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Title: Wild beasts

Subtitle: A study of the characters and habits of the elephant, lion,
leopard, panther, jaguar, tiger, puma, wolf, and grizzly bear

Author: John Hampden Porter

Release Date: September 14, 2023 [eBook #71639]

Language: English

Credits: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
         at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
         generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
         Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILD BEASTS ***





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




WILD BEASTS


[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT.

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




                              WILD BEASTS

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

                                   BY
                           J. HAMPDEN PORTER

                             _ILLUSTRATED_

                                NEW YORK
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
                                  1894




                          COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.




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




CONTENTS


                                    PAGE

  THE ELEPHANT                         1

  THE LION                            76

  THE LEOPARD AND PANTHER            136

  THE JAGUAR                         175

  THE TIGER                          196

  THE PUMA                           257

  THE WOLF                           306

  THE GRIZZLY BEAR                   352




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  THE ELEPHANT            _Frontispiece_
                                  _Page_
  THE LION                            76

  THE LEOPARD                        136

  THE JAGUAR                         175

  THE TIGER                          196

  THE PUMA                           257

  THE WOLF                           306

  THE GRIZZLY BEAR                   352




WILD BEASTS




THE ELEPHANT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That “the reasoning elephant,” of whom Vartomannus (“_Apud Gesnerum_”)
exclaims in terms that have been repeated for nearly two thousand
years, “_Vidi elephantos quosdam qui prudentiores mihi vidabantur
quàm quibusdam in locis hominis_,” should have thus relinquished
his advantages, abandoned an unassailable position, and knowing the
consequences, rushed upon destruction in this way, is deplorable, and
the worst of it is that he always does this. The intellect of which
Strabo calmly asserts that it “_ad rationale animal proxime accedit_,”
is never sufficient to save him. Probably, however, this conduct might
appear to be more consistent, if instead of trusting to these very
classical but perfectly worthless opinions, we looked upon it from the
standpoint which Sanderson’s description affords. “Though possessed
of a proboscis which is capable of guarding it against such dangers,
the elephant readily falls into pits dug to receive it, and which are
only covered with a few sticks and leaves. Its fellows make no effort
(in general) to assist the fallen one, as they might easily do by
kicking in the earth around the edge, but fly in terror. It commonly
happens that a young elephant tumbles into a pit, near which its mother
will remain till the hunters come, without doing anything to help it;
not even feeding it by throwing in a few branches.... Whole herds of
elephants are led into enclosures which they could break through as
easily as if they were made of corn stalks ... and which no other wild
animal would enter; and single ones are caught by their hind legs being
tied together by men under cover of tame elephants. Animals that happen
to escape are captured again without trouble; even experience does not
bring them wisdom. I do not think that I traduce the elephant, when I
say that it is, in many things, a stupid animal.”

Baldwin, Harris, and a few other authorities, report that elephants
are sometimes attacked by the black rhinoceros, but otherwise they
have no foes except man. In Sir James Alexander’s account (“Excursion
into Africa”) of the manner in which these beasts attempt to defend
themselves against the charge of an enemy of this kind, it is implied
that the trunk is habitually used offensively. “In fighting the
elephant,” he observes, the two-horned black rhinoceros, for no white
rhinoceros ever does this, “avoids the blow with its trunk and the
thrust with its tusks, dashes at the elephant’s belly, and rips it up.”
Quite a number of writers have derided and denied statements of this
nature, and if it were not that they have likewise scouted everything
which they did not see themselves, their dissent might have more
weight than it has. Everybody knows that the species of rhinoceros
spoken of are of all wild beasts the most irritable, aggressive, and
blindly ferocious; that they will, as Selous asserts, “charge anybody
or anything.” Apart from the question whether this kind of combat
ever takes place, or what the result would be if it did, so many
reasons exist why the trunk should not be used like a flail, as here
represented, that good observers have failed to recognize the fact
that it sometimes is so employed. At all events, in face of various
assertions to the effect that it never strikes with its trunk, we
find Andersson nearly killed in this manner. He was shooting from a
“skärm”; that is to say, a trench about four feet deep, twelve or
fifteen long, and strongly roofed except at the ends. This hiding-place
and fortification occupied “a narrow neck of land dividing two small
pools”--the water-holes of Kabis in Africa. “It was a magnificent
moonlight night,” and the hunter soon heard the beasts coming along a
rocky ravine near by. Directly, “an immense elephant followed by the
towering forms of eighteen other bulls” moved down from high ground
towards his hiding place, “with free, sweeping, unsuspecting, and
stately step.” In the luminous mist their colossal figures assumed
gigantic proportions, “but the leader’s position did not afford an
opportunity for the shoulder shot,” and Andersson waited until his
“enormous bulk” actually towered above his head, without firing. “The
consequence was,” he says “that in the act of raising the muzzle of
my rifle over the skärm, my body caught his eye, and before I could
place the piece to my shoulder, he swung himself round, and with trunk
elevated, and ears spread, desperately charged me. It was now too late
to think of flight, much less of slaying the savage beast. My own
life was in the most imminent jeopardy; and seeing that if I remained
partially erect he would inevitably seize me with his proboscis, I
threw myself upon my back with some violence; in which position, and
without shouldering the rifle, I fired upwards at random towards his
chest, uttering at the same time the most piercing shouts and cries.
The change of position in all probability saved my life; for at the
same instant, the enraged animal’s trunk descended precisely upon the
spot where I had been previously crouched, sweeping away the stones
(many of them of large size) that formed the front of my skärm, as if
they had been pebbles. In another moment his broad forefoot passed
directly over my face.” Confused, as Andersson supposed, by his cries,
and by the wound he had received, the elephant “swerved to the left,
and went off with considerable rapidity.”

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.

This animal is easily excited, very irritable, prone to take offence,
and subject to fits of hysterical passion. Thus it happens that wild
elephants are the most formidable objects of pursuit known to exist,
and that the majority of those held in durance exhibit dangerous
outbreaks of temper. When an elephant is vicious, he displays
capabilities in the way of evil such as none of his kind, when left
to themselves, have ever been known to manifest in the direction of
virtue. A “rogue” is the most terrible of wild beasts; the captive
tusker who has determined upon murder finds no being but man, who in
the prosecution of his design is so patient, so self-contained, so
deceitful, and so deadly. It is idle to say, speaking of the relations
between elephants and men, that the good qualities of the former
greatly predominate, since if it had been otherwise, no association
between them would have been possible--they could not have inhabited
the same regions.

The concluding pages may, perhaps, serve to show how far this sketch of
the elephant’s character is compatible with facts.

Charles John Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) observes that,
“whether or not the elephant be the harmless creature he is represented
by many, certain it is that to the sportsman he is the most formidable
of all those beasts, the lion not excepted, that roam the African
wilds; and few there are who make the pursuit of him a profession, that
do not, sooner or later, come to grief of some kind.” Being social
animals, there is a certain sympathy and affection between members of
the same family; but while striking instances of this are recorded, the
bulk of evidence tends the other way.

Impressive examples of solicitude have, however, been observed. Moodie
tells that he saw a female--whom the experience of most hunters shows
to be much more likely to act in this manner than a male--guard her
wounded mate, and how she, “regardless of her own danger, quitted
her shelter in the woods, rushed out to his assistance, walked round
and round him, chased away the assailants, and returning to his side
caressed him. Whenever he attempted to walk, she placed her flank or
her shoulder to his wounded side and supported him.” Frederick Green
wrote an altogether unique account to Andersson of the succor of an
elephant that had been shot, by one who was a stranger, of the same
sex, and who encountered him far from the scene where his misfortune
had befallen him.

The Bushmen, he says, often asserted that elephants would carry water
in their trunks to a wounded companion at a long distance in the
“Weldt.” Green, however, did not believe it, until, while hunting in
the Lake Regions, he was compelled, from want of ammunition, “to leave
an elephant that was crippled (one of his fore legs had been broken,
besides having eleven wounds in his body) some thirty miles from the
waggons.”

“As I felt confident,” this writer continues, “that he would die of his
wounds ... I despatched Bushmen after him instead of going myself; but
they, not attending to my commands, remained for two days beside an
elephant previously killed by my after-rider. It was, therefore, not
until the fourth evening after I left this elephant that the Bushmen
came up with him.... They found him still alive and standing, but
unable to walk.... They slept near him, thinking he might die during
the night; but at an early hour after dark they heard another elephant
at a distance, apparently calling, and he was answered by the wounded
one. The calls and answers continued until the stranger came up, and
they saw him giving the hurt one water, after which he assisted in
taking his maimed companion away.” Such was the story told Green when
the party came back. He disbelieved their statements entirely, went off
to the spot to see what had happened for himself, and thus relates his
own observations:--

“The next afternoon found me at the identical place where I had left
the wounded elephant. I can only say that the account of the Bushmen as
to the stranger elephant coming up to the maimed one was proved by the
spoor; and that their further assertion as to his having assisted his
unfortunate friend in removing elsewhere was also fully verified from
the spoor of the two being close alongside of each other--the broken
leg of the wounded one leaving after it a deep furrow in the sand. As I
was satisfied that these parts of their story were correct, I did not
see any further reason to doubt the other.”

Male elephants rarely fall in the holes which undermine so many parts
of Africa; they carry their trunks low, have no one to look out for
but themselves, and so detect these traps, and generally uncover them.
Moodie makes the statement that many elephants follow the recent
trails of those who went before them to watering-places, and if these
turned off, took it for a sign of danger, and did not drink. After
what Inglis and Hallet say to the same effect of tigers, after St.
John’s observations upon red deer, and Lloyd’s on the Scandinavian
fox, inductive reasoning like this does not seem at all incredible.
Amral, chief of the Namaqua Hottentots, told Galton and Andersson that
on one occasion he and others were in pursuit of a herd of elephants,
and at length came to a wagon-track which the animals had crossed.
Here the latter, as was seen by their spoor, had come to a halt, and
after carefully examining the ground with their trunks, formed a circle
in the centre of which their leader took up his position. Afterwards
individuals were sent out to make further investigations. The _Raad_,
or debate, this chieftain went on to say, must have been long and
weighty, for they (the elephants) had written much on the ground with
their probosces. The decision evidently was that to remain longer
in that locality would be dangerous, and they therefore came to the
unanimous resolution to decamp forthwith. Attempts to overtake them,
Amral went on to say, were useless; for, though they followed their
tracks till sunset, they saw no more of them.

What these elephants thought when they found a track which, to them,
was new and inexplicable, is, of course, a matter of conjecture; but
their trail revealed everything that was done on this occasion, as
clearly as if the Hottentots had been eye-witnesses of their actions.

Colonel Julius Barras (“India and Tiger-Hunting”) entered _con amore_
into a study of the elephant, so far as its character came into play
when the animal was employed in sport; and he did what no other
gentleman, to the author’s knowledge, has ever done; namely, turned
mahout himself, and drove shikar tuskers against many a tiger. His
appreciation of this creature’s courage, benevolence, and reliability
is very much in accord with that which has been expressed; but he
offers some observations upon vice that should not be overlooked. “One
peculiarity of elephants,” remarks the Colonel, “is that, when desirous
of killing any one, they nearly always select as a victim their own or
a rival’s attendant.” It seems rather strained, however, to speak of
this fact as a “peculiarity,” since circumstances would naturally bring
about such a selection.

But no provocation need be offered to an elephant in order that he
should desire to kill a man. “Sahib,” said Mohammed Yakoob, the driver
of an immense old tusker, whom Colonel Barras had drawn from the
government stables at Baroda, “you see that this elephant is a beast
void of religion (_be imān_), and he hates the English.”

“Dear me,” answered the Colonel, “and how does he get on with the
natives?”

“Oh!” replied the mahout, “much better, but still he is uncertain even
with them. He has killed two, and there is but little doubt that he
will do for me, his keeper, sooner or later.”

Colonel Barras knew that Futteh Ali, the elephant in question, had
never seen him before, and was well aware that it was impossible
for this creature to feel offended at any act of his. The colonel’s
mind was also full of conventional ideas concerning elephants, so he
disbelieved what the driver told him, and resolved to make friends
with Futteh Ali, and ride him after tigers. He tells what happened in
the following words:--

“One afternoon I considered myself fortunate in arriving before Futteh
Ali when no one was in sight. I drew up in front of him with a few
pieces of chopped sugar-cane in my hand. I looked attentively at the
colossus, and could observe no signs of any unusual emotion. I spoke
to him in those tones which I flattered myself he considered dulcet.
On this he gently waved his ears and twinkled his eyes, as who should
say, ‘It’s all right; you are my friend.’ I now called out cheerfully,
‘Salaam, Futteh Ali, Salaam!’ and raised my arm at the same time. To
this he responded by lifting his trunk over his head in return for
the salute. This last act made assurance doubly sure. I mounted the
platform, and as I did so the elephant again flung up his trunk, and
opened his mouth, as if to accept with gratitude my sweet and juicy
offerings. But his heart was full of treachery. He well knew that with
his front feet manacled it would be useless to pursue me even if I
had but a few inches start of him. He therefore dissembled with great
cleverness and self-command till I had actually leant up against one of
his tusks, and had got my hand in his mouth; then he suddenly belched
forth a shout of rage, and made a sweep at me with his tusks that sent
me flying off the platform into the dust below.... I sat up bareheaded
and half-stunned, just in time to see the under-keeper, who had been
slumbering behind a pile of equipments all this time, sent with greater
force in a backward direction.... The elephant, meanwhile, had thrown
off the mask; it was evidently only the shackles on his front feet
that prevented him from getting off the platform and finishing us.”

Very few persons would have done the same, but Colonel Barras took
Futteh Ali for his Shikar elephant, and he afterwards carried him well
in many a dangerous strait. But he was wise enough never to give him a
second opportunity to take his life.

Another tusker enraged himself against Colonel Barras for a very
slight cause. He was coming back one day, riding this animal, Ashmut
Gūj by name, when, as he says, “I determined to see what this beast
would do, if I, seated on his back, were to imitate a tiger charging.”
Accordingly, he began to mimic that short, hoarse, savage cry, and the
elephant, who was not at all deceived, did nothing but raise his trunk.
The mahout, however, warned him to desist. “Every time you make that
noise,” said he, “the elephant points his trunk over his back and takes
a long sniff to inform himself as to which of his passengers is trying
to vex him.” Barras stopped at once, but the evil had been done.

“On arriving at the bungalow,” the Colonel continues, “I had quite
forgotten this little incident. Not so Ashmut Gūj. At the word of
command he bent his hind legs and allowed the three natives to slip off
his back in succession. I was the last to dismount, and as I touched
the ground the elephant rose with a swift motion, and aimed a fearful
kick at me with his enormous club-like hind foot. I started forward, so
as just to escape the blow, which would, of course, have annihilated
me. This elephant would never forgive me for the indignity I had put
upon him. Always upon dismounting he would try to rise, so as to repeat
his manœuvre, and it was necessary to make him kneel down completely
before I got off. Nor would I ever again feed him from my hand, as I
believe that if he could have got hold of me he would have trampled me.”

There is a tragic story told by the same author, of an elephant who
was “must.” His keeper did not know it, and, in fact, could not be
persuaded that such was the case.

Barras left Neemuch with a number of elephants, and among the rest an
old friend and favorite of his, Roghanath Gūj, whose mahout, Ghassee
Ram, had been in charge of him for eighteen years and thus acquired
a very great influence over the animal. Colonel Barras, who had not
seen this beast for some time, was at once struck by the indifference
displayed to his expressions of friendliness, and to those little
presents of sweets which these creatures enjoy so much. Evidently
Roghanath Gūj was changed; ill, perhaps? No, said and swore his
keeper, there was nothing the matter. His dulness, that sombre air
which excited surprise and suspicion, was nothing more than a little
irritability caused by the extremely hot weather. So Barras yielded his
better judgment to greater experience, and the consequence was that the
next day, while beating for a tiger, the elephant suddenly rushed upon
one of the attendants, and would have killed him if the man had not
taken off his turban and left it on a bush, while he himself slipped
down into the shade of a deep ravine. From this time forth Roghanath
Gūj was picketed by himself.

“Two days after,” says Barras, “we arrived at a small
village,”--Mehra,--“and close to it there were some enormous Banyan
trees, under which the elephants were secured. Opposite to them, on the
other side of a small clearing, stood our little camp. Here, after a
long and unsuccessful day’s beating after a wary tiger, we enjoyed our
late dinner, and had just sought our couches, clad for the night in our
light sleeping-suits, when a burst of affrighted cries broke upon our
ears. The tumult proceeded from the direction of the great tree where
Roghanath Gūj stood in solitude.

“We instantly rushed for our guns, and seized a hurricane lamp. We
made all haste in our slippered feet to the scene of action. As we got
within twenty yards of the elephant, Ghassee Ram (his driver) called
to us to halt. The animal, he said, was obeying him, and if nothing
further incensed him, he would be able to tie up his hind legs with a
rope, when he would be incapable (the fore-limbs being already chained)
of doing any more mischief. So we stood where we were, and waited
in great anxiety, whilst we could hear the mahout uttering the word
_Sōm-Sōm_, which is the order for an elephant to keep his hind quarters
towards any one who may be washing, or otherwise attending to him.
The night was as dark as pitch; nothing could be seen. According to
the different cries of the excited people, however, it was clear that
something had happened to the under-keeper of Roghanath Gūj. Some said
he was dead, some that he had escaped from his terrible assailant. I
called to the other elephant-keepers, but they had all gone with their
animals, I knew not whither, on the first alarm.

“Meanwhile Ghassee Ram was left quite alone to deal with the enraged
beast. Of course we talked to him all the time, and were prepared to
rush in and fire, as well as we could, if he called upon us to do
so. Every chance, however, would have been against our disabling the
elephant, who, maddened by such wounds as he might have received, would
have worked untold destruction during the long dark hours of a moonless
night. To the pluck of Ghassee Ram must be ascribed the avoidance of
such a calamity. In a few minutes, which seemed an age, the mahout
called out that we might advance. We did so, and never shall I forget
the weirdness of the scene that was lighted up by the bright rays of
the lamp I carried.

“Under the tree, and with his back to its stem, towered the dark form
of the elephant, whilst his mahout, a mere speck, stood a little to
his right. No other living being was visible, but close to the animal,
on the opposite side from Ghassee Ram, lay a small, shapeless object,
which a second glance showed to be the missing man. The elephant, with
his ears raised, seemed to be keeping guard over his victim, and would
probably kill any one who should attempt to remove the body, which lay
within reach of his trunk. Still, this must be done, and at once, for
life might yet be lingering in the shattered frame. I therefore gave
the hurricane lamp to the mahout, and ordered him to swing it up in
the elephant’s face, and call out his name at the same time. Ghassee
Ram, from the long habit of commanding this huge animal, had acquired
some powerful tones. As he swung the lamp, that hung by a large ring,
in the elephant’s face, and cried out ‘Roghanath Gūj, Roghanath Gūj,’
the animal seemed deeply impressed. As the light ascended for the third
time towards his dazzled eyes, I darted from between my two friends,
who stood covering the elephant with their guns, and drew forth the
unfortunate keeper. He was terribly mangled, and quite dead.” This
elephant was semi-delirious, and in that state the wild beast nature,
which had been covered by a thin layer of educational polish, came out
under the stimulus of some passing irritation. His mahout saw the man
struck down, and interfered; but the animal was only restrained by his
voice for a moment, and then completed the murder. He was not wholly
demented, however; for Colonel Barras says, “I could not but be touched
by the affection this huge creature displayed, even in his madness,
towards the only two people he loved,--Ghassee Ram and myself. I fed
him every day from my hand, and he never failed to clank his heavy
chains, and turn round to watch me till I disappeared in my tent on
leaving him.”

It is probable that many persons whose minds are made up on the subject
of elephants, may see nothing in this account but a case of perversion
due to disease, and will pass by the elephant’s evident power of
self-restraint and discrimination as of no significance; contending
that Roghanath Gūj, like all his kind, was naturally benevolent and
amiable. Likewise, that the vagaries belonging to certain forms of
mental alienation, temporary and chronic, are of the most eccentric
and various character, and that this instance proves nothing with
regard to the elephant’s inherent nature. As a mere matter of
reasoning, the objection is valid, and logically it is unanswerable;
but, perhaps, some of those who believe that these brutes possess
virtues of which most men are nearly destitute, will inform the world
why “must”-delirium or actual insanity in an elephant, always takes the
form of homicidal mania.




THE LION


“From the earliest times,” says the writer on this subject in the
“Encyclopædia Britannica,” “few animals have been better known to man
than the lion.” It is precisely because of this knowledge, for the most
part purely imaginary, that the real lion is less known than almost any
of the other great wild beasts. Not so much in this case on account
of the paucity of facts as from a plethora of fiction, his actual
character has very imperfectly come to light.

Since Aristotle there have always been naturalists who contended for
two species of these animals, and sometimes more.

[Illustration: THE LION.

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

In Greece, classification was made on the basis of size; in Rome, upon
that of color. With regard to the first, Sir Samuel Baker remarks
that the lions of Cutch and Guzrat are perhaps not so large as their
African congeners; but according to Dr. Jerdon (“Mammals of India”)
measurements show that they are fully equal in this respect. Gérard,
Livingstone, and others notice very discernible local contrasts in
bulk among them in different parts of Africa itself, and it has been
maintained by many that the lion grows smaller as one goes south from
the Atlas. Major Smee has also been largely followed in his opinion
that the Asiatic, or more particularly the Indian, lion is maneless.
Dr. Blyth, however, was able to demonstrate from the specimens in
the Calcutta Museum that this was not the case, and his view of the
accidental character of this deficiency is no doubt the true one.
Frederick Courteney Selous (“A Hunter’s Wanderings in Africa”) paid
particular attention to this feature, and he states that “out of fifty
male lion skins, scarcely two will be found alike in the color or
length of mane”; he adds that, judging from the same facts which those
who multiply natural groups rely upon, “it would be as reasonable to
suppose that there are twenty species as two.”

This is but a hint at those discrepancies which have arisen from
attaching different values to external and secondary characteristics.
Antagonisms of this kind are overabundant, still there is no doubt
that wherever lions now exist, they are specifically the same. There
is but one genus of lion, with a single species, whose members vary in
size, skin-appendages, color, temper, and habits, with the physiography
of those provinces they inhabit, and of their human population, with
breed, age, temperament, special environment, and their personal
experience of men and things.

Sir Samuel Baker (“The Rifle and Hound in Ceylon”) remarks in the
course of his observations upon the Cingalese buffalo that no
individual opinion upon the traits and disposition of an animal “can
be depended upon,” unless its pursuit “has been followed as a sport
by itself.” The results of many hunters’ experiences are, however, on
record, and so far as facts go, we are actually possessed of a more
varied and extensive acquaintance with the species than any individual
contact with it would be likely to give.

There is much that is inadequate and also illusory in Gérard’s
descriptions. Still, he met the formidable adversaries he encountered
in a heroic spirit, and had seen them face to face too often not to be
disabused of many errors. The sultan of the desert as known by him did
not fear man, was not abashed in his presence, and could not be quelled
by his eye. On the contrary, an attempt to stare him out of countenance
was, as Sir Samuel Baker observes, the surest means to provoke an
attack. Gérard’s experience carried him too far. He only knew the lions
of Algeria and Oran, but he thought that these animals were the same
everywhere. Such is not the case. The race is now extinct in great
areas where it was once distributed. No trace of it is left in many
countries of Asia Minor, and it is dying out in Western Asia and India.
In some regions man has exterminated the lion or driven him away, and
there are other districts where this animal has learned that the battle
nearly always goes against him, and where he now has to be forced to
fight. On the other hand, certain tribes cower before lions, and this
does not fail to change the relations they sustain towards mankind.

This imposing animal makes its appearance in art and literature very
early. Frequent mention is made of it in the Cuneiform tablets and
Hebrew Scriptures. In Pentaur’s Egyptian Epic upon the War of Rameses
II. against the Cheta or Hittites, lions are said to have accompanied
the king’s chariot, and fought as the Greek mastiffs (the dogs of
Molossos) did at Marathon, or those of the British during Cæsar’s
invasion. Herodotus (“Polymnia”) states that when Xerxes’ hordes were
moving in the country that lay between the rivers Nestos in Abedra,
and Achelous of Acarnania, the camel trains suffered much loss from
the attacks of these animals. He informs us that their range was
restricted to this district, and expresses his surprise that camels,
being creatures that these lions had never seen and might have been
supposed to shun, were their especial victims. After Herodotus, when
the Greeks began to write about everything that attracted their
attention, much was said in one way or another concerning lions, but
it amounted to no more than the little that can be found in Roman
archives. It really seems as if classic writers left out on purpose
everything that one would have cared most to know. Not even the minute
and laborious scholarship of the sixteenth century, devoted as it
mainly was to the explication of antiquity, has succeeded in extracting
from these records any information which is at all commensurate with
the opportunities afforded for observation in ancient times. The lion
occupied an exceptional position then as now; he was a favorite subject
for poetic allusion, for epigram, and rhetorical flourishes. But his
character was as much a conventional one at that time as it is at
present. This may be also seen in art, where, whether sculptured and
painted, or set in mosaics, he was depicted in what were supposed to
be characteristic attitudes from Persepolis and the rock tablets of
Kaf to the Sea of Darkness, and from the banks of the Orontes to the
cities of Africa. He impressed antiquity as he has done the modern
world, and so far as disposition and personal qualities are concerned,
most of what was known or thought then might have been condensed into
the modern statement of his traits given in the French “_Cyclopédie_”;
namely, that he was “_si fort et si courageux, qu’on l’a appellé le roi
des animaux_.”

What amount of truth there is in this view we shall see; in the
mean time it is natural enough to regret that those who might have
accomplished so much, have in fact done so little. Varro, Columella,
Aulus Gellius, and others wrote on game and hunting, but classic
notices of a _venatio_ in the amphitheatre are as terse and colorless
as entries in a log-book. Marsian boars, or wolves from the Apennines
were the most formidable creatures an ancient Italian could find in his
own country, and Virgil congratulates himself that such was the case.
“_Rabidæ tigres absunt et saeva leonum semina._” But the scribblers in
prose and verse who expatiated upon fish-ponds, nets, gins, snares,
Celtic, Lycaonian, and Umbrian hounds, with all the appliances of petty
sport, where were they while the _Ludi Circenses_ were going on? How
was it that these men, who gossiped about everything, never chatted
with the keepers of that great _Vivarium_ near the Prænestine gate,
where there were often wild beasts enough to stock the menageries of
the modern world? Why did they not tell of the fleets laden with such
cargoes that came to Ostia, interview the men who brought them as they
drank rough Massic together in the taverns under the Janiculum, or
report the talk of those dark satellites who guarded the _vivaria_ of
the Colosseum or theatre of Marcellus?

The reason was this: independently of everything else, a Roman of those
days was satiated with the sight of actual slaughter until all that
now fascinates the attention and enthralls the interest of a reader of
adventures had become insipid. The _bestiarii_, or wild beast fighters,
were a class apart from other gladiators. So far as our meagre supply
of information goes, these men did not meet a royal tiger as a Ghoorka
now does; that is to say, did not trust to perfect nerve, training,
and activity, to avoid the brute’s onset, and slay it by striking at
advantage; they appeared in armor and _actually fought_ with sword or
spear. Considering the style in which lions and tigers combat, one
cannot divine the use made of any defensive panoply, which, so far as
we can judge, would seem to have been more of an encumbrance than an
aid. An iron sword two feet long (for the much-talked-of Iberian steel
was most likely only a good quality of untempered metal) could hardly
have availed a hampered man in a hand-to-hand struggle of this kind,
except in case of accidents that must have been of rare occurrence.
Julius Cæsar’s Thessalian horsemen chased giraffes around the arena
until they were exhausted, and then killed them with a dagger thrust
at the junction of the spine and head; but it is safe to say that no
_bestiarius_ armed with a _venabulum_ went through any performances of
this kind with a black rhinoceros. Yet every formidable animal on earth
perished upon “a Roman holiday.” That is, however, all we know.

It is now the fashion to say that lions are such timid creatures that
they might be expected to do little injury if they got out of their
cages in the presence of a crowd. When, writes Plutarch, the city of
Megara was stormed by Calamus, their keepers or the authorities loosed
those lions kept for the games--“opened their dens, and unchained them
in the streets to stop the enemy’s onslaught. But instead of that they
fell upon the citizens and tore them in such a manner that their very
foes were struck with horror.” Another curious comment upon the timid
and retiring behavior of these animals is found in the fact that while
they were protected in Africa (preserved for the spectacles) by cruel
game laws which deprived people of the natural right of self-defence,
the loss of life in that province was so great that it excited
compassion even in Rome, and finally led to the mitigation of these
statutes by Honorius, and their final abolition during the reign of
Justinian.

Moffat (“Missionary Labors and Scenes in South Africa”) had the
reputation of knowing more about lions than almost any one else, and
it was his opinion that eying them was a very questionable proceeding.
Both he and Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) say that this
experiment may sometimes apparently succeed, but “under ordinary
circumstances” a hungry lion “does not spend any time gazing on the
human eye ... but takes the easiest and most expeditious means of
making a meal of a man.” It is not very often that things so arrange
themselves as to give any one a chance to try what effect can be
produced in this way; still everything that could happen has happened,
and combining what follows with the statements already made, it would
appear that this much-talked-of personal power is a delusion.

“A lion,” writes the Hon. W. H. Drummond (“The Large Game and Natural
History of South and South-east Africa”) “will seldom stand much
bullying. He may and often will get out of your way, nay, even leave
his prey if you approach it, and should you follow him, will perhaps do
so a second time, but that is about the extent of it.” If interference
is pushed further, the lion, “if a male, growls deeply, and makes his
mane bristle up round him; or, if a lioness, crouches down like a
cat, lays her ears back, and shows her teeth, and in most such cases,
when the brute is fairly roused, a charge is inevitable whether you
advance or retreat.” On the other hand, “some lions make a point of
attacking every human being they meet, without provocation or apparent
cause.” This is unusual, but “there are many instances of lions having
evidently attacked a human being from no other cause than surprise or
fear at suddenly finding themselves so close to him.... In the above
cases, utter immobility and coolness will often avert an attack; for
if the animal, judging by your behavior, imagines that you do not want
to hurt it, it will, after trying you for several minutes, and even
making one or two sham charges, often walk away and allow you to do
the same.... Several instances of this have occurred within my own
knowledge. A large native hunting party had gone out and were scattered
among the thorns, when one of my gun-bearers, who had accompanied
it, suddenly found himself face to face with a full-grown male lion,
without a yard between them. He had presence of mind sufficient to
stand perfectly still, without attempting to take one of the spears he
carried in his left hand into the other, and after a couple of minutes
the brute walked away, turning its head round every second to watch him.

“This could not be attributed to the efficacy of the human eye, as the
man afterwards told me that he had not dared to raise his from the
ground. This lion before going far met another native, who raised his
spear, as if to throw it; upon which it instantly sprang upon him, and
inflicted such wounds that he died within half an hour. I have no doubt
that if this man had stood still, he would have been perfectly safe.”

A still more striking example of the fact that lions, unless hungry,
enraged or alarmed, often pass man by is given by Drummond as follows:
“A hunter of mine was following the trail of a herd of buffalo through
some dense thickets, alone, and armed only with a single barrel.
Suddenly a male lion rose out of one of them, and sitting on his
hind quarters, snarled at him; he had hardly seen it when another,
about three-quarters grown, showed itself within a few yards on one
side, while from behind he could hear the low rumbling growl of a
third. Partly turning so as to watch them all, he saw that the latter
was a lioness, and that three cubs not much larger than cats were
following her. He had, unawares, got into the centre of a lion family.
Unfortunately, one of the cubs saw him, and without exhibiting the
least fear, ran up to him; upon which its mother, in terror for her
offspring, rushed up, and, as he afterwards described it, fairly danced
round and round him, springing to within a yard of him, sideways,
backwards, and in every way but on him. Luckily he was a man of iron
nerve, and bred from the cradle in scenes like this; he therefore
remained quiet, taking no more notice of the frantic behavior of the
lioness than if she had not existed; for, as he said, it was a hundred
to one that I did not kill the mother, and, if I had, the other two
would have avenged her.” It ended by her ultimately retiring into the
thicket, and watching him as he cleared out; but there can be no doubt
that any hesitation, nervousness, or involuntary movement on his part
would have been fatal.

In his description of the lion, Buffon (“Histoire Naturelle”) has
delivered a number of opinions based upon imperfect knowledge. This
animal, he says, owes its characteristics to climate alone. Lions only
inhabit tropical countries, and among the denizens of hot latitudes
they are “_le plus fort, le plus fier, le plus terrible de tous_.” On
the Atlas Mountains, where snow sometimes falls, these beasts have
neither the strength, size, courage, nor ferocity of those who roam
the southern plains, and for the same reason, the lion of America,
if it deserves that name, is but an inferior beast. Man has greatly
circumscribed the range of _Felis leo_, and the natural character of
existing varieties has been greatly changed through his inventions.
Formerly lions were bolder than they are at present; still, in the
Sahara and other places, it happens that “_un seul de ses lions du
désert attaque souvent une caravane entière_.” Owing to its brave and
magnanimous character, a lion only takes life when compelled to do
so by hunger. Certain moral qualities may be said to inhere in the
species at large, but there are also individual lions that add to
these endowments of their race the finest personal traits. More than
one species of this genus exists, and an average lion is about twelve
or thirteen feet long. He is less keen of sight, and has not so good
an organ of scent as other beasts of prey, and for this reason lions
make use of jackals in hunting. All animals they pursue live upon the
ground, and in consequence it is not customary with them to climb trees
like the tiger and puma--“_il ne grimpe pas sur les arbres comme le
tigre ou le puma_.” Their attack is always made from an ambush, whence
the victim is sprung upon and struck down; but it is not devoured until
after life is extinct.

All this, it may be repeated, is erroneous. Climate alone does not
form geographical varieties. Species require to be adjusted to the
whole physiography of their respective regions, and to their organic
environments as well. The lion inhabits temperate latitudes where the
weather is often cold, and it is on those parallels which in Africa run
north and south of the equatorial belt, that he attains his highest
development.

With respect to the lion of the Atlas, Major Leveson (“Hunting Grounds
of the Old World”), General Daumas (“Les Chevaux du Sahara”), and
Gérard (“Journal des Chasseurs”) have shown that it is larger than
its congener further south. Buffon’s thirteen feet lions belong to an
earlier geological period than ours; no such specimens of the cat kind
are at present alive, but his tribute to the courage of the king of
beasts is not perhaps altogether undeserved. Of course there is nothing
in his remarks about magnanimity and the like, and as for a single
lion attacking a caravan, the statement is absurd. Lions and troops of
lions are described by many observers--Le Vaillant, Cumming, Oswell,
Harris, Davidson, Kerr--as having forayed upon encampments in various
ways, but there is no authentic account of any incident such as Buffon
relates.

What he says about the animal’s deficiency in sight and scenting
power is not supported in any way by facts. There is nothing in
the creature’s anatomy to warrant such an assertion. Its olfactory
apparatus is well developed, and as it is a beast of prey, and belongs
to a family distinguished for keenness of scent, there is no reason
to think that this function does not correspond with its structure.
Neither is there anything, so far as the writer knows, in the better
class of observations made upon lions, to indicate any deficiency in
this respect. With reference to sight, if Buffon meant more than that
they, as being nocturnal in habit, are at a disadvantage in the sun’s
glare, it was, we must believe, a mistake upon his part. Their organ of
sight is structurally of a high order; it is so placed that the range
of vision is large, and no good authority has disparaged the lion’s
far-sightedness, or the defining power of his eye.

None of the great cats is, however, strictly nocturnal except in places
where they are constantly pursued. Lions frequently stalk or drive
game while the sun is up; they see perfectly well during these hours,
and it is evidently a mistake to give the primary importance commonly
attributed to it to a peculiarity of vision which the _Felidæ_ have in
common with other classes.

Buffon’s opinion of the use to which lions put jackals falls to the
ground before facts. It is an old idea that they, and tigers also,
employ them as scouts; nevertheless it would appear that the true
relation has been overlooked, and that it is the jackal who uses the
lion. When a lion leaves his lair he always roars, and if any jackals
are in the vicinity, the sound attracts them at once; it is like an
invitation to a meal, for these satellites feast upon the offal.
Similarly, as the lion’s majestic form moves with long and soft but
heavy tread through the gloom, every jackal that sights the grim hunter
follows him.

In works on natural history lions are classed among the _educabilia_.
There is, however, a certain ludicrousness in distinguishing this
animal as one that can be taught. So can a flea. Every creature with
a nervous system may be and is instructed in some manner. All living
things so provided learn, though not necessarily through tuition,
nor in all cases consciously. Dr. Maudsley’s remark (“Physiology and
Pathology of the Mind”), that “a spinal cord without memory would be
an idiotic spinal cord,” is full of meaning. Wherever a nervous arc
exists, there is memory and the potentialities of mind. The central
axis is nothing more than an integrated series of such connected arcs
ending in a brain when the animal is sufficiently elevated.

A whelp is born in the spring, or towards the close of winter, a little
sooner or later, as the latitude varies. Before this event the parents
have fixed upon some solitary spot in which to establish themselves.
The mother’s character undergoes a temporary change for the better
during the period of maternity. While the pairing season lasts she
is a shameless wanton, ready at any moment to abandon her mate for a
stronger rival. Desperate combats accompany the lion’s courtship, in
which both parties are frequently killed, and in almost all instances
these are brought on by the lioness, who seems to take a savage
pleasure in provoking such duels.

Gérard gives the following story, which is in all essentials a true
picture of the behavior of both males and females at the time spoken
of. “It was in the stags’ rutting season, and Mohammed, a great hunter
of every kind of wild animal, perched himself at sunset in the boughs
of an oak tree to watch for a doe that had been seen wandering in the
vicinity, accompanied by several stags. The tree he climbed stood in
the middle of a large clearing, and near it was a path which led into
the neighboring forest. Towards midnight he saw a lioness enter this
open space, followed by a red lion, with a full-grown mane, who carried
the carcass of an ox. Soon after they were followed by another lion,
a lioness, and three cubs. The first lioness strolled from the path,
and came and laid herself down at the foot of the oak, while the lion
remained in the path, and seemed to be listening to some sound as yet
inaudible to the hunter.

“Mohammed soon heard a distant roaring in the forest, and the lioness
immediately answered it. Then the lion commenced to roar with a voice
so loud that the frightened man let his gun fall, and held fast to the
branch with both hands lest he should tumble from the tree.

“As the voice of the animal heard in the distance gradually
approached, the lioness welcomed him with renewed roarings, and the
lion, restless, went and came from the path to her, as if he wished her
to keep silence, and then, from the lioness to the path again, as if to
say, ‘Let the vagabond come; he will meet his match.’

“In about an hour, a large lion as black as a wild boar stepped out of
the forest and stood on the edge of the clearing in the full moonlight.
The lioness raised herself up to go to him, but the lion anticipating
her intention, rushed before her, and marched straight towards his
adversary. With measured steps and slow they approached to within a
dozen paces of each other; their great heads high in air, their tails
slowly sweeping down the grass that grew around them. They crouched to
the earth; a moment’s pause, and then they bounded with a roar high in
air, and rolled upon the ground, locked in their last embrace.

“Their struggle was long and fearful to the involuntary witness of this
midnight duel. The bones of the combatants cracked under their powerful
jaws, their talons strewed the grass with entrails, and painted it red
with blood, and their roarings, now guttural, now sharp and loud, told
of their rage and agony.

“At the beginning of the conflict the lioness crouched low, with her
eyes fixed on the gladiators, and all the while the battle raged,
manifested, by the slow, cat-like motion of her tail, the pleasure she
felt at the spectacle. When the scene closed, and all was still and
quiet in the moonlit glade, she cautiously approached the spot, and
snuffling at the bodies of her two lovers, walked leisurely away,
without deigning to notice the gross but appropriate epithet Mohammed
sent after her, instead of a bullet, as she went off.”

This otherwise excellent sketch loses something of its _vraisemblance_
from carelessness and inaccuracy in execution, and also from an
unfortunate style, which gives to most French narratives of this kind,
however true, the air of romances. Gérard knew that a doe is never
accompanied for any length of time by several stags, and there can be
no excuse for making a lion range the woods with an ox in his mouth.

When cubs are about two months old, they begin to forage in the
vicinity of their lair. This hunting, however, is more than half play,
for they are sprightly little creatures whose gambols and infantile
familiarities soon become distasteful to the grave and morose nature
of their father. The lion then takes up his quarters out of their
reach, but at the same time near enough to come to the assistance
of his family if aid should be needed. Two cubs as a rule are born
together, and one of these is generally a male. If the birth be single,
this is said to be invariably the case, so that the fact that males
considerably outnumber females is accounted for, and with it both the
wantonness of the latter, and those trials to which their consorts are
exposed. The race maintains its place by the sacrifice of its weaker
numbers. The strongest whelps and most powerful lions live, mate, and
kill or dispossess their rivals. Sexual selection on the lionesses’
part aids this process, and the result is, as everywhere and always,
that the fittest survive, and transmit their traits with a result
which is in every way beneficial to the species.

A great many young ones die while cutting their teeth. If this has been
accomplished safely, however, their education begins immediately after
that event.

A lion does not reach maturity until the eighth year, and he lives to
be about forty. At the end of his second year, however, the animal has
attained considerable size, strength, and agility, while his predatory
tendencies are then more freely indulged than at any subsequent
period of life. Up to the time at which mutual indifference separates
parents and offspring, the latter have been directed and assisted in
all things. Game has been found for them, and methods of capture and
killing have been illustrated. Thus far experience has brought with it
only assurances of success. They have been incited to take life for
practice, encouraged to act when there was no necessity for acting,
guarded from the consequences of temerity and incapacity. Therefore,
when separation takes place and they go forth alone, it is with an
undue self-confidence which often entails disaster. Young lions are
notoriously daring, destructive, and dangerous.

There are many dogmatic and differing decisions with regard to the
manner in which lions seize, kill, and eat their victims, as also in
respect to the degree in which their natural ferocity may be tempered
by fear or discretion. There must be, of course, a family likeness
among them in these particulars, but no such uniformity as has been
imagined can be found in their behavior when a wide enough view is
taken.

The fanciful opinion that a lion disdains to eat game that he has not
stricken himself, vanishes at once. Derogatory to his dignity as it
may be, the fact is that he will consume anything he finds dead, that
his taste is of the most indiscriminate character, and that he is
very frequently a foul feeder. “Many instances,” says Andersson (“The
Lion and the Elephant”), “have come to my knowledge which show that
when half famished he will not only greedily devour the leavings of
other beasts, but even condescend to carrion.” In another work (“Lake
N’gami”) the same author states that lions eat carrion without being
“half famished.” Sir Samuel Baker (“Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia”)
saw several that he knew were not pressed by hunger feeding on the
putrid body of a buffalo shot by himself, and Gérard (“Journal des
Chasseurs”) very nearly lost his life by a lioness who had come to
feed upon the carcass of a horse in the last stages of decomposition.
Lions appropriate any meat they may happen to find. “I have frequently
discovered them feasting on quadrupeds that had fallen before my
rifle,” remarks Colonel Cumming (“A Hunter’s Life in Africa”). Major
Leveson (“Sport in Many Lands”), W. H. Drummond (“The Large Game and
Natural History of Southern Africa”), Colonel Delgorgue, (“Voyage dans
l’Afrique Australe”), Sir W. C. Harris, (“Wild Sports in Southern
Africa”), and H. C. Selous (“A Hunter’s Wanderings in Africa”), all
confirm the assertion that “lions are by no means too proud to eat game
killed by others.” This charge must be admitted, and it is entirely
conformable with another; namely, that his majesty is one of the
laziest beings alive. “Laziness, assurance, and boldness,” says Gérard,
are his most conspicuous traits of character, and Moffat (“Missionary
Labors and Scenes in South Africa”) adds gluttony to the list. He was
“taken aback,” he assures us, by the astonishing feats in the way of
gormandizing that this animal performed. It should be remembered,
however, that an average beast of prey passes a life divided into
alternate periods of famine and repletion, and that it is, both from
habit and conformation, capable of cramming itself in a manner which
almost exceeds belief.

There is hardly need to cite authorities upon the act of seizing prey,
because lions do so in all those ways that different observers have
severally decided to be peculiar to this beast; and it is the same
with the various methods by which they kill. The whole subject of
attack, whether upon man or beast, is wrapped in a mass of positive
contradictions.

In India troops of lions have been known to divide themselves into
sections that relieved one another at short intervals in the actual
pursuit of game. As a rule, however, species belonging to this group
do not, and can not, really run down prey. Their peculiar structure,
adapted to bounding, climbing, and brief rushes, does not admit of
a long gallop. Their limbs are too massive and short, and are not
sufficiently detached from the body to give them free play. Lions have
been called “the most cat-like of all cats,” and for the most part
these animals ambush or stalk those creatures which they kill.

When a lion impelled by hunger leaves his lair, he sometimes has
a definite object in view, but more frequently goes forth to take
advantage of anything that may turn up. If the former is the case, his
course is directed, as that of a man would be in like circumstances, by
a previous acquaintance with the haunts and habits of the game he is
after. He does not ambush a disused path to a dried-up spring, or look
for a quagga in a buffalo wallow, or attempt to stalk black antelopes
in the same way that he would approach cattle belonging to some
Hottentot kraal.

In Africa, which is his true home, a lion “is never known to chase
prey.” Having sighted it, ascertained its species, surveyed the ground,
found out the direction of the wind,--preliminaries essential to any
subsequent attempts to get near,--he begins to practise a set of
manœuvres adapted to present conditions, and these he has learned in
the literal meaning of that term. Faculty is transmitted. Knowledge is
always acquired.

Having closed successfully and seized his prey, it is destroyed in
a variety of ways. As a matter of fact immediate death does not
invariably come to the relief of its sufferings, even in the case of
those smaller creatures on which the lion preys. He does not wait, as
Buffon supposed, until insensibility ensues before tearing them to
pieces. Nor is it true, as Dr. Livingstone imagined, that Providence
assuages the agonies of all animals thus caught, by bestowing upon
the _Felidæ_ a propensity to shake their victims, and so produce a
state of insensibility. How can a lion shake an ox or an eland, a
horse, giraffe, buffalo, or young rhinoceros? Andersson tells us that
he mistook the groans of a zebra carried past his camp by night for
those of a human being, and went to the rescue. More than this, if the
brute itself has any feeling about this matter,--and there is every
reason to believe that it has,--all manifestations of pain heighten the
pleasurable excitement it experiences in putting an animal to death.
Cruelty is organized in its brain, and to a beast of prey, pity is
about as possible as poetic inspiration. Love of bloodshed, exultation
in carnage, immitigable ferocity, are ingrained in them all; and so
far as a lion appreciates expressions of mental anguish and physical
torture, they thrill his fierce spirit with a savage joy.

Gordon Cumming relates a story which shows what a human being may
experience when in the clutches of a lion. His party had encamped,
and “the Hottentots,” as he tells, “made their fire about fifty yards
away, they, according to their custom, being satisfied with the shelter
of a large bush. The evening passed away cheerfully. Soon after dark
we heard elephants breaking trees in the forest across the river, and
once or twice I strode away into the darkness, some distance from the
fireside, to stand and listen to them. I little, at that time, dreamed
of the imminent peril to which I was exposing my life, nor thought
that a blood-thirsty, man-eating lion was crouching near, and watching
his opportunity to spring into the kraal and consign one of us to a
horrible death. About three hours after the sun went down I called
to my men to come and take their coffee and supper, which was ready
for them at my fire. After supper three of them returned before their
comrades to their own fireside, and lay down; these were John Stofolus,
Hendric, and Ruyter. In a few moments an ox came out by the gate of
the kraal and walked round the back of it. Hendric and Ruyter lay on
one side of the fire, under a blanket, and Stofolus lay on the other.
At this moment I was sitting, taking some barley broth; our fire was
very small, and the night was pitch dark and windy.

“Suddenly the appalling and murderous voice of an angry and
blood-thirsty lion burst upon my ear within a few yards of us, followed
by the shrieking of the Hottentots. Again and again the murderous roar
of attack was repeated. We heard John and Ruyter scream, ‘The lion! the
lion!’ Still, for a few moments, we thought he was but chasing one of
the dogs round the kraal. But the next instant Stofolus rushed into the
midst of us almost speechless with fear and horror, his eyes bursting
from their sockets, and shrieked out, ‘The lion! the lion! he has got
Hendric; he dragged him away from the fire beside me. I struck him with
burning brands upon the head, but he would not let go his hold. Hendric
is dead! O God! Hendric is dead! Let us take fire and seek him!’ The
rest of my people rushed about, yelling as if they were mad. I was
angry with them for their folly, and told them if they did not stand
still and be quiet, the lions would have another of us, for very likely
there was a troop of them. Then I ordered the dogs, which were nearly
all tied, to be loosed, and the fire increased as far as it could be. I
shouted Hendric’s name, but all was still. I told my men that Hendric
was dead, and that a regiment of soldiers could not help him then.
Hunting my dogs forward, I had everything brought within the kraal,
when we lighted our fire, and closed the entrance as well as we could.

“My terrified people sat around the fire with guns in their hands,
fancying at every moment that the lion would return and spring into
the midst of us. When the dogs were first let go, the stupid brutes,
as dogs often prove to be when most needed, instead of going at the
lion, rushed fiercely at one another and fought desperately for some
minutes. After this they got his wind, and going at him, disclosed his
position. They kept up a continual barking until day dawned, the lion
occasionally springing at them and driving them in upon the kraal. This
horrible monster lay all night within forty yards of us, consuming
the wretched man he had chosen for his prey. He had dragged him into
a little hollow at the back of the thick bush beside which the fire
was kindled, and there he remained until day broke, careless of our
proximity.

“It appeared that when the unfortunate Hendric rose to drive in the
ox, the lion watched him to his fireside, and he had scarcely lain
down before the brute sprang upon him and Ruyter (for both were under
one blanket) with his appalling roar; and, roaring as he lay, grappled
him with his fearful claws, and kept biting the poor man’s chest and
shoulder, all the while feeling for his neck, having got hold of which,
he dragged him away backward round the brush into the dense shade.

“As the lion lay upon him he faintly cried, ‘Help me! Help me! Oh God!
men, help me!’”

Here was no instinctive fear of man, no sign of the timidity so much
talked about, no falling off of the victim into the dreamy languor
Dr. Livingstone expatiates upon. His pain was sooner over than that of
some we know of; death came when the neck was crushed, but what had he
suffered previously?

There is an alleged trait of character which should be alluded to on
account of the propensity displayed even by those who really know this
animal to make a composite being of him--part lion and part gentleman.

Gérard is one of them. He was to some extent, no doubt, deceived by
common report, and likewise misled by his knowledge of those domestic
virtues that really belong to the animal. At all events he constructed
a lion that bears a curious resemblance to a _raffiné_ of the famous
old duelling days in France without the _seigneur’s_ levity or his
lewdness. When his family, whom he has up to this time fed himself, are
able to join in the chase, the lion finds the game, strikes it down,
and then, with that refined self-abnegation which comports so well with
his natural character, he retires to a little distance from the quarry
in order that _Madame_ may be first served. This and much more to the
same effect.

It happens, however, that one man, and only one to the writer’s
knowledge, the Hon. W. H. Drummond, chanced to see what Gérard has
depicted in colors furnished by his own fancy. His narrative of the
incident from first to last is much more in accordance with the style
of manners taught in the struggle for existence than the former one.
One day while watching the motions of some antelopes from the summit
of a grassy and rock-strewn ridge, Drummond suddenly became aware that
he was not the only hunter interested in the game of that vicinity.
A lioness with her whelps crouched among the herbage at a little
distance, and so intent were they upon the movements of their expected
prey, that he was entirely unnoticed. While awaiting events a band of
quaggas passed close to some bushes at the foot of the slope, and then
a lion’s form was launched upon the leading stallion, and he fell dead
from a blow with the beast’s forearm.

