Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is enclosed in _underscores_.
Additional notes will be found near the end of this ebook.
WILD BEASTS
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT.
[_From a photograph by Gambier Bolton. Copyright._]]
WILD BEASTS
A STUDY OF THE CHARACTERS AND HABITS OF THE
ELEPHANT, LION, LEOPARD, PANTHER, JAGUAR,
TIGER, PUMA, WOLF, AND GRIZZLY BEAR
BY
J. HAMPDEN PORTER
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1894
COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.
TO
Captain John G. Bourke
U. S. ARMY
IN TOKEN OF FRIENDSHIP
AND IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE TIME
WHEN WE STUDIED TOGETHER
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE ELEPHANT 1
THE LION 76
THE LEOPARD AND PANTHER 136
THE JAGUAR 175
THE TIGER 196
THE PUMA 257
THE WOLF 306
THE GRIZZLY BEAR 352
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE ELEPHANT _Frontispiece_
_Page_
THE LION 76
THE LEOPARD 136
THE JAGUAR 175
THE TIGER 196
THE PUMA 257
THE WOLF 306
THE GRIZZLY BEAR 352
WILD BEASTS
THE ELEPHANT
The elephant--“My Lord the Elephant,” as he is called in India--takes
precedence of other quadrupeds upon several counts. Among these appear
conspicuously the facts that he belongs to an ancient and isolated
family, which has no near relations occupying lower stations in
life; likewise, that from time immemorial these creatures have been
strong enough to do as they pleased. This latter circumstance more
particularly ensured the sincere respect of mankind, and throughout the
records of the race we find its members in distinguished positions.
Ganesha, the Hindu god of wisdom, had an elephant’s head, and
_Elephas Indicus_ was worshipped from Eastern China to the highlands
of Central India. In Africa this species only escaped adoration
because the natives of that country were incapable of conceiving
any of those abstract ideas which the animal embodied. Wherever an
elephant has existed, however, men have looked up to him, and as he
was not carnivorous, it comported with human reasoning to extol the
benevolence of a being who, if otherwise constituted, might have done
so much harm.
Oriental, classic, mediæval, and modern superstitions cluster about
the elephant. Pliny and Ælian often seem to be mocking at popular
credulity. “_Valet sensu et reliquâ sagacitate ingenii excellit
elephas_,” says Aristotle, and Strabo writes in the same strain. One
might nearly as well take the verses of Martial for a text-book as seek
information among those errors and extravagancies of antiquity which
Vartomannus brought to a climax.
It is no longer said that elephants who, to use Colonel Barras’ words
(“India and Tiger Hunting”), “are practically sterile in captivity,”
are so because of their modesty, or that this is attributable to a
nobleness of soul which prevents them from propagating a race of
slaves. Men would now be ashamed to say they are monotheists, and
retire to solitudes to pray. But so little of comparative psychology is
known, and the side lights which other sciences throw upon zoölogy are
so much disregarded, that no hesitation is felt at comparing them with
human beings, or measuring the faculties and feelings of a beast by
standards set up in civilized society.
The elephant is a social animal; in all herds the units are family
groups where several generations are often represented, and when the
larger aggregate dissolves, it separates into family groups again. With
this statement, anything like unanimity of opinion among authorities
upon elephants is at an end.
It is said that years bring moroseness upon elephants, and that any
evil tendencies they exhibit in youth are aggravated by age. Apart
from what may be exceptional in cases of this kind, the biological
law is that the characteristic features of species, whether physical
or mental, are not developed until maturity. Most of those who know
these animals personally agree in the opinion that solitary males are
commonly dangerous; and although the existence of “rogue elephants,”
who always belong to this class, has been denied, confirmatory evidence
is too strong to be rejected. When some member of a group becomes
separated from its relations and is lost, when a young bull is driven
off for precocity, or an old tusker retires to solitude because he
has been worsted in combat with a rival, the change of state cannot
fail to be distressing, and the individual to deteriorate. At certain
seasons male elephants often voluntarily abandon the society of
females, but not usually of each other. When they grow old, there is
more or less tendency towards seclusion in all bulls. Retirement,
however, when prompted by age, apathy, or loss of the incitements
towards association, is not at all like exile while physical powers and
feelings are in force.
Ferocity is much more frequently met with in elephants than most people
suppose; and as it is with these animals in a wild state, so is it also
among those in captivity. There is no reason why a captured savage
should spontaneously evolve adornments to his moral character because
he is under restraint. A vicious brute is only restrained by fear, and
this coercive influence continues just so long as apprehension is not
overbalanced by passion.
Charles John Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) infers from the
ease with which this animal accommodates itself to those requirements
involved in domestication that its “natural disposition is mild and
gentle.” G. P. Sanderson (“Thirteen Years among the Wild Beasts of
India”) holds that “obedience, gentleness, and patience ... are the
elephant’s chief good qualities.”
