R. K.

he Elephant has always been one of the wonders of the world, amazing in his aspect and full of delightful and surprising qualities. Nor does familiarity lessen his hold upon the imagination of mankind. Next after the cow he seems to be of all the beasts the Hindu favourite. At the present moment the most carefully-kept studs of Elephants are in the hands of Hindu Rajas, and the Muhammadan Nawab prefers the horse. This is an ancient predilection on the part of the Hindu. While other animals represented in Hindu Art are merely decorative and conventional, or awkward and ill-understood, there is invariably a strong feeling for nature in Hindu elephant sculptures and paintings. The contrast may be noticed in most old temples, but especially in the sculptured gates or tori of the Sanchi tope in Central India, where all kinds of animals are shown, but the elephant alone is carved with complete knowledge, and unvarying truth of action.

The grave beast is as great a favourite of the poet as of the artist. The back view of the elephant as he shuffles along, is like nothing so much as that of the stout and elderly "long-shore" fisherman and sailor of our English watering-places, whose capacious nether garments, alone among human habiliments, have the horizontally creased bagginess peculiar to the elephant. Dickens said long ago that the elephant employs the worst tailor in all the world. But these wrinkled columns suggest feminine grace to the Oriental poet, and "elephant-gaited" is the supreme and also the invariable expression for the voluptuous movements of women: "A voice as sweet as that of the Koil, and a gait as voluptuous as that of the elephant: An eye like the antelope's, a waist like the lion's, and a gait like the elephant's," are specimens of an endless series of descriptions of female beauty. Nor are these expressions confined to ancient poetry, for they are as current to-day as ever they were. Walking behind elephants and women, I have occasionally seen a hint of the poet's meaning, but only a hint; and one is driven to the conclusion that the simile, like many more in Oriental verse, is mainly conventional. The beast gets along so quietly he might almost be said to glide, but his movements have little of the fine rhythmic swing and poise one sees in the noble gait of a well-formed Hindu woman.

As furnishing a head to GanÉsa, GanÉsh, or Ganpati, the wise and humorous god who is invoked at the beginning of all enterprises, whose auspicious image is placed over most Hindu doorways, and whose mystic sign (familiarly spoken of as a GanÉsh) stands on the first page of Hindu ledgers and day-books, the elephant has an immense hold on the affections of the people. His sign ? is the svastika, the cross fylfot of our Western heraldry and the hermetic cross of Freemasonry, traceable from Troy town to China. The traveller and the pilgrim look to GanÉsha for protection, the merchant for fortune, the student for advancement, and the housewife for luck.

The popular version of the origin of GanÉsha is that during one of the absences of the great Lord Shiva, Parbati his wife, taking a bath, rubbed some tiny pellets off her skin and amused herself by moulding them into the form of a child, till at last she breathed life into it. Shiva returned and was outraged to find a baby where no baby should be, so he promptly cut off its head with his sharp war-quoit. Then Parbati explained and Shiva said in effect: "Dear me! this is very sad, why did not you speak sooner?" Then, catching sight of an elephant standing near, he cut off its head and clapped it on the decapitated baby. "Now, it's all right!" said he, "I was always rather hasty." And, to make amends, he ordained that in every enterprise GanÉsa's name should be the first called upon. So the elephant's head grew on the God-like body, that is to say, on the corpulent body of a well-fed Baniya, who in his four hands bears suitable emblems,—a disc or war-quoit, sometimes interpreted as a cake, an elephant goad, a sacrificial shell, and a lotus. His seat is a lotus, and his steed or vÂhan a rat. In this state he sits over thousands of Hindu doors. His effigy is modelled in clay and gaily painted for most Hindu households in Western India, and on his great feast-day, after four days' worship, thousands of such effigies are borne with shouting and rejoicing to be thrown into the sea or the nearest water. If GanÉsha stood he would be the very image of many fat, rupee-worshipping Baniyas, to be seen all over India,—even as—with some irreverence—I have ventured to draw him. But he never stands, though a fat man is often spoken of as a "cow-dung GanÉsh."

Although at first sight merely monstrous to Western eyes, this quaint personage grows in interest as one learns his attributes and becomes familiar with his character and person. He seems, as he sits meditatively poising his heavy head, to be the Nick Bottom of the Hindu Pantheon, with a touch of the jovial humour immemorially associated with fat men. Like Falstaff, he appears to chuckle over his bulk and to say, "I cannot tell whether it is the weight of my head or of my belly (in Southern India he is familiarly known as the belly God) that prevents my rising, but here I sit and survey mankind with cheery geniality." Campbell in his "Pleasures of Hope" speaks of "GanÉsa sublime," which to those who know him for what he is,—the sagacious and respectable "God of getting on"—is a deliciously incongruous epithet and a false quantity besides.

