passed stealthily in, each ridden by its mahout (or ponnekella, as he is termed in Ceylon) and one attendant, and carrying a strong collar formed by coils of rope made from coco-nut fibre, from which hung on either side cords of elk's hide prepared with a ready noose. Along with them, and concealed behind them, the head-man of the cooroowe, or noosers, crept in, eager to secure the honour of taking the first elephant,-a distinction which this class jealously contests with the mahouts of the chiefs and the temples. He was a wiry little man, nearly seventy years old, who had served in the same capacity under the Kandyan king, and wore two silver bangles which had been conferred on him in testimony of his prowess. He was accom

panied by his son, named Ranghanie, equally renowned for his courage and dexterity.

"On this occasion ten tame elephants were in attendance. Two were the property of an adjoining temple (one of which had been caught only the year before, yet it was now ready to assist in capturing others), four belonged to the neighbouring chiefs, and the rest, including the two which now entered the corral, were part of the government stud. Of the latter, one was of prodigious age, having been in the service of the Dutch and English governments in succession for upwards of a century. The other, called by her keeper' Siribeddi,' was about fifty years old, and distinguished for her gentleness and docility. The latter was a most accomplished decoy, and evinced the utmost relish for the sport. Having entered the corral noiselessly, she moved slowly along with a sly composure and an assumed air of easy indifference. Sauntering leisurely in the direction of the captives, and halting now and then to pluck a bunch of grass or a few leaves as she passed. As she approached the herd they put themselves in motion to meet her; and the leader having advanced in front, and passed his trunk gently over her head, turned and paced slowly back to his dejected companions. Siribeddi followed with the same listless step, and drew herself up close behind him; thus affording the nooser an opportunity to stoop under her and slip the noose over the hind-foot of the wild one; the latter instantly perceived his danger, shook off the rope, and turned to attack the man. He would have suffered for his temerity, had not Siribeddi protected him by raising her trunk and driving the assailant into the midst of the herd; when the old man, being slightly wounded, was helped out of the corral, and his son Ranghanie took his place.

The herd again collected in a circle, with their heads towards the centre. The largest male was singled out, and two tame ones pushed boldly in till the three stood nearly abreast. He made no resistance, but betrayed his uneasiness by shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Ranghanie now crept up, and holding the rope open with both hands (its other extremity being made fast to Siribeddi's collar), and watching the instant when the wild elephant lifted its hind-foot, he succeeded in passing the noose over its leg, drew it close, and fled to the rear.

Ꭰ Ꭰ

The two tame elephants instantly fell back; Siribeddi stretched the rope to its full length, and whilst she dragged out the captive, her companion placed himself between her and the herd to prevent any interference.

In order to secure him to a tree, he had to be drawn backwards some twenty or thirty yards, making furious resistance, bellowing in terror, plunging on all sides, and crushing the small timber, which bent like reeds beneath his clumsy struggles. Siribeddi drew him steadily after her, and wound the rope round the proper tree, holding it all the time at its full tension, and stepping cautiously across it when, in order to give it a second turn, it was necessary to pass between the tree and the elephant. With a coil round the stem, however, it was beyond her strength to haul the prisoner close up, which was nevertheless necessary, in order to make him perfectly fast; but the second tame one, perceiving the difficulty, returned from the herd, confronted the struggling prisoner, pushed him shoulder to shoulder and head to head, and forced him backwards; whilst at every step Siribeddi hauled in the slackened rope till she brought him fairly up to the foot of the tree, where he was made fast by the cooroowe people.

A second noose was then passed over the other hind-leg and secured like the first, both legs being afterwards hobbled together by ropes made from the fibre of the kitool or jaggery-palm, which, being more flexible than that of the coco-nut, occasions less formidable ulcerations. The two decoys then ranged themselves as before, abreast of the prisoner on either side, thus enabling Ranghanie to stoop under them, and noose the two fore-feet as he had already done the hind; and these ropes being made fast to a tree in front, the capture was complete, and the tame elephants and keepers withdrew to repeat the operation on another of the herd.

