Part 4

That “the reasoning elephant,” of whom Vartomannus (“Apud Gesnerum”) exclaims in terms that have been repeated for nearly two thousand years, “Vidi elephantos quosdam qui prudentiores mihi vidabantur quàm quibusdam in locis hominis,” should have thus relinquished his advantages, abandoned an unassailable position, and knowing the consequences, rushed upon destruction in this way, is deplorable, and the worst of it is that he always does this. The intellect of which Strabo calmly asserts that it “ad rationale animal proxime accedit,” is never sufficient to save him. Probably, however, this conduct might appear to be more consistent, if instead of trusting to these very classical but perfectly worthless opinions, we looked upon it from the standpoint which Sanderson’s description affords. “Though possessed of a proboscis which is capable of guarding it against such dangers, the elephant readily falls into pits dug to receive it, and which are only covered with a few sticks and leaves. Its fellows make no effort (in general) to assist the fallen one, as they might easily do by kicking in the earth around the edge, but fly in terror. It commonly happens that a young elephant tumbles into a pit, near which its mother will remain till the hunters come, without doing anything to help it; not even feeding it by throwing in a few branches.... Whole herds of elephants are led into enclosures which they could break through as easily as if they were made of corn stalks ... and which no other wild animal would enter; and single ones are caught by their hind legs being tied together by men under cover of tame elephants. Animals that happen to escape are captured again without trouble; even experience does not bring them wisdom. I do not think that I traduce the elephant, when I say that it is, in many things, a stupid animal.”

Baldwin, Harris, and a few other authorities, report that elephants are sometimes attacked by the black rhinoceros, but otherwise they have no foes except man. In Sir James Alexander’s account (“Excursion into Africa”) of the manner in which these beasts attempt to defend themselves against the charge of an enemy of this kind, it is implied that the trunk is habitually used offensively. “In fighting the elephant,” he observes, the two-horned black rhinoceros, for no white rhinoceros ever does this, “avoids the blow with its trunk and the thrust with its tusks, dashes at the elephant’s belly, and rips it up.” Quite a number of writers have derided and denied statements of this nature, and if it were not that they have likewise scouted everything which they did not see themselves, their dissent might have more weight than it has. Everybody knows that the species of rhinoceros spoken of are of all wild beasts the most irritable, aggressive, and blindly ferocious; that they will, as Selous asserts, “charge anybody or anything.” Apart from the question whether this kind of combat ever takes place, or what the result would be if it did, so many reasons exist why the trunk should not be used like a flail, as here represented, that good observers have failed to recognize the fact that it sometimes is so employed. At all events, in face of various assertions to the effect that it never strikes with its trunk, we find Andersson nearly killed in this manner. He was shooting from a “skärm”; that is to say, a trench about four feet deep, twelve or fifteen long, and strongly roofed except at the ends. This hiding-place and fortification occupied “a narrow neck of land dividing two small pools”--the water-holes of Kabis in Africa. “It was a magnificent moonlight night,” and the hunter soon heard the beasts coming along a rocky ravine near by. Directly, “an immense elephant followed by the towering forms of eighteen other bulls” moved down from high ground towards his hiding place, “with free, sweeping, unsuspecting, and stately step.” In the luminous mist their colossal figures assumed gigantic proportions, “but the leader’s position did not afford an opportunity for the shoulder shot,” and Andersson waited until his “enormous bulk” actually towered above his head, without firing. “The consequence was,” he says “that in the act of raising the muzzle of my rifle over the skärm, my body caught his eye, and before I could place the piece to my shoulder, he swung himself round, and with trunk elevated, and ears spread, desperately charged me. It was now too late to think of flight, much less of slaying the savage beast. My own life was in the most imminent jeopardy; and seeing that if I remained partially erect he would inevitably seize me with his proboscis, I threw myself upon my back with some violence; in which position, and without shouldering the rifle, I fired upwards at random towards his chest, uttering at the same time the most piercing shouts and cries. The change of position in all probability saved my life; for at the same instant, the enraged animal’s trunk descended precisely upon the spot where I had been previously crouched, sweeping away the stones (many of them of large size) that formed the front of my skärm, as if they had been pebbles. In another moment his broad forefoot passed directly over my face.” Confused, as Andersson supposed, by his cries, and by the wound he had received, the elephant “swerved to the left, and went off with considerable rapidity.”

