Life at the Zoo: Notes and Traditions of the Regent's Park Gardens

by C. J. Cornish

Some one ventured to give a biscuit to the unfortunate goat, its neighbour. The elephant dexterously twisted it from between the nibbling lips of the goat, and at once mounted guard to prevent any such diversion of its dues again. With ears cocked and eye alert, he held his trunk stretched out a few inches above the goat’s head, taking it away for a moment to receive offerings tendered elsewhere, but switching it back to the suspected quarter the moment the dainty was swallowed.

Elephants suffer from nervousness, and occasionally from unreasoning panic, in England, just as they do in India. A windmill has been known to cause them to jib like a horse, and a large and very tame female Indian elephant at the Zoological Gardens actually died of fright, caused by a thunderstorm in the summer of 1855. She was out at exercise, when a violent and reverberant peal of thunder caused her to break away from her keeper. When caught she was found to be in a pitiable state of terror, shaking and trembling with violent spasmodic twitchings of the whole body. When led back to her stable she continued to show unmistakable symptoms of shock and collapse. In a short time she lay down, and after a few days died, in spite of the anxious and skilled attention which she received from the first.

Minor instances of panic are not uncommon, but it is not often that the English-trained animal loses his head so as to be a source of danger to the public, as so frequently happens in India. This is partly because they seldom travel alone. In Mr. Sanger’s menagerie, for instance, the elephants are led when on the march by an old chestnut thoroughbred, known as the “jumping horse,” from his feat of clearing six five-barred gates in succession. It was when out at exercise without its usual companion that one of these elephants bolted at Highbury last September, and spent an afternoon in rambling about the suburbs of North London. The damage done by the animal was greatly exaggerated, so far as the writer could judge after a visit to the scene of its exploits. The elephant was drinking from a water-trough just opposite Finsbury Park, when it took fright at the sudden ringing of a tram-car bell. Pursued by boys and policemen, it ran through the Park and down a street near the lower entrance. Seeing a large wooden gate, like that which leads to its own yard at Tottenham, it burst it open, and found itself in a labyrinth of small sheds and wooden stables at the back of some shops. Threading its way through these with wonderful agility, it ultimately arrived in a cul de sac in the yard at the back of a fishmonger’s shop. Having thrown off its pursuers by this manœuvre, the elephant proceeded to make itself as much at home as circumstances permitted. It first kicked into quiet a collie dog which had resented its intrusion. Next it picked up its kennel and pitched it over the garden wall. Then cautiously approaching the kitchen door, it looked in to see if any provisions were lying within reach. Meantime the fishmonger, who was taking a nap on his sofa, was apprised that there was an elephant in his back-yard. Trespass, whether by man or beast, is a thing no British house-holder can put up with; so the fishmonger took down his whip and went to turn it “off his premises.” “Jim” was at that moment looking in at the door, and elephant and fishmonger met on the threshold. Victory lay with the latter, but only to a limited extent. For the elephant, still bent on finding provender, broke in the door of the stable in which the tradesman kept his pony. The door was only six and a half feet high, and the elephant more than eight. But it stepped in, and being familiar with the economy of a stable, looked for the corn-bin. This found, it emptied the whole of the contents on the floor, and soon ate up a bushel of oats. This was not to be borne; so the plucky fishmonger determined to “catch” the robber when it emerged from the stable. This it did rather sooner than it had intended, as the pony, frightened at its strange visitor, avenged the collie by kicking the elephant’s ribs. Outside, the indignant fishmonger and his man had barred the passage by drawing a light van across it, and, armed with whips, mounted guard on the other side of the barricade. Jim on his part took a long drink out of a small slate water-tank which stood near, and having refreshed the inner elephant with food and drink, surveyed the situation at his leisure. Seeing no other way out of the yard than that by which he had entered, he walked up, and with his head upset the van, and brushing past the garrison and through the crowd outside the gates, resumed his rambles in the streets. When captured, it was long past seven o’clock, and the animal was then well beyond the river Lea. No one was hurt by the elephant, and beyond the wanton destruction of a small shed belonging to a fishmonger, which it mischievously broke into pieces the size of barrel staves, and an unfortunate rush through five garden walls in a rather awkward place in Highbury Terrace, it did little harm to property. Next day it was seen by the writer, apparently none the worse for its adventures, though a violent scolding administered by the keeper’s wife caused it obvious uneasiness. It could hardly swallow the hay which it was eating, but taking it from its mouth, rubbed its knees with it, turning its head away, and exhibiting signs of the utmost penitence and confusion.

