inhabited. The Indians appeared at first fright-, ened, and disposed to interrupt the Spaniards; but Alarcon avoided all hostilities, and they became pacified, even assisting in drawing the shallops up the stream, and supplying the Spaniards with provisions. They raised maize, beans and pumpkins, and on one occasion gave the Spaniards a loaf of mezquiqui. They worshipped the sun; and Alarcon persuaded them that he was the son of that luminary, and forbade them to go to war. They said that when at war they ate the hearts of their enemies (?) and burnt some of their prisoners. Alarcon returned to his vessels in two days and a half; the ascent had occupied fifteen days. He afterwards ascended the river to a higher point, to the vicinity of a district called Comana; met several tribes speaking different languages; heard of the country of the Cibola, which was variously represented to be ten and forty days' journey to the eastward; tried in vain to get letters transported across to Coronado, and finally returned to his vessels and sailed for New Spain. Although the true geography of the gulf was thus early ascertained, the voyage of Alarcon had been so much forgotten in Mexico, that the inhabitants one hundred and sixty years after, in the eighteenth century, regarded it as questionable whether California was an island or a peninsula."-Transactions of the American Ethnological Society, vol. ii., p. 50.

NOTE 3.-Expedition to the Peninsula of California. In October, 1540, after the departure of the main body of Coronado's army from Sonora, Melchior Diaz, who was left as Governor of the temporary settlements made there, set off for the sea coast, in order to open a communication with Alarcon's vessels. At the computed distance of one hundred and fifty leagues, he arrived at or near the mouth of the Colorado, which he named Rio del Tizon, because the Indians, in cold weather, carried a firebrand, for the sake of warmth. From indications given by the Indians, he found a tree on the bank of the river, fifteeen miles from its mouth, on which was written, "Alarcon came here; there are letters at the foot of the tree." The letters were found, stating that Alarcon had returned to New Spain, and that California was not an island but part of the main. Diaz ascended the river four days, crossed it on rafts, defeating the Indians, who disputed his passage, and marched along the coast of the peninsula to the south-west. He accidentally wounded himself and died, and his party returned to Senora.—Ib. p. lxvi.

NOTE 4.-Expedition to the Upper Colorado. "In the same year, 1540, after the capture of Tucayan, the Indians of that province gave information of a great river to the north-west. Lopez de Cardenas, with twelve men, were immediately sent by Coronado in that direction. After twenty days' march across a desert, they arrived at the river, which was the Colorado, but far above its mouth. The stream was there buried, apparently more than a thousand feet, below the table land on which the Spaniards stood. The descent was so precipitous that they found it impossible to reach the bed of the river. The country was altogether uninviting, the water scarce, and the weather cold. They accordingly return

ed to Cibola. The few Indians they met were peaceable and friendly."—Ib. p. lxviii.

NOTE 5.-The Pimos Indians.-The Pimos Indians found by Lieut. Emory on the Gila, although peaceable and agricultural, and in some other respects exhibiting a resemblance to the Indian families of New Mexico, and to the westward in the same latitude, nevertheless probably belong to a different family. The inhabitants of all the valleys through which the Spaniards passed, from the time they left Culican until they reached the Gila, seem to have cultivated the maize, beans, pumpkins, &c., and to have had fixed habits. The Coracones, mentioned by Coronado, the Tahues of Castenada, the inhabitants of Petatlan, and of the valleys of Senora and Suya, were all of this character. Their houses, like those of the Pimos, were made of dry rush, and were mere sheds. From his account we may infer that Coronado found Indians of like habits, etc., on the Gila. On the plains and in the desert regions intervening between the valleys above named, were found various barbarous families, among which, and most numerous, were the Acaxas, which were probably the Apaches.

