ELEPHANT HERD “AT ATTENTION.”

“The story of the brute’s reluctance to leave his young friends in England was judiciously spread broadcast here and he became the feature of the circus, whereas otherwise he would probably have attracted only passing attention. It was his own fortuitous conduct and not the superior skill of the showman that made his circus career so profitable. Jumbo was killed by a train at St. Thomas, Ontario, in July, 1885. A dwarf elephant with him escaped injury, and the show made some capital by asserting that the big elephant sacrificed his own life in shielding his small companion. As a matter of fact, he was seized with another fit of unyielding stubbornness and wouldn’t step down an embankment out of an express’s path. He was never south of Louisville or west of Omaha. Matthew Scott was his keeper. He shared not only his bed, but his bread and tobacco with his charge. After the brute’s death he followed the circus wherever it went, and during the winter visited almost daily the preserved skin and bones of his late companion.

“There was, of course, a Jumbo II., but he was nowhere near the size of the original beast. Harnessed with electrodes and other apparatus he stood in the middle of the Stadium at the Exposition Grounds at Buffalo, N. Y., on November 9, 1901, and gave the world a practical demonstration that an elephant can take twenty-two hundred volts of electricity with apparent unconcern. If the electric current reached his nerves he manifested no sign of it. Electric wires had been run from the Exposition power house to what was to be Jumbo II.’s death platform, and when the signal was given, twenty-two hundred volts were turned on. It merely tickled the beast. Jumbo II. was unharnessed and taken back to his home in the Midway. Explanations made by the electricians were that the elephant’s hide had the resistance of rubber and formed a non-conductor impervious to electricity. Others said the voltage was not sufficient. He had developed man-killing qualities, but is still alive.

“When Jumbo was brought into this country, Adam Forepaugh made great claims for his elephant Bolivar. He insisted in large type and in many newspapers and on the billboards of his route that Bolivar was bigger than the elephant from London. W. W. Cole, then conducting a show of his own, claimed, too, that his animal, Samson, was no smaller than Jumbo. Bolivar attracted great attention through the country while with Mr. Forepaugh. Finally he became so vicious that he was given away to the city of Philadelphia, where he could be more closely watched. I remember the story of the narrow escape of two lumbermen in Michigan. They came to the show very drunk and wanting to fight. They threatened Mr. Forepaugh, who stood at the door, but he said he wasn’t a fighting man and sent them on into the menagerie tent. They were stalwart fellows, with muscles hardened by rough out-door work, but I doubt not the owner of the circus could have bested either one in a pugilistic encounter. Mr. Forepaugh was a man of tremendous strength and, when aroused, a match for the most skilful slugger. The boasting visitors had not been under canvas five minutes before the sound of lamentations penetrated to the door. Hurrying inside, Mr. Forepaugh found one of the men, he who had been particularly bold and aggressive and threatening, crying like a baby. Tears dropped from his eyes as he explained that he had sought out Bolivar and challenged the huge beast to personal combat. The elephant appeared to have relished the joke keenly, for he had swung his powerful trunk at the man and deftly plucked his soft felt hat from its uncombed resting place. The beast’s eyes had twinkled merrily, it was averred, as he conveyed the headpiece to his capacious mouth and swallowed it at a gulp. The terrorized victim, his swagger changed to cringing fright, was too overcome to even ask for the price of a new hat as he fled toward home. Mr. Forepaugh laughed gleefully. Bolivar’s digestive powers were equal to the demands of the morsel.“Bolivar had a long and eventful history. Probably his most thrilling experience was a terrific fight with an untamed Nubian lion named Prince at circus winter quarters in Philadelphia, in December, 1885. The lion escaped from his cage, chased a keeper out of the building and proceeded to the elephant quarters. Bolivar stood nodding where he was chained to a stake near the door. Prince hesitated for a moment and then lay back on his haunches. He crept slowly forward until he was within reach of the elephant. Then he raised his paw and struck at the supine trunk. The tough skin was somewhat torn and Bolivar became instantly fully awake, and raising his trunk made a blow at the lion. The latter escaped by jumping backward, then crouched again and prepared to spring. Quick as a lightning flash was the movement which landed him on the elephant’s head. But he had to deal with a power greater than his own, over which his only advantage was his agility. Bolivar easily shook him off and tossed him some distance. The contest was then quickly decided. The lion prepared for another spring. With ears flattened against his head and eyes gleaming like balls of fire he crept forward stealthily, cautiously measuring the distance. With a suppressed growl the lithe, tawny form shot through the air. The elephant’s trunk was then turned over his back and his little black eyes were snapping viciously. With a motion so quick as to be almost imperceptible, the proboscis was lowered and elevated twice and then descended with terrific force, striking the lion as he was in mid-air. The beast of prey fell stunned, and before he could recover the elephant dealt him a terrific blow in the side, and reaching forward the full length of his chain he drew his antagonist toward him. Then lifting his free foot he leaned his entire weight on the fallen foe. The effect was to crush the ribs of the conquered monarch of the forest. In this manner he trampled all over the lion until life was gone. Then he raised it with his trunk, and tossed it contemptuously to the other end of the room. Bolivar sustained no serious injury in the affray. There would have been general relief among the employees if the lion had killed him, for all were in fear of their lives near the monster.

