the donkey has been down himself as far as his
knees, but is now standing like a stock or a
rock in the centre of the disaster.

This faithful friend, and those who admired
and respected her, were soon to be parted.
It has been mentioned that she was of a
delicate, finely strung nature, susceptible in
the highest degree; skilful acquaintances
remarking the curious prominence and lustre
of her wonderful eyes, prophesied in a highly
encouraging way, "I shouldn't be at all
surprised if that dog went mad one of these days."
This had the air of a special revelation; but
who is surprised at any dog going mad one of
these days? We treated the prophecy with
contempt. It came to pass that the family had to
go and travel, and Vixen the Second was left
behind, according to the newspaper phrase,
"during a protracted sojourn." Special
instructions were left that she should enjoy every
luxury of diet, walkings, &c.; but as was
learned on return, nothing could a charm impart.
Whether the matron in whose charge she was
left, performed her trust conscientiously, it is
not for me to say; her own rapturous
declaration, that "if ever there was an 'appy dog
on this world's earth, it were her," seemed
to be confuted by Vixen the Second's silent
protest, and cowering away as the matron
made advances. I had more reliance on that
simple assurance of the honest creature who
had never deceived, than on the matronly
Gamp's volubility. Vixen was in a tumult of
joy to welcome us, and executed many strange
and characteristic dances in testimony of her
joy; but otherwise she had grown dull and
dejected. The matron (I heard later) had been
fond of giving tea parties, having a large circle
of friends, and was therefore inclined to "drat"
that ere dog, or any thing that interfered with
her social pleasures. She had never treated
Vixen the Second to any delicious country
walks, or green fields. However, we would
now resume them on the old scale.

We went out "to shop" that very day, and,
entering a bookseller's, Vixen went off as usual to
explore corners behind the book boxes, unearth
bits of india-rubber lying in corners, and keep
her nose in practice by finding traces of rats or
cats. The shopman comes mysteriously, and
says:

"Why I think, sir, your dog is ill."
I follow him into a most seductive place,
tremendously suggestive of rats, and there see
poor Vixen the Second rolling contorted on the
ground in a fit. Think she was ill!

It was a long struggl; but the faithful
creature, when encouraged and called to,
made a wild effort to raise herself on her
convulsed hinder legs, as she was accustomed to
do to receive friendly approbation, but instantly
fell back and rolled upon the ground. She got
over it—walked home a little wild and
confused, but still walked home. Next day we set
off on a long, long walk, the first of the series,
which should gradually restore her lusty health.
It was a fine fresh day, and we took a long
stretch of miles along a sort of pier. Vixen
was not full of alacrity—was rather heavy,
with a curious suspiciousness in her manner,
halting every now and again, and looking about
her as if she expected danger. Still she exerted
herself on every invitation to investigate holes
for rats, &c., but her heart was not in the
work. It was mere complaisance—the old wish
to oblige and be agreeable. We walked until
evening, then we turned. A butcher's boy
passed, though without his insignia, but she
knew him—the old instinct—and I own it was
not with displeasure that I saw the sharp wiry
ears go down, and Vixen make at his legs. He
was some way in front, and she had some
distance to rush. To my surprise, she quite
passed her old enemy, pursuing her course as
if, to use the butcher's expression, "a thousand
devils were at her tail." The yellow figure
grew smaller in the distance. I jumped on a
wall and saw it growing yet smaller—still
going on at the same frantic pace. Now she
was a faint yellow speck; now she was a mile
away, now out of sight. I never saw her again.
A tragic exit—as it were rushing away into
space.

A fishing village was between me and my
home, where there was an idle, noisy, ne'er-do-
well throng, ripe for any baiting or any
mischief. I asked for her here, but they had
seen nothing. Yet there was an odd manner
about those desperados, as I recollected
afterwards. When I got home, no Vixen's wiry
head was put out of the study-door. Perhaps
the poor honest creature had met a cruel end
among these ruffians; perhaps she had felt her
megrims coming on, and from the pain had
rushed away, and these fellows had raised
the cry of "Mad dog!" and had hunted
the gentle creature to death. I have another
theory, quite consistent with her gentle temper,
that she felt madness coming on her, and rushed
off thus into the void and into space, severing
all ties, in preference to doing involuntary
injury to those she loved. But I have no warrant
for this theory.

DURHAM DEEDS.

I HAVE a dim recollection of a portrait
supposed to represent his Royal Highness the
Duke of York, as Bishop of Osnaburg. They
had sent me down—a weakling child—to a
country farmhouse to live or die, whichever
my destiny might be. Opposite the ingle nook
glared the duke bishop in flowing canonicals,
a mitre on his head, red with jewels of gigantic
size, and a crozier in his right hand. But he
wore jack-boots with tremendous spurs, was
girded with a sword, and his buccaneer belt
was stuck full of pistols. On his left, rose a
village church out of a quiet grave-yard; on
his right, a village in flames, women and children
flying in despair, and dragoons charging fiercely
down upon them. I wondered, child as I was,
whether all bishops were princes, and whether