Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is enclosed in _underscores_. Additional notes will be found near the end of this ebook.

WILD BEASTS

[_From a photograph by Gambier Bolton. Copyright._]]

WILD BEASTS

A STUDY OF THE CHARACTERS AND HABITS OF THE
ELEPHANT, LION, LEOPARD, PANTHER, JAGUAR,
TIGER, PUMA, WOLF, AND GRIZZLY BEAR

BY
J. HAMPDEN PORTER

_ILLUSTRATED_

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1894

COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.

TO
Captain John G. Bourke
U. S. ARMY
IN TOKEN OF FRIENDSHIP
AND IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE TIME
WHEN WE STUDIED TOGETHER

CONTENTS

PAGE

THE ELEPHANT 1

THE LION 76

THE LEOPARD AND PANTHER 136

THE JAGUAR 175

THE TIGER 196

THE PUMA 257

THE WOLF 306

THE GRIZZLY BEAR 352

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE ELEPHANT _Frontispiece_
_Page_
THE LION 76

THE LEOPARD 136

THE JAGUAR 175

THE TIGER 196

THE PUMA 257

THE WOLF 306

THE GRIZZLY BEAR 352

WILD BEASTS

THE ELEPHANT

The elephant--“My Lord the Elephant,” as he is called in India--takes precedence of other quadrupeds upon several counts. Among these appear conspicuously the facts that he belongs to an ancient and isolated family, which has no near relations occupying lower stations in life; likewise, that from time immemorial these creatures have been strong enough to do as they pleased. This latter circumstance more particularly ensured the sincere respect of mankind, and throughout the records of the race we find its members in distinguished positions. Ganesha, the Hindu god of wisdom, had an elephant’s head, and _Elephas Indicus_ was worshipped from Eastern China to the highlands of Central India. In Africa this species only escaped adoration because the natives of that country were incapable of conceiving any of those abstract ideas which the animal embodied. Wherever an elephant has existed, however, men have looked up to him, and as he was not carnivorous, it comported with human reasoning to extol the benevolence of a being who, if otherwise constituted, might have done so much harm.

Oriental, classic, mediæval, and modern superstitions cluster about the elephant. Pliny and Ælian often seem to be mocking at popular credulity. “_Valet sensu et reliquâ sagacitate ingenii excellit elephas_,” says Aristotle, and Strabo writes in the same strain. One might nearly as well take the verses of Martial for a text-book as seek information among those errors and extravagancies of antiquity which Vartomannus brought to a climax.

It is no longer said that elephants who, to use Colonel Barras’ words (“India and Tiger Hunting”), “are practically sterile in captivity,” are so because of their modesty, or that this is attributable to a nobleness of soul which prevents them from propagating a race of slaves. Men would now be ashamed to say they are monotheists, and retire to solitudes to pray. But so little of comparative psychology is known, and the side lights which other sciences throw upon zoölogy are so much disregarded, that no hesitation is felt at comparing them with human beings, or measuring the faculties and feelings of a beast by standards set up in civilized society.

The elephant is a social animal; in all herds the units are family groups where several generations are often represented, and when the larger aggregate dissolves, it separates into family groups again. With this statement, anything like unanimity of opinion among authorities upon elephants is at an end.

It is said that years bring moroseness upon elephants, and that any evil tendencies they exhibit in youth are aggravated by age. Apart from what may be exceptional in cases of this kind, the biological law is that the characteristic features of species, whether physical or mental, are not developed until maturity. Most of those who know these animals personally agree in the opinion that solitary males are commonly dangerous; and although the existence of “rogue elephants,” who always belong to this class, has been denied, confirmatory evidence is too strong to be rejected. When some member of a group becomes separated from its relations and is lost, when a young bull is driven off for precocity, or an old tusker retires to solitude because he has been worsted in combat with a rival, the change of state cannot fail to be distressing, and the individual to deteriorate. At certain seasons male elephants often voluntarily abandon the society of females, but not usually of each other. When they grow old, there is more or less tendency towards seclusion in all bulls. Retirement, however, when prompted by age, apathy, or loss of the incitements towards association, is not at all like exile while physical powers and feelings are in force.

Ferocity is much more frequently met with in elephants than most people suppose; and as it is with these animals in a wild state, so is it also among those in captivity. There is no reason why a captured savage should spontaneously evolve adornments to his moral character because he is under restraint. A vicious brute is only restrained by fear, and this coercive influence continues just so long as apprehension is not overbalanced by passion.

Charles John Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) infers from the ease with which this animal accommodates itself to those requirements involved in domestication that its “natural disposition is mild and gentle.” G. P. Sanderson (“Thirteen Years among the Wild Beasts of India”) holds that “obedience, gentleness, and patience ... are the elephant’s chief good qualities.”

