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nowhere in Virginia is slavery so tulerable as in the valley.

And now, after enjoying, for more than two years, that rest which my feeble old age requires, I find myself hastening to the grave; and in what frame of mind? Many of the slaves, with whom I was brought up, were members of the Baptist church, and, I now believe, were consistently pious, according to their knowledge. But I had always scoffed at religion and the religious. I loved too well the wages of iniquity to think of a hereafter; or, if I did, it was in a way common to many of my race-that a merciful God would not punish us here, and in the next life too-that, after a life of slavery, he would give us our reward. But, with death close at hand, my blindness and ignorance are, I hope, a little dispelled. In my imperfect, and, I fear, improper, way, I try to ask God's mercy, and to put my trust in the Saviour; but 'tis all dark before me, and I fear that, in a

little while, it will be said of me, he died as a dog dieth. Weak to prostration, and with the swollen frame of dropsy, I can only wait till my change comes, often crying out, "God be merciful to me a sinner."

Very soon after the above was written, the old man died, somewhat suddenly. When he reached his last home, it was evident a great change had taken place in him-a change so remarkable as to excite the surprise of his fellowservants. Though he had been notorious for his harsh, turbulent disposition, and his utter disregard for the rights of other slaves, he was now quiet and gentle, and always ready to do little offices of kindness. He was occasionally heard to pray; but, having become deaf, he spoke but little. We have no doubt he is embraced in the divine rule of justice, that "to whom little has been given, of him will little be required.”

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CITY AND COUNTRY SPRING.

COUNTRY.

BRING the flowers-the bright and graceful flowers-
The fresh and fragrant flowers, that scent the morning air.
I've the snowdrop peeping chilly, with the valley's drooping lily,
For the bride to twine a wreath of, to deck her golden hair.

CITY.

And I bring the bonnet-the tasty little bonnet-

The airy, jaunty bonnet, with its streamers long and fair;

And the pretty girls that don it, and the Paris blossoms on it,

Far outlast your fleeting beauties, that would fade if they were there.

COUNTRY.

I bring the birds-the gay and joyous birds

The proud, rejoicing birds, with their carols loud and high;

And they swell their little throats, as they trill in merry notes,
And smooth their plumage down. for a voyage through the sky.

CITY.

My birds are soaring kites-not chicken-eating kites-
But pleasure-giving kites, that our jolly boys let fly;
And I'll bet a silver shilling, if your ladyship is willing,

That their tails are longer far, and their colors full as high.

COUNTRY.

Nay, 'tis I who bring the sports-the children's lively sports-
The noisy, healthful sports, on kind nature's grassy floor;
Rolling hoops and bounding balls, in my vast and roofless halls,
Give far more life and gladness than your pavements ever bore.

CITY.

Is it you who talk of hoops? Surely, I have monstrous hoops-
Yes, vast, encroaching hoops-ladies wearing each a score.
We've had our balls already-it's time now to grow steady;
But wait till Lent is over, and I'll give you one ball more.

COUNTRY.

I bring the leaves-the young and tender leaves-

The green and fluttering leaves, waving through the forest old,
Reviving mother earth, who rejoices at their birth,

And clothing with new verdure branches stripped by winter cold.

CITY.

And I bring the dresses-the exquisite spring dresses

The lovely, perfect dresses, formed in fashion's newest mould;
And they trail along the ground, with a dignity profound,
And still return to dust again, 'mid mortal things enrolled.

TOGETHER.

But we both bring the hearts-the kind and gentle hearts-
The brave and loving hearts, with a faith serene and clear,
That in ever-blooming youth, by the light of trust and truth,

Are constant as the seasons, moving through their earthly sphere

And the winter cannot chill them, nor summer's parching kill them,
Nor autumn's faded leaf be of them the type austere ;

But, with beauty ever vernal, in a spring of joy eternal,

We shall see them bud and blossom through the soul's unchanging year.

WITCHING TIMES.

A NOVEL IN THIRTY CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER XXII.

