and

that they may breed in this country, as has been the case with many rare

animals, inhabitants of hotter climes. There is, however, a considerable

difficulty in obtaining specimens, even when we know where to look for

them; for the Aye Aye can only be detected by the watchful eye of the

native, who has from his childhood been taught to reverence the Aye Aye

as something supernatural, and to fancy that, if he should touch one

of these animals, even by chance, he will die within a year. There are

but few natives who are strong-minded enough to put themselves in such

danger, and even those who are daring enough to seize an Aye Aye require

to have their courage stimulated by a very large bribe—enough, in fact,

to maintain them through the entire year of peril.

I have written at some length of this wonderful animal, because it is the

first living specimen which has ever touched the European shores, and no

one can say how long it will live. There are, however, many curious and

interesting details of its structure which I cannot mention for lack of

space. If the reader should desire to make himself master of the anatomy

of the Aye Aye, he will find a vast fund of information in Professor

Owen’s monograph upon this creature.

ANOTHER ACCOUNT OF THE AYE AYE.

“Aye Aye!” So exclaimed the natives of the east coast of Madagascar, when

first shown the little animal described above. But the exclamation was

not of affirmation, but astonishment; for they had never seen it before,

and indeed there are reasons for thinking it is confined to the other

side of that great continental island, which is so little known, yet in

which Christianity has long numbered its devotees, its martyrs, and its

apostates.

“But,” says some reader, whose tastes lead him to politics, poetry, or

fiction, rather than to Nature, and whose acquaintance with the latter

is limited to the creatures which he may eat or be eaten by—“even if I

did care to know anything at all about this little beast, with the head

of a cat, the tail of a squirrel, the hands of a miser, and the feet of

a monkey, all I have to do is to glance at my _Beeton’s Dictionary_, and

find in a nutshell all about the Aye Aye.”

But there is more to be said about the Aye Aye than can be contained in

a scientific dictionary, and as to _Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary_,

we pray our readers to listen for a single moment to the following

statement, which is made with great regret, since we too once had equal

faith in the magnificent work above mentioned. The figure named Aye

Aye, upon page 99, would answer equally well for at least a dozen other

mammiferous vertebrates, and no one who has ever seen a correct picture

of the Aye Aye would recognise this as meant for one; the description

of its appearance and habits, though equal in length to that of the

elephant, is incorrect in several important points, and neither the

figure nor the description affords any information respecting the real

peculiarities which distinguish the Aye Aye from all known animals.

It is true that similar defects exist in the account given in Wood’s

_Illustrated Natural History of Mammalia_; and there is some excuse for

this as in the dictionary, since both were issued before the appearance

of Professor Owen’s splendid _Monograph of the Aye Aye_, in 1866; but

neither this nor any other excuse can be urged for the deficiencies and

misstatements of certain late text-books of zoology.

We trust this is sufficient reason for offering now some further account

of the Aye Aye.

One word as to the name. Its origin is as stated above, and not from any

sound made by the creature itself; for, although one observer states

that it sometimes utters a low grunt, another, the Superintendent of

the Zoological Gardens in London, says he has never heard it make any

sound whatever. Now it could not be expected that scientific naturalists

would rest content with so brief a title as Aye Aye for so wonderful

an animal. It must have two names at the least—the first to designate

its genus, the second to signify the species, just as we say sugar

(genus), white or brown, &c., (species); so in 1790 the Aye Aye was

called Sciurus (squirrel) Madagascariensis (native of Madagascar). In

1800 it was rechristened as Lemur (ghost) psilodactylus (long-fingered).

But it is now generally known by the title bestowed by Cuvier—Chiromys

Madagascariensis—which signifies “a rat-like animal with hands, and

living in Madagascar.”

The scientific title of the Aye Aye, then, fully atones for the brevity

of its common name; and it must be further remembered that the technical

names of animals and plants bear no definite relation to their own size

or importance; for example, the elephant is simply Elephas Indicus

or Africanus, according to the species, while the little changeable

mole of the Cape of Good Hope is called Chrysochloris holosericea, and

a microscopic rhizopod shell rejoices in the high-sounding title of

Quinquenoculina meridionalis. Even this, however, would not be so bad if

each species bore but a single name instead of a dozen, as often happens,

and if, on the other hand, the same names were not sometimes by mistake

applied to totally distinct species. It has been well said that the zeal

of zoologists to give names to species and groups is the greatest bane of

Natural History, a constant hindrance to our own progress, and a subject

of well-deserved reproach from the public; if we would all make it a

rule not to publish the name of a supposed new species for a year after

its discovery, and until a thorough search had been made for previous

records, our own glory might be less apparent, but we should be more

considerate of our fellows, and more surely, though more slowly, advance

the knowledge of natural objects.

The Aye Aye is about the size of a cat, but the head is rather larger,

the ears are wider and less pointed, the limbs project more freely from

the trunk, and the bushy tail forms rather more than half the total

length of three feet. This tail, moreover, has a gentle downward curve,

instead of an upward tendency, as with the cat and the dog. The trunk is

clothed with a silky coat of short greyish hair; but the colour is given

by the longer hairs, which are dark brown or nearly black, although along

the spine some of them are tipped with white.

So far the Aye Aye has presented nothing very wonderful; but a glance

at our illustration will detect its most striking feature. The Aye Aye’s

hand is unlike that of any other known animal. Its medius or middle digit

is about as long as the annularis or ring finger, but _only half as

thick_. It is skinny and bony, as if stricken with palsy, and has been

aptly compared to a crooked nail. Its knuckle-joint is projected beyond

those of the other digits; its first phalanx is longer than that of any

excepting the annularis, and its terminal phalanges very slender. But

the tendon of the medius is quite as large as those of the other digits;

and we are told that the tendons and muscles are so arranged that great

power may be exerted upon this one slender digit, for a purpose we shall

presently describe. The pollex, or thumb, is the shortest and thickest of

all—has one less phalanx, as is usual among the mammalia, and is armed

with a claw like the others. The acute angle which it forms with the palm

does not indicate any great degree of opposability.

The hinder foot (pes) reminds us at once of that of a monkey; for the

primus, or great toe, stands out boldly from the side of the foot, and is

evidently opposed in grasping to the other four dactyls, as is our thumb.

It bears a small nail, whereas the four smaller dactyls are armed with

curved and pointed claws. Both digits and dactyls, moreover, are a little

thickened at the tip, so as to form fleshy pads. That of the primus is

most apparent.

The Aye Aye has strange teeth, too; for some of them suggest the

squirrel, and others the monkey. In the first place, it has only two

front or incisor teeth, above and below, and these are narrow, but deep,

and bevelled off to a cutting edge, like the incisor teeth of the beaver,

the squirrel, the rabbit, and other “rodentia” or gnawing animals, which

have a hard case of enamel upon the front surface, the rest of the tooth

being softer and more easily worn away by use. These teeth are like

chisels in this respect; but they have two very decided advantages over

the best steel instrument of human contrivance. The first is, that

their very use keeps them sharp and in perfect order, since the edge of

the lower tooth strikes just behind the edge of the upper, and both are

continually worn away behind by the attrition of the hard wood which they

attack. The second peculiarity is, that this constant loss of substance

at the free end of the tooth is constantly _repaired by new growth at the

opposite extremity_. The tooth grows during the life of the animal; and

as the crown is worn away, the addition of fresh material to the root

pushes the whole tooth slowly forward in its long socket, and it is thus

ever ready for use. These ever-growing teeth are organic chisels which

are for ever in use, yet never in need of the grindstone—for ever wearing

away, yet never worn out.

