The elephant—“My Lord the Elephant,” as he is called in India—takes precedence of other quadrupeds upon several counts. Among these appear conspicuously the facts that he belongs to an ancient and isolated family, which has no near relations occupying lower stations in life; likewise, that from time immemorial these creatures have been strong enough to do as they pleased. This latter circumstance more particularly ensured the sincere respect of mankind, and throughout the records of the race we find its members in distinguished positions. Ganesha, the Hindu god of wisdom, had an elephant’s head, and Elephas Indicus was worshipped from Eastern China to the highlands of Central India. In Africa this species only escaped adoration because the natives of that country were incapable of conceiving any of those abstract ideas which the animal embodied. Wherever an elephant has existed, however, men have looked up to him, and as he was not carnivorous, it comported with human reasoning to extol the benevolence of a being who, if otherwise constituted, might have done so much harm.
Oriental, classic, mediæval, and modern superstitions cluster about the elephant. Pliny and Ælian often seem to be mocking at popular credulity. “Valet sensu et reliquâ sagacitate ingenii excellit elephas,” says Aristotle, and Strabo writes in the same strain. One might nearly as well take the verses of Martial for a text-book as seek information among those errors and extravagancies of antiquity which Vartomannus brought to a climax.
It is no longer said that elephants who, to use Colonel Barras’ words (“India and Tiger Hunting”), “are practically sterile in captivity,” are so because of their modesty, or that this is attributable to a nobleness of soul which prevents them from propagating a race of slaves. Men would now be ashamed to say they are monotheists, and retire to solitudes to pray. But so little of comparative psychology is known, and the side lights which other sciences throw upon zoölogy are so much disregarded, that no hesitation is felt at comparing them with human beings, or measuring the faculties and feelings of a beast by standards set up in civilized society.
The elephant is a social animal; in all herds the units are family groups where several generations are often represented, and when the larger aggregate dissolves, it separates into family groups again. With this statement, anything like unanimity of opinion among authorities upon elephants is at an end.
It is said that years bring moroseness upon elephants, and that any evil tendencies they exhibit in youth are aggravated by age. Apart from what may be exceptional in cases of this kind, the biological law is that the characteristic features of species, whether physical or mental, are not developed until maturity. Most of those who know these animals personally agree in the opinion that solitary males are commonly dangerous; and although the existence of “rogue elephants,” who always belong to this class, has been denied, confirmatory evidence is too strong to be rejected. When some member of a group becomes separated from its relations and is lost, when a young bull is driven off for precocity, or an old tusker retires to solitude because he has been worsted in combat with a rival, the change of state cannot fail to be distressing, and the individual to deteriorate. At certain seasons male elephants often voluntarily abandon the society of females, but not usually of each other. When they grow old, there is more or less tendency towards seclusion in all bulls. Retirement, however, when prompted by age, apathy, or loss of the incitements towards association, is not at all like exile while physical powers and feelings are in force.
Ferocity is much more frequently met with in elephants than most people suppose; and as it is with these animals in a wild state, so is it also among those in captivity. There is no reason why a captured savage should spontaneously evolve adornments to his moral character because he is under restraint. A vicious brute is only restrained by fear, and this coercive influence continues just so long as apprehension is not overbalanced by passion.
Charles John Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) infers from the ease with which this animal accommodates itself to those requirements involved in domestication that its “natural disposition is mild and gentle.” G. P. Sanderson (“Thirteen Years among the Wild Beasts of India”) holds that “obedience, gentleness, and patience ... are the elephant’s chief good qualities.”
Corse, speaking from his long experience in the elephant stables at Teperah and other places, states that they constantly exhibit a rooted animosity to other animals, and towards the keepers and helpers attached to them; while Colonel Julius Barras says, “all the old tuskers I have seen in captivity have killed one or two persons in the course of their career.”
Passing from domesticated individuals to protected herds, Dr. Holub (“Seven Years in South Africa”) found that on the Cape Town reservations they had “lost all fear of man, and had become excessively dangerous.” Elephants in the government forests of Ceylon, where they are not exposed to attack from sportsmen, are described by Colonel James Campbell (“Excursions in Ceylon”) as vicious and aggressive. On the other hand, neither Forsyth, Hornaday, Dawson, nor any other writers who were acquainted with the condition of animals similarly situated in India, have noticed that a like change has taken place among them.
It has been mentioned already that the existence of “rogue elephants” is denied; but everything that has ever been said about the race has likewise been denied. Andersson remarks of the solitary elephant that “instances innumerable are on record of his attacking travellers and others who had not offended him in any way.” A tusker “in seclusion,” observes Major Leveson (“Sport in Many Lands”), is always “morose, vicious, and desperately cunning.” Leveson, Andersson, Campbell, Baker, Cumming, and Selous had ample opportunities for convincing themselves of the reality of rogues.