"Well, let's see him," interrupted Sponge, "and we can talk about terms after." "Certainly, sir, certainly," replied Buckram, again letting drive a reaccumulated rush of silver down his pocket. "Here, Tom! Joe! Harry! where's Sam?" giving the little tinkler of a bell a pull as he spoke. "Sam be in the straw 'ouse," replied Leather, passing through a stable into a wooden projection beyond, where the gentleman in question was enjoying a nap. "Sam!" said he, "Sam!" repeated he, in a louder tone, as he saw the object of his search's nose popping through the midst of the straw. "What now!" exclaimed Sam, starting up, and looking wildly around; "what now ?" repeated he, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. "Get out Ercles," said Leather, sotto voce. The lad was a mere stripling-some fifteen or sixteen years, perhaps― tall, slight, and neat, with dark hair and eyes, and was dressed in a brown jacket-a real boy's jacket, without laps, white cords, and top-boots. It was his business to risk his neck and limbs at all hours of the day, on all sorts of horses, over any sort of place that any person chose to require him to put a horse at, and this he did with the daring pleasure of youth as yet undaunted by any serious fall. Sam now bestirred himself to get out the horse. The clambering of hoofs presently announced his approach. Whether Hercules was called Hercules on account of his amazing strength, or from a fanciful relationship to the famous horse of that name, we know not, but his strength and his colour would favour either supposition. He was an immense, tall, big, powerful, dark brown horse, standing full sixteen hands high, with an arched neck and crest, well set on, clean Jowled head, and loins that looked as if they could shoot a man into the next country just as a skilful player could shoot a shuttlecock along a room. His condition was perfect. His coat lay as close and even as satin, with cleanly developed muscle, and altogether he looked as hard as a cricket-ball. He had a famous switch tail, reaching nearly to his hocks, and making him look less than he would otherwise have done. Mr. Soapey Sponge was too well versed in horse-flesh to imagine that such an animal would be in the possession of such a third-rate dealer as Buckram, unless there was something radically wrong about him, and as Sam and Leather were paying the horse those stable attentions that always precede a show out, Mr. Sponge settled in his own mind that the observation about his requiring a horseman to ride him, meant that he was vicious. Nor was he deceived in his anticipations, for not all Leather's whistlings, or Sam's endearings, and watchings, could conceal the sunken, scowling eye, that as good as said, "you'd better keep clear of me." Mr. Sponge, however, was a dauntless horseman. What man dared he dared, and as the horse stepped proudly and freely out of the stable, Mr. Sponge thought he looked very like a hunter. Nor were Mr. Buckram's laudations wanting in the animal's behalf. "There's an orse!" exclaimed he, drawing his right hand out of his trouser pocket, and flourishing it towards him. "If that orse were down in Leicestersheer," added he, "he'd fetch three 'under'd guineas. Sir Richard would have him in a minuit-that he would!" added he, with a stamp of his foot as he saw the animal beginning to set up his back and wince at the approach of the lad. (We may here mention by way of parenthesis, that Mr. Buckram had just brought him out of War wickshire for thirty pounds, where the horse had greatly distinguished himself, as well by kicking off sundry scarlet swells in the gaily-thronged streets of Leamington, as by running away with divers others over the wide-stretching grazing-grounds of Southam and Dunchurch.) But to our story. The horse now stood staring on view: fire in his eye, and vigour in his every limb. Leather was at his head, the lad at his side, Sponge and Buckram a little on the left. “W―h-o-a-a-y, my man, w-h-o-a-a-y," continued Mr. Buckram, as a liberal exposition of the white of the eye was followed by a little wince and hoist of the hind quarters on the nearer approach of the lad. "Look sharp, boy," said he, in a very different tone to the soothing one in which he had just been addressing the horse. The lad lifted up his leg for a hoist, Leather gave him one as quick as thought, and led on the horse as the lad gathered up his reins. They then made for a large field at the back of the house, with leaping-bars, hurdles, "on and offs,' "" ins and outs," all sorts of fancy leaps scattered about. Having got him fairly in, and the lad having got himself fairly settled in the saddle, gave the horse a touch with the spur as Leather let go his head, and after a desperate plunge or two started off at a gallop. he "He's fresh," observed Mr. Buckram confidentially to Mr. Sponge, "he's fresh-wants work, in short-short of work-wouldn't put every one on him—wouldn't put one o' your timid cocknified chaps on him, for if ever he were to get the hupper 'and, vy I doesn't know as ow that we might get the hupper 'and o' him, agen, but the playful rogue knows ven he's got a workman on his back-see how he gives to the lad though he's only fifteen, and not strong of his hage nouther," continued Mr. Buckram, "and I guess if he had sich a consternation of talent as you on his back, he'd wery soon be as quiet as a lamb-not that he's wiciousfar from it, only play-full of play, I may say, though to be sure, if a man gets spilt it don't argufy much whether it's done from play or from vice." During this time the horse was going through his