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.
That “the reasoning elephant,” of whom Vartomannus (“Apud Gesnerum”) exclaims in terms that have been repeated for nearly two thousand years, “Vidi elephantos quosdam qui prudentiores mihi vidabantur quàm quibusdam in locis hominis,” should have thus relinquished his advantages, abandoned an unassailable position, and knowing the consequences, rushed upon destruction in this way, is deplorable, and the worst of it is that he always does this. The intellect of which Strabo calmly asserts that it “ad rationale animal proxime accedit,” is never sufficient to save him. Probably, however, this conduct might appear to be more consistent, if instead of trusting to these very classical but perfectly worthless opinions, we looked upon it from the standpoint which Sanderson’s description affords. “Though possessed of a proboscis which is capable of guarding it against such dangers, the elephant readily falls into pits dug to receive it, and which are only covered with a few sticks and leaves. Its fellows make no effort (in general) to assist the fallen one, as they might easily do by kicking in the earth around the edge, but fly in terror. It commonly happens that a young elephant tumbles into a pit, near which its mother will remain till the hunters come, without doing anything to help it; not even feeding it by throwing in a few branches.... Whole herds of elephants are led into enclosures which they could break through as easily as if they were made of corn stalks ... and which no other wild animal would enter; and single ones are caught by their hind legs being tied together by men under cover of tame elephants. Animals that happen to escape are captured again without trouble; even experience does not bring them wisdom. I do not think that I traduce the elephant, when I say that it is, in many things, a stupid animal.”
Baldwin, Harris, and a few other authorities, report that elephants are sometimes attacked by the black rhinoceros, but otherwise they have no foes except man. In Sir James Alexander’s account (“Excursion into Africa”) of the manner in which these beasts attempt to defend themselves against the charge of an enemy of this kind, it is implied that the trunk is habitually used offensively. “In fighting the elephant,” he observes, the two-horned black rhinoceros, for no white rhinoceros ever does this, “avoids the blow with its trunk and the thrust with its tusks, dashes at the elephant’s belly, and rips it up.” Quite a number of writers have derided and denied statements of this nature, and if it were not that they have likewise scouted everything which they did not see themselves, their dissent might have more weight than it has. Everybody knows that the species of rhinoceros spoken of are of all wild beasts the most irritable, aggressive, and blindly ferocious; that they will, as Selous asserts, “charge anybody or anything.” Apart from the question whether this kind of combat ever takes place, or what the result would be if it did, so many reasons exist why the trunk should not be used like a flail, as here represented, that good observers have failed to recognize the fact that it sometimes is so employed. At all events, in face of various assertions to the effect that it never strikes with its trunk, we find Andersson nearly killed in this manner. He was shooting from a “skärm”; that is to say, a trench about four feet deep, twelve or fifteen long, and strongly roofed except at the ends. This hiding-place and fortification occupied “a narrow neck of land dividing two small pools”—the water-holes of Kabis in Africa. “It was a magnificent moonlight night,” and the hunter soon heard the beasts coming along a rocky ravine near by. Directly, “an immense elephant followed by the towering forms of eighteen other bulls” moved down from high ground towards his hiding place, “with free, sweeping, unsuspecting, and stately step.” In the luminous mist their colossal figures assumed gigantic proportions, “but the leader’s position did not afford an opportunity for the shoulder shot,” and Andersson waited until his “enormous bulk” actually towered above his head, without firing. “The consequence was,” he says “that in the act of raising the muzzle of my rifle over the skärm, my body caught his eye, and before I could place the piece to my shoulder, he swung himself round, and with trunk elevated, and ears spread, desperately charged me. It was now too late to think of flight, much less of slaying the savage beast. My own life was in the most imminent jeopardy; and seeing that if I remained partially erect he would inevitably seize me with his proboscis, I threw myself upon my back with some violence; in which position, and without shouldering the rifle, I fired upwards at random towards his chest, uttering at the same time the most piercing shouts and cries. The change of position in all probability saved my life; for at the same instant, the enraged animal’s trunk descended precisely upon the spot where I had been previously crouched, sweeping away the stones (many of them of large size) that formed the front of my skärm, as if they had been pebbles. In another moment his broad forefoot passed directly over my face.” Confused, as Andersson supposed, by his cries, and by the wound he had received, the elephant “swerved to the left, and went off with considerable rapidity.”
Of course, taking this narrative literally, it may be said that it is not an illustration of the point under discussion—that the elephant attempted to catch the man first, in order to kill him afterwards. But prehensile organs are not used as such in the way described. That Andersson was about to be seized was purely suppositious upon his part, while the descent of the elephant’s proboscis, with such violence that it swept away large stones as if they had been pebbles, was a matter of fact. The animal did strike, whether he intended to do so or not, and that this was not his intention is merely a guess. This story illustrates other traits also, and among these the alleged fear of man. “An implanted instinct of that kind,” observes William J. Burchell (“Travels into the Interior of Southern Africa”) “such as all wild beasts have, their timidity and submission, form part of that wise plan predetermined by the Deity, for giving supreme power to him who is, physically, the weakest of them all.” The only objection to this very orthodox statement is that it is not true. Man is not weaker than many wild animals, and so far as “timidity and submission” go, he might have found African tribes barricading their villages and sleeping in trees for no other purpose than to keep out of their way. Caution proceeds from apprehension, and this from an experience of peril. When the conditions of existence are such that certain dangers persist, wariness in those directions originates and becomes hereditary. Man has been the elephant’s constant foe, and in those places where human beings were able to destroy them, these animals were overawed; but otherwise not, or at least, certainly not in the sense in which this assertion is generally made. With regard to the conclusions—many of them directly contradictory—which prevail concerning the elephant’s sense of smell, there are several circumstances which ought to be taken into consideration, but with the exception of currents of air, they have not been noticed to the author’s knowledge. Scent in an elephant is very acute, and the scope of this sense, as well as its delicacy and discrimination, is greater than in most animals. At the same time, the nervous energy that vitalizes this apparatus is variable in quantity, and never exceeds a definite amount at any one time. If wind sweeps away those emanations which would otherwise have stimulated the olfactories, no result occurs, and precisely the same consequence follows a diversion of nerve force into other channels.
Many accounts have been given in which this seemed to be the cause of an unconsciousness that was explained by saying that the sense itself was in fault. Evidently, however, when the energy through which an organ acts is fully employed in carrying on action somewhere else, its function must be temporarily checked. Preoccupation, however, fully accounts for the phenomenon. Thought, feeling, concentrations of attention, physical and mental oscillations of many kinds, perturb, check, pervert, augment, or diminish function in this and other directions. If we cannot accustom ourselves to looking upon wild beasts as acting consciously and voluntarily, it seems probable that little progress towards understanding their habits and characters is likely to be made.
How, for example, are the following facts related by Gordon Cumming, to be reconciled with conventional opinions upon the shyness and timidity of elephants, their fear of man, and the possession of instincts which act independently of experience. It was in comparatively early times that these events took place, before many Europeans with rifles had gone into Africa, and when elephants knew less about firearms than they did when the big tusker nearly finished Andersson. “Three princely bulls,” says Colonel Cumming, “came up one night to the fountain of La Bono.” They knew that a man was there, for they had got his wind. It is possible that they also knew he was not a native, but if this were the case, that was all that they knew.
