Part 21

As long as the female has not decided for either of the combatants, she takes no part in such struggles, does not appear even to be interested, though she must observe them closely, as she usually declares for the winner, or at least accepts his suit. How her decision or declaration is actually brought about I cannot say, I cannot even guess. While the battles described are in progress she makes her choice, and from thenceforward she gives herself unreservedly to the favoured male, follows him wherever he goes, accepts his demonstrations of affection with obvious pleasure, and returns his caresses with the most self-forgetting tenderness. She calls longingly after him, greets him joyously, and submits unresistingly to his desires and fondlings. Parrot pairs sit with their bodies closely pressed together, though hundreds may have settled on the same tree; the most complete unison is observable in all their doings; they are as if guided by one will. Does the husband take food, the wife takes it too; does he seek a new perch, she follows him; does he utter a cry, she joins her voice to his. Caressingly they nestle in each other’s plumage, and the passive female willingly offers head and neck to the eager male, thus to receive proofs of his tenderness. Every other female bird receives the caresses of her mate with similar, if somewhat less obvious devotion. She knows neither moods nor vexatious humours, neither sulking nor anger, neither scolding nor upbraiding, neither displeasure nor discontent--nothing but love, tenderness, and devotion, while the male thinks of nothing but his happiness in his newly-acquired treasure, and has no desire but to retain it. While he sometimes arranges or decides for her, he yields to the wishes of his mate; when she rises, he, too, leaves his perch; when she wanders abroad, he follows her; when she returns, he also comes back to the home of his youth. Little wonder that the wedlock of birds is happy and blameless. If the birds united for life grow old themselves, their love does not grow old with them, but remains ever young; and every spring-time fresh oil is poured upon the flame; their mutual tenderness does not diminish during the longest wedded life. Both mates faithfully take their share of the domestic cares at the time of nest-building, hatching the eggs, and bringing up the young. The male devotedly assists the female in all the labours required by their brood; he defends her courageously, and will unhesitatingly rush into obvious danger, even to death, to rescue her. In a word, from the beginning of their union they share each other’s joys and sorrows, and, except in unusual circumstances, this intimate bond lasts throughout life. There is no lack of direct evidence in proof of this. Keen-eyed naturalists, who have observed certain birds for many successive years, and have at length come to know them so well that they could not confuse them with others of the same species, have given us their guarantee for the birds’ devotion, and all of us who have given special attention to the birds which have come under our notice must be led to the same conclusion. A pair of storks on the roof of a house give the owner so many opportunities for observing them and distinguishing them from other storks that error is almost out of the question; and whoever watches his storks will find that the same pair occupy the nest every year as long as both live. And every naturalist or sportsman, who carefully notes wandering bird-pairs, or shoots them if the differences of sex are not readily distinguishable, will find that they are really male and female. In the course of my travels in Africa I often saw pairs of migrating birds which there, too, lived in the close fellowship so characteristic of bird-wedlock, and were as inseparable as in the thicket at home, doing all and enduring all in common. Pairs of booted eagles were easily recognizable as mates even when they travelled or took shelter in company with others of their species; the whistling swans which I saw on the Menzaleh Lake in Egypt appeared in pairs and flew away again in pairs; all the other united pairs which I observed on my way illustrated the same habit. That they share misfortunes as well as pleasures together, I learned from a pair of storks I observed on a pool in South Nubia, to whom my attention was attracted because they were there at a time long after all others of their species had sought a refuge in the interior of Africa. To discover the cause of this prolonged stay I had them shot, and I found that the female had a broken wing which prevented her travelling farther, and that the male, himself thoroughly sound, had remained, for love of her, in a region where all the conditions of comfortable wintering were awanting. The close and faithful bond between pairing birds is severed only by death.

