is spoken of distinctively, it is called ‘virgula’ (see vol. i., pp. 146, 147, 151, 152).  The hairs on the virgula are in this instance so minute, that even with a lens I cannot see them in the Danish plate:  of which Fig. 3 is a rough translation into woodcut, to show the grace and mien of the little thing.  The trine leaf cluster is characteristic, and the folding up of the leaf edges.  The flower, in the Danish plate, full purple.  Abundant in east of Finmark (Finland?), but always growing in marsh moss, (Sphagnum palustre).

6.  I call it ‘Minima’ only, as the least of the five here named; without putting forward any claim for it to be the smallest pinguicula that ever was or will be.  In such sense only, the epithets minima or maxima are to be understood when used in ‘Proserpina’:  and so also, every statement and every principle is only to be understood as true or tenable, respecting the plants which the writer has seen, and which he is sure that the reader can easily see:  liable to modification to any extent by wider experience; but better first learned securely within a narrow fence, and afterwards trained or fructified, along more complex trellises.

7.  And indeed my readers—­at least, my newly found readers—­must note always that the only power which I claim for any of my books, is that of being right and true as far as they reach.  None of them pretend to be Kosmoses;—­none to be systems of Positivism or Negativism, on which the earth is in future to swing instead of on its old worn-out poles;—­none of them to be works of genius;—­none of them to be, more than all true work must be, pious;—­and none to be, beyond the power of common people’s eyes,[16] ears, and noses, ‘aesthetic.’  They tell you that the world is so big, and can’t be made bigger—­that you yourself are also so big, and can’t be made bigger, however you puff or bloat yourself; but that, on modern mental nourishment, you may very easily be made smaller.  They tell you that two and two are four, that ginger is hot in the mouth, that roses are red, and smuts black.  Not themselves assuming to be pious, they yet assure you that there is such a thing as piety in the world, and that it is wiser than impiety; and not themselves pretending to be works of genius, they yet assure you that there is such a thing as genius in the world, and that it is meant for the light and delight of the world.

8.  Into these repetitions of remarks on my work, often made before, I have been led by an unlucky author who has just sent me his book, advising me that it is “neither critical nor sentimental” (he had better have said in plain English “without either judgment or feeling"), and in which nearly the first sentence I read is—­“Solomon with all his acuteness was not wise enough to ... etc., etc., etc.” (’give the Jews the British constitution,’ I believe the man means.) He is not a whit more conceited than Mr. Herbert Spencer, or Mr. Goldwin Smith, or Professor