Without any delay the lion proceeded to help himself, his family
drawing near, but waiting until his appetite had been stayed. “The
sultan of the desert” has a short temper when he is feeding, and on
many occasions has been known to eat his wife, either in the way of
reproof to her importunity at such times, or because he did not have
food enough. It would seem that this lioness suspected something of
the kind might occur, for she kept herself and the young ones in
the background until his highness had finished, which he, not being
particularly hungry, did very soon. When he had walked away and
stretched himself out, the rest pressed forward, and the mother treated
her offspring with scant curtesy. She pounced upon those parts she
preferred, and boxed the little ones, who were struggling for a bite,
out of the way whenever they incommoded her.

Thus far in the catalogue of leonine gifts and graces we have not
discovered any that are peculiarly their own; on the contrary, when
examined closely, those with which lions are accredited turn out to
be counterfeits. Gordon Cumming says of the lion, in company with
his mate and whelps, that, “at this time he knows no fear,” and in
defence of his family “he will face a thousand men.” This is a
rhetorical flourish, and yet now when it has become the fashion to
call the creature a poltroon, the statement as it stands is better
supported by proof than almost any other that has been made concerning
its character. If this animal is not brave, nobody is in a position to
call it cowardly. All the evidence tends the other way. Taken as it is,
looked upon as a brute to whom heroism, sentiment, and high resolve
must be as impossible as righteousness, the lion preserves the demeanor
of courage better than any other member of the _Felidæ_.

Moffat, Lichtenstein, Freeman, Rath, Galton, say with W. C. Kerr (“The
Far Interior”) that “when a lion is thoroughly hungry there is no limit
to his audacity and daring.” Every being must have _some_ incitement to
action, and those motives which are most powerful with lions appear to
be anger and appetite.

Postponing for the moment his relations with mankind, let us see what
kinds of game the lion is accustomed to prey upon. No coercion can be
exercised in this direction. Actual starvation might take away liberty
of choice, but, as a rule, it must be admitted that a selection of
this kind is significant of the opinion which an animal has of its
own powers, as it also is of its boldness. The giraffe, which lions
occasionally kill, is entirely defenceless: so with elands and all
antelopes. This is likewise the case with those domestic animals which
are devoured. It has been said that the elephant is sometimes attacked,
but this is one of those stories which only display the ignorance of
those who propagate them. The black and white rhinoceros is never
assailed, although Delgorgue actually refers to the latter, a beast
second only to the elephant in size and most formidably armed, as if it
were commonly destroyed. “_Maintes fois trouvai-je des rhinocéros de la
plus haute taille, que ni leur poids, ni leur force, ni leur fureur,
n’avaient pu préserver de la mort._” If anything were needed to set
off this pleasant statement, it could be found in Delgorgue’s roundly
declared opinion that lions are all “abject cowards.”

But in Africa the lion constantly preys upon the buffalo, and without
going so far as Andersson in saying that he principally lives on this
species, the fact that it is continually killed is beyond question.
Many famous hunters suppose that an African buffalo is the most
dangerous creature to be found on the “Dark Continent.” It is of
immense size and strength, active, brave, and fierce.

No account is known to the writer of a single lion that was seen to
slay a full-grown buffalo, and several authorities doubt whether this
be possible. The latter have, however, often been shot while bearing
the scars of combats with one or more lions. According to the evidence
as it exists, the case stands in this way. One lion may attack a
buffalo, it is impossible to say whether he will or not; two of them
certainly do so, and the battles that ensue are of the most desperate
description. It is known, also, that these conflicts do not always end
in favor of the assailants.

“The lion kills only for food,” says Major Leveson, meaning that in
mature life he does not commit useless murders, or show the same love
of blood for its own sake as some other members of his family. Without
doubt, this animal is not sanguinary when compared with a panther or
puma, but it is quite as likely that he is restrained from unnecessary
carnage by economic views, as by any sentiment of generosity or mercy.

A lion when surprised does not usually dash away incontinently; if his
retreat is not interfered with, and he has learned that firearms are
more effective than his own weapons of offence, he falls back slowly.
When so placed that they cannot escape, some lions die like curs, but
the majority of accounts represent them as perishing gallantly. Such is
the case also when for any reason the creature has resolved to fight.
Then it seems to make no difference to him how many foes he encounters.
Numerous narratives very similar in detail have been written by
different observers of such scenes. No other wild beast confronts a
body of armed men after his manner. That last parade in face of a horde
of savages beneath whose assagais he is about to die, is so striking
that false inferences from the sight can scarcely be avoided. It is
not the “deliberate valor” of Milton we see, nor even heroic despair;
it is nothing perhaps with which humanity in its nobler emotions
can sympathize; but it looks as if it were, and men have yielded
to their feelings and believed that it was. “Life,” says Professor
Robinson, “has but one end for a lion--enjoyment. He is incapable of
forgetting that he is only a huge cat, or flying in the face of nature
by pretending to be anything else.... He makes no claim to invincible
courage; on the contrary, he prefers, as a rule, to enjoy life rather
than to die heroically. But when death is inevitable, he is always
heroic, or even when danger presses him too closely ... a lion in the
shadow of death remains a lion still.”

All things being equal, lions conduct themselves towards mankind
according to the suggestions of the time being and their previous
experiences. One that had just eaten an antelope might pass by a man;
another might kill him. The former, by all accounts, is the more likely
to occur, and it is said that Bushmen and other natives can tell by the
voice whether he is full or fasting; and in the first case have no fear
that he will become aggressive without provocation. When forbearance is
not a matter of repletion, it is no doubt, in some measure, the result
of sloth. A lion never does anything he can avoid doing.

Baker’s story of the lion that met a Nubian sheik with two companions,
and tore the leader to pieces, is one of a great number of instances
that might be brought forward to show that wherever these animals are
not conscious of being put entirely at a disadvantage by superiority
of arms, they display little of that fear of man which is commonly
attributed to them. Poorly-armed tribes are under no such delusion.
The Ouled Meloul, or Ouled Cassi Arabs whose _douars_ were attacked
would have been as difficult to persuade of the lion’s timidity towards
mankind, as those Makubas on the Ghobe, or “the miserable Bakorus,”
whom he devoured at his good pleasure. Dr. Schweinfurth (“The Heart of
Africa”) was at an Egyptian garrison where the soldiers were carried
off from within their own lines night after night. Moffat, Delgorgue,
Livingstone, Cumming, all record incidents of what they call his
“desperate attacks.” Still, and as if to show what it is possible for
men to commit themselves to when writing about wild beasts, we have
Burchell’s opinion (“Travels in the Interior of Southern Africa”).

This author, according to his own account, spent four years in a lion
country, and saw but one during the whole of this time. That one was
accidentally encountered on a journey, and they succeeded in shooting
it through the body, upon which it drew off into the bushes and
disappeared. Yet it is on the strength of an experience like this that
Burchell says he has “no very high opinion of the lion’s courage.” Of
course the reference has an appearance of being overstated, but whoever
reads the bulky quartos in which these travels are written will find
that such is not the case.

So much in the way of a review of Buffon’s general description.

It is easier, however, and safer to decide as to what lions are not,
than to say what they are. Almost everything written upon this subject
deals nearly to exclusion with the animal’s habits, and leaves its
character untouched. Even in this respect also our information is not
complete.

C. J. Andersson (“The Lion and the Elephant”) remarks that “the modes
of life” belonging to “the Lord of the African Wilds” are not at all
thoroughly known, and he expresses an opinion fully justified by facts
to the effect that he has himself been able to bring together much
information in this connection that “may not have been noticed by other
travellers and sportsmen.” In making up a summary of what has gone
before, the writer is much indebted to this valuable work.

We have no psychological scheme for lions, and must take their
characteristics as they happen to present themselves, without any
pretence at arrangement, based either upon their natural order or real
importance. There is an account given in MS. to Lloyd, the editor of
Andersson’s posthumous papers, that shows the character of the Indian
lion in much the same light that his African congener has been placed
by Baker, Drummond, etc.

“This beast was believed to have his lair in a patch of copse-wood
where, from the jungle having been some years previously cut away by
the natives for stakes and the like, the young trees had grown up again
so close and tangled as to be almost impenetrable. But this patch was
of no great extent, its area, perhaps, not exceeding that of Grosvenor
Square. The other parts of the wood surrounding the tank were in a
state of nature, consisting of bushes and timber trees.

“On reaching the ground, the natives were stationed in the trees
thereabouts as markers. But it was not till the party had beaten the
patch with their elephants for a considerable time that the lion was
discovered to be on foot, and some further time elapsed before he
was viewed as he was stealing away from the brake, along a sort of
hedge-row, for the more open country beyond. Captain Delamaine, who was
some forty or fifty paces from the beast, then fired, and wounded him
severely in the body.

“On receiving the ball, the lion immediately faced about, and charged
my elephant, but the nerves of the latter having been recently shaken
by wounds received from a royal tiger, turned tail, and regularly
bolted. In the scurry through the jungle, one of the guns, having been
caught by a tree, fell from the howdah and was broken, a loss, as the
sequel proved, that might have been attended with very disastrous
consequences.”

But the lion soon gave up the chase, and retraced his steps to the
patch whence he had been started. Here he was followed by Captain
Harris alone, Delamaine’s elephant, from its late fright, having become
too unsteady to be taken into thick cover.

“The Captain soon found and fired at the beast, which in its turn
instantly sprang at, and made a fair lodgment on the head of his
elephant, but the latter being a large and powerful animal, and
accustomed to the _chasse_, almost immediately shook off its fierce
assailant, who fell with violence on the ground.” This desperate mode
of attack and reprisal was on both sides repeated in more than one
instance, and this, moreover, within view of his companion, who, though
prevented--for the reason mentioned--from taking part in the conflict,
was, from the outside of the brake, intently watching the proceedings
of his friend. After a time, whether because he left the patch, or from
having concealed himself, the beast was no longer to be found.

“It was at the period of the monsoon, and just as the hunters were at
fault, there came on a heavy shower of rain, when, principally for the
sake of the guns, it was deemed best to retire for shelter to some
trees in the more open country at a few hundred paces distance.

“The storm soon passed over, but being doubtful whether their guns
might not be wet, it was thought advisable to discharge them. This was
no sooner done, however, than the lion began to roar terribly, and
continued doing so for some time, in the direction of the late scene of
conflict, from which it was pretty evident, that, though they had been
unable to find him in the patch, he had been harbored there the whole
time.

“When reloaded, the party therefore returned to the brake, and were
informed by one of the markers that on the report of the guns, the lion
had rushed roaring from it into the more open country, evidently for
the purpose of venting his rage on the first object that came across
his path. On proceeding a little further they were hailed by another
marker, who told them that the brute was crouched in a cluster of
brambles, of a very limited extent, about twenty paces from the very
tree in which he himself was perched.

“As the country was pretty open around the thicket in question, the
sportsmen were able to reconnoitre it narrowly, and that without taking
the elephants into the very thick of it, which was deemed unadvisable,
as, had those animals come directly upon the lion, they might have been
scared and rendered unmanageable. But the beast was not perceptible.

“From the cover being so limited in extent, it appeared to be almost
an impossibility that the lion could be there, the rather that the
elephants, so remarkable for their fine sense of smell, did not seem
at all aware of his presence, and it was in consequence imagined that
the man must be mistaken. But as he persisted in his story, it was
determined to fire a shot into the thicket, which was accordingly done,
though without any result.

“When a lion, that has been wounded and hotly pursued, has ‘lain up,’
or hidden himself, for a time, his position is generally known by his
roaring, panting, or hard breathing; but in this instance there were no
indications of the kind, which, coupled with the shot having failed of
effect, confirmed their previous impression, and they were, therefore,
on the point of moving off elsewhere.

“But as the marker continued asseverating from his tree that the brute
was positively lying in the very brake near which they were standing,
it was resolved to try another shot, which was fired by Captain Harris’
man, who was seated at the back of his master’s howdah.

“This had the desired effect, for the gun was hardly discharged, when
the lion, with a tremendous roar, sprang up from his lurking-place, and
in a second was once more on the head of Captain Harris’ elephant. But
he was almost immediately shaken off, when he retreated to the same
brake from which he had issued, and where, as before, he was no longer
discernible.

“A shot was therefore directed towards the spot where he was supposed
to be, and he again charged the Captain’s elephant, and on being
dislodged trotted off towards the patch that harbored him in the first
instance.

“During the _mêlée_ just described, Captain Delamaine, from an
apprehension of hitting some one, had been deterred from firing; but as
the lion was retreating he discharged both barrels of his double gun,
and broke one of the hind legs of the beast.

“Upon receiving this wound the lion at once turned, and rushing at
the elephant, sprang up on his hind quarters and fixed his fangs
in the thick part of the tail. The poor animal perfectly screamed
from the extreme torture, which was little to be wondered at, as
this unfortunate appendage had only a week previously been severely
lacerated by a huge tiger. The elephant now swayed to and fro to such
a degree that his rider had some difficulty in retaining his seat in
the howdah, and was much less able to take an accurate aim at the lion,
which, screened as it was by the protruding rump of the elephant, would
have been scarcely practicable. The Captain, besides, had only one
barrel remaining, and it therefore behooved him to be most cautious
that his last charge was not ineffectually expended.

“This trying scene continued for two or three minutes, during which
Delamaine anxiously looked out for Captain Harris. But unluckily his
elephant had been rendered unmanageable by the maltreatment it had
itself received from the lion, and it was not, therefore, in his power
to render aid to his friend.”

The appearance of the lion at this time, maddened as he was with pain
and rage, is described as most awful.

“At length the beast’s long-continued attack on the elephant caused
the poor animal evidently to give way and to sink behind, and had
the affair continued a short time longer, there is no doubt it would
have been on its haunches, and the rider at the mercy of the fierce
assailant.

“Finding matters in this very critical state, it became necessary
for him to risk everything. Leaning, therefore, over the back of the
howdah, and clinging to it with one hand, he with the other discharged
his rifle, a very heavy one, at the head of the lion (the piece at the
time oscillating, or swinging, in a manner corresponding with the roll
of the elephant), and as luck would have it, the ball, after crashing
through the beast’s jawbone, subsequently traversed the whole length of
its body.

“This caused the lion to let go his hold, and for a few seconds he
appeared to be partially paralyzed, but recovering himself, he slowly
retreated towards the thicker cover.”

Subsequently he was again attacked by the party, and in two or three
instances charged them as gallantly as ever; but as he was always
received with a heavy fire, an end was at length put to his existence.

There is no need to add much to what has been said of the effect
produced by inherited and personal experience. Nobody denies that lions
are possessed of intelligence, and this being the case, they learn to
avoid known dangers, and to take advantage of those conditions which
have previously proved favorable. If this and what it implies were not
true, there could be but one reason for it, which is that the race was
congenitally idiotic. Therefore to dispute about the lion’s courage
as if there might be archetypal beasts differently endowed from those
representatives of their species which naturally, and of necessity,
vary in boldness with changing environments, appears to be a waste
of time. Furthermore, the possession of power of any kind to a great
degree determines its exercise, and it is impossible to suppose that
an animal which, above all others, except the tiger, is specialized for
violence, will not be blood-thirsty and aggressive.

Sir Samuel Baker appears to be the only writer, really an authority,
who knows nothing authentic and has no personal cognizance of the
forays of lions upon villages and camps. Delgorgue, Harris, Cumming,
Andersson, and everybody else whose opportunities for observation
have been at all extensive, recognize such incidents as perfectly
well established. Indeed, taking the character of this beast and
its situation into consideration, the only thing surprising about
the matter would be that it had not done those things upon whose
reality Baker seems to cast a doubt. Drummond relates a story in this
connection, in the scenes of which he was himself an actor, and as many
of those traits which have been discussed are well brought out in his
narrative, it is given in full.

“In two cases I have been an accessory to the death of well-known
man-eaters, one of which had almost depopulated a district.... The
locality in which this one committed his depredations was in the
northeast corner of Zululand, where a number of refugee Amaswazi had
been located, and when I arrived they had continued for nearly a year,
so that many villages were deserted, and all had more or less suffered;
for the brute did not confine himself to any one in particular, nor
come at any regular intervals, but so timed his visits that no one was
sure of his or her life from day to day. No fastenings were of any use
against him, as his immense strength enabled him to force an entrance
if he could not find one ready made, while the outer ring-fence, of
interwoven thorns, supported by strong posts, which guards all native
villages, and is often of great height, offered no obstacle to his
powers of jumping, a single bound being always sufficient to land him
inside.

“He usually confined himself to killing a single individual, and would
claw one out from under the blanket or skin under which, with covered
heads, they cowered in terror on his arrival; but on the two or three
occasions in which he had met with opposition, and when he had been
wounded with assagais, he had killed every soul in the hut, and so
dreadfully mangled them that their bodies almost defied recognition.

“I was staying at the villages for some weeks, first at one and then at
another, as they suited the position of the game, or where I happened
to find myself at night; but though I heard of the lion having attacked
one either just before or just after I had been there, I never happened
to meet it, and the ignorant natives became anxious for my presence,
saying that their enemy feared to go where I was.

“This, however, was not destined to last. One sultry evening I arrived
at the outermost village, having been forced to leave the spoor of
a herd of elephants for want of ammunition, and being very tired, I
determined to sleep at it, sending on two of my men to fetch some
from the place which I made my headquarters. Tired as I was with my
exertions on an unusually hot day, I soon fell asleep in the hut that
had been given up to our use; but, as the heat was stifling, I was
not at all surprised at being awakened towards midnight by a heavy
thunderstorm, which crashed round us for half an hour or more. At
last the hush came that always accompanies the tremendous rain which
follows, and seems to quench such storms, broken only by the heavy
splashing of big drops, and the gurgle of the water that flooded the
ground, and I should soon have been asleep again had not a drop come
splash into my face through the ill-thatched roof, almost immediately
followed by a small stream, of which it had been the advanced guard.
This necessitated my looking out for a drier spot, when suddenly out
of the quiet of the descending rain, came such a confused clamor of
shrieks and cries, of yelling and moaning, that until I heard the voice
of the lion, I was utterly unable to account for it. This lasted for
full half a minute, and then such a blood-curdling scream of mingled
pain and despair came as I hope I may never hear again, and which
haunted my dreams for many a month after.

“My men, and among them two old hunters, each of whom had killed
several lions, shrunk crouching back to the further end of the hut,
returning no answer to my words when I told them to come out with me
and face the beast, though, as I opened the hut entrance, and looked
out on the pitch darkness, it was evident how useless any such attempt
would be. The death-yell we had heard was followed by silence for some
time, during which the brute was probably departing with its victim,
and the natives were still afraid of its return; then the usual noisy
lamentations for the dead broke forth, and were continued without
intermission until daylight, though I was so tired that, without
expecting it, I fell asleep again, and did not wake any more that night.

“There was little to tell when morning did break. The lion had hit
upon the most crowded hut of all, the one in which the people who had
given place to us were sleeping in addition to its regular owners, and
had picked out a young married woman, taking her from among several,
without injuring any one else; as they said--‘a man does not stab more
than one of his herd of cattle when he is hungry.’

“Previous to this, on my first arrival, the head man of the district
had come and asked me whether I would assist him to destroy this brute,
as, if so, he would turn out with all his people, and beat up the
country until it was found; and in point of fact we had already done
this, on the occasion of the chief’s uncle having been carried off;
but the ground was so dry and hard then that our best spoorers failed
to hit off the track. To-day, however, as the rain had ceased a few
minutes after its departure, there could be no doubt about finding it,
and as soon as I awoke I sent off to the chief to ask him to come with
his men, saying that, whether he had arrived or not, I should take up
the trail at nine o’clock.

“I did not at this time know that the woman who was the last victim was
his relation, but when my messenger came back and told me so, adding
that the chief was fearfully angry, it did not surprise me to hear that
runners had been sent out already, and that he had threatened to drive
out of the country any one old enough to carry a spear who remained
behind, and that if I could wait until the sun had reached a certain
part of the heavens (till about ten o’clock), he would join me.

“I had already had breakfast when this news came, and to save time I
took a hunter and a spoorer (tracker) with me and followed the lion.
About two hundred yards off we found the spot where he had made his
disgusting meal, and then the track led right away towards a stream,
nearly a mile distant, where he had quenched his thirst. Keeping
steadily on, he passed through several covers quite strong enough
to have held him, and through which we had to pass with the utmost
caution, until, at length, he came out on to the open, and headed in a
direction that we knew could lead nowhere but to the Umbeka bush, the
thickest jungle for miles around. As this was still nearly four miles
off, I sent one man back to tell the people where to come to, and kept
on with the hunter.

“On reaching the jungle, which covered the entire side of a hill,
and was stony and broken to the last degree, besides having its
undergrowth formed of impenetrable cactus, we did not of course attempt
to enter, but separating, walked round it, the upper and more rugged
portion falling to my share, and carefully examined every inch of the
ground to see whether by any chance he had again left it; however, no
vestige of his spoor could be seen, and by the time we got back to our
starting-point, the whole of Tekwane’s people were in sight.

“The chief himself was with them, though he had no intention of taking
any active part in the proceedings, and when we started he retired
with some of his old men to a place of safety, and a council of how
to proceed was held on the spot. My idea was that the guns should
guard the more likely passes, while the people, numbering near five
hundred, should beat out the jungle. To this, however, the objection
was offered, that from the well-known thickness of the place, and the
universal terror of the lion, the men would not attempt to beat it
unless they were led by myself and my hunters. Such being the case,
it was decided that spies should be placed in the tree-tops and other
commanding positions, while the great body of the people were to enter
at the top and drive down; but knowing as I did how very dangerous the
affair would become if the lion was wounded in such cover, in many
parts of which one could not see a yard off, I specially ordered my men
not to fire unless they felt sure of killing or disabling the brute on
the spot, and advised that every one, advancing in as unbroken a line
as possible, and going slowly and making all the noise possible, should
try and make it slink off before them, and enable us in the end to get
a fair chance at it in the open.

“Half an hour was spent in waiting for the spies to take up their
positions, and then the whole body, chanting a hunting song so loudly
that it could have been heard miles off, and must undoubtedly have
broken the slumbers of the lion, marched up to the top, and spreading
out, so as to take in all but the outskirts, where it was improbable
that he would be, they entered the jungle shouting at the top of their
voices, partly, no doubt, in obedience to my wishes, but quite as much
to keep their own courage up. In this fashion, and amid cries of ‘Get
up! Get out, you dog! Where’s the dog?’ to which they trusted a good
deal as likely to intimidate the lion, we passed right through to the
other side, and though the ground had been beaten quite as well as it
was possible for anything smaller than elephants to do, no vestige of
the animal had been seen.

“Hardly, however, had the men begun to cluster out upon the open,
before there was a shouting from the extreme left, which, when passed
on through the stragglers, soon resolved itself into the lion having
been seen there. Of course there was a general rush in that direction,
which I accompanied, until I met a man who had come from the spot, and
who said the brute had just showed itself and turned back. On hearing
this I stopped those nearest to me and sent them to collect every one
they could find, and in a few minutes two-thirds of the people had come
around me. I then divided them into two bodies; the larger, led by
all my hunters, except one, who remained with me, I sent to enter the
jungle on the outer side and to beat through it, shouting and firing
their guns; the other I took myself down to a stream which, at four or
five hundred yards distance, fronted the spot where the lion had shown
himself, and made them lie down in the bushes that lined it. About
fifty men I stationed round the jungle, telling them never to cease
making a noise, and I also removed the spies from in front of us.

“It took a long time to do this, and longer for the men to begin to
beat, and we waited for an hour by the stream bank before anything
happened. I had left my place and gone to drink, and as I turned
to come back, a stir and rustle among the bushes where the men lay
concealed made me think something must be in sight, and as soon as I
got back, the man next me said, ‘There he is!’ and I caught sight of
the lion standing under the shade of a solitary tree outside of the
jungle, with his head turned in the direction of the beaters, evidently
uncertain whether to await them where he was, or to take to flight.
At last, doubtless considering that this was a different phase of the
human character from the one he was accustomed to meet with during his
midnight maraudings, he turned tail, and coming towards us in long easy
bounds, was soon within a hundred yards of those concealed furthest
down. Most fortunately I had told them all not to show themselves on
any account before I did so myself, and so the brute, unsuspicious of
danger, made for a ford near to which the hunter who had come down with
me had stationed himself. At sixty yards he fired and rolled the animal
over like a rabbit, it performing a complete somersault before it
regained its legs; up the whole line jumped with a yell, and the lion,
which I had first fancied was killed, continued his course the same as
before, only, perhaps, rather stupefied by the shot, he abandoned the
ford, and ran parallel to the stream, taking no notice of the people,
many of whom shrank back as they saw him approaching their part of the
line. I began to cover him when he was still two hundred yards off,
and I think I kept the gun up too long, for when I fired at half that
distance I missed clean. I made a better shot with my other barrel,
rather too far forward, but just catching the point of the shoulder,
and of course putting the limb _hors de combat_. _The brute appeared to
be as cowardly by daylight as he was daring in the dark, for instead
of charging he bolted under a small tree and lay down growling_, and
in ten minutes all who were coming--and three-fourths of the men did
so--had made their appearance, and were formed in a compact body behind
me. He had not waited all this time very patiently; but when I fancied
that I saw symptoms of his having a desire to slink away out of reach
of the fast-arriving relatives of his victims, I had all the dogs
set at him, and though only a few would go, and they could not have
hampered his escape, yet they distracted his attention for a time.

“Our plan was a very simple one. The five hunters and myself were to
walk up as close as we dared, and fire in volleys of three, and if
we did not kill, and he charged, we were to bolt behind the natives
for shelter. We walked up within thirty yards, and I and two hunters
stood up while three knelt in front of us and fired, the lion growling
furiously the while, but not attempting to move. The moment, however,
the balls struck him--and with a lion crouched flat as he was, it was
not to be expected that they could kill him unless one hit the centre
of his forehead--he came straight at us, roaring horribly. My two
companions, hardly going through the form of taking aim, pulled their
triggers and joined those who had already fired. Fortunately the lion
could not spring with a broken shoulder, and though he looked most
unutterably savage, he did not get over the ground very fast, so I took
a steady shot at the centre of his big chest, fully expecting to see
him tumble over, but could not even see that it had struck him; and as
he was getting very near I did not take a much better aim with the
second barrel than the last two hunters had, and, like them, missed,
turning as I did so, and running away for bare life. I was surprised
to see how the men behind had diminished in numbers, but still there
remained upwards of a hundred, who so far showed no sign of flinching,
and I bolted in behind them and began to reload, altering my position
when once the powder was down, so that I could see what was going on.

“The lion had charged up to within ten yards of them, and then, no
doubt, awed, by their steadiness, he had pulled up, and was now walking
slowly up and down like an officer in command, growling and showing
his teeth, and looking a very noble animal with his heavy yellow mane
floating around him. Very likely he would have remained like this until
we had reloaded had not a young fellow in the first rank flung his
assagai, with an insulting expression, at him; but as the spear-head
entered he made two bounds forward, singling out the unfortunate man,
who, however, met him pluckily, presenting him with his great six-foot
shield to tear at, while he stuck him in the chest with his long and
keen double-edged stabbing spear. As he did so there was a sudden jerk,
as of a steel trap closing along the line, through which I was in time
to catch sight of two more assagais being simultaneously plunged into
the beast. All those who had run away hurried up, and a dense mass
was formed, pushing and struggling to get into the centre, making the
scene somewhat resemble a native foot-ball match I had once seen in the
colonies. Such a contest could not possibly be continued long. Dozens
of spears had been buried in the brute’s body the instant it had
reached the man, while, although I could tell by the shouting that they
were still stabbing it, it was probably only a dead body on which they
were wreaking their vengeance. Be that as it might, it was nearly half
an hour before I could find an opening that led to the lion’s carcass,
and I do not think there was one solitary individual among all who were
out that day who had not gratified himself by driving his spear into
it; at any rate, its skin was a perfect sieve, and had at least five or
six hundred holes in it. The price at which the victory was gained was
comparatively small, only one man having received a fatal wound; while
the one upon whom the lion had sprung escaped with some severe gashes
and a broken arm.”

Those italics inserted in this narrative were not placed there by
Drummond, but by the writer. They are intended to mark a propensity
which he shared with many others to accuse the lion of cowardice while
in the act of relating his deeds of desperation. This one it appears
was “cowardly” because, with a shattered shoulder and other severe
wounds, he did not at once attack a hundred armed men drawn up to
receive him. Again and again had he penetrated into the midst of a
populous village, and torn people out of their houses. All the same, he
paused during the fight described, and was a poltroon. It is true that
after walking up and down before his enemies like a lion of the Atlas
as described by Gérard, he finally charged home and fought until cut
to pieces. Still he was “cowardly.” This is perplexing; there must be
some standard by which courage is judged of in the case of lions that
ordinary people know nothing about.

It is disappointing to find a man whom Lloyd calls “the well-informed
Andersson,” saying that “the length of a South African adult lion, from
the nose to the extremity of the tail, is from eleven to twelve feet,
... and his weight not less than from five to six hundred pounds.” He
knew all about the stretching of pegged-out skins, he had never seen
a lion eleven feet long in his life, and yet he adds two feet, or at
least eighteen inches, to the animal’s average length, and a hundred
pounds to its weight. Nine feet and a half is the average length of a
well-known Indian tiger, which is certainly a larger animal than the
lion, and both may occasionally reach a length of ten feet, but very
rarely. Sometimes, also, lions weigh as much as five hundred pounds,
although few persons have met with specimens so heavy; but beyond these
measurements and weights, nothing is on record that deserves serious
consideration. There is a perfect fog of contradictions about the
animal’s strength, leaping power, and his manner of carrying off prey;
so that as far as testimony in these matters goes, no one can arrive
at any conclusion. A lion stands about thirty-six inches high at the
shoulder, and, of course, exceptional individuals may be taller. He
can no more go straight with his head twisted over his shoulder than
a man could; therefore, taking into consideration the length of his
neck, those stories told about the manner in which lions bear off large
animals in their mouths, and gallop away with oxen flung across their
backs, have the disadvantage of being impossible. Thunberg asserts that
one of these beasts will “attack an ox of the largest size, and very
nimbly throw it over his shoulders, and leap a fence four feet high.”
Leveson says he leaps the stockade of a kraal whose palisades are six
feet above the ground, with a steer in his jaws; and Sparman declares
that he saw a lion carry off a heifer in his mouth, “as a cat would
a rat.” Drummond’s lions sprang over thorn fences of an indefinite
height, carrying their human victims; Gérard’s made no difficulty
about clearing the enclosures of Arab douars, while weighted with
cattle. Montgomery Martin knew them to bear away horses and cows under
like circumstances, and quite as many and as good authorities protest
that all this is nonsense, and that they never did, and could not do,
anything of the kind.

How much intellect this species possesses, and to what extent it
can be cultivated, remains almost unknown. Their organization makes
them subtle, fierce, and sometimes passionate beyond the limits of
self-control, but they are, no doubt, capable of affection, and
certainly exhibit marked preferences and dislikes. Apart from the
instruction lions receive from their parents,--chiefly the mother,--and
independently of anything which association may do for them, all are
to a great degree self-taught; each one according to its capacity, to
the extent of its opportunities, and correspondently with the character
of its own mind. They design and carry out their conceptions, they
imagine, and act the scenes suggested by fancy, they remember and
combine their experiences.

Lions are not hunted with elephants in Africa. Dutch settlers in the
southern part of this continent use horses, but only ride up within
shooting distance, dismount, wheel their animals round so that they
may receive the charge, if one is made, and then fire volleys with
their roers--guns nearly as large as Asiatic and Mediæval wall-pieces.
A number of other European sportsmen have also shot from the saddle;
the advantage of this plan being that, in case the lion is only
wounded, their horses will enable them to escape. Care is, however,
necessary not to get too close; otherwise, so great is this beast’s
speed for a short distance, that a mounted man is almost certain to be
overtaken.

The lion is a nocturnal animal, although in the more wild and desolate
regions he may often be seen by day, especially in dark and stormy
weather, and then either singly or in troops. Families of lions live
together until the cubs are mature enough to shift for themselves;
but a troop is a temporary co-operative association designed to drive
game. Andersson states that he has seen “six or seven together, all of
whom, so far as he could judge, were full-grown, or nearly so.” Freeman
relates that he once encountered a party consisting of ten lions. On
another occasion he saw “five lions (two males and three females) in
a party, and two of these were in the act of pulling down a splendid
giraffe, the other three watching, close at hand, and with devouring
looks, the deadly strife.” Delgorgue once counted thirty lions formed
in a hunting line. Many are really shot on foot in Africa, many more
indeed than the tigers reported to have been killed in this manner in
India.

Skaärm-shooting--the occupation by the hunter of a partially covered
trench near a water-hole,--and the machan, or tree-platform, has also
been adopted. Lions may often be seen walking about amid herds of
antelopes on the African plains “like Caffre chieftains,” as Delgorgue
expresses it, “counting their flocks.” The antelope knows that it
cannot be caught so long as it keeps beyond the range of his first few
lightning-like bounds, and thus its equanimity is in nowise disturbed
by this destroyer’s presence. Nothing but a stalk or an ambush will
bring one of these fleet animals within their enemies’ reach.

“Generally, however,” says Andersson, “during the day a lion lies
concealed on some mountain side, or beneath the shade of umbrageous
trees or wide-spreading bushes. He is also partial to lofty reeds and
long, rank yellow grass, such as occurs in low-lying ‘vleys.’ From
these haunts he sallies forth when the sun goes down and commences
his nightly prowl,” and except the elephant and rhinoceros, there is
no land animal in Africa that he cannot, and does not, kill. When
lions attack the cattle of native rulers, their herdsmen, whose lives
are held by native masters in no manner of account, are compelled to
take their shields and spears and go after the marauder. There is no
particular skill displayed save in tracking the beast to its lair, and
the desperate close fighting which follows is due to the fact that the
men know it is much better to be wounded or even killed, than trust
themselves to the tender mercies of a negro chief who is enraged at
the loss of his property. Namaqua Hottentots, who possess firearms,
never take any risks. They go out in large parties, get into a safe
place, and when a lion is provoked to charge, he is met with a storm
of balls. A filthy little clay-colored Bushman will steal upon the
sleeping beast with a caution and skill equal to its own. He has no
weapon but a toy bow and tiny, often headless, arrow, poisoned with the
entrails of the N’ga or Kalihari caterpillar, mixed probably with some
form of Euphorbia. This savage wounds the sleeper without being himself
seen, and an injury, however slight, is fatal. Delgorgue describes a
lion-hunt by Caffres as follows:

“One of them, carrying a large shield of concave form, made of thick
buffalo hide, approaches the animal boldly, and hurls at him an
assagai or javelin. The lion bounds on the aggressor, but the man in
the meanwhile has thrown himself flat on the ground, covered by his
buckler. While the beast is trying the effect of his claws and teeth on
the convex side of the shield, where they make no impression ... the
armed men surround him and pierce his body with numerous assagais, all
of which he fancies he receives from the individual beneath the shield.
Then these assailants retire, and the lion grows faint and soon falls
beside the Caffre with the buckler, who takes care not to move until
the terrible brute has ceased to exhibit any signs of life.”

It is well known that, as a whole, the native populations of Africa
display more enterprise and courage in the pursuit of dangerous
wild beasts, than do those of Asia. But extraordinary and well-nigh
incredible as are some of the stories about the temerity of certain
tribes in lion-hunting as told by Freeman and Sir A. Alexander, the
account given by Sir Samuel Baker (“Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia”) of
the Aggageers, or Arab sword-hunters of the Upper Nile, fully equals
them. It is true that he did not see Taber or Abu Do, those slayers of
elephants, cut a lion through the spine with their Solingen blades; but
there is no doubt that these men encounter the animal on horseback and
armed with their swords alone.

Brave as the Hamran Arabs were, and skilful, Baker, who has recorded
their deeds, was not behind them in daring; and as the following
narrative may almost be said to stand by itself in the records of
hunting as an illustration of what can be done by a sportsman who is
entirely courageous and cool, it is given in the words in which he has
himself related his feat.

Some lions had been wandering about his camp for several nights, and
they also gave him a good deal of annoyance by devouring game that he
shot. “Under these circumstances,” Sir Samuel says, “I resolved to
circumvent one or the other of these beasts. On the following morning,
therefore, I took Taber Noor, with Hadji Ali and Hassan, two of my
trusty Tokrooris, and went to the spot where I had left the carcass
of the buffalo I had killed on the preceding day. As I had expected,
nothing remained, not even a bone; the ground was much trampled, and
tracks of lions were upon the sand, but the body of the buffalo had
been dragged into the thorny jungle. I was determined, if possible,
to get a shot; and therefore followed carefully the trail left by the
carcass, which formed a path in the withered grass. Unfortunately the
lions had dragged the buffalo down wind, and, after I had arrived
within the thick nabbuk and high grass, I came to the conclusion
that my only chance would be to make a long circuit, and to creep up
wind through the thorns until I should be advised by my nose of the
position of the carcass, which would be by this time in a state of
putrefaction, and the lions would most probably be with the body.

“Accordingly, I struck off to my left, and continuing straight forward
for some hundred yards, again struck into the thick jungle, and came
round to the wind. Success depended on extreme caution, therefore I
advised my three men to keep close behind me with the spare rifles,
and I carried my single-barrelled Beattie. This rifle was extremely
accurate, and for that reason I chose it for this close work, when I
expected to get a shot at the eye or the forehead of a lion crouching
in the bush. Softly, and with difficulty, I crept forward, followed
closely by my men, through the high withered grass beneath the dense
green nabbuk bushes, peering through the thick covert with nerves
strung to the full pitch and finger on the trigger, ready for any
emergency. We had thus advanced for about half an hour, during which I
frequently applied my nose to within a foot of the ground to catch the
scent, when a sudden puff of wind brought the unmistakable smell of
decomposing flesh. For a moment I halted, and looking round at my men,
made a sign that we were near the carcass, and that they were to be
ready with the rifles.

“Again I crept forward, bending and sometimes crawling beneath the
thorns, to avoid the smallest noise. As I approached, the scent became
stronger, until at length I felt that I must be close to the carcass.
This was highly exciting. Fully prepared for a quick shot, I stealthily
crept on. A tremendous roar in the dense thorns within a few feet of me
suddenly brought the rifle to my shoulder; almost at the same instant
I saw the three-quarters figure of either a lion or a lioness within
three yards of me, on the other side of the bush under which I had
been creeping. The foliage concealed the head, but I could almost have
touched the shoulder with my rifle. Much depended upon the bullet, and
I fired exactly through the centre of the shoulder. Another tremendous
roar, and a crash in the bushes, as the animal made a bound forward,
was followed by another roar and a second lion took the exact position
of the last, and stood wondering at the report of the rifle, and
seeking for the cause of this intrusion. This was a grand lion with a
shaggy mane; but I was unloaded. Keeping my eyes fixed upon the beast,
I stretched my hand back for a spare rifle; the lion remained standing,
but gazing up wind with his head raised, and snuffing in the air for
the scent of an enemy.

“I looked back for an instant, and saw my Tokrooris faltering about
five yards behind me. I looked daggers at them, gnashing my teeth, and
shaking my fist. They saw the lion, and Taber Noor, snatching a rifle
from Hadji Ali, was just about to bring it, when Hassan, ashamed, ran
forward--the lion disappeared at the same moment. Never was such a
fine chance lost through the indecision of gun-bearers.... But where
was the first lion? Some remains of the buffalo lay upon my right,
and I expected to find him most probably crouching in the thorns near
us. Having reloaded, I took my Reilly No. 10 rifle, and listened
attentively for a sound. Presently I heard within a low growl. Taber
Noor drew his sword, and with his shield before him searched for the
lion, while I crept forward towards the sound, which was repeated. A
loud roar, accompanied by a rush in the jungle, showed us a glimpse
of the lion as he bounded off within ten or twelve yards, but I had
no chance to fire. Again the low growl was repeated, and upon quietly
creeping towards the spot, I saw a splendid animal crouched upon the
ground, among the withered and broken grass. The lioness lay dying
from the bullet wound in her shoulder. Occasionally in her rage she
bit her own paw violently, and then struck and clawed the ground. A
pool of blood was by her side. She was about ten yards from us, and
I instructed my men to throw a clod of earth at her (there were no
stones), to prove whether she could rise, while I stood ready with the
rifle. She merely replied with a dull roar, and I ended her misery with
a ball through the head.”

“Lions,” says Andersson, “if captured when quite young, and treated
with kindness, become readily domesticated, and greatly attached
to their owners, whom they follow about like dogs.” This statement
is hardly worthy of its author, and the fact that these beasts are
often kept in African villages, and made pets of by Asiatic rulers,
does not at all warrant his sweeping assertion. He knew better than
to suppose that a young wild beast did not inherit the traits of its
ancestors, or that one cub was the same as another. Likewise there is
no reason to doubt that he was acquainted with the incidents which
constantly attend such experiments in the places mentioned. All this
has already been discussed, but the lion’s place in the opinions of
those who live in the same land with him, and are unprepared to meet
his majesty, is a more convincing proof with respect to his character
than any other that could be advanced. A very small portion of mankind
respect anything that they do not fear. Wherever lions exist under the
conditions mentioned, they are dreaded, and with reason, and then, very
often, their “daring and audacity almost exceed belief,” according to
Andersson, who after all expresses the sense of those writers in whose
self-contradictory evidence they are called cowards. It was because
men dreaded the lion that he became the emblem of wisdom in Assyrian
sculpture and the type of courage in Hebrew poetry; that his head
crowns the body of an Egyptian god, and that his form has been taken
as a royal cognizance in the East and West. For no other cause is it
that death is the penalty for any one but a ruler to wear his claws in
Zululand, or that among the Algerian Arabs his whole body possesses
magic virtues.

Lion flesh is eaten in various parts of the earth, although that counts
for nothing with regard to its edibility, for men in certain phases of
development eat everything. Andersson ate some (“The Okovango River”)
and found it white, juicy, and “not unlike veal.” Much the same was
said ages before his time in Philostratos’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana,
and though this work is doubtless an Alexandrian forgery, the evidence
in this particular is just as good as if it were authentic.

In an account of this creature it remains to say a few words more
about its intellect, and the conditions under which it is developed.
Given the raw material of mind as a variable quantity in all beings
belonging to the same group, the difference between them, apart from
that which depends upon unequal endowment, results from the degree
to which the exigencies of life force individuals to use that amount
of intelligence which they possess. Existence to a lion is a very
different thing in one place and another; it is difficult or easy,
varied or monotonous, dangerous or safe, solitary or the reverse. In
other words, those adjustments of internal to external coexistences and
sequences which constitute what is essential in life, may be many and
great, or few and small. In either case adaptations must be made, but
unequal enlargements of faculty are the necessary results. Take, for
example, the average lion and place him, as he is placed in fact, under
the opposite conditions of having been born and reared in a desert,
or brought forth amid a cluster of villages and trained to prey upon
human beings. That such specimens cannot be the same needs no saying,
and if not these, then not any who are differently placed; so that to
go into some large province and write about this beast as if the few
individuals met with summarized all the possibilities of its race, is
manifestly absurd. Actually, and as far as he goes, a lion is as much
an individual as a man; like men also, the more general resemblances
and differences among them which are not due to organization, depend
upon their position.

Diminish the quantity of game in the area where a lion lives, and its
character is altered. Take away certain objects of prey, and replace
them with others, and the brute will be more or less cunning, fierce,
bold, enterprising, and active. He cannot live at all, without adapting
himself to the character of those beings among whom his lot is cast,
and as they change so will he change also. The same is true with
respect to alterations in physical conditions.

Lions vary with sex; the lioness is usually less grave and inert, but
quicker, more excitable, savage and enterprising than her mate. Once
when Gérard was lying in wait by a dead horse a lioness arrived with
her cub, but pretended not to see the hunter. She instantly pounced on
her unsuspecting whelp, drove it out of harm’s way, then made a detour,
and stole silently back to kill him. This means maternal solicitude to
the extent of temporary self-forgetfulness, presence of mind, rapid
comprehension of the circumstances involved in an unexpected and
unusual situation, determined purpose, and courage. Tigers constantly
make false charges with the design of intimidating their foes; lions
perhaps resort to this ruse less frequently, but they adopt other
means to the same end. Much of their awe-inspiring appearance is due
to causes acting independently of will; still, they deliberately
attempt to excite terror. One night while Green and his friend Bonfield
occupied a screen near a watering-place, a lion passed and repassed,
inspecting them closely. He wished the intruders away, but thought it
imprudent to attack their position, and they objected to fire because
the noise would frighten away elephants for which they were waiting.
Then the lion walked off a little distance, lay down facing them, and
reflected on the situation. Shortly he sprang up and began to cut
extraordinary capers, at the same time setting up “the most hideous
noise, neither a roar nor a growl, but something between the two.”

The beast was trying to frighten off these unwelcome visitors who
might keep game at a distance and interfere with his supper. No one
who watches young wild beasts, and more particularly those of the cat
kind, can fail to notice that they continually rehearse the chief acts
of their lives under the influence of imagination. A lion’s memory is
good, and he can be taught much. His judgment is excellent, and he
seldom attempts what he is unable to carry out. In cold blood, prudence
is one of his distinguishing characteristics, and he is also very
suspicious and on the lookout for destructive devices and inventions
of the only enemy he has reason to fear; that is to say, man. Thus,
although parts of Africa may be said to be undermined with pitfalls,
lions rarely fall into them and when this happens they often claw steps
in their walls and get out. Not, however, out of the trenches dug
inside of the fence round an Arab cattle pen, for there their enemies
occupy its edge, and then it is seen that there are certainly occasions
when lions meet inevitable death in a very dignified manner.




THE LEOPARD AND PANTHER


Those conflicting opinions we have thus far seen expressed upon the
habits and characters of wild beasts, are not replaced by any unanimity
upon the part of those who have described leopards and panthers. They
have a less voluminous literature than the lion or elephant, but their
temper and traits are disputed about in every particular, and even the
place they occupy in nature.

The only difference between a panther and a leopard is one of size; or
as G. P. Sanderson (“Thirteen Years among the Wild Beasts of India”)
expresses it, the distinction is the same as that existing between a
“horse and a pony.” Dr. Jerdon (“Mammals of India”) states that they
are merely “varieties of _Felis pardus_,” and if the species-making
mania were not so prevalent, one might wonder at men who constantly met
with these creatures in Asia and Africa, and yet wrote about them as if
they belonged to distinct groups, and had very little in common.

[Illustration: THE LEOPARD.

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

Major H. A. Leveson (“Sport in Many Lands”) thus describes the panther:
“This animal frequently measures eight feet in length from its nose
to the end of its tail. It has a well-defined, bony ridge along the
centre of its skull for the attachment of the muscles of the neck,
which is not noticeable in the leopard or cheetah. The skin, which
shines like silk, and is of a rich tawny or orange tan above and white
underneath, is marked with seven rows of rosettes, each consisting
of an assemblage of black spots, in the centre of which the tawny or
fulvous ground of the coat shows distinctly through the black. Its
extremities are marked with horseshoe-shaped or round black spots.
Few animals can surpass the panther in point of beauty, and none in
elegance or grace. His every motion is easy and flexible in the highest
degree; he bounds among the rocks and woods with an agility truly
surprising--now stealing along the ground with the silence of a snake,
now crouching with his fore-paws extended and his head laid between
them, while his chequered tail twitches impatiently, and his pale,
gooseberry eyes glare mischievously upon his unsuspecting victim.”
Captain J. H. Baldwin (“Large and Small Game of Bengal”) writes in much
the same strain upon the specific differences between these varieties,
and he is at a loss to understand how Dr. Jerdon and Mr. Blyth, Captain
Hodgson and Sir Walter Elliot, can regard panthers and leopards as of
the same species. The difference between their skulls--that of the
leopard’s being oval, while the panther’s is round--is, he asserts, “of
itself conclusive evidence upon this disputed question;” and besides
that, “the two animals altogether differ from one another in size and
character.”

Technical discussions have been avoided so far as it was possible to do
so, but here it seems necessary to say briefly that head-measurements
as a basis for classification, whether among beasts or men, have
always failed; also that developed ridges and processes are for the
most part merely concomitants of more massive skulls in larger animals
whose muscles are of greater size; and that bulk by itself means very
little, and varies in most cases very much. Finally, the coat-markings,
in their minor details, of all animals whose skins are variegated,
constantly differ in the same species. Among _Felidæ_ one scarcely sees
two lions with like manes, or two tigers with identical stripes. As for
the spotted or rosetted groups, their spots not only vary in members
of specific aggregates, but even upon different sides of the same
creature’s body.

Lockington (“Riverside Natural History”) states that “the leopard
(including both varieties of _Felis pardus_ under this term) is very
variable in size and color.” Stanley, Emin Pasha (Dr. Schnitzer), and
Hissman speak of those in Somali-land as much larger than any others
in Africa, yet it is certain that there is but one true species now
extant, and that this includes those forms already spoken of, together
with the snow leopard of the Himalayas, the long-furred, ring-marked,
bushy-tailed variety of Manchuria and Corea, and the “black tiger” of
India and the Malasian Archipelago, which is nothing but a panther
with its colors reversed,--a “sport,” as G. A. R. Dawson (“Nilgiri
Sporting Reminiscences”) calls it, and which according to him is “of a
uniform dull black color, with its spots (of a fulvous tint) showing in
particular lights.” Colonel A. C. McMaster proved that these dark cubs
had been found in litters having the usual coloration. General Hamilton
demonstrated the same thing, and Colonel Pollok (“Natural History
Notes”) states that “the black panther, which is very common towards
Mergeri and Tavay, is only a _lusus naturæ_.” He himself “saw a female
panther near Shoaydung, with two cubs, one black and one spotted.”

The “snow leopard” is very little known on account of the solitary
and inaccessible regions it inhabits. “It is the rarest event,”
says Colonel F. Markham (“Shooting in the Himalayas”), “to see one,
though it roams about apparently as much by day as by night. Even the
shepherds who pass the whole of the summer months, year after year,
in the area where it lives, that is to say, above the forests where
there is little or no cover ... seldom see one.... It is surprising
and unaccountable how it eludes observation.” He describes its ground
color as being of a dingy white, with faint yellowish-brown markings,
and represents the animal to be considerably smaller than its congeners
of the hot country below. Captain Baldwin, however, saw a skin as
large as a panther’s. This was “of a light gray color, with irregular
black spots. There was a black line running lengthways over the hind
quarters, the hair was long on the neck, and the tail was remarkably
long, ringed with black, and black at the tip.”

An animal of the same species, and very like this, is confined to the
equatorial belt of Africa. It is as rare as the “snow leopard,” and
has only been seen once or twice. Andersson (“Lake N’gami”) reports
that the “maned leopard” was mistaken by him for a lion. This name
is a translation of the native title--N’gulula, and Leslie, who knew
more about it than any one else, states that “a cub is gray, light,
and furry.... The half-grown one, gray also, but the spots are faintly
distinguishable. In the full-grown animal they are perfectly plain,
but very dirty and undefined. There is also a peculiar gray hog mane.”
W. H. Drummond (“Large Game and Natural History of Southern Africa”)
also met with the N’gulula, and he, like Andersson, thought at first
that it was a small lion, which it greatly resembled “in shape and
color.”

We may now turn from the varieties of _Felis pardus_ and their external
characteristics, to an investigation of those traits which have become
organized in them during the long course of ages in which they have
become specialized, physically and mentally, for a predatory life.

To know what an animal of this kind feeds on, and how it takes
its prey, is also to know much about its structure, temper, and
disposition. Neither lions nor tigers find the game upon which they
subsist in trees, and the latter, therefore, rarely climb, while there
is no account of the former having been seen to do so.

