In moving cuttings of this description they are quite ingenious. They shove and roll them with their hips, using also their legs and tails as levers, moving sideways in the act. In this way they move the larger pieces from the more or lesselevated ground on which the deciduous trees are found, over the uneven but generally descending surface to the pond. . . . . After one of these cuttings has been transported to the water, a beaver, placing one end of it under his throat, pushes it before him to the place where it is to be sunk.
In moving cuttings of this description they are quite ingenious. They shove and roll them with their hips, using also their legs and tails as levers, moving sideways in the act. In this way they move the larger pieces from the more or lesselevated ground on which the deciduous trees are found, over the uneven but generally descending surface to the pond. . . . . After one of these cuttings has been transported to the water, a beaver, placing one end of it under his throat, pushes it before him to the place where it is to be sunk.
The sinking is no doubt partly effected by mere soaking; but there is also some evidence to show that the beavers have a method of anchoring down their supplies. Thus they have been observed towing pieces of brush to their lodges, and then, while holding the large end in their mouths, 'going down with it to the bottom, apparently to fix it in the mud bottom of the pond.' A brush-heap being thus formed, the cuttings from the felled trees are stuck through the brushwork, without which 'protection they would be liable to be floated off by the strong currents, and thus be lost to the beavers at the time when their lives might depend upon their safe custody.'
Lastly, as a method whereby the beavers can save themselves the trouble of cutting, transporting, and anchoring all at the same time, they are prone, when circumstances permit, to fell a tree growing near enough to their pond to admit of its branches being submerged in the water. The animals then well know that the branches and young shoots will remain preserved throughout the winter without any further trouble from them. But of course the supply of trees thus growing conveniently near a beaver-pond is too limited to last long.
We have next to consider the most wonderful, and I think the most psychologically puzzling structures that are presented as the works of any animal; I mean, of course, the dams and canals.
The object of the dam is that of forming an artificial pond, the use of which is to afford refuge to the animals as well as water connection with their lodges. Therefore the level of the pond must in all cases be higher than that of the lodge- and burrow-entrances, and it is usually maintained two or three feet above them.
As the dam is not an absolute necessity to the beaver for the maintenance of his life—his normal habitation being rather natural ponds and rivers, and the burrows in their banks—it is,in itself considered, a remarkable fact that he should have voluntarily transferred himself, by means of dams and ponds of his own construction, from a natural to an artificial mode of life.
As the dam is not an absolute necessity to the beaver for the maintenance of his life—his normal habitation being rather natural ponds and rivers, and the burrows in their banks—it is,in itself considered, a remarkable fact that he should have voluntarily transferred himself, by means of dams and ponds of his own construction, from a natural to an artificial mode of life.
In external appearance there are two distinct kinds of dams, although all are constructed on the same principle. One, the more common, is the 'stick dam,' which is composed of interlaced stick and pole work upon the lower face, with an embankment of earth mixed with the same materials on the upper face. The other is the 'solid-bank dam,' which differs from the former in having much more brush and mud worked into its construction, especially upon its surfaces; the result being that the whole formation looks like a solid bank of earth. In the first kind of dam the surplus water percolates through the structure along its entire length; but in the second kind the discharge takes place through a single furrow in the crest, which, remarkable though the fact unquestionably is, the beavers intentionally form for this purpose.
In the construction of the dam, stones are used here and there to give down-weight and solidity. These stones weigh from one to six pounds, and are carried by the beavers in the same way as they carry their mud—namely, by walking on their hind legs while holding their burden against the chest with their fore-paws. The solid dams are much firmer in their consistence than the stick dams; for while a horse might walk across the former, the weight of a man would be too great to be sustained by the latter. Each kind of dam is adapted to the locality in which it is built, the difference between the two kinds being due to the following cause. As a stream gains water and force in its descent, it develops banks, and also a broader and deeper channel. These banks assume a vertical form in the level areas where the soil is alluvial. Thus, an open stick-work dam could not in such places be led off from either bank; and even if it could, the force and depth of the stream would carry it away. Therefore in such places the beavers build their solid-bank dams, while in shallow and comparatively sluggish waters they contentthemselves with the smaller amount of labour involved in the building of a stick dam.
To give some idea of the proportions of a dam, I shall epitomise a number of measurements given by Mr. Morgan:—
FeetHeight of structure from base line2 to 6Difference in depth of water above and below dam4 to 5Width of base or section6 to 18Length of slope, lower face6 to 13Length of slope, upper face4 to 8
The only other measurement is that of length, and this, of course, varies with the width of water to be spanned. Where this width is considerable the length of a dam may be prodigious, as the following quotation will show:—
Some of the dams in this region are not less remarkable for their prodigious length, a statement of which, in fact, would scarcely be credited unless verified by actual measurement. The largest one yet mentioned measures 260 feet, but there are dams 400 and even 500 feet long.There is a dam in two sections, situated upon a tributary of the main branch of the Esconauba River, about a mile and a half north-west of the Washington Main. One section measures 110 and the other 400 feet, with an interval of natural bank, worked here and there, of 1,000 feet. A solid-bank dam, 20 feet in length, was first constructed across the channel of the stream, from bank to bank, with the usual opening for the surplus water, five feet wide. As the water rose and overflowed the bank on the left side, the dam was extended for 90 feet, until it reached ground high enough to confine the pond. This natural bank extended up the stream, and nearly parallel with it, for 1,000 feet, where the ground again subsided, and allowed the water in the upper part of the pond to flow out and around into the channel of the stream below the dam. To meet this emergency a second dam, 420 feet long, was constructed. For the greater part of its length it is low, but in some places it is two and a half and three feet high, and constructed of stick-work on the land, and with an earth embankment on its outer face. In effect, therefore, it is one structure 1,530 feet in length, of which 530 feet in two sections is artificial, and the remainder natural bank, but worked here and there where depressions in the ground required raising by artificial means.
