The natives represented the territory on the lower Mississippi as waste, and uninhabited, and the alarmed commander despatched an exploring party to ascertain the truth; but they were unable to make any progress through the deep bayous and impracticable morasses. Disease, in the form of vindictive fever, attacked the camp; their horses died and wandered off, and the men fell, daily, victims to the insalubrity of the climate. Despondent. and well nigh desperate, De Soto rapidly sunk under the accumulated calamities which surrounded and beset him. His physical frame was shattered, and his heroic spirit broken. His devoted followers, perceiving that the Angel of Death was about to claim his prey, besought him to name a successor. He did so, and, in some hours after, sunk into his last sleep. His companions carefully wrapped his body in a mantle, and sunk it in the middle of that great river which he was the first to behold, and with which his fame is indissolubly associated.

Moscoso, the new commander, debated with his companions whether they should construct boats and descend the river, or endeavor to make their way into Mexico by land; and it was unanimously resolved that it was less hazardous to attempt the latter alternative. Again the diseased and alarmed adventurers undertake their solitary and perilous march up Red river, through bogs and thickets, and thorns and brambles, and loathsome and venomous reptiles-annoyed by the stings of musquitoes and flies, and the burning beams of the sun-until they found themselves at the village of the Natchitoches. The river was so swollen that it was impassable; and, with their Indian guides, they wandered up and down, amid dense forests and turbid waters, and over naked prairies, covered with cactus, ferox, and other thorny plants, until wearied and panic-stricken, they were lost in the vast plains which expand in sterile and terrible grandeur towards the Rocky Mountains. Totally disheartened, they attempted to retrace their steps; and, after toiling and suffering for many days, they at last hail with gratitude the rolling current of the Mississippi. The point where they reached the river was called Minoya, a few miles above the mouth of Red river; and here many of the enslaved Indians died, as well as some of the Spaniards. Erecting a forge, they struck the fetters from the natives, and wrought them into nails. They sawed planks by hand, and caulked their vessels with weeds, and constructed a few barrels for water. Their hogs and horses were killed and dried, and the Indians robbed for other food. Launching their frail barks, they floated down the river into the Gulf; and, after more than fifty days of apprehension and fatigue, the desolate Pilgrims entered the river Panuco. Out of the vast number of ardent spirits who entered upon the expedition, only three hundred and seven made a final escape from the toils and perils of the route. So terminated the last attempt of the Spaniards to discover a navigable passage into the Pacific, through the continent north of Mexico.*

In the written account of Major Long's Expedition to the sources of the St. Peters river, the following passage occurs: "To have been the first civilized man who viewed the mighty Mississippi, was, as we conceive, by no means an undesira

ble distinction; and, however difficult it may be at this distant epocha, to ascertain who that man may have been, the inquiry is not the less interesting or useful in the history of human discoveries. So far as our reading extends, injustice is done to Alvaro Nunez de Cabeza Vaca. He traversed North America from Tampa Bay to New Gallicia, between the years 1528 and 1632, and, consequently, must have seen this river, having crossed it above or at its mouth." As this is a point of great interest to western history, the author, with the assistance of a friend more happily situated for the examination of authorities, has traced out what he believes to be the truth respecting this supposed first discovery.