Of course, taking this narrative literally, it may be said that it is not an illustration of the point under discussion--that the elephant attempted to catch the man first, in order to kill him afterwards. But prehensile organs are not used as such in the way described. That Andersson was about to be seized was purely suppositious upon his part, while the descent of the elephant’s proboscis, with such violence that it swept away large stones as if they had been pebbles, was a matter of fact. The animal did strike, whether he intended to do so or not, and that this was not his intention is merely a guess. This story illustrates other traits also, and among these the alleged fear of man. “An implanted instinct of that kind,” observes William J. Burchell (“Travels into the Interior of Southern Africa”) “such as all wild beasts have, their timidity and submission, form part of that wise plan predetermined by the Deity, for giving supreme power to him who is, physically, the weakest of them all.” The only objection to this very orthodox statement is that it is not true. Man is not weaker than many wild animals, and so far as “timidity and submission” go, he might have found African tribes barricading their villages and sleeping in trees for no other purpose than to keep out of their way. Caution proceeds from apprehension, and this from an experience of peril. When the conditions of existence are such that certain dangers persist, wariness in those directions originates and becomes hereditary. Man has been the elephant’s constant foe, and in those places where human beings were able to destroy them, these animals were overawed; but otherwise not, or at least, certainly not in the sense in which this assertion is generally made. With regard to the conclusions--many of them directly contradictory--which prevail concerning the elephant’s sense of smell, there are several circumstances which ought to be taken into consideration, but with the exception of currents of air, they have not been noticed to the author’s knowledge. Scent in an elephant is very acute, and the scope of this sense, as well as its delicacy and discrimination, is greater than in most animals. At the same time, the nervous energy that vitalizes this apparatus is variable in quantity, and never exceeds a definite amount at any one time. If wind sweeps away those emanations which would otherwise have stimulated the olfactories, no result occurs, and precisely the same consequence follows a diversion of nerve force into other channels.

Many accounts have been given in which this seemed to be the cause of an unconsciousness that was explained by saying that the sense itself was in fault. Evidently, however, when the energy through which an organ acts is fully employed in carrying on action somewhere else, its function must be temporarily checked. Preoccupation, however, fully accounts for the phenomenon. Thought, feeling, concentrations of attention, physical and mental oscillations of many kinds, perturb, check, pervert, augment, or diminish function in this and other directions. If we cannot accustom ourselves to looking upon wild beasts as acting consciously and voluntarily, it seems probable that little progress towards understanding their habits and characters is likely to be made.

How, for example, are the following facts related by Gordon Cumming, to be reconciled with conventional opinions upon the shyness and timidity of elephants, their fear of man, and the possession of instincts which act independently of experience. It was in comparatively early times that these events took place, before many Europeans with rifles had gone into Africa, and when elephants knew less about firearms than they did when the big tusker nearly finished Andersson. “Three princely bulls,” says Colonel Cumming, “came up one night to the fountain of La Bono.” They knew that a man was there, for they had got his wind. It is possible that they also knew he was not a native, but if this were the case, that was all that they knew.

