ELEPHANT.
THE intelligence of the elephant is no doubt considerable, although
there is equally little doubt that it is generally exaggerated. Some of
the most notorious instances of the display of remarkable sagacity by
this animal are probably fabulous, or at least are not sufficiently
corroborated to justify belief. Such, for instance, is the celebrated
story told by Pliny with all the assurance of a '_certum est_,'[225] and
repeated by Plutarch,[226] of the elephant, who having been beaten for not
dancing properly, was afterwards found practising his steps alone in the
light of the moon. Although this story cannot, in the absence of
corroboration, be accepted as fact, we ought to remember, in connection
with it, that many talking and piping birds unquestionably practise in
solitude the accomplishments which they desire to learn.
Quitting, however, the enormous multitude of anecdotes, more or less
doubtful, and which may or may not be true, I shall select a few
well-authenticated instances of the display of elephant intelligence.
_Memory._
As regards memory, several cases are on record of tamed elephants having
become wild, and, on again being captured after many years, returning to
all their old habits under domestication. Mr. Corse publishes in the
'Philosophical Transactions'[227] an instance which came under his own
notice. He saw an elephant, which was carrying baggage, take fright at
the smell of a tiger and run off. Eighteen months afterwards this
elephant was recognised by its keepers among a herd of wild companions,
which had been captured and were confined in an enclosure. But when
anyone approached the animal he struck out with his trunk, and seemed as
fierce as any of the wild herd. An old hunter then mounted a tame
elephant, went up to the feral one, seized his ear and ordered him to
lie down. Immediately the force of old associations broke through all
opposition, the word of command was obeyed, and the elephant while lying
down gave a certain peculiar squeak which he had been known to utter in
former days. The same author gives another and more interesting account
of an elephant which, after having been for only two years tamed, ran
wild for fifteen years, and on being then recaptured, remembered in all
details the words of command. This, with several other well-authenticated
facts of the same kind,[228] shows that the elephant certainly has an
exceedingly tenacious memory, rendering credible the statement of Pliny,
that in their more advanced age these animals recognise men who were
their drivers when young.[229]
_Emotions._
Concerning emotions, the elephant seems to be usually actuated by the
most magnanimous of feelings. Even his proverbial vindictiveness appears
only to be excited under a sense of remembered injustice. The
universally known story of the tailor and the elephant doubtless had a
foundation in fact, for there are several authentic cases on record of
elephants resenting injuries in precisely the same way;[230] and Captain
Shipp[231] personally tested the matter by giving to an elephant a
sandwich of bread, butter, and cayenne pepper. He then waited for six
weeks before again visiting the animal, when he went into the stable and
began to fondle the elephant as he had previously been accustomed to do.
For a time no resentment was shown, so that the Captain began to think
that the experiment had failed; but at last, watching for an
opportunity, the elephant filled his trunk with dirty water, and
drenched the Captain from head to foot.
Griffiths says that at the siege of Bhurtpore, in 1805, the British army
had been a long time before the city, and, owing to the hot dry winds,
the ponds and tanks had dried up. There used therefore to be no little
struggle for priority in procuring water at one of the large wells which
still contained water:--
On one occasion two elephant-drivers, each with his
elephant, the one remarkably large and strong, and the
other comparatively small and weak, were at the well
together; the small elephant had been provided by his
master with a bucket for the occasion, which he
carried on the end of his proboscis, but the larger
animal, being destitute of this necessary vessel,
either spontaneously, or by the desire of his keeper,
seized the bucket, and easily wrested it from his less
powerful fellow-servant; the latter was too sensible
of his inferiority openly to resent the insult, though
it is obvious that he felt it; but great squabbling
and abuse ensued between the keepers. At length the
weaker animal, watching the opportunity when the other
was standing with his side to the well, retired
backwards a few paces in a very quiet and unsuspicious
manner, and then, rushing forward with all his might,
drove his head against the side of the other, and
fairly pushed him into the well.
Great trouble was experienced in extricating this elephant from the
well--a task which would, indeed, have been impossible but for the
intelligence of the animal itself. For when a number of fascines, which
had been employed by the army in conducting the siege, were thrown down
the well, the elephant showed sagacity enough to arrange them with his
trunk so as to construct a continuously rising platform, by which he
gradually raised himself to a level with the ground.
Allied to vindictiveness for small injuries is revenge for large ones,
and this is often shown in a terrible manner by wounded elephants. For
instance, Sir E. Tennent writes:--
Some years ago an elephant which had been wounded by a
native, near Hambangtotte, pursued the man into the
town, followed him along the street, trampled him to
death in the bazaar before a crowd of terrified
spectators, and succeeded in making good its retreat
to the jungle.
Many other cases of vindictiveness, more or less well authenticated, may
be found mentioned by Broderip,[232] Bingley,[233] Mrs. Lee,[234]
Swainson,[235] and Watson.[236] This trait of emotional character seems
to be more generally present in the elephant than in any other animal,
except perhaps the monkey.
Another emotion strongly developed in the elephant is sympathy.
Numberless examples on this head might be adduced, but one or two may
suffice. Bishop Huber saw an old elephant fall down from weakness, and
another elephant was brought to assist the fallen one to rise. Huber
says he was much struck with the almost human expression of surprise,
alarm, and sympathy manifested by the second elephant on witnessing the
condition of the first. A chain was fastened round the neck and body of
the sick animal, which the other was directed to pull. For a minute or
two the healthy elephant pulled strongly; but on the first groan given
by its distressed companion it stopped abruptly, 'turned fiercely round
with a loud roar, and with trunk and fore-feet began to loosen the chain
from the neck.'
Again, Sir E. Tennent says:--
The devotion and loyalty which the herd evince to
their leader are very remarkable. This is more readily
seen in the case of a tusker than any other, because
in a herd he is generally the object of the keenest
pursuit by the hunters. On such occasions the others
do their utmost to protect him from danger: when
driven to extremity they place their leader in the
centre and crowd so eagerly in front of him that the
sportsmen have to shoot a number which they might
otherwise have spared. In one instance a tusker, which
was badly wounded by Major Rogers, was promptly
surrounded by his companions, who supported him
between their shoulders, and actually succeeded in
covering his retreat to the forest.
