THIS title embraces a formidable trio of names, and of such kinds as brings the subject home to men's business and bosoms. The book appears to have run through three editions in France, and as many in England. That it should attract some notice in the former country at present is not much to be wondered at, for there seems to reign a sort of anti-Jesuitic mania,-a sort of vague and undefined dread of priests, similar to our old notions of brownies and water-kelpies. On this theme are based some of the fictions of Eugene Sué, the laboured facts of Michelet, and innumerable other denunciators. One would fancy from these works that France was overrun with these cunning conjurors, as with a herd of locusts, or rather cockroaches, that creep into people's houses, and assemble about their domestic hearths, unseen and unknown, except from the mischief and noise which they make. We should be apt to suppose too that the whole French nation, especially the male part, were no better than imbecile dolts, calmly and unresistingly to admit of such doings, and that the females were mere passive and mindless beings, fit to be moulded into any shape their ghostly confessors pleased. If such be the case, our author must be right,-if not, he must be one of those visionary alarmists, who sees his own favourite hobby-opinion through a mist of prejudice and exaggeration, and hence he works himself up into a goodly octavo, such as is here before us. The sentiment is French, and even the style, though in an English dress, is French also, antithetical, declamatory, and not always very perspicuous. M. Michelet is the professed champion of the sex. "We are all," he exclaims, at the end of a long preface," and ever shall be, the debtors of women. They are mothers; this says every thing. He who would bargain about the work of those, who are the joy of the present, and the destiny of the future, must needs have been born in misery and damnation. Their manual labour is a very secondary consideration; that is especially our part. What do they make ?-Man: this is a superior work. To be loved, to bring forth both physically and morally, to educate man (our barbarous age does not quite understand this yet,) this is the business of woman.

The source of all living things!-(fons omnium viventium!) What can ever be added to this sublime saying?

Whilst writing all this, I have had in my mind a woman, whose strong and serious mind would not have failed to support me in these contentions; I lost her thirty years ago (I was a child then); nevertheless, ever living in my memory, she follows me from age to age.

She suffered with me in my poverty, and was not allowed to share my better fortune. When young, I

made her sad, and now I cannot console her. I know not even where her bones are; I was too poor then to buy earth to bury her!

And yet I owe her much. I feel deeply that I am the son of woman. Every instant, in my ideas and words (not to mention my features and gestures,) I find again my mother in myself. It is my mother's blood which gives me the sympathy I feel for bygone ages, and the tender remembrance of all those who are now no

more.

What return then could I, who am myself advancing towards old age, make her for the many things I owe her? One, for which she would have thanked me-this protest in favour of women and mothers; and I place it at the head of a book believed by some to be a work of controversy. They are wrong. The longer it lives, if it should live, the plainer will it be seen, that in spite of polemical emotion, it was a work of history, a work of faith, of truth, and of sincerity;-on what, then, could I have set my heart more?"

We have then some dozen of chapters on the history

of the Jesuits, from 1600 downwards, interspersed with sundry gossipping stories of holy sisters and clerical Tartuffes, among whom we find the pious Bossuet and Fenelon, with their Platonic loves and systems of quietism. We do not find much particularly edifying, or bearing upon the subject here, which sort of gossip, however, forms the bulk of the volume. We shall pass on to what professes to be the present state of family matters in France.

"If you enter a house in the evening, and sit down at the family table, one thing will almost always strike you; the mother and daughters are together, of one and the same opinion, on one side; whilst the father is on the other, and alone.

What does this mean? It means that there is some one more at this table, whom you do not see, to contradict and give the lie to whatever the father may utter. He returns fatigued with the cares of the day, and full of those which are to come; but he finds at home, instead of repose and comfort for the mind, only the struggle with the past.

We must not be surprised at it. By whom are our daughters and wives brought up? We must repeat the expression, by our enemies, the enemies of the Revolution, and of the future.

Do not cry out here, nor quote me this or that sermon you have preached.