With the panther and leopard this is quite different. There are no
climbers more expert than these beasts. As the Panama chief said to the
explorer Oxenham, “Everything that has blood in it is food”; to these
animals many things without blood, or at least without red blood, are
food, for they eat the larva of insects, insects themselves, and birds’
eggs; likewise many fowls, from the splendid peacock to a common crow,
which, as Sir Samuel Baker remarks, “lives by his wits, and is one
of the cleverest birds in creation.” The panther preys on deer more
commonly than any other kind of game, although it destroys reptiles,
rodents, etc., and wild pigs in great numbers. Perhaps a wild boar,
the “grim gray tusker” of Anglo-Indian tales and hunting songs, “laughs
at a panther,” as General Shakespear (“Wild Sports of India”) declares.
But all the weaker members of his race become victims to this spotted
robber’s partiality for pork. Monkeys, too, from the sacred Hanuman
down through all secular grades, are eaten with avidity by these
animals, and they kill great quantities of them despite their cunning.
There is nothing alive of which monkeys are so much afraid.

Both leopards and panthers can endure thirst much better than tigers,
and the latter are cave-dwellers to a greater extent than any of the
larger _Felidæ_. They only drink once in twenty-four hours, and always
at night. Their retreats lie amid low, arid, rocky hills covered with
underbrush, traversed by gullies whose sides have been washed out into
recesses by floods, and their rocks worn away into caves by weathering
or percolation. They are much more active and energetic than their
striped relatives, can better endure fatigue, and are, as a rule,
bolder and more enterprising.

It is very far from being a fact, however, that “the habits of leopards
are invariably the same”; that is an error into which Sir Samuel Baker
was betrayed by the doctrine of instinct, and which has likewise been
shared by nearly every other writer upon natural history. There is a
certain sameness in the behavior of such creatures, as there is in that
of all classes of animals leading similar lives; but this is as much
as it is possible to say. In some localities, for example, the panther
is strictly nocturnal; in others it appears that he hunts during
the day nearly as much as at night. In no instance is he an organic
machine. Far from it; this prowling marauder is the fiercest and most
adventurous of wild beasts, astute to a degree, capable of using every
faculty to its fullest extent, well able to take care of itself, and
fatally skilful in compassing the destruction of others; a being in
every way qualified to design and execute its projects, to achieve all
those ends which courage and cunning enable it to attain, and quite fit
to meet the ordinary emergencies that may arise during the perpetration
of its acts of rapine and bloodshed.

The panther’s cry--Gérard (“Journal des Chasseurs”) calls it a
“scream”--is often heard upon Indian hillsides when darkness begins to
obscure the scene. Captain Baldwin describes it as a harsh, measured
coughing sound, without much timbre or resonance, rather flat, in fact,
and not at all like the roar of that animal it most resembles,--the
American jaguar. Like most of the _Felidæ_, this species commonly
gives tongue upon leaving its lair, or, at least, has been frequently
reported as doing so. This is not a point of much moment, but it is a
matter of considerable importance to the inhabitants of any village
that may lie in the neighborhood, whether that ominous voice dies away
in the forest, or appears to be approaching their dwellings. When a
panther takes to man-eating, Colonel Pollok (“Sport in British Burmah”)
and Captain James Forsyth (“The Highlands of Central India”) assert,
“he is far worse than a tiger.” Certainly, no records of such desperate
ferocity exist in the case of any other creature of the cat kind; no
other is reported to have taken like risks or to have succeeded in its
fatal enterprises in the face of equal difficulties.

It is to be taken into consideration that a panther very rarely exceeds
eight feet from tip to tip, or weighs more than a hundred and seventy
pounds. Several writers have said that this animal’s powers of offence
are scarcely inferior to those of the tiger; nevertheless, nothing
is more certain than the fact that with all its great strength, its
exceeding activity, and formidable armature, a panther cannot stand
before a tiger for a moment. It cannot overwhelm a man instantly,
bite him through the body, or crush his life out with a single blow;
and yet, unless like the superstitious people whom this fell beast
destroys, we can imagine demons becoming incarnated to scourge
humanity, nothing more terrible and deadly than a man-eater of this
class can be conceived of. Captain Forsyth thus sketches a famous
panther of the Seoni district, which he was in charge of when those
scenes alluded to occurred. “This brute killed, incredible as it may
seem, nearly a hundred people before he was shot by a shikári. He never
ate the bodies, but merely lapped the blood from the throat. His plan
was, either to steal into a house at night and strangle some sleeper
on his bed, stifling any outcry with his deadly grip, or to climb into
the high platforms on which watchers guard their fields from deer,
etc., and drag his victim thence. He was not to be balked of his prey,
and when driven off from one side of a village, would hasten round to
the opposite side, and secure another person in the confusion. A few
moments accomplished his murderous work, and such was the devilish
cunning he joined to his extraordinary boldness, that all attempts
to find and shoot him were for many months unsuccessful. European
sportsmen who went out, after hunting him in vain, would often find his
tracks close to their tent doors in the morning.”

It is about time that the usual explanation given for this kind of
exceptional conduct upon the part of a beast of prey by those writers
who think it necessary to allude to their character, otherwise than
in general terms, was banished from descriptive natural history. The
course of thought upon the natural relations which subsist between men
and brutes, seems to run somewhat in this wise. At sometime, somewhere,
and somehow, all inferior denizens of this earth were made to
appreciate and fear human superiority. That impression was transmitted
as an instinct, and is in full force now. When, therefore, a predatory
animal does such violence to its nature as to eat a man, the shock,
which according to conventional ideas always attends great crime,
unhinges its mind. A kind of madness ensues. It becomes wild, and is
driven by Furies like an ancient Greek guilty of sacrilege, or early
Christians who, as reported by Gregory the Great and many others, had
swallowed devils. Instantaneous change of character is the consequence,
and the creature henceforth thinks, feels, and conducts itself in a new
and terrible manner.

That is about the sum and substance of most statements bearing upon
this subject, and there is not the slightest foundation in fact for
any of them. This question has been considered in the abstract; but
with regard to the panther’s character the truth is that, in the way
stated, no respect for mankind is discoverable in his conduct. It is
indeed notoriously otherwise; and this is nowhere more clearly shown
than in the records of observations made by men who were convinced
that all species of wild beasts instinctively feared them. “The Old
Shekarry” (Major Leveson) writes (“Hunting-Grounds of the Old World”)
to this effect: “Panthers, like all forest creatures ... are afraid
of man, never voluntarily intruding upon his presence, and invariably
beating a retreat if they can do so unmolested.” Then this authority
goes on to tell what he has learned about panthers in the course of
an experience rarely equalled for extent and variety. They are “more
courageous than the tiger.... The panther often attacks men without
provocation.” When one “takes to cattle-lifting or man-eating he is a
more terrible scourge than a tiger, insomuch as he is more daring and
cunning.” He relates how this timid creature that never voluntarily
obtrudes himself upon human presence, fights hunters on all occasions;
how the beast broke into his own camps, carried off dogs that were tied
to his tent pole, and much more to the same effect.

There is no difficulty in finding exploits of the same kind; Rice,
Inglis, Forsyth, Barras, Shakespear, Pollok, Baker, Colonel Walter
Campbell, who saw the man riding next him in a party of horsemen, torn
out of his saddle, or Colonel Davidson moving with a column of troops
around whose encampments the sentinels had to be doubled to prevent
panthers from killing them, all tell the same story.

“The tiger is an abject coward,” and so is the lion. Panthers are
audacious, but they run away upon instinct, like Falstaff. No
qualifications, no reservations, are made, no middle ground is taken,
only a series of facts is given, which prove, so far as anything in
this connection can be said to be proved, the incorrectness of what was
insisted upon in the first place.

The opinion that a wild beast that has tasted human blood is thereby
metamorphosed morally, “undergoes a transformation of emotional
psychology,” as Professor Romanes expresses it, scarcely deserves a
serious refutation. There is not the slightest reason why any such
change of character should take place, and of course it does not. But
the fact of a wild beast’s taking to man-eating is a sufficient cause
for an alteration in habit. What modifies the animal then, however,
is not the fact of killing a man, but the discovery of the ease with
which he can be destroyed. Under these circumstances the brute simply
substitutes one kind of game for another; it becomes used to the feeble
attempts at opposition met with, and goes on with its murders. Where
the state of affairs is different, where people are ready to combine
against such scourges, to anticipate their designs, pursue, circumvent,
and slay them, these beasts of prey do not devour men; they keep as far
from them as possible.

It is doubtful if it could be shown that panthers are more prone to
anthropophagous habits than other brutes, but the evidence is strongly
in favor of the fact that they fight human beings more readily. Their
ferocity and hardihood are exceptional among the _Felidæ_.

The panther described by Forsyth set at naught quite a number of
favorite theories. His conduct was indeed very different from that
which might have been expected if the main features of character common
to his family are like those which are said to exist. The relations of
cause and effect were not set aside for his benefit, and therefore,
instead of being at once prepared to do the things he is known to
have accomplished, there must have been some period of preparation.
Of all things it is the most improbable that this animal set out on
an expedition at haphazard. Perception, foresight, comprehension,
judgment, resource, were not suddenly conferred upon him when he
arrived at his destination and taken away when he left. He must have
added observation and training to his innate qualities. How easily or
to what extent this was done we cannot decide; for to imagine that
a wild beast could come out of the forest, and instantly become an
experienced master of an entirely new set of circumstances and have
the ability to take advantage of every opportunity and overcome all
opposition, is preposterous; is nothing less than to suppose an effect
without a cause. The brute in question gave terribly convincing proofs
that it understood the situation in its entirety, and how this could
have been the case unless it was known, in what way known without
being learned, and how learned without a mind passing through ordinary
processes, does not appear.

To isolate the traits of an animal and consider them separately is
a mistake. It is to fall into the same error that Stallo and the
transcendental school in physics have made with reference to the
attributes of matter. These abstractions of the mind are not identical
with realities in nature. They cannot be studied by themselves without
distorting the subject to be represented. Compared with that of other
great cats the panther’s conduct shows that he is braver than the
rest. But this is only an empirical conclusion and throws little light
upon the animal’s character. We are not in a position, however, to
analyze this in such a way as to show the relative development of its
traits, or to say how far excess in one direction alters the general
disposition.

So far as the brute’s behavior goes, the following narrative will be
found to bear upon several points that have been discussed. Colonel
Barras (“India and Tiger Hunting”) had pitched his camp in the Murree
jungles, and it was crowded with the usual supernumerary attendants,
together with elephants, gharry bullocks, horses, and dogs. One night
as he and his companions--Messrs. Sandford and Franks--lay upon their
camp beds in the deep slumber that follows a hard day’s work, they were
awakened by “a furious roaring.” It appears that a panther had come
among them, and seized upon a pet dog belonging to the Colonel then
tied to his tent pole.

The brute, finding that it was impossible to carry off his prey, became
enraged. Everybody turned out, and the panther made off in the midst
of the hubbub. But his visit was looked upon as a challenge, and they
resolved to postpone any further proceedings against tigers in that
vicinity, until this marauder had been hunted. Orders to that effect
were issued to the head shikári, and that worthy acted upon them with
such success as to report next morning that the trackers had marked
him down. “After the usual hot march of three or four miles,” says
Colonel Barras, “we came upon the chief shikári, who was speedily to
place us face to face with our hidden foe. On arriving at the scene of
action, we found that the panther had taken up his quarters on a steep
hillside which was much more thickly covered with cactus plant than
usual. The top of the hill was flat ... and devoid of cover. The last
short rise up this eminence was so steep that a line of beaters had
drawn themselves up in tolerable safety all along the crest, prepared
to hurl showers of rocks and stones down the declivity, should the
panther take an upward course. All of them, however, then maintained
an immovable attitude and a profound silence, whilst in a whisper
scarcely to be heard, our guide pointed out the exact bush in which the
enemy was said to be concealed. We divided the distance around it, and
gradually closed in towards the centre of attraction, till not more
than five or six yards separated us from the place.... Here we paused
in circumspection; no sound struck upon the ear, nor did so much as a
leaf quiver a warning to the eye. But though invisible to us, we felt
that the animal was aware of our presence, and that its eyes were fixed
upon us as it crouched for a spring.”

Still the panther remained quiet, “and whilst the party were discussing
various projects, my dog keeper asked permission to ascend the slope
of the amphitheatre on which we were standing, so that he might join
the line of beaters on the ridge above. Permission was given, but he
was strictly enjoined to make a circuit round the tract of bushes,
to enter which would have been dangerous. He had not gone many yards,
however, when with true native perversity he struck well into the
middle of the cover, and stumbled right upon the panther, which to his
no small dismay sprang from a bush only a few feet in front of him....
The brute suddenly appeared before us, going at a great rate through
the underbrush. As it flashed across a small open space we all took
snap shots, none of which took effect, and the animal dashed into a
deep ravine and disappeared.” Nothing now remained except to drive the
game; that is to say, post the guns at a point where the beast would
most probably attempt to break out, and cause the beaters to advance
towards it. This was done, the signal given, and “the perfect stillness
was instantly replaced by a wild shrieking, the rushing sound of
falling rocks, and a waving about of people and herbage as though the
whole mountain were about to slide into the valley beneath. No panther
could resist such a pressing invitation to move as this was, and our
friend accordingly started off at full gallop for other quarters,”
which he again reached without being hit, and presently the report came
that the game had taken refuge in a dense clump of cactus on top of the
hill. While messengers were despatched for rockets to drive it out, the
party agreed to take lunch, and the “tiffin basket” was placed on the
shady side of that impenetrable cover where the panther lay.

“For a few moments,” continues Colonel Barras, “we sat quite still.
Then it occurred to us to try and peep through into the centre of
the mass of cactus to see if we could make out the whereabouts of
its present occupant.... Not seeing anything, our thoughts reverted
naturally to the basket. There it stood, just on the other side of
Sandford. I stretched across him to reach it with my right hand, and
had just grasped the handle, when a succession of short, savage roars
broke upon my ears, mingled with the wild shouts of the natives, who
were evidently being chased by the ferocious brute. At this time I
felt that my hat would probably do more for me than my gun, so I
crushed the former down on my head, seized the latter, and faced the
enemy. The panther meanwhile had floored a beater and got him by the
arm, but dropping him at once, came at me with lightning bounds.
Owing to the beast’s tremendous speed, I could see nothing but a
shadowy-looking form, with two large, round, bright eyes fixed upon
me with an unmeaning stare as it literally flew towards me. Such was
the vision of a moment.... I raised my gun and fired with all the care
I could at such short notice, but I missed, and the panther bounded,
light as a feather, with its arms around my shoulders. Thus we stood
for a few seconds, and I distinctly felt the animal sniffing for my
throat. Mechanically I turned my head so as to keep the thick-wadded
cape of my helmet in front of the creature’s muzzle; but I could hear
and feel plainly the rapid yet cautious efforts it was making to find
an opening so as to tear the great vessels that lie in the neck. I had
no other weapon but my gun, which was useless while the animal was
closely embracing me, so I stood perfectly still, well knowing that
Sandford would liberate me if it were possible to do so.... As may be
supposed, the panther did not spend much time investigating the nature
of a wadded hat-cover, and before my friend could get round, and fire
without jeopardizing my life, the beast pounced upon my left elbow,
taking a piece out, and then buried its long, sharp fangs in the joint
till they met. At the same time I was hurled to the earth with such
violence that I knew not how I got there, or what had become of my gun.
I was lying on the ground with the panther on top of me, and could feel
my elbow joint wobbling in and out as the beast ground its jaws with a
movement imperceptible to the bystanders, but which felt to me as if I
were being violently shaken all over. Now I listened anxiously for the
sound of Sandford’s rifle, which I knew would be heard immediately,
and carefully refrained from making the slightest sound or movement,
lest his aim should be disturbed. In a few seconds the loud and welcome
detonation, which from its proximity almost deafened me, struck upon
my ear, and I sat up. I was free, and the panther had gone”--bounded
away shot through the body with a heavy rifle ball, into an acacia and
karinda thicket, from which it had to be driven by rockets.

“Just as the interior of the thicket became lighted up, and the
crackling of the herbage was at its loudest, the animal roused to
frenzy, by the overwhelming character of the attack, girded itself
up for a last desperate effort.... It rushed from its now untenable
hiding-place, swift and straight as an arrow upon Sandford and myself.
He fired both barrels at the beast without stopping it in the least.”
The Colonel, whose wounded arm had been bound up, now carried a hog
spear. “We had only time,” he says, “to open out one pace from each
other, and the momentum with which the animal was coming, almost
carried it past us. As it brushed my right leg, however, I saw it twist
its supple neck, and literally stop itself by clasping Sandford’s thigh
in its extended jaws, bearing him to the ground, where they lay for
a moment in a close embrace. I at once adjusted my spear behind the
animal’s shoulder, and with a steady thrust drove it straight through
the heart. Franks fired at the same instant, and it would be difficult
to say which of us caused the panther to give up his last breath. It
was dead though, yet it still retained the position it had in life, and
its teeth were so firmly locked in the flesh of its foe, that I could
not open the jaws with one hand--they felt like iron to the touch.”

There are a number of narratives of like import with this, but neither
in these, nor in the accounts we have of conflicts with other wild
beasts, has anything been said concerning the principle upon which
they fight. Briefly, no brute deliberately engages in conflict without
thinking that the advantage is altogether on its own side. They may be,
and often are, mistaken, but brutes never fight fairly with intention.
Only man does that, civilized not savage man, whose motives are such as
other creatures know nothing about.

Inglis (“Work and Sport on the Nepaul Frontier”) relates an experience
of his own with a leopard--it may as like as not have been what is here
called a panther--that includes a good many points which have been
touched upon,--the much talked of eye power, this brute’s instinctive
avoidance of man, etc.,--and it is therefore inserted by way of
illustration.

“I was camped out at the village of Purimdaha, on the edge of a gloomy
Sal forest, which was reported to contain numerous leopards. The
villagers were a mixed lot of low-caste Hindus and Nepaulese settlers.
They had been fighting with the factory, and would not pay up their
rents, and I was trying, with every prospect of success, to make an
amicable arrangement with them.... It was the middle of April. The heat
was intense. The whole atmosphere had that coppery look that betokens
extreme heat, and the air was loaded with a fine, yellow dust which
the west wind bore on its fever-laden wings, to disturb the lungs and
temper of all good Christians. The _Kanats_, or canvas walls of the
tent, had all been taken down for the sake of coolness, and my camp
bed lay in one corner, open all round to the outside air, and only
sheltered from the dew. It had been a busy day. I had been going over
accounts, and talking with the villagers until I was hoarse.

“After a light dinner I lay down on my bed, but it was too close and
too hot to sleep. By and by the various sounds died out. The tom-toming
ceased in the village. My servants suspended their low-muttered gossip
around the cook’s fire, wrapped themselves in their white cloths, and
dropped into slumber. Toby, Nettle, Whiskey, Pincher, and the other
terriers looked like so many curled-up hairy balls, and were in the
land of dreams. Occasionally a horned owl would give a melancholy hoot
from the forest, or a screech owl raise a momentary and damnable din.
At intervals the tinkle of a cow-bell sounded faintly in the distance.
I tossed restlessly, thinking of various things, till I must have sunk
into an uneasy, fitful sleep. I know not how long I had been dozing,
when of a sudden I felt myself wide awake, but with my eyes yet tightly
closed.

“I was conscious of some terrible, unknown, impending danger. I had
experienced the same thing before when waking from a nightmare, but I
knew that the peril was now real. I felt a sinking horror, a terrible
and nameless dread, and for the life of me I could not move hand or
foot. I was lying on my side and could hear distinctly the thumpings
of my own heart. A cold sweat broke out behind my ears, and over my
neck and chest. I could analyze every feeling, and knew there was some
_Presence_ in the tent, and that I was in instant and imminent danger.
Suddenly in the distance a pariah dog gave a prolonged melancholy howl.
As if this had broken the spell that bound me, I opened my eyes, and
within ten inches of my face there stood a handsome leopardess gazing
steadily at me. Our eyes met, and how long we confronted each other I
know not. It must have been for some moments. Her eyes contracted and
expanded, the pupils elongated, and then opened out into a lustrous
globe. I could see the lithe tail oscillating at its extreme tip with a
gentle waving motion, like that of a cat when hunting birds in a garden.

“Just then there was a movement among the horses. The leopard slowly
turned her head, and I grasped the revolver that lay under my pillow.
The beautiful spotted monster turned her head for an instant, showed
her teeth, and then with one bound went through the open side of the
tent. I fired two shots, which were answered with a roar. The din that
followed would have frightened the devil. It was a beautiful, clear
night with a moon at the full, and everything showed as plainly as at
noonday. My servants uttered exclamations of terror. The terriers went
into an agony of yelps and barks. The horses snorted and tried to break
loose, and my chowkeydar, who had been asleep on his watch, thinking
a band of Dacoits had come upon us, began to lay about him with his
staff, and shout, ‘_Chor! Chor! lagga! lagga! lagga!_’ that is, ‘thief!
thief! lay on! lay on! lay on!’

“The leopard was hit, and was evidently in a terrible temper. She
halted not thirty paces from the tent, beside a Shanum tree, and seemed
undecided whether to go on or return and wreak her vengeance on me.
That moment of hesitation decided her fate. I snatched down my Express
rifle, which was hanging in two loops above my bed, and shot her right
through the heart.

“I never understood how she could have made her way past dogs,
servants, horses, and watchman, into the tent, without raising some
alarm.”

Thus far, whether in courage, enterprise, and skill, whether in
sagacity, or desperation of attack and defence, nothing has been found
to traverse W. H. Lockington’s opinion (“Riverside Natural History”) to
the effect that panthers, “relatively to their size, are the fiercest,
strongest, and most terrible of beasts.”

In ancient Egypt and modern Abyssinia lions formed part of the royal
paraphernalia. Marabouts lead around sacred animals of this species
in North Africa, and if they occasionally kill somebody, the public
in those parts understand that he was a sinner who deserved his fate.
Leashed tigers also were not uncommon in the courts of Hindu rajahs,
but since the time of the Indian Bacchus, whose car they drew, panthers
have rarely appeared in parades. These savage brutes do not lend
themselves to peaceful pageants. From all accounts they are the most
intractable and untrustworthy of creatures--the least susceptible of
instruction, says Sanderson (“Thirteen Years among the Wild Beasts of
India”).

Panthers have often been seen associated in families, but they do
not display what Professor Romanes calls “the collective instinct
in hunting.” They can supply their needs without resorting to these
manœuvres, and therefore have not formed the habit of practising them.

It sometimes happens that _Felis pardus_ in all its forms has to
give up spoil. The lion takes its prey away, and so does the tiger.
Occasionally some blundering, black rhinoceros comes upon the scene
and puts the panther to flight, or a herd of wild hogs does the same.
_Kuon rutilans_, the wild dog, is reported to be in the habit of
appropriating their supplies, and J. Moray Brown (“Shikar Sketches”)
states that he had personal knowledge of this fact. Upon the whole,
however, the beast in question is not much molested.

Over-boldness is disadvantageous to any animal, and panthers suffer
from their temerity in the way of getting trapped more frequently than
other members of their family. General Morgan (“Memoirs”) remarks that
“it is a very common thing to catch a panther,” but nobody has said
the same of other _Felidæ_. The difficulty lies in comparing these
species so as to assign the phenomenon to its real cause. The question
is, how does it happen that a panther walks into a pit more frequently
than a tiger? It cannot be said that it is because the latter has
the more intelligence; facts do not sustain such an explanation, and
yet the absence of deliberation stands in a direct relation with
incompleteness of mental development.

It might be argued that the dissimilarity was due to temperament, and
that while neither could be absorbed by one idea--that of committing a
murder, for instance--without some temporary disregard of everything
else, the panther was more liable to this state of mind than its
relative. In ordinary parlance such a tendency would be called courage,
and its opposite timidity, although that is rather a loose manner of
speaking. However the truth may be, there is no doubt that a tiger will
often come up to a bait fixed over a pitfall, examine it carefully on
every side, and finally walk off with that pleasant grin of his, while
the panther precipitates himself into the cavity.

This beast is very partial to dog meat, and the canine population of
countries where panthers abound have an abiding fear of them. Sir
Samuel Baker (“The Rifle and Hound in Ceylon”) says that his dog
“Smut,” who weighed a hundred and thirty pounds, and was “a cross
between a Manilla bloodhound and some big bitch at the Cape,” made
a practice of hunting leopards on his own account. This was a very
unusual thing, however, since the largest breeds of the East, Poligar
dogs and Tibetan mastiffs, would certainly be at a great disadvantage
in such an encounter. While the latter was encamped upon the Settite
River, an Abyssinian tributary of the White Nile, one of these animals
sprang into the midst of a circle of men resting around a watch fire
and carried off a dog. To invade a hunters’ camp on this kind of an
errand is quite common with the panther, and many exploits of his under
such circumstances have been put on record. In India the villanous
pariahs that swarm in every village are his constant victims. If one
of them goes into the jungle, there is apt to be a momentary scuffle
in the dry grass, a stifled yelp, and the dog vanishes. So in rice
fields and around cattle camps where the Gwallas build their temporary
residences. Principally, however, the panther gets game of this
kind from permanent settlements infested with “curs of low degree.”
Panthers know them well, and act accordingly. During the night one
approaches the outskirts of a village and so far reveals his presence
as to show the dogs, who are always prowling about, that some strange
animal is near. Now they in turn are well aware of the tricks that
panthers play, but on the other hand can by no means resist their
ingrained propensity to make a display of courage, which they probably
possess in a less degree than any carnivora. As soon as these pariahs
discover something that conceals itself, the idea which naturally takes
possession of their minds is that this cautious conduct is due to a
fear of themselves. The pack instantly darts forward, and stops. These
brutes endeavor to get self-encouragement out of absurd antics; they
leap, they howl, they ramp and rave, until one of them, more excitable
than the rest, so far forgets itself as to approach the intruder too
closely. A shadowy form bounds upon it, and all is over.

If panthers were contented to kill these animals only, no reasonable
objection to their deeds could be made. Unfortunately this is not the
case; sheep, goats, pigs, horses, cattle, and their owners, all are
destroyed; and when some casualty more exasperating or tragic than
usual occurs, public opprobrium descends upon the hereditary huntsman
of the commune with true Asiatic violence and unreason. Is he, the
accursed, supported in ease and affluence in order to snore like a
swine while people and their property are thus devoured? Oh Ram! Ram!
Ram! May the choicest curses light upon him, may he be beset by all
devils whatsoever! Then the official, who is wholly blameless, and
except by accident cannot hope to do anything against a beast like
this, curses the panther, his fate, his fellow-citizens, and himself;
after which everybody forgets the matter.

No prudential reflections interfere with a panther’s singleness of
purpose when on the prowl. Blood is his object, and blood he intends
to have, so the upshot is that he often finds himself at the bottom of
a pit shaped like an inverted pyramid that it is impossible to dig out
of. What subsequently happens depends upon the demand for wild beasts.
If an agent of Jamrach’s has left an order for panthers, or some native
ruler signified his will that they be forthcoming immediately, the
captive’s life is safe. Men arrive in the morning with something that
looks like a magnified crate. It is inverted over the pit’s mouth,
earth is thrown in, the floor rises and with it the captive, until
the animal is forced into this temporary cage. Bamboo crosspieces are
then slipped under and secured, and very shortly he is _en route_. If
the destination be a zoölogical park or menagerie, it is said that
the beast will live longer and develop physically more completely
in captivity than it would in a state of freedom. This is, to say
the least, doubtful. Much might be advanced upon the subject, but
biological discussions are out of place here, and it is enough to point
out the fact that this opinion must be purely arbitrary, since no vital
statistics exist from which such a conclusion could be legitimately
drawn.

Returning to the subject of traps, they are not always constructed
alike. Besides excavations there are enclosures that must be entered
intentionally or not at all. These are made by driving palisades deep
in the earth, roofing them, and cutting a sliding door in the side.
It is connected with the bait by a string in such a manner as to drop
when this is touched. Tigers are seldom taken in by these inventions,
but the panther is frequently caught, especially if a live animal be
placed in the trap. How he reasons upon the unusual circumstances then
presented we do not know. Perhaps there is little or no deliberation
upon what he ought to do, and the brute merely acts in obedience to
its immediate impulses. But if we examine the behavior of panthers
that go into villages to kill men, in all instances of this kind the
animal’s conduct is marked by a union of skill and daring with cunning
and circumspection. What makes him lose his prudence in face of a trap?
Except himself, there is not a great cat in Asia that would not be apt
to see into this device and keep out of danger. The panther, however,
enters the enclosure. Such appears to be a fair statement of facts
relating to the brute’s character and habits in this connection, but no
attempt is made towards explaining them.

In certain parts of India panthers are netted. That is, nets are hung
about ten feet high behind which the hunters stand with spears. It is
not _jouer de rigueur_ to use rifles unless these defences are leaped.

In the event of the barrier being bounded over, the result to the
huntsmen depends greatly upon the way in which the beast attacks. Some
animals of this species have a curious habit, under such circumstances,
of trying to kill all their enemies at once. Much the same has been
said of tigers. Sir J. E. Alexander (“Expedition into Africa”) speaks
of the spotted cats of that country as flying about among a crowd of
enemies, striking first at one and then at another. In such a skirmish
nobody might be seriously injured. On the other hand, they cannot be
counted upon to act in this manner, and if, like Barras’ panther, one
singled out a particular man and fastened upon him, nothing, it is
likely, could save his life except prompt interference upon the part of
his companions.

With regard to its attack upon game, the mode in which this animal
takes its prey has been definitely settled in several different ways,
as is the case also in respect to the manner in which its prey is
eaten. Colonel Pollok (“Sport in British Burmah”) remarks that “there
is a peculiar and singular distinction, with regard to the mode of
breaking up their prey, between the tiger and the panther, the latter
invariably commencing upon the fore quarters or chest.” General
Shakespear, nevertheless, came unexpectedly upon a panther that had
just killed a cow in the Bootinaut correa, and it was feeding upon
one of the hind quarters, “a large piece of which had already been
consumed.” Colonel Barras and Captain Forsyth consider the throat to
be the part first fastened upon, Baker states that the body is at
once torn open to get at the viscera, and Inglis, Leveson, and others
explain that panthers suck the blood of their victims before anything
else.

Similar dogmatic opinions and exclusive views of the way in which a
panther or leopard kills game have been advanced. They are said to
break the neck with a blow of their forearm; and also never to do so,
not being able in the case of large animals, and with small ones this
being unnecessary. Some authorities maintain that the cervical vertebræ
are dislocated by twisting the head; others, that the head is bent
backward till the neck breaks.

Hon. W. H. Drummond (“Large Game and Natural History of South and
Southeast Africa”) says that “leopards and panthers are very numerous
in that country.” He likewise apparently regards these varieties as
distinct species, and writes about the “_ingwe_” or _Felis leopardus_,
the “_N’gulula_” or maned leopard, and _Felis pardus_, the true
panther, as if two of these, at least, belonged to different groups.

Strangely enough to anyone acquainted with the characteristics of
the Asiatic panther, Drummond asserts that the leopard, which is a
comparatively rare animal, is, although of smaller size, the fiercer
and more dangerous of the two. He explains that its rarity is more
apparent than real, and depends upon the creature’s “nocturnal habits
and the thickness of the jungles they lie in,” so that sportsmen only
“occasionally come across them by accident.”

It is singular, however, that a hunter who had passed a number of years
in a country where they abound, should have been so little impressed by
the prowess of a beast which, at least in Central and West Africa, is
very destructive to human life. It must be the case that the brute’s
character varies somewhat with locality, yet Drummond’s narrative
portrays a condition of things under which its native ferocity and
aggressive nature should have been developed and not diminished.
However this may be, the pale, almost white-skinned panther, whose
light color is very conspicuous in its rosette, was plainly regarded by
Drummond as a much less formidable foe than its congener of the Indian
jungles, or even than its relations which Baker and others found in the
northern parts of Africa.

Still, he admits that “common leopards, _i.e._ the two forms locally
known under the name of _ingwe_, are much to be dreaded when brought to
bay, and that anecdotes innumerable might be related of instances where
they have killed or seriously injured both white and black hunters.
The virus of their bite is very great. I remember once seeing seven
men belonging to a Zulu village awfully torn and mangled by a single
animal, and the wounds remained open for a long time, and ultimately
left great scars. On the other hand, I know of several who have died
where the injuries received were not such as to have been generally
fatal.” Sir W. C. Harris mentions it as a peculiarity of the leopard’s
attack that it strikes at the face; Drummond says nothing about this
trait, and the former author probably fell into some confusion of
ideas, caused by the well-known tendency of this species to tear open
the great vessels of the throat.

Panthers and leopards are only varieties of the same species, yet while
the reputation of the former is such as has been stated, hunters often
speak of the latter as if it were nearly harmless so far as human
beings are concerned. Leopards are described as having been shot right
and left in the jungle, treed by dogs and killed on limbs without
difficulty, pelted from the doorways of deserted huts, and speared
in the open from the saddle. Leveson, Drummond, and Baker relate
experiences of this kind, but the literature of the subject contains
many very different accounts of their prowess. Both in Asia and Africa
they have often been found to be extremely dangerous and destructive
animals. There is good reason why in heraldic blazonry the leopard
should be represented as _passant gardant_. The designers did not know
it, but the fact is that no animal capable of doing so much harm, and
that has as many evil deeds to answer for, is at once so enterprising,
so stealthy, and so full of cunning. Compared with him, the greater
_Felidæ_, on the one hand, and that much-abused assassin and robber,
the fox, upon the other, are “mild-mannered,” and might be called
bunglers.

When a tiger--and the same may be said of the lion--attempts to
carry out a scheme he has formed for the surprise and murder of some
man whose whereabouts he has ascertained, the design is often more
complete than the execution. His heavy yet muffled tread is sometimes
heard, he breaks dry sticks, rustles as he moves through parched
herbage, waves long grass in passing, so that any experienced eye can
tell he is there, puts his head out of cover prematurely, is apt to
cross open spaces when a circuit ought to be made; again, he cannot
keep his tail still, and as the moment approaches for making an end
of his victim, anticipation of the pleasure of putting the man to
death and devouring him overcomes his caution, and he begins to purr.
This is not a loud sound, but it is a very impressive one, and has
been frequently heard. But no creature’s senses can give warning of a
panther’s or leopard’s approach. Few people ever heard or saw one of
these beasts while coming. They steal upon their prey with the silence
and certainty of death. Their stalk is the perfection of skill. The
attack is rapid and fierce beyond comparison; and afterwards, unless
the ground is such as will retain a trail, this animal cannot be
followed. It is the most difficult to mark down of all beasts of prey,
the hardest to track on account of its many tricks. No kind of game is
so often hunted unsuccessfully.

Leopards get the advantage over a being far cleverer than any other
forest animal. Monkeys of all species detest tigers, but have an
intense dread of the spotted cats. They “swear” at the former, but fly
from the latter, and as for men, monkeys deride them. Panthers and
leopards catch these creatures in trees, on the ground, by day and by
night; while they are on the alert, and in moments when an apparent
absence of danger lulls these astute little beasts into a fatal feeling
of security.

A cattle-lifting panther, according to Pollok and Forsyth, is more
destructive than a tiger. On the great ranges where herds graze during
the time when pasture is destroyed by drought in a good part of India,
the depredations of these beasts cost the owners dearly, and they
likewise take a constant toll from those animals, cows principally,
which are kept at villages. A buffalo under ordinary circumstances is
safe, even if alone; and when the herd is united to resist, even he
with the stripes has not the slightest chance of success.

Cows, however, are the especial prey of panthers. In India these are of
comparatively small size, and preternaturally imbecile. The _Bovidæ_
are not a gifted family at their best, and when domestication relieves
them to a great extent from the necessity of taking care of themselves,
they lose much of the faculty which in wild forms is developed under
the stress of necessity. Year after year, and age after age, the
panther has been murdering Indian cattle in the same way, and they have
never originated the slightest measure of precaution or defence. The
full measure of their weakness of mind has been taken by the enemy, and
when he concludes to give up hunting, except as a pastime, and live on
beef, his prey may be said to come to him.

In 1863 Captain Forsyth hunted panthers on the higher Narbadá, under
the auspices of an old shikári, an unspeakable scoundrel, who had
killed more of them than anybody else whose exploits the annals of
sport with large game perpetuate. Bamanjee (the Brahman) seems to
have been exceptionally honest in his dealings with the Captain, and
to have given him an opportunity, rarely accorded to the hunters whom
he swindled, for making observations upon the habits and character
of these beasts. Forsyth relates his experiences in a way that will
serve as a summary of what has been already said about _Felis pardus_.
“The number of these animals in the districts around Jubbulpúr is
very great. The low rocky hills, ... full of hollows and caverns,
and overgrown with dense scrubby cover, afford them their favorite
retreats; while numbers of antelope and hog deer, goats, sheep,
pariah dogs, and pigs supply them with abundant food. A large male
panther will kill not very heavy cattle; but as a rule they confine
themselves to the smaller animals mentioned. They seldom reside very
far from villages, prowling around them at night in search of prey, and
retreating to their fastnesses before daybreak. Unlike the tiger, they
care little for the neighborhood of water, even in the hot weather,
drinking only at night, and generally at a distance from their midday
retreat.”

The scourge that a man-eating panther becomes, and those traits which
make him worse than either the lion or tiger when he has taken to
preying upon human beings, have been already given at some length; the
following statements, however, also by Forsyth, place the panther’s
enterprise and hardihood before us very vividly:--

“In my early hunting days I fell into the mistake of most sportsmen in
supposing that the panther might be hunted on foot with less caution
than the tiger. On two or three occasions I nearly paid dearly for
the error, and I now believe that the panther is really by far a more
dangerous animal to attack. He is, in the first place, much more
courageous. For, though he will generally sneak away unobserved as
long as he can, if once brought to close quarters he rarely fails to
charge with the utmost ferocity, fighting to the very last. He is also
much more active than the tiger, making immense springs clear off the
ground, which the other seldom does. He can conceal himself in the
most wonderful way, his spotted hide blending with the ground, and his
lithe, loose form being compressible into an inconceivably small space.
Further, he is so much less in depth and stoutness than a tiger, and
moves so much quicker, that he is far more difficult to hit in a vital
place. He can also climb trees, which the tiger cannot do, except for
a small distance up a thick, sloping trunk. A few years ago a panther
thus took a sportsman out of a high perch on a tree in the Chindwárá
district. And, lastly, his powers of offence are scarcely inferior to
those of the tiger himself, and are amply sufficient to be the death
of any man he gets hold of. When stationed at Damoh, near Jubbulpúr,
with a detachment of my regiment, I shot seven panthers and leopards
in less than a month, within a few miles of the station, chiefly by
driving them out with beaters; all of them charged that had the power
to do so, but the little cherub who watches over ‘griffins’ got us
out of it without damage either to myself or the beaters. One of the
smaller species [Forsyth means a leopard, which, together with Byth,
Jerdon, and other naturalists, he regarded as a true panther of less
dimensions than the other variety], really not more than five feet
long, I believe, charged me three several times up a bank to the very
muzzle of my rifles (of which I luckily had a couple), falling back
each time to the shot, but not thinking of trying to escape, and died
at last at my feet, with her teeth fixed in the root of a small tree.

“Another jumped on my horse, while passing through some long grass,
before it was fired at at all; and after being kicked off, charged my
groom and gun-carrier, who barely escaped by fleeing for their lives,
leaving my only gun in possession of the leopard. I had to ride to
cantonments to get another rifle, and gather together some beaters.
When we returned I took up my post on a rock that overlooked the patch
of grass, and the beaters had scarcely commenced their noise when the
leopard went at them like an arrow. An accident would certainly have
happened this time had my shots failed to stop this devil incarnate
before she reached them. She had cubs in the grass, which accounted for
her fury; but a tigress would have abandoned them to their fate in a
similar case. The last I killed was a man-eater, that took up his post
among the high crops surrounding a village, and killed and dragged in
women and children who ventured out of the place. He was a panther of
the largest size, and had been wounded by a shikári from a tree, ...
rendering him incapable of killing game. I was a week hunting him, as
he was very careful not to show himself when pursued, and at last I
shot him in a cow-house into which he had ventured, and killed several
head of cattle before the people had courage to shut the door.”

Among other peculiarities, says Forsyth, “their indifference to water
makes it extremely difficult to bring them to book; and indeed panthers
are far more generally met with by accident than secured by regular
hunting. When beating with elephants they are very rarely found,
considering their numbers; but they must be very frequently passed
at a short distance unobserved, in this kind of hunting. In 1862, I
was looking for a tigress and cubs near Khápá on the Lawá River in
Bétúl. Their tracks of a few days old led into a deep fissure in the
rocky banks of the river, above which I went, leaving the elephant
below, and threw in stones from the edge. Some way up I saw a large
panther steal out at the head and sneak across the plain. He was out
of shot, and I followed on his tracks, which were clear enough for a
few hundred yards, till, at the crossing of a small rocky nálá (gulch)
they disappeared. I could not make it out, and was returning to the
elephant, when I saw the driver making signals. He had followed me up
above, and had seen the panther break back along the little nálá which
led into the top of the ravine, and re-enter the latter. I then went
and placed myself so as to command the top of this ravine, and sent
people below to fling in stones; and presently the panther broke again
in the same place, this time galloping away openly across the plain. I
missed with both barrels of my rifle, but turned him over with a lucky
shot from a smooth-bore at more than two hundred yards. I then went up
to him on the elephant, and he made feeble attempts to rise and come at
me, but he was too far gone to succeed.

“The panther will charge an elephant with the greatest ferocity. In
1863, near Jubbulpúr, a party of us were beating a bamboo cover for
pigs, with a view to the sticking thereof (that is to say, riding them
down and spearing them from the saddle); my elephant was with the
beaters, when a shout from the latter announced that they had stumbled
on a panther. They took to trees, and I got on the elephant to turn
him out, while the rest exchanged their hog spears for rifles and
surrounded the place. She got up before me, bounding away over the low
bamboos, and I struck her on the rump with a light breech-loading gun
as she disappeared. Several shots from the trees failed to stop her,
and she took refuge in a very dense, thorny cover on the banks of a
little stream. Twice I passed up and down without seeing the brute, but
fired once into a log of wood in mistake for her, and was going along
the top of the cover for the third time, when the elephant pointed down
the bank with her extended trunk. We threw some stones in, but nothing
moved, and at last a peon came up with a huge stone on his head, which
he heaved down the bank. Next moment a yellow streak shot from the
bushes, and levelling the adventurous peon, like a flash of lightning
came at my elephant’s head, but just at the last spring, I broke her
back with the breech-loader, and she fell under the elephant’s trunk,
tearing at the earth and stones and her own body in her bloody rage.

“The method usually resorted to by old Bamanjee and other native
shikáris for killing panthers and leopards, was by tying out a kid,
with a line attached to a fish-hook through its ear, a pull at which
makes the poor little brute continue to squeak, after it has cried
itself to silence about its mother. No sentiment of humanity interferes
with the devices of the mild Hindu. A dog in a pit with a basket work
cover over it, and similarly attached to a line, is equally effective.
I have known panthers repeatedly to take animals they have killed up
into trees to devour, and once found the body of a child that had been
killed by a panther in the Bétúl District, so disposed of in the fork
of a tree. They are very often lost, I believe, by taking unobserved
to trees. Beating them out of cover with a strong body of beaters and
fireworks is, on the whole, the most successful way of hunting these
cunning brutes; but it is accompanied with a good deal of risk to the
beaters, as well as to the sportsman if he is over-venturesome; and it
is liable to end in disappointment in most instances. My own experience
is that the majority of panthers one finds, are come across more by
luck than good management.

“A large panther was making himself very troublesome ... in the
neighborhood of the Jubbulpúr and Mandlá road. He had killed several
children in different villages, and promised, unless suppressed,
to become a regular man-eater. I encamped for some days in the
neighborhood of his haunts, and the very first night the villain had
the impudence to kill and drag away a good-sized baggage pony out of
my camp. The night being warm I was sleeping outside for the sake of
coolness, and was awakened by a riving and gurgling noise close to my
bed. It was too dark to see; so I pulled out the revolver, that in
those uncertain times always lay under my pillow, and fired off a
couple of shots to scare the intruder. Getting a light, I was relieved
to find it was only the pony.” This animal did not return to its
“kill,” and Captain Forsyth’s watch was in vain.

There are certain writers, William H. Drummond, and Sir William
Cornwallis Harris, for example, from whose works it might be inferred
that in East Africa panthers and leopards were of a quite different
character from their Asiatic allies. Taking the evidence on record
with regard to this continent as a whole, the discrepancy disappears,
however, and _Felis pardus_ there, appears in much the same aspect
as elsewhere. The animals are necessarily modified to some extent by
differences implied in a change of province, but in the main they are
reported by observers as exhibiting like traits, and performing much
the same exploits with those that have been given.




THE JAGUAR


_Felis onca_, generally called the jaguar, and very often, in the
regions he inhabits, _el tigre_, or the tiger, is a large and heavy
animal; coming, in respect to its average size, between the Asiatic
panther and lion. It is, perhaps, the most exclusively inter-tropical
form among _Felidæ_,--or at least the larger species of that family;
and although it passes beyond equatorial latitudes both to the
north and south, and is found at considerable elevations where the
temperature is low, this beast is essentially an inhabitant of hot
countries.

[Illustration: THE JAGUAR.

[_From a photograph by Ottomar Anschütz. Copyright._]]

H. H. Smith and others look upon the black jaguar of the Brazilian
highlands as a distinct species, and one whose range is different from
that of the spotted animals of the Amazon valleys and basin of La
Plata. W. N. Lockington (“Standard Natural History”) is one of several
authorities who consider that there may be several true species of
_Felis onca_, besides geographical varieties. In short, the zoölogy of
this great American cat is not settled, and the records relating to its
character and habits are rather scanty.

Looking at a full-grown jaguar carelessly, one might mistake it for
a large and thick-set panther, with a rather short, clumsy tail,
and very massive limbs. But besides that the angular ocelli on its
coat--irregular black borders with an enclosed spot of the same
color--are not rosettes, the _ensemble_ is scarcely the same with that
of a panther, although anatomically these species are nearly identical.

The true home of the jaguar is in the great woodlands of the Amazon.
“Here,” says Lockington, “he reigns supreme; the terror of the forest,
as the lion is of the desert, and the tiger of the jungle; the
acknowledged and dreaded lord of man and beast.” Charles Darwin found
this species in the basin of the La Plata River, living in reed belts
and around lake shores. Unlike the panther, jaguars cannot live without
a constant supply of water. Falconer asserts that in some places these
animals subsist chiefly upon fish. At all events, they are very expert
in catching them, and fish even in rivers whose banks abound with game.

As a rule, however, that large rodent, the capybara, now the only
living representative of an ancient family otherwise extinct, is the
American tiger’s chief article of food, and Darwin reports a saying
among the Indians to the effect that man has little to fear from
“el tigre’s” attacks where these are plentiful. Another point of
resemblance between this beast and the panther is their mutual fondness
for monkeys.

Natives believe that the jaguar fascinates them. All instances which
have been given of the exercise of this power seem, however, to be
susceptible of a different interpretation, and naturalists generally
discredit the idea that such an influence is ever exerted. Hypnotic
phenomena, however, are actual facts, and it is undoubtedly premature
to limit the possibility of their induction to human beings.

Apart from this matter, concerning which there is no certainty, it is a
fact that the brutes in question take their prey mostly on the surface
of the ground, to some extent in water, and likewise among the limbs
of trees. They are indiscriminate feeders, and besides all species of
land animals that inhabit their range, both wild and domesticated,
they destroy vast numbers of turtles and their eggs, lizards, fish,
shell-covered species, and even insects. So long as anything has blood,
whether red or white, in its body, it does not come amiss to what Wood
calls “the jaguar’s ravenous appetite.” This trait makes him very
destructive, and in some places domestic animals have been extirpated.

The jaguar, although he principally subsists upon game, hunts men
also, as might be anticipated both from his size, strength, and family
traits. An almost unarmed Indian of these regions is no match for a
brute like this, even when provided with the blow-gun used in those
latitudes.

Being as lazy as a lion, and from his usually abundant supplies,
generally in good condition, the jaguar most commonly ambushes prey.
Not always, however, for T. P. Bigg-Wither reports that they have been
known to follow upon the trail of companies for days, while awaiting
a favorable opportunity to seize one of the party. When “el tigre”
designs to make a meal of peccary, the character of that creature
compels him to surprise it. This is a very bold and inveterately
revengeful animal, and moreover is rarely found except in herds. An
attack upon one member of the band is instantly and fiercely resented
by all, so that strategy upon the jaguar’s part is essential to success.

It is not at all unusual to find people congratulating themselves upon
the assumed fact that formidable brutes are unacquainted with their own
strength and skill. This is one of the many mistakes made concerning
lower animals.

Returning to the jaguar’s general description, one of his most
eccentric propensities is the pursuit of alligators. The jaguar kills
and eats these reptiles from choice; or in many instances, simply bites
their tails off and lets them go. H. W. Bates found a recently-killed
alligator partly eaten. Orton refers to this habit as well known, and
both Smith and Wallace speak of it as a matter of common notoriety.

Like all species among the _Felidæ_, this one is nocturnal. Their
“dull, deadly-looking eyes,” as Barton Premium describes them, are not
adapted to excess of light. In remote and secluded places, however, and
in the dark recesses of a tropical forest they prowl at all hours, and
the author has met with these beasts in the full glare of a vertical
sun.

When a jaguar sets out on a foraging expedition at night, he begins
to roar like the lion as he leaves his lair; and again like his
majesty, he keeps this up at more or less regular intervals until he
actually begins to hunt. Jaguars are noisy animals at all times, says
Darwin, but they are especially so upon stormy nights, when their
“deep, grating roar” reverberates through the forest in a manner very
impressive to those unaccustomed to the sound.

Like all animals with retractile claws, they are in the habit of
sharpening them, as it is called; but it is not for the purpose of
putting a point upon his talons that a jaguar draws them through the
bark of trees. All the cats are given to trying how far they can reach,
and all of them, both in killing game and feeding, get their nails
clogged with shreds of flesh. It is to cleanse them that they scratch
tree trunks, from time to time, as they go along. Darwin asserts that
each animal has an especial tree to which he resorts for this purpose.

It is agreed among several authorities that a jaguar constantly strikes
down, disables, and kills game with a blow of his massive forearm. At
the same time, Wood, Humboldt, and Holder write as if death always
ensued from dislocation of the neck. When a horse or some other large
quadruped is seized, says the former, his assailant “leaps from an
elevated spot upon the shoulders ... places one paw on the back of
the head and another on the muzzle, and then with a single tremendous
wrench breaks the neck.” So far as the act described is assumed to
be of invariable occurrence many equally reliable accounts differ
entirely, and the author knows from personal experience that jaguars
will attack in front, make their assault on level ground, and in some
instances do not attempt to kill either man or beast by forcing back
the head.

Independently of other facts and considerations which bear upon this
brute in its relation to man, the name by which it is known among
the natives is more conclusive with regard to character than a host
of witnesses. According to Burton the word _jaguar_ is composed of
the Indian (_Tupi_) _ja_ we or us, and _guara_, an eater or devourer;
and it may be assumed that when tribes of savages conferred such a
designation as this, they had very good reason for doing so. It may be
said, however, that other etymologies of the word have been given.

In the olden days of exploration, both Gonzalo Pizarro and Orellana
spoke of the loss of human life from the depredations of jaguars;
but, strange to relate, their successors, the accomplished missionary
priests, Artiega and Acuna, have nothing to say about them in their
sketch of the natural history of Northern Brazil.