The leader was mortally wounded at about ten paces from the water, went off two hundred yards, “and there stood, evidently dying.” His companions paused, “but soon one of them, the largest of the three, turned his head towards the fountain once more, and very slowly and warily came on.” At this moment the wounded elephant “uttered the cry of death and fell heavily to the ground.” The second one, still advancing, “examined with his trunk every yard of ground before he trod on it.” Evidently there was no dancing, screaming horde of negroes with assegais about; equally sure was it that danger threatened from human devices, and the elephant, not being inspired as is commonly supposed, was looking for the only peril he knew anything about; that is to say, a pit-fall. As for the explosion and flash, these most probably were mistaken for thunder and lightning. In this manner, and with frequent pauses, this animal went round “three sides of the fountain, and then walked up to within six or seven yards of the muzzles of the guns.” He was shot and disabled at the water’s edge. By this time ignited wads from the pieces discharged had set fire to a bunch of stubble near by, and two more old bulls who followed the original band, went up to the blaze; one, the older and larger, appearing to be “much amused at it.” This tusker staggered off with a mortal wound, and another came forward and stood still to drink within half pistol-shot of Colonel Cumming, who killed him. Three more male elephants now made their appearance, “first two, and then one,” and of these two were shot, though only one of them fatally. What possible explanation can the doctrine of instinct give of such behavior as this upon the part of wild beasts? How does this kind of conduct accord with the idea of a ready-made mind that does not need to learn in order to know? In what manner shall we adjust such conduct to preconceptions concerning natural timidity and that implanted fear of man “predetermined by the Deity”? It may be said, of course, that Colonel Cumming’s account was overdrawn; but the reply to an objection of this kind is that, overwhelming evidence to the same effect could be easily produced.
When an observant visitor walks along the line of platforms in an Indian elephant-stable, the differences exhibited by its occupants can scarcely fail to attract attention; and with every increase in his knowledge, these diversities accumulate in number and augment in importance. During the free intercourse of forest life, some influence, most probably sexual selection, has produced breeds whose characteristics are unmistakable. Even the uninitiated may at once recognize these. Koomeriah, Dwásala, and Meèrga elephants exhibit marked contrasts, and experience has taught Europeans their respective values. The first is the best proportioned, bravest, and most tractable specimen of its kind; but it is rare. Intermediate between the thoroughbred and an ugly, “weedy,” and in every way ill-conditioned Meèrga, comes what is called the Dwásala breed, to which about seventy per cent of all elephants in Asia belong. “Whole herds,” says Sanderson, “frequently consist of Dwásalas, but never of Koomeriahs.” Almost all animals used in hunting are of this middle class, and they constitute by far the largest division of those kept by the government. Females greatly outnumber males, and it may be owing to this fact that so many have been used in the pursuit of large game, although some famous sportsmen maintain that these are naturally more courageous and stancher than tuskers.
Great as are the unlikenesses seen among inmates of an establishment like that at Teperah, they will be found to be fully equalled by their dissimilarities in character; and those who have become familiar with elephants come to see that their dispositions and intelligence are to some extent displayed by their ordinary demeanor and looks. It is wonderful how much facial expression an elephant has. The face-skeleton is imperfect; that is to say, its nasal bones are rudimentary, while the mouth, and in fact all of the lower half of the face, is concealed beneath the great muscles attached to the base of the trunk. But in spite of that, and with his ears uncocked and his proboscis pendant, an elephant’s countenance is full of character.
Passing along the lines where they stand, shackled by one foot to stone platforms, one sees, or learns to see, the individualities their visages reveal. Occasionally a heavily-fettered animal is met with, whose mien is disturbed and fierce. In his “little twinkling red eye,” says Campbell, “gleams the fire of madness.” He is “must”; the victim of a temporary delirium which seems to arise from keeping male elephants apart from their mates. But at length, amid all the appearances of sullenness, good nature, stupidity, bad temper, apathy, alertness, and intelligence, which the visitor will encounter, a creature is met with in whose ensemble there is an indescribable but unmistakable warning. Go to his keeper and state your views. That “true believer,” if he happens to be a Mussulman, having salaamed in proportion to his expected bucksheesh, and said that Solomon was a fool in comparison with yourself, will then express his own sentiments but not so that the animal can hear him. These are to the effect that this elephant is an oppressor of the poor, a dog, a devil, an infidel, whose female relations to the remotest generations have been no better than they should be. That the kafir wants to kill him; is thinking about doing it at that moment, but Ul-humd-ul-illa, praise be to God, has not had a chance; though if it be his destiny, he will do so some day. Very probably these are not empty words. Most frequently the man knows what he is talking about. Still if one naturally asks, why then he stays in such a position, the answer breathes the very genius and spirit of the East. “Who can escape his destiny?” asks the idiotic fatalist, and remains where he is.
The systems of rewards and punishments by which discipline is kept up in a large elephant stable, affords several items of interest with respect to the character of these beasts. If, as sometimes is the case, an elephant shirks his work, or does it wrong on purpose, is mutinous, stubborn, or mischievous, a couple of his comrades are provided with a fathom or two of light chain with which they soundly thrash the delinquent, very much to his temporary improvement. This race is very fond of sweets, and sugar-cane or goor—unrefined sugar—forms an efficient bribe to good behavior. The animals take to drink very kindly, and when their accustomed ration of rum has been stopped for misconduct, they truly repent. Mostly, however, elephants are quiet, kindly beasts, and it is said by those who ought to know, that animosity is not apt to be cherished against men who correct them for faults of which they are themselves conscious. At the same time, nobody, if he is wise, gives an elephant cause to think himself injured. Very often the creature entertains this idea without cause, and it is not uncommon for them to conceive hatreds almost at first sight. D’Ewes (“Sporting in Both Hemispheres”) relates one of the many reliable incidents illustrative of the animal’s implacability when aggrieved. A friend of his, a field officer stationed at Jaulnah, owned an elephant remarkable for its “extreme docility.” One of the attendants—“not his mahout”—ill-treated the creature in some way and was discharged in consequence. This man left the station; but six years after he, unfortunately for himself, returned, and walked up to renew his acquaintance with the abused brute, who let him approach without giving the least indication of anger, and as soon as he was close enough, trampled him to death. This is the kind of anecdote which Professor Robinson remarks is “infinitely discreditable to the elephant”; that fact, however, has nothing to do with the truth. All those good qualities the creature possesses can be done justice to without making any excursions into sentimental zoölogy. Captain A. W. Drayson (“Sporting Scenes in Southern Africa”) asserts that “the elephant stands very high among the class of wild animals.” That means nothing; affords no help to those who are trying to find out how high it stands. Sir Samuel Baker (“Wild Beasts and their Ways”) gives his opinion more at length. Of the animal’s sagacity he observes that it is, according to his ideas, “overrated. No elephant,” he says, “that I ever saw, would spontaneously interfere to save his master from drowning or from attack.... An enemy might assassinate you at the feet of your favorite elephant, but he would never attempt to interfere in your defence; he would probably run away, or, if not, remain impassive, unless especially ordered or guided by his mahout. This is incontestible.... It is impossible for an ordinary bystander to comprehend the secret signs which are mutually understood by the elephant and his guide.” Baker holds, with others who have really studied elephants, that when they evince any special sagacity, it is because they act under direction, and that if left to themselves they usually do the wrong thing. The species is naturally nervous, and this disability is increased by those alterations in its way of life that domestication involves. Captivity likewise shortens its existence. Profound physiological changes are thus produced, the most noticeable of which are barrenness, great capriciousness of appetite, enfeeblement of the digestive functions, and a marked vice of nutrition by which an animal that recovers from injuries the most severe in its wild state now finds every trifling hurt a serious matter, and often dies from accidents that would otherwise have been of little moment. In the same category must also be ranked the decreased endurance of tame elephants. The Asiatic species is much inferior to the African in this respect, by nature, but both sensibly deteriorate in this way when domesticated.