Noyse in close pursuit, on a "special," and Deacon Bowson watching to throw

RACHEL finally told her aunt how them off the track. Before a couple

much she was pestered by Noyse's persevering courtship. The sensible woman expressed little surprise at the story, and, indeed, felt little; nor did she hint at the suspicions of darker misdoings which, to her mind, may now have gathered over the elder. She only said:

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Rachel, you must put an end to these confusions. Get married soon. your father's last desire, you know."

Mark heard of no postponements, the next time that he talked of immediate matrimony; and it was decided that the wedding should take place somewhere near the end of November. But there were divers difficulties to be overcome, before these Puritanic lovers could reach the celestial city of wedlock. They had to run for it, by a sort of underground railroad, with Elder

could be married in those good old days, it was necessary that their intentions should be cried three times in some public place, with a week between the announcements. Furthermore, if a young man made a "motion of marriage" to a young woman, without the consent of her parents or guardians, he fell under condemnation of the law, and could be fined if agreeable to the offended parties. To be sure, Mark had the consent of Rachel's father, written as well as verbal; but, that father was dead, and his memory lay under the imputation of a hideous crime; so that it would not, perhaps, have been difficult to get his decision set aside in the courts. Then, too, Deacon Bowson, who hated Mark worse every day, was now Rachel's guardian, and had, at least, a

plausible right to interfere. Finally, the young people could look for no assistance from public opinion, which, on the contrary, would be sure to abuse them soundly for talking of weddings in the midst of such a tragedy as then raved through Salem; one of whose latest and most memorable incidents had been the execution of Rachel's father. All these phantasms of difficulty frightened the two women, and made them falter on the brink of action. Mark argued, teazed, and coaxed, but could not get permission to act boldly, and call in the town-crier. Mrs. Bowson first wanted to lay siege to her husband; and so she cannonaded him from a distance with hints, suppositions, and suggestions; and, finally, summoned courage to marshal her forlorn hope, and make the assault. It was ingloriously repulsed: the deacon got into a rage at the proposition-she could hardly dissuade him from laying the matter before his minister. What a worrying old lunatic he was to Rachel for a week after. In fine, matters looked much more like a deadlock than a wedlock.

But powerful assistance was approaching from a most unexpected quarter. Sarah Carrier, aged eight years that fall, thought it high time that Rachel should get married. She wanted to see the ceremony. She considered weddings very interesting spectacles, and liked their immediate results in the way of cakes and wine; nor would she have objected to being married herself, if any one would have agreed to furnish the necessary raisins and ribbons. We shall not be astonished at this sin. gular taste in Sarah, when we remember that she was a very little girl. She probably, like most of womankind, outgrew such ideas when she got older. But just now, her small head being full of Rachel's betrothal, and the pretty wedding which was to follow, and her own share in the new housekeeping, she was quite impatient to see somebody stirring in the matter. One day, therefore, as the two lovers were dolefully discussing inprobabilities by the kitchen fire, Sarah said, for perhaps the hundredth time: "Rachel, when are you going to get married?"

"I don't know," replied Rachel.

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She thinks she can't get married," added Mark, rather impatiently.

Why can't she?" was the natural question of a little girl.

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Why not?" asked Mark, a little amused, and even a little comforted, by Sarah's judgment upon his rival.

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Because he's always a makin' prayers, and a readin' the scripter to me, and a askin' me the catechism, and sich like," said the child.

The conversation lasted a long time, and resulted in giving Sarah as complete an idea of the case as her small head could possibly contain. She was made to understand, also, that if she said a single word about it to Deacon Bowson, the pretty wedding would be postponed all the longer, if not rendered forever impossible. Behold Sarah, therefore, a sworn fellow-conspirator with Mark, and Rachel, and Mrs. Bowson; and, under the circumstances, she was worth more than the three others put together.

