264 
Primrose. 
by emigrants on foreign shores. Disregarding the gorgeous 
blooms that flaunt their magnificence around them, Britons 
sojourning in those golden climes wearily sigh for the humble 
blossoms that scent the fields of their native land. Who does 
not remember the tremendous excitement that took place in 
Australia upon the arrival of the first primrose from old Eng¬ 
land ? What conflicting emotions must its pallid petals have 
aroused in the bosoms of many of its beholders ! what mingled 
feelings of pleasure and pain ! what thoughts of the bygone 
youth passed in the far-away natal isle, must have been stirred 
up under the seeming calmness of those bronzed countenances! 
Who amongst those dwellers in that distant clime but would 
willingly have purchased the fragile flowerling with the loss of 
the most superb member of Australia’s floral family ! 
Englishmen strive not only to carry their manners and 
customs with them wherever they go, but many of them even 
try to give to surrounding nature a look of home—sweet home— 
by planting native flowers and shrubs in the neighbourhood of 
their dwellings. Sir John Hobhouse is said to have discovered 
an Englishman’s residence on the shores of the Idellespont by 
the character of the surrounding plants. It is observed that an 
Anglo-Indian, in the midst of all his Oriental magnificence, 
deems a root of primroses or a tuft of British violets one of the 
highest luxuries attainable. 
How tenderly does the great Lord Bacon, in his quaintly 
beautiful “ Essay on Gardening,” recommend these gentle 
flowers, “ for they arc sweet, and prosper in the shade,” a quality 
which Mayne also notices in them: 
“ The primrose, tenant of the glade, 
Emblem of virtue in the shade.” 
It has been observed of poor Clare that his poems are as 
thickly strewn with primroses as the woodlands themselves. 
In his “Village Minstrel” he sings: 
“ Oh, who can speak his joys when Spring’s young morn 
From wood and pasture opened on his view, 
When tender green buds blush upon the thorn, 
And the first primrose dips his leaves in dew! 
“ And while he plucked the primrose in its pride, 
He pondered o’er its bloom ’tween joy and pain; 
And a rude sonnet in its praise he tried, 
Where nature’s simple way the aid of art supplied.” 