Lastly, allusion may be made to the celebrated observation of M. le
Baron de Lauriston, who was at Laknaor during an epidemic which
stretched a number of natives sick and dying upon the road. The Nabob
riding his elephant over the road was careless whether or not the animal
crushed the men and women to death, but not so the elephant, which took
great pains to pick his steps among the people so as not to injure them.
The following account of emotion and sagacity is quoted from the Rev.
Julius Young's Memoirs of his father, Mr. Charles Young, the actor. The
animal mentioned is the one that subsequently attained such widespread
notoriety at Exeter Change, not only on account of his immense size, but
still more because of his cruel death:--
In July 1810, the largest elephant ever seen in
England was advertised as 'just arrived.' As soon as
Henry Harris, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre,
heard of it, he determined, if possible, to obtain it;
for it struck him that if it were to be introduced
into the new pantomime of 'Harlequin Padmenaba,' which
he was about to produce at great cost, it would add
greatly to its attraction. Under this impression, and
before the proprietor of Exeter Change had seen it, he
purchased it for the sum of 900 guineas. Mrs. Henry
Johnston was to ride it, and Miss Parker, the
columbine, was to play up to it. Young happened to be
one morning at the box-office adjoining Covent Garden
Theatre, when his ears were assailed by a strange and
unusual uproar within the walls. On asking one of the
carpenters the cause of it, he was told 'it was
something going wrong with the elephant; he could not
exactly tell what.' I am not aware what the usage may
be nowadays, but then, whenever a new piece had been
announced for presentation on a given night, and there
was but scant time for its preparation, a rehearsal
would take place after the night's regular performance
was over, and the audience had been dismissed. One
such there had been the night before my father's
curiosity had been roused. As it had been arranged
that Mrs. Henry Johnston, seated in a howdah on the
elephant's back, should pass over a bridge in the
centre of a numerous group of followers, it was
thought expedient that the unwieldy monster's
tractability should be tested. On stepping up to the
bridge, which was slight and temporary, the sagacious
brute drew back his fore-feet and refused to budge. It
is well known as a fact in natural history that the
elephant, aware of his unusual bulk, will never trust
its weight on any object which is unequal to its
support. The stage-manager, seeing how resolutely the
animal resisted every attempt made to compel or induce
it to go over the bridge in question, proposed that
they should stay proceedings till next day, when he
might be in a better mood. It was during the
repetition of the experiment that my father, having
heard the extraordinary sounds, determined to go upon
the stage, and see if he could ascertain the cause of
them. The first sight that met his eyes kindled his
indignation. There stood the high animal, with
downcast eyes and flapping ears, meekly submitting to
blow after blow from a sharp iron goad, which his
keeper was driving ferociously into the fleshy part of
his neck, at the root of the ear. The floor on which
he stood was converted into a pool of blood. One of
the proprietors, impatient at what he regarded as
senseless obstinacy, kept urging the driver to proceed
to still severer extremities, when Charles Young, who
was a great lover of animals, expostulated with him,
went up to the poor patient sufferer, and patted and
caressed him; and when the driver was about to wield
his instrument again, with even still more vigour, he
caught him by the wrist as in a vice, and stayed his
hand from further violence. While an angry altercation
was going on between Young and the man of colour, who
was the driver, Captain Hay, of the _Ashel_, who had
brought over 'Chuny' in his ship, and had petted him
greatly on the voyage, came in and begged to know what
was the matter. Before a word of explanation could be
given, the much-wronged creature spoke for himself;
for, as soon as he perceived the entrance of his
patron, he waddled up to him, and, with a look of
gentle appeal, caught hold of his hand with his
proboscis, plunged it into his bleeding wound, and
then thrust it before his eyes. The gesture seemed to
say, as plainly as if it had been enforced by speech,
'See how these cruel men treat Chuny. Can _you_
approve of it?' The hearts of the hardest present were
sensibly touched by what they saw, and among them that
of the gentleman who had been so energetic in
promoting its harsh treatment. It was under a far
better impulse that he ran out into the street,
purchased a few apples at a stall, and offered them
to him. Chuny eyed him askance, took them, threw them
beneath his feet, and when he had crushed them to
pulp, spurned them from him. Young, who had gone into
Covent Garden on the same errand as the gentleman who
had preceded him, shortly after re-entered, and also
held out to him some fruit, when, to the astonishment
of the bystanders, the elephant ate every morsel, and
after he had done so, twined his trunk with studied
gentleness around Young's waist, marking by his action
that, though he had resented a wrong, he did not
forget a kindness.
It was in the year 1814 that Harris parted with Chuny
to Cross, the proprietor of the menagerie at Exeter
Change. One of the purchaser's first acts was to send
Charles Young a life ticket of admission to his
exhibition; and it was one of his little innocent
vanities, when passing through the Strand with any
friend, to drop in on Chuny, pay him a visit in his
den, and show the intimate relations which existed
between them. Some years after, when the elephant's
theatrical career was run, and he was reduced to play
the part of captive in one of the cages of Exeter
Change, a thoughtless dandy one day amused himself by
teasing him with the repeated offer of lettuces--a
vegetable for which he was known to have an antipathy.
