Again they embarked; and with every stage of their adventurous progress, the mystery of this vast New World was more and more unveiled. More and more they entered the realms of spring. The hazy sunlight, the warm and drowsy air, the tender foliage, the opening flowers, betokened the reviving life of Nature. For several days more they followed the writhings of the great river, on its tortuous course through wastes of swamp and cane-brake, till on the thirteenth of March they found themselves wrapped in a thick fog. Neither shore was visible; but they heard on the right the booming of an Indian drum, and the shrill outcries of the war-dance. La Salle at once crossed to the opposite side, where, in less than an hour, his men threw up a rude fort of felled trees. Meanwhile, the fog cleared; and, from the farther bank, the astonished Indians saw the strange visitors at their work. Some of the French advanced to the edge of the water, and beckoned them to come over. Several of them approached, in a wooden canoe, to within the distance of a gun-shot. La Salle displayed the calumet, and sent a Frenchman to meet them. He was well received; and the friendly mood of the Indians being now apparent, the whole party crossed the river. On landing, they found themselves at a town of the Kappa band of the Arkansas, a people dwelling near the mouth of the river which bears their name. The inhabitants flocked about them with eager signs of welcome; built huts for them, brought them firewood, gave them corn, beans, and dried fruits, and feasted them without respite for three days. They are a lively, civil, generous people," says Membré, “very "very different from the cold and taciturn Indians of the North." They showed, indeed, some slight traces of a tendency towards civilization; for domestic fowls and tame geese were wandering among their rude cabins of bark. La Salle and Tonty at the head of their followers marched to the open area in the midst of the village. Here, to the admiration of the gazing crowd of warriors, women, and children, a cross was raised bearing the arms of France. Membré, in canonicals, sang a hymn; the men shouted Vive le Roi; and La Salle, in the king's name, took formal possession of the country. The friar, not, he flatters himself, without success, labored to expound by signs the mysteries of the faith; while La Salle, by methods equally satisfactory, drew from the chief an acknowledgment of fealty to Louis XIV. After touching at several other towns of this people, the voyagers resumed their course, guided by two of the Arkansas; passed the sites, since become historic, of Vicksburg and Grand Gulf; and, about three hundred miles below the Arkansas, stopped by the edge of a swamp on the western side of the river. Here, as their two guides told them, was the path to the great town of the Taensas. Tonty and Membré were sent to visit it. They and their men shouldered their birch canoe through the swamp, and launched it on a lake which had once formed a portion of the channel of the river. In two hours they reached the town, and Tonty gazed at it with astonishment. He had seen nothing like it in America; large square dwellings, built of sun-baked mud mixed with straw, arched over with a dome-shaped roof of canes, and placed in regular order around an open area. Two of them were larger and better than the rest. One was the lodge of the chief; the other was the temple, or house of the Sun. They entered the former, and found a single room, forty feet square, where, in the dim light, for there was no opening but the door, the chief sat awaiting them on a sort of bedstead, three of his wives at his side, while sixty old men, wrapped in white cloaks woven of mulberry-bark, formed his divan. When he spoke, his wives howled to do him honor; and the assembled councillors listened with the reverence due to a potentate for whom, at his death, a hundred victims were to be sacrificed. He received the visitors graciously, and joyfully accepted the gifts which Tonty laid before him. This interview over, the Frenchmen repaired to the temple, wherein were kept the bones of the departed chiefs. In construction it was much like the royal dwelling. Over it were rude wooden figures, representing three eagles turned towards the east. A strong mud wall surrounded it, planted with stakes, on which were stuck the skulls of enemies sacrificed to the Sun; while before the door was a block of wood, on which lay a large shell surrounded with the braided hair of the victims. The interior was rude as a barn, dimly lighted from the doorway, and full of smoke. There was a structure in the middle which Membré thinks was a kind of altar; and before it burned a perpetual fire, fed with three logs laid end to end, and watched by two old men devoted to this sacred office. There was a mysterious recess, too, which the strangers were forbidden to explore, but which, as Tonty was told, contained the riches of the nation, consisting of pearls from the Gulf, and trinkets obtained, probably through other tribes, from the Spaniards and other Europeans. The chief condescended to visit La Salle at his camp; a favor which he would by no means have granted, had the visitors been Indians. A master of ceremonies, and six attendants, preceded him, to clear the path and prepare the place of meeting. When all was ready, he was seen advancing, clothed in a white robe, and preceded by two men bearing white fans; while a third displayed a disk of burnished copper, doubtless to represent the Sun, his ancestor; or, as others will have it, his elder brother. His aspect was marvellously grave, and he and La Salle met with gestures of ceremonious courtesy. The interview was very friendly; and the chief returned well pleased with the gifts which his entertainer bestowed on him, and which, indeed, had been the principal motive of his visit. On the next morning, as they descended the river, they saw a wooden canoe full of Indians; and Tonty gave chase. He had nearly overtaken. it, when more than a hundred men appeared suddenly on the shore, with bows bent to