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a long time it had been closed; its dilapidated condition, the long distance from many of the plantations, and the death of a former incumbent, had contributed to the cessation of regular Sabbath worship. Now among the visitors from the city was a clergyman, at whose proposal Christmas services were to be eelebrated there. The breakfast-table conversation turned upon this, the antiquity of the church sounding delightfully to their Northern friends, and the mention of its picturesque situation exciting more than usual curiosity. The colonel was pleased with this, and waxed more than usually eloquent upon the history of the neighborhood, the part his ancestors and their connections had played in the early annals of the State, and the pride which he said it could be only a virtue to cherish in such recollections. All present, save Philip, could lay a part of this flattering unction to their souls; and the colonel talked on, warmed by the day, and the recollections clustering round it, unaware that any word seemed as an especial thrust to one wounded spirit. His only boast in ancestry was perfect integrity and uprightness; his only wealth the talents that he had inherited with the memory of these just men. Ile shrank under the words, though no eye observed him; even Miss Caroline listened with such selfsatisfied eagerness that she forgot to be sarcastic. Once, only once he met May's glance; it was withdrawn in an instant; but it had a strange questioning earnestness, that he interpreted as pity, and that was galling even from her.

Nevertheless, he was of the church party. He could not deny himself the great happiness of seeing her this last day, as he so often said to himself, "The last time, the last time!"

The carriages, with their happy occupants, passed down the road before them. Miss Hamilton had chosen to be of the equestrians, as all could not drive, and she never lost an opportunity of claiming the especial attendance of her cousin Edward, or displaying her graceful figure. Philip rode moodily behind them, unfit for any conversation, and especially that of Miss Hamilton.

A picturesque scene greeted them, as a sudden turn in the road marked the entrance to the oaken copse in which the church was situated. A winding path through an archway of interlacing boughs, draped by the same long gray moss, and bordered by turf bright even at this season of the year, was lined with the saddle-horses, or large, comfortable family carriages that had brought the congregation together. The quick, impatient pawing of the horses upon the turf was the only sound that broke the Sabbath stillness, and the scattered groups united at the church door with only a quiet bow of recognition, so holy seemed the place. There were graves at the very door-stone, sunken and almost hidden by the fallen leaves, save that the timestained burial-slab warned unwary feet that they

pressed above where the dead had lain. The threshold itself, worn by the feet of many generations, marked the antiquity of that forest temple, and the gray-stone walls, the roof, over which the branches closed as if to shield it, and the long moss swept solemnly, were green with the marks of age.

They passed reverently up the sounding aisle, the stones of the pavement trodden by their fathers before them, and they knelt perchance in the very spot where blessings had been breathed upon their infancy by voices long hushed in the silence of death. Yet Philip saw but one face, and heard but one voice in the deep responses, or the anthem, when its clear strains led and sustained the rest in the absence of "lute or harp," full, rich, and thrilling with deep feeling, "as it had been the voice of an angel." The prayers, he tried to fix his wandering thoughts upon them; but, when the sermon had commenced, the effort was vain. That calm, beautiful face before him, lighted by earnest attention, made so much more lovely, if that were possible, by the close bonnet of black velvet, so suited to the time and place, and the heavy folds of the mantle sweeping in simple grace about her figure! he printed it all upon his memory for the years of absence that were to come. Rapt in her devotions, she could have little heed of this idolatrous worship of a human heart, and he struggled vainly with the sin and the shame, for the very time and place mocked the presumption of his love. Surrounded· by those who claimed her interest, who wooed her with offerings worthy her acceptance, by tokens of her proud birthright and inheritance, how could he but feel deeper than ever before his own madness in daring to cherish

"That which bore such bitter fruit?"

It was a relief when the last amen sounded, and the congregation arose to disperse. Now there were smiles and kind greetings as they lingered in the aisle, or on the patches of turf bright with the midday sunshine. Neighbors with kindly inquiries, and gentlemen shaking hands heartily with old friends from whom they had been long separated. The beauty of the day, the congratulations of the season, jest and gayety, had their turn. Here a lady sprang to the saddle from the hand of a gallant cavalier, or a white-haired servitor passed with a pile of cloaks and shawls for the occupants of a comfortable carriage. The Haywood party were among the last; for Miss Hamilton had been alarmed by the starting aside of May's horse on their way to church, and even the pleasure of Edward's undivided attentions could not induce her to mount it again. May, who had been detained by an old friend of her father's, at once offered to change places with her, good-naturedly doffed her mantle for the habit skirt, and sprang herself into the saddle.