Like tigers, lions, and panthers, the jaguar, no doubt, finds it easier
to kill a man than almost any other animal that will afford him a full
meal, and under favorable conditions he acts accordingly. Hence along
the Brazilian frontier of Guiana where these beasts are very numerous,
E. F. im Thurn relates that he found the forest tribes sleeping in
hammocks swung high enough above the ground to be out of reach of a
spring. J. W. Wells and the distinguished Waterton describe the way in
which their tents were beset by jaguars. Humboldt tells how his mastiff
was carried off from within his camp on the Rio Negro. Darwin mentions
that “many woodcutters are killed by them on the Paraná,” and that they
“have even entered vessels at night,” and Von Tschudi recounts how one
broke into an Englishman’s hut, seized his boy, and bore him off into
the forest.

When we examine the records of the first European travellers in those
provinces infested by jaguars, their testimony with regard to its
character is quite unanimous.

In the Adelantado Pascual de Andagoya’s narrative of Pedrarias
Davila’s expedition he says, “there are lions and tigers”--by which
all the Spanish and Portuguese writers meant pumas and jaguars--“on
the Isthmus of Panama, that do much harm to the people, so that on
their account the houses are built very close to one another, and are
secured at night.” Father José de Acosta (“Historia natural y moral
de las Indias”) explains, however, that these beasts are not equally
dangerous. “The tigers are fiercer and more cruel than the lions.”
Likewise it is more perilous to come in their way “because they leap
forth and assail men treasonably.”

Pedro Cieza de Leon, of whom Prescott remarks that “his testimony is
always good,” gives an account of the state of affairs on the road
between Cali and the port of Buenaventura. Here are “many great tigers,
that kill numbers of Indians and Spaniards as they go to and fro every
day.” Likewise in the mountainous portions of the district, these
animals were so destructive that the Indian houses, which are “rather
small, and roofed with palm leaves, ... are surrounded by stout and
very long palisades, so as to form a wall; and this is put up as a
defence against the tigers.” So far as the author’s acquaintance with
the Spanish and Portuguese relations goes, all authorities of this
class agree in giving these beasts the traits that those theoretical
and practical considerations mentioned respecting the temper and
habits of the large carnivora would lead us to look for.

The writer never saw a full-grown animal of this kind which had been
domesticated to the extent of being harmless if left at large, and
never succeeded in taming one completely himself. E. George Squier
(“Adventures on the Mosquito Shore”) mentions an incident in which
such was the case. He was summoned to an interview with “The Mother
of the Tigers,” who, under this ominous title, proved to be a modest
young Indian girl, and the high priestess of one of those secret
semi-religious societies that gave Alvarado so much trouble in the
days of the Spanish invasion. Her retreat lay in the darkest recesses
of one of those gloomy forests where there is always twilight, even at
the tropical noonday. He found that Sukia was only attended by one old
woman, and guarded by an immense jaguar. This beast did not like the
stranger’s appearance, but made no attack, and at once passed into the
house and lay down when commanded to do so.

Perhaps it is unnecessary to bring, as might readily be done, proof
of what might be assumed beforehand; namely, that an animal like the
jaguar is certain to attack men wherever their possession of firearms
has not in the course of time taught the sagacious beast that the
contest is an unequal one. It happens, however, that the explorer C.
Barrington Brown (“Canoe and Camp Life in British Guiana”) has given
some quite explicit information concerning a point which has been
rarely touched upon, that is to say the behavior of a wild beast that
very probably never saw a man before, and certainly not a white man.
Brown was in a country infested by jaguars, but while remaining in
the peopled regions he does not say much about them. Once, however,
he records the fact that he encountered an Indian whose neck was much
distorted by a bite received from this animal. The man was accompanied
by a friend armed with a gun when the jaguar sprang upon him, and was
shot dead by his friend. Most of Brown’s explorations were made in
boats, by the waterways of the Essequibo, Corentyne, and other rivers
and their affluents. He penetrated into parts which were, so far as
human beings are concerned, nearly or entirely uninhabited.

“On one occasion,” says this author, “when we had landed and were
pursuing a herd of bush-hogs,”--peccaries, he means,--“two men were
left in charge of the boat. We had not been away in the forest more
than two or three minutes, when these men heard a heavy footfall on the
bank above them, and looking up saw a large jaguar gazing down upon
them from the very spot up which we had clambered.” In other words,
neither the sense of smell, nor actual sight, taught him anything about
those enemies whom he, in common with all other wild beasts, is so
generally represented to fear instinctively. “They immediately pushed
the boat off shore, fearing an attack from the tiger.” Afterwards his
men told Brown “that this animal was one of those the Indians call
‘Masters of the herd,’ that it followed herds of swine wherever they
went; and that whenever it was hungry, and found a pig at a little
distance from the rest, pounced upon it, killing it with one blow of
its huge paw. The squeak of the stricken one always brought down its
companions to the spot, whereupon the jaguar climbed a tree for safety
till the storm it had brewed was over, and the pigs left the spot; then
it descended from its perch to feed on the flesh of its victim....

“In ascending that portion of the Corentyne below Tehmeri rocks, we
saw a large jaguar standing on a granite rock close to the river bank,
which immediately bolted into the forest as we paddled to the spot.
Glancing up at the place where it had disappeared, I saw it sitting
down and gazing intently at us, without showing the least sign of fear.
I took aim behind the shoulder and fired a charge of large shot, which
caused it to bound forward, fall and roll over. But at once regaining
its feet it made off into the forest.” Although they followed the
bloody trail, the animal was not seen again.

Brown had four other shots at jaguars--all of them close--and he
wounded two, but never succeeded in bagging a single one. In every case
observed by him there was an entire absence of that behavior which is
said to be natural and instinctive. The animals he saw expressed only
wonder at the sight and scent of man, as well as at the sound of his
voice.

Father Acosta declares that the jaguar attacks “treasonably,” that is
to say, being treacherous like all cats, and one of the laziest of
animals besides, he springs upon his prey, as a rule, from an ambush,
which may be above the creature seized or on a level with it, according
to circumstances.

Like all large beasts of prey, these brutes kill in a variety of ways
as existing conditions and the size and structure of the creature
assaulted suggest,--they break its neck, tear open the blood-vessels
in its throat, strike it dead with a blow from their powerful and
massive forearms, crush its life out in their spring, drown it, and
tear it to pieces while alive. This last is the way in which such vast
numbers of the great river turtles are destroyed: they are turned upon
their backs, the claws inserted beneath the breast plate, and these
unfortunates are then torn asunder.

With reference to the act of overwhelming an animal, crushing it to
death, or killing it by shock, Emmanuel Liais (“Climats, Géologie,
Faune, du Brésil”), who gives a somewhat different etymology for the
word _jaguar_ from that before mentioned, remarks that this term may
be translated in a way that refers directly to its method of taking
life. “_Le nom de Jaguâra peut alors se traduire en français par la
périphrase: Carnassier qui écrase sa proie d’un seul bond._” This plan
is, however, inapplicable to large game.

When a jaguar catches fish, either by waiting till they rise, or by
attracting fruit-eating species by tapping with his tail so they think
food is falling from the trees, he simply tosses them on shore, and
they suffocate in the air; but with the lemantin of the Amazon, upon
which he constantly preys, that would be impossible. Paul Marcoy saw
the act of capture and describes it in these terms: “At the distance
of twenty paces, on a bank facing us, and but a few feet in height, a
jaguar of the larger species,--_Yahuaraté pacoa sororoca_,--with pale
red fur, and its body beautifully marked, was crouching with fierce
aspect, on its fore-paws, its ears straight, its body immovable....
The animal’s eyes, like two disks of pure gold, followed with
inexorable greed the motions of a poor lemantin which was occupied in
crunching the stalks of false maize and water-plantains that grew on
the spot. Suddenly, as the lemantin raised its ill-shaped head above
the water, the jaguar sprang on it, and burying the claws of his left
paw in the neck, weighed down the muzzle with those of the right, and
held it under water to prevent its breathing. The lemantin, finding
itself nearly choked, made a desperate effort to break loose from its
adversary, but he had no baby to deal with. The tiger was now pulled
under and now lifted out of the water, according to the direction
of the violent somersaults of his victim, yet still retained his
deadly hold. This unequal struggle lasted some minutes, and then the
convulsive movements of the lemantin began to relax, and finally ceased
altogether--the poor creature was dead. Then the jaguar left the water
backwards, and resting on his hind quarters, with one fore-paw for a
prop, he succeeded in dragging the enormous animal up the bank with the
other paw. The muzzle and neck of the lemantin were torn with gaping
wounds. Our attention was so fixed and close--I say _our_ advisedly,
for my men admitted that they had never seen a similar spectacle--that
the jaguar, which had just given a peculiar cry, as if calling his
mate or his cubs, would shortly have disappeared with his capture,
had not one of the rowers broken the charm by bending his bow and
sending an arrow after the cat, which, however, missed its mark and
planted itself in a neighboring tree. Surprised at this aggression, the
animal bounded on one side, and cast a savage glance from his round
eyes--which from yellow had now become red--at the curtain of willows
that concealed us. Another arrow, which also missed its object, the
shouts of the oarsmen, and the epithet ‘_sua--sua_,’ double thief,
which Julio cried at the top of his voice, at length caused it to move
away.”

It is not from the jungle only, or the fringing reeds of streams,
from dense woodlands, or the undergrowth and high grasses of those
_restingas_ (open spaces amid overgrown and often submerged country),
where Bates says they may be most successfully hunted with beaters,
that the jaguar bounds upon his prey. He is by no means exclusively
a denizen of the forest, and Romain d’Aurignac (“Trois Ans chez les
Argentins”) merely expresses a commonly known fact when, speaking of
the pampas, he remarks that “_les jaguars ... abondent également dans
ces parages_.” On these great plains the jaguar subsists upon cattle,
horses, and mules, that are to be found there in immense numbers, as
well as upon those wild animals whose habits of life confine them to
open places.

C. B. Brown, speaking of the causes, whatever these may be, which
prevent the increase of jaguars, remarks that “they have no enemies.”
This is true in so far as there is no single creature except man in
those provinces through which they range that willingly comes into
collision with them. No doubt the jaguar frequently meets with a
violent death, however, which is not inflicted by human agency. In one
case that is certain; the great ant-eater, or ant-bear, has been known
to kill him. Wallace and others vouch for the truth of this, and there
is nothing intrinsically improbable in the statement that an animal so
large, so powerful, and so formidably armed with claws which are more
effective than those of the jaguar in every way, might be able to cling
to its enemy long enough to inflict mortal wounds. When attacked by a
tiger, the ant-bear turns upon his back and uses his talons with deadly
effect. It is said that both parties in such an engagement are apt to
perish. The jaguar cannot disengage himself, and the ant-eater dies
under the fangs of his adversary.

Those qualities which this creature exhibits in procuring food--the
varied styles of attack and modes of destruction it makes use
of--entitle the American tiger to be considered as among the first of
the whole group of beasts of prey. But there is little doubt that some
things are attributed to him through that admiration and reverence he
excites in the aborigines, which are without foundation. It is said,
for instance, that jaguars mimic the cries of many animals, and thus
beguile them within their reach. Of those creatures upon which jaguars
prey most constantly, however, a number only call at certain seasons,
others are practically voiceless, and some, as monkeys in general, are
not to be deluded in this manner.

Priests, naturalists, and geographers, whose special pursuits occupied
them fully, have chiefly written of the jaguar’s provinces; so that
the strong light which is cast upon the character and habits of wild
beasts by narratives of the chase, is almost entirely wanting. J. W.
Wells (“Three Thousand Miles through Brazil”) says, speaking of hunting
jaguars with dogs, what the author knows to be true; namely, that
animals employed in this way, and in fact the whole canine family in
those latitudes where these animals are found, stand in mortal fear of
them. He admits, however, that the ordinary Indian dog will not keep
upon a tiger’s trail without constant encouragement, and that they
never close with them. After having been barked at, one can hardly say
chased, for a certain distance, this lazy, short-winded brute gets
into some large tree and tries to conceal himself, while the curs yelp
around it until their noise brings the huntsmen to the spot. That is
the _theory_ of this proceeding, but practically it does not work, and
few jaguars are killed in this manner. Following up a tiger with dogs
just in front--for they will not, as a rule, keep upon the trail by
themselves--does well enough to talk about; but when the place where
this is to be done is a tropical forest, it will be found impossible
to put in practice. If the beast were not disposed to come to bay, it
might easily get through mazes impenetrable to men, and go its way
along paths by which its pursuers could not follow. There is a breed
called “tiger dogs” in Mexico and Central America, but the author
has never seen them at work, and also knows that the _tigreros_, or
professional tiger-hunters of those parts, kill most of their game
without such aid.

Jaguars are constantly seen abroad by day in remote regions; but
from the reports of native hunters, and on the ground of personal
observation, the author is inclined to believe that their roar is
seldom heard except at night. Waterton speaks of it as an “awfully
fine” sound, and says that “it echoed among the hills like distant
thunder.” Some travellers describe it as a deep, hoarse, rapid
repetition of the syllables _pa-pa_; and Brown, referring to the calls
of two jaguars he heard on the Berbice River, thought their “low, deep
tones,” which “made the air quiver and vibrate, ... had a grand sound,
with a true, noble ring in it.” The writer never detected anything like
a “ring” in it; on the contrary, the ordinary intonation is markedly
flat, like that of the panther’s and tiger’s ordinary cry. A jaguar can
roar, however, and often does so with violence: under all modulations
his tones convey the impression of great power.

The question how far jaguars hunt by scent, and how far by sight, could
not probably be answered, both senses being constantly employed. T. P.
Bigg-Withers relates that one of them trailed him “all day waiting for
a favorable opportunity” to attack, and that a Botocudo Indian was
finally seized, but escaped with some comparatively trifling injuries.
This pursuit was carried on no doubt chiefly by scent, although the
animal had been seen more than once. Major Leveson (“Sport in Many
Lands”) makes a statement in connection with shooting from machans
to the effect that elevated positions are favorable to the sportsman
because wild beasts “never look up.” He excepts leopards, it is true,
but the fact is that all _Felidæ_, leaving out lions and tigers, which
are too heavy and large to climb, use their eyes in every direction,
and in prowling for food through forests, scrutinize the trees where
their prey is often found, as closely as they do surrounding jungle and
open spaces. Those natives who live among tigers on this continent do
not at all events think themselves safe in trees, since E. F. im Thurn
and others explain that they not only swing their hammocks out of reach
among branches, but build fires around the stems to prevent them from
being ascended. In such a case the jaguar would probably act as he does
when a monkey gets out to the end of an isolated limb that will not
bear his weight--that is to say, spring upon the prey, and come to the
ground with it.

When a lion or tiger receives a shot, it is very often replied to by
a roar, and this whether the animal attacks in return or bounds away.
A jaguar, however, generally bears his wounds without any outcry,
and if he intends to fight, does so, like the panther, at once. The
writer has neither seen nor heard that these animals make use of those
stratagems that tigers constantly, and lions frequently, adopt for the
purpose of intimidating their assailants and causing them to retreat.
It would appear that jaguars do not commonly make feigned assaults,
but generally charge in earnest, with lightning-like rapidity, and
desperate determination. The writer, speaking from experience, is
inclined to think that these animals act in this way as constantly
as the panther. There may be, however, numerous exceptions to this
behavior; the opinion expressed is not offered as if it were final,
and the data upon which it is based are extremely imperfect. More than
that, it should be acknowledged with regard to any facts stated, that
they only represent this, or any other animal’s average behavior.
There can be no doubt that wild beasts will sometimes do anything and
everything which is not positively impossible.

Whether the current opinion that black jaguars are more ferocious than
those of the spotted variety be true, the author is not able to say.
Among _tigreros_ this is believed to be the case; but that kind of
animal is rarer than the others, attracts more attention, and being
undoubtedly dangerous, naturally gathers round it certain superstitions
with which the minds of this class of men become impregnated. Natives,
in general, do not appear to make any particular distinction between
the varieties, and such records as we possess place them very much upon
a par, with regard to the habits and characteristics that have been
spoken of.

The jaguar’s strength is very great. These beasts are well known to
“carry off,” as it is called, the bodies of horses, etc., that have
been killed. They swim broad rivers also, and are said, like the royal
tiger, to fight effectively while in the water. Wood quotes Dr. Holder
to the effect that on one occasion a jaguar destroyed a horse, dragged
it to the bank of a large stream, swam across with his prey, and
finally conveyed it into the forest. The writer in the “Encyclopædia
Britannica” refers to the same story, but besides these authorities,
this kind of an exploit has not been recorded by any one.

Darwin states that the jaguar prowling at night is much annoyed by
foxes, that attend his movements and keep up a constant barking.
It is well known that jackals follow or accompany lions under like
circumstances, and Darwin speaks of this parallel association as a
“curious coincidence.” But the fox is in this case an interloper like
the other, an unwelcome hanger-on in expectation of offal, that
betrays the jaguar’s presence when he, usually a noisy animal, has
cause to be quiet.

It is singular that a creature so noteworthy, and one so frequently
mentioned, should remain so imperfectly known in many important
particulars relating to its natural history, habits, and character.
Dr. Carpenter (“Zoölogy”) remarks that it “may be regarded as the
panther of America,” and many traits which favor this likeness have
been given. It remains to say, however, that while zoölogists express
themselves in guarded terms with respect to species of _Felis onca_,
and the natives discriminate half a dozen among the spotted kind
alone; while Liais describes “_le jaguar noir_” as “a third species,”
and Azara (“Descripcion y Historia del Paraguay”) writes of a
yellowish-white variety as a fourth specific form, the black jaguar, in
all probability, only adds another to the many resemblances that liken
this beast to the panther. Black or dark-brown cubs have not, as in the
case of _Felis pardus_, been found, so far as the writer knows, in one
litter with those marked with spots; but there is reason to believe
that they occur in this manner.

Two cubs are born together as a rule, although, as happens with other
species of this family, the average number is sometimes exceeded. Of
the young jaguar’s first essays in life very little is known. Whether
its father takes part in the whelp’s education, as a lion does, or is
on the contrary a destroyer of his male offspring, like the tiger; how
long parental care continues, and in fact all details relating to its
period of infancy, remain obscure. If one inquires about these matters
from natives, they entertain him with romances, legends, and folk-lore
tales. It was a subject for comment among the early Spanish writers
that so few of these animals were killed by Indians. In his “Brief
Narrative of the Most Remarkable Things that Samuel Champlain observed
in the Western Indies,” we find a mention of some jaguar skins that
had been bartered by natives, referred to as rarities. Now, as many or
more come annually from Buenos Ayres alone as were once procured in the
same time throughout the Amazon valleys. Notices of jaguars being taken
in traps are occasionally found in books, but detailed descriptions
of the process of catching them the author has not met with. Some
of the tribes possess efficient weapons of their kind--bows, strong
enough, as Cieza de Leon asserts, “to send an arrow through a horse, or
the knight who rides it.” These Indians are in the habit likewise of
poisoning their arrow-heads. Cieza gives an account of how, after much
trouble and persuasion, he induced the aborigines at Carthagena and
Santa Martha to show him their mode of preparing poison. His relation,
however, is not very instructive. Humboldt and Bonpland (“Voyage,
etc., Relation Historique”) give “_curare_” as the active principle of
those mixtures made by Amazonian tribes. These poisons contain, both
in South America and all over the world where they are used, matters
which are more or less inert, and have been introduced upon purely
magical principles. E. F. im Thurn found the effective constituent
used in Guiana to be “Strychnos-Urari, Yakki, or Arimaru--_i.e._,
_S. toxifera_, _S. Schomburgkii_, _S. cogens_.” Both he and Sir R.
Schomburgh speak of other ingredients--bark, roots, peppers, snake
venom--compounded with the more active principle. Waterton gives
much the same account of the toxic agent used by means of the bow or
blow-gun, and of course there is no doubt that a jaguar inoculated with
enough _curare_ would die.

As for foreigners, their reliance has always been upon firearms, ever
since the first arquebuses were introduced into Spanish America by the
_conquistadores_; and nothing less efficient is likely to avail against
an animal that Audubon and Bachman say “compares in size with the
Asiatic tiger,” and is his “equal in fierceness.”




THE TIGER


A tiger to the majority of men is probably the most impressive and
suggestive of all animals. Apart from those traits so obvious in his
appearance that they affect every one, most beholders have in their
minds some material with which imagination works under the quickening
influence of his deadly eye. No creature matches him in general powers
of destruction; none enacts such tragedies as he, amid scenes so
replete with a various interest; none sheds so much human blood.

The hunter’s spirit natural to our remoter ancestors survives in their
descendants, and few persons are placed under circumstances favorable
for its revival without experiencing something of its force. When
tigers are the objects of pursuit, this often becomes a passion.

[Illustration: THE TIGER.

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

One can scarcely look upon the poor, dispirited wretch behind the bars
of a cage, without freeing it in fancy, and transferring the animal to
fitting surroundings,--open spaces in jungle, where tall jowaree grass
waves in the evening air, deep nálás clothed with karinda and tamarisk,
vast, gloomy forests of sál and teak, magnificent mountain buttresses,
upon whose crags stand the ruined fortresses of long-forgotten chiefs.
The tiger of the mind, splendid and terrible is there, and we are there
to meet him.

“In some parts of India,” remarks Inglis (“Work and Sport on the
Nepaul Frontier”), “notably in the Deccan, in certain districts on the
Bombay side, and even in the Soonderbunds, near Calcutta, sportsmen
and shikáris go after tigers on foot. I must confess that this seems
to me a mad thing to do. With every advantage of weapon, with the most
daring courage, and the most imperturbable coolness, I think a man
no fair match for a tiger in his native jungles.” The list of killed
and wounded shows that this opinion is not without foundation; and
when we consider what it means to meet such adversaries as these on
level ground, and face to face, our judgment of its accuracy cannot
be doubtful. Gérard compared a contest on foot with a lion to a duel
between adversaries armed with equally efficient weapons, but one naked
and the other covered with armor in which there were only one or two
spots that were not impenetrable. He intended to illustrate, not the
animal’s invulnerability, of course, but the fact that its tenacity of
life was such that, unless instantly killed, it would almost certainly
kill its opponent. For this reason sportsmen mostly shoot from howdahs,
or machans in tree-jungle. In its depths a great forest is nearly
lifeless at all times. In India its skirts are commonly fringed with
scrub, and there most of the vitality of these regions concentrates
itself. The intense heat of noonday at that season when tiger-hunting
begins--namely, in April--makes those immense woodlands as silent and
lonesome, to all appearance, as if the hand of death had been laid
upon them. But when the short twilight of low latitudes deepens into
gloom, the air, before vacant, except for the wide sweep of some
solitary bird of prey, is filled with the voices of feathered flocks
returning to their roosts. Flying foxes cross vistas still open to the
view, and great horned owls flit by on muffled wings. Those spectral
shapes which haunt such scenes appear amid the solemn gathering of
shadows--contrasts in shade indescribably altering objects from what
they are, waving boughs and rigid tree trunks that start into strange
relief in changing lights, the distorted forms of animals indistinctly
seen moving stealthily about. Throughout those provinces where the
most famous tiger haunts are found, positions of advantage, each
beetling cliff and isolated hill, holds mementos of the past which
are now inexpressibly desolate; the former strongholds of Rajpúts
that may, like the Baghél clan, have claimed descent from a royal
tiger. As we sit aloft watching, a gleam of water, where when gorged
the beast will drink, is visible, and towards that also, each with
infinite precaution, and guided by senses of whose range and delicacy
of perception human beings cannot conceive, the thirsty denizens of
this wilderness take their way. When we mark their timid and uncertain
steps, and see how often they hesitate and stop and turn aside, the
truth that “nature’s peace” is only a form of words expressive of our
own misconception and blindness reveals itself most impressively. There
is no peace. To hunt and be hunted, to slay and be slain, that is the
cycle of all actual life.

Here, while the solemn booming of the great rock monkey sounds like a
death knell, those tragedies take place which only a hunter beholds.
Every creature has its enemy, and there is one abroad in the gloaming
from which all fly. Listen! Above the sambur’s hoarse bark, the bison’s
cavernous bellow, and hyæna’s unearthly cry, a deep, flat, hollow
voice, thrilling with power, floats through the forest. It is a tiger
rounding up deer. If he were in ambush, not the slightest sound would
betray his presence. Now his roar, sent from different directions,
crowds the game together, and puts it at his mercy.

When and in what way will our tiger come? Some of these beasts never
return to a “kill,” they lap the blood, or eat once, and abandon their
quarry altogether. Others consume it wholly in one or several meals,
and even after putrefaction has set in. This animal for whom we wait
may approach boldly while it is yet light, or wait till darkness falls,
and appear at any hour of the night. At its coming it might put in
practice every precaution that could be made use of in stealing upon
living prey, or walk openly towards the carcass with long, swinging,
soft but heavy strides.

Incidents of any special kind, however, reveal the tiger’s nature only
in part. What sort of a being is this in whole; how much mind does he
possess; what are the traits common to his species; and what their
individual peculiarities? Do tigers roar like lions and jaguars, and is
it probable that their neighborhood would be announced in this manner?
Are they in the habit of going about by day; and if not, on what kind
of nights is the beast most active and aggressive? How does a tiger
take his prey, especially man? How far can one spring; in what way does
he kill; what is his mode of devouring creatures? Can tigers climb?
How large are they? Will they assail human beings without provocation,
or has the aspect of humanity a restraining power over them? May they
be met with casually, and at any time? Where are their favorite lairs?
Are they brave or cowardly, cunning or stupid, enterprising, adaptive,
energetic, or the reverse?

Sanderson declares that the tiger never roars; he grunts according
to Major Bevan, and the only approach to roaring Baldwin ever heard,
was a hollow, hoarse, moaning cry, made by holding his head close to
the ground. Inglis describes the sound as like the fall of earth into
some deep cavity, and Colonel Davidson protests that the tiger barks.
Pollok, Leveson, Shakespear, and Rice assert that he roars loudly,
terribly, magnificently, tremendously; and D’Ewes (“Sporting in Both
Hemispheres”) states that in comparison with the roar of a tigress he
encountered in the jungle between Ballary and Dharwar, “any similar
sound he may have heard, either at the zoölogical gardens or elsewhere,
was like a penny trumpet beside an ophicleide.” All these names are
those of men who hold the most conspicuous positions among hunters of
large game; all had killed many tigers and often heard the animal’s
voice.

Much the same contradictory evidence exists with regard to other
things. Colonel Pollok assures us that if he trusted to ambushing game
to supply himself with food he would starve to death. Captain Rice, a
renowned slayer of tigers, lays down the law to this effect, that these
brutes never attack except from an ambush.

Without crowding the page with references, suffice it to say that both
by day and night, in forests, thickets, and open grass land, tigers
have many times been reported by equally reliable witnesses both to
stalk their game, and to spring upon it from a place of concealment.

The striped assassin is provided with a jaw and teeth that enable him
to crush the large bones of a buffalo. He can strike his claws, as
Major Bevan saw him do, through the skull of an ox into its brain,
or break a horse’s back with a blow of his forearm. How then does
he despatch his victims? Their necks are dislocated, says Colonel
Pollok; by biting into them and wrenching round the head with his paws,
explains Captain Forsyth. Not at all, protests Baldwin;--dislocation
is effected by bending the head backward. In neither way, Dr. Jerdon
declares;--the animal’s neck is always broken by a blow. Sir Samuel
Baker adds his testimony to the effect that a tiger never strikes, and
Sanderson says “the blow with his paw is a fable.” Other authorities
maintain that the cervical vertebræ are crushed when the beast, as it
always does, bites the back of the neck; and yet others are sure that
since he never seizes an animal in this manner, loss of blood is the
immediate cause of death, because the great vessels are severed when a
tiger, as is his invariable practice, cuts into the throat. Sanderson
states that the blood is not sucked, since a tiger could not form the
necessary vacuum. In response to this Shakespear and Davidson both
_saw_ the blood of animals that had been tied up as lures sucked, and
Colonel Campbell, Captain Rice, Major Leveson, and others speak of this
act as having come under their personal cognizance.

These animals have been so generally credited with great springing
power that the expressions, “tiger’s leap,” and “tiger’s bound,”
have passed into the colloquial phrases of more than one language.
Nevertheless, when the experiences of eye-witnesses of his performances
in this way are referred to, nothing but contradictions are to be met
with.

Sanderson (“Thirteen Years among the Wild Beasts of India”) thinks “the
tiger’s powers of springing are inconsiderable.” Sir Joseph Fayrer
(“The Royal Tiger”) says that “it is doubtful whether a tiger ever
bounds when charging,” and Inglis supports him in this particular.
Captain Shakespear regarded a machan twelve feet high as perfectly
secure, and Captain Baldwin felt that he was safe when fifteen feet
above the ground. Moray Brown saw a tiger jump fourteen feet high.
J. H. Baldwin (“The Large and Small Game of Bengal”) reports a case
in which a tiger leaped the stockade of a cattle-pen “with a large
full-grown ox in his mouth,” and Dr. Fayrer gives, in the work referred
to, the only authentic story of a tiger’s having taken a man out of
a howdah while the elephant was on his feet. Major G. A. R. Dawson
describes the accident that occurred to General Morgan from a wounded
tigress that sprang across a ravine twenty-five feet wide and struck
him down. Captain W. Rice (“Tiger Shooting in India”) measured the leap
of a tigress he shot, and found it to be “over seven yards.”

Professor Blyth and Dr. Jerdon concluded from their researches at
the Calcutta Museum and elsewhere that tigers could not climb. It
was certainly a very singular conclusion to come to on anatomical
grounds; but waiving this point, we have the statements of Inglis and
Shakespear to the fact that several were shot in trees. It is not
worth while to continue these inquiries as to whether it is possible
to discover something certain about tigers from books; on all points
connected with them we should find the same discordances.

Although Buffon’s extravagances (“Histoire Naturelle”) about this
brute’s disposition need not be seriously considered,--such expressions
as “_sa ferocité n’est comparable à rien_” meaning nothing, and no
creature, for physiological reasons, being capable of remaining in
“a perpetual rage,”--enough is known about the beast to make it
doubtful whether it deserves the “whitewashing” that some have given
its character. But if it be granted that tigers possess intelligence,
that in many places they have become acquainted with the effects of
European firearms, and are not at all likely to mistake an Englishman
with a rifle for a Hindu carrying a staff, many things which seem
inexplicably at variance will become plain. If rage does not overpower
their discretion, they run away when the prospect of certain death
stares them in the face. What do they do when it does not? that is the
question at present, and the answer is that they act like tigers. This
most formidable of beasts of prey is not in the least afraid of a man
because he is a man; he does not quail at his glance--that enrages
him; his voice will not always startle,--it often attracts; nor can
the scent of a human being of itself turn him aside--on the contrary,
it frequently guides the beast to his prey. So much for the general
view; and we may now go into the jungle again and discuss what befalls,
in the light of those principles which have been advanced elsewhere.
This will be a _duróra_ against the tigers of a district, our
hunting-grounds lie in historic spots, and the party is accompanied by
elephants, baggage animals, attendants, and all the varied appliances
that belong to a raid of this kind conducted upon a large scale.

Close to our camp lie the crumbling _cedghas_, shrines, tombs, and
fortress palaces of a race of princes now extinct, and seated in a
kiosk around whose crumbling walls half-effaced Persian and Arabic
inscriptions tell of the beauty of some girl whose bright eyes closed
ages ago, and whose career of ineffectual passion finds a fit emblem
in the _pishash_, or transient dust column that glides across the
plain, let us attempt to forecast the events of to-morrow. More can
be foretold than one would suppose. The tiger’s size and age, the
configuration of the ground, his previous habits of life, and the
places where shade and water are to be found, will certainly affect his
movements after he has been roused, and when the shikáris come in we
shall know all this. Here is the head huntsman now, who comes back from
his scout to make a report to the “Captain of the hunt,” an experienced
sportsman always elected on such occasions to take a general direction
of affairs, and manœuvre our elephants in the field. Mohammed Kasim
Ali is a typical figure and worth looking at; a small withered being
with a dingy turban wound around his straggling elf locks; dressed
in a ragged shirt of Mhowa green, and lugging a matchlock as long as
himself loaded half way up the barrel. He bears the big bison horn of
coarse slow-burning native powder, and a small gazelle-horn primer.
His person is bedecked with amulets, and his beard, he being an
elderly man, is dyed red--if he were young, it would be stained gray.
But despite this man’s grotesque appearance, he possesses a profound
knowledge of wood-craft, and as a tracker and interpreter of signs,
no savage or white prodigy of the wilderness who ever embellished the
pages of a certain style of romance can surpass him.

This worthy delivers himself somewhat as follows: “May I be your
sacrifice! Whilst searching with eagerness for these sons of the devil,
your slave beheld the footprints of a tiger. _Alla ke Qoodrut_, it is
the power of God; then why should your servant defile his mouth with
lies? These tracks were made by the great-grandfather of all tigers.
The livers of Chinneah and Gogooloo turned to water at the sight, but
sustained by my Lord’s condescension I followed them to a nálá, and he
was standing by a pool. Karinda and tamarisk bushes grew more thickly
than lotus flowers in Paradise, but I saw clearly that the unsainted
beast was bigger than a buffalo bull. His teeth were as iron rakes,
his eyes glared like bonfires, and the spirits of those whom he had
devoured sat upon his head.” This with many aspirations, to the effect
that unquenchable fire might consume the souls of the tiger’s entire
family.

This rhodomontade--quite in keeping, however, with the individual and
his country--means that a large tiger was seen, and will be found for
us next day.

The one that Kasim Ali, the eloquent, saw by the pool was making
ready for his nightly excursion; for although they are frequently
seen abroad by day, these animals are nocturnal in habit. The writer,
however, sees no reason for repeating a remark which is often made in
this connection, namely, that they are “half-blind” during daylight.
There is no rigidity in the iris, nothing to prevent the eye from
adjusting itself to different degrees of intensity in that medium by
which the retina is stimulated. He sees very well at night, and if
sensitive to a strong light, so are many other animals whose vision
is also good when it is not dark. It is habitual with tigers to seek
shade; and any eyes, except those of some birds, would be dazzled by
the intense glare of an Indian sun.

When viewed by the shikáris, he had lately roused from his rest as
the day declined, and the faint lowing of distant herds, and far-away
voices of _Gwallas_ bringing home their cattle penetrated to his
retreat. He stretched his lithe length and magnificent limbs, his
fierce eyes dilated, and a strange and terrible change came over the
beast. Every attitude and motion betrayed his purpose. But although
murder was in his mind, and all that he did revealed that intention,
his movements varied, or would do so, with age and experience. If
the animal were young, and had been but recently separated from the
tigress, that taught him to find prey, showed how to attack it, and
encouraged him to kill for the sake of practice, his actions would
exhibit all the boldness that comes from entire self-confidence. He
then leaves the lair without precaution, and takes his way through the
intricacies of the jungle with confidence, not pausing to examine every
sign, as his trail shows. If old, however, an unusual sound would stop
him, a footprint in the path that was not there when he last passed
would turn him aside. This tiger of ours is not aged, but has learned
something since he became solitary like all his kind, except in the
brief season of pairing. Experience may be thrown away on men, but not
upon tigers. This one will never again make mistakes such as those into
which overboldness and want of proper attention have already betrayed
him. Once, shortly after he began to shift for himself, a buffalo, of
whom he thought that it could be killed as easily as a slim long-necked
native cow, tossed him. Another time when too hungry to wait for a
favorable opportunity, he seized upon a calf prematurely. No sooner did
his roar of triumph as he struck it dead echo through the jungle, than
a dark crescentic line fringed with clashing horns confronted him. It
came on in quick irregular rushes, and no tiger could withstand such an
array, so he had to fly. His glossy hide was ripped likewise by a “grim
gray tusker,” which the unsophisticated youth designed to despatch
without difficulty. Before these instructive incidents occurred
something more had been learned also.

One morning the silence was broken by blasts of cholera horns, the
beating of tom-toms, and wild cries from a multitude of men--such men,
however, as he knew and had frequently observed in the jungle and
elsewhere. But there was now a man, mounted on an elephant, the like of
which he had never seen, but whose appearance is not forgotten. He had
guns far worse than matchlocks, instruments of sudden death that killed
his mother. This formidable robber, for all his ferocious temper,
great strength, and terrible means of offence, is as cunning as a fox,
and wary to a degree that closely simulates cowardice. But one might as
well call North American Indians cowards,--which by the way is often
done by those whose opinions are unbiassed by any personal acquaintance
with them,--because they always fight on the principle of taking the
greatest advantage and least risk.

To start a party such as ours takes time, and of the value of time
no Hindu has the slightest idea. The mob of beaters are packed off
with strenuous injunctions to keep together, but they will not do
so. An ineradicable heedlessness besets them, and they are certain
to straggle, though the risk that doing so entails is perfectly well
understood. The Oriental says, “If it is my fate to perish thus, how
can I avoid the decree of heaven? My destiny is fixed; it is in the
hands of God, and may the devil take these infidels who talk as if
matters could be otherwise than as they are.”

Every crupper, breast-band, girth, and howdah cloth must be looked to
by the hunters themselves; mahouts and attendants cannot be trusted to
equip their charges, and if things were left to them, an elephant would
be disabled every day.

All our proceedings as we draw near to the tiger require to be
conducted with reference to the lie of the land. Whether he be beaten
for with elephants, or roused by the unearthly clamor of the crowd
that has come to drive him, it is probable that his first act will
be an attempt to escape. He carries a perfect topographical chart of
the neighborhood in his head, and an unguarded avenue of egress means
that we shall not carry back his spoils. When he does start, it will
not be with the wild, affrighted rush of a bison or sambur stag; his
retirement, if he is not actually sighted, is made with the deathly
silence of an elephant warned of danger. He makes use of every mode of
concealment, creeps from bush to bush, from tree to tree, from rock to
rock, crouching where cover grows thin or fails, so that the colors
of his coat assimilate with those of the herbage, and he becomes well
nigh invisible even in places where it seems utterly impossible for so
large an animal to hide himself. In denser jungle the fugitive stops
and stands with head erect to listen, or rears up amid long jowaree
grass, taking in every sight and sound that indicates the position of
his enemies. Thus his advance is made towards the point at which it is
intended to break away; and if it be necessary to cross bare spots, he
does so, not indeed with a panther’s lightning-like rapidity, but in
long, easy bounds that devour the distance.

Under all circumstances, if the ground is sufficiently broken to permit
of it, the tiger keeps among ravines, at one time traversing the crest
of a ridge, at another stealing along through the underbrush below.
Then it is that the pad-elephants and lookouts in trees come into play
in order to turn him in the direction where the rifles are stationed;
the former by their presence, the latter by softly striking small
sticks together.

It is very likely, however, that the surface may not admit of beating
with men; then the sportsmen advance in their howdahs, and one may see
how a highly-trained shikar tusker can work.

Sir Samuel Baker (“Wild Beasts and Their Ways”) described the qualities
of a good hunting animal in action. His party were out near Moorwara.
It was in the dry season, and they were keeping on a line parallel
with the railroad, and about twenty miles from it. The heat had
evaporated tanks, caused upland springs to fail, and dried up pools and
watercourses, so that tigers, that cannot endure thirst, were driven
from their accustomed retreats into places more accessible. On this
occasion the natives were beating towards Baker’s elephant, but the
beast, as it sometimes does, broke back upon their line at once.

“We were startled,” he continues, “by the tremendous roars of this
tiger, continued in quick succession within fifty yards of the
position I then occupied. I never heard, either before or since, such
a volume of sound proceed from a single animal. There was a horrible
significance in the grating and angry voice that betokened extreme fury
of attack. Not an instant was lost. The mahout was an excellent man,
as cool as a cucumber, and never over-excited. He obeyed the order to
advance straight towards the spot where the angry roars still continued
without intermission.

“Moolah Box was a thoroughly dependable elephant; but although moving
forward with a majestic and determined step, it was in vain that
I endeavored to hurry the mahout. Both man and beast appeared to
understand their business completely, but according to my ideas the
pace was woefully slow if assistance was required in danger.

“The ground was slightly rising, and the jungle thick with saplings
about twenty feet in height, and as thick as a man’s leg; these formed
an undergrowth among the larger forest trees.

“Moolah Box crashed with his ponderous weight through the resisting
mass, bearing down all obstacles before him as he steadily made his
way across the intervening growth. The roars had now ceased. There
were no leaves on the trees at this advanced season, and one could
see the natives among the branches in all directions, as they perched
for safety on the limbs to which they had climbed like monkeys at the
terrible sounds of danger. ‘Where is the tiger?’ I shouted to the first
man we could distinguish in his safe retreat only a few yards distant.
‘Here! here!’ he replied, pointing immediately beneath him. Almost at
the same instant, the tiger, which had been lying ready for attack,
sprang forward with a loud roar directly for Moolah Box.

“There were so many trees intervening that I could not fire, and the
elephant, instead of halting, moved forward, meeting the tiger in
his spring. With a swing of his huge head he broke down several tall
saplings, that crashed towards the infuriated tiger and checked his
onset. Discomfited for a moment, he bounded in retreat, and Moolah Box
stood suddenly like a rock, without the slightest movement. This gave
me a splendid opportunity, and the .577 bullet rolled him over like a
rabbit. Almost at the same instant, having performed a somersault, the
tiger disappeared, and fell struggling among the high grass and bushes
about fifteen paces distant.

“I now urged Moolah Box carefully forward until I could plainly see the
tiger’s shoulders, and then a second shot through the exact centre of
the blade-bone terminated its existence.”

In this attack four men were wounded, but it is not often that a
tiger charges home upon a line of beaters; generally, only stragglers
suffer, although, as has been said, some tigers attack immediately
upon being found. Whenever and however the assault is made, it must
needs be a terrible one, and to most creatures at once overwhelming.
Imagine a beast like this, so active, so powerful, so armed,--five
hundred pounds’ weight of incarnated destructive energy launched by
such muscles as his against an enemy. “It has been the personification
of ferocity and unsparing cruelty,” says Sir Samuel Baker. But it is
to the terrible character of its attack, to the fact that this is so
frequently fatal, and to the awe-inspiring appearance of the beast
as it comes on with dilated form and fire-darting eyes, that much of
its reputation for more than ordinary ferocity is due. A tiger is
beyond question the most formidable of all predatory creatures when
earnest in his aggressive intentions; very frequently, however, he is
not so. False charges, made in order to intimidate, are more common
than real ones. A tiger will bristle, and snarl, and roar, apparently
with a perfect consciousness of the additional impressiveness given
to his general appearance in this way. Some are, of course, braver
than others; locality and their experience of human power make a wide
difference between those whose characters have been formed in separate
areas. Still everywhere their temper is short and fierce, and when
roused to fury they fight desperately. When we hear of the abject
cowardice of these beasts,--how they slink away from before the face
of man and cannot endure his look, how they will never assail him if
not provoked, and how they die like curs at last,--it is natural,
and a mere suggestion of common sense, to think that these are _ex
parte_ statements, premature generalizations, sweeping conclusions
from special experiences, and misinterpretations of observations that
a little diligence and proper intellectual sincerity upon the part of
their narrators would have shown to be more than counterbalanced by
facts of a different complexion.

No two tigers are identical in anything, and all the elements of
uncertainty and dispute which have been specified make their appearance
when we come into contact with them. Nobody knows or can know what
will happen then. Silently like some grim ghost, the animal may steal
within shot, and fall dead at the first fire. Sometimes he bursts from
a dense clump of bushes that the hunter’s sight has been unable to
penetrate, and if hit, rages round the tree from which the ball came
as if mad; or, if his foes be within reach, he kills or is killed.
Occasionally when not well watched by lookouts, the first intimation
that his domain has been invaded is the signal for a retreat to some
secure hiding-place,--the pits and passages of an abandoned mine, or a
cave perhaps, in which latter case, if it be attempted to dislodge him
by an indraught of smoke from fire kindled at its mouth, it will be
seen that a tiger can breathe in an atmosphere such as would seem to
be necessarily fatal to any animal. Finally, the brute may break back
and attack the beaters, or creep through their line, or charge the
elephants, and perish amid the wildest display of fury and desperation.
Finally, as it sometimes, though rarely happens, the first stir in the
jungle sends him off by an unguarded path across ridges and plains to
some distant lair, and the hunt for that day is bootless.

Tiger-shooting is never without danger to the sportsman. Many a man has
been clawed out of a tree and killed, or caught before he could get out
of reach. Elephants have been pulled down, or the howdah ropes have
broken and precipitated its occupants into the tiger’s jaws. Moreover,
nine elephants out of ten are not stanch, they become panic-stricken
and bolt; in which event the risk of being dashed to death against a
tree is greater than that of any other fatal accident that is likely to
occur.

Most accounts of tigers are confined to their connection with mankind;
but if this be the more important, it certainly is not the more
general relationship. Out of the large number born every year (though
not in the same season, for these animals pair irregularly) few come
in contact with human beings. They prey upon the larger animals of
their respective provinces, both wild and domestic, but, of course,
chiefly upon the former. In this way they are of positive benefit to
the agricultural class. Baldwin, Sanderson, Leveson and others, whose
observations made upon the spot, and with the best opportunities for
knowing the truth in this matter, are not likely to be incorrect, state
that but for the aid rendered by tigers in keeping down the numbers
of grain-eating species, the Indian cultivator would find it almost
impossible to live. No doubt the same condition of things prevails in
other parts of Asia. Cattle-lifters, however, impose a heavy tax on
the country, and as these generally grow fat, lazy, and rarely hunt,
they are a decided disadvantage to any neighborhood. Furthermore, it
is from among this class that most man-eaters come. In districts to
which cattle are driven to graze, and then withdrawn when the grass
fails, tigers accustomed to haunt the vicinity of herds, and that have
remained for the most part guiltless of human blood so long as their
supply of beef lasted, are apt to eat the inhabitants when it fails.
One of these marauders upon livestock will kill an ox every five days,
and smaller domestic animals proportionately often, and it is easy to
see that the cost of supporting them must be very considerable.

So much has been said in connection with other beasts of prey upon
the subject of those reports in which each group is represented to
have an invariable way of capturing and killing game, that it seems
unnecessary to enlarge upon this point with reference to tigers. They
stalk animals, and spring upon them from an ambush. When a victim has
been caught, it is destroyed by a blow with the arm, its neck vertebræ
are crushed by a bite, its throat is cut, or head wrenched round. Very
probably the tiger does not strike habitually like a lion. He often
does so, however, and the fact that one was seen to drive his claws
into the brain of an ox has been mentioned. Sir Joseph Fayrer reports
the case of a tiger that dashed into a herd, “and in his spring struck
down simultaneously a cow with each fore foot.” Major H. A. Leveson
(“Hunting Grounds of the Old World”) saw one of his men killed in the
Annámullay forest in this manner. “His death,” says Leveson, “must
have been instantaneous, as the tigress with the first blow of her paw
crushed his skull, and his brains were scattered about.”

“I venture to assert,” says Colonel Gordon Cumming (“Wild Men and Wild
Beasts”), “that one of the chief characteristics of the tiger is, that
in its wild state, it will only feed on prey of its own killing.” No
other name of equal weight has been appended to a statement such as
this. On the contrary, nearly all evidence goes to show that tigers are
very indiscriminate in their eating, that they feed on almost anything,
living or dead, fresh or putrid. Captain Walter Campbell (“The Old
Forest Ranger”) mentions the fact of their appropriating game already
killed as coming under his personal observation; and Major Leveson
(“Sport in Many Lands”) records that he shot two tigers in the Wynaad
forest while they were engaged in a desperate fight for the possession
of a deer’s carcass. It is notorious that tigers so constantly destroy
their cubs that the tigress leaves her mate almost immediately after
they are born, and conceals her young. There are several instances
in which she herself has been devoured, and there is no doubt of the
cannibalism of this beast. J. Moray Brown (“Shikar Sketches”), speaking
of the frequency of combats between tigers, says that, “occasionally
the victor eats the vanquished.” Colonel Pollok (“Sport in British
Burmah”) informs us that “when two tigers contend for the right of
slaughtering cattle in any particular locality, one is almost sure to
be killed, and, perhaps, eaten by the other. I have known instances
of this happening.” General W. C. Andersson shot a tiger in Kandeish,
within whose body he found the recently ingested remains of another,
whose head and paws were lying close by in the jungle. General Blake
also discovered, near Rungiah in Assam, the partially devoured body of
a tiger that had been killed by one of its own kind.

Except incidentally, technical details bearing upon character have
not been mentioned; the tiger’s size, however, has no doubt a
marked influence upon his mental traits. Looking upon a trail that
goes straight towards the water, which other creatures approach so
differently, one sees how the animal that left those footprints--nearly
square in the male, oval in case of a tigress--felt no fear of any
adversary, and therefore must have been of considerable bulk. Not
only the best authorities, so far as formal zoölogy is concerned, but
almost every one who has devoted special attention to this subject,
gives the length of an average tiger, when fully developed, at about
nine feet six inches from tip to tip. The female is quite twelve inches
shorter. Many writers, however, admit the existence of tigers ten feet
long, and no one is in a position to deny that some may attain to that
length. But when a writer like Sir Joseph Fayrer (“The Royal Tiger
of Bengal”) says that he has “measured their bodies as they lay dead
on the spot where they had fallen,” and found them to be “more than
eleven feet from the nose to the end of the tail,” there is nothing to
be replied, except that, very few persons have been so fortunate as
to see the like. There was once, indeed, a tiger-slayer who used to
shoot specimens fourteen feet long and over, but he died gallantly in
battle, and his name need not be given.

With regard to the structure of his brain, the tiger is gyrencephalous;
that is to say, the lobes exhibit a certain degree of convolution.
It may also be said that the cerebral hemispheres project backwards
so as to cover the anterior border of the cerebellum, and that these
greater segments of the encephalon are completely connected. The
nervous structure is not of the highest type known to exist among
inferior animals, but it is quite high enough not to militate against
an empirical conclusion that this creature’s actions show it to be
organically very capable.

Of the details of the every-day life of the tiger we know comparatively
little. Thousands of cattle, for instance, are killed every year in
India, and yet there is but one narrative, so far as the writer knows,
of a tiger having been seen to stalk a quadruped of this kind. It is
quoted by J. Moray Brown (“Shikar Sketches”) from Captain Pierson’s
relation of the incident. While hunting in the jungles of Kamptee,
he saw from the edge of a ravine on which he was resting, a herd
grazing on the ground just below, and a tigress at a little distance
reconnoitering. Her choice fell in the first place upon a white cow
that was straggling, and she approached till within about eighty
yards under cover of the bushes, and then broke into a trot. The cow,
however, became aware of her danger, and after standing a moment as
if paralyzed with fear, dashed into the midst of her companions. The
tigress, which during this time had continued to advance, then charged
at once, and “in a few seconds she picked out a fine young cow, upon
whose shoulders she sprang, and they both rolled over in a heap. When
the two animals were still again, we could distinctly see the cow
standing up with her neck embraced by the tigress, which was evidently
sucking her jugular. The poor creature then made a few feeble efforts
to release herself, which the tigress resented by breaking her neck.”
Major H. Bevan (“Thirty Years in India”) saw a tiger “knock over a
bullock with a single blow on the haunch, and seizing the throat, lay
across the body sucking the blood.” Major Leveson (“Hunting Grounds
of the Old World”), while lying out by a pool at night, witnessed the
death of a sambur deer that was struck down and instantly killed by a
tiger. Various narratives of the tiger’s attack might be quoted, but
his behavior while stealing upon his prey, the manner in which he seeks
for it, and the way in which it is discovered, these are points that we
know very little about.

“The tiger is a shy, morose, and unsociable brute,” Dr. Fayrer remarks,
“but like all animals of high type, the range of individual differences
is very great.” “Nearly every tiger,” observes Moray Brown, “has a
certain character for ferocity, wiliness or the reverse--of being a
man-eater, cattle-lifter, or game-killer--which is well known to the
jungle folk.”

The tiger’s overlordship of the jungle is not maintained without some
reverses. A bear sometimes beats him off, but usually these contests
end in the bear’s being devoured. Sanderson, together with others,
reports this upon personal observation. Wild boars occasionally avenge
the death of their fellows. Inglis found the bodies of both combatants
lying side by side.