Alvaro Nunez de Cabeza Vaca, was one of those who accompanied Pamphile de Narvaez, who, in 1526, obtained from the crown of Spain permission to reinvade Florida. He set sail with three hundred men. Where he landed in Florida cannet be precisely ascertained, but it was probably near the Bay of Apalachee. From thence the reckless adventurers struck into the interior of the country, without chart or guide, or knowledge of the new regions through which they took their hazardous way. Seizing upon the first natives on whom they could lay their hands, they compelled them to act as guides; but these, as they had done in previous invasions of the Spaniards, excited their hopes of conquest and gold, by telling them marvellous stories of wealth and splendor far to the west, with the hope of thus ridding themselves of their cruel and avaricious visitors. Deluded by these wild tales, Narvaez and his companions wandered on, through dense forests, entangled canebrakes, deep morasses, and across many streams, until he found himself in the vicinity of the town of Apalachee. Here their hopes of plunder weie disappointed, and again they turned northwards; and, after wandering more than eight hundred miles, over hills, and valleys, and streams, through briars, and theins, and knotted vines, and suffering the torments arising from excessive heat, a buining sun, myriads of musquitoes, and the on very verge of entire starvation, they finally reached the Bay of Pensacola. Cured of their avarice, or, at least, convinced of the impossibility of gratifying it in such a country, they here constructed a few rude boats, and committed themselves to the mercies of the winds and waves, sustained only by the prospect of hugging the coast from week to week, until they could hail the Spanish settlement on the Panuco. Near the mouth of the Mississippi, their frail barques were struck by one of those sudden squalls so characteristic of the Mexican Gulf, aud all of them perished, save one, which was stranded on a neighboring island. Of those whom the tempest had spared, only four escaped the jaws of famine. Reaching the main land on portions of the wreck, these wretched sufferers wandered for years in the interior of western Louisiana, and northern Mexico, subsisting themselves as chance, or skill, or accident, or a merciful Providence supplied them; one day laboring through bayous and matted shrubs and vines, the next picking their way over arid ridges, covered with angular fragments of rock and thorny plants, and another toiling over sandy wastes and precipitous mountains. Who shall say, or even venture to imagine, what must have been their sufferings, when, even at this day, with all our geographical knowledge, and our superior facilities of travel, the wide world contains only one large district, (the great African Desert,) over which it is more difficult or hazardous to pass? Yet these four men, one of whom was Alvaro Nunez de Cabeza Vaca, encountered, from day to day, from week to week, and from year to year, all the necessary dangers and privations of such a journey; and not until the year 1537-ten years after their first landing in Florida-did they again see the face of civilized man. This was at Caliacan, on the western coast, from whence they were sent into the interior of Mexico. The narrative, as given by Alvaro himself, is so defaced with marvels, that it is difficult to eviscerate from it the precise truth. There is, however, no pretence or evidence that he ever saw the Mississippi, nor would it have contributed much to his fame, in the estimation of intelligent men; for, among all the extraordinary adventures of an age fruitful in heroic spirits and daring deeds, we question whether there is one which will bear comparison with this, in the courage necessary to encounter danger, the variety of suffering, and the strangeness of vicissitude.

ART. VI. THE RISE, PROGRESS AND INFLUENCE OF THE FINE ARTS.

BY ALFRED S. WAUGH, ESQ.

SCULPTURE.

In the productions of the chisel, there is a loftiness and grandeur of thought far surpassing those of the pencil. Depending, as it does, on form alone, a greater knowledge of what is termed drawing is absolutely necessary to its successful operation. Every position in which you may view a statue, presents new outlines wherein the ana tomical knowledge of the artist is made manifest. If this knowledge is extensive, the truth of nature irresistably strikes the spectator with pleasure-emotions of delight take possession of his breast-while, at the same time, awe and wonder accompany him in his contemplation. Rude emblems of men, monsters, or imaginary beings, are pro ductive of sensations of terror, or perhaps loathing; and, in the hands of the crafty, are powerful agents by which to work on the fears or credulity of the vulgar and illiterate; but, in its utmost excellence, sculpture invariably commands, in its silent grandeur, the respectful homage of all classes of men. Viewed as allegorical, historical, or personal, it claims our attention by its almost stern reality. The eye is not attracted by its colorless purity; no skillfully arranged masses of light and shade present their witching wiles to the pleasing delu. sion of the visual orb-no ariel perspective charms you into the regions of unmeasured distance-no transparent tint floats in thin air— nor vapor, nor cloud, nor sombre gloom lend their assistance in mak. ing up an enchanting deceit. Its triumph depends on none of the charming trickeries of the pencil. Unadorned by any of the meretricious aids which painting gives, it stands before us in its own severe simplicity-grand, in the loftiest sense of the term-commanding and godlike. Before its shrine the savage stands in awe, and the civilized reverences, through its bright emanations, the divine source of intellect and power.