At last he presented him with an apple, but, at the
moment of his taking it, drove a large pin into his
trunk, and then sprang out of big reach. The keeper
seeing that the poor creature was getting angry,
warned the silly fellow off, lest he should become
dangerous. With a contemptuous shrug of the shoulder,
he trudged off to the other end of the gallery, and
there displayed his cruel ingenuity on other humbler
beasts, till, after the absence of half-an-hour, he
once more approached one of the cages opposite the
elephant's. By this time he had forgotten his pranks
with Chuny, but Chuny had not forgotten him; and as he
was standing with his back towards him, he thrust his
proboscis through the bars of his prison, twitched off
the offender's hat, dragged it in to him, tore it to
shreds, then threw it into the face of the offending
gaby, consummating his revenge with a loud guffaw of
exultation. All present proclaimed their approbation
of this act of retributive justice, and the
discomfited coxcomb had to retreat from the scene in
confusion, jump into a hackney coach, and betake
himself to the hatter's in quest of a new tile for his
unroofed skull. The tragic end of poor Chuny must be
within the recollection of many of my readers. From
some cause unknown he went mad, and after poison had
been tried in vain it took 152 shots, discharged by a
detachment of the Guards, to despatch him.[237]
The elephant in many respects displays strange peculiarities of
emotional temperament. Thus Mr. Corse says:--'If a wild elephant happens
to be separated from its young for only two or three days, though giving
suck, she never after recognises or acknowledges it;'[238] yet the young
one knows its dam, and cries plaintively for her assistance.
Again, in the wild state, the spirit of exclusiveness shown by members
of a herd (_i.e._ family) towards elephants of other herds is
remarkable. Sir E. Tennent writes:--
If by any accident an elephant becomes hopelessly
separated from his own herd, he is not permitted to
attach himself to any other. He may browse in the
vicinity, or frequent the same place to drink and to
bathe; but the intercourse is only on a distant and
conventional footing, and no familiarity or intimate
association is under any circumstances permitted. To
such a height is this exclusiveness carried, that even
amidst the terror of an elephant corral, when an
individual, detached from his own party in the _mêlée_
and confusion, has been driven into the enclosure with
an unbroken herd, I have seen him repulsed in every
attempt to take refuge among them, and driven off by
heavy blows with their trunks as often as he attempted
to insinuate himself within the circle which they had
formed for common security. There can be no reasonable
doubt that this jealous and exclusive policy not only
contributes to produce, but mainly serves to
perpetuate, the class of solitary elephants which are
known by the term _goondahs_ in India, and which from
their vicious propensities and predatory habits are
called _Hora_, or _Rogues_, in Ceylon.[239]
The emotional temper, or rather transformation of emotional psychology,
which is exhibited by the Rogues here mentioned, is as extraordinary as
it is notorious. From being a peaceable, sympathetic, and magnanimous
animal, the elephant, when excluded from the society of its kind,
becomes savage, cruel, and morose to a degree unequalled in any other
animal. The repulsive accounts of the bloodthirsty rage and wanton
destructiveness of Rogues show that their actions are not due to sudden
bursts of fury at the sight of man or his works, but rather to a
deliberate and brooding resolve to wage war on everything, so that the
animal patiently lies in wait for travellers, rushing from his ambush
only when he finds that the latter are within his power. As showing the
cold-blooded determination of this murderous desire, I may quote the
following case, as it was communicated to Sir E. Tennent:--
We had, says the writer, calculated to come up with
the brute where it had been seen half an hour before;
but no sooner had one of our men, who was walking
foremost, seen the animal at the distance of some
fifteen or twenty fathoms, than he exclaimed, 'There!
there!' and immediately took to his heels, and we all
followed his example. The elephant did not see us
until we had run some fifteen or twenty paces from the
spot where we turned, when he gave us chase, screaming
frightfully as he came on. The Englishman managed to
climb a tree, and the rest of my companions did the
same; as for myself, I could not, although I made one
or two superhuman efforts. But there was no time to be
lost. The elephant was running at me with his trunk
bent down in a curve towards the ground. At this
critical moment Mr. Lindsay held out his foot to me,
with the help of which and then of the branches of the
tree, which were three or four feet above my head, I
managed to scramble up to a branch. The elephant came
directly to the tree and attempted to force it down,
which he could not. He first coiled his trunk round
the stem, and pulled it with all his might, but with
no effect. He then applied his head to the tree, and
pushed for several minutes, but with no better
success. He then trampled with his feet all the
projecting roots, moving, as he did so, several times
round and round the tree. Lastly, failing in all this,
and seeing a pile of timber, which I had lately cut,
at a short distance from us, he removed it all
(thirty-six pieces) one at a time to the root of the
tree, and piled them up in a regular business-like
manner; then placing his hind feet on this pile, he
raised the fore part of his body, and reached out his
trunk, but still he could not touch us, as we were too
far above him. The Englishman then fired, and the ball
took effect somewhere on the elephant's head, but did
not kill him. It made him only the more furious. The
next shot, however, levelled him to the ground. I
afterwards brought the skull of the animal to Colombo,
and it is still to be seen at the house of Mr.
Armitage.[240]
Another highly curious trait in the emotional psychology of the elephant
is the readiness with which the huge animal expires under the mere
influence of what the natives call a 'broken heart.' The facts on this
head are without a parallel in any other animal, and are the more
remarkable from the fact that, so far as natural length of life is any
token, the elephant may be said to have more vitality, or innate power
of living, than any other terrestrial mammal. Again, to quote from Sir
E. Tennent:--
Amongst the last of the elephants noosed was the
_rogue_. Though far more savage than the others, he
joined in none of their charges and assaults on the
fences, as they uniformly drove him off, and would not
permit him to enter their circle. When dragged past
another of his companions in misfortune, who was lying
exhausted on the ground, he flew upon him and
attempted to fasten his teeth in his head; this was
the only instance of viciousness which occurred during
the progress of the corral. When tied up and
overpowered, he was at first noisy and violent, but
soon lay down peacefully, a sign, according to the
hunters, that his death was at hand. Their
prognostication was correct; he continued for about
twelve hours to cover himself with dust like the
others, and to moisten it with water from his trunk;
but at length he lay exhausted, and died so calmly,
that having been moving but a few moments before, his
death was only perceived by the myriads of black flies
by which his body was almost instantly covered,
although not one was visible a moment before.[241]
But this peculiarity is not confined to rogue elephants. Thus Captain
Yule, in his 'Narrative of an Embassy to Ava in 1855,' records an
illustration of this tendency of the elephant to sudden death. One newly
captured, the process of taming which was exhibited to the British
Envoy, 'made vigorous resistance to the placing of a collar on its neck,
and the people were proceeding to tighten it, when the elephant, which
had lain down as if quite exhausted, reared suddenly on the hind
quarters, and fell on its side--_dead_!'