Single buffaloes are killed by a tiger; but when a herd is combined
against him, as is always the case when his presence is discovered,
he has no chance of success. Inglis (“Work and Sport on the Nepaul
Frontier”) describes such an event, and as it is the only narrative of
this kind the author has met with, his account is given in full.

“One of the most exciting and deeply interesting scenes I ever
witnessed in the jungles ... took place in the month of March, at the
village of Ryseree, in Bhaugulpore.

“I was sitting in my tent going over some accounts with the village
putwarrie and my gomasta. A posse of villagers were grouped under the
grateful shade of a gnarled old mango tree, whose contorted limbs bore
witness to many a tufan and tempest which it had weathered. The usual
confused clamor of tongues was rising up from this group, and the
subject of debate was the eternal ‘_pice_’ [small coins].

“A number of horses were picketed in the shade, and behind the horses,
each manacled by weighty chains, with their ponderous trunks and
ragged-looking tails swaying to and fro with a never-ceasing motion,
stood a line of ten elephants. Their huge leathery ears flapped lazily,
and ever and anon one would seize a branch, and belabor his corrugated
sides to free himself from the detested and troublesome flies.

“Suddenly there was a hush. Every sound seemed to stop simultaneously
as by prearranged concert. Then three men were seen rushing madly along
the elevated ridge surrounding one of the tanks. I recognized one of
my peons, and with him there were two cowherds. Their head-dresses
were all disarranged, and their parted lips, heaving chests, and eyes
blazing with excitement, showed that they were brimful of some unusual
message.

“Now there arose such a bustle in the camp as no description could
adequately portray. The elephants trumpeted and piped; the syces and
grooms came pushing up with eager questions; the villagers bustled
about like so many ants roused by the approach of a foe; my pack of
terriers yelped in chorus; the pony neighed; the Cabool stallion
plunged about; my servants rushed from the shelter of the tent-veranda
with disordered dress; the ducks rose in a quacking crowd, and circled
round and round the tent; and the cry arose of ‘_Bagh! Bagh! Khodawund!
Arree Bap re Bap! Ram Ram, Seeta Ram!_’

“Breathless with running, the men now tumbled up and hurriedly
salaamed; then each with gasps and choking stops, and pell-mell
volubility, and amid a running fire of cries, queries, and
interjections from the mob, began to unfold their tale. There was an
infuriated tigress on the other side of the nullah, or dry watercourse,
and she had attacked a herd of buffaloes, and it was believed she had
cubs.

“Already Debnarain Singh was getting his own pad-elephant caparisoned,
and my bearer was diving under my camp bed for the rifles and
cartridges. Knowing the little elephant to be a fast walker, and
fairly stanch, I got upon her back, and accompanied by the gomasta and
mahout we set out, followed by the peon and herdsmen to show us the way.

“I expected two friends, officers from Calcutta, that very day, and
wished not to kill the tigress, but to keep her for our combined
shooting next day. We had not proceeded far, when on the other side of
the nullah we saw dense clouds of dust rising, and heard a confused
rushing, trampling sound, intermingled with the clashing of horns, and
the snorting of a herd of angry buffaloes.

“It was the wildest sight I have ever seen in connection with animal
life. The buffaloes were drawn together in the form of a crescent;
their eyes glared fiercely, and as they advanced in a series of short
runs, stamping with their hoofs, and angrily lashing their tails, their
horns would come together with a clanging, clattering crash, and they
would paw the sand, snort, and toss their heads, and behave in the most
extraordinary manner.

“The cause of all this commotion was not far to seek. Directly in
front, retreating slowly, with stealthy, crawling, prowling steps, and
an occasional short, quick leap or bound to one or the other side, was
a magnificent tigress, looking the very impersonification of baffled
fury. Ever and anon she crouched down to the earth, tore it up with
her claws, lashed her tail from side to side, and with lips retracted,
long mustaches quivering with wrath, and hateful eyes scintillating
with rage and fury, she seemed to meditate an attack upon the angry
buffaloes. The serried array of clashing horns, and the ponderous bulk
of the herd appeared, however, to daunt the snarling vixen; at their
rush she would bound back a few paces, crouch down, growl, and be
forced to move back again, before the short, blundering charge of the
crowd.

“All the old cows and calves were in rear of the herd, and it was not a
little comical to witness their awkward attitudes. They would stretch
their ungainly necks, and shake their heads as if they did not rightly
understand what was going on. Finding that if they stopped too long to
indulge their curiosity, there was danger of getting separated from
the fighting members of the herd, they would make a stupid, lumbering,
headlong rush forward, and jostle each other in their blundering panic.

“It was a grand sight. The tigress was the embodiment of lithe savage
beauty, but her features expressed the wildest baffled rage. I could
have shot the striped vixen over and over again, but I wished to keep
her for my friends; and I was thrilled by the excitement of such a
novel scene.

“Suddenly our elephant trumpeted, and shied quickly on one side from
something lying on the ground. Curling up its trunk it began backing
and piping at a prodigious rate.

“‘Hallo! what’s the matter now?’ said I to Debnarain.

“‘God only knows,’ said he.

“‘A young tiger! _Bagh ta butcha_,’ screamed our mahout, and regardless
of the elephant or our cries, he scuttled down the pad rope like a
monkey down a backstay, and clutching a young dead tiger cub, threw
it up to Debnarain. It was about the size of a small poodle, and had
evidently been trampled by the pursuing herd of buffaloes.

“‘There may be others,’ said the gomasta, and peering into every bush,
we went slowly on. My elephant then showed decided symptoms of dislike
and reluctance to approach a particular dense clump of grass.

“A sounding whack on the head, however, made her quicken her steps, and
thrusting the long stalks aside, she discovered for us three blinking
little cubs, brothers of the defunct, and doubtless part of the same
litter. Their eyes were scarcely open, and they lay huddled together
like three enormous striped kittens, and spat at us, and bristled their
little mustaches much as an angry cat would do. All four were males.

“It was not long before I had them wrapped up carefully in the mahout’s
blanket. Overjoyed at our good fortune, we left the excited herd still
executing their singular war-dance, and the enraged tigress, robbed of
her whelps, consuming her soul in baffled fury.

“We heard her roaring through the night close to camp, and on my
friends’ arrival, we beat her up next morning, and she fell, pierced by
three balls, in a fierce and determined charge. We came upon her across
the nullah, and her mind was evidently made up to fight.”

A tiger may fail in front of a herd, but with stragglers, and there
are always such, the case is not the same. He can kill individual
buffaloes, or he would not be there, and this is done so quietly and
expeditiously that very often the act remains for a time undiscovered.
His “fore-paw,” observes Inglis, “is a most formidable weapon of
attack.... One blow is generally sufficient to slay the largest
bullock or buffalo.” Then he reports how a tiger, charging through the
skirts of a herd, “broke the backs of two of these animals, ... giving
each a stroke, right and left, as he passed along.” Now it is certain
that an Asiatic buffalo is quite as large and formidable an animal
as the bison; and it may naturally be inferred from this, that most
of these latter fare differently from the one Leveson and Burton saw
fighting at the Nedeniallah Hills.

Having thus secured a supply of beef, the tiger usually withdraws
and waits for night to make his meal. But if he were alone with his
victim, if there were no danger of being winded and attacked by its
companions, he would act differently, and might eat at once. Inglis
does not tell how he became acquainted with the following details, but
he states that as soon as his prey is struck down, the tiger “fastens
on the throat of the animal he has felled, and invariably tries to tear
open the jugular vein.” This he does instinctively, because he knows
intuitively that “this is the most deadly spot in the whole body.” But
the tiger’s intuitions and Inglis’s knowledge are both at fault in this
particular. “When he has got hold of his victim by the throat, he lies
down, holding on to the bleeding carcass, snarling and growling, and
fastening and unfastening his talons.” In some instances, continues
this writer, he may drink the blood, “but in many cases I know from my
own observation that the blood is not drunk.” After life is extinct,
these brutes “walk round the prostrate carcasses of their victims,
growling and spitting like tabby cats.” If they wish to eat then, the
body is neatly disembowelled, and the meal begins on the haunch. A
panther or leopard would commonly commence with the inner part of the
thighs, “a wolf tears open the belly and eats the intestines first,”
and a hawk, and other birds of prey, pick out the eyes; but a tiger
follows the course described, as a rule, and after having bolted--for
he never chews his food--as much as he can hold, the remainder is
dragged off and concealed, or at least this is the intention, though
his design is always very imperfectly executed.

Colonel Barras, while waiting for a tiger driven by beaters, saw the
beast break back upon their line, as these animals are apt to do, and
with evil consequences, seeing that no power can keep Hindus together.

“I saw him rise up on his hind legs and take the head of one of them
in his mouth. In an instant he dropped his victim, and made short
pounces at the others, who (as may be supposed) were flying wildly in
all directions. Numbers of them left the long cloths they wear round
their heads sticking to the thorny bushes. These, it seemed to me, the
tiger mistook for some snare, as he suddenly turned and bounded away
at tremendous speed under the very tree I was in. Owing to the great
pace he was going I missed him. I have since seen others miss under the
same circumstances, but at the time I felt my position keenly, being
under the impression that other persons invariably dropped their tigers
whenever and wherever they might get a glimpse of them.

“It only remained now to follow up the brute with elephants. Owing
to the fierceness of the sun, he would not be likely to travel far,
or make many moves. After tracking for about an hour, he did turn
out in front of one of the elephants, and was fired at by the people
in the howdah, with what success I do not remember. For a moment he
pulled himself up, and seemed about to charge, but thought better of
it, and was soon out of sight again. We followed him for some hours
along the rocky banks of the river, visiting all the most likely nooks
and corners, in hopes that he might find it impossible to travel any
further over the burning rocks. Towards evening he was descried at
the distance of a quarter of a mile, swimming across a deep pool that
led into an extensive piece of forest. Here we deemed it advisable to
leave him for the night, and organize a fresh plan for the morrow.
Accordingly the next morning a beat was commenced from the opposite
side of the wood, which proved successful. The tiger broke readily and
was shot by one of the party. It was a very fine male, in the prime
of life. At first I wondered why it was so certainly admitted to be
the tiger of the day before. On asking the question, his feet were
pointed out to me. They were completely raw with his long ramble over
the burning rocks. It is not improbable that had he been only slightly
driven, he would have travelled miles away during the night, and we
might have lost him.”

As for the wounded man, whose skull, strange to say, had not been
crushed, he was carefully attended to and well rewarded for his
sufferings.

“An occasional accident of this sort should not be looked upon as a
proof of the brutal indifference of the English in India to the lives
of the suffering natives--quite the contrary. The natives, except
under European leadership, will not go out against dangerous animals.
Bapoo says, ‘My cow is not killed, and besides I have obtained a charm
from a holy man, by which she is made safe against tigers. Why should
_I_ go out?’ On the other hand, Luximon says, ‘My cow _is_ killed; I
shall certainly not go.’” In consequence of these reasonings, they and
their cattle continue to be eaten. As Barras says, “The result is that
the tigers get the better of the natives, and kill so many of them and
their cattle, that I have seen many ruined villages, which have been
abandoned owing to the neighborhood of these animals. It is, therefore,
a very good thing for the inhabitants when a well-appointed shooting
party arrives.

“One of the most curious features of tiger-shooting is the
extraordinary tenacity with which both the Europeans and natives
engaged in the sport adhere to certain traditions. In vain does a tiger
break through all established rules before the very eyes of those
engaged; the shikáris, both white and black, continue as firm as ever
in their articles of faith, and, by their blind belief in the same,
often lose a tiger. I propose, therefore, to mention a few of the most
cherished laws, and to show in the following pages that they are in
every instance fallacies.

“(1) A tiger never charges unless wounded, or in defence of its young
cubs.

“(2) It never lies up for the day in hot weather in a jungle where
there is no water.

“(3) It never looks upward so as to see any one in a tree.

“I have already given one instance of an unwounded tiger charging and
nearly killing a beater, and I now propose to show how another was
unprincipled enough to break two of the three rules at the same time.

“A few days after the events narrated in the preceding chapter, I and
the four others comprising our party were duly posted across a wide
nullah (dry watercourse). Gibbon was told off for a tree growing on the
top of the bank. The fork into which he climbed must have been quite
twelve feet from the ground, so that as I sat in my bush in the bed of
the nullah he appeared almost in another world. As soon as we were all
settled the beat began. Our band on this occasion was unusually good.
It produced a loud and piercing discord.

“Almost immediately was heard the sound as of a horse galloping down
the stony bed of the nullah. It was a tigress charging at full speed.
Like a flash of lightning she had cleared all obstacles, and was
in the first fork of Gibbon’s tree eight feet from the ground, and
perpendicular to it. Gibbon fired down upon her, and she fell to the
earth with her jaw broken, but instantly charged again to the same
spot, when another sportsman hit her with an Express bullet in the
back, making a fearful wound.

“The pursuit on elephants now commenced. There were three of them, and
each had a line of his own to investigate. One called Bahadur Gūj was
much the stanchest, and knew what it was to be clawed.

“Just as this elephant was passing a thick spot, the wounded tigress
sprang on his head. There was a brief but exciting struggle. Bahadur
Gūj got his enemy down, trampled it to death, and then flung its body
up on to the bank of the nullah.... Fortunately for the elephant,
the tiger’s jaw was broken, so that he received no injuries worth
mentioning.

“The following incidents will show, I think, what a mistake it is to
suppose that tigers are never found except in the near neighborhood
of water during the hot months of the year. Whilst out with a party
of four, in the middle of May, we beat unsuccessfully for a fine
tigress that had killed a cow during the previous night. The beat
was properly conducted, but no beast of prey appeared. A mile or two
distant there was a very fine jungle, but it was decided that as there
was no water, there could be no tiger in it. We therefore thought it a
good opportunity to organize a beat on behalf of our native shikáris,
in order that they might slay for themselves deer, pig, and such like
animals for their own eating.

“Accordingly, we repaired to the desired locality, and scattered
ourselves about without taking any of the usual precautions. Some of us
helped in the beat, and some of the beaters converted themselves into
shooters, and took up such positions as seemed good to them. Things
were proceeding very pleasantly, when suddenly a shot was fired by one
of the natives, and word was rapidly passed that he had aimed at a
tiger, which had not fallen, but gone on up a ravine towards the head
of the jungle. No blood marks were found, and the bullet was held to
have missed. This was ultimately found to be true. But at the moment
I doubted it, for the man was an excellent shot, and the tiger had
come out slowly just in front of him.... At all events, the tiger was
gone, and I and my friend had to do our best to find him. The elephant
Bahadur Gūj was called up, and I and my companion stood up in front of
the howdah, while the native who had first fired at the animal occupied
a back seat with his little son.

“For a long time our search was fruitless. We worked up to the head
of the jungle without finding a vestige of the enemy. On our way back
my coadjutor pointed to a thick corinda bush and said, ‘That is a
likely spot.’ I looked, and there was the tiger, or rather tigress,
standing in the centre of it. We fired together. There was a roar, a
scuffle, and a dense cloud of smoke, under cover of which the tigress
disappeared, having only been seen by the small boy in the back seat.
The cover consisted entirely of detached bushes, so we felt sure she
could not have gone far. At last we discovered a black hole flush with
the ground. This we approached cautiously, and on peering down saw the
legs of a recumbent tiger. We threw stones in, but the animal never
moved; and on getting a view of her head, my friend put a ball through
it. Three of us now got down into the den, and with much difficulty
contrived to get the beast out without injuring the skin.”

Looking around once for a wounded tiger in the Nielgherries by night,
Major Leveson and his party drove the beast into a patch of jungle,
“not more than fifty yards long by twenty wide. Chinneah (the head
shikári) threw a couple of lighted rockets into this retreat, which
evidently annoyed him, although they had not the effect of causing the
animal to break; it only set up a low angry growl that lasted for some
time. Two or three times I saw the bushes shake as if it were about to
spring; and once I caught a hurried glimpse of its outline, and threw
up my rifle, but put it down again, as I did not like to fire a chance
shot with an uncertain aim. Again Chinneah’s rockets flew hissing about
the tiger, and caused him to move, for B---- caught sight of him and
let drive right and left. Then out he sprang with an appalling roar,
and struck down poor Ali, who, notwithstanding my orders, had separated
himself from the rest in order to pick up a stone to throw into the
bush. His piercing death shriek rang through the night air, striking
terror to every heart; and although I knew that it was too late to
save him, I determined that he should be revenged, and dashed forward
towards the spot where the infuriated brute was savagely growling as it
shook the senseless but quivering body. No sooner did I get a glimpse
of the tiger than I knew I was perceived, for with a short angry roar
he left the corpse, and crouched low upon the ground, with head down,
back arched, and tail lashing his heaving flanks. At this moment ...
carefully aiming between the eyes which glared upon me like balls of
fire, I fired--he reared up at full length, and fell back dead.

“Vengeance satisfied, I went up to poor Ali, whom I found shockingly
mutilated. His death must, however, have been instantaneous, as the
tiger with the first blow had shattered his skull and scattered his
brains about the spot.”

The hunting tiger is not the highest development of his species.
He has not much to learn, compared with a man-eater, in order to
adjust himself to the requirements of life; and the gaunt, somewhat
undersized, active, hardy, shy and solitary beast, pursues the tenor
of his way far from the habitations of men, of whom he is wary and
distrustful, chiefly on account of their strangeness.

To a cattle-lifter life presents more diversified scenes. The way in
which the animal lives implies a greater complexity of conditions to
which he is required to adapt himself, and a corresponding development
of faculty. This kind of tiger, except under circumstances which rarely
occur, is both a game-killer and beef-eater. Few districts yield a
constant supply in the way of cattle, and when that fails, necessity
compels the marauder to hunt almost exclusively, or take to homicide.
On the one hand, these creatures have the experiences and training of
their brethren belonging to the wastes; on the other, they are to some
extent brought into a certain relationship with human beings, become
accustomed to them, observe their actions, and are familiarized during
those plundering expeditions, by which they mainly support themselves,
with a variety of things which are altogether outside the ordinary
experiences of wild beasts. Of the two classes, it goes without saying
that the latter must be the more evolved; for it is not more certain
that, other things being equal, the man who has had most training will
be most capable, than it is that the same effects will follow in the
case of tigers.

Those regions inhabited by hunting tigers have not failed to
contribute, through the influence of their associations and scenery,
to that vague body of feeling and of imaginative impressions, which
most persons carry with them concerning this suggestive animal.
“Tigers,” remarks Sherwell, “are prone to haunt those crumbling works
belonging to states and dynasties that have been swept away by war.”
In the deserted fortress of Mahoor, says Major Bevan, they were “so
abundant that a few matchlock-men, who had been kept there to guard the
temple, were afraid to go occasionally to the arsenal to bring their
ammunition.” The jungles and forests where game-killing tigers prowl
for their prey are among those scenes in nature which no man who has
appreciated their full significance ever forgets. “They who have never
explored a primeval forest,” writes Leveson, “can have but a very faint
impression of the mysterious effect that absence of light and intense
depth of gloom ... the unbroken stillness and utter silence ... exert
upon the mind.” They “create a strange feeling of awe and loneliness
that depresses the spirits and appalls the hearts of those unaccustomed
to wander in these solitudes.... Solitude is too insufficient a term
to convey an idea of the overpowering sensation of desolation and
abandonment that pervades these regions.”

Stranger, perhaps stronger than all else, is the bewildering feeling
of contrast between the impressive actualities of one’s surroundings,
and the spectral appearance of whatever the eye takes in. Peril may be
imminent at every step, and yet all things seem unreal in that weird
atmosphere in which they are seen. Animals look like the shadows of
themselves. An elephant’s motionless, gigantic form, looming even
larger than in life, will define itself upon the sight, vanish as you
gaze, and by some new effect of light, reappear in the same spot and
the same position. It is like being in the enchanted forests of old
romances; and such impressions can scarcely have failed to influence
many whose exploits were performed amid such scenes. Leveson, in a
place like this, saw the only encounter that has been described between
the tiger and a bison bull.

“Whilst hunting in the jungle between the Bowani River, and the
Goodaloor Pass, at the foot of the Nedeniallah Hills, my friend Burton
and I witnessed a most gallantly-contested fight between a bull bison
and a tiger.... Night had scarcely set in when a loud bellowing was
heard, followed by an unmistakable roar that caused no little commotion
amongst the horses and bullocks that were picketed round our tents.
From the ominous sounds which succeeded we knew that a mortal combat
was raging at no great distance from our bivouac. Having arranged for
the safety of our camp, Burton and I, armed with rifles and pistols,
followed closely by Chinneah and Googooloo, each carrying a couple of
spare guns, sallied forth; and keeping along the bank of the river
for a short distance, entered the dense cover, from which the sounds
of the contest seemed to issue, by a narrow deer-run. Here we could
only get along very slowly, having to separate the tangled brushwood
with one hand, and hold our rifles cocked and ready with the other. We
proceeded in this manner for some distance, guided by the noise of the
contest, which sounded nearer and nearer, and came to an opening in the
woods where we saw a huge bull bison, evidently much excited, for his
eyes flashed fire, his tail was straight on end, and he was tearing
up the ground with his forefeet, all the while grunting furiously. As
we were all, luckily, well to leeward, the taint in the air was not
likely to be winded, so I made signs to the bearers to lay down their
guns, and climb into an adjacent tree; while Burton and myself, with a
rifle in each hand, by dint of creeping on our hands and knees, gained
a small clump of bushes on a raised bank, and not more than thirty
yards distant, whence we could see all that was going on. When we
first arrived, the tiger was nowhere to be seen; but from the bison’s
cautious movements, I knew he could not be far off. The moon was high
in the heavens, making the night as clear as day; so not a movement
could escape us, although we were well concealed from view.

“Several rounds had already been fought, for the game had been going on
a good twenty minutes before we came up, and the bison, besides being
covered with lather about the flanks, bore several severe marks of the
tiger’s claws on the face and shoulders. Whilst we were ensconcing
ourselves comfortably behind the cover, with our rifles in readiness
for self-defence only,--for we had no intention of interfering in
the fair stand-up fight which had evidently been taking place,--a
low savage growling about fifteen paces to the right attracted our
attention; and crouched behind a tuft of fern, we discerned the shape
of an immense tiger watching the movements of the bison, which, with
his head kept constantly turned towards the danger, was alternately
cropping the grass, and giving vent to his excited feelings every
now and then by a deep, tremulous roaring, which seemed to awaken all
the echoes of the surrounding woods. The tiger, whose glaring eyes
were fixed upon his antagonist, now and again shifted his quarters a
few paces either to the right or the left, once coming so near our
ambuscade that I could almost have touched him with the muzzle of my
rifle; but the wary old bull never lost sight of him for a second, and
ever followed his motions with his head lowered to receive an attack.
At last the tiger, which all along had been whining and growling
most impatiently, stole gently forward, his belly crouching along
the ground, every hair standing on end, his flanks heaving, his back
arched, and his tail whisking about and lashing his sides; but before
he could gather himself together for a spring which might have proved
fatal, the bison, with a shriek of desperation, charged at full speed,
with his head lowered and the horns pointed upward, but overshot the
mark, as his antagonist adroitly shifted his ground just in time to
avoid a vicious stroke from the massive horns. Then making a half
circle, he sprang with the intention of alighting on the bison’s broad
neck and shoulders. This the bull evaded by a dexterous twist; and
before his adversary could recover himself, he again rushed at him,
caught him behind the shoulders with his horns, and flung him some
distance, following up to repeat the move, but the tiger slunk away to
gather breath.

“Round after round of the same kind followed, allowing breathing-time
between each, the tiger generally getting the worst of it, for the bull
sometimes received his rush on his massive forehead and horns, and
threw him a considerable distance, bruised and breathless, although
his skin seemed to be too tough for the points to penetrate. Once,
however, I thought the bison’s chance was all over, for the tiger,
by a lucky spring, managed to fasten on his brawny shoulder, and I
could hear the crunching sound of his teeth meeting again and again
in the flesh, while the claws tore the flank like an iron rake. With
a maddening scream of mingled rage and pain, the bull flung himself
heavily on the ground, nearly crushing his nimble adversary to death
with his ponderous weight; and the tiger, breathless and reeling with
exhaustion, endeavored to slink away with his tail between his legs.
But no respite was given, his relentless foe pursued with roars of
vengeance, and again rolled him over before he could regain his legs
to make another spring. The tiger, now fairly conquered, endeavored
to beat a retreat, but this the bison would not allow. He rushed at
him furiously over and over again; and at last, getting him against a
bank of earth, pounded him with his forehead and horns until he lay
motionless, when he sprang with his whole weight upon him, striking him
with the forefeet, and displaying an agility I thought incompatible
with his unwieldy appearance.

“The combat, which had lasted over a couple of hours, was now over, for
the tiger, which we thought might be only stunned, gave unmistakable
signs of approaching dissolution. He lay gasping, his mouth half open,
exposing his rough tongue and massive yellow teeth. His eyes were
fixed, convulsive struggles drew up his limbs, a quiver passed over
his body, and all was still. His conqueror was standing over him with
heaving flanks, and crimsoned foam flying from his widely distended
nostrils; but his rolling eye was becoming dim, for the life-blood was
fast ebbing from a ghastly wound in the neck, and he reeled about like
a drunken man, still, however, fronting his dead enemy, and keeping his
horns lowered as if to charge. From time to time he bellowed with rage,
but his voice became fainter, and at last subsided into a deep hollow
moan. Then his mighty strength failed him, and he could not keep on
his legs, which seemed to bend slowly, causing him to plunge forward.
Again he made a desperate effort to recover himself, staggered a few
paces, and with a surly growl of defiance, fell never to rise again;
for, after a few convulsive heavings, his body became motionless, and
we knew that all was over.”

How often a conflict between animals so formidable ends in the
assailant’s repulse or death, we do not know, neither can we say
whether bisons are habitually attacked by tigers. Lions destroy the
African buffalo either singly or by taking odds; and in a personal
contest, the tiger would generally have the advantage over a lion. They
have often been pitted against each other, and the general result is
well known to be as stated. Gunga, who belonged to the King of Oude,
killed thirty lions, and destroyed another after being transferred to
the zoölogical garden in London.

When the young tiger first makes his appearance among the fastnesses
of forests, he is one foot long, has but little coat, although his
stripes can be seen, and is blind. On the eighth or tenth day his
eyes open, and by that time he has grown four inches and a half. At
nine months the length is five feet, and at the expiration of a year
he measures five feet eight inches. When two years of age the male’s
length from tip to tip is about seven feet six inches, and that of the
tigress seven feet. Between the second and third year they separate
from their mother. While in the days of his youth the _lodia bagh_
makes indiscriminate war upon the brute creation, commits unnecessary
murders, stalks his prey instead of surprising it, and, Leveson
and others assert, chases it like the cheetah. But time diminishes
nervous energy, and leaves him, like all other beings, bereft of the
incitements its excess engenders. Experience warns him against the
consequences of temerity, and he grows lazy. Then these animals take to
ambushing deer-runs and drinking places; they round up game by moving
round and roaring; they practise upon the curiosity which besets the
_Cervidæ_; and partly show themselves in the jungle to tempt an axis
deer to a closer inspection; they are also said to bark in imitation of
the sambur stag, in order to lure a doe or some pugnacious buck, within
reach of a rush.

As for the beast that takes to man-eating, what was most probably at
first an accidental event, now becomes the occupation of its life. In
the first place it encountered men casually, now this is done with
intention. He _must_ study the habits of his game, and that he does so,
is attested by his fatal success. _Adme khane wallah_, the eater of
men, glares upon them from every “coign of vantage”; he discriminates
between individuals, classes, and occupations, he learns the ways
of farmers and woodcutters, of women who wash by the stream, of
mail-carriers, and travellers on roads, of priests who serve at lonely
shrines.

No country is so favorable for his exploits as India. The endless
divisions of its people into castes or professions is destructive to
unanimity of feeling and combined action. The “gentle Hindu,” who is
one of the most callous and unsympathetic of mankind, folds his hands
when one of his co-religionists has been carried off, and says that
Kali probably sent the tiger for that especial purpose, so what has
he to do with it? His Mussulman acquaintance twists his mustache, and
mutters, _Ul-humd-ul-illa_, praise be to God, this man was only an
infidel, and it was his destiny! They cannot act together, and formerly
matters were worse than they are now.

Nothing could suit the prowling tiger better than these isolated
settlements with their careless, nearly defenceless inhabitants, the
by-ways and wastes that separate them. When he has once killed a man,
and has discovered the creature’s feebleness, those horrors so often
recorded follow as matters of course. Henceforth, nobody is safe beyond
the walls of his town or dwelling. Occasionally not even there, for the
man-eater combines the extremes of conduct,--excessive wariness and
desperate audacity.

There is no necessity to multiply references as to the fact that these
tigers are audacious,--that is generally known to be the case; but it
is well to remember in connection with their relations to mankind,
that they are apt to become panic-stricken at anything which appears
strange and unaccountable. Colonel Pollok preserves an incident (“Sport
in British Burmah”) which illustrates their enterprise, and yet shows
how they become confused, incapable, and appalled by whatever is beyond
comprehension,--a feature in the animal’s character, by the way, which
is much more creditable to its intellect than derogatory to its courage.

Hill, the officer to whom the adventure happened, relates his own
experiences. He was out with a body of native troops after some Shan
mutineers at the time, and in a country that Crawfurd, Colonel Yule,
Hallett, Colquhoun, etc., speak of as much infested by tigers. At
Yonzaleem a report was brought to him that a scourge of this kind was
in the neighborhood, and that fifteen men had been killed in a month;
but duty called, and there was no time in which to go hunting. “We were
travelling along a mountain pathway fringed with bamboo-like grass,”
Hill says, “and I was leading the way about thirty paces, perhaps, in
front of the party, followed at a little distance by my lugelay, or
Burmese boy, carrying my loaded gun. I had nothing in my hand but my
oak stick, but you know what a shillelah it is, and what a thundering
blow can be given with it. It was still early, and as I was trudging
along carelessly, the men behind me jabbering and talking, I heard a
slight noise on the edge of the pathway to my right; for a second I
paid no attention to it, but thinking it might be a jungle-fowl or a
pheasant, I beckoned to the boy to give me my gun. He had loitered
behind, and before he could reach me, by slow degrees out came the head
of an enormous tiger, close to me, almost within hitting distance.
Unfortunately my lad, and the Burmese escort, saw it too, and halted,
calling out ‘The tiger! the tiger! he will be killed! he will be
killed!’ meaning me. I did not take my eyes off the tiger’s, but put my
hand behind my back, saying in Burmese to the boy, ‘Give me my gun;’
but he and the others only kept jabbering, ‘He will be killed! he will
be killed!’ Not a man stirred, though they were all armed and loaded.
So there we were, the tiger and I, face to face. At last, thinking
to frighten it away, I lifted the stick and pretended to hit it a
back-handed blow, at the same time making a sort of yelling noise. The
stick was over my left shoulder, but so far from being intimidated, the
tiger rushed at me, and I caught him a blow on the side of the head and
floored him.

“Seeing him pick himself up with his back towards me, I thought he was
going to bolt, and for the first time turned round, and said, ‘Now
give me my gun.’ Before the words were well out of my mouth, my stick
was sent flying, my right hand pinned to my side by one of his hind
claws, and one of his fore-paws on my shoulder and back, and he stood
over me growling in a most diabolical manner. I bent my back, stuck
out my legs, and with my left arm struck towards my right shoulder at
the brute’s face, which was towering over me, snarling and growling
like the very devil. Suddenly, with an infernal roar, he struck me on
the neck, and down I went as if I had been shot, the tiger turning
a somersault over me, and falling on his back. In a second, in my
endeavors to get up, I was on my hands and knees, the blood pouring
over my face, beard and chest, giving me, I have no doubt, a most
satanic appearance. As the tiger recovered we met face to face. He
looked at me, seemed to think that by some strange metamorphosis,
from a two-legged man, whom he despised, I had become some kind of a
four-legged monster like himself, put his tail between his legs, and
bolted for his life.”

This is a very disconcerting account for those who assert that the
tiger is always dazed by daylight, and a coward at all times; that he
shrinks from the sight and scent of human beings, flies from the sound
of the human voice, and quails before the glance of a man’s eye.

Colonel Pollok (“Natural History Notes”) says he “never heard of a
black tiger,” but that he has “seen the skins of three white ones; two
entirely white and the other faintly marked with yellow stripes.” These
came from the mountains of Indo-China. In the Himalayas they have been
shot at an elevation of eight thousand feet above the sea, and, besides
being what is called white, were maned. J. W. Atkinson (“Travels on the
Upper and Lower Amoor”) tells of a young Kirghis who, while carrying
off his bride, camped on this river and lost her there by a tiger’s
attack. He threw away his own life in following this animal, dagger
in hand, into the reeds. This does not always happen so by any means.
Asiatics do what Europeans cannot attempt. It is well known that the
Ghoorkas kill tigers with their celebrated knives; but we do not hear
how many of them are destroyed in such combats. Captain Basil Hall
(“Travels in India”) saw a Hindu (using one of these weapons) meet
a tiger at a Rajah’s court, evade his spring, hamstring him as he
passed, and cut through his neck into the spinal cord when the brute
turned. In ancient times that class of gladiators called _Bestiarii_,
encountered tigers in the Roman arena; and if one may judge from
notices that are rather vague, they were pretty generally expended. The
Brinjarries, says Forsyth, sometimes, assisted by their dogs, assail
them with lances; and they were certainly killed by arrows at one
period, but in what proportion to those whom they slew is unknown.

Certain traits are common to all the race; and as a summary of the
foregoing, the appended remarks and illustrations will not be out of
place. Wherever the tiger is found, water, despite Colonel Barras’
solitary voice to the contrary, must be near. He drinks much and
often, and cannot live in arid places. Therefore it is that the time
to hunt him in India is during the hot season. Those spots where he
resorts for water, and what is equally necessary to him, shade, are
well known in all parts where he is to be found; and it is there that
buffaloes--young ones, for an ordinarily fastidious tiger will not
touch an old, tough animal--are tied up. When taken, his trail is
followed to the spot where he makes his lair.

There is one exception, however, to all rules that usually govern the
pursuit of tigers. When a man-eater is the object, the trailing must
go on all day and every day until this monster is run down. No better
example of what is to be done under these circumstances can be given
than Captain Forsyth’s narrative of his own exploit in the Bétúl jungle.

“I spent nearly a week ... in the destruction of a famous man-eater,
that had completely closed several roads, and was estimated to
have devoured over a hundred human beings. One of these roads was
the main outlet from the Bétúl teak forests, towards the railway
under construction in the Harbadá valley; and the work of the
sleeper-contractors was completely at a stand-still, owing to the
ravages of this brute. He occupied regularly a large triangle of
country between the rivers Móran and Ganjál; occasionally making a
tour of destruction much further to the east and west, and striking
terror into a breadth of not less than thirty or forty miles. It was
therefore supposed that the devastation was caused by more than one
animal; and we thought we had disposed of one of these early in April,
when we killed a very cunning old tiger of evil repute after several
days’ severe hunting. But I am now certain that the one I destroyed
subsequently was the real malefactor, since killing again commenced
after we had left, and all loss of human life did not cease till the
day I finally disposed of him.

“He had not been heard of for a week or two when I came into his
country, and pitched my camp in a splendid mango grove near the large
village of Lokartalae, on the Móran River.

“A few days of lazy existence in this microcosm of a grove passed
not unpleasantly.... In the mean time I was regaled with stories
of the man-eater--of his fearful size and appearance, with belly
pendent to the ground, and white moon on the top of his forehead; his
pork-butcher-like method of detaining a party of travellers while he
rolled himself in the sand, and at last came up and inspected them all
round, selecting the fattest; his power of transforming himself into
an innocent-looking woodcutter, and calling or whistling through the
jungle till an unsuspecting victim approached; how the spirits of all
his victims rode with him upon his head, warning him of every danger,
and guiding him to the fatal ambush where a traveller would shortly
pass. All the best shikáris of the country-side were collected in my
camp, and the land-holders and many of the people besieged my tent
morning and evening. The infant of a woman who had been carried away
while drawing water at a well was brought and held up before me, and
every offer of assistance in destroying the monster made. No useful
help was, however, to be expected from a terror-stricken population
like this. They lived in barricaded houses, and only stirred out, when
necessity compelled, in large bodies, covered by armed men, and beating
drums and shouting as they passed along the roads. Many villages had
been utterly deserted, and the country was being slowly depopulated by
a single animal. So far as I could learn, he had been killing alone
for about a year--another tiger that had assisted him in his fell
occupation having been shot the previous hot weather. Bétúl has always
been unusually afflicted with man-eaters, the cause apparently being
the great numbers of cattle that come for a limited season to graze
in that country, and a scarcity of other prey at the time when these
are absent, combined with the unusually convenient cover for tigers
alongside of most of the roads. The man-eaters of the Central Provinces
rarely confine themselves _solely_ to human food, though some have
almost done so to my own knowledge.

“As soon as I could ride in the howdah [Captain Forsyth was suffering
from an accident at this time], and long before I was able to do more
than hobble on foot, I marched to a place called Chárkhérá, where
the last kill had been reported. My usually straggling following
was now compressed into a close body, preceded errand followed by
baggage-elephants, and protected by a guard of police with muskets,
peons with my spare guns, and a whole posse of matchlock shikáris.
Two deserted villages were passed on the road, and heaps of stones at
intervals showed where some traveller had been struck down. A better
hunting-ground for a man-eater certainly could not be found. Thick,
scrubby teak jungle closed in the road on both sides; and alongside
of it for a great part of the way wound a narrow, deep watercourse,
overshadowed by jámare bushes, and with here and there a small pool of
water still left. I hunted along this nálá the whole way, and found
many old tracks of a very large male tiger, which the shikáris declared
to be those of the man-eater. There were none more recent, however,
than several days. Chárkhérá was also deserted on account of the tiger,
and there was no shade to speak of; but it was the most central place
within reach of the usual haunts of the brute, so I encamped there, and
sent the baggage-elephants back to fetch provisions. In the evening
I was startled by a messenger from a place called Lá, on the Móran
River, nearly in the direction I had come from, who said that one of a
party of pilgrims who had been travelling unsuspectingly by a jungle
road, had been carried off by the tiger close to that place. Early next
morning I started off with two elephants, and arrived at the spot
about eight o’clock. The man had been struck down where a small ravine
leading to the Móran crosses a lonely pathway a few miles east of Lá.
The shoulder-stick with its pendant baskets, in which the holy water
from his place of pilgrimage had been carried by the hapless man, was
lying on the ground in a dried-up pool of blood, and shreds of his
clothes adhered to the bushes where he had been dragged down into the
bed of the nálá.

“We tracked the man-eater and his prey into a very thick grass
cover, alive with spotted deer, where he had broken up and devoured
the greater part of the body. Some bones and shreds of flesh, and
the skull, hands, and feet were all that remained. This tiger never
returned to his victim a second time, so it was useless to found any
scheme for killing him on that expectation. We took up his tracks,
however, from the body, and carried them patiently down through very
dense jungle to the banks of the Móran,--the trackers working in fear
and trembling under the trunk of my elephant, and covered by my rifle
at full cock. At the river the pugs [footprints] went out to a long
spit of sand that projected into the water, where the man-eater had
drunk, and then returned to a great mass of piled-up rocks at the
bottom of a precipitous bank, full of caverns and recesses. This we
searched with stones and some fireworks I had in the howdah, but put
out nothing but a scraggy hyena, which was, of course, allowed to
escape. We searched about here all day in vain, and it was not till
nearly sunset that I turned and made for camp.

“It was almost dusk, when we were a few miles from home, passing along
the road we had marched by the former day, and the same by which we
had come out in the morning, when one of the men who was walking behind
the elephant started and called a halt. He had seen the footprint of a
tiger. The elephant’s tread had partly obliterated it, but further on
where we had not yet gone it was plain enough,--the great square pug
of the man-eater we had been looking for all day! He was on before us,
and must have passed since we came out in the morning, for his track
had covered that of the elephants as they came. It was too late to
hope to find him that evening, and we could only proceed slowly along
on the track, which held to the pathway, keeping a bright lookout. The
Lállá [Forsyth’s famous tiger-hunting shikári] indeed proposed that he
should go on a little ahead as a bait for the tiger, while I covered
him from the elephant with my rifle. But he wound up by expressing a
doubt whether his skinny corporation would be a sufficient attraction,
and suggested that a plump young policeman, who had taken advantage
of our protection to make his official visit to the scene of the last
kill, should be substituted--whereat there was a general but not very
hearty grin. The subject was too sore a one in that neighborhood just
then. About a mile from the camp the track turned off into a deep nálá
that bordered the road. It was now almost dark, so we went on to camp,
and fortified it by posting the three elephants on different sides,
and lighting roaring fires between. Once during the night an elephant
started out of its deep sleep and trumpeted shrilly, but in the morning
we could find no tracks of the tiger near us. I went out early next
morning to beat up the nálá, for a man-eater is not like common
tigers, and must be sought for morning, noon, and night. But I found
no tracks save in the one place where he had crossed the ravine the
evening before, and gone off into thick jungle.

“On my return to camp, just as I was sitting down to breakfast,
some Banjárás [carriers, and probably gypsies] from a place called
Déckná--about a mile and a half from our camp--came running in to say
that one of their companions had been taken out of the middle of their
drove of bullocks by the tiger, just as they were starting from their
night’s encampment. The elephant had not been unharnessed, and securing
some food and a bottle of claret, I was not two minutes in getting
under way again. The edge of a low savanna, covered with long grass
and intersected by a nálá, was the scene of this last assassination,
and a broad trail of crushed-down grass showed where the body had been
dragged down to the nálá. No tracking was required. It was all horribly
plain, and the trail did not lead quite into the ravine, which had
steep sides, but turned and went alongside of it into some very long
grass reaching nearly up to the howdah. Here Sarjú Parshád, a large
government mukna [tuskless male elephant] I was then riding, kicked
violently at the ground and trumpeted, and immediately the long grass
began to wave ahead. We pushed on at full speed, stepping as we went
over the ghastly half-eaten body of the Banjárá. But the cover was
dreadfully thick, and though I caught a glimpse of a yellow object as
it jumped down into the nálá, it was not in time to fire. It was some
little time before we could get the elephant down the bank and follow
the broad plain footsteps of the monster, now evidently going at a
swinging trot. He kept on in the nálá for about a mile, and then took
to the grass again; but it was not so long here, and we could make
out the trail from the howdah. Presently, however, it led into rough,
stony ground, and the tracking became more difficult. He was evidently
full of go, and would carry us far; so I sent back for more trackers,
and orders to send a small tent across to a hamlet on the banks of the
Ganjál, towards which he seemed to be making. All that day we followed
the trail through an exceedingly difficult country, patiently working
out print by print, but without having been gratified by a sight of his
brindled hide. Several of the local shikáris were admirable trackers,
and we carried the line down to within about a mile of the river, where
a dense, thorny cover began, through which no one could follow a tiger.

“We slept that night at the little village, and early next morning
made a long cast ahead, proceeding at once to the river, where we soon
hit upon the track leading straight down its sandy bed. There were
some strong covers reported in the river-bed some miles ahead, near
the large village of Bhádúgaon, so I sent back to order the tent over
there. The track was crossed in this river by several others, but
was easily distinguished from all by its superior size. It had also
a peculiar drag of the toe of one hind foot, which the people knew
and attributed to a wound he had received some months before from a
shikári’s matchlock. There was thus no doubt that we were behind the
man-eater; and I determined to follow him while I could hold out,
and we could keep the trail. It led right into a very dense cover
of jáman and tamarisk in the bed and on the banks of the river, a
few miles above Bhádúgaon. Having been hard pushed the previous day,
we hoped that he might lie up here; and, indeed, there was no other
place he could well go to for water and shade. So we circled round the
outside of the cover, and finding no track leading outside, considered
him fairly ringed. We then went over to the village for breakfast,
intending to return in the heat of the day.

“About eleven o’clock we again faced the scorching hot wind, and made
silently for the cover where the man-eater lay. I surrounded it with
scouts on trees, and posted a pad-elephant at the only point where he
could easily get up the high bank and make off, and then pushed old
Sarjú slowly and carefully through the cover. Peafowl rose in numbers
from every bush as we advanced, and a few hares and other small animals
bolted out at the edges--such thick green covers being the midday
resort of all the life in the neighborhood in the hot weather. About
its centre the jungle was extremely thick, and the bottom was cut up
into a number of parallel water-channels among the strong roots and
overhanging branches of the tamarisk.

“Here the elephant paused and began to kick the earth, and to utter the
low tremulous sound by which some of these animals denote the close
presence of a tiger. We peered all about with beatings of the heart;
and at last the mahout, who was lower down on the elephant’s neck, said
he saw him lying beneath a thick Jáman bush. We had some stones in the
howdah, and I made the Lállá, who was behind me in the back seat, pitch
one into the bush. Instantly the tiger started up with a short roar
and galloped off through the jungle. I gave him right and left at once,
which told loudly; but he went on till he saw the pad-elephant blocking
the road he meant to escape by, and then he turned and charged back
at me with horrible roars. It was very difficult to see him among the
crashing bushes, and he was within twenty yards before I fired again.
This dropped him into one of the channels, but he picked himself up,
and came on as savagely, though more slowly, than before. I was now
in the act of covering him with the large shell rifle, when suddenly
Sarjú spun round, and I found myself looking the opposite way, while a
worrying sound behind me, and the frantic movements of the elephant,
told me I had a fellow-passenger on board I might well have dispensed
with. All I could do in the way of holding on barely sufficed to
prevent myself and guns from being pitched out; and it was some time
before Sarjú, finding he could not kick him off, paused to think what
he would do next. I seized that placid interval to lean over behind and
put the muzzle of my rifle to the tiger’s head, blowing it into fifty
pieces with the large shell.”

In Assam and other parts of Indo-China, and in the interior of Malacca,
the natives are treated by tigers much after the same manner as those
of India were in the days before modern inventions had modified the
views of these brutes upon mankind.

A pit is an effectual device for taking tigers, but most descriptions
of the way in which it is arranged are evidently incorrect. Malays,
however, procure most of the animals they export by means of pits,
which are constructed after the manner of those _oubliettes_ or
“dungeons of the forgotten,” where in the good old times captives were
placed who had no hope of release.

What is the tiger’s temper? Conventionally, and according to common
misapprehension, he is the furious and insatiable savage that Buffon
paints--“_sa ferocité n’est comparable à rien_.” He is full of base
wickedness and inappeasable cruelty, loves blood and carnage for their
own sake, and longs continually to fly at unfortunate creatures with
that _tremendæ velocitatis_ of which Pliny speaks.

   “What immortal hand or eye,
    Framed thy matchless symmetry?
    In what distant deeps or skies,
    Burned that fire within thine eyes?”

writes William Blake, and then he asks, “Did He who made the lamb make
thee?” The French naturalist and English poet looked at the subject
from the same standpoint. It was not necessarily seen wrongly on that
account, but it happened that the view taken by both was an imperfect
one. Deeper insight or more profound research would have resolved
uncertainty in the one case, and checked extravagance in the other. Had
they read the runes of nature aright, the answer to such questionings,
the rebuke to such exaggerations, would have been found stamped upon
the organization of everything that lives. Physical constitution is
never an accident or a mistake; it is at once the consequence of
special modes of existence, and the cause of their continuance. Bodily
conformation and its correlates in mental structure are to brutes
absolutely determinative.

“Most carnivorous of the carnivora,” writes W. N. Lockington
(“Riverside Natural History”), “formed to devour, with every offensive
weapon specialized to the utmost, the _Felidæ_, whether large or small,
are relatively to their size the fiercest, strongest, and most terrible
of beasts.” The tiger stands at their head. He must needs appreciate
his destructive power and feel the desire to exercise it. Inherited
tendencies and the pressure of necessity put his capabilities into
action. Their exercise, transmitted traits, and those experiences
implied in habit, make him what he is,--audacious, treacherous, wary,
cunning, ferocious. These characteristics answer to the anatomical
specialties by which his frame is distinguished,--his convoluted and
back-reaching forebrain, protective coloring, differentiated and
perfectly innervated muscles, his simple digestive tract, formidable
armature, and padded feet.




THE PUMA


What is true with regard to the present geographical distribution of
the cats, has been true always; throughout their fossil history the
greater and more formidable _Felidæ_ have been confined to the Eastern
Hemisphere. A number of American species exist, however, ranging from
among the smallest and most beautiful forms contained in this family,
up to animals that in destructive power, only give place to their
great African and Asiatic allies. The puma and jaguar have not filled
so large a space in zoölogical literature as the lion and tiger; they
have not attracted so much general attention, and are less known. But
this is, to a considerable degree, the result of accident. For the most
part, those who encountered them were men of a different stamp from
the famous hunters whose adventures in Asia and Africa have made the
animals of their forests and plains familiar and full of interest to so
large a portion of the public in civilized lands.

[Illustration: THE PUMA.

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

It is seldom that the throngs that pass before cages in which wild
beasts are confined, contain a spectator who knows how perfect a
creature a cat is. As a class these forms are adjusted to their place
in nature better than other creatures, and also much better than
the human race. Their distinctive characteristics are all strongly
marked, and have persisted from a period so incalculably remote, that
the _Felidæ_ may in this respect be said to stand by themselves. “We
have as yet,” remarks A. R. Wallace (“Geographical Distribution of
Animals”), “made little approach towards discovering ‘their origin,’
since the oldest forms yet found are typical and highly specialized
representatives of a group which is itself the most specialized
of the carnivora.” No one acquainted with the evidence upon which
this statement rests is likely to gainsay it, and its meaning is
not obscure. The fact carries with it a necessary implication that
animals of the species referred to, having followed a definite way
of life longer than the rest, are more fit in every way to meet its
requirements.

Perhaps the most striking illustration that could be given of the
reality of what has been said, is the small difference actually
existing between wild and domesticated cats. Domestication is so great
and radical a change from the feral state, that the entire constitution
of an animal is affected,--mind and body, temper, intelligence, form,
color, fertility and physical capacity, are all modified. But it is
not thorough enough to do away with the traits engendered in the
_Felidæ_, and therefore it happens that after thousands of years,
the house cat varies from the wild one so little in important and
distinctive characteristics. Cattle and sheep were domesticated before
the dispersion of the Aryan tribes; linguistic evidence places that
fact beyond question. Cats, however, though introduced into Europe
from Asia, as was the case also with the horse, ass, and goat, were
no doubt first reclaimed from savage life in Egypt. On the Lower Nile
domestic cats were sacred to Pasht, whom the Greeks called Bubastis,
and identified with Artemis. She was represented with the head of a cat
or lioness, as was Sechet also, a divinity equivalent to the Phœnician
Astarte.

These personifications were not meaningless. Bast or Sechet was the
patroness of the baser passions and more destructive vices. It was
her part, likewise, to torture the condemned in the lower world.
Naturalists (Pastophori) belonging to the faculties established at “the
hall of the ancients” in Heliopolis, and “the house of Seti” in Thebes,
knew much more, and also much less, about zoölogy and its allied
sciences than is popularly supposed.

_Felis concolor_, the puma, cougar, panther, mountain lion, etc.,
is more correctly called by the last of these names than by that of
panther, under which he is commonly known throughout the northern part
of this continent. In its habits the puma is said, but not with any
great degree of appropriateness, to resemble the leopard more closely
than any feline species. Buffon called it the American lion, but he
knew very little about this animal, and his opinion upon its character
is of no special importance. E. F. im Thurn (“Among the Indians of
Guiana”) remarks that in the southern part of America, and particularly
in Guiana, all varieties of feral cats take their titles from the kind
of game upon which they principally subsist. Thus _Felis concolor_ is
called “the deer tiger,” _Felis nigra_ the “tapir tiger,” and _Felis
macnera_ the “peccary tiger.” Such may be the case when aborigines
are forced to particularize; but in common parlance one hears only the
sobriquet “_león_” bestowed by all classes of people on the puma.

