George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss.

hat the dog has served for ages throughout the East as a byword of loathing and contempt is of itself no hanging matter so far as the real character of the animal is concerned, and need not surprise or shock the English dog-lover. For, like the sacred writings of the Hindus and Muhammadans, our own Holy Bible, from which we profess to take our rules of life, contains the same low estimate and has no hint of appreciation of canine character, no recognition of his services to man, no word of compassion for his fate. Yet Christians have learned and perfected the lore known to the Assyrian and the Greek of the varieties and qualities of dogs, and, following them rather than the ancient Hebrew, have come to love and cherish the unclean animal. The wonder is that the Oriental has stuck so servilely to the skirts of his Scripture and taken so much to heart the belated nonsense that Moslem and Hindu authorities have uttered in disparagement of one of the best of God's creatures. He ought to have found out for himself that the figurative expressions of orators, poets, and law-givers have but a local and temporary significance; but if you look closely you will find that for centuries he has most faithfully tried to take all that he has been officially taught au pied de la lettre, and has crystallised the metaphors of poetry and the rhetorical flights of law-givers into canons of conduct. The enormous difficulty of this task has, of course, driven both Hindu and Moslem to much hypocrisy and compromise, but on the whole their faith is greater than anything we know of in the West.

The official condemnation of the dog by Muhammadans, and the formal terms in which he is out-casted by Hindus, are too monstrous and sweeping to hold good, when one considers the friendly nature of the beast and the real claim he has on the gratitude of mankind. But there are not many examples of human sympathy passing the narrow bounds of a cruel law. The ingenious Mr. Pope has a much-quoted passage about the poor Indian whose untutored mind leads him to hope that when admitted to the equal sky of heaven his faithful dog may bear him company. But ages before Mr. Pope lisped in numbers, and indeed before America was discovered, Asiatic poetry had created the hero Yudhishtira, who refused to enter heaven at all unless his dog might accompany him. Modern India, however, has for the most part forgotten Yudhishtira, and in these days the only dog admitted to the company of the Gods is a cur that serves as the vehicle or vÂhan of Bhairon, now one of the most popular of Hindu divinities. This deity bears a bottle of strong drink, in defiance of those shallow folk who claim all Hindus as total abstainers and Bands of Hope, and a staff which is vulgarly reckoned to be the Kotwal or town magistrate of Benares. His semblance is that of a black or dark blue man, whose raiment is a cloth round his loins and a serpent round his neck; his dog is a black tyke of low degree, nor does the canine race appear to gain in popular esteem from his association with the God, unless the very vulgar saying: "If all the dogs go on pilgrimage to Benares, who will be left to lick the dishes clean?" is an obscure reference to his sacred character.

Muhammadans have granted in popular lore a place in Paradise to Khetmir, the dog of the seven sleepers, who has been suspected of being the same animal as Yudhishtira's hound by some scholars. But they follow the Bible in speaking of him in injurious terms as an expression for disgust and loathing, unclean by immemorial prescription. It is written that the angels of God will not cross the threshold of a house whereon there is even a hair of a dog. If a dog is known to have drunk out of a vessel, it must be washed in seven waters. (A Muhammadan cure for hydrophobia is to look down seven wells.) Neither by Hindu nor Muhammadan writer is ever a kindly word said in appreciation of the admirable sides of canine character. When he has a fair chance he is as faithful and zealous in service in India as elsewhere, but no one notices him. "A dog's death" is an Indian as well as a European phrase for a miserable ending, and it has a peculiar force in India; an idle babbler is said to have eaten a dog's brains, a hasty movement is a dog's jump, the hungry stomach is spoken of as a dog that must be quieted, and it is an ancient saying that though you imprisoned a dog's tail for a dozen years in a bamboo tube, it would still be crooked. That it would probably be perfectly straight after such a process is an irrelevant physiological detail unworthy the attention of a poet or a proverbial philosopher. "What business has a dog in a mosque?" is a scornful snub to an intrusive person of low degree. The sons-in-law and other relatives of wealthy, high-caste Hindus who, under the patriarchal scheme of domestic life, live with their wives' families, are familiarly described in quite a long series of enumeration as household dogs. A sponger or parasite is a tabÁqi kutta, a dish (licking) dog. And the Persian monosyllable for dog, "Sag," is often in a native mouth a more savage term of contempt than "Suar," pig.