This is the rule, but it is subject to exceptions. Even among monogamous birds unfaithfulness occurs sometimes, though rarely. Firmly as the females are wont to keep faith with their mates, and little as they are inclined to cast furtive glances at other males, or even to accept them as friends when they obtrude themselves, the specially brilliant gifts of some stranger may exercise a seductive influence. A master-singer who far surpasses the husband in song, an eagle who excels in all or at least in many respects the one selected by a female, may seriously disturb the happiness of a nightingale or eagle marriage, may perhaps even entice the female away from her rightful spouse. This is evidenced by the bachelors who fly about before and during the brooding-time, intruding audaciously into the domain of a wedded pair and boldly sueing for the favour of the female, and by the jealous fights which begin at once between the lawful husband and the intruder, and which are usually fought out without the aid of the female. The conduct of a suddenly widowed female, who not only immediately consoles herself by pairing again, but sometimes even accepts the assassin of her first mate, points, at least to a certain extent, in the same direction. On the roof of the manor of Ebensee, near Erfürt, there brooded for years a pair of storks who, though they lived in complete harmony, were never without contests, suffering perpetually from the intrusion of strangers, who attempted to get possession of nest and female. One spring there came upon the scene a male who far surpassed all previous suitors in assertiveness and persistence, and forced the paterfamilias to be always fighting, or at least to be constantly on the watch. One day, wearied with his struggles, he sat upon the nest apparently asleep, with his head under his wing, when suddenly the intruder swooped down upon him, transfixed him with his bill, and hurled him lifeless from the roof. And the widow? She did not drive the infamous assassin from her, but unhesitatingly allowed him to fill his victim’s place, and went on with her brooding as if nothing had happened.

This and the facts already mentioned are not to the credit of the females, but I should like to emphasize that they are so much outweighed by the evidence on the other side, that they must be considered as exceptions which prove the rule. And if the females should be judged apparently or actually guilty, it must not be forgotten that the males, with far more reason to be faithful than the less numerous females, sometimes forget their conjugal ties. Whoever thoroughly knows pigeons, which are erroneously regarded as the type of all conceivable virtues, is aware that they are far from deserving the reputation which has been handed down in the legends of the ancients. Their tenderness is captivating, but it is not constant; their faithfulness to wife and children is extolled, but it does not stand a test. Quite apart from their unfatherliness, the male pigeons are only too often guilty of transgressions against the inviolable laws of marriage, and not seldom employ the time in which their mates are brooding in dallying with other females. Drakes are even more blamable, and the male red-legged partridges are no better. As soon as the ducks have settled down to brood, the drakes assemble and pass the time together as best they can, leaving their mates to toil, and worry, and undertake all the cares for the coming generation, and only returning to the ducks, perhaps not to their own mates, when the young have grown big and self-reliant and no longer need their help. But the red-legged partridges, and probably our partridges also, during the pairing-time, put in an appearance wherever another cock announces himself in order to fight a round with him, and they are often allured and killed by the Spaniards, with the help of tame cocks of their own species. Later, however, when brooding has begun and they have no longer any inclination to fight, they respond to the call of the hens, if possible, more readily than before.

But, as has been said, such cases form exceptions to the rule, and cannot be compared in any way with what occurs among polygamous birds. Many have tried in vain to explain the polygamy of cowbirds, cuckoos, pheasants, woodcocks, turkeys, quails, peacocks, and ruffs, but as yet no satisfactory explanation has been offered. To say that the cuckoo and its nearest relations do not brood nor live in wedlock and rear their own offspring because they must always be ready to direct their flight towards a caterpillar horde, wherever that may appear, is to talk at large, not to explain--for the cowbirds, too, intrust their brood to the care of foster-parents; and with regard to the supposition that polygamy, occurring among a few exceptionally persecuted species of fowl, is a provision of Nature for securing to these a numerous progeny, it is difficult to see why that end might not have been attained in the same way as among other fowls, which, though monogamous, are not less prolific.

While employing the expression polygamy, I am quite aware that it is usual to speak of plurality of wives among birds. Such a state is unknown to me, and its existence, to my knowledge, is not corroborated by any observations of indisputable accuracy. For the passion is mutual, and the longing of the females is as boundless as that of the males. The female cuckoo mates with one male to-day and another to-morrow, may indeed bestow her affections on several in the course of an hour, and the hen yields herself to one cock as readily as to another. It is simply out of the question to talk of mating among them at all. The males only concern themselves temporarily about the females, and the females about the males; each sex goes its own way, even separating entirely from the other, and taking no interest in its lot beyond the limits of the pairing-time. Boundless desire, and consequently excessive jealousy, imperious demands submissively acceded to, mad wooing readily accepted, and thereafter complete indifference towards each other, are the main characteristics of the intercourse between the sexes of these birds. These explain, too, the fact that among them much oftener than among other birds crossing takes place, and mongrels or hybrids are produced, which lead a miserable existence, and either pine away without progeny, or, by mating with the true offspring of the race, lead back to the type again. Cross-pairing does indeed occur among other, that is monogamous, birds, but only when the absence of a mate of their own species impels them to seek one of another; whereas among polygamous birds chance and tempting opportunity seem as determinative as such a dilemma.