What do I care for the democratical parade which you make in the pulpit, if every thing beneath us and behind us, all your little pamphlets which issue by thousands and millions, your ill-disguised system of instruction, your confessional, the spirit of which now transpires, show us altogether what you are, the enemies of liberty? You, subjects of a foreign prince; you, who deny the French church, how dare you speak of France?

Six hundred and twenty thousand girls are brought up by nuns under the direction of the priests. These girls will soon be women and mothers, who, in their turn, will hand over to the priests, as far as they are able, both their sons and their daughters.

The mother has already succeeded as far as concerns the daughter; by her persevering importunity, she has, at length, overcome the father's repugnance. A man who, every evening, after the troubles of business, and the warfare of the world, finds strife also at home, may certainly resist for a time, but he must necessarily give in at last; or he will be allowed neither truce, cessation, rest, nor refuge. His own house becomes uninhabitable. His wife having nothing to expect at the confessional, but harsh treatment, as long as she does not succeed, will wage against him every day and every hour the war they make against her; a gentle one, perhaps; politely bitter, implacable, and obstinate.

She grumbles at the fireside, is low-spirited at table, and never opens her mouth either to speak or eat; then at bed-time, the inevitable repetition of the lesson she has learned, even on the pillow. The same sound of the same bell for ever and ever; who could withstand it? what is to be done? Give in or become mad!

If the husband were firm, obstinate, and persevering enough to stand this trial, the wife, perhaps, would not resist.How can I see her so unhappy, pining, uneasy, and ill? She is evidently growing thinner. I had much rather save my wife.' Such is the language of the busband. If he be not subdued by his wife, he is by his own heart. The next day, the son leaves his school for the Christian school, or the college for the little seminary. The daughter is led triumphantly by her mother to the excellent boarding-school close by, where the good abbe confesses and directs. In less than a year the boarding-school is found to be not quite good enough, being still too worldly; the little girl is then given over to the

nuns, whose superior our abbe happens to be, in some convent of his, that is under his protection, and his lock and key.

Good-humoured parent, lie easy, and sleep sound. Your daughter is in good hands; you shall be contradicted till your death. Your daughter is really a girl of good sense; and on every subject, having been carefully armed against you, will take, whatever you may say, the opposite side of the question.

What is very singular, the father generally is aware that they are bringing up his child against him. Man, you surprise me; what do you expect then? "Oh! she will forget it; time, marriage, and the world will wear away all that." Yes, for a time, but only to re-appear; at the first disappointment in the world, it will all return. As soon as she grows somewhat in years, she will return to the habits of the child; the master she now has will be her master then, whether for your contradiction, good man, or for the despair and daily damnation of her father and husband. Then will you taste the -fruit of this education.

Education! a mere trifle, a weak power, no doubt, which the father may, without danger, allow his enemies to take possession of!

To possess the mind with all the advantage of the first possessor! To write in this book of blank paper whatever they will! and to write what will last for ever! For, remember well, it will be in vain for you to write upon it hereafter; what has once been indited, cannot be erased. It is the mystery of her young memory to be as weak in receiving impressions, as it is strong in keeping them. The early tracing that seemed to be effaced at twenty re-appears at forty or sixty. It is the last and the clearest, perhaps, that old age will retain.

You shake your heads, proud children of the age; you think you can never be induced to humble yourselves so far. All I hope then is, that you may be able to live single, and wed philosophy; otherwise, I can see you, even now, in spite of all your fine speeches, gliding stealthily, sneaking like a hound or a wolf into the church, and kneeling down before the priest. There they were lying in wait for you, and there they catch you. You had not foreseen it. Now you are a lover, poor young man, and will do whatever they wish.

I only wish that this girl, bought so dearly, may be really yours. But what with that mother and that priest, the same influence, though diminished for a moment, will soon resume its strength. You will have a wife, minus heart and soul, and you will understand, when it is too late, that he who now gives her away knows well how to keep her."

Now for the married state, as we are led to suppose it is generally passed by our Gallic neighbours.

"Marriage gives the husband a single and momentary opportunity to become in reality the master of his wife, to withdraw her from the influence of another, and make her his own for ever. Does he profit by it? very rarely. He ought, in the very beginning, when he has much influence over her, to let her participate in the activity of his mind, his business, and ideas, initiate her in his projects, and create an activity in her by means of his own.

