themselves have learned to entertain toward
one another as between class and class of
men all neighbours and all peasant born—
such passions as have been excited by th
game laws.

Of the wickedness that was begotten by
them in Bavaria we add one illustration
more.

A keeper, whose game had been often
poached upon, being unable to catch the
offenders, hit upon this contrivance:—He
knew that when out on the mountain they
frequented a certain hut, made a fire there
and cooked their meal. He therefore buried
a little way below the hearth, a bombshell
charged with powder. It was his diabolical
hope that the fire would get to it by the time
their light cookery was over, when the men
would be sitting round the embers in
enjoyment of their supper.

We have gleaned these from among other
painful details of the same kind, scattered
through a volume that, in its whole scope and
spirit, has given us nothing but pleasure.
We have no desire to under-rate the worth
of manly sports; but we cannot reckon either
man-shooting or man-hating as accidents
inseparable from them. If they be, the
nobility of sporting is at end for ever, and sport
itself cannot be too soon abolished when it
ceases to maintain any just claim to such a
word as manly for its adjective. It is a body
then from which the soul has fled; a rotten
thing, and we had better ring its knell.

           "AND HE TOOK A CHILD."

             INTO the little gray churchyard
          All with memorial crosses starr'd,
             And mounds, a fixed sea;
          Weeping, a woman slow doth bear
          Her first-born child, and lays him there
              Under the old yew tree;
                   And resurrection flowers,
          Those earliest darlings of the spring,
          Pale, drooping snowdrops, she doth bring,
                   And o'er the small grave showers.

          'Tis Summer now; but, ah! behold
          Another form stretched on the mould,
              A little, little form.
          Deep lines have marked the Mother's brow,
          Her step is soft and very slow;
             She loosens from her arm
                 (Oh, still, thou quivering lip!)
          A basket brimming o'er with gems
          From nature's endless diadems,
                Over the turf to heap.

          Autumn—and to that churchyard drear
          Her third sad offering to the year
               That mourning Mother bore;
          All day beside it watched; then slow,
          With one thick, sighing sob of woe,
               From out the heart she tore
                    Of that old scathed yew
          A pendant branch of richest green,
          With scarlet berries set between,
               And o'er the hillock threw.

          Yet once again that grave she sought;
          Her last-born, fairest child she brought,
               And laid beside the rest:
          The Christmas snow lay on the ground,
          No flower nor berry to be found
              To deck its little breast.
                  'T vas but one other pang!
          She laid her down beside her child,
          A smile of deepest peace she smil'd
               That night, the Angels sang!

           PATENT WRONGS.

PERHAPS a clever man would find it worth
his while to write a book on the romance of
trade. We have the romance of history, the
romance of war, the romance of geology, even
the romance of the peerage; but there are
tales of the counter and the counting-house
which would stir flesh and blood with very
simple telling. Indeed, if we were to take only
the Tales of the Patentees, they would be found
to supply matter as full of distressing incident
as the most select part of the Newgate
calendar. That is a meditation. It is a good
thing to baste a tale at certain turns with
meditation. We shall pour a little now and
then over a story we have to tell as it warms;
and will continue so to do until it is done.

Not very many years ago a civil servant of
the East India Company received a letter
from a friend in the north of India, containing
sundry gossip; and, among other things, a
request that he would obtain for him some
steel heads for boar spears.

This request was made to Mr. Josiah
Marshall Heath, while fulfilling his duties as
agent to the East India Company in the
interior of India. To comply with it, he was
compelled to pay some visits to the Indian
steel-workers, and he could not do that
without observing that there was a clumsiness in
the whole process of making and working
steel not to be tolerated patiently by men
who were quick-witted. He was, himself,
quick-witted enough. He had been carefully
educated for the civil service of the East
India Company and went early to his post
on the Madras establishment, already so well
versed in Oriental literature and so remark-
able for intellectual ability, that a Sanscrit
professorship had been offered to him before
le had attained the age of twenty-one.
Mr. Heath found, in collecting information
for answering his friend's letter, that the
capabilities of Southern India for the
manufacture of iron and steel were extraordinary;
although, up to that time—we may almost
say up to this time—unknown. From that
period he prosecuted for years an energetic
earch; traversed the Malabar coast, and
found mountains of iron ore. It became clear
to him that India might supply the best and
cheapest steel iron for England and Europe,
and the best and cheapest iron consumption in
the markets of Asia. Ships leaving India that
now pay for rubbish to bring home as ballast,