seems to express feelings common to ourselves, and hence we like it. The interest attaching to a comparison of the vocal apparatus of animals with that of man has long been appreciated, and the hope has been entertained of being able to explain the nature of all kinds of voice by studying the structure of the organs. Toward the end of the last century, Vicq d'Azyr attacked this problem. Having collected larynges of a number of animals, he regarded them with a sort of enthusiasm; he expected to get from them a revelation. "It is a fine spectacle," said he, "to see at a glance the structure of those infinitely-diversified instruments with which each animal produces its own proper modulations, thus contributing to Nature's grand concert."
The anatomical characters of the vocal apparatus are now pretty well known as regards most of the mammalia. The larynx of these animals is formed upon the same plan as that of man; in monkeys, the resemblance is extreme. The impossibility of speaking is due, as we have reason to suppose, to the conformation of the buccal cavity, the lips, and the tongue. The studies of naturalists, which as yet have not been directed to this point, do not warrant any positive statement: nevertheless, the power possessed by some species of pronouncing one or two syllables justifies a presumption. Does not this vestige of speech indicate the very limited extent of a faculty, not even a trace of which is found in most animals. In 1715 the great Leibnitz announced to our Academy the existence in Meissen of a talking dog, "a peasant's clog, of the most ordinary appearance, and of medium size." This extraordinary animal had learned, says the narrator, some thirty words; these it would repeat after its master. The historian of the Académie des Sciences declares that he would not have ventured to state such a fact "without such an authority as M. Leibnitz, an eye-witness." But, despite so high an authority, the story is a fable. Of the most intelligent dog we still must say, "All he lacks is speech." Were it not that Nature raises an obstacle, surely monkeys that live in the company of man would make the attempt to speak. We must conclude that their intelligence does not incline them toward this sort of imitation, and that their organs are not adapted for articulation.
It is a curious and very interesting fact that, before receiving instruction of any kind, young deaf-mutes who live together quickly discover means of understanding each other, so that they hardly ever misinterpret the feelings and wants expressed by the gesticulations, touches, and facial-muscle action, agreed upon. This instance of a convention between individuals not possessed of the power of employing language of necessity carries our thoughts to the actions of certain animals. The mammalia have a voice that is susceptible of inflexions and intonations more or less diversified according to the species; these they employ in making known to each other their appetites, their wants, to call one another, to announce to one another their