Corse, speaking from his long experience in the elephant stables at Teperah and other places, states that they constantly exhibit a rooted animosity to other animals, and towards the keepers and helpers attached to them; while Colonel Julius Barras says, “all the old tuskers I have seen in captivity have killed one or two persons in the course of their career.”

Passing from domesticated individuals to protected herds, Dr. Holub (“Seven Years in South Africa”) found that on the Cape Town reservations they had “lost all fear of man, and had become excessively dangerous.” Elephants in the government forests of Ceylon, where they are not exposed to attack from sportsmen, are described by Colonel James Campbell (“Excursions in Ceylon”) as vicious and aggressive. On the other hand, neither Forsyth, Hornaday, Dawson, nor any other writers who were acquainted with the condition of animals similarly situated in India, have noticed that a like change has taken place among them.

It has been mentioned already that the existence of “rogue elephants” is denied; but everything that has ever been said about the race has likewise been denied. Andersson remarks of the solitary elephant that “instances innumerable are on record of his attacking travellers and others who had not offended him in any way.” A tusker “in seclusion,” observes Major Leveson (“Sport in Many Lands”), is always “morose, vicious, and desperately cunning.” Leveson, Andersson, Campbell, Baker, Cumming, and Selous had ample opportunities for convincing themselves of the reality of rogues.

Speaking of the species on both continents, we may consider them as but little entitled to much of their reputation for harmlessness. Sir Samuel Baker (“The Rifle and Hound in Ceylon”) gives it as his opinion that they are “the most dangerous creatures with which a sportsman can contend;” and W. T. Hornaday (“Two Years in the Jungle”) takes the same view.

An elephant never exhibits the blind and senseless ferocity of a black rhinoceros. He is often fully as fierce, and far more destructive, but this disposition does not display itself in the same way. Both of these animals will, however, attack by scent alone. It is not meant that in elephants this conduct is customary; all that is intended is to substantiate the occurrence of such an act.

This animal’s character is more completely evinced in the expression “My Lord the Elephant” than it could be by any description, however true and striking. Sanderson explains that the title is not given in reverence so much as in fear. The native attendants upon elephants, he observes, have little respect for their intelligence, but a lasting apprehension of what may at any time happen to themselves.

It is generally said that while male elephants are free they never become “must,” and, therefore, that this temporary delirium arising from interference with natural functions, cannot be the cause of those extreme cases of viciousness which occasionally make a tusker the scourge of a whole district. Whether “must” or not, these brutes are sometimes mad, and among other examples that might be given, Sir Samuel Baker’s description of a “tank-rogue,”--shot by himself in Ceylon,--portrays too faithfully the familiar symptoms of mania to leave any doubt about the animal’s condition.

This fierce beast had committed many murders,--killing people without any provocation; lying in wait for them; stealing towards those places he knew to be frequented; and apparently devoting all his energies to the destruction of human life. From the first moment at which he was seen all his actions betokened insanity. Baker never suspected the true state of the case, but he watched this elephant for some time, and carefully noted his conduct,--his wild and disordered mien, his aimless restlessness, and causeless anger; all the features which form the characteristic physiognomy of mania.

Extremely dangerous elephants are not, however, always insane. There is no need to argue mental alienation in order to account for acts which vice of itself is fully competent to explain. The beast’s strength is enormous, its bulk greatest among land animals, its offensive weapons and general capability of doing harm are unequalled. Of these facts the creature itself must be conscious, and it never exhibits the darker side of its character without showing that it is so.

This leads to a question that has been considerably disputed, and concerning which many opinions have been recorded--all dogmatic, and most of them contradictory. Suppose that a homicidal elephant catches a fugitive whom he pursues, how does he kill him, and is he invariably destroyed? The subject stated does not amount to much in itself, but some points will appear in the course of a brief inquiry into it that merit attention. All writers who held to the instinctive hypothesis, and imagined that brutes only acted in a predetermined way, have taken exclusive views of this matter. When a man is overtaken by an elephant many say he is always killed. Sanderson, for example, says so. Captain Wedderburn was killed. Professor Wahlberg was killed. Everybody is killed; it cannot be otherwise. Nevertheless, Colonel Walter Campbell (“The Old Forest Ranger”) saw a companion emerge from beneath the feet of a rogue elephant, and Major Leveson and Major Blayney Walshe (“Sporting and Military Adventures in Nepaul”) relate the incidents of like cases. Henry Courtney Selous (“A Hunter’s Wanderings in Africa”) lived to tell how this same good fortune attended himself; and Lieutenant Moodie was actually trampled in the presence of several witnesses, and yet, although considerably injured, escaped with his life.