But while the scalpriform incisors so nearly resemble those of the real

rodent mammals, and while this resemblance is further increased by the

absence of any canine or eye-teeth, and by the provision for a sliding

forward and backward movement of the lower jaw, yet the molar or grinding

teeth differ from those of the typical rodents; their crowns are rounded

and slightly tuberculous, like those of the pigs, the monkeys, and man,

and do not seem adapted to a strictly vegetable diet; add to this the

peculiar character of the ears, which are large and naked, like the

bat’s, and are inclined forward as if for offensive purposes, rather than

backward, like the hare’s, in order to warn it of pursuit, and we must

evidently be cautious in drawing conclusions as to the manner of life and

the zoological affinities of this singular animal. The limbs show that it

climbs trees like a monkey, the eyes that it is active at dusk like the

owl and the cat, the teeth that it gnaws wood like the squirrel, while

the internal organs of digestion would lead us to suppose that it feeds

upon insects; and the extraordinary middle digit is so utterly unlike

anything we have seen before, that conjecture as to its purpose seems to

be in vain.

Deferring a discussion as to the Aye Aye’s place in a system of animals,

and confining ourselves to what we have learned of its structure, let us

see how nearly correct the reader has been in any surmises as to its mode

of existence by consulting the statements of those who have observed the

Aye Aye in life.

The first of these was the traveller Sonnerat, whose _Voyage aux Indes

Orientales et à la Chine, depuis 1774 jusqu’en 1781_, was published at

Paris in 1782. He appears to have been the first civilised discoverer

of the Aye Aye, and states, either from his own observation or from the

reports of the natives, that “it makes use of the long, slender and

naked middle digit to draw out of holes in trees the worms which form

its food.” Sonnerat had a male and a female Aye Aye which lived for two

months on board ship, being fed with rice.

The next recorded observation upon the habits of the Aye Aye was

communicated to the French Academy of Sciences in 1855, by M. Liénard,

of the Mauritius. He states that when a mango-fruit was offered, the Aye

Aye first made a hole in the rind with his strong front teeth, inserted

therein his slender middle digit, and then, lowering his mouth to the

hole, put into it the pulp which the finger had scooped out of the fruit.

A third observer, M. A. Vinson, states that in the same year an Aye Aye

drank _café au lait_ or _eau sucrée_ by passing its long and slender

digit from the vessel to its mouth with incredible rapidity.

But in 1859 Dr. H. Sandwith, the Colonial Secretary from England to the

Mauritius, wrote to Professor Owen that he had secured a fine, healthy

adult male Aye Aye from Madagascar, which, after having once escaped and

been recaptured, was put into spirit and sent to England. This specimen

formed the subject of a most complete and suggestive work of the learned

Professor. But a long communication from Dr. Sandwith himself is printed

in the Society’s Proceedings for 1859, and some observations upon the

habits of a female Aye Aye which reached the Society’s collection in

August, 1862, are printed in the Society’s Proceedings for that year, and

in the _Annals of Natural History_, vol. xii.

From these various sources we learn the following as to the Aye Aye’s

mode of life:—

During the day the Aye Aye sleeps; it then lies upon one side, with the

body curved and nearly covered by the great bushy tail. It is sensitive

to cold, and sometimes covers itself with a piece of flannel, even in

warm weather.

At dusk it awakes and climbs about, securely grasping the branches with

its prehensile feet, and often hanging suspended by them, and using its

fingers as a comb for its long tail. In this operation the middle digit

is especially serviceable, and it is also used in clearing dust from its

face and other parts, the other digits being then often partially closed.

It was found that the captive Aye Aye in the Zoological Gardens used only

the _left_ hand in feeding from a dish, although the right seemed equally

at its command.

The fourth digit (_annularis_), which is the longest and largest, is

thrust forward into the food, the slender medius raised upward and

backward above the rest, while the pollex is lowered so as to be seen

below and behind the chin. In this position (an almost impossible one,

by the way, for men or monkeys) the hand is drawn backward and forward

rapidly, the inner side of the finger passing between the lips, the head

of the animal being held sideways, thus depositing the food in the mouth

at each movement; the tongue, jaws, and lips are kept in full motion all

the time. Sometimes the animal will lap from the dish like a cat, but

this is unusual. During all the hours in which the Superintendent of the

Gardens watched it, no sound was made, nor was there any manifestation of

anger or shyness.

This specimen seemed to care nothing for insects, but fed freely upon

a mixture of milk, honey, eggs, and such sweet and glutinous things,

and the observer concluded, therefore, that its natural food is rather

fruit than insects; but this only indicated that the Aye Aye did not like

British meal-worms, grasshoppers, wasp-larvæ, and the like, and no more

proved that it was not insectivorous than a man’s refusal to eat turnips

would show that he cared nothing for potatoes. And surely nothing can be

more conclusive than the following account which Dr. Sandwith gives of

the proceedings of his specimen:—

“I found he would eat bananas and dates; and he drank by dipping a finger

into the water and drawing it through his mouth so rapidly that the water

seemed to flow in a stream; after a while he lapped like a cat, but the

former was the more usual method, and seemed to be his way of reaching

water in the clefts of the trees.

“I happened to put into his cage some thick sticks, which were bored in

all directions by a large and destructive grub called the ‘Moutouk.’ Just

at sunset the Aye Aye crept from under his blanket, yawned, stretched,

and betook himself to his tree, where his movements are lively and

graceful, though by no means so quick as those of a squirrel. Presently

he came to one of the worm-eaten branches, which he began to examine most

attentively; and, bending forward his ears and applying his nose close to

the bark, he rapidly tapped the surface with the curious middle digit, as

a woodpecker taps a tree, though with much less noise, from time to time

inserting the end of the slender finger into the wormholes, as a surgeon

would a probe. At length he came to a part of the branch which evidently

gave out an interesting sound, for he began to tear it with his strong

teeth; he rapidly stripped off the bark, cut into the wood, and exposed

the nest of a grub, which he daintily picked out of its bed with the

slender, tapering finger, and conveyed to his mouth.”

This medius, then, can be used in turn as a pleximeter, a probe, and a

scoop; and not the least remarkable circumstance is the coincidence

between the diameter of the hole made in the wood by the incisor teeth

and the width of this digit; for although we cannot say that the size

and power of the head are such as to limit the width of the teeth, yet,

granting that their size is so limited, it is evident that none of the

ordinary digits would be of the least service as an instrument of either

discovery or extraction; and whatever view we may adopt as to the means

by which these structures were produced, we must surely, with the great

anatomist, recognise not only “the direct adaptation of instruments to

functions, of feet to grasp, of teeth to erode, of a digit to feel and

to extract, but we discern a correlation of these several modifications

with each other, and with modifications of the nervous system and

sense-organs—of eyes to catch the least glimmer of light, and of ears

to detect the feeblest grating of sound—the whole forming a compound

mechanism to the perfect performance of a particular kind of work.” The

Aye Aye obviously belongs to the branch of Vertebrates and the class of

Mammalia; but some zoologists have placed it with the squirrels in the

order Rodentia, and others with the Lemurs, in the order Quadrumana or

Cheiropoda; there is also a certain superficial resemblance to a cat;

but the real issue has been between those who follow Buffon and Cuvier

in giving prominence to the ever-growing incisor teeth, which agree with

those of the rodents, and those who, like Schreber and De Blainville,

regard the limbs as of more importance, and point out their resemblance

to those of monkeys.