A saying goes, "do not travel in the evening, the Raja and the dog are asleep in the morning"—and in the lawless days but lately past there was sense in the counsel. Of oppressive native subordinates they say: "Why should not a dog bite a defenceless poor man?" To an abusive underling: "Cur! it is not your mouth but your master's that barks." The messenger wears a scarf and brass badge, and is often a jack-in-office, so he is familiarly spoken of as a dog with a collar on. Another saying is based on an incident: "You ate the dawn meal, so you must fast." A Muhammadan during the Ramazan fast found that a dog had eaten the meal which may be lawfully taken before sunrise, and with these words he locked the creature up, and, conceiving himself released from obligation, he breakfasted and dined as usual. We say "Love me, love my dog"; the Oriental admits that if you are devoted heart and soul to a person, you may even take her dog into favour: "Even Leila's dog is dear to Majnun." This languishing hero is the accepted type of a devoted lover. The dog plays no great part in the story, and I suspect it is in respect of the proverb that a dog is generally introduced by native draughtsmen into the popular bazaar pictures representing these personages. The ordinance in the Code of Menu that certain out-caste tribes should possess no animals but dogs and asses has been a millstone round the necks of these admirable and most useful animals.

We say that one may as well hang a dog as give him a bad name, thereby admitting the possibility of a good one. But no such allowance seems to have been made for the Indian pariah dog. He has always been on the downhill slope of popular contempt, and it will be long before he can hope to rise. The noble potentialities of his character are ignored, he is discouraged by the distance at which he is kept, for he is never allowed to enter a house, nor to consort on intimate terms with man, the inventor of morals. Perhaps it is not too fantastical to say that when compared with the English dog the poor Indian outcast is a pagan, a creature without faith, or at least without that soul-saving reverence for authority which ennobles character. Lord Bacon says that the master of a properly trained dog is the divinity of the animal who waits upon his will. The Indian pariah does not know the joy of adoration; he has no master, and is an atheist in spite of himself. Tainted with the worst of the philosophy to which he gave his name some centuries ago in Greece, he reveals more of the currish side of canine character than English dogs and dog lovers are aware of. He uncovers more of his teeth when he snarls—and he often snarls—than the civilised dog; he slinks off with inverted tail at the mere hint of a blow or a caress, and his shrill bark echoes the long note of the great dog-father, the wolf, and the poor cousin the jackal. In a fight he does not abandon himself to the delight of battle with the stern joy of the English dog, but calculates odds and backs down with an ignoble care for his skin. In short, he is a lendi, a cur, a coward. We English call him a pariah, but this word, belonging to a low, yet by no means degraded class of people in Madras, is never heard on native lips as applied to a dog, any more than our other word "pie." Like other words, both will be learned from us and incorporated in that wonderful pudding-stone conglomerate of language known as Urdu.

The pie-dog, pariah, or street dog, is usually rufous yellow, but all known dog tints occur, for creole colours now diversify the tawny aboriginal race. Chronic hunger is the central fact of his life, which is one long search for food, and his pastime is another long search for fleas. As a rule he owns himself, but he sometimes selects a master and always belongs to a place. "Why are you so lean, dog? I have to gather my dinner from nine houses."

He is supposed to be valuable as a scavenger, and it is certain that he mostly dines in the night, resembling in this respect his timid cousin the jackal, who usually slinks aside from offal heap or dead carcass as he approaches. The jackal is accused of ghoulish propensities, favoured by the shallow graves dug for their kindred by Muhammadans, but the street dog, if strict truth were told, is almost as great a sinner. He is reported on good authority to frequent the burying-places where Hindus are cremated, and,—but I forbear. Stress of hunger alone leads him to dark deeds which forfeit his claim to human sympathy. It should be remembered in extenuation that he owes little or nothing to a cruelly indifferent humanity, and that he preserves, as we shall presently see, an innate friendliness which no neglect can quite eradicate. He is a street Arab, but he shows preferences for people as well as for places. He follows the cultivator afield and watches the gray bundle of cotton cloth slung to a branch and the huqqa left under a tree, but I doubt whether he would make any effective defence of them. When the frugal "nooning" of unleavened flap-jacks and butter-milk is eaten he wistfully awaits his share at a respectful distance. The children handle and play with him, and go to sleep by his side when tired of rolling in the dust, but when they grow up they cut his companionship.