He is mixed up in countryside stories with mere human creatures in a friendly fashion which shows that he is a popular favourite. Thus, once upon a time Shiva and Parbati were strolling about on the earth, and they visited a temple of Shiva, in the precincts of which sat a poor beggar-man asking for alms. Parbati said to her awful husband, "It is really too bad that this man, who has been begging here for years in your name, should not be better provided for. I call it discreditable." They passed, wrangling, into the court of the temple till Shiva impatiently cried: "Ho! GanÉsha." The voice of GanÉsha came from the inside—"Ho!" "Let something be done for the tiresome beggar-man your mother has been bothering me about!" "Very good; I will see that he has a lakh of rupees within the next three days." "That will do," said the great Mahadeo, and he passed away with his quarrelsome wife. Now, while they were talking, a Hindu Baniya (dealer and money-lender) was standing hidden behind the pillars, and though nearly frightened to death, he cast about in his greedy mind how to secure that lakh of rupees. So he went to the unconscious beggar, sitting in the outer court, and asked about his earnings. "My earnings are nothing," said the beggar, "sometimes a copper or two, sometimes only cowries, sometimes a handful of rice or pulse;—nothing." Pretending to be interested in the matter from mere curiosity, the usurer offered five rupees for all the beggar earned during the next three days. Startled by this large sum, the beggar held back, protesting the Baniya would be a loser, whereupon more were offered. The talk went on in the dawdling inconclusive way that only those who have tried to strike a bargain in India can understand, till finally the beggar insisted on consulting his wife. As frequently happens in Indian stories, as in Indian life, she was a very clever woman: "Depend upon it that usurer is after no good; offered you fifty rupees, did he? Then it's worth more than fifty times as much. God knows how, but that's not our affair. Go back and don't give over bargaining even if you go as high as half a lakh of rupees."

The beggar went back and the bargain began again, and was finally closed at half a lakh of rupees, which were duly brought to the wondering mendicant.

The usurer hung round the temple, anxious to see how GanÉsha would bestow the lakh of rupees on the beggar-man. At last he heard the approach of the Gods, and as they passed the beggar, the mother of Death and Life asked Shiva if anything had been done for him. Again GanÉsha was summoned, and as Shiva spoke, the great stone threshold of the temple rose from its place and jammed the trembling usurer's leg against the wall. Said GanÉsha—"It is all right! the beggar has received half of the promised lakh of rupees, and I've got the man who owes him the other half fast by the leg here, and he will not be released till he has paid the uttermost farthing."

Then that covetous one's liver was turned to water, for he knew that he who owes to the Gods must pay.

When a native storyteller repeats a triviality of this kind, one seems to see the belly-god asleep in the dusk of the temple and to hear the rustle of his dry trunk uncoiling as he awakes, the jovial carelessness of his voice echoing in the carved vaults and roof, and his chuckle of satisfaction as the usurer is caught.

There is no trace of the humorous and friendly vulgarity by which GanÉsha the elephant-headed and Hanuman, the monkey god, are distinguished among the Gods of the Vedas, where the clouds sail high; while the comparative rarity of their sculptures in the older temples shows that they had at first but a small share in official mythology.

Here it may be worth while to say of the popular impression that the Vedas are text-books of Hinduism, that it is incorrect. Most educated Hindus talk of the Vedas, and modern Hindu reformers, like Rammohun Roy, Keshub Chandra Sen, and Dayanand Saraswati, insisted that the Vedas contain the elements of all the religion the world can want; but to whip a dead horse with deep emotion and lively faith does not necessarily bring it to life again, and the Vedas have been dead for centuries. Their literary resurrection is part of the revival of Oriental Scholarship brought about by European Scholars such as Colebrooke and his many successors. It has been said by a competent authority that nine hundred and ninety-nine of every thousand Hindus know nothing about them, and that they are not Hindu in any real sense.

In the earliest myths the elephant is said to take the place of thunder and lightning, and is one of the steeds of Indra, but while horses and cows are perpetually referred to, mentions of the elephant are comparatively rare. The Solar Garuda still survives—(the Brahminy kite is called a garuda in Southern India),—and he carries an elephant in his beak as in the Hindu epics. The ancient fantasy that four elephants support the four corners of the earth is still alive, and they are thus represented in mystic diagrams printed and painted on calico for Hindu Jogis. Pictures and sculptures of the goddess Lakshmi show her seated while elephants pour water over her head from vases upheld in their trunks. It seems fair to conclude that though the elephant was a favourite of the earlier poets, he came late to his present high place in the celestial company through the side door of popular liking. It is also possible that he was admitted late because he was unknown to the earliest writers.

Buddhism, now dead and done with as far as India proper is concerned,—and so overgrown with fungous growth of idolatry and demonolatry in other lands as to be almost unrecognisable,—has its elephant legends. The elephant takes the place of the dove in the Annunciation to Maya Devi of the coming of the BodisÁt. She lies asleep and the creature appears to her in many sculptures at Amravati and Southern India, but, hitherto, only once in the extensive series from the North-West frontier where the Buddhist legend is told with more than a mere touch of the classic Art of Europe. Another incident of the legend is the miracle of the subjugation of the elephant, made mast or frenzied by Devaditta, the envious schismatic, and sent to meet and murder the Lord Buddha. They met as the conspirator hoped, but instead of trampling the master underfoot, the creature stood still and worshipped as Buddha touched its forehead. Later stories tell of an elephant's body hurled an immense distance by the Lord Buddha, but they belong to a cycle of incrustations of dead matter.

