When well-trained, the Cape shooting-pony is worth his weight in gold; he is treated more like a dog than a horse, knows when he is spoken to, and obeys orders, fears nothing, and seems to delight in sport. I possessed a pony that was so easily managed and steady, that I frequently shot snipe, partridges, and always buck, from off his back. He was my daily companion for two years, and rarely played me a trick. He had a queer temper; but, knowing this, I made due allowance, and we always managed things well. If I spurred him, or pulled the rein, when he approached a hill, he would stop and refuse to advance; but a word or two in Dutch, in place of the assault, would make matters progress satisfactorily. I heard that his career after I left was unfortunate;-- he passed through one or two hands who could not have understood him, and was finally killed by a lion in the interior. I can easily imagine that such would have been his fate, should he be in the vicinity of a hungry lion, as he never showed fear of elephants or any other animal, and was not alarmed by the smell of a fresh lion's skin past which I rode one day. The Boers are generally very heavy men, and the small shooting-ponies that they ride appear fearfully overweighted: a pony of twelve or thirteen hands is ridden long journeys, and hunted, by a Boer of some fourteen or sixteen stone weight. The game little animal does its work well in spite of the weight it carries; and one of the surprising facts to an Englishman fresh in the African hunting-field is the pace at which the Boers thus mounted go across country. Neither whip nor spur is spared during a chase, and, not contented with the day's hard work, these Boers sometimes on returning home take a half-mile gallop as a test of the enduring qualities of their ponies. During my experience in Africa, I was but once unfortunate enough to have a horse that I was riding knock up with me: the animal was a new purchase, and had led a life of idleness during some previous weeks. The results of its failing me were a thorough ducking and a very unpleasant journey of near five miles. It may give an idea of the manners of the civilised man of South Africa, if I detail the circumstance. I left Pietermaritzburg about three o'clock in the afternoon, and purposed resting for the night at Stony Hill, the distance being twenty-five miles. About eight miles had been accomplished, when I was attracted by a grand fight between two bulls. I watched the struggle for a considerable time, and admired the courage of each combatant: sometimes they would charge each other, and, falling on their knees, roar and bellow with mingled rage and pain. Victory for a long time was doubtful, until the strength of one appeared to be failing, and then, turning tail, he galloped off, followed by his conqueror. Finding that the sun had moved a considerable distance while I was engaged in watching the bull-fight, I pushed on faster than the