African elephants are now very scarce in this country. This is due partly to the total blockade by the Dervish power at Khartoum of the ancient trade-route down the river. At present there are only seven left in Europe; of these one is in the London Zoological Gardens, one at Manchester, and one in Wombwell’s travelling menagerie. But except to complete the collections of learned societies, the African is far less in demand than formerly. The elephant trade exists mainly to supply performing animals for the circuses, and the African is not popular with circus owners, or with their keepers or trainers. This is strange, because it was in the Roman circus that the African elephant first became a popular favourite in Europe. Though the first war-elephants captured by the legions were baited to death in the arena, the later arrivals appealed just as much to the good-nature of the populus Romanus as do their descendants to the British public. This fact suggests one of the few humorous remarks which can safely be credited to a Roman; and in keeping with the rarity of the event the joke was made by almost the greatest of all Romans, Caius Octavius Augustus, Emperor, Proconsul, Prince of the Senate, and Pontifex Maximus. One of the humbler Quirites, anxious to present a petition, was so fortunate as to escape the eye of the lictors and to catch that of the Emperor, who graciously stretched out his hand for the document which he saw lurking beneath the folds of the citizen’s gown. Flustered at the sudden chance of royal protection, he pushed his scroll towards the outstretched hand, then shrunk back before the thought of almost personal contact with the human embodiment of power. “Come, man,” said Augustus, “do you think you are giving a penny to the elephant?” “Putasne te assem elephanto dare?”

To-day, though the public are ready to make the biggest elephant their greatest favourite, as in the case of the African “Jumbo,” the keepers and trainers have little to say in favour of his kindred. Their opinion seems almost as unanimous as it is hostile. At the Zoo it is said that the Africans are “stupid,” and therefore dangerous. For example, supposing an Indian elephant to be backing towards the wall, and so in danger of crushing its attendants, a push or a slap on its huge thigh will instantly be understood as a hint to move forwards, or to stop. The less careful African would probably take no notice of the warning, and the man must either slip on one side or be crushed. The trainer alleges that they have bad memories. This makes them uncertain performers in the ring. They will learn a few tricks without difficulty; but when called upon to show off in public, they are extremely likely to refuse their parts, and either to stand still, or bolt to their stable. There seems also to be a general feeling among circus attendants that they are unsafe. The fine young African elephant now at the Zoological Gardens has given far more trouble to its keepers than the two large Indian specimens during the far longer period of their sojourn in Regent’s Park. When quite a baby its obstinacy was as marked as their docility. The Indian pair would walk round the grounds with their keeper between them, the man placing a hand on each of their backs, and the two solemn little fellows walking in step on either side. The African would not even take the bath which most elephants look upon as one of their greatest treats in hot weather. He roared, and kicked, and made such a determined resistance that it was necessary to rig up a block and tackle, and haul him into the water. When there he sulked, and seemed prepared to undergo the fate of drowning rather than the humiliation of obedience. The recollection that you may bring a horse to the water but cannot make him drink, hardly expresses the feelings of his keepers when they realized that the tackle which is sufficient to haul an elephant into the water may be unsuited for hauling him out. Ultimately the Chinaman’s recipe for driving a pig—“If you no can pushee, no pullee, then try plenty stick,” was adopted with success. The African elephant’s “uncertainty” has one redeeming feature. It may shy or jib on one day, and get the better of its keeper for an hour or more, but he does not necessarily therefore lose prestige in the eyes of the animal, and can assert his authority next day unimpaired. An Indian elephant, if once the master in a deliberate act of disobedience, loses from that moment all respect for the man whom it has worsted. Inferiority in “parlour tricks,” and in comparative docility, does not excuse the strange neglect which the native species receives as a beast of burden suited for the work of African pioneering. Dr. Sclater, writing from the offices of the Zoological Society in Hanover Square, says that there have been African elephants in the Gardens of the Society for nearly twenty years, and that in his opinion they are quite as intelligent as those of the Indian species, though perhaps not quite so docile. He suggests that a keddah of Indian elephants and their attendants should be transported to the East African coast, and that the Indian elephants should be used to capture and tame their African brethren. General Gordon, shortly before the disaster at Khartoum, wrote to Dr. Sclater advocating the employment of the elephant in Africa, and making inquiries as to its possibility. The size which the African elephant will attain under favourable conditions in this country is well illustrated by the case of “Jumbo.” When this elephant came to the Gardens he was about four feet high and weighed 700 lbs. At first he was troublesome, but after a short time became perfectly manageable, and grew very rapidly. This was attributed by Mr. Bartlett, in his remarks on a paper read before the Society of Arts in 1884, by Colonel Sanderson, to good food, and a daily bath in hot weather. In sixteen years he grew from four feet to eleven feet in height. By that time he was probably twenty-three years old. An elephant does not reach its prime till thirty-five, and Jumbo increased another ton after a year at Barnum’s; he was therefore probably not full grown at the time of his lamented death.

