whether there be not, after all, that funny
vein upon his property, lying unworked all
this while. Perhaps he had best set about
sinking a shaft at once. Who knows, but—

Of a sudden the Lioness who has been clattering
the cups noisily, addresses one of her
young with: "Is Monday an open night, dear?"

"Party. Hey?—Sweethearts.  Hey?"
The British Lion says, cheerfully, still
thinking of that funny shaft he was to open
presently.

"We have been accepting hospitality—
much hospitality at the hands of our good
friends and neighbours." The Lioness proceeds
to say: "Nothing could be kinder, I
must say that."

Here the faintest glimmering in the world
of what this grateful frame of mind portends
begins to strike on the British Lion.  Who sits
in his chair with his mouth open waiting for
more.

"It is time to think of returning these
civilities,"  the Lioness continues, hurrying
to the point, "Monday would be an excellent
day, and we could have in Soufflet the man-cook,
and Bowles, who waited at Lord Oldcastles,
you know, and only fourteen, including
ourselves."

The British Lion sees it all now, only too
clearly.  He is crushed for that day and for
many days to come.  He will sink no funny
shaft upon his property this time.  He is, as
it were, stricken of a heap.

The Lioness has it all by rote, and can run
it off upon her fingers with a strange glibness.
No such marvel in that: taking into
account that, for days back, the various
points have been discussed and nicely weighed
in upper chambers at early morn and dewy
eve; as well as at that mysterious hour of
confidence when hair falls down upon
shoulders, and what has been tightened all
day long is set free, and concentric steel hoops
collapse for the night like Chinese lanterns.

At such unrestrained hours had the young
Lionesses arranged all things, mapping out the
whole dinner chart—so to speak—drawing
up gastronomic bill of particulars to be set
before their ill-omened sire.  Who was to be
bidden to the feast—who excluded—who were
to be mated in prandial wedlock that is,
who was to be given to the Lion sire—(point
fought out with much fierce contention)—in
what order was the procession to move downward.
All these grave matters had been
settled with extraordinary exactitude before
introduction of the Bill. The passing of the
measure through the House was, indeed, but
an idle sham—a poor deceit to save appearances.

The Lionesses had it all their own way.
It was read a third time, and passed
through committee, triumphantly, that very
morning.  Faint gurgling from the throat
of the British Lion, being the only resemblance
of an opposition.  Poor king of
beasts!  Let him think, with feeble smile,
of the Briton's rosary,—an Englishman's
house is his castle!  Unfeeling, mocking saw!
To be amended without an hour's delay.  His
castle, indeed; who has not so much as the
fee simple of one most prominent feature of
the human countenance.

Let him then bow down his head decently
and receive the fatal stroke, for his
hour is come.  So farewell jocosity, farewell
pleasant quips and cranks, for a week at least!

But this is turning of the British Lion into
a pure hunx—wanton blackening of the noble
beast.  Who, as the world well knows, is of
an open-handed, lavish, and hospitable
temperament; always glad to see his friends
reflected in his mahogany.  Far be it from
me so to asperse him.  But though he loves
such music as "Jones, my boy, glass of wine;
another cut of mutton, Jones, my boy."
And though he is overjoyed to see "Jones,
my boy," snugly, as it were, of a Sunday and
holiday, still, I can speak for the British
Lion that he shrinks appalled from the cold
feasts and stately pomps of the formal party
—from the cruel violation of the holiest sanctuaries
—even that of master's study, and
from the utter unhinging of all things, human
and divine, in the establishment.  There is
carnival in the house for the time being.
There is a free Jacobinism abroad; and
the Rights of Man (women mostly) are rampant.
The lawful proprietor is addressed in
free and familiar language, and, for the nonce,
becomes plain Citizen Lion.  Against such
monstrous principles he altogether protests.

Taking it now that the Lion has his millstone
about his neck, and properly secured
behind, I will suppose an interval of five days
to have elapsed, and the curtain to be rising
slowly upon the second act of the piece. The
scene represents a room in the baron's castle,
—no other, indeed, than the baron's own room,
—but utterly wrecked.  What a change within
a few hours!  No longer trim and ship-shape,
with papers tied up orderly, and books
ranged regimentally—with desk and toilet
apparatus, hat brushes, and file of boots,
all symmetrical and in their proper places.
All gone now, of that eventful Monday morn-day
of the feast!  The Septembrists have
burst in and done their work.  They have
gutted the place.  The desk has been forced
to shut by persons ignorant of its peculiar
principle, and has its hinges wrenched off.
The boots have been thrown out, and will be
hereafter gradually recovered one by one.
The papers crumpled and crunched into
wisps, will be never heard of again.  Terrible
ruin!  Unfeeling wreckers!  who have taken
cruel advantage of the few minutes the Lion
has been out.

It is indeed the morning of the Festival.
When the Lion re-enters he will, in all
probability, have the door opened to him by a
gentleman hitherto not in his employment,—
a person in a sort of morning deshabille,
cleanly apron, and shirt sleeves. This is