laryngoscope, and see the changes which succeed one another in the low and high notes. At the moment when the sound issues, the glottis is exactly closed; then the orifice becomes a very long figure, pointed at the two extremities. As the sound rises, the vocal lips approach each other, and seem to divide the orifice into two parts; then as the highest notes are sounded, there is but a slit the width of a line. The vocal lips change like the glottis; they stretch out, harden, thicken, and vibrate more and more as the voice rises. Women, who have a smaller larynx and shorter vocal lips, can sing higher notes than men, with a tone less powerful, but sweeter, more uniform, and melodious.

The ordinary limits of the voice comprehend about two octaves of the musical scale: it can easily be increased to two and a half; but some reach the very exceptional range of three, and three and a half. Thus at the commencement of this century, Catalani astonished every one who heard her, as a sort of prodigy. Suppleness and intensity may be acquired by practice, as has been proved in the case of many singers: the voice of Marie Garcia was harsh, but it became at last the delicious one of Madame Malibran. In general, the natural gift is manifested without culture; the child endowed with this great charm warbles like a bird for amusement; a lover of art passes by, listens with surprise, and promises glory and fortune to the rival of the lark. Thus the famous Rubini won his triumphs. Occasionally the singer has in a moment lost all power, and an enchanting voice will disappear never to return; such a misfortune befell Cornelia Falcon.

Those who have watched the formation of vowels and consonants can describe very precisely the positions which the lips, tongue, and palate take in articulation. Yet almost identical sounds can be produced with different positions. As we all know, the teeth are a great help to pronunciation, but a person who has lost all his teeth can modify the play of the lips and tongue and express himself intelligibly. Actors imitate the voice of public characters so as to make the illusion complete. The ventriloquist can make his voice issue as if from a cavern. When misfortune has deprived a man of the whole or part of his tongue, he can still hold a conversation, though the sounds are never particularly agreeable. All this shews that there is nothing absolute in the actions which form words, though in general the same organs play similar parts. Those who were born deaf have ceased to be dumb by interpreting the movements of the mouth with wonderful certainty: they guess the words of the speaker instead of hearing them, and so learn to speak by imitation, their speaking, however, being seldom well modulated. There are now several institutions where the poor creatures who have been deprived of one of their senses can acquire a means of communicating with their companions without the tedious intervention of writing. The master indicates to the child how he must open his mouth, place his tongue and lips; he then draws the pupil's hand over his own larynx, so that he may feel the movement. Those who, like the writer, have seen this reading from the lips, will be struck with the surprising delicacy of the impressions made on the eye which has been thus cultivated.

In comparison with the human voice, that of animals seems poor indeed. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the bleating of sheep, cannot be called language, in the proper sense. Yet the larynx of these creatures is on the same plan as that of man. Among monkeys the resemblance is perfect. To all appearance the impossibility of speaking is due to the formation of the lips and tongue. In 1715 Leibnitz announced to the French Academy that he had met with a common peasant's dog that could repeat thirty words after its master. In spite of such an authority, we must always say when we most admire the intelligence of this faithful companion: 'He only wants words.' So well endowed with memory, affection, and intelligence, he can only express his joy by sharp, short expirations of air through the glottis. Howling is a prolonged note in the pharynx, excited by deep grief or pain. Yet they in common with many other animals can communicate with each other in a marvellous manner when they wish to organise an expedition. A dead bullock was lying in a waste far from all habitations, when a solitary dog, attracted by the smell, came and fed upon it; immediately he returned to the village and called together his acquaintances. In less than an hour the bones were picked clean by the troop.

Opportunities for studying the language of wild animals are rare: they fly from man, and when in captivity they become nearly silent, only uttering a few cries or murmurs. Travellers have sometimes been able to watch the graceful movements of the smaller African apes. Living in the branches of trees, they descend with great prudence. An old male, who is the chief, climbs to the top and looks all around; if satisfied, he utters guttural sounds to tranquillise his band; but if he perceive danger, there is a special cry, an advertisement which does not deceive, and immediately they all disperse. On one occasion a naturalist watched a solitary monkey as he discovered an orange-tree laden with fruit. Without returning, he uttered short cries; his companions understood the signal, and in a moment they were collected under the tree, only too happy to share its beautiful fruit. Some kinds possess a curious appendage, a sort of aërial pouch, which opens into the interior of the larynx and makes a tremendous sound. These howling apes, also called Stentors, inhabit the deepest forests of the New World; and their cries, according to Humboldt, may be heard at the distance of one or two miles.

If it be ever possible to observe the play of the larynx of animals during the emission of sounds, the subject will be a very curious one. The difficulty seems almost insurmountable, as their goodwill must be enlisted; yet M. Mandl, full of confidence in his use of the laryngoscope, does not despair. After man, among animated nature, the birds occupy the highest rank in nature's concerts; they make the woods, the gardens, and the fields resound with their merry warbles. Cuvier discovered the exact place from which their note issues. They possess a double larynx, the one creating the sounds, the other resounding them: naturalists call the apparatus a drum. Thus two lips form the vocal cords, which are stretched or relaxed by a very complicated action of the muscles. This accounts for the immense variety of sounds among birds, replying to the diversity in the structure of the larynx.

The greater number of small birds have cries of joy or fear, appeals for help, cries of war. All these explosions of voice borrow the sounds of vowels and consonants, and shew how easy and natural is articulation among them. Those species which are distinguished as song-birds have a very complicated vocal apparatus. For the quality of tone, power, brilliancy, and sweetness, the nightingale stands unrivalled; yet it does not acquire this talent without long practice, the young ones being generally mediocre. The parrots which live in large numbers under the brightest suns, have a love for chattering which captivity does not lessen. Attentive to every voice and noise, they imitate them with extraordinary facility; and the phenomenon of their articulating words is still unexplained. It is supposed that there is a peculiar activity in the upper larynx. As a rule, they attach no meaning to what they say; but there are exceptions. When very intelligent and well instructed, these birds—such as Mr Truefitt's late parrot, an account of which appeared in this Journal in 1874—can give a suitable answer to certain questions.

Our notes on this interesting study come to a close. Man is well served by his voice; words are the necessity of every-day life; singing is its pleasure and recreation, whether the performers are human beings or birds.