sagacity and independent powers of reasoning, it must be admitted
that a greater number of more wonderful anecdotes are told on
equally good authority of dogs. But the circumstances in the case
are wholly to the advantage of the universal dog, and against the
rarely seen elephant. While the former roams at will through his
master's premises, through town and country, mingling freely with
all kinds of men and domestic animals, with unlimited time to lay
plans and execute them, the elephant in captivity is chained to a
stake, with no liberty of action whatever aside from begging with
his trunk, eating and drinking. His only amusement is in swaying
his body, swinging one foot, switching his tail, and (in a
zoological park) looking for something that he can open or
destroy. Such a ponderous beast cannot be allowed to roam at large
among human beings, and the working elephant never leaves his
stake and chain except under the guidance of his mahout. There is
no means of estimating the wonderful powers of reasoning that
captive elephants might develop if they could only enjoy the
freedom accorded to all dogs except the blood-hound, bull-dog and
a few others.
In the jungles of India the writer frequently has seen wild
elephants reconnoitre dangerous ground by means of a scout or spy;
communicate intelligence by signs; retreat in orderly silence from
a lurking danger, and systematically march, in single file, like
the jungle tribes of men.
Once having approached to within fifty yards of the stragglers of
a herd of about thirty wild elephants, which was scattered over
about four acres of very open forest and quietly feeding, two
individuals of the herd on the side nearest us suddenly suspected
danger. One of them elevated his trunk, with the tip bent forward,
and smelled the air from various points of the compass. A moment
later an old elephant left the herd and started straight for our
ambush, scenting the air with upraised trunk as he slowly and
noiselessly advanced. We instantly retreated, unobserved and
unheard. The elephant advanced until he reached the identical spot
where we had a moment before been concealed. He paused, and stood
motionless as a statue for about two minutes, then wheeled about
and quickly but noiselessly rejoined the herd. In less than half
a minute the whole herd was in motion, heading directly away from
us, and moving very rapidly, but _without the slightest
noise_. The huge animals simply vanished like shadows into the
leafy depths of the forest. Before proceeding a quarter of a mile,
the entire herd formed in single file and continued strictly in
that order for several miles. Like the human dwellers in the
jungle, the elephants know that the easiest and most expeditious
way for a large body of animals to traverse a tangled forest is
for the leader to pick the way, while all the others follow in his
footsteps.
In strong contrast with the stealthy and noiseless manner in which
elephants steal away from a lurking danger, or an ambush
discovered, from an open attack accompanied with the noise of
fire-arms they rush away at headlong speed, quite regardless of
the noise they make. On one occasion a herd which I was designing
to attack, and had approached to within forty yards, as its
members were feeding in some thick bushes, discovered my presence
and retreated so silently that they had been gone five minutes
before I discovered what their sudden quietude really meant. In
this instance, as in several others, the still alarm was
communicated by silent signals, or sign-language.
At the Zoological Park we reared an African pygmy elephant
(_Elephas pumilio_). When his slender little tusks grew to
eighteen inches in length he made some interesting uses of them.
Once when the keepers wished to lead him upon our large platform
scales, the trembling of the platform frightened him. He conceived
the idea that it was unsafe, and therefore that he must keep off.
He backed away, halted, and refused to leave solid ground. The men
pushed him. He backed, and trumpeted a shrill protest. The men
pushed harder, and forced him forward. Trumpeting his wild alarm
and his protest against what he regarded as murder, he fell upon
his knees and drove his tusks into the earth, quite up to his
mouth, to anchor himself firmly to the solid ground. It was
pathetic, but also amusing. When Congo finally was pushed upon the
scales and weighed, he left the trembling instrument of torture
with an air of disgust and disapproval that was quite as eloquent
as words. On several occasions when taken out for exercise in the
park, he endeavored to hinder the return to quarters by anchoring
himself to Mother Earth.
Congo once startled us by his knowledge of the usefulness of
doors. For a time he was kept in a compartment that had an outside
door running sidewise on a trolley track, and controlled by two
hanging chains, one to close it and one to open it. Each chain had
on its end a stout iron ring for a handle. One chilly morning when
I went to see Congo, I asked his keeper to open his door, so that
he could go out.