It is now generally conceded that Professor Owen’s researches have

decided the question in favour of the latter view, for he shows that the

only rodent features are the teeth, and similar ever-growing incisors are

found in at least one other mammal, the marsupial wombat, which no one

has thought of calling a rodent: on the contrary, the hair, the tail, the

form of the head and body, the length of the intestines, the heart and

blood-vessels, the brain, and the limbs tend to separate the Aye Aye

from the rodents, and to join it with the Cheiropoda; and although the

extraordinary middle digit has no fellow in the whole animal kingdom,

yet this modification of the terminal segment of a limb is another

link between the Aye Aye and that lowest family of the Cheiropoda, the

Lemuridæ, which, like it, are mostly natives of Madagascar, and, besides

being nocturnal in their habits, whence the name Lemures (ghosts),

are also distinguished from all other mammals and from each other by

peculiar, and, at present, unaccountable modifications of the fingers and

the toes. In one species the forefinger is as if amputated; in another a

single toe bears a claw, while the others bear nails; and in a third, two

toes are thus provided with claws.

[Illustration]

MONKEY LEGENDS AND ANECDOTES.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

MONKEY LEGENDS AND ANECDOTES.

“A wilderness of Monkeys.”

MERCHANT OF VENICE.

The late Mr. Broderip, in his _Zoological Recreations_, tells us that

Mazurier, after a long and patient attendance upon the monkeys domiciled

in the _Jardin du Roi_, sewed up in skins, and with a face painted and

made up in a concatenation accordingly, raised at last the benevolence

of a tender-hearted one to such a pitch, that it offered him a bit of

the apple it was eating, and drew from him that rapturous exclamation,

pregnant with the consciousness of his apparent identity with the

monkey-character—“Enfin! enfin, je suis singe!”—(At length! at length, I

have become a monkey.)

Poor Mazurier! when he died, _Polichinelle_ was shipwrecked indeed! We

can see him now gaily advancing, as if Prometheus had just touched the

wood with his torch, in a brilliant cocked hat of gilt and silvered

pasteboard, with rosettes to match, gallantly put on athwart ships;

that very pasteboard, so dear to recollection as having glittered

before our delighted eyes when old nurse unfolded the familiar little

books of lang-syne—books which in these philosophical days are shorn

of their beams; for _Cock Robin_, _Little Red Riding Hood_, _Jack and

his Bean-stalk_, _The Children in the Wood_, _The Seven Champions_,

_Valentine and Orson_, with the other dearly-beloved legends of our

childhood, when permitted to enter the nursery, are more soberly clad:

their splendid and many-coloured attractive coats have almost entirely

disappeared.

Mazurier was the personification of that invincible Prince of Roués,

Punch; but if the comic strength of this elastic, this indian-rubber

man lays in Polichinelle, it was in _The Ape of Brazil_ that his tragic

power lay—and that power, absurd as the expression may seem to those who

never beheld him, was great. There was but one blot in his inimitable

performance. It was perfect as a piece of acting; but, alas! Mazurier

had dressed the character without a tail. The melodrama was admirably

got up; but there, to the great distress of zoologists, was the tailless

quadrumane in the midst of Brazilian scenery, where no traveller—and

travellers are proverbial for seeing strange things—has ever ventured to

say that he saw a monkey without that dignifying appendage. How true is

it that wisdom—such wisdom as it is—brings sorrow; all the rest of the

world were in ecstasies; the zoologists shook their heads, and the scene

ceased to affect them.

Be it remembered henceforth by the getters-up of monkey melodramas, that

all the monkeys of the New World yet discovered rejoice in tails; the

anthropoid apes of the Old World have none.

But tailed or tailless, this amusing order of mammiferous animals has

always been, and ever will be, regarded by the million with feelings of

mingled interest and disgust. Every one is irresistibly attracted by

the appearance and tricks of a monkey—very few leave the scene without

something like mortified pride at the caricature held up to them. The

zoologist regards the family with an interest proportioned to their

approximation to man; but he knows that their apparent similarity to the

human form vanishes before anatomical investigation; and that, although

there may be some points of resemblance, the distance between the

two-handed and the four-handed types, notwithstanding all the ingenious

arguments of those philosophers who support the theory of a gradual

development from a monad to a man, is great.

* * * * *

A modern zoologist has, not inaptly, applied the term _Cheiropeds_ or

hand-footed animals to this group; and, indeed, strictly speaking, they

can hardly be called quadrumanous or four-handed. Their extremities,

admirably fitted for grasping and climbing, as far as their arboreal

habits require those actions, fall short—how very far short!—of that

wonderful instrument which surrounds a being born one of the most

helpless of all creatures, with necessaries, comforts, and luxuries, and

enables him to embody his imaginings in works almost divine. We look

in vain among the most perfectly-formed of the anthropoid apes for the

well-developed opposable thumb of the human hand—that great boon, the

ready agent of man’s will, by means of which he holds “dominion over the

fish of the sea, and over the fowls of the air, and over every living

thing that moveth upon the earth.”

The hands of the monkeys are at best but “half made up,” and they are

generally more or less well fashioned in proportion to the greater or

less prehensile development of the tail. The habits of the race, as we

have already hinted, are arboreal, and their favourite haunts are the

recesses of those tropical forests where they can either sport in the

sunbeams on the topmost boughs, or shelter themselves from its scorching

rays under the impervious canopy of a luxuriant vegetation. When their

privacy is invaded by man, a restless and constantly recurring curiosity

seems to be their prevailing feeling at first, and at last the intruders

are frequently pelted with stones, sticks, and fruits heavy and hard,

more especially if they make any demonstration of hostility.

Robert Lade thus speaks of their behaviour when he went to hunt some of

them near the Cape:—

“I can neither describe all the arts practised by these animals, nor

the nimbleness and impudence with which they returned after being

pursued by us. Sometimes they allowed us to approach so near them, that

I was almost certain of seizing them; but when I made the attempt, they

sprung, at a single leap, ten paces from me, and mounted trees with equal

agility, from which they looked with great indifference, and seemed to

derive pleasure from our astonishment. Some of them were so large, that

if our interpreter had not assured us that they were neither ferocious

nor dangerous, our number would not have appeared to be sufficient to

protect us from their attacks. As it would serve no purpose to kill them,

we did not use our guns” (we respect the good feeling of honest Robert

and his companions); “but the captain happened to aim at a very large one

which sat on the top of a tree, after having fatigued us a long time in

pursuing him. This kind of menace, however, of which the animal perhaps

recollected his having sometimes seen the consequences, terrified him

to such a degree, that he fell down motionless at our feet, and we had

no difficulty in seizing him. But whenever he recovered from his stupor

it required all our dexterity and efforts to keep him. We tied his paws

together; but he bit so furiously that we were under the necessity of

covering his head with our handkerchiefs.”

Indeed, those who have only seen these agile creatures in menageries,

or in a reclaimed state, can have no idea of the wild activity of the

tribe in their native woods. Swinging and leaping from tree to tree, ever

on the hunt for fruits and birds’ nests—they are most unconscionable

plunderers of eggs—they lead a merry life, which is, however, often cut

short by those mighty snakes that frequently lie in ambush near their

careless, unsuspecting prey. These serpents are the greatest enemies of

the monkeys, with the exception of the common persecutor—man. He, indeed,

is sometimes touched by compunctious visitings, when it is too late.