Some of the dams in this region are not less remarkable for their prodigious length, a statement of which, in fact, would scarcely be credited unless verified by actual measurement. The largest one yet mentioned measures 260 feet, but there are dams 400 and even 500 feet long.
There is a dam in two sections, situated upon a tributary of the main branch of the Esconauba River, about a mile and a half north-west of the Washington Main. One section measures 110 and the other 400 feet, with an interval of natural bank, worked here and there, of 1,000 feet. A solid-bank dam, 20 feet in length, was first constructed across the channel of the stream, from bank to bank, with the usual opening for the surplus water, five feet wide. As the water rose and overflowed the bank on the left side, the dam was extended for 90 feet, until it reached ground high enough to confine the pond. This natural bank extended up the stream, and nearly parallel with it, for 1,000 feet, where the ground again subsided, and allowed the water in the upper part of the pond to flow out and around into the channel of the stream below the dam. To meet this emergency a second dam, 420 feet long, was constructed. For the greater part of its length it is low, but in some places it is two and a half and three feet high, and constructed of stick-work on the land, and with an earth embankment on its outer face. In effect, therefore, it is one structure 1,530 feet in length, of which 530 feet in two sections is artificial, and the remainder natural bank, but worked here and there where depressions in the ground required raising by artificial means.
It is truly an astonishing fact that animals should engage in such vast architectural labours with what appears to be the deliberate purpose of securing, by such very artificial means, the special benefits that arise from their high engineering skill. So astonishing, indeed, does this fact appear, that as sober-minded interpreters of fact we would fain look for some explanation which would not necessitate the inference that these actions are due to any intelligent appreciation, either of the benefits that arise from the labour, or of the hydrostatic principles to which this labour so clearly refers. Yet the more closely we look into the subject, the more impossible do we find it to account for the facts by any such easy method. Thus it seems perfectly certain that the beavers, properly and strictly speaking, understand the use of their dams in maintaining a certain level of water. For it is unquestionable that in the solid-bank dams, as already observed, a regular opening or trough is cut at one part of its crest to provide for the overflow; and now it has to be added that this opening is purposely widened or narrowed with reference to the amount of water in the stream at different times, so as to ensure the maintenance of a constant level in the pond. Similarly, though by different means, the same end is secured in the case of the stick dams. For 'in most of these dams the rapidity or slowness with which the surplus water is discharged is undoubtedly regulated by the beavers; otherwise the level of the pond would continually vary. There must be a constant tendency to enlarge the orifices through which the water passes,' when the stream is small, andvice versâ; otherwise the lodges would be either inundated or have their sub-aquatic entrances exposed.[223]Moreover, a very little consideration is enough to show that in stick dams the tendency to increased leakage from the effects of percolation, and to a settling down of the dam as its materials decay from underneath, must demand unceasing vigilanceand care to avert the consequences. And accordingly it is found that 'in the fall of the year a new supply of materials is placed upon the lower face of these dams to compensate this waste from decay.'
Now, it is obvious that we have here presented a continual variation of conditions, imposed by continual variations in the amount of water coming down; and it is a matter of observation that these variations are met by the beavers in the only way that they can be met—namely, by regulating the amount of flow taking place through the dams. It will therefore be seen that we have here to consider a totally different case from that of the operation of pure instinct, however wonderful such operation may be. For the adaptations of pure instinct only have reference to conditions that are unchanging; so that if in this case we suppose pure instinct to account for all the facts, we must greatly modify our ideas of what pure instinct is taken to mean. Thus we must suppose that when the beavers find the level of their ponds rising or falling, the discomfort which they experience acts as a stimulus to cause them, without intelligent purpose, either to widen or to narrow the orifices in their dams as the case may be. And not only so, but the conditions of stimulation and response must be so nicely balanced that the animals widen or narrow these orifices with a more or less precisequantitativereference to the degree of discomfort, actual or prospective, which they experience. Now it seems to me that even thus far it is an extremely difficult thing to believe that the mechanism of pure or wholly unintelligent instinct could admit of sufficient refinement to meet so complex a case of compensating adaptation; and, as we shall immediately see, this difficulty increases still more as we contemplate additional facts relating to these structures.
Thus it sometimes happens that in large dams the pressure of the water which they keep back is so considerable that their stability is endangered. In such cases it has been observed by Mr. Morgan that, at a short distance beneath the main dam, another and lower dam is thrown across the stream, with the result of forming a shallow pond between the two. This pond is—
Of no apparent use for beaver occupation, but yet subserving the important purpose of setting back water to the depth of twelve or fifteen inches; . . . . and the small dam, by maintaining the water a foot deep below the great dam, diminishes to this extent the difference in level above and below, and neutralises to the same extent the pressure of the water in the pond above against the main structure.
'Whether,' adds Mr. Morgan, with commendable caution, 'the lower dam was constructed with this motive and for this object, or is explainable on some other hypothesis, I shall not venture an opinion.' But as, he further adds, 'I have also found the same precise work repeated below other large dams,' we are led to conclude that their correlation cannot at least be accidental; and as it is of so definite a character, there really seems no 'other hypothesis' open to us than that of its having reference to the stability of the main dam. Yet, if this is the case, it becomes in my opinion simply impossible to attribute the fact to the operation of pure instinct.
