st
incredible. The lip in some varieties is washed with lavender blue, in
some with crimson! Another is nearly related to _D. bigibbum_, but much
larger, with sepals more acute. Its hue is a glorious rosy-purple,
deepening on the lip, the side lobes of which curl over and meet,
forming a cylindrical tube, while the middle lobe, prolonged, stands out
at right angles, veined with very dark purple; this has just been named
_D. Statterianum_. It has upon the disc an elevated, hairy crest, like
_D. bigibbum_, but instead of being white as always, more or less, in
that instance, the crest of the new species is dark purple. I have been
particular in describing this noble flower, because very, very few have
beheld it. Those who live will see marvels when the Dutch and German
portions of New Guinea are explored.

Recently I have been privileged to see another, the most impressive to
my taste, of all the lovely genus. It is called _D. atro-violaceum_. The
stately flowers hang down their heads, reflexed like a "Turban Lily,"
ten or a dozen on a spike. The colour is ivory-white, with a faintest
tinge of green, and green spots are dotted all over. The lobes of the
lip curl in, making half the circumference of a funnel, the outside of
which is dark violet-blue; with that fine colour the lip itself is
boldly striped. They tell me that the public is not expected to "catch
on" to this marvel. It hangs its head too low, and the contrast of hues
is too startling. If that be so, we multiply schools of art and County
Council lectures perambulate the realm, in vain. The artistic sense is
denied us.

Madagascar also will furnish some astonishing novelties; it has already
begun, in fact--with a vengeance. Imagine a scarlet Cymbidium! That such
a wonder existed has been known for some years, and three collectors
have gone in search of it; two died, and the third has been terribly ill
since his return to Europe--but he won the treasure, which we shall
behold in good time. Those parts of Madagascar which especially attract
botanists must be death-traps indeed! M. Leon Humblot tells how he dined
at Tamatave with his brother and six compatriots, exploring the country
with various scientific aims. Within twelve months he was the only
survivor. One of these unfortunates, travelling on behalf of Mr. Cutler,
the celebrated naturalist of Bloomsbury Street, to find butterflies and
birds, shot at a native idol, as the report goes. The priests soaked
him