The leader was mortally wounded at about ten paces from the water, went off two hundred yards, “and there stood, evidently dying.” His companions paused, “but soon one of them, the largest of the three, turned his head towards the fountain once more, and very slowly and warily came on.” At this moment the wounded elephant “uttered the cry of death and fell heavily to the ground.” The second one, still advancing, “examined with his trunk every yard of ground before he trod on it.” Evidently there was no dancing, screaming horde of negroes with assegais about; equally sure was it that danger threatened from human devices, and the elephant, not being inspired as is commonly supposed, was looking for the only peril he knew anything about; that is to say, a pit-fall. As for the explosion and flash, these most probably were mistaken for thunder and lightning. In this manner, and with frequent pauses, this animal went round “three sides of the fountain, and then walked up to within six or seven yards of the muzzles of the guns.” He was shot and disabled at the water’s edge. By this time ignited wads from the pieces discharged had set fire to a bunch of stubble near by, and two more old bulls who followed the original band, went up to the blaze; one, the older and larger, appearing to be “much amused at it.” This tusker staggered off with a mortal wound, and another came forward and stood still to drink within half pistol-shot of Colonel Cumming, who killed him. Three more male elephants now made their appearance, “first two, and then one,” and of these two were shot, though only one of them fatally. What possible explanation can the doctrine of instinct give of such behavior as this upon the part of wild beasts? How does this kind of conduct accord with the idea of a ready-made mind that does not need to learn in order to know? In what manner shall we adjust such conduct to preconceptions concerning natural timidity and that implanted fear of man “predetermined by the Deity”? It may be said, of course, that Colonel Cumming’s account was overdrawn; but the reply to an objection of this kind is that, overwhelming evidence to the same effect could be easily produced.

When an observant visitor walks along the line of platforms in an Indian elephant-stable, the differences exhibited by its occupants can scarcely fail to attract attention; and with every increase in his knowledge, these diversities accumulate in number and augment in importance. During the free intercourse of forest life, some influence, most probably sexual selection, has produced breeds whose characteristics are unmistakable. Even the uninitiated may at once recognize these. Koomeriah, Dwásala, and Meèrga elephants exhibit marked contrasts, and experience has taught Europeans their respective values. The first is the best proportioned, bravest, and most tractable specimen of its kind; but it is rare. Intermediate between the thoroughbred and an ugly, “weedy,” and in every way ill-conditioned Meèrga, comes what is called the Dwásala breed, to which about seventy per cent of all elephants in Asia belong. “Whole herds,” says Sanderson, “frequently consist of Dwásalas, but never of Koomeriahs.” Almost all animals used in hunting are of this middle class, and they constitute by far the largest division of those kept by the government. Females greatly outnumber males, and it may be owing to this fact that so many have been used in the pursuit of large game, although some famous sportsmen maintain that these are naturally more courageous and stancher than tuskers.

Great as are the unlikenesses seen among inmates of an establishment like that at Teperah, they will be found to be fully equalled by their dissimilarities in character; and those who have become familiar with elephants come to see that their dispositions and intelligence are to some extent displayed by their ordinary demeanor and looks. It is wonderful how much facial expression an elephant has. The face-skeleton is imperfect; that is to say, its nasal bones are rudimentary, while the mouth, and in fact all of the lower half of the face, is concealed beneath the great muscles attached to the base of the trunk. But in spite of that, and with his ears uncocked and his proboscis pendant, an elephant’s countenance is full of character.

Passing along the lines where they stand, shackled by one foot to stone platforms, one sees, or learns to see, the individualities their visages reveal. Occasionally a heavily-fettered animal is met with, whose mien is disturbed and fierce. In his “little twinkling red eye,” says Campbell, “gleams the fire of madness.” He is “must”; the victim of a temporary delirium which seems to arise from keeping male elephants apart from their mates. But at length, amid all the appearances of sullenness, good nature, stupidity, bad temper, apathy, alertness, and intelligence, which the visitor will encounter, a creature is met with in whose ensemble there is an indescribable but unmistakable warning. Go to his keeper and state your views. That “true believer,” if he happens to be a Mussulman, having salaamed in proportion to his expected bucksheesh, and said that Solomon was a fool in comparison with yourself, will then express his own sentiments but not so that the animal can hear him. These are to the effect that this elephant is an oppressor of the poor, a dog, a devil, an infidel, whose female relations to the remotest generations have been no better than they should be. That the kafir wants to kill him; is thinking about doing it at that moment, but Ul-humd-ul-illa, praise be to God, has not had a chance; though if it be his destiny, he will do so some day. Very probably these are not empty words. Most frequently the man knows what he is talking about. Still if one naturally asks, why then he stays in such a position, the answer breathes the very genius and spirit of the East. “Who can escape his destiny?” asks the idiotic fatalist, and remains where he is.

