discovering the value of the different methods which may be used in sciences that are in a measure conjectural, as medicine, agriculture, and political economy. It may excite a smile in some to hear that this last science has become a subject of mathematical calculation; but no one can read the remarks of La Place and not be forcibly struck with the correctness and truly practical nature of his conclusions. Who would have expected so safe a political maxim as the following, inferred from a course of mathematical reasoning: "Nous ne changeons qu'avec une circonspection extrême, nos institutions et les usages auxquels nous sommes depuis long-temps pliés. Nous connaissons bien par l'expérience du passé, les inconvéniences qu'ils presentent; mais nous ignorons quelle est l'étendue des maux que leur changement peut produire." "The effect of such studies on the mind," says Stewart, "is a salutary suspense of judgment on problematical questions, till the evidence on both sides is fully weighed."

But our limits forbid our multiplying instances. We will only add one in which pure mathematics are applied to a moral subject, and which shows that the tendency of such pursuits is not invariably towards scepticism and infidelity. La Place in his Essai, after estimating the evidences of design in the universe concludes that there are more than four millions of millions to one that the arrangement is not the effect of chance, "a probability much superior to that of the historical events about which we entertain the least doubt." We must therefore believe, he adds, that One Primitive Cause, has directed all the planetary movements. Shall we say then that science begets scepticism when even pure mathematics, (which have been regarded with the greatest suspicion,) are found to lead the mind to so sublime a result and to open the heart to the first great truth of religion?

x.

"His wife and little son had fallen a prey to the whites and he was now left alone: all that was most dear to him was swallowed up in the vortex: his heart was now ready to break."

THEY Wronged me-and I sought the aid

My brother chiefs could give;
Who gathered from the gloomy shade

Where forest warriors live:

I heard their yell of triumph ring,
And felt myself once more a king;
When gaily in the wood,

VOL. V.

We danced around the council-fire
And waked anew our old desire

To drink the white man's blood.

We drank it—yes! these eager hands
In crimson life were dyed,
As fell upon the thirsty sands
The battle's gushing tide.

How wildly glanced our gladdened eyes
On such a ghastly sacrifice,

When stretched along the plain

Those mangled forms lay white and chill,
And those pale lips were cold and still-
Too still to speak again.

The summer of this heart is gone,

Its bloom has past away,
My tender wife and infant son

Are now a victor's prey.

With them all softness fled my breast,

But still it spurns the thought of rest-
For fierce revenge remains;

It burns to cool itself in blood,
And quench amid the battle's flood
Life's dark, oppressive pains.

So let me die-since nought is left
Save vengeance unrepaid;

Of all is Philip now bereft

On which his hope was stayed;
They were the sunshine of his day,
The stars that blest his nightly way,
The flowers that meekly smiled-
Now all his happy dreams are fled,
His heart is sleeping with the dead,
His loving wife and child.

Adieu! thou Mountain of my sires,*
Their long, their hallowed home;
Where thronging to the council-fires
Old chieftains wont to come :
Whose lengthened war-whoop told the cave
The wild defiance of the brave-
Thou dear abode farewell!
The last descendant of their line,
Thine ancient seat must now resign-
That seat they loved so well.

⚫ Mount Hope.

2

But by the wampum which they wore,
The plume that graced their brows,
By all the bitter oaths they swore
To smite their haughty foes-
By these shall Philip's hand be strong
To render back this heartless wrong!
And when the work is done,
He'll stand above the field of strife
And whet his bloody scalping-knife,
To strip the spoils he won.

Then grasp the hatchet of the bold,
The quiver and the bow,

And from your secret mountain hold
Rush out upon the foe!
With you let murder grimly stalk,
Companion of the tomahawk-

Cold as the winter blast.

Then leave the stealthy wolf to prey

Upon their lone, deserted clay,

Till sated with repast.

Yes! let them seize the rocks and caves
Proud sachems held of old;

And build their cities o'er the graves
Where chieftains' bones lie cold.
Ay, let them eat the fruit that springs
From out the dust of ancient kings:
But thorns are in their path!

The Indian's God hath bent his bow,
And tyrants' blood shall redly flow
To feast his greedy wrath.

A HAYTIAN LEGEND.

TRANSLATED, WITH ALTERATIONS, FROM THE FRENCH OF LOUIS LEVRAULT.

I.