Most Anglo-Indians have had an experience similar to that related by Bishop Heber in his journal of a sudden and unaccountable attachment on the part of a homeless pariah dog. A scrap of food, a word of notice, or even a look from one accustomed to command dogs wakes a chord in the creature's nature, and he longs to acknowledge a master. There are many instances of street dogs becoming civilised in European hands, and some have become faithful companions and friends. But it is as dangerous for a dog of this kind to leave his kindred as for a high-caste Hindu to cross the sea. Canine caste laws are strict, and a dog from a strange clan venturing into the territories of another tribe is sure of a hot reception. A country story expresses this with pretty irony. Once upon a time a dog ran "all the way from the Ganges" (any long distance) in one day. "How on earth did you come so swiftly, O dog?" "By the kindness of my brethren," is the reply. He had been chivied and chased from village to village as an intruder. A dog who had left his place and family connections for a period could not return with safety. So the pariah is not reluctant to adopt a master without a cause. He is the victim of an implacable socialism, the slave of a sharp-toothed trade union. He would like regular meals, and for their unwonted sake is willing to submit to authority, but what would the other tykes say and do? So he resigns himself to thoughtless freedom, wherefore does his skull remain narrow, his form wolf-like, and his mental character timorous and suspicious; sudden in impotent rage, loud in complaint, and nocturnal in habit; with that strange and long-drawn sympathy with lunar influences which the dog of civilisation has partly learned to forget.

There are many dogs which have an air of vagabondage, but who are owned and in some sort cared for. Yet the general habit of the animal in India is to attach himself to a place rather than to a person. In Europe this trait is often the mark of a high and magnanimous nature, for there dogs are attached to regiments, fire brigades, and other bodies corporate, of which they form an almost essential part, belonging to no one individual, but enjoying a noble sense of comradeship with all. No such honour is allowed to the poor Indian dog. They say contemptuously of a parasite or time-server, the Serai (native inn) dog is friendly with everybody; and the washerman's dog furnishes a saying in universal use. The washerman has a house, but he takes his clothes to the river-bank or ghÂt to be washed, so of the dog who attends him they say, he belongs to neither house nor ghÂt. This saying is commonly applied to idle artisans, gadding house-wives, and truant schoolboys. The washerman's dog stands for a person at a loose end, as the oilman's ox for a laborious man or woman. Mr. Quilp said of his dog that it lived on one side of the way and was generally found on the other.

An old gentleman in Punch seeing at a railway station a cat without a tail, says to the porter,—"One of the celebrated Manx cats, I suppose?" "No," replies the porter,—"2.30 express." At Indian railway stations dogs are often seen minus a leg or a tail; for in a country where even the railway men have not yet learned that it is dangerous to go to sleep with a head or a leg across the rails, it is scarcely to be wondered at if the dogs are sometimes caught napping. The mutilated member soon heals, and the animal hops cheerfully round the station and learns to meet every train regularly. On the long Indian journeys much food is taken by the passengers, both Native and European, and there are many scraps. So the railway dog is becoming an institution. On the "toy railway," as natives persist in calling the narrow gauge lines, the animals are rather tiresome, for a bound brings them into one's carriage and another takes them out with a cold fowl or a packet of sandwiches in their prompt mouths.

The one ritualistic observance in which the dog takes a part concerns neither Hindus nor Muhammadans, but only the Parsees. It is a practice of the sun-worshippers to bring a dog into the room where a Parsee is lying in the hour and article of death. This, I believe, is the prescribed form, but the practice seems to be to take the dog in to look at the corpse when the spirit has passed away. The rite is as obscure in theory as in practice, and I have never heard or seen a satisfactory explanation of it.

The dog is more frequently eaten than we are apt to believe. In Hindu poetry, innocent low-caste folk are contemptuously spoken of as "dog-cookers." I am assured that there is some ground for the gibe at Sansis and other gypsy tribes,—"When the gypsies come in at one side of the town, the dogs file out at the other." There is a double reason for this retreat, for not only do the Sansis eat dogs, but being in their way sporting characters, they keep dogs of their own, and a dog with never so squalid a man for master is dreaded by the ownerless pariah. An ordinary Indian street dog weighs from twenty to thirty-six pounds, and if he were fed would probably be over forty pounds in weight. Carrion-eating tribes have no prejudices in the matter of food, and the lizard, the jackal, and the rat are favourite roasts. It is manifest that to stomachs of this hardihood a dog would furnish lordly dishes.

