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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MRS. BEETON’S BOOK OF
HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT.
Comprising every kind of Practical Information on Domestic Economy and Modern Cookery, with numerous Woodcuts and Coloured Illustrations, showing the Modern Mode of Serving Dishes.
Uniform with “Household Management,” half-bound, 7s. 6d.; half-calf, 10s. 6d.
BEETON’S BOOK OF HOME PETS. Showing how to Rear and Manage in Sickness and in Health—Birds, Poultry, Pigeons, Rabbits, Guinea-Pigs, Dogs, Cats, Squirrels, Tortoises, Fancy Mice, Bees, Silkworms, Ponies, Donkeys, Goats, Inhabitants of the Aquarium, &c. &c. Illustrated by upwards of 200 Engravings, and 11 beautifully Coloured Plates by Harrison Weir and F. Keyl.
Just Ready, cloth gilt and gilt edges, price 5s.
HOUSEHOLD AMUSEMENTS AND ENJOYMENTS. Comprising Acting-Charades, Burlesques, Conundrums, Enigmas, Rebuses, and a number of New Puzzles in endless variety. With folding Coloured Frontispiece.
Uniform with “Beeton’s Book of Birds,” cloth elegant, gilt edges, price 3s. 6d.
BEETON’S BOOK OF POULTRY AND DOMESTIC ANIMALS. Showing How to Rear and Manage in Sickness and in Health—Pigeons, Poultry, Ducks, Turkeys, Geese, Rabbits, Dogs, Cats, Squirrels, Fancy Mice, Tortoises, Bees, Silkworms, Ponies, Donkeys, Inhabitants of the Aquarium, &c. &c.
⁂ This Volume contains upwards of One Hundred Engravings, and Five Coloured Plates from Water-Colour Drawings by Harrison Weir.
BOOK OF BIRDS. Showing How to Rear and Manage in Sickness and in Health. Cloth elegant, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. With Engravings and Coloured Plates after Harrison Weir.
Just published, New and Revised Edition, crown 8vo, cloth, price 7s. 6d.
A MILLION OF FACTS of Correct Data and Elementary Information in the Entire Circle of the Sciences, and on all Subjects of Speculation and Practice. Much Enlarged, and Carefully Revised and Improved, and brought down to the Present Year. A large amount of new matter added.
⁂ With an Elaborate Index to the Volume.
Just Published, price 7s. 6d., half-bound.
TREASURY OF NATURAL SCIENCE. From the German of Professor Schoedler, with numerous additions by Henry Medlock, F.C.S Fourth Edition, with Copious Index, and upwards of 500 Engravings.
One Thousand Illustrations, price, 10s. 6d., half-bound.
THE SELF-AID CYCLOPÆDIA FOR SELF-TAUGHT STUDENTS. Comprising General Drawing; Architectural, Mechanical, and Engineering Drawing; Ornamental Drawing and Design; Mechanics and Mechanism; the Steam-Engine. By Robert Scott Burn, F.S.A.E., &c., Author of “Lessons of My Farm,” &c. 690 pages, demy 8vo.
NEW AND HANDSOME JUVENILE BOOKS.
Just Ready.
Nursery Songs and Ballads. Uniform with “Harry’s Ladder.” 8 Coloured Cuts, and numerous Plain Illustrations. Cloth extra. 5s.
Nursery Tales and Stories. Uniform with “Songs for the Little Ones.” 8 Coloured Cuts and numerous Plain Illustrations. Cloth extra. 5s.
The Book of Brave Old Ballads. With 16 Coloured Illustrations. Cloth gilt, extra. 5s.
The Child’s Popular Fairy Tales. 16 Coloured Illustrations. Cloth gilt, extra. 6s.
Good Old Stories. 8 Coloured Illustrations. Cloth gilt, extra. 3s. 6d.
Harry’s Ladder to Learning. With 16 Coloured Plates. Cloth gilt, extra. 5s.
Old Nursery Tales and Famous Histories. 8 Coloured Illustrations. Cloth gilt, extra. 3s. 6d.
Songs for the Little Ones at Home. 16 Coloured Illustrations. Cloth gilt, extra. 5s.
The Boy’s Handy Book of Natural History. With numerous Illustrations by William Harvey and others, and 16 Coloured Illustrations. Post 8vo, extra cloth, full gilt side, back, and edges. 5s.
The Boy’s Own Sea Stories: Being the Adventures of a Sailor in the Navy, the Merchant Service, and on a Whaling Cruise. Narrated by Himself. Thick post 8vo. Numerous Illustrations. Extra cloth gilt, and gilt edges. 5s.
BEETON’S PRIZE LIBRARY,
FOR YOUNG GENTLEMEN, BIRTHDAY GIFTS, OR ANNIVERSARY REWARDS.
THE ADMIRABLE PRESENTATION VOLUMES FOR BOYS.
Edited by S. O. BEETON.
1,104 pages 8vo, with Forty Page Engravings, printed on toned paper, and upwards of One Hundred and Twenty Wood Engravings in the Text, price 5s.; extra gilt and gilt edges, 6s.
1. Beeton’s Fact, Fiction, History, and Adventure.
2. Beeton’s Historical Romances, Daring Deeds, and Animal Stories.
3. Beeton’s Brave Tales, Bold Ballads, and Travels by Sea and Land.
4. Beeton’s Tales of Chivalry, School Stories, Mechanics at Home, and Exploits of the Army and Navy. A Book for Boys.
5. Beeton’s Hero Soldiers, Sailors, and Travellers in Kafirland, Gymnastics, Telegraphy, Fire-Arms, &c.
London: WARD, LOCK, & TYLER, Warwick House, Paternoster-row, E.C.