Mr. Strachan noticed the same liability of the elephants to sudden death
from very slight causes. 'Of the fall,' he says, 'at any time, though
on plain ground, they either die immediately, or languish till they die;
their great weight occasioning them so much hurt by the fall.'[242]
And Sir E. Tennent observes that,--
In the process of taming, the presence of the tame
ones can generally be dispensed with after two months,
and the captive may then be ridden by the driver
alone; and after three or four months he may be
entrusted with labour, so far as regards docility; but
it is undesirable, and even involves the risk of life,
to work an elephant too soon; it has frequently
happened that a valuable animal has lain down and died
the first time it was tried in harness, from what the
natives believed to be 'broken heart,' certainly
without any cause inferable from injury or previous
disease.[243]
Nor is this tendency to die under the influence of mere emotion
restricted to the effect of a 'broken heart;' it seems also to occur
under the power of strong emotional disturbances of other kinds. For
instance, an elephant caught and trained by Mr. Cripps is thus alluded
to by Sir E. Tennent:--
This was the largest elephant that had been tamed in
Ceylon; he measured upwards of nine feet at the
shoulders, and belonged to the caste so highly prized
for the temples. He was gentle after his first
capture, but his removal from the corral to the
stables, though only a distance of six miles, was a
matter of the extremest difficulty; his extraordinary
strength rendering him more than a match for the
attendant decoys. He on one occasion escaped, but was
recaptured in the forest; and he afterwards became so
docile as to perform a variety of tricks. He was at
length ordered to be removed to Colombo; but such was
his terror on approaching the fort, that on coaxing
him to enter the gate he became paralysed in the
extraordinary way elsewhere alluded to, and _died on
the spot_.
_General Intelligence._
The higher mental faculties of the elephant are more advanced in their
development than in any other animal, except the dog and monkey. I
shall, therefore, devote some considerable space to the narration of
instances of its display. The general fact that elephants are habitually
employed in certain parts of India for the purposes of building, storing
timber, &c., in itself shows a level of docile intelligence which only
that of the dog can rival; but I shall here confine myself to stating
special instances of the display of sagacity unusually high, even for
the elephant.
Capt. Shipp, in his 'Memoirs,' gives the following incident, of which he
was an eye-witness. During a march with guns in the mountainous
districts of India, the force of which he was a member came to a steep
ascent. A staircase of logs was prepared to enable the elephants to
ascend the slope. When all was ready the first elephant was led to the
bottom of the staircase:--
He looked up, shook his head, and when forced by his
driver, roared piteously. There can be no question, in
my opinion, but that this sagacious animal was
competent instinctively to judge of the practicability
of the artificial flight of steps thus constructed;
for the moment some little alteration had been made,
he seemed willing to approach. He then commenced his
examination and scrutiny by pressing with his trunk
the trees that had been thrown across; and after this
he put his fore-leg on with great caution. . . . The next
step for him to ascend by was a projecting rock, which
he could not remove. Here the same sagacious
examination took place, the elephant keeping his flat
side close to the side of the trunk, and leaning
against it. The next step was against a tree, but
this, on the first pressure of his trunk, he did not
like. Here the driver made use of the most endearing
epithets, such as 'Wonderful,' 'My life,' 'Well done,
my dear,' 'My dove,' 'My son,' 'My wife;' but all
these endearing appellations, of which elephants are
so fond, would not induce him to try again. Force was
at length resorted to, and the elephant roared
terrifically, but would not move.
Something was then altered, the elephant was satisfied, and at last
succeeded in mounting to the top of the staircase:--
On reaching the top his delight was visible in a most
eminent degree; he caressed his keepers, and threw
dirt about in a most playful manner. Another elephant,
a much younger animal, had now to follow. He had
watched the ascent of the other with the utmost
interest, making motions all the while as though he
was assisting him by shouldering him up the acclivity,
in such gestures as I have seen some men make when
spectators of gymnastic exercises. When he saw his
comrade up, he evinced his pleasure by giving a salute
something like the sound of a trumpet. When called
upon to take his turn, however, he seemed much
alarmed, and would not act at all without force.
After a performance similar to that of the previous elephant, however,
he too neared the top, when 'the other, who had already performed his
task, extended his trunk to the assistance of his brother in distress,
round which the younger animal entwined his, and thus reached the
summit.' There was then a cordial greeting between the two animals, 'as
if they had been long separated from each other, and had just escaped
from some perilous achievement. They mutually embraced each other, and
stood face to face for a considerable time, as if whispering
congratulations.'[244]
Mr. Jesse says: 'I was one day feeding the poor elephant (who was so
barbarously put to death at Exeter Change) with potatoes, which he took
out of my hand. One of them, a round one, fell on the floor, just out of
reach of his proboscis.' After several ineffectual attempts to reach it,
'he at length _blew_ the potato against the opposite wall with
sufficient force to make it rebound, and he then without difficulty
secured it.'[245]
This remarkable observation has fortunately been corroborated by Mr.
Darwin. He writes:--
I have seen, as I dare say have others, that when a
small object is thrown on the ground beyond the reach
of one of the elephants at the Zoological Gardens, he
blows through his trunk on the ground beyond the
object, so that the current reflected on all sides may
drive the object within his reach.[246]
The observation has also been corroborated by other observers.[247]
The following is quoted from Mr. Watson's book:[248]--
Of the elephant's sense and judgment the following
instance is given as a well-known fact in a letter of
Dr. Daniel Wilson, Bishop of Calcutta, to his son in
England, printed in a Life of the bishop, published a
few years ago. An elephant belonging to an Engineer
officer in his diocese had a disease in his eyes, and
had for three days been completely blind. His owner
asked Dr. Webb, a physician intimate with the bishop,
if he could do anything for the relief of the animal.