Corse, speaking from his long experience in the elephant stables
at Teperah and other places, states that they constantly exhibit a
rooted animosity to other animals, and towards the keepers and helpers
attached to them; while Colonel Julius Barras says, “all the old
tuskers I have seen in captivity have killed one or two persons in the
course of their career.”
Passing from domesticated individuals to protected herds, Dr.
Holub (“Seven Years in South Africa”) found that on the Cape Town
reservations they had “lost all fear of man, and had become excessively
dangerous.” Elephants in the government forests of Ceylon, where they
are not exposed to attack from sportsmen, are described by Colonel
James Campbell (“Excursions in Ceylon”) as vicious and aggressive.
On the other hand, neither Forsyth, Hornaday, Dawson, nor any other
writers who were acquainted with the condition of animals similarly
situated in India, have noticed that a like change has taken place
among them.
It has been mentioned already that the existence of “rogue elephants”
is denied; but everything that has ever been said about the race has
likewise been denied. Andersson remarks of the solitary elephant that
“instances innumerable are on record of his attacking travellers and
others who had not offended him in any way.” A tusker “in seclusion,”
observes Major Leveson (“Sport in Many Lands”), is always “morose,
vicious, and desperately cunning.” Leveson, Andersson, Campbell, Baker,
Cumming, and Selous had ample opportunities for convincing themselves
of the reality of rogues.
Speaking of the species on both continents, we may consider them as
but little entitled to much of their reputation for harmlessness. Sir
Samuel Baker (“The Rifle and Hound in Ceylon”) gives it as his opinion
that they are “the most dangerous creatures with which a sportsman can
contend;” and W. T. Hornaday (“Two Years in the Jungle”) takes the same
view.
An elephant never exhibits the blind and senseless ferocity of a black
rhinoceros. He is often fully as fierce, and far more destructive,
but this disposition does not display itself in the same way. Both of
these animals will, however, attack by scent alone. It is not meant
that in elephants this conduct is customary; all that is intended is to
substantiate the occurrence of such an act.
This animal’s character is more completely evinced in the expression
“My Lord the Elephant” than it could be by any description, however
true and striking. Sanderson explains that the title is not given in
reverence so much as in fear. The native attendants upon elephants, he
observes, have little respect for their intelligence, but a lasting
apprehension of what may at any time happen to themselves.
It is generally said that while male elephants are free they never
become “must,” and, therefore, that this temporary delirium arising
from interference with natural functions, cannot be the cause of
those extreme cases of viciousness which occasionally make a tusker
the scourge of a whole district. Whether “must” or not, these brutes
are sometimes mad, and among other examples that might be given, Sir
Samuel Baker’s description of a “tank-rogue,”--shot by himself in
Ceylon,--portrays too faithfully the familiar symptoms of mania to
leave any doubt about the animal’s condition.
This fierce beast had committed many murders,--killing people without
any provocation; lying in wait for them; stealing towards those places
he knew to be frequented; and apparently devoting all his energies to
the destruction of human life. From the first moment at which he was
seen all his actions betokened insanity. Baker never suspected the true
state of the case, but he watched this elephant for some time, and
carefully noted his conduct,--his wild and disordered mien, his aimless
restlessness, and causeless anger; all the features which form the
characteristic physiognomy of mania.
Extremely dangerous elephants are not, however, always insane. There is
no need to argue mental alienation in order to account for acts which
vice of itself is fully competent to explain. The beast’s strength is
enormous, its bulk greatest among land animals, its offensive weapons
and general capability of doing harm are unequalled. Of these facts the
creature itself must be conscious, and it never exhibits the darker
side of its character without showing that it is so.
This leads to a question that has been considerably disputed, and
concerning which many opinions have been recorded--all dogmatic, and
most of them contradictory. Suppose that a homicidal elephant catches
a fugitive whom he pursues, how does he kill him, and is he invariably
destroyed? The subject stated does not amount to much in itself, but
some points will appear in the course of a brief inquiry into it that
merit attention. All writers who held to the instinctive hypothesis,
and imagined that brutes only acted in a predetermined way, have taken
exclusive views of this matter. When a man is overtaken by an elephant
many say he is always killed. Sanderson, for example, says so. Captain
Wedderburn was killed. Professor Wahlberg was killed. Everybody is
killed; it cannot be otherwise. Nevertheless, Colonel Walter Campbell
(“The Old Forest Ranger”) saw a companion emerge from beneath the
feet of a rogue elephant, and Major Leveson and Major Blayney Walshe
(“Sporting and Military Adventures in Nepaul”) relate the incidents
of like cases. Henry Courtney Selous (“A Hunter’s Wanderings in
Africa”) lived to tell how this same good fortune attended himself;
and Lieutenant Moodie was actually trampled in the presence of several
witnesses, and yet, although considerably injured, escaped with his
life.