“The white elephant campaign in the ’80s was about the fiercest bit of circus rivalry I was ever mixed up in,” he continued. “The Barnum show was the first to get one of the brutes. Their agent bought him from King Theebaw, the erratic sovereign of Burmah. The elephant was not white, but a leprous-looking shade of flesh color. It was really the first time one of these Albinos had ever been brought out of Asia. All that the king had done in the extravagant execution of his autocratic power was as nothing compared to the sale of the white elephant, and his subjects were furious. You see, the white elephant is a sacred emblem. It is addressed as the ‘Lord of Lords.’ Priests prostrate themselves as it passes by and all the honors of worship are paid to it. A noble of high rank has to be its chamberlain. Its retinue is fit for a prince of the blood royal. Sickness in the sacred animal is ominous of coming evil. Its demeanor and gestures afford auguries, auspicious or sinister. For three years the Barnum white elephant made a lot of money for the show. Crowds flocked to see it, serene and placid and gently fanning itself with its wide ears, under a large Japanese parasol, native keepers meanwhile playing their queer musical instruments. It was burned to death in 1887.

“The history of the Forepaugh white elephant is more picturesque and eventful than that of the rival circus. The boss was taken all by surprise when the other show sprang the natural curiosity, but he was quick to act. Before the Barnum animal had reached this country from London, a dispatch in the newspapers from Algiers announced the purchase there by Forepaugh of a white elephant for ten thousand pounds. Its entry into America must needs have been accomplished with great secrecy and haste, for the beast was on exhibition in less than a month after the story of the sale. Then the competition for white elephant supremacy began, and it continued bitterly during the existence of the two animals. We made all sorts of charges of deceit and trickery against the Barnum elephant, and that show advertised us all over the land as cheats and impostors and swindlers. Our elephant was almost pure white. He had a car all to himself and on the way to and from the lot was swathed in cotton cloth. Only his eyes were visible and public curiosity was heightened considerably when was observed the pains we exerted to prevent a free view of the curiosity’s hide. In the menagerie tent we had a performance of religious rites before the animal by reputed Burmese priests, clad in shimmering robes of yellow, red and white silk. Some observing visitor once remarked unkindly that the religious act terminated suddenly when the menagerie tent was empty and was resumed with wonderful alacrity when spectators approached. It is true that the elephant was a more snowy white on Monday than at any other time of the week, although sometimes the skin had been spotted and stained on Saturday. To prove that it was no artificial color, Forepaugh used sometimes to send the brute into the water. He was rubbed and scoured without affecting his shade. The boss was sure that there could be no charge of disguise or pretence after that, although suspicious onlookers sometimes said something about waterproof paint. Any way, we got an international authority on zoology in Philadelphia to endorse the white elephant. His sponsorship made the Barnum people furious and their circus followed us west, denouncing us everywhere. We made them madder still by buying a white monkey and making it the elephant’s companion.

“In Chicago we came across an embassy from Siam which was touring this country. Forepaugh had the audacity to invite the heir-apparent to the Siamese throne, who was one of the party, to visit the show and inspect the white elephant. The royal person came, accompanied by other dignitaries, looked the beast over and muttered to the interpreter something which was apparently not complimentary. The press agent saw to it, however, that the newspapers said that the prince had declared the animal the genuine article.

“Our white elephant died from pneumonia, the newspapers told, at the winter quarters in Philadelphia. There were no details of the burial. White elephants are delicate in constitution, any way. Certain persons who thought themselves wise said that the ‘dying’ experience was a cessation of ‘dyeing,’ but they were inspired by the Barnum show. The following season a dark, natural beast, in form much resembling the white elephant appeared as ‘John L. Sullivan,’ the boxing elephant. He wore a glove on the end of his trunk and swung gently at ‘Eph’ Thompson, a colored trainer. His career as a pugilist continued for five years, when he became so big and strong that no human being could withstand his blows. He is now one of the Forepaugh herd which perform a famous dancing act.

