THE INTELLIGENCE OF THE ELEPHANT.
In determining the intelligence of an animal, we naturally take ourselves
as the type of mental excellence, and grade the lower animals as they
approach us. Some would place the ant next to man, arguing that it more
closely resembles him in its habits, customs, and methods of showing
what we consider the result of intelligent action. It keeps domestic
animals (_aphis_), goes to war in organized bodies, makes slaves of other
insects, erects wonderful structures, is accredited with planting seeds,
and certainly stores them up after arranging them so that they cannot
sprout; in fact, appears to act in many ways like a rational human being:
and, contrasted to it, the elephant, dog, horse, and beaver would seem to
be comparatively stupid animals; at least, such would be the verdict of
the observer who mistakes instinct for reason. Such a comparison seems
unfair to the other animals mentioned; and to argue that the elephant is
not as intelligent as the ant because it does not build a house, and lay
up a food-supply, would hardly be just, as the great proboscidian does
not require such shelter: and, without instancing any more examples, it
would appear, that, to establish the relative intelligence of an animal,
it should be judged, not especially by the standard of another, but
according to its displayal of what we term thought; and this leads us to
consider how thought may be exhibited in an animal. Instinctive action
is something that is done without appreciable thought: thus, a colt
instinctively kicks at an enemy, as a kitten spits at a dog. The fear
of this animal has been present in all the generations of cats, and is
inherited, as shown by the protest in the curve of the back, the raising
of the tail, and other familiar methods of expression. So we may, without
multiplying instances, consider that instinctive action is the outward
expression of inherited experience, and has practically nothing in common
with that action of the mind which we call thought. If this kitten when
it grows older,—and I know of an instance,—should without instruction
climb upon a door, and lift the latch, she would be exhibiting a
practical illustration of the results of thought: in other words, she
would lift the latch because she knew that the door could not be opened
without it, and consequently had, in her feline mind, turned over to
some extent the relations that existed between the latch, the door, and
the object she had in view. So if the colt should go to a pump, as a cow
is alleged to have done, and take the handle in its mouth without being
taught, and pump water to drink, it would show that the animal had used
its powers of thought. Now, what position does the elephant take in the
scale of intelligence?
The Hindoos of the present day do not consider the elephant a remarkably
intelligent animal. Yet at one time its sagacity was certainly
appreciated, as the Hindoo god of wisdom is figured with the body of a
man and the head of an elephant; and A. W. Schlegel states that in very
early times they marvelled at every thing about the animal, especially
its sagacity, which made it seem to them the embodiment of the god
Ganessa.
Probably Dr. Dalton expresses the latest knowledge touching this subject.
He says,—
“If we examine the comparative development of the hemispheres of the
brain in different species of animals, and in different races of men,
we shall find that the size of these ganglia corresponds very closely
with the degree of intelligence possessed by the individual.... Among
quadrupeds, the elephant has much the largest, and most perfectly
formed, cerebrum, in proportion to the size of the entire body; and, of
all quadrupeds, he is proverbially the most intelligent and the most
teachable. It is important to observe, in this connection, that the
kind of intelligence which characterizes the elephant and some other of
the lower animals, and which most nearly resembles that of man, is a
_teachable_ intelligence,—a very different thing from the intelligence
which depends upon instinct, such as that of insects, for example, or
birds of passage.”
In a previous chapter I mentioned that Mr. H. H. Cross informed me that
he had seen an elephant of the Barnum herd select a stick, and probe the
small orifice in the temple. Since then I have seen a statement by Mr.
Cross in print, to the effect that he has seen the elephant select a
twig, examine it carefully with one of its keen little eyes, by holding
it up in its trunk, and, if it found it was not sharp enough for the
purpose, deliberately grind down the point by rubbing it upon a stone,
and, when its shape suited him, use it to open the orifice.
