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galloping hoofs growing fainter in the distance.

Slowly and solemnly Chindebvu descended from his perch, ignoring the gibes of Mtali, and sitting upon the ground became engrossed in the study of chiropody. This operation finished, they got on the spoor again, and soon a drop of frothy blood showed them that the buffalo had been hit in the lungs, but, remembering the angle at which the shot had been fired, the hunter feared that only one lung had been penetrated, — as proved to be the case, for an hour later the animal was still going strongly, though limping slightly on one leg; and as he was going down wind there was no hope of their coming up with him that night. About an hour before sunset they arrived at a mud pool whither the buffalo had gone to wallow, drink, and plaster his wound; and, by the way the mud had settled, they judged he must have passed half an hour or more before them. As here at least was water, they resolved to pass the night at this place. The water-bottle had been untouched since leaving the river, but now that there was a chance of refilling it, it was called into use. The remainder of their luggage was the hunter's much battered canteen, a native axe, and a strip of biltong. This comprised all the necessary impedimenta for a luxurious bivouac.

The hunter wandered off with his gun, which Mtali had been carrying. The latter now picked a few reeds growing in the pool, and, choosing a good place, laid them carefully down, crossing and recrossing them at the bottom of the shallow pool to keep the mud down and to allow comparatively clean water to be taken off the top without stirring up the sediment. Meanwhile Chindebvu, taking the axe had cut down a few long and straight saplings, and choosing two suitable traes planted a couple in the ground be

tween them and lashed the remainder across.

While all this was in progress a couple of shots were heard, and presently the hunter returned with a brace of guinea-fowl. All hands then set themselves to bring in bundles of long grass, and, with strips of bark of the saplings, these were lashed into the framework, making a wall to protect them from the wind. Dead branches were collected, a few more saplings cut down for firewood, and a fire was soon made to leeward of the wall. The birds were cut open, cleaned, and cooked spatched-cock fashion in a cleft stick, the end of which was sharpened and stuck into the ground near the fire, and turned when necessary.

The canteen was now opened and revealed its contents; they belled its disreputable-looking exterior, for here, neatly packed away, were a small tin of cocoa sufficient to make one pint, a little bottle of saccharine, some salt and pepper, two biscuits, a little bottle of quinine, a spare box of matches. — and something long, carefully wrapped up in silver paper. The birds and the cocoa were both excellent. Grass wa? thrown upon the fire to give a light, while they arranged little piles of wood with which to feed it during the night; these were placed within arm's reach, as it is tedious to get up to replenish the fire. Two thick poles had been cut down, and these were placed with their butts in the fire, so that as their ends were consumed they could be pushed farther in.

Everything having been made snug for the night, the hunter cleaned his rifle, reloaded it and laid it by his side, and then drew forth the silver packet, which being unwrapped disclosed a cigar of choice brand. in a hard life of camping and travelling, far from civilization, luxuries have to be reduced to a minimum in bulk and weight, and the hunter's selection of the only luxury that he allowed himself was the result of careful deliberation; for a few boxes of cigars do not weigh much, and yet every single cigar enabled him to finish off a rough hunter's meal in exactly the same way as the most gorgeous of London's dinners would have terminated.

With the scent of good tobacco in the air, the hard ground and frugal fare seemed less real than the scenes of a different life which flitted before his imagination; and so, heaping up the fire, he lies back with his hand clutching the rifle at his side, and dreams of fair faces and gay cities intermingle with enormous tuskers waiting to be killed by a rifle which will never go off, till a cold chill creeps over him, and he awakes to pile up the fire and to sleep once more.


The false dawn saw the hunter sitting by the fire, and gathering the scattered embers wherewith to br?w a cup of cocoa, while the natives toasted little pieces of biltong on sharpened sticks.

By the time the surrounding objects began to assume definite form the water-bottle had been refilled, and they started off again on the track of old Njati. The blood-spoor had now stopped, all but a tiny clot now «iud again on a twig or branch crossing tLe wny. After going some way they came to a shallow nullah containing a dry watercourse l>ordered by a stiff cane-brake, a likely place for a buffalo to be lying up in. As it would have been unwise to follow the tracks in here down wind they made a long detour to approach the place quietly from the opposite side; and here they found out-going tracks which showed clearly that Njati had again moved on. There was fresh blood on the spoor, which was curious, as for the last hour there

had been no vestige of any. They had not gone far before the hunter stooped down and picked up a little wisp of clotted hair. He examined it critically, and then passed it on to his companions, who uttered exclamations of surprise, for it contained the black and white hairs from a lion's mane.

