maintain, and to complain of, our inarticulate mode of speaking, as we
have of theirs--indeed much more--for monkeys speak the same, or nearly
the same, language all over the habitable globe, whereas men, ever since
the Tower of Babel, have kept chattering, muttering, humming, and
hawing, in divers ways and sundry manners, so that one nation is unable
to comprehend what another would be at, and the earth groans in vain
with vocabularies and dictionaries. That monkeys and men are one and the
same animal, we shall not take upon ourselves absolutely to assert, for
the truth is, we, for one or two, know nothing whatever about the
matter; all we mean to say is, that nobody has yet proved that they are
not, and farther, that whatever may be the case with men, monkeys have
reason and speech.

The monkey has not had justice done him, we repeat and insist upon it;
for what right have you to judge of a whole people, from a few isolated
individuals,--and from a few isolated individuals, too, running up poles
with a chain round their waist, twenty times the length of their own
tail, or grinning in ones or twos through the bars of a cage in a
menagerie? His eyes are red with perpetual weeping--and his smile is
sardonic in captivity. His fur is mouldy and mangy, and he is manifestly
ashamed of his tail, prehensile no more--and of his paws, "very hands,
as you may say," miserable matches to his miserable feet. To know him as
he is, you must go to Senegal; or if that be too far off for a trip
during the summer vacation, to the Rock of Gebir, now called Gibraltar,
and see him at his gambols among the cliffs. Sailor nor slater would
have a chance with him there, standing on his head on a ledge of six
inches, five hundred feet above the level of the sea, without ever so
much as once tumbling down; or hanging at the same height from a bush by
the tail, to dry, or air, or sun himself, as if he were flower or fruit.
There he is, a monkey indeed; but you catch him young, clap a pair of