The primitive Pink is simple red or white, and scented; but cultivation has varied the colour from the darkest purple to the purest white. Under all its diversities, however, it retains its delicious, spicy fragrance, and hence has been made the emblem of woman’s love, which no circumstance can change. Florists designate two principal divisions of these flowers, Pinks and Carnation. The former are marked by a spot resembling an eye, and by a more humble growth. The flower of the Carnation is much larger than that of the Pink, and of a deeper hue. The Carnation was called by some of the old English writers the clove-gilly flower, from its perfume resembling that of cloves. * * * * * She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat (like Patience on a monument) Smiling at grief. _Shakspeare._ * * * * * It is a fearful thing, To love as I love thee; to feel the world-- The bright, the beautiful, joy giving world-- A blank without thee. Never more to me Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee. _L. E. L._ * * * * * Alas! the love of woman! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And, if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone. _Byron._ SENSITIVE PLANT.... _Chastity_. This singular plant is so named from its motions imitating the sensibility of animal life. It contracts itself in the evening and expands with the morning light, and shrinks from external violence, folding up its leaves at the mere approach of one’s hand. The Violet is the emblem of that retiring modesty which proceeds from reflection, but the Sensitive Plant is a perfect image of innocence and virgin modesty, the result of instinct. * * * * * So dear to heaven is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt. _Milton._ * * * * * Oh! she is colder than the mountain’s snow. To such a subtile purity she’s wrought, She’s prayed and fasted to a walking thought: She’s an enchanted feast, most fair to sight, And starves the appetite she does invite; Flies from the touch of sense, and if you dare To name but love she vanishes to air. _Crown._ * * * * *