It may be necessity, the absolute necessity of providing for the brood just hatched or still slumbering within the egg, which compels the female of monogamous birds to change her widowhood for a new alliance more quickly than the male can console himself for the loss of his wife. Whether her grief is really less than the widower’s may be doubted, emphatically against her though appearances are. Other female birds act exactly like the stork on the Ebensee. A pair of magpies brooding in our garden were to be killed because we feared for the safety of the numerous singing-birds which we protected and encouraged in the same garden. At seven o’clock in the morning the male bird was shot, and barely two hours later the female had taken another mate; in an hour he too fell a victim; at eleven o’clock the female had contracted a third alliance. The same thing would have occurred again, but that the alarmed female, with her last-annexed mate, flew away from the garden. One spring my father shot a cock partridge; the hen flew up, but soon alighted and was immediately wooed by another cock, whom she accepted without more ado. Tchusi-Schmidthofen took away no fewer than twenty males from the nest of a black redstart within eight days, and only then left the twenty-times widowed and just as often consoled bird to the undisturbed enjoyment of her connubial bliss.

Exactly the opposite of such apparent inconstancy is seen in the case of a male bird that has lost his mate. Screaming loudly, complaining piteously, demonstrating his grief by voice and actions, he flies about the corpse of his loved one, touches it perhaps with his bill as though he would move it to rise and fly away with him, raises anew his heart-rending cries, which are intelligible even to man; wanders within his range from place to place, pausing awhile, calling, coaxing, and complaining, now in one favourite spot, now in another; neglects to take food, throws himself angrily on other males of his species as if he envied them their happiness and would make them share his own misfortune; finds no rest anywhere, begins without finishing, and acts without knowing what he does. So he goes on for days, perhaps weeks, in succession, and often he remains as long as possible on the scene of his misfortune, without making any expeditions in search of a fresh mate. Certain species, by no means only those parrots so appropriately named “inseparables”, but finches and others, even horned owls, after such a severe blow lose all joy in life, mourn quietly, and literally pine away until released by death.

One of the chief causes, if not the sole cause, of such deep grief may be the great difficulty, sometimes the impossibility, of finding and winning another mate. The female has often no time for grief, for, sooner or later, sometimes immediately, new suitors appear and so overwhelm her with attention and tenderness that she must let herself be consoled whether she will or not. And if, in addition, anxiety about her brood fills her motherly heart, all other thoughts give place to that, and no room is left for enduring grief. But if she, too, has a difficulty in replacing her loss, she expresses her sorrow no less distinctly than the male. But sometimes she does even more, for she may voluntarily forego a new alliance. A sparrow widow, carefully observed by my father, though she had eggs to hatch, and, later, young ones to rear, accepted none of her suitors but remained unmated, and fed her clamouring brood alone with indescribable toil. Another touching incident proving the grief of widowed birds is vouched for by Eugen von Homeyer. The wedded bliss of a pair of storks, nesting on the roof of that experienced naturalist’s house, was brought to a sudden end by one of those detestable bird-shooters or would-be sportsmen who killed the male. The sorrowing widow fulfilled her maternal duties without choosing another mate, and migrated in autumn to Africa with her brood and others of her species. The following spring she reappeared on the old nest, unmated as she had left. She was much wooed, but drove all suitors away with vicious digs of her bill; she mended her nest busily, but only to preserve her right to occupy it. In autumn she migrated with the rest, returning in spring, and proceeding as before. This occurred eleven years in succession. In the twelfth, another pair attempted to take forcible possession of her nest; she fought bravely for her property, but did not attempt to secure it by taking another mate. The nest was seized, and she remained single. The interlopers retained and made use of the nest, and the rightful owner was seen no more, but, as afterwards transpired, she passed the whole summer alone in a district about ten miles distant. Scarcely had the other storks departed, when she returned to her nest, spent a few days in it, and then set out on her journey. She was known throughout the whole district as “the solitary”, and her misfortune and behaviour won for her the friendly sympathy of all kind-hearted men.

And such behaviour is only the movement of a machine obedient to some external guiding force? All these expressions of a warm and living emotion which we have depicted occur without consciousness? Believe that who can, maintain it who will. We believe and maintain the opposite; the conscious happiness of the love and wedded life of birds appears to us worthy of our envy.

APES AND MONKEYS.