These were, of course, very unusual instances, and it is undeniable that most people whom elephants catch are killed. But how? Pressed to death with one of the animal’s forefeet, one authority declares; with both of them, another insists; kicked forwards and backwards between the hind and front legs till reduced to a pulp, maintains a third; transfixed with the tusks, kneeled upon, walked over, dismembered, others protest, as if any mode of putting a man to death, except that particular one which they had determined to be the natural, usual, and, so to speak, proper method, would be a singular departure from the course an elephant might have been expected to pursue.

Sir Emmerson Tennant (“Ceylon”), who has made as many mistakes about these animals as can anywhere be found gathered together in one place, is certain the tusks are never used offensively. He, in fact, shows that it is physically impossible that they should be. According to him these appendages are probably auxiliary to the animal’s food supply, but for the most part useless. Nobody, however, ever saw a pair of these developed front teeth that were symmetrical; one is invariably more worn away than the other on account of its having been used by preference in digging up roots, bulbs, etc. With respect to their employment as weapons, Selous states that “when an elephant overtakes his persecutor [a man, that is to say], he emits scream after scream in quick succession, all the time stamping upon and ventilating his adversary with his tusks.” That these are “most formidable weapons,” remarks Sanderson, is recognized by the animals themselves. “Tuskers always maintain the greatest discipline in a herd.... Superiority seems to attach to one or the other in proportion to the size of the tusks;” and in the combats between bull elephants which he witnessed “one was often killed outright.” Further, when a male has only one tusk, as not unfrequently happens, this is obviously more effective than both would be, and in that event, Sanderson adds, “he is the terror of an elephant corral ... its undisputed lord.” The weak point in Sir Emmerson Tennant’s demonstration of the mechanical impossibility of using those parts, on account of the angle at which they are set in the jaw, is due to his having overlooked the fact that an elephant can move his head. Emin Pasha (“Collection of Journals, Letters, etc.”) reports that he saw a soldier in Central Africa who had been desperately wounded by a thrust from an elephant’s tusk. It was the accident of being struck by the side of one instead of its point that enabled Colonel Barras to get off with his life; and Sir Samuel Baker relates the death of Mr. Ingram, who was transfixed. These animals have no special way of inflicting death, though most commonly this is caused by trampling. All the modes enumerated are vouched for by witnesses whose evidence there is no reason to doubt, and this clash of opinion is only one of the many outgrowths of that strange superstition by which brutes are represented to act uniformly in consequence of their unvarying mental constitution. Nothing, for instance, even among the best authorities, is more frequently met with than the point-blank assertion that an elephant never strikes with its trunk. Yet Andersson (“Lake N’gami”) was nearly killed in this way. General Shakespear saw his gun-bearer struck down, and Sir James E. Alexander (“Excursions in Africa”) describes its use as a means of offence. There are many reasons why this organ should not be thus employed habitually, but there is no cause which would prevent it from being applied in this manner when the animal himself, who is much the best judge, thought proper to do so.

The effect upon these species of those general influences which are exerted by social life may be inferred from the existence of their coherent family groups, from the protracted period during which maternal guardianship is continued, and the baneful results that solitude brings about. Still there seems to be little doubt that Green, Moodie, and Pollok represent the best opinion in saying that sympathy is less active in elephants than it is in many animals whose moral qualities have usually been considered as greatly inferior to theirs. “I have never known an instance,” remarks Sanderson, “of a tusker undertaking to cover the retreat of a herd.”

Although elephants are often hysterical, and always nervous, discipline effects great changes in their ordinary conduct. At the same time, they can rarely be trusted. Sir Samuel Baker states (“Wild Beasts and Their Ways”) that he had never ridden but “one thoroughly dependable elephant,” and most tiger-hunters say the same.

Elephants are without ideals of any kind. They cannot be influenced by superstitions, and it is useless to explain their excellencies and defects by reference to a descent of which we know nothing, or to assume that transformations may be effected by means of an education that always begins _de novo_, and is in itself superficial and incomplete in the highest degree. Foreknowledge of those consequences entailed by misbehavior no doubt prompts most of the acts that are attributed to industry, magnanimity, friendliness, and forbearance, as attention to their keeper’s directions explains the usual manifestations of intellect that have been so much admired.

Those who know them best think that elephants, as Sanderson expresses it, are “wanting in originality,” so that when an unusual emergency occurs they feel at a loss. It is true that life is in some respects comparatively simple with these animals, and that its necessities neither involve the same constructions, nor require a like care with that imposed upon many others. But in those directions in which the struggle for existence engages their powers energetically they display considerable capacity, though not of the highest brute order. Colonel Pollok (“Sport in British Burmah”) says, “if Providence has not given intellect to these creatures, it has given them an instinct next thing to it.... Providence has taught them to choose the most favorable ground, whether for camping or feeding, and to resort to jungles where their ponderous bodies so resemble the rocks and dark foliage that it is difficult for the sportsman to distinguish them from surrounding objects; whilst their feet are so made that not only can they tramp over any kind of ground, whether hard or soft, rough or smooth, but this without making a sound.

