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sued for peace and ransomed their leader. The next day they struck south, crossing the Coosa River, intending to reach Pensacola Bay, where they expected the return of their vessel with supplies. For over three weeks they passed on, treated by the natives in a friendly manner, making stoppages on the route, and reaching the principal town, called Cosa, or Coosa, where he was met by the chief, in a litter, borne upon the shoulders of his servants, and attended by a thousand warriors, richly arrayed and armed. The chief was of splendid presence, a crown of gorgeous feathers and gold encircling his head, and wearing a cloak of exquisite fur, embroidered with beautiful pearls. Their village contained five hundred spacious houses, and was plentifully supplied with provision, as well as articles of luxury and wealth. At this place they remained for almost a month, starting again on the twentieth of August, and arriving on the eighteenth of September at Tallise, a strongly fortified town on the Tallapoosa River, and near the present town of Tallahassee, where he was met by an envoy from Tuscaluza, the great chief of the Choctaws. The envoy was a son of the great chief, and brought with him a large retinue of grandly-arrayed warriors. He came, in the name of his father, to invite De Soto to visit his dominions, an invitation that was accepted; and joining their escort, they crossed the Tallapoosa, and travelled southward, until, on the third day, they arrived at a small village, where Tuscaluza awaited him. The great chief was seated upon a throne, built upon the top of a hill which commanded the whole country, and surrounded by a large body of his principal warriors, gorgeously dressed and painted. Tuscaluza was of immense proportions, being at least eighteen inches taller than any of those by whom he was surrounded. He took no notice of anyone but De Soto, whom he greeted with sternness and gravity, but yet with dignity and grace. Accompanied by the great chief and his warriors, De Soto set out for the principal town, Tuscaluza, supposed to have been on the site of the present town of Tuscaloosa, which they reached in three days. Stopping a short time there, they once more advanced, and after travelling several days, arrived near a town called Manville. Here the chief sent forward messengers, as he said, to prepare a proper reception; but De Soto, doubting his hosts, despatched spies, and advanced on the place with one hundred horsemen and as many foot, keep-and disappeared. ing the chief with them as a hostage, and The Spaniards having now arrived at a spot entered the town as quickly as possible, leaving called by the Indians Chicaga, and it being the orders for the balance of his men to follow as middle of December, De Soto determined to rapidly as they could. Manville was the capital winter there, and, as a first step, drove out the of the kingdom of Tuscaluza, and very strongly natives and took possession of their town. At fortified. It contained only eighty houses, but first they made no resistance; but watching each of them was large enough to shelter a their opportunity, they murdered the sentinels, thousand people. No sooner had they arrived, and set fire to the town. Many of the Spaniards than it was apparent that the Indians stood in a were slain and burnt to death; but finally they hostile attitude. Ten thousand warriors were repulsed the Indians, and removed to a place gathered within its walls, and every woman and called Chicacilla, where they remained until the child had been sent away. De Soto secretly first of April, when they once more marched warned his men to be watchful, and then dis-northward, until they reached the Yazoo River,

patched messengers to hurry up the main body. He sent one of his officers for Tuscaluza, whe refused to come; and a quarrel taking place between his messenger and some of the Indians. one of the latter was slain. This was the signa for action; and from every point the warriors sallied forth by hundreds and thousands, rushing upon the Spaniards with deadly ferocity. De Soto saw that he would be overpowered, and tried to escape from the town; but the onset was so fearful, that it was only through the most terrible slaughter that he succeeded; and even then his fate would have been sealed but for the arrival of his main body, who succeeded in repulsing the attackers, and driving them back into the city, but not until they bad killed nearly all the horses of the Spaniards, and were successful in getting all their camp baggage and property. They now stormed the town, and though several times repulsed, and the most terrible sorties made upon them, they finally, by the aid of their battle-axes, forced the gates of the town and entered. Once inside, they made fearful work with the savages, mow ing them down like grass, and driving them into their houses, which they set on fire. The Indians neither asked nor gave quarter, and Tuscaluza, among the rest, perished in the flames. Nine hours the terrible fight lasted; and when the night fell, it was upon the smouldering ruins of the once happy Indian town, with its squares and streets filled with reeking, blackened corpses. Six thousand of the Indians were killed, and about eighty of the Spaniards, while almost everyone of the latter was wounded: they also lost over forty of their horses, and all their baggage, which was burnt.

