have seen a plant in Mr. Eastey's
collection with twenty-three spikes, the flowers all open at once.
Such a spectacle is not to be described in prose. But when the
enthusiast has rashly said that earth contains no more ethereal
loveliness, let him behold L. a. alba, the white variety. The
dullest man I ever knew, who had a commonplace for all occasions,
found no word in presence of that marvel. Even the half-castes of
Mexico who have no soul, apparently, for things above horseflesh and
cockfights, and love-making, reverence this saintly bloom. The
Indians adore it. Like their brethren to the south, who have
tenderly removed every plant of Cattleya Skinneri alba for
generations unknown, to set upon their churches, they collect this
supreme effort of Nature and replant it round their huts. So
thoroughly has the work been done in either case that no single
specimen was ever seen in the forest. Every one has been bought from
the Indians, and the supply is exhausted; that is to say, a good
many more are known to exist, but very rarely now can the owner be
persuaded to part with one. The first example reached England nearly
half a century ago, sent probably by a native trader to his
correspondent in this country; but, as was usual at that time, the
circumstances are doubtful. It found its way, somehow, to Mr.
Dawson, of Meadowbank, a famous collector, and by him it was
divided. Search was made for the treasure in its home, but vainly;
travellers did not look in the Indian gardens. No more arrived for
many years. Mr. Sander once conceived a fine idea. He sent one of
his collectors to gather Lœlia a. alba at the season when it is in
bud, with an intention of startling the universe by displaying a
mass of them in full bloom; they were still more uncommon then than
now, when a dozen flowering plants is still a show of which kings
may be proud. Mr. Bartholomeus punctually fulfilled his
instructions, collected some forty plants with their spikes well
developed; attached them to strips of wood which he nailed across
shallow boxes, and shipped them to San Francisco. Thence they
travelled by fast train to New York, and proceeded without a
moment's delay to Liverpool on board the Umbria; it was one of her
first trips. All went well. Confidently did Mr. Sander anticipate
the sensation when a score of those glorious plants were set out in
full bloom upon the tables. But on opening the boxes he found every
spike withered. The experiment is so tempting that it has been
essayed once more, with a like result. The buds of Lœlia anceps will
not stand sea air.
Catasetums do not rank as a genus
among our beauties; in fact, saving C. pileatum, commonly called C.
Bungerothi, and C. barbatum, I think of none, at this moment, which
are worthy of attraction on that ground. C. fimbriatum, indeed,
would be lovely if it could be persuaded to show itself. I have seen
one plant which condescended to open its spotted blooms, but only
one. No orchids, however, give more material for study; on this
account Catasetum was a favourite with Mr. Darwin. It is approved
also by unlearned persons who find relief from the monotony of
admiration as they stroll round in observing its acrobatic
performances. The "column" bears two horns; if these be touched, the
pollen-masses fly as if discharged from a catapult. C. pileatum,
however, is very handsome, four inches across, ivory white, with a
round well in the centre of its broad lip, which makes a theme for
endless speculation. The daring eccentricities of colour in this
class of plant have no stronger example than C. callosum, a novelty
from Caraccas, with inky brown sepals and petals, brightest orange
column, labellum of verdigris-green tipped with orange to match.
Schomburgkias are not often seen.
Having a boundless choice of fine things which grow and flower
without reluctance, the practical gardener gets irritated in these
days when he finds a plant beyond his skill. It is a pity, for the
Schomburgkias are glorious things—in especial Sch. tibicinis. No
description has done it justice, and few are privileged to speak as
eye-witnesses. The clustering flowers hang down, sepals and petals
of dusky mauve, most gracefully frilled and twisted, encircling a
great hollow labellum which ends in a golden drop. That part of the
cavity which is visible between the handsome incurved wings has bold
stripes of dark crimson. The species is interesting, too. It comes
from Honduras, where the children use its great hollow pseudo-bulbs
as trumpets—whence the name. At their base is a hole—a touch-hole,
as we may say, the utility of which defies our botanists. Had Mr.
Belt travelled in those parts, he might have discovered the secret,
as in the similar case of the Bullthorn, one of the Gummiferæ. The
great thorns of that bush have just such a hole, and Mr. Belt proved
by lengthy observations that it is designed, to speak roughly, for
the ingress of an ant peculiar to that acacia, whose duty it is to
defend the young shoots—vide Belt's "Naturalist in Nicaragua," page
218. Importers are too well aware that Schomburgkia tibicinis also
is inhabited by an ant of singular ferocity, for it survives the
voyage, and rushes forth to battle when the case is opened. We may
suppose that it performs a like service.
Dendrobiums are "warm" mostly; of
the hot species, which are many, and the cool, which are few, I have
not to speak here. But a remark made at the beginning of this
chapter especially applies to Dendrobes. If they be started early,
so that the young growths are well advanced by June 1; if the
situation be warm, and a part of the house sunny—if they be placed
in that part without any shade till July, and freely syringed—with a
little extra attention many of them will do well enough. That is to
say, they will make such a show of blossom as is mighty satisfactory
in the winter time. We must not look for "specimens," but there
should be bloom enough to repay handsomely the very little trouble
they give. Among those that may be treated so are D. Wardianum,
Falconeri, crassinode, Pierardii, crystallinum, Devonianum—sometimes—and
nobile, of course. Probably there are more, but these I have tried
myself.