The systems of rewards and punishments by which discipline is kept up in a large elephant stable, affords several items of interest with respect to the character of these beasts. If, as sometimes is the case, an elephant shirks his work, or does it wrong on purpose, is mutinous, stubborn, or mischievous, a couple of his comrades are provided with a fathom or two of light chain with which they soundly thrash the delinquent, very much to his temporary improvement. This race is very fond of sweets, and sugar-cane or goor--unrefined sugar--forms an efficient bribe to good behavior. The animals take to drink very kindly, and when their accustomed ration of rum has been stopped for misconduct, they truly repent. Mostly, however, elephants are quiet, kindly beasts, and it is said by those who ought to know, that animosity is not apt to be cherished against men who correct them for faults of which they are themselves conscious. At the same time, nobody, if he is wise, gives an elephant cause to think himself injured. Very often the creature entertains this idea without cause, and it is not uncommon for them to conceive hatreds almost at first sight. D’Ewes (“Sporting in Both Hemispheres”) relates one of the many reliable incidents illustrative of the animal’s implacability when aggrieved. A friend of his, a field officer stationed at Jaulnah, owned an elephant remarkable for its “extreme docility.” One of the attendants--“not his mahout”--ill-treated the creature in some way and was discharged in consequence. This man left the station; but six years after he, unfortunately for himself, returned, and walked up to renew his acquaintance with the abused brute, who let him approach without giving the least indication of anger, and as soon as he was close enough, trampled him to death. This is the kind of anecdote which Professor Robinson remarks is “infinitely discreditable to the elephant”; that fact, however, has nothing to do with the truth. All those good qualities the creature possesses can be done justice to without making any excursions into sentimental zoölogy. Captain A. W. Drayson (“Sporting Scenes in Southern Africa”) asserts that “the elephant stands very high among the class of wild animals.” That means nothing; affords no help to those who are trying to find out how high it stands. Sir Samuel Baker (“Wild Beasts and their Ways”) gives his opinion more at length. Of the animal’s sagacity he observes that it is, according to his ideas, “overrated. No elephant,” he says, “that I ever saw, would spontaneously interfere to save his master from drowning or from attack.... An enemy might assassinate you at the feet of your favorite elephant, but he would never attempt to interfere in your defence; he would probably run away, or, if not, remain impassive, unless especially ordered or guided by his mahout. This is incontestible.... It is impossible for an ordinary bystander to comprehend the secret signs which are mutually understood by the elephant and his guide.” Baker holds, with others who have really studied elephants, that when they evince any special sagacity, it is because they act under direction, and that if left to themselves they usually do the wrong thing. The species is naturally nervous, and this disability is increased by those alterations in its way of life that domestication involves. Captivity likewise shortens its existence. Profound physiological changes are thus produced, the most noticeable of which are barrenness, great capriciousness of appetite, enfeeblement of the digestive functions, and a marked vice of nutrition by which an animal that recovers from injuries the most severe in its wild state now finds every trifling hurt a serious matter, and often dies from accidents that would otherwise have been of little moment. In the same category must also be ranked the decreased endurance of tame elephants. The Asiatic species is much inferior to the African in this respect, by nature, but both sensibly deteriorate in this way when domesticated.

There is nothing to show that the African elephant is worse tempered than the Asiatic. It has never been reclaimed by the natives, and that fact no doubt has given rise to the opinion. In the Carthaginian, Numidian, and Roman provinces, this species was made use of very much as the other is now in India, and most if not all the famous homicidal elephants we know of, belonged to the latter country. But it would appear that a “rogue,” properly so called, requires peculiar conditions under which to develop. “Rogue elephants,” says Drummond, “are rare; indeed, it seems to me that it is necessary for the full formation of that amiable animal’s character that it should inhabit a well-populated district where continual opportunities are afforded for attacking defenceless people, of breaking into their fields, and, in general, of losing its natural respect for human beings; and as such conditions seldom exist in Africa, from the elephant chiefly inhabiting districts devoid of population on account of their unhealthiness, the rogue, properly so called, is seldom met with, though the solitary bull, the same animal in an earlier stage, is common enough.”