To wish and think as he does, both acting with him and suffering with him-this is marriage. The worst that may happen is not that she may suffer, but that she may languish and pine away, living apart, and like a widow. How can we wonder, then, if her affection for him be lessened? Ah! if, in the beginning, he made her his own, by making her share his ambition, troubles, and uneasiness:-if they had watched whole nights to

would have retained her affections. Attachment may be strengthened by grief itself; and mutual sufferings may maintain mutual love.

This is true in speaking of the school, but how much more so as regards the church! especially in the case of the daughter, who is more docile and timid, and certainly retains more faithfully her early impressions. What she heard the first time in that grand church, under those resounding roofs, and the words, pronounced with a solemn voice by that man in black, which then frightened her so, being addressed to herself;-ah! be not afraid of her ever forgetting them. But even if she could forget them, she would be reminded of them every week; woman is all her life at school, finding in the confessional her school-bench, her schoolmaster, the only man she fears, and the only one, as we have said, who, in the present state of our manners, can threaten a

woman.

Frenchwomen are superior to those of England or Germany, and, indeed, to any other women, in being able not only to assist man, but to become his companion, his friend, his partner, his other self. None but the commercial classes, generally speaking, are wise enough to profit by this. See, in the shopkeeping quarters, in the dark storehouses of the Rue des Lombards, or the Rue de la Verrerie, the young wife, often born of rich parents, who nevertheless remains there, in that little glazed counting-house, keeping the books, registering whatever is brought in or taken out, and directing the clerks and porters. With such a partner, the house will prosper. The household is improved by it. The husband and wife separated by their occupations during the day, are the better pleased to unite together in common thought.

Without being able to participate so directly in the husband's activity, the wife might also, in other professions, be able to associate with him in his business, or at least in his ideas. What makes this difficult (I have not attempted to disguise it), is the spirit of specialty which goes on increasing in our different professions, as well as in our sciences, and driving us into minute details; whereas woman, being less persevering, and, moreover, less called upon to apply herself with preci

to be the first to take in hand her young soul, and to be the first to exercise upon her the earliest severity, and also the earliest indulgence which is so akin to affectionate tenderness, to be the father and friend of a child taken so soon from her mother's arms. The confidant of her first thoughts will long be associated with her private reveries.

This is the man of whom, young bachelors, you must ́ask the girl in marriage, before you speak to her parents. Do not deceive yourselves, or you will lose all chance.

man who will seriously initiate a woman into his own life, can do it safely and completely, if she love him, but he would require to possess both patience and kindness. They have come together, as it were, from the two opposite poles, and prepared by a totally different education. Since it is so, how can you expect that your young wife, intelligent as she is, should understand you at once? If she do not understand you, it is too frequently your own fault: this almost always proceeds from the dry, abstract, and scholastic forms which you

have imbibed from your education. She remaining in the sphere of common sense and sentiment, understands nothing of your formulas, and seldom, very seldom indeed, do you know how to translate them into plain language. This requires address, will, and feeling. You will want, sir, let me tell you, both more sense, and more love.

At the first word she does not understand, the husband loses his patience. "She is incapable; she is too frivolous." He leaves her, and all is over. But that

day he loses much. If he had persevered, he would gradually have led her along with him; she would have lived his life, and their marriage would have been real. Ah! what a companion he has lost! how sure a confidant! and how zealous an ally! In this person, who, when left to herself, seems to him too trifling, he would have found in moments of difficulty a ray of inspiration, and often useful advice.

The man of modern times, a victim of the division of work, and often condemned to a narrow specialty, in which he loses the sentiment of general life, and becomes a morbid sort of a being, would require to have with him a young and serene mind, more nicely balanced, and less given to specialty than his own, that might lead him from the confined notions of trade, and restore him to the charms of a weil-regulated mind. In this age of eager opposition, when the day is taken up with active business, and we return home worn out with toil or disappointment, it is necessary to have a wife at the domestic fire-side, to refresh the burning brain of the husband. This workman, (what are we all but workmen, each in his own particular line?) this blacksmith, panting with thirst, after beating the iron, would receive from her the living fountain of the beautiful and good, of God and nature; he would drink for a moment of eternal streams. Then he would forget, take courage, and breathe freely again. Having been relieved by her, he would in his turn assist her with his powerful hand, lead her into his own world, his own life, his way of progress, and new ideas-the way of the future!