The keeper did so, by pulling the right hand chain. The moment the
draft of chilly outer air struck Congo, who stood in the centre of
his stall facing me, he impatiently wheeled about, walked up to
the left hand chain, grabbed it with his trunk, slipped the ring
over one of his tusks, then inclined his head downward and with an
irritated tug pulled the door shut with a spiteful slam. "Open
it again," I said to the keeper.
He did so, and in the same way, but with a visible increase in
irritation, Congo closed it in the same manner as before. Again
the keeper opened the door, and this time, with a real exhibition
of temper Congo again thrust the ring over his tusk, and brought
the door shut with a resounding bang. It was his regular habit to
close that door, or to open it, when he felt like more air or less
air; and who is there who will say that the act was due to
"instinct" in a jungle-bred animal, or anything else than original
thought. The ring on his tusk was his own invention, as a means to
a desired end.
Every elephant that we ever have had has become, through his own
initiative and experimenting, an expert in unfastening the latches
of doors and gates, and in untying chains and ropes. Gunda always
knew enough to attack the padlocks on his leg chains, and break
them if possible. No ordinary clevis would hold him. When the pin
was threaded at one end and screwed into its place, Gunda would
work at it, hour by hour, until he would start it to unscrewing,
and then his trunk-tip would do the rest. The only clevis that he
could not open was one in which a stout cotter pin was passed
through the end of the clevis-pin and strongly bent.
Through reasons emanating in his own savage brain, Gunda took
strong dislikes to several of our park people. He hated Dick
Richards,--the keeper of Alice. He hated a certain messenger boy,
a certain laborer, a painter and Mr. Ditmars. Toward me he was
tolerant, and never rushed at me to kill me, as he always did to
his pet aversions. He stood in open fear of his own keeper, Walter
Thuman, until he had studied out a plan to catch him off his guard
and "get him." Then he launched his long-contemplated attack, and
Thuman was almost killed.
Our present (1921) male African elephant, Kartoum, is not so
hostile toward people, but his insatiable desire is to break and
to smash all of his environment that can be bent or broken. His
ingenuity in finding ways to damage doors and gates, and to bend
or to break steel beams, is amazing. His greatest feat consisted
in breaking squarely in two, by pushing with his head, a 90-pound
steel railroad iron used as the top bar of his fence. He knows the
mechanism of the latch of the ponderous steel door between his two
box stalls, and nothing but a small pin that only human fingers
can manipulate suffices to thwart his efforts to control the
latch.
Kartoum has gone over every inch of surface of his two apartments,
his doors, gates and fences, to find something that he can break
or damage. The steel linings of his apartment walls, originally
five feet high, we have been compelled to extend upward to a
height of nine feet, to save the brick walls from being battered
and disfigured. He has searched his steel fences throughout, in
order to find their weakest points, and concentrate his attacks
upon them. If the sharp-pointed iron spikes three inches long that
are set all over his doors are perfectly solid, he respects them,
but if one is the least bit loose in its socket, he works at it
until he finally breaks it off.
I invite any Doubting Thomas who thinks that Kartoum does not
"think" and "reason" to try his own thinking and reasoning at
inventing for Kartoum's door a latch that a keeper can easily and
surely open and close at a distance of ten feet, and that will be
Kartoum-proof. As for ourselves, three or four seemingly
intelligent officers and keepers, and a capable foreman of
construction, have all they can do to keep ahead of that one
elephant, so great is his ingenuity in thwarting our ways and
means to restrain him.
In about two days of effort our elephant keepers taught Gunda to
receive a coin from the hand of a visitor, or pick it off the
floor, lift the lid of a high-placed cash-box, drop the coin into
it and ring a bell. This very amusing industry was kept up for
several years, but finally it became so popular that it had to be
discontinued.
Keeper Dick Richards easily taught Alice to blow a mouth organ,
and to ring a telephone, to take the receiver off its hook and
hold it to her ear and listen. For years Alice has rendered, every
summer, valuable services of a serious nature in carrying children
and other visitors around her yard, and only once or twice has she
shown a contrary or obstinate spirit.
