singular example of what I conclude may legitimately be called the reasoning faculty in the truest sense of that term. Seeing his anxiety to obtain a small piece of apple which I held in my hand, I resolved to test his powers of reason and of discrimination in the following way. I showed him the piece of apple, and as he tried to grasp it I allowed it to slip down the sleeve of my coat, after the familiar fashion of the childish conjuring trick. "Cetchy" viewed the disappearance of the apple with surprise, and minutely examined my hand--unclosing my fingers, to see if I had concealed it therein. Allowing the morsel to again come into view, but being careful to avoid showing its place of concealment, I again passed it up my sleeve. "Cetchy" again narrowly examined my hand, turning it over so as to see the back of the hand, but of course without success. The peculiar dissatisfied grunt with which "Cetchy" greeted his want of success was both characteristic and amusing. I then repeated the operation for the third time, when "Cetchy" at once, and without examining my hand again, passed his hand into my sleeve, and extracted from its hiding-place the coveted morsel, which I may add was entirely concealed from the monkey's view. As time passed, it is important to note that "Cetchy" did not trouble himself to investigate the hands in search of the missing apple. Repetition of the trick acquainted him with its rationale, and his hand went directly to the sleeve for the coveted morsel. In this case we may, I think, safely conclude that the hiding-place of the morsel was first detected simply by an exercise of that common and tacit "reason" through which we ourselves gain a knowledge of the unknown. In the human subject, it is almost needless to add, such reason" may be exercised as unconsciously as, no doubt, it was put in force by the mangabey.

Recognition of friends and places, through the exercise of memory, is a faculty eminently possessed by monkeys. A baboon recognised Sir Andrew Smith at the Cape of Good Hope, after an absence of nine months. "Sammy," the capuchin, was deposited by me in the Zoological Society's Monkey-house, and was visited thereafter by several friends and myself at intervals. The friends were resident in London, and, as they saw him at tolerably frequent intervals, it was not surprising that he should at once recognise them on their entering the Monkey-house. My first visit to Sammy was paid after an interval of between two and three months. I approached his cage amongst the crowd of visitors and waited. "Sammy," at that moment, was perched high up on a cross-bar. All at once he apparently spied me; for rushing down with a scream of joy, he

came to the spot where I stood, and, thrusting his hands through the bars of the cage, embraced my hands in his own, and screamed so loudly that the keeper hurried round in alarm to investigate the cause of the commotion. At frequent intervals, I was similarly recognised; indeed, up to the date of his death, the memory of this kind little monkey was active and clear, as his affection for his friends was unabated. My experience agrees with that of Mr. Romanes described in his recent work on "Animal Intelligence," from which I quote the following account: "I returned the monkey" (a Brown Capuchin), says Mr. Romanes, "to the Zoological Gardens at the end of February, and up to the time of his death, in October 1881, he remembered me as well as the first day that he was sent back. I visited the monkey-house about once a month, and whenever I approached his cage he saw me with astonishing quickness—indeed, generally before I saw him—and ran to the bars, through which he thrust both hands with every expression of joy. He did not, however, scream aloud; his mind seemed too much occupied by the cares of monkey-society to admit of a vacancy large enough for such very intense emotion as he used to experience in the calmer life that he lived before. Being much struck with the extreme rapidity of his discernment whenever I approached the cage, however many other persons might be standing round, I purposely visited the monkeyhouse on Easter Monday, in order to see whether he would pick me out of the solid mass of people who fill the place on that day. Although I could only obtain a place three or four rows back from the cage, and although I made no sound wherewith to attract his attention, he saw me almost immediately, and with a sudden intelligent look of recognition ran across the cage to greet me. When I went away he followed me, as he always did, to the extreme end of his cage, and stood there watching my departure as long as I remained in sight." More recently, "Jenny," the macaque, at present resident in the Zoo', has recognised me, although with less demonstration than "Sammy" exhibited. "Polly," the little common macaque, on my first visit after her translation to the Zoo', rushed from the centre of the cage on seeing me, without my having in any way attracted her notice, and stretched her hand out as if in friendly recognition.

An interesting and every way affecting incident occurred in the experiences of two little Hamadryad baboons, which I kept at home for a short period. Owing to the baboons being persecuted by the inmates of the cage, I removed them from the large cage and confined them in a smaller habitation. One afternoon, the male baboon

being taken ill, I removed him from the society of his partner, and placed him in a basket near the fire for the sake of the warmth. The female, left in her cage, began to utter low whines of complaint, and appeared to be distressed at the enforced separation from her partner. The male was left for the night in his basket. In the morning, being sufficiently recovered, he was restored to the cage. Immediately on his entrance he was seized by his partner, who placed her arms round his neck, stroked his face, and exhibited the liveliest affection at his restoration to his domestic hearth. Anything more affecting, or more exactly imitative of human affection, could not have been imagined; and the occurrence of such a trait of character in the baboons seems to show that these "hideous" animals, as Mr. Wallace terms them, are by no means destitute of at least some share of the cerebration of higher forms.