There is a nine-word saying among poor folk to express a dilemma, which indicates the possibility of dog's flesh being mistaken for that of the kid: "If I tell, my mother will be beaten, if I don't tell, my father will eat dog's flesh." The story is that a housewife cooked dog's flesh by mistake, and the small son of the house alone knew what manner of meat was in the pot—an awful weight on the mind of a Muhammadan child. It is by no means necessary, of course, for the currency or force of the saying, that it should be based on an actual incident, for a remote possibility or an impossibility serves just as well.

In some regions dogs are regularly eaten. The NÂgas on the Assam frontier have a partiality for a dog who has just been full fed with rice and milk. He is hastily killed and cooked whole,—"chien farci au naturel." It may be that out-caste folk have more toothsome food than we know. It is not proved that the lizard, the crocodile, and the snake are uneatable; indeed, it is probable they are very good. Jackal and fox must be dry and hard, but the stew-pot may reduce them to succulence. Darwin dined on puma in South America and found it like veal. I once accompanied a little company of silent Bhils in a search for field-rats, which were dug out and captured with great dexterity,—plump brown and white creatures, fed on the best of the crops and doubtless of fine flavour; but I did not wait to see how they were cooked over a fire, the kindling for which was carefully borne by a young woman of the party, who had much ado to screen it from the wind blowing over the high downs of the Deccan.

In the foregoing paragraphs the academical or official view of the out-caste dog as regarded by respectable people has been treated. The picture is not pleasing, nor should it be completely convincing to those who know and like the animal. In spite of conventional prejudice the dog, as might be expected, has won his way to a better place than most Europeans know of. The habit of foul and indiscriminate feeding may disgust the Hindu; and the Muhammadan,—most conservative of races,—may cherish his ancient grudge, but both are learning that the dog of good caste is a useful companion and friend. The indigenous canine aristocracy is not large, but it exists. Among the best breeds are the hounds kept by the Banjaris—a caste of half gypsy carriers and traders, referred to elsewhere. These are large and stout animals marked by the Eastern tendency to greyhound form, and are prized both as watch-dogs and for the chase. The Rampur hound is a similar beast, much cherished by sporting Nawabs. English authorities seem to think the greyhound came to Europe from the East. Persian greyhounds are imported and naturalised. Their coats are ragged and the forms lack symmetry, but some of these animals recall Sir Walter Scott's Maida of beloved memory. The sheep dogs kept by the HimÁlayan shepherds are warmly spoken of by their owners, who say that when the mountain paths are hidden in mist, they are infallible guides. On the plains sheep-dogs are seen, but they have none of the dash or vivacity of the British collie, slouching along, head and ears down; companions rather than directors of the sheep. Often, indeed, they may be seen in the middle of the flock. The sulky Tibetan mastiff is a splendid watch-dog, supposed to be capable of killing and eating a thief, and he is sometimes seen in the plains, but his ferocity, ill-temper, and heavy coat will prevent him from becoming popular. The black-tongued, thick-furred Eskimo-looking animal, now a favourite in England, comes to India from Tibet over the hills, and the ordinary village dog of the HimÁlaya has a strongly-marked tendency to this bushy-tailed, fox-muzzled type. There are also among common pariahs some mongrel variations, including a creature like the turnspit. Bishop Heber, an observer of unusual quickness, was more struck by the variety of colour and breed in native dogs than the unity apparent to his successors, and asks, "Are they indigenous, or is it possible that their stock can have been derived from us?"

Although no Eastern writer has said much in favour of the dog, there are a few stories current among the people which testify to an appreciation of his faithfulness. A Punjab tale recalls the pitiful fate of Gelert over which so many English children have grieved. A Pathan gave a Hindu banker some money to keep for him and lent his dog to guard the banker's house. One night the thieves came and the dog barked, trying in vain to rouse the sleeping usurer. Failing in this, the clever beast watched the thieves and saw where they hid the spoil. In the morning he led the banker to the spot, scratching the ground to show where to dig. The money was recovered, and the grateful banker tied a letter round the dog's neck and sent him to the Pathan. But the latter, being hasty and irascible, struck off the animal's head for deserting his post, finding too late by means of the letter that the poor beast had been faithful to his trust. Even the pariah dog enjoys some popular respect as a watch-dog.