There is nothing to show that the African elephant is worse tempered than the Asiatic. It has never been reclaimed by the natives, and that fact no doubt has given rise to the opinion. In the Carthaginian, Numidian, and Roman provinces, this species was made use of very much as the other is now in India, and most if not all the famous homicidal elephants we know of, belonged to the latter country. But it would appear that a “rogue,” properly so called, requires peculiar conditions under which to develop. “Rogue elephants,” says Drummond, “are rare; indeed, it seems to me that it is necessary for the full formation of that amiable animal’s character that it should inhabit a well-populated district where continual opportunities are afforded for attacking defenceless people, of breaking into their fields, and, in general, of losing its natural respect for human beings; and as such conditions seldom exist in Africa, from the elephant chiefly inhabiting districts devoid of population on account of their unhealthiness, the rogue, properly so called, is seldom met with, though the solitary bull, the same animal in an earlier stage, is common enough.”
Drummond, it will be observed, clings to the superstition of man’s recognized primacy in nature; and if he had declared that his appointment to this position was handed down by tradition among elephants from the time of Adam and the garden of Eden, the absurdity could scarcely be greater. In what possible way can a wild beast that has not been hunted know anything about a man, except that he is an unaccountable-looking little creature, who walks like a bird, and has a very singular odor?
A rogue who infested the Balaghat District is described by Baker as a captured elephant who after a considerable detention escaped to the forest again. “Domestication,” he remarks, “seems to have sharpened its intellect and exaggerated its powers of mischief and cunning.... There was an actual love of homicide in this animal.” He continually changed place, so that no one could foretell his whereabouts, and approached those whom he intended to destroy with such fatal skill that they never suspected his presence until it was too late. He made the public roads impassable. By day and night the inhabitants of villages lying far apart heard the screams which accompanied his attack, and immediately this monster was in the midst of them, killing men, women, and children. At length Colonel Bloomfield, aided by the whole population, succeeded in hunting the beast down. “Maddened by pursuit and wounds, he turned to charge,” and as he lowered his trunk when closing, a heavy rifle ball struck him in the depression just above its base, and he fell dead.
Cunning as this elephant was, his actions displayed that lack of inventiveness which Sanderson charges against the race; and this defect saved the lives of many who would otherwise have been killed. If any one was out of reach in a small tree, the rogue never thought of getting at him by shaking its trunk. Both Sir Samuel and Captain R. N. G. Baker report having seen an elephant butt at a Balanites Egyptiaca when it was three feet in diameter, so that a man “must have held on exceedingly tight to avoid a fall.” It is certain that these animals are accustomed to dislodge various edibles by this means. But a change in circumstances prevented the Balaghat brute from resorting to a well-known act which would have lengthened considerably the list of his victims.
Places in Africa where elephants once abounded now contain none. They are less subject to epidemics than many species, but suffer from climatic disorders and the attacks of parasites. This, however, is not the reason for their disappearance from certain localities. They have fallen before firearms, or migrated in fear of them. “From my own observation,” says Baker, “I have concluded that wild animals of all kinds will withstand the dangers of traps, pit-falls, fire, and the usual methods employed for their destruction by savages, but will be speedily cleared out of an extensive district by firearms.”
A field naturalist coming from Africa to India, or any other part of Asia, would be at once struck by the inferior size, darker color, smaller ears, less massive tusks (rudimentary in the female), and other structural differences presented by Elephas Indicus. Likewise, with the forest life, browsing habits, and nocturnal ways of this species, “there is little doubt that there is not an elephant ten feet high at the shoulder in India,” says Sanderson. If a stranger took to elephant-hunting, his opinion of their character in that country would probably depend upon the escapes he made from being killed. There is, however, something yet to be said upon the subject of Asiatic rogues that, so far as the author is aware, has escaped the attention of those who have described them. Such creatures as those of Kakánkōta, Balaghat, Jubbulpūr, and the Begapore canal, are extremely exceptional, if what they actually did be alone considered, but there is nothing to show that they were very extraordinary in temper or traits of character. The first seems to have been undoubtedly insane; the others, however, gave no indications of mental alienation. They were simply vicious like great numbers of their kind, and the accidents of life enabled them to show it more conspicuously than is often the case. Whatever may be thought of the influence of descent in these instances, it is certain that a criminal class cannot develop itself among elephants, and that those murderous brutes referred to, do not stand alone.
Colonel Pollok (“Natural History Notes”) gives a report extracted from the records in the Adjutant General’s Office, that brings out several points relating to the character of vicious elephants. The statements made seem to be incredible, but those who have made a study of the subject will recall many examples of desperation, tenacity of life, and ferocity in elephants, that may serve to modify doubt; more especially in connection with the effects of wounds in the head, which is so formed that half of it might be shot away without an animal suffering otherwise than from shock and loss of blood.
To C. Sealy, Magistrate, etc.
Sir:—I have the honor to state that on the 24th instant, at midnight, I received information that two elephants of very uncommon size had made their appearance within a few hundred yards of the cantonment and close to the village, the inhabitants of which were in the greatest alarm. I lost no time in despatching to the place all the public and private elephants we had in pursuit of them, and at daybreak on the 25th, was informed that their very superior size and apparent fierceness had rendered all attempts at their seizure unavailing; and that the most experienced mahout I had was dangerously hurt—the elephant he rode having been struck to the ground by one of the wild ones, which, with its companion, had then adjourned to a large sugar-cane field adjoining the village. I immediately ordered the guns (a section of a light battery) to this place, but wishing in the first place, to try every means for catching the animals, I assembled the inhabitants of the neighborhood, and with the assistance of the resident Rajah caused two deep pits to be prepared at the edge of the cane field in which our elephants and the people contrived, with the utmost dexterity, to retain the wild ones during the day. When these pits were reported ready, we repaired to the spot, and they were cleverly driven into them. But, unfortunately, one of the pits did not prove to be sufficiently deep, and the one who escaped from it, in the presence of many witnesses, assisted his companion out of the other pit with his trunk. Both were, however, with much exertion, brought back into the cane, and as no particular symptoms of vice or fierceness had appeared in the course of the day, I was anxious to make another effort to capture them. The beldars, therefore, were set to work to deepen the old and prepare new pits against daybreak, when I proposed to make the final attempt. About four o’clock yesterday, however, they burst through all my guards, and making for a village about three miles distant, reached it with such rapidity that the horsemen who galloped before them, had not time to apprise the inhabitants of their danger, and I regret to say that one poor man was torn limb from limb, a child trodden to death, and two women hurt. Their destruction now became absolutely necessary, and as they showed no disposition to quit the village where their mischief had been done, we had time to bring up the four-pound pieces of artillery [these events took place in 1809] from which they received several rounds, both ball and abundance of grape. The larger of the two was soon brought to the ground by a round shot in the head; but after remaining there about a quarter of an hour, apparently lifeless, he got up again as vigorous as ever, and the desperation of both at this period exceeds all description. They made repeated charges on the guns, and if it had not been for the uncommon bravery and steadiness of the artillery-men, who more than once turned them off with shots in the head and body when within a very few paces of them, many dreadful casualties must have occurred. We were obliged to desist for want of ammunition, and before a fresh supply could be obtained, the animals quitted the village, and though streaming with blood from a hundred wounds, proceeded with a rapidity I had no idea of towards Hazarebaugh. They were at length brought up by the horsemen and our elephants, within a short distance of a crowded bazaar, and ultimately, after many renewals of most formidable and ferocious attacks on the guns, gave up the contest with their lives.