In Africa, according to Drummond, the wild elephants migrate south
in time for certain fruits, which shows that they must remember the
pleasures of the past season. The migration is not suggested by a lack
of food, as the supply of mimosa and other trees does not give out. When
a wild elephant takes a branch in its trunk, and uses it to brush away
flies, it shows more intelligence than it is generally given credit
for; while its lodging dust and sand on its back to prevent the attack
of these pests, is also to be considered an intelligent act. Elephants
are extremely cautious, and this has been used as an argument against
their intelligence. Sanderson says that the animal is stupid because
the simplest fence is often sufficient to protect grain from them; but
I am inclined to think that this is owing to their extreme caution: the
fence may have in their mind some association with the pitfall, or traps
of some kind, which have been met in their experience. An elephant will
rarely step upon a bridge that is not safe, and many instances could be
cited showing that their protests and objections were founded upon an
intelligent appreciation of danger. Sanderson says also that the elephant
lacks originality: but the two instances I have mentioned,—namely,
using a branch to brush off flies, and sharpening the stick,—will, I
think, in the opinion of my young readers, free the great animal from
this imputation; and I do not recall many actions performed by _wild_
animals, that show more appreciation of the practical application of
cause and effect. The intelligence of the elephant has been a subject of
varied appreciation. Many observers have considered remarkable actions
of elephants involuntary, when in truth they were merely obeying the
commands of their riders or mahouts, who expressed their wishes by the
pressure of their legs, or by the voice, which was not seen or heard by
the observer. When Tavernier was travelling with the Mahommedan army of
the Mogul, he was astonished to see the elephants seize the little images
which stood before the pagodas, and dash them to the ground. The Hindoos
readily believed that the elephant did this from a religious aversion
to the idols, but the traveller knew that the mahouts were secretly
directing the great animals. So, in passing in review before the king,
the elephants did not salute until coming to his majesty.
[Illustration: PLATE III.
THE SIBERIAN MAMMOTH.
(_By courtesy of Ward & Howell, Rochester, N. Y._)
_Page 39._]
Once when two elephants were at a spring, the largest violently seized
a bucket carried by the smaller, and began to dip up water; upon which
the other elephant drew back, and butted its companion so that it fell
headlong into the pool. This story is told to illustrate the revengeful
nature of the animal, when, in point of fact, the entire action was
instigated by the mahout upon its back. The most remarkable trait of the
elephant is its obedience: and if we were to take its aptitude to learn
the tasks described in the chapter on trained elephants, as a test of
intelligence, it would certainly hold its own among all animals; as,
considering that it is perhaps the most ungainly, and certainly the
heaviest, of all land animals, its various feats are indeed remarkable.
At the slightest pressure of its rider’s foot it will salute, lift the
trunk in the air, and trumpet loudly; stop, back, lie down to enable the
mahout to dismount, roll over, lift the man upon its trunk, pass over
his body with the greatest ease, lift stones from the ground for the
driver to throw at other elephants, and even tie itself up at night; in
fact, among all trained animals, dogs, horses, or birds, none compare
with the elephant in their obedience, and intelligent appreciation of
what is required. Though “playing ’possum” or feigning death can hardly
be cited as an evidence of intelligence, it may be interesting to know
that it is sometimes attempted by elephants. Sir Emerson Tennent was
informed by Mr. Cripps that he was aware of an instance where an elephant
adopted this ruse to secure its freedom. It had been led into a corral
between two tame elephants, and upon being released sank to the ground
apparently lifeless. Every attempt to revive it, or force it to show
any evidence of life, failed; and the natives believed that it had died
of a broken heart,—a term that they often apply when an elephant dies
without apparent cause. Finally the body was abandoned as lifeless; and,
as soon as the hunters had gone a short distance, the wily brute regained
its feet, and rushed for the jungle, screaming at the top of its voice;
its cries of evident delight being heard long after it had disappeared.
In the various chapters of this work, other instances have been cited
showing that, far from being a stupid animal, the elephant in its _wild_
state exhibits far more intelligence than the wild dog or horse; and when
we compare the animals after their so-called education, there is little
that the trained dog can do that is not accomplished by the elephant; and
while it is difficult to draw exact lines, and point out the exact mental
status of the elephant in the rank and file of the lower animals, I would
place it well to the front among mammals.
I am glad to be able to bring to the support of my belief in the superior
intelligence of the elephant, the testimony of a naturalist and careful
observer, Col. Nicholas Pike, late consul at Mauritius, whose extensive
travels and long residence in the East render his opinions of especial
value and interest. The following is Col. Pike’s letter in answer to my
request for an expression of his opinion upon the subject:—
Mr. C. F. HOLDER.
_My dear Sir_,—In answer to your questions as to my opinion
relative to the intelligence of the elephant, I will jot down a
few notes that may interest you.
