bellowed out with all the force of lungs accustomed to give a view-halloo : 5. "Bless me, is it gone?" said the parson, thrusting his person between the donkey and the 'squire. "Zounds!" cried the 'squire, rubbing himself as he rose to his feet. “Hush!” said the parson, gently. "If you had my nankeens on," said the 'squire, still rubbing himself, "and had fallen into a thicket of thistles with a donkey's teeth within an inch of your ear 6. "It is not gone, then?" interrupted the parson. "No-that is, I think not," said the 'squire, dubiously; and he clapped his hand to the organ in question. "No, it is not gone." "Thank Heaven," said the good clergyman, kindly. 7. "Hum!" growled the 'squire, who was now once more engaged in rubbing himself. "Thank Heaven, indeed, when I am as full of thorns as a porcupine. I should like to know what use thistles are in the world." "For the donkeys to eat, if you will let them, 'squire," answered the parson. 8. "Ugh, you beast," cried Mr. Haseldean, all his wrath re-awakened, whether by reference to the donkey species, or his inability to reply to the parson, or, perhaps, by some sudden prick too sharp for humanity-especially humanity in nankeens-to endure without kicking. "Ugh, you beast!" he exclaimed, shaking his cane at the donkey, which, at the interposition of the parson, had respectfully recoiled a few paces, and now stood switching its thin tail, and trying vainly to lift one of its forelegs for the flies teased it. 9. "Poor thing!" said the parson, pityingly. "See, it has a raw place on the shoulder, and the flies have found out the sore." "I am glad to hear it," said the 'squire, vindictively. "Fie, fie!" said the parson. "It is very well to say, 'Fie, fie.' It was not you who fell among the thistles. What's the man about now, I wonder?" 10. The parson had walked toward a chestnut tree that stood on the village green; he broke off a bough, returned to the donkey, whisked away the flies, and then tenderly placed the broad leaves over the sore, as a protection from the swarms. The donkey turned round its head and looked at him with mild wonder. 11. "I would bet a shilling," said the parson, softly, "that this is the first act of kindness thou hast met with this many a day. And slight enough it is, Heaven knows." With that the parson put his hand into his pocket and drew out an apple. It was a fine, large, rose-cheeked apple, one of the last winter's store, from the celebrated tree in the parsonage garden, and he was taking it as a present to a little boy in the village who had notably distinguished himself in the Sunday-school. 12. "Nay, in common justice, Lenny Fairfield should have the preference," muttered the parson. The donkey pricked one of its ears, and advanced its head timidly. "But Lenny Fairfield would be as much pleased with two pence; and what could two pence do to thee?" The donkey's nose now touched the apple. 13. "Take it, in the name of Charity," quoth the parson. "Justice is accustomed to be served last;" and the donkey took the apple. "How had you the heart?" said the parson, pointing to the 'squire's cane. The donkey stopped munching, and looked askant at the 'squire. 14. "Pooh! eat on; he'll not beat thee now." "No," said the 'squire, apologetically; "but, after all, he is not a donkey of the parish; he is a vagrant, and he ought to be 'pounded.' But the parish pound is in as bad a state as the stocks, thanks to your new-fashioned doctrines." 15. "New-fashioned!" cried the parson, almost indignantly, for he had a great disdain of new fashions. "They are as old as Christianity; nay, as old as Paradise, which you will observe is derived from a Greek, or rather a Persian word, and means something more than 'garden,' corresponding," pursued the parson, rather pedantically, "with the Latin vivarium, viz.: grove or park full of innocent dumb creatures. Depend on it, donkeys were allowed to eat thistles there." 16. "Very possibly," said the 'squire, dryly. "But Haseldean, though a very pretty village, is not Paradise. The stocks shall be mended to-morrow-ay, and the pound, too-and the next donkey found trespassing shall go into it, as sure as my name's Haseldean." "Then," said the parson, gravely, "I can only hope that the next parish may not follow your example; or that you and I may never be caught straying." E. Bulwer Lytton. LIX. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. 'ER a low couch the setting sun Had thrown its latest ray, Where in his last strong agony A dying warrior lay, Whose frame had ne'er been bent 2. "They come around me here, and say That I shall mount my noble steed They come, and to my beard they dare To tell me now, that I, Their own liege lord and master born,- 3. "And what is death? I've dared him oft I've met him, faced him, scorned him, 4. "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, Bid each retainer arm with speed; Up with my banner on the wall, 5. A hundred hands were busy then, Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, 6. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, On through the portal's frowning arch, Carved, oaken chair of state, 7. "Fill every beaker up, my men, Are ye all there, my vassals true? Mine eyes are waxing dim; Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, Each goblet to the brim. 8. "Ye're there, but yet I see ye not; Draw forth each trusty sword, |