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Let us now see what instinctive qualities we inherit from our forefathers, and what others we acquire through our own experience.

Long ago Galen performed a very simple and instructive experiment. He cut a kid out of the body of its mother, laid it immediately on the ground, and, near its head, dishes in which were oil, wine, honey, vinegar, water, and milk. He then stood to observe the first movements of the animal. After trembling a little, the kid got up, scratched itself, smelt a few of the dishes, and at last drank the milk.

There are birds which, scarcely out of the shell, catch flies with such precision that one is astonished at their bringing with them skill such as must usually be acquired by long practice. Certain butterflies, on leaving the cocoon, fly at once into the air, directing their flight with the most perfect accuracy towards the flowers, to suck the nectar from their cups.

We shall return to this point when we investigate fear in children. Let us here only state that, at his birth, man is far less perfect than many animals. He must acquire by education and experience much knowledge of which animals are possessed at the beginning.

The less care parents give to their young, the more completely do they furnish them through heredity with instinctive knowledge; the less considerable this inheritance, the more care and attention must parents give to their offspring in order to keep them alive.

This apparent inferiority in the gifts of instinct at birth is, as it is with the gifts of fortune, fully compensated for by the greater capability of those animals to increase their intellectual capacity by education, and by the work of their own experience to surpass by far animals more favoured by instinct; so it is with man, who subjugates them all.

Let us think of the tremendous difficulties which walking presents to man. Children are at first very much afraid of falling, even before they have experienced such a thing. Every movement is performed with difficulty; it is at first a task painfully learnt; gradually it becomes less a matter of reflection, until at last one can scarcely call it voluntary. We may not call it automatic, because when the will to make us walk is wanting we do not move, but when we have once set out on a walk, or to make a journey, we may go on for a long time without reflecting in the least that we are walking.

Ribot[10] tells of a violoncellist who suffered from epileptic vertigo, during which he became unconscious. He earned his living by playing in the orchestra of a theatre, and it was often noticed that he continued playing in time, even after he had lost consciousness. It has happened to all of us to read aloud without understanding what we have read, or absent-mindedly to write one word for another, and many will have experienced such extreme fatigue that they have slept while walking. There are endless phenomena proving that movements which at first cost a great effort of the will, become at length so habitual that we perform them without being aware of it.

Now what is the cause of this transformation of voluntary into automatic movements?

When we first try to execute a series of complicated movements the brain must work hard. If the cells of the upper story—that is, of the convolutions—do not take part in it, it all comes to nothing; the assistance of all the organs of sense is necessary in order to shed light on the confusion of orders and counterorders which must be sent to all the fibres of the muscles. The work is accomplished under the direction of a competent, enlightened administration; but through repetition of the same work, easier paths, broader lines of communication are formed in the lower story of the brain, and gradually the same work can be performed by the cells of the lower part—that is, without the co-operation of the will. This is easy to understand. The oftener a thing is repeated, the more the mechanism tends to become permanent, and it ends in the work being despatched by the less noble parts of the brain.

The serious aspect of the question is, that physiologists would like to catalogue many qualities which we have always considered as the most noble of our character, the most sublime feelings of human nature, amongst the automatic movements and more material instincts in the lower story of the brain.

For instance, for the maintenance of our species the love of the mother for her children is indispensable. The lower animals that produce a numerous offspring may carelessly abandon them, but when the progeny is sparse, there is no other way to preserve the species than through the greater and more prolonged attention on the part of the parents.

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.’

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.