The western half of those central Indian highlands called locally the Mykal, Máhádeo, and Sátpúra hills, is a famous haunt for elephants. In this wild birthplace of the streams that pour themselves into the Bay of Bengal and the Arabian Gulf, these creatures wander in comparative security. The Gónd, Kól, and Sántál aborigines furnish the best trackers extant, except, perhaps, those mysterious Bygá or Bhúmiá, whose knowledge of woodcraft is unequalled. These small, dark, silent men have no sort of respect for an elephant’s mind or character, but they worship it from fear; they adore the animal because they know enough of its disposition to be always apprehensive of its doing more than it generally does.
Most of these great timber districts are under the supervision of officers, and the camps of their parties are widely scattered through large and lonely tracts of woodland. If one of these is come upon by a herd of elephants while its occupants are absent, a striking trait in this creature’s character will almost surely be exhibited. No monkey is more mischievous than one of these big brutes, and when the men return they probably find that nothing which could be displaced, marred, or broken, has escaped their attention. Elephants are also very curious; anything unusual is apt to attract them, and if they do not become alarmed at it, the gravity with which a novel object is examined, and the queer, awkward way in which these beasts manifest interest or amusement, is singular enough. Sometimes their performances under the incitement of curiosity or malicious mischief are decidedly unpleasant. A wild elephant came out of the woods one night and pawed a hole in the side of Sanderson’s tent. Hornaday says he made a little door in the wall at the head of his bed, so that he could bolt at once in case of a visitation like this. People living in such places, and in frail houses, are exposed to another contingency. Elephants are very subject to panics, and as they often arise from causes that should not disturb such a creature at all, no one can tell when a herd may not rush off together, and go screaming through the wood, breaking down everything but the big trees before them.
Sooner or later, a hunting party’s progress will be arrested by the halt of their guide: he crouches down in his tracks and looks intently, as it appears, at nothing. What he sees would be nothing to eyes less practised, but it is an elephant’s spoor. If one were in Africa, the trackers would now smooth off a little spot of ground, make a few incantations, and throw magic dice to find out all about this animal. But here nothing of that kind is done, and yet the guide will follow the trail unerringly, and the hunter may count upon being brought to his game. “When you know,” says Captain A. W. Drayson, “that the giant of the forest is not inferior in the senses of hearing and smell to any creature in creation, and has besides intelligence enough to know that you are his enemy, and also for what purpose you have come, it becomes a matter of great moment how, when, and where you approach him.”
Elephants, unless they have some definite end in view, stroll about in the most desultory, and, if one is following them, the most exasperating manner. Their big round footprints go up hill and down dale in utterly aimless and devious meanderings. Here the brute stops to dig a tuber or break a branch, there for the purpose of tearing down a clump of bamboos, in another place with no object in view except to drive its tusks into a bank. Sportsmen often spend a day and night upon their trail.
No one can foresee the issue of a contest with an elephant. It may fall to a single shot, but no matter how brave and cool and well instructed the hunter may be, how stanch are his gun-bearers, how perfect his weapons and the skill with which they are used, when that wavering trunk becomes fixed in his direction, and the huge head turns toward him, his breath is in his nostrils. More than likely the animal, whose form is almost invisible in the half-lights of these forests, is aware of his pursuer’s presence before the latter sees him, and if he has remained, it is because he means mischief. Then it may well happen with the sportsman as it did with Arlett, Wedderburn, Krieger, McLane, Wahlberg, and many another.
It stands to reason that a herd is harder to approach without being discovered than a single elephant would be. The chances that the hunter will be seen are greater, and their scattered positions make it more probable that some of them will get his wind.
Occasionally an old bull who despises that part of mankind who do not possess improved rifles, and knows perfectly well the difference between an Englishman and a native, will take possession of some unfortunate ryot’s millet field or cane patch, and hold it by right of conquest against all attempts to dislodge him. Crowds revile the animal from a safe distance, and a village shikári comes with a small-bored matchlock and shoots pieces of old iron and pebbles at him from the nearest position where it is mathematically certain that he will be secure. As for the marauder, he stays where he is until everything is eaten or destroyed, or until he gets tired.
The amount actually consumed by elephants forms but a small portion of the loss which agriculturists sustain from their forays. They always trample down and ruin far more than they eat. Both in India and Ceylon, various districts suffered so severely in this way that government gave rewards for all elephants killed. This has now been discontinued in both countries, but in many places where the herds are protected their numbers are increasing, so that the same necessity for thinning them out will again arise.
All over the cultivated portions of India platforms are erected in fields, where children by day, and men at night, endeavor to frighten away these invaders, together with the birds, antelopes, bears, monkeys, and wild hogs, that ravage their crops. No very signal success can be said to attend these efforts, and when a herd of elephants makes its appearance, they simply keep at a distance from the stages, and otherwise do as they please.
Plundering bands survey the ground, study localities, go on their duroras like a troop of Dacoits, and are organized for the time being in a rude way, under the influence of what Professor Romanes calls “the collective instinct.”
Hunters favorably situated can easily see this. A far-off trumpet now and then announces the herd’s advance through the forest, but as they approach the point where possible danger is to be apprehended, no token of their presence is given, and its first indication is the appearance of a scout,—not a straggler who has got in front by accident, but an animal upon whom the others depend, and who is there to see that all is safe. Everything about the creature, its actions and attitudes, the way it steps, listens, and searches the air with slowly moving trunk, speaks for itself of wariness, knowledge of what might occur, and an appreciation of the position it occupies; no doubt, to a certain extent, of a sense of responsibility. When this scout feels satisfied that no danger is impending, it moves on, at the same time assuring those who yet remain hidden that they may follow, by one of the many significant sounds that elephants make.
A number of narratives describe events as they are likely then to occur, but they are merely hunting stories, and so far as the writer’s memory serves, do not bring out the animal’s traits in any special way. It would appear, however, that the behavior of elephants who unexpectedly meet with Europeans in those places where all the resistance previously experienced came from farmers themselves, is very different from what it is in the former case. Then they are said to be difficult to get rid of, and when driven away from one point by shouts, horns, drums, and the firing of guns, they rush away to another part of the plantations, and continue their depredations. No such passive resistance as this is attempted when English sportsmen are upon the spot. Elephants discover their presence immediately. Upon the first explosion of a heavy rifle, the alarm is sounded from different parts of the field, and the herd betakes itself to flight without any notion of halting by the way. Their dominant idea is to get clear of those premises as soon as possible.