defend their countrymen. La Salle called out to Tonty to withdraw. He obeyed; and the whole party encamped on the opposite bank. Tonty offered to cross the river with a peace-pipe, and set out accordingly with a small party of men. When he landed, the Indians made signs of friendship by joining their hands, -a proceeding by which Tonty, having but one hand, was somewhat embarrassed; but he directed his men to respond in his stead. La Salle and Membré now joined with him, and went with the Indians to their village, three leagues distant. Here they spent the night. "The Sieur de la Salle," writes Membré, "whose very air, engaging manners, tact, and address attract love and respect alike, produced such an effect on the hearts of these people, that they did not know how to treat us well enough." as The Indians of this village were the Natchez;cessors to the crown, possession of this country and their chief was brother of the great chief, or Sun, of the whole nation. His town was several leagues distant, near the site of the city of Natchez; and thither the French repaired to visit him. They saw what they had already seen a religious and political among the Taensas, despotism, a privileged caste descended from the Sun, a temple, and a sacred fire. La Salle planted a large cross, with the arms of France attached, in the midst of the town; while the inhabitants looked on with a satisfaction which they would hardly have displayed, had they understood the meaning of the act. The French next visited the Coroas, at their village, two leagues below; and here they found a reception no less auspicious. On the thirty-first of March, as they approached Red River, they passed in the fog a town of the Oumas; and, three days later, discovered a party of fishermen, in wooden canoes, among the canes along the margin of the water. They fled at sight of the Frenchmen. La Salle sent men to reconnoitre, who, as they struggled through the marsh, were greeted with a shower of arrows; while, from the neighboring village of the Quinipissas, invisible behind the cane-brake, they heard the sound of an Indian drum, and the whoops of the mustering warriors. La Salle, anxious to keep the peace with all the tribes along the river, recalled his men, and pursued his voyage. A few leagues below, they saw a cluster of Indian lodges on the left bank, apparently void of inhabitants. They landed, and found three of them filled with corpses. It was a village of the Tangibao, sacked by their enemies only a few days before, And now they neared their journey's end. On the sixth of April, the river divided itself into three broad channels. La Salle followed that of the west, and D'Autray that of the east; while Tonty took the middle passage. As he drifted down the turbid current, between the low and marshy shores, the brackish water changed to brine, and the breeze grew fresh with the salt breath of the sea. Then the broad bosom of the great Gulf opened on his sight, tossing its restless billows, limitless, voiceless, lonely, as when born of chaos, without a sail, without a sign of life. La Salle, in a canoe, coasted the marshy borders of the sea; and then the reunited parties assembled on a spot of dry ground, a short distance above the mouth of the river. Here a column was made ready, bearing the arms of France, and inscribed with the words, Louis le Grand, Roy de France et de Navarre, règne; le Neuvième Avril, 1682. The Frenchmen were mustered under arms; and, while the New-England Indians and their squaws stood gazing in wondering silence, they chanted the Te Deum, the Exaudiat, and the Domine salvum fac Regem. Then, amid volleys of musketry and shouts of Vive le Roi, La Salle planted the column in its place, and standing near it, proclaimed in a loud voice,— "In the name of the most high, mighty, invincible, and victorious prince, Louis the Great, by the grace of God King of France and of Navarre, Fourteenth of that name, I, this ninth day of April, one thousand six hundred and eighty-two, in virtue of the commission of his Majesty, which I hold in my hand, and which may be seen by all whom it may concern, have taken, and do now take, in the name of his Majesty and of his suc of Louisiana, the seas, harbors, ports, bays, adjacent straits, and all the nations, peoples, provinces, cities, towns, villages, mines, minerals, fisheries, streams, and rivers, within the extent of the said Louisiana, from the mouth of the great river St. Louis, otherwise called the Ohio, . also along the River Colbert, or Mississippi, and the rivers which discharge themselves therein, from its source beyond the country of the Nadouessious as far as its mouth at the sea, or Gulf of Mexico, and also to the mouth of the River of Palms, upon the assurance we have had from the natives of these countries, that we are the first Europeans who have descended or ascended the said River Colbert; hereby protesting against all who may hereafter undertake to invade any or all of these aforesaid countries, peoples, or lands, to the prejudice of the rights of his Majesty, acquired by the consent of the nations dwelling herein. Of which, and of all else that is needful, I hereby take to witness those who hear me, and demand an act of the notary here present.' Shouts of Vive le Roi and volleys of musketry responded to his words. Then a cross was planted beside the column, and a leaden plate buried near it, bearing the arms of France, with a Latin inscription, Ludovicus Magnus regnat. The weatherbeaten voyagers joined their voices in the grand hymn of the Vexilla Regis: "The banners of Heaven's King advance, The mystery of the Cross shines forth; and renewed shouts of Vive le Roi closed the ceremony. On that day, the realm of France received on The fertile parchment a stupendous accession. plains of Texas; the vast basin of the Mississippi, from its frozen northern springs to the sultry borders of the Gulf; from the woody ridges of the Alleghanies to the bare peaks of the Rocky Mountains,—a region of savannahs and forests, sun-cracked deserts, and grassy prairies, watered by a thousand rivers, ranged by a thousand warlike tribes, passed beneath the sceptre of the Sultan of Versailles; and all by virtue of a feeble human voice, inaudible at half a mile. ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH Was born November, 1823, in East Windsor, Conn., where he is at present a resident. He was educated at Amherst College, studied law, but was diverted from the profession by a taste for mechanical ingenu ties, and has mainly occupied himself as an inventor or machinist. A spirited poem from his pen, The Railroad Lyric, is an eloquent expression of these tastes. Drastus W Ellsworth Having contributed various poems to Sartain's Magazine, the International, and Putnam's Monthly, in 1855 he published a collection from them at Hartford. The longest of these is devoted to that old favorite theme of the Muse, the desertion of Ariadne by Theseus. Others are patriotic, celebrating General Putnam, Nathan Hale, and Mount Vernon. Still another class is on familiar topics, in a light sportive style. The following, in a quaint vein of morality, is among the most successful. "Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise To eat of angels' food. What is the use? They eat their fill, and they are filled with wind. The greatest of the race. "Should some new star, in the fair evening sky "Who'll care for me, when I am dead and gone? Read for their good, not mine; "And song, if passable, is doomed to pass- Else they would break his back, "Spirit of Beauty! Breath of golden lyres! "Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow, And fooling him who sighs. "Go pry the lintels of the pyramids; Lift the old king's mysterious coffin lids This dust was theirs whose names these stones Nature in all sole Oracle and Muse. What should I seek, at all, More than is natural? What is the use?" Seeing this man so heathenly inclined- Answered him, eye to eye: Thou dost amaze me that thou dost mistake Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss, Whispers where man aspires. -to But what and where are we?-what nowday? Souls on a globe that spin our lives away A multitudinous world, where Heaven and Hell, Their gonfalons have set. Dust though we are, and shall return to dust, We know to wage our best, God only knows the rest. Then since we see about us sin and dole, And some things good, why not, with hand and soul Grasping the swords of strife, Yea, all that we can wield is worth the end, Let us not use them ill. As for the creeds, Nature is dark at best; Lest thou mayst somewhat fail Nature was dark to the dim starry age For still she cried with tears: But rouse thee, man! Shake off this hideous death! Come, here is work-and a rank field--begin. Thy Lord, at set of sun, This at the last: They clutch the sapless fruit. But be it understood That, to be greatly good, All is the use. WILLIAM W. CALDWELL Was born at Newburyport, Massachusetts, in 1823. He was educated at Bowdoin college, Ring it out o'er hill and plain, Through the garden's lonely bowers, Till the green leaves dance again, Till the air is sweet with flowers! Then as thou wert wont of yore, In the woodbine leaves among; Swinging still o'er yonder lane, Alice claps her hands in glee, THE WINDOW PANES AT BRANDON.* As within the old mansion the holiday throng re-assembles in beauty and grace, And some eye looking out of the window, by chance, these memorial records may trace— How the past, like a swift-coming haze from the sea, in an instant, surrounds us once more, While the shadowy figures of those we have loved, all distinctly are seen on the shore! Through the vista of years, stretching dimly away, we but look, and a vision behold Like some magical picture the sunset reveals with its colors of crimson and gold All suffused with the glow of the hearth's ruddy blaze, from beneath the gay "mistletoe bough,' There are faces that break into smiles as divinely as any that beam on us now. While the Old Year departing strides ghost-like along o'er the hills that are dark with the storm, To the New the brave beaker is filled to the brim, and the play of affection is warm: Look once more-as the garlanded Spring re-appears, in her footsteps we welcome a train Of fair women, whose eyes are as bright as the gem that has cut their dear names on the pane. From the canvas of Vandyke and Kneller that hangs on the old-fashioned wainscoted wall, Stately ladies, the favored of poets, look down on the guests and the revel and all; But their beauty, though wedded to eloquent verse, and though rendered immortal by Art, *Upon the window panes at Brandon, on James River, are inscribed the names, cut with a diamond ring, of many of those who have composed the Christmas and May parties of that hospitable mansion in years gone by. Yet outshines not the beauty that breathing below, in a moment takes captive the heart. Many winters have since frosted over these panes with the tracery-work of the rime, Many Aprils have brought back the birds to the lawn from some far-away tropical climeBut the guests of the season, alas! where are they? some the shores of the stranger have trod, And some names have been long ago carved on the stone, where they sweetly rest under the sod. How uncertain the record! the hand of a child, in its innocent sport, unawares, May, at any time, lucklessly shatter the pane, and thus cancel the story it bears: Still a portion, at least, shall uninjured remain— unto trustier tablets consigned The fond names that survive in the memory of friends who yet linger a season behind. Recollect, oh young soul, with ambition inspired!— let the moral be read as we pass Recollect the illusory tablets of fame have been ever as brittle as glass: Oh then be not content with the name there inscribed, for as well may you trace it in dust,But resolve to record it where long it shall stand, in the hearts of the good and the just! A PICTURE. Across the narrow dusty street I see at early dawn, An hour or so and forth she goes, Wore no such pretty gear. I fling her every day a kiss, BENEDICITE, I saw her move along the aisle- A manly form stood by her side, |