Unfortunately, this is not the way of the world. have sought every where, but in vain, for this fine exchange of thought, which alone realises marriage. They certainly try for a moment, in the beginning, to communicate together, but they are soon discouraged; the husband grows dumb, his heart, dried up with the arid influence of interests and business, can no longer find words. At first she is astonished and uneasy: she questions him. But questions annoy him; and she no longer dares to speak to him. Let him be easy, the time is coming when his wife, sitting thoughtful by the fire-side, absent in her turn, and framing her imaginary plans, will leave him in quiet possession of his taciturnity.

Wise husbands, who make so little of the resistance of a mother, do you not perceive that it is also by an instinct of virtue that this woman wishes to keep her so the pure and irreproachable witness, before whom she would always have remained holy? If you knew how useful the presence of the child is to the house, you yourself would desire to keep him. As long as that child remained there, the house was blessed. In his presence how difficult it is to loosen the family tie! What completes marriage and the family? the child, the object of their hopes. Who maintains the family the child they possess. He is the aim and the end, the

mediator-I had almost said the whole.

We cannot repeat it too often, for nothing is more true-woman is alone. She is alone, if she has a husband,--she is also alone, even with a son. Once at college, she sees him only by favour, and often at long intervals. When he leaves college, other prisons await the youth, and other exiles.

A brilliant evening party is given:-enter those welllighted rooms, you see the women sitting in long rows, well dressed, and entirely alone. Go, about four o'clock, to the Champ-Elysees, and there you will see again the same women, sad and spiritless, on their way to the Bois de Boulogne, each in her own carriage, and alone. These are in a calash, those at the far end of a shop; but all are equally alone.

There is nothing in the life of women, who have the misfortune to have nothing to do, that may not be explained by one single word-loneliness, ennui. Ennui, which is supposed to be a languishing and negative disposition of the mind, is, for a nervous woman, a positive evil impossible to support. It grasps its prey, and gnaws it to the core: whoever suspends the torment for a moment is considered a saviour.

Ennui makes them receive female friends, whom they know to be inquisitive, envious, slandering enemies. Ennui makes them endure novels in newspapers, which are suddenly cut short, at the moment of the greatest interest. Ennui carries them to concerts, where they find a mixture of every kind of music, and where the diversity of styles is a fatigue to the ear. Ennui drags them to a sermon, which thousands listen to, but which not one of them could bear to read. Nay, even the sickening half-worldly and half-devout productions, with which the neo-catholics inundate the Faubourg Saint Germain, will find readers among these poor women, the martyrs of ennui. Such delicate and sickly forms can support a nauseous dose of musk and incense, which would turn the stomach of any one in health.

Then come the priests and Jesuits again-the brownies and hobgoblins that form the chief machinery of this heroic composition! We so far agree with our author, however, as to domestic education. He pleads for the boy being left with his mother.

It is a general rule to which, at least, I have hardly ever seen any exception, that superior men are all the sons of their mother. She has stamped upon them, and they reproduce, her moral as well as her physical fea

tures.

I am about to surprise you. I will tell you that without her you will never be a man. The mother alone is patient enough to develope the young creature, by taking proper care of his liberty. We must be on our guard, and take especial care not to place the child, still too weak and pliable, in the hands of strangers. People of the best intentions, by pressing too much upon him, run the risk of so crushing his faculties, that he will never be able to enjoy the free use of them again. The world is full of men, who remain bondsmen all their lives, from having borne a heavy load too soon. A too solid and too precocious education has injured something within them; their originality, the genius, the ingegno, which is the prime of man.

ceive at our birth? This is almost always the part which offends and gets blamed; it is the reason why "this boy is not like every body else." Hardly does his young nature awake, and flourish in its liberty, than they are all astonished, and all shake their heads: "What is this? we never saw the like."-Shut him up quickly-stifle this living flower. Here are the iron cages.-Ah! you are blooming, and displaying your luxuriant foliage in the sun. Be wise and prudent, O flower! become dry, and shut up your leaves.