Again, Mr. Morgan observed one case in which, higher up stream than the main dam, there was constructed another dam, ninety-three feet long, and two and a half feet high at the centre:—
A dam at this point is apparently of no conceivable use to improve the lake for beaver occupation. It has one feature, also, in which it differs from other dams except those upon lake outlets, and that consists in its elevation, at all points, of about two feet above the level of the lake at ordinary stages of the water. In all other dams, except those upon lake outlets, and in most of the latter, the water stands quite near their crests, while in the one under consideration it stood about two feet below it. This fact suggests at least the inference, although it may have but little of probability to sustain it, that it was constructed with special reference to sudden rises of the lake in times of freshet, and that it was designed to hold this surplus water until it could be gradually discharged through the dam into the great space below. It would at least subserve this purpose very efficiently, and thus protect the dam below it from the effects of freshets. To ascribe the origin of this dam to such motives of intelligence is to invest this animal with a higher degree of sagacity than we have probable reason toconcede to him, and yet it is proper to mention the relation in which these dams stand to each other—whether that relation is regarded as accidental or intentional.
A dam at this point is apparently of no conceivable use to improve the lake for beaver occupation. It has one feature, also, in which it differs from other dams except those upon lake outlets, and that consists in its elevation, at all points, of about two feet above the level of the lake at ordinary stages of the water. In all other dams, except those upon lake outlets, and in most of the latter, the water stands quite near their crests, while in the one under consideration it stood about two feet below it. This fact suggests at least the inference, although it may have but little of probability to sustain it, that it was constructed with special reference to sudden rises of the lake in times of freshet, and that it was designed to hold this surplus water until it could be gradually discharged through the dam into the great space below. It would at least subserve this purpose very efficiently, and thus protect the dam below it from the effects of freshets. To ascribe the origin of this dam to such motives of intelligence is to invest this animal with a higher degree of sagacity than we have probable reason toconcede to him, and yet it is proper to mention the relation in which these dams stand to each other—whether that relation is regarded as accidental or intentional.
As before, we have here to commend the caution displayed by the closing sentence; but, as useless dams are not found in other places, the inference clearly is that the dam in question, both as regards its exceptional position and exceptional height, can only be explained by supposing the structure to have been designed for the use which it unquestionably served. That is to say, if we do not entertain this explanation, there is no other to be suggested; and although in any ordinary or occasional instance of the display of animal intelligence in such a degree as this I should not hesitate to attribute the facts to accident, in the case of the beaver there are such a multitude of constantly recurring facts, all and only referable to a practical though not less extraordinary appreciation of hydrostatic principles, that the hypothesis of accident must here, I think, be laid aside. To substantiate this statement I shall detail the facts concerning the beaver-canals.
As Mr. Morgan, who first discovered and described these astonishing structures, observes,—
Remarkable as the dam may still be considered, from its structure and objects, it scarcely surpasses, if it may be said to equal, these water-ways, here called canals, which are excavated through the low lands bordering their ponds for the purpose of reaching the hard wood, and for affording a channel for its transportation to their lodges. To conceive and execute such a design presupposes a more complicated and extended process of reasoning than that required for the construction of a dam, and, although a much simpler work to perform when the thought was fully developed, it was far less to have been expected from a mute animal.
Remarkable as the dam may still be considered, from its structure and objects, it scarcely surpasses, if it may be said to equal, these water-ways, here called canals, which are excavated through the low lands bordering their ponds for the purpose of reaching the hard wood, and for affording a channel for its transportation to their lodges. To conceive and execute such a design presupposes a more complicated and extended process of reasoning than that required for the construction of a dam, and, although a much simpler work to perform when the thought was fully developed, it was far less to have been expected from a mute animal.
These canals are developed in this way. One of the principal objects served by a dam thrown across a small stream, is that of flooding the low ground so as to obtain water connection with the first high ground upon which hard wood is to be found, such connection being convenient, or even necessary, for the purposes of transport.
Where the pond fails to accomplish this fully, and also where the banks are defined and mark the limits of the pond, the deficiency is supplied by the canals in question. On descending surfaces, as has elsewhere been stated, beavers roll and drag their short cuttings down into the ponds. But where the ground is low it is generally so uneven and rough as to render it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for the beavers to move them for any considerable distance by physical force. Hence the canal for floating them across the intervening level ground to the pond. The necessity for it is so apparent as to diminish our astonishment at its construction; and yet that the beaver should devise a canal to surmount this difficulty is not the less remarkable.
Where the pond fails to accomplish this fully, and also where the banks are defined and mark the limits of the pond, the deficiency is supplied by the canals in question. On descending surfaces, as has elsewhere been stated, beavers roll and drag their short cuttings down into the ponds. But where the ground is low it is generally so uneven and rough as to render it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for the beavers to move them for any considerable distance by physical force. Hence the canal for floating them across the intervening level ground to the pond. The necessity for it is so apparent as to diminish our astonishment at its construction; and yet that the beaver should devise a canal to surmount this difficulty is not the less remarkable.
The canals, which are made by excavation, are usually from three to five feet wide, three feet deep, and perhaps hundreds of feet long—the length of course depending on the distance between the lodge and the wood supply. They are cut in the form of trenches, having perpendicular sides and abrupt ends. All roots of trees, under-brush, &c., are cleared away in their course, so as to afford an unobstructed passage. These canals are of such frequent occurrence that it is impossible to attribute them to accident; they are evidently made, at the cost of much labour, with the deliberate purpose of putting them to the use for which they are designed. In executing this purpose there is sometimes displayed a depth of engineering forethought over details of structure required by the circumstances of special localities, which is even more astonishing than the execution of the general idea. Thus it not unfrequently happens that when a canal has been run for a certain distance, a rise in the level of the ground renders it impossible to continue the structure further from the water supply or lodge-pond, without either incurring a great amount of labour in digging the canal with progressively deepening sides, or leaving the trench empty of water, and so useless. In such cases the beavers resort to various expedients, according to the nature of the ground.
