mental table? Certainly not "blue-eyed German", not "Andalusian", not "Caledonian", certainly not "English" at all: "Thomas O'Neill". "C. MacCarthy". Ah Campbell! most worthy British poet! you served out most worthy British justice to my poor countrymen who gave their lives for Wyoming! It may have been very foolish of me, but I confess I nearly cried with joy as I read over the names of the poor fellows of whose sacrifice the world had never heard before, and whom the worthy English bard (perhaps more from ignorance than prejudice) had robbed as far as he could of the little requital the world now could give for that sacrifice! I believe a staid and sober-minded farmer, who was, as I afterwards discovered, observing me over the neighbouring fence, half suspected I was "eccentric" to say the least; for I took off my cap, flung it in the air, bounded like a schoolboy, and gave "three cheers". In fine, I found in this instance, as in so many others, that the English poetic and artistic versions of Wyoming were very pretty, but very unreliable; very far from the truth, but, like the razors, "made to sell" amongst the British public. The western panel on the monument holds a tablet with this inscription: "Near this spot was fought, On the afternoon of Friday, the 3rd day of July, 1778, In which a small band of patriot Americans, Boldly met and bravely fought A combined British, Tory, and Indian force Numerical strength alone gave success to the Invader, and Wide-spread havoc, desolation, and ruin Marked his savage and bloodthirsty footsteps through the Valley. This Monument, Commemorative of those events, Has been erected Over the bones of the slain By their descendants and others, who gratefully appreciated On the north panel is a tablet with the following: On the southern panel is a tablet with the names of the non-commissioned officers and privates, and of the volunteers who went out to battle with them, and fell. This is a lengthy list; the following names sufficiently attest the native land of the brave fellows who bore them : William Dunn, Thomas O'Neill, James Devine, Sam. Hutchinson, John Hutchinson, John Murphy, Geo. Downing, Charles MacCarthy, C. Reynolds, etc. Yes; they were there, those poor exiles; there, as everywhere all over the world, since the dispersion of their nation by misfortune and oppression, they were in the gap of danger, "fearless, frank, and free" "Marching to death with military glee". Enough it was for them that the land of their adoption was to be defended a stroke to be struck for the cause of liberty and against the sceptre that had driven them from the home of their fathers. How they bore themselves is well attested. If the English poet is silent, the chronicles and traditions of the valley are loud and eloquent in testimony of the cheerful and chivalrous bravery of the Irish defenders of Wyoming. "Captain M'Kerrichan", says Hazellon, "was a native of Belfast, in the north part of Ireland". He fell at almost the first volley, bravely leading his men, on the fatal 3rd. He was a man of considerable means, and was greatly revered in the settlement. The chronicler above named concludes a glowing tribute to his worth, as follows: "Farewell to the brave, the generous, the true-hearted Irishman, who in the midst of gathering honours and accumulating prosperity, in the very prime of manhood, laid down his life for Wyoming". Of O'Neill, however, I found the most vivid and general traditions. In an old manuscript, Recollections of the Massacre, shown me, he is described as "a native of Ireland", and said to be "the most learned and highly educated man in the settlement". Other accounts mention that he was "a devout Roman Catholic", and state that he was a "very handsome man", but "rather vain and particular in his dress", and of "very gentlemanlike manner and deportment". It is very generally told in the valley, that on the morning of the battle, though (why, I cannot understand) he was not at all bound to go out, and might have remained in the fort, he appeared in the ranks with his sword by his side, and dressed as if for some most particular occasion-wearing ruffles, white silk stockings, velvet breeches, silver buckles, and thin shoes. But O'Neill, for all this, was no "vain carpet knight", as those who beheld him owned ere the day was done. Some one remarked to him, while in the ranks and ere they started for the encounter, that he was exempt and might remain. O'Neill looked proudly and almost angrily at the speaker, and said: "What! remain behind while these men fight to defend helpless women and children! Sir, I am an Irishman!" Of all who fought and fell on that day, it is said, he was the most daring and reckless of life-loading and discharging his rifle with deadly aim in the hottest of the fight, as coolly as if he were only practising at a target. The last seen of him was with his back to a tree, sword in hand, but badly wounded, in desperate encounter with four or five of the enemy. Six weeks after, his body, covered with wounds, was found on the same spot-recognizable only as that of the heroic Irishman O'Neill, by the finery of the dress which he wore! Several years passed by before Wyoming again became occupied to any great extent. Indeed so recently as fifty years after the events above described "the ruined wall and roofless homes", remained all over the valley, overgrown with grass and wild flowers. A great many of the farms or homesteads returned to a state of nature; and although the population has, comparatively speaking, much increased within the past half century, the place seems never to have completely shaken off an air of loneliness and utter seclusion which is almost suggestive of its sad history. Relics of the struggle are still discovered daily. The Reverend Mr. Laurence showed me some skulls in his little museum, which the farmers close by had turned up in the course of their agricultural operations. Each skull had an ominous cleft, too plainly telling where the Indian tomahawk crushed through. The people inhabiting the houses on the site of Forty Fort told me that quite a