OF DOGS, FOXES, AND JACKALS
"Hev a dog, Miss!--they're better friends nor any Christian."
GEORGE ELIOT, _The Mill on the Floss_.
[Illustration: A SUBALTERN'S DOG-BOY]
That 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 _Kotwāl_ 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 kūtta_, a dish (licking) dog. And the
Persian monosyllable for dog, "_Săg_," is often in a native mouth a more
savage term of contempt than "_Sūar_," 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 Ramazān 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 Majnūn." 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.
[Illustration: OUTCASTES (A BEGGING LEPER AND PARIAH DOGS)]
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 hūqqa
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.
[Illustration: PLAYFELLOWS]
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
Banjāris--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 _gūldānk_, 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.
[Illustration: IN FLOODTIME]
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.