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|MRS. TACKETT, THE CAPTIVE. A FRONTIER INCIDENT. | The sufferings endured by the first emigrants to a new country, scarcely admit of description. These have always been greatly multiplied by an encroachment upon the rights and possessions of the aborigines. In reference to this country, where we have long been considered unwelcome intruders, this has been peculiarly the case. The settle|ment of no part of the world has been more fruitful of incident than that of our own. Although many pens have been employed from time to time, in detailing our wars with the Indians, still many interesting occurrences have escaped the historian's notice. Some of these have appeared in the form of newspaper paragraphs, while others of equal importance have escaped this ephemeral kind of repository. The writer of this article has several times traveled the road which lies on the bank of the Kennawa. Although he found mountains whose tops pierced the clouds, and a beautiful river whose margins smoked with salt furnaces to amuse him by day, his entertainment was not diminished by the approach of darkness. He has usually sought lodging with some of the most ancient inhabitants, many of whom accommodate their guests with great hospitality. Like the early adventurers to łnew settlements, they are social, and delight in the recital of their dangerous enterprise and hair-breadth escapes. Mr. M., at whose comfortable mansion it was the writer's good fortune to tarry one night, the last time he passed through Western Virginia, gave him the following narrative. Just below the mouth of Cole river, on the farm owned by the heirs of Tays, to ensure safety the early settlers constructed a fortress. It was formed exclusively of timber, without much labor, yet in such a manner as to be deemed adequate to their defence against Indian aggression. On the apprehension of danger, the gate was closed, and every one prepared for resistance. When the demand for food became imperious, a few of the most skilful hunters would leave this retreat be|fore day, go a few miles distant, and return the succeeding night, loaded with game, unnoticed by the skulking savage. These measures of safety were considered indispensable. A few weeks of repose, however, seemed to render them inconvenient and unnecessary. Exemption from a morning at|tack was thought a sufficient pledge of peace o the day. Familiarity with danger, as it always does, relaxed their vigilance and diminshed their precaution. Even the women and children, who at first had been frighten

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ed by the falling of a tree, or the hooting of an owl, lost their timidity. Indeed, the strife seemed to be who should be boldest, and the least apprehensive of peril. On a beautiful morning in the month of June, in the year 1778, as well as is recollected, the gate was thrown open. Confinement had become painful, nay, insupportable. It was considered rather as a voluntary punishment than a condition of security. Three of the fearless inhabitants set out on a hunting expedition. Some sought amusement in shooting at a mark; the young men engaged in playing ball, while the women and children were delighted spectators of the recreation. Scarcely had an hour elapsed in these cheerful relaxations, before some twenty or thirty Indians suddenly ascended the river bank which had concealed their approach, fired upon the whites, and instantly took possession of the fort. Amidst the consternation which ensued, the savages put to death every white man on whom they could lay hands, reserving the women and children for more trying occasions. The wounded, who were unable to travel, without regard to age or sex, were butchered in the most shocking manner, of which description was James Tackett. The importunities and tears of his interesting wife were wholly unavailing. She was left with two fine boys, the one seven years old and the other five., Apprehensive of pursuit by the whites, the Indians, after the destruction of every article which they could not remove, betook themselves to flight. When a prisoner became too feeble, as was the case with several small children, all entreaties to avert the stroke of the tomahawk were fruitless. Although Mrs. Tackett afforded to her children all the aid which their situation and maternal tenderness could dictate, at the distance of about five miles the youngest became exhausted. Her extreme anxiety for his safety induced her to take him on her back; but alas, this act of kindness was but the signal for his dispatch . Two hours afterward her only child began to fail. He grasped his mother's hand, and said, “I must keep up with you, or I'll be killed as poor James was.” The exertions which she made for her child were beyond what she could sustain. For a time she inspired him with the hope of relief which the ensuing night would bring. Nature, however, became overpowered, and a single blow sunk him to rest. The distracted parent would cheerfully have submitted to the same fate, but even this barbarous relief was denied her. About dark she lagged behind, regardless of consequences, in charge of a warrior who could speak a little English. He informed her that in the course of an hour they would reach a large encampment, where

