THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 103 



shrank from the dewy chill ; and then it is aston- 

 ishing how rapidly the blossoms burst their cere- 

 ments, expanding in quick succession, while we 

 can scarcely persuade ourselves that the change 

 before us is the work of half an hour. 



It was in the haunt of my childhood, the garden 

 of my paternal home, that I learnt to love this 

 primrose. My father had so great a predilection 

 for it, that he scarcely allowed its progress to be 

 checked, even when the increase threatened to 

 overrun the parterre. 1 knew the reason of this — 

 he had heard me say that I liked nothing so well 

 as, after gazing on the brilliant colours of the 

 western sky, to turn and look upon the cool sweet 

 buds that awoke while all others were at rest. I 

 scarcely dare to call up the images connected with 

 that period of my life : intentionally I never do so, 

 because the scenery on which one ray of gospel 

 light never broke, will not endure the retrospective 

 gaze, without inflicting a pang most trying to poor 

 rebellious nature. Yet that their memory lives in 

 the deep recesses of my heart, I am made to feel, 

 whenever I look upon the plant : and that, with all 

 its sorrowful combinations, the theme is most dear 

 to me, I know by the thrill of secret delight that 

 welcomes its appearance, far beyond that of every 

 bright flower around it. 



Not long ago, I was trying to trace to its first 

 origin the character of deep sympathy, wherewith 