There is but one true species found in America, and this is distributed
in all parts of the continent. The average length from tip to tip
may be given at about six and a half feet. In maturity the skin is
of a uniform tawny hue on the back and sides, with some deepening of
shade in the case of individuals. Cubs are born with dark stripes upon
the body, and spots on the neck and shoulders. Garcilasso de la Vega
(“Royal Commentaries”) speaking of this beast as the tutelar of certain
noble Peruvian families, and probably their eponymous ancestor, says:
“A Spaniard whom I knew killed a large lioness (female puma) in the
country of the Antis, near Cuzco. She had climbed into a high tree, and
was slain by four thrusts of a lance. There were two whelps in her body
_which were sons of a tiger_ (jaguar), for their skins were marked with
the sire’s spots.”

Like all _Felidæ_ except the cheeta or hunting leopard, the limbs have
little free play; they are not adapted to continued rapid locomotion,
being short and massive, very powerful, but somewhat limited in variety
of action, and more capable of extreme and spasmodic efforts than of
persistent use. The animal is very arboreal in its habits, and its
climbing powers and general dexterity are not surpassed by any species
belonging to this family.

Like true panthers, these cougars, carcajous, catamounts or pumas (the
native title is _sassu-arana_ or false deer) are, according to H. W.
Bates (“The Naturalist on the River Amazon”), accustomed to live in
cliffs and caves, and they seem able to do without the constant supply
of water that some others among the _Felidæ_ require.

It is said that here, as in India, the representatives of the tiger and
lion do not live together. While this may be true in a general way,
there is not the same separateness of range as in Asia; and the author,
in common with other explorers, has found them in similar localities on
several occasions. No accounts have been given, so far as the present
writer is aware, of actual conflicts occurring between the puma and
jaguar, and, in fact, there could be little hope for the former in such
a contest, as his adversary would be much heavier and more powerful,
equally active, and better armed. With respect to the grizzly bear,
there is little doubt that common report among frontiersmen, to the
effect that he is often assailed by the puma and frequently worsted,
has some foundation in fact. From two to four young are born together,
and by the end of the first year these whelps lose their spots and
stripes. They are lively and playful during infancy, and although in
them, as in all animals so highly organized, a decided individuality
displays itself from the first, personal experience has convinced the
author that they possess a great degree of intelligence, are easily
taught those things which their faculties enable them to acquire; and,
so far as their own interest and convenience influence conduct, that
they exhibit ludicrously strong preferences and dislikes.

Great strength and activity are combined in the puma, its armature is
formidable, the brute is habitually silent, stealthy in the highest
degree, and full of the so-called treachery of its race. Besides
this, it is very enterprising when occasion warrants a display of
audacity, as well as extremely ferocious and blood-thirsty. More
frequently, perhaps, than any of the great cats, it kills for the
mere gratification of its cruel impulses. Dr. Merriman (“Mammals
of the Adirondacks”) states that on level ground “a single spring
of twenty feet is not uncommon for a cougar,” and Sheppard records
the measurement of a distance twice as great when the leap was made
downward from a ledge of rock upon a deer.

Padre José de Acosta (“Historia natural y moral de las Indias”) says
that neither the puma nor the jaguar “is so fierce as he appears to
be in pictures,” though both will kill men. There are, however, many
places where the puma has been so cowed by ill success in his attacks
upon human beings, that he avoids them as much as possible. Cieza de
Leon and Garcilasso de la Vega express themselves to the same effect.
Humboldt found whole villages abandoned by their helpless inhabitants
in consequence of the ravages of the two great American cats, but
Emmanuel Liais (“Climats, Géologie, Faune, etc. du Brésil”) asserts
that both “_l’une et d’autre fuient l’homme et les chiens; même un
enfant à cheval leur fait peur_.” This is a mere repetition of what
has been asserted without qualification, proper inquiry, or adequate
experience with the larger _Felidæ_ in Asia and Africa.

There is no need to argue the question whether or not pumas can or
will kill men; that has been affirmatively settled by facts. This
creature’s personal courage is a different matter. It is only a brute;
yet if any one studies what has been said with regard to this trait,
it will appear that most denunciations of the animal’s cowardice
rest upon circumstances under which it did not conduct itself like
a gentleman. A cougar’s padded foot, its short massive limbs, which
prevent it from chasing prey, the brute’s great powers of concealing
itself, and perfect physical adjustment to sudden and violent attacks,
are recapitulated as though they had no necessary connection with
its behavior, and were not inseparably associated with corresponding
peculiarities of character and habit.

A beast of prey passes the active portion of its existence in
projecting or executing acts of violence. Habitual success means life,
and failure death. Under such circumstances, under the influence of
an experience in which by far the larger part of those enterprises
undertaken resulted favorably, a self-confidence, incompatible with
cowardice, will ensue.

At the same time there seems to be some general preconception with
respect to the character of wild beasts, such as converts every
manifestation of prudence into poltroonery. The clash of opinions
expressed about all the more imposing animals witnesses to the crude
and arbitrary manner in which they have been formed. With respect
to this one, not the tiger himself has been the subject of more
irreconcilable statements.

Stories of puma hunting and of the animal’s exploits depend, so far
as their style is concerned, upon the place where they are told, and
the experiences of the narrator. No hunter of large game thinks it
anything of a feat to shoot a cougar, yet the author has known these
brutes to fight desperately when brought to bay, and in two instances
their resistance was sufficiently formidable to cause, in the one
case loss of life, and in the other injuries from which men never
entirely recovered. Many such examples might be gathered, but they are
nevertheless exceptional. A puma is not difficult to kill, and if it is
seen in time, a properly armed man must either be very unfortunate or
very unfit for the position in which he finds himself, if the result
is not favorable. What is said of the panther and leopard, however, by
Captain Forsyth (“The Highlands of Central India”) and by Sir Samuel
Baker (“Wild Beasts and their Ways”) is peculiarly applicable to this
animal: it is almost always met with unexpectedly, and no mortal can
say beforehand what it will do. If taken at advantage and by surprise,
as commonly happens, a single man would not usually have much chance at
close quarters. The writer has, however, known them to be killed with
knives, though not without severe injury to the victor.

The average native of tropical America, while fully appreciating
how much more dangerous is the beast he calls a tiger, is quite
enough impressed with the prowess of its smaller, though sometimes
equally ferocious ally, to have his mind saturated with superstitions
concerning pumas. Tapuyo or Mameluco guides will sit by a camp fire
and talk in a way to put Acuna or Artieda in the background. Almost
equally with the jaguar this creature has supernatural and diabolic
connections. When its rarely heard cry or scream, as any one may choose
to call a sound so difficult to describe and which varies so greatly,
floats through the forest, these natives never know whether they
hear a prowling cougar, or the voice of that god from whom its race
descended. Botos, a demon of woodland lakes, guides the beast to his
prey; the basilisk worm Minhocao is somehow connected with it in its
designs against human beings, and the deadly man-like Cæpora shrieks in
concert with pumas as they roam through the darkness. W. A. Parry (“The
Cougar”) says that its cry “can only be likened to a scream of demoniac
laughter,” and that the female’s answer to her mate’s call resembles
“the wail of a child in terrible pain.”

James Orton and Prince Maximilian of Nieuwied have severally settled
it that cougars are all abject cowards. Speaking from personal
recollection, the author feels no hesitation in saying that it required
great singleness of mind to come to this conclusion, and much dexterity
to go where they did and avoid seeing things which might have modified
this conclusion.

It does not follow, for reasons which have been explained at length,
that because a puma attacks a grizzly bear he must be dangerous to a
man; or because numbers of men have undoubtedly been killed in some
places, that it should be formidable to human beings everywhere.

“When hungry,” says Theodore Roosevelt (“Hunting Trips of a Ranchman”),
“a cougar will attack anything it can master.” Audubon, however,
supposes that it never ventures to assail such large animals as cows
or steers. William B. Stevenson (“Twenty Years in South America”)
tells us how destructive this creature is to horses, and also how
the more than half-wild cattle of the pampas form into rings to
defend themselves. Captain Flack (“A Hunter’s Experience in the
Southern States of America”) relates an incident in which his horse
was stalked by a cougar. S. S. Hill (“Travels in Peru and Mexico”)
informs us that “this animal always flies at the sight of man.” G. W.
Webber (“The Hunter Naturalist”) declares that he “knows hundreds of
well-authenticated instances in which the cougar or panther attacked
the early hunters--springing suddenly upon them from an ambush.” Many
writers affirm that calves, colts, sheep, goats, swine, are the only
domestic animals ever preyed upon, and a deer the largest wild creature
which is destroyed. But a traveller like Charles Darwin was certain to
observe that, although in La Plata “cougars seldom assault cattle or
horses, and most rarely man,” living principally on ostriches, deer,
bizcacha, etc., in Chile, they killed all those animals they are said
never to touch, including man.

Moreover, we read dogmatic assertions to the effect that pumas always
leap on their victims from behind, and break their necks by bending
back the head. Another authority decides that this is so far from
being the case that death commonly arises from dislocation caused by
a blow with the paw; still another insists that the vertebræ are not
disjointed at all, but bitten through, which is again denied by those
who are convinced that cougars invariably kill their prey by cutting
the throat. Much the same statements are made about everything the
beast does or is said to do, and the conclusion, which one familiar
with this kind of literature comes to, is that these conflicting
statements are not all false, but in a restricted sense all true. That
is to say, the several ways of destruction mentioned are practised as
occasion requires or suggests.

One point at least with regard to the puma’s disposition in certain
directions is more clearly set forth than has been the case in respect
to other beasts of prey, and this is the fact that the creature’s
temper has been greatly changed by contact with mankind. The same
thing has happened everywhere with all game hunted successfully for a
long period; but this fact is ignored, and brutes whose natures are
different in some minor traits from what they once were, are discussed
as if the special features now exhibited had been always the same.

C. Barrington Brown (“Canoe and Camp Life in British Guiana”) relates
an incident which occurred while he was exploring the upper courses of
the Cutari and Aramatau rivers. “One evening, while returning to camp
along the portage path that we were cutting at Wonobobo Falls, I walked
faster than the men, and got some two hundred yards in advance of them.
As I rose the slope of an uneven piece of ground, I saw a large puma
(_Felis concolor_) advancing towards me, along the other side of the
rise, with its nose close to the ground. The moment I saw it I stopped,
and at the same instant it tossed up its head, and seeing me also, came
to a stand. With its body half-crouched, its head erect, and its eyes
round and black from the expansion of their pupils in the dusky light,
it was at once a noble and appalling sight. I glanced back along our
wide path to see if any of the men were coming, as at that moment I
felt that it was not well to be alone without some weapon of defence,
and I knew that one of them had a gun; but nothing could be seen. As
long as I did not move the puma remained motionless also; and thus we
stood, some fifteen yards apart, eyeing each other curiously. I had
heard that the human voice was potent in scaring most wild beasts, and
feeling that the time had arrived for doing something desperate, I
waved my arms in the air and shouted loudly. The effect on the animal
was electrical; it turned quickly to one side, and in two bounds was
lost in the forest.”

Now why did this brute thus behave? The narrative gives not the least
explanation of its conduct. Brown thought it was frightened by his
gestures, because a few days before he had come upon a jaguar basking
on a rock by the river, whose serenity was not at all disturbed by
the voices of a boat full of men. But that was merely a guess. Very
probably this animal had never seen a man previously, and almost
certainly not a white man in civilized costume. There was then the
profound impressiveness of absolute strangeness in the sight, and this
alone would have been more likely to alarm a human being or intelligent
brute than any other cause we know of. Perhaps the puma had just
devoured a peccary and was gorged; or possibly its keen senses revealed
the approach of Brown’s party, who in fact appeared almost immediately.
One may see in a narrative like this, which is a fair specimen of those
relations from which most dogmatic conclusions upon the character of
wild beasts have been drawn, how arbitrary and unjustifiable they
generally are.

Roosevelt states that a slave on his father’s plantation in Florida
was passing through a swamp one night, when he was attacked by a
puma. The negro was “a man of colossal size and fierce and determined
temper.” Moreover, he carried one of the heavy knives that are used
in cutting cane. Both parties were killed after a long and desperate
struggle, whose traces were plainly impressed upon the spot. But here
it appears that a man was assailed, and that the beast continued its
attempts to kill him after discovering that he was armed, and persisted
in its attack as long as life lasted.

One evening as the author was riding towards a hacienda in Sinaloa, and
was about half a league distant from it, a girl rushed to the edge of a
thicket and began to scream for help. Galloping up, it appeared she had
just discovered the body of her father, killed apparently by a puma,
who lay dead beside him. Life was not extinct, however, although he was
very badly wounded. He said that while passing, the bellowing of an ox,
mingled with the cries of some kind of beast, induced him to make his
way to the scene of action. There he found a large lion, as he called
it, engaged in a fight with a steer, whom he had injured severely, and
who was rapidly losing blood. As soon as the man appeared, the beast
left the ox and made at him. There was scant time to roll his _serape_
around his left arm, and draw the long knife which every ranchero wears
in the _bota_ on his right leg, before he found himself in deadly
conflict.

In these three anecdotes we have a very clear refutation by facts of
several points with regard to this brute’s character, which have been
generally accepted as settled.

Wariness and an entire absence of all the sentiments that produce
recklessness in man, are as distinctly marked characters among the
_Felidæ_ as their peculiar dentition or retractile claws; yet the
author was informed by Colonel W. H. Harness that last summer (1893) a
very large panther, as the animal is called in West Virginia, walked
into an extensive logging camp near the town of Davis at midday;
traversed one wing of the long building in which the men employed
slept, and without making any demonstration of hostility towards those
who fled before him, entered their dining-room and helped himself to
the meat on the table; after which he quietly passed out of a side
door, and was shot from a window. If this beast had been broken down
with age or disabled by accident so that it could not hunt, or if the
season and weather had been such as to banish game from the vicinity,
its conduct might be comprehensible. This happened with an animal in
perfect physical condition, and at a season when the mountains were
full of game. The brute also must necessarily have connected all the
men it knew anything about with death-dealing firearms, and that it
then should have walked into a crowd, and lost its life in this act of
seemingly idiotic bravado, simply sets at naught everything that is
known of the creature’s character and habits.

Pumas, like Asiatic panthers, are easily caught in traps, but
independently of this form of incapacity, they are far from being
wanting in sagacity. Cougars are most accomplished hunters, and it has
been explained how much that means. One of them, for example, will
sometimes trail a human being for a day’s journey without finding what
it considers to be a suitable opportunity for making an attack.

The best and most intimate acquaintance with the character of a wild
beast comes from those associations involved in domestication. When
you have brought up an animal and been with it constantly day by day,
the chances of finding out what it is like are better than they could
be under any other conditions whatever. Prince Maximilian of Nieuwied,
states that the puma is “peculiarly susceptible of domestication.”
It does not appear, however, that he made any experiments in this
direction, and it may be suspected that if he had, certain reasons for
modifying his views upon the animal’s character would have suggested
themselves during their course. A cougar is a cat, and in virtue of
that fact is, as has been said, of all animals the least susceptible
of radical change. Sanderson and Barras make a wide distinction
between feline species, considered as amenable or refractory to such
influences; and nothing is offered in the way of disparagement to their
opinions, provided it be admitted that a young tiger may be a much
more amiable and interesting infant than a panther cub, and, according
to Gérard, a lion whelp attaches all hearts by its good qualities.
But there soon comes a time at which traits inherent in them all are
developed, and when they become strikingly alike in all their essential
characteristics.

The writer bears in affectionate remembrance a pet “panther” who, from
earliest life until his complete and splendid maturity, lived with
him upon terms of the closest companionship. Every one who seriously
studies anecdotes of brute intelligence and character must necessarily
distrust them. Their authors always, either directly or by implication,
put inference in the place of observation, or they start with a
hypothesis, the tendency of which is to assimilate evidence, and often,
no doubt unconsciously, fit facts to their own preconceptions. It is
hoped that the records of daily observation here made use of for the
purpose of sketching traits of character, may not prove to be without
some interest and value, and that their fragmentary and incomplete
form will witness to the fact that nothing is given which seemed to be
either speculative or unauthentic.

One sultry morning as the author sat at ease in his sala, an Indian
entered and said he had heard that the Señor delighted in wild beasts,
so that having by the help of God, some saints, and several friends,
slain the mother of this little lion in the Golden Mountains, he had
brought it there as a mark of respect, and would like to have seven
Spanish dollars. Here he unrolled his _serape_ and deposited a ball of
indistinctly striped and spotted fur upon the floor. In that manner
this puma of pumas came into the keeping of his guardian.

The latter impressed with a sense of the responsibilities attaching to
the position in which he was placed, at once sprinkled the cub with
red wine and called it Gato,--a procedure it resented as if the spirit
of Constantine Capronymus himself had entered into its sinful little
body. The rage of infancy, however, does not endure, and Gato shortly
“serened himself,” to use the idiom of the country, where these things
took place. He inspected his new acquaintance, rubbed up against him,
had his head scratched with much complacency, and graciously ate as
much as he could hold. Thus we made friends, and the compact was ever
after kept by both parties, each in his own way.

The panther’s way was a very simple one. It consisted in looking to
the being he had come in contact with for everything he wanted, and
resolutely refusing to enter into intimate communications with any one
else. Nobody who knew him could say that the least feeling of affection
ever warmed his heart, but it was plain enough that while he contemned
the human race, one man was tolerated, and a distinction made between
him and all others. Some individuals he detested at first sight, and
resented the slightest approach to familiarity. For the remainder he
entertained a quiet contempt; but as for fearing them, nothing was
further from his thoughts. So far as that went, it is very doubtful
whether he ever felt any real dread of his guardian. Some feeling akin
to respect may have existed in his mind. His powers of observation
were keen and quick, he saw that this particular person differed in
appearance from those about him, acted differently, and was somehow
or other not the same as they. If he got into difficulties, and was
likely to suffer the consequences of misconduct, hostilities against
him ceased when his friend appeared upon the scene; he understood this
perfectly, and took refuge with him when danger threatened. As was
said, Gato had no affectionate impulses so far as could be certainly
known. When he wanted to be stroked, or was hungry, or wished to play,
or felt insecure, he came to his guardian, followed him about, and lay
beside him. Moreover, the little savage was jealous. If he beheld a
dog it always put him in a passion to see it coming towards his master
to be caressed. He would fly to get ahead, dance about, jump on his
knee, and growl and show his teeth with every sign of anger against the
intruder upon his rights.

Colonel Julius Barras (“India and Tiger Hunting”) speaks of the
jealousy shown by tiger cubs in his possession, but whereas he was
satisfied that this was an expression of tenderness towards himself,
the writer thinks it more likely to have been an exhibition of
selfishness. Gato manifested at a very early age an appreciation of
his own possessions, and a determination to do things after his own
fashion. So far from checking this by force, his guardian encouraged
it, and after having come to a clear understanding with him on the
subject of biting and clawing, left him alone to follow his own
devices. He was a very sagacious personage, and there was not a drop of
cowardly blood in his whole body. When he was a baby there was little
to distinguish him, while at rest, from some domestic cats, but he no
sooner began to move about than his free wild air, the unmistakable
style of savagery that stamped every action, showed him in another way.
It may be added that, being left free to exhibit his individuality,
and not having his family and personal characteristics marred or
masked by enforced restraint until the creature grew dull, apathetic,
and half imbecile, he was as pretty a specimen of feline peculiarity
as any one could expect to see. Nothing was clearer to him than that
the many-colored rug he was accustomed to lie on was his own. He had
favorite places in which to sleep, meditate, and make observations.
It would have been disagreeable indeed for any servant about the
establishment to take off his bright silver collar after he grew to
any size, and when he captured anything and put it away, that article
became his private property, and he had no notion of giving it up.

Candor compels the admission that flattering as would have been some
tokens of disinterested affection, he never gave any. What he did
was to please himself. When he had no desire to be taught, which was
often the case, a more stupid, sulky, and unsatisfactory pupil could
not be imagined; but when his interest happened to be excited he was
quickness itself, and he seldom forgot. One might as well have caressed
a stuffed cat, or tried to romp with a dead one, as to have expected
any recognition of advances in these directions when Señor Gato felt
disposed to contemplation, and if compelled, as of course was the case
sometimes, to do anything against his humor, he was not accustomed to
leave any doubt about the disgust and anger which possessed him. From
first to last, always, and under all circumstances, he like Richard,
was “himself alone,” and never stooped to the snobbishness of pretence.
Thus it happened that although under fostering care and paternal rule
the creature grew in grace continually, he never became fitted to adorn
general society. The asperity of his nature easily showed itself; the
wild beast broke through the habitual dignity of his demeanor on small
provocation. Not even that to him, extraordinary person with whom he
was most intimate, and whose resources so powerfully impressed his
mind, might pull his ears or twist his tail after he grew up. This was
to pass the proper limits of familiarity, and whenever it happened he
crouched and glared with glistening fangs. That was all, however; no
act of hostility followed.

Gato began to stalk his guardian at an early age, but soon learned
that a statue of St. John the Evangelist was not alive, and gave
up his practices against the Apostle. He discovered likewise the
illusory character of shadows, which at one time were taken to be
substantialities, and somehow or other satisfied his mind about his own
reflection in a fountain when the wind ruffled its surface. This gave
him much concern for a while. Being accustomed to look at himself in a
glass, and to stand with his fore-paws on the edge of the basin and see
his reflection in still water, what perplexed and excited him was the
fact that it sometimes looked as if it moved while he was motionless.
Whether he found out about the ripple, nobody knows, but he stopped
tearing round the fountain and peering into it to see this thing from
different positions.

It was not until he was quite a good-sized animal that the pretence
of killing his guardian was given up. As the gravity of age grew
upon him, and those engaging pastimes of his childhood gave way
before the development of inherent traits, these playful hunts became
more rare and finally ceased. Both of us fully understood that this
stalking business was nothing but fun. In fact, Gato never fully
entered into the spirit of his part or displayed his powers to their
greatest advantage, unless he was closely watched. Then, however,
his acting was perfect. He got as far off as possible in the long,
gallery-like room, fastened his glowing eyes upon the pretended
victim, and from first to last showed how complete are the teachings
of heredity, both in all that he did and avoided doing. Nothing that
could favor his approach was neglected, no mistake was made. The
furniture might be differently arranged with design, lights and shadows
changed, new places of concealment, from which he could make his
mimic attack, constructed; but the animal’s tactics never failed to
alter in accordance with these arrangements, and to be the best that
circumstances admitted of. There is no doubt that he admired himself
greatly, and, so far as it was possible to judge, commendation was very
pleasing. He always expected to be complimented and caressed after
darting from an ambush which had been reached with much precaution, and
he reared up and rubbed his head against his friend, asking for praise
as plainly as possible.

This account is not intended to convey any principles of zoöpsychology,
but to record special facts relating to an animal whose family the
author looks upon as exceptional in respect to their savagery, and
who was himself, so far as the closest observation will warrant one
in making a sweeping statement about a wild beast, not recognizably
different in his characteristics from other members of the race he
belonged to, or average individuals of allied species. “_Magnum
hereditatis mysterium_” is a truth relating to the _process_ of
heredity alone; it has nothing to do with the fact that like produces
like, or that traits, from the most generalized to those which are
special, are undoubtedly transmitted. Here was a creature developed
through immemorial generations into a typical state of body and
mind. So far as the result is concerned, it does not make the least
difference whether this end was attained in the manner pointed out by
Darwin, or Galton, or Weismann. In Gato the whole personality, every
faculty and feeling, the functional and structural peculiarities of all
his tissues and tissue elements, were stamped with that impress which
the entire life of his savage ancestry entailed. On what grounds can it
be supposed that such perfectly superficial influences, as were brought
to bear upon him while under restraint, produce any radical change?
The alteration in demeanor manifested towards one person, and probably
effected through that self-interest which, in its general aspect, is
exhibited by all the higher animals, did not show that he had been, so
to speak, inoculated with civilized sentiments. On the contrary, he
gave a flat denial to that opinion every day, and was as essentially
a puma, pure and simple, at the hour of his death, as if he had never
seen a man.

It would, however, be a singular course of reasoning by which the
inference that all pumas were the same was drawn from this statement.
Besides the congenital variation that, to conceal our ignorance, we
say is involved in the plasticity of life, every organism has certain
acquired differences. Life is no more than a state dependent upon
continuous adjustments, and it can never exist in an identical degree
in separate beings, because neither the conditions themselves, nor
the power to fit body or mind to circumstances, is ever the same in
different individuals. Evolved structures, functions, and qualities
in groups, will be similar; for animals of all kinds must resemble
their direct progenitors; but individuality is not extinguished, and
as the race rises in capacity, or its members vary from an average,
personal traits become salient, and those dissimilarities produced by
alterations in the process by which existence is maintained, appear
more prominently.

Almost the entire body of emotions which Gato possessed as a beast
of prey, as well as his moral and intellectual traits, were beyond
the reach of any modifications that could be made artificially. He
was morose, cruel, treacherous, and blood-thirsty; but, it does not
follow that he was absolutely so, or that, when compared with other
pumas, these characteristics of his species were equally pronounced.
Observation enables the writer to say that this animal was more
intelligent, tractable, responsive, and reliable than any other beast
of the same kind with which he ever was brought into close association.

A direct parallel between men, even barbarous men, and brutes will
always fail. We do not know enough of the mental organization of either
even to apply terms justly; and more than this, the difference between
them in developmental states is so great that while the phenomena of
both are of the same order, and the language used in describing one
is applicable to the other, there are not close enough likenesses
between them to make comparisons possible. Those who have attempted
to frame psychological schemes, vitiated their work for the most
part by a false method, or invalidated the conclusions arrived at,
in consequence of preconceptions which biassed the temper in which
evidence was examined. Dr. W. L. Lindsay (“Mind in the Lower Animals
in Health and Disease”) recognized the relationship between psychical
manifestations wherever they took place, yet the influence, as in his
case, of this, among many other hypotheses, was almost certain to
make itself felt in the manner in which facts were regarded. On the
other hand, Professor Prantl (“Reformgedanken zur Logik”) excogitated
a metaphysical system for beasts from the standpoint of an assumption
that the chasm which separated them from humanity was impassable.
He admits their resemblance in essential nature. He agrees that the
dissimilarities which they exhibit are results of a difference in
evolutionary degree, and then his whole argument goes to show that
this is not the case, and that brute mind and human intellect are
radically distinct in structure and function. As this analysis of the
intelligence in mankind and inferior beings was made without reference
to facts, it is not surprising that they should be traversed by these
in all directions, and that almost everything which the Professor
asserts to be impossible, is well known to naturalists as a matter of
actual occurrence.

Gato himself set at naught many of his conclusions. He may not have
exhibited either love, gratitude, sense of duty, or that spirit of
self-sacrifice which dogs frequently, and other animals sometimes,
display, and there was no opportunity for judging of his social
instincts; but he certainly possessed the “time sense” that Prantl
attributes exclusively to man. His account of periods and seasons was
as accurate as possible; he measured intervals and knew when they came
to an end. Whether the ability to count beyond three existed, it
was impossible to determine. The three copper balls he used to play
with were exactly alike, and if one was missing, its absence never
failed to be noticed at once. If it occurred to him that it had been
taken away intentionally, he got angry or sulky, as the case might
be. During one part of his wardship, the periodical absences of his
only friend put him out greatly, because, so far as actions revealed
the creature’s feelings, they interfered with his comfort. He became
dangerous when grown, and occupied a room by himself, from which he was
not removed while his guardian was gone. Under ordinary circumstances
he was released for several hours every night, and when the time came,
if there was any delay, he began to call upon his comrade to let him
out, and grew fierce if not attended to. No one ever knew him to take
any violent exercise in this apartment, but the gymnastic performances
he went through outside were worth seeing. After being confined in
solitude a couple of days, which was the length of time his friend
generally remained absent, his eagerness to see him back became
excessive, according to all reports. He was restless, savage, and
sometimes refused to eat on the last evening. The servants said that
long before they themselves heard the horse’s tread, it might be known
from Gato that his liberator was coming. But he never welcomed him as a
dog or horse will do. He was full of exuberant vitality, endowed with
an intelligent interest in the strange things around him, which he
studied with continued interest, and inspired with an inherited passion
for liberty. This always showed itself first. No sooner was the door
opened than he darted out, intoxicated with being free, and it was not
until nervous tension had been relieved by violent muscular motion,
that he bethought himself of other matters.

To sit and watch a man take himself to pieces was pleasing but
puzzling. It was evident that boots were part of the body, because
his nose told him so. How could they be taken off, and why had these
feet their claws behind? A sword and pistol did not perplex his mind,
apparently, as much as the foot gear and spurs. The rapier he admired,
like all bright objects, but the firearm excited distrust as being,
perhaps, capable of going off spontaneously. He knew about revolvers,
but placed no confidence in them whatever. Having presided over
the strange process of taking off one skin and putting on another,
inspected the articles of clothing removed, and assured himself that
those assumed had really become part of the incomprehensible being who
did these things, he was ready for his own toilet, which was confined
to a gentle brushing of the head. This was expected, however, and was
suggested if it did not come soon enough. Then he was ready to go to
dinner, a pleasing interlude during which his manners were marked with
the greatest elegance and discretion. It was not appetite that moved
Gato--he had gratified that before; it was the performance itself.

Forks, for instance, those queer talons that were picked up and laid
down, excited his curiosity. He examined them, he ate from one with
propriety, their glitter attracted him, but he did not understand
the rationale of such devices, and their use never failed to fix
his attention. Moreover, on occasions when the amenities of social
intercourse were in order, he was peaceable enough; not affable by any
means, for he never noticed the attendants or appeared to be conscious
of their presence. Smoking afforded this observant creature much
satisfaction. Smoke itself, if puffed in his face, displeased him, but
the preliminaries, striking a match, and the wreaths that floated away
and vanished, all this he liked and pondered upon, as he did on certain
pictures hung around, and everything that for reasons which can only be
guessed at, excited wonder. Professor Prantl lays down the law that a
beast cannot think logically; nevertheless, and apart from other facts
which refute that decision, it was perfectly plain that Gato solved
some problems implying this power. After a course of observations and
experiments, it was discovered by him that shadows were not alive
because they moved, and then these ceased to be pursued. Much study
was requisite to arrive at a conclusion that the sunbeams reflected
from a mirror were of the same inanimate nature. This was settled to
his satisfaction only after great research. The creature saw this
thing done time and again before convincing himself of the resemblance
between those luminous shadows and the dark spectra which had formerly
deceived him.

Gato grew graver with age, and abandoned many amusements in which he
had at one time taken delight. It seemed to his guardian that there
was a steady development of his intellect, which showed itself in
everything he did. It would be too much to say that he was capable
of thinking about his own thoughts, but who shall decide that he was
not? With consciousness, memory, and a strong sense of personal
identity; filled with innate tendencies, through the medium of which he
interpreted external impressions; prone to contemplations that, as his
eye and changing attitudes indicated, were not vague, apathetic dreams,
no one can know that he did not revive mental states and meditate on
centrically initiated ideas.

Personally, and so far as mere individual opinion unsupported by proof
goes, the conviction in his friend’s mind is that he did. Often, as
with all cats, his brain was torpid. Unconscious cerebration, no
doubt, went on, but only dim, transient images floated into the field
of consciousness, and fragmentary, isolated, shadow-like pictures of
outward things were presented to the “mind’s eye.” It was plain enough
when he was in this semi-somnolent condition, and the difference
between it and the active exercise of faculty upon something within
himself, was unmistakable. He thought, but how, and about what? In
his realm of that ideal world so little of which has been explored by
man, subjective processes transpired such as we have no clue to and
no measure for. The contents of mind, however, must be derivations
from experience in a wild beast as much as in a human being. What he
had observed, seen, felt, and remembered in that form which his own
organization conferred, were manifested characteristically: that is to
say, when vivid imaginations excited, or external sense-notices aroused
him, the beast of prey awoke at once. The same most likely, or rather,
most certainly, must have been true of all mental conditions, but
while the animal remained impassive, the fact was indiscernible. When
this savage warrior lay before his companion’s arm-chair, and looked
straight in his eyes with fixed intensity, calling to mind, perhaps,
the things he knew about this man, it was natural that recollections
of trainers’ confidences, accounts given by travellers and hunters,
one’s own experiences, the many superstitions of civilized and savage
peoples, should suggest ideas which had a tendency to color and distort
observation upon the part of his _vis-à-vis_.

No one, however, who was not under the influence of a fixed prejudice,
could have looked into Gato’s unfaltering orbs and seen there any
confirmation of the common belief that brutes such as he are only
restrained by fear; or that they have an instinctive sense of reverence
and awe in the presence of human beings. All the respect this one
felt for his guardian he learned. Besides that, he had superstitions
concerning him. In maturity his great size, and reports of the wisdom
he had attained to, made the animal famous, so that many persons
desired to see him--that is, through the grating at his door. But
strangers found no favor with this misanthropist, and he disliked
being stared at. Thus, after regarding such intruders with a stern
countenance, and taking no notice of his friend under these degrading
circumstances, he affected to be unconscious that anybody was there,
or else deliberately turned his back upon the visitors. For a time it
was supposed that this mark of contempt occurred accidentally. Gato
could have had no conception of the significance of this act as it is
understood in civilized society, but he did it for reasons of his own,
and at length quite evidently on purpose.

As was said, curiosity, which is always indicative of mental
development, was an unusually prominent trait in his character. There
were numbers of things to which he paid no attention, but when an
act attracted his notice and was constantly performed, it appeared
to require investigation, and he applied himself to the subject in
a manner quite different from that superior air with which ordinary
matters were regarded. Books amazed Gato. Nothing could be made
out with regard to them by means of scent or sight: they were dead
apparently, and not fit to eat. What was in them that never came out?
Why should they be watched so closely? This question he never found
any satisfactory answer to, and one might see that it often perplexed
him. When he was little, reading made him jealous, and he put his paws
on the page and invited his friend to play. This mysterious occupation
lost its novelty in time, and the desire to romp passed away, but
frequently in after days when he observed his companion turn towards
the bookcase and get up, he escorted him to the shelves, scrutinized
the way in which he looked for a volume, or turned over the leaves of
several, and went back to see if anything was at last coming to light
about this strange and constant occupation.

Gato resolutely refused to learn English. Why he preferred Spanish, no
one knows, but he did, and would only respond to communications made in
that tongue. Habit and association had much to do with this, no doubt,
but there is reason to think that a distaste for our vernacular was
one of the many prejudices which, in a measure, detracted from those
qualities which embellished his character. His guardian discoursed to
him at length; taught him to do and leave undone numerous things, but
had to use the only idiom his pupil chose to acquire any knowledge of.
If he were called in English, the perverse creature would not come.
He stood and stared like an obstinate child. More than this, if he
understood, as no doubt he sometimes did, and even wanted to do what
was commanded, but could not, because he had made up his mind never
to do anything unless spoken to properly, he got angry. There is no
doubt in the writer’s mind that this is a fact, and that the prejudice
referred to existed. Force might have been resorted to, of course, but
that would have had the effect of deforming his nature after every
effort had been made to leave it to its natural expansion, except in
so far as its tendencies were prevented from expressing themselves in
homicidal acts.

Langworthy, “the lion-tamer,” as the posters called him, used to
say that feline beasts, after coming to know one, were infallible
physiognomists, but that they had to learn a face before being able to
understand its expressions; also that they only read the signs of anger
and fear, and never looked for anything else, not caring about approval
or kindness, because all the great cats were destitute of affection.
Lions, tigers, leopards, and the rest, he believed, scrutinized the
countenance chiefly to see if a man were afraid. If so, no assumed look
could conceal the fact, and they instantly became dangerous. Privately
he scouted the idea that there was any power to overawe animals in
one person rather than another, and held that the sole difference
between men in this respect depended upon quickness of observation, and
especially upon fearlessness.

In the main this squares with what is known of comparative psychology,
and of the _Felidæ_ in particular. But like most sweeping assertions
upon beasts or men, it is not wholly accurate. Many animals are
exceedingly vain, nearly or possibly quite as much so as savage men,
and vainer they could not be. Now this trait is inseparable from a
desire for praise, and although it is no more necessary to feel any
respect or affection for the persons who gratify this longing, than it
is to love people because they are able to excite jealousy, creatures
with such a disposition will always solicit approbation, and be pleased
when it is accorded. Certainly this was the case with Gato, who was
fond of display, and delighted in being noticed and admired; who did
many things for the express purpose of being praised, and claimed
commendation as plainly as if he had been able to speak.

The faces of brutes, similarly with those of human races which differ
greatly in appearance from the observer, at first all look alike.
But afterwards one begins to discriminate, and finally distinguishes
differences between them, and changes in the same individual at
different times. While Gato lay by the fountain listening to the wind
murmur through the great tamarind boughs that shaded him, heard the
water fall, saw the fleecy trade-wind clouds sail slowly overhead,
and was evidently neither asleep nor lethargic, but keenly observant
of every sight and sound, how easy would it have been to fit his
reflections to the scene; “to opine probably and prettily,” as Bacon
expresses it, and provide the chained savage with poetic resignation,
or indignant sorrow, to make him feel and think in forms as far from
reality as the vapors that floated above him were far from being the
substantial masses they seemed. Such writings, eloquent and interesting
as they often are, do a positive disservice to science. Think, he did:
that was to be seen in the eye that softened or grew stern; in its
far-away or introverted expression, or quick scrutinizing glance; in
the smoothed or corrugated brow, the quivering, contracted, or placid
lips; in attitudes indefinably expressive, and variations of his
ensemble that cannot be described.

How should human insight penetrate this underworld of the intellect?
All things definite there were transmigrations of his own experiences
under the stress of heredity. What was emotional, unformed, and yet
operative, was the bequest of a wild and free ancestry that sent
down their tendencies and traits, gave him his organization, and,
with a certainty as inevitable as death, stamped everything that he
could think or feel with their “own form and impress.” His ideas were
reproductions; his emotions rose into consciousness from unknown
depths. The latter set him upon the verge of what his predecessors
realized, vaguely revealed their past, prompted those unrecognizable
half-memories that are born with every being, prepared him for
possibilities from which captivity cut him off, stirred his heart, and
made life and the earth all that they were or could be to him.

Varying phases of mind as outwardly evinced, manifested themselves
clearly in Gato’s behavior and in his changes of temper. Those serene
meditations which had sway during beautiful days, and in the calm
of tropical nights, bore little likeness to states of tension that
sometimes possessed him when the storms of the rainy season set in.
If an African lion is to be seen in his glory, he must be looked at
by the lightning’s glare. It is amid tempest and gloom that the full
proportions of his nature come forth. So with this lion of another
world. Many a time in the course of those nightly interviews which have
been referred to, he roused himself from an intense contemplation of
his companion, disturbed by thunder and the tumult without. Then while
the wind blew unequally, roared through swaying branches, or mourned
around the walls that shut him in, he quickened under the influence
of over-tones in nature which human beings cannot hear. Storm and
darkness wrought upon him as they will not do upon man. Beyond what was
visible or audible, there was something that came from within himself;
something that wove “the waste fantasies” of his dreams together, and
gave character and purpose to ideation. He showed it in profoundly
suggestive pantomime. But what “air-drawn” shapes were followed with
those long, swift, soft yet heavy steps, on what his eyes were fixed,
what feelings and fancies engrossed and transfigured him, gave that
fierce energy, and led him in their train, are unknowable. They had no
voice, but only with mute motions pointed backward to a past in which
humanity shared no part, and which it cannot explore.

Those who have reared beasts of prey, must, it is probable, read
works that describe the expression of their emotions with a certain
dissatisfaction. Not for the reason that their authors lacked power,
the art of observation, or scientific attainments, but merely
because they themselves have seen and felt the influence of so much
that is too evasive for definite detail. The grander passions may be
painted; in virtue of the unstable equilibrium of nervous elements,
and that comparatively imperfect system of connections existing
between the centres, they are always explosive. But a world of
complex, kaleidoscopic views interpose between fury and tranquility.
Feeling cannot be continually intense, nor need it necessarily remain
unexpressed because it is not violent. Only those emotions which are
for the time absorbing have an unmistakable physiognomy, and these both
brutes and higher beings feel but rarely. In attempting anything more
than a suggestion of the impression produced by current feeling, the
observer is liable to become constructive; to picture himself instead
of the model, or to lose the subject in the midst of anatomical,
physiological, and psychological details.

Unprovoked dislike, antipathy, permanent and constant in special
directions, together with antithetical feelings, which are also said
to be spontaneous, Gato possessed in abundance. He gave up trying to
kill the Apostle John, but liked him no better than did those heathens
who boiled the saint in oil. Whether on account of an animosity he had
towards all men, or because in his own fashion he became superstitious
about the statue, this much is certain, that if dragged up to it, he
took offence. On the other hand, Gato made friends with a horse. Every
morning when his groom let him out, Said trotted to the rear of the
house, put his head over the half-door looking into the court-yard,
and asked for a little wine and sugar with a gentle whinny. Sometimes
Gato was chained to one of the buttresses of a tamarind and saw him.
Often Said walked in on the stone floor and found him loose, as was
customary while his guardian remained at home. At first, when actually
confronted, the Arab showed a good deal of uneasiness. But the puma was
then only half-grown, and upon being reassured, the horse concluded
that it was all right, and paid no further attention to him. So this
singular compact of neutrality was begun. On Said’s part, it never
became anything else. He suffered Gato when a mature and very large
animal to walk around him, without any special recognition of his
presence, and that was all. On the other hand, the latter respected, or
admired, or had some kind of a friendly feeling towards the horse.

In order that he might not remain in that benighted state in which his
forefathers lived among wretched Olmecs, Chichemecs, and Otomies whom
the Aztecs captured to sacrifice to their war god, it was deemed proper
to instruct him in the use and effects of firearms. He approved of
cartridges as playthings, and watched them put into the cylinder, but
did not think for some time that they were the things that went off and
made a noise and flash. When he saw a ball strike, he used to leap at
the scar and look for fragments scattered by the shot. Finally, by dint
of seeing ammunition exploded, and snuffing empty arms, Gato got some
inkling that there was a connection between a pistol he saw charged,
and certain effects. Still it is very doubtful whether in his opinion a
loaded revolver was dangerous, until experience convinced him that it
would kill. In other words, he was taught that which unreclaimed wild
beasts find out for themselves everywhere on the face of the earth.

What finished his education in this way, was an incident that very
nearly proved disastrous to himself. One summer morning while he was
fastened in the court-yard, and his guardian sat reading in his sala,
a large rabid dog dashed into the room from the street, and without
noticing the motionless figure in a chair, rushed out by an opposite
door towards the puma, who lay under a tree. Instant aid was necessary
to prevent the latter from being bitten; for although at that time he
would have torn the dog to pieces, as he had already done in the case
of two or three others, this would not have saved him. He witnessed the
whole affair; saw the revolver, the aim and flash, heard the report,
beheld the dog fall, struggle a moment, and die. Afterwards its body
was dragged nearer to him, so he could feel assured that life was
gone. Then for the first time did a realizing sense of the potency of
this instrument enter into his mind. Subsequent to this occurrence,
it was for a while only necessary to wear a pistol to keep Gato at a
distance. Once in an unlucky hour his guardian told a servant to aim
one at him by way of experiment, and nothing but the promptest and most
determined interference saved the man. Charles Darwin (“Expression of
the Emotions,” etc.) says that the physiognomy of fear among cats is
difficult to describe because it passes so quickly into that of rage.
In this case the transition was instantaneous, and a fine fury it was.

The blare of cavalry trumpets, the roll of drums, and clang of bells,
attracted Gato’s attention and made him restless, but he was not “moved
by concourse of sweet sounds.” They possessed no meaning, and did not
cause him to think or feel. To sing to him was a waste of time, and he
looked upon a guitar as something that made an insignificant noise.
If the strings were roughly and unexpectedly vibrated, the effect
resembled any other sudden interruption of meditation or slumber. He
was startled, and apprehension instantly took the form of anger, and
then passed quickly when he saw what had disturbed his repose. All
physiologists will agree with Spencer that “the existing quantity of
nerve force liberated at any moment which produces in some inscrutible
way the state we call feeling, _must_ expend itself in some direction,
_must_ generate an equivalent manifestation of force somewhere.” The
feeling excited, whatever it may be, will flow in accustomed channels,
and manifest itself in what Darwin describes as “habitually associated
movements.” This law, and that governing antithetical manifestations,
is founded in the physical and mental organization of all creatures,
and its expressions vary with the differences obtaining among those of
different kinds.

Gato and the members of every species belonging to his family are
primarily avatars of force. They inherit as predominant traits those
feelings and faculties, those physical specializations and particular
aptitudes, which tend to make violence successful. When any nervous
shock let loose his energy, it flowed from the centres where it was
stored through the most permeable tracts; those which had been most
frequently traversed in the history of the individual and his race;
and as this process was necessarily accompanied by corresponding
movements, when the strings of a guitar aroused him suddenly, Gato
involuntarily assumed the attitudes and exhibited the temper of an
excited beast of prey. If startled, teased, or menaced, if impatient,
angry, or even pleased, however different may have been the passing
feeling, however variously it was expressed, his character always
overshadowed him, and gave an air to every outward act; not always in
those set forms which Camper, Le Brun, Bell, and Darwin set forth,
but unmistakably, and, of course, by the same means through which the
typical representations of passion take place.

That sedateness and inertia which, in _Felidæ_ especially, soon
supervene upon the restlessness of kittenhood, showed themselves in
Gato at an earlier period than usual. This was in a great degree
attributable to his rapid and enormous growth. The energy which under
ordinary physiological conditions would have remained free to manifest
itself in movement, was expended in building his frame.

Many times on looking up and meeting Gato’s gaze as he lay upon a rug
contemplating his friend, the expression of those fiery eyes suggested
stories of fascination--Arab legends, African and Hindu superstitions
about the mesmeric power possessed by tigers and lions. A good deal
has been written on this subject which is not much to the purpose. But
no one has shown, or can show, that this influence is impossible, or,
as it suggested itself to the author in the course of some experiments
upon his puma, that susceptible subjects might not, as in cases
reported by Charcot and others, hypnotize themselves. Having no way of
getting at the relations subsisting between the centres of his brain
with any certainty, it occurred to his guardian that a physiological
approximation to their state might be made by means of this kind of an
impression, and that it would reveal, to a certain extent at least,
what is called by French writers the “solidarity” of that organ. The
difficulty lay in the first necessary step, according to Heidenhain;
namely, in arresting attention. Czermak’s experiments at Leipzig were
made upon creatures of a very different character from Gato. By all
accounts, hypnotism is impossible except when attentiveness approaches
to a wrapped degree of fixedness. The author tried to act upon his
puma, but in vain. A bright object placed above him in front might or
might not excite special curiosity. If his keeper held it, he looked at
him, and probably wondered what new deviltry he was after then.

Often he grew uneasy, or disgusted perhaps, got up, and lay down
with his head averted, or closed his lids. Sometimes he walked away,
pretending not to notice his companion, though keenly observant of what
he was doing all the while. But this eye-to-eye interview was quite as
likely to bring the animal close, make him rub against his comrade,
or present his head to be stroked. Whatever he did, however, was done
of his own accord, and had no reference to the performances of his
associate, or to the willpower exerted and wasted on such occasions.

It was easy to see when Gato was apathetic, and plain enough when he
was intoxicated with what Willis and the old anatomists called “animal
spirits.” In the mean between these extremes lay the mystery. Who was
to decide when the panther patted you gently with his sheathed paw,
or put his head before the book, whether these solicitations to take
notice of him had their root in a need for sympathy, or were signs of
a desire to enjoy some pleasant sensation, such as being scratched or
played with? One could only guess at this from the clue given by a
knowledge of his character.

Much uncertainty exists with regard to the degree in which his æsthetic
sense was developed. Whoever has shown pictures to children and
savages, knows the great uncertainty attending their recognition of
things which are familiar to them. The puma liked glaring colors and
bright objects, yet while capable of identifying a large statue, the
preference he exhibited for certain paintings depended most probably
on their florid style. If his guardian read a work illustrated with
engravings while he looked over his shoulder, they made no perceptible
impression upon him. He admired gorgeous parrots that cursed him, and
for a long time made hostile demonstrations towards a raven who was too
wise not to let him alone. Some of the great hunters have thought that
those strong predilections exhibited by tigers for certain beautiful
localities which otherwise had nothing to recommend them to the choice
of such inmates, were evidence of appreciation upon their part of this
advantage.

That conclusion is, however, a very uncertain one, and most likely
comes under the head of those observations that Czermak designates as
“events viewed unequally”; that is to say, the facts are true, but
the inference unwarranted. Gato had not much opportunity of studying
nature. When, as happened several times during early life, he was taken
into wild and solitary places, his attention concentrated itself upon
living things. Beside those he seemed to care for nothing, except,
perhaps, to be perverse. He climbed trees and would not come down, hid,
and pretended not to hear when he was called. Once, improbable as it
seems, he lost himself, and when all hope of recovering him appeared to
be gone, here came the little wretch, in a very bad temper, nosing out
his friend’s trail, and convinced that he had been tormenting him, and
done the whole thing on purpose.

It is time to close these memorabilia. Such facts as the records of his
life contribute towards the ways of wild beasts, and illustrating their
habits and character, have been now brought forward. A book might be
written about his adventures and the traits he displayed, yet most of
what was most interesting in his character lies on the border land of
actual observation, and cannot be distinctly stated.

The manner in which Gato departed this life was worthy of himself,
and may be taken as the last proof of his unchanged savagery of
spirit. He had never come into actual conflict with a man, not because
of unwillingness, but in consequence of the restraint imposed by
confinement, bonds, or his guardian’s presence. On the evening of
his death he was fastened by the fountain; when, as it is said, for
unhappily the writer was absent, a strange dog appeared, whom he sprang
at, breaking his chain close to the collar, and killed. Afterwards
he climbed a tree, and while the servants shut themselves up in their
apartments, stretched himself out on a limb, and looked down upon the
mangled remains of his victim. No doubt the ferocious feelings of his
nature were all aroused, and unfortunately just at that time a man rode
through the stone passage that in this country serves as a front door.
Then the puma came down and flew at him, springing on to the croup of
his horse, and wounding, though slightly, both it and its rider. The
man being a nervous person, lost his head entirely, and not satisfied
with making himself safe in a room whose door was opened to him, must
needs fire out of the window with a carbine he found in the apartment.
Some people become demented at the sight of their own blood, and this
was one of them. He held straight, however, and the ball shattered the
animal’s right shoulder and passed backwards into his body. Gato had
got between two great roots of the tree when his friend arrived, and
that saved him from another shot. The creature was desperate, but too
intelligent not to know that he who approached had no part in what he
suffered. It was a mortal wound, but death promised to be delayed till
that splendid frame was wasted by morbid processes and his life was
gasped out in agony. This was not to be endured. The hand of affection
did him the last good office, and he died instantly.

Pumas do not charge men in masses. Their victims are chosen among those
creatures they find alone. Individuals have sometimes been assailed
by more than one. Im Thurn asserts that the “Warracaba tigers” of
Guiana, who hunt in families, are pumas. Two persons occasionally
appear in authentic records as having been assaulted. Mostly, however,
the incidents of any serious adventure of this kind are only known to a
single individual, and whether they are ever recounted depends almost
entirely upon the way in which the attack is made. A hunter taken by
surprise would generally lose his life. This animal is not difficult
to kill, and the facility with which it may be disposed of is another
reason for disparaging its prowess among the class who most commonly
encounter it.

A source of misunderstanding is also found in the special habits of
this animal. Those of the _Felidæ_ about which some more or less vague
information is most generally diffused, do not climb. The puma is
particularly given to doing so wherever forest lands are found within
the range of its distribution. Quite as frequently as the Asiatic and
African leopard, and more commonly than a jaguar, this beast resorts
to trees when pursued. Its reasons for doing so cannot be doubted: it
feels at home among the boughs; observation has taught the animal that
none of those natural enemies it need avoid can follow. If dogs are on
its track, it is well aware that, owing to their superior speed, they
are certain to come up with it, and that in taking to the limbs above,
its scent will be lost. For this habit but one reason has been commonly
assigned; namely, that the puma is a poltroon.

