For fully a third of a century the large elephant bearing the name of the great discoverer was well known to all the “Show” loving inhabitants of our country. He was remarkable for his great size and bad temper, and, if he had been left in his native wilds, might have established a notable reputation as a rogue elephant. His keepers were of the opinion that he made the mistake of his life when he became a mere show animal, engaging in an occupation that required a certain amount of decent behavior.

It was said of him that he was a very reasonable sort of an animal when permitted to have his own way, but never submitted to confinement with any sort of grace. He was always enraged at being chained to the ring or stake, and sometimes decreed capital punishment, which he executed himself, for the unfortunate keeper who was guilty of the offence of chaining him. He was very much given to breaking and bolting, and when once in the open, and fairly on the go, he became a very dangerous customer, and his keeper, if wise, would give him a wide field until his rampage was finished.

One among the many of them, who died in the seventies, was his friend, and never had any trouble with him, and he always insisted that the lively escapades of his ponderous charge were the result of an all absorbing longing for liberty. He used to describe the magnificent old pachyderm as the living embodiment of a justifiable revolt. He had not much sympathy for the keepers who had been executed, nor did he have much respect for their knowledge or discretion. According to his theory, they were mere machines for so much per month; they never studied the character or feelings of the splendid animal in their charge; they were inconsiderate, unnecessarily harsh and cruel, and, from the unnaturally-confined elephant’s standpoint, in most instances got what they deserved.

The Columbus incident, of which an account is to follow, was not a particularly exceptional one, and the description of it was written by the friendly old keeper who had charge of the hero of it during two consecutive years back in the thirties. The narration is a modest one, and its phraseology proves it to have been written by a man of rare courage. It was printed in a Cincinnati newspaper in the month of February, 1870, and is now given, with the editorial head note just as it appeared.

“THE ELEPHANT COLUMBUS.”

“Letter from another witness of his rampage near New Orleans.”

“The account of the rampage of the elephant Columbus near New Orleans, in 1839, which we published some time since, has refreshed the memories of many old showmen, and as we are always glad to publish anything of interest to them, we give the following letter, which we think will prove entertaining to our readers generally:

South Pomfret, Vt., January 30, 1870.

To the Editor of the Chronicle:

I have just received a copy of your paper, of December 31, 1869. I do not think the statement headed ‘A Curious Circus Reminiscence’ is quite correct. At that time I was the advertiser of one branch of the Combined Circus and Menagerie. We were to exhibit in Algiers until the 7th of January, and in New Orleans on the 8th, that being the most popular day with the people of that city. William Crum was driving Hannibal, and George Potter Columbus. It was Crum’s horse that was knocked down, and Crum was killed. Samuel Ward and myself were standing within ten feet of Crum when he was killed. We had a bet on the height of the two elephants, and that was the reason why they were brought alongside of each other. Columbus was shot under the eye before he killed the drayman. We did not exhibit in Algiers. The people were too much frightened to attend. So we went to New Orleans on the 1st of January, instead of waiting until the 8th.

On the same evening the difficulty occurred, James Raymond and James Humphrey, proprietors, came to me and wanted I should go and look after Columbus. I told them I would if John Carley would go with me. I knew him to be an old elephant man. They asked him: he said he would like to go, but was sick and would rather be excused. The next morning George Growe, a young green hand, who came with Foster’s company, volunteered to go with me. I must confess that when he came forward it cooled my courage, but two horses were saddled and brought to the door. I mounted mine in rather a confused state of mind, wishing myself anywhere except where I was. When we started out it was dark and foggy. I told Growe to go ahead, and, after going about half a mile, we put up for the night on a flatboat. At daylight the next morning we started again, and proceeded down the river about nine miles, where we found Columbus in a canefield, with his head against a pecan tree, asleep. I may now remark that Growe’s courage had somewhat cooled off, and he had fallen some half mile to my rear. I rode toward the elephant until I got within hailing distance, and then spoke to him to come to me. He raised up and began shaking his head. Presently he started for me the best he could, and my horse did a good business getting out of his way. He followed me for about six miles, and then came to a halt in front of a large pile of lumber on the levee, which he proceeded to throw into the river as fast as possible, and then started after me at a more moderate gait. When we got in front of a church at Algiers he made a second halt. I then told him to lie down, and, to my astonishment, he obeyed. I got off from my horse, took my knife, stuck it in his ear and held him down until assistance came from the canvas, which was about half a mile off; then Growe took him by the ear and led him to the canvas, and, the same day, we crossed over to New Orleans. Growe took care of him all that winter and left with him in the spring, but was killed by him the next summer, as I learned afterward.

Poor Crum met with a terrible death. Columbus’ tusk entered his groin and came out at his shoulder, going through the entire length of his body.

These are some of the exact facts as they occurred for I was on the spot, and saw the whole affair. I could say much more, but do not think it necessary.”

The writer of this letter was for two years the constant and interested companion and friend of, possibly, the most unruly and bad-tempered elephant ever exhibited in the United States, and the reason he got along with him without accident was that he devoted his undivided attention to his charge, studied his character, gave him frequent opportunities for bathing, and as much liberty as circumstances would permit.