This animal is to my mind one of the most intelligent of the
brute creation. I am led to this conclusion from what I have
actually seen, and from reliable information given me by
persons who have devoted a lifetime to studying their habits
and life-history generally. I think that in elephants, as in
other animals,—and we see even in man himself,—there is a great
difference in the amount of intelligence they possess.
A friend of mine, who owned many of these animals, placed
an old tame male that appeared sick, in a pasture, where he
had also some horses and sheep feeding, thinking it would
recuperate “Dick,” who was a great favorite. The whole pasture
was well fenced in, and the gate was securely bolted. One
morning when I was visiting my friend, we were surprised to see
“Dick” let himself in by the back-gate; and he warned us of
his presence by trumpeting. His master went to him, and asked
what he wanted. The beast at once took up a pitcher containing
water which was near by, and poured some of it on the ground,
attempting to sip a few drops of it with his trunk. His master,
seeing what he wanted, gave him water, and told him to go back.
Thinking the gate must have been left open, and perhaps the
sheep and horses straying out, we followed, but to our surprise
found the gate shut, and not only bolted, but the bolt turned
up in the little slot so that it should not be easily opened.
We waited, curious to see what Dick would do. As soon as he
reached the gate, he deliberately moved the bolt, and passed
into the field, then turning round, he re-adjusted the bolt as
well as I could have done it, and marched off contentedly to a
favorite corner under some trees.
I have seen my friend quietly call individuals by their name
out of the herd; and in one instance, a female, “Maggie,” was
called, and told to take me on her back, which she did, helping
me up carefully with her trunk. I have seen an elephant draw a
cork from a bottle of claret, and drink the contents without
spilling a drop. I saw four or five called singly by name from
their grazing-ground, form in line, and bow, and kneel before a
group of ladies, and then march back in as regular order at the
word of command as a file of soldiers.
Hundreds of elephants are employed in the government service in
the three presidencies of India,—Calcutta, Bombay and Madras.
They go through a regular routine, and know their hours for
work and recreation as well as the man who watches the clock.
When the bell sounds in the morning, they take up their line
of march, to the lumber-yards for instance, where vast piles
of beams and planks are stored. As soon as they arrive, each
takes up his work, left from the day before. Great logs and
beams are rolled along by the aid of the trunk, and, when near
the pile, are lifted, two elephants to each beam, and hoisted
into place, when they walk round and adjust their work with as
much precision as a man would use with a plumb-line. When the
usual hour for quitting work arrives, nothing can induce the
creatures to go on; and you can’t fool them on the time either,
by ringing the bell late. Off they go to get their afternoon
bath, where they will lie and wallow in the muddy water for
hours. Their varied works require _cute_ intelligence, not mere
instinct, any more than you can attribute the good paving of a
roadway by a poor laborer, who knows his business, though he
may not be able to read or write, to instinct.
A circumstance was related to me by my friend, Gen. E. W.
de Lansing Lowe, who was all through the campaign in India
during the Sepoy rebellion. He said he had a very intelligent
elephant that he constantly rode on, and as it was so hot they
mostly travelled morning and evening. During the war, they came
about the dusk of evening to a small bridge that spanned a
deep ravine with water at the bottom. As soon as the elephant
came to this bridge, no inducement could make him cross it.
After some delay, finding all persuasion useless, the general
determined to examine the structure. They found the enemy had
cut away the supports of the bridge; and, had the elephant
stepped on to it, the whole party would have been precipitated
into the gulf below.
We have a notable instance of the sagacity of these animals at
the time Barnum’s circus was in Bridgeport a few years ago.
A fire broke out in some sheds adjoining the tents, and it
was feared the stables would catch the flames. They began to
pull down the sheds, when some one suggested to bring out two
elephants. This was done, and the animals set to with a will
to pull down the place. They evidently at once took in the
situation. They not only tore down the place, but threw the
timbers so that they should not touch the tents, and beat out
the flames. Now, if this does not show almost human reason,
what does? They were put to the work on the spur of the moment,
and not only performed it as if used to it, but actually did
it more intelligently than many men would have done in such
perilous circumstances. Had they not done so, as water was
short, the loss of life to man and beast, and of property,
might have been enormous.
If you could only interview Barnum, he could tell you more of
the intelligence of the elephant than any man living.
I could relate numerous other incidents I have seen and been
informed of; but enough has been said, I think, to prove how
highly I think of the intelligence, sagacity, or whatever other
name you may give it, of this unwieldly pachyderm.[1]
NICHOLAS PIKE.