Dr. Webb replied that he was willing to try, on one of
the eyes, the effect of nitrate of silver, which was a
remedy commonly used for similar diseases in the human
eye. The animal was accordingly made to lie down, and
when the nitrate of silver was applied, uttered a
terrific roar at the acute pain which it occasioned.
But the effect of the application was wonderful, for
the eye was in a great degree restored, and the
elephant could partially see. The doctor was in
consequence ready to operate similarly on the other
eye on the following day; and the animal, when he was
brought out and heard the doctor's voice, lay down of
himself, placed his head quietly on one side, curled
up his trunk, drew in his breath like a human being
about to endure a painful operation, gave a sigh of
relief when it was over, and then, by motions of his
trunk and other gestures, gave evident signs of
wishing to express his gratitude. Here we plainly see
in the elephant memory, understanding, and reasoning
from one thing to another. The animal remembered the
benefit that he had felt from the application to one
eye, and when he was brought to the same place on the
following day and heard the operator's voice, he
concluded that a like service was to be done to his
other eye.
The fact that elephants exhibit this sagacious fortitude under surgical
operations--thus resembling, as we shall afterwards observe, both dogs
and monkeys--is corroborated by another instance given in Bingley's
'Animal Biography,'[249] and serves to render credible the following story
given in the same work:--
In the last war in India a young elephant received a
violent wound in its head, the pain of which rendered
it so frantic and ungovernable that it was found
impossible to persuade the animal to have the part
dressed. Whenever any one approached it ran off with
fury, and would suffer no person to come within
several yards of it. The man who had care of it at
length hit upon a contrivance for securing it. By a
few words and signs he gave the mother of the animal
sufficient intelligence of what was wanted; the
sensible creature immediately seized her young one
with her trunk, and held it firmly down, though
groaning with agony, while the surgeon completely
dressed the wound; and she continued to perform this
service every day till the animal was perfectly
recovered.[250]
Again, as still further corroboration of this point, I may quote the
following from Sir E. Tennent's 'Natural History of Ceylon:'--
Nothing can more strongly exhibit the impulse to
obedience in the elephant than the patience with
which, at the order of his keeper, he swallows the
nauseous medicines of the native elephant-doctors; and
it is impossible to witness the fortitude with which
(without shrinking) he submits to excruciating
surgical operations for the removal of tumours and
ulcers to which he is subject, without conceiving a
vivid impression of his gentleness and intelligence.
Dr. Davy when in Ceylon was consulted about an
elephant in the Government stud, which was suffering
from a deep, burrowing sore in the back, just over the
back-bone, which had long resisted the treatment
ordinarily employed. He recommended the use of the
knife, that issue might be given to the accumulated
matter, but no one of the attendants was competent to
undertake the operation. 'Being assured,' he
continues, 'that the creature would behave well, I
undertook it myself. The elephant was not bound, but
was made to kneel down at his keeper's command; and
with an amputating knife, using all my force, I made
the incision required through the tough integuments.
The elephant did not flinch, but rather inclined
towards me when using the knife; and merely uttered a
low, and as it were suppressed groan. In short, he
behaved as like a human being as possible, as if
conscious (as I believe he was) that the operation was
for his good, and the pain unavoidable.'
Major Skinner witnessed the following display of intelligent action by a
large herd of wild elephants. During the hot season at Nenera Kalama the
elephants have a difficulty in finding water, and are therefore obliged
to congregate in large numbers where water is to be obtained. Being
stationed near a water supply, and knowing that a large herd of
elephants were in the neighbourhood, Major Skinner resolved to watch
their proceedings. On a moonlight night, therefore, he
climbed a tree about four hundred yards from the
water, and waited patiently for two hours before he
heard or saw anything of the elephants. At length he
saw a huge beast issue from the wood, and advance
cautiously across the open ground to within a hundred
yards of the tank, where he stood perfectly
motionless; and the rest of the herd, meanwhile, were
so quiet that not the least sound was to be heard from
them. Gradually, at three successive advances, halting
some minutes after each, he moved up to the water's
edge, in which, however, he did not think proper to
quench his thirst, but remained for several minutes
listening in perfect stillness. He then returned
cautiously and slowly to the point at which he had
issued from the wood, from whence he came back with
five other elephants, with which he proceeded,
somewhat less slowly than before, to within a few
yards of the tank, where he posted them as patrols. He
then re-entered the wood and collected the whole herd,
which must have amounted to between eighty and a
hundred, and led them across the open ground with the
most extraordinary composure and quiet till they came
up to the five sentinels, when he left them for a
moment, and again made a reconnaissance at the edge of
the tank. At last, being apparently satisfied that all
was safe, he turned back, and obviously gave the order
to advance; 'for in a moment,' says Major Skinner,
'the whole herd rushed to the water with a degree of
unreserved confidence so opposite to the caution and
timidity which had marked their previous movements,
that nothing will ever persuade me that there was not
rational and preconcerted co-operation throughout the
whole party, and a degree of responsible authority
exercised by the patriarch-leader.'[251]
Mr. H. L. Jenkins writes to me:--
What I particularly wish to observe is that there are
good reasons for supposing that elephants possess
abstract ideas; for instance, I think it is impossible
to doubt that they acquire through their own
experience notions of hardness and weight, and the
grounds on which I am led to think this are as
follows. A captured elephant after he has been taught
his ordinary duty, say about three months after he is
taken, is taught to pick up things from the ground and
give them to his mahout sitting on his shoulders. Now
for the first few months it is dangerous to require
him to pick up anything but soft articles, such as
clothes, because the things are often handed up with
considerable force. After a time, longer with some
elephants than others, they appear to take in a
knowledge of the nature of the things they are
required to lift, and the bundle of clothes will be
thrown up sharply as before, but heavy things, such as
a crowbar or piece of iron chain, will be handed up in
a gentle manner; a sharp knife will be picked up by
its handle and placed on the elephant's head, so that
the mahout can also take it by the handle. I have
purposely given elephants things to lift which they
could never have seen before, and they were all
handled in such a manner as to convince me that they
recognised such qualities as hardness, sharpness, and
weight. You are quite at liberty to make any use of
these remarks you please if they are of service.