“Seeing me,” says a South American traveller, speaking of a monkey,

“nearly on the bank of the river in a canoe, the creature made a halt

from skipping after his companions, and, being perched on a branch that

hung over the water, examined me with attention and the strongest marks

of curiosity, no doubt taking me for a giant of his own species, while

he chattered prodigiously, and kept dancing and shaking the bough on

which he rested with incredible strength and agility. At this time I laid

my piece to my shoulder, and brought him down from the tree into the

stream; but may I never again be a witness to such a scene! The miserable

animal was not dead, but mortally wounded. I seized him by the tail,

and taking him in both my hands to end his torments, swung him round

and hit his head against the side of the canoe; but the poor creature

still continuing alive, and looking at me in the most affecting manner

that can be conceived, I knew no other means of ending his murder than

to hold him under the water till he was drowned, while my heart sickened

on his account, for his dying little eyes still continued to follow me

with seeming reproach, till their light gradually forsook them, and the

wretched animal expired. I felt so much on this occasion that I could

neither taste of him nor his companions when they were dressed, though I

saw that they afforded to some others a delicious repast.”

The repentant writer and his party were driven to the commission of the

act for want of fresh provisions; and many of the family are considered

most excellent eating—by those who can get over the appearance of the

animal and of its bones when cooked. There are not many, however, who

can sit down to a dish of monkeys without feeling that it is rather a

cannibalish proceeding.

It will be obvious, when the leafy home of this restless race is

considered, that it is of the utmost consequence that the infant monkey

should be protected as much as possible from a fall. Accordingly, the

prevailing instinct of a young one is, in sailor’s language, to hold on.

It clings to its mother with the greatest tenacity; and, to enable it

to do this, considerable strength is thrown into the extremities, the

anterior limbs especially.

Le Vaillant, in his introduction to his first voyage, gives the following

curious instance of the exhibition of this instinct under extraordinary

circumstances. When living in Dutch Guiana, at Paramaribo, where he was

born, and where he had already, though very young, formed a collection of

insects, the future traveller and his party in one of their excursions

had killed a female monkey.

“As she carried on her back a young one, which had not been wounded, we

took them both along with us; and when we returned to the plantation, my

ape had not quitted the shoulders of its mother. It clung so closely to

them, that I was obliged to have the assistance of a negro to disengage

them; but scarcely was it separated from her, when, like a bird, it

darted upon a wooden block that stood near, covered with my father’s

peruke, which it embraced with its four paws, nor could it be compelled

to quit its position. Deceived by its instinct, it still imagined itself

to be on the back of its mother, and under her protection. As it seemed

perfectly at ease on the peruke, I resolved to suffer it to remain, and

to feed it there with goat’s milk. It continued in its error for three

weeks, but after that period, emancipating itself from its own authority,

it quitted the fostering peruke, and by its amusing tricks became the

friend and favourite of the whole family.”

Though it is difficult to repress a smile at the idea of a monkey

clinging to a full-bottom on a wig-block and fancying it its mamma, the

story, as it begins mournfully with the slaughter of the poor mother,

ends tragically for her unhappy offspring: it died a terrible death—the

result, indeed, of its own mischievous voracity, but in agonies frightful

to think of:—

“I had, however,” continues Le Vaillant, “without suspecting it,

introduced the wolf among my flocks. One morning, on entering my

chamber, the door of which I had been so imprudent as to leave open,

I beheld my unworthy pupil making a hearty breakfast on my noble

collection. In the first transports of my passion I resolved to

strangle it in my arms; but rage and fury soon gave place to pity, when

I perceived that its voraciousness had exposed it to the most cruel

punishment. In eating the beetles it had swallowed some of the pins on

which they were fixed, and though it made a thousand efforts to throw

them up, all its exertions were in vain. The torture which it suffered

made me forget the devastation it had occasioned; I thought only of

affording it relief; but neither my tears, nor all the art of my father’s

slaves, whom I called from all quarters with loud cries, were able to

preserve its life.”

To return to the instinct exemplified in the first part of this

melancholy tale: we remember to have seen a female monkey and her young

one in the cage of a menagerie—and a small cage too. In this case the

instinct—and it was a good example of the wide difference between that

quality and reason—both on the part of the mother and her offspring, was

just as strong as it could have been in their native forests. The young

one clung as tightly, and the mother showed as much anxiety lest it

should be dashed to pieces by a fall whilst she was sitting at the bottom

of her cage, which rested on the ground, as if she had been swinging with

the breeze upon the tree top.

* * * * *

The docility and apparent intelligence which are so strongly marked in

the Chimpanzee and Orang, and which have given rise to such exaggerated

ideas of their intellect, have been always observed in youthful animals;

while untamable ferocity and brutality—in short, the very reverse of

the amiable and interesting qualities which have been so much dwelt

on—have been uniformly the concomitants of age. The old anthropoid

apes have “foreheads villanous low.” Accordingly, though there may be

exceptions to the general rule—and that there are we shall show—the

stories told of our friends, whether by ancients or moderns, are hardly

ever in their favour. There may be a certain degree of cunning, and

even of accomplishment, in the monkey of whom the tale is told; but,

in nine cases out of ten, the laugh is either at his expense, or he is

only saved from ridicule by some horrible catastrophe. From the earliest

ages down to the time of that wan-chancy creature Major Weir, Sir Robert

Redgauntlet’s great ill-favoured jackanape, the whole tribe have been

regarded as unlucky, meddling beings; the Major came to an untimely end,

as every one knows, and where he went, or, at least, was expected, after

the breath was out of his body, is pretty plain.

Either, like Ælian’s ape, the mimic, in its zeal for imitation, makes

the trifling mistake of plunging a child into boiling water instead of

cold, or it is taken by the hunter’s stratagem of washing his face in its

presence, and then leaving, by way of a lotion for the poor animal that

has been watching his motions, some of the best bird-lime, with which it

belutes its eyes till they are sealed up; or a parcel of shell-snails are

placed round it, in the midst of which it sits like a fool, not daring to

stir for fear.

The same Ælian, indeed, and others, tell us of the ape that was a most

skilful charioteer; of the adroitness of another in escaping from cats,

when hunted by them on trees in Egypt, by running to the extremity of

a bough too slender to bear the cats, and so, taking advantage of its

bending, reaching the ground in safety, leaving the cats _plantés là_,

clutching and clinging on as they best might to save themselves from the

shock of the recoil; of that renowned and all-accomplished animal, to

come to more modern times, the _Prægrandem simiam_, which Paræus saw in

_ædibus Ducis Somei_, and which so excelled in many arts, that it was

named _Magister Factotum_, but not till after the poor beast’s hands had

been cut off to keep it out of mischief—to say nothing of the celebrated

_coup_, dear to diplomatists, of the _cat’s paw_. Some of our readers,

by the way, may not know that this scene which Edwin Landseer has so

admirably represented—painted, we would have said, but painting it may

not be called, for the coals are live coals, and the yelling cat is held

by the imperturbable monkey to a fire that makes one hot to look at

it—that this event, so familiar to every schoolboy, is recorded as having

actually taken place in the hall of Pope Julius the Second.

But what are these to the clouds of unfortunate adventurers? An ape may

generally be considered to be well off if he only loses an eye, like the

cheiroped king’s son in the Arabian story, by magical fire.

It is but fair to add a legend evidently intended to convey an impression

of the sapience of our friends; not that we are going to enter into the

controversy as to whether the Prince of Darkness chose the similitude of

an ape as the most appropriate for the temptation of our common mother

Eve; we leave that to the initiated: our tale is much more humble in its

pretensions.

In “A New History of Ethiopia, being a full and accurate description of

the kingdom of Abessinia, vulgarly, though erroneously, called the Empire

of Prester John, by the learned Job Ludolphus, author of the Ethiopic

Lexicon Made English by I. P. Gent.” (folio, 1862), there is a grand

engraving of apes with this superscription:—

“1. Scrambling about the mountains.

