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"Hold your noise!" roared Jack, who was posted a little below. "Don't you see it's a hare ?" added he, amidst the uproarious mirth of the company.

"I haven't your great staring specs on, or I should have seen he hadn't a tail," retorted Jawleyford, nettled at the tone in which Jack had addressed him. !" replied Jack with a sneer; "who but a tailor would

"Tail be

call it a tail?" Just then a light low squeak of a whimper was heard in the lowest, thickest part of the gorse, and Frostyface cheered the hound to the echo. "Hoick to Pillager! H-o-o-ick!" screamed he, in a long drawn note that thrilled through every frame, and set the horses a-capering.

Ere Frosty's prolonged screech was fairly finished, there was such an outburst of melody, and such a shaking of the gorse-bushes, as plainly showed there was no safety for Reynard in cover; and great was the bustle and commotion among the horsemen. Mr. Fossick lowered his hat-string and ran the fox's-tooth through the buttonhole; Fyle drew his girths; Washball took a long swig at his hunting-horn-shaped monkey; Major Mayo and Mr. Archer threw away their cigar ends; Mr. Bliss drew on his dogskin gloves; Mr. Wake rolled the thong of his whip round the stick, to be better able to encounter his puller; Mr. Sparks got a yokel to take up a link of his curb; George Smith and Joe Smith looked at their watches; Sandy McGregor, the factor, filled his great Scotch nose with Irish snuff, exclaiming, as he dismissed the balance from his fingers by a knock against his thigh, "Oh, my mon, aw think this tod will gie us a ran!" while Blossomnose might be seen stealing gently on, on the far side of a thick fence, thinking to shirk Jawleyford, and get a good start into the bargain.

In the midst of these and similar preparations for the fray, up went a whip's cap at the low end of the cover; and a volley of "Tallyhos" burst from our friends, as the fox, whisking his white-tipped brush in the air, was seen stealing away over the grassy hill beyond. What a commotion was there! How pale some looked! how happy others! Sing out, Jack! for heaven's sake, sing out!" exclaimed Lord Scamperdale; an enthusiastic sportsman, always as eager for a run as if he had never seen one. 66 Sing out, Jack; or, by Jove, they'll over

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ride 'em at starting!"

"HOLD HARD, gentlemen," roared Jack, clapping spurs into his grey, or rather into his lordship's grey, dashing in front, and drawing the horse across the road to stop the progression of the field. "HOLD HARD, one minute!" repeated Jack, standing erect in his stirrups, and menacing them with his whip (a most formidable one). "Whatever you do, pray let them get away! Pray don't spoil your own sport! Pray remember they're his lordship's hounds!-that they cost him five-and-twenty underd a-year-two thousand five undered a-year! And where, let me ax, with wheat down to nothing, would you get another master if he was to throw up ?"

As Jack made this inquiry, he took a hurried glance at the now pouring-out pack; and seeing they were safe away, he wiped the foam from his mouth on his sleeve, dropped into his saddle, and catching his horse short round by the head, clapped spurs into his sides, and galloped away, exclaiming,

"Now, damme, we'll all start fair!"

Then there was such a scrimmage! such jostling and elbowing among the jealous ones; such ramming and cramming among the eager ones; such begging pardons among the polite ones; such spurting of ponies, such clambering of cart-horses! All were bent on going as far as they could all except Jawleyford, who sat curvetting and prancing in the patronising sort of way gentlemen do who encourage hounds for the sake of the manly spirit the sport engenders, and the advantage hunting is of in promoting the unrivalled breed of our cavalry horses-Bumperkin Yeomanry ones, to wit.

His lordship having slipped away, horn in hand, under pretence of blowing the hounds out of cover, as soon as he set Jack at the field, had now got a good start, and, horse well in hand, was sailing away at their

sterns.

"F-o-o-r-r-a-rd!" screamed Frostyface, coming up alongside of him, holding his horse-a magnificent thoroughbred bay-well by the head, and settling himself into his saddle as he went.

"F-o-r-rard!" screeched his lordship, thrusting his spectacles on to his nose.

"Twang-twang-twang," went the huntsman's deep-sounding horn. "Tweet-tweet-tweet," went his lordship's shriller one.

"We are in for a stinger, my lurd," observed Jack, returning his horn to the case.

"I hope so," replied his lordship, putting his horn in his pocket. They then flew the first fence together.

"F-o-r-r-ard!" screamed Jack in the air, as he saw the hounds packing well together, and racing with a breast-high scent.