Drummond, it will be observed, clings to the superstition of man’s recognized primacy in nature; and if he had declared that his appointment to this position was handed down by tradition among elephants from the time of Adam and the garden of Eden, the absurdity could scarcely be greater. In what possible way can a wild beast that has not been hunted know anything about a man, except that he is an unaccountable-looking little creature, who walks like a bird, and has a very singular odor?

A rogue who infested the Balaghat District is described by Baker as a captured elephant who after a considerable detention escaped to the forest again. “Domestication,” he remarks, “seems to have sharpened its intellect and exaggerated its powers of mischief and cunning.... There was an actual love of homicide in this animal.” He continually changed place, so that no one could foretell his whereabouts, and approached those whom he intended to destroy with such fatal skill that they never suspected his presence until it was too late. He made the public roads impassable. By day and night the inhabitants of villages lying far apart heard the screams which accompanied his attack, and immediately this monster was in the midst of them, killing men, women, and children. At length Colonel Bloomfield, aided by the whole population, succeeded in hunting the beast down. “Maddened by pursuit and wounds, he turned to charge,” and as he lowered his trunk when closing, a heavy rifle ball struck him in the depression just above its base, and he fell dead.

Cunning as this elephant was, his actions displayed that lack of inventiveness which Sanderson charges against the race; and this defect saved the lives of many who would otherwise have been killed. If any one was out of reach in a small tree, the rogue never thought of getting at him by shaking its trunk. Both Sir Samuel and Captain R. N. G. Baker report having seen an elephant butt at a Balanites Egyptiaca when it was three feet in diameter, so that a man “must have held on exceedingly tight to avoid a fall.” It is certain that these animals are accustomed to dislodge various edibles by this means. But a change in circumstances prevented the Balaghat brute from resorting to a well-known act which would have lengthened considerably the list of his victims.

Places in Africa where elephants once abounded now contain none. They are less subject to epidemics than many species, but suffer from climatic disorders and the attacks of parasites. This, however, is not the reason for their disappearance from certain localities. They have fallen before firearms, or migrated in fear of them. “From my own observation,” says Baker, “I have concluded that wild animals of all kinds will withstand the dangers of traps, pit-falls, fire, and the usual methods employed for their destruction by savages, but will be speedily cleared out of an extensive district by firearms.”

A field naturalist coming from Africa to India, or any other part of Asia, would be at once struck by the inferior size, darker color, smaller ears, less massive tusks (rudimentary in the female), and other structural differences presented by Elephas Indicus. Likewise, with the forest life, browsing habits, and nocturnal ways of this species, “there is little doubt that there is not an elephant ten feet high at the shoulder in India,” says Sanderson. If a stranger took to elephant-hunting, his opinion of their character in that country would probably depend upon the escapes he made from being killed. There is, however, something yet to be said upon the subject of Asiatic rogues that, so far as the author is aware, has escaped the attention of those who have described them. Such creatures as those of Kakánkōta, Balaghat, Jubbulpūr, and the Begapore canal, are extremely exceptional, if what they actually did be alone considered, but there is nothing to show that they were very extraordinary in temper or traits of character. The first seems to have been undoubtedly insane; the others, however, gave no indications of mental alienation. They were simply vicious like great numbers of their kind, and the accidents of life enabled them to show it more conspicuously than is often the case. Whatever may be thought of the influence of descent in these instances, it is certain that a criminal class cannot develop itself among elephants, and that those murderous brutes referred to, do not stand alone.