“Some of their camping-grounds are models of ingenuity, surrounded on three sides by a tortuous river, impassable by reason either of the depth of water, its precipitous banks, quicksands, or the entangling reeds in its bed; while the fourth side would be protected by a tangled thicket or a quagmire. In such a place elephants would be in perfect safety, as it would be impossible for them to be attacked without the attacking party making sufficient noise to put them on the alert.

“Their method of getting within such an enclosure is also most ingenious. They will scramble down the bank where the water is deepest, and then, after either wading or swimming up or down stream, ascend the opposite bank a good half-mile or more from where they descended, thereby doubly increasing the difficulty of following them.”

Many animals rival elephants in those respects described, and a few surpass them. All that they do has been too much exaggerated, and their unquestionable sagacity loses much of its point by being unduly exploited.

Relative complexity of structure in brain and mind is in no way more strongly marked than by the ability to suppress emotion. This is not the highest characteristic of an evolved organism, but it is one that no being which is not of a high grade can possess. When a captive elephant, often without any provocation, makes up its mind to commit murder, nothing can exceed the patience with which the animal awaits an opportunity, except its power of dissimulation. How it regards the contemplated act, what thoughts and feelings are agitated while brooding over its accomplishment, we do not know, but the history of many such cases has been fully given, and of the behavior displayed under these circumstances we can speak with certainty.

Generally elephants kill their attendants, as being those most likely to give offence. An antipathy is, however, sometimes conceived against some casual acquaintance, whose efforts to ingratiate himself have only inspired the creatures with a causeless hatred. It is the fashion to say that homicide by these beasts always indicates that they have been injured. People endow elephants with an exaggerated form of the sensitive pride belonging to human character, and, through some unexplainable process of thought, reconcile its coexistence with the malignant temper of a murderous brute. The way in which one of their attendants talks to an elephant whom he suspects is strange enough. This man despises his intellect, and knows his character thoroughly. “Have I ever been wanting in respect? _Astagh-fur-Ulla._ God forbid! Let my Lord remember how yesterday at bathing-time he was placed under a tree, while that son of Satan, Said Bahadur, stood in the sun. Who has provided your highness with sugar-cane, and placed lumps of goor between your back teeth? I represent that this, oh, protector of the poor, it was my good fortune to do. Hereafter I will deprive those unsainted ones about you of their provisions and bestow them upon you.” That is the way a Hindu talks, hoping to mollify the animal.

Certain traits in animals have come to be accepted as peculiarly significant of their respective grades; parental affection, for example. The male elephant is as nearly as possible without a trace of this feeling, but his polygamous habits account to a great extent for the deficiency. It is a quality which greatly preponderates in females of most species, and in one so elevated we might expect to find that this, as Buffon asserts, was a prominent trait. Frederick Green informs us, however, that “the female elephant does not appear to have the affection for her offspring which one would be led to suppose,” and his view is very far from being singular. The author has not found any justification in facts for Buffon’s assertion to the contrary. Doctor Livingstone (“Travels and Researches in South Africa”) reports the case of a calf elephant whom its mother abandoned when attacked, and Sir W. Cornwallis Harris (“Wild Sports in Southern Africa”) says that a young animal of this kind if accidentally separated from its mother forgets her instantly, and seeks to attach itself to the nearest female it can find. Sanderson observes in this connection that “while the female evinces no particular affection for her progeny, still, all the attention a calf can get is from its own mother.”

G. Macloskie (“Riverside Natural History”) states that “elephants are well disposed towards each other in aggregation.” Evidently such must be the case, or they could not live together. Their gregarious habits imply an average friendliness.

While, however, their ordinary temper may, or rather must, be as stated, leadership in herds, when this is not held by a tuskless male or “some sagacious old female,” whose abilities their companions are intelligent enough to understand, is settled by combat, and maintained in the same way. Moreover, bull elephants often quarrel and fight desperately in the free state, and it is said by one or two observers (Drummond particularly) that when herds intoxicate themselves, as they do upon every opportunity, with the _Um-ga-nu_ fruit, they exhibit scenes of riot and violence which cannot be matched on earth. Captive tuskers in elephant stables are always at feud with some other animal, and all their inmates quarrel upon small provocation. Recently-captured elephants that have not been removed from the corral frequently attack each other, and when some lost or exiled wanderer attempts in his distress and loneliness to join another band, its champion at once assails him.

