ummoning the cook to her presence, received an explanation of the
mystery. The woman said, she had left the kitchen only for one minute,
and when she returned, she saw the monkey standing on the hob of the
kitchen grate, with one fore-paw resting on the lid of the boiler which
contained the soup. "Oh, Mr. Curiosity," she exclaimed, "that is too
much for you, you can't lift that up." To her horror and amazement,
however, he _had_ lifted it up, and was putting it on again after
popping the kitten in, whose remains were discovered at the bottom when
the soup was strained. The poor cook was so bewildered, that she did not
know what to do: it was time for the dinner to be served, and she,
therefore, for the look's sake, thought it best to send the soup in as
it was, even if it were sent out again immediately, "because you know
ma'am," said she, "that would prove you had ordered it. I always thought
the monkey would do the kitten a mischief, he was so jealous of it, and
hated it so because it scratched him, so he seized it when asleep."

A much better disposed monkey belonged to my eldest daughter; and we
brought him to England from the Gambia. He seemed to know that he could
master the child, and did not hesitate to bite and scratch her whenever
she pulled him a little harder than he thought proper. I punished him
for each offence, yet fed and caressed him when good; by which means I
possessed an entire ascendancy over him. He was very wretched in London
lodgings, where I was obliged to fasten him to the bars of a stove, and
where he had no fresh air; and he was no sooner let loose than he tried
to break everything within his reach; so I persuaded his young mistress
to present him to the Jardin des Plantes. I took him there; and during
my stay in that place paid him daily visits. When these were
discontinued, the keeper told me that he incessantly watched for my
return, and it was long before he recovered his disappointment, and made
friends with his companions in the same cage. Two years after, I again
went to see him; and when I stood before him and said, "Mac, do you know
me?" he gave a scream of delight, put both his paws beyond the bars,
stretched them out to me, held his head down to be caressed, uttering a
low murmur, and giving every sign of delighted recognition.

The most melancholy of all monkeys is, apparently, the Chimpanzee; and
although he has perhaps evinced more power of imitating man than any
other, he perf