The road from hence lies across a marsh called by the people “the walls of Troy,”
a quarter of a mile in extent, destitute of large trees. A quantity of large stones
lies by the roadside, dug up in order to mend the highway. They look like a mass
of ruins, and have been there a while, clothed in Bauhin’s Campanula serpyllifolia.
When you pick a favorite flower, as you must, pick this,
with its trailing roots, verdant leaves and pink blossoms,
perfectly symmetrical.
It was not I who later named this Campanula after myself—it is taken that the name
of a plant must display no connection to the one who names it. But I dream—and urge
Gronovius, fellow botanist, to do this favor for me. This plant of Lapland, insignificant,
disregarded, lowly, flowering briefly—name it after poor Linnaeus, who resembles it.