But this poor little flower, against which they are all leagued what is it, I pray you, but the individual, special, and original element by which this being would have distinguished itself from others, and added a new feature to the great variety of human characters-a genius, perhaps, to the series of great minds. The sterile spirit is almost always that plant which, having been tied too fast to the dead wood which serves to support it, has dried upon it, and gradually become like it there it is, very regular, and well fastened up, you may fear nothing eccentric from it: the tree is, however, dead, and will never bear leaf

more.

What do I mean that the support is useless? and that we must leave the plant to itself? nothing is further from my thoughts. I believe in the necessity of both educations, that of the family and that of the country. Let us distinguish their influence.

The latter, our public education, which is certainly better in our days than it ever was-what does it require? What is its end and aim? It wishes to harmonise the child with his native land, and with that great country, the world. This is what constitutes its legitimacy and necessity. It purposes especially to give him a fund of ideas common to all, to make him a reasonable being, and prevent him from being out of tune with what surrounds him; it hinders him from jarring in the great concert where he is going to take his part, and it checks what may be too irregular in his lively sallies.

So far for public education. Family life is liberty. Yet even here there are obstacles and shackles to his original moral activity. The father regulates this activity: his uneasy foresight imposes on him the duty to bring early this wild young colt to the furrow, where he must soon toil. It too often happens that the father makes a mistake, consults, first of all, his own conveniences, and seeks the profitable and ready-traced career,

rather than that to which his young and powerful colt was called by nature.

The triumphs of the courser have frequently been lost in the trammels of the riding-school."

We conclude with the author's conclusion.

"Two men have always deeply touched my heart, two solitary beings, two monks-the soldier and the priest. I have seen, often in my thoughts, and always with sadness, these two great sterile armies, to whom intellectual food is refused, or measured out with so niggardly a hand. They whose hearts have been weaned would require to be nourished with the vivifying food of the mind.

What will be the ameliorations and the remedies for these serious evils? We shall not attempt to tell them Either means and contrivances are found out by time, or it manages to do without them.

now.

What we may safely say is, that one day or other, these terms priest and soldier will indicate two ages, rather than two conditions. The word priest, in its origin, meant old man; a young priest is a nonsensical contradiction.

The soldier is the youth who, after the school of childhood, and that of work, comes to be proved in the great national school of the army, and to gain strength, before he settles down to the quiet state of matrimony and the family table. Military life, when the state has made it what it ought to be, will be the last education, varied with studies, voyages, and perils, the experience of which will be of advantage to the new family which the man will form on his return.

The priest, on the contrary, in the highest acceptation of the term, ought to be an old man, as he was at first, or at least a man of a mature age, who, having passed through the cares of this world, and being well acquainted with family life, has been taught by his experience to understand the sense of the Great Family of the Universe. Seated among the old men, like the elders of Israel, he would communicate to the young the treasures of his experience; he would be the man for all parties; the man who belongs to the poor, the conciliating umpire to prevent law-suits, and the physician of health to prevent diseases. To be all that, something more is required than an excitable, hot-headed young man. It ought to be a man who has seen, learned, and suffered much, and who has at last found in his own heart the kind words, which may comfort us on our way to the world to come."

By Mrs C. M. KIRKLAND, Author of "Forest AMONG the various settlers of the wide west, there is no class which exhibits more striking peculiarities than that which, in spite of hard work, honesty, and sobriety, still continues hopelessly poor. None find more difficulty in the solution of the enigma presented by this state of things, than the sufferers themselves; and it is with some bitterness of spirit that they come at last to the conclusion, that the difference between their own condition and that of their prosperous neighbours, is entirely owing to their own "bad luck;" while the prosperous neighbours look musingly at the ragged children and squalid wife, and regret that the head of the house "ha'n't no faculty." Perhaps neither view is quite cor

rect.