Again, as Dr. Lindley Kemp observes,[252] 'the manner in which tame
elephants assist in capturing wild ones affords us an instance of
reasoning in an animal,' &c.; and similarly, Mr. Darwin observes: 'It
is, I think, impossible to read the account given by Sir E. Tennent of
the behaviour of the female elephants used as decoys, without admitting
that they intentionally practise deceit.'[253]
The following is an extract from the more interesting of the
observations to which Mr. Darwin here alludes, and I think it is
impossible to read them without assenting to his judgment. Several herds
of wild elephants having been driven into a corral, two tame decoys were
ridden into it:--
One was of prodigious age, having been in the service
of the Dutch and English Governments in succession for
upwards of a century. The other, called by her keeper
'Siribeddi,' was about fifty years old, and
distinguished for gentleness and docility. She was a
most accomplished decoy, and evinced the utmost relish
for the sport. Having entered the corral noiselessly,
carrying a mahout on her shoulders with the headman
of the noosers seated behind him, she moved slowly
along with a sly composure and an assumed air of easy
indifference; sauntering leisurely in the direction of
the captives, and halting now and then to pluck a
bunch of grass or a few leaves as she passed. As she
approached the herd they put themselves in motion to
meet her, and the leader, having advanced in front and
passed his trunk gently over her head, turned and
paced slowly back to his dejected companions.
Siribeddi followed with the same listless step, and
drew herself up close behind him, thus affording the
nooser an opportunity to stoop under her and slip the
noose over the hind foot of the wild one. The latter
instantly perceived his danger, shook off the rope,
and turned to attack the man. He would have suffered
for his temerity had not Siribeddi protected him by
raising her trunk and driving the assailant into the
midst of the herd, when the old man, being slightly
wounded, was helped out of the corral, and his son,
Ranghanie, took his place.
The herd again collected in a circle, with their heads
towards the centre. The largest male was singled out,
and two tame ones pushed boldly in, one on either side
of him, till the three stood nearly abreast. He made
no resistance, but betrayed his uneasiness by shifting
restlessly from foot to foot. Ranghanie now crept up,
and holding the rope open with both hands (its other
extremity being made fast to Siribeddi's collar), and
watching the instant when the wild elephant lifted its
hind foot, succeeded in passing the noose over its
leg, drew it close, and fled to the rear. The two tame
elephants instantly fell back, Siribeddi stretched the
rope to its full length, and whilst she dragged out
the captive, her companion placed himself between her
and the herd to prevent any interference.
In order to tie him to a tree he had to be drawn
backwards some twenty or thirty yards, making furious
resistance, bellowing in terror, plunging on all
sides, and crushing the smaller timber, which bent
like reeds beneath his clumsy struggles. Siribeddi
drew him steadily after her, and wound the rope round
the proper tree, holding it all the time at its full
tension, and stepping cautiously across it when, in
order to give it a second turn, it was necessary to
pass between the tree and the elephant. With a coil
round the stem, however, it was beyond her strength to
haul the prisoner close up, which was, nevertheless,
necessary in order to make him perfectly fast; but the
second tame one, perceiving the difficulty, returned
from the herd, confronted the struggling prisoner,
pushed him shoulder to shoulder, and head to head,
forcing him backwards, whilst at every step Siribeddi
hauled in the slackened rope till she brought him
fairly up to the foot of the tree, where he was made
fast by the cooroowe people. A second noose was then
passed over the other hind-leg, and secured like the
first, both legs being afterwards hobbled together by
ropes made from the fibre of the kitool or jaggery
palm, which, being more flexible than that of the
cocoa-nut, occasions less formidable ulcerations. The
two decoys then ranged themselves, as before, abreast
of the prisoner on either side, thus enabling
Ranghanie to stoop under them and noose the two
fore-feet as he had already done the hind; and these
ropes being made fast to the tree in front, the
capture was complete, and the tame elephants and
keepers withdrew to repeat the operation on another of
the herd.
The second victim singled out from the herd was
secured in the same manner as the first. It was a
female. The tame ones forced themselves in on either
side as before, cutting her off from her companions,
whilst Ranghanie stooped under them and attached the
fatal noose, and Siribeddi dragged her out amidst
unavailing struggles, when she was made fast by each
leg to the nearest group of strong trees. When the
noose was placed upon her fore-foot, she seized it
with her trunk, and succeeded in carrying it to her
mouth, where she would speedily have severed it had
not a tame elephant interfered, and placing his foot
on the rope pressed it downwards out of her jaws. . . .
The conduct of the tame ones during all these
proceedings was truly wonderful. They displayed the
most perfect conception of every movement, both of the
object to be attained and of the means to accomplish
it. They manifested the utmost enjoyment in what was
going on. There was no ill-humour, no malignity in the
spirit displayed, in what was otherwise a heartless
proceeding, but they set about it in a way that showed
a thorough relish for it, as an agreeable pastime.
Their caution was as remarkable as their sagacity;
there was no hurrying, no confusion, they never ran
foul of the ropes, were never in the way of the
animals already noosed; and amidst the most violent
struggles, when the tame ones had frequently to step
across the captives, they in no instance trampled on
them, or occasioned the slightest accident or
annoyance. So far from this, they saw intuitively a
difficulty or a danger, and addressed themselves
unbidden to remove it. In tying up one of the larger
elephants, he contrived, before he could be hauled
close up to the tree, to walk once or twice round it,
carrying the rope with him; the decoy, perceiving the
advantage he had thus gained over the nooser, walked
up of her own accord, and pushed him backwards with
her head, till she made him unwind himself again; upon
which the rope was hauled tight and made fast. More
than once, when a wild one was extending his trunk,
and would have intercepted the rope about to be placed
over his leg, Siribeddi, by a sudden motion of her own
trunk, pushed his aside, and prevented him; and on one
occasion, when successive efforts had failed to put
the noose over the fore-leg of an elephant which was
already secured by one foot, but which wisely put the
other to the ground as often as it was attempted to
pass the noose under it, I saw the decoy watch her
opportunity, and when his foot was again raised,
suddenly push in her own leg beneath it, and hold it
up till the noose was attached and drawn tight.
