The Perfume of an Evening Primrose. 237 
of religious ceremony it would not be safe to omit ; 
and at all times I am as reluctant to pass without 
approaching my nose to it, as the great Dr. Johnson 
was to pass a street-post without touching it with his 
hand. My motive, however, is not a superstitious one, 
nor is it merely one of those meaningless habits which 
men sometimes contract, and of which they are 
scarcely conscious. When I first knew the even- 
ing primrose, where it is both a wild and a garden 
flower and very common, I did not often smell at it, 
but was satisfied to inhale its subtle fragrance from 
the air. And this reminds me that in England it 
does not perfume the air as it certainly does on the 
pampas of La Plata, in the early morning in places 
where it is abundant; here its fragrance, while 
unchanged in character, has either become less 
volatile or so diminished in quantity that one is 
not sensible that the flower possesses a perfume 
until he approaches his nose to it. 
My sole motive in smelling the evening prim- 
rose is the pleasure it gives'-me. This pleasure 
greatly surpasses that which I receive from other 
flowers far more famous for their fragrance, 
for it is in a great degree mental, and is due to 
association. Why is this pleasure so vivid, so 
immeasurably greater than the mental pleasure 
afforded by the sight of the flower? The books 
tell us that sight, the most important of our 
senses, is the most intellectual; while smell, the 
least important, is in man the most emotional 
sense. This is a very brief statement of the fact; 