the prisoners must be divided; that sometimes quarrels ensued on such occasions, and the captives were put to death. He asked her if she could write. An affirmative answer seemed to please him much. He said he would take her to his own country in the South, to be his wife and to keep his accounts, as he was a trader. This Indian was a Cherokee, and named Chickahoula; aged about 35, and of good appearance. He soon took the first step necessary for carrying his designs into execution, by making a diversion to the left. After traveling about two miles, the darkness of the night and abruptness of the country forbade their advancing any farther. A small fire was made to defend them against the gnats and musquitoes. After eating a little jerk, Chickahoula told his captive to sleep; that he would watch lest they should be overtaken by pursuers. Early in the morning he directed his course toward the head of the great Sandy and Kentucky rivers. Until he crossed Guyandotte, Chickahoula was constantly on the look out, as if he deemed himself exposed to the most imminent danger. After having traveled seven days, the warrior and the captive reached Powell's Valley, in Tennessee. By this time they were out of provisions; and the Indian thinking it safer while passing through a settled district to steal food than to depend upon his gun, determined to avail himself of the first opportunity of supplying himself in this manner. It was but a little while till one presented itself. Following the wanderings of a small rivulet, he came suddenly upon a spring-house or dairy. This was several rods from the dwelling house of the owner, and so situated that it could be approached unseen from thence.— Well satisfied that it contained a rich store of milk, and thinking it probable that other provision was likewise deposited there, the warrior stationed his captive in a position to watch, while he went in to rifle the springhouse. Mrs. Tackett readily and willingly undertook the duty of acting as sentinel; but no sooner was the Indian fairly within the spring-house than she stole up the slope and then bounded toward the dwelling. This reached, she instantly gave the alarm; but the Indian escaped. Mrs. Tackett tarried some time with her new acquaintances, and spent several months in the different settlements of that section of the West. An opportunity then offering, she returned to Greenbriar. Her feelings on rejoining her friends and listening to the accounts of the massacre at the station—and those of her relatives on again beholding one whom they considered if not dead, in hopeless captivity, may be imagined—pen cannot describe them.—Ohio Hesperian.

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Syria was formerly celebrated for her splendid cities—but it presents at the present pe. riod only faint traces of that grandeur by which it was formerly distinguished. The same sun looks down upon its green hills and smiling valleys—the streams, as of yore, the famed Jordan and Orontes, still find their natural outlets, dispensing on the way their fertilizing influences. The locks and lakes, among which is conspicuous the lake Asphalites, or the Dead Sea,

“Whose surge is foul as if it rolled o'ergraves,”

and in whose deep, quiet and unfathomed bosom, repose the sunken cities—is still, as it probably always has been, without any visible communication with the sea.oThe mountains are still there, rearing their lofty summits, capped with eternal snows, as they meet and mingle with the clouds of heaven; all as of old, save the cedar groves, so often visited and so fondly cherished by the inhabitants of the pleasant and fruitful valleys lying at their feet. Nature, to a great extent, presents the same appearances as it did centuries since.—But the works of art, where are they : The magnificent cities—the gorgeous palaces, the stately towers—all, all have yielded to the “tooth of time,” or fallen by

the hand of the ruthless spoiler. And on man within the borders of Syria, what a change has been wrought within the centuries that have passed! We have not time to contemplate this change-so complete, so humiliating in all its aspects. Antioch, once greater and richer than even imperial Rome itself is now reduced to an insignificant village, of about 10,000 inhabitants, and with but few traces remaining of its

former grandeur. It was built by Seleucus Nicanor, founder of the Syro-Macedonian empire, and was the capital of the Græco-Syrian dynasty. We are ignorant as to the precise period of its foundation; it was probably 300 years before the christian era; its founder was assassinated B.C. 280. It became at a very early period, the seat of the most flourishing christian churches, and it is supposed by many writers to be the place where the name of christians was first given to the followers of Jesus Christ, A. D. 41. Although Antioch continued to be, as Pliny callsit, Queen of the East, for nearly 1600 years, yet scarcely any city hath endured so many calamities—hath undergone so many changes. The first serious disaster—one which ended in fire and bloodshed—occurred 145 years before Christ.