Colonel Pollok (“Natural History Notes”) gives a report extracted from the records in the Adjutant General’s Office, that brings out several points relating to the character of vicious elephants. The statements made seem to be incredible, but those who have made a study of the subject will recall many examples of desperation, tenacity of life, and ferocity in elephants, that may serve to modify doubt; more especially in connection with the effects of wounds in the head, which is so formed that half of it might be shot away without an animal suffering otherwise than from shock and loss of blood.

To C. SEALY, Magistrate, etc.

Sir:--I have the honor to state that on the 24th instant, at midnight, I received information that two elephants of very uncommon size had made their appearance within a few hundred yards of the cantonment and close to the village, the inhabitants of which were in the greatest alarm. I lost no time in despatching to the place all the public and private elephants we had in pursuit of them, and at daybreak on the 25th, was informed that their very superior size and apparent fierceness had rendered all attempts at their seizure unavailing; and that the most experienced mahout I had was dangerously hurt--the elephant he rode having been struck to the ground by one of the wild ones, which, with its companion, had then adjourned to a large sugar-cane field adjoining the village. I immediately ordered the guns (a section of a light battery) to this place, but wishing in the first place, to try every means for catching the animals, I assembled the inhabitants of the neighborhood, and with the assistance of the resident Rajah caused two deep pits to be prepared at the edge of the cane field in which our elephants and the people contrived, with the utmost dexterity, to retain the wild ones during the day. When these pits were reported ready, we repaired to the spot, and they were cleverly driven into them. But, unfortunately, one of the pits did not prove to be sufficiently deep, and the one who escaped from it, in the presence of many witnesses, assisted his companion out of the other pit with his trunk. Both were, however, with much exertion, brought back into the cane, and as no particular symptoms of vice or fierceness had appeared in the course of the day, I was anxious to make another effort to capture them. The beldars, therefore, were set to work to deepen the old and prepare new pits against daybreak, when I proposed to make the final attempt. About four o’clock yesterday, however, they burst through all my guards, and making for a village about three miles distant, reached it with such rapidity that the horsemen who galloped before them, had not time to apprise the inhabitants of their danger, and I regret to say that one poor man was torn limb from limb, a child trodden to death, and two women hurt. Their destruction now became absolutely necessary, and as they showed no disposition to quit the village where their mischief had been done, we had time to bring up the four-pound pieces of artillery [these events took place in 1809] from which they received several rounds, both ball and abundance of grape. The larger of the two was soon brought to the ground by a round shot in the head; but after remaining there about a quarter of an hour, apparently lifeless, he got up again as vigorous as ever, and the desperation of both at this period exceeds all description. They made repeated charges on the guns, and if it had not been for the uncommon bravery and steadiness of the artillery-men, who more than once turned them off with shots in the head and body when within a very few paces of them, many dreadful casualties must have occurred. We were obliged to desist for want of ammunition, and before a fresh supply could be obtained, the animals quitted the village, and though streaming with blood from a hundred wounds, proceeded with a rapidity I had no idea of towards Hazarebaugh. They were at length brought up by the horsemen and our elephants, within a short distance of a crowded bazaar, and ultimately, after many renewals of most formidable and ferocious attacks on the guns, gave up the contest with their lives.

The western half of those central Indian highlands called locally the Mykal, Máhádeo, and Sátpúra hills, is a famous haunt for elephants. In this wild birthplace of the streams that pour themselves into the Bay of Bengal and the Arabian Gulf, these creatures wander in comparative security. The Gónd, Kól, and Sántál aborigines furnish the best trackers extant, except, perhaps, those mysterious Bygá or Bhúmiá, whose knowledge of woodcraft is unequalled. These small, dark, silent men have no sort of respect for an elephant’s mind or character, but they worship it from fear; they adore the animal because they know enough of its disposition to be always apprehensive of its doing more than it generally does.