"F-o-r-rard!" screamed his lordship, who was a sort of echo to his huntsman, just as Jack Spraggon was echo to his lordship.

"He's away for Gunnersby Craigs," observed Jack, pointing that way, for they were good ten miles off.

"Hope so," replied his lordship, for whom the distance could never be too great, provided the pace corresponded.

"F-o-o-r-rard!" screamed Jack.

"F-o-r-rard!" screeched his lordship.

So they went flying and "forrarding" together; none of the field-thanks to Jack Spraggon being able to overtake them.

"Y-o-o-nder he goes!" at last cried Frosty, taking off his cap as he viewed the fox, some half mile ahead, stealing away round Newington

hill.

"Tallyho!" screeched his lordship, riding with his flat hat in the air by way of exciting the striving field to still further exertion.

"He's a good-un!" exclaimed Frosty, eyeing the fox's going. "He is that!" replied his lordship, staring at him with all his might. Then they rode on, and were presently rounding Newington hill themselves, the hounds packing well and carrying a famous head.

THE CLOSING OF THE OPERA.

HERE we are again at the end of August, and we find one more Opera season behind us-one more quiet opportunity to sit down (anywhere but in our opera-box), and, with folded arms, to survey the merits, the perils, and the triumphs of the great LUMLEY.

It is a trite observation, that men in power seldom repose on beds of roses; but the position of the operatic manager in this respect is particularly tantalising. He is obliged to occupy his whole time in erecting bowers of roses for his patrons, without reserving one solitary leaf for himself. He plucks the flowers from his bountiful garden, showers them upon his friends, and then rests as well as he can upon the

thorns.

The season just over has been remarkable, both for its perils, and for the good fortune with which these have been surmounted. Every now and then we have had the darkness which comes over one when entering a tunnel, followed by the sudden flash of light which salutes one on leaving it. Even before the season, lowering clouds began to show themselves; and some people were wicked enough to prophesy that the Opera-house would not open at all. That great, magnificent building at the corner of the Haymarket was to remain mournfully locked up throughout a whole summer, uncheered by the voice of the singer or the echoing foot of the danseuse. The dismal prognosticators little knew the vitality of the establishinent or of Lumley. You might as well attempt to check the growth of an oak by laying a few pounds' weight on its summit, as try to arrest the energies of that untiring genius by a handful of adverse circumstances. The Opera did open at its appointed time; Alboni, one of the most charming vocalists in the world, was at first the prima donna. A neat success was achieved by Madame Giuliani, who afterwards appeared as a very superior Adalgisa, and Easter was reached with safety.

However, the period before Easter, as we have learnedly shown long ago, tries no point. Splendid victories are not then to be gained; and if there is a loss, it is not very compromising. "What will he do after Easter?" asked the respectable body of croakers.

The success of Mademoiselle Parodi in "Norma" was the first achievement, and was important enough to attract the attention of the town; but the grand feature of the time immediately after Easter was the reappearance of Mademoiselle Jenny Lind. We mean the re-appearance as an acting vocalist-not at the "classical concert," which even the nightingale could not render palatable to the yawning habitués. There were to have been six of these lugubrious entertainments, but the failure of "Zauberflöte" was at once detected, and Jenny preferred a resumption of theatrical costume to a toilsome succession of ineffective performances. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm which greeted her Amina-not even that which first welcomed her in 1847. Jenny Lind has certainly firm hold on the heart of the public, which is rarely attained by an artist. She has succeeded in gaining, not only the admiration, but the love of the English nation. This fact is to be tested, not only by the applause that has made the theatre reverberate every night of her performance, but by conversations without the walls. Enter any vehicle for land or water travelling, and you will find Jenny Lind a

popular theme for discussion. Her artistic merits and her charitable acts are alike talked over with fervour; and persons profess to have heard Jenny Lind, who never entered the doors of the Opera-house to hear any other performer.

The period during which she remained before the public this year was short and brilliant. When she had departed, the croakers again raised their voices. "What is to be the attraction now?" Nothing could be more delightful than the performance of Alboni in the several characters in which she appeared after the departure of Jenny; still, as we observed last month, it was universally felt that a strong excitement was necessary to fill about six weeks of the season.

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We have said already, and the public has seen with its own eyes, how completely the difficulty was solved by the return to the stage of the Countess de Rossi. To all those who look back to the season of 1849, her re-appearance will come out among other events as the great feature of that season. She stands at present as the grand object of public attention; her biography is the brochure of the day; and a brilliant provincial career will be the sure sequence of her London triumph.