British influence, however, is the main factor in a slow but indubitable revolution now taking place in favour of the dog. A modern philosophical writer says the British Empire in India is but "a romantic episode" destined to pass away and leave no recognisable trace. This utterance would be worth respecting if trustworthy documents existed on which so large a forecast could be reasonably based. But in the present state of our knowledge of the country, and of the tendencies of the popular mind, it can be nothing more than one of the superficial profundities of smart journalism. That the form which Indian political institutions will eventually assume may differ materially from the intentions and anticipations of those who have planted them is an elementary consideration beyond which no plain man will now care to travel. Whatever may be its results in a political sense, the "romantic episode" will leave a notable imprint on some physical aspects of the land. Traces of the Briton will long survive in the animal as in the vegetable world. The dog and the horse accompany us everywhere, for it is part of our insular vanity to declare that no other dogs or horses are half so good as ours. Packs of fox-hounds are regularly imported; the subaltern, the private soldier, and the civilian bring bull-dogs, mastiffs, and terriers of every degree. Spaniels, retrievers, and greyhounds accompany sportsmen; the great Danes are occasionally seen, while ladies bring such pets as Maltese, Skyes, Dandie Dinmonts, and dachshunds.

This canine immigration has been going on for a long time. Sir Thomas Roe brought a present of British mastiffs to the Great Mogul,—the Emperor Jehanghir. One jumped overboard to attack the porpoises diving near the little ship; another on the way up-country seized an elephant. These little traits of pugnacity endeared them to the Emperor, who provided them with servants, carriages, and palkis in which to take the air, and had silver dishes and tongs made in order that he might feed them with his own royal hands. Probably they were fed to death, but haply some of their descendants are now slinking round the slums of Delhi or Agra trailing nerveless tails in the hot dust and yapping at the travelling Briton as a foreign intruder.

The English dog has come to stand as a high-caste animal of respectable birth. Our domestic life is jealously shut off by the people from contact with their own, but the inmates of the prison-house have learned that the dog is a valuable domestic friend. Native ladies see that European animals are unlike the unclean creatures of the street, and are anxious to adopt them. Already English names are naturalised and Persianised after the liquid Oriental manner. The punyÁr is the spaniel, which used to be thought most highly of, probably from its silky unlikeness to the pariah, but its coat is too heavy for the climate. The bull-dog, vulgarly spoken of as the guldank, is highly prized as a watch-dog, while its fighting instincts commend it to the increasing class which takes delight in sport. A dog of an English breed sometimes receives an English name from its native master, as Eespot for "Spot." A servant of ours once contributed to a family debate on the name to be given to a puppy the remark that Fanny (both vowels very long) was the best possible name for a dog. "Bully" is a favourite Indo-Anglian dog-name.

In recent years the clever and amiable fox-terrier, who withstands the great heat of the plains better than any other breed, has come to the front and promises to be the dog of the Indian future. The pariah, like the sound patriot he is, appears to know this, and waylays the English animal as bands of street-boys in the West waylay a strayed public-school boy. A new science, the care and lore of dogs, picked up by menial servants from their English masters, is being formed and spreads upwards among the people.

So, though we may pass away and be forgotten, the dogs we loved will remain as permanent colonists. But it appears to be a fact that the creole dog, born in India of imported parents, develops some of the characteristics of the indigenous animal. His head, especially his nose, grows longer and narrower, he loses substance in the neck, chest, and loins; he stands on higher legs and wags a longer tail than his British-born parents. The climate exerts a deteriorating influence on his moral qualities, and he loses some of the courage, temper, and fine spirits which are the birthright of a good dog in the West.

It is to an influence of this nature, rather than to any reasoning or religious prescription, that we may look for the growth of a humane appreciation of animals in general. There can be no doubt that the English people are more indebted to the humble and sympathetic tutorship of the dog than they are aware of, for such pre-eminence in a recognition of the rights of animals as distinguishes them. You may quote in opposition to the canons, which of set purpose have thrust the ass and the dog beyond the pale of mercy, that wise word of Jeremy Bentham, who said, "The question is not,—can animals speak or reason, but can they suffer?" But the companionship of a good dog will teach more effectively than the words of any philosopher. Nor is the lesson uncongenial to the Indian people, although for many generations they have allowed a practice of neglect and indifference and a multitude of superstitious beliefs to obscure the real kindliness of their nature.