There is one detestable trait, not uncommon among many species, and shared by a portion of savage mankind, which elephants do not display. They never destroy injured or disabled animals of their own kind. On the contrary, when sympathy does not involve self-sacrifice, they sometimes (not always by any means) show that they are not without the feeling, and this conclusion seems to be quite capable of resisting all the destructive criticism that can be brought to bear upon it.

Wild beasts have usually been written about both carelessly and dogmatically. Men, for the most part, no doubt unconsciously, speak of them as if they knew what it is impossible that they should know; and it is difficult to banish the suggestion that many of our prevailing opinions are in fact survivals from savagery. Public feeling towards elephants is undoubtedly swayed by their size, and by involuntary apprehension. We are struck by the contrast between the animal’s placid appearance and those powers it embodies. In short, people do not study elephants, or reason about them; they feel in a modified form those original impressions which operated upon their remote ancestors. Hence, in great measure probably, Buffon’s ipse dixit, “_dans l’état sauvâge, l’éléphant n’est ni sanguinaire, ni féroce, il est d’un natural doux, et jamais il ne fait abus de ses armes, ou de sa force_.” It is not so much the verbal statement that need be objected to in this sweeping assertion, as the spirit in which it is made. More is implied than said, and the implication is that an elephant is self-controlled by sentiments that are as foreign to its mind as a pair of wings would be to its body. A wild beast, which while free to follow its own devices and desires, does not conduct itself like a wild beast, is an impossibility in actual life.

Sanderson supposes that “all catching elephants”--the trained ones used in securing captives--“evince the greatest relish for the sport.” This is a mild way of putting Sir Emmerson Tennant’s opinion that they show a decided satisfaction, a malignant pleasure, such as Dr. Kemp (“Indications of Instinct”) describes, in the misfortunes of their fellows. Now in what way Sanderson discovered that this state of mind existed cannot be divined, for he gives it as the result of his own direct observations, that “the term decoy is entirely misapplied to tame elephants catching wild ones, as they act by command of their riders, and use no arts.... The animal is credited with originating what it has been taught, with doing of itself what it has been instructed to do.... I have seen the cream of trained elephants at work ... in Bengal and Mysore: I have managed them myself under all circumstances ... and I can say that I never have seen one display any aptitude for dealing undirected with an unexpected emergency.” Since he then believes them to be incapable of showing this “relish” by their actions, since he has never known them to do anything of themselves on these occasions, in what way did he find out how they felt?

All those who speak from experience concur in representing a hunted elephant who does not or cannot escape, as superlatively dangerous. This is not only attributable to the fact that he is then extremely fierce and determined, but also to his undoubted ability to use the great powers of attack and defence he possesses. The animal is capable of considerable speed for a short distance, but it is not possible for him to prolong effort to any great extent.

Selous asserts that no large creature, except a rhinoceros, matches the elephant in its activity upon rough ground. “They can wheel like lightning,” says Baker; or, as Andersson expresses it, “Spin round on a pivot.” Captain J. H. Baldwin (“Large and Small Game of Bengal”) describes their performances upon hillsides as very remarkable.

Captain James Forsyth informs us of the ease and celerity with which they move over a broken surface. Inglis (“Work and Sport on the Nepaul Frontier”) relates the dexterity and quickness of these ponderous beasts in crossing gullies that seem impassable. There is probably no animal safer to ride over a dangerous mountain road. Nervous as he is, his intelligence acts through a brain well enough organized to warn him against the consequences of carelessness. A horse will dash himself to death getting out of the way of a swaying shadow or whirling leaf, and on many journeys nobody thinks of mounting one; but the elephant’s prudence, if not his courage, is, as a rule, to be relied upon.

It has somewhat arbitrarily been decided upon that an elephant can travel at the rate of fifteen miles an hour for a few hundred yards, and no faster. Its gait has been similarly settled by several authorities. Dr. Livingstone declares that the animal’s “quickest pace is only a sharp walk.” Sanderson modifies this statement by saying that the rapid walk “is capable of being increased to a fast shuffle.” He adds the information that “an elephant cannot jump ... can never have all four feet off the ground at once ... and can neither trot, canter, nor gallop.” Joseph Thomson, however (“Through Masai Land”), saw one of these animals which he had wounded on the plateau of Baringo, “go off in a sharp trot,” and Colonel Barras, while beating a clump of bushes for a wounded tiger, rode his Shikar tusker Futteh Ali almost over the concealed brute; whereupon says Barras, “he spun round with the utmost velocity and fled at a rapid gallop. The pace was so well marked that it would be useless, as far as I am concerned, for any one to say that it was mechanically impossible for an elephant to use this gait. To such learned objectors I would point out the fact that impossibilities are of daily occurrence, and would further beg them to suspend judgment till they have sat on an elephant’s neck with an enraged tiger roaring at his heels.” Much the same restriction has been placed by some naturalists upon the camel’s paces. Nevertheless, Sir Samuel Baker and G. C. Stout were convinced that they had seen camels trot, and the author is quite as certain as Colonel Barras could possibly be that he has known them to gallop.