“The elephant,” says Andersson, “has a very expressive organ of voice. The sounds which he utters have been distinguished by his Asiatic keepers into three kinds. The first is very shrill, and is produced by blowing through his trunk. This is indicative of pleasure. The second, made by the mouth, is a low note expressive of want; and the third, proceeding from the throat, is a terrific roar of anger or revenge.” Sanderson seems to think that these discriminations are somewhat fanciful. He remarks that “elephants make use of a great variety of sounds in communicating with one another, and in expressing their wants and feelings.” But he adds that, while “some are made by the trunk and some by the throat, the conjunctures in which either means of expression is employed, cannot be strictly classified, as pleasure, fear, want, and other emotions are indicated by either.” Leveson, on the contrary, gives a list of these intonations, and describes the manner in which they are produced. So also does Tennant; and Baker adds another sound to those before given; “a growl,” this writer calls it, and he says that “it is exactly like the rumbling of distant thunder.”
Undoubtedly these animals express their thoughts and feelings intelligibly by the voice, as also through facial expressions, and by means of such gestures as they are capable of making. It has been before said that although the elephant’s face is half covered up, and there are no muscles either in his case or in that of any other animal, whose primary function is to express mental or emotional states, his physiognomy may be in the highest degree significant.
“The courage of elephants,” writes Captain Drayson, “seems to fluctuate in a greater degree than that of man. Sometimes a herd is unapproachable from savageness; sometimes the animals are the greatest curs in creation.” What is called boldness varies considerably in different species, among members of the same species, and in the same individuals at different times. It is a quality, that, like all others, is double-sided, certain elements belonging to the mind, and the residue to the body. Elephants are nervous; that is to say, their nerve centres—the ganglia in which energy is stored up—are constitutionally in a state of more or less unstable equilibrium, so that stimulus, whether of external origin, or initiated centrically, is apt to produce explosive effects. Courage depends upon physical and mental constitution, upon specializations in race, training, and structure, upon differences in personal experience and organization.
So much as this may be said with confidence, but on what grounds, biological or psychological, is it possible for Professor Romanes to assert that the elephant seems usually to be “actuated by the most magnanimous of feelings”? Magnanimity belongs to the rarest and loftiest type of human character: how did an elephant come by it? The obligations of mental and moral congruity are not less binding than those of physical fitness. No one nowadays draws an elephant with a human head; but a beast with self-respect, courage, refinement, sympathy, and charity enough to be magnanimous, does not seem to outrage any sense of propriety. Works like those of Watson (“Reasoning Power of Animals”), Broderip (“Zoölogical Recreations”), Bingley (“Animal Biography”), Swainson (“Habits and Instincts of Animals”), too often interpret facts so that they will fit preconceived opinions. There is a story, for example, by Captain Shipp, of how, during the siege of Bhurtpore, an elephant pushed another one into a well because he had appropriated his bucket. Tales like this resemble pictures in which the design and execution are both weak, and which depend for their effect upon accessories illegitimately introduced into the composition. Probably a large part of the present inhabitants of the earth have seen animals who, while contending for some possession, acted in a similar manner; but they were not elephants, nor were the circumstances of a well and a siege at hand to set them off, and produce an impression that the actual incident does not justify. The grief of captive elephants over their situation is a subject upon which many fine remarks have been made. Colonel Yule (“Embassy to Ava”) states that numbers die from this cause alone; but yaarba’hd, either in its dropsical or atrophic form, is what chiefly proves fatal to them, and this is brought on by the sudden and violent interruption of their natural way of life. According to Strachan, Sanderson, and other experts, the disorder is due to an overthrow of functional balance; something which is sure to induce disease whenever it occurs. Sterility, temporary failure of milk in females with calves, together with the various effects already mentioned, may be referred to the same cause. It is not said that elephants never die of grief; still less, that this is impossible. Any animal highly organized enough to feel intense and persistent sorrow may perish. Pain, either physical or mental, is intimately connected with waste of tissue and paralysis of reparative action. Bain’s formula that “states of pleasure are concomitant with an increase, and states of pain with a decrease, of some, or all, of the vital functions,” is not strictly correct as it stands; still the truth it is intended to convey remains indisputable. Grant-Allen (“Physiological Æsthetics”) defines pleasure as a “concomitant of the healthy action of any or all of the organs or members supplied with afferent cerebro-spinal nerves, to an extent not exceeding the ordinary powers of reparation possessed by the system.” Grief, when intense, reverses this, makes normal function impossible, palsies the viscera, and impairs or perverts those nutritive processes upon which life directly depends. But the profound and abiding sorrow this race cherishes in servitude is a romance. There is nothing to show the regret and longing which have been imagined. Elephants struggle for a while against coercion, and then forget. They fail to take advantage of opportunities for escape, and when they do, the fugitives are recaptured more easily than they were taken in the first place. Instances have often occurred of their voluntary return after a long absence. In the beginning, it is the finest animals who perish. They kill themselves in their struggles, or die of disease. Subsequently, it is said that domestication lengthens average life. This must, however, be one of those blank assertions made so commonly about wild beasts; since, independently of any other objection, it is evident that the statement, in order to be worth anything, should rest upon the basis of a wide comparison between the relative longevities of free and captive animals, and vital statistics of this kind, not only have not been tabulated, but it is impossible that they should have been collected.
Colonel Pollok remarks that “at all times, this is a wandering race, and consumes so much, and wastes so much, that no single forest could long support a large number of such occupants.” Livingstone, Forsyth, and others have, however, noted the fact that little or no permanent injury to extensive woodlands was wrought by these animals. They do not overturn trees, as is popularly believed, and still less do they uproot them. Elephants bend down stems by pressure with their foreheads, and they go loitering about breaking branches, till the place looks as if a whirlwind had passed over it, but these devastations are of a kind soon repaired. In the forests of India they have never met with such adversaries, or been exposed to the same dangers, as the species encountered on the “Dark Continent.” Some Indian tribes worshipped, and all feared them. They passed their lives for the most part in peace, finding food plentiful, ruining much, and finishing nothing. Pitfalls were few and far between; no weighted darts fell upon them as they passed beneath the boughs, no pigmy savage stole behind as they leaned against a tree boll and woke the echoes of the wood with deep, slow-drawn, and far-resounding snores, to thrust a broad-bladed spear into their bodies, and leave it there to lacerate and kill his victim slowly. Neither were herds driven over precipices, nor into chasms, nor did hordes of capering barbarians come against them with assagais, and scream, while pricking them to death,—
“Oh Chief! Chief! we have come to kill you,
Oh Chief! Chief! many more shall die.
The gods have said it.”
All this was common throughout Africa, while in Asia the natives seldom aggressed against elephants except in the way of capturing them. It is true that this was done awkwardly, and often caused injury or death; but that was unintentional, and as a rule they roamed unmolested among the solitudes of nature.
Existence had its drawbacks, however. Elephants were not eaten in Asia, and not hunted for their ivory to any extent, but they were used in war, and the state of no native prince could be complete unless he had an elephant to ride on and several caparisoned animals for show. Owing to these needs and fashions the animals were captured extensively. In many places at present small parties of men, often only two or three, go on foot into the forests as their predecessors did ages ago, each with a small bag of provisions, and a green hide rope capable of being considerably stretched. An elephant’s track is almost as explicit and full of information to them as a passport or descriptive list, and when they have found the right one, it is patiently followed till the beast that made it is discovered. Then in the great majority of cases its fate is fixed. Flight, concealment, resistance, are in vain. In some “inevitable hour” a noose of plaited thongs that cannot be broken is slipped around one of the hind feet, and a turn or two quickly taken about a tree. A high-bred elephant gives up when he finds that the first fierce struggle for freedom is unavailing, but the meerga’s resistance lasts longer. After one leg has been secured it is easy to fetter both, and then the captors camp in front of the animal in order to accustom it to their presence. By degrees they loosen its bonds, feed and pacify it. When anger is over, and its terrors are dissipated, these men lead their captive off to a market at some great fair, and they lie about what they have done and what the elephant did, with a fertility of invention, a height and length and breadth of mendacity which it would be vain to expect to find exceeded in this imperfect state of existence.