Most of these great timber districts are under the supervision of officers, and the camps of their parties are widely scattered through large and lonely tracts of woodland. If one of these is come upon by a herd of elephants while its occupants are absent, a striking trait in this creature’s character will almost surely be exhibited. No monkey is more mischievous than one of these big brutes, and when the men return they probably find that nothing which could be displaced, marred, or broken, has escaped their attention. Elephants are also very curious; anything unusual is apt to attract them, and if they do not become alarmed at it, the gravity with which a novel object is examined, and the queer, awkward way in which these beasts manifest interest or amusement, is singular enough. Sometimes their performances under the incitement of curiosity or malicious mischief are decidedly unpleasant. A wild elephant came out of the woods one night and pawed a hole in the side of Sanderson’s tent. Hornaday says he made a little door in the wall at the head of his bed, so that he could bolt at once in case of a visitation like this. People living in such places, and in frail houses, are exposed to another contingency. Elephants are very subject to panics, and as they often arise from causes that should not disturb such a creature at all, no one can tell when a herd may not rush off together, and go screaming through the wood, breaking down everything but the big trees before them.

Sooner or later, a hunting party’s progress will be arrested by the halt of their guide: he crouches down in his tracks and looks intently, as it appears, at nothing. What he sees would be nothing to eyes less practised, but it is an elephant’s spoor. If one were in Africa, the trackers would now smooth off a little spot of ground, make a few incantations, and throw magic dice to find out all about this animal. But here nothing of that kind is done, and yet the guide will follow the trail unerringly, and the hunter may count upon being brought to his game. “When you know,” says Captain A. W. Drayson, “that the giant of the forest is not inferior in the senses of hearing and smell to any creature in creation, and has besides intelligence enough to know that you are his enemy, and also for what purpose you have come, it becomes a matter of great moment how, when, and where you approach him.”

Elephants, unless they have some definite end in view, stroll about in the most desultory, and, if one is following them, the most exasperating manner. Their big round footprints go up hill and down dale in utterly aimless and devious meanderings. Here the brute stops to dig a tuber or break a branch, there for the purpose of tearing down a clump of bamboos, in another place with no object in view except to drive its tusks into a bank. Sportsmen often spend a day and night upon their trail.

No one can foresee the issue of a contest with an elephant. It may fall to a single shot, but no matter how brave and cool and well instructed the hunter may be, how stanch are his gun-bearers, how perfect his weapons and the skill with which they are used, when that wavering trunk becomes fixed in his direction, and the huge head turns toward him, his breath is in his nostrils. More than likely the animal, whose form is almost invisible in the half-lights of these forests, is aware of his pursuer’s presence before the latter sees him, and if he has remained, it is because he means mischief. Then it may well happen with the sportsman as it did with Arlett, Wedderburn, Krieger, McLane, Wahlberg, and many another.

It stands to reason that a herd is harder to approach without being discovered than a single elephant would be. The chances that the hunter will be seen are greater, and their scattered positions make it more probable that some of them will get his wind.

Occasionally an old bull who despises that part of mankind who do not possess improved rifles, and knows perfectly well the difference between an Englishman and a native, will take possession of some unfortunate ryot’s millet field or cane patch, and hold it by right of conquest against all attempts to dislodge him. Crowds revile the animal from a safe distance, and a village shikári comes with a small-bored matchlock and shoots pieces of old iron and pebbles at him from the nearest position where it is mathematically certain that he will be secure. As for the marauder, he stays where he is until everything is eaten or destroyed, or until he gets tired.

The amount actually consumed by elephants forms but a small portion of the loss which agriculturists sustain from their forays. They always trample down and ruin far more than they eat. Both in India and Ceylon, various districts suffered so severely in this way that government gave rewards for all elephants killed. This has now been discontinued in both countries, but in many places where the herds are protected their numbers are increasing, so that the same necessity for thinning them out will again arise.

All over the cultivated portions of India platforms are erected in fields, where children by day, and men at night, endeavor to frighten away these invaders, together with the birds, antelopes, bears, monkeys, and wild hogs, that ravage their crops. No very signal success can be said to attend these efforts, and when a herd of elephants makes its appearance, they simply keep at a distance from the stages, and otherwise do as they please.