store of valuables had recently been found at the bottom of the Well, and had been taken off to a State Museum, either in Philadelphia or Washington. Bullets and Indian spear and arrow-heads are quite frequently found around the site of Wintermoots. The site of Fort Wintermoot, I should add, is now occupied by a wood house, in which resides an old woman (named Frances Slocumb, I think), daughter of parents who escaped from Forty Fort on the day of capitulation. I talked with her for a long time. She was almost deaf, but seemed very ready to tell all about "the massacre" and "the fight", giving me anecdotes and reminiscences of those events in abundance, gathered from her father and mother, on whose memory terror had engraven them deeply. A few days later, and I was homeward bound from Wyoming. I had yet the great Niagara to see, and many another scene to visit and explore. But when I had seen them all, had heard the never-ceasing thunders of "the Falls", and admired the panoramic splendours of the Hudson, I but repeated the Indian story, that "from the rising to the setting sun another Wyoming we should never find". Whether it was its scenery alone, its utter seclusion, its peaceful calm, its sylvan shades, its noble river, its aged forests and wooded mountains, or whether it was its tragic story, or yet the simple, kindly, hospitable character of its people, or all these combined, that so wrought upon my feelings, I cannot tell; but when I turned to take my farewell of the valley, I felt regret and sadness to think I might see it no more. To-day I but fulfil a promise made to one of its venerable patriarchs, kindliest where all were kindly to me, that if I lived to see my own country again, I would one day tell to Europe "The True Story of Wyoming!" MR. SINGLEMAN ON MARRIAGE. THERE are persons of a hopeful turn of mind, who are fond of repeating that certain contracts-in no degree connected with postal subsidy or mail-packet service-are invariably signed and sealed in a celestial solicitor's office, previous to their being carried out in the ordinary more practical manner below. This view is fortified by a declaration, that marriage is honourable in all, and they repeat with a melancholy sort of admiration, that a man is happy indeed whose quiver is full of arrows sometimes adding the remark that this is a pleasing but costly species of archery. For those little missiles require abundance of food, and drink, and warm clothing, while lodged in the paternal quiver; but when elongated to their full size, are extremely difficult of discharge. When they come to be young lady shafts, bows are sometimes difficult to be procured. There are other authorities who insist with vehemence that it is not good for man to be alone-that a good wife is a jewel hung at her husband's ear-and who even outrage the common canons of political economy, by the seductive fallacy that it is as easy to keep two persons as one-that every little makes a mickle-with other encouraging but wholly fallacious aphorisms. Let us not flatter ourselves that the brave matrimonialists take with them the unanimous voice of the country. There are noisy dissentients to the great nuptial Marseillaise-churlish grumblers, mouldy mouldering celibataries, who hint in their own gross way that the formal business arrangements just alluded to, the solemn signing and sealing, may possibly take place in a sort of nether solicitor's office, with polite horned clerks and tailed attorneys standing by and attesting. If marriages are made in heaven, why not also at the extremer southern pole, before that antipodean and more flaming registrar, and with the accompaniments of a fiery scrivenery? Such will insinuate craftily that wellworn saw of Lord Verulam's, which it is doubtful he ever imparted to my Lady Verulam-touching that giving of hostages to fortune, which a married gentleman is presumed to do, in the shape of both wife and consequent offspring, they being, continues my Lord Verulam, "impediments to great enterprises either of virtue or mischief"-a sort of guarded, equivocal, doubtful, and unmanly sentiment. The noble chancellor is afraid to bite, so he indulges in a suppressed snarl. The poBut we lack the We are It is idle concealing that the old headlong tendency to rush into marriage is on the decay. Matrimonial bathers, instead of the once bold header, attended with a loud splash and temporary disappearance, now stand shivering on the spring board, and let themselves down with manifest repugnance. They would seem to shrink from the invigorating plunge in the nuptial briny. The bathing machines-if we may carry out the metaphor-are all tenantless, and present a piteous spectacle of desertion. The bathing men-if it be no irreverence to liken those officers to officiating clergymen-have got no work to do. True, the journals are rife with the usual copious lists of nuptials. pulation swells as desirably as could be expected. honest old ardour-the thundering impetuosity for the rite. shy of the ceremony. We are dragged up to it in a sneaking, shirking, shoplifting sort of fashion, and have to be carefully watched, lest we give the priest or parson, as the case may be, the slip. The contract is held in but mean estimation, and that British Grand Junction enjoys no tumultuous traffic. As we are born and interred, so are we married; yet not with the old confiding, almost simple enthusiasm. Erst we took pride in that abatement of our liberty, that snipping of our Sampsonian locks. Formerly tender youths, on reaching to man's estate, or, more strictly speaking, to whatever species of estate they were entitled, were at once put into matrimony, as it might be into tail coats. A wife was looked out for them contemporaneously with the early razor. The Irish young gentleman specially, who was trained to "make his head" when young, and presumed to have made his nerves by a couple of duels, was held to be incomplete-almost disreputably incomplete-unless fitted with a suitable partner. As it was time that he came of age, so it was time that he were married. The wild-oats crops had all been got |