Edward would have joined her; but Miss Hamil

ton beckoned him to the carriage-window, and, with her usual ill-bred selfishness, said, loud enough to be overheard

"Let Mr. Anson play the groom, Edward; it's all he 's fit for."

Shocked at such rudeness, Mrs. Clinton could not forbear a reproving glance, and even Edward blushed for his cousin, and with resentment at hearing his tutor so spoken of. But the other carriages were out of sight already, and he had little time to deliberate. Philip's hand seemed so powerless that he could scarcely guide his horse, when he found himself unexpectedly alone with May. The roll of carriage wheels died away before them; they had entered the woodland road that they had traversed so many times of old. May rode thoughtfully, her mind still turning to the services of the day, or she would have noticed the sudden blushing of the cheek, or the tremulous quiver of the lip when he essayed to speak.

"I beg your pardon," she said, suddenly reining in her horse; "I do not believe I have spoken for a mile. I was thinking of the gray old church, and how I wish it could be restored and consecrated by regular service. There is something so beautiful to me in its having been hallowed by so many hopes and fears, so many earnest prayers, and of my father's fathers. I am afraid there is a little pride unconquered in my nature still. I wonder how large an element it is in this wish."

So she had read what was in his heart, and she meant to show him kindly the great gulf set between them. He did not even look up in reply; but Miss Haywood continued

"I never enjoyed a service more than this morning, my heart was so strangely solemn and thankful. I could almost wish there were to be no guests at Haywood to-day; I am in no mood for idle pleasantry. Mr. Clinton, I am sure, understood it, when he rescued me from the compliments of Major Lau

rens.

What a full, deep voice he has! I heard it above all others in the responses this morning."

Again! She had never spoken so openly of her lover before. Kind, even in her probing his wounded spirit. And the house would be thronged with guests, and he should hear them speak of the fitness of the union, and perhaps be expected to respond smilingly. No, he could not do that; he would beg an interview with Colonel Haywood, and leave the house at once. It was best so; and, with this thought, he turned with so much of love and tenderness, and anguish in his gaze, that May's quick sympathy read some inward struggle, and, laying her gloved hand gently upon the arching neck of his steed, she said

"You are ill or unhappy; you have been so for days, this iong, long time. Cannot you tell me what troubles you, as in those old days when I was your confidante and comforter?"

She smiled upon him as she spoke, almost with a

sister's tenderness; nay, had not his suit been so utterly hopeless, he would have taken that smile for a token of good, and poured out his whole heart to her. As it was, the tone, the glance, the light caressing motion almost unnerved him; a moment more, and confession would have burst forth, even with the present knowledge of its folly and fruitlessness. But, while the tumult of his soul shaped itself to words, a thought of his honor, and how she had been trusted to his training, came over him; he could not so wrong her father's generous confidence or her own, for he knew how much it would pain her kindly heart to speak words of pity or reproof, and her very gentleness restrained him. Still, he said within himself, "the last"--the last time they should speak without witness; the last time he should wind by her side up that familiar road; the last time he could claim her sympathy, or even a passing interest; and he dared not raise his eyes to her face again, lest his strong resolve should falter.

They dismounted at the entrance of the avenue, and Philip's hand thrilled at the light pressure, as he aided her to spring from the saddle. Mr. Clinton had come out to meet them. No, she could not have felt how he was suffering, or she would have spared that pleasant welcome-she would have detained him by her side a moment longer. Later in the day, with his hurried preparations finished, he sought Colonel Haywood. There was an unusual warmth in the manner of his host, who, nevertheless, betrayed anxiety and surprise at hearing that Philip had something of importance to say.

"Not business, I hope," he said, pleasantly. "I hate business at any time, and leave it as much as possible to my overseer and my factor. To-day, of all days, ought to be clear of it; and we have very little time, for the dressing-bell rang as you came in."

"I will not detain you long, Colonel Haywood, my kind and generous friend. I feel it now more than ever, when I am going from you!"