“2. Removeing great huge stones to come at the wormes.

“3. Sitting upon ant-hills and devouring the little creatures.

“4. Throwing sand or dust in the eyes of wild beast that come to sett

upon them.”

The whole being illustrative of the following edifying piece of

information:—

“Of apes there are infinite flocks up and down in the mountains

themselves, a thousand and more together: there they leave no stone

unturned. If they meet with one that two or three cannot lift, they call

for more, and all for the sake of the wormes that lye under; a sort of

dyet which they relish exceedingly. They are very greedy after emmets. So

that having found an emmet-hill, they presently surround it, and laying

their fore-paws with the hollow downward upon the ant-heap, as fast as

the emmets creep into their trecherous palmes they lick ’em off with

great comfort to their stomachs: and there they will lye till there is

not an emmet left. They are also pernicious to fruit and apples, and will

destroy whole fields and gardens, unless they be carefully looked after.

For they are very cunning, and will never venture in till the return of

their spies, which they send always before; who giving information that

all things are safe, in they rush with their whole body, and make a quick

dispatch. Therefore they go very quiet and silent to their prey; and if

their young ones chance to make a noise they chastise them with their

fists, but if they find the coast clear, then every one hath a different

noise to express his joy. Nor could there be any way to hinder them from

further multiplying, but that they fall sometimes into the ruder hands of

the wild beasts, which they have no way to avoid, but by a timely flight

or creeping into the clefts of the rocks. If they find no safety in

flight, they make a virtue of necessity, stand their ground, and filling

their paws full of dust or sand, fling it full in the eyes of their

assailant, and then to their heels again.”

Most learned and veracious Job!

A collection of stories, printed by John Rastell considerably more

than a century before the date of the work last quoted, and not long

ago discovered by the lamented Rev. I. I. Conybeare, next attracts our

notice. It is no other than _The Hundred Merry Tales_, the opprobrium

of Benedick, or as it is imprinted “A. C. Mery Talys.” This curious and

important addition to the stock of Shaksperiana had, as it is stated in

the advertisement of the private reprint (Chiswick, 1815), been converted

into the pasteboard which formed the covers of an old book. As far as the

pleasantry is concerned generally, we do not wonder at Benedick’s wincing

under Beatrice’s imputation that he got his wit out of it.

But though there is much matter of fact in the book, there are also many

queer tales, some of which have passed for new—“Old Simon,” for instance.

One of them, the forty sixth tale, is instructive, inasmuch as it shows

what Chief Justices were in those days.

The story is headed “Of the Welcheman that delyuered the letter to the

ape.”

The first lines are wanting, but there is enough to make it appear that

a master sends his Welsh retainer with a letter to the Chief Justice,

in order to obtain favour for a criminal who had been in the writer’s

service, with directions to the said Welshman to return with an answer.

The tale then proceeds thus:—

“This Welcheman came to the Chefe Justyce place, and at the gate saw an

ape syttynge there in a cote made for hym, as they use to apparell apes

for disporte. This Welcheman dyd of his cappe and made curtsye to the

ape, and sayd—‘My mayster recommendeth him to my lorde youre father, and

sendeth him here a letter.’ This ape toke this letter and opened it,

and lokyd thereon, and after lokyd vpon the man, makynge many mockes

and moyes as the propertyes of apes is to do. This Welcheman, because

he understood him nat, came agayne to his mayster accordynge to his

commandes, and told hym he delyuered the letter unto my lorde chefe

iustice sonne, who was at the gate in a furred cote. Anone his moyster

asked him what answere he broughte? The man sayd he gaue him an answere,

but it was other Frenche or Laten, for he understode him nat. ‘But, syr,’

quod he, ‘ye need nat to fere, for I saw in his countenance so much

that I warrante you he wyll do your errande to my lorde his father.’

This gentylman in truste thereof made not anye further suite. For lacke

whereof his seruant that had done the felonye within a monthe after was

rayned at the kynge’s benche, and caste, and afterwarde hanged.”

And what does the reader think the moral is? Some reflection, perhaps,

upon the impunity of those attached to the great, with a hint at God’s

judgment against unjust judges? No such thing:—“By this ye may see that

every wyse man ought to take hede that he sende nat a folyssche seruante

vpon a hasty message that is a matter of nede.” Not a bad specimen of the

morality of the good old times.

Those who would amuse themselves with more monkeyana of ancient date,

will find some choice passages in Erasmus, Porta, and others; and may

learn how a monkey may occasionally supersede the use of a comb—what a

horror monkeys have of tortoises and snails—how violent is the antipathy

between the cock and the ape—and how both of these were added to the

serpent and introduced into the deadly sack wherein the matricide was

inclosed to suffer the frightful punishment awarded to his unnatural act.

But we beg to offer the following trifle, showing how a monkey can behave

at a dinner-table:—

In a country town, no matter where, there lived the worthiest and most

philosophical of old bachelors, with a warm heart and a sound head, from

whose well-powdered exterior dangled that most respectable ornament a

_queue_. Long did this august appendage, now no longer seen, linger

among the Benchers of the inns of court. Two worthies we have yet in our

eye—_Ultimi Caudatorum!_ with what veneration do we look up to ye! with

what fear and trembling did we regard the progress of the influenza!—the

destroying angel has passed by, and the tails still depend from your

“frosty pows,” blessings on ’em!

Pardon the digression; and return we to our bachelor, who entertained

a monkey of such good breeding and so much discretion, that Jacko was

permitted to make one at the dinner-table, where he was seated in a high

child’s chair next to his master, and took off his glass of perry and

water in the same time and measure with his patron, and in as good a

style as Dominie Sampson himself could have performed the feat. Now, his

master’s housekeeper made the best preserved apricots in the county, and

when the said apricots were enshrined in a tart, the golden fruit set

off by the superincumbent trellis, a more tempting piece of _pâtisserie_

could hardly be laid before man or monkey. One of these tarts enriched

the board at a small dinner-party, and was placed nearly opposite to

Jacko, who occupied his usual station. The host helped one and another

to some of this exquisite tart, but he forgot poor Jacko, who had been

devouring it with his eyes, and was too well-bred to make any indecorous

snatch at the attraction, as most monkeys would have done. At last Jacko

could stand it no longer, so looking to the right and left, and finally

fixing his eyes on the guests opposite, he quietly lifted up his hand

behind his master’s back, and gave his tail such a tug as made the powder

fly, withdrew his hand in an instant, and sat with a vacant expression of

the greatest innocence. People don’t like to have their tails pulled. His

master gave him a look, and Jacko gave him another, but even the eloquent

expression of Hogarth’s monkey on the offending bear’s back fell short of

it. It said as plainly as look could speak—“Don’t be angry—don’t thrash

me—they did not see it—I beg your pardon, but I _must_ have a bit of that

apricot tart:”—he was forgiven and helped.

Authors generally seem to think that the monkey race are not capable of

retaining lasting impressions; but their memory is remarkably tenacious

when striking events call it into action.

One that in his zeal for imitation had swallowed the entire contents of

a pill-box—the cathartics, fortunately, were not Morisonian—suffered so

much, that ever afterwards the production of such a box sent him to his

hiding-place in a twinkling.