An ancient use of the elephant has come to light in the copperplate and other inscriptions which are all that is left to record early Hindu dynasties. Grants of land, wells, and buildings made for religious purposes were set forth in poetical terms in inscriptions which are often of great length. Frequently, in fixing a boundary an elephant was turned loose and the course the wise beast took was accepted as the limit of the grant. How he went north by such and such a stream, then turned north-east towards a clump of mango trees and so forth, is elaborately described; the notion evidently being that the elephant was heaven-directed. But one can see the astute attendant Brahmans from here, skilled in directing the heavenly intuitions of both men and beasts to their own profit. The praises of kings as rehearsed on these documents are monuments of hyperbole. Rutting elephants, fighting elephants, thousands of elephants, millions of elephants, billions of elephants frenzied with blood and irresistible in strength, are as naught to these monarchs of the prime, who also are represented as miracles of benevolence and virtue. No superlative is too strong for these absurd rigmaroles, among which antiquarians grope in search of a fact, a name, or a date. There are many lies in history, but Hindu writers are remarkable for having deliberately and of set principle ignored all the facts of life. All is done, however, with such an air of conviction and pious purpose that we must use Dr. Johnson's kindly discrimination and say they are not inexcusable, but consecrated liars.

I know a Jemadar of Mahouts, i.e. a head elephant keeper, who says there is a tradition among men of his craft that elephants first came to India from the farthest East,—"from China and beyond." This notion was supported by quotations from elephant words of command, some of which "are not Indian talk and must be Chinese" (or Burmese). An elephant driver's philology may not command much respect, but the notion is worth mentioning. The Sanscrit word hathi, the "handed" one (Lord Tennyson, following Lucretius, says, "serpent handed"), in popular use is less used by mahouts than the Pali, gaj, frequently compounded with weapons, flowers, etc., to make a name, as KatÁr-gaj—dagger elephant; Moti-gaj—pearl elephant. The Persian word pil is also used,—the chess bishop is a pilah or elephant, and an elephant stable is a pil-khana. No beast has so many pretty names; Pearl, Diamond, Necklace of Beauty, Lightning, Lily, Rose, Jasmine, Lotus, Silver Star, Garland of Flowers, Golden One, Black Snake, are a few, and the heroes and heroines of poetry also lend their names to my lord the elephant, and testify to the esteem in which he is held. For female elephants the word piyari, love or darling, is frequently added to some pretty female name, as Radha piyari; (Radha is Krishna's wife). Mahouts also claim that he is the only animal in man's service who is told in so many words to eat and sleep. As a matter of fact, although there may be a word of command for sleep, it can be of little use, for no creature sleeps so little or so lightly,—seldom for more than four hours out of the twenty-four.

A popular and ancient name for a king is Gajpati, Elephant Lord. The beast is a pageant in himself, and when arrayed as only the Oriental knows how, he is splendid in colour and majestic in mass. The finest part of the ceremonial at the Delhi Imperial assemblage, was the great fleet of elephants riding at anchor, so to speak, among the serried waves of troops and people. When the tremendous feu-de-joie that followed the proclamation was fired, there was a movement of alarm among these mighty creatures. "That startled them," we said, but did not guess the truth, that several people were killed in the crush that followed the slight stir we saw in the distant host as when a breeze stirs the growing corn. Kings are not now the only lords of elephants, for a significant sign of the prosperity of the country is the possession of elephants by men whose fathers never owned them, and whose rank would be better represented by the word Squire than Lord. Many merchants and traders can now better afford the glory of elephants than real kings. There is a Raja in the hills,—a very small Raja,—with a very small income, exactly four-fifths of which are spent in maintaining an elephant, the awe and admiration of his little handful of subjects. They all spend much of their large staple of leisure over the elephant, and rightly too, for he is a more imposing symbol than a crown and sceptre or a diamond plume, and when their Raja rides forth, they follow him with pride and shouting.

Though essentially amiable, the elephant was often made to serve as public executioner by native princes in the ante-British days. Sometimes the victim was bound hand and foot, then the living log was chained with a fathom long chain to the hind foot of an elephant which was swiftly hurried through the city for all to see the battering out of his life. It is only a year or two since the executioner elephant of a Hill State, which was known to have killed a large number of persons in his official capacity, died from cold while crossing a mountain pass. The Raja to whom he belonged towards the close of his career was more than half mad and led his little court a terrible life. He used to appear in durbar saying: "I have been dreaming of such an one, let him be slain." A respectable old gentleman whose forehead was disfigured by a scar, told a friend of mine how it was once his fate to be dreamed of and ordered for execution, and how he was only saved at the last moment by a friendly Wazir or Minister suggesting to the Raja that if the poor man paid a fine of a thousand rupees and was branded on the brow, he would probably take care in the future not to interfere with His Highness's dreams, whereas if he were killed outright his ghost would surely reappear. This argument prevailed for once. It was the Raja's pleasure to officiate as mahout on these occasions. The bound victim was handed to the elephant, who at the word of command seized him with his trunk and whirled him right and left against his fore-legs with the familiar action, peculiar to elephants, of swishing the dust from each wisp of provender before putting it into the mouth. Then he was thrown on the ground and kicked from fore to hind feet to and fro, then his arms were wrenched from his body. Then the great feet came down upon him in turn, and at a final word he was knelt upon; the now lifeless body being crushed to a shapeless mass. And all was done with a slow deliberation of ordered movement that must have been terrible to see. Dr. Wolff describes another hill Raja as a most stupid and ignorant man, and "the most horrid brute that ever lived. His great delight was to ride upon an elephant, which was made to tread upon a little child, so as to crush it to death."

