of this kind, and we braced our sinews for a grand and final effort.  “Never give up, my lads,” said the headsman, in a cheering voice.  “Mark my words, we’ll have the whale yet.  Only think he’s ours, and there’s no mistake about it, he will be ours.  Now for a hard, steady pull!  Give way!” “Give way, sir!  Give way all!” “There she blows!  Oh, pull, my lively lads!  Only a mile off!” “There she blows!” The wind had by this time increased almost to a gale, and the heavy, black clouds were scattering over us far and wide.  Part of the squall had passed off to leeward, and entirely concealed the barque.  Our situation was rather unpleasant:  in a rough sea, the other boats out of sight, and each moment the wind increasing.  We continued to strain every muscle till we were hard upon the whale.  Tabor sprang to the bow, and stood by with the harpoon.  “Softly, softly, my lads,” said the headsman.  “Ay, ay sir!” “Hush-h-h! softly!  Now’s your time, Tabor!” Tabor let fly the harpoon, and buried the iron.  “Give him another!” “Stern all!” thundered P——.  “Stern all!” And, as we rapidly backed from the whale, he flung his tremendous fluke high in the air, covering us with a cloud of spray.  He then sounded, making the line whiz as it passed through the chocks.  When he rose to the surface again, we hauled up, and the second mate stood ready in the bow to dispatch him with lances.  “Spouting blood!” said Tabor, “he’s a dead whale! he won’t need much lancing.”  It was true enough; for, before the officer could get within dart of him, he commenced his dying struggles.  The sea was crimsoned with his blood.  By the time we had reached him, he was belly up.  We lay upon our oars a moment, to witness his last throes, and when he turned his head toward the sun, a loud, simultaneous cheer, burst from every lip.

LEOPARD HUNTING.

And adventures with buffaloes and lions.

Mr. Cumming has published a volume containing a record of his hunting exploits in Africa, in the year 1848.  The following interesting accounts of adventures are from his work.

On the morning, says Mr. Cumming, I rode into camp, after unsuccessfully following the spoor of a herd of elephants for two days, in a westerly course.  Having partaken of some refreshment, I saddled up two steeds and rode down the bank of Ngotwani, with the Bushman, to seek for any game I might find.  After riding about a mile along the river’s green bank, I came suddenly upon an old male leopard, lying under the shade of a thorn grove, and panting from the great heat.  Although I was within sixty yards of him, he had not heard the horse’s tread.  I thought he was a lioness, and, dismounting, took a rest in my saddle on the Old Gray, and sent a bullet into him.  He sprang to his feet and ran half way down the river’s bank, and stood to look about him, when I sent a second bullet into his person, and he