or, having done so, to find some large, smooth stones which served well for seats.

The sun went down, and night seemed to fall at once; with it the air came very cold. We unfastened our blankets from the saddles, and were very glad to throw them over our shoulders; for our voluntary ducking in the river had not added to our comfort. We drew near to a blazing fire, and soon we were enveloped in steam.

The scene around was exceedingly picturesque; the fire cast a lurid glow over each nook and corner. In one part it lighted up a group of Kaffirs skinning the spoil, over which they still exulted; others were placing sharp pointed sticks, propped up with stones, on which to roast the meat when ready; others, less dainty, placed the entrails upon the fire, then let them quickly scorch, and when removed, quite black without and raw within, they devoured the savage mess with avidity.

By this time the buck was skinned, and we had our portion, which we cooked, in as primitive a style as the Kaffirs did, on wooden spits.

Our frugal supper finished, we produced a flask of brandy, and asked one or two of the chief men among our coloured friends to partake of some. This they were not at all backward in doing. They drank as much as we could spare, and then retired to join the swarthy group which lay already stretched upon the ground. We lighted our pipes, and spent a pleasant half-hour after the toils of the day. As we turned to our tent the fires had burnt low; the flames shot up in fitful starts, covering the cavern with a rich glow, and then expiring, left a total dark

ness.

All sounds were hushed, save that at intervals the howling of the distant wolves in the mountains came borne upon the wind; or, perhaps, a restless horse would break the stillness, and with impatient hoof send some loosened stone bounding into the valley below us.

We rolled ourselves in our blankets, and, although the rock on which our tent was pitched was not as comfortable as a feather bed, we soon fell asleep, leaving the guarding of the camp to the numerous dogs which lay curled up around our beds.

The next morning we rose before the sun. A very short time was sufficient to put everything in readiness for the start; and after a long march, it was about eleven o'clock

when we reached the promised huntingground.

The country here was very undulating, so that only a very limited extent of ground could be seen at one time.

The Kaffirs widened into a line which stretched far over the hills; they hoped by this means to drive the game towards one point.

We saw a few bucks, but did not fire at them, fearing that the report of our rifles might frighten the eland if they chanced to be in the neighbourhood.

After proceeding some distance, on turning the fork of a hill we saw a herd of fourteen eland grazing, all unconscious of the approach of danger.

Cautiously we drew nearer. We hoped to be able to stalk them; but, unfortunately, we were disappointed, for some luckless dog betrayed us by barking. This caused the eland to raise their heads; they looked at us, then started away at a measured trot. Seeing that all chance of stalking was now at an end, we remounted our horses, gave them spur and bridle, and started in pursuit.

Where the ground was tolerably level we gained, but where a hill had to be climbed the eland gained on us; for all ground appeared to be the same to them-they kept up the same measured pace at which they started. If an eland can once be forced to break into a gallop he is soon done for, as any speedy horse can then run him down on level ground. For some time it appeared as if our ride would be fruitless, but in the end we were rewarded. A fine male separated himself from the herd, and him we determined to follow. A certain distance was kept between us; but at last the eland turned along a hollow which lay between two hills. Now came the trial of speed.

The ground was torn beneath our horses' hoofs. We drew nearer-then in range. We raised our rifles, lowered them again; at length we fired. The eland went on untouched.

his pain, and stretched a few rapid strides: all to no good, for soon the gallant fellow was brought to a standstill. There he stood till the almost unwilling shot was fired which brought him to the ground. The dogs came up, and howled around the fallen animal, and licked his tawny sides.

The eland was cut up as quickly as the bucks had been the night before, and parts given to some of the men to carry. A portion was cooked upon the spot, and was washed down with copious draughts from a neighbouring stream.

By the time our frugal meal was finished we were ready to set out on our return to the waggon, which we hoped to reach before sundown; for the road being all down-hill, we expected to take a very short time over the journey, in comparison to the day and a half we had passed in gaining our present position.

But before we had proceeded far the clouds gathered about the mountains, and soon the thunder rolled from rock to rock, reverberating; the leaves hung motionless upon the few trees we passed; the horses appeared to fear the coming storm, pricked up their ears, and stepped with quickened

feet.

By degrees we passed objects we had noticed on the previous day; but the scene had changed. The mountain tops no longer stood sharp against the sky; their white summits were now hidden in clouds, and their sides looked dark, wrapped as they were in heavy shadows.

When some way down the mountain, though still far from our waggon, the storm burst over us with a violence peculiar to such climates. The stillness had gone; the wind blew in gusts at first, then in one fierce blast; the thunder rolled close overhead; the lightning seemed to run along the ground, to form a network in the sky, or in a crooked line appeared to play between earth and sky.

To add to the wildness of the scene, hail came down, not in small rounded frozen drops such as we see in England, but in pieces of ice, rough, and as large as hazel

nuts.

The Kaffirs shivered as, almost naked, they trod on the rough, slippery ground. Our hands were blue with cold; and, cut and smarting, were hardly able to hold the reins.

There was no shelter near, no tree or

rock-the country entirely open on every side. At length, however, the hail ceased, and the rain came instead-a welcome change to us. By degrees the storm abated, but the rain continued. The sun went down without our knowing it, and night came on.

Onwards we went-wet, tired, hungry. At last we reached the waggon, where we had hoped to find things comfortable; but, alas! we were disappointed. The outskirts of the storm we had encountered in the mountains had fallen in the valley, and our waggon lay in a marsh. The tents were wet, the fire out!

