It must not be supposed that all captive felines are amenable to education. The personal equation enters in very largely. What will do for the lion may do for the tiger, the leopard, the puma, or the jaguar; but what will do for one lion may not do for another, nor can all tigers or leopards be trained alike. Many, in assuming that the lion is brave and the tiger treacherous, and in ascribing set qualities to the others, are generalizing without basis.

The lion is feared for his clumsiness as much as anything, because it makes him likely to do serious damage unwittingly; the jaguar and leopard for their terrible swiftness in action; and the tiger for a tenacity of purpose which, when once aroused, is almost unconquerable. But it cannot be said in general that one is more to be feared than another. It is the individual that must be reckoned with by the successful trainer.

One animal may be of a heavy, phlegmatic disposition; another may be slow and stupid; a third subject to fits of unreasonable and ungovernable rage; another curious and inquisitive, making him incessantly restless; another nervous and timid; and yet another will show a fussy and irritable disposition, and refuse to perform unless all the circumstances are just as he considers they should be.

With rare exceptions, all the felines are untrustworthy and more or less treacherous, and no matter how long they may have been trained, or how well their trainer may know them, they are liable at any moment, and without the least reason, to turn on him. Each one has his characteristics, and it is these special characteristics which require such extremely careful study and continual watching.

Weather affects wild animals in just the same way in which it affects human beings. This appears to be the case specially with lions. Damp, muggy weather will make them seemingly depressed and irritable, and in this state they are doubly unwilling to do anything they do not feel inclined to. In hot weather they become lazy and sleepy, and it is sometimes with the greatest difficulty that any of the lions can be made to perform. This laziness is natural. In his native state the lion sleeps all day, and will only go out for food at night when urged by hunger.

In cold weather, Captain Bonavita finds his lions so frisky and playful that it is extremely dangerous to make them perform, for a playful lion is a terrible thing—with even a tap from one of his paws he can break the neck of a horse.

One cold, frosty day, when Captain Bonavita was trying to get his lions to perform, one, a huge beast, was particularly playful, and, in spite of all his care, at last got one claw in the cloth of his coat. In a moment the animal dragged him to the ground, and, not being able to get his claw free,—as it had caught in the cloth,—became wildly enraged. Had it not been that one of the men outside the cage gave the trainer an opportunity to cut the cloth, he would have lost his life in a few minutes.

Apart from all these physical variations, the peculiarities of temperament also must be studied and watched. Each animal is so different from its fellows and so subject to sudden changes of temper, that this requires the most careful observation; nor can any reason often be found for their different actions.

There is a very famous lion now performing who fears but one thing: a stick in the left hand. The trainer may have a club, a whip, a knife, a pistol, or even a firebrand in his right hand, and the lion will spring for him fearlessly, but the smallest thing in the left hand will keep the animal perfectly tractable. No satisfactory explanation of this individual peculiarity has ever been offered, and one trainer limps for life simply because he did not make the discovery in time.

Lions have no affection; they become used to and tolerant of their trainers, and their obedience and docility is partly, if not wholly, due to ignorance and to the dread of anything they do not comprehend. They seemingly do not understand why the trainers are not afraid of them, and do not appear to realize that one little blow could put them out of existence. It is only when they lose respect for their trainer—either because he has contracted bad habits, or because he has been foolish or unguarded enough at some time to let them see that he was nervous—that they realize that he is only a small thing compared to themselves, and turn on him.

The great majority of cases of defense of a trainer by an animal have little foundation, other than the minds of the ingenious press agent. But there have been rare cases where animals have conceived a real affection for a trainer, and fawned upon him like a dog, and even protected him from others when they attacked him.

One such case concerned Mme. Pianka. During a rehearsal at St. Louis several years ago, she was suddenly attacked by a young lion and thrown to the floor. Instantly, a smaller lioness, of whom she was particularly fond and who had appeared to return the affection, leaped upon the lion and gave him so much to attend to that the trainer got to her feet, and was then able to whip the offending lion back to his corner. No trainer, however, depends on such interference; in fact, he knows and takes it for granted that if he is attacked and thrown, the other beasts in the cage will join in only too quickly.