drawn map
Mr. Morgan gives an interesting sketch of one such case, where the canal is excavated through low ground for a distance of 450 feet, when it reaches the first rise ofground, and throughout this distance, being level with the pond, it is supplied with water from this source. Where the rise begins a dam is made, and the canal is then continued for 25 feet at a level of one foot higher than before. This higher level reach is supplied with water collected from still higher levels by another dam, extending for 75 feet upon one side of the canal and 25 feet on the other, in the form of a crescent with its concavity directed towards the highlands, so as to collect all the drainage water, and concentrate it into the second reach of the canal. Beyond this larger dam there is another abrupt rise of a foot, and the canal is there continued for 47 feet more, where a third dam is built resembling the second in construction, only having a still wider span on either side of the canal (142 feet), so as to catch a still larger quantity of drainage water to supply the third or uppermost reach of the canal. We have, therefore, here presented, not only a perfect application of the principle of 'locks,' which are used in canals of human construction, but also the principle of collecting water to supply the reaches situated on the slope by means of elaborately constructed dams of wideextent, and of the best form for the purpose. There is thus shown much too great a concurrence of engineering principles to the attainment of one object to admit of our attributing the facts to accident. On this structure Mr. Morgan observes:—
The crests of these dams where they cross the canals are depressed, or worn down, in the centre, by the constant passage of beavers over them while going to and fro and dragging their cuttings. This canal with its adjuncts of dams and its manifest objects is a remarkable work, transcending very much the ordinary estimates of the intelligence of the beaver. It served to bring the occupants of the pond into easy connection by water with the trees that supplied them with food, as well as to relieve them from the tedious and perhaps impossible task of transporting their cuttings 500 feet over uneven ground unassisted by any descent.
The crests of these dams where they cross the canals are depressed, or worn down, in the centre, by the constant passage of beavers over them while going to and fro and dragging their cuttings. This canal with its adjuncts of dams and its manifest objects is a remarkable work, transcending very much the ordinary estimates of the intelligence of the beaver. It served to bring the occupants of the pond into easy connection by water with the trees that supplied them with food, as well as to relieve them from the tedious and perhaps impossible task of transporting their cuttings 500 feet over uneven ground unassisted by any descent.
Again, in another case, also sketched by Mr. Morgan, another device is resorted to, and one which, having reference to the particular circumstances of the case, is the best that could have been adopted. Here the canal, proceeding from the pond to the woodland 150 feet distant, encounters at the woodland a rising slope covered with hard wood. Thereupon the canal bifurcates, and the two diverging branches or prongs are carried in opposite directions along the base of the woodland rise, one for a distance of 100 and the other for 115 feet. The level being throughout the same, the water from the pond supplies the two branch-canals as well as the trunk. Both branches end with abrupt vertical faces. Now the object of these branches is sufficiently apparent:—
After the rising ground, and with it the hard wood trees, were reached at the point where it branches, there was no very urgent necessity for the branches. But their construction along the base of the high ground gave them a frontage upon the canal of 215 feet of hard-wood lands, thus affording to them, along this extended line, the great advantages of water transportation for their cuttings.
After the rising ground, and with it the hard wood trees, were reached at the point where it branches, there was no very urgent necessity for the branches. But their construction along the base of the high ground gave them a frontage upon the canal of 215 feet of hard-wood lands, thus affording to them, along this extended line, the great advantages of water transportation for their cuttings.
One more proof of engineering purpose in the construction of canals will be sufficient to place beyond allquestion the fact that beavers form these canals, as they form their dams, with a far-seeing perception of the suitability of highly artificial means to the attainment of particular ends, under a variety of special circumstances. Mr. Morgan observed one or two instances where the land included in a wind or loop of a river was cut through by a beaver canal across the narrowest part, 'apparently to shorten the distance in going up and down by water.' Judging from the figures which he gives, drawn to measurement, there can be no question that such was the object; and as these structures may be one or two hundred feet in length, and represent the laborious excavation of some 1,500 cubic feet of soil, the animals must be actuated by the most vivid conception of the subsequent saving in labour that is to be effected by making an artificial communication across the chord of an arc, instead of always going round the natural curve of a stream.
Regarding now together all these facts relating to the psychology of the beaver, it must be confessed, as I said at the outset, that we have presented to us a problem perhaps the most difficult of any that we have to encounter in the whole range of animal intelligence. On the one hand, it seems incredible that the beaver should attain to such a level of abstract thought as would be implied by his forming his various structures with the calculated purpose of achieving the ends which they undoubtedly subserve. On the other hand, as we have seen, it seems little less than impossible that the formation of these structures can be due to instinct. Yet one or other hypothesis, either singly or in combination, must be resorted to. The case, it will be observed, thus differs from that of the more wonderful performances of instinct elsewhere, such as that of ants and bees, inasmuch as the performances here are so complex and varied, as well as having reference to physical principles of a much more recondite or less observable nature. The case from its theoretical side being thus one of much difficulty, I think it will be better to postpone its discussion till in 'Mental Evolution' I come to treat of the whole subject of instinct in relation to intelligence.
I must not, however, conclude this epitome of the facts without alluding to the only other publication on the habits of the beaver which is of distinctly scientific value. This is a short but interesting paper by Prof. Alexander Agassiz.[224]He says that the largest dam he has himself seen measured 650 feet in length, and 3½ feet in height, with a small number of lodges in the vicinity of the pond. The number of lodges is always thus very small in proportion to the size of the dam, the greatest number of lodges that he has observed upon one pond being five. It is evident from this that beavers are not really gregarious in their habits, and that their dams and canals 'are the work of a comparatively small number of animals; but to make up for the numbers the work of succeeding inhabitants of any one pond must have been carried on for centuries to accomplish the gigantic results we find in some localities.'