Tame elephants never tread on the feet of their attendants or
knock them down by accident; or, at least, no instances of the
kind have come to my knowledge. The elephant's feet are large, his
range of vision is circumscribed, and his extreme and wholly
voluntary solicitude for the safety of his human attendants can
not be due to anything else than independent reasoning. The most
intelligent dog is apt to greet his master by planting a pair of
dirty paws against his coat or trousers. The most sensible
carriage-horse is liable to step on his master's foot or crowd him
against a wall in a moment of excitement; but even inside the
keddah, with wild elephants all about, and a captive elephant
hemmed in by three or four tame animals, the noosers safely work
under the bodies and between the feet of the tame elephant until
the feet of the captive are tied.
All who have witnessed the tying of captives in a keddah wherein a
whole wild herd has been entrapped, testify to the uncanny human-
like quality of the intelligence displayed by the tame elephants
who assist in tying, leading out and subjugating the wild
captives. They enter into the business with both spirit and
understanding, and as occasion requires will deceitfully cajole or
vigorously punish a troublesome captive. Sir Emerson Tennent
asserts that the tame elephants display the most perfect
conception of every movement, both of the object to be attained
and the means to accomplish it.
Memory in the Elephant. So far as memory may be regarded as an
index of an animal's mental capacity, the weight of evidence is
most convincingly creditable to the elephant. As a test of memory
in an animal, we hold that a trained performance surpasses all
others. During the past forty years millions of people have
witnessed in either Barnum's or Ringling Brothers' shows, or in
the two combined, an imitation military drill performed by from
twelve to twenty elephants which in animals of any other species
would be considered a remarkable performance. The following were
the commands given by one trainer, understood and remembered by
each elephant, and executed without any visible hesitation or
mistake. These we will call the
Accomplishments of Performing Elephants.
1. Fall in line.
2. Roll-call. (As each elephant's name is called, he takes his
place in the ranks).
3. Present arms. (The trunk is uplifted, with its tip curved
forward and held in that position for a short time.)
4. Forward, march.
5. File left, march.
6. Right about face, march.
7. Left about face, march.
8. Right by twos, march.
9. Double quick, march.
10. Single file, march.
11. File right.
12. Halt.
13. Ground arms. (All lie down, and lie motionless.)
14. Attention (All arise.)
15. Shoulder arms. (All stand up on their hind-legs.)
In all, fifteen commands were obeyed by the whole company of
elephants.
It being impossible, or at least impracticable, to supply so large
a number of animals with furniture and stage properties for a
further universal performance, certain individuals were supplied
with the proper articles when necessary for a continuation of the
performance, as follows:
16. Ringing bells.
17. Climbing up a step-ladder.
18. Going lame in a fore leg.
19. Going lame in a hind leg.
20. Stepping up on a tub turned bottom up.
[Illustration with
caption: TAME ELEPHANTS ASSISTING IN TYING A WILD CAPTIVE The
captive elephant is marked "C." The tame elephants have been
quietly massed around him to keep him still and to give the
noosers a chance to work at his legs from under the bodies of the
tame elephants. The black figures on the tame elephants are their
mahouts, wrapped in blankets and lying down. (From A. G. R.
Theobald, Mysore)]
21. Standing on a tub on right legs only.
22. The same, on opposite legs.
23. The same, on the fore legs only.
24. The same, on the hind legs only.
25. Using a fan.
26. Turning a hand-organ.
27. Using a handkerchief to wipe the eyes.
28. Sitting in a chair.
29. Kneeling, with the fore legs.
30. Kneeling with the hind legs.
31. Walking astride a man lying lengthwise.
32. Stepping over a man lying down.
33. Forming a pyramid of elephants, by using tubs of various
sizes.
While it is true that not all of the acts in the latter part of
this performance were performed by each one of the elephants who
went through the military drill, there is no reason to doubt the
entire ability of each individual to be trained to obey the whole
thirty-three commands, and to remember them all accurately and
without confusion. The most astonishing feature of the
performance, aside from the perfect obedience of the huge beasts,
was their easy confidence and accuracy of memory.