NOTE 6.-Account of Cibola, from Coronado's letter to the Viceroy Mendoza.-"In this town where I remain, there be some two hundred houses, all compassed with walls, and I think with the rest of the houses not so walled there may be five hundred. There is another town near this, which is one of the seven, which is somewhat bigger, another of the same bigness, and four somewhat less. I send them all painted herewith to your lordship, and the parchment whereon the picture was found here, with other parchments. The people seem of a reasonable stature and wittie, yet they seem not such as they should be, of that judgment and wit to build houses in the sort that they are. For the most part they go nearly naked, but they have painted mantles. They have no cotton wool growing, because of the cold of the country, but they have mantles thereof, and in their houses was found cotton yarn. They have divers precious stones and crystals. We found here Guinea cocks, but few. The Indians say they eat them not, but keep them for their feathers; but I believe them not, for they are excellent good, and greater than those of Mexico. The season which is in this country, and the temperature of the air is like that of Mexico; for sometimes it is hot and sometimes it raineth; but hitherto I never saw it rain. The snow and cold are wont to be great, for so say the inhabitants of the country, and it is very likely to be, both in respect to the manner of the country and by the fashion of their houses, and their furs and other things which the people have to defend them from the cold. There is no kind of fruit nor trees of fruit. The country is all plain and is on no side mountainous, albeit there are some hills and bad passages. There is small store of fowls, (birds?) the cause whereof is the cold, and because the mountains are not near. Here is no great store of wood, because they have wood for their fuel sufficient four leagues off, from a wood of small cedars. There is most excellent grass within a quarter league hence. The victuals which the people of the country have is maize,

Ir is long ago since those pleasant evenings at Uncle Robert's. My cousins have grown up, and there is a new generation around the hearth. Eliza Parker was married to Stephen Ingalls the year after the visit I have been describing. Mary Horton is now a fashionable city lady. What has become of the schoolmaster I do not know. He left that part of the country about five years since, and returned to the West; but where he has located himself I have never been able to ascertain. Possibly some Indiana or Missouri Congressman will recognize in these pages incidents which he has communicated to but a few intimate friends, and which rightly belong to no one but himself. Should he do so, he will, I am sure, excuse one who is obliged to assist a barren invention, for weaving these incidents into a narrative, and associating them with so respectable and harmless a personage as Martin Kennedy. I shall make no apology, therefore, for giving here an account of that gentleman's early life, naturally suggested by sundry allu

sions in his narrative of the misfortune of his friend Alison, as well as by the peculiar melancholy which colored his description. For the truth of the particulars I need not avouch, as I had them from his own lips; I will endeavor to give them as much in his own style as possible.

If the indulgent reader will transport himself to a certain September evening twenty years back, in the now populous town of ville, celebrated for its manufactures, he may perceive on the high hill that overlooks its eastern side, a small garden to the left of the plain white dwelling with four poplars standing in front. If he looks more carefully, he will discover towards the lower end of the garden, where it merges into a nursery or peach orchard, a young man and woman seated on a bank that slopes down to the gravelled pathway. This is Martin Kennedy and his first and only love, Lucy Darling. Poor Lucy!

One would not fancy, to have seen her at this time, that she was destined to taste so soon the bitter cup of sorrow; nor would any one recognize in the ruddy face of that handsome boy, the solemn and careworn lineaments of our friend the schoolmaster. Lucy was a slender girl, with blue eyes and fair hair; she was ordinarily very still and reserved, but with Martin alone, she was a wonderful talker, and could laugh so genuinely, that it was plain to him she was then in her happiest moments. Years and years after, the sound of her merry voice and the sweet innocent expression of her eyes haunted his dreams and made him start from slumber in the dreary watches of the night. She was delicate and childlike; the blushes came and went over her cheeks like the wind across a flowering meadow. All she did was graceful and lovely, and now as she sat by her lover's side, with her head leaning upon his shoulder, the two would have made a capital study for a picture of Lorenzo and Jessica.