These were, of course, very unusual instances, and it is undeniable
that most people whom elephants catch are killed. But how? Pressed to
death with one of the animal’s forefeet, one authority declares; with
both of them, another insists; kicked forwards and backwards between
the hind and front legs till reduced to a pulp, maintains a third;
transfixed with the tusks, kneeled upon, walked over, dismembered,
others protest, as if any mode of putting a man to death, except that
particular one which they had determined to be the natural, usual, and,
so to speak, proper method, would be a singular departure from the
course an elephant might have been expected to pursue.
Sir Emmerson Tennant (“Ceylon”), who has made as many mistakes about
these animals as can anywhere be found gathered together in one place,
is certain the tusks are never used offensively. He, in fact, shows
that it is physically impossible that they should be. According to him
these appendages are probably auxiliary to the animal’s food supply,
but for the most part useless. Nobody, however, ever saw a pair of
these developed front teeth that were symmetrical; one is invariably
more worn away than the other on account of its having been used by
preference in digging up roots, bulbs, etc. With respect to their
employment as weapons, Selous states that “when an elephant overtakes
his persecutor [a man, that is to say], he emits scream after scream
in quick succession, all the time stamping upon and ventilating his
adversary with his tusks.” That these are “most formidable weapons,”
remarks Sanderson, is recognized by the animals themselves. “Tuskers
always maintain the greatest discipline in a herd.... Superiority
seems to attach to one or the other in proportion to the size of the
tusks;” and in the combats between bull elephants which he witnessed
“one was often killed outright.” Further, when a male has only one
tusk, as not unfrequently happens, this is obviously more effective
than both would be, and in that event, Sanderson adds, “he is the
terror of an elephant corral ... its undisputed lord.” The weak point
in Sir Emmerson Tennant’s demonstration of the mechanical impossibility
of using those parts, on account of the angle at which they are set
in the jaw, is due to his having overlooked the fact that an elephant
can move his head. Emin Pasha (“Collection of Journals, Letters,
etc.”) reports that he saw a soldier in Central Africa who had been
desperately wounded by a thrust from an elephant’s tusk. It was the
accident of being struck by the side of one instead of its point that
enabled Colonel Barras to get off with his life; and Sir Samuel Baker
relates the death of Mr. Ingram, who was transfixed. These animals have
no special way of inflicting death, though most commonly this is caused
by trampling. All the modes enumerated are vouched for by witnesses
whose evidence there is no reason to doubt, and this clash of opinion
is only one of the many outgrowths of that strange superstition by
which brutes are represented to act uniformly in consequence of their
unvarying mental constitution. Nothing, for instance, even among the
best authorities, is more frequently met with than the point-blank
assertion that an elephant never strikes with its trunk. Yet Andersson
(“Lake N’gami”) was nearly killed in this way. General Shakespear saw
his gun-bearer struck down, and Sir James E. Alexander (“Excursions
in Africa”) describes its use as a means of offence. There are many
reasons why this organ should not be thus employed habitually, but
there is no cause which would prevent it from being applied in this
manner when the animal himself, who is much the best judge, thought
proper to do so.
The effect upon these species of those general influences which are
exerted by social life may be inferred from the existence of their
coherent family groups, from the protracted period during which
maternal guardianship is continued, and the baneful results that
solitude brings about. Still there seems to be little doubt that Green,
Moodie, and Pollok represent the best opinion in saying that sympathy
is less active in elephants than it is in many animals whose moral
qualities have usually been considered as greatly inferior to theirs.
“I have never known an instance,” remarks Sanderson, “of a tusker
undertaking to cover the retreat of a herd.”
Although elephants are often hysterical, and always nervous, discipline
effects great changes in their ordinary conduct. At the same time,
they can rarely be trusted. Sir Samuel Baker states (“Wild Beasts and
Their Ways”) that he had never ridden but “one thoroughly dependable
elephant,” and most tiger-hunters say the same.
Elephants are without ideals of any kind. They cannot be influenced
by superstitions, and it is useless to explain their excellencies and
defects by reference to a descent of which we know nothing, or to
assume that transformations may be effected by means of an education
that always begins _de novo_, and is in itself superficial and
incomplete in the highest degree. Foreknowledge of those consequences
entailed by misbehavior no doubt prompts most of the acts that are
attributed to industry, magnanimity, friendliness, and forbearance,
as attention to their keeper’s directions explains the usual
manifestations of intellect that have been so much admired.
Those who know them best think that elephants, as Sanderson expresses
it, are “wanting in originality,” so that when an unusual emergency
occurs they feel at a loss. It is true that life is in some respects
comparatively simple with these animals, and that its necessities
neither involve the same constructions, nor require a like care with
that imposed upon many others. But in those directions in which the
struggle for existence engages their powers energetically they display
considerable capacity, though not of the highest brute order. Colonel
Pollok (“Sport in British Burmah”) says, “if Providence has not given
intellect to these creatures, it has given them an instinct next thing
to it.... Providence has taught them to choose the most favorable
ground, whether for camping or feeding, and to resort to jungles where
their ponderous bodies so resemble the rocks and dark foliage that it
is difficult for the sportsman to distinguish them from surrounding
objects; whilst their feet are so made that not only can they tramp
over any kind of ground, whether hard or soft, rough or smooth, but
this without making a sound.