Another that was permitted to run free had frequently seen the

men-servants in the great country kitchen, with its huge fireplace,

take down a powder-horn that stood on the chimney-piece, and throw a

few grains into the fire, to make Jemima and the rest of the maids jump

and scream, which they always did on such occasions very prettily. Pug

watched his opportunity, and when all was still, and he had the kitchen

entirely to himself, he clambered up, got possession of the well-filled

powder-horn, perched himself very gingerly on one of the horizontal

wheels placed for the support of saucepans, right over the waning ashes

of an almost extinct wood-fire, screwed off the top of the horn, and

reversed it over the grate.

The explosion sent him half-way up the chimney. Before he was blown up

he was a smug, trim, well-conditioned monkey as you would wish to see

on a summer’s day: he came down a carbonadoed nigger in miniature, in

an avalanche of burning soot. The _à plomb_ with which he pitched upon

the hot ashes in the midst of the general flare-up aroused him to a

sense of his condition. He was missing for days. Hunger at last drove

him forth, and he sneaked into the house close-singed, begrimed, and

looking scared and devilish. He recovered with care, but, like some other

great personages, he never got over his sudden elevation and fall, but

became a sadder if not a wiser monkey. If ever pug forgot himself and was

troublesome, you had only to take down a powder-horn in his presence, and

he was off to his hole like a shot, screaming and clattering his jaws

like a pair of castanets.

Le Vaillant, in his African travels, was accompanied by an ape, which

lived on very good terms with the cocks and hens, showing, in defiance

of the legend, no antipathy to the former, and a strong penchant for the

latter, for whose cacklings he listened, and whose eggs he stole. But

this and other peccadillos were amply atoned for by the _bonhommie_ and

other good qualities of Kees, for that was the name of the traveller’s

ape, which seems to have almost realised the virtues of Philip Quarl’s

monkey.

“An animal,” says Le Vaillant in his first voyage, just after speaking of

the benefits that he derived from his gallant chanticleer, “that rendered

me more essential services; which, by its useful presence, suspended

and even dissipated certain bitter and disagreeable reflections that

occurred to my mind, which by its simple and striking instinct seemed

to anticipate my efforts, and which comforted me in my languor—was an

ape, of that kind so common at the Cape, under the name of _Bawians_.

As it was extremely familiar, and attached itself to me in a particular

manner, I made it my taster. When we found any fruit or roots unknown to

my Hottentots, we never touched them until my dear Kees had first tasted

them: if it refused them we judged them to be either disagreeable or

dangerous, and threw them away.

“An ape has one peculiarity which distinguishes it from all other

animals, and brings it very near to man. It has received from nature an

equal share of greediness and curiosity: though destitute of appetite, it

tastes without necessity every kind of food that is offered to it; and

always lays its paw upon everything it finds within its reach.

“There was another quality in Kees which I valued still more. He was my

best guardian; and whether by night or by day he instantly awoke on the

least sign of danger. By his cries, and other expressions of fear, we

were always informed of the approach of an enemy before my dogs could

discover it: they were so accustomed to his voice that they slept in

perfect security, and never went the rounds; on which account I was

extremely angry, fearing that I should no longer find that indispensable

assistance which I had a right to expect, if any disorder or fatal

accident should deprive me of my faithful guardian. However, when he had

once given the alarm, they all stopped to watch the signal; and on the

least motion of his eyes, or shaking of his head, I have seen them all

rush forward, and scamper away in the quarter to which they observed his

looks directed.

“I often carried him along with me in my hunting excursions, during

which he would amuse himself in climbing up trees, in order to search

for gum, of which he was remarkably fond. Sometimes he discovered

honey in the crevices of rocks, or in hollow trees; but when he found

nothing, when fatigue and exercise had whetted his appetite, and when

he began to be seriously oppressed by hunger, a scene took place which

to me appeared extremely comic. When he could not find gum and honey he

searched for roots, and ate them with much relish; especially one of a

particular species, which, unfortunately for me, I found excellent and

very refreshing, and which I greatly wished to partake of. But Kees was

very cunning: when he found any of this root, if I was not near him to

claim my part, he made great haste to devour it, having his eyes all

the while directed towards me. By the distance I had to go before I

could approach him, be judged of the time he had to eat it alone; and I,

indeed, arrived too late. Sometimes, however, when he was deceived in

his calculation, and when I came upon him sooner than he expected, he

instantly endeavoured to conceal the morsels from me; but by means of a

blow well applied I compelled him to restore the theft; and in my turn

becoming master of the envied prey, he was obliged to receive laws from

the stronger party. Kees entertained no hatred or rancour; and I easily

made him comprehend how detestable that base selfishness was of which he

had set me an example.”

This is all very fine, but we confess that we think poor Kees hardly used

in this matter; nor are we aware of any law, written or unwritten, human

or Simian, by which the conversion of the root, which he had sagaciously

found, to his own use could be made a theft, or by which the prize

could be ravished from him, except, indeed, by the “good old law” that

“sufficeth” people in such cases—

“the simple plan,

That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can.”

But to return to Le Vaillant’s entertaining narrative.

“To tear up these roots, Kees pursued a very ingenious method, which

afforded me much amusement. He laid hold of the tuft of leaves with his

teeth; and pressing his fore paws firmly against the earth, and drawing

his head backwards, the root generally followed: when this method, which

required considerable force, did not succeed, he seized the tuft as

before, as close to the earth as he could; then throwing his heels over

his head, the root always yielded to the jerk which he gave it. In our

marches, when he found himself tired, he got upon the back of one of my

dogs, which had the complaisance to carry him for whole hours together:

one only, which was larger and stronger than the rest, ought to have

served him for this purpose; but the cunning animal well knew how to

avoid this drudgery. The moment he perceived Kees on his shoulders he

remained motionless, and suffered the caravan to pass on, without ever

stirring from the spot. The timorous Kees still persisted; but as soon as

he began to lose sight of us he was obliged to dismount, and he and the

dog ran with all their might to overtake us. For fear of being surprised,

the dog dexterously suffered him to get before him, and watched him

with great attention. In short, he had acquired an ascendency over my

whole pack, for which he was perhaps indebted to the superiority of his

instinct; for among animals, as among men, address often gets the better

of strength. While at his meals Kees could not endure guests; if any of

the dogs approached too near to him at that time, he gave them a hearty

blow, which these poltroons never returned, but scampered away as fast as

they could.

“It appeared to me extremely singular, and I could not account for it,

that, next to the serpent, the animal which he most dreaded was one of

his own species: whether it was that he was sensible that his being tamed

had deprived him of great part of his faculties, and that fear had got

possession of his senses, or that he was jealous and dreaded a rivalry

in my friendship. It would have been very easy for me to catch wild ones

and tame them; but I never thought of it. I had given Kees a place in my

heart which no other after him could occupy; and I sufficiently testified

how far he might depend on my constancy. Sometimes he heard others of

the same species making a noise in the mountains; and, notwithstanding

his terror, he thought proper, I know not for what reason, to reply

to them. When they heard his voice they approached: but as soon as he

perceived any of them he fled with horrible cries; and, running between

our legs, implored the protection of everybody, while his limbs quivered

through fear. We found it no easy matter to calm him; but he gradually

resumed, after some time, his natural tranquillity. He was very much

addicted to thieving, a fault common to almost all domestic animals; but

in Kees it became a talent, the ingenious efforts of which I admired.

Notwithstanding all the correction bestowed upon him by my people, who

took the matter seriously, he was never amended. He knew perfectly well

how to untie the ropes of a basket, to take provisions from it, and,

above all, milk, of which he was remarkably fond: more than once he has

made me go without any. I often beat him pretty severely myself; but,

when he escaped from me, he did not appear at my tent till towards night.”

