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The common motive for crossing orchids is that, of course, which
urges the florist in other realms of botany. He seeks to combine tints, forms,
varied peculiarities, in a new shape. Orchids lend themselves to experiment with
singular freedom, within certain limits, and their array of colours seems to
invite our interference. Taking species and genera all round, yellow dominates,
owing to its prevalence in the great family of Oncidium; purples and mauves
stand next by reason of their supremacy among the Cattleyas. Green follows—if we
admit the whole group of Epidendrums—the great majority of which are not
beautiful, however. Of magenta, the rarest of natural hues, we have not a few
instances. Crimson, in a thousand shades, is frequent; pure white a little rare,
orange much rarer; scarlet very uncommon, and blue almost unknown, though
supremely lovely in the few instances that occur. Thus the temptation to
hybridize with the object of exchanging colours is peculiarly strong.
It becomes yet stronger by reason of the delightful uncertainty which attends
one's efforts. So far as I have heard or read, no one has yet been able to offer
a suggestion of any law which decides the result of combination. In a general
way, both parents will be represented in the offspring, but how, to what degree
either will dominate, in what parts, colours, or fashions a hybrid will show its
mixed lineage, the experienced refuse to conjecture, saving certain easy
classes. After choosing parents thoughtfully, with a clear perception of the aim
in view, one must "go it blind." Very often the precise effect desired appears
in due time; very often something unlooked for turns up; but nearly always the
result is beautiful, whether or no it serve the operator's purpose. Besides
effect, however, there is an utility in hybridization which relates to culture.
Thus, for example, the lovely Cypripedium Fairieanum is so difficult to grow
that few dealers keep it in their stock; by crossing it with Cyp. barbatum, from
Mount Ophir, a rough-and-ready cool species, we get Cyp. vexillarium, which
takes after the latter in constitution while retaining much of the beauty of the
former. Or again, Cypripedium Sanderianum, from the Malay Archipelago, needs
such swampy heat as few even of its fellows appreciate; it has been crossed with
Cyp. insigne, which will flourish anywhere, and though the seedlings have not
yet bloomed, there is no reasonable doubt that they will prove as useful and
beautiful as in the other case. Cypripedium insigne, of the fine varieties, has
been employed in a multitude of such instances. There is the striking Cyp.
hirsutissimum, with sepals of a nameless green, shaded yellow, studded with
spiculć, exquisitely frilled, and tipped, by a contrast almost startling, with
pale purple. It is very "hot" in the first place, and, in the second, its
appearance would be still more effective if some white could be introduced;
present it to Cyp. niveum and confidently expect that the progeny will bear
cooler treatment, whilst their "dorsal sepal" will be blanched. So the charming
Masdevallia Tovarensis, warm, white and lowly, will take to itself the
qualities, in combination, of Mas. bella, tall, cool, and highly coloured red
and yellow, as Mr. Cookson has proved; so Phalśnopsis Wightii, delicate of
growth and small of flower, will become strong and generous by union with Phal.
grandiflora, without losing its dainty tones.
It is worth mention that the first Flora medal offered by the Royal
Horticultural Society for a seedling—a hybrid—in open competition was won by
Lślia Arnoldiana in 1891; the same variety took the first prize in 1892. It was
raised by Messrs. Sander from L. purpurata × Catt. labiata; seed sown 1881,
flowered 1891.
And now for the actual process by which these most desirable results, and ten
thousand others, may be obtained. I shall not speak upon my own authority, which
the universe has no reason to trust. Let us observe the methods practised in the
great establishment of Mr. Sander at St. Albans.