“Some of their camping-grounds are models of ingenuity, surrounded on
three sides by a tortuous river, impassable by reason either of the
depth of water, its precipitous banks, quicksands, or the entangling
reeds in its bed; while the fourth side would be protected by a tangled
thicket or a quagmire. In such a place elephants would be in perfect
safety, as it would be impossible for them to be attacked without the
attacking party making sufficient noise to put them on the alert.
“Their method of getting within such an enclosure is also most
ingenious. They will scramble down the bank where the water is deepest,
and then, after either wading or swimming up or down stream, ascend
the opposite bank a good half-mile or more from where they descended,
thereby doubly increasing the difficulty of following them.”
Many animals rival elephants in those respects described, and a few
surpass them. All that they do has been too much exaggerated, and
their unquestionable sagacity loses much of its point by being unduly
exploited.
Relative complexity of structure in brain and mind is in no way more
strongly marked than by the ability to suppress emotion. This is not
the highest characteristic of an evolved organism, but it is one that
no being which is not of a high grade can possess. When a captive
elephant, often without any provocation, makes up its mind to commit
murder, nothing can exceed the patience with which the animal awaits
an opportunity, except its power of dissimulation. How it regards
the contemplated act, what thoughts and feelings are agitated while
brooding over its accomplishment, we do not know, but the history of
many such cases has been fully given, and of the behavior displayed
under these circumstances we can speak with certainty.
Generally elephants kill their attendants, as being those most likely
to give offence. An antipathy is, however, sometimes conceived against
some casual acquaintance, whose efforts to ingratiate himself have
only inspired the creatures with a causeless hatred. It is the fashion
to say that homicide by these beasts always indicates that they have
been injured. People endow elephants with an exaggerated form of
the sensitive pride belonging to human character, and, through some
unexplainable process of thought, reconcile its coexistence with the
malignant temper of a murderous brute. The way in which one of their
attendants talks to an elephant whom he suspects is strange enough.
This man despises his intellect, and knows his character thoroughly.
“Have I ever been wanting in respect? _Astagh-fur-Ulla._ God forbid!
Let my Lord remember how yesterday at bathing-time he was placed under
a tree, while that son of Satan, Said Bahadur, stood in the sun. Who
has provided your highness with sugar-cane, and placed lumps of goor
between your back teeth? I represent that this, oh, protector of the
poor, it was my good fortune to do. Hereafter I will deprive those
unsainted ones about you of their provisions and bestow them upon you.”
That is the way a Hindu talks, hoping to mollify the animal.
Certain traits in animals have come to be accepted as peculiarly
significant of their respective grades; parental affection, for
example. The male elephant is as nearly as possible without a trace of
this feeling, but his polygamous habits account to a great extent for
the deficiency. It is a quality which greatly preponderates in females
of most species, and in one so elevated we might expect to find that
this, as Buffon asserts, was a prominent trait. Frederick Green informs
us, however, that “the female elephant does not appear to have the
affection for her offspring which one would be led to suppose,” and
his view is very far from being singular. The author has not found any
justification in facts for Buffon’s assertion to the contrary. Doctor
Livingstone (“Travels and Researches in South Africa”) reports the
case of a calf elephant whom its mother abandoned when attacked, and
Sir W. Cornwallis Harris (“Wild Sports in Southern Africa”) says that
a young animal of this kind if accidentally separated from its mother
forgets her instantly, and seeks to attach itself to the nearest female
it can find. Sanderson observes in this connection that “while the
female evinces no particular affection for her progeny, still, all the
attention a calf can get is from its own mother.”
G. Macloskie (“Riverside Natural History”) states that “elephants are
well disposed towards each other in aggregation.” Evidently such must
be the case, or they could not live together. Their gregarious habits
imply an average friendliness.
While, however, their ordinary temper may, or rather must, be as
stated, leadership in herds, when this is not held by a tuskless male
or “some sagacious old female,” whose abilities their companions are
intelligent enough to understand, is settled by combat, and maintained
in the same way. Moreover, bull elephants often quarrel and fight
desperately in the free state, and it is said by one or two observers
(Drummond particularly) that when herds intoxicate themselves, as they
do upon every opportunity, with the _Um-ga-nu_ fruit, they exhibit
scenes of riot and violence which cannot be matched on earth. Captive
tuskers in elephant stables are always at feud with some other animal,
and all their inmates quarrel upon small provocation. Recently-captured
elephants that have not been removed from the corral frequently
attack each other, and when some lost or exiled wanderer attempts in
his distress and loneliness to join another band, its champion at once
assails him.