Sheikh Kemal el Din Demiri, a learned Arab, who died at Damascus about the year 1405, according to our reckoning, relates in his book, Heiat el Heivan; or, The Life of Animals, the following wonderful story, which is based on one of the Prophet’s utterances:--

“Long before Mohammed, the Prophet and Messenger of God the All-merciful, had kindled the light of Faith, before Issa or Jesus of Nazareth had lived and taught, the town Aila, on the Red Sea, was inhabited by a numerous population who professed the Jewish faith. But they were sinners and unrighteous in the eyes of the Lord, for they desecrated continually the sacred day of the All-merciful, the Sabbath. In vain did pious and wise men warn the sinful inhabitants of the godless city; they disregarded the command of the Almighty as before. Then those who had warned them forsook the unholy place, shook the dust off their feet, and resolved to serve Elohim elsewhere. But, after three days had passed, the longing for home and friends drove them back to Aila. There a wonderful sight met their gaze. The gates of the town were shut, but the battlements of the walls were unguarded, so that they were not hindered from climbing over them. But the streets and market-place of the unhappy town were deserted. Where formerly the restless sea of human life had surged and swelled, where buyers and sellers, priests and officials, artisans and fishermen, had mingled in a motley throng, gigantic baboons now sat and crouched, ran and climbed; and from the windows and recesses, the terraces and roofs, where dark-eyed women had tarried, she-baboons now looked down upon the streets. And all the giant monkeys and their comely mates were sad and downcast, and they gazed with troubled eyes on the returned pilgrims, pressing closely to them with complaining moans and prayerful cries. With surprise and sadness the pious pilgrims gazed upon the strange sight, until to one of them came the comfortless thought that these might be their former relatives degraded to monkeys. To make certain, the wise man went straight to his own house. In the door of it, likewise, there sat a baboon; but this one, when he saw the righteous man, cast his eyes with pain and shame to the ground. ‘Tell me, by Allah the All-merciful, O Baboon,’ said the wise man, ‘art thou my son-in-law Ibrahim?’ And sadly the baboon answered, ‘Eva, Eva’ (I am). Then all doubt vanished from the mind of the pious man, and he recognized that, by God’s heavy judgment, the impious Sabbath-breakers had been transformed into ‘monkeys’.”

Sheikh Kemal el Din does not indeed venture to call this miracle in question, but as a thinking man he cannot refrain from expressing the opinion that perhaps the baboons may have existed before there were any Jews.

We, for our part, prettily imagined and related as the story is, accept this interpretation the more readily, that the apes with which the pious zealots of Aila may have had to do are old acquaintances of ours. For in Arabia there occur only the Hamadryas or sacred baboons; and we find the same excellently depicted on very ancient Egyptian monuments. It was the arrangement of their hair which appeared to the ancient Egyptians so remarkable that they chose it as a model for their sphinxes; while to this day it serves as a pattern for the coiffure of the dusky beauties of the Eastern Soudan. The sacred baboon holds a very important place in ancient Egyptian theology, as we learn, among other things, from Horapollon, interpreter of hieroglyphs. According to him the monkey was kept in the temples and embalmed after death. He was considered the inventor of writing, and was therefore not only sacred to Thoth or Mercury, the founder of all science, but a near relative of the Egyptian priests, and, on his ceremonious entrance into the sanctuary, he was subjected to an examination, in which the priest thrust a writing tablet, ink, and pen into his hand, and called upon him to write, that they might see whether he were worthy to be received or not. It was also maintained that he stood in secret relations with the moon, and that the latter exercised an extraordinary influence over him; and, finally, he was credited with the faculty of dividing time in so obvious a manner, that Trismegistus took his actions as the model after which he constructed his water-clock, which, like the monkey, divided day and night into twelve equal parts.

It is worthy of note that, while the ancient Egyptians regarded a relationship with the monkeys as probable, they did not deem it possible that they should be descended from a monkey stock. Such a view of the degree of relationship between man and monkey is first met with among the Indians. From very ancient times until the present day there has prevailed among them a belief that at least a few royal families are descended from one of the sacred monkeys, the Hanumân or Entellus, which, in India, is held as sacred, in a certain sense even as divine, and that the souls of departed kings return to the bodies of these monkeys. One of the reigning families, in particular, shows its pride in this descent through its adopted title of honour--“tailed Rana”.