We come now to a consideration of the Accomplishments of Working
Elephants. In all the timber-forests of southern India every
captive elephant is taught to perform all the following acts and
services, as I have witnessed on many occasions:
1. To _salaam,_ or salute, by raising the trunk.
2. To kneel, to receive a load or a passenger.
3. When standing, to hold up a fore-foot, to serve the driver as a
step in climbing to his place.
4. To lie down to be washed, first on one side and then on the
other.
5. To open the mouth. 6. To "hand up" any article from the
ground to the reach of a person riding.
7. To pull down an obstructing bough.
8. To halt.
9. To back.
10. To pick up the end of a drag-rope and place it between the
teeth.
11. To drag a timber.
12. To kneel and with the head turn a log over, or turn it with
the tusks if any are present.
13. To push a log into position parallel with others.
14. To balance and carry timbers on the tusks, if possessing tusks
of sufficient size.
15. To "speak," or trumpet.
16. To work in harness.
Every working elephant in India is supposed to possess the
intelligence necessary to the performance of all the acts
enumerated above at the command of his driver, either by spoken
words, a pressure of the knees or feet, or a touch with the
driving goad. For the sake of generalization I have purposely
excluded from this list all tricks and accomplishments which are
not universally taught to working elephants. We have seen,
however, that performing elephants are capable of executing
nearly double the number of acts commonly taught to the workers;
and, while it is useless to speculate upon the subject, it must be
admitted that, were a trainer to test an elephant's memory by
ascertaining the exact number of commands it could remember and
execute in rotation, the result would far exceed anything yet
obtained. For my own part, I believe it would exceed a hundred.
The performance in the circus-ring is limited by time and space,
and not by the mental capacity of the elephants.
Comprehension under Training. When we come to consider the
comparative mental receptivity and comprehension of animals under
man's tuition, we find the elephant absolutely unsurpassed. On
account of the fact that an elephant is about eighteen years in
coming to anything like maturity, according to the Indian
Government standard for working animals, it is far more economical
and expeditious to catch full-grown elephants in their native
jungles, and train them, than it is to breed and rear them. About
ninety per cent of all the elephants now living in captivity were
caught in a wild state and tamed, and of the remainder at least
eighty per cent were born in captivity of females that were gravid
when captured. It will be seen, therefore, that the elephant has
derived no advantage whatever from ancestral association with man,
and has gained nothing from the careful selection and breeding
which, all combined, have made the collie dog, the pointer and the
setter the wonderfully intelligent animals they are. For many
generations the horse has been bred for strength, for speed, or
for beauty of form, but the breeding of the dog has been based
_chiefly_ on his intelligence as a means to an end. _With
all his advantages, it is to be doubted whether the comprehensive
faculties of the dog, even in the most exceptional individuals of
a whole race, are equal to those of the adult wild elephant fresh
from the jungle._
The extreme difficulty of teaching a dog _of mature age_ even
the simplest thing is so well known that it has passed into a
proverb: "It is hard to teach an old dog new tricks." In other
words, the conditions _must_ be favorable. But what is the
case with the elephant? The question shall be answered by G. P.
Sanderson. In his "Wild Beasts of India," he says: "_Nor are
there any elephants which can not be easily subjugated, whatever
their size or age. The largest and oldest elephants are frequently
the most easily tamed, as they are less apprehensive than the
younger ones._"
Philosophy of the Elephant in Accepting Captivity and Making the
Best of It. The most astounding feature in the education of an
elephant is the suddenness of his transition from a wild and
lawless denizen of the forest to the quiet, plodding, good-
tempered, and cheerful beast of draught or burden. I call it
astounding, because in comparison with what could _not_ be
done with other wild animals caught when adult, no other word is
adequate to express the difference. The average wild animal caught
fully grown is "a terror," and so far as training is concerned,
perfectly impossible.
There takes place in the keddah, or pen of capture, a mighty
struggle between the giant strength of the captive and the
ingenuity of man, ably seconded by a few powerful tame elephants.
