"UBI MEL,

No. 48-NEW SERIES.]

[TWOPENCE.

THE ELEPHANT.

The elephant, as every boy knows, is the most lordly quadruped that ranges the forest. His bulk is enormous-his strength prodigious—his sagacity equal to his other powers. Even the lion shuns his approach, or at least never courts the open combat; in the wide range of the animal creation he owns only one superior and it is man alone that renders the bulky elephant useful in peace, and formidable in war; that inures him to the burden, and breaks him to the yoke. In his native wilds he is fearful to look upon; reclaimed and domesticated, he becomes a faithful and attached friend-defending to the uttermost those who cherish and treat him kindly, and performing the most various domestic offices, down almost to the drudgery of a hewer of wood, and a drawer of water. A herd of elephants grazing in their native pastures is undoubtedly one of the sublimest sights in the world, though it is one few can ever witness; and, before the invention of gunpowder, their rush in war must have been terrific and appalling beyond expression. Yet such is the power of mind over matter, that even the "untutored Indian" leads the elephant forth with as much confidence as if he were a little child; and well may we admire the wisdom of the Creator, and the provisions of the charter granted to Adam in the garden of Eden, when we see an animal so gigantic yielding to a being physically so insignificant.

Many singular anecdotes are recorded of the elephant, which are too well known to be recapitulated here. I am enabled, however, to add to the number, and shall do so as plainly and briefly as possible. Not many years ago, an Edinburgh gentleman went to visit an elephant and the other inmates of a travelling menagerie, and as he wished to test he lifting powers of the former, he threw him

a sixpence, which fell near the wall of his of his proboscis. The huge animal observed wooden domicile, and beyond the utmost reach what was going forward, and after various ineffectual attempts to reach the piece of money, words, emitted such a gush of breath, that the snorted loudly against the wall, or, in other sixpence was moved and blown nearer the one moment, and the next raised and deposited in a place where few would venture to break through and steal. This dexterous feat, on the part of the elephant, surprised the spectators far beyond all his other tricks, and it was generally admitted that philosophy itself could not have gone farther in compassing its ends by the most direct means. Indeed, the gentleman who related the circumstance appealed to it as a striking proof of the doctrine, that it is impossible in many cases to say where instinct ends and reason begins, and that these qualities approximate, and run into one another so nearly, that we may well say of them,

"But thin partitions do their bounds divide." In the autobiography of Mr. Lindley Murray, published in 1826, a passage occurs, from which it appears that one of the clearest heads that ever engaged in the business of analysis, had been well nigh cracked, some 60 years ago, by a singular agent, and for a small offence. In the year 1771, he visited the elephants at the Queen's Palace, Buckingham, and from whatever motive ventured to withdraw with his cane a portion of the hay which one of them had been collecting with his proboscis on the floor. This little affront offended the sagacious animal highly; the keeper remarked that he would never forget it, and it was obvious, from the rapid convolutions of his trunk, that he only wanted an opportunity to avenge the misappropriation of his property on the spot. The grammarian, however, kept out of his way, and probably thought no more of the matter, until he chanced to revisit the

same place, after an absence of several weeks. On this occasion a number of other persons were present, but of the whole the elephant instantly singled out his old enemy, and aimed a desperate blow at his head, which, fortunately for the world, neither proved mortal, nor took effect. Mr. Murray was astonished, as well he might, and deduced an excellent moral from the circumstance, which it may be proper to give in his own words: “This incident made some impression on me; and perhaps contributed to subdue a curiosity which could not be gratified but at the expense of the feelings of others."

But though every quadruped of the same kind may possess equal powers of memory, they are not all equally revengeful: with them as with ourselves, the passion of anger is modified by circumstances, and the following facts, which I communicate on the authority of an eye-witness (Mr. Hewetson, of Kirkcudbright), go far to prove that they are capable of discriminating between persons worthy and unworthy of their notice. Mr. H., when in Dublin some years ago, went to see a huge elephant, which the owner was exhibiting in a wooden house, near one of the quays. To amuse the company, the giant quadruped performed, as usual, a number of tricks, such as kneeling and rising at the word of command, and hoisting over the rails of his den a bucketful of water, without spilling a single drop of it; and my friend, while examining, with the eye of an anatomist, the singular conformation of the animal, observed a little boy, who was doing every thing he could to annoy him. But though the pranks the urchin played were sufficiently insulting, the lordly brute remained calm, and appeared to take no notice of them; still he observed what was passing, and seizing his opportunity projected his trunk, snatched the cap from the boy's head, turned half round, snorted loudly, and in a word acted his part so well, that

every one present believed he had swallowed it. The offender looked exceedingly blank, and while scratching his head seemed to regret not a little that the best part of his dress should have gone on such a thankless errand. The elephant, on the other hand, appeared to enjoy the joke highly; for some minutes he looked the very picture of an arch humourist; and just as his visitors were about to retire, he drew the missing cap from its hiding-place, and flung it with such an air in the boy's face, that the laugh became loud and universal. Indeed this singular instance of sagacity excited far more admiration than all the tricks the showman had taught his African protege; and, as in the case already alluded to, the company, one and all, admitted that human reason could not have gone farther in repressing impertinence, by a mode of punishment at once so appropriate and indicative of the relative strength and weakness of the parties.