Yet cruelty ought not to be a tradition of the HimÁlaya, for the only Oriental I have seen shed a tear for an animal was a Wazir or Minister of that same Hill State, which need not be named here. Once at a halting-place far in the hills, leaning on a rail with a friend, we watched the sunset. At a little distance a pony was grazing on a tiny green meadow terrace above the road. As we looked we saw with amazement that the pony was disappearing, hind-quarters first, until it sank completely out of sight; nor, from our point of view, was there any apparent solution of continuity in the green carpet on which but now it stood. One of those absurd occurrences that incline you to pinch yourself to feel if you are awake,—it was in reality quite simple. The meadow was the roof of some long disused huts, and the rotten timbers supporting the soil had given way, letting the surprised pony down into a sort of cellar. The beast was the property of a Wazir returning with his retinue from a visit to Simla, and his grief was quaintly demonstrative. Weeping hard, he laid alongside the chasm trying to embrace his steed, nearly tumbling in himself, and while we were busy with ropes and timbers hauling the creature up and contriving that he should emerge on the side towards the hill, the good Wazir distractedly hovered round, wringing his hands, and doing less than nothing in the work of rescue. The pony was never in danger, was no whit the worse, but its master's tears were real and his words of sympathy were sincere.

The real character of the elephant has been studied exhaustively and described once for all by Mr. G. P. Sanderson in his admirable book, Thirteen years among the wild beasts of India. Mr. Sanderson is not only a master of Indian woodcraft and a Nimrod of varied experiences, but a most sympathetic observer of animal life and character, and yet as acute and discriminating as a Judge on the Bench. He has disposed of the wonderful stories of cunning and devotion attributed to the elephant, such as the douche of dirty water thrown over the spiteful ninth-part man who pricked the creature's trunk with his needle, and the artilleryman snatched from under the wheel of a gun. Mr. Sanderson also says that "the natives of India never speak of the elephant as a peculiarly intelligent animal, and it does not figure in their ancient literature for its wisdom, as do the fox, the crow, and the monkey." My experience is that the popular estimate of the elephant's character and intelligence is a high one; and with regard to the neglect of the animal by ancient writers as a type of wisdom we should remember that Oriental poetry and legend have adopted from the earliest times a series of similitudes to which they adhere with mechanical fidelity. There is a polity of animals, so to speak. The jackal is cunning and clever; the tiger is fierce and deadly, but may be most ignominiously deceived and played with by clever jackals and old women; the crow is sly and ready; the parrot is wise, a tale-bearer, and full of resource; the monkey is intelligent and kin to man; the serpent, when he is not a prince bewitched, is secret, malignant, and powerful; the dove is gentle; the deer and the antelope are tender and affectionate, pious Brahmans of the jungle—and so forth and so following; but the elephant invariably appears as the image of power and might in war. Kings are elephants and so are great warriors. Ticketed, as it were, with this lordly label, the poet and the storyteller of the prime, whose means were simple and whose discriminations were broad, would hesitate to notice in the elephant homely qualities already assigned to the jackal, the crow, and the monkey.

The permanent retention of the elephant as the type of martial prowess is another illustration of the merely literary and unobservant quality of much of the work for which our admiration is challenged by scholars. The real fact of the animal's nature is gentleness. His trunk might be packed full of the jewels of which he is said to carry a priceless sample in his head, so careful is he to guard it from danger. Nor is he cautious without a cause. He cannot live without his trunk, and though guarded by a pair of ivory bayonets, it is as vulnerable as a garden slug. It is admitted in a saying still current that "the mad elephant destroys its own army." If, for mad, we say frightened, we reach the main truth of elephant warfare from the time of Porus to that Mohurrum fÊte day when Raja Sahib drove his elephants with iron-clad brows against the gates of Arcot, and Clive's bullets sent them raging back to trample on their own masters.

Mr. Sanderson speaks of mahouts as "rascals more often than not," and as "invariably superstitious and ignorant." They tell and believe of the beasts in their charge more wonderful stories of intelligence than any in our children's books. These stories have spread and are so firmly credited that I venture to question his assertion that natives of India never speak of the animal as peculiarly intelligent. A mahout told me and a group of native friends, of an elephant that cherished a grudge against his driver, who, being aware of this, kept carefully out of the animal's reach, and on the march spread his sleeping-blanket at what he thought a safe distance. But one night the elephant chewed the end of a long bamboo till the fibres were loose and brush-like, and, pushing it "gently, gently, slowly, slowly," towards his sleeping enemy, whose long hair was loose, twisted the bamboo so that its fibres were firmly entangled, and before he could awake pulled the poor wretch within reach of the quick kicking feet, which promptly made an end of him.

All my friends believed this terrible tale, and so did I,—for the moment; and that is quite enough for all artistic and Oriental purposes.

They also gave credit to a calculating elephant who was allowed a ration of twelve flap-jacks of wheaten meal for his supper. But the mahout had a large family and appropriated one of the cakes. The wise elephant turned the pile over and laid out the eleven cakes in a row, trumpeting loudly when the master came by; so that mahout was beaten with shoes.