In one case Prof. Agassiz obtained what may be termed geological evidence of the truth of an opinion advanced by Mr. Morgan, that beaver-works may be hundreds if not thousands of years in course of continuous formation. For the purpose of obtaining a secure foundation for a mill dam erected above a beaver dam, it was necessary to clear away the soil from the bottom of the beaver pond. This soil was found to be a peat bog. A trench was dug into the peat 12 feet wide by 1,200 feet long, and 9 feet deep; all the way along this trench old stumps of trees were found at various depths, some still bearing marks of having been gnawed by beavers' teeth. Agassiz calculated the growth of the bog as about a foot per century, so that here we have tolerably accurate evidence of an existing beaver dam being somewhere about a thousand years old.
The gradual growth of these enormous dams has the effect of greatly altering the configuration of the country where they occur. By taking levels from dams towards the sources of streams on which they occur, Agassiz was able ideally to reconstruct the original landscape before the growth of the dams, and he found that, 'from thenature of the surrounding country, the open spaces now joining the beaver ponds—the beaver meadows where the trees are scanty or small—must at one time have been all covered with forests.' At first the beavers 'began to clear the forest just in the immediate vicinity of the dams, extending in every direction, first up the stream as far as the nature of the creek would allow, and then laterally by means of their canals, as far as the level of the ground would allow, thus little by little clearing a larger area according to the time they have occupied any particular place,' In this way beavers may change the whole aspect of large tracts of country, covering with water a great extent of ground which was once thickly wooded.
ELEPHANT.
Theintelligence of the elephant is no doubt considerable, although there is equally little doubt that it is generally exaggerated. Some of the most notorious instances of the display of remarkable sagacity by this animal are probably fabulous, or at least are not sufficiently corroborated to justify belief. Such, for instance, is the celebrated story told by Pliny with all the assurance of a 'certum est,'[225]and repeated by Plutarch,[226]of the elephant, who having been beaten for not dancing properly, was afterwards found practising his steps alone in the light of the moon. Although this story cannot, in the absence of corroboration, be accepted as fact, we ought to remember, in connection with it, that many talking and piping birds unquestionably practise in solitude the accomplishments which they desire to learn.
Quitting, however, the enormous multitude of anecdotes, more or less doubtful, and which may or may not be true, I shall select a few well-authenticated instances of the display of elephant intelligence.
As regards memory, several cases are on record of tamed elephants having become wild, and, on again being captured after many years, returning to all their old habits under domestication. Mr. Corse publishes in the 'Philosophical Transactions'[227]an instance which came under his own notice. He saw an elephant, whichwas carrying baggage, take fright at the smell of a tiger and run off. Eighteen months afterwards this elephant was recognised by its keepers among a herd of wild companions, which had been captured and were confined in an enclosure. But when anyone approached the animal he struck out with his trunk, and seemed as fierce as any of the wild herd. An old hunter then mounted a tame elephant, went up to the feral one, seized his ear and ordered him to lie down. Immediately the force of old associations broke through all opposition, the word of command was obeyed, and the elephant while lying down gave a certain peculiar squeak which he had been known to utter in former days. The same author gives another and more interesting account of an elephant which, after having been for only two years tamed, ran wild for fifteen years, and on being then recaptured, remembered in all details the words of command. This, with several other well-authenticated facts of the same kind,[228]shows that the elephant certainly has an exceedingly tenacious memory, rendering credible the statement of Pliny, that in their more advanced age these animals recognise men who were their drivers when young.[229]
Concerning emotions, the elephant seems to be usually actuated by the most magnanimous of feelings. Even his proverbial vindictiveness appears only to be excited under a sense of remembered injustice. The universally known story of the tailor and the elephant doubtless had a foundation in fact, for there are several authentic cases on record of elephants resenting injuries in precisely the same way;[230]and Captain Shipp[231]personally tested the matter by giving to an elephant a sandwich of bread, butter, and cayenne pepper. He then waited for sixweeks before again visiting the animal, when he went into the stable and began to fondle the elephant as he had previously been accustomed to do. For a time no resentment was shown, so that the Captain began to think that the experiment had failed; but at last, watching for an opportunity, the elephant filled his trunk with dirty water, and drenched the Captain from head to foot.
Griffiths says that at the siege of Bhurtpore, in 1805, the British army had been a long time before the city, and, owing to the hot dry winds, the ponds and tanks had dried up. There used therefore to be no little struggle for priority in procuring water at one of the large wells which still contained water:—
On one occasion two elephant-drivers, each with his elephant, the one remarkably large and strong, and the other comparatively small and weak, were at the well together; the small elephant had been provided by his master with a bucket for the occasion, which he carried on the end of his proboscis, but the larger animal, being destitute of this necessary vessel, either spontaneously, or by the desire of his keeper, seized the bucket, and easily wrested it from his less powerful fellow-servant; the latter was too sensible of his inferiority openly to resent the insult, though it is obvious that he felt it; but great squabbling and abuse ensued between the keepers. At length the weaker animal, watching the opportunity when the other was standing with his side to the well, retired backwards a few paces in a very quiet and unsuspicious manner, and then, rushing forward with all his might, drove his head against the side of the other, and fairly pushed him into the well.
On one occasion two elephant-drivers, each with his elephant, the one remarkably large and strong, and the other comparatively small and weak, were at the well together; the small elephant had been provided by his master with a bucket for the occasion, which he carried on the end of his proboscis, but the larger animal, being destitute of this necessary vessel, either spontaneously, or by the desire of his keeper, seized the bucket, and easily wrested it from his less powerful fellow-servant; the latter was too sensible of his inferiority openly to resent the insult, though it is obvious that he felt it; but great squabbling and abuse ensued between the keepers. At length the weaker animal, watching the opportunity when the other was standing with his side to the well, retired backwards a few paces in a very quiet and unsuspicious manner, and then, rushing forward with all his might, drove his head against the side of the other, and fairly pushed him into the well.
