Yellow is variously interpreted. Some hold
it the type of jealousy, although Shakespeare
makes that painful passion a green-eyed monster.
Yellow is the hue of jaundice, and in Europe is
the mark of pestilence and crime, of plague-smitten
ships, and galley-slaves. In China
(besides tinging the native complexion), it, is
proudly worn by Brothers of the Sun, and
Cousins of the Moon. The marigold represents
care and sorrow, in accordance with its French
name, souci. For some, the yellow rose is a faithless
and departing lover, while the Fourierists
more consistently hold it to be a new-married
lady. Sea-green may not inaptly call to
mind the ever-fickle and capricious waves, the
mariner's toils and wanderings; but green, the
colour of the Mussulman prophet, represents one
of the most obstinate, impassive, and unchanging
families of the human race. The green rose is
a sterile monstrosity, representing nothing but
abortive efforts and mistaken intentions, which
come to nothing.

Every flower has a double import. First,
every flower not only means, but actually is,
love. Bouquets, therefore, universally, are
tokens of love, affection, and attachment. The
perfume of the flower, like the song of birds, is
a hymn of love, an incense of gratitude offered
to the Creator. Linnaeus called the corolla the
nuptial couch of flowers. Flowers without
corolla have nevertheless sweet perfumes to
shed— witness the vine and the mignionette.
Offensive flowers, like the stapelia and the
dragon arum, have their analogies in brutal and
repulsive passions. Every flower whatsoever is
love, coarse or refined, honourable or base, pure
or ignoble.

Besides this, all plants symbolise certain
notes in the gamut of human passions. The
brilliant tints of the carnation and its penetrating
odour represent adult love, while the
paler and fainter lilac is merely cousinage and
childish attachment. The vine, the emblem of
friendship, is content to embalm the air without
dazzling the eye; because the affection
which it figures has its source in intellectual
affinity, quite independent of personal charms.
On the other hand, certain autumnal flowers are
speaking symbols of money-getting tradesmen
who make no display till they are advanced in
life. They then try to outdo their rivals by the
showiness, amplitude, and number of their
petals. Their dress is rich and gaudy, but its
bad taste betrays the upstart. The hollyhock,
in spite of its brilliancy, is stiff, cold, and
pharmaceutical. The balsam, for want of a stalk,
will not let you take it by the hand. The dahlia,
with its big gouty feet and its formal plaited
and ironed frill, is the very image of a priggish,
antiquated beau. These flowers, like their
representatives, being destitute of natural perfume
or charm, are thereby excluded from bouquets.
The mute language of the box-shrub,
which represents straitened neediness, is far
more eloquent. Its slight odour is coarse and
homely, its corolla absent, and its fruit an
ironical representation of a porridge-pot turned
upside down. It figures the indigent households
in which both bed and board are scanty.

*Of tokens not floral, our readers will be
astonished to learn (from Madame Charlotte de
la Tour's Langage des Fleurs) that, by a
sort of tacit convention, the following signals
have been adopted in several English towns:

If a gentleman wish to get married, he
wears a ring on his left forefinger; if he is
engaged, on the second finger; if married, on
the third; and if he has no mind to marry, on
the little finger. When a lady is open to an
offer, she wears a ring on her forefinger; when
engaged, on the second finger; when married,
on the third; and when she eschews matrimony,
on the fourth. If a gentleman, with his left
hand, offer to a lady a flower, a fan, or any
other pretty trifle, it is on his part a declaration
or esteem. If she take it with the left
hand, it is an acceptance of his homage; but
if with the right hand, a refusal.

In France, such a code of signals might
seriously affect the interests of matrimonial
agents. It is possible, however, that sundry
young gentlemen here, who innocently sport
little-finger rings, are far from having taken vows
of celibacy; while the less numerous damsels
who adopt the same ornament, may only require a
little soft persuasion to make it move upwards
on the hand, with a skip, like the knight in chess.

THE ISLAND OF ALSEN AND THE AMIABLE PRUSSIANS.

THE contrast between the peaceful hills and
valleys of North Devon— which have never been
trodden by an invader since Hubba was overthrown
on Northam Hill— and the unfortunate
little island of the Sleswig Duchy, is all the
more striking, when a yacht voyage and the
sight of the ocean have alone intervened between
them. More striking still to an Englishman,
because Alsen might be a slice from an English
county, so close in all respects is the
resemblance. Sailing over Appledore Bar in the
schooner yacht Zoe, on the 20th of April, 1864,
the present eye-witnesses looked forward with
warm interest to a visit to the gallant Danes;
who, during two long months, had steadfastly
held in check those great scourges of modern
times, the armies of Austria and Prussia. For,
like all the rest of the world, we had heard how
these northern freemen fought against enormous
odds, and faced disadvantages which might have
made the boldest lose heart. How their goodness
and high sense of chivalry had shone forth
in treatment to the wounded and dead of their
enemy. How they had been deserted by allies
who were bound by honour, by treaty, and
by interest, to step in between them and their
despoilers. How, in spite of all, they were still
resolved to show that a free race could stand its
ground, even when twenty times their number of
stick-driven conscripts were hurled against them,
supported by a vast superiority in artillery.

The sandy Skaw, bristling with wrecks, grand