Similar views to those prevailing among the Indians have come into vogue among ourselves in recent times, and the monkey question, which I should like to discuss shortly, yet so as to be generally understood, has raised much dust. A scientific question, of little general interest to the laity, has not only fanned pious anger to blazing flames, but has divided serious naturalists into two different parties who defend their respective positions with excited warmth. Circles, altogether alien to scientific investigation, have taken up the strife, without knowing or suspecting its real import and bearing, have even carried it into realms where it could only be productive of mischief, and have thereby caused a confusion which will not readily be cleared up. To discuss monkeys at all has therefore become a bold undertaking, for, in speaking of them, one runs a risk either of degrading the reputed ancestor, or, through him, of offending the supposed descendants--to say nothing of the inevitable abuse of the most pitiable kind which ill-mannered fanatics, blindly struggling against the spirit of the age, hurl at him who ventures to utter the word monkey. Nevertheless, the monkey question will not readily disappear from the order of the day; for these animals, so evidently our nearest relatives in the animal kingdom, are much too deserving of our sympathy, to allow of our being deterred by sentimental considerations from investigating their life and habits and comparing them with our own, that we may so enlarge our knowledge at once of monkeys and of men.

The following is a contribution to such knowledge:-

A general life-picture such as I wish to sketch is not easily condensed into few words, since the different species of monkeys vary so widely. There are about four hundred, or, at any rate, considerably more than three hundred species, and they inhabit every part of the world with the single exception of Australia; but they are found chiefly in the countries within the tropics. In America their range extends from twenty-eight degrees of southern latitude to the Caribbean Sea; in Africa it stretches from thirty-five degrees southern latitude to the Straits of Gibraltar; in Europe their occurrence is limited to the Rock of Gibraltar, where, from time immemorial, a troop of about twenty magots or Barbary macaques have existed, and are now protected and preserved by the garrison of the Fort. Forests and rocky mountains, which they ascend to a height of more than 8000 feet, are their favourite habitats. In such places they remain, with the exception of a few species, year in year out, giving heed to the rotation of the seasons only to the extent of undertaking more or less extensive expeditions through the forest in search of ripening fruits, or ascending the mountains at the beginning of the warm season, and descending again before cold weather sets in; for, though they may be met with even in snow-covered regions, they are as fond of warmth as they are of abundant and varied diet. Something to bite and crack there must be if they are to remain permanently or for any length of time in a place; failing that, they shift their quarters. Woods in the neighbourhood of human settlements are to them a paradise; the forbidden tree therein troubles them not at all. Maize and sugar-cane fields, orchards, banana, plantain, and melon plantations they regard as their rightful and peculiar feeding-grounds, and districts where they are protected by the piety of the inhabitants they also consider very agreeable places of abode.

All monkeys, with perhaps the exception of the so-called anthropoid apes, live in bands of considerable strength under the leadership of an old male. The occupant of this post of dignity rises to it by recognized all-round ability; the strongest arms and longest teeth decide the matter. While among those mammals which are led by a female member of the herd the rest obey willingly, the monkey-leader is an absolute despot of the worst type, who compels his subjects to unconditional obedience. If anyone refuses submission, he is brought to a sense of his duty by bites, pinchings, and blows. The monkey-leader requires the most slavish submission from all the monkeys of his herd, females as well as males. He shows no chivalry towards the weaker sex--“In Sturm erringt er der Minne Sold”.

His discipline is strict, his will unbending. No young monkey dare presume to make love to one of the females of his herd; no female may venture to show favour to any male except himself. He rules despotically over his harem, and his seed, like that of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, is like the sand of the sea-shore for multitude. If the herd becomes too large, a troop separates itself, under the leadership of a full-grown male, to form a new community. Till then the leader is obeyed by all, and is as much honoured as feared. Old experienced mothers, as well as young scarcely grown-up females, strive to flatter him; exerting themselves especially to show him continually that highest favour one monkey can render to another--cleansing his hairy coat from all things not appertaining thereto. He, on his part, accepts such homage with the demeanour of a pasha whose favourite slave tickles his feet. The esteem which he has been able to evoke gives him confidence and dignity of bearing; the battles in which he has constantly to take part give him watchfulness, courage, and self-control; the necessity of maintaining his authority develops circumspection, astuteness, and cunning. These qualities are certainly used in the first place for his own advantage, but the rest of the community also benefit by them, and his unchallenged supremacy thus receives some justification and stability. Ruled and guided by him, the herd, though violent storms may rage within it, leads on the whole a very secure, and therefore a comfortable life.

