“I confess,” said the Parson, “that, regarded by the eye of the senses, it is a thing that in its best day had small pretensions to beauty, and is not elevated into the picturesque even by neglect and decay. But, my friend, regarded by the eye of the inner man—of the rural philosopher and parochial legislator—I say it is by neglect and decay that it is rendered a very pleasing feature in what I may call ‘the moral topography of a parish.’ ” The Squire looked at the Parson as if he could have beaten him; and indeed, regarding the object in dispute not only with the eye of the outer man, but the eye of law and order, the eye of a country gentleman and a justice of the peace, the spectacle _was_ scandalously disreputable. It was moss-grown; it was worm-eaten; it was broken right in the middle; through its four socketless eyes, neighbored by the nettle, peered the thistle:—the thistle!—a forest of thistles!—and, to complete the degradation of the whole, those thistles had attracted the donkey of an itinerant tinker; and the irreverent animal was in the very act of taking his luncheon out of the eyes and jaws of—THE PARISH STOCKS. The Squire looked as if he could have beaten the Parson; but as he was not without some slight command of temper, and a substitute was luckily at hand, he gulped down his resentment and made a rush—at the donkey! Now the donkey was hampered by a rope to its forefeet, to the which was attached a billet of wood called technically “a clog,” so that it had no fair chance of escape from the assault its sacrilegious luncheon had justly provoked. But, the ass turning round with unusual nimbleness at the first stroke of the cane, the Squire caught his foot in the rope, and went head over heels among the thistles. The donkey gravely bent down, and thrice smelt or sniffed its prostrate foe; then, having convinced itself that it had nothing farther to apprehend for the present, and very willing to make the best of the reprieve, according to the poetical admonition, “Gather your rosebuds while you may,” it cropped a thistle in full bloom, close to the ear of the Squire; so close indeed, that the Parson thought the ear was gone; and with the more probability, inasmuch as the Squire, feeling the warm breath of the creature, bellowed out with all the force of lungs accustomed to give a View-hallo! “Bless me, is it gone?” said the Parson, thrusting his person between the ass and the squire. “Zounds and the devil!” cried the Squire, rubbing himself as he rose to his feet. “Hush,” said the parson gently “What a horrible oath!” “Horrible oath! 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!” “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.