Great trouble was experienced in extricating this elephant from the well—a task which would, indeed, have been impossible but for the intelligence of the animal itself. For when a number of fascines, which had been employed by the army in conducting the siege, were thrown down the well, the elephant showed sagacity enough to arrange them with his trunk so as to construct a continuously rising platform, by which he gradually raised himself to a level with the ground.
Allied to vindictiveness for small injuries is revenge for large ones, and this is often shown in a terrible mannerby wounded elephants. For instance, Sir E. Tennent writes:—
Some years ago an elephant which had been wounded by a native, near Hambangtotte, pursued the man into the town, followed him along the street, trampled him to death in the bazaar before a crowd of terrified spectators, and succeeded in making good its retreat to the jungle.
Some years ago an elephant which had been wounded by a native, near Hambangtotte, pursued the man into the town, followed him along the street, trampled him to death in the bazaar before a crowd of terrified spectators, and succeeded in making good its retreat to the jungle.
Many other cases of vindictiveness, more or less well authenticated, may be found mentioned by Broderip,[232]Bingley,[233]Mrs. Lee,[234]Swainson,[235]and Watson.[236]This trait of emotional character seems to be more generally present in the elephant than in any other animal, except perhaps the monkey.
Another emotion strongly developed in the elephant is sympathy. Numberless examples on this head might be adduced, but one or two may suffice. Bishop Huber saw an old elephant fall down from weakness, and another elephant was brought to assist the fallen one to rise. Huber says he was much struck with the almost human expression of surprise, alarm, and sympathy manifested by the second elephant on witnessing the condition of the first. A chain was fastened round the neck and body of the sick animal, which the other was directed to pull. For a minute or two the healthy elephant pulled strongly; but on the first groan given by its distressed companion it stopped abruptly, 'turned fiercely round with a loud roar, and with trunk and fore-feet began to loosen the chain from the neck.'
Again, Sir E. Tennent says:—
The devotion and loyalty which the herd evince to their leader are very remarkable. This is more readily seen in the case of a tusker than any other, because in a herd he is generally the object of the keenest pursuit by the hunters. On such occasions the others do their utmost to protect him from danger: when driven to extremity they place their leader in the centreand crowd so eagerly in front of him that the sportsmen have to shoot a number which they might otherwise have spared. In one instance a tusker, which was badly wounded by Major Rogers, was promptly surrounded by his companions, who supported him between their shoulders, and actually succeeded in covering his retreat to the forest.
The devotion and loyalty which the herd evince to their leader are very remarkable. This is more readily seen in the case of a tusker than any other, because in a herd he is generally the object of the keenest pursuit by the hunters. On such occasions the others do their utmost to protect him from danger: when driven to extremity they place their leader in the centreand crowd so eagerly in front of him that the sportsmen have to shoot a number which they might otherwise have spared. In one instance a tusker, which was badly wounded by Major Rogers, was promptly surrounded by his companions, who supported him between their shoulders, and actually succeeded in covering his retreat to the forest.
Lastly, allusion may be made to the celebrated observation of M. le Baron de Lauriston, who was at Laknaor during an epidemic which stretched a number of natives sick and dying upon the road. The Nabob riding his elephant over the road was careless whether or not the animal crushed the men and women to death, but not so the elephant, which took great pains to pick his steps among the people so as not to injure them.
The following account of emotion and sagacity is quoted from the Rev. Julius Young's Memoirs of his father, Mr. Charles Young, the actor. The animal mentioned is the one that subsequently attained such widespread notoriety at Exeter Change, not only on account of his immense size, but still more because of his cruel death:—
In July 1810, the largest elephant ever seen in England was advertised as 'just arrived.' As soon as Henry Harris, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre, heard of it, he determined, if possible, to obtain it; for it struck him that if it were to be introduced into the new pantomime of 'Harlequin Padmenaba,' which he was about to produce at great cost, it would add greatly to its attraction. Under this impression, and before the proprietor of Exeter Change had seen it, he purchased it for the sum of 900 guineas. Mrs. Henry Johnston was to ride it, and Miss Parker, the columbine, was to play up to it. Young happened to be one morning at the box-office adjoining Covent Garden Theatre, when his ears were assailed by a strange and unusual uproar within the walls. On asking one of the carpenters the cause of it, he was told 'it was something going wrong with the elephant; he could not exactly tell what.' I am not aware what the usage may be nowadays, but then, whenever a new piece had been announced for presentation on a given night, and there was but scant time for its preparation, a rehearsal would take place after the night's regular performance was over, and the audience had been dismissed. One such there had been the night before my father's curiosity had been roused. As it had been arranged that Mrs. Henry Johnston, seated ina howdah on the elephant's back, should pass over a bridge in the centre of a numerous group of followers, it was thought expedient that the unwieldy monster's tractability should be tested. On stepping up to the bridge, which was slight and temporary, the sagacious brute drew back his fore-feet and refused to budge. It is well known as a fact in natural history that the elephant, aware of his unusual bulk, will never trust its weight on any object which is unequal to its support. The stage-manager, seeing how resolutely the animal resisted every attempt made to compel or induce it to go over the bridge in question, proposed that they should stay proceedings till next day, when he might be in a better mood. It was during the repetition of the experiment that my father, having heard the extraordinary sounds, determined to go upon the stage, and see if he could ascertain the cause of them. The first sight that met his eyes kindled his indignation. There stood the high animal, with downcast eyes and flapping ears, meekly submitting to blow after blow from a sharp iron goad, which his keeper was driving ferociously into the fleshy part of his neck, at the root of the ear. The floor on which he stood was converted into a pool of blood. One of the proprietors, impatient at what he regarded as senseless obstinacy, kept urging the driver to proceed to still severer extremities, when Charles Young, who was a great lover of animals, expostulated with him, went up to the poor patient sufferer, and patted and caressed him; and when the driver was about to wield his instrument again, with even still more vigour, he caught him by the wrist as in a vice, and stayed his hand from further violence. While an angry altercation was going on between Young and the man of colour, who was the driver, Captain Hay, of theAshel, who had brought over 'Chuny' in his ship, and had petted him greatly on the voyage, came in and begged to know what was the matter. Before a word of explanation could be given, the much-wronged creature spoke for himself; for, as soon as he perceived the