Part 2

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.