It has been the fashion to praise these animals indiscriminately. Among other things the silence maintained by so bulky a creature, and the noiselessness of its movements, are mentioned as evidences of great sagacity. An elephant, however, cannot make a noise with its feet except by kicking something out of the way or breaking it; their formation renders its tread, under ordinary circumstances, inaudible. The body also being elliptical in its long diameter, passes through undergrowth, when the animal is moving slowly, like a vessel through water. Further, obstacles that do not offer too much resistance are put aside easily by the trunk, which has all those varieties of motion that about fifty thousand sets of muscles can confer. More than this, quietness is not necessarily a mark of caution, foresight, or self-restraint, and some of the wariest creatures in existence are by no means quiet. As a matter of fact, if not alarmed or asleep,--in which case he snores in a manner conformable with his size,--the elephant is one of the noisiest of wild beasts. A perpetual crashing accompanies both individuals and herds while feeding, and in hours of repose they frequently trumpet, their deep abdominal rumble is often heard, and sounds expressive of contentment or dissatisfaction constantly break the silence of the forest.

When danger is apprehended, if they do not dash away “with the rush of a storm,” elephants are apt to remain motionless for a time, while straining their most perfect senses--those of hearing and smell--in order to ascertain its character and proximity, or one or more may advance cautiously in order to see. Having done this, they depart as secretly as possible, and in the way mentioned, but why anybody should wonder that these creatures, whose sagacity is considered to be so extraordinary, do not move off abreast instead of in single file, as is their custom, and thus voluntarily encounter the greatest amount of resistance, and ensure the most disturbance, it is not easy to understand. In all measures relating to evasion, as contradistinguished from precaution, these beings occupy an inferior position: their color makes them nearly indistinguishable in those places they mostly occupy, and the footfall is naturally noiseless, but they employ none of those arts in which many species are expert, and do not even confuse their trail. This deficiency in cunning cannot be accounted for by the off-hand explanation that the elephant, conscious of his strength, has no need to conceal himself. He has fully as much, if not more reason to do so, than many other animals, and the experience by which the latter have profited has been common to them all.

Those inferences which have oftentimes been drawn from the social life of elephants will scarcely stand the tests furnished by sociology. “A herd of elephants,” observes Leveson, “is not a group that accident or attachment may have induced to associate together, but a family,” between whose members “special resemblances attest their common origin.” Reasoning from statements like this, it is concluded that results accrue from an aggregation of relatives similiar to those which obtain in human families;--that they are, in effect, groups of the same kind, saved from disruption and made amenable to improvement by mutual aids, forbearances, affections, and distributions of office. But those resemblances discoverable do not warrant the comparison.

What we know of social groups among elephants is that they are unlike those formed by mankind. It is doubtful whether the family, properly so-called, primarily exists in human society, and whether it is not a later combination instituted upon the basis of common possessions. Starcke (“The Primitive Family”) holds that such is the case, and his view has not been shown to be incorrect. If this is true, to compare these congregations is to place lower animals by the side of human beings who have already taken an important step in advance. As a matter of fact, the qualities by which such groups are united among mankind, are to a great extent wanting with elephants. They cannot be wholly absent, but they are inconspicuous and obscured by disaggregative tendencies. As life advances, age does not bring with it a fruition of those tendencies upon which family ties depend; time only tends to exaggerate everything that is unsocial in the brute’s nature.

Many conclusions respecting the intellect and emotional character of elephants have been drawn from untrustworthy anecdotes. It is in an uncritical spirit that Professor Robinson (“Under the Sun”) reports the behavior of that famous tusker who bore the imperial standard on some old Mogul-Mahratta battle-field. The day had gone against his side, the color-guard was scattered, broken squadrons swept past the elephant, and his mahout was dead. He stood fast, however, and finally the retreating forces rallied around him, and the field was retrieved. Taken literally, his conduct amounted to this; namely, that his keeper whom he was accustomed to obey, ordered him to stand still, and he did so. Of course this animal possessed unusual nerve, but what else did he have? The high sense of duty Professor Robinson has discovered; heroic self-sacrifice that kept him, like the unrelieved Roman sentinels at Pompeii, on his post to the last? There is just the same reason for thinking so as there is for giving to the riderless horses who galloped with the Light Brigade towards the Russian guns at Balaklava, the sentiments of those soldiers who made that gallant but useless charge.