The reasons for his sale were not very clearly stated at the time of his transfer. The cause of sale, in the case of any animal, is never a point on which the vendor is anxious to dwell. “Sold for no fault, but solely because the owner is giving up hunting,” is the favourite formula at Tattersall’s; and an elephant which is leaving a zoological garden to appear in a monster circus might be supposed to be disqualified for service in the latter, if it possessed any vice which made it an undesirable inmate of the former. The inference is more apparent than real; for the harder work and exercise at Barnum’s could hardly fail to make a change in the impressionable elephant temperament. But a pleasing mystery surrounded the “deal.” The shrewd sense of Barnum himself nursed the growing excitement on both sides of the Atlantic with a genial dexterity which will ever be considered a masterpiece of management among the illustrious exhibitors of the future. The Society, on their side, kept their own counsel, and the sale of the big elephant was briefly alluded to in the report as “made for satisfactory reasons given by the responsible executive.” Neither did the price received figure as a separate item in the receipts. But as the amount credited to “Garden sales” exceeded that of the previous year by about £1800, we may assume that the sum paid by Mr. Barnum was well within that limit. A good authority informs the writer that the net payment was £1000. Meantime the “Jumbo boom” was immensely profitable to the Society’s revenue. The fees paid for admission to the Gardens rose by £5500 in the year, an increase which the Secretary’s report attributes to the “great interest taken by the public in the removal of a favourite animal.” The splendid new Reptile House, with its unrivalled facilities for observing the habits of the snakes, lizards, and alligators, was the result of this most welcome windfall. It was in fact the legacy of the African elephant to the Zoo.

The facts as to Jumbo’s state of mind were afterwards clearly given by Mr. Bartlett. During the last years of his life in the Gardens he became at times very excited, and terrified every one who came near him except his keeper Scott, who had extraordinary control over him. “Scott,” added Mr. Bartlett, “was a very curious man himself, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he could be persuaded to allow another man to assist him in the management of the huge animal. It was feared that if Scott fell ill, or were injured by the elephant, he would be entirely unmanageable, for no other man dared go near him in his house, though when out at exercise he was perfectly quiet. At night, however, he would tear about and almost shake the house down, and became such a source of trouble that the Council decided to part with him.”

He was quite tractable in Barnum’s show, and became the father of two little elephants. Scott went with him, and after his death in a collision with a locomotive, was offered the charge of a large stud of elephants which was shown afterwards at Olympia. But his sturdy independence rebelled against the wearing of “costume,” which Barnum’s feeling for the proprieties of the arena enjoined. Faithful to his old charge he mounted guard over the stuffed Jumbo, and preserved his hide from the knives of relic-hunting visitors.

In conclusion we may contrast the knowledge and skill shown in the management of Jumbo at a critical time, with the fate of an elephant which exhibited much the same symptoms, in the Liverpool Zoological Gardens, in 1848, before the present race of English elephant-keepers had been trained to their work. This elephant, like Jumbo, was said to be the finest in Europe. It cost £800 eleven years before its death, and was said to be then worth £1000. It had already killed one keeper, accidentally, as it was thought, but not long afterwards it struck down and crushed a second. Such was the panic of the owners, that two six-pounder cannon were bought from the Albert Docks, and set loaded opposite to the elephant’s house, in case it should succeed in escaping. As it remained quiet, two ounces of prussic acid and twenty-five grains of aconite were given to it in its food. As the poison did not seem to take effect, thirty men from the 52nd Regiment were ordered to shoot it. The first fifteen delivered their fire, and as the creature did not fall the next squad discharged their muskets, and the elephant sank dead with thirty bullets in his body, together with enough poison to kill a ship’s company.

It may fairly be claimed that we have made some progress in the management of the elephant in England, since the days when the owner of such a valuable animal was not only incapable of keeping it with safety, but ignorant of the means to kill it humanely. The average duration of their life in this country is now probably well over fifty years; and though this does not contrast favourably with the eighty years of the Indian studs, there is every prospect that it will increase. The office of mahout promises to become almost as hereditary here as in India; and while traditions of elephant management are handed down from one generation of keepers to another, so it is noticed that the new and acquired habits practised by the more experienced and sagacious animals are observed and copied by the young arrivals. The elephant is being slowly Europeanized.