“Milk in baskets!” why, truly, the term “basket” as applied to a vessel

for holding milk appears to require some explanation; but it was really

carried in baskets woven by the Gonaquas, of reeds, so delicate and so

close in texture that they might be employed in carrying water or any

liquid. The abstraction of the milk, &c., we consider as a kind of

set-off against the appropriation of Kees’s favourite root by his master.

The pertinacious way in which Kees bestrode Le Vaillant’s dogs will

recall to the remembrance of some a monkey that was, and perhaps still

is, riding about London, in hat and feather, with garments to match, upon

a great dog, with the usual accompaniments of hand-organ and Pan’s pipe.

Upon these occasions the monkey evidently felt proud of his commanding

position; but ever and anon we have seen him suffer from one of those

sad reverses of fortune to which the greatest amongst us are subject.

In the midst of the performance, while the organ and pipe are playing,

and the monkey has it all his own way, and, elevated with the grandeur

that surrounds him, is looking rather aristocratically at the admiring

crowd, some good-natured but unlucky boy throws the dog a bit of cake,

in his zeal to pick up which the latter lowers his head and shoulders so

suddenly as infallibly to pitch his rider over his head. We have thought

more than once that there was a sly look about the dog as he regarded the

unseated monkey, utterly confounded by his downfall and the accompanying

shouts of laughter from the bystanders.

* * * * *

We have already stated that the South American monkeys are all blessed

with tails, but they are deprived of those brilliant blue and red

callosities which give so much splendour to the integuments of many of

the Old World family, and recall sometimes a part of the costume of a

certain unearthly pedestrian; for _his_ femoral habiliments

“were blue,

And there was a hole where the tail came through.”

Neither do they rejoice in cheek pouches: they are, consequently, unable

to keep anything in the corner of their jaws, or to furnish forth any

rebuke to the Rosencrantzes and Guildensterns of the several courts in

this best of all possible worlds.

When Humboldt and Bonpland landed at Cumana they saw the first troops of

Araguatos, _Mycetes Ursinus_ (it is nearly three feet in length, without

including the tail), as they journeyed to the mountains of Cocallor

and the celebrated cavern of Guacharo. The forests that surrounded the

convent of Caripe, which is highly elevated, and where the centigrade

thermometer fell to 70° during the night, abounded with them, and their

mournful howling was heard, particularly in open weather or before rain

or storms, at the distance of half a league. Upwards of forty of this

gregarious species were counted upon one tree on the banks of the Apure;

and Humboldt declares his conviction that, in a square league of these

wildernesses, more than two thousand may be found. Melancholy is the

expression of the creature’s eye, listless is its gait, and dismal is

its voice. The young ones never play in captivity like the Sagoins; no,

“The Araguato de los Cumanenses,” as the worthy Lopez de Gomara voucheth,

“hath the face of a man, the beard of a goat, and a staid behaviour,”

such, in short, as may well beseem the possessor of such a “powerful

organ,” as the newspaper critics have it.

We will endeavour, with Humboldt’s assistance, to convey to the reader

some idea of the structure of this sonorous instrument. That most

observing traveller states that the bony case of the _os hyoïdes_, or

bone of the tongue, in the Mona Colorado is, in size, equal to four cubic

inches (water measurement). The _larynx_, or windpipe, consisting of six

pouches, ten lines in length and from three to five in depth, is slightly

attached by muscular fibres. The pouches are like those of the little

whistling monkeys, squirrels, and some birds. Above these pouches are two

others, the lips or borders of which are of a yellowish cast; these are

the pyramidal sacs which are formed by membranous partitions and enter

into the bony case. Into these sacs, which are from three to four inches

in length and terminate in a point, the air is driven; the fifth pouch

is in the aperture of the arytenoïd cartilage, and is situated between

the pyramidal sacs, of the same form but shorter; and the sixth pouch is

formed by the bony drum itself: within this drum the voice acquires the

doleful tone above alluded to.

The _Quata_, or, as the French write the word, _Coaita_ (_Ateles

paniscus_), is said to unite activity with intelligence, gentleness,

prudence, and penetration. To be sure the Quatas will, when they meet

with a learned traveller, or any other strange animal, descend to the

lower branches of their trees, to examine the phenomenon, and, when they

have satisfied their curiosity, pelt the phenomenon aforesaid to get

rid of him or it; but that they be sensible and trustworthy is proved

by Acosta, who has immortalised the Quata belonging to the Governor of

Carthagena. This domestic was regularly sent to the tavern for wine.

They who sent him put an empty pot into one hand, and the money into the

other; whereupon he went spidering along to the tavern, where they could

by no means get his money from him till they had filled his pot with

wine. As this Ganymede of the Governor came back with his charge, certain

idle children would occasionally meet him in the street and cast stones

at him; whereupon he would set down his pot and cast stones at _them_,

“till he had assured his way, then would he return to carry home his pot.

And what is more, although he was a good bibber of wine, yet would he

never touch it till leave was given him.” We are sorry to add that this

amiable genus is considered very good eating. Humboldt frequently saw the

broiled limbs of the Marimonda in the huts of the natives on the Orinoco;

and, at Emeralda, he found in an Indian hut a collation of their roasted

and dried bodies, prepared as the _pièces de résistance_ for a “harvest

home.”

Of the _Cebi_, the Horned Sapajou (_Cebus Albifrons_), with the hair

of its forehead standing up so as to give the animal the appearance

of having a London waterman’s cap on, is one of the largest, while the

_Ouavapavi des cataractes_, which is very mild and intelligent, is of

small size. We remember once to have heard of a sort of compact which was

said to have been entered into between a monkey and a pig, the latter

of which carried the monkey a certain number of times round an orchard,

in consideration of the monkey’s climbing the apple-trees, and giving

them a shake for the benefit of the porker. Though not very old at the

time, we gave the narrator credit for being blessed with a very lively

imagination, albeit the story was told gravely and vouched as a fact. But

Humboldt actually saw, at Maypures, one of these domesticated Ouavapavis

obtaining his rides apparently without any such understanding; for this

clever monkey used to bide his time, and every morning caught a luckless

pig, which he compelled to perform the part of his horse. Seated on

pigback did he majestically ride about, the whole day, clinging to his

bristly steed as firmly as ever the Old Man of the Sea clung to Sinbad,

not even giving poor piggy a respite at meal times, but continually

bestriding him all the time he was feeding in the savanna that

surrounded the Indian huts. A missionary had another of these riders;

but the missionary’s monkey had laid the strong hand of possession on a

comfortable cat which had been brought up with him, carried him well, and

bore all his felestrian exploits with patience and good-humour.

The tail, which has become less and less prehensile in the genera last

noticed, becomes in _Callithrix_ no longer capable of use as a support.

The pretty playful little Siamiri, whose length hardly exceeds ten inches

exclusive of the tail, which reaches thirteen or fourteen, winds that

appendage like a boa round its body and limbs, reminding the zoologist

in some degree of the mode in which the white-fronted Lemur disposes of

his; and we now begin to observe, moreover, traces of insectivorous and

carnivorous appetite. The Macavacahow, at the sight of a bird, is roused

at once from its apparent apathy; darting on its victim like a cat, it

secures the prize, and swallows it in an instant, with all the actions

that mark the beast of prey.

In the Dourocouli, the Cara rayada of the missionaries, we observe traces

of the cat in appearance, voice, and manners. This curious animal is nine

inches in length; and its tail, which is hairy, but not prehensile, is

about fourteen; the head is large and round; the muzzle short; the eyes

very large; but there is no apparent external ear. Three dark stripes

are drawn on the head, and come down in front, the centre stripe on the

forehead and the two lateral ones reaching to the rounded corners of the

eyebrows.