The effect of this terrible battle was to so depress the Spaniards, that they instantly wanted to return to the coast; but the indomitable resolution and pride of De Soto would not give way, and overruling all per suasion and advice, he determined to go on, and on the eighteenth of November he set out northward, until he reached the Black Warrior River. Here the Indians, to the number of eight thousand, took their stand on the opposite bank, to give battle; but upon the Spaniards crossing the river, they fled after a few slight skirmishes. Still onward went the expedition, until they arrived upon the Tombeekbee River, where the Indians made another stand, to dispute the passage, but finally offered no fight,

upon which was situated the strong Indian fort of Alibamo, signifying in the Muscogee tongue, "Here we rest.' This they stormed and took, occupying it only for a few days, when they again took up their march to the north-west, until they came to the largest and most magnificent river they had ever seen. Its Indian name was Chicagua, but the Spaniards, with great ceremony, christened it Rio Grande.

This was the mighty Mississippi, the monarch of rivers, and they were the first white men who had looked upon it. They crossed it just below where Memphis now stands, between the thirtyfourth and thirty-fifth parallels of latitude, and from that point struck south-west.

For a year De Soto and his party wandered to-and-fro in that unknown land, battling with the natives, and enduring terrible hardships, the hardest of which was the disappointment of not finding gold or gems; and then, worn with fatigue, and broken-hearted, he reached once more the banks of the great river, hoping to

depart from the country by its means; but on the twenty-first of May, 1542, yielding to a fierce fever, he gave up his life upon its banks, asking, as a last request, that he might be entombed in its waters-a request that was complied with by sinking the corpse in the bed of the stream.

The survivors, under Luis De Moscoso, made an attempt to reach Mexico, but after six months' trial, were forced back to the Mississippi, where they built seven rude bragantines, in which they embarked, following the stream to its mouth, and the coast line to the Spanish town of Panuco, arriving on the tenth of September, 1543-four years and two months from the landing at Tampa Bay. They brought back three hundred and eleven men-a loss of three hundred and nine, as well as all their horses and wealth. And thus ended that wondrous expedition, which, as long as its record lasts, will be esteemed a miracle of poetry and romance, not equalled in any fiction or fancy.



"Not to the ensanguined field of death alone
Is valor limited. She sits serene

In the deliberate council; sagely scans

The source of action; weighs, prevents, provides;
And scorns to count her glories from the feats
Of brutal force alone."-SMOLLET.

The highest type of courage is moral courage. The heroism which dares and does amid the strife and perils of the battle-field is often sublime; but that which governs the moral character, and makes it a thing of beauty in the presence of the errors and disorders which deform human society, is sublimer. We have the highest authority for saying that self-conquest is the grandest of all human triumphs; for inspiration itself declares that "He that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city." Alexander took cities and won empire; but he lacked the moral conrage to conquer the appetites which conquered him. The great Macedonian monarch, with all his conquests, is not to be compared for a moment to that noble spirit who said, "I keep my body under subjection," and who arose from the crucifixion of himself, the sublime moral conqueror of the world! Truly

"This is true courage; not the brutal force Of vulgar heroes, but the firm resolve Of virtue and of reason."

True courage is chiefly moral in its quality. No one possesses it who has not a large substratum of principle in his or her character. Strong virtue is one of its essential elements. There is such a thing as wrong or evil in the world-a principle which, unfortunately for the best interests of humanity, has too large a development in human character; and no inconsiderable strength of personal virtue is necessary to resist and overcome its seductive influences. In this world of sin and selfishness there are not wanting motives which plead never so effectually with human nature against too rigid views of right and wrong in human conduct; indeed, there is so much that seems to associate our present interest with at least not too strict an observance of principle, that it requires no small sense of rectitude to pursue the straightforward path of duty and right. There was a world of wealth in that noble soul that felt in the silent depths of its own consciousness its own purity, and who therefore could say, "I'd rather be right than Emperor." Such is the moral sentiment of every true spi

rit. Nothing is valuable, nothing desirable, which may not be acquired without the sacrifice of principle. He or she who is not brave enough to conquer the disposition or temptation to turn aside from the right way for a supposed interest -not strong enough to be just to the last degree in all the relations and duties of life-lacks the quality which makes the true man or woman. Virtue never surrenders, because it never changes; hence it can never accept any price that may be offered for wrong-doing. In fact, fear itself is one of the characteristics of true courage, genuine virtue-the fear to do wrong. This fear protects the character and interests of our neighbour as it guards our own. Ben Jonson has well said

"Fear to do base, unworthy things, is valour; If they be done to us, to suffer them Is valor too."