The fellowship of animal for animal in the bonds of slavery is stronger than that of animal for man. Once in the cage, the trainer is alone among vastly superior forces that at any moment may become hostile, and his wisest plan is always to mistrust and look out, and not to expect anything but united hostility should he slip or be attacked.

An animal seldom, if ever, attacks a trainer for blood or a desire for meat. The danger lies in the instinct of ferocity; and many experiments made in this direction undoubtedly prove that animals attack from inherent fierceness and savagery alone. A tiger will occasionally show a desire for blood, but other animals very seldom.

I made an experiment some years ago in order to see whether civilized food would make any difference in the nature of a wild animal. I had a fine, well-grown young lion, which I reared for two years on cooked food—boiled meat and vegetables. He had never tasted blood or raw meat, and yet when he was a little over two and a half years old he broke out and killed a fine young buck which was loose in the runway behind the cage; and when in the arena afterward, proved to be no different in any way from the other animals who had been brought up on raw steaks and other fresh meat.

It is doubtful whether lions, tigers, and their kin have minds developed in a wild state to anything like the degree attained by those of the smaller fur-bearing animals, such as ermine, fox, wolverene, or a number of the smaller rodents. They are endowed with so much agility, strength, and endurance that they need hardly exercise much thought in securing their livelihood; while the caution and ingenuity required of the weaker species, in order not only to get food, but also to escape from their enemies, tend to sharpen their faculties daily.

The only enemy feared by the larger wild beasts is man. Why they should feel this supreme awe of man it is difficult to explain. Neither his size nor his erect position can account for it, and it is only in long settled and much frequented regions that his firearms are dreaded. The explanation probably is that they are unable to comprehend his habits, to fathom his mental attitude, to learn what he is likely to do next, and are awed by the mystery of his conduct, as we might be by that of some supernatural being of unknown power who came among us and threatened our liberty and our happiness.

The minds of the great carnivora are little exercised in nature, and do not develop. Accustomed to seeing all the denizens of the forest quail before them, they do not know what it is to feel a sense of help needed or of favors granted. It is perfectly natural, then, that trainers should say that kindness is not appreciated by them. A tigress is, in most cases, as likely to eat up her keeper after six years of attention as she would be after six days, should she consider that she were safe in doing so. A quiet tiger is always to be feared and watched carefully. Mr. Charles Miller, who has been so successful in training the fiercest Bengal tigers, has no fear of the noisy ones, who are forever growling, snarling, and spitting defiance; but of the others, who are stealthily quiet and show in no way by voice or gesture that they object to what he has to do, he takes the greatest care and caution. Whenever he is obliged to turn his back on one of these tigers, he takes care to turn it on the snarling ones, who do nothing but make a noise. The quiet ones are only waiting for the very first opportunity to spring, and one spring from a tiger is fatal. In one performance, Mr. Miller turned his head quickly to find a treacherous animal crawling stealthily on his stomach toward him. The instant the tiger saw he was noticed he stopped, and began to lick his paws in the most indifferent manner, but the next moment he was trying to do the same thing again, until brought smartly up by a flick of the whip. This he also took quietly, although with a curious hiss. He was simply biding his time. It is an acknowledged fact, among those who know anything about wild animals, that continual quietness invariably goes with a mean or savage nature, and that the animal who does not snarl should be carefully watched at all times by those who have anything to do with him. Why this should be an indication it is impossible, at least for me, to say. I have studied the matter very carefully, and many of the cleverest trainers and owners of wild animals have done the same.

As a rule, lions are much slower than lionesses. They are far more deliberate in their movements, and, consequently, seem more haughty and majestic. A lioness will frisk and romp about even when she has had several families, but a full-grown lion will seldom, if ever, depart in the slightest from his habitual grave, solemn manner. Generally speaking, the female felines are more easily managed and not as dangerous as the males, but they are always crafty and treacherous, and the time when they appear to be indifferent or off their guard is the time to be more than usually cautious. There are, of course, cases where the females act swiftly and suddenly without treacherous motives, and this makes them even more dangerous, because one never can tell when this may happen. At Philadelphia, some years ago, we had an illustration of this, and of what a terrible and lightning-like blow a jaguar can give.