All monkeys, except the few nocturnal species, are active by day and rest at night. Some time after sunrise they awake from sleep. Their first business is to sun and clean themselves. If the night is cold and inhospitable, they attempt to improve their comfortless couch by thronging together in a heap, or rather a cluster; but are still so cold in the morning that a long sun-bath seems absolutely necessary. As soon as the dew is dry, they leave their sleeping-places, climb to the tree-top or to the highest point of the rock, select a sunny seat, and leisurely turn themselves about on it till every part of their bodies has been exposed to the sun. When the fur is dried and thoroughly warm it is ready for cleaning, and each monkey sets to work eagerly and carefully, or requests and receives from one of his fellows the service which he, in his turn, is always ready to do to others.

When the fur has been cleaned, and, if necessary, brushed into sleekness, the monkeys begin to think of breakfast. This presents no difficulty, for they refuse nothing that is edible, and a tax is levied on the animal and the vegetable kingdom alike. Forest and mountainous districts afford fruits, leaf and flower buds, birds’ nests with eggs or young, snails and grubs; gardens yield fruit and vegetables, fields supply cereals and pulses. Here a ripening ear is broken off, there a juicy fruit is gathered, in the tree a bird’s nest is plundered, on the ground a stone is turned over, in a settlement a garden is stripped or a field robbed, and something is carried away from all. If he has time, every single monkey destroys ten times as much as he eats, and can therefore very materially damage the produce of the farmer, gardener, or fruit-grower. At the beginning of an expedition each monkey, in his anxiety to secure himself a meal whatever may happen, devours almost indiscriminately whatever he can reach; then, if he possesses cheek-pouches, he stuffs these as full as possible; but as soon as his most pressing necessities are relieved, he selects and criticises every bite, carefully examining and smelling every fruit he plucks, every ear he breaks, before eating it, and indeed in most cases simply throwing one thing after another carelessly away to seize something different, which as often as not is rejected in its turn. “We sow, and the monkeys reap,” the inhabitants of the Eastern Soudan complained to me, and with justice. Against thieves like these, neither fence nor wall, lock nor bolt, are sufficient protection; they climb the first, and open the last; and what they cannot eat they carry away. It is at once amusing and painful to watch them feeding, for then, as at all times, their behaviour is a mixture of boldness and artfulness, bravado and cunning, love of enjoyment and caution, and indeed also of trickery and spitefulness, impudence and malevolence. All their skill and dexterity is brought into play when an undertaking seems dangerous. They run, climb, leap, if need be even swim to overcome obstacles; but in no case do they forget their care for their individual safety. The commander always leads the way, and coaxes, calls, chides, warns, cries, scolds, and punishes as seems to him good; the herd follows and obeys, but without ever entirely trusting him. In danger every member of the herd looks out for its own safety, rejoining the leader after that is assured; the mothers with a young one at their breasts, or on their backs, are an exception, for they are, or seem to be, less concerned about their own safety than that of their child.

When their expeditions are not attended with danger they often rest, and give the young ones opportunity to amuse themselves together; but when there is any danger they finish their expedition and then enjoy a period of rest and relaxation, during which they often indulge in a siesta to help their digestion. In the afternoon they set out on another foraging expedition; towards sundown they repair to their usual sleeping-place, which is as far as possible out of the reach of beasts of prey, and, after prolonged wrangling and disputing, scolding and brawling, they seek their well-earned rest.

Apart from occasional compulsory or apparently profitable migrations, the order of the day above described suffers little change. Reproduction, which brings about such marked changes in the lives of other animals, has very little influence on that of the monkeys, for it is limited to no special time, and the mothers carry their young ones with them wherever they go. The young ones, of which most species produce only one at a birth, come into the world as well-developed creatures, with open eyes, but according to our ideas they are extremely ugly, and, notwithstanding their comparatively advanced development, very helpless creatures. They appear ugly because their wrinkled faces and wide open, lively eyes give them the expression of an old man, and their short hair makes their long fore limbs look longer than they really are; they show themselves helpless in that they can make no use of these limbs except to attach themselves to their mother’s breast. Here they hang, with arms and hands round her neck, legs and feet round her hips, without seeming to move anything but their heads for weeks together, and the mother is therefore able, without being appreciably burdened, to go about her ordinary affairs, and wanders as usual along the most breakneck paths, or indulges in the boldest leaps. After some time, rarely within a month, the little ones begin to attempt some movements, but perform them so awkwardly that they excite pity rather than laughter. Perhaps because of this very helplessness, the little monsters are watched and handled by their mothers with such tenderness that the expression “monkey-love” is fully justified. Every monkey mother finds constant occupation in looking after her baby. Now she licks it, now cleans its coat, now lays it to her breast, now holds it in both hands as if she wished to feast her eyes on it, and now she rocks it as if to lull it to sleep. If she sees that she is watched she turns away, as if she grudged anyone else a sight of her darling. When it is older and able to move about it is sometimes allowed to leave its mother’s breast for a little, and to play with others like itself, but it remains meanwhile under strict control, and, if it does not obey instantly, is punished with slaps and pinches. The maternal care extends even to the food. Greedy as the mother generally is, she divides every bite with her young one, yet she does not allow it to hurt itself by too hasty or immoderate eating, but interferes, in such a case, with motherly prudence. But there is rarely any necessity for such interference or for severe punishment, for the monkey-child is obedient enough to be held up as an example to many a human one. Very touching is the conduct of the mother when her little one is obviously suffering; if it dies she is in despair. For hours, even days, she carries the little corpse about with her, refuses all nourishment, sits indifferently in the same spot, and often literally pines to death. The young monkey itself is incapable of such deep grief, and it is also better taken care of than most other animals if it loses its mother. For the next best member of the band, whether male or female, possessed by that love of mothering something, which is strong in all monkeys, takes charge of the little orphan and caresses it warmly. Unfortunately, however, the foster-parent is often at war with its better self about its beloved food, and it may leave a young one, not old enough to help itself, to pine with hunger, perhaps even to die of starvation.

