where the ruins of gigantic structures of the
same kind lie hidden in abundance far from the
present haunts of men. It is a dam of masonry
about fifty feet high, thrown across the channel of
a river so as entirely to divert its course. The
effect is, that it carries a stream that used to
drown the fields on its banks into a part of the
country where water is an inestimable boon. It
is called the Oorebokke dam. I spent the night
in this neighbourhood.

The next morning, while taking depositions
in a case of cattle-stealing, in walks a friend of
mine, and we meet most opportunely at this out-
of-the-way place, which one European visits once,
perhaps, in six months, and find our routes lie in
the same direction. A good breakfast, and off
we go, regardless of the sun, and ride and drive
together for the rest of our way. All around
us the country presented an appearance most
unusual in this part of the island. The very
forest was dying for want of rain; but, strange
to say, amidst the surrounding arid scenery,
one tract after another of the most beautiful
green rice-fields lay in one continuous line
along our path. To what was this owing?
The answer is: To the second dam in this part
of the country, called the Kirime dam, also
executed about the same time as that before
mentioned. The public complain that the monument
which was to perpetuate the memory of
Sir Henry Ward's vigorous administration has
not yet been erected. But I reply, it exists
in the smiling rice-fields, watered by the streams
that Kirime and Oorebokke have supplied to
nourish and support thousands who would otherwise
now be staring grim want full in the face.
On our road we crossed a bridge near a few
huts. In the water beneath this bridge I saw
a most unusual sight. The stream was as full
as it could possibly be of very fair-sized fish,
which were eagerly waiting to be fed. The
moment a handful of rice was thrown into the
water, there was such a commotion as I have
never before seen. The fish seemed to jump on
each other's backs in their efforts to secure some,
and the water was all in a bubble around them.
No one ever thinks of killing them: they are
regarded as pets; but now and then an alligator
comes that way and has a surfeit of fish.

A few more miles, and we reached the
town of Tanjalle, and the jungle part of our
journey was at an end.

SONNET.

THE flower, full blown, now bends the stalk, now
breaks,
The mellow fruit inclines the bough to earth,
The brow which thought impregnates oft- times
aches,
Death-stricken is the womb in giving birth.
Cracked is the vase by heat which doth illume,
The driest logs the swiftest burn to nought,
Sweet flowers are stifled by their own perfume,
And bees, when honey-clogged, are easy caught.
Snapped are true chords e'en by the note they give,
The largest wave is broken by its weight,
Choked by its sheer sufficiency the sieve,
And blunted soon the shaft which flieth straight.
And so the largest mind and richest soul
Are always most amenable to dole.

THE BATTLE OF THE BARRELS.

THE world will soon not be worth living in.
Philanthropists, reformers, legislators, and social
regenerators, are at work, day and night,
rooting up, putting down, and sweeping away
all the joys which make existence in this sublunary
planet tolerable. At one time, if your
donkey wouldn't go, you were at liberty to
wallop him to the bare bone. You mustn't
now. If you do, there is a Society down upon
you. It's my belief that the present race of
donkeys are aware of this; and that's what
makes them so obstinate. The very cats are
grown contumacious, and don't care how much
row they kick up on the tiles; for they know
that you mustn't take them out and flay them
alive in the back yard. They belong to the
Society too; so do your wife and your dog.
You mustn't beat either, though it may be a
pleasure to both parties. What is a man to
beat? Upon my word, I don't know anything
that is not in the Act of Parliament except the
bounds of the parish, and they are a treat fit
only for the workhouse.

You mustn't fight either. No; the practice
of the noble art of self-defence without the
gloves, is a breach of the peace. The French
polishers of society forget the grand maxim:
"If you wish for peace, prepare for war." How
can you prepare for war if you are not allowed
to practise the noble art of self-defence? You
mustn't let your dog fight; though Dr. Watts,
an eminent divine, who was good and wrote
hymns, says, "It is his nature to." I tell you
your laws are unnatural. There's nothing that
game cocks like better than fighting with steel
spurs on their heels. You say it is cruel. I
tell you the cocks like it, revel in it. I like it.
I revel in it. Why should you deprive me and
my game cocks of our pleasure? Because you
are determined to root all pleasure out of the
earth, and make the world a howling wilderness.
I would go out of the dull slow place altogether,
but you won't even let me do that. If I throw
myself over the bridge, and seek relief from the
boredom of an intolerable existence in a watery
grave, there is another Society at hand to run
an iron hook into me, and bring me back to
life and misery. It's these Societies that do all
the mischief. The secretaries and officers must
do something to earn their salaries. It's salaries
that they're started for. I shouldn't  be
surprised if we were to hear next of a society
for doing away with the sun. I dare say the
gas companies would consider that the sun is a
very improper thing, and ought to be put down.

It is surely and certainly coming to this when
Parliament is actually talking of putting down
the barrel-organs. Yes; the savage breast of
this gloomy age is insensible even to the charms
of music. What does Mr. Pope, who was a
poet, say?