In the year 1822, a most interesting work appeared, entitled "Sketches of the Field Sports of India." The author, Dr. D. Johnson, appears to have looked about him with the eye of a naturalist; and though my object in the present work is originality, such as it is, I cannot resist quoting the following highly characteristic anecdotes of the elephant. "An elephant belonging to Mr. Boddam, of the Bengal civil service, at Gyah, used every day to pass over a small bridge leading from his master's house into the town of Gyah; he one day refused to go over it, and it was with great difficulty, by goring him most cruelly with the Hunkoss (iron instrument) that the Mahout (driver) could get him to venture on the bridge, the strength of which he first tried with his trunk, showing clearly that he suspected that it was not sufficiently strong; at last he went on, and before he could get over the bridge gave way, and they were precipitated into the ditch, which killed the driver, and considerably injured the elephant. It is reasonable to suppose the elephant must have perceived its feeble state when he last passed over it. It is a well known fact, that elephants will seldom or ever go over strange bridges, without first trying with their trunks if they be sufficiently strong to bear their weight, nor will they ever go into a boat without doing the same.

"I had a remarkably quiet and docile elephant, which one day came home loaded with branches of trees for provender, followed by a number of villagers, calling for mercy (their usual cry when ill used); complaining that the Mahout had stolen a kid from them, and that it was then on the elephant, under the branches of the trees. The Mahout took an opportunity of decamping into the village and hiding himself. I ordered the elephant to be unloaded, and was surprised to see that he would not allow any person to come near to him, when at all other times he was perfectly tractable and obedient. Combining all the circumstances, I was convinced that the Mahout was guilty, and, to get rid of the noise, I recompensed the people for the loss of their kid. As soon as they were gone away, the elephant allowed himself to be unloaded, and

the kid was found under the branches, as described by the people. I learnt from my Sarcar that similar complaints had been made to him before, and that the rascal of a Mahout made it a practice to ride the elephant into the midst of a herd of goats, and had taught him to pick up any of the young ones he directed; he had also accustomed him to steal their pumpions and other vegetables that grew against the inside of their fences like French beans, which could only be reached by an elephant. He was the best Mahout I ever knew, but so great a rogue that I was obliged to discharge him.

"The very day that he left my service, the elephant's eyes were closed, which he did not open again in less than a fortnight, when it was discovered that he was blind. Two small eschars, one in each eye, were visible, which indicated pretty strongly that he had been made blind by some sharp instrument, most probably by a heated needle. The suspicion was very strong against the former keeper, of whom I never heard any thing after. The elephant I frequently rode on, shooting, for many years after this, through heavy covers, intersected with ravines, rivers, and over hollow and uneven ground, and he scarcely ever made a false step with me, and never once tumbled. He used to touch the ground with his trunk on every spot where his feet were to be placed, and in so light and quick a manner as scarcely to be perceived. Mahout would often make him remove large stones, lumps of earth or timber, out of his way, frequently climb up and down banks that no horse could get over; he would also occasionally break off branches of trees that were in the way of the Howdah, to enable them to pass." J. M'DIARMID.

THE LONE SPIRIT.

I.

Love is a gentler lord to some

Than it hath been to me

The

My hopes, frail barks, have all been wreck'd
Upon its stormiest sea :
And now my pining spirit lives
Upon its memory!

II.

In happy days, in days of mirth,
When laughter had a joyous birth,
My heart beat quick and wild,
But then-what heart can well be sad
In youth-when every pulse is glad,
And sweet thoughts live in beauty clad!
I was a little child!

III.

I had no friends to care for me,
No father and no mother;
An early death had borne away
My sister and my brother:
And flowers had covered all their graves
Ere I could lisp their names.
On those with whom I lived and moved,
I had no kindred claims !

I had not dreamt of love or hate,

When first I braved an orphan's fate!

IV.

And thus I lived from year to year;
I do not think I shed a tear-
Until at last my heart poured out
Its fertile stream of love-
That flowed on all things beautiful
Below-around-above-

From Heaven, where dwelt the mighty God
Down to the earth, whose soil I trod!

V.

My childhood passed, the light of youth
Sat smiling on my brow;

I stood on manhood's threshold then;
I'm in its dwelling now!
And though it is a house of pain,
I cannot wander back again!
VI.

When manhood came I did not cease
To love the trees and flowers,
And all the glorious things that be
In earth, and air, and sky, and sea,
That we call ours!

But though my soul could still be gay
Upon a sunny summer day,
And feel the same sweet wild delight
In commune with the silent night—
There seemed a vacuum in my heart,

That not all this could fill;
As though some pulse had lingered there,
That longed to leap and thrill;
A spirit in its living depths,
Unfathomed, unexplored;

A priest, with golden gifts-but not
The altar He adored!

VII.

I went into the busy world,

To wake this sleeping fount, But still the void was all unfilled,

The love-blood would not mount! Amid a crowd of living men

I only seemed a stone;

Circled of laughing thousands-still The orphan was-alone!

VIII.

At last there came a light, that flashed
Upon my heart and brain-

A light that having vanished now,
Can never burn again;

And reason's chords are nearly rent
With thinking how it came and went.

IX.

It chanced upon the path I took,
My warm heart open like a book!
There flitted by, to glad mine eyes,
One of the world's young butterflies,
That hover o'er a thousand things,
And doubt on which to rest their wings!
(To be continued.)

ART AND SCIENCE.

It is the mischief of the regular study of all art and science, that it proportionably unfits a man for those pursuits or emergencies in life which require mere courage and promp titude. To any one who has found how diffi cult it is to arrive at truth or beauty, with all the pains and time he can bestow upon them, every thing seems worthless that can be ob