"Going! Why, Mr. Anson, what has happened? Did you have letters from the North this morning? I hope your mother is not ill. What is it? Can I know?"

"No, I had no letters; it is not so sudden a resolve. But I must leave you."

"Leave Haywood, and George and Hamilton doing so well! Haven't given you any trouble, I hope? Or am I to blame, or John, or that ridiculous nephew of mine, Pinckney?"

"Neither. No one is to blame, I believe, but myself."

The colonel seemed struck by the dejection of tone to which Philip's hurried utterance had changed in the last sentence. He leaned against the mantle in silence for a moment, and then said, kindly

"Mr. Anson, this is more than a mere freak. I have noticed your manner for several days past. I never saw a person alter more than you have done.

If it is possible, I beg you to tell me what has caused this. I do not ask from idle curiosity."

"I believe you, Colonel Haywood. You have always been kind, too kind to me. You should not have trusted me as you have done. I have betrayed your confidence. I go because I love your daughter!" "And has my daughter rejected you?"

Philip could not believe that he had heard aright. He expected even, in his daring, to have heard a burst of astonishment, perhaps angry invective. But no; he should have known his host better. He was too proud to upbraid. The honesty of his purpose, and of that day's self-conquest, came to Philip's aid. He met the searching glance with a look as high.

"You do wrong to suspect me of so much ingratitude. Your daughter does not dream that I love her."

"Tell her so now."

"Colonel Haywood!"

"Do not look so indignantly at me, Philip. You came to me for advice, and I give it to you. If you do not follow it, I am not to blame."

"I did not expect taunts."

"And I never give them. You love my daughter, have told me so, and I give you my permission to address her. A strange taunt' I should have thought it at your age."

"Yet you know it is mockery-that she has already accepted another. Mr. Clinton"

"Can't be engaged to two ladies at once, if he 's a man of honor. Miss Wythe already has an old claim on his attentions."

"This is too much!" Philip said, bitterly. "It was hard to love her, thinking her heart was filled with another; but now, knowing she is free, it is the last drop in my cup."

"Then you are sure May does not love you?"

"I give you my word once more, Colonel Haywood, that I never thought it possible, even for an instant. I did not know that I loved her myself until yesterday."

"Then I have known more than you for a long time, and you have no certainty of rejection. Is not my daughter all you could wish in a wife?" "I-my wife?"

"Yes. What shall I do to persuade you I am in earnest? Are you not all I could ask for her husband, high-principled, cultivated, warm-hearted? She has all you need, a little more money, to make other people appreciate your merits. You are all I could ask, Philip; I repeat it." And, while his hearty grasp yet thrilled every nerve with wonder and hope, and fear lest all should prove a dream, the colonel was gone.

A light step sounded near him, as he leaned, gazing into the glowing embers, and trying to comprehend all that had passed. The firelight shone warmly over the graceful figure of May, as she said

"Did you wish to speak to me? My father tells

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me so. Why do you look so strangely, Mr. Anson? Philip, why have you been so sad all day ?"

Perhaps it was no stranger than what had already passed-she did love him; at least he could bear to be rejected now-now that it was not presumption to aspire; and he took the hand he had been told to claim within his own, while he imparted to her all that you and I know, dear reader.

But she had much more to tell than he at least had dreamed of. That she had always loved him from a child, before she knew the beautiful title of "wife" was dearer than that of sister-of the light and strength his counsel and praise had been to her, and the struggle with her impulsive nature to conceal all this under a cold reserve; for, though she read Philip's heart, and therefore could not trust her own, she had never thought, or even dared to hope, that her father or brothers would consent to their union, or that Philip's pride would ask it. "So I had resolved never to marry," she said, looking up suddenly in his face, as she stood before him; "for I knew I never could love any one else so well-"

"Oh, May! my own, my own May once more! for you were mine, then, when your father gave you to my charge, were you not-and I am not going to lose you?"

"And yet," she said, when she spoke again, encircled by his arm, "my heart does not throb more quickly now, with all this gush of happiness, than when I met you, outwardly so calm, on your return, or to-day when we rode through the wood-path. We have both been very proud, Philip."