What else but a hero of the noblest type was he, who, on being summoned to the field of mortal combat, replied to his challenger, "I am not afraid of you, sir; but I am afraid to do wrong!" Virtue must be tested, and that severely; but it derogates nothing from its honour to decline the test of brutal force. It is, indeed, never so fearless, never so grand, as when it prefers to suffer wrong rather than inflict it. True courage can endure, can suffersuffer misfortune, opposition, and trial, and "be strong;" but it cannot do wrong! The man who can patiently endure suffering for his principles rather than yield them, is the noblest of heroes. His is a courage before which the glory of an Alexander or Cæsar pales into complete insignificance. Shakespeare truly says

"I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none."

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Another element of real courage is vigorous reason, strong common-sense. Courage is not a blind, reckless something, that dares to do anything-not like "the unthinking steed rushing into battle;" but it is a thinking quality that looks closely into the nature and bearing of things before it acts. The old proverb presupposes this, when it declares that discretion is often the better part of valour." The wise man, in showing the value of discretion in human conduct, its relation to our security and welfare, says: "A prudent man foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself; but the simple pass on, and are punished." The chief function of reason touching life and its moral conduct is to avoid that which is injurious, and pursue that which is good. No one ever purposely sought the contravention of his or her own happiness; yet thousands, for the want of reflection and common sense, have robbed themselves of happiness. There are men and women everywhere who are not happy, simply because they have

not the courage to be so-not the courage to take rational views of life. and, if necessary, be unlike the multitude in their enforcement in their lives and characters. A certain amount of independence of thought is necessary to a positive character. Without this there can be no individuality, no courage, no true enjoyment. Those who do not their own thinking, but get others to do it for them, are destitute of the essential element of real manhood or womanhood. We have individual minds that we may have individual thought and action; and he or she is the veriest coward who lacks the nerve to follow in his or her daily life the suggestion of reason, even though it lead to a conflict with the opinions and sentiments of others. The mind that dares to think for itself about matters and things—dares to approve this and condemn that has the true metal, the right quality. Such a mind will everywhere command respect for its independence and courage. In fact, one had better think wrong sometimes, if sincere, than not think at all, or not think independently. Beyond all doubt,

"He that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and god-like reason
To rust in us unused."

The strong, independent thinker is the man of courage; he "dares to avow the courage of his sentiments". something which negative minds dare not do.

Another quality of real courage is a determined will. Whatever elements enter into one's character, it is seriously defective if it have not decided power of will. Without this there can be no heroism, no courage. The men who

have made names in the world-who have acquired distinction, wealth, and power-were and are men of will. Napoleon had never been Napoleon without that invincible will, which regarded nothing as impossible in the practicable world. Franklin had never been Franklin but for the indomitable will which conquered all opposition between him and his true niche in the world's history. Peabody had never acquired princely wealth without this unflagging, unyielding power of will. So with men in the roll of virtue's heroes. The Luthers, Calvins, and Wesleys, the Howards and Wilberforces, were all men of strong will. They made the world move in their day and times because they were men of courage and will. So it is today. The true man, the moral hero, has a will about him to conquer the oppositions and contrary elements of life. Nothing is too hard for a stout, brave-hearted will. Conquer it must! We conclude, therefore, that the elements of true courage are strong virtue, vigorous reason, and a determined will. These are the qualities of the true hero the world over.

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"No nation," we recollect poor Albert Smith | here we are again!" At Ryde there has been a to have said, "makes such a fuss about their 'tea-kettle' comforts as the English, and no people are so notoriously anxious to get away from them;" we would add that, after all, none are so anxious to return to them. Verily this is the undoubted opinion of one who, notwithstanding the absence of many of the domestic comforts aforesaid, might write himself down "Your Bohea-man," instead of adopting his ordinary nom de plume, were it not that his powers of word-torturing should be reserved for a maiden effort in burlesque, or for "comic copy." "Y. B." (not to repeat the offence) is once more back in town, and has fallen into the well-greased groove of London life. Though