Madame Sontag may be considered especially the favourite of the aristocracy. By her connexions and by her manners she belongs essentially to the highest class, and every part that she undertakes she construes from the ladylike point of view. If, as in Susanna, she has to assume the archness of the soubrette, she is most careful that the archness shall involve nothing of pertness or vulgarity. It is her tendency always to soften down the less refined peculiarities of character, and to give an idealised version, in which, however, there is nothing insipid. Her singing is the very perfection of perfection; and probably no vocalist who has ever trod the stage has attained to such a degree the power of distinctive articulation and shadowing. The "Deh vieni," in "Figaro," was a perfect luxury of song.

As for the dancing department, we beg to thank Mr. Lumley for the abolition of that heavy recreation, the grand ballet, which cost a world of money, and produced a world of weariness. An idea neatly set forth by means of dancing, and gracefully decorated with costume and one or two scenes, is all that is required by the epicurean votaries of Terpsichore. Out on the heavy processions, and the lifeless pantomime, and the dull comic fathers, who in vain labour to get humour out of stageconventionalities, and the long stories which nobody understands! One or two striking tableaux, like those in "Les Plaisirs d'Hiver," where ballet fun is carried to its highest pitch-one neat, "spicy" little combination, with Carolina Rosati as the principal figure-and we shall be perfectly satisfied.

So now we take leave of the Opera for the good year 1849, hoping that in 1850 we shall again look upon Sontag, Parodi, and Rosati, and still find ourselves admiring the spirit, tact, and integrity of our old friend Mr. Lumley.

THE THEATRES.

A REVIEW of the theatres at present would be a critique on the aspect of closed doors. We see manifestations precursory to renewed activity in September, but nothing is at present fairly above ground.

LITERATURE.

THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.*

LIKE Canada, the Cape has for some time back been a hotbed of colonial controversy. When war broke out in Kafirland in 1846, popular accounts unanimously concurred in representing wars with the Kafirs as being invariably caused by the most unprovoked and wanton aggression on the part of a set of wily, treacherous, and ferocious savages; while, on the other hand, the colonial press, and certain missionary writers belonging to what has been called the "Philanthropist" party, unhesitatingly placed the whole blame at the door of "the rapacious, encroaching, and insatiable colonists."

The work now before us, written by two most competent individuals, Colonel Napier and Mrs. Ward-both some time resident at the Cape and in Kafirland, both trained by habits of observation and reflection to judge for themselves, and both distinguished in the world of literature-is devoted in its earlier parts to combating the misrepresentations of the so-called philanthropists, and to exposing the errors that have been entailed by the false position in which such views have placed the colonist and the native.

Upon the arrival of both the above parties the old system had again been brought into play-a mistaken philanthropy was again in the ascendant; and the consequence was that, instead of fighting, truces, palavers, proclamations, and protestations were the order of the day; "and these crafty barbarians, after having worsted us in the field, now fairly outwitted us in the cabinet."

We have already related from Mrs. Ward's "Five Years in Kafirland," how the chiefs, Sandilla and Macomo, gained time by their protestations, until, when it pleased them to throw off their disguise, the commissariat was nigh exhausted, the summer heat intolerable, and the herbage dried up, so that the advance of the army was rendered more and more difficult. We also alluded to that extraordinary act, called "Registration," which enabled any Kafir possessed of a ticket to claim back the colonists' cattle which had been recovered by force of arms. Colonel Napier speaks of this truly absurd and unjust regulation in language similar to that held previously by Mrs. Ward.

Colonel Napier and Mrs. Ward also alike argue, first, that the Kafirs are miscalled aborigines, for they took the land they hold from the Bushmen; and secondly, that these people have, instead of being illtreated and oppressed, invariably met with too much leniency and kindness, alike from the government and the colonists; have been assisted in time of need, and saved by us from the devastating irruptions of hordes of the same race; and that, instead of evincing gratitude for these good offices, the Kafir has returned their kindness by treachery of the deepest dye, the murder of the settlers, the destruction of their homesteads-in fact, by plunder and rapine on the most sweeping scale.

The author and the editress alike proclaim the injustice of impeaching a community or a system for the errors of individuals; but they do not hesitate to say that there have been among the missionaries illiterate men, who, under the mask of religion, have spread discontent, distrust, *Past and Future Emigration; or, the Book of the Cape. Edited by the Author of "Five Years in Kafirland." T. C. Newby.

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