So it is with all instances of a like character. There are many more accounts of the elephant’s cowardice than of its courage, and it is notoriously untrustworthy in war. Some are braver than others, but as soon as we attempt to find out from the literature of this subject which are the bravest,--young or old, male or female, trained or untrained, wild or tame,--hopelessly contradictory statements crowd upon us from all sides. The highest, the most complete, the severest discipline this beast receives is in the hunting-field, and Colonel MacMaster expresses the general tenor of opinion upon its results in saying, “I have never known an elephant who could be depended upon for dangerous shooting.” As a class these animals are liable to panic, easily confused, and often become imbecile on account of nervous agitation. It is not uncommon to see a tusker fly screaming with fear from the skin of a tiger which he has seen taken off, or to have him bolt from its dead body when that is instantly recognized as harmless by the jungle crow, pea-fowl, or monkey. Being extremely afraid of bears for some unknown reason, and nearly idiotic when frightened, an elephant may attack the hunter who has just stepped off his back into a tree, thinking that he has been suddenly transformed into a brute of this kind. But from all appearances some of them like to hunt, and when well broken and in good health, their prompt and intelligent obedience, their display of natural powers of several kinds, and the firmness with which they confront danger and bear pain, are wonderful.

Neither the man on his back nor the elephant himself is by any means secure against fatal results when a tiger charges home. Shikar animals, nevertheless, often do everything that is required of them admirably. The difficulty is that the best elephants cannot be counted upon. A tusker, whose scars speak for themselves, is as likely as not, says Colonel MacMaster, “to bolt from a hare or small deer, or quake with fear when a partridge or pea-fowl rises under his trunk.”

The following narrative by Captain James Forsyth (“The Highlands of Central India”) illustrates some of the foregoing criticisms very well:--

“It was in 1853 that the two brothers N. and Colonel G. beat the covers” of Bétúl, near the village of Bhádúgaon, “for a family of tigers said to be in it. One of the brothers was posted in a tree, while G. and the other N. beat through on an elephant. The man in a tree first shot two of the tigers, and then Colonel G. saw a very large one lying in the shade of a bush and fired at it, on which it charged and mounted the elephant’s head. It was a small female elephant, and was terribly punished about the trunk and eyes in this encounter, though the mahout (a bold fellow named Rámzán, who was afterwards in my own service) battered the tiger’s head with his iron driving-hook so as to leave deep marks in the bones of his skull. At length he was shaken off, and retreated; but when the sportsmen urged in the elephant again, and the tiger charged as before, she turned round, and the tiger catching her by the hind leg fairly pulled her over on her side. My informant, who was in the howdah, said that for a time his arm was pinned between it and the tiger’s body, who was making efforts to pull the shikári out of the back seat. They were all, of course, spilt on the ground with their guns, and Colonel G., getting hold of one, made the tiger retreat with a shot in the chest. The elephant had fled from the scene of action, and the two sportsmen then went in at the beast on foot. It charged again, and when close-to them was finally dropped by a lucky shot in the head. But the sport did not end here, for they found two more tigers in the same cover immediately afterwards, and killed one of them, making four that day. The worrying she had received, however, was the death of the elephant, which was buried at Bhádúgaon,--one of the few instances on record of an elephant being actually killed by a tiger.”

There is no way in which the intellect, moral attributes, temper, receptive power, and adaptability of elephants can be decided upon _en masse_. An animal of this kind will tend his keeper’s infant with a solicitude which seems to justify all that has been said of his benevolence; he will also watch for an opportunity to kill its father with a patience and self-command that are more significant still. In the latter event the motive (hatred) displays itself, and the manner in which the design is carried out can be studied; but with respect to the determining causes of conduct in the first instance we know nothing. An intelligent animal has been told to do something which it understands, and does it to the best of its ability. That is all the facts warrant us in saying.

One way of estimating the degree of feeling in any case is to measure the actions that express it by what they cost the individual who performs them. An elephant’s opportunities for displaying self-abnegation can be but few, and most of those voluntary deeds upon which his reputation rests require little or no self-forgetfulness. In the hunting-field he is under coercion. A hunted elephant, however, is not in this position, and it is in its conduct that we notice such examples of this kind of behavior as may be regarded in the light of cases in point. Elephants--females most frequently--sometimes fight in defence of their associates when they themselves are not directly attacked. Both sexes have been occasionally known to give assistance to each other when they might have been killed in doing so. But for the most part they are very far from acting in this way. Fishes, reptiles, birds, together with a large number of land animals, have fully equalled elephants in everything they have done in this direction. Much has been said of the affection an elephant feels for the person who feeds and tends it, of the care, consideration, respect, and obedience it renders to a being whose superiority this amazing brute recognizes. Nevertheless, it is most probable that this individual had better be anywhere else than within reach of its trunk if there is a probability of the animal’s getting bogged, for the chances are that he will be buried beneath its feet for a support.