The government also often wants elephants, and when this is the case, captures are made in a different manner, and upon a greater scale. What is done is to surround a herd and drive it into an enclosure called a keddah. This is often a very complicated and difficult thing to accomplish. Far away in some wild unsettled region of the Nilgiri or Satpúra hills, the uplands of Mysore, or elsewhere, an English official pitches his tent, surveys the country, and sends out scouts. To him sooner or later comes a person without any clothes to speak of, but with the most exquisite manners, and says that, owing to his Excellency’s good fortune, by which all adverse influences have been happily averted, he begs to represent that a herd of elephants, who were created on purpose to be captured by him, is marked down. Then the commander-in-chief of the catching forces opens a campaign that may last for weeks, or even months. The topography has been carefully studied with reference to occupying positions which will prevent the animals from breaking through a line of posts that are established around them, and between which communication is kept up by flying detachments. Drafts of men from the district and a trained contingent the officer brought with him, are manœuvred so that they can concentrate upon the point selected for their keddah, which is not constructed till towards the close of these movements, since the area surrounded is very extensive and it is not at first known exactly where it must be placed. Its position is fixed within certain limits, however, and their object is to drive the herd in that direction without at first attracting attention to the fact that this is being done, and thereby causing continued alarm. Those who direct proceedings know the character of elephants, and count upon their lack of intelligence to aid them in carrying out the design. Before any apprehension of real danger makes itself felt, they have voluntarily, as it seems to them, moved away from parties who just showed themselves from time to time and then disappeared. They still feed in solitudes apparently uninvaded, still stand about after the manner of their kind, blowing dust through their trunks or squirting water over their bodies. They fan themselves with branches, and sleep in peace.
At length, long after the true state of things would have been fully appreciated by most other species, the herd finds out that it is always moving in a definite direction. Then a dim consciousness of the truth, which day by day becomes more vivid until it arrives at certainty, takes possession of their minds. From that time an exhibition of traits which scarcely correspond with popular views upon the elephant’s intellect is constantly made. If they had anything like the ability attributed to them, the toils by which they are surrounded could be broken with ease. There is no time from their first sight of a human being to the very moment when they are bound to trees, at which they could not escape. It is useless to say they do not know this; that is precisely what the creatures are accused of. If they were such animals as they are said to be, they would know it, and act accordingly. But as soon as the situation is revealed, they become helpless; their resources of every kind are at an end. They stand still in stupid despair, break out in transient and impotent fits of rage, make pitiable demonstrations of attack upon points where they could not be opposed for an instant if the assault was made in earnest, and at length suffer themselves to be driven into an enclosure that would no more hold them against their will than if it had been made of gauze.
An elephant corral or keddah is a stout stockade with a shallow ditch dug around it inside, and slight fences of brush diverging for some distance from its entrance. Incredible as it may seem, single elephants frequently break out of these places, but a herd hardly ever; they have not enterprise, pluck, and presence of mind enough to follow the example when it is set them. Sometimes, as we have seen, elephants may be fierce and determined; desperation has been shown to be among the possibilities of their nature. But whereas an exceptional individual will, from pure ferocity, brave wounds and death, nothing can so move the race as to cause a display of ordinary self-possession. It is quite true that whenever the imprisoned band comes rushing down upon any part of the keddah, they are met with fire-brands, the discharge of unshotted guns, and an infernal clamor; but if that be urged in explanation of their hesitation, it may be replied that if the whole herd had as much resolution as a single lion brought to bay, they would sweep away everything before them as the fallen leaves of their forests are swept away by a gale.
Often among the bewildered and panic-stricken crowd within a corral some animal is so dangerous that it has to be shot; the majority, however, soon grow calmer, and then comes the task of securing those which it is desirable to keep. When these are males, the procedure is as follows: An experienced female is introduced; she marches up to the tusker, and very shortly all sense of his situation vanishes from his “half-human mind.” The fascinating creature who is made to cajole him has a man on her neck whose voice and motions direct her in everything she does; but that circumstance, which might undoubtedly be supposed to attract the captive’s attention, is entirely overlooked, and when, either by herself or with the assistance of another Delilah, she has backed her Samson up against a tree, two or three other men who have been riding on her back, but whom he has not noticed, slip down and make him fast. As has been said, after a few fits of hysterics, his resistance is at an end; the monarch of the forest is tamed, and considering what has been written about elephants, it is indeed surprising that no one has reported the precise course of thought that produced his resignation. To express this change in the felicitous language of Professor Romanes, the elephant has experienced “a transformation of emotional psychology.” That is to say, a being which has heretofore been nothing but an unreclaimed wild beast, is by the simple process of being frightened, deceived, abused, and enslaved, at once converted into one of the chief ornaments of animated nature!
The question arises as one ponders upon statements like this, whether we really know anything worth speaking of about inferior animals, and if it is possible to use expressions like “cruel as a tiger,” “brave as a lion,” or “sagacious as an elephant,” rationally. As for any philosophical, or, as Spencer calls it, “completely unified knowledge” on the subject, nobody possesses it; at the same time the natural sciences may be so applied as to bring certain truths to light in this connection. It is plain, for example, that an elephant does not kill his keeper because he is fond of him; but it is one thing to start out with the assumption that this noble-hearted, affectionate, and magnanimous animal would never have been guilty of such an act unless it had been maltreated, and it is another, and quite a different course to begin with the fact that the deed was done by a brute in whose inherited nature no radical change could by any possibility have been effected by such training as it has received. If now we endeavor to ascertain what that nature was,—study the records of behavior in wild and domesticated specimens, and look at this by the light which biology and psychology, without any assumptions whatever, cast upon it,—we shall find ourselves in the best position for investigating any particular case under consideration. Many accounts of such murders have been given at length. We know how, why, when, and where the animal began its enmity, and the manner in which it was shown or concealed, so that, having investigated the matter in the way described, we are, to a certain extent, able, not to generalize the character of this species, but to put aside immature opinions, and say that since very many elephants exhibit traits which are in conformity with those to be expected of them, these probably belong to the species at large, and may be displayed with different degrees of violence whenever circumstances favor their manifestation.
The chief characteristics of elephants have been discussed, and an attempt has been made to place them in their true light. The writer has not found the half-human elephant in nature, nor does it appear from records that any one else has done so. An elephant is a wild beast, comparatively with others undeveloped by a severe struggle for existence; superficially changed in captivity, and cut off from improvement by barrenness. It is capable of receiving a considerable amount of instruction, and learns quickly and well; but how far its acquisitions are assimilated and converted into faculty, is altogether uncertain. In the savage state elephants do nothing that other animals cannot do as well, and many of them better. Mere bulk, and its accompaniment, strength, do not influence character in any definite manner that can be pointed out.
In captivity, elephants are commonly obedient, partly because, having never had any enemies to contend with, they are naturally inoffensive, and partly for the reason that these animals are easily overawed, very nervous, and extremely liable to feelings of causeless apprehension.
