let the pangs of hunger awaken his natural
disposition, and the woods will once more
resound with his roar, and he obey the dictates
of his appetite as unscrupulously as
ever.  Even if an individual could be changed
in these respects, the change would not be
transmitted to his offspring.  The lion's cubs
would be as genuine lions as though their
parent had never left his African home.

  The natural temper of a horse is quite
different; however wild he may be, he is
not fierce.  " When an American hunter
wishes for a steed, he merely rides into a
troop of wild horses, flings his lasso over
one of them, mounts him, and allows him to
fly over the plain until he has fairly fatigued
himself; then, without care, without instruction,
in defiance of all the laws of habit, he is
found perfectly quiet and manageable, and
ever after continues so."  We shall find the
same thing true with respect to all domesticated
animals.  They have been originally
tamed from their state of wild freedom, but
no change has been effected in their nature.
The most striking instance of altered habits
is presented in the dog, if he indeed be a
domesticated wolf.  The similarity between
the animals is very great; their skeletons
being almost exactly uniform: both are born
blind, and both first see the light on the tenth
or twelfth day.  Their average length of life
also is the same.  But, if they be blood relations,
we do not find any new nature in the
dog; for his wild cousin will, under proper
treatment, manifest as much gentleness and
affection as himself.  M. Cuvier has recorded
the history of a pet wolf, which, after eighteen
months of absence heard his master's voice in
the crowd who were visiting the place of his
confinement, and instantly recognised him
with extravagant demonstrations of joy.  He
was again parted from his master, and was
wretched.  A dog was given him as a companion,
and they lived happily together.  But
once again the old familiar tone was heard,
the faithful wolf rushed to his master, licked
his face, and uttered such, cries of joy that
the spectators were affected to tears.

THE BRITISH LION IN A WEAK
ASPECT.

  I WANT to be heard upon a grievance, I
want to enter loud out-speaking protest,
as Mr. Carlyle puts it, against a monstrous
mill-stone, which I am forced to bear about
my neck.  My soul revolts against the burden,
and I must speak.

  That personal pronoun is respectfully put
to stand for the British Lion collectively, and
the mill-stone, carried by the noble brute, is
as a type and figure of the whole dining-out
nuisance, the saddle of mutton nuisance, and
the choking cravat nuisance.  I am sick of
the whole system; I want to see it abolished.
Let me then be the British Lion, for a short
span merely, while I state the grievance of the
noble quadruped.

  To begin.  I am a father o' family lion, a
duly assessed, rate-paying, and eminently
respectable lion; a lion that has been sidesman
and churchwarden in his day; a lion
with high neckcloth and deep breeches'
pockets, and bearing in front something
that is fair and round and with fat capon
lined; a lion that goes every day into the
city; a lion that grumbles, but still pays.
This is my picture.  I am this British king of
beasts; and, of course, have a fine, portly
lioness at home, to keep house for me, and
rule the roast, as it is pleasantly termed.
If the partner of my joys limited herself
strictly to this culinary dominion, I should
have no just cause of complaint; but she
interprets this popular turn of expression in
a much wider sense.  I am inclined to believe
that the generic word roast includes
my person; not mine only, but every living
thing under the roof.  Which brings me to
the fact that there are young lionesses too,—
ripe, playful things, full of bouncing spirits,
and excellent at making the old lion pay
handsomely,—through the nose perhaps, as
they irreverently have it.  With sorrow
must I admit it, that these young creatures
with their parent are more than enough for
the aged sire.  Though that inoffensive person
is in the habit—on emerging from his
study late at night—of discovering his hall
blocked up with great ghostly cases, obviously
holding costly articles for female
wear; though he is frequently brushed past
in broad day-light on his own staircase by
persons of singularly gentlemanlike bearing
and courteous address ( whom he knows by
instinct to be attached to the establishment
of Messrs. Flounce and Company ); still has
he trained himself to a certain reticence and
wise forbearance of indiscreet questioning.
He knows that at the proper seasons these
gentlemanly persons will wait upon him with
their written statements, and kindly enter
into all details that he may require.  But
away with disguise and circumlocution!
The plain, unvarnished truth is, that I may
not call a strongly-marked feature of the
human countenance, my own.  I have not
the fee, so to speak, of that prominent organ.

  But the mill-stone?  Ah! I must come to
the mill-stone at once.

  It is of a bright summer morning, and the
Lion has come down in unusual spirits to his
snowy table-cloth, his good fire, his happy
hearth, and his Times newspaper.  Someway,
he is in unusually good spirits, and
through the progress of the meal, is given to
much unmeaning jocosity and wit of small
point and flavour.  Unsuspecting Lion, however,
does not perceive that from those
present there comes an amount of adhesion
almost unnatural.  The young creatures
enter into their sire's drolleries with a
strange and unwonted appreciation.  He
thinks of the late Mr. Luttrel and other
comic after-dinner men, and is not sure