As long as the tame ones stood beside him, the poor animal remained comparatively calm and almost passive under his sufferings; but the moment they moved off and he was left utterly alone, he made the most surprising efforts to set himself free and rejoin his companions. He felt the ropes with his trunk, and tried to untie the numerous knots; he drew backwards to liberate his fore-legs, then leaned forward to extricate the hind ones till every branch of the tall tree vibrated with his struggles. He screamed in his anguish, with his proboscis raised high in the air; then falling on his side, he laid his head to the ground, first his cheek and then his brow, and pressed down with doubled-in trunk as though he would force it into the earth; then suddenly rising, he balanced himself on his forehead and his fore-legs, holding his hind-feet fairly off the ground. This scene of distress continued some hours, with occasional pauses of apparent stupor, after which the struggle was from time to time renewed abruptly and as if by some sudden impulse; but at last the vain strife subsided, and the poor animal stood perfectly motionless, the image of exhaustion and despair.

Meanwhile Ranghanie presented himself in front of the governor's stage to claim the accustomed largess for tying the first elephant; he

was rewarded by a shower of rupees, and retired to resume his perilous duties in the corral."*

We cannot follow our author through the history of all the different captures, interesting as it is from the difference of demeanour of the individual animals and the variety of disposition which it manifested. "Some in their struggles made no sound, whilst others bellowed and trumpeted furiously, then uttered short convulsive screams, and at last, exhausted and hopeless, gave vent to their anguish in low and piteous moanings. Some, after a few violent efforts of this kind, lay motionless on the ground with no other indication of suffering than the tears which suffused their eyes and flowed incessantly."+ The power of sorrow and suffering which these noble creatures thus display is enormous; and were it not that a useful purpose is to be served, one would read with horror the details of their capture.

Two young elephants had entered the corral with the herd to which they belonged, and the story of their infantile sufferings and baby rage is at once touching and amusing. Of these, "One was about ten months old, the other somewhat more the smallest had a little bolt-head covered with woolly brown hair, and was the most amusing and interesting miniature imaginable. Both kept constantly with the herd, trotting after them in every charge: when the others stood at rest, they ran in and out between the legs of the older ones, not their own mothers alone, but every female in the group,— caressing them in turn. The dam of the youngest was the second elephant singled out by the noosers, and as she was dragged along by the decoys, the little creature kept by her side till she was drawn close to the fatal tree. The men at first were rather amused than otherwise by its anger, but they found that it would not permit them to place the second noose upon its mother, ran between her and them; it tried to seize the rope; it pushed them and struck them with its little trunk till they were forced to drive it back to the herd. It retreated slowly, shouting all the way, and pausing at every step to look back. It then attached itself to the largest female remaining in the herd, and placed itself across her fore-legs, whilst she hung down her trunk over its side, and soothed and caressed it. Here it continued moaning and lamenting till the noosers had left off securing the mother, when it instantly returned to her side; but as it became troublesome again, attacking every one who passed, it was at last secured by a rope to an adjoining tree, to which the other young one was also tied up. The second little one, equally with its playmate, exhibited great affection for its mother. It went willingly with its captor as far as the tree to which she was fastened, when it held out its trunk and tried to rejoin her; but finding itself forced along, it caught at every twig and branch it passed, and screamed with grief and disappointment.

These two little creatures were the most vociferous of the whole + Vol. ii. pp. 363, 364.

* Vol. ii. pp. 357 360.

herd, their shouts were incessant, they struggled to attack every one within reach, and as their bodies were more lithe and pliant than those of greater growth, their contortions were quite wonderful. The most amusing thing was, that in the midst of all their agony and affliction, the little fellows seized on every article of food that was thrown to them, and ate and roared simultaneously."*

Throughout the whole of this strange scene the conduct of the tame elephants was truly wonderful.

