Though but one of the Fenian leaders was killed in the late Frontier Fizzle, yet many of them are reported as being badly wounded--as to their feelings. General O'NEIL'S feelings are dreadfully hurt by the ignominy of a constable and a cell, which was a bad Cell for a Celt. The feelings of General GLEASON (and they must be multitudinous, since he is nearly seven feet high,) were so badly wounded by circumstances over which he didn't seem to have any control, that he retired from the field "in disgust." Mental afflictions, in fact, are so numerous among the Fenians since their Fizzle, as to suggest the advisability of their Head-Centre founding a Hospital for Wounded Feelings with the surplus of the funds wrung by him from simple, hard-working BRIDGET. * * * * * ~Interesting to Bathers~ Persons who are drowned while bathing in the surf are said to experience but little pain. In fact, their Sufferings are short. * * * * * ~Fenian Tactics~. The first movement of the Fenians on reaching Canadian soil was to "throw out their skirmishers into a hop field," where the Hops gathered by them were of the precipitate and retrogressive kind sometimes traced to Spanish origin. * * * * * ~THE HOLY GRAIL AND OTHER POEMS.~ (This is one of the other Poems.) BY A HALF-RED DENIZEN OF THE WEST. SIR PELLEAS, lord of many a barren isle, On his front stoop at eventide, awhile, Sat solemn. His mother, on a stuel, At the crannied hearth prepared his gruel. "Mother!" he cried, "I love!" Said she, "Ah, who?" "I know not, mother dear," he said, "Do you? I only know I love all maidens fair; My special maid, I have not seen, I swear. Perhaps she's fair as Arthur's queenly saint; And pure as she--and then, perhaps she ain't." Turned then his mother from the hearth-stone hot; Dropped the black lid upon the gruel-pot. "I know'd a Qua-aker feller, as often as tow'd me this: 'Doan't thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is!' She's a beauty, thou thinks--wot'a a beauty? the flower as blaws, But proputty, proputty sticks, and proputty, proputty graws." Then said her son, "If I may make so bold, You quote the new-style poem, not the old. The Northern Farmer whom you think so sage Is not born yet. This is the Middle Age." He said no more, and on the next bright day To Arthur's court he proudly rode away. And on the way a maiden did he meet, And laid his heart and fortunes at her feet. Smiling on him--ETTARRE was her name-- "Brave knight," she said, "your love I cannot blame. Your hands are strong. I see you have no brains, You're just the man for tournaments. Your pains, In case for me a battle you shall win, Shall be rewarded," and she smiled like sin.