Another tale, for which I do not claim implicit belief, tells of an elephant who with his mahout was engaged to root up bushes in a tea garden. The mahout, like more of his class, was in the habit of going on periodical drinking bouts. Once he asked for ten days' leave to attend a funeral, assuring the Planter that he could instruct his beast to work faithfully under the goad of a substitute who was there and then introduced, while the elephant was formally charged to behave well and work hard during his master's ten days of absence. But the funeral was a very thirsty one, and on the eleventh day the mahout had not returned. The substitute came rushing up to the Planter's bungalow, crying that the elephant refused to work. The British Planter said he would see about that, took his whip, and went to reason with him, but presently came back at his highest speed, followed by the angry beast with uplifted trunk. The coolies ran away in fright, and for two days my lord the elephant roamed round the deserted gardens at his leisure. On the thirteenth day the mahout returned and was received with gladness by the animal, who forthwith set about his work with a will; but they say the Planter, being a bloated capitalist, refused to retain a creature which could go on strike to such purpose as to shut up the whole concern.

Mahouts also believe that when a wild elephant is coming downhill and cannot reach forward with his trunk to sound a dangerous foot-hold, he breaks a sapling and, holding it like an alpen-stock, probes and feels his way. Colonel Lewin tells me of a belief in the Chittagong Hill tracts, that wild elephants assemble together to dance! Further, that once he came with his men on a large cleared place in the forest, the floor beaten hard and smooth, like that of a native hut. "This," said the men, in perfect good faith, "is an elephant nautch-khana"—ballroom. It is a common remark that stout people are often light dancers, and sometimes most eligible partners. The elephant, in spite of his bulk, is both on land and water a very buoyant person, quick on his feet and, in his deliberate way, as clever a kicker as a mule, which is saying a great deal. There is therefore no reason why he should not dance, and I confess to a deep envy of the Assam coolie, who said he had been a hidden unbidden guest at an elephant ball. Elephants are easily taught to dance by American and European circus trainers; and it is recorded by an American trainer that elephants off duty, left entirely to themselves, have been seen to rehearse the lessons they have learned. Let us believe, then, until some dismal authority forbids us, that the elephant beau monde meets by the bright Indian moonlight in the ballrooms they clear in the depths of the forest, and dance mammoth quadrilles and reels to the sighing of the wind through the trees and their own trumpeting, shrill and sudden as the Highlander's hoch!

It is firmly believed that dead elephants are buried by their kind. Mr. Sanderson admits that he is unable to account for the total absence of their remains in the jungle, and so gives us leave to share for once in an Orient mystery, dim and inscrutable. The free-thinking native who solves it by boldly claiming that the great beasts, left to themselves, do not die at all, does not diminish the marvel, which still remains to delight all those who love to wonder.

It is natural that a creature so highly esteemed should be made to reflect the popular conception of Hindu character in its weaknesses and failings as well as in its placid and gentle strength. He is believed with little cause to be keenly sensitive; they say he breaks his heart like a proud Rajput, and dies at will of resentment or grief. So do some Orientals. He is said to have a memory for insult or injury as tenacious as that of a usurer for a debt, and soon or late he will be even with his oppressor. He can be taught to master his natural timidity, and when properly led he will face the tiger in his lair, but he is not ashamed to fly before a little dog. In sickness he comes very close to the human, for the mahouts say he resigns himself like a native when stricken with fever; when he lies down they give him up, for he gives up all hope of himself, and against a despair of that bulk there is no argument. He is liable to sudden bursts of rage, and can sulk in ill-temper for days at a time. When downright mad nothing can stand before him. Death in Hindu poetry and talk is a mad elephant, for who shall stay him? Love and lust are also mad elephants, blind, unreasoning, and cruel.

"There are many footsteps in the footprint of the elephant," for elephant lords have many followers. In most native forts and palaces there are elephant paths and high-arched elephant gates, slopes or stairways of wide tread, down which the State elephants march, taking the women of the Zenana or their lords for an airing. The milky way in the heavens is sometimes called the elephant's path. Silver ingots of a certain shape are "elephant's feet" and among silversmiths the name is used to discriminate a quality of silver.

In Assam, where they are familiar with elephants, they say, "The elephant brings forth one at a birth, the pig ten." "A small elephant is still larger than a big buffalo," and "Bamboos are tied with bamboos and elephants are caught by elephants," are also sayings from that region. Where the Englishman would say the back of a job was broken, or "All is over but the shouting," an Oriental often says, "The elephant is out, only the tail remains." "Teeth for use and teeth for show," carries an understood allusion to the elephant, who has tremendous molars hidden in his head as well as handsome external tusks. Sometimes for state occasions an animal with poor or elementary tusks is fitted with a jury pair, a feat of dentistry of which mahouts are proud. To the over-bold who would meddle with the great it is said: "Would you snatch sugar-cane from an elephant?" "The dog may bark but the elephant moves on" is sometimes said to indicate the superiority of the great to popular clamour, but the best form of the phrase is, "Though the dog may bark the caravan (kafila) moves on." For the elephant hates and fears dogs as much as some great men of to-day hate noisy newspapers, and with better reason. Nature, in furnishing the beast with a soft and tender trunk, has bound him down to keep the peace with all creation. That in spite of this disability he can be brought to face the tiger shows convincingly the docility and superiority of his nature. Yet though the beast is counted lordly, he still has a master, so they say again, "The elephant's god is his goad." Big things and men are naturally called elephantine. Maharaja Ranjit Singh used to speak of the fine English cart-horses sent out to him as a gift from the English Government as his "elephant horses," and he tied them up and fed them to death in the native fashion with great pride and satisfaction. "When the handed one puts forth his handiness, a man is but a fly before him," is a clumsy paraphrase of a saying that plays with the word hathi. "The poor have no friends, but elephants wait at the rich man's door," is one of the rare complaints of Indian lowliness. It is doubtful whether any other races in the world are more free from envy. The beggar cries, "God will give you an elephant to ride on, I'll take a farthing to-day." When English girls marry, their parents say they are sorely grieved to lose them; but Indian fathers are frank, and acknowledge at once the trouble and cost of daughters and elephants in "The daughter is best at her father-in-law's house, as the elephant is best at the Raja's."