When he finds his strength utterly overcome by man's intelligence,
he yields to the inevitable, and accepts the situation
philosophically. Sanderson once had a narrow escape from death
while on the back of a tame elephant inside a keddah, attempting
to secure a wild female. She fought his elephant long and
viciously, with the strength and courage of despair, but finally
she was overcome by superior numbers. Although her attack on
Sanderson in the keddah was of the most murderous description, he
states that her conduct after her defeat was most exemplary, and
she never afterward showed any signs of ill-temper.
Mr. Sanderson and an elephant-driver once mounted a full-grown
female elephant _on the sixth day after her capture, without
even the presence of a tame animal._ Sir Emerson Tennent
records an instance wherein an elephant fed from the hand on the
first night of its capture, and in a very few days evinced
pleasure at being patted on the head. Such instances as the above
can be multiplied indefinitely. To what else shall they be
attributed than philosophic reasoning on the part of the elephant?
The orang-utan and the chimpanzee, so often put forward as his
intellectual superior, when captured alive at any other period
than that of helpless infancy, are vicious, aggressive, and
intractable not only for weeks and months, but for the remainder
of their lives. Orangs captured when fully adult exhibit the most
tiger-like ferocity, and are wholly intractable.
If dogs are naturally superior to elephants in natural intellect,
it should be as easy to tame and educate newly-caught wild dogs or
wolves of mature age, as newly-caught elephants. But, so far from
this being the case, it is safe to assert that it would be
_impossible_ to train even the most intelligent company of
pointers, setters or collies ever got together to perform the
feats accomplished with such promptness and accuracy by all
regularly trained work elephants.
The successful training of all elephants up to the required
working point is so fully conceded in India that the market value
of an animal depends wholly upon its age, sex, build and the
presence or absence of good tusks. The animal's education is
either sufficient for the buyer, or, if it is not, he knows it can
be made so.
Promptness and Accuracy in the Execution of Man's Orders. This is
the fourth quality which serves as a key to the mental capacity
and mental processes of an animal.
To me the most impressive feature of a performance of elephants in
the circus-ring is the fact that every command uttered is obeyed
with true military promptness and freedom from hesitation, and so
accurately that an entire performance often is conducted and
concluded without the repetition of a single command. One by one
the orders are executed with the most human-like precision and
steadiness, amounting sometimes to actual nonchalance. Human
beings of the highest type scarcely could do better. To some
savage races--for example, the native Australians, the Veddahs of
Ceylon, or the Jackoons of the Malay Peninsula, I believe that
such a performance would be impossible, even under training. I do
not believe their minds act with sufficient rapidity and accuracy
to enable a company of them to go through with such a wholly
artificial performance as successfully as the elephants do.
The thoughtful observer does not need to be told that the brain of
the ponderous quadruped acts, as far as it goes, with the same
rapidity and precision as that of an intelligent man,--and this,
too, in a performance that is wholly artificial and acquired.
In the performance of Bartholomew's horses, of which I once kept a
record in detail, even the most accomplished members of his troupe
often had to be commanded again and again before they would obey.
A command often was repeated for the fifth or sixth time before
the desired result was obtained. I noted particularly that not one
of his horses,--which were the most perfectly trained of any ever
seen by me,--was an exception to this rule, or performed his
tasks with the prompt obedience and self-confidence so noticeable
in _each one_ of the sixteen Barnum elephants. The horses
usually obeyed with tardiness and hesitation, and very often
manifested nervousness and uncertainty.
In the mind of the elephant, e. g., _each_ elephant, there
was no confusion of ideas or lapses of memory, but, on the
contrary, the mental grasp on the whole subject was so secure and
comprehensive that the animal felt himself the master of the
situation.
I have never yet seen a performance of trained dogs which could be
considered worthy of serious comparison with the accomplishments
of either performing or working elephants. In the matter of native
educational capacity the dog can not on any grounds be considered
the rival of the elephant. The alleged mental superiority of the
dog is based almost wholly upon his powers of independent
reasoning and observation as exhibited in a state of almost
perfect _freedom._ Until the elephant who has grown to
maturity under man's influence, is allowed the dog's freedom to
plan and execute, no conclusive comparison between them can be
made.