“No, decidedly not!” I cried; “it shall never be said that I chose for the hero of my tale a cowardly, sneaking, voracious brute, whose name has become synonymous with cunning, hypocrisy, and knavery—a fox, in fact.”
“You are wrong,” replied one whose presence I had overlooked.
I must tell you that my lonely hours had been beguiled by a creature of a species hitherto undescribed by the naturalist, who performed slight services, and was at that moment engaged in arranging the books in my library. The reader will no doubt be surprised to learn that an orang-outan—literally, man of the woods or wilds—possessed a library. His astonishment will be still greater when he is informed that the chief works in my collection were penned by philosophic apes, and that most of them contain elaborate disquisitions on the descent of apes from the human species. This by the way.
Perhaps the dependant who addressed me would be called a “familiar spirit.” Although spirits are not totally unknown, I am unacquainted with those of the familiar type; I will therefore, with your leave, name this one Breloque.
“You are wrong,” he repeated.
“Why?” I indignantly inquired. “Will your love of paradox tempt you to defend the cursed, corrupted race?”
“I think,” replied Breloque, leaning on the table with an air of arrogance most ludicrous to behold, “that bad reputations, as well as good ones, are sometimes usurped, and that the species in question, or at least one example with whom I became acquainted, is the victim of an error of this sort.”
“So then,” I said, “you are speaking from personal experience?”
“Quite so, sir; and were it not that I fear wasting your precious moments, I would try and convince you of your error.”