"Every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger meddleth not with its joy," says the wise man. Colonel Haywood thought their guests might, for the time, be kept in ignorance of this passing romance; but it was not that he repented his decision, or was fearful of any remonstrance from his sons. He judged, with his usual wisdom, that they would be both happier shielded from remark. But the Clintons, and Miss Wythe, on her bridal tour, were invited to the wedding festivities, when the next Christmas anniversary was kept, and with them came the mother and sisters of Philip to share in his happiness. The colonel seemed to enjoy scarcely less the mortification of the Hamiltons, Miss Caroline included, particularly when she informed him, in her usual pompous way, that she should return to town with Elizabeth and Pinckney, the latter equally disappointed in their matrimonial projects.

The parish church, where the bridal was celebrated, is now restored, and Philip, as its rector, is established in useful and honorable independence. The colonel is very attentive to his sermons, and speaks of his son-in-law in the parish with equal pride and pleasure; but Philip never hears the sweet voico of his wife in the psalm or hymn, without a sense of thankfulness for this "best gift of God's Providence."

LANDSCAPE GARDENING.

CHAPTER II.

OF PLANTING THE FLOWER-GARDEN.

THE manner of planting the herbaceous plants and shrubs in a flower-garden depends jointly on the style and extent of the scene. With a view to planting, they may be divided into five classes, which classes are independent altogether of the style in which they are laid out. The first class is the general or mingled flower-garden, in which is displayed a mixture of flowers with or without floweringshrubs, according to its size. The object in this class is to mix the plants, so that every part of the garden may present a gay assemblage of flowers of different colors during the whole season. The second class is the massed flower-garden, in which the Fig. 1.

flowers are planted in masses of one kind, either in separate beds, or in separate divisions of the same bed. The third class is the select flower-garden, in which the object is limited to the cultivation of particular kinds of plants; as florists' flowers,

American plants, annuals, bulbs, &c. Sometimes two or more classes are included in one garden, as bulbs and annuals; but, in general, the best effect is produced by limiting the object to one class only. The fourth class is the changeable flower-garden, in which all the plants are kept in pots, and reared in a flower-nursery or reserve-ground. As soon as they begin to flower, they are plunged in the borders of the flower-garden, and whenever they show symptoms of decay, removed, to be replaced by others from the same source. This is obviously the most complete mode of any for display of flowers, as the beauties of both the general and particular gardens may be combined without presenting blanks, or losing the fine effects of assemblages of varieties of the same species; as of hyacinth, pink, dahlia, chrysanthemum, &c. The fifth class is the botanic flower-garden, in which the plants are arranged with reference to botanical study, or at least not in any way that has for its main object a rich display of blossoms. On each of these gardens, or manners of arranging plants grown for their beauty or curiosity, we shall offer some remarks.

The mingled flower-garden, or border, was formerly the most common; and was what every gardener attempted when planting his flower-borders. It is still the aim of the greater number of such as form parterres, or separate scenes, for the culture of flowers, but it seldom goes farther. The object here is to display a gay assemblage of colors during the season of flowers, without much regard to variety of form or diversity of character in these flowers, or the plants that produce them. The great art, therefore, in this kind of flower-border, is to employ such plants as produce large heads, or masses of flowers; to plant an equal number of every color, and such a variety in regard to time of flowering as may afford some of every color in flower from February to October. This object does not require a great variety so much as a judicious selection; for, supposing the number four to include all the colors of flowers, and one sort to continue in blossom a month, then for nine months of the year, viz. from February to October inclusive, only thirty-six sorts will be requisite to commence, as it were, the pattern of the border. Much more may be effected by a few sorts than by a great number; for the greater the number of sorts introduced in the pattern above thirty-six, supposing it correct that one sort continues in bloom a month, the greater the blank spaces that must remain between the plants in bloom. A moderate number of sorts, or of what are called border-flowers, and that number selected

[graphic]

equally from the different colors, and the sorts in bloom in the nine months of the blooming season, is what demands the exclusive attention of whoever would plant a mingled border, or flower-garden.

To obviate the bad effect of decayed flowers, perhaps the best mode of managing ornamental flower clumps would be to have them partly planted with evergreens of low growth, or kept low by pruning; and between them to transfer from the pots in which they had been raised, the finest flowers of each season just taken on the point of flowering, in sufficient masses of each color, and to be removed and replaced with others as soon as they had done flowering, so as always to have a new and brilliant display at all periods of the year, and at the same time a due contrast of a more sober color from the intermixed evergreens.