There is one detestable trait, not uncommon among many species, and
shared by a portion of savage mankind, which elephants do not display.
They never destroy injured or disabled animals of their own kind. On
the contrary, when sympathy does not involve self-sacrifice, they
sometimes (not always by any means) show that they are not without the
feeling, and this conclusion seems to be quite capable of resisting all
the destructive criticism that can be brought to bear upon it.
Wild beasts have usually been written about both carelessly and
dogmatically. Men, for the most part, no doubt unconsciously, speak of
them as if they knew what it is impossible that they should know; and
it is difficult to banish the suggestion that many of our prevailing
opinions are in fact survivals from savagery. Public feeling towards
elephants is undoubtedly swayed by their size, and by involuntary
apprehension. We are struck by the contrast between the animal’s placid
appearance and those powers it embodies. In short, people do not study
elephants, or reason about them; they feel in a modified form those
original impressions which operated upon their remote ancestors. Hence,
in great measure probably, Buffon’s ipse dixit, “_dans l’état sauvâge,
l’éléphant n’est ni sanguinaire, ni féroce, il est d’un natural doux,
et jamais il ne fait abus de ses armes, ou de sa force_.” It is not so
much the verbal statement that need be objected to in this sweeping
assertion, as the spirit in which it is made. More is implied than
said, and the implication is that an elephant is self-controlled by
sentiments that are as foreign to its mind as a pair of wings would
be to its body. A wild beast, which while free to follow its own
devices and desires, does not conduct itself like a wild beast, is an
impossibility in actual life.
Sanderson supposes that “all catching elephants”--the trained ones
used in securing captives--“evince the greatest relish for the sport.”
This is a mild way of putting Sir Emmerson Tennant’s opinion that they
show a decided satisfaction, a malignant pleasure, such as Dr. Kemp
(“Indications of Instinct”) describes, in the misfortunes of their
fellows. Now in what way Sanderson discovered that this state of mind
existed cannot be divined, for he gives it as the result of his own
direct observations, that “the term decoy is entirely misapplied to
tame elephants catching wild ones, as they act by command of their
riders, and use no arts.... The animal is credited with originating
what it has been taught, with doing of itself what it has been
instructed to do.... I have seen the cream of trained elephants at
work ... in Bengal and Mysore: I have managed them myself under all
circumstances ... and I can say that I never have seen one display any
aptitude for dealing undirected with an unexpected emergency.” Since he
then believes them to be incapable of showing this “relish” by their
actions, since he has never known them to do anything of themselves on
these occasions, in what way did he find out how they felt?
All those who speak from experience concur in representing a hunted
elephant who does not or cannot escape, as superlatively dangerous.
This is not only attributable to the fact that he is then extremely
fierce and determined, but also to his undoubted ability to use the
great powers of attack and defence he possesses. The animal is capable
of considerable speed for a short distance, but it is not possible for
him to prolong effort to any great extent.
Selous asserts that no large creature, except a rhinoceros, matches
the elephant in its activity upon rough ground. “They can wheel like
lightning,” says Baker; or, as Andersson expresses it, “Spin round on
a pivot.” Captain J. H. Baldwin (“Large and Small Game of Bengal”)
describes their performances upon hillsides as very remarkable.
Captain James Forsyth informs us of the ease and celerity with which
they move over a broken surface. Inglis (“Work and Sport on the Nepaul
Frontier”) relates the dexterity and quickness of these ponderous
beasts in crossing gullies that seem impassable. There is probably no
animal safer to ride over a dangerous mountain road. Nervous as he is,
his intelligence acts through a brain well enough organized to warn him
against the consequences of carelessness. A horse will dash himself
to death getting out of the way of a swaying shadow or whirling leaf,
and on many journeys nobody thinks of mounting one; but the elephant’s
prudence, if not his courage, is, as a rule, to be relied upon.
It has somewhat arbitrarily been decided upon that an elephant can
travel at the rate of fifteen miles an hour for a few hundred
yards, and no faster. Its gait has been similarly settled by several
authorities. Dr. Livingstone declares that the animal’s “quickest pace
is only a sharp walk.” Sanderson modifies this statement by saying that
the rapid walk “is capable of being increased to a fast shuffle.” He
adds the information that “an elephant cannot jump ... can never have
all four feet off the ground at once ... and can neither trot, canter,
nor gallop.” Joseph Thomson, however (“Through Masai Land”), saw one of
these animals which he had wounded on the plateau of Baringo, “go off
in a sharp trot,” and Colonel Barras, while beating a clump of bushes
for a wounded tiger, rode his Shikar tusker Futteh Ali almost over the
concealed brute; whereupon says Barras, “he spun round with the utmost
velocity and fled at a rapid gallop. The pace was so well marked that
it would be useless, as far as I am concerned, for any one to say that
it was mechanically impossible for an elephant to use this gait. To
such learned objectors I would point out the fact that impossibilities
are of daily occurrence, and would further beg them to suspend judgment
till they have sat on an elephant’s neck with an enraged tiger roaring
at his heels.” Much the same restriction has been placed by some
naturalists upon the camel’s paces. Nevertheless, Sir Samuel Baker and
G. C. Stout were convinced that they had seen camels trot, and the
author is quite as certain as Colonel Barras could possibly be that he
has known them to gallop.