Retracing their steps to the canebrake, they entered and saw the whole story written upon the ground, for those to read who could. Here was the stealthy tread of the lion's pugs, short of stride, as he crept towards his prey, sometimes dragging his stomach along the ground, now the crouch ready to spring, with the impress of the animal's form on the ground, and the marks where the claws, shot out ready for the grip, had torn up the grass; and there, ten yards distant, was where the buffalo had been lying, and, getting the alarm just in time, had staggered to his fest, and the signs of the mighty conflict, his hoof-marks ploughing up the ground as with a mighty heave he had thrown his antagonist clear of him, to slink off with a wounded side, as the bleeding tracks of the lion showed. After the fight old Njati had moved on. growing weaker at every step, till, finding a patch of dead grass, he passed through, and lay down on the farther side so as to hear any one approaching through the grass.

As the sun mounted overhead he longed for water, and thought of the cool valleys of the hills, and then again of the swamps during the first rains. The heat-haze of the parched country burnt into his eyes, and he rested his head on the hot, bare soil, as it seemed to have grown too heavy to hold up. Suddenly, however, he heard a rustle of grass, and turning his head be saw his enemy standing near with the thunder-stick in his hand. Tottering to his feet he gave a fierce snort iiud tried to charge the intruder. The hunter raised bis rifle to bis shoulder, — but before he could fire the magnificent beast fell with a crash, and lay convulsively kicking with his hoofs; and then, with a longdrawn sigh, old Njati passed away, and started on the long trek to the grazing-grounds of the spirit buffaloes.

The hunter stood regretfully looking down at the noble beast, whose horns were scarred and chipped with many a fight The idea of seeing this fine animal converted into Joints of meat seemed repulsive to him, and as Mtali came running forward, knife in hand, he waived him back. As he turned to go a swift shadow passed over the ground, and breaking off some branches he placed them reverently over the massive head, to keep away the vultures, and then silently wended his way back to camp.

"Truly are the white men mad." snid Mtali to the little group round the camp fire that night.

Mncmlllan's Magazine.

Old Chindebvu raked in the embers with a stick, and after a thoughtful pause said: "How may you. a young man, know what is in the heart of the white man?"

"But there was all that meat left lying in the bush," complained Mtali, turning to Tayari for consolation.

After another profound pause, Chindebvu said: "The white man is strong, —the white man is brave,—the white man is fierce,—but what medicine dots lie make to become thus? He does not eat the heart of the lion, nor does he wear a necklace of the hair of hi* enemies. Surely, to-day be hag maile some great medicine, and you. a young man, cannot know the medicine of the white man."

"Nevertheless, shall I go to-morrow and fetch some of the meat?" said Mtali, sulkily.

"Chindebvu," called the hunter, "we trek to-morrow at dawn for the big river."



It was a bold venture in the editor of the "Men of Letters" series, whoever he may be, to determine upon adding to his roll of honor the incommensurable name of Shakespeare; for the simple reason that a biography in any real sense is out of the question, and criticism, at this time of day, if it is to be more than panegyric, must deal with the particular rather than with the general. If the impossible task was to be assigned to any one, no better choice could have been made than of Professor Raleigh, who has shown by more than one monograph that he has the rare gift of an instinct for poetry, while the Muses have en

• "Shakespeare." By Walter Raleigh. (English Men of Letters. Macmlllan. 2s. net >

trusted him with a style of his own which is vivid and imaginative to a remarkable degree. It is not too much to say that the book which has been published this 23rd of April has been looked forward to with keen expectation by most lovers of our literature; and if no one has expected a miracle, no one has a right to be disappointed. Mr. Raleigh has given us an essay, overflowing with life, crammed with suggestion, full of stimulating ideas and happy turns of phrase, and with no dull page from beginning to end. It is table-talk'in exocUis, stamped with all the freshness and brightness of an original mind. This impromptu nature of Mr. Raleigh's criticism brings with it, of course, the defect of its quality;

and we had better say first what has to be said on this side of the matter before proceeding to the more agreeable task of commenting on his many "beauties."

In the first place, it might be fairly urged that the book gives us less than we have a right to expect on the biographical side. Not a little has been done since Mr. Sidney Lee nearly ten years ago focussed the results of all previous biographies in his standard "Life of Shakespeare"; and various questions, in controversy between scholars since, ought by this time to be ripe for a summing up. The reason for Shakespeare's hasty marriage, his alleged Roman Catholicism, his knowledge of law and of the Bible, his conduct in regard to the Welcombe enclosure are a few of the points on which it would not have been difficult to come to a final judgment. But all such matters are dismissed by Mr. Raleigh with a smile as of no importance; and the business of the Welcombe enclosure on which every biographer bases a good deal of criticism of Shakespeare's character as a citizen, according to the view he takes, is not even mentioned. Again, when Mr. Raleigh says there is nothing to object to Aubrey's statement that Shakespeare when a boy "exercised his father's trade and when he killed a calf would do it in a high style and make a speech," we want to know whether he has considered Mr. Charles Elton's objection, that the trade guilds forbade a glover to be a butcher, and that John Shakespeare was certainly a glover; and when he quotes "that excellent antiquary Mrs. Stopes" as authority for Shakespeare's mother's descent from "Guy of Warwick and the good King Alfred" we may fairly ask to have it explained why the Arden quartering asked for was alternatively that of two disconnected families, and why In the event it was never assumed