In the very last place one would have selected for a dwelling-in the centre of a wide expanse of low marshy land, on a swelling knoll, which looks like an island,— stands the forlorn dwelling of my good friend, Silas Ashburn, one of the most conspicuous victims of the "bad luck" alluded to. Silas was among the earliest settlers of our part of the country, and had half a county to choose from when he "located" in the swamp,-half a county of as beautiful dale and upland as can be found

Life in America," " Western Clearings," &c.

in the vicinity of the great lakes. But he says there is "the very first-rate of pasturing” for his cows, (and well there may be, on forty acres of wet grass!) and as for the agues which have nearly made skeletons of himself and his family, his opinion is, that it would not have made a bit of difference if he had settled on the highest land in Michigan, since "everybody knows if you've got to have the ague, why you've got to, and all the high land, and dry land, and Queen Ann in the world wouldn't make no odds."

Silas does not get rich, nor even comfortably well off, although he works, as he says, "like a tiger." This, he thinks, is because "rich folks ain't willing poor folks should live," and because he, in particular, always has such bad luck. Why shouldn't he make money? Why should he not have a farm as well stocked, a house as well supplied, and a family as well clothed and cared for in all respects, as his old neighbour John Dean, who came with him from "York State?" Dean has never speculated, nor hunted, nor fished, nor found honey, nor sent his family to pick berries for sale. All these has Silas done, and more. His family have worked hard; they have worn their old clothes till they well nigh drop

ped off; many a day, nay month, has passed, seeing potatoes almost their sole sustenance; and all this time Dean's family had plenty of everything they wanted, and Dean just jogged on, as easy as could be; hardly ever stirring from home except on 'lection days; wasting a great deal of time, too, (so Silas thinks,) "helping the women folks. But some people get all the luck."

One of the greatest temptations to our friend Silas, and to most of his class, is a bee-hunt. Neither deer, nor 'coons, nor prairie-hens, nor even bears, prove half as powerful enemies to anything like regular business, as do these little thrifty vagrants of the forest. The slightest hint of a bee-tree will entice Silas Ashburn and his sons from the most profitable job of the season, even though the defection is sure to result in entire loss of the offered advantage; and if the hunt prove successful, the luscious spoil is generally too tempting to allow of any care for the future, so long as the "sweet'nin" can be persuaded to last. "It costs nothing," will poor Mrs Ashburn observe, "let 'em enjoy it. It isn't often we have such good luck." As to the cost, close computation might lead to a different conclusion; but the Ashburns are no calculators.

It was one of the lovely mornings of our ever lovely autumn, so early that the sun had scarcely touched the tops of the still verdant forest, that Silas Ashburn and his eldest son sailied forth for a day's chopping on the newly-purchased land of a rich settler, who had been but a few months among us. The tall form of the father, lean and gaunt as the very image of famine, derived little grace from the rags which streamed from the elbows of his almost sleeveless coat, or flapped round the tops of his heavy boots, as he strode across the long causeway that formed the communication from his house to the dry land. Poor Joe's costume showed, if possible, a still greater need of the aid of that useful implement, the needle. His mother is one who thinks little of the ancient proverb which commends the stitch in time; and the clothing under her care sometimes falls in pieces, seam by seam, for want of the occasional aid, rendered more especially necessary by the slightness of the original sewing; so that the brisk breeze of the morning gave the poor boy no faint resemblance to a tall young aspen,

"With all its leaves fast fluttering, all at once."

The little conversation which passed between the father and son was such as necessarily makes up much of the talk of the poor,-turning on the difficulties and disappointments of life, and the expedients by which there may seem some slight hope of eluding these disagree

ables.

"If we hadn't had sich bad luck this summer," said Mr Ashburn,-" losing that heifer, and the pony, and them three hogs,-all in that plaguy spring-hole, too,— I thought to have bought that timbered forty of Dean. It would have squared out my farm jist about right." "The pony didn't die in the spring-hole, father," said Joe.