It has been the fashion to praise these animals indiscriminately.
Among other things the silence maintained by so bulky a creature,
and the noiselessness of its movements, are mentioned as evidences of
great sagacity. An elephant, however, cannot make a noise with its
feet except by kicking something out of the way or breaking it; their
formation renders its tread, under ordinary circumstances, inaudible.
The body also being elliptical in its long diameter, passes through
undergrowth, when the animal is moving slowly, like a vessel through
water. Further, obstacles that do not offer too much resistance are
put aside easily by the trunk, which has all those varieties of motion
that about fifty thousand sets of muscles can confer. More than
this, quietness is not necessarily a mark of caution, foresight, or
self-restraint, and some of the wariest creatures in existence are by
no means quiet. As a matter of fact, if not alarmed or asleep,--in
which case he snores in a manner conformable with his size,--the
elephant is one of the noisiest of wild beasts. A perpetual crashing
accompanies both individuals and herds while feeding, and in hours
of repose they frequently trumpet, their deep abdominal rumble is
often heard, and sounds expressive of contentment or dissatisfaction
constantly break the silence of the forest.
When danger is apprehended, if they do not dash away “with the rush
of a storm,” elephants are apt to remain motionless for a time, while
straining their most perfect senses--those of hearing and smell--in
order to ascertain its character and proximity, or one or more may
advance cautiously in order to see. Having done this, they depart as
secretly as possible, and in the way mentioned, but why anybody should
wonder that these creatures, whose sagacity is considered to be so
extraordinary, do not move off abreast instead of in single file, as
is their custom, and thus voluntarily encounter the greatest amount
of resistance, and ensure the most disturbance, it is not easy to
understand. In all measures relating to evasion, as contradistinguished
from precaution, these beings occupy an inferior position: their
color makes them nearly indistinguishable in those places they mostly
occupy, and the footfall is naturally noiseless, but they employ none
of those arts in which many species are expert, and do not even confuse
their trail. This deficiency in cunning cannot be accounted for by the
off-hand explanation that the elephant, conscious of his strength, has
no need to conceal himself. He has fully as much, if not more reason to
do so, than many other animals, and the experience by which the latter
have profited has been common to them all.
Those inferences which have oftentimes been drawn from the social life
of elephants will scarcely stand the tests furnished by sociology. “A
herd of elephants,” observes Leveson, “is not a group that accident
or attachment may have induced to associate together, but a family,”
between whose members “special resemblances attest their common
origin.” Reasoning from statements like this, it is concluded that
results accrue from an aggregation of relatives similiar to those which
obtain in human families;--that they are, in effect, groups of the same
kind, saved from disruption and made amenable to improvement by mutual
aids, forbearances, affections, and distributions of office. But those
resemblances discoverable do not warrant the comparison.
What we know of social groups among elephants is that they are unlike
those formed by mankind. It is doubtful whether the family, properly
so-called, primarily exists in human society, and whether it is not
a later combination instituted upon the basis of common possessions.
Starcke (“The Primitive Family”) holds that such is the case, and his
view has not been shown to be incorrect. If this is true, to compare
these congregations is to place lower animals by the side of human
beings who have already taken an important step in advance. As a matter
of fact, the qualities by which such groups are united among mankind,
are to a great extent wanting with elephants. They cannot be wholly
absent, but they are inconspicuous and obscured by disaggregative
tendencies. As life advances, age does not bring with it a fruition
of those tendencies upon which family ties depend; time only tends to
exaggerate everything that is unsocial in the brute’s nature.
Many conclusions respecting the intellect and emotional character of
elephants have been drawn from untrustworthy anecdotes. It is in an
uncritical spirit that Professor Robinson (“Under the Sun”) reports
the behavior of that famous tusker who bore the imperial standard on
some old Mogul-Mahratta battle-field. The day had gone against his
side, the color-guard was scattered, broken squadrons swept past the
elephant, and his mahout was dead. He stood fast, however, and finally
the retreating forces rallied around him, and the field was retrieved.
Taken literally, his conduct amounted to this; namely, that his keeper
whom he was accustomed to obey, ordered him to stand still, and he did
so. Of course this animal possessed unusual nerve, but what else did he
have? The high sense of duty Professor Robinson has discovered; heroic
self-sacrifice that kept him, like the unrelieved Roman sentinels at
Pompeii, on his post to the last? There is just the same reason for
thinking so as there is for giving to the riderless horses who galloped
with the Light Brigade towards the Russian guns at Balaklava, the
sentiments of those soldiers who made that gallant but useless charge.