"They displayed the most perfect conception of every movement, both the object to be attained and the means of accomplishing it. They evinced the utmost enjoyment in what was going on. There was no ill-humour, no malignity, in the spirit displayed in what was otherwise a heartless proceeding; but they set about it in a way that showed a thorough relish for it, as an agreeable pastime. Their caution was as remarkable as their sagacity; there was no hurrying, no confusion, they never ran foul of the ropes, were never in the way of those noosed; and amidst the most violent struggles, when the tame ones had frequently to step across the captives, they in no instance trampled on them or occasioned the slightest accident or annoyance. So far from this, they saw intuitively a difficulty or a danger, and addressed themselves voluntarily to remove it. In tying up one of the larger elephants, he contrived, before he could be hauled close up to the tree, to walk once or twice round it, carrying the rope with him the decoy, perceiving the advantage he had thus gained over the nooser, walked up of her own accord and pushed him backwards with her head till she made him unwind himself again, when the rope was hauled tight and made fast. More than once when a wild one was extending his trunk, and would have intercepted the rope about to be placed over his leg, Siribeddi, by a sudden motion of her own trunk, pushed his aside and prevented him; and on one occasion, when successive efforts had failed to put the noose over the leg of an elephant which was already secured by one foot, but which wisely put the other to the ground as often as it was attempted to pass the noose under it, I saw the decoy watch her opportunity, and when his foot was again raised suddenly push in her own leg beneath it, and hold it up till the noose was attached and drawn tight."†

In captivity the temper of the elephant is seldom to be implicitly relied on. "The most amenable are subject to occasional fits of stubbornness; and even after years of submission, irritability and resentment will unaccountably manifest themselves." Hence a popular belief recorded by Phile, a Greek writer, who in the early part of the fourteenth century composed a poem on the elephant, and addressed it to the Emperor Andronicus II., from which Sir Emerson Tennent has given us some curious extracts, to the effect that the elephant has two hearts, by the † Vol. ii. pp. 365, 6. Vol. ii. p. 386.

Vol. ii. pp. 368, 9.

one of which he is moved to gentleness and obedience, by the other to ferocity and resistance.

This legend of the two hearts of the elephant is a striking expression of that duality of the physical nature which seems to distinguish tameable from untameable animals. In an animal of the latter class, whether in its wild state or in captivity, the whole bent of its nature is single and unwavering: it may be crushed by outer violence, but it admits of no internal division, and the influence of man finds no place in the permanent nature of the beast. In the tameable animal, on the contrary, there is an original duality which furnishes a foothold for the power of man: there is one part of the creature's nature that struggles with the other, and thus strangely mimics the moral nature of man, with its conflicts between the higher and the lower principles in him, and like that moral nature, is amenable to the power of rewards and punishments. Look at a dog vacillating between obeying his master's bidding "to heel" and indulging his animal passion for worrying a flock of sheep he seems to be a moral being like man, hesitating between the call of duty and pleasure-between present gratification and future punishment on the one hand, and on the other present self-denial and future reward. The dog no doubt exhibits this quality in the highest degree; but it seems to us that the same thing, in lesser degrees, characterises all animals that are capable of being tamed, and not merely subdued or held in by present force.

It is a common observation amongst our naturalists that the bodies of quadrupeds and birds which have died naturally are far less often found than might be expected from the number of the living and the consequent frequency of death. To this observation there are exceptions-such, for instance, as the shrews, whose soft little bodies so often lie across our path. Something, no doubt, is due to the number of animals ready to devour all dead flesh that comes in their way; but from comparing the number of bodies whose death appears due to the gun or other human means with those which appear to have died naturally, we can scarcely doubt that there is some other cause for the phenomenon in question, and that it is probably to be found in a tendency in animals to seek some hiding-place for their last moments.

This observation, which has been so often made with regard to our few and small quadrupeds, is repeated by our author with regard to the larger animals that haunt the forests and glades of Ceylon. The natives assert that the dead body of a monkey is never found in the forest, and they say, "he who has seen a white crow, the nest of a paddy bird, a straight coco-nut