"No, he did not, but he got his death there, for all. He never stopped shiverin' from the time he fell in. You thought he had the agur, but I know'd well enough what ailed him; but I wasn't a goin' to let Dean know, because he'd ha' thought himself so blam'd cunning, after all he'd said to me about that spring hole. If the agur could kill, Joe, we'd all ha' been dead long ago." Joe sighed a sigh of assent. They walked on musingly.

"This is going to be a good job of Keene's," continued Mr Ashburn, turning to a brighter theme, as they crossed the road and struck into the "timbered land," on their way to the scene of the day's operations. "He has bought three eighties, all lying close together, and he'll want as much as one forty cleared right off; and I've a good notion to take the fencin' of it as well as the choppin'. He's got plenty of money, and they say he don't shave quite so close as some. But I tell you, Joe, if I do take the job, you must turn to like a catamount,

for I ain't a going to make a nigger o' myself, and let my children do nothing but eat."

"Well, father," responded Joe, whose pale face gave token of anything but high living, "I'll do what I can; but you know I never work two days at choppin' but what I have the agur like sixty,-and a feller can't work when he's got the agur."

"Not while the fit's on, to be sure," said the father; "but I've worked many an afternoon after my fit was over, when my head felt as big as a half-bushel, and my hands would ha' sizzed if I'd put 'em in water. Poor folks has got to work-but, Joe! if there isn't bees, by golley! I wonder if anybody's been a baitin' for 'em? Stop! hush! watch which way they go!"

And with breathless interest-forgetful of all troubles, past, present, and future-they paused to observe the capricious wheelings and flittings of the little cluster as they tried every flower on which the sun shone, or returned again and again to such as suited best their discriminating taste. At length, after a weary while, one suddenly rose into the air with a loud whizz, and after balancing a moment on a level with the tree-tops, darted off, like a well sent arrow, towards the east, followed instantly by the whole busy company, till not a loiterer remained.

"Well! if this isn't luck!" exclaimed Ashburn, exultingly; "they make right for Keene's land! We'll have 'em! go ahead, Joe, and keep your eye on 'em!"

Joe obeyed so well in both points, that he not only outran his father, but very soon turned a summerset over a gnarled root or grub which lay in his path. This faux pas nearly demolished one side of his face, and what remained of his jacket sleeve, while his father, not quite so heedless, escaped falling, but tore his boot almost off, with what he called "a contwisted stub of the toe."

But these were trifling inconveniences, and only taught them to use a little more caution in their eagerness. They followed on unweariedly; crossed several fences, and threaded much of Mr Keene's tract of forest land, scanning with practised eye every decayed tree, whether standing or prostrate, until at length, in the side of a gigantic but leafless oak, they espied, some forty feet from the ground, the "sweet home" of the immense swarm whose scouts had betrayed their hiding-place.

"The Indians have been here," said Ashburn; "you see they've felled this saplin agin the bee-tree, so as they could climb up to the hole; but the red rogues have been disturbed afore they had time to dig it out. If they'd had axes to cut down the big tree, they wouldn't have left a smitchin' o' honey; they're such tarnal thieves!"

Mr Ashburn's ideas of morality were much shocked at the thought of the dishonesty of the Indians, who, as is well known, have no rights of any kind; but considering himself as first finder, the lawful proprietor of this much-coveted treasure, gained, too, without the trouble of a protracted search, or the usual amount of baiting, and burning of honeycombs, he lost no time in taking possession after the established mode.

To cut his initials with his axe on the trunk of the bee-tree, and to make blazes on several of the trees he had passed, to serve as way-marks to the fortunate spot, detained him but few minutes; and with many a cautious noting of the surrounding localities, and many a charge to Joe "not to say nothing to nobody," Silas turned his steps homeward, musing on the important fact that he had had good luck for once, and planning important business quite foreign to the day's chopping.

Now it so happened that Mr Keene, who is a restless old gentleman, and, moreover, quite green in the dignity of a landholder, thought proper to turn his horse's head, for this particular morning ride, directly towards these same "three eighties," on which he had engaged Ashburn and his son to commence the important work of clearing. Mr Keene is low of stature, rather globular in contour, and exceedingly parrot-nosed, wearing, more