It is a good omen when a fox shows his face, so a sympathetic saying runs, "The fox gives luck to everybody, but himself is thinking of the dogs all the time." A sly fellow is called a fox in India as elsewhere, and the animal plays a part in some stories. But the jackal is the true Mr. Reynard of Eastern folk tales, the great original of the best of our fox stories;—sweet-toothed, mischievous, lurking; and as full of resource as Brer' Rabbit.

The jackal's night-cry,—the wild chorus with which the band begins its hungry prowl, is of evil omen, which is wonderful, seeing that in nearly every town and village of the vast continent it is heard about the same hour of the evening; but it is believed that when the cry is raised near the house of a sick person, it is a sure presage of death, and that jackals scent coming dissolution, much as sharks are said by sailors to scent death on a ship. There are endless stories in favour of this belief.

The jackal's chorus is so sudden and shrill a clamour, so importunate and ear-filling, that one daily marvels at its equally sudden cessation. The air ought to go on vibrating with these fearsome yells, but it abruptly shuts down on them, still as a sleeping pond. And you resume your talk or work, but the creature with that one imprecation has sworn himself to hours of silence. Thereafter he goes dumbly to a night of hungry and often ghoulish research, for his sanscrit-born name is "greedy." But when going on a morning journey, the distant cry of one jackal (besides being rare) is lucky, as says a North-West Provinces rhyme, translated by Mr. Crooke in his valuable Agricultural Glossary: "A donkey on the left, a jay (the roller is meant) on the right, and a jackal howling in the distance—all omens of wealth and happiness. Go, and bring home four bags of gold." A jackal crossing the road to the left is lucky, to the right, unlucky.

Very many stories of the jackal are to be found in old books and folk-lore, but in the talk of to-day he scarcely takes the high place to which his classic reputation entitles him, being used as much as an object of derision as a model of cleverness. Most modern native humour, however, takes the form of irony. His talents are acknowledged in a saying which classes him with that busy and important person, the barber: "The jackal is the sharpest among beasts, the crow among birds, and the barber among men." The barber of India is, in fact, a clever Figaro; news-bearer, matrimonial agent, surgeon, and busybody in general. The painted jackal who 'fell into the dyers' vat and set up as king on the strength of his fine colour, has strayed from the Panchatantra into modern life, and you may hear of "painted jackals" being elected to the honours of a municipal "Kemety" (committee). "The jackal fell into a well,—I think I will rest here to-day, said he"—is a charming way to express the making the best of a downright bad job. "The jackal born in August says of the September flood, I never saw so much water in all my life," is a popular snub for youthful conceit. So also is, "The horse and the elephant are swept away, and the jackal asks—Is it deep?" "The jackal fell into the river and cried, The deluge has come and all the world is drowning!" recalls the American "Thinks the bottom has tumbled out of the universe because his own tin-pot leaks," or the drunken English skipper, who, when fished out of London dock, went dripping to the cuddy and gravely wrote in his log-book, "This night the ship went down, and all hands were drowned but me." He is supposed to be the friend and guide of the tiger, so the hangers-on of powerful persons are known as jackals. Boy and jackal have the same name in the North-West Provinces, and neither has much right to complain. "The jackal slips away and your stick jars on the ground," is a saying of obvious meaning.

Not that a stick would be of much avail against a jackal, for they say, no matter how savagely he may be beaten, he will pick his sore body up when left to die, and slink away to resume a life of crime. I once saw a large Irish retriever do all he knew to kill a jackal, and at last, in despair of the efficacy of his teeth, he dragged him at a hint from his master to a pond and drowned him fit for any coroner.

The jackal afflicted with rabies is a deadly creature, and more common than one likes to think.

Menu, the wise Hindu law-giver, was consistently brutal to women, and after classing wives as "marital property" with cows, mares, she-camels, slave-girls, she-goats, and ewes, he says the wife who violates her duty to her husband is disgraced in this world, and after death she enters into the womb of a jackal and is tormented by diseases! There is a hateful monotony in the abuse bestowed on women. Nowadays no one greatly cares for Menu, but in the East, as in the West, the baser sort habitually call their women folk by the name of the female dog.

India is probably the cradle of wolf-child stories, which are here universally believed and supported by a cloud of testimony, including in the famous Lucknow case of a wolf boy the evidence of European witnesses. And there are many who firmly believe in the power of magicians to transform themselves into wolves at will. But though the wolf is probably the parent of all dogs, he is, as a wild beast, beyond the narrow scope of this sketch.