Courage in cold blood is certainly not one of their qualities; nevertheless, being amenable to discipline, and having some sense of responsibility, certain elephants are undoubtedly stanch both in war and the chase.
This animal is easily excited, very irritable, prone to take offence, and subject to fits of hysterical passion. Thus it happens that wild elephants are the most formidable objects of pursuit known to exist, and that the majority of those held in durance exhibit dangerous outbreaks of temper. When an elephant is vicious, he displays capabilities in the way of evil such as none of his kind, when left to themselves, have ever been known to manifest in the direction of virtue. A “rogue” is the most terrible of wild beasts; the captive tusker who has determined upon murder finds no being but man, who in the prosecution of his design is so patient, so self-contained, so deceitful, and so deadly. It is idle to say, speaking of the relations between elephants and men, that the good qualities of the former greatly predominate, since if it had been otherwise, no association between them would have been possible—they could not have inhabited the same regions.
The concluding pages may, perhaps, serve to show how far this sketch of the elephant’s character is compatible with facts.
Charles John Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) observes that, “whether or not the elephant be the harmless creature he is represented by many, certain it is that to the sportsman he is the most formidable of all those beasts, the lion not excepted, that roam the African wilds; and few there are who make the pursuit of him a profession, that do not, sooner or later, come to grief of some kind.” Being social animals, there is a certain sympathy and affection between members of the same family; but while striking instances of this are recorded, the bulk of evidence tends the other way.
Impressive examples of solicitude have, however, been observed. Moodie tells that he saw a female—whom the experience of most hunters shows to be much more likely to act in this manner than a male—guard her wounded mate, and how she, “regardless of her own danger, quitted her shelter in the woods, rushed out to his assistance, walked round and round him, chased away the assailants, and returning to his side caressed him. Whenever he attempted to walk, she placed her flank or her shoulder to his wounded side and supported him.” Frederick Green wrote an altogether unique account to Andersson of the succor of an elephant that had been shot, by one who was a stranger, of the same sex, and who encountered him far from the scene where his misfortune had befallen him.
The Bushmen, he says, often asserted that elephants would carry water in their trunks to a wounded companion at a long distance in the “Weldt.” Green, however, did not believe it, until, while hunting in the Lake Regions, he was compelled, from want of ammunition, “to leave an elephant that was crippled (one of his fore legs had been broken, besides having eleven wounds in his body) some thirty miles from the waggons.”
“As I felt confident,” this writer continues, “that he would die of his wounds ... I despatched Bushmen after him instead of going myself; but they, not attending to my commands, remained for two days beside an elephant previously killed by my after-rider. It was, therefore, not until the fourth evening after I left this elephant that the Bushmen came up with him.... They found him still alive and standing, but unable to walk.... They slept near him, thinking he might die during the night; but at an early hour after dark they heard another elephant at a distance, apparently calling, and he was answered by the wounded one. The calls and answers continued until the stranger came up, and they saw him giving the hurt one water, after which he assisted in taking his maimed companion away.” Such was the story told Green when the party came back. He disbelieved their statements entirely, went off to the spot to see what had happened for himself, and thus relates his own observations:—
“The next afternoon found me at the identical place where I had left the wounded elephant. I can only say that the account of the Bushmen as to the stranger elephant coming up to the maimed one was proved by the spoor; and that their further assertion as to his having assisted his unfortunate friend in removing elsewhere was also fully verified from the spoor of the two being close alongside of each other—the broken leg of the wounded one leaving after it a deep furrow in the sand. As I was satisfied that these parts of their story were correct, I did not see any further reason to doubt the other.”
Male elephants rarely fall in the holes which undermine so many parts of Africa; they carry their trunks low, have no one to look out for but themselves, and so detect these traps, and generally uncover them. Moodie makes the statement that many elephants follow the recent trails of those who went before them to watering-places, and if these turned off, took it for a sign of danger, and did not drink. After what Inglis and Hallet say to the same effect of tigers, after St. John’s observations upon red deer, and Lloyd’s on the Scandinavian fox, inductive reasoning like this does not seem at all incredible. Amral, chief of the Namaqua Hottentots, told Galton and Andersson that on one occasion he and others were in pursuit of a herd of elephants, and at length came to a wagon-track which the animals had crossed. Here the latter, as was seen by their spoor, had come to a halt, and after carefully examining the ground with their trunks, formed a circle in the centre of which their leader took up his position. Afterwards individuals were sent out to make further investigations. The Raad, or debate, this chieftain went on to say, must have been long and weighty, for they (the elephants) had written much on the ground with their probosces. The decision evidently was that to remain longer in that locality would be dangerous, and they therefore came to the unanimous resolution to decamp forthwith. Attempts to overtake them, Amral went on to say, were useless; for, though they followed their tracks till sunset, they saw no more of them.
What these elephants thought when they found a track which, to them, was new and inexplicable, is, of course, a matter of conjecture; but their trail revealed everything that was done on this occasion, as clearly as if the Hottentots had been eye-witnesses of their actions.
Colonel Julius Barras (“India and Tiger-Hunting”) entered con amore into a study of the elephant, so far as its character came into play when the animal was employed in sport; and he did what no other gentleman, to the author’s knowledge, has ever done; namely, turned mahout himself, and drove shikar tuskers against many a tiger. His appreciation of this creature’s courage, benevolence, and reliability is very much in accord with that which has been expressed; but he offers some observations upon vice that should not be overlooked. “One peculiarity of elephants,” remarks the Colonel, “is that, when desirous of killing any one, they nearly always select as a victim their own or a rival’s attendant.” It seems rather strained, however, to speak of this fact as a “peculiarity,” since circumstances would naturally bring about such a selection.
But no provocation need be offered to an elephant in order that he should desire to kill a man. “Sahib,” said Mohammed Yakoob, the driver of an immense old tusker, whom Colonel Barras had drawn from the government stables at Baroda, “you see that this elephant is a beast void of religion (be imān), and he hates the English.”
“Dear me,” answered the Colonel, “and how does he get on with the natives?”
“Oh!” replied the mahout, “much better, but still he is uncertain even with them. He has killed two, and there is but little doubt that he will do for me, his keeper, sooner or later.”
Colonel Barras knew that Futteh Ali, the elephant in question, had never seen him before, and was well aware that it was impossible for this creature to feel offended at any act of his. The colonel’s mind was also full of conventional ideas concerning elephants, so he disbelieved what the driver told him, and resolved to make friends with Futteh Ali, and ride him after tigers. He tells what happened in the following words:—
“One afternoon I considered myself fortunate in arriving before Futteh Ali when no one was in sight. I drew up in front of him with a few pieces of chopped sugar-cane in my hand. I looked attentively at the colossus, and could observe no signs of any unusual emotion. I spoke to him in those tones which I flattered myself he considered dulcet. On this he gently waved his ears and twinkled his eyes, as who should say, ‘It’s all right; you are my friend.’ I now called out cheerfully, ‘Salaam, Futteh Ali, Salaam!’ and raised my arm at the same time. To this he responded by lifting his trunk over his head in return for the salute. This last act made assurance doubly sure. I mounted the platform, and as I did so the elephant again flung up his trunk, and opened his mouth, as if to accept with gratitude my sweet and juicy offerings. But his heart was full of treachery. He well knew that with his front feet manacled it would be useless to pursue me even if I had but a few inches start of him. He therefore dissembled with great cleverness and self-command till I had actually leant up against one of his tusks, and had got my hand in his mouth; then he suddenly belched forth a shout of rage, and made a sweep at me with his tusks that sent me flying off the platform into the dust below.... I sat up bareheaded and half-stunned, just in time to see the under-keeper, who had been slumbering behind a pile of equipments all this time, sent with greater force in a backward direction.... The elephant, meanwhile, had thrown off the mask; it was evidently only the shackles on his front feet that prevented him from getting off the platform and finishing us.”