The very next day there was such a row in the deacon's house, that the whole neighborhood would have rushed thither had not people been perfectly certain that it was only the devil to pay with Sarah Carrier. The few fragments of looking-glass remaining tacked up against the walls were demolished by an insurrection of pewter mugs and platters. Bricks came through the window panes, and dropped softly on the sill, with the air of having merely wanted to get inside and be quiet. Turnips, beets and cabbage-stalks, scrawled, in two or three instances, with the initials of Noyse, galloped down the stairways as if ridden by some impish General Putnam. An image, dressed in a cocked hat and black cloak, so as slightly to resemble a minister, was

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found in Rachel's bedroom. Voices, curiously vibrating from shrillness to hoarseness, called, "Noyse! Noyse!" sometimes from the garret times from the cellar. The deacon was pelted with paper wads, which, when unfolded, were found to be scribbled over with unknown characters, here and there interspersed by the name of the aforesaid elder. In the mean time Sarah Carrier had fits of the most contortionate and uproarious character. She squirmed about, Bowson said, as if she were a whole nest of rattlesnakes; and then she squealed and grunted as if the herd of bedeviled swine had entered into her; while mewing, barking, crowing, cackling, howling, and spitting gave variety to the entertainment. At last the devils began to talk through her, and made such revelations as were certainly very imprudent on their part. "We'll have Noyse," said they, in all sorts of tones, gruff and squeaky.

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He wants to marry Rachel !" yelped 8 puppy devil from the top of Sarah's windpipe. "We want to have him marry her," croaked another, of the bull-frog sort, who had apparently secured a place in her stomach. And so it went: Master More's king of hell; Master More wants an elder to marry Rachel!" and so forth, and so on.

It was all dreadful, of course; and the deacon sweated at the evident peril of his minister. After infinite trouble, he so far succeeded in praying out the devils that Sarah could talk connectedly.

With tears of sorrow in her innocent little eyes, the interesting child told him that dear Elder Noyse was nigh upon being carried off to the lake of brimstone. "All the devils want him to marry Rachel," said she; "because then Master More's spectre will have a grip on him, and can drag him off to Satan. Only they hain't got all their plans ready; but they'll have 'em all ready in a week, and then they'll be sure to take him."

There was so little time to spare, that the deacon rushed out batless, and ran through a pelting rain to the house of Noyse. How horribly the elder would have been tempted to laugh, had he been there to hear the story; and how shockingly true it was that the devil was indeed baiting him on to perdition by means of Rachel! But he had gone to preach at Andover, where the witch-fun was now fast and furious;

and he would not return before Monday or Tuesday. Deacon Bowson went home on a canter, not that he was afraid of the rain, but because he was in the frightfulest of hurries. He commenced a letter to the minister on this detected conspiracy, and the policy necessary to balk it; but so vast and hideous was the subject, and so confused were his poor brains, that he could not have finished that letter had he lived to the present day. He had written five or six lines by dint of an hour's labor, when a brilliant idea diverted him from his ink-bottle. Rachel should marry Mark Stanton; thus she could not marry Noyse; thus More would have no family claim on the elder; and thus the latter would escape the bottomless pit.

He shouted for Sarah, then for Mrs. Bowson, and commanded the former to narrate, da capo, the fiendish conspiracy against Noyse; and a precious long and bugaboo story they made of it, by dint of interrupting each other and talking both together. "Wife," said Bowson in conclusion, "I see my duty clear. Rachel must marry Mark right away. Tell her so; and tell her not to make any bones about it either."

And here he burst into tears, probably at thought of the peril of his spiritual shepherd. What could sister Ann reply to such stark credulity, such unreasonable gibberish? At first, very naturally, she was about to deny indignantly that her brother was fellowmonarch with Apollyon; but she reflected that her arguments, if successful, would only put an end to the hopes of the young people; and so she remained silent, and let her husband carry out his fortunate caprice. must be confessed that she even felt a little triumphant mischief in her brain, as she thought how whimsically Elder Noyse was being tricked out of his game.

