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[For the National Magazine.]

WYOMING.

ITS SCENERY AND INCIDENTS.

PLEASING melancholy lingers. around those places which are hallowed by the dim traditions of the past. Few spots in all the wide domain of the free American states can boast a more fascinating loveliness, or a more tragic history, than Wyoming. The Susquehanna flows into Wyoming at the north through a narrow pass in the mountains, and is soon swelled by the waters of the Lackawanna, flowing through another pass at the north-east, when, after winding and murmuring through the luxuriant plains, the stream bursts its rocky barriers at the south, gliding or plunging on to the sea. The valley itself is about twenty miles long by five miles wide-a little Paradise guarded by the wild gigantic mountains of Pennsylvania.

Some time in the summer of 1742 Wyoming was visited by Count Zinzendorf, supposed to be the first white man who penetrated to this lonely spot, the surpassing beauty of which was known to the distant colonial settlements only by Indian reports.

Near "Toby's Eddy," where, in the twilight, the traveler looks with rapture through the foliage upon the broad still river, did this pious Moravian pitch his tent, with the high and holy purpose of bringing the Word of Life to the dwellers in the wilderness. A story of thrilling danger is told of the good old man. It is well authenticated, and illustrates the Indian character. The mission of the stranger seemed so incredible that the children of the forest could not believe it. They could not see why, except for gain, this roving pilgrim would brave the ocean, and seek out their secluded home. They resolved to destroy him suddenly and secretly. For this purpose, two Delawares crept toward his tent in the twilight, still and deadly as panthers. No defense was in their way, but unsuspecting innocenceno arm interposed but Providence. With a blanket for the door of his tent, the count sat writing, his gray locks being slightly agitated by the night zephyrs; when, to the surprise and terror of the observing savages, a rattlesnake, which had been warmed into activity by the fire, crept over one of his legs, but inflicted no in

jury. The Indians fled back precipitately, and told the strange circumstance to their tribe, and from that hour the pious Moravian was to them an angel from heaven.

Wyoming was a favorite retreat of the Indians, and at this time, when it first became known to the whites, was claimed by the celebrated Iroquois, or Six Nations. From certain mounds which the oldest sachems found existing in the valleys, with giant oaks, hundreds of years old, growing upon them, it is quite certain that a very ancient people, exhibiting the traces of a higher civilization, once laid in this region the foundations of empire. So great was the attachment of the Indians to this spot, it was not till after repeated solicitations they could be induced to sell it to the white man.

The settlement of Wyoming by the whites, constitutes an era in its history. The people of Connecticut claimed this region under the grant of an old English charter, dated 1662. The Pennsylvania colony claimed the same land under an English charter, dated 1681. The reader will perceive that the Connecticut claim has the priority of the other by nineteen years. In addition to this, the Connecticut people purchased the land of the Indians, at a meeting of the chiefs of the Six Nations, held at Albany, July 11, 1754. Whatever might be said in favor of either of these claims, their collision caused a most disastrous and protracted civil war. The first Connecticut settlers in 1763 were either massacred, or driven off by the Indians. The next party that came on from New-England, found that the Pennsylvanians had fitted up a block house and several huts, left by the first settlers, on the east side of the river, at Mill Creek, about one mile above the present town of Wilkesbarre, and had taken possession of the valley. The Yankees invested the block house and dispossessed the occupants. They were in turn dispossessed, with all the formalities of law, (for the contest was partly legal, partly warlike,) and twice within sixty days were they thrown into Easton jail, from which they contrived, without fail, to liberate themselves by their wit or their daring. The leading men among the Yankees were Captain Lazarus Stewart, Major John Durkee, and Colonel Zebulon Butler. The principal leader of the Pennymites was Captain Amos Ogden. A writer for

among the troops, to be raised by the state of Connecticut, without proper regard to the fact that this region, being on the frontier, was exposed to constant attacks from the war-parties of the Six Nations, who were now in league with the British. It was rumored that an attack was meditated upon Wyoming, to cut off the defenseless inhabitants with one fell stroke. A few hours flow of the swollen waters of the Susquehanna would bring canoes into their midst from the very heart of the Indian territory. Gen. Schuyler wrote to the board of war on this subject, and the soldiers enlisted from Wyoming prayed to be released, to fly to the defense of their families; but all in vain-they were detained; and, by unaccountable delays, the portentous cloud was permitted to gather and burst upon the doomed inhabitants of the valley.

It is not necessary to follow out the heart-sickening particulars of the massacre. Let it suffice to say, that the battle was fought on the western bank of the Susquehanna, July 3, 1778. Three or four hundred ill-armed soldiers, under the command of Colonel Zebulon Butler, marched out from "Forty Fort," and after proceeding perhaps a mile, came up with the enemy, about six hundred combined British, Tories, and Indians. The British were led by Butler, who, it is said, came out with a silk handkerchief around his head, which was shot off during the battle. The Indians were commanded by Brandt,* and were placed in ambush, so as to outflank the little band, around whom the yells of these grim warriors rang from rank to rank at regular intervals. An order from Colonel Denison to turn and face the Indians was mistaken for a signal of retreat. In vain Colonel Butler rode through the scattered remnant of his band, exclaiming, "Do not leave me, my children; let us rally, and victory may yet be ours!" But few escaped, some by swimming across the river, and others by concealing themselves in the bushes until night enabled them to flee unobserved.

It has been denied by Colonel Stone and others, that Brandt was present at the massaere of Wyoming, or had any part in the outrages perpetrated upon her inhabitants. But Charles

Miner, by far the best historian of the valley, In accordance with the oldest and most reliable traditions, maintains that Brandt was there.