confess there is something inexplicably galling in having again to don the chimney-pot hat of society and to assume the frock-coat of proprie ty, in place of the slouch hat, loose dégagé costume, and brown hands of sea-side life, it is nevertheless very pleasant to be back in our own rooms, there to be again surrounded by our own familiar "household gods," albeit presided over by a household goddess in the shape of a rather too familiar charwoman: it is a delightful sensation to have our books ready to hand, to be within hail of Hansoms and threepenny omnibuses, and, above all, to have once more comfortable writing-materials in lieu of that penny bottle of pale ink, and that unyielding skewery steel pen on the ricketty holder from the country grocer's, should we courageously essay our "Mems" whilst on our rambles. Once more have we returned to the great metropolis, to find it settling down to its winter season in good earnest. Everyone is back save a few erratic stragglers, the glorious weather (never was there such a September known within the memory of man) has at last changed, and become what the grumblers call "seasonable if not reasonable," and the long evenings have set in with unexampled severity. We hear the tinkle of that dreadful muffin-bellsure harbinger of the approach of a Londoner's winter; the cattle-show and our bucolic countrycousins will be with us ere long. We begin to hear rumours of the pantomimes (for one of which the great Chang should at once offer his services), and to have unpleasant visions of Christmas-boxes and Christmas-bills.

We are seated at our desk with the pleasant recollection of the glorious "blue unclouded" at Ryde; of a snug little dinner, in the best of company, at Sandown; of the beauties of the Landslip and Undercliff; of the three graces by the name of Cass, at the Crab and Lobster at Ventnor; and of our exultation when (a "jolly dog" in spite of our aversion to Musichall jolly dog-ism in general, and "the great" Vance in particular) we exclaimed," Black-gang,

succession of "stars" at the little theatre so well conducted by its present manager, Mr. Wybert Reeve, during a three months' season; Misses Amy Sedgwick, Herbert, and Kate Saville rapidly following each other, the latter actress creating a great impression as Rebecca in another version of "Leah"-a character in which we hope she will be seen in London. During our sojourn Tom Thumb and party visited the island, and must have made heaps of money. Alas! to see St. Lawrence's Well, of pleasant memory, we must now run the risk of being turned out of the private grounds by the Countess of Yarborough's domestics, as the well has been enclosed within two gates bearing the ominous words "No Thoroughfare," and a new coach-road has been made: however, this did not deter us, and we defied the authorities, to find that neither was it permitted us to drink from the refreshing spring as of old. We have visited the heart of the hop-picking country, and found Tenterden a quiet out-of-the-way place, where, at a quaint old house-Finchden by name-we were the guest of the authoress of "Rambles in the South of Ireland," and could enjoy our otium cum-croquet to our heart's content.

We have now, in fewer words, given our readers quite as much as they will care to wade through, in the entertaining style of the "Flaneur" of the Morning Star, who, by the way, has ingeniously let out that he is one of the "Men of the Time," at least he says the author of "Broken to Harness" is, which is much the same thing, and which will doubtless raise him immensely in public estimation. How our friend contrives to go out of his way to sneer at people! for instance, when at the Lord Warden he finds a striking resemblance, in the head waiter to Mr. William Farren, and on that account can hardly refrain from shaking hands with him (the waiter). What necessity was there for the remark, which is a gratuitous piece of impertinence? However the "Flaneur" has long since established his claim to a first-class medal for his constant exhibition of impudence and bad taste.

If it were not for Mr. Ruskin, the Fenians (who, by the way, appear to be chiefly composed of tailors and tinkers), and the cattle-disease, what would have become of the newspapers? Apropos of the prevailing "rinderpest," or (in plainer language) cattle-murrain, it is an illwind that does not blow somebody good, inasmuch as we observe that "a beautifully-executed chromolithograph of the head of a diseased animal drawn from nature can be sent, postfree, on receipt of thirty stamps" (see Times advertisement). Sir Bulwer Lytton protests against the absurdity of killing all the cattle

because some are diseased. As it is, we are in danger of losing not only our beef but our supply of milk. Various remedies have been suggested, and seem to have been attended with


There has been, we hear, a plague this year among the wasps certain it is that we scarcely saw one in our rambles. Would that it had extended to the flies! We have often felt inclined to exclaim" Plague take the flies!" whilst indulging in our afternoon siesta, instead of "Bother the flies!"-the title, we believe, of a comic song recently published, and which was sung in the Crystal Palace on the occasion of the last Dramatic Fête. The appearance this year of the "humming moth" having caused some attention, we may inform our readers that we saw one on the 22nd September, at Wootten, near Ryde, where we were told they had been frequently observed.