This is not said with the intention of disparaging those good qualities which elephants possess. It must be plain from what has gone before that nothing else was to be expected. Except in the way of patient dissimulation, it would be difficult to show that when these animals take to evil courses they display more ability in perpetrating crime than many others. The consequences of vice in them are apt to be serious, and thus attract attention; but so far as cunning, foresight, and invention are called into play, they do not distinguish themselves, and those tragedies with which their names are associated seem to be more particularly marked by violence, ferocity, and rapidity of execution. Furthermore, it is well known that cerebral structure in these species is not of a high type; and with regard to its organization we know nothing.

If we now follow this largest of game into its native haunts, and note those experiences by which its pursuit is attended, what has been said with reference to the habits and character of elephants will, in the main, be found to rest upon good evidence. The outlook will be quite different according to where the animals are found. In India elephants live almost altogether in forests, while in Africa this is not the case. A hunter on the “Dark Continent” may also ride; quite an advantage in escaping a charge, and also in following a beast who, when frightened, frequently goes forty miles at a stretch. Dogs can always divert this creature’s attention from the man who is about to kill him. The barking of a few curs about his feet never fails to make an enraged elephant forget the object of attack.

Sir Samuel Baker (“Wild Beasts and their Ways”) and Colonel Pollok (“Sport in British Burmah”) have described at length the most vulnerable points in the body and head, but sporting stories and details, except in so far as they illustrate temper and traits of character, are beside the purpose here. It may be said, however, that the forehead shot, so constantly made in India, cannot be resorted to with an African elephant. It has been tried a great many times, and there are only two or three instances on record where the animal has been killed. This is due to a difference of conformation in the skull, in the position of the brain, and to the manner in which this elephant holds its head in charging, says F. C. Selous (“Travel and Adventure in South East Africa”).

Without going into anatomical details, it may be said that an African is about a foot taller than an Indian elephant, his ears are much larger, his back is concave instead of convex, and the tusks are much heavier and longer. Their position in the jaw also differs; they converge in passing backwards and upwards into the massive processes in which they are set, so that their roots, and the masses of bone and cartilage which form their sockets, effectually protect the brain, which lies low behind the receding forehead.

Speaking of hunting on horseback, W. Knighton (“Forest Life in Ceylon”) mentioned it as a well-known fact that “the elephant has an antipathy towards a horse.” “A solitary traveller is perfectly safe while mounted” he remarks. To the best of the author’s knowledge and belief, the fact is directly the other way. Horses, until accustomed to their sight and odor, fear elephants, but the latter care nothing about them. They have never been known to hesitate in attacking hunters in the saddle. The Hamran and Baggara Arabs on the Upper Nile and its tributaries nearly always meet them in this manner. The only weapon used by these aggageers, or sword-hunters, is a long, heavy, sharp, double-edged Solingen blade. Three men generally hunt together, and their method of procedure shows how well they know the elephant’s character.

Having found the fresh spoor of an old bull whose tusks are presumably worth winning, they track it to its resting or feeding place, and approach with no other precaution than is necessary to keep their quarry from taking refuge in some mimosa thicket where their swords cannot be used. When possible, the animal, who appreciates the situation perfectly, and knows all about sword-hunters, always makes itself safe in that way. If no cover is within reach, the elephant backs up against a rock, a clump of bushes, bank, or anything that will guard it in the rear, and awaits its enemies with that peculiarly devilish expression of countenance an elephant wears when murderously inclined. Supposing the aggageers to be three in number, and mounted,--two of them close slowly in upon his flanks, while the third--the lightest weight, on the most active and best broken horse--gradually approaches in front. There stands the elephant with cocked ears and gleaming eyes, and the Arab slowly drawing nearer, sits in his saddle and reviles him. Finally, what the Hamrans or Baggaras knew from the first would happen actually takes place. The elephant forgets everything, and dashes forward to annihilate this little wretch who has been cursing and pitching pieces of dirt at him. Then the horse is whirled round, and keeping just out of reach of his trunk, its rider lures the enraged animal on. As soon as he starts, those riders on his quarters swoop down at full speed, and when the one on his left comes alongside, he springs to the ground, bounds forward, his sword flashes in the air, and all is over. The foot turns up in front, in consequence of cutting the tendon that keeps it in place, and its blood rapidly drains away through the divided vessels until the animal dies.

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.”