A man's saying is "A man at sixty is a young elephant, a woman at twenty is growing old." There is a fine braggadocio in this, but the honest truth is that the Indian woman has not a fair chance, being deliberately sacrificed by the custom of too early marriage. English poets write prettily of Hindu maidens, but there are no Hindu maidens in any true sense. A brutal saying like this drives home the fact that millions of girls, bright and charming as any in the world, are deprived of that period of spring-time freedom and lightness of heart which is their birthright. Nor is there any excuse for this deprivation, for it has been demonstrated that the Indian woman comes no earlier to maturity than her sister in the West. And the Hindu man at sixty is like a young elephant in nothing save bulk.

The docility of the elephant is never more evident than when he is dressed for parade on an occasion of state. It is a long and tiresome business to clothe the creature in the ornaments and housings with which luxuriant Oriental taste loves to bedizen him. You may make a four-post bedstead very splendid in a cinque-cento or a Louis Quatorze manner; a horse can carry a great load of finery; even men and women, duchesses, actresses, kings and queens, stagger proudly under fine trappings, but the elephant is made for display as a mountain range for sunset effect. Sir Henry Cole, in years gone by, used to contemplate the vast brick walls built by Captain Fowke for the 1862 Exhibition, and say, "That is a surface which invites decoration." The faÇade of the nude elephant is no less noble and no less urgent in its appeal to the eye. But the great beast, shifting uneasily on his feet, does not always take kindly to his trappings, and is much less steady than a brick wall.

Yet at the worst there is little more difficulty in decking the elephant than in dressing a fidgety child for church. First he must be washed, sometimes at a well-brink, where, if properly taught, he draws his own water, but an irrigation cut or tank is generally preferred, where the great baby is made to lie down, to raise his head or leg at a word, while the mahout, often assisted by his son, who assumes tremendous airs of authority if he is very young, climbs about his huge bulk and scrubs him with brick-bats. A brick flesh-rubber is in common use for men's feet, and seems to suit the elephant perfectly. But the creature is generally inattentive during the process, he "plays with the soap" so to speak, blows clouds of vapour from his trunk, lifts up the wrong leg, rolls over at the wrong minute, and is scolded like a child, with now and then, from a hasty mahout as from an irritable nursemaid, a blow. When the washing is finished he slings his nurses up to his neck with his trunk, or gives them a "leg up" behind in the friendly fashion peculiar to him, and shuffles back to the serai or yard to be dressed. If the occasion be a very grand one, a day or two will be consumed in preparations. First the forehead, trunk, and ears are painted in bold patterns in colour. This is a work of art, for the designs are often good, and the whole serai, excepting always the elephant himself, is deeply interested. His mind and trunk wander; he trifles with the colour pots; so with each stroke comes an order to stand still. Some mahouts are quite skilful in this pattern work. Then the howdah pad is girthed on with cotton ropes riding over flaps of leather to prevent the chafing to which the sensitive skin is liable. The howdah itself, a cumbrous frame of wood covered with beaten silver plates, is slung and tied with a purchase on the tail-root, and heavy cloths broidered in raised work of gold and silver thread are attached, hanging like altar cloths down the sides. A frontlet of gold and silver diaper with fringes of fish-shaped ornaments in thin beaten silver, necklaces of large silver hawk-bells and chain work, with embossed heart-shaped pendants as big as the open hand, and hanging ornaments of chains of silver cartouches, are adjusted. A cresting of silver ornaments like small vases or fluted soup tureens, exaggerations of the knobs along a horse's crest, descend from the rear of the howdah to the tail, anklets of silver are sometimes fitted round the huge legs, and a bell is always slung at his side. The pillars of the howdah canopies, and then the canopies themselves with their finials, are fitted as the beast kneels. A long business, because in India things are apt to be missing when they are wanted, and though much of this brave upholstery fits at the first attempt, there are always, even in the best-regulated elephant stables, little deficiencies to be supplied: and many odd bits of string are used. From the right distance, however, they do not show, and if they should catch the eye, why, "the screw was lost or worn out," or, "it was always so," or, "the smith or the tailor has been told a dozen times about it"—and a deprecating smile ends the matter.

At last my lord the elephant is ready, but even now is apt to get into trouble. His natural habit is to fling dust, leaves, and fodder stalks on his back, just as it is the natural inclination of the smartly-dressed little boy to go straightway and make a mud pie. So he must be looked after while the mahout puts on a coat and turban, and, armed with his ankus or goad hook, of gilded steel, and a fly flap of yak tail in a silver handle, is ready to mount. "MÂil, MÂil Barchhi gaj Bahadur!" "Go on, go on, my Lord the Spear!" and they join the retinue of spear-men, mace and staff bearers, and other attendants waiting for the Raja. And frequently you will see in the midst of the blaze of colour and silver and gold one of the mahout's little boys leaning with folded arms and legs crossed at ease against the fore-leg of the foremost elephant. He is as near nude as may be, but from the complacent grin on the unkempt little monkey's face you might fancy he considered himself the most important figure in the show. Nor would he be ignominiously sent away, save by some officious underling. Urbane old Wazirs would glance at him with an amiable smile, though they did not confess aloud that his was an auspicious intrusion: as of the black spot in the splendour of the poppy:—a "nazar wattu" or averter of the evil eye, the Nemesis always waiting for those who do not acknowledge by some lowly touch of imperfectness that "the glories of our birth and state are shadows, not substantial things."

