Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

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.