So it is with all instances of a like character. There are many more
accounts of the elephant’s cowardice than of its courage, and it is
notoriously untrustworthy in war. Some are braver than others, but as
soon as we attempt to find out from the literature of this subject
which are the bravest,--young or old, male or female, trained or
untrained, wild or tame,--hopelessly contradictory statements crowd
upon us from all sides. The highest, the most complete, the severest
discipline this beast receives is in the hunting-field, and Colonel
MacMaster expresses the general tenor of opinion upon its results in
saying, “I have never known an elephant who could be depended upon for
dangerous shooting.” As a class these animals are liable to panic,
easily confused, and often become imbecile on account of nervous
agitation. It is not uncommon to see a tusker fly screaming with fear
from the skin of a tiger which he has seen taken off, or to have him
bolt from its dead body when that is instantly recognized as harmless
by the jungle crow, pea-fowl, or monkey. Being extremely afraid of
bears for some unknown reason, and nearly idiotic when frightened, an
elephant may attack the hunter who has just stepped off his back into
a tree, thinking that he has been suddenly transformed into a brute of
this kind. But from all appearances some of them like to hunt, and when
well broken and in good health, their prompt and intelligent obedience,
their display of natural powers of several kinds, and the firmness with
which they confront danger and bear pain, are wonderful.
Neither the man on his back nor the elephant himself is by any means
secure against fatal results when a tiger charges home. Shikar animals,
nevertheless, often do everything that is required of them admirably.
The difficulty is that the best elephants cannot be counted upon. A
tusker, whose scars speak for themselves, is as likely as not, says
Colonel MacMaster, “to bolt from a hare or small deer, or quake with
fear when a partridge or pea-fowl rises under his trunk.”
The following narrative by Captain James Forsyth (“The Highlands of
Central India”) illustrates some of the foregoing criticisms very
well:--
“It was in 1853 that the two brothers N. and Colonel G. beat the
covers” of Bétúl, near the village of Bhádúgaon, “for a family of
tigers said to be in it. One of the brothers was posted in a tree,
while G. and the other N. beat through on an elephant. The man in a
tree first shot two of the tigers, and then Colonel G. saw a very large
one lying in the shade of a bush and fired at it, on which it charged
and mounted the elephant’s head. It was a small female elephant, and
was terribly punished about the trunk and eyes in this encounter,
though the mahout (a bold fellow named Rámzán, who was afterwards in
my own service) battered the tiger’s head with his iron driving-hook
so as to leave deep marks in the bones of his skull. At length he was
shaken off, and retreated; but when the sportsmen urged in the elephant
again, and the tiger charged as before, she turned round, and the tiger
catching her by the hind leg fairly pulled her over on her side. My
informant, who was in the howdah, said that for a time his arm was
pinned between it and the tiger’s body, who was making efforts to pull
the shikári out of the back seat. They were all, of course, spilt on
the ground with their guns, and Colonel G., getting hold of one, made
the tiger retreat with a shot in the chest. The elephant had fled from
the scene of action, and the two sportsmen then went in at the beast
on foot. It charged again, and when close-to them was finally dropped
by a lucky shot in the head. But the sport did not end here, for
they found two more tigers in the same cover immediately afterwards,
and killed one of them, making four that day. The worrying she had
received, however, was the death of the elephant, which was buried at
Bhádúgaon,--one of the few instances on record of an elephant being
actually killed by a tiger.”
There is no way in which the intellect, moral attributes, temper,
receptive power, and adaptability of elephants can be decided upon
_en masse_. An animal of this kind will tend his keeper’s infant with
a solicitude which seems to justify all that has been said of his
benevolence; he will also watch for an opportunity to kill its father
with a patience and self-command that are more significant still. In
the latter event the motive (hatred) displays itself, and the manner in
which the design is carried out can be studied; but with respect to the
determining causes of conduct in the first instance we know nothing. An
intelligent animal has been told to do something which it understands,
and does it to the best of its ability. That is all the facts warrant
us in saying.
One way of estimating the degree of feeling in any case is to
measure the actions that express it by what they cost the individual
who performs them. An elephant’s opportunities for displaying
self-abnegation can be but few, and most of those voluntary deeds upon
which his reputation rests require little or no self-forgetfulness. In
the hunting-field he is under coercion. A hunted elephant, however,
is not in this position, and it is in its conduct that we notice such
examples of this kind of behavior as may be regarded in the light of
cases in point. Elephants--females most frequently--sometimes fight
in defence of their associates when they themselves are not directly
attacked. Both sexes have been occasionally known to give assistance to
each other when they might have been killed in doing so. But for the
most part they are very far from acting in this way. Fishes, reptiles,
birds, together with a large number of land animals, have fully
equalled elephants in everything they have done in this direction. Much
has been said of the affection an elephant feels for the person who
feeds and tends it, of the care, consideration, respect, and obedience
it renders to a being whose superiority this amazing brute recognizes.
