Let us for a moment study the character of the monkey. I quote from the celebrated book by Brehm, who conscientiously relates what he himself noticed. 'When the monkey-suckling is unable to do anything for itself, the mother is all the more gentle and tender with it. She occupies herself with it unceasingly, sometimes licking it, sometimes running after it or embracing it, looking at it as though revelling in the sight of it; then she lays it against her breast and rocks it to sleep. When the little monkey grows bigger the mother grants him a little freedom, but she never loses sight of him; she follows his every step and does not permit him to do everything he likes. She washes him in the brooks and smooths his fur with loving care. 'At the least danger she rushes to him with a cry, warning him to take refuge in her arms. Any disobedience is punished with pinches or cuffs, but this seldom happens, for the monkey does not do what its mother objects to. The death of the young one is, in many cases, followed by that of the mother from grief.[11] After a fight monkeys generally leave their wounded on the field; only the mothers defend their young against every enemy, however formidable. At first the mother tries to escape with the young one, but if she falls, she emits a loud cry of pain and remains still, in a threatening attitude, with wide-open mouth, gnashing her teeth, and menacing the enemy with outstretched arms.’ [11] Brehm: _Thierleben_, p. 49. Leipzig, 1883. Davancel tells of the profound emotion he experienced after having killed a monkey. 'The poor animal had a young one with her, and the bullet hit her in the region of the heart. She made a last effort, placed the young one on the branch of a tree and then fell down dead. I have never felt,’ he says, 'greater remorse at having killed a creature, which, even in dying, showed feeling so worthy of admiration.’[12] Whether this is instinct or affection, whether there is any difference between the love of man and of the monkey, I do not feel called upon to decide. I acknowledge that it is necessary for the maintenance of the species that things should be thus, nor need our admiration for mechanisms made in this way suffer any diminution. I do not think I deserve praise for loving my mother. I remember what she did for me; and even if all our affection were only a simple automatic correspondence of instincts, if I knew that neither had the power to act otherwise, I should be just as glad to be constituted in such a manner that I cannot repress the throbbings of my heart whenever her face rises in my memory. I do not think that my tears and sorrow show less of love on that account. And if I still feel myself drawn to the grave of the mother who died long years ago, thus cherishing her memory by visiting it in the greatest joys and sorrows of my life, I am glad to be an automaton feeling the religion of love in this renewal of the grief and tears of the last farewell.