One could almost fancy there was a display of dry
humour in the manner in which the decoys thus played
with the fears of the wild herd, and made light of
their efforts at resistance. When reluctant they
shoved them forward, when violent they drove them
back; when the wild ones threw themselves down, the
tame ones butted them with head and shoulders, and
forced them up again. And when it was necessary to
keep them down, they knelt upon them, and prevented
them from rising, till the ropes were secured.
At every moment of leisure they fanned themselves with
a bunch of leaves, and the graceful ease with which an
elephant uses his trunk on such occasions is very
striking. It is doubtless owing to the combination of
a circular with a horizontal movement in that flexible
limb; but it is impossible to see an elephant fanning
himself without being struck by the singular elegance
of motion which he displays. The tame ones, too,
indulged in the luxury of dusting themselves with
sand, by flinging it from their trunks; but it was a
curious illustration of their delicate sagacity, that
so long as the mahout was on their necks, they
confined themselves to flinging the dust along their
sides and stomach, as if aware that to throw it over
their heads and back would cause annoyance to their
riders.[254]
Sir E. Tennent has also some observations on other uses to which tame
elephants are put, which are well worth quoting. Thus, speaking of the
labour of piling timber, he says that the elephant
manifests an intelligence and dexterity which are
surprising to a stranger, because the sameness of the
operation enables the animal to go on for hours
disposing of log after log, almost without a hint or
direction from his attendant. For example, two
elephants employed in piling ebony and satinwood in
the yards attached to the commissariat stores at
Colombo, were so accustomed to their work, that they
were able to accomplish it with equal precision and
with greater rapidity than if it had been done by
dock-labourers. When the pile attained a certain
height, and they were no longer able by their conjoint
efforts to raise one of the heavy logs of ebony to the
summit, they had been taught to lean two pieces
against the heap, up the inclined plane of which they
gently rolled the remaining logs, and placed them
trimly on the top.
It has been asserted that in their occupations
'elephants are to a surprising extent the creatures of
habit,' that their movements are altogether
mechanical, and that 'they are annoyed by any
deviation from their accustomed practice, and resent
any constrained departure from the regularity of their
course.' So far as my own observation goes, this is
incorrect; and I am assured by officers of experience,
that in regard to changing his treatment, his hours or
his occupation, an elephant evinces no more
consideration than a horse, but exhibits the same
pliancy and facility.
At one point, however, the utility of the elephant
stops short. Such is the intelligence and earnestness
he displays in work, which he seems to conduct almost
without supervision, that it has been assumed that he
would continue his labour, and accomplish his given
task, as well in the absence of his keeper as during
his presence. But here his innate love of ease
displays itself, and if the eye of his attendant be
withdrawn, the moment he has finished the thing
immediately in hand, he will stroll away lazily, to
browse or enjoy the luxury of fanning himself and
blowing dust over his back.
The means of punishing so powerful an animal is a
question of difficulty to his attendants. Force being
almost inapplicable, they try to work on his passions
and feelings, by such expedients as altering the
nature of his food or withholding it altogether for a
time. On such occasions the demeanour of the creature
will sometimes evince a sense of humiliation as well
as of discontent. In some parts of India it is
customary, in dealing with offenders, to stop their
allowance of sugar canes or of jaggery; or to restrain
them from eating their own share of fodder and leaves
till their companions shall have finished; and in
such cases the consciousness of degradation betrayed
by the looks and attitudes of the culprit is quite
sufficient to identify him, and to excite a feeling of
sympathy and pity.
The elephant's obedience to his keeper is the result
of affection, as well as of fear; and although his
attachment becomes so strong that an elephant in
Ceylon has been known to remain out all night, without
food, rather than abandon his mahout, lying
intoxicated in the jungle, yet he manifests little
difficulty in yielding the same submission to a new
driver in the event of a change of attendants.[255]
Lastly, Sir E. Tennent writes:--
One evening, whilst riding in the vicinity of Candy,
towards the scene of the massacre of Major Dabies'
party in 1803, my horse evinced some excitement at a
noise which approached us in the thick jungle, and
which consisted of a repetition of the ejaculation
_urmph! urmph!_ in a hoarse and dissatisfied tone. A
turn in the forest explained the mystery, by bringing
us face to face with a tame elephant, unaccompanied by
any attendant. He was labouring painfully to carry a
heavy beam of timber, which he balanced across his
tusks, but, the pathway being narrow, he was forced to
bend his head to one side to permit it to pass
endways; and the exertion and this inconvenience
combined led him to utter the dissatisfied sounds
which disturbed the composure of my horse. On seeing
us halt, the elephant raised his head, reconnoitred us
for a moment, then flung down the timber, and
voluntarily forced himself backwards among the
brushwood so as to leave a passage, of which he
expected us to avail ourselves. My horse hesitated:
the elephant observed it, and impatiently thrust
himself deeper into the jungle, repeating his cry of
_urmph!_ but in a voice evidently meant to encourage
us to advance. Still the horse trembled; and, anxious
to observe the instinct of the two sagacious animals,
I forebore any interference: again the elephant of his
own accord wedged himself further in amongst the
trees, and manifested some impatience that we did not
pass him. At length the horse moved forward; and when
we were fairly past, I saw the wise creature stoop and
take up its heavy burden, trim and balance it on its
tusks, and resume its route as before, hoarsely
snorting its discontented remonstrance.
Dr. Erasmus Darwin records an observation which was communicated to him
by a 'gentleman of undoubted veracity,' of an elephant in India which
the keeper was in the habit of leaving to play the part of nurse to his
child when he and his wife had occasion to go away from home. The
elephant was chained up, and whenever the child in its creeping about
came to the end of the elephant's tether, he used gently to draw it back
again with his trunk.