It is not now thought a great feat to send elephants down to the sea in ships. They are engirdled with slings as they stand, little dreaming that presently they will be snatched up, swung aloft, and lowered deep into a dark hold.

Some of the earlier cargoes were not so easily managed. A distinguished officer told me of his troubles with a batch of elephants he took from Calcutta to Chittagong, and how they very nearly wrecked a ship. The first to be shipped was awkwardly handled, caught the hatchway with his tusks and trunk, slung himself askew, and struggled and fought hard. But at last all the forty were stowed, and the steamer went down the Hooghly, anchoring for the night in an oil-still sea off Saugor Point. Now the elephant is the most restless creature alive, always in motion; a fact which native observation has noted in the saying, "An elephant's shoulder is never still." At first they said it was a ground swell that made the ship roll so much, but soon the Captain came in dire alarm to the officer in charge of the freight. The elephants had found that by swaying to and fro all together, a rocking motion was produced which seemed to please them immensely. So the great heads and bodies rolled and swung in unison, till the ship, which had no other cargo and rode light, was in imminent danger of rolling clean over. The mahouts were hurried down into the hold, and each, seated on his beast, made him "break step" so to speak. There they had to stay for a long time. An unforeseen difficulty was found in carrying fodder along the central avenue. The elephants would allow a laden coolie to proceed a little way, and then, with the quiet mischief of their kind, one would lay him by the heels with his trunk while the others snatched his bundles of grass. So they made a gangway over their backs along which the coolies crawled. The worst was when the elephant first shipped died in his place, of vexation, mahouts would say, who believe the creatures only die when they are so inclined. He was the farthest from the hatchway, and in the awful heat of the Bay of Bengal he had to be taken to pieces and passed through the line of his brethren, up and over the side in ships' buckets! Arrived in port there was no wharf, and the animals had to swim and wade a mile of water from the anchorage to the shore. The first was slung down, his mahout on his neck, to the water, as it seemed from the deck, a lascar clinging to the chain to let go the swivel. He let go too soon, the elephant fell with a mighty splash, losing his mahout, while the suddenly released chain shot the astonished lascar like a bolt from a catapult some fifty yards away.

It is not, however, trials of this kind that make the English transport officer, struggling across creation with mules, oxen, and elephants, gray before his time, but the number of reports and dockets he has to write. That dead elephant's tusks were a congenial subject to Commissariat clerks, and they "had the honour to inquire" in many letters.

We have turned from the elephant as he appears to the Oriental, to the creature as he really is, and it may be interesting to hear the account of him that the paternal Government of India has to give. For that Government is itself elephantine in its nature, capable of supporting great weights, but prone also to busy itself in infinite details with restless and inquisitive trunk. The proper treatment of the animal in health and disease is set forth in a manual by the late Mr. Steel, a high veterinary authority, while the Commissariat and other departments concerned with the large property of the State in elephants are carefully instructed in their management. It is officially stated that—"all who have had to deal with elephants agree that their good qualities cannot be exaggerated; that their vices are few and only occur in exceptional animals; that they are neither treacherous nor retentive of injury; and that they are obedient, gentle, and patient beyond measure." This is higher and more sympathetic praise than is usually tied up in the pink tape of Secretariats, and it is all true. The next sentence, however, of the official characterisation declares that in many things the elephant is "a decidedly stupid animal!" It was ever hard to find wit and virtue combined, but it may be doubted whether the sentence is quite just. Intelligence among animals is a matter of delicate and difficult comparison. Simplicity of character were a better word than stupidity. A stupid creature refuses to learn and to obey. The elephant under sympathetic treatment always tries to obey, and can be taught to perform acts foreign to all we know of its nature. This entitles it to a higher place on the strictly limited scale of animal intelligence than the word "stupid" indicates. Its inquisitiveness is confined to objects within elephant range, and its sympathies, like those of all purely vegetarian animals which have to spend a large proportion of their time in eating, are narrow. Of a dog, on the other hand, it was once delightfully remarked in the American tongue, "Don't say that before Snap. Snap don't know he's only a dog; he thinks he's folks!" No mahout would begin to think of his placid self-contained charge along this line. They all seem to regard elephant character as a thing apart, and with a respect which a stupid animal could not command,—even from mahouts.

As to the strength of the beast and the best way of turning it to account, there is less room for controversy. On a march, weight-carrying is the work an elephant can best perform, for though he can pull strenuously and well, his frame is not suited for long spells of draught work. His chest is relatively small and weak; so sometimes he is made to pull with ropes tied to the tusks, and sometimes from his waist, if an elephant can be said to have a waist—but the mighty forehead would, to an amateur, appear to be the best hitching point.