The old keeper used to say that Columbus “was full of odd whims and more given to mischief than malice.” When there was any hard work to be done, like lifting cage wagons out of the mud, or clearing roads of fallen trees, he was always ready to do his full share, and was never so happy as when actively engaged in some laborious occupation. Once in a while he would take it into his head that he would like a good run and an opportunity to indulge in mischief, such as uprooting trees, scattering fence rails, pulling off barn doors that happened to be standing open, etc. etc. It was his habit to signify his desire, after the “show was over,” by trumpeting nervously, dancing in his elephantine way, and tugging at his chain. These notifications did not come very often, but when they did, if not too inconvenient, his request was complied with. These calls never came just before the performance or while it was in progress. The mischief-loving old sinner was far too wise for that, for he had a most lively appreciation of the usual inflow of goodies from the boys and girls who were courageous enough to encounter the danger of “feeding the elephant.”

The last conversation I had with the successful old keeper, only a year before his death, was about his singular charge, and he insisted upon the truthfulness of his old theory—that the elephant was not naturally bad, but hated confinement, demanded kindness and consideration from those who were the visible instruments used in depriving him of his liberty, and, when he received neither, revenged himself by killing the tyrants who were depriving him of the freedom to which he was naturally entitled.

My old friend used to say: “It’s awfully hard lines for such a magnificent old beast as Columbus was to be tied up and deprived of liberty, and, if I had been in his place, I would have killed more fools of keepers than he did. Why, the old elephant was just as smart as any of us. He had thought the whole thing out for himself and put the boot on the right leg every time. He knew we’d no right to confine him the way we did, and made up his mind to be judge, jury, and executioner, and in his time he did a lot of killing. I don’t quite remember how many he made away with; some put it as high as ten, but I guess seven or eight would be about correct.

“When I was first asked to take charge of Columbus, I was in the business part of the ‘Show,’ and had never thought of becoming an elephant-driver. But somehow, without effort or knowing why, I got well acquainted with the old fellow, and, although often warned of his dangerous amusements, was never afraid of him.

“During the winter of 183- and 183- we were in quarters at C——. The confinement had been long and close, and during the whole winter Columbus had been restive and cross. When it came time to start out for the summer’s business no one could be found to drive him. So, as a last resort, the owners offered me a large salary for the job. I had no fear concerning the success of the undertaking, but hesitated about becoming a professional ‘elephant-man,’ but the big pay was a great temptation, and I yielded.

“The first few days after we started out upon the road, my charge was cross and cranky, and I had to watch him all the time as a cat would a mouse. Upon one occasion, when against my orders, just for the mere deviltry of the thing, he went out of his way to turn over a plantation cart that was standing by the roadside, I went for him savagely, with hook and spear, and gave him a big dose of something he didn’t want; he soon had enough, threw up his trunk, and yelled like a schoolboy being flogged.

“This submission proved to be his complete surrender to my will, and from that time we got on like a pair of loving brothers. We became strong friends, and I used to talk to the old rascal as I would to a human being. I have always believed he understood more than half I said to him.

“He became very fond of our morning race. It was the custom to start early in the morning—never later than four o’clock. When we would get fairly out of a village where we had exhibited the day before, I would ride up alongside and ask him if he would like a run, he would answer by throwing up his trunk, giving a trumpet sound of joy, and starting off at a stiff gait, keeping it up until I called a halt, and, if we happened to be near a stream deep enough to hold him, he would take to it, and stay until the rest of the show came up.

“No, I never had much difficulty in getting along with Columbus. From the start he found out I was not afraid of him, and that I would give it to him if he cut up any of his wicked capers; and he also came to understand that I was his indulgent friend who humored many of his harmless whims and treated him kindly.

“At the end of two years I was both glad and sorry to leave him. The watchful confinement had become irksome, and I was sure that as soon as I would leave him he would get into trouble,—which he did, and had a bad time of it to the end of his days. I have always felt kind of sorry for having put the knife through his ear, and never would have done it if I had not been excited and scart half out of my wits. If I had given my common sense half a chance, it would have told me that his lying down was a sign of recognition of authority, and that he was willing to throw up the sponge and behave himself. But I guess he forgave me, for, whenever afterwards I went near him, he would give me the old time friendly greeting.

“It’s many years now since I left the show business, and I’ve thought the whole thing over, and concluded it’s all wrong. The confinement is unnatural and cruel. Even the little animals in cages, while they seem to be happy, are as miserable as they can be. Take a careful look at them when they are not tired out or asleep, and you will find an anxious expression on all their faces—a sort of looking out of their cages for some one to come along and open the door.

“The great cat tribe, Lions, Tigers, Leopards, Panthers, and the rest of them, are always pushing their noses against the bars for liberty, and are usually pretty cross because they can’t get it.

“At any rate, it’s pleasant for me to look back upon my many years of intercourse with the poor creatures, and to feel that I never, save in the single instance, treated one of them unkindly.”

Assisting in the two years of successful management of Columbus was the inevitable “elephant dog,” who was his constant companion and friend. They slept together nights and tramped side by side during the days, and often, when the elephant would not obey his keeper, the faithful companion would, in some mysterious way, induce his huge friend to do the reasonable and behave himself like a respectable and order loving beast.

I have forgotten the manner of the taking off of the old slave of the “Show,” but he, with his friendly keeper, who to the end of his days was his champion, have long since passed on to that mysterious resting place from which neither man nor elephant have sent any message back, and let us hope that after their many trampings, and as a reward for the many miseries endured while upon earth, that they are now enjoying the rewards bestowed upon the forgiven and blest.