In 'Nature,' vol. xix., p. 385, Mr. J. J. Furniss writes:--
In Central Park one very hot day my attention was
drawn to the conduct of an elephant which had been
placed in an enclosure in the open air. On the ground
was a large heap of newly-mown grass, which the
sagacious animal was taking up by the trunkful, and
laying carefully upon his sun-heated back. He
continued the operation until his back was _completely
thatched_, when he remained quiet, apparently enjoying
the result of his ingenuity.
Mr. Furniss in a later communication (vol. xx., p. 21) continues:--
Since the publication of my former letter (as above),
I have received additional data bearing on the subject
from Mr. W. A. Conklin, the superintendent of the
Central Park Menagerie. I am informed by him that he
has frequently observed elephants, when out of doors
in the hot sunshine, thatch their backs with hay or
grass; that they do so to a certain extent when under
cover in the summer time, and when the flies which
then attack the animals, often so fiercely as to draw
blood, are particularly numerous; but that they never
attempt to thatch their backs in winter. This seems to
prove that they act intelligently for the attainment
of a definite end. It would be interesting to learn
whether elephants in their wild state are in the habit
of so thatching their backs. It seems more probable to
suppose that in their native wilds they would avail
themselves of the natural shade afforded by the
jungle, and that the habit is one which has been
developed in consequence of their changed surroundings
in captivity.
Mr. G. E. Peal writes to 'Nature' (vol. xxi., p. 34):--
One evening, soon after my arrival in Eastern Assam,
and while the five elephants were as usual being fed
opposite the bungalow, I observed a young and lately
caught one step up to a bamboo-stake fence, and
quietly pull one of the stakes up. Placing it under
foot, it broke a piece off with the trunk, and after
lifting it to its mouth threw it away. It repeated
this twice or thrice, and then drew another stake and
began again. Seeing that the bamboo was old and dry I
asked the reason of this, and was told to wait and see
what it would do. At last it seemed to get a piece
that suited, and holding it in the trunk firmly, and
stepping the left fore-leg well forward, passed the
piece of bamboo under the armpit, so to speak, and
began to scratch with some force. My surprise reached
its climax when I saw a large elephant leech fall on
the ground, quite six inches long and thick as one's
finger, and which, from its position, could not easily
be detached without this scraper or scratcher which
was deliberately made by the elephant. I subsequently
found that it was a common occurrence. Such scrapers
are used by every elephant daily.
On another occasion, when travelling at a time of the
year when the large flies are so tormenting to an
elephant, I noticed that the one I rode had no fan or
wisp to beat them off with. The mahout, at my order,
slackened pace and allowed her to go to the side of
the road, when for some moments she moved along
rummaging the smaller jungle on the bank; at last she
came to a cluster of young shoots well branched, and
after feeling among them and selecting one, raised her
trunk and neatly stripped down the stem, taking off
all the lower branches and leaving a fine bunch on
top. She deliberately cleaned it down several times,
and then laying hold at the lower end broke off a
beautiful fan or switch about five feet long, handle
included. With this she kept the flies at bay as we
went along, flapping them off on each side.
Say what we may, these are both really _bonâ fide_
implements, each intelligently made for a definite
purpose.
My friend Mrs. A. S. H. Richardson sends me the following. The Rev. Mr.
Townsend, who narrated the episode, is personally known to her:--
An elephant was chained to a tree in the compound
opposite Mr. Townsend's house. Its driver made an oven
at a short distance, in which he put his rice-cakes to
bake, and then covered them with stones and grass and
went away. When he was gone, the elephant with his
trunk unfastened the chain round his foot, went to the
oven and uncovered it, took out and ate the cakes,
re-covered the oven with the stones and grass as
before, and went back to his place. He could not
fasten the chain again round his own foot, so he
twisted it round and round it, in order to look the
same, and when the driver returned the elephant was
standing with his back to the oven. The driver went to
his cakes, discovered the theft, and, looking round,
caught the elephant's eye as he looked back over his
shoulder out of the corner of it. Instantly he
detected the culprit, and condign punishment followed.
The whole occurrence was witnessed from the windows by
the family.
FOOTNOTES:
[225] Plin., _Hist. Nat._, viii. 1-13.
[226] _De Solert. Anim._, c. 12.
[227] _Philosophical Transactions_, 1799, p. 40.
[228] See Bingley, _loc. cit._, vol. i., pp. 148-51.
[229] _Hist. Nat._, viii., 5.
[230] For these and other cases of vindictiveness, see Bingley, _loc.
cit._, vol. i., pp. 156-8.
[231] _Memoirs_, vol. i., p. 448.
[232] _Zoological Recreations_, p. 315.
[233] _Animal Biography_, i., pp. 156-8.
[234] _Anecdotes of Animals_, p. 276.
[235] _Habits and Instincts of Animals_, p. 37.
[236] _Reasoning Power of Animals_, chap. iv.
[237] Quoted in _Animal World_, March 1882.
[238] _Philosophical Transactions_, 1873.
[239] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 114.
[240] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 140.
[241] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 196.
[242] _Phil. Trans._, A.D. 1701, vol. xxiii., p. 1052.
[243] _Loc. cit._, p. 216.
[244] _Memoirs_, vol. ii., p. 64 _et seq._
[245] Jesse, _Gleanings in Natural History_, vol. i, p. 19.
[246] _Descent of Man_, p. 96.
[247] See _Animal Kingdom_, vol. iii., p. 374.
[248] _Reasoning Power of Animals_, pp. 54-5.
[249] Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. i., p. 155.
[250] Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. i., p. 155.
[251] See his letter to Sir E. Tennent in _Nat. Hist. of Ceylon_, pp.
118-20.
[252] _Indications of Instinct_, p. 129.
[253] _Descent of Man_, p. 69.
[254] _Natural History of Ceylon_, pp. 181-94.
[255] _Natural History of Ceylon_, pp. 181-94.