Nevertheless, it is most probable that this individual had better be
anywhere else than within reach of its trunk if there is a probability
of the animal’s getting bogged, for the chances are that he will be
buried beneath its feet for a support.
This is not said with the intention of disparaging those good qualities
which elephants possess. It must be plain from what has gone before
that nothing else was to be expected. Except in the way of patient
dissimulation, it would be difficult to show that when these animals
take to evil courses they display more ability in perpetrating crime
than many others. The consequences of vice in them are apt to be
serious, and thus attract attention; but so far as cunning, foresight,
and invention are called into play, they do not distinguish themselves,
and those tragedies with which their names are associated seem to
be more particularly marked by violence, ferocity, and rapidity of
execution. Furthermore, it is well known that cerebral structure
in these species is not of a high type; and with regard to its
organization we know nothing.
If we now follow this largest of game into its native haunts, and note
those experiences by which its pursuit is attended, what has been
said with reference to the habits and character of elephants will, in
the main, be found to rest upon good evidence. The outlook will be
quite different according to where the animals are found. In India
elephants live almost altogether in forests, while in Africa this is
not the case. A hunter on the “Dark Continent” may also ride; quite an
advantage in escaping a charge, and also in following a beast who, when
frightened, frequently goes forty miles at a stretch. Dogs can always
divert this creature’s attention from the man who is about to kill him.
The barking of a few curs about his feet never fails to make an enraged
elephant forget the object of attack.
Sir Samuel Baker (“Wild Beasts and their Ways”) and Colonel Pollok
(“Sport in British Burmah”) have described at length the most
vulnerable points in the body and head, but sporting stories and
details, except in so far as they illustrate temper and traits of
character, are beside the purpose here. It may be said, however, that
the forehead shot, so constantly made in India, cannot be resorted to
with an African elephant. It has been tried a great many times, and
there are only two or three instances on record where the animal has
been killed. This is due to a difference of conformation in the skull,
in the position of the brain, and to the manner in which this elephant
holds its head in charging, says F. C. Selous (“Travel and Adventure in
South East Africa”).
Without going into anatomical details, it may be said that an African
is about a foot taller than an Indian elephant, his ears are much
larger, his back is concave instead of convex, and the tusks are much
heavier and longer. Their position in the jaw also differs; they
converge in passing backwards and upwards into the massive processes
in which they are set, so that their roots, and the masses of bone and
cartilage which form their sockets, effectually protect the brain,
which lies low behind the receding forehead.
Speaking of hunting on horseback, W. Knighton (“Forest Life in
Ceylon”) mentioned it as a well-known fact that “the elephant has an
antipathy towards a horse.” “A solitary traveller is perfectly safe
while mounted” he remarks. To the best of the author’s knowledge and
belief, the fact is directly the other way. Horses, until accustomed
to their sight and odor, fear elephants, but the latter care nothing
about them. They have never been known to hesitate in attacking hunters
in the saddle. The Hamran and Baggara Arabs on the Upper Nile and its
tributaries nearly always meet them in this manner. The only weapon
used by these aggageers, or sword-hunters, is a long, heavy, sharp,
double-edged Solingen blade. Three men generally hunt together, and
their method of procedure shows how well they know the elephant’s
character.
Having found the fresh spoor of an old bull whose tusks are presumably
worth winning, they track it to its resting or feeding place, and
approach with no other precaution than is necessary to keep their
quarry from taking refuge in some mimosa thicket where their swords
cannot be used. When possible, the animal, who appreciates the
situation perfectly, and knows all about sword-hunters, always makes
itself safe in that way. If no cover is within reach, the elephant
backs up against a rock, a clump of bushes, bank, or anything
that will guard it in the rear, and awaits its enemies with that
peculiarly devilish expression of countenance an elephant wears when
murderously inclined. Supposing the aggageers to be three in number,
and mounted,--two of them close slowly in upon his flanks, while
the third--the lightest weight, on the most active and best broken
horse--gradually approaches in front. There stands the elephant with
cocked ears and gleaming eyes, and the Arab slowly drawing nearer, sits
in his saddle and reviles him. Finally, what the Hamrans or Baggaras
knew from the first would happen actually takes place. The elephant
forgets everything, and dashes forward to annihilate this little wretch
who has been cursing and pitching pieces of dirt at him. Then the horse
is whirled round, and keeping just out of reach of his trunk, its rider
lures the enraged animal on. As soon as he starts, those riders on his
quarters swoop down at full speed, and when the one on his left comes
alongside, he springs to the ground, bounds forward, his sword flashes
in the air, and all is over. The foot turns up in front, in consequence
of cutting the tendon that keeps it in place, and its blood rapidly
drains away through the divided vessels until the animal dies.