In G. O. Shields’ compilation of monographs upon “The Large Game of
North America,” he publishes some narratives that throw light upon
the cougar’s character. Revenge is not a very powerful or persistent
passion in the _Felidæ_, but cruelty is. Injuries are soon forgotten,
and nobody ever knew a lion or tiger to act in this regard like
an elephant. The feline beast never forgets, however, or becomes
indifferent to the joy of torture. That is why it is fatal to fear it.
The sight of this kind of suffering excites all their fell tendencies.
Accidents with these animals are not results of abiding hate and
premeditated vengeance, but very often of sudden impulse excited by
the sight of apprehension. Deep, concentrated, persistent feeling
is beyond the _Felidæ_. This is why Dio Cassius’ story of Androcles
and his lion is untrue; quite as much a romance of the affections as
Balzac’s “Passion du Désert.” Gérard’s touching account of his reunion
with Hubert at the _Jardin des Plantes_ fails, in his version of the
animal’s feelings, for the same reason--because it is impossible. No
doubt the lion he had reared was glad to see him, but that is not what
is conveyed. The picture presented is too like that drawn by Homer of
the behavior of Ulysses’ dog, when his “far-travelled” master came
back, an unrecognized stranger, to Ithaca. No wild beast of the cat
kind ever sat for that portrait.

Shields and others inform us that on several occasions “panthers” have
been known to accompany women and children for some distance, and play
with them, caper about their paths, and pull at their clothes, without
doing further harm than was produced by fright. That these creatures
act under the influence of playful moods is certain, but that a wild
beast should come out of the woods and in pure lightness of heart
invite a perfect stranger to romp, appears to be improbable.

Without pretending to decide upon what the mental or emotional state
under such circumstances really was, both the natural character of
these beasts, and certain well-known devices, not only of theirs,
but of allied species, suggest another explanation. One of the most
common means for defence resorted to by this family at large, is an
assumption of anger, and the pretence of attack--they try to frighten
intruders whom they suspect of an intention to do them harm. When a
puma crouches and bares its teeth it is not always enraged, but very
frequently does this for the reason that it is uneasy, or dislikes what
you are doing and wishes to put an end to something disagreeable by
terrifying the objectionable person. It might then happen that a cougar
would, when startled by an accidental meeting of this kind, assume an
offensive attitude with the intention of intimidating the person met.
If it succeeded, apprehension might easily give place for a time to
its propensity towards torture, and the beast would then behave much
in the same manner, apart from actual violence, as if in the course of
its pursuit of prey this had been overtaken. Such situations, however,
present none of the conditions that tend towards permanence. In default
of speedy rescue, the partially aroused tendencies of the puma would
soon become fully awakened, and its impulses break out in acts of
bloodshed.

Various references have been made to that part of the education
of feline beasts by which they are taught not to kill their human
associates. One may read a great deal without finding much information
on this subject. Most all of the professional trainers whom the writer
has exchanged ideas with on this point were of opinion that fear
alone would prevent these creatures from becoming dangerous; and it
is customary to proceed upon this principle. As soon, however, as any
single rule is attempted to be fitted to all cases, it becomes plain
that it will not apply. The personality of a cat is not to be compared
with that of a man; nevertheless, if one is reared without taking
this into account, it will be ruined. Such beings differ so greatly
in disposition and temper, in capacity, and the power and willingness
to learn, that to force them all alike into a mould, causes mental
and moral deformity with the same certainty that a similar proceeding
would cause distortion of their bodies if the means used were material
restraints to physical development. The system of terrorism is based
upon the false assumption that fear is the only feeling which will
affect the _Felidæ_ deeply and permanently, and that this can only be
excited in one way; namely, by severity.

The intercourse of an average keeper with the animals he has in charge
is in most instances of the most limited description. His observations,
if he makes any, are more likely to relate to their behavior as either
submission or otherwise, than to their general conduct towards himself,
and usually, all he has to communicate possesses little interest except
to the visiting public, who are easily satisfied, and ready to believe
anything. A trainer or tamer, although often an interesting person
in virtue of his experiences, is not always an instructive one. As a
rule, all that he knows is confined to what has presented itself in the
course of a few simple instructions. Experiments are rarely resorted
to, both the knowledge of how to conduct them, and the attainments
by which their results could be properly interpreted, being from the
nature of the case most generally wanting.

A young savage of the cat kind will naturally bite and scratch when
enraged, and the only means of discouraging such practices are those
of punishment, and a clear demonstration that its hostile attempts
are unavailing. No creature belonging to this class could comprehend
the difference between right and wrong in an abstract form. But
notwithstanding that what is bad in itself is hidden from them, things
forbidden come to be quickly learned, and this _malum prohibitum_ no
doubt influences their minds in much the same way that, allowing for
the inequalities, ceremonial observances and rites affect those of
savages. The latter are largely occupied in performing and avoiding a
number of actions because they expect personal advantages to accrue
in one case, and condign vengeance to be visited upon malpractice in
the other. They are superstitious, and so is the brute. Over and above
the benefits or penalties these know of, there are others which they
imagine but do not know.

To become even in a measure acquainted with pumas, one must take a
reasonably good-natured and intelligent specimen in its infancy, and
train it as consistently as if it were a child; make it feel the
folly and futility of violence towards its tutor, impress it with
the constant experience that its tricks and stratagems always fail
before that friendly but invincible being who watches over its life
and sees everything. Excite the animal’s curiosity and wonder, show
it the difference between yourself and others, be just and firm and
calm. It will never be anything but a wild beast; but if this is done,
it will be such an one as cannot otherwise be met with. Above all,
if the interest of this occupation is not enough to affect the risk
necessarily incurred, if such a pursuit cannot be followed without
apprehension, give it up at once. A loose beast of prey is not a fit
associate for a nervous man.




THE WOLF


The wolf represents the typical form among _Canidæ_, and it possesses
all the ordinary characters belonging to this group in their highest
degree of development. There is but one family in the _Cynoidea_, that
of the dogs, and all species of his group fall within the limits of a
single genus. “_Canidæ_ display likenesses in structure nearly as great
as those which the cats exhibit,” remarks W. N. Lockington (“Riverside
Natural History”). Professor Huxley has broken up the aggregate into
two groups, dog-like or Thoöid animals, and the _Alopecoids_--those
which most resemble wolves. These are marked off from each other by
peculiarities of the base of the skull and those parts developed around
it. _Canis_, moreover, is a genus which, while it varies very greatly
among its included forms, is physiologically so nearly identical that,
as Lockington observes, “there is no proof that any species of this
family is infertile with any other.”

[Illustration: THE WOLF.

[_From a photograph by Ottomar Anschütz. Copyright._]]

Wolves are among the wildest, wariest, and most widely removed from
human association of all animals. The question whether all kinds--red,
black, white, and gray--are of one species or many, may be dismissed at
once. Nobody is able to say what specific characteristics really are.
_Canis lupus_ is one of the most widely distributed of living forms.
His range encircles the world within the arctic zone, and it extends
southward into the tropics in America; wolves roam over nearly all
Asia, and at one time they were found throughout Europe.

“The common wolf,” says Lockington, “is the largest and fiercest
animal of the group, and the only one that is dangerous to man.” Its
average length is about four feet six inches, it stands rather more
than two feet high at the shoulder, and it is a little higher behind
than before. These dimensions vary in geographical varieties; the
French wolf being smaller than the German, the Scandinavian larger,
heavier, and deeper in the shoulder than the Russian; while wolves on
this continent are not so large as those of the Old World. All Asiatic
forms north of the Altai Mountains are modifications of the common wolf
of Europe, and the same is true of black wolves in the Pyrenees and
highlands of France, Spain, Italy, and Russia, as well as of the white,
lead-color, black, and dull-red varieties of America. As a rule, the
wolf dwindles and degenerates within the tropics. _Canis pallipes_, the
Indian form, approaches the jackal, according to Huxley, more closely
than the members of any other climatic group, and as Professor Baird
remarks, the coyote--_Canis latrans_, replaces the jackal in the New
World.

Finally, the wolf, though a flesh-eater and beast of prey, possesses
traits of structure which distinguish carnivora less highly specialized
than _Felidæ_. Unlike the cats, its limbs are long and less united
with the body; freer in their movements, and adapted to running rather
than to the short, bounding rush and spring of the latter. Wolves are
very powerful animals in proportion to their size; active, hardy, with
strong and formidably armed jaws. Their senses are all extremely well
developed, their speed is great, and the tireless gallop of the wolf
has given rise to stereotyped phrases and comparisons in many languages.

Leaving now the zoölogical relations of wolves, their habits,
character, and capacity present themselves for consideration. At the
commencement of such an inquiry we find sources of information upon
some of these points which are valuable in themselves, and in their
general tenor conclusive.

Cuvier (“Règne Animal”) asserts that the wolf is “the most mischievous
of all the carnivora of Europe,” and it would have been possible to
know this from the folk-lore of those countries alone. In mythology and
minstrelsy, in fireside story and local legend, wolves stand foremost
among wild beasts in nations of the Celtic and Teutonic stocks. Their
fierce visages look out from all the darker superstitions of the Old
World, and echoes of their unearthy cry linger in the saddest of its
surviving expressions of dread, foreboding, and despair. Hans Sachs
called them “the hunting dogs of the Lord”; but this is a conception
restricted to a single religion, and nearly everywhere from Greece to
Norway, the wolf has been an object of horror and hate, an incarnation
of evil, the emblem, agent, or associate of those unseen beings under
whose forms terror personified unknown and destructive forces.

All this is not meaningless; great masses of men do not combine to
give a “bad eminence” to anything that is insignificant. They do not
often fear harmless objects, and they never do so when these are
familiar. Cuvier says in his description of the wolf, that “its courage
is not in proportion to its strength.” But it is certain that packs
once howled at night around Paris, and tore people to pieces in her
streets; that they ravaged, and killed man and beast, in every part
of Western Europe, made public highways unsafe, and put travellers by
forest roads in constant peril of their lives. When the traditions
and myths referred to were formed, things were much worse in this
respect than in Cuvier’s time, and we may be absolutely sure that these
animals’ reputation rests on a strong foundation of fact. It was not
the accident of an idle fancy that pictured gaunt gray wolves, dripping
with blood, that bore the spirits of death upon northern battle-fields.
Geri and Freki, the wolves of Woden, battened on the fallen in
Valhalla. On earth and on high, fantasy grouped its most tragic
conceptions around “the dark gray beast” of early Sagas; and it was
believed that chained in hell, the Fenris wolf awaited that day when
the demons of the underworld should be loosed, and with the bursting of
the vault of heaven, “the twilight of the gods” would come.

Very little good has ever been said about a wolf. But on the Western
Continent there is an almost complete absence of evidence to show that
imagination was affected by this creature in the same manner as was
common among European nations.

Henry R. Schoolcraft (“Indian Tribes of North America”) remarks that
“the turtle, the bear, and the wolf appear to have been primary and
honored totems in most tribes.... They are believed to have more or
less prominence in the genealogies of all who are organized upon the
totemic principle.” None knew wolves better than the aborigines of this
country, and it is most improbable that beasts which so powerfully
affected the thoughts and feelings of men in a similar social phase
elsewhere, failed to conduct themselves similarly here. The cause for
this striking difference is probably to be found in the peoples and
not in the animals; more especially as every element was present in
the situation where the former were placed, that would have fostered
the growth of superstition. “The Indian dwelling or wigwam,” says
Schoolcraft, “is constantly among wild animals, ... whether enchanted
or unenchanted, spirits or real beings, he knows not. He chases them
by day, and dreams of them by night.... A dream or a fact is equally
potent in the Indian mind. He is intimate with the habits, motions,
and characters of all animals, and feels himself peculiarly connected
at all times with the animal creation. By the totemic system, he
identifies his personal and tribal history and existence with theirs;
he thinks himself the peculiar favorite of the Great Spirit, whenever
they exist abundantly in his hunting-grounds, and when he dies, the
figure of the quadruped, bird, or reptile which has guarded him through
life, is put in hieroglyphics on his grave post.”

This is not an exaggerated statement, and the fact is that the wolf
was not only a tutelar of gentes and emblem of their confraternity,
but also, as in case of the fabled founders of Rome, a protector of
helpless innocence. In the cycle of legends and myths that gather
around the culture-hero Hiawatha, we find the pretty tale of the
“Wolf-brother.” When the orphan child had been forsaken by all who
were bound through natural affection to cherish it, wolves admitted
the deserted little creature to their company, and gave the food that
supported its life.

With southern tribes the coyote takes the place of the northern wolf;
and how it happened that this “miserable little cur of an animal,”
as Colonel Dodge calls it (“Plains of the Great West”), became the
guardian of anybody or anything, passes understanding, unless it be due
to the fact that there is more cunning and rascality wrapped up in its
skin than exists in that of any other creature whatever. Nevertheless,
it is true that this jackal of the West undoubtedly occupies the
position spoken of. Dr. Washington Mathews (“Gentile System of the
Navajo Indians”) has shown that a coyote is the tutelar of at least
three gentes in this great tribe, and Captain John G. Bourke (“Gentile
Organization of the Apaches of Arizona”) traced this animal in the
same capacity through several branches of the Tinneh family. He found
coyote gentes in the Apache, Apache-Mojave, Maricopa tribes, and among
the Pueblo Indians as well; at Zuñi, San Filipe, Santana, Zia, and
other places. In his “Notes on the Apache Mythology,” Captain Bourke
gives a clue to the undeserved honors which this beast has received.
His researches make it plain that these natives fully appreciated
its astuteness. The coyote made a bet with the bear and won it; and
by its means, also, men were provided with fire. There was nothing
Prometheus-like in his conduct on this occasion; not a trace of the
spirit which prompted the Titan. Far from it; he stole a brand the
celestial squirrel dropped, and set fire to the world.

Like other wild beasts, the wolf has suffered at the hands of those who
have described him. Men who, according to their own showing, had the
most limited opportunities for learning anything about them have so
often pronounced authoritatively upon the character of this race, and
have so constantly confounded observation with inference, that closet
zoölogists are now provided with a body of extemporaneous natural
history in which the real animal has become as purely conventional as
an Assyrian carving.

Perhaps the only accusation which has not been made against this much
abused creature is that of stupidity. Nobody ever suspected a wolf
of want of sense; although Buffon (“Histoire Naturelle”) says, “_il
devient ingénieux par besoin_,” as if he knew of other and more gifted
animals who exerted their minds without any need for doing so.

The common representation which people make to themselves of wolves,
and which they are most apt to see in pictures, is that of a pack.
There is little doubt, however, that packs are accidental and temporary
aggregates. They are not composed of family groups. Their members
merely unite for an especial purpose, and disperse when this is at an
end. Moreover, it is exceptional to find large numbers together in
America under any circumstances. Wolves consort in pairs or small
detached bands, and pack temporarily and rarely.

Captain James Forsyth (“Highlands of Central India”), speaking of
_Canis pallipes_, an animal whose specific identity with the common
form Sir Walter Elliot and Horsfield deny, while Blyth and Jerdon very
properly insist upon it, remarks that it is a relatively small and
slender beast with comparatively delicate teeth. He gives a narrative
of his personal experience which is utterly subversive of many sweeping
assertions which have been made upon the subject of their habits and
temper.

In the provinces referred to, wolves are very numerous, and are “a
plain-loving species.” They “unite in parties of five or six to hunt,”
and so far as his observations go, more than these have not been seen
together. “Most generally they are found singly or in couples.” The
domestic animals upon which these chiefly prey are dogs and goats.
“They are the deadly foes of the former, and will stand outside of a
village or travellers’ camp, and howl until some inexperienced cur
sallies forth to reply, when the lot of that cur will probably be to
return no more....

“The loss of human life from these hideous brutes has recently been
ascertained to be so great, that a heavy reward is now offered for
their destruction. Though not generally venturing beyond children ...
yet when confirmed in the habit of man-eating, they do not hesitate to
attack, at an advantage, full-grown women, and even adult men. A good
many instances occurred during the construction of the railway through
the low jungles of Júbbulpúr, of laborers on the works being so
attacked, and sometimes killed and eaten. The assault was commonly made
by a pair of wolves, one of whom seized the victim by the neck from
behind, preventing outcry, while the other, coming swiftly up, tore
out the entrails in front. These confirmed man-eaters are described as
having been exceedingly wary, and fully able to discriminate between a
helpless victim and an armed man.

“In 1861, I was marching through a small village on the borders of the
Damoh district, and accidentally heard that for months past a pair
of wolves had carried off a child from the centre of the village, in
broad daylight. No attempt whatever had been made to kill them, though
their haunts were perfectly well known, and lay not a quarter of a
mile from the town. A shapeless stone, representing the goddess Devi,
under a neighboring tree, had been daubed with vermilion instead, and
liberally propitiated with cocoanuts and rice. Their plan of attack was
uniform and simple. The village stood on the slope of a hill, at the
foot of which was the bed of a stream thickly fringed with grass and
bushes. The main street, where children were always at play, ran down
the slope of this hill, and while one of the wolves, that one which was
smaller than the other, concealed itself among some low bushes between
the village and the bottom of the declivity, the other would go round
to the top, and, watching for an opportunity, would race down through
the street, picking up a child by the way, and make off with it to
the thick cover in the nálá. At first the people used to pursue, and
sometimes made the marauder drop his prey; but finding, as they said,
that in this case the companion wolf usually succeeded in carrying off
another of their children in the confusion, while the first was so
injured as to be beyond recovery, they ended, like impassive Hindus
as they were, by just letting the wolves take away as many of their
offspring as they wanted.

“A child of a few years of age had thus been carried off the morning
of my arrival. It is scarcely credible that I could not at first get
enough beaters to drive the cover where these atrocious brutes were
gorging on their unholy meal. At last a few of those outcast helots,
who act as village drudges in these parts, were induced to take sticks
and accompany my horse keeper, with a hog spear, and my Sikh orderly,
with his sword, through the belt of grass, while I posted myself, with
a double rifle, behind a tree at the other end. In about five minutes
the pair walked leisurely out into the open space within twenty yards
of me. They were evidently mother and son; the latter about three parts
grown, with a reddish-yellow, well-furred coat, and plump appearance;
the mother, a lean and grizzled hag, with hideous pendant dugs, and
slaver dropping from her jaws. I gave her the benefit of my first
barrel, and she dropped with a shot through both shoulders. The whelp
started off, but the second barrel stopped him also, with a bullet in
the neck.”

Whenever wolves hunt in numbers, it is that one part may lie in ambush,
and the other drive the game, or because they design to assail enemies
they are well aware a few could not overcome. These packs only hold
together for a short time, and their formation depends upon the
accidental presence of several separate bands in the same vicinity
who are attracted by a common object, or follow each other’s motions
like carrion birds. This is what happens in the neighborhood of remote
and isolated settlements in Northern Europe, when human beings are
the game they pursue. Within Russian forests and those which lie near
lonely villages in Sweden, Norway, and Swedish-Lapland, small packs
form as darkness veils the weird, melancholy, desolate beauty of winter
landscapes. They meet irregularly, with the vague, fierce feelings
of an excited mob. The band is brought together by howlings, and it
sweeps outward into the open on an indefinite quest. Woe betide the
wolf who gives out during this wild gallop, or slips his shoulder on
the frozen crust. Desperation may enable him to conceal the accident
for a few strides, but discovery is certain, and he is instantly torn
to pieces and devoured. If a fresh trail be found, the pack follows it.
Human voices or the sound of sleigh-bells brings down the wolves like
a storm-driven cloud. Men often go out with drags fastened to sledges,
and as their purpose is simply to kill, and they are prepared, and do
not venture too far from the villages, these hunters generally succeed
in their undertaking. But not always; many a sleighing party of this
kind has not returned, neither men nor horses. Many a belated wayfarer
and party of travellers have never reached their journey’s end. A fleet
horse will for a time outrun wolves, even when by stealthy approaches
they have almost closed around him, and this the author knows from
experience; but it will not answer to go far, for in that case the
fugitive will certainly be caught.

Turning now to the most celebrated, as well as the largest and fiercest
member of this family, we find that the Scandinavian wolf is in many
places increasing in numbers, despite the various means which are
made use of for its destruction. L. Lloyd (“Scandinavian Adventures”)
ascribes this to immigration from Russia and Finland. However this may
be, recent writers still echo the lamentations of Olaus Magnus, and
of quaint old Bishop Pontappidan (“Natural History of Norway”) to the
effect that the country is overrun by them. Thus Von Grieff asserts
that in many localities “the wolf taxes the peasant higher than the
crown,” and J. A. Strom expresses himself to much the same effect.

A wolf will eat any sort of flesh, irrespective of its kind or
condition, and when pressed by hunger he consumes vegetable substances
also. Pontappidan says that one was killed whose “stomach was filled
with moss from the cliffs and birch tops.” Humboldt states that
famishing wolves swallow earth like the Otomac Indians on the Orinoco.

It is the common or gray wolf--the only one known in Scandinavia,
although at one time Nilsson attempted to erect its black variety,
_Canis lycaon_, into a species--which those authors referred to speak
of when deploring this creature’s destructiveness. Lloyd thinks that it
cannot be extirpated from the mountain and forest regions of Sweden and
Norway. The animal is prolific. A female, after ten weeks’ gestation,
brings forth from four to six, and even nine cubs. They are born in
burrows, inherit great constitutional vigor, and are well tended upon
the part of their parents. Whatever else may be denied the wolf, some
praise for domestic virtues cannot in fairness be withheld from him.
He hunts diligently and disinterestedly for the support of his mate and
young, and when these (which are at first nearly black and look like
foxes, except that they have not a white tip to their tails) are able
to travel, both parents carefully supervise their education. Various
diseases are prevalent among wolves, and many die of sickness; but if
it be true that hydrophobia is unknown among those of North-western
Europe, their exemption from a disorder which afflicts this species in
all cold, and even temperate climates elsewhere, must be looked upon as
an unexplained fact. During the rigorous and prolonged winters of high
latitudes large numbers starve to death. Men shoot, trap, and poison
them at every opportunity; they often kill one another, and when the
ice breaks up in the greater inlets of the north Atlantic and Baltic,
multitudes of wolves that have been hunting the young of seals upon
their frozen surfaces perish.

Buffon seems to have furnished the wolf’s character ready made for use
by subsequent writers, since these appear to have done little more
than copy or comment upon his text. “_Il est naturellement grossier
et poltron,” he says, “mais il devient ingénieux par besoin, et hardi
par necessité; pressé par la famine, il brave le danger_”--that is, it
will come out of the depths of forests, and attack domestic animals.
“_Enfin, lorsque le besoin est extrême, il s’expose à tout, attaque les
femmes et les enfans, se jette même quelquefois sur les hommes; devient
furieux par ces excés, qui finissent ordinairement par la rage et la
mort._”

Now if one reads, not all, for that would be impossible, but a
great many accounts of actual observations upon wolves, and has at
the same time some personal knowledge of these brutes, the foregoing
will prove to be unsatisfactory. When special traits, and especially
those of courage and enterprise, are examined in books, flat
contradictions begin to appear. Colonel Dodge (“Plains of the Great
West”) maintains that the gray wolf of America is an arrant coward.
Ross Cox (“Adventures on the Columbia River”) asserts that he is “very
large and daring.” Nobody has ever denied that wolves are formidable
creatures which can be dangerous if they choose; what their annalists
have done is to proceed upon the assumption that they are exactly
alike everywhere, and give the general disposition and character of
an entire race from a few scattered specimens seen by themselves
in some particular localities. Under any circumstances it would be
useless to discuss the wolf’s courage without having previously settled
what courage in a wolf is, and how it displays itself. Principle and
sentiment have nothing to do with it; appetite and passion are its
sole incentives. To compare it, then, with that of some savage warrior
in whom a certain standard of action always exists, is unallowable.
Yet this is continually done, not openly and avowedly perhaps, but
evidently in effect.

Audubon (“Quadrupeds of North America”) saw wolf-traps in Kentucky.
“Each pit was covered with a revolving platform of interlaced boughs
and twigs, and attached to a cross-piece of timber that served for an
axle. On this light platform, which was balanced by a heavy stick of
wood fastened to the under side, a large piece of putrid venison was
tied for a bait.” Visiting one of these pits in the morning, with its
constructor and his dogs, three wolves, “two black and one brindled,”
were found to have been caught. “They were lying flat on the earth,
with their ears close down to their heads, and their eyes indicating
fear more than anger.” It is said by Felix Oswald, (“Zoölogical
Sketches”) that pitfalls always cow animals. At all events, in this
case, the farmer, axe and knife in hand, descended and hamstrung them.
Audubon stood above with a gun and the dogs, to whom these helpless
creatures were thrown to be worried. None of the captives made any
resistance worth mentioning because they were such cowards! If a lion
of the Atlas, however, comes ramping down upon an Arab _douar_, leaps
over the fence of a cattle-pen, and finds himself at the bottom of
a trench, he meets death with the same resignation. But that is on
account of the dignity of his character. No mortal knows what either
animal thinks or feels, and, since there is no difference between their
demeanors, it would be quite as easy to make the death scene of the
wolf poetic, and probably fully as much in accordance with the truth.

What has been said of fortitude applies equally to other qualities. It
seems reasonable to allow wolves some part in deciding what enterprises
they shall undertake, which way an attack ought to be made, and whether
the risk of any adventure is likely to overbalance its advantages.
They are very well acquainted with the business which it falls to
their lot in life to transact, and since the days have gone when Greek
lycanthropes, German währ-wolves, and French loupgarous appeared among
mankind, not anybody is able to put himself in this animal’s place so
completely as to appreciate those motives by which it is actuated.

Wolves differ with their geographical position, with the peoples that
come in contact with them, and in virtue of individual peculiarities.
What has been done by them anywhere, might undoubtedly occur again if
the conditions remained unaltered. Dr. Henry Lansdell (“Russian Central
Asia”) knew of Tartars on the steppes who rode down the wolf and beat
it to death with their heavy whips. He likewise learned that shepherds
in the Caucasus protected their flocks by means of dogs. Yet his
native attendants, as he reports with some surprise, actually allowed
themselves to become alarmed at the threatened attack of a pack on the
road from Kabakli to Petro-Alexandrovsk.

T. W. Atkinson’s views (“Oriental and Western Siberia”) were not so
decided, and his experiences in these latitudes had been different. He
saw plenty of wolves in the valley of the Ouba, and they had followed
his party on the plains of Mongolia. Cossacks assured him (“Travels
in the Region of the Amoor”) that travellers upon the steppe were
often devoured, and bands of these grim beasts frequently gathered
about his camp by night. On one occasion while hunting he observed a
fine maral--the large stag of high altitudes in the Ac-tan, Ale-tan,
and Mus-tan regions--run into by three of these brutes. “The ravenous
beasts were tearing the noble creature to pieces while yet breathing,”
when two _bearcoots_--black Tartar eagles--sailed over the spot, and
one swooped. “The wolves caught sight of them in an instant ... and
stood on their defence.... In a few seconds the first _bearcoot_ struck
his prey; one talon was fixed on his back, the other on the upper part
of his neck, completely securing the head, while he tore out the liver
with his beak. The other eagle seized another wolf, and shortly both
were as lifeless as the animal they had hunted.”

This explorer, however, so far departed from the rule in such cases
made and provided, that he did not immediately generalize the character
of all the wolves in Asia from his observations of those two that
permitted themselves to be killed by a pair of birds. On the contrary,
when a pack followed his party in Mongolia, he was prepared to look
upon it as a serious matter. They were in camp, the weather was mild,
game abounded, and it was a beautiful night. “Before long we could
hear their feet beat upon the ground as they galloped towards us. In
a very short while the troop came up and gave a savage howl. The men
now placed some dry bushes on the fire (which had been allowed to sink
by the Kalmucks and Kalkas, lest its light should attract robbers),
and blew it up into a bright flame which sent its red glare far beyond
us, disclosing the wolves, their ears and tails erect, and their eyes
flashing fire. At this instant I gave the signal, and our volley was
poured in with deadly effect, for the horrible howling they set up
showed what mischief had been done. We did not move to collect our
game--that might be done in the morning. Our pieces were reloaded as
fast as possible, for the Kalmucks warned us that the wolves would
return. We could hear them snarling, and some of the wounded howling,
but they were too far away to risk a shot. The fire was let down, and
we remained perfectly quiet.

“We were not long left in ignorance of their intentions. Shortly there
was a great commotion among our horses, and we discovered that the
pack had divided and were stealing up to our animals on each side,
between us and the water. The Kalkas and Kalmucks rushed up to our
steeds, uttering loud shouts, and this drove the wolves back again. It
was now necessary to guard the horses on three sides, as we could hear
the savage brutes quite near. The men anticipated that they would make
a rush, cause the animals to break away, and then hunt them down. A
Cossack and Kalmuck turned to guard the approaches on each side, and I
remained watching at the front. The fire was relighted and kept in a
constant blaze by Kalkas adding small bushes, and this enabled us to
see as well as hear our savage enemies. Presently I discovered their
glaring eyeballs moving to and fro, nearer and nearer; then I could
distinguish their grizzly forms pushing each other on. At this moment
the rifles cracked to my right, and the fire sent up a bright blaze,
which enabled me to make sure of one fellow as he turned his side
towards me. I sent the second ball into the pack, and more than one
must have been wounded from the howling that came from this direction.
The other men had also fired, and I did not doubt with equal effect,
for it was certain that they would not throw a shot away. In a few
minutes the growling ceased, and all was still except the snorting
of some of the horses. Both Kalkas and Kalmucks assured me that the
wolves would make another attack, and said that no one must sleep on
his post.

“To increase our difficulty, we now had but few bushes left, and
none could be obtained near us; therefore it would only be by a most
vigilant watch that we could now save our horses. The night, too,
became very dark, and nothing could be seen at a short distance except
towards the lake, where any dark object might be observed against the
dim light that rested on the water. Sharp and keen eyes were peering
out in every direction, but no wolf was seen, nor sound heard. The
Kalkas said the wolves were waiting till all was still, and then they
would make a dash at the horses.

“We had been watching a long time without the slightest movement, when
two of the horses became uneasy, tugging at the thongs and snorting.
The clouds rolled off, the stars came forth and reflected more light
upon the lake. Presently howling was heard in the distance, and
Tchuck-a-boi declared that another pack of wolves was coming. When
they approached nearer, those that had been keeping guard over us so
quietly began to growl, and let us know that they were not far away. As
it was now deemed absolutely necessary to procure some bushes, four of
my men crept quietly along the shore of the lake, two being armed, and
in about ten minutes they returned, each of them having an armful of
fuel. The embers were rekindled, and material placed on them, ready to
be blown into a flame the moment it was needed. The sounds we heard in
the distance had ceased for some time, when suddenly there was a great
commotion. The other wolves had come up, and the growling and snarling
became furious. How much I wished for light, in order to witness the
battle that seemed likely to ensue. For a time there seemed to be
individual combats; but there was no general engagement, and soon all
became still as before. Again we waited, looking out for more than half
an hour, when the horses began pulling and plunging violently; but we
could see nothing. The men now blew up the embers, and in a few minutes
the bushes burst into a blaze, and then I saw a group of eight or ten
wolves within fifteen paces, and others beyond. In a moment I gave them
the contents of both barrels, the others fired at the same instant, and
the pack set up a frightful howl and scampered off.” Atkinson found
eight dead bodies next morning, and the bloody trails of many wounded
that had gone off.

How would this party have fared if instead of warm weather, and the
presence of a pack that merely desired to gratify their taste for horse
flesh, and showed their willingness to brave fire and rifle-balls to
this end, the steppe had been snowy and the animals starving? There
seems to be no more doubt that a considerable detachment of Russian
infantry was destroyed by wolves about fifty years ago in the passes of
the Ural Mountains, than there is that the dragoon by whom Wellington
sent his despatch after the battle of Albuera was eaten, together
with his horse. “Daring as the wolf was in olden times,” says Lloyd,
speaking of that found in Scandinavia, “he has lost nothing of his
audacity at the present day.” In proof of which he collects from
newspapers, parish registers, official reports, and the testimony of
eye-witnesses, a statement of the ravages of wolves among domestic
animals and human beings that almost equals those mediæval notices in
which their evil deeds have been recorded from one end of Europe to
the other. None of these, or rather, none the writer has met with,
rival that recital given by James Grant (“The Wild Beast of Gevaudan”).
French, Dutch, Belgian, and English journals, during 1765, were full of
those events of which a brief abstract is inserted, and their prolonged
occurrence finally came to be an affair of grave importance to the
government of France.

In that year a beast, not identified as a wolf until after its death,
created a reign of terror in the forest country of Provence and
Languedoc, devouring eighty people about Gevaudan. “_Qui a dévoré plus
que quatrevingt personnes dans le Gevaudan_,” says the official report.
A drawing (from description) was sent to the Intendant of Alençon,
and as this looked more like a hyena than anything else, it was given
out that one of these brutes was at large. The province offered a
thousand crowns for its head, the Archbishop ordered prayers for public
preservation, and the commanding officer of the department scoured
the country with light cavalry. These measures failed, and after a
troop of the 10th dragoons had pursued it for six weeks through the
mountainous parts of Languedoc, and though it was seen several times,
had failed to come up with the animal, the reward was increased to
ten thousand livres, and Louis XV. offered six thousand more. High
masses innumerable were said, and cavalry, bands of game-keepers, and
gentlemen with their servants, sought the monster in all directions.
Hunters by thousands were in search of it for months, and in the
meantime its howl was heard in village streets at night, children and
women were killed in their farmyards, woodcutters lost their lives in
forests, and men were dragged out of vehicles on the public roads by
day.

At last the Sieur de la Chaumette, a famous wolf slayer, appeared upon
the scene. His two brothers accompanied him, and they actually found
and wounded the animal. The chase was taken up by him again, and he was
joined by a party of hunters picked from the most expert foresters of
fifty parishes. It was in vain, however, for they never viewed their
quarry again. In September, 1765, the Sieur de Blanterne, in company
with two associates, shot the wild beast of Gevaudan, which had ravaged
a large region of Southern France for nearly a year. The carcass was
sent to Paris, and proved to be that of an enormous wolf.

A creature capable of killing one man, is able, all things being equal,
to kill a dozen or a hundred.

Wolves’ ravages are at present confined to places from which we have
no reports, and that is the reason why public opinion always places
such occurrences in the past. In all essentials wolves are potentially
the same as ever, but their relations to mankind differ according
to geographical position. In one place they are harmless and timid,
in another they are aggressive and dangerous. Throughout the Arctic
regions of the earth, where one might imagine that privation would
render them audacious, they generally avoid the presence of human
beings and are not often seen. Franklin, Back, and Parry have little
to say about them, and it is the same with many other travellers
in their northern haunts. Bush, Kennan, Cotteau, Seabohn, Collins,
Price, etc., have no information of any importance to give. Even Dr.
Richardson, the naturalist, passes them by nearly unnoticed, and Rink
(“Danish Greenland”), in his collection of the “Tales and Traditions
of the Eskimo,” is silent on this subject. All these authors, however,
refer to other animals of the Arctic. Dr. Harris (“Navigantium atque
Itinerantium Bibliotheca”) finds places for the bear, musk-ox, fox,
wolverene, in his immense repository of facts and impressions, but none
for the wolf.

A somewhat comprehensive acquaintance with what has been said
concerning this creature, disposes the writer to think, that the
silence of explorers with regard to a beast that would naturally
attract attention, is explained by Captain Ross (“Voyage to Baffin’s
Bay”). In his first expedition the wolf is not mentioned among those
animals described in the “Fauna of the Arctic Highlands”; but in his
narrative of the “Second Voyage” he says, “the perpetual hunting of
the natives seems to prevent deer, together with those beasts of prey
that follow on their traces, from remaining in their vicinity.” Dr.
John D. Godman (“American Natural History”) contradicts Ross flatly,
and asserts that “in the highest northern latitudes ... wolves are very
numerous and exceedingly audacious. They are generally to be found
at no great distance from the huts of Esquimaux, and follow these
people from place to place, being apparently much dependent upon them
for food during the coldest season of the year.” Godman does not say
whether his information was got at first hand, or taken from others,
but there is no doubt as to the fact that he is wrong. High latitudes
do not furnish permanent habitats for game. Reindeer or caribou are not
only migratory, but wander constantly; the latter being, as Charles C.
Ward remarks, “a very Ishmaelite” in its habits. The same is true of
other animals upon which wolves subsist, and the idea of their living
in any numbers upon Eskimo leavings is amusing.

Milton and Cheadle (“The North-west Passage by Land”) give much the
same explanation as Captain Ross for the fact that wolves are so
rarely seen in the far north. “Wild animals of any kind,” they inform
us, “are seldom viewed in the Hudson Bay territories, unless they
are carefully tracked up. They are so constantly hunted, ... and
whenever they encounter man, are so invariably pursued, that they are
ever on their guard, and escape without being seen.” Forced to range
widely because the character of this region involves constant change
of place upon the part of their principal game, and made wary to the
last degree by perpetual hostilities, it might well be that travellers
found them absent from those regions they explored, and scarcely had an
opportunity to observe such as were actually in their vicinity. Thus
Parry (“Journal”), who was struck by their shyness, says, “it is very
extraordinary that no man could succeed in killing or capturing one of
these animals, though we were for months almost constantly endeavoring
to do so.”

Something, however, may depend upon local variety. Captain Koldewey
(“German Arctic Expedition”) tells us that “the peculiar--species,
he calls it--of wolf met with in other arctic neighborhoods is not
found in East Greenland; neither is the wolf-like dog now dying out
from disease.” Brown (“Fauna of Greenland”) takes the same view, but
whatever the facts may be, dogs and wolves have sometimes been known
to treat each other very differently. Sir Edward Belcher (“The Last
of the Arctic Voyages”) saw a wolf, which he at first supposed from
its appearance to be one of Sir John Franklin’s surviving dogs, come
up to his own team on the sledge journey of 1853. “It did not quarrel
with them.... Its habits were certainly very peculiar; it cared not
for us, and frequently approached so near that it might have been
shot, but was not disposed to make friends.” Even if the tameness of
this animal had been due to starvation, that would not have accounted
for the friendliness of Belcher’s dogs. General A. W. Greely (“Three
Years of Arctic Service”) reports of his, that “whenever wolves were
near they exhibited signs of uneasiness, if not of fear.” Captain Ross
noticed that his dogs at Boothia Felix “trembled and howled” whenever
wolves approached them. It is well known, however, that in the arctic,
as elsewhere, these animals interbreed. Godman gives the following:
“_Scientia naturali multum versato et fide digno viro Sabina, se canem
Terræ-novæ cum lupa coire frequenter vidis_.” Theodore Roosevelt
and others speak of the same thing as coming under their personal
cognizance.

In high latitudes of America and Asia the wolf’s attitude towards
man is inconstant to a marked degree. Much difference is doubtless
due to influences both general and local, permanent and temporary,
which it is impossible to ascertain from any accounts. The packs C. A.
Hall (“Arctic Researches”) met with near “Frobisher’s Farthest,” and
at J. K. Smith’s Island, manifested none of that timidity which has
been remarked upon as the consequence of constant persecution. On
the contrary, “they were bold,” says Hall, “approaching quite near,
watching our movements, opening their mouths, snapping their teeth, and
smacking their chops, as if already feasting on human flesh and blood.”
Similarly, “eleven big fellows crossed the path” of O. W. Wahl (“Land
of the Czar”) “one winter day, near Stavropol.” They merely inspected
the travellers and went on. Colonel N. Prejevalsky (“From Kulja across
the Tian Shan to Lob-nor”) saw but few wolves, and in his report upon
the fauna of the Tarim valley, he remarks that they “are unfrequent,
if not rare.” During his expedition (“Mongolia”), however, the Tibetan
wolf, _Lupus chanco_, the same animal he thinks that the Mongols of
Kan-su call _tsobr_, but really the common species under one of its
many changes of color, was found to be “savage and impudent.” Captain
William Gill (“The River of Golden Sand”) saw “here and there” on the
broken and undulating plains of Mongolia near the Chinese frontier,
“small villages surrounded by a wall to protect them from the troops of
wolves that in the desolate winter scour the barrens of San-Tai.”

Nothing would be gained by multiplying references, which might easily
be given _ad nauseam_ without finding that there was any particular
change in their tenor. Enough have been already presented to show how
utterly valueless are those sweeping conclusions upon the character and
habits of wolves, which we are too much accustomed to see. The widest
generalization on this subject that can be made with any approach
to certainty, is that these animals, over and above their specific
traits, are what their situations and the experiences connected with
ordinary and every-day life make them. It is a well-attested fact
that the wolf may be domesticated, and instances of this kind are not
uncommon. Audubon, for example, saw them drawing the small carts in
which Assiniboin Indians brought their peltries into Fort Union. Samuel
Hearne (“A Journey from Prince of Wales Fort in Hudson Bay, to the
Northern Ocean”) gives an account of certain things seen by himself,
which seem to indicate that these animals occasionally bear like
relations to savages with those which must have subsisted when they
were first reclaimed. “Wolves,” he says, “are very frequently met with
in those countries west of Hudson’s Bay, both on the barren grounds
and among the woods; but they are not numerous. It is very uncommon to
see more than three or four of them in a herd.... All the wolves in
Hudson’s Bay are very shy of the human race.... They are great enemies
to the Indian dogs, and constantly kill and eat those that are heavy
loaded and cannot keep up with the main body.... The females are much
swifter than males, for which reason, the Indians, both northern and
southern, are of opinion that they kill the greatest part of the game.”
This, however, cannot be the case, Hearne observes, because they
live apart during winter, and do not associate till towards spring.
“They always burrow under ground to bring forth their young; and it is
natural to suppose that they are very fierce at those times; yet I have
very frequently seen even the Indians go to their dens, take out the
young ones and play with them. I never knew a northern Indian to hurt
one of them; on the contrary, they always carefully put them into the
den again; and I have sometimes seen them paint the faces of the young
wolves with vermilion or red ochre.”

This statement of the friendliness existing between man and these
beasts is unique. James Morier in the mountains of Armenia, Persia,
and Asia Minor, Douglas Freshfield in the Central Caucasus, Atkinson,
Prejevalsky, and Gill in Northern Asia, Forsyth, Hunter, and Pollok in
India and Indo-China, and a host of witnesses in Europe and America,
have given evidence to their destructiveness and to the enmity with
which they are regarded.

There never has been any question with respect to the wolf’s
intelligence. His sagacity and cunning are of the highest brute
order; and although, if one looks at a longitudinal section of his
brain, it appears poorly developed, when compared with that of a dog,
resembling, to use Lockington’s simile, a pear with the small end
forwards, the latter animal is probably not inferior to the former
in natural faculty. “If we could subtract,” says Professor Romanes
(“Animal Intelligence”), “from the domestic dog all those influences
arising from his prolonged companionship with man, and at the same time
intensify the feelings of self-reliance, rapacity, etc., we should
get the emotional character now presented by wolves and jackals.” The
former need to be wise in their generation, for it is but seldom that
their “ways are ways of pleasantness,” and their paths are never those
of peace. Their gaunt frames and voracious appetites have become common
colloquialisms, and each has to match his astuteness against all the
devices for his destruction that human ingenuity can invent.

Lloyd describes the amenities and virtues that adorned the character of
a wolf cub belonging to Madame Bedoire; how it guarded her premises,
made friends with her dog, went walking with its mistress, played with
her children, and howled when she did not caress it. The biography of
this blessed infant was written by a lady; Lloyd merely inserts the
account. It had to be shot when it was a year old. He himself had a
young she-wolf whose most noticeable actions seemed to be connected
with her endeavors to get pigs within reach of where she was chained.
“When she saw a pig in the vicinity of her kennel, she, evidently with
the intention of putting him off his guard, would throw herself on her
side or back, roll, wag her tail most lovingly, and look like innocence
personified”; but if, as occasionally happened, the pig’s mind was
impressed with these artless ebullitions of youthful joy, and it came
near enough, the creature was done for. While Sir Edward Belcher’s ship
lay in winter quarters a wolf haunted her vicinity. He sat under her
stern, he beguiled the dogs away, he drove off all the game. Then they
tried to kill or capture him, but in vain. When pieces of meat were
fixed at the muzzles of loaded muskets, he fired off the guns and ate
the bait. Seated upon a hill, just out of range, this “charmed wolf,”
as the men called him, “narrowly watched the proceedings of those
engaged in further schemes for his destruction, and exulted possibly in
his superior wisdom.” Belcher’s sailors began to believe this animal to
be one of the officers of Sir John Franklin’s lost ship, the _Erebus_.
Dr. Rae reports the case of a wolf that cut the string fastened to the
trigger of a gun before taking the meat placed in front of it. And
Audubon relates that wolves watch fishermen in the northern lakes, pull
their lines up, and appropriate the catch. They gnaw through heavy
timber into caches and undermine dead-falls. They uncover and spring
steel traps, and are as difficult to beguile as the wolverene--it is
impossible to say more. Captain Lyon’s crew caught a wolf in a trap
that pretended to be dead when the men who set it arrived. Wherever
men carry firearms the wolf appreciates their effectiveness, and is
perfectly well aware that his coat will not turn a rifle-ball. But
while this exercises an obvious influence upon his general behavior,
in most cases the ability to see the movements of his enemy seems to
lessen his dread of what may happen. If several are together when fired
at, they will scamper off; but it is very common to see them turn when
they think themselves safe, and regard their adversary with strict
attention.

Upon the whole, it is doubtful whether wolves have been much diminished
in numbers anywhere, except in places where the country has become
thickly settled. While these creatures have solitudes to fall back
upon, they make use of those great advantages in the struggle for
existence which they possess. Their speed, endurance, and hardihood,
the number produced at a birth, and their exceeding sagacity, qualify
this race to fight the battle of life, hard as it is in most instances,
in a manner that but few animals of any kind can equal.

There are two reasons why, in the midst of fragmentary notices and
romances innumerable, authentic annals of American frontier life are
so meagre in their accounts of what these beasts have done. The first
is that our earlier settlers were men such as they have encountered
nowhere else, and the wolves were soon cowed. In the second place,
perils threatened those living on the border, which were so much more
imminent than any which ever became actual through the agency of
wolves that these beasts came to be disregarded. Those depredations
and murders which they really perpetrated were only perpetuated in
tradition, and when survivals of this kind came to be recast by writers
who, besides being unacquainted with all the facts, knew nothing about
the animals themselves, they at once assumed a form that was stamped
with all the incongruities of crude invention, and served only to
conceal more effectually that portion of truth upon which these poor
fictions were constructed.

It is probable that all, who, having really observed the character of
those wolves that inhabit what were once the buffalo ranges of the
Northwest, and then going southward made the acquaintance of that
large, yellowish-red wolf called the _lobo_, in Mexico, will admit that
there is much difference between them. In the Sierra Madre two wolves
are commonly considered to be a match for a man armed as these people
usually are, and unless the whole population have conspired together
for the purpose of propagating falsehoods on this particular subject,
it must be believed that the lobo is often guilty of manslaughter.
It has not happened to the writer to be personally cognizant of the
death of any victim of theirs, but riding westward one day through
the forests of that mountainous country lying between Durango and the
Pacific coast, in the interval between two divisions of a large train
of _arrieros_ separated from each other by a distance of several miles,
a woman and two children, boy and girl, were met. Struck by the beauty
of the little girl, and knowing the way to be unsafe, some conversation
took place in which the mother made light of those dangers suggested,
and declined, with a profusion of thanks, an offer to see the party
safe to her sister’s rancho in a neighboring valley. They had only a
little distance to go along the ridge, she said, and would then soon
descend to their place of destination. The wolves were like devils, it
was true, but robbers were worse, and she had many times crossed there
from her home without meeting with either. In short,--_muchissimas
gracias Señor, y todos los santos, etc., etc. Adios_!

All of them were devoured a very short time after. Their clothes
and bones were found scattered on the trail which they had not yet
left before they were killed. The muleteers in rear who found these
fragments collected and buried them, putting up the usual frail cross
which is to be seen along this route, literally by scores.

This term _lobo_ is indiscriminately applied in Spanish America to
creatures that bear little resemblance to one another. The _guara_
of Brazil is known under that name, an inoffensive, vegetable-eating
animal, in every respect unlike the wolf in character and habits, and,
according to Dr. Lund, specifically distinct from it in having the
second and third vertebræ of its neck characteristically elongated.
Emmanuel Liais, however (“Climats, Géologie, Faune du Brésil”), states
the chief contrasts between those creatures in question succintly, as
follows: “_Au point de vue du régime alimentaire, les deux espèces du
genre Canis les plus éloignées sont le loup commun d’Europe, animal
féroce et sauguinaire, et la plus carnivore de toutes les espèces du
genre, et l’Aguara ou Guara du Brésil--Canis Jubatus de Demarest,
appelé à Minas-Geraes trés-improprement Lobo (nom portugais du Loup),
et décrit par la plupart des ouvrages de mammologie comme le loup du
Brésil. C’est cependent le moins carnivore de tous les chiens connus,
et sa nourriture préférée consiste en substances végétales._”

As has been said, the wolf does not reach its highest development
in hot countries. Wolves may be dangerous and destructive within
low latitudes, as is the case both in America and Asia, but it will
be found that when this occurs their range is generally confined to
elevated regions in those provinces. Major H. Bevan (“Thirty Years in
India”) states that “wolves are amongst the most noxious tenants of
the jungles around Nagpore, and they annually destroy many children;
but they do not commit such ravages as in northern India.” The same
is true of the “giant wolf,” _Lupus Gigas_, that Townsend and other
naturalists described as a distinct species; but this brute which
has so evil a reputation in the highlands of Mexico, “the red Texan
wolf,” as Audubon calls it, does not extend in the United States to the
northern prairies; it only exists as a variety of the common species in
the lower Mississippi valley, and farther south.

Audubon remarks that this form of the common species has “the same
sneaking, cowardly, yet ferocious disposition” as other wolves;
nevertheless those anecdotes with which he intersperses his
descriptions are certainly not calculated to foster the belief that his
impression agrees with facts.

There are certain traits and habits belonging to wolves at large
which may now be brought together. They are not by any means strictly
nocturnal animals, but very commonly prowl by night, and in places
where large packs assemble; most of what has with truth been said
against them occurred under cover of darkness. By all accounts, it
is amidst gloom and storm, while the _buran_ rages over the arctic
tundra, that troops of these fierce creatures do their worst among
Yakut and Tungoo reindeer herds. Caribou are not herded, and have been
but little observed by those who could give any information upon such
a point as this. Everywhere, a wolf is destructive, fierce, wary and
sagacious. Moreover, it will often become aggressive and audacious
in the highest degree, when circumstances contribute to foster the
development and facilitate the expression of its natural character.
It is the typical wild beast of its family, and if it is not in many
instances sanguinary and prone to take the offensive, there is a much
better explanation for abstention from violence than that of natural
cowardice. Wolves have far too much sense not to know what they can
gain with least exposure to loss; and no beast of prey, that is sane,
and not driven to desperation, ever proceeds upon any other principle
than this. Given the existence of mind, those accidents by which mind
is modified, and relative differences in degree among its qualities,
must also be admitted. Comparative stupidity, evenness of temper, want
of enterprise, tameness and timidity, undoubtedly distinguish wolf
and wolf, as they do all carnivores. Still this would not account
for the conventional wolf, or explain the anomaly of its imaginary
character, or show why, or on what grounds, it is maintained that there
should exist so great an incongruity in nature as an animal unadjusted
mentally and yet adapted physically to a predatory life; that has at
the same time the disposition of a tiger and the harmlessness of a
lamb, that lives by violence, yet shrinks from every struggle, that
maintains itself by the exercise of powers it must be fully conscious
of possessing, and is constantly debarred from the results which it
might attain through their exercise by causeless apprehension. This is
very nearly what must be meant when a beast of prey is called a coward.

