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, winks his red eyes, balances himself afresh on his bandy forelegs, and becomes a spectacle of dejection. He is as little like his vagabond self, as that remarkable breed which the French call a bouledogue.