evolutions, hopping over this thing, popping over that, making as little of every thing as practice makes them do. Having gone through the usual routine, the lad now walked the glowing coated snorting horse back to where the trio stood. Mr. Sponge again looked him over, and still seeing no exception to take to him, bid the lad get off, and lengthen the stirrups for him to take a ride. That was the difficulty. The first two minutes always did it. Mr. Sponge, however, nothing daunted, borrowed Sam's spurs, and making Leather hold the horse by the head till he got well into the saddle, and then lead him on a bit; he gave the animal such a dig in both sides as fairly threw him off his guard, and made him start away at a gallop, instead of standing and delivering, as was his wont. Away Mr. Sponge shot, pulling him about, trying all his paces, and putting him at all sorts of leaps. Emboldened by the nerve and dexterity displayed by Mr. Sponge, Mr. Buckram stood meditating a further trial of his equestrian ability, as he watched him bucketing "Ercules" about. Hercules had " spanghewed" so many triers, and the hideous contraction of his resolute back had deterred so many from mounting, that Buckram had began to fear he would have to place him in the only remaining school for incurables, the Bus. Hack-horse riders are seldom great horsemen. The very fact of their being hack-horse riders shows they are little accustomed to horses, or they would not give the fee-simple of an animal for a few weeks' work. "I've a wonderful clever little oss," observed Mr. Buckram, as Soapey returned with a slack rein and a satisfied air on the late resolute animal's back. "Little I can 'ardly call 'im," continued Mr. Buckram, "only he's low; but you knows that the eight of an oss has nothin' to do with his size. Now this is a perfect dray-oss in minature. An Eton gent lookin' at him, t'other him christen'd him 'Multum in Pavo.' But though he's so ter men-dous strong, he has the knack o' goin', specially in deep; and if you're not a goin' to Sir Richard, but into some o' them plough sheers (shires), I'd 'commend him to you." "Let's have a look at him," replied Mr. Sponge, throwing his right-leg over Hercules' head, and sliding from the saddle on to the ground, as if he were alighting from the quietest shooting pony in the world. All then was hurry, scurry, and scamper to get this second prodigy out. Presently he appeared. Multum in Pavo certainly was all that Buckram described him. A lengthy, low, clean-headed, clean-necked, bighocked, chestnut, with a long tail, and great, large, flat, white legs, without mark or blemish upon them. Unlike Hercules, there was nothing indicative of vice or mischief about him. Indeed, he was rather a sedate, meditative-looking animal; and instead of the watchful, arms'-length sort of way Leather and Co. treated Hercules, they jerked and punched Pavo about as if he had been a cow. Still Multum in Pavo had his foibles. He was a resolute, head-strong animal, that would go his own way in spite of all the pulling and hauling in the world. If he took it into his obstinate head to turn into a particular field, into it he would be; or against the gate-post he would bump the rider's leg in a way that would make him remember the difference of opinion between them. It was not a fiery, hot-headed spirit, with object or reason for its guide, but just a regular downright pig-headed sort of stupidity, that nobody could account for. He had a mouth like a bull, and would walk clean through a gate sometimes rather than be at the trouble of rising to leap it; at other times he would hop over it like a bird. He could not beat Mr. Buckram's men, because they were always on the look out for objects of contention with sharp spur rowels, ready to let into his sides the moment he began to stop; but a weak or a timid man on his back had no more chance than he would on an elephant. If the horse chose to carry him into the midst of the hounds at the meet, he would have him in-nay, he would think nothing of upsetting the master himself in the middle of the pack. Then the provoking part was, that the obstinate beast after having done all the mischief, would just set to to graze as if nothing had happened. After rolling a sportsman in the mud, he would repair to the nearest hay-stack or grassy bank, and be caught. He was now ten years old, or a leetle more perhaps, and very wicked years some of them had been. His adventures, his sellings and his returning, his lettings and his unlettings, his bumpings and spillings, his smashings and crashings, on the road, in the field, in single and in double harness, would furnish a volume of themselves; and in default of a more able historian, we purpose blending his future fortune with that of Ercules, in the service of our hero Mr. Soapey Sponge, and his accomplished groom, and undertaking the important narration of them. AMAKEYA : A TALE OF KAFFIRLAND. BY MRS. WARD, Author of "FIVE YEARS IN Kaffir Land." THERE have long been two parties in South Africa. The one defrauding the public with mock philanthropic histories of "interesting savages," the other denouncing the missionaries as the authors of all the mischief which so fearfully exploded in the war of 1846-47. The following tale has been put together without reference to either: the incidents related in it being, in their main features, true, and in every way illustrative of Kaffir character and customs, and the circumstance on which the tale is founded was related to me by Colonel Glencairn* himself, shortly after its occurrence, and near the scene thereof. Not