So the Farrances of ourboyhood is doomed, the premises having been taken with a view to the enlargement of the Trafalgar Hotel. Well do we remember the place-we will not say how many years ago-in connection with a visit to the National Gallery, or before the delights of the play.

During the last few days the chief topic has been the death of the Premier, Lord Palmerston. To the Liberal party this must be a crushing blow, but it may also be truly said that we have sustained a national loss.

Dalton and Lucy, entitled "The Claims of Conservatism v. Liberal Liberality" by Mr. William Reade, a gentleman well known to most of your readers; and who has therein assuredly hit the Liberal government pretty hard. With regard to Denmark Mr. Reade justly remarks "no flood of words or ingenious reasoning, no picture of the horrors of war can alter the fact that the Liberal Government declared Denmark should not stand alone, and then left her to stand and fall alone." Similar judicious and indubitably true remarks are made by the writer in regard to our absurd non-recognition of the Southern Confederacy in the late American War. He says "the existence of an indepen dent South would have checked the insolence of the gigantic Republic which threatens the world, and which has shown the worst phase of Mob Rule."

We should not omit to allude to the publication of the first two volumes of "Penny Readings in Prose and Verse," which are selected and edited by J. E. Carpenter, whose name is held dear wherever the English tongue is spoken or English songs are sung. These volumes will be a great boon to the promoters of penny readings; and both on account of their variety and the care and taste displayed in their selection will supply a want long felt by those who have had any connection with the movement. In the compilation of these volumes the Editor has evidently brought to bear his long experience, not only as a literary man, but also as a public lecturer and entertainer of some twelve years' standing. To quote from his preface," the experience of two apprenticeships, during which it has been our privilege to read, lecture, and entertain some fifteen hundred

The world of science, literature, art, and music mourns such men as Admiral Smyth, Charles Richardson, LL.D. (at the advanced age of ninety-one), Dudley Costello, J. F. Herring, Julian Portch, George Linley, Ernst, Vincent Wallace, and Giuglini. The death of Mr. Benjamin Oliveira should also be men-audiences at all the leading institutions in tioned with regret.

We would refer to the completion of "Our Mutual Friend," "Sir Jasper's Tenant," and "David Chantrey." Mr. Henry Holl's admirable novel of "The King's Mail" has, we perceive, been recently published in a cheap form which is very welcome; and Mrs. Winstanley is issuing "Fiction" in halfpenny numbers, "containing twenty-four pages by the best writers of the day" which, in the words of the advertisement, is "a marvel of literature."

London and the provinces, enabled us to form a tolerably accurate idea of what would be likely to prove useful and acceptable." The volumes before us are an earnest of the high character of those to come, and fully justify the great success which the work is said to have already obtained. A selection from the writings of Artemus Ward will be acceptable to a reader able to assume the peculiar tone of the Yankee.

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last illustration in that number, we would venture to suggest to the artist that a volunteer captain would not be likely to go to a picnic in his regimentals.

In the October number of "London Society" are some not very brilliant verses headed "A We have received a copy of the first volume Tale of Croquet," in which " mallet,' spoony,' of the "Shops and Companies of London," a "doute," and "unsullied," are so many poetical very interesting work edited by Henry Mayhew, licences as rhymes to "recall it," "funny,” who has contributed, amongst several other" out," and "bullied;" and in reference to the articles, an account of Bass's Brewery. A description of the Shops of America is by Sala, and the Odd Shops of London have for their chronicler Mr. Ashby Sterry, once a contributor to Sharpe. Mr Sterry has also supplied several other articles which contain much valuable information in regard to the working of the different trades, conveyed in an airy and agreeable manner, chatting pleasantly behind the scenes of the Counting House on that which would at first sight appear rather an unthankful subject.

We would call attention to a very temperate and logical pamphlet recently published b

A new sixpenny monthly magazine is, we hear, about to be started by Messrs. Sampson Low, called the "Argosy," in which there is to appear a new tale by Charles Reade, whose "Never too late to mend" in its dramatic form is merely a version of his "Gold," a play in five acts produced several years ago, the prison scenes which gave such offence on the first night being added in the present piece, These

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