Very few persons would have done the same, but Colonel Barras took Futteh Ali for his Shikar elephant, and he afterwards carried him well in many a dangerous strait. But he was wise enough never to give him a second opportunity to take his life.
Another tusker enraged himself against Colonel Barras for a very slight cause. He was coming back one day, riding this animal, Ashmut Gūj by name, when, as he says, “I determined to see what this beast would do, if I, seated on his back, were to imitate a tiger charging.” Accordingly, he began to mimic that short, hoarse, savage cry, and the elephant, who was not at all deceived, did nothing but raise his trunk. The mahout, however, warned him to desist. “Every time you make that noise,” said he, “the elephant points his trunk over his back and takes a long sniff to inform himself as to which of his passengers is trying to vex him.” Barras stopped at once, but the evil had been done.
“On arriving at the bungalow,” the Colonel continues, “I had quite forgotten this little incident. Not so Ashmut Gūj. At the word of command he bent his hind legs and allowed the three natives to slip off his back in succession. I was the last to dismount, and as I touched the ground the elephant rose with a swift motion, and aimed a fearful kick at me with his enormous club-like hind foot. I started forward, so as just to escape the blow, which would, of course, have annihilated me. This elephant would never forgive me for the indignity I had put upon him. Always upon dismounting he would try to rise, so as to repeat his manœuvre, and it was necessary to make him kneel down completely before I got off. Nor would I ever again feed him from my hand, as I believe that if he could have got hold of me he would have trampled me.”
There is a tragic story told by the same author, of an elephant who was “must.” His keeper did not know it, and, in fact, could not be persuaded that such was the case.
Barras left Neemuch with a number of elephants, and among the rest an old friend and favorite of his, Roghanath Gūj, whose mahout, Ghassee Ram, had been in charge of him for eighteen years and thus acquired a very great influence over the animal. Colonel Barras, who had not seen this beast for some time, was at once struck by the indifference displayed to his expressions of friendliness, and to those little presents of sweets which these creatures enjoy so much. Evidently Roghanath Gūj was changed; ill, perhaps? No, said and swore his keeper, there was nothing the matter. His dulness, that sombre air which excited surprise and suspicion, was nothing more than a little irritability caused by the extremely hot weather. So Barras yielded his better judgment to greater experience, and the consequence was that the next day, while beating for a tiger, the elephant suddenly rushed upon one of the attendants, and would have killed him if the man had not taken off his turban and left it on a bush, while he himself slipped down into the shade of a deep ravine. From this time forth Roghanath Gūj was picketed by himself.
“Two days after,” says Barras, “we arrived at a small village,”—Mehra,—“and close to it there were some enormous Banyan trees, under which the elephants were secured. Opposite to them, on the other side of a small clearing, stood our little camp. Here, after a long and unsuccessful day’s beating after a wary tiger, we enjoyed our late dinner, and had just sought our couches, clad for the night in our light sleeping-suits, when a burst of affrighted cries broke upon our ears. The tumult proceeded from the direction of the great tree where Roghanath Gūj stood in solitude.
“We instantly rushed for our guns, and seized a hurricane lamp. We made all haste in our slippered feet to the scene of action. As we got within twenty yards of the elephant, Ghassee Ram (his driver) called to us to halt. The animal, he said, was obeying him, and if nothing further incensed him, he would be able to tie up his hind legs with a rope, when he would be incapable (the fore-limbs being already chained) of doing any more mischief. So we stood where we were, and waited in great anxiety, whilst we could hear the mahout uttering the word Sōm-Sōm, which is the order for an elephant to keep his hind quarters towards any one who may be washing, or otherwise attending to him. The night was as dark as pitch; nothing could be seen. According to the different cries of the excited people, however, it was clear that something had happened to the under-keeper of Roghanath Gūj. Some said he was dead, some that he had escaped from his terrible assailant. I called to the other elephant-keepers, but they had all gone with their animals, I knew not whither, on the first alarm.
“Meanwhile Ghassee Ram was left quite alone to deal with the enraged beast. Of course we talked to him all the time, and were prepared to rush in and fire, as well as we could, if he called upon us to do so. Every chance, however, would have been against our disabling the elephant, who, maddened by such wounds as he might have received, would have worked untold destruction during the long dark hours of a moonless night. To the pluck of Ghassee Ram must be ascribed the avoidance of such a calamity. In a few minutes, which seemed an age, the mahout called out that we might advance. We did so, and never shall I forget the weirdness of the scene that was lighted up by the bright rays of the lamp I carried.
“Under the tree, and with his back to its stem, towered the dark form of the elephant, whilst his mahout, a mere speck, stood a little to his right. No other living being was visible, but close to the animal, on the opposite side from Ghassee Ram, lay a small, shapeless object, which a second glance showed to be the missing man. The elephant, with his ears raised, seemed to be keeping guard over his victim, and would probably kill any one who should attempt to remove the body, which lay within reach of his trunk. Still, this must be done, and at once, for life might yet be lingering in the shattered frame. I therefore gave the hurricane lamp to the mahout, and ordered him to swing it up in the elephant’s face, and call out his name at the same time. Ghassee Ram, from the long habit of commanding this huge animal, had acquired some powerful tones. As he swung the lamp, that hung by a large ring, in the elephant’s face, and cried out ‘Roghanath Gūj, Roghanath Gūj,’ the animal seemed deeply impressed. As the light ascended for the third time towards his dazzled eyes, I darted from between my two friends, who stood covering the elephant with their guns, and drew forth the unfortunate keeper. He was terribly mangled, and quite dead.” This elephant was semi-delirious, and in that state the wild beast nature, which had been covered by a thin layer of educational polish, came out under the stimulus of some passing irritation. His mahout saw the man struck down, and interfered; but the animal was only restrained by his voice for a moment, and then completed the murder. He was not wholly demented, however; for Colonel Barras says, “I could not but be touched by the affection this huge creature displayed, even in his madness, towards the only two people he loved,—Ghassee Ram and myself. I fed him every day from my hand, and he never failed to clank his heavy chains, and turn round to watch me till I disappeared in my tent on leaving him.”
It is probable that many persons whose minds are made up on the subject of elephants, may see nothing in this account but a case of perversion due to disease, and will pass by the elephant’s evident power of self-restraint and discrimination as of no significance; contending that Roghanath Gūj, like all his kind, was naturally benevolent and amiable. Likewise, that the vagaries belonging to certain forms of mental alienation, temporary and chronic, are of the most eccentric and various character, and that this instance proves nothing with regard to the elephant’s inherent nature. As a mere matter of reasoning, the objection is valid, and logically it is unanswerable; but, perhaps, some of those who believe that these brutes possess virtues of which most men are nearly destitute, will inform the world why “must”-delirium or actual insanity in an elephant, always takes the form of homicidal mania.