far from a large garrison on the borders of Kaffirland lies a green valley. It is one of the sweetest spots you can conceive. Abrupt mountains rise above it, mountains green to their summit, save one, the chief feature of the T'yumie ridge, which bears a diadem on its ancient brow, of gray basaltic rock. Between some of these eminences are bright patches of verdure, on which the eye loves to fall; I remember one especially which was visible from the garrison town alluded to above, and which I named "The Fairy's Rest," for it looked like a spot on which "good people" might like to pause on their way from other worlds to this. About the valley are scattered a few huts shaped like large inverted birds' nests, and at evening time the place is busy; the fires are lit, the old crones of Kaffirland prepare the meal of Indian corn, and the young girls come laughing through the bushes with their closely woven water-baskets and calabashes poised on their heads, from the river, whither they have been for water, presenting no bad illustration of those patriarchal times, when the parched corn was ground between two stones, as it is now in Kaffirland, and the "daughters of the land" went down at "even time to draw water." There is a whoop upon the hills, the young girls pause in their musical and merry laughter; nearer yet nearer draws the shrill cry, and a slender Kaffir boy advances like a winged Mercury with a feather fastened to his ancle: he is a messenger; the chief Macomo is approaching his kraalt after a week's absence, and has sent on his herald to apprise his people of his coming. Another shout echoes from a klooft at the same time, and a train of young hunters sweep onward, headed by the swiftest of their party with the news of the hunt, for he who brings such intelligence first, shares the honours of the day with the keenest sportsman. The sun is setting, and in the distance sounds the old Scotch air of "The Yellow Haired Laddie," the drums and fifes in the neighbouring garrison are beating "the retreat," and the music is wafted dreamily across the valley as Macomo and his followers wind along the road in dusky array. The chief is distinguished from his attendants by his kaross§ of tiger skin: he is a great warrior, and has just returned from a meet *Colonel Glencairn C-1. Kloof, glen. Jan.-VOL. LXXXV. NO. CCCXXXVII. Kraal-hamlet of huts. § Kaross, mantle. ing with the English authorities. The women of his "great place" ask him no questions as he dismounts, but they hear him mutter the words "the Umlunghi are children," they see his sardonic smile, and they know that for the present the threats of the Umlunghi against the marauding Kaffir have ended in nothing. The hunters advance with their exciting shouts, and the sweet voices of the girls blend with the low and solemn tones of Macomo's councillors, who are already seated with lit pipes, the women listening but not joining in the "talk." The game is killed, and a poor crippled wretch crawls out for her portion, which is given her from the group nearest her hut. She is one of Macomo's wives, and having once run away from him, she was condemned to "sit still for ever:" the miserable creature was fastened down with reims,† and a fire of mimosa thorns blazed and crackled at her feet, blistering them, and rendering her incapable of using them afterwards. But Amakeya, the favourite daughter of Macomo, stands apart from the others of her tribe. In vain the young warriors, who have hunted down the buck for her father's meal, look round for Amakeya, the beauty of Kaffirland, to reward them for their labours with a smile, and a sight of such teeth as no white beauty can boast. Why is she waiting silent and alone? Is it to listen to the deep mouthed bay of the English fox hounds, or to watch the officers of the garrison as they sweep by from their hunt among the mountains? No. She shrinks behind the thick coppice as the clatter of horses' hoofs approaches; the tired pack are called home, and move past panting and weary, the whipper-in cracks his long whip with an exclamation in broad Yorkshire, and this second crowd of hunters disappears along the mountain side. Amakeya steps out from the thicket once more and watches; when first she took her station the sun was high above the "Fairy's Rest," but she has stood there till he has only left the rays of his departing glory on the hill tops. There is a plash of horses' feet in the little drift below, and a solitary rider advances up the hill and gives Amakeya the "good morrow" in a pleasant voice and with a kind smile. But he cannot pass on-she will not let him-she bears an assegai‡ in her slender hand, and without a word plants it in the path before him. Colonel Glencairn, for he was the rider Amakeya had so long and patiently awaited, spoke in a laughing tone of interrogation, but she looked grave and sad; he held out his hand; she kissed it without any violent demonstration of feeling, shook her head as she withdrew the assegaï from the ground, and with one last look, a sigh, and an exclamation in a mournful voice of "My friend, my friend!" she turned into the little coppice and disappeared. Colonel Glencairn knew that the spear stuck in the ground was the certain omen of war,§ but he had so often heard the subject discussed and dismissed, that he thought little of it. As he looked back on Macomo's kraal, he caught sight of Amakeya advancing towards the fires, and on reaching the top of the hill a fresh Umlunghi-white men. ↑ Reim, thong made from bullock's hide. A javelin, the handle being made from the wood of the assegai tree. |