This jaguar, a magnificent female, had been rehearsing some fancy leap from shelf to shelf, and as a finale was to jump from a projection from the side of the cage, about seven feet high, to a wooden ball some ten feet distant, and maintain herself upon the ball until a given signal from the trainer—a most difficult feat. The graceful creature measured the distance carefully for a few moments, keeping her eyes fixed on the ball, and stretched her slender neck forward toward the goal before essaying the leap.

Then she launched herself. That leap was a study in beauty of form and grace of motion, but there was a slight miscalculation. The jaguar landed on the ball, but after clinging desperately for a moment to the oscillating sphere, fell to the ground, landing in a crouching attitude. Swifter than the eye could follow, there was a motion of the paw, and the wooden ball, weighing nearly a hundred pounds, sailed across the stage and hit the bars with an impact that shook the entire structure as an earthquake would have done, frightening the pair of lions and the leopard who shared the cage almost to a frenzy.

As for the jaguar, she glared fiercely round with a hiss and snarl, as though to see whether any of the others were laughing at her, and then slunk away to one side, where she examined her paw with an appearance of solicitude, listening meanwhile to the rebukes of the trainer with obvious confusion. It is the possibility that at any moment a blow of that caliber may land on him, which effectually prevents the trainer from experiencing any feelings of ennui when in the cage with wild animals.

Elephants have their little peculiarities, like all other animals, and one of them is their strange and often unaccountable antipathy to some persons, and their warm affection for others. One of my elephants is of a most gentle disposition, but hates the sight of a dog. A tiny toy terrier is enough to drive him nearly frantic, and unless the animal is removed at once he would kill him instantly, for an elephant makes up his mind quickly.

The majority of wild animals appear to be fond of music, although a great many dislike it extremely. As a rule, the large carnivora seem to like it, and the trained animals will often rouse themselves at the sound and look round inquiringly. There is no doubt whatever that it is a stimulus to them. In many cases it is their principal cue, and without it they are uncertain, restless, and unhappy.

Some time ago the band of a traveling show went on strike in the middle of a performance, and left in a body. Three trained tigers were the next feature on the program. When they came on they looked inquiringly at the orchestra for the music, and then two of them quietly settled down on their haunches and refused to go on. The third, who was of less experience, made a feeble start and then joined his companions on strike. Orders, commands, threats, and flickings of the whip were useless. No music, no performance, was obviously the motto of these tigers; and they stuck to it until finally the trainer, finding that to try to force them further was dangerous, was obliged to let them return to their cage without giving any performance at all.

The trainer feared that he would never get them to perform again, for once let an animal off his performance and it generally means that he expects and insists on not giving any more exhibitions at all. However, the next day, when the differences with the musicians had been settled, and the tigers were brought out again, they seemed perfectly satisfied as soon as they heard the music, and acquitted themselves better than ever.

One incident which has always puzzled my trainers and myself occurred with a fine, full-grown Barbary lion. When the band has been playing a certain set of tunes for some time, it will naturally change them for newer and more popular ones. I have never noticed that the animals were aware of it, but in this case there was one tune which this particular lion did not like. The moment it was started he grew restless and uneasy, moaned and whimpered, and finally roared to such a degree that we could not imagine what was the matter with him.

This went on day after day and night after night, until at last we noticed that he always did it about the same time, and finally, when the tunes were changed about a little, that he always did it when a particular tune was being played. We tried him the next morning, at quite a different hour, with the same tune, and it had the same effect. The moment it was started he would get up, moan, whimper, snarl, and grow more and more uneasy, until he worked himself up into a rage and roared at the top of his voice, which was strong even for a lion.

The music appeared to irritate his nerves. Whether this was so or not I cannot tell, but it evidently annoyed him to a painful degree. After making sure of this fact, I ordered that tune to be left out for the future, and from that time to this he has never shown dislike to any other music, and is quiet and peaceable, and a good performer.