ST. DOMINGO had disappeared to give place to Hayti; General Le Clerc was dead, and the noble army of that lieutenant of Buonaparte had melted away under the rays of a tropical sun. Of all this beautiful colony, France now possessed only the city of Port au Prince, which was besieged by the negroes. Some European soldiers who had strayed from the retinue of an expedition into the middle of the island, wandered from field to field

in the midst of an insurgent population. They finally reached the hills of Cibao, where they hoped to conceal themselves from the pursuit of an implacable enemy more easily than in the plain. Here they were in the same situation that the runaway negroes had been before them, whom the tyranny of the colonists had driven into these very deserts; they were obliged to hide in marshes, live on roots, and carefully avoid all inhabited regions. Under these circumstances, they had no prospect but that of dying by hunger or being slain by the blacks when descending to get provisions from the plain. On the seventeenth day of their flight half of them had perished, and the rest dragged themselves along with the greatest difficulty.

At last Gustavus Beaumont, one of their number, resolved at any hazard to escape from this situation. Gustavus was a noble youth, who had just come from his own little village of Vosge, beneath the sun of the Antilles. He was making his first campaign as lieutenant of one of those splendid regiments of the Italian army which the consular government sent to die with the plague at St. Domingo. "Pon my faith! comrades," cried he, "if Buonaparte had shut himself up in the desert, as we are now doing, when he made his expedition into Egypt, you would not to-day fear him as ruler of France. Let us, like him, march forward!"

The soldiers, however, were far from partaking the confidence of their leader. They remained stretched on their miserable resting places, and an old grenadier who had made a campaign in Egypt, replied, with a grumbling tone, "If you had been in Egypt, my young officer, you would know how great a difference there is between bravely periling our lives among the Mamelukes, and yielding ourselves like fools to these idle, cowardly negroes."

Still the officer insisted on the necessity of speedily seeking a better situation than their present one. "We must retrace our steps and try to reach Port au Prince, and above all we must find something better than herbs to eat. Perhaps there is in the neighborhood some brave colored man who will sell us provisions, or consent to be our guide."

"No! no!" cried the soldiers, "to seek such a guide is to seek death!"

"Very well," replied Gustavus, "if you choose to await here an ignominious death, and perish like dogs with hunger-do so; I will go alone in pursuit of a better fortune. Wait for me in this place twenty-four hours. If to-morrow I do not return, leave me your regret, and should you ever again see France, say that I died a conscript in the army of Napoleon."

Demoralized as they were, the soldiers could not without sorrow see their young leader depart to an almost inevitable death.

They still endeavored to change his purpose, and overwhelmed him with prudent counsels. But Gustavus had a bold mind, and gaily replied, "Be tranquil, comrades, I shall travel as silently as does the maiden when she glides to the rendezvous! Besides, thanks to this cursed sun, I look more like a negro than a white. All the darkies will take me for a recruit just landed from Congo. Night too is approaching, and you know the old proverb, 'Night makes every cat grey!' So adieu, till we meet again!" He seized his sword, put a brace of pistols in his belt, and started on his journey. As Gustavus had remarked, when leaving his companions, the shades of evening soon came to protect his march, and the twilight, although short in those countries, promised a darkness favorable to his designs. He advanced with a determined step, and safely crossed the wildest passes of this chain of mountains. As he descended towards the plain, the country assumed a less deserted appearance; he saw here and there groves of coffee trees and fields of tobacco, and following the course of a beautiful stream which murmured over a bed of flints, he came to a long field, at the end of which was a house. At this sight our hero stopped and began to reconnoiter the place; for in spite of his natural indifference to danger, he knew too well the horrors of this war of extermination, to forget the necessity of prudence.

Night had now actually come; one of those beautiful nights of the Antilles, when the air is so mild, the breeze so delicious, and all nature seems so lovely. The half risen moon afforded sufficient light to enable him easily to distinguish objects, and to approach the dwelling without much danger. He took a hasty view of the large domain before him, which he found to be very similar to those which the rich planters of the colony had inhabited before the insurrection. The main body of the house was an elegant pavilion, situated at the end of a large court which was planted with trees. Numerous out-houses surrounded it, such as stables, barns, coach-houses, shops, &c., and behind these were seen rows of negro huts. They all, however, appeared to be deserted, or at least as if for a long time neglected. The great gate of the court was broken, and the garden was in disorder; doubtless the whirlwind of insurrection had passed over it, and the masters been compelled to fly.

Such were the reflections which Gustavus made as he walked up as silently as possible between the coffee, orange, and citron trees, which bordered the avenue. He was still hesitating whether to knock at the door, when the barking of a watch-dog gave the alarm.

"Who is there?" cried a female voice from the inside. At the sound of a woman's voice the fears of the youth all fled like a flock of frightened birds. He went towards the door; a win