* Burckhardt, an eminent traveler has ascertained, that the Dead Sea and the Red Sea, were probably * formerly connected by the valley of Araba, extending between the two Seas, as it is quite plain from appear ances to have becn the bed of a strait or river

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The inhabitants, many of whom were hostile to their king, Demetrieus, to the number of 120,000 invested his palace, on the occasion of the issuing of an order for the immediate delivery of their arms, upon which the Jews, hastening to the relief of the king, fell furiously upon the rebels, and after destroying more than 100,000, fired the city. On the fall of the Syrian empire, Antioch passed under the Roman yoke. About the year 115, in the reign of the emperor Trajan, it was entirely ruined by one of the most terrible earthquakes mentioned in history. Trajan, who was an eye witness of this overwhelming calamity, narrowly escaped destruction, and contributed largely towards its re-establishment in its ancient splendor. In 155 it was almost entirely destroyed by an accidental fire, when it was restored by Antonius Pius. From 242 to 458 its unhappy inhabitants were doomed to almost every species of suf. fering and indignity. Thrice taken and plundered by hostile armies; visited repeatedly by famine,” depopulated by the plague, distracted by internal factions, the miserable victims of a governor, rapacious and cruel as a Nero, who, for supposed offences and for complaining of a tax levied in a time of sore famine, exposed some to wild beasts in the theatre, and doomed others to the stake.— Many abandoned their homes, and with their wives and families, in the greatest terror, and confusion, sought refuge in the neighboring mountains. Some gaining courage returned. It was on this occasion that the celebrated St. Chrysostom, preached his famous homilies which have reached our times; they are said to have had considerable effect in reforming the lives of the people. On the 14th Sept., 458, Antioch was almost entirely ruined by an earthquake. It experienced a like misfortune in 525, and fifteen years after, being taken by Coshroes, king of Persia, it was given up to his soldiers, who devoted all the inhabitants they met with, to the sword. Notwithstanding these overwhelming calamities, it rose from its ruins and soon recovered its wonted splendor. But in a short time it underwent its usual fate, being visited by an earthquake in 587, by which 30,000 persons lost their lives. In 634 it fell into the hands of the Saracens, who kept possession of it till the year 858, when it was surprized by one Burtzas, and again annexed to the Roman empire. The Romans continued masters of it for some time, till the civil dissentions in the empire gave the Turks an opportunity of seizing upon it as well as the whole of Syria. In the great crusading ex

* The famine was so grievous that a bushel of wheat was sold for 400 pieces of silver.

pedition, Antioch was the first place which fell into the hands of the christians, (1098)— and it continued the main centre of their power, till 1269, when it was taken by Bibars, Sultan of o: All the fury of Mahometan bigotry was then let loose upon a city long supposed a main bulwark of the christian power. Its churches, accounted the finest in the world, were razed to the ground, and the site of those edifices, once the boast of Asia, can now with difficulty be traced.— The environs of Antioch have been particularly famed for their luxuriant and romantic aspect. Indeed, the banks of the lower Orontes, for a considerable distance, are said to equal any thing in the world in point of picturesque beauty. Mount Casius, the termination of Lebanon, towers above it to a lofty height, and the inferior mountain ranges run along the river, presenting broken precipices, rocks, and caves, overhung with a profuse variety of luxuriantfoliage—myrtle, laurel, fig, arbutes and sycamore. J. C. P

New Haven, Con.


Bird of my heart—come, sing to me

The dear, old tunes of early hours, And, as thou sing'st I’ll weave for thee

A nest of summer's sweetest flowers; Come to this bosom—come and rest— There shalt thou sleep, if on my breast, There shalt thou sleep, if by my side Thy beauteous plumes thou wilt not hide!

Bird of my heart—in distant climes
I’ve strayed since last thy notes I heard,
And, after vesper's solemn chimes,
I've listened to the evening bird:
That songstress strange, who only sings
When night unfolds her sable wings— .
But ah! than thine a fainter tale
Was warbled by the nightingale!

Bird of my heart—thy lightest tone
Lulls all my senses to repose;
So sings the eastern charmer lone,
So droops to sleep the captive rose!
Come, sing—and to my soul entice
A pictured dream of paradise !
For in that dream I shall not see
A Houri, angel, saint like thee!

Bird of my heart—come, sing to me
The song it thrills my heart to hear;
And as thou sing'st, I'll fancy thee
The spirit of some starry sphere.
For music poets call divine,
And once she made her secret thine,
And, touching her melodious shell,
Hung on thy lips her magic spell!