Remark, in the first place, the low, unshaded range of houses devoted to
hybridization, a contrast to those lofty structures, a hundred yards long or
more, where plants merely flourish and bloom. Their span roofs one may touch
with the hand, and their glass is always newly cleaned. The first and last
demand of the hybridizer is light—light—eternally light. Want of it stands at
the bottom of all his disappointments, perhaps. The very great majority of
orchids, such as I refer to, have their home in the tropics; even the "cool"
Odontoglots and Masdevallias owe that quality to their mountaineering habit, not
to latitude. They live so near the equator that sunshine descends almost
perpendicularly—and the sun shines for more than half the year. But in this
happy isle of ours, upon the very brightest day of midsummer, its rays fall at
an angle of 28°, declining constantly until, at midwinter, they struggle through
the fogs at an inclination of 75°. The reader may work out this proportion for
himself, but he must add to his reckoning the thickness of our atmosphere at its
best, and the awful number of cloudy days. We cannot spare one particle of
light. The ripening seed must stand close beneath the glass, and however fierce
the sunshine no blind may be interposed. It is likely that the mother-plant will
be burnt up—quite certain that it will be much injured.
This house is devoted to the hybridizing of Cypripediums; I choose that genus
for our demonstration, because, as has been said, it is so very easy and so
certain that an intelligent girl mastered all its eccentricities of structure
after a single lesson, which made her equally proficient in those of Dendrobes,
Oncidiums, Odontoglots, Epidendrums, and I know not how many more. The leaves
are green and smooth as yet, with many a fantastic bloom, and many an ovary that
has just begun to swell, rising amidst the verdure. Each flower spike which has
been crossed carries its neat label, registering the father's name and the date
of union.
Mr. Maynard takes the two first virgin blooms to hand: Cypripedium Sanderianum,
and Cypripedium Godefroyć, as it chances. Let us cut off the lip in order to see
more clearly. Looking down now upon the flower, we mark two wings, the petals,
which stood on either side of the vanished lip. From the junction of these wings
issues a round stalk, about one quarter of an inch long, and slightly hairy,
called the "column." It widens out at the tip, forming a pretty table, rather
more than one-third of an inch long and wide. This table serves no purpose in
our inquiry; it obstructs the view, and we will remove it; but the reader
understands, of course, that these amputations cannot be performed when business
is intended. Now—the table snipped off—we see those practical parts of the
flower that interest us. Beneath its protection, the column divides into three
knobbly excrescences, the central plain, those on either side of it curling back
and down, each bearing at its extremity a pad, the size of a small pin's head,
outlined distinctly with a brown colour. It is quite impossible to mistake these
things; equally impossible, I hope, to misunderstand my description. The pads
are the male, the active organs.
But the column does not finish here. It trends downward, behind and below the
pads, and widens out, with an exquisitely graceful curve, into a disc
one-quarter of an inch broad. This is the female, the receptive part; but here
we see the peculiarity of orchid structure. For the upper surface of the disc is
not susceptible; it is the under surface which must be impregnated, though the
imagination cannot conceive a mere accident which would throw those fertilizing
pads upon their destined receptacle. They are loosely attached and adhesive,
when separated, to a degree actually astonishing, as is the disc itself; but if
it were possible to displace them by shaking, they could never fall where they
ought. Some outside impulse is needed to bring the parts together. In their
native home insects perform that service—sometimes. Here we may take the first
implement at hand, a knife, a bit of stick, a pencil. We remove the pads, which
yield at a touch, and cling to the object. We lay them one by one on the
receptive disc, where they seem to melt into the surface—and the trick is done.
Write out your label—"Cyp. Sanderianum × Cyp. Godefroyć, Maynard." Add the date,
and leave Nature to her work.
She does not linger. One may almost say that the disc begins to swell instantly.
That part which we term the column is the termination of the seed-purse, the
ovary, which occupies an inch, or two, or three, of the stalk, behind the
flower. In a very few days its thickening becomes perceptible. The unimpregnated
bloom falls off at its appointed date, as everybody knows; but if fertilized it
remains entire, saving the labellum, until the seed is ripe, perhaps half a year
afterwards—but withered, of course. Very singular and quite inexplicable are the
developments that arise in different genera, or even species, after
fertilization. In the Warscewiczellas, for example, not the seed-purse only, but
the whole column swells. Phalśnopsis Luddemanniana is specially remarkable. Its
exquisite bars and mottlings of rose, brown, and purple begin to take a greenish
hue forthwith. A few days later, the lip jerks itself off with a sudden
movement, as observers declare. Then the sepals and petals remaining take flesh,
thicken and thicken, while the hues fade and the green encroaches, until,
presently, they assume the likeness of a flower, abnormal in shape but perfect,
of dense green wax.