The animal is, during the day, “a huge sleeper,” whence its name “Mono

Dormillon.” Humboldt, notwithstanding the warning of the natives, that

the Dourocoulis will tear out the eyes of slumbering men, kept one in

his bedroom. It slept regularly from nine in the morning till seven at

night; and sometimes it went to sleep at daybreak. It hated the light,

and, when disturbed, the lethargic animal could scarcely raise its heavy

white eyelids; and its large eyes, which, at nightfall, were lighted up

like those of an owl, were lustreless. It must have been but a restless

companion for the night: _then_ it was all exertion and activity, made

wild noises, and was constantly jumping up against the walls. It lived

for five months, but all attempts to tame it were fruitless.

The Dourocoulis are captured during the day by the natives, when they are

fast asleep in some hollow tree. The male and female are often taken in

the same hole, for they live in pairs. In a state of nature they pursue

small birds and insects, not neglecting vegetables, almost every kind of

which they will eat. Humboldt’s specimen was very fond of flies, which it

caught dexterously, and would even sometimes rouse itself for this chase

on a gloomy day. Its night-cry resembled that of the Jaguar, and it is

thence called _Titi-tigre_. The mewing notes which it occasionally sends

forth remind the hearer of a cat, and this resemblance is heightened when

the head of a Douroucouli in a state of irritation swells, and the animal

hisses or spits, throws itself into the position of a cat when attacked

by a dog, and strikes quick and cat-like with its paw. Its voice is very

powerful for its size. In the Leoncito, whose body does not exceed seven

or eight inches in length, we have much of the appearance of a tiny lion.

But it is in the genus _Pithecia_ that we have the nearest approach to

human likeness. There are some strong resemblances in the Couxio; but, as

Humboldt well observes, of all the monkeys of America, the Capuchin of

the Orinoco bears the greatest similitude in its features to man. There

are the eyes with their mingled expression of melancholy and fierceness;

there is the long thick beard; and, as this last conceals the chin, the

facial angle appears much less than it really is. Strong, active, fierce,

the Capuchin is tamed with the greatest difficulty, and, when angered,

he raises himself on his hinder extremities, grinds his teeth in his

wrath, and leaps around his antagonist with threatening gestures. If any

malicious person wishes to see this Homunculus in a most devouring rage,

let him wet the Capuchin’s beard, and he will find that such an act is

the unforgivable sin. There is one point, indeed, wherein our monkey

differs from civilised man—he very seldom drinks; but, when he does, the

similarity returns. Unlike the other American monkeys, which bring their

lips to the liquid, the Capuchin lifts the water in the hollow of his

hand, inclines his head upon his shoulder, and, carrying the draught to

his mouth in the cup of Diogenes, drains it with great deliberation. This

appears to be his mode of drinking in a state of nature; and Humboldt

thinks that it is adopted to prevent the wetting of the beard which

renders the animal furious, and which could not be avoided if the lips

were applied in the usual Simian mode. Our friend the Capuchin is about

two feet nine, bushy tail and all, of a brownish red colour, the hair

of the body being long, and that on the forehead having a direction

forwards. The beard, which arises below the ears, is brown, inclining to

black, and covers the upper part of the breast. His large sunken eyes

are overarched with well-marked brows, and his nails are bent, with the

exception of those on his thumbs. He is not gregarious, and is seldom

found in company with his female.

We must not omit to notice another of these _Pitheciæ_ with black face

and hands and a shorter tail, having a good deal of the general aspect

in miniature of one of those respectable, ancient, withered negroes,

who, after a long life of slavery, find themselves, in their old age,

transmuted, by legislative magic, into apprentices. This species, which

is termed the Cacajao, is hardly more than a foot long. It is voracious,

weak, very lazy, mild, easily frightened, and lives in troops in the

forests.

In _Callathrix_ and _Aotes_ the carnivorous propensity and character

are, as we have seen, joined to the general habits of the monkey; and

we proceed to finish this imperfect sketch of the American _Simiadæ_

by calling the reader’s attention to forms distinguished by a union of

that character and propensity with squirrel-like manners. Such are the

genera _Hapales_ and _Midas_. To the latter belong the pretty diminutive

Marikina or Silky Monkey and the Leoncito before alluded to. These,

though their way of life is but little ascertained, are supposed hardly

ever to quit the trees.

Of the debonnaire Ouistiti or Sanglain much more is known. This small,

delicate creature, with its rich pale grey coat, and pale greyish-white

ear-tufts, like the _ailes de pigeon_ of the old beau of other days,

feeds in its native woods not only on fruits, roots, and seeds, but also

indulges occasionally in insects and little birds. In captivity the

Sanglains are great pets, and Edwards relates a curious instance of the

craving for something that possessed life breaking out in one that was

the favourite of a lady. Once, when he was let loose, he snatched a gold

fish from its “watery glass,” and instantly killed and devoured it. The

lady, upon this, made him a present of some live eels, and, as the little

fellow was not more than eight inches long without his tail, these lively

gifts frightened him at first a good deal by twisting round his neck when

he seized them. His carnivorous nature, however, prevailed, and, without

a well-sanded hand, he soon mastered and ate them.

The great French naturalist Cuvier had an opportunity of observing their

domestic arrangements in a conjugal state. He had a pair who were blessed

with three young ones; but it seems to have been the Lady Sanglain’s

first accouchement, and she had no experienced female friend to direct

her; so after regarding her interesting progeny, she proceeded to bite

off the head of one of them; the other two, in the meantime, took to the

breast, and the moment the mother felt them she was all affection. The

papa was even more affectionate than the mamma, and assiduously assisted

in the nursery. The favourite position of the young ones was upon the

back or bosom of the mother; and, when she was tired of nursing she would

come up to her mate with a shrill cry, which said as plainly as cry could

speak, “Here! do take the children.” He, like a good-natured father,

immediately stretched forth his hands and placed his offspring upon his

back or under his body, where they held on while he carried them about,

till they became restless for want of that which he could not give them;

and then he handed them back to his partner, who, after satisfying their

hunger, again turned them over to their papa.

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“... Among recent publications in a cheap form, these works may

be warmly welcomed....”—_Lincoln Mercury._

“... The volumes are simply marvels of cheapness.”—_Oxford

University Herald._

“... Great praise is due to the enterprising publishers

for bringing out so charming a series at so low a

price.”—_Staffordshire Sentinel._

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satisfaction.... We trust the spirited publishers will be

encouraged by the success of the early issues to continue the

series for many months to come.”—_Northern Ensign._

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apart from the good taste displayed by the publishers in their

selection of popular literature, these volumes are got up in a

superior and more expensive style than the ordinary class of

novels.”—_Gateshead Observer._

“... The novels we have indicated are among the best and most

popular.”—_The Welshman._

“This series, each volume of which is published at one

shilling, is issued in the most attractive form, is solidly

bound and well printed, and will provide a choice library for

the youth of all who speak the English language.”—_Lloyd’s

Weekly Newspaper._

“Messrs. Ward, Lock, and Tyler are to be congratulated on the

successful manner in which they are carrying out their design

in the publication of the ‘Lily Series.’”—_Oxford Times._

“... Great credit is due to Messrs. Ward and Co. for thus

putting within the reach of the humblest some of the best light

literature of the age.”—_Oxford University Herald._

_For List of Volumes in the “Lily Series” see opposite page._

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1. =Beeton’s Fact, Fiction, History, and Adventure.=

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