It is difficult, if not impossible, to say anything of general application about the talents of monkeys, because these vary as widely as the animals themselves. Some traits are indeed common to all, but most of their characteristics vary considerably in the different species. A disposition which in one is scarcely observable is pronounced in another, a trait which is prominent here is sought for in vain there. But if we compare the different families, groups, and species together, we shall observe a surprising, because unsuspected gradation of talents and abilities. It is instructive to proceed in this way.

We must regard the graceful, little, clawed monkeys or marmosets of South and Central America as the least developed members of the monkey order. They have the same dentition as the higher monkeys, but they have flat nails only on the large toe, while on all the other toes and the fingers they have narrow claw-like nails, which place their hands and feet, or the former at any rate, on the level of paws. These outward features correspond to their mental endowments. Monkeyhood, we may say, has not reached its full development in the family of marmosets. Not only in form and colour, but in their carriage, in their whole character and behaviour, even in their voice, they remind us of the rodents. They seldom sit upright, and at the best are rather like squirrels than like other monkeys; they prefer to stand on all-fours with the body horizontal; they do not climb easily and freely, with hands and feet clasping the branch, like others of their order, but, sticking their claws into it, they press close to it and glide along, not of course slowly or unskilfully, but rather as rodents than as monkeys. Their voice, too, is quite different from that of all the higher monkeys; it is a whistling in high notes which now reminds one of the chirping of a bird, now of the squeaking of rats and mice, but perhaps most of all of the sound made by the guinea-pig. Their behaviour generally is decidedly rodent-like. They exhibit the uneasiness and restlessness, the curiosity, shyness, and timidity, the inconstancy of squirrels. Their little heads only remain a few seconds in one position, and their dark eyes are directed now towards this object now towards that, but always hastily, and obviously without comprehension, although they seem to look out on the world intelligently enough. Every action they perform shows their slight power of judgment. As if without will, they act on the suggestion of the moment; they forget what they have just been doing as soon as their attention is diverted, and they prove just as fickle in the expression of their contentment as of their displeasure. At one moment they are good-humoured, apparently quite satisfied with their lot, perhaps grateful for caresses from a friendly hand, the next they are snarling at their keeper just as if their lives were in danger, showing their teeth, and trying to bite. As irritable and excitable as all monkeys and rodents, they yet lack the individuality which every higher monkey exhibits, for one acts exactly like another, without originality and always in a somewhat commonplace fashion. They have all the attributes of cowards--the complaining voice, the reluctance to adapt themselves to the inevitable, the whining acceptance of all circumstances, the morbidly suspicious habit of finding in every action of another creature some hostility to themselves, the desire to swagger while in reality they carefully keep out of the way of every real or supposed danger, and an incapacity either to make resolutions or to carry them out. Just because there is so little of the true monkey about them they are preferred by women and despised by men.