entrance of his patron, he waddled up to him, and, with a look of gentle appeal, caught hold of his hand with his proboscis, plunged it into his bleeding wound, and then thrust it before his eyes. The gesture seemed to say, as plainly as if it had been enforced by speech, 'See how these cruel men treat Chuny. Canyouapprove of it?' The hearts of the hardest present were sensibly touched by what they saw, and among them that of the gentleman who had been so energetic in promoting its harsh treatment. It was under a far better impulse that he ran out into the street, purchased a few apples ata stall, and offered them to him. Chuny eyed him askance, took them, threw them beneath his feet, and when he had crushed them to pulp, spurned them from him. Young, who had gone into Covent Garden on the same errand as the gentleman who had preceded him, shortly after re-entered, and also held out to him some fruit, when, to the astonishment of the bystanders, the elephant ate every morsel, and after he had done so, twined his trunk with studied gentleness around Young's waist, marking by his action that, though he had resented a wrong, he did not forget a kindness.It was in the year 1814 that Harris parted with Chuny to Cross, the proprietor of the menagerie at Exeter Change. One of the purchaser's first acts was to send Charles Young a life ticket of admission to his exhibition; and it was one of his little innocent vanities, when passing through the Strand with any friend, to drop in on Chuny, pay him a visit in his den, and show the intimate relations which existed between them. Some years after, when the elephant's theatrical career was run, and he was reduced to play the part of captive in one of the cages of Exeter Change, a thoughtless dandy one day amused himself by teasing him with the repeated offer of lettuces—a vegetable for which he was known to have an antipathy. At last he presented him with an apple, but, at the moment of his taking it, drove a large pin into his trunk, and then sprang out of big reach. The keeper seeing that the poor creature was getting angry, warned the silly fellow off, lest he should become dangerous. With a contemptuous shrug of the shoulder, he trudged off to the other end of the gallery, and there displayed his cruel ingenuity on other humbler beasts, till, after the absence of half-an-hour, he once more approached one of the cages opposite the elephant's. By this time he had forgotten his pranks with Chuny, but Chuny had not forgotten him; and as he was standing with his back towards him, he thrust his proboscis through the bars of his prison, twitched off the offender's hat, dragged it in to him, tore it to shreds, then threw it into the face of the offending gaby, consummating his revenge with a loud guffaw of exultation. All present proclaimed their approbation of this act of retributive justice, and the discomfited coxcomb had to retreat from the scene in confusion, jump into a hackney coach, and betake himself to the hatter's in quest of a new tile for his unroofed skull. The tragic end of poor Chuny must be within the recollection of many of my readers. From some cause unknown he went mad, and after poison had been tried in vain it took 152 shots, discharged by a detachment of the Guards, to despatch him.[237]
In July 1810, the largest elephant ever seen in England was advertised as 'just arrived.' As soon as Henry Harris, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre, heard of it, he determined, if possible, to obtain it; for it struck him that if it were to be introduced into the new pantomime of 'Harlequin Padmenaba,' which he was about to produce at great cost, it would add greatly to its attraction. Under this impression, and before the proprietor of Exeter Change had seen it, he purchased it for the sum of 900 guineas. Mrs. Henry Johnston was to ride it, and Miss Parker, the columbine, was to play up to it. Young happened to be one morning at the box-office adjoining Covent Garden Theatre, when his ears were assailed by a strange and unusual uproar within the walls. On asking one of the carpenters the cause of it, he was told 'it was something going wrong with the elephant; he could not exactly tell what.' I am not aware what the usage may be nowadays, but then, whenever a new piece had been announced for presentation on a given night, and there was but scant time for its preparation, a rehearsal would take place after the night's regular performance was over, and the audience had been dismissed. One such there had been the night before my father's curiosity had been roused. As it had been arranged that Mrs. Henry Johnston, seated ina howdah on the elephant's back, should pass over a bridge in the centre of a numerous group of followers, it was thought expedient that the unwieldy monster's tractability should be tested. On stepping up to the bridge, which was slight and temporary, the sagacious brute drew back his fore-feet and refused to budge. It is well known as a fact in natural history that the elephant, aware of his unusual bulk, will never trust its weight on any object which is unequal to its support. The stage-manager, seeing how resolutely the animal resisted every attempt made to compel or induce it to go over the bridge in question, proposed that they should stay proceedings till next day, when he might be in a better mood. It was during the repetition of the experiment that my father, having heard the extraordinary sounds, determined to go upon the stage, and see if he could ascertain the cause of them. The first sight that met his eyes kindled his indignation. There stood the high animal, with downcast eyes and flapping ears, meekly submitting to blow after blow from a sharp iron goad, which his keeper was driving ferociously into the fleshy part of his neck, at the root of the ear. The floor on which he stood was converted into a pool of blood. One of the proprietors, impatient at what he regarded as senseless obstinacy, kept urging the driver to proceed to still severer extremities, when Charles Young, who was a great lover of animals, expostulated with him, went up to the poor patient sufferer, and patted and caressed him; and when the driver was about to wield his instrument again, with even still more vigour, he caught him by the wrist as in a vice, and stayed his hand from further violence. While an angry altercation was going on between Young and the man of colour, who was the driver, Captain Hay, of theAshel, who had brought over 'Chuny' in his ship, and had petted him greatly on the voyage, came in and begged to know what was the matter. Before a word of explanation could be given, the much-wronged creature spoke for himself; for, as soon as he perceived the entrance of his patron, he waddled up to him, and, with a look of gentle appeal, caught hold of his hand with his proboscis, plunged it into his bleeding wound, and then thrust it before his eyes. The gesture seemed to say, as plainly as if it had been enforced by speech, 'See how these cruel men treat Chuny. Canyouapprove of it?' The hearts of the hardest present were sensibly touched by what they saw, and among them that of the gentleman who had been so energetic in promoting its harsh treatment. It was under a far better impulse that he ran out into the street, purchased a few apples ata stall, and offered them to him. Chuny eyed him askance, took them, threw them beneath his feet, and when he had crushed them to pulp, spurned them from him. Young, who had gone into Covent Garden on the same errand as the gentleman who had preceded him, shortly after re-entered, and also held out to him some fruit, when, to the astonishment of the bystanders, the elephant ate every morsel, and after he had done so, twined his trunk with studied gentleness around Young's waist, marking by his action that, though he had resented a wrong, he did not forget a kindness.