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Rachel was a good deal frightened when she found that the great event was so unexpectedly near; so much so, indeed, that she thought she would rather wait a month or two, at no matter what risk. But Mark was joyous, grateful, decided, and so energetically prompt, that it almost vexed her. He wrote out the publishment at Bowson's table, and ran off immediately to put it in the hands of Elder Higginson. But it was an awful moment even for his

nerves, and vastly more so for Rachel's, when, on the morrow, that little paper was read from the pulpit before the congregation. How the people stared, and wondered, and frowned, and were grieved and were scandalized! Rachel More to be married, and her father not yet three months in his grave, and all Salem dripping with blood and tears, and trembling on the brink of the pit!

It seemed like a dreadful thing, to be sure; and the gossips of our day also would be severe on such an impropriety. But why did not Rachel give her reasons! Ha ha! Who would believe them? Who would take the word of the wizard's daughter against godly Elder Noyse? Well, Mark and his little girl felt very red and uncomfortable all that morning, and suffered severely during the noon-spell from a hundred tongues as long as cart-whips. But what they endured was nothing to the anguish of Noyse when he heard of the publishment. He did not hear of it very soon; for as he was riding out of Andover his horse threw him, and he was carried back with bruises which kept him bed-rid for a fortnight. When he reached Salem, three weeks after, on a Monday sunset, the notices had been duly cried, and only two hours were lacking to the wedding. Bowson accidentally met him, as he rode up to the parsonage, and was the first to inform him of his late spiritual peril and lucky escape. The listener had some difficulty in comprehending the confused and extravagant story. One point, however, was plain enough; it was sharply, cruelly, stunningly clear: it almost tumbled him out of his saddle, like the shock of a lance. "Rachel going to marry! Going to marry this evening!" he repeated, advancing fiercely on the deacon, who backed in dismay into the angle of a fence. "Are you a fool?" continued the minister, shaking his whip with a trembling hand and gasping for words. "Oh, Elder! Elder!" whimpered Bowson, "you see it yourself. You see what a delusion has gripped you. Oh, it was high time to do something. Oh, it was, truly."

It was in vain that Noyse stormed at him, reasoned with him, implored him; for the deacon was stark mad on that one point, and his madness made him mulish. Noyse, himself, was so demented that he wanted, even at this late hour, to put off the marriage-to

forbid the banns-to do somethinganything-no matter how reckless. But his friend was the craziest of the two, and struggled with the undesired energy of a Newfoundland dog, bent upon saving a would-be suicide from his watery grave. Nearly choking with grief and rage, Noyse abruptly turned his back upon this affectionate simpleton, and walked into the house, locking the door after him. He would take no supper, and retired directly to his chamber, with a face full of such anguish as can torture only the wicked. It is not worth while to listen at his keyhole; there is nothing to be heard there but incoherent mutterings and restless pacings to and fro.

In the mean time, the windows of Good-wife Stanton's keeping-room glow. ed through the deepening twilight, ruddy with the flush of a roaring fire and six tallow-candles. Deacon Bowson stared at them from his kitchen door, and thought that he could see the forms of deinons gliding to and fro behind the white linen curtains, and busy, doubtless, in preparing the marriage feast. He would not hear a moment of the wedding being celebrated in his own mansion. They may get married just as quick as they are a mind to," he said, in reply to his wife's talk about a proper place. "But let 'em go somewhere else to have the chore done. My house is too good for a wedding, where, for all I know, devils will be sitting in all the empty chairs. Send 'em off to Widow Stanton's."

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Accordingly they were sent off to Widow Stanton's, and great deal of wine, cake, and sweatmeats was sent there, also, while Widow Stanton herself did the handsome thing, in the way of raisins, nuts, pies, game, ale, and cider. What a perfect heaven of delight little Sarah Carrier was in as she surveyed the six candles, the rows of chairs, the great table, and its glories of cake-plates and decanters. Not a solitary devil troubled her throughout the length of that enchanting evening.

The assembly was small; none but relatives had been invited; so much respect was due to public opinion. Deacon Bowson refused to be present, and remained at home, glowering over the kitchen fire, and fashioning imaginary fiends out of the lurid coals. Rachel begged him piteously to come in, if it were only for a few minutes;

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