Wolves stalk their prey, ambush it, either alone or in collusion
with others that drive the game, and they also run it down. The jaw
is very powerful and formidably armed, and in proportion to its bulk
this creature is exceedingly strong. A wolf, though structurally
carnivorous, will eat anything--fish, flesh, or fowl, fresh or putrid,
animal or vegetal. When he has gorged to the limit of his capacity, if
anything remains it is commonly dragged to some place of concealment
and buried. Then the brute lies down until the apathy induced by
surfeit passes away. Wolves hunt both by sight and scent, by day and
night. They will certainly interbreed with dogs, producing fertile
offspring; and they may be domesticated. But as they grow older the
characteristics germane to their savage natures assert themselves.
It is said by Godman that “when kept in close confinement, and fed
on vegetable matter, the common wolf becomes tame and harmless, ...
shy, restless, timid.” If he had said it became _ill_, the statement
would have been more conformable with fact. No such interruption of
the normal course of life is possible without an impairment of health,
both bodily and mental. Carnivorous animals are not to be turned into
vegetarians at will, nor any creature’s energies thwarted and cramped
without distortion and atrophy.

Wolves no doubt can swim, but it is certain that a wolf seldom
voluntarily takes to water in which he cannot wade. Audubon saw one
swimming, and others have witnessed the like. Still all accounts
represent these beasts as stopping short in pursuit on the bank of a
stream. Naturalists say that the length of life in this species is
twenty years, and it has been recorded also that they do not become
gray with age. It looks like a purility to repeat what has been
gravely reported more than once; namely, that when wolves have plenty
to eat they get fat, become lazy, and are not so aggressive as under
contrary conditions. On the other hand, nothing is more common than
to find writers explaining every act of audacity as due to hunger.
Most probably it is; they would hardly go hunting while in a state of
repletion. But the question is, how these authorities find out the
exact state of their dietaries, and can be certain that they must be
starving before they will attack the wild Asiatic ox or American moose;
also how much less food is required, to urge them on to assail a party
of men.

In seasons of scarcity wolves of the northern plains prey upon
prairie-dogs, ground-squirrels, hares, foxes, badgers, etc.; small
creatures that offer no resistance, and which it is only difficult to
catch. At the same time they hunt the large game of North America,
and although, much to the disgust of a certain class of writers, the
common wolf, which weighs about a hundred pounds, does not select a
buffalo bull in the best fighting trim as an object for attack when a
less formidable animal of this species can be found, or meet the moose,
that often stands six feet at the withers, or indeed any creature that
can kill him, in such a way as to give it the best opportunity for
doing so, he often has to fight and frequently comes to grief. But they
“give every human being a wide berth,” says Roosevelt, and it would be
strange indeed if they did not, since none are apt to be encountered
who, according to the wolf’s experience, are unprepared for offensive
action, or who do not make it their business in those parts to destroy
him. This fact has been completely realized by wolves of the plains,
and it is for this reason that in these latitudes they have now become,
what Colonel Dodge asserts that they are, “of all carnivorous animals
of equal size and strength, the most harmless to beasts, and the least
dangerous to man.”

A wolf’s structure is not by any means so well adapted to destructive
purposes as that of the larger _Felidæ_. No species of the genus
_Canis_ has either the teeth, claws or muscles which belong to cats.
A predatory animal may, and often does, make an error in judgment,
but there is one thing that it never does, and that is, to attack
deliberately knowing beforehand that it must fight fairly for victory,
and that the issue is quite as likely to be fatal to itself as to its
destined prey. A single wolf is not a match for those large animals
it destroys; and when, in virtue of what Professor Romanes calls the
“collective instinct,” odds have been taken against them, they succumb
before a combined assault.

Where parties of “wolfers,” as they are called, pass the winter in
placing poisoned meat in their way, and in localities in which they
abound, destroy them for their skins by hundreds, wolves would need
to be much less sagacious than they are, if what was noticed by Lord
Milton and his companion was not true as a matter of course. “These
animals,” the account says, “are so wary and suspicious that they will
not touch a bait lying exposed, or one that has been recently visited.”
John Mortimer Murphy (“Sporting Adventures in the Far West”) had seven
years’ experience of the way in which wolves were shot, trapped,
poisoned and coursed. The conclusion he came to from those observations
which he relates so well, was that the wolf in such localities, “large,
gaunt, and fierce as it looks, is one of the greatest cowards known.”
He omitted to mention--but Godman has rectified the oversight--that
wolves carry their natural cowardice to such an extent, and are so
exceedingly dubious concerning what man may do, that a few pinches
of powder scattered about dead game, or an article of clothing left
near it,--in short, any evidence of the presence of a human being will
prevent them from approaching it.

There are several ways of writing natural history, and this is one of
them. It would seem, nevertheless, that if a plan could be adopted
for looking upon the general organization of wild beasts as in a
great measure determining their characters, and for considering, if
possible, anomalous traits as most probably intimately connected with
peculiarities in their situation, we might no longer feel confounded
at finding that sentient creatures are not the same under dissimilar
circumstances. If brutes could be considered to have some knowledge of
themselves, to act like brutes and to feel like them, without reference
to any human opinions whatever, forthcoming literature of this kind
would be benefited.

In those parts of the world where the wolf comes in contact with people
not well prepared to receive him, his attitude towards mankind is
aggressive. In Eastern Europe, for example, Austria, Hungary, Bohemia,
and through the Danubian states generally, wolves occupy quite a
distinguished position for dangerousness, and the inhabitants regard
them with any other feeling than that of contempt. Captain Spencer
(“Turkey, Russia, the Black Sea, and Circassia”), while passing through
that vast forest which separates the more settled tracts of Moldavia
from the Buckowina, was besieged in a half-ruined chalet with his
companions, and the pack continued their attack all night, and lost
heavily.

The coyote,--_Canis latrans_,--that thieving creature which is often
found intermingled with the gray and other coated wolves on the great
plains of North America, has been by some writers--Colonel Dodge, for
example--discriminated from the prairie wolf as a separate species.
Those differences which exist between them, however, have little
classificatory value. Contrasts in size, dissimilarities in color,
marking, and the growth of hair, are all seen in the common wolf,
of which this is “a distinct but allied species,” with northern and
southern varieties.

“There is,” says Schoolcraft, “something doleful as well as terrific
in the howling of wolves.” When people speak of the jackal’s howl,
they commonly call it “unearthly,” but a coyote’s voice is much more
singularly diabolical, and his intonations are so hideously suggestive
of all that is weird and devilish, that it stands by itself among
natural sounds, and cannot be compared with the outcry of any other
creature. Murphy describes it as follows: “The voice seems to be a
combination of the long howl of the wolf and the yelp of the fox;
but so distinctly marked is it from either, that, once heard, it is
never forgotten. The coyote has the strange peculiarity of making the
utterance of one sound like that of many; and should two or three try
their larynxes at the same time, persons would fancy that a large
pack was giving tongue in chorus. The cry appears to be divided into
two parts. It first begins with a deep, long howl, then runs rapidly
up into a series of barks, and terminates in a high scream, issued
in prolonged jerks.” According to conventional opinions, elephants
among wild animals, and dogs among those that have been domesticated,
occupy the highest places in order of intelligence. The author does not
believe this to be the case with respect to the first named species,
and so far as pure intellect goes “Die reinen Vernunft,” no dog can
probably surpass _Canis latrans_. Professor Huxley also reports that
he can find no essential difference between their skulls. While these
animals may be equal, however, in absolute capacity, the coyote,
considered according to civilized standards of manners, is the kind of
creature that if any dog were to take after, he would be incontinently
shot or hanged.

His idea of good conduct is to get what he can honestly procure when
driven to straightforward courses, but by preference to steal it, as
being less troublesome. He is astute beyond comparison in nefarious
practices, and has sense enough to howl with derision (as he sometimes
seems to do) if it could be explained to him that mankind were capable
of judging his behavior according to any other rule of life than his
own. _Homo sapiens_, in a highly evolved state, is imbued with the
truly noble idea that he is the centre of creation, and that all living
things are admirable in proportion as they approach himself. He calls
the coyote a “miserable cur,” “a barking thief,” and says sarcastically
that the brute has kleptomania. Savage man, on the contrary, esteems
him greatly. The two are much alike in many respects. We have already
seen that this little wolf has been adopted as the tutelar of gentes
among Pueblo Indians, and southern tribes of the Tinneh stock, and
its prominence is scarcely less with those of the northwest coast of
America. They honor the coyote; their myths and folk-lore record its
good qualities and wisdom. To them it is the incarnation of a deity or
a demon (these are nearly the same), and it is never killed, for fear
that ill luck might be sent by the spirit of which this animal is the
representative.

Under these happy auspices coyotes hang around native encampments
and villages, interbreed with Indian dogs, grow fat on salmon cast
upon river banks in the spawning season, hunt all that smaller game
which their more powerful relations resort to for supplies only when
hard pressed, and omit to take advantage of no opportunity to gain
possession of provisions which are not theirs. The opinion they
have of the human race is that it exists for their advantage, and
mankind, further than it contributes to their support, is an object of
indifference to them.

More to the south, and in the vicinity of white settlers, the coyote
is oppressed and persecuted; subjected to like usage with that which
the common wolf receives. This state of things is of course accompanied
by changes in character that are not less marked than in the wolf’s
case. It becomes nocturnal in habit, flies from the face of man, and
is one of the most wary, timid, and suspicious of animals. At the same
time its cunning grows greater as the necessity for self-preservation
becomes more pressing, and in the same measure in which it is pursued
does its capacity for evasion enlarge. Speed, endurance, wind, and
invention, all develop themselves. Unlike wolves, whose homes and
breeding-places are commonly in caves or clefts of rock, beneath trees
or within any natural recess, coyotes dig burrows in the open, and are
seldom or never inmates of forests.

As the species approaches its southern limit, the average size
decreases and its color changes. In Mexico, where they are seldom
molested, these brutes prowl a good deal during the day; they pack
likewise more commonly than further north, and if smaller, are also
bolder and less upon their guard.

In Algeria or Oran an Arab knew when the lion was coming by the
jackal’s cry; Brazilian Indians tell one that they can trace a jaguar’s
way at night through the barking of foxes, and it is said by shikáris
in India that a prowling tiger’s path may be known by a peculiar
howl which his frequent attendant--the kind of jackal called _Kole
baloo_--utters on such occasions. The coyote also gives warning of
the approach of foes that are oftentimes more dangerous than either
lions or tigers. But it is by its silence that danger is announced.
In a position where hostile Indians were to be expected at any time,
when the coyote ceased its cries, it was an ominous thing, and
frontiersmen looked out for the appearance of a war party. Everybody
who has been much on the border is probably acquainted with this very
general belief, and it may perhaps be founded in fact; but this much is
certain, that these creatures do not always become quiet when Indians
are about, for the author has more then once heard them howl--coyotes,
not savages who were imitating them--when it was known for certain
that Indians were near, and when the fact of their presence was soon
proved.

Coursing coyotes is a favorite sport with many persons in the West, and
while the weather is cool and dry they often make good runs; otherwise,
the game soon succumbs to heat, or to a serious impediment in the way
of escape--its own tail. This is carried low, and despite his long
hind legs and powerful quarters, the brush gathers so much mud in deep
ground as seriously to embarrass flight.

In those localities where this race exhibits indications of much
timidity, it will be found that every destructive device of man’s
ingenuity is practised against it; even to taking advantage of a
harmless weakness for assafœtida in the matter of preparing poisoned
baits. All this makes certain associations of ideas inevitable, and
special impressions upon his mind things of course. At the same time,
no mortal knows precisely what these are.

Where no such experiences of human malice and duplicity color the
coyote’s character, its conduct is quite different. Under those
circumstances it does not fly from imaginary perils. Even when fired at
it shows no unseemly haste to leave; but if the shot be repeated, then
the hint is always taken, and it vanishes. Most persons who have become
personally acquainted with them must have had occasion to observe that
where they have been subjected to the worst that man can do, their
dexterity in the way of robbery is not more striking than the audacity
by which it is accompanied. It seems difficult to reconcile the idea
of any instinctive fear of man with the conduct of an animal that
will steal through a line of sentinels into a military encampment,
and carry off food from beside watch-fires. They do this; they do
everything that requires enterprise, judgment, and skill, and this to
an extent that, in the mind of an unprejudiced savage, has gained them
a place among his gods.

Once the writer saw as much of the temper of coyotes in their natural
state towards man as it is possible for anybody to see at one time.
It befell that he was badly hurt in front of General Treveño’s
cavalry brigade, then holding the line of the Rio Caña Dulce. When
consciousness returned, horse and arms were gone, and the bushes
around swarmed with these wolves. There may not, however, have been
so many as there appeared to be, for the animals moved in and out of
cover constantly, and the same one was probably seen several times.
The thirst that always follows hemorrhage, and the heat of the sun,
were distressing, neither was it pleasant to be an object of so much
attention to a troop like this, while almost completely disabled. An
overhanging bank lay near, and was reached with great difficulty. Here
one could lean up against the side and contemplate them from a shady
place. They behaved very curiously, and if the attendant circumstances
had been at all conducive to mirth, their spiteful antics, the
pretences of attack they made, and the absurd way in which some of
them assumed an air of boldness, and apparently sought to inspire
their companions with resolution, would no doubt have been amusing. It
was abundantly shown that these creatures looked upon the inert and
blood-soaked individual before them as a prey, and were consequently
in a high state of excitement. Their eyes sparkled and the long hair
around their necks bristled; they made short runs at and around the
position, they pushed each other, and howled in every cadence of their
infernal voices; also some individuals showed the rest how the thing
ought to be done. A rush would have been at once fatal, but it was not
made. Nevertheless, they grew bolder, and when relief arrived, had for
the most part gathered around in the open. What would have happened
when night came, or whether anything, the writer does not pretend to
say.




THE GRIZZLY BEAR


Bears are included by zoölogists in that order whose typical forms
are, besides themselves, the dog, cat, and seal, and they belong to
the higher of those sub-orders into which this group of carnivora has
been divided. _Ursidæ_ hold a middle place among bear-like beasts, and
although their generic history is not so complete as that of others,
Dr. Lund’s discoveries in Brazilian bone-caves brought to light a
fossil form that Wallace regards as representative of an existing
American species. Their palæontological record carries them far back
among the fauna of earlier geological periods, and connects the
sub-ordinal section which contains existing arctoids with insect-eating
and pouched vertebrates on one side, and on the other, with the
precursors of monkeys, apes, and men.

In their most general structural traits bears possess the
characteristic features of all carnivores--their abbreviated
digestive tract, developed muscular systems and sense organs, and
highly specialized teeth. At the same time this genus is considerably
modified, and on that account bears were placed among _Fissipedia_,
which are practically omnivorous. Finally, _Ursidæ_ are plantigrades
with muscles fused in plates, and so exhibit the ungainliness, the
awkward and comparatively slow and restricted movements peculiar to the
genus.

[Illustration: THE GRIZZLY BEAR.

[_From a photograph by Ottomar Anschütz. Copyright._]]

Geographically they are nearly cosmopolitan. Their species, although
not numerous, inhabit arctic and tropical regions, and live in the
lowlands of Europe, Asia, and America, as well as among the mountains
of both continents.

The grizzly bear is confined to the New World, and there is distributed
from about 68° north to the southern border of the United States,
chiefly in the main chain of the Rocky Mountains and on their eastern
and western slopes, but also among the ranges between these and the
Pacific. It has been called by many names. Lewis and Clark, who may
be said to have discovered this animal, speak of it indifferently as
the white and brown bear. Cuvier said he was not satisfied that any
specific distinction existed between the latter and our grizzly, which
has also been identified with Sir John Richardson’s “barren-ground”
species of the Atlantic area. Audubon supposes _Ursus horribilis_ to
have formerly inhabited this province, but the only basis for such an
opinion is found in his interpretation of some Algonkin traditions. The
present title--horrible, frightful, or terrible bear--is a translation
into Latin of George Ord’s name _grisly_, given in 1815. As it is
commonly written, however, its significance is lost, the reference
being to color instead of character. Dr. Elliott Coues and others
have remarked upon this discrepancy, but it is now too late to make a
change. The naturalist Say (“Long’s Expedition to the Rocky Mountains”)
first described this species, although its physical features are well
given by Captains Lewis and Clark, and it was mentioned before their
time. Since then the animal’s dimensions have been often and also
differently determined. Lockwood (“Riverside Natural History”) very
properly gives no ultimate decision. Lord Dunraven (“The Great Divide”)
speaks of having shot “a middling-sized beast weighing about eight
hundred pounds.” Richard Harlan (“Fauna Americana”) says that the
animal’s “total length is 8 feet 7 inches and 6 lines; its greatest
circumference 5 feet 10 inches; the circumference of its neck 3 feet
11 inches, and the length of its claws 4 inches 5 lines.” Captain
Lewis measured tracks “eleven inches long and seven and a half wide,
_exclusive_ of the claws,” which are reported by different observers to
be of all lengths between four and seven inches; and the truth is that
no one has been in a position to pronounce definitely on a single point
respecting this animal’s weight and size. It is the largest and most
powerful beast of prey in the world. So much may be said confidently,
but beyond that data for positive statements are not extant.

With regard to the grizzly bear’s habits, they are variable, like the
color of his coat, which may at one time and place justify the name
he bears, and at another be almost black. _Ursus horribilis_ preys
upon all the large game of North America; he is, as H. W. Elliott
(“Our Arctic Province”) observes, “a most expert fisherman,” and
appears to be equally partial to wild fruits and carrion. These brutes
consume large quantities of mast, they dig up the _pomme blanche_
and other tubers and roots, and it is said that their relatives of
the black species are sometimes devoured. Nothing edible comes amiss
to a grizzly, from the larvæ of insects to spoiled salmon, or from
buffalo-berries to the animal itself. But it must be admitted that
accurate information is wanting upon many particulars connected with
his way of life. Hibernation, for example, which is a trait varying
greatly in its completeness among species of different genera,
appears to be absent in this case. These animals go about both by day
and night, in cold weather as much as in warm. There are perfectly
reliable accounts of their having been encountered at all seasons, and
in situations which were peculiarly favorable for going into winter
quarters if the animal had desired to do so.

Again, the grizzly’s exploits as a hunter are involved in much
obscurity. It does not require great skill for him to catch buffalo,
or supply himself with beef on a cattle range. The _Bovidæ_ in general
are not particularly intelligent, and no doubt an ambuscade which might
be successful with them is managed without much difficulty. With deer,
however, it is not the same. Caribou and elk, the black and white
tailed _Cervidæ_, are not to be had by any man without a previous
acquisition of considerable knowledge, without the power to put this
in practice according to varying circumstances, and without great
practical dexterity in several directions. Bears are not exempt from
the requirements pointed out. All that is true of instinct restricts
itself in every instance of efficiency to the fact that transmitted
faculty makes acquisition rapid and promotes the passage of deliberate
into automatic action. Apart from the advantages he possesses in this
way, a grizzly bear needs to learn in the same way as a man. There are
occasions constantly occurring in which mind must be exercised in a
manner such as experience has not prepared him to meet, and where the
animal acts well or ill, successfully or unsuccessfully, according to
his individual capacity.

John D. Godman (“American Natural History”) calls it “savage and
solitary.” All the more powerful beasts of prey might be similarly
characterized. The influence of organization, inherited tendencies,
and their daily life, indispose creatures of this kind towards
association. Moreover, they are most generally rivals in their usual
habitats, both as hunters and as suitors during the pairing season.
We have no accounts, like those given of lions and tigers, to show
how males behave toward each other under the antagonisms implied in
contact, but everything points towards conflict. Still, as there are
conditions which bring the former together in certain localities, so
grizzlies sometimes congregate. Möllhausen (“Diary of a Journey from
the Mississippi to the Pacific”) reports that at Mount Sitgreaves,
and in its surrounding eminences, their dens were so numerous that
Leroux (a famous guide and hunter of those days) had never seen the
same “numbers living together in so small a space.” They had all gone
when Möllhausen’s party was there, owing to the freezing of waters in
that vicinity. Those places where they had tried to break the ice were
often found, and many trails well marked in snow showed that the bears
had “made their journey to the south in troops of eight or more,” each
detachment going in single file.

Nevertheless, “Old Ephraim,” as mountain men call him, having inspired
all who ever penetrated into his haunts with a wholesome respect,
has naturally been exposed to misconstructions. His character is
frequently represented as more fierce and morose than it really
is. Writers say of him that he will not tolerate the presence of a
black bear, or the variety of this species, according to Baird, the
“cinnamon,” in his neighborhood. They tell how their boundaries are
sharply defined, and remark that occasionally small numbers of these
less formidable members of the family live as enclaves within the
grizzlies’ territories, but are rigorously confined to their own limits.

This is one of those wholesale statements with which descriptive
zoölogy is full. No doubt there are plenty of grizzly bears that would
kill any poaching relative of theirs unlucky enough to encounter them.
As a general fact in natural history, however, the theory of the
separateness of distribution among American _Ursidæ_ will not stand.
Many direct observations show it to be otherwise, and Schwatka (“Along
Alaska’s Great River”) is fully supported in saying that he doubts the
truth of this statement from his own experience. On Cone Hill River he
saw “four or five black and brown bears in an open or untimbered space
of about an acre or two.”

There are spots in India appropriately called “tigerish.” Any one who
knows the beast’s ways would naturally look for it in these sites.
But it is very doubtful if the physical features of localities have
much to do with selection by this species, apart from the fact that
when he feels himself to be in danger, a grizzly gets into the most
inaccessible position possible. He loves cover under all circumstances,
although it is not uncommon in secluded situations to find these
animals far out in open country; but timber and brush seem to be more
or less accidental accessories so far as his preference is concerned.
The animal needs a constant supply of water, and if this can be had,
broken and intricate ravine systems suit it as well as thickets or
forest land. Its partiality for swamps depends upon their productions,
and the fact that game is apt to be found in them. Independently of
special considerations of any kind, the propensity to conceal itself is
a natural and necessary outgrowth of the habits and character of all
predatory creatures. They do so universally, and a grizzly, like the
rest, much prefers a wind-row, precipitous arroyo, or brake, to any
plain whatever which is not overgrown in some way.

Grizzly bears do not climb trees. They are said to shake them in order
to procure fruit, and also for the purpose of dislodging men who have
taken refuge among their branches; in general, however, the animal sits
up and claws down the boughs within reach.

Probably that conventional expression, the “bear hug,” has no
significance anywhere. Some bears hug tree stems in ascending trunks
adapted to their embrace, but Asiatic species of all kinds simply sink
their claws into the bark of boles they would be utterly unable to gain
any hold upon otherwise, and climb like cats. This arctoid is too heavy
for that; he is over-sized, in fact, like the greater _Felidæ_, for any
arboreal gymnastics. The writer can find no reliable evidence to show
that this or any other bear attempts to inflict injury by straining the
body of an enemy within its arms. A grizzly will grasp and hold a man
or beast while biting, or striking with the claws of its hind feet,
and blows from its forearm are delivered as frequently and not less
effectually than is customary with the lion, but beyond teeth, talons,
and concussion, no authentic mention is made of modes by which its
victims are put to death.

All young vertebrates are playful in youth, and if taken early enough,
some would be found even in species commonly regarded as untamable,
that for a time at least might be domesticated. Among _Ursidæ_
untrustworthiness is the rule. They are quite intelligent, capable
of being taught, and competent to understand the necessity for being
peaceable. Yet if one judges from reports they are more unreliable
than the cats. Relatively these animals are not so highly endowed,
and this fact, coupled with inherent ferocity, and an organization by
which passion is made explosive, accounts for the character they bear.
Cubs of _Ursus horribilis_ grow savage very soon. Lockwood and others
regard the species as incapable of being completely tamed. As far as
that goes, however, the same is true of every wild beast able to do
harm. These animals are kept under the same conditions as other show
creatures, and seem to be in much the same state. It is nevertheless
probable that either from a greater degree of insensibility or less
mental capacity, they always remain more dangerous than most _feræ_.
This brute has nothing of the phlegm about him that his appearance
suggests. He is morose, surly, and rough at all times, and even more
liable to sudden and violent fits of rage than a tiger.

Either, as seems likely from what we know of the animals in question,
on account of the fact that those who have had an opportunity
to observe them were exclusively occupied with describing their
destructiveness, or because grizzlies have few of those traits that
make many species interesting, their records are very barren indeed.
A solitary being like this could not possess the engaging qualities
Espinas (“Sociétés Animales”) and Beccari describe among those that
live in association; but other creatures are so placed without losing
all attractiveness. It does not take long to tell the little that is
certain about a grizzly’s ways when left to himself. Besides what has
been already said, we know that they appropriate game not killed by
themselves, and will steal meat wherever it is found. Audubon saw one
swimming in the Upper Missouri after the carcass of a drowned buffalo,
Roosevelt had his elk eaten, and four of them visited Lord Dunraven’s
camp, carrying off all the food they could find. He says “they scarcely
ate any of the flesh, but took the greatest pains to prevent any
other creatures getting at it.” This is not always the case, however.
That they bury provisions is sure, but it is sometimes done very
imperfectly, even when there is no physical difficulty in the way of
completeness. On rocky soil the cache is simply covered with leaves,
branches, and grass. Lord Dunraven, however, tells of a hunter who
watched a grizzly burying its prey with the greatest care, concealing
it completely, and finishing off his work in the most painstaking
manner. Animals that have this habit need not watch their food as a
tiger does his “kill,” and when the interment was accomplished to this
one’s satisfaction, it went away. Before getting far, some “whiskey
jacks” (a kind of magpie) that had been intently observing his doings
began to unearth the deposit. Then he came back, drove them off, and
repaired damages. This happened several times, until the bear flew into
a violent passion, and while ramping around after the manner of these
beasts he got shot. The author had a pony killed on one occasion, and
the murderer buried its remains in the most slovenly manner possible.

These bears collect salmon during the spawning season on the banks
of streams. They also scoop them out of the water with their claws,
and dive after single fish. There are no full accounts of the manner
in which prey is taken among these quadrupeds, but the creature’s
conformation makes it impossible that any of the deer kind could be
captured except by stratagem. A grizzly can make a rapid rush. His
lumbering, awkward gallop carries him forward so rapidly that on rough
ground a man would have to be very fleet of foot to have any chance of
escape. Colonel Markham states that the charge of an Indian hill bear
is so swift that it cannot be avoided, and it appears from all accounts
that so far as speed goes, at least for a short distance, the _Ursidæ_
have in general been underrated. In cover or upon open spaces, one of
these bears always rises up when its attention is attracted, and it
does the same if alarmed or angry, if wounded or intending to attack.
It does this in order to see more clearly; for the sight, although it
is not positively defective, cannot compare with that of many other
species, and independently of the advantage gained by elevation, its
short neck circumscribes vision while the body is in a horizontal
position. The hearing is acute and the sense of smell highly
developed. J. R. Bartlett, while acting upon the boundary commission
between the United States and Mexico, says that at his encampment by
the geysers of Pluton River his party found signs of these animals’
proximity, but that they managed to avoid meeting the intruders,
chiefly, as he supposed, by means of their scenting powers. Lieutenant
J. W. Abert, while hidden with a companion at fifty yards from three
grizzlies, was detected in this way, and the majority of observers have
remarked upon the goodness of their noses. It is also said that they
have an aversion to human effluvium, and that a warm trail will cause
one to turn aside more certainly than the sight of a hunter. This needs
confirmation, and may be taken with the same reservation which should
attach to Godman’s statement that the grizzly “is much more intimidated
by the voice than the aspect of man.” No doubt bears may have failed to
push a charge home because their intended victim screamed with terror,
but both in this case and in that just mentioned, while speaking of the
influence of odor, so soon as such experiences are created into general
truths, they can be met with facts by which they are stultified.

Nothing, so far as the author knows, has been advanced upon the subject
of a male grizzly’s paternal virtues or conjugal affections. As is the
rule with fierce beasts, offspring depend upon the mother for care and
protection. Two or three cubs are born together in spring, and they
have been seen in her company from infancy up to an age when apparently
able to shift for themselves. Very little is known, however, about
the important subject of their training, the length of time during
which they are under tutelage, or the degree to which tenderness and
solicitude are developed in females of this species by maternity. A
tigress robbed of her young has become a familiar simile for expressing
desperation and inappeasable anger, but it has little foundation in
truth, and many reports to the same effect in this animal’s case,
appear upon a wide survey of the evidence to be equally doubtful.
Colonel R. I. Dodge (“Plains of the Great West”) most likely comes as
near the truth as it is possible for any one to do in the present state
of knowledge, when he remarks that although a she-bear will often fight
desperately in defence of her cubs, it is just as probable that they
may be abandoned to their fate if the mother supposes herself to be in
danger.

As might be imagined, grizzly bears can, for the most part, only be got
the better of by being killed. They are occasionally trapped, however.
The instrument is an ordinary toothed spring trap, to which a log is
attached by a chain. When sprung it is impossible either to break or
unloose it, and the furious animal goes off with the entire apparatus,
but is much hampered by this encumbrance, and leaves a trail as easily
followed as a turnpike.

Of necessity such a beast of prey as this has gathered around it a
perfect fog of superstitions, traditions, false beliefs, and incredible
stories. The author is familiar with the scenes in which most of
these exploits and wonders are said to have been wrought, as well as
with the men who relate and oftentimes believe them. As a class, they
are not perhaps greatly superior in culture and mental discipline
to those savages among whom their lives have been passed. Like them,
their observations are generally accurate, and the inferences drawn
from experience absurd. Travellers who associate with undeveloped men
anywhere soon learn to make this distinction. Moreover, the trapper or
hunter seen in general and most frequently met with in books, no more
resembles some exceptional members of this class, than that blustering,
melodramatic assassin, the would-be desperado, does the quiet,
self-contained fighting-man of the frontier, and a wider difference
than these classes present cannot be found among alien species in
nature. If one is fortunate enough to find favor in the eyes of a true
mountain man, he will do well to listen to what is said, and compare as
many experiences with him as possible.

Among reports most rife upon the border is this, that if a fugitive
pursued by a grizzly bear keeps a straight line around a hillside,
the animal is certain to get either above or below him. The writer
has heard men swear that they have tried this and seen it tried, but
would be loath to trust in this device himself. Many persons are also
convinced of the truth of a very prevalent account to the effect that a
puma can kill one of these bears, and frequently does so. Nothing can
be offered on the basis of personal experience or observation either
in corroboration or rebuttal of this opinion. We have seen that there
are good grounds for crediting the fact of Indian wild dogs assaulting
tigers successfully, and the same is not impossible in this instance.
Theodore Roosevelt (“Hunting Trips of a Ranchman”) says “any one of
the big bears we killed on the mountains would, I should think, have
been able to make short work of a lion or a tiger.” At the same time
he remarks that either of the latter “would be fully as dangerous to
a hunter or other human being, on account of the superior speed of
its charge, the lightning-like rapidity of its movements, and its
apparently sharper senses.” The fact of an animal’s antagonist being
a man has evidently no relation to the question of relative prowess.
Those advantages attributed to _Felidæ_ must of course tell in conflict
with any animal proportionately to the degree in which they exceeded
like traits upon the part of an adversary. Cougars greatly excel the
grizzly bear in those qualities mentioned, but how far they might
counterbalance its great superiority in strength is another matter.

Nearly all that has been said of the subject of this sketch relates
to his behavior towards human beings. Records of that character are
not wanting, and it should be possible to give a correct idea of the
grizzly as he appears in literature without overloading the text with
quotations. Those traits to be considered in this connection are
courage, ferocity, aggressiveness, and tenacity of life, all of which
are represented very differently, according as the writers describe
them from hearsay or personal observation, and as they refer to animals
existing in dissimilar times and places, with or without reference to
the fact that this is a creature which has undergone much modification
under unlike conditions of existence. No one can delineate the features
of this species in its entirety, but most persons attempt to do so, and
their accounts are liable to the same objections which have been made
to premature conclusions and want of discrimination in other instances.

The statements of those who know this animal do not disagree very
conspicuously with respect to its character as a formidable foe. Dr.
Elliott Coues, who, besides being a distinguished naturalist, had
opportunities for acquiring a special knowledge of the grizzly bear,
speaks of it in his “History of the Expedition of Lewis and Clark” in
terms which afford a curious contrast to those of men who were less
well informed. In mentioning the difficulties encountered by these
explorers, he observes that “this bear was found to be so numerous
and so fierce, especially in the upper Missouri region, as to more
than once endanger the lives of the party, and form an impediment
to the progress of the expedition.” Lord Dunraven says that on “The
Great Divide” these bears “did not appear to mind the proximity of
our camp in the least, or to take any notice of us or our tracks.
A grizzly is an independent kind of beast, and has a good deal of
don’t-care-a-damnativeness about him.” Godman asserts that it is
“justly considered to be the most dreadful and dangerous of American
quadrupeds,” while Audubon and Bachman, and, it may be added, the great
majority of all who have had any personal acquaintance with the brute,
refer to it in a similar way. Frederick Schwatka, for example, reports
that “everywhere in his dismal dominions at the north he is religiously
avoided by the native hunter.... Although he is not hunted, encounters
with him are not unknown, as he is savage enough to become the hunter
himself at times.... Indian fear of the great brown bear I found to be
coextensive with all my travels in Alaska and the British Northwest
Territory.”

The other side in these opinions is represented by nobody more
positively than Alfred G. Brehm (“Thierleben”). So far as one can judge
from his work, he knew the animal of which he writes only by report,
and if the text of his article is to be taken as an indication of the
authorities consulted upon this subject, they were so few that it is
not surprising he wandered far from reality. This author’s views upon
the character of _Ursus horribilis_ may be thus given in English: “In
its habits the gray bear is similar to ours; like these, it hibernates;
but its walk is staggering and uncertain, and all its motions are
heavier.” Brehm states that in youth the grizzly climbs trees, that he
is a good swimmer, “a thorough thief, and is strong enough to overpower
every creature in his native country.” When lassoed, he can drag up the
horse. “Former writers have characterized him as a terrible and vicious
animal that shows no fear of man, but, on the contrary, pursues him,
whether mounted or on foot, armed or unarmed.... On all these grounds
the hunter who has overcome Old Ephraim, as the bear is called, becomes
the wonder and admiration of all mankind,” including the Indians.
“Among all their tribes the possession of a necklace of bears’ claws
and teeth gives its wearer a distinction which a prince or successful
general scarcely enjoys among us.” He must, however, have slain the
animal from which these trophies were taken, himself. “Statements of
this nature,” remarks Brehm, “are some of them false and others greatly
exaggerated. They were spread and believed at a time when the far
West was but little visited, and when the public demanded an exciting
story about a much dreaded animal that was fitted to play in the New
World the same part that the famous beasts of prey did in the Old.”
This, with much more to the same effect; and then, after a passing
notice that Pechuel and Loesche found no grizzlies that would stand, he
quotes General Marcy at length to show that they are rather harmless,
cowardly, contemptible creatures, and dismisses the beast in disgrace.

Marcy relates (“Thirty Years of Army Life on the Border”) that when he
reached the haunts of grizzly bears, he expected to see destructive
monsters in a perpetual rage, like Buffon’s tigers. It was his belief
that they would attack mounted men with rifles as soon as they came in
sight, that these bears desired nothing more than to fight, in season
and out of it, irrespective of time, place, or circumstances, and
without reference to odds or any former experiences of the results.
Not finding any such extraordinarily besotted idiots as this, the
soldier, who seems to have been as fit to decide upon questions of
comparative psychology as he was to give opinions in canon-law, became
possessed with conceptions that are counterparts of those announced
by Brehm. Those extracts made from the latter were taken from a very
voluminous and undoubtedly valuable work on natural history, but its
author has said nothing concerning the anomaly of a beast of prey twice
as large as a lion and fully as well armed, being naturally timid
and inoffensive, nor offered any suggestions with respect to those
conditions which changed what must necessarily have been the brute’s
inherited character, before it began to avoid mankind; neither has
he, apparently, taken more than the briefest glance at those accounts
of the grizzly which give the results of personal observation. This
animal is not customarily a hibernating one, it is not in the habit
of climbing trees at any age, its reputation was far from being the
outcome of a demand made by popular credulity. A grizzly bear could
easily drag a horse up to him if he had hold of its riata. The Indian
who killed one single-handed with a bow and arrows or trade-gun
performed a feat second to none that can be imagined in the way of
skill and daring, but thousands of rifle-carrying mountain men have
done the like who took small credit to themselves, and got little from
anybody else. This whole description is, considering its source, of the
most surprising and unexpected character.

There are not many accounts of grizzly bears declining to fight; but
it is evident that in this respect the animal, like every other beast
that has been discussed, is more or less aggressive, according to the
locality where it is found. Those bears Lewis and Clark encountered on
the Upper Missouri in 1804, are like the grizzlies of the Yukon to-day,
but their relations, that have been shot for nearly a century, know
about rifles and conduct themselves accordingly. Theodore Roosevelt
(“Still Hunting the Grizzly”) expresses this change very well.
“Now-a-days,” he observes, “these great bears are much better aware
than formerly of the death-dealing power of man, and, as a consequence,
are far less fierce than was the case with their forefathers....
Constant contact with rifle-carrying hunters for a period extending
over many generations of bear life, has taught the grizzly, by bitter
experience, that man is his undoubted overlord, so far as fighting
goes; and this knowledge has become a hereditary characteristic.” With
every advantage in arms, it is yet as dangerous to meet this brute
fairly as to encounter a tiger on foot; and wherever that superiority
has not been of long standing, grizzlies act like those that stalked
Clark, charged Fremont, confronted Long, and killed Ross Cox’s voyageur
on the Columbia.

Colonel Dodge, referring to those that had become familiar with
firearms, says that “a grizzly never attacks unless when wounded, or
when he is cornered.” This is, however, too general a statement. As
one rides out of the Tejon Pass into the Tulare Valley, there is, a
little to the right, an indentation or pocket in the foot-hills, in
front of which stand some huge bowlders. From behind one of them a bear
rushed out and destroyed the famous Andrew Sublette before he had an
opportunity to defend himself. So far as that goes, the result might
have been equally fatal if he had fired, for the writer used to carry
his rifle, and it was far too light a weapon for such game as this.
Goday, who was as renowned a paladin of the plains as he, related
the circumstances of his death, and said that many similar cases had
occurred in his experience. He added that one night, while sitting,
as we were then, by the hearth of his little house at the mountain’s
base, there was a commotion outside at the corral, and going out in
the darkness to see what was wrong, an immense bear rushed at him,
and it was only by an instant that he got inside first. Many persons
have been assailed by grizzly bears they never saw until too late,
and the writer, except for the good fortune of being pitched over a
precipice, would have been another. Some authors have a curious way of
accounting for these incidents. They say that they occur because the
animal was actually cornered, or if that statement cannot be made to
fit the circumstances, its attack is attributed to an impression that
it could not get away. There is no need to dwell upon this explanation.
It is merely a blank assertion upon the part of those who know nothing
about what the beast thinks or feels, and it is plainly one-sided in
so far as it omits to take cognizance of the constitutional temper and
tendencies of the creature whose acts are discussed.

No writer of any note except General Marcy has, so far as the author
knows, denied that a grizzly bear soon comes to bay, and that he then
devotes his energies to destruction with entire single-mindedness.
Those who have met him, alike with those who have acquainted themselves
with any completeness with the observations of others, know that
this brute’s patience under aggression is of the briefest, and his
inherent ferocity easily aroused. When it is injured, the animal
is exceptionally desperate, and fights from the first as a lion,
tiger, and jaguar are apt to do only in their death rally. Colonel
Dodge expresses the best opinions upon this point in saying that
“when wounded, a grizzly bear attacks with the utmost ferocity, and
regardless of the number or nature of his assailants. Then he is
without doubt the most formidable and dangerous of wild beasts.”

“In some way it has come about,” says Lockwood, “that ... Bruin has
secured for himself an almost superstitious respect.” The way he did
so has just been mentioned. Men had reason to fear him, and their
veneration followed as a matter of course. It was because he proved
“most formidable and dangerous” that Schwatka found among the Chilkat
Indians the highest clan called brown bears, and for a like reason the
native warrior wore his claws as a badge of honor.

Ferocity, prowess, and tenacity of life appear most conspicuously in
accounts of actual conflict. Enough has been said with respect to the
first-named trait, and no one ever called the others in question. Major
Leveson (“Sport in Many Lands”) is of the opinion that grizzly bears
should only be met with the heaviest rifles--“bone-smashers,” as Sir
Samuel Baker calls them. Lighter weapons are too often ineffectual, and
Dall (“Alaska and its Resources”) reports that when the poorly armed
natives of that province occasionally venture upon an assault of this
kind, they assemble in large parties, watch the bear into the recesses
of its den, block up the entrance with timber prepared for this
purpose, and fire volleys into him as he tries to get at them. It will
be denied by some, on anatomical grounds, that the Alaskan bears are
grizzlies, but we are not concerned here with structural distinctions,
and in character there is no difference. Colonel Dodge mentions the
case of two soldiers at Fort Wingate who had an unfortunate encounter
with one of these beasts, but does not give the details. Roosevelt,
however, had the tale from the surgeon who attended them, and
relates it (“Hunting Trips of a Ranchman”) as follows: “The men were
mail-carriers, and one day did not come in at the appointed time.
Next day a relief party was sent out to look for them, and after some
search found the bodies of both, as well as that of one of the horses.
One of the men still showed signs of life; he came to his senses before
dying, and told his story. They had seen a grizzly and pursued it
on horseback, with their Spencer rifles. On coming close, one fired
into its side, when it turned, with marvellous quickness for so large
and unwieldy an animal, and struck down the horse, at the same time
inflicting a ghastly wound upon the rider. The other man dismounted
and came up to the rescue of his companion. The bear then left the
latter and attacked him. Although hit by the bullet, it charged home
and thrust the man down, and then lay on him and deliberately bit him
to death, while his groans and cries were frightful to hear. Afterward
it walked off into the bushes, without again offering to molest the
already mortally wounded victim of his first assault.”

It is commonly believed that feigning death will prevent a bear from
inflicting further injuries. In many cases this is no doubt the case.
Few unwounded animals tear a dead body, except in the act of devouring
it. This stratagem must always be of doubtful efficacy, since beasts of
prey would generally be acute enough to detect it. The ruse, however,
may have been tried upon grizzlies with success; they are not brilliant
beasts, so far as can be discovered; but this device sometimes fails. A
hunter told the writer, over their camp-fire in the Sierra Nevada, of
his brother’s death, which he witnessed. They were shooting in those
mountains, and he was on a steep escarpment of rock, his companion
in the ravine beneath. A deer was roused and shot by the latter, when
a large bear rushed upon him, struck the rifle out of his hands, and
knocked him down, but without causing any serious injury. He said that
he dared not fire for fear of infuriating the animal, and shouted to
his brother to pretend to be dead. This was done; the beast walked
round him, smelt at his body, and finally lay down close beside it.
Suddenly he seized upon one of the arms and bit it savagely. The
unfortunate man probably could not control respiration sufficiently,
or there was some involuntary muscular movement. At all events, this
is what happened, and the pain caused him to start up with a loud cry,
upon which the bear rose erect, grasped him with his arms, and, in the
language of the narrator, “bit the top of his head off clean.”

Roosevelt relates that a neighbor of his, “out on a mining trip, was
prospecting with two other men near the head-water of the Little
Missouri, in the Black Hills country. They were walking down along
the river, and came to a point of land thrust out into it, which was
densely covered with brush and fallen timber. Two of the party walked
round by the edge of the stream; but the third, a German, and a very
powerful fellow, followed a well-beaten game trail leading through
the bushy point. When they were some forty yards apart, these two men
heard an agonized shout from the German, and at the same time the loud
coughing growl or roar of a bear. They turned just in time to see their
companion struck a terrible blow on the head by a grizzly, which must
have been roused from its lair by his almost stepping on it; so close
was it that he had no time to fire his rifle, but merely held it up
over his head as a guard. Of course it was struck down, the claws of
the great brute at the same time shattering his skull like an eggshell.
Yet the man staggered on some ten feet before he fell; but when he did,
he never spoke or moved again. The two others killed the bear after
a short, brisk struggle, as he was in the midst of a most determined
charge.”

Everybody makes an oversight sometimes, and although this accomplished
sportsman and careful writer is very free from the blemishes that
usually disfigure observers of wild beasts, there is a slip of the pen
here. How did he know this bear was not waiting for the man it killed?
Nobody saw it until in the act of striking, and why the brute “_must_
have been roused from its lair by his almost stepping upon it” does not
appear. There is at least a probability that its acute senses warned it
of the approach of a heavy man walking carelessly through brush, and of
two others tramping round the cover within forty yards.

The bear’s temper, disposition, and power of offence seem to be
underrated with respect to the species at large. Whether because its
appearance is less impressive than that of animals which have gathered
about them most of the world’s gossip, or for any other reason to
which this inappreciation may be attributed, both in Europe, Asia, and
America, the _Ursidæ_ in general have undoubtedly less reputation than
they seem to deserve, and less than the deeds they do and have done in
all countries would apparently have brought with them as a matter of
course. Poorly armed and primitive populations throughout the earth
think differently, however, about them. In the folk-lore of Europe
and Asia this creature is conspicuous. The great hunters write of it
in a respectful strain. No man who ever stood before an enraged bear
thought lightly of its prowess. A host of well-known names are appended
to statements concerning destructive arctoids in the Scandinavian
Mountains and the Pyrenees, in the Himalayas and Caucasus, the
highlands of Central India, and the forests and plains north and south
of “the stony girdle of the world.”

There is every reason why this beast should be formidable wherever
it has not encountered modern weapons; and that it is so its whole
literature attests. Richardson’s name (“Fauna Boreali Americana”),
_Ursus ferox_, translates his own experiences and those of native
tribes. Colonel Pollock (“Natural History Notes”) asserts that “in
Assam bears are far more destructive to human life than tigers,” and
more than one authoritative statement to the same effect has been
made concerning those of India. It happens curiously that the ancient
documents of China preserve the descriptive title which has been
conferred upon the great bear of America. In Dr. Legge’s edition of the
Chinese Classics, the Bamboo Books have a note appended by some native
scholiast to Part I., relating to the reign of Hwang-te, in which his
general Ying-lung, while fighting against Ch’e-yew, is said to have
been assisted by “tigers, panthers, bears, and _gristly (grizzly)
bears_.”

The grizzly is so difficult to kill that he has the reputation of being
nearly invulnerable. It is quite true that the species possesses great
tenacity of life, and that in extremity the animal is capable of
doing extreme injury. “One of the most complete wrecks of humanity I
ever saw,” says Colonel Dodge, “was a man who had shot a grizzly bear
through the head. Both were found dead together.” Roosevelt killed one
with a single shot. Following his trail among the Bighorn Mountains, he
and his companion, while “in the middle of a thicket, crossed what was
almost a breastwork of fallen logs, and Merrifield, who was leading,
passed by the upright stem of a great pine. As soon as he was by it, he
sank suddenly on one knee, turning half round, his face fairly aflame
with excitement; and as I strode past him with my rifle at the ready,
there was the great bear slowly rising from his bed among the young
spruces. He had heard us ... though we advanced with noiseless caution,
... but apparently hardly knew exactly where or what we were, for he
reared up on his haunches sideways to us. Then he saw us and dropped
down again on all fours, the shaggy hair on his neck and shoulders
seeming to bristle as he turned toward us. As he sank down on his fore
feet, I raised the rifle; his head was slightly bent down, and when I
saw the top of the white bead fairly between his small, glittering,
evil eyes, I pulled trigger. Half rising up, the huge beast fell over
on his side in the death throes, the ball having gone into his brain.”
Generally it is not so soon over. Captain Lewis mentions a case in
which one did not succumb until eight balls went through its lungs, and
several into other parts of the body. This officer also relates that
one of his party was pursued for half a mile by a grizzly he had shot
through the lungs, and which it finally took eight men to kill. Lewis
said he would “rather encounter two Indians than one grizzly bear.”

On the other hand, this powerful and ferocious creature may
occasionally be destroyed or beaten off with seemingly inadequate
means. Single Indians sometimes killed it; white hunters with
“pea-rifles” often; and Roosevelt reports that he had a stallion that
disabled one by a kick in the head. A similar account is given by
Colonel Davidson (“Travels in Upper India”) of an incurably vicious
English thoroughbred at Lucknow, which fractured a tiger’s skull when
condemned to be devoured by this beast. Major Leveson, who had met most
species of _Ursidæ_, regarded the grizzly as “by far the largest and
most formidable of his race, ... one of the most dangerous antagonists
a hunter can meet with.” But he knew that weapons before which the
black rhinoceros and African elephant are powerless, prove too much
for this animal also, and therefore refers “the numerous accidents
that have occurred in hunting the grizzly to insufficiency of weight
in the projectiles generally used.” If the hunter be “armed with a
large-bore breech-loading rifle, and keep his wits about him,” he has
the advantage, barring accident. But even then, “should the bear not
be shot through the brain or heart, unless his assailant maintain his
presence of mind, and put in his second barrel well and quickly, the
chances are that the latter will come to grief, if his comrades fail to
come to the rescue.”

Leveson relates the following experience of his own: “We were encamped
on the Wind River ... when at daybreak one dreary morning a cry of
alarm rang through camp, and I was awakened by our people hurrying
to and fro in noisy confusion.... As I drew near to the clump of red
cedars whence the sound of firearms issued ... one of the half-breeds
came running back and informed me that the row was occasioned by a
grizzly, that had tried to carry off one of the baggage ponies, but had
been driven off by the guard, who fired at him, and that in revenge he
had carried off an Indian boy who had charge of the dogs. Guided by the
shouting, which still continued, and accompanied by Pierre, who carried
a second gun, I entered the copse and found a big grizzly evidently
master of the situation; for although three or four of our Blackfoot
scouts were halloaing around him, he did not appear to mind them, but
confined his attentions to Crib, a bull-terrier, that pluckily kept
him at bay by dancing about all round him, without risking a mauling
by getting within striking reach of his claws. I was mounted on a
thoroughly broken Indian mustang ... and rode pretty close up before I
saw that the boy was lying on the ground apparently so badly hurt as to
be insensible, while the faithful old dog was doing what he could to
protect him by harassing his huge antagonist.

“On my riding up to about twenty yards’ distance, ‘Old Ephraim’ raised
himself on his hind legs, and cocked his head knowingly on one side,
as if he were going to make a rush. Whilst he was in this attitude,
his brawny chest being fully exposed, I gave him the contents of both
barrels almost simultaneously, which rolled him over on his back, where
he made several convulsive movements with his paws.... Dismounting, I
took my second gun from Pierre, and gave him the coup de gràce behind
the ear, when, with a peculiarly melancholy, whining moan, he stretched
out his great limbs and breathed his last.”

The boy, though wounded, was feigning death and escaped, but it must
be admitted that the ruse was tried under exceptionally favorable
circumstances. “Many and many a spirit-stirring yarn,” says Leveson,
“have I heard related by hunters, around the watch-fire, of their
encounters with the much-dreaded grizzly.” Bear stories are greatly
alike, he adds, and concludes his description by saying, in much the
same way as Colonel Dodge (“The Black Hills”), “from my own experience,
I should always give ‘Old Ephraim’ a wide berth if I were not armed
with a thoroughly serviceable breech-loading rifle throwing a large
ball.”

The annals of hunting preserve the name of no greater or more
adventurous sportsman than he who gives this opinion. It is one which
every one who has encountered the grizzly bear will agree to, and it
might also have been arrived at from studying the literature of this
subject alone.


                             Norwood Press:
                 J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith.
                         Boston, Mass., U.S.A.




Transcriber’s Notes


Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Transcribers corrected several spelling and accent errors in French.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.

Text refers to Colonel “Delgorgue” but the correct spelling is
“Delegorgue.”


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