On a decidedly higher level stand the Broad-nosed or New-World monkeys, which also inhabit America, though even in these, the full character of the true monkey is not attained. The dentition numbers a molar more on each side of the jaws than in the higher apes, thus there are thirty-six teeth instead of thirty-two; all the fingers and toes have flat nails; the body seems more slender than it is, because the limbs are very long; the tail is used, in many cases, as a powerful grasping-organ. The one-sidedness of their development is very characteristic. Exclusively arboreal like the marmosets, they are awkward, even clumsy when away from the branches of the trees. On the ground their gait is extremely ungainly, uncertain, and tottering, particularly in those species which have a prehensile tail, but even their climbing does not come at all near that of the Old-World monkeys. For increase of the number of organs of locomotion does not necessarily result in increased power, still less in greater variety of movement; on the contrary, it often means one-sidedness, and it certainly does so in the case of the New-World monkeys. Their prehensile tail is not to them a fifth, but a first hand, used in hanging or fixing the body, in lifting things or dragging them along, and so on; but it does not make their movements more rapid or free, it adds to safety but not to agility. Thanks to the constant use of the tail, its owner never runs a risk of falling from the lofty branches--safe because high--to the dangerous ground beneath, but neither is he able to make any free or daring movement. Slowly he sends his prehensile tail in advance of every step, always catching hold with it first, and only then letting go with hands or feet. Thus he binds himself to the branch rather than climbs upon it, and never thinks of attempting a leap whose success is in the least doubtful. In this constant carefulness for his own precious person the broad-nosed monkey impresses one not so much with his prudence as with his slowness, and it is noteworthy that the whole character of the New-World monkeys bears this out. Their voice is not quite so monotonous as that of the marmosets, but it is unpleasant, not to say tiresome. It runs through many grades, from a whine to a roar, but it has, invariably, a mournful character, and the whole demeanour of the animal, when it cries, is pessimistic. After a cool, dewy night, the morning sun shines warm and golden through the trees, and a thousand-toned song of joy and greeting leaps forth in welcome from a million throats. The howlers prepare to offer their tribute of praise also. But how? They have climbed to the dry top branches of a giant tree which rises high above its fellows, have fastened themselves securely by their tails, and are warming themselves comfortably in the sunshine. Then a feeling of well-being moves them to raise their voices. One of them, distinguished, it is said, by a specially high, shrill voice, acts as leader, and, looking fixedly at his companions, begins to chant. The rest look at him with the same motionless vacant stare and join in; and frightfully their song resounds through the forest, now grunting, now howling, now snarling, now rattling, as if all the beasts of the forest were waging deadly warfare. The astounding performance begins with a bellowing solo; these bellowings become louder, follow each other more rapidly as the excitement of the singer--which is probably present though not apparent--increases and spreads to other members of the community; then they change into howling and roaring, and they end as they began. If one looks at the long-bearded, serious singers one can scarcely keep from smiling; but soon the indescribable discords they produce become as wearisome as their monotonous climbing, or rather creeping movements. What one does another imitates, but whatever they may do, howsoever they may act, their behaviour is always monotonous. Very much like these, or not essentially different, are all the monkeys with prehensile tails; though a few prominent members of the family, the Capuchin monkeys for instance, are rather more free and independent. In general, they are as heavy mentally as physically--usually very gentle, good-natured, and confiding, but stupid, peevish, fretful, and some of them obstinate, malicious, and spiteful. They thus stand considerably higher than the marmosets, but far below the Old-World monkeys. Probably it would hardly be doing them injustice to say that they possess the bad qualities without the good qualities of their Old-World cousins. Their gentleness and good-nature--apart from the fact that these are not found in all the species, do not in the least make up for their general lack of enterprise, boldness, cheerfulness, liveliness, and decision, circumspection and ingenuity--qualities which place the Old-World monkeys so high--while their everlasting whining and complaining counterbalance, in our eyes, all the qualities which might attract us to them.

The monkeys of the Old World, like those of the New, fall into two groups to which the rank of families may perhaps be granted, although the dentition is essentially alike in both. We call the one type Dog-like, the other Man-like, and we may go the length of saying that the former teach us what monkeyhood really is, while the latter rise above it. For the first group especially, my opening remarks hold good. Among them we find monkeys beautiful and ugly, attractive and repulsive, lively and serious, good-natured and malicious. Really misshapen monkeys there are none, for we must admit that even those which appear to us ugly are symmetrical in form. Yet some of them are, in many respects, odd-looking creatures. Their chief external characteristics are, the more or less protruding muzzle, reminding one of a dog’s, the proportionately short arms, the tail, always present though often shortened to a mere stump, the more or less developed ischial callosities, and the cheek-pouches present in most species. The dentition includes the usual number of thirty-two teeth arranged in an unbroken series. They occur in all three continents of the Old World, and are most numerous in Africa.