by the Shakespeares. These are trifles, but they serve to show that on Its biographical side the book does not count Mr. Raleigh, indeed, has a brilliant man's contempt for all such detail. He speaks of Shakespeare's biography as a "scrap heap"; and, somewhat more justly, declares that "those who feel that their knowledge of Shakespeare must needs depend chiefly on the salvage of broken facts and details are his flunkeys, not his friends." In a flue passage he insists that the real Shakespeare can be discovered, and can only be discovered, in his books:—

No man can walk abroad save on his own shadow. No dramatist can create live characters save by bequeathing the best of himself to the children of his art, scattering among them a largess of his own qualities, giving, it may be, to one his wit, to another his philosophic doubt, to another his love of action, to another the simplicity and constancy that he finds deep in his own nature. There is no thrill of feeling communicated from the printed page but has first been alive in the mind of the author; there was nothing alive in his mind that was not Intensely and sincerely felt Plays like those of 6hakespeare cannot be written In cold blood, they call forth the man's whole energies, and take toll of the last farthing of his wealth of sympathy and experience. In the plays we may learn what are the questions that interest Shakespeare most profoundly and occur to his mind with most insistence; we may note how he handles his story, what he rejects, and what he alters, changing its purport and fashion; how many points he is content to leave dark; what matters he chooses to decorate with the highest resources of his romantic art, and what he gives over to be the sport of triumphant ridicule; bow in every type of character he emphasizes what most appeals to his Instinct and imagination, so that we see the meaning of character more plainly than It is to be seen in life. We share In the emotions that are aroused In him by certain situations and events; we are made to respond to the strange imaginative appeal of certain others; we know, more clearly than if we had heard it uttered, the verdict that he passes on certain characters and certain kinds of conduct . He has made us acquainted with all that he sees, and all that he feels, he has spread out before us the scroll that contains his interpretation of the world; how dare we complain that he has hidden himself from our knowledge?

it is then in large measure as an attempt to interpret Shakespeare to us from his dramas that Mr. Raleigh's book must be studied; and with much of his interpretation, always striking and always worth serious attention, we find ourselves in agreement. But with what seems to be Mr. Raleigh's main impression of Shakespeare we entirely disagree. We should be inclined to say that he reads Shakespeare in the light of Chaucer, with whom he is clearly more in sympathy. He speaks again and again of Shakespeare's wide tolerance, of his breadth and impartiality of view. That Shakespeare had wide knowledge of the human heart, and wide sympathy with all its passions, is of course a commonplace; but Mr. Raleigh means more than this. He seems to mean that Shakespeare's view of life was un-moral. "Shakespeare moves in a larger scheme of things, where the sun rises on the evil and on the good." His first illustration of Shakespeare's "impartiality" is drawn from the equal interest which he extends to the active and the contemplative life.

His pictures of the men in whom imagination is predominant—Richard iL, Hamlet, Macheth—are among the most wonderful in his gallery, the most closely studied, and intimately realized. But not even the veil of drama can hide from us the admiration and devotion that he feels for those other men to whom action is easy—Hotspur, the bastard Faulconbridge, and, chief of all, Othello. These are the natural

lords of human kind. Shakespeare holds the balance steady; a measure of the subtle speculative power of Hamlet might have saved Othello from being made a murderer; it could not have increased Shakespeare's love for him.

How finely that is said! But Mr. Raleigh's thesis is not that Shakespeare had wide sympathies, but wide tolerance; and his illustration tells against him. How was it tolerance to involve both Hamlet and Othello in catastrophe? A second illustration exhibits in even more striking form the difficulty of the thesis:—

He loved the Court and the country. He believed in authority and in liberty. ... He was at one with isabella in Measure for Measure when she gives utterance to the central truth of Christianity.

Alas, alas; Why, all the souls that were, were

forfeit once, And he that might the vantage best

have took Found out the remedy,

and with Gloucester in King Lear, when from the depths of his despair he impugns the mercy of heaven:—

As files to wanton boys are we to the

They kill us for their sport.

But, surely, each of these speeches is merely in character; neither tells us anything as to Shakespeare's own belief. it would be as legitimate to say that Shakespeare was "at one" with iago when he said "Virtue, a fig!"

But Mr. Raleigh's most striking illustration of Shakespeare's tolerance is found in his estimate of Measure for Measure, which, we venture to think, would have much surprised the dramatist .

in criticisms of Measure for Measure yve are commonly presented with a picture of Vienna as a black pit of seething wickedness; and against this background there rises the dazzling, white, and saintly figure of isabella. The

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