This Cypripedium of ours will ripen its seed in about twelve months, more or
less. Then the capsule, two inches long and two-thirds of an inch diameter, will
burst. Mr. Maynard will cut it off, open it wide, and scatter the thousands of
seeds therein, perhaps 150,000, over pots in which orchids are growing. After
experiments innumerable, this has been found the best course. The particles, no
bigger than a grain of dust, begin to swell at once, reach the size of a
mustard-seed, and in five or six weeks—or as many months—they put out a tiny
leaf, then a tiny root, presently another leaf, and in four or five years we may
look for the hybridized flower. Long before, naturally, they have been
established in their own pots.
Strange incidents occur continually in this pursuit, as may be believed. Nine
years since, Mr. Godseff crossed Catasetum macrocarpum with Catasetum callosum.
The seed ripened, and in due time it was sown; but none ever germinated in the
proper place. A long while afterwards Mr. Godseff remarked a tiny little green
speck in a crevice above the door of this same house. It grew and grew very
fast, never receiving water unless by the rarest accident, until those experts
could identify a healthy young Catasetum. And there it has flourished ever
since, receiving no attention; for it is the first rule in orchid culture to
leave a plant to itself where it is doing well, no matter how strange the
circumstances may appear to us. This Catasetum, wafted by the wind, when the
seed was sown, found conditions suitable where it lighted, and quickened, whilst
all its fellows, carefully provided for, died without a sign. It thrives upon
the moisture of the house. In a very few years it will flower. In another case,
when all hope of the germination of a quantity of seed had long been lost, it
became necessary to take up the wooden trellis that formed the flooring of the
path; a fine crop of young hybrids was discovered clinging to the under side.
The amateur who has followed us thus far with interest, may inquire how long it
will be before he can reasonably expect to see the outcome of our proceedings?
In the first place, it must be noted that the time shortens continually as we
gain experience. The statements following I leave unaltered, because they are
given by Messrs. Veitch, our oldest authority, in the last edition of their
book. But at the Temple Show this year Norman C. Cookson, Esq., exhibited Catt.
William Murray, offspring of Catt. Mendellii x Catt. Lawrenceana, a lovely
flower which gained a first class certificate. It was only four years old.
The quickest record as yet is Calanthe Alexanderii, with which Mr. Cookson won a
first-class certificate of the Royal Horticultural Society. It flowered within
three years of fertilizing. As a genus, perhaps, Dendrobiums are readiest to
show. Plants have actually been "pricked out" within two months of sowing, and
they have bloomed within the fourth year. Phajus and Calanthe rank next for
rapid development. Masdevallia, Chysis, and Cypripedium require four to five
years, Lycaste seven to eight, Lślia and Cattleya ten to twelve. These are Mr.
Veitch's calculations in a rough way, but there are endless exceptions, of
course. Thus his Lślia triophthalma flowered in its eighth season, whilst his
Lślia caloglossa delayed till its nineteenth. The genus Zygopetalum, which plays
odd tricks in hybridizing, as I have mentioned, is curious in this matter also.
Z. maxillare crossed with Z. Mackayi demands five years to bloom, but vice versâ
nine years. There is a case somewhat similar, however, among the Cypripeds. C.
Schlimii crossed with C. longifolium flowers in four years, but vice versâ in
six. It is not to be disputed, therefore, that the hybridizer's reward is rather
slow in coming; the more earnestly should he take measures to ensure, so far as
is possible, that it be worth waiting for.
About Orchids
About Orchids, 1893
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