We cut up the lid of a deal box, and by these means provided dry wood enough to boil our kettle for coffee; then, even without our ordinary after-supper pipe, we in no pleasant mood took off our wet clothes, and crept into the waggon, wishing, for the time at least, that we were in far-off England. We soon forgot our hunger and fatigue in sleep, and thus ended our eland hunt in South Africa.

BENJAMIN WEBSTER.

THE HE veteran actor who is the subject of our cartoon had earned a great re-. putation many years ago. His name will go down to future generations of playgoers as that of one who was a master of the art of embodying on the stage every variety of character. No man has played with success in a greater number of characters than the proprietor of the Adelphi.

Benjamin Webster is descended from a good Yorkshire family, though the city of Bath was his birthplace. He made his first appearance on the stage of life on the 3rd of September, 1800. He was educated for the navy, and a commission was procured for him by the late Duchess of York; but he never entered the service. The navy has been the loser and the stage the gainer by the circumstance. He was fond of music, and made that his first profession. While fulfilling an engagement in the orchestra of the theatre at Warwick, he first threw down the fiddlestick, and put on the mask and tights of a harlequin-a character different from those with which in after years he pleased the public. But his real début as an actor took place in the same theatre, in the character of Thessalus in "Alexander the Great." He succeeded, and resolved to devote himself for the future to the stage.

His career after this was that of most young actors. He travelled from town to town, playing all sorts of parts at all sorts of theatres a training which proved most beneficial. After various adventures in England and Ireland, he turned up in London, where he played trifling parts at several houses. At length, in 1825, "Measure for Measure" was being performed at Drurylane, with a strong cast, and Harley had the part of Pompey, the clown. The popular comedian was suddenly taken ill. At three or four hours' notice, Benjamin Webster took his place, delighted the audience, pleased the manager, and filled the press with his praises. From this time his name was made. He had plenty of good offers; and in 1829 he opened at the Haymarket, in "Lodgings for Single Gentlemen." When Morris, the lessee, retired, Mr. Webster took his place, and for sixteen years was lessee of that house. At the end of that time Mr. Buckstone took it, and Mr. Webster devoted himself exclusively to the Adelphi.

In 1858 he rebuilt that theatre, an old and inconvenient house, and raised in its stead one of the most complete and well-constructed houses in London. The Haymarket owes its position to his energy and liberality. He spent £2,000 a-year on English authors at a time when, as now, there was a cry that everything worth seeing was cribbed from the French. Knowles, Bulwer, and Jerrold supplied him with plays; and Macready, Phelps, Wallack, Warde, Farren, Reeve, Buckstone, Charles Mathews, Power, Helen Faucit, Mrs. Glover, Mrs. Warner, and Mrs. Stirling illustrated them. Not least in this list of "all the talents" was Benjamin Webster himself. It has been said of him that "his motley assumptions remind us of a crowd of Hogarths. In looking back over all the years of his career, the mass is overpowering. Though each face is individual -old age and youth, fops and vulgarians, Cockneys and countrymen, misers and gamblers, blacklegs and priests; Welshmen, Scotchmen, and Dutchmen; negroes, Jesuits, and Jews-their habiliments would form the wardrobe of a theatre." Perhaps his greatest impersonation, out of all the characters he assumed, was that of Robert Landry, in the "Dead Heart." This was a wonderful delineation of character; and the scene in which Robert recovers his memory, after many years' incarceration in the Bastille, is as fine a piece of acting as ever was seen on the English

stage. Old playgoers, too, will recall with delight his George Darville, his Richard Pride, and his Tartuffe. In all his characters, he entered heart and soul into the author's meaning, and the spectator was lost in the reality of the scene.

One other feature of Mr. Webster's career deserves notice, it is his connection with the Royal Dramatic College. This valuable institution he has from the first assisted with his purse and his labour, and has always done all he could to help it on to its present usefulness to decayed members of the profession; in which efforts he has been well seconded by the assiduous secretary, Mr. Anson, who has been for many years connected with the management at the Adelphi.

Mr. Webster's very long connection with the stage has caused him to be looked upon as a sort of Nestor among actors; his friends, private and professional, looking up to him as "the Governor."

OLD DOLLS WITH NEW NOSES.

BISHOP CORBET, WIT AND POET.

F there is one quality on which the bishops

of the present day may justly pride themselves, it is that of harmlessness. With the greatest possible respect to the lawn sleeves, it may perhaps be humbly advanced that this quality, carried to an extreme, is liable to provoke misconception of motives on the one hand, and timidity on the other. Sleekness may come of it: the desire to make things smooth, and preserve pleasant paths as private property; an appearance of the wish to keep one's own nose in the manger, and one's neighbour's out of it; also, even the appearance of cowardice, and distrust as to the soundness of foundations. All this, I say, might, if one were inclined to carp, sneer, and make oneself disagreeable, come of a too persistent habit of virtuous inoffensiveness.

Some time ago, prying about in those by-lanes of literature, which, though they certainly do not boast the same splendid avenues, glorious views, grand lines and curves, and gorgeous colouring, of the beaten roads, are yet shady and pleasant to him who loves rather to loiter than to hasten along the way, I came upon the life and works of a certain right reverend father in God, of a type so curiously and utterly different from his brother of the nineteenth century, that I made notes of him forth