Never shall I forget the enchanting spell which was thrown over my every sense, on first beholding the Apollo Belvidere. I had been walking in the gallery of the Vatican, and some hours had been spent in feasting my eyes on the glowing canvass and breathing marble, en joying the rich treasures of inspiration, when suddenly I found myself standing before this mighty effort of the Grecian chisel. I gazed in

silence on a statue the most sublime the eye of man ever rested on. Unearthly majesty pervaded every limb. His apparent action was unswayed by mortal effort; his muscles seemed to be calmly brought into play, and without the exhibition of anger, he was taking revenge on his foes. He was not of this world. But when I turned my eyes to the head of this more than human production, my feet involuntarily retreated, and I found myself in the presence of a God. Language hath no power to convey the most distant idea of the sublimity of that head. To be fully enabled to comprehend this triumph of art, you must go to Rome, and stand in silence at the shrine of Apollo.*

When we come to consider the greatness of the mind that was capable of conceiving and executing so magnificent a statue-a mind capable of impressing on the cold and inanimate marble all the attributes of a divinity, we cease to wonder at the adoration paid by ancient pagans to such mighty works of art. Our wonderment is turned to that vast intellect whose wide spread powers stretch beyond the realms of earth, and seizing upon the attributes of awe and majesty, which belong to Heaven alone, at once give immortality to the creator and created.

In the palmiest days of Greece, sculpture swayed the public taste, and its professors commanded the utmost respect of that enlightened people. Phidias, whose magic chisel transformed the parian marble into matchless forms of living beauty, received the grateful homage of that people whose temples, palaces, and groves he had adorned with the brilliant creations of his immortal genius. Cities, and even whole nations, contended for the possession of his productions, so great was the emulation displayed in their rivalry, that treasure to a vast amount was tendered him for a single statue. This, in our day of utilitareanism, would, perhaps, be looked upon as a sinful waste of public money; forgeting, in their circumscribed notions of economy, the vast good arising from the enobling influence of a refined taste on the public morals. It is of the greatest importance to a people desirous of elevating their position, that they should cultivate the acquaintance

"The Apollo Belvidere is believed by the learned Visconti to be the Deliverer from Evil-the work Calamis set up in Athens, in memory of a plague which raged in that city.

Sublime in his beauty, and terrible in his anger, it has been considered as the Zobus Apollo of Homer, destroying the Greeks. It has also been looked upon as a variation from a statue by Phidias."-[Lectures on Sculpture by John Flaxman, Esq., R. A., London: John Murray, 1829.

of this, the noblest of the liberal arts; for, in the encouragement of sculpture, they construct imperishable records of historical eventswhich serve not only as monuments of all that is and was illustrious in the present or the past, but place defore the rising generation mon. itors, who speak to their young minds silent but impressive lessons of usefulness and wisdom. The influence of the plastic arts on the social condition of man, is felt and appreciated in proportion to the encour agement they receive from the hands of the community at large. If they are fostered with liberal affection in their infancy, they, in their full maturity, return with tenfold interest the care bestowed on them in their youth.

A people, before whose eyes the godlike creations of the sculptor are ever present, must, of necessity, insensibly imbibe a refinement of taste and feeling immeasurably beyond the price of the creation of such works. Over the minds of all classes they pour a softening influence, irresistably powerful in their moral tendency, which at once calms the rude passions into gentleness, and elevates the mind to a just appreciation of every thing that is ennobling in the various paths of life.

In the language of Flaxman: "The more common purposes of these arts are to illustrate the several branches of science, from the simple elements to the most complicated forms and exertions; but their superior concerns appeal to the intellect and the reason, by the representation of superior natures, divine doctrines and history, the perpetuation of noble acts, and assisting in the elevation of our minds. towards that excellence for which they were originally intended."

The great aim of sculpture, as well as painting, is not merely the production of servile copies of every earthly lineament, but an imitation of the etherial-that spirit of the divinity which lights up, with celestial radiance, the index to the soul-which cannot be caught by the hand of mechanical skill, or stopped in its brilliant coruscation by the wonderful agency of chemical powers. It is part and parcel of the divinity, and alone has the command over its sister essence. Its magic touch arrests in its rapid career, the vivid flashes which illumines the dull, cold clay of mortality, and proclaims man the master work of God. This is the province of art; and he alone who can rise above the servile delineations of minutiæ, and give to his work the impress of thought, is truly an artist. Imitation, not copy, is the test of genius. "Art does not copy nature; it co-operates with her-it