Dendrobium Wardianum, at the present day, comes almost exclusively
from Burmah—the neighbourhood of the Ruby Mines is its favourite
habitat. But it was first brought to England from Assam in 1858,
when botanists regarded it as a form of D. Falconeri. This error was
not so strange as its seems, for the Assamese variety has
pseudo-bulbs much less sturdy than those we are used to see, and
they are quite pendulous. It was rather a lively business collecting
orchids in Burmah before the annexation. The Roman Catholic
missionaries established there made it a source of income, and they
did not greet an intruding stranger with warmth—not genial warmth,
at least. He was forbidden to quit the town of Bhamo, an edict which
compelled him to employ native collectors—in fact, coolies—himself
waiting helplessly within the walls; but his reverend rivals, having
greater freedom and an acquaintance with the language, organized a
corps of skirmishers to prowl round and intercept the natives
returning with their loads. Doubtless somebody received the value
when they made a haul, but who, is uncertain perhaps—and the
stranger was disappointed, anyhow. It may be believed that
unedifying scenes arose—especially on two or three occasions when an
agent had almost reached one of the four gates before he was
intercepted. For the hapless collector—having nothing in the world
to do—haunted those portals all day long, flying from one to the
other in hope to see "somebody coming." Very droll, but Burmah is a
warm country for jests of the kind. Thus it happened occasionally
that he beheld his own discomfiture, and rows ensued at the
Mission-house. At length Mr. Sander addressed a formal petition to
the Austrian Archbishop, to whom the missionaries owed allegiance.
He received a sympathetic answer, and some assistance.
From the Ruby Mines also comes a Dendrobium so excessively rare that
I name it only to call the attention of employés in the new company.
This is D. rhodopterygium. Sir Trevor Lawrence has or had a plant, I
believe; there are two or three at St. Albans; but the lists of
other dealers will be searched in vain. Sir Trevor Lawrence had also
a scarlet species from Burmah; but it died even before the
christening, and no second has yet been found. Sumatra furnishes a
scarlet Dendrobe, D. Forstermanni, but it again is of the utmost
rarity. Baron Schroeder boasts three specimens—which have not yet
flowered, however. From Burmah comes D. Brymerianum, of which the
story is brief, but very thrilling if we ponder it a moment. For the
missionaries sent this plant to Europe without a description—they
had not seen the bloom, doubtless—and it sold cheap enough. We may
fancy Mr. Brymer's emotion, therefore, when the striking flower
opened. Its form is unique, though some other varieties display a
long fringe—as that extraordinary object, Nanodes Medusæ, and also
Brassavola Digbyana, which is exquisitely lovely sometimes. In the
case of D. Brymerianum the bright yellow lip is split all round, for
two-thirds of its expanse, into twisted filaments. We may well ask
what on earth is Nature's purpose in this eccentricity; but it is a
question that arises every hour to the most thoughtless being who
grows orchids.Everybody knows Dendrobium nobile so well that it
is not to be discussed in prose; something might be done in poetry,
perhaps, by young gentlemen who sing of buttercups and daisies, but
the rhyme would be difficult. D. nobile nobilius, however, is by no
means so common—would it were! This glorified form turned up among
an importation made by Messrs. Rollisson. They propagated it, and
sold four small pieces, which are still in cultivation. But the
troubles of that renowned firm, to which we owe so great a debt, had
already begun. The mother-plant was neglected. It had fallen into
such a desperate condition when Messrs. Rollisson's plants were
sold, under a decree in bankruptcy, that the great dealers refused
to bid for what should have been a little gold-mine. A casual
market-gardener hazarded thirty shillings, brought it round so far
that he could establish a number of young plants, and sold the
parent for forty pounds at last. There are, however, several fine
varieties of D. nobile more valuable than nobilius. D. n.
Sanderianum resembles that form, but it is smaller and darker.
Albinos have been found; Baron Schroeder has a beautiful example.
One appeared at Stevens' Rooms, announced as the single instance in
cultivation—which is not quite the fact, but near enough for the
auction-room, perhaps. It also was imported originally by Mr.
Sander, with D. n. Sanderianum. Biddings reached forty-three pounds,
but the owner would not deal at the price. Albinos are rare among
the Dendrobes.
D. nobile Cooksoni was the fons et
origo of an unpleasant misunderstanding. It turned up in the
collection of Mr. Lange, distinguished by a reversal of the ordinary
scheme of colour. There is actually no end to the delightful
vagaries of these plants. If people only knew what interest and
pleasing excitement attends the inflorescence of an imported
orchid—one, that is, which has not bloomed before in Europe—they
would crowd the auction-rooms in which every strange face is marked
now. There are books enough to inform them, certainly; but who reads
an Orchid Book? Even the enthusiast only consults it.
Dendrobium nobile Cooksoni, then, has white tips to petal and sepal;
the crimson spot keeps its place; and the inside of the flower is
deep red—an inversion of the usual colouring. Mr. Lange could
scarcely fail to observe this peculiarity, but he seems to have
thought little of it. Mr. Cookson, paying him a visit, was struck,
however—as well he might be—and expressed a wish to have the plant.
So the two distinguished amateurs made an exchange. Mr. Cookson sent
a flower at once to Professor Reichenbach, who, delighted and
enthusiastic, registered it upon the spot under the name of the
gentleman from whom he received it. Mr. Lange protested warmly,
demanding that his discovery should be called, after his residence,
Heathfieldsayeanum. But Professor Reichenbach drily refused to
consider personal questions; and really, seeing how short is life,
and how long Dendrobium nobile Heathfield, &c., true philanthropists
will hold him justified.
We may expect wondrous Dendrobes from
New Guinea. Some fine species have already arrived, and others have
been sent in the dried inflorescence. Of D. phalœnopsis Schroederi I
have spoken elsewhere. There is D. Goldiei; a variety of D.
superbiens—