It was near sunset. The garden where they were seated, being on the slope of the hill, commands towards the west, one of the finest views in the country. Immediately below is the town, with its spires and chimnies; beyond flows the river, which at this point widens into what is called the Cove, making a sheet two or three miles across; then succeed marshes with wooded islets and gradually rising farms and fields, which extend to distant forests; in the distance the prospect is bounded by blue highlands. Just at this time of day, when the sunlight strikes deepest into the placid water and paints another sky below, the view is most delightful; I remember often enjoying it from the windows of my apartment, when I, long after, succeeded Kennedy at the University. For the college buildings are situated upon the southern slope of the same hill, and the western windows look out upon the same beautiful scene. But I was not so fortunate duringmy

college term as my friend, if indeed it be fortunate to purchase a few months of happiness at the expense of a life-long woe.

It was within a few weeks of the end of Kennedy's last term in college, when he would soon be obliged to break the cherished associations which the four past years had gathered around him. He must soon part from his friend Alison; he must see no more his cherished companions, the old familiar faces; hardest of all, he must leave, for a time at least, the dear girl whose heart he had won, and whose love was the joy of his life.

The evening we have chosen to see the young lovers may answer for one of many that witnessed them thus together, as the time of separation drew nigh. Lucy was an only daughter. Her parents were people of methodical, secluded habits, and they had not yet learned to think of her as other than a child. Her father was always absent during week days at his store in the town below, and her mother was usually occupied with her household cares. A single servant made up the family. Few visitors came to the house, and the old people were not much given to "going abroad." But they never on any account missed going to meeting on Sundays. So regularly was Deacon Darling's pew filled on every Sabbath, that their absence would have been a matter of great surprise to the entire congregation; indeed the occasions when they had been obliged by sickness or storms to remain at home were remembered as eras in the family history.

Lucy's visiting circle was confined to a few schoolmates and friends who attended their meeting, and with whom for the most part she had little other intercourse than casual greetings as they came down the aisle together after the sermon. She had a piano given her by her aunt, and could play on it many old ballads and all the tunes in the psalmody. Once the minister, who was a great musician, had touched it when he came to visit her mother, and his condescension and commendation of the instrument she always took pride in mentioning. In truth, she was but a simple girl, and would not probably have made a very striking impression on any but such a simple young man as Kennedy must then have been.

He was about twenty, three years older than she, but with even less experience of the world than hers. His father had been a farmer in the next county, who had died when he was quite young, leaving him to the care of a guardian, a plain country clergyman, who instead of sending him to a school or academy, had kept him as a pupil in his own house until he entered the university. Consequently, he had been unaccustomed to the society of those of his own age, and had enjoyed but few opportunities of mingling either in the sports of boyhood, or the social gaieties of youth. When he came to the university it was like coming into a new world-a world for which he was unprepared and unfit to enjoy. He grew shy and reserved. Few understood him, and still fewer, scarce any, with the exception of Alison, knew how to reach his confidence. That he had something in him, however, came, long before the end of the four years, to be universally conceded. If he could not figure in the debating societies, yet it was found out that he was a lover of literature, and had acquired skill in writing. Hence, he was able to command all the respect he required, and enjoyed, perhaps, as much of the esteem of his associates during the last months they were together, as any member of his class.

It was some time in the first term of his junior year, that he became acquainted with Lucy. She was then on a visit to her aunt, who resided near by in the thriving village of

Falls. Once a year, she was generally permitted to spend a few days with this relative, with whom she was a great favorite, but whose latitude of religious opinion and general cheerfulness of disposition, led Lucy's parents to avoid encouraging too great an intimacy with her. These visits were bright oases in the waste of Lucy's life. She found in her aunt's house, although this good lady lived quite alone, such a different atmosphere, that she always enjoyed herself there better than anywhere else. The burden of restraint which so oppressed her at home, was there unconsciously removed, and, without knowing why, or in the least intending it, she was there another creature; no longer subdued, timid, hesitating, but lively, artless, genuine.

The circumstances under which Kenne