This time there were four white balls to
thirty black ones, a melancholy result which
I had also to announce. His lordship left
the tent—the marquee, somebody observed
—like a maniac; and, though I swear I
did not blackball his man, he never asked
me to Hiltham Castle again from that day
to this.

Now the season had begun, I became
inundated with letters from the presidents of
other cricket-clubs, requesting the N.C.C. to
play them on some particular day; which, if
it suited Wilkins, was invariably inconvenient
to Grogram, and if it pleased Grogram, was
sure to be the worst in the year for all the
rest. So we were requested to name our own
day, in a flippant, skittle-playing, come-on-
when-you-like sort of manner, throwing upon
me still greater responsibilities. The end of it
was that the Levant club came to Nettleton,
eat our dinner, drank our wine, and beat us;
but refused to play a return match, or to give
us any dinner whatever. Swiftly Downham,
Esq., the man who has a European reputation
as mid-wicket-on, honoured us by his
company at Longfield "for a couple of nights,"
as he bargained, and stayed a fortnight,
smoking regularly in the best bedroom.
Swiper, the professional batsman, also favoured
us, and left me a cotton pocket-handkerchief
with a full-length portrait of himself, in
exchange, I hope—or else it was robbery—for a
plain white silk one of my own. A whole
school came over from Chumleyborough to
play us, and nine of them took up their
quarters at the hall. Fresh from toffey and
gingerbeer as they were, I was fool enough to
give them a champagne supper, of which the
consequences were positively tremendous.
They were all of them abominably ill, and
the biggest boy kissed my daughter Florence,
mistaking her, as he afterwards stated in
apology, for one of the maids.

Wednesday, on which the club met, became
my dark day of the week, and cast its shadow
before and behind it; it was then that I made
feud with Wilkins, by deciding that his balls
were wide, and exasperated Grogram by
declaring his legs were before wicket. I should
not have known how these things were, even
could I have seen so far; but I gave judgment
alternately, now for the ins and now for the
outs, with the utmost impartiality. One
fine afternoon my own and favourite bowler
absconded with about a dozen of the best
bats, quite a forest of stumps, and a few
watches belonging to the members of the
N.C.C.; this was the drop too much that
made my cup of patience overflow. I
determined to resign, and I did resign.

Staying at Longfield Hall any longer,
having ceased to be the president, I felt was
not to be thought of, so I disposed of it. I
wrote a cheque for a lot of things, embraced
Grogram (whom I dearly love), and left the
club my catapult. My last act of office was
to appoint another bowler—a black man. He
does capitally, Wilkins writes; only—from his
having been selected by me from a band of
tumblers, I suppose—he will always bowl
from under his left leg.

LAVATER'S WARNING.

TRUST him little who doth raise
To the same height both great and small,
And sets the sacred crown of praise,
Smiling, on the head of all.

Trust him less who looks around
To censure all with scornful eyes,
And in everything has found
Something that he dare despise.

But for one who stands apart,
Stirr'd by nought that can befall,
With a cold indifferent heart,
Trust him least and last of all.

THE FRIEND OF THE LIONS.

WE are in the Studio of a friend of ours,
whose knowledge of all kinds of Beasts and
Birds has never been surpassed, and to whose
profound acquaintance with the whole
Animal Kingdom, every modern picture-gallery
and every print-shop, at home and
abroad, bears witness. We have been wanted
by our friend as a model for a Rat-catcher.
We feel much honored, and are sitting to him
in that distinguished capacity, with an awful
Bulldog much too near us.

Our friend is, as might be expected, the
particular friend of the Lions in the Zoological
Gardens, Regent's Park, London. On
behalf of that Royal Family dear to his heart,
he offers—standing painting away at his
easel, with his own wonderful vigour and
ease—a few words of friendly remonstrance to
the Zoological Society.

You are an admirable society (says our
friend, throwing in, now a bit of our head,
and now a bit of the Bulldog's), and you have
done wonders. You are a society that has
established in England, a national menagerie
of the most beautiful description, and that has
placed it freely and in a spirit deserving of
the highest commendation within the reach
of the great body of the people. You are a
society rendering a real service and advantage
to the public, and always most sensibly and
courteously represented by your excellent
MITCHELL.

Then why (proceeds our friend), don't you
treat your Lions better?

In the earnestness of his enquiry, our
friend looks harder than usual at the Bulldog.
The Bulldog immediately droops and
becomes embarrassed. All dogs feel that
our friend knows all their secrets, and that it
is utterly hopeless to attempt to take him in.
The last base action committed by this Bulldog
is on his conscience, the moment our
friend fixes him. "What? You did, eh?"
says our friend to the Bulldog. The Bulldog
licks his lips with the greatest nervousness,