In order to keep a mixed flower-garden always gay, successive crops should be provided partially in pots, the same principle being observed in furnishing a flower-garden as in embellishing a drawing-room. Suppose, for instance, the ground to be laid out, and permanently planted with perennials and such shrubs as are intended to remain immovable; the fixed foundation of the garden would thus be laid without further trouble than what consists in manuring from time to time those plants which exhaust the soil, and suffer in consequence. And this may be done to a greater extent than is supposed. Primroses, for example, thrive best at the foot of trees or bushes, provided they get sunshine in the first six months of the year; so do violets: and when the bloom of primroses and violets is gone, their foliage has its beauty. All sorts of spring bulbs, crocuses, hyacinths, dog's-tooth violets, jonquils, and the like, if placed with skill, require no removal; narrow lines look well, other things may stand between, and when their foliage is dead, the neighboring plants, if annuals, will do no harm; they may exhaust the ground, but periodical manuring will remedy that. Winter, when flowers are chiefly gone, must be provided for by well-grown evergreens with variegated or otherwise beautiful foliage, kept in pots, to fill the ground, upon some fixed plan, as soon as the favorites of autumn are dead, or become hopelessly unhealthy. Plunged in the ground, and the tops of their pots covered with soil, no one can tell that the flowergarden is not their constant station; they may be removed by degrees in the spring, and when finally gone, the whole scene is changed. Violets, white or blue, single or double, sweet or scentless, may be grown in the same pots, and will be always in the best place to welcome the vernal sun.

Abercrombie, Nicol, and other practical gardeners, seem to have no distinct ideas on the subject of arranging flowers in flower-gardens; but the authors of" Hints on laying out Gardens," and of the "Florist's Manual," have viewed the subject in its proper

light.

Neil also has some judicious observations on the subject. He says, "the plants are arranged in mingled flower-borders, partly according to their size, and partly according to color. The tallest are planted in the back part; those of middling size occupy the centre, and those of humble growth are placed in front. The beauty of a flower-border, when in bloom, depends very much on the tasteful disposition of the plants in regard to color. By intermingling plants which flower in succession, the beauty of the border may be prolonged for some weeks. In a botanic garden, the same plant cannot with propriety be repeated in the same border; but, in the common flower-garden, a plant, if deemed ornamental, may be often repeated with the best effect; nothing can be finer, for example, than to see many plants of double scarlet lychnis, double sweet-William, or double purple jacobæa."

Hogg, who may be considered an unprejudiced observer of the different tastes in disposing of flowers, has the following remarks: "We are apt to ridicule the Dutchman, as well as the imitators of him here at home, who divided their gardens into small beds, or compartments, planting each with separate and distinct flowers: we ridicule the plan because it exhibits too great a sameness and formality; like unto the nosegay that is composed of one sort of flowers only, however sweet and beautiful they may be, they lose the power to please, because they want variety. It must undoubtedly be acknowledged that a parterre, no matter in what form, whether circular or square, elliptical or oblong, where all the shrubs, plants, and flowers in it, like the flowers of a tastefully arranged bouquet, are variously disposed in neat and regulated order, according to their height and color, is a delightful spectacle, and worthy of general imitation. Yet still, in some particular cases, I am disposed to copy the Dutchman, and I would have my bed of hyacinths distinct, my tulips distinct, my anemones, my ranunculuses, my pinks, my carnations distinct, and even my beds of hollyhocks, double blue violets, and dwarf larkspurs distinct, to say nothing of hedgerows of different sorts of roses. Independent of the less trouble you have in cultivating them when kept separate, you have beauty in masses, and you have likewise their fragrance and perfume so concentrated that they are not lost in air, but powerfully inhaled when you approach them. Mrs. Siddons, the celebrated tragic actress, was a great admirer of this mode of planting, and fond of contemplating this 'beauty in masses.' She adopted this style of gardening at her residence on the Harrow Road. Her favorite flower was the Viola amœna, the common purple heartsease, and this she set with unsparing profusion all around her garden. Her garden was remarkable in another respect, and might with great propriety be styled a garden of evergreens, which, together with a few deciduous shrubs, were of the most sombre, sable, and gloomy

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