“As a matter of fact, I know that R. F. Hamilton, the accomplished director of the Barnum & Bailey press department, has in his possession affidavits from the Forepaugh employees whose duty it was to see that the white elephant never faded, in which they confess their perfidy. A brush and snowy liquid were the only requirements.”

Our circus carries a herd of twenty-five elephants and most of them are trained in all sorts of difficult elephant performances, a task requiring patience and perseverance, and a close and continuous study of the nature of each individual animal. Of all beasts, the elephant is probably the most sagacious. He never forgets. Trainers aver that after a lapse of half a century the elephant will conduct his performance as perfectly as if but twenty-four hours had gone by. Their value to a circus rests not merely upon the attraction of their ring exhibition. Their great strength makes them useful when heavy wagons defy the straining efforts of horses, and they are frequently called into other service which requires unusual power. The application of the broad head gives motion to the most obstinately stationary vehicle, and often extricates the show from annoying plight and delay.

There are two distinct species of elephants. The Asiatic differs from the African, not only in its greater size and in the characteristics of the teeth and skull, but also in the comparative small form of the ears, the pale-brown color of skin and in having four nails on the hind feet instead of three. The intelligence of the former class is greater, too, than that of the African brute, whose head is much shorter, the forehead convex and the ears of great breadth and magnitude, covering nearly a sixth of the entire body.

The average term of an elephant’s life is probably about eighty years, and he is not in possession of full vigor and strength until more than thirty years old. An approximate idea of the age can be gained by the amount of turn-over of the upper edge of the ear. The edge is quite straight until the animal is eight or nine years old; then it begins to turn over. By the time the beast is thirty the edges lap over to the extent of an inch; and between this age and sixty the droop increases to two inches or more. Extravagant ideas are held as to the height of an elephant. Such a thing as an elephant measuring twelve feet at the shoulder does not exist in India or Burmah. An authority on the subject says the largest male he ever met with measured nine feet ten inches, and the tallest female eight feet five inches. The majority of elephants, however, are below eight feet, and an animal rarely reaches nine feet, the female being slightly shorter than the male. The carcass of an elephant seven feet four inches tall, weighed in portions, gave a total weight of thirty-nine hundred pounds; so an elephant weighing two tons should be common enough. The skin was about three-quarters of an inch to one inch thick.

The training of elephants for exhibition purposes is accomplished by a block and tackle and harness, so arranged as to force them into required positions. They learn easily, as compared with the cat family of animals. It is only by the most constant surveillance by the keepers, however, that the elephant is kept in good humor and not tempted to display the ferocity which is one of his natural attributes.

The first elephant ever born in captivity in this country saw the light at the winter quarters of Mr. Bailey’s Show, at the corner of Ridge avenue and Twenty-third street, Philadelphia, on March 10, 1880, at twenty-five minutes to three o’clock in the morning. The event attracted a great deal of attention among scientists and students of natural history. From the time the circus went into winter quarters, several of the most distinguished physicians of the city regularly visited the prospective mother, and the diet and conduct of the animal were studied with great care. Crowds of people flocked to see the baby. Its birth disproved a great many theories which scientific men had accepted as facts of zoology since the days of Pliny. The chief of these were that the period of gestation is twenty months and twenty days, and not from twenty-two to twenty-three months as had been supposed, and that the young does not suckle the mother through the trunk but through the mouth. The baby, whose mother, Hebe, was oftener called “Baby,” weighed one hundred and twenty-six pounds, was thirty inches high and measured thirty-five inches from the tip of the trunk to the crupper. It was of a pale mauve color. The trainer of Hebe explained to the scientists that the other animals in the herd were aware of Hebe’s condition for months and exhibited their form of elephantine courtesy to her. Upon one occasion, he asserted, Hebe was about to fall from a broken pedestal in the ring when the other elephants rushed to the rescue. With their huge bodies they formed a cushion against which she fell, sliding gently to the ground. Whenever Hebe called, the other elephants invariably rushed to her side, and the man who tried to abuse her would have met instant death. So great was the interest aroused in the baby elephant’s birth that Stuart Craven, manager of the circus, received telegrams from all parts of the United States suggesting names for her. One man offered to buy a robe for her if given a name he suggested. A lady wanted the baby called after her. The name Columbia was finally selected. After the birth of her infant, Hebe tossed the little one around like a shuttlecock, and in her frenzy twisted off a large beam with her trunk. It was found necessary to secure her with chains.