The normal load for continuous travel of a fair-sized elephant is 800 pounds, so the animal is equal to eight ponies, small mules, or asses; to five stout pack-mules or bullocks, and to three and one-third of a camel. Under such a load the elephant travels at a fair speed, keeping well up with an ordinary army or baggage train, requiring no made road, few guards, and occupying less depth in column than other animals. He is invaluable in jungle country and all roadless regions where heavy loads are to be moved. In Burmah and on the east and south-east frontier elephants are absolutely necessary for military supply. When once a good road is made, the beast is, of course, easily beaten by wheeled carriage.

He shines most as a special Providence when the cattle of a baggage train or the horses of a battery are stalled in a bog or struggling helplessly at a steep place. An elephant's tusks and trunk serve at once as lever, screw-jack, dog-hooks, and crane, quickly setting overturned carts and gun-carriages right, lifting them by main force or dragging them in narrow winding defiles where a long team cannot act; while his head, protected by a pad, is a ram of immense force and superior handiness.

I write "he" mechanically, but it ought to be said that in consequence of the liability of the male to occasional fits of ill-temper from functional causes, it has been decreed that only females are to enter Government service, and they should not be less than twenty or more than thirty years of age, capable of carrying 1200 pounds for a first-class elephant (eight feet high and over) and 960 pounds for a second-class animal (under eight feet in height), exclusive of gear. No recruit under seven feet should be admitted. Male animals are preferred by Native Princes on account of their larger size and prouder bearing, and among about two thousand elephants owned by the British Government a few males are kept for State and parade purposes. An elephant at twenty-five years of age may be compared to a human being of eighteen. He attains his full strength and vigour at about thirty-five, and has been known to live a hundred and twenty years.

A born forester, it is in jungle-work that the labouring elephant outside Government service is seen at his best. The tea-planters of Assam and Ceylon find him useful in forest clearing and as a pack animal. They even yoke him to the plough. He is the leading hand in the teak trade of Burmah,—unrivalled in the heavy toil of the timber-yard, where he piles logs with wonderful neatness and quickness. Small timbers are carried on the tusks, clipped over and held fast by the trunk. A log with a thick butt is seized with judicious appreciation of balance, while long and heavy baulks are levered and pushed into place.

As to its keep, the elephant is a chargeable beast; costing from £4 to £8 a month when rations of rice or wheaten flour cakes are given, as they should be, with fodder-stalks and leaves of various kinds. Rum, brandy, or arrack, mixed with ginger, cloves, pepper, and treacle, and made into a paste with flour, provide the elephant with a sort of tipsy-cake that cheers and comforts him when suffering from fatigue or cold. In the matter of food and stimulants, however, mahouts have no conscience, and steal without a qualm. Ages of slack-handed usage have settled that the servant of the elephant and three generations of his family shall live on the beast he is paid to cherish. Allowances are given for flour, fire-wood, oil, and spices, but the elephant only gets a share in them, and not always that. So the worst ailment he has to face is semi-starvation, the lot of most elephants in captivity. The beast is in truth a noble anachronism, belonging to a young world time of denser foliage than this dried-up age which packs hay in trusses and treasures ensilage in pits. But the thievish mahout is responsible for the worst of his belly-pinch. Yet elephant men are usually spoken of as models of devotion to their beasts. "They love 'em, sir," said an English officer to me once. But that does not prevent their showing an indifference to their comfort, characteristic of all Orientals, whose talk often drips with sentiment, while their practice is of dry brutality. The acknowledged authorities on the subject, Mr. Sanderson and the late Mr. J. H. Steel, agree that mahouts invariably make the animals' comfort subservient to their own. Even the best of them will seldom take the trouble to put their beasts under the shadow of a tree at mid-day. They also have the cruel Indian trick of securing the animals fore and aft in the most irksome manner possible. A rope or chain fastened to one foot and to a peg in the ground is sufficient restraint for most elephants, and allows them to turn to and from the sun and wind as they find agreeable. Mahouts think nothing of securing an animal so that one side is exposed day and night to wind or rain. The practice of tight tying up is particularly repugnant to those who have a sympathetic knowledge of the restless, swaying, Johnsonian habit rooted in the beast's nature. The native servant himself keenly appreciates his liberty and is the most elusive creature alive, perpetually slinking from his duty into the jungles of the bazar. But when he ruleth he is a terrible despot.

Outside India it is believed that elephants are dying out of the land. The example of America, where the men and creatures natural to the soil have been exterminated to make room for a too triumphant civilisation, has taught the world a lesson of anxiety. But animal lovers may rest content, for the elephants of India, like the people, are increasing in numbers. They are carefully protected in their natural haunts, whence English officers of experience draw supplies for use with as much system and regularity as sheep are drafted from the hillside flock. The details of the Government kheddah or capturing arrangements are full of interest,—sport in its finest sense; nor is it easy to say whether the skill in woodcraft of the English directors, or the courage, endurance, and patience of the natives employed, are most admirable. Like a strong ass between two burdens, the British Government has been beaten with many staves, and also with fools' truncheons of pantomime paper, but, at least, it has tried to husband the resources of the country.

The thoughtful Germans are said to meditate the re-capture and domestication in their new Equatorial realm of the African elephant, free since the days of Hannibal. It is to be hoped this is true, for there is naught sillier under the sun than the slaughter which has hitherto been all that civilisation had to bestow on these blameless Ethiopians.