The fort was given up the next day, and the desolation of the fair fields, lighted up by midnight conflagration, spread untold gloom upon a few defenseless ones, who preferred to try the perils of a pathless wilderness, in preference to the clemency of their foes.

The misfortunes of Wyoming at length attracted the attention of General Washington, and Major-General Sullivan was sent, in 1779, with an adequate force to march through Wyoming, northward, to the territory of the Six Nations. Strong efforts were made by the enemy to divert this expedition, but in vain. Onward it went, a dread thunderbolt of wrath, crushing all before it. Every philanthropist must deprecate the horrors of war, whether they are seen in the massacre of Wyoming, or in the march of Sullivan to the Indian towns on the shores of the beautiful lakes of New-York, burning the homes and harvests of the Iroquois, and turning their Paradise into a desert.

We might notice here, if space would permit, the many adventures of the brave inhabitants, both before and after the battle-how captives rose upon their captors, and struggling against fearful odds, slew their foes and escaped-how from the caves, and gorges, and thickets of the mountains that overhung the valleys, the Indians descended like hungry eagles, and then disappeared in those wild fastnesses, baffling all pursuit. Thus Frances Slocum, a little girl of five summers, was snatched from the very shadow of a fort, and borne to the banks of the Miami, where she became an Indian queen, and was found by her brothers and sisters after their parents were dead, but could not be persuaded to leave her barbaric solitude. All these strange adventures, in which truth surpasses fiction, will linger in the history and traditions of Wyoming with a melancholy pathos, deepening with time.

Last of all, let us glance at Wyoming of the present. The valley is quiet, soothing, and beautitul. To study its beauty, one must not be in haste. He must not leave his impressions to be marred by a rainy day, or the moodiness of a fatigued traveler. He must sail upon the bright Susquehanna, or bathe in its crystal waters, or stroll along its banks in the twilight, or watch in the enchanting moonlight the broad luxuriant meadows,

with here and there an orchard. Yet Wyoming, with her Susquehanna, does not rival Niagara with her thunders, nor the gorgeous Hudson, agitated with ships of commerce. The scene is every way more tranquil. It speaks of the past, of the mournful memory of the once restless hearts that now repose in its bosom. There yet remains the pleasing stillness of old Forty Fort, where a careless boy once raced over the green, or watched the wild ducks on the river, or heard the evening owl in the orchard, or the whippoorwill's note sounding clearer and clearer over the moonlight mountains, or listened with wonder, in the corner of the broad fire-place, to the stories of the dear old woman, the loving, faithful, mysterious woman, who had lived in the olden time. Alas! she lives no more on earth, but lives, I trust, in heaven. Changes are A monument has been taking place. A erected over the bones of the patriots, near where they fell in battle. But how devoid that sacred inclosure of trees and shrubbery, nature's ornaments, which in Wyoming are so abundant! This should not be. Wilkesbarre, a large and beautiful town, of about three thousand inhabitants, stands on the eastern side of the river, near the ancient site of Fort Durkee. Pittston, a flourishing village at the head of the valley, has sprung up as by magic, from the great coal interest which is fast developing. At Kingston, a retired rural village, about one mile from Wilkesbarre, is a flourishing seminary, under the patronage of the Methodist Episcopal Church. The Catalogue for 1854 is a sufficient index to its success. The number of students in attendance is 691. From the opening of the institution in 1844, to the destruction of its buildings, in March last, (of 1853,) it had been favored with constantly increasing patronage and unparalleled prosperity. Encouraged thereby, and relying for means upon the liberality of the friends of education, the trustees, while the ruins were yet smoking, resolved to commence the work of rebuilding the seminary edifices on an improved and much more extensive plan. The work was immediately begun, and has progressed so rapidly that the buildings are now all finished and furnished. Those in which are the chapel, recitation, and other public rooms, together with apartments to be occupied by the male

students, are three in number, forty-eight by sixty feet each, built of brick, and at a distance of thirty-five feet from each other.

Should this be the

All this is done, and still our dear Wyoming is unchanged, or changed only for the better. But I am fearing, lest the fiery car, whirling at the base of her mountains, and bearing away the black anthracite diamonds treasured in her bosom, may bring the strife, the affectation, the falsity of wealth. case, one of the sweetest visions of nature's loveliness the writer of this sketch ever enjoyed will be marred; but still shall the memory of Wyoming blend with the dreams of his childhood, and throw a mournful, yet hallowed light around the remaining steps of his earthly pilgrimage.

[For the National Magazine.]

0, WEAVE ME A CHAPLET.

BY A. MORRELL CORY.

O, BRING me some flowers! I'm dying,-yes,—now,— And weave me a chaplet

To hang on my brow! I'll wear it to heaven; And then as I go Along the bright pathway, The angels will know That earth's fairest flowers Bloom but to decay; And yearning with pity For man, they'll away To scatter more freely

The blessings they may. O, make me a garland!

And hang it, when made, Upon my brow loosely;

And as it shall fade, "T will brighten by contrast The beautiful one That He will bestow me

When life has begun. And friends will assemble To welcome me there; The crowns growing richer They joyously wear, When seen near one faded, More sweetly shall roll The notes of soft rapture That gladden the soul. Then bring me some flowers Of loveliest huePut buds in the chaplet,

For they wither too!

CHRISTIANITY, which is always true to the heart, knows no abstract virtues, but virtues resulting from our wants, and useful to all.-Châteaubriand.