It was in the year 1814 that Harris parted with Chuny to Cross, the proprietor of the menagerie at Exeter Change. One of the purchaser's first acts was to send Charles Young a life ticket of admission to his exhibition; and it was one of his little innocent vanities, when passing through the Strand with any friend, to drop in on Chuny, pay him a visit in his den, and show the intimate relations which existed between them. Some years after, when the elephant's theatrical career was run, and he was reduced to play the part of captive in one of the cages of Exeter Change, a thoughtless dandy one day amused himself by teasing him with the repeated offer of lettuces—a vegetable for which he was known to have an antipathy. At last he presented him with an apple, but, at the moment of his taking it, drove a large pin into his trunk, and then sprang out of big reach. The keeper seeing that the poor creature was getting angry, warned the silly fellow off, lest he should become dangerous. With a contemptuous shrug of the shoulder, he trudged off to the other end of the gallery, and there displayed his cruel ingenuity on other humbler beasts, till, after the absence of half-an-hour, he once more approached one of the cages opposite the elephant's. By this time he had forgotten his pranks with Chuny, but Chuny had not forgotten him; and as he was standing with his back towards him, he thrust his proboscis through the bars of his prison, twitched off the offender's hat, dragged it in to him, tore it to shreds, then threw it into the face of the offending gaby, consummating his revenge with a loud guffaw of exultation. All present proclaimed their approbation of this act of retributive justice, and the discomfited coxcomb had to retreat from the scene in confusion, jump into a hackney coach, and betake himself to the hatter's in quest of a new tile for his unroofed skull. The tragic end of poor Chuny must be within the recollection of many of my readers. From some cause unknown he went mad, and after poison had been tried in vain it took 152 shots, discharged by a detachment of the Guards, to despatch him.[237]
The elephant in many respects displays strange peculiarities of emotional temperament. Thus Mr. Corse says:—'If a wild elephant happens to be separated from its young for only two or three days, though giving suck, she never after recognises or acknowledges it;'[238]yet the young one knows its dam, and cries plaintively for her assistance.
Again, in the wild state, the spirit of exclusiveness shown by members of a herd (i.e.family) towards elephants of other herds is remarkable. Sir E. Tennent writes:—
If by any accident an elephant becomes hopelessly separated from his own herd, he is not permitted to attach himself to any other. He may browse in the vicinity, or frequent the same place to drink and to bathe; but the intercourse is only on a distant and conventional footing, and no familiarity or intimate association is under any circumstances permitted. To such a height is this exclusiveness carried, that even amidst the terror of an elephant corral, when an individual, detached from his own party in themêléeand confusion, has been driven into the enclosure with an unbroken herd, I have seen him repulsed in every attempt to take refuge among them, and driven off by heavy blows with their trunks as often as he attempted to insinuate himself within the circle which they had formed for common security. There can be no reasonable doubt that this jealous and exclusive policy not only contributes to produce, but mainly serves to perpetuate, the class of solitary elephants which are known by the termgoondahsin India, and which from their vicious propensities and predatory habits are calledHora, orRogues, in Ceylon.[239]
If by any accident an elephant becomes hopelessly separated from his own herd, he is not permitted to attach himself to any other. He may browse in the vicinity, or frequent the same place to drink and to bathe; but the intercourse is only on a distant and conventional footing, and no familiarity or intimate association is under any circumstances permitted. To such a height is this exclusiveness carried, that even amidst the terror of an elephant corral, when an individual, detached from his own party in themêléeand confusion, has been driven into the enclosure with an unbroken herd, I have seen him repulsed in every attempt to take refuge among them, and driven off by heavy blows with their trunks as often as he attempted to insinuate himself within the circle which they had formed for common security. There can be no reasonable doubt that this jealous and exclusive policy not only contributes to produce, but mainly serves to perpetuate, the class of solitary elephants which are known by the termgoondahsin India, and which from their vicious propensities and predatory habits are calledHora, orRogues, in Ceylon.[239]
The emotional temper, or rather transformation of emotional psychology, which is exhibited by the Rogues here mentioned, is as extraordinary as it is notorious. From being a peaceable, sympathetic, and magnanimous animal, the elephant, when excluded from the society of its kind, becomes savage, cruel, and morose to a degree unequalled in any other animal. The repulsive accounts of the bloodthirsty rage and wanton destructiveness of Rogues show that their actions are not due to sudden bursts of fury at the sight of man or his works, but rather to adeliberate and brooding resolve to wage war on everything, so that the animal patiently lies in wait for travellers, rushing from his ambush only when he finds that the latter are within his power. As showing the cold-blooded determination of this murderous desire, I may quote the following case, as it was communicated to Sir E. Tennent:—