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THE Execution.

“And now—my woman heart is steeled—
Call forth the bravest of the brave,

Your reapers of the crimson field,
To whom the battle yell is breath,
To look upon a woman's death.”

It was already night—though the summits of the distant Appenines yet glowed with crimson rays, which, gradually passing to the higher peaks, at length were lost in the surrounding gloom. The moon was rising behind Vesuvius, and poured, at intervals, a partial light on the waters of the Bay; while the soft breeze, fresh from its wanderings amid the foliage of the orange grove and the aloe, mingled its murmuring with the evening song of the laborer, as he wended his way homeward, or the hymn of the fisherman on the seashore, in gratitude to his patron saint for a night so propitious to his favorite occupation. A large and sumptuously decorated apartment in Castle Novo, the royal abode of Naples, contained two inmates at the hour we mention. Through the open casements that overlooked the sea, streamed the moon's rays, but they were half overpowered by the brilliance of a silver lamp that stood on a table in the centre of the room. The apartment gave evidence, in the tastefulness of its ornaments, of female occupation; a drapery of crimson damask, broidered with silver flowers, and adorned with various devices, hung around the walls; and a lute, covered with a delicate net of gold and mother of pearl, was fastened by a green ribbon to a writing-table of polished wood, rich with marquetry, on which were carelessly thrown books richly bound and clasped with gold, and a parchment covered with musical notes. All was quiet, save the incessant surging of the waves against the old walls, or now and then a murmur of distant voices, or a burst of laughter from the lower chambers, where soldiers and pages were carousing over their evening rePast. The chamber, as we observed, was tenanted by two females, but of very different appearance. One of them in age approached the verge of human life; but, though deep lines in her speaking countenance betokened the years with their wonted burden of sorrow that had passed over her, there was nothing in her form, yet stately, though worn to almost superhuman leanness by the workings of the restless spirit within—or in her eyes, dark, wild, and often, terrible in their strange lustre—to mark the decrepitude that generally accompanies extreme old age. It

seemed as if Time, which had blighted the beauty of early years, had only strengthened and hardened the fabric he strove to destroy. The firmness of a spirit, more than masculine in its courage, had sufficed to resist the inroads of the enemy, thus compelled to exhaust his efforts upon the outworks of the apparently impregnable citadel. So we have seen some aged oak, with foliage long ago scattered by the wild winds of autumn, or buried in the snows of winter, still defying in its pride the power of the blast, that swept harmlessly over its withered head, to bow down many a stately scion of the forest! Those striking features were now overspread with a deep shade, of sadness; it might be from too vivid recollections of recent scenes; it might be from an undefined presentiment of what the future had in store. Philippa, the Catanese—for it was no other—reclined on a couch, the back of which, shaped like a winged dragon of gold, supported the arm on which her head was dropped. Her robe was of black velvet, with large silken sleeves; the flowing trains that were the fashion of the day, well became the majestic height of her person. The other female, young and beautiful, formed the most perfect contrast imaginable, to her companion. Her figure was light and fragile, with that peculiar pliancy which marks youth and delicacy of nurture, the more interesting from the aspect of dependence—ever claiming aid from others, as conscious of weakness in itself. She bore a robe of blue, bordered with cloth of silver, and a tight vesture of velvet; her rich abundance of dark curls, partially confined by a ribbon, fell over a neck of alabaster. If her features displayed not the dignity of her companion, a confiding gentleness—a tender sweetness, were visible in their expression—a mildness, beautiful as that which shines in the most charming pictures of Leonard da Vinci, where maiden modesty renders more exquisite the portraiture of feeling or of thought. She was kneeling beside her aged relative ; one arm carelessly rested on her shoulder, the other hand pointed to an open scroll that lay on Philippa's lap. Her accents were those of remonstrance and entreaty ; she was imploring the Catanese to fly from dangers vaguely hinted at in the warning despatch before them, which the kindness of a friendly noble had sent. Since the mysterious murder of Joanna's husband—Andrew of Hungary—at Aversa, and the failure of government agents to detect the perpetrators of the deed, suspicion had been artfully excited against those more immediately about the person of the queen. Information of the peril in which she stood, and the probability that she would herself be

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