so 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
miring the starry Jasmine which threw its green 
curtaining over the casement, or looking fondly at 
the Moss-rose which peeped in timidly at the latticed 
doorway. There was an unstudied grace in her 
attitude which the eye of the sculptor hath not 
yet caught,— a finish about the turning of the head 
and the rounding of the shoulders, to which marble 
hath not yet lent its enduring immortality ; while in 
the large blue heaven of her downcast eyes, Modesty 
ever seemed to sit enthroned. In her casual visits 
to the distant market-town, men turned their heads 
in wonderment, and even women marvelled from 
whence such a being of life and beauty had sprung; 
for wherever she moved, she seemed to throw across 
the pavement a glad streak as if of sunshine. The 
astonished stranger made his inquiries in vain,— all 
he could gather was, that she was called the Violet 
of the Valley, but where she dwelt there were few 
that knew. And many an eye ere it closed in sleep 
pictured that form moving before it, until slumber 
settled down, and in dreams they were carried 
away to far-off dells and dingles; to valleys where 
the nightingale made music all summer long: and 
they thought of Eve before she fell, and believed 
that somewhere in the earth there still existed an 
unvisited Paradise. They pictured a rustic home 
which the amiable Jasmine overhung, without know¬ 
ing that with such her own was garlanded. They 