That the full mental and social history of the apes has yet to be written admits of no doubt; and that renewed and extended observations will more than repay the labour of the naturalist is an idea which is confirmed by the knowledge already at our command. On the whole, I maintain that the intelligence of monkeys is, firstly, of a markedly human type in most respects; whilst secondly, their mental life appears to me to represent that of the childish stage of human mind-development. In many of the acts of certain monkeys we see a picture of human life and manners at a stage before reason has asserted her full sway over the actions of the individual, and when such traits and faculties as curiosity, imitation, wonder, &c., are prominently represented in our existence. As the naturalist maintains that certain animals represent "permanent larval forms" in the groups to which they belong, so the monkeys may be held to illustrate a permanent embryo or initial stage of that higher life seen in man—a life built up, confessedly, of emotions; traits and faculties often seen in germ-form in groups of quadrupeds of lower rank than that held by the despised apes. The close observation of the ape-tribe, in fact, tends to demonstrate that, instead of our being led to rank these animals as psychically low, and as taking a humble place in respect of their intelligence, we must assign to them the highest rank among quadrupeds, when judged by the standard applied to other animals, or even to man himself. It is no wild dream, but a sober vision of science, that the causes which have tended to raise the ape-family in the scale of being, are largely identical with those to which man owes his proud designation as "the paragon of animals."

ANDREW WILSON.

VE

SEPOY AND ARAB.

VERY little has been published, so far as I gather, that even suggests the point of view our Indian troops adopted during the late war. But this question is, in truth, far graver than the mere issue of a campaign. It may reasonably be hoped that the British soldier will always emulate the deeds of his ancestry. Though he had sustained a check at Tel-el-Kebir, the issue would have been only deferred. But for the Sepoy it was all new experience, and more important matters lay at stake than victory in the field. It was not the first time he had left India for active service. An Afghan war is a special thing for him. Even the Moslem Sepoy loses sight of the community of creed under the influence of inherited hatred and traditional wrongs. The only other case I recollect where operations were carried on for a length of time against Sunni Mahomedans was the Perak affair. But the Indian would not feel that a Malay was his co-religionist, nor could he get up enthusiasm for a people whose civilisation is so conspicuously inferior to his own. It was all otherwise in Egypt. The name of the land was familiar, sanctified in some degree by constant allusion in pious legends. The language of the foe was a sacred mystery to him, the people were conspicuous in his sight as descended from the companions of the Prophet. Their civilisation was his, modified by the same influences from Frangistan which irritate the Indian Faithful. It was a great trial of loyalty the Sepoy underwent, and his behaviour under the circumstances might well claim the notice of thoughtful men.

Government, no doubt, has confidential reports in abundance, showing what those best qualified to see and estimate the facts thought upon this subject. But the public, as I understand, has no information. This lack is owing not to want of "enterprise" in the press, nor, we may hope, to want of ability in the correspondents. It is due to the action of Lord Wolseley, which I have no need to criticise. He recognised but one army in the field, his own, to which one correspondent was allotted. "Indian Contingent" was a phrase he would not accept, and those members of the press who had left London expressly to join it, in the hope of marching across

the desert, were enjoined to stay at Ismailia. The "Indian Contingent," if I may be allowed to use the words, went to the front, leaving its chroniclers behind. The single correspondent attached to Lord Wolseley's direct command had work enough, detailing the actions and feelings of the English troops. So it happened that the special work of the Sepoys, and of their British comrades also, passed unrecorded. Who knows what took place on the south side of the canal during the fight at Tel-el-Kebir? In one or two instances, such as the seizure of Zagazig, the admirable service of the Indians could not be overlooked. But there was not, nor could be, any report of the Sepoys' behaviour, such as thoughtful people must have wished to hear. My own opportunities for remark were meagre, but I used them as I could. Let it be premised that I am not describing sentiments necessarily permanent. Reflection, possibly the charm of distance, and the influence of piously political superiors may weaken the feelings prevailing at the time. I should not incline to think they will, but we shall see.

Generally speaking, then, the impressions of the Sepoys appeared to be contempt and dislike. For the Mahomedans amongst them, the consciousness of a common creed only intensified this feeling. It was a practice of the Egyptians, after we reached Cairo, to spread their carpets and pray ostentatiously in the neighbourhood of Indian troops; Pathans once displayed the same illusion. But they took little by the silent appeal. The Sepoys looked on with interest, but it was not friendly. Once I saw a group of soldiers, belonging to the 20th N. I., who actually criticised the performance. Probably they remarked some difference in the manner of genuflection. For reasons that I did not understand, the Khedive personally was regarded with especial contempt. An officer suggested that this might be the outcome of Turkish intrigues in Hindustan, and it is possible. I have sometimes thought that if the Moslem Sepoys had been introduced to Cairo at the outset, its wealth, and palaces, and order, they might have been otherwise impressed; but their minds were made up before they reached that place. Though they delight in show, and respect costly appearance, Arab magnificence did not impress them. I remember the visit which Sultan Pasha and his suite paid to Colonel Sir Owen Lanyon in Ismailia. I chanced to come up whilst the horses stood outside. Their trappings were handsome, if eccentric to our eyes, especially those of the chief; blue velvet, with gold and silver fringes, and what not. A number of Sepoys stood round, with contemptuous curiosity in their faces, making remarks. Said an Afridi sergeant, nearer seven feet high than six feet, with an oath so forcibly