Horses tremble when they see a tiger, and are no longer able to run. Even monkeys cannot move when in great fear. The gibbons, the most agile of all monkeys, when taken by surprise on the ground, passively allow themselves to be bound by man. Seals become so agitated when surprised and pursued on shore, that they fall at every step, snort, tremble, and cannot defend themselves. I quote a passage taken from Brehm’s 'Animal Life,’ in order to show in what an ignoble way man makes use of the disastrous effects which fright produces. Seals are very intelligent animals, and so good-tempered, that on lonely islands they look with the utmost indifference at travellers arriving there, and such is their trust, that they tranquilly allow them to pass or stop in their midst, while they sun themselves on the shore. But as soon as they learn from sad experience to know this terrible destroyer of animals, they become so cautious that they are with difficulty approached or surprised out of the water. 'To the south of Santa Barbara, in California, there is a plateau, rising about thirty metres above the level of the sea, which is a favourite place of repose with the seals. As soon as the boats were lowered, the animals descended from the plateau and plunged into the sea, where they stayed till all danger was over and the crew reassembled on board. The attempt to surprise them was repeatedly made without success, until one day, when a fresh wind was blowing from the plateau towards the ship, and a thick fog afforded effectual concealment. The crew landed at a certain distance, and, keeping to leeward, crept cautiously up to the herd, then rushed suddenly upon them, shouting noisily and brandishing guns, clubs, and spears. Overwhelmed with fear, with staring eyes, their tongues hanging out of their open mouths, the poor animals remained motionless, petrified, until at last the oldest and most courageous males tried to break through the line of destroyers who closed the way towards the sea. But they were killed before they reached the water, the crew then slowly approaching the others, which retreated just as slowly. An attack of this kind soon becomes a butchery, because the poor animals lose all hope of escape, and abandon themselves helplessly to their fate. This herd numbered seventy-five seals, and when all had been killed with clubs and spears but one single animal, the crew thought to try whether it would allow itself to be driven on without resistance. Forced on by its cruel persecutors, the poor creature moved as well as it could over the thorns and undergrowth, until at last, wounded and bleeding, it stopped, stretched out its fins full of thorns to the sailors, as though to move them to pity and beg for mercy. A blow from a club on its head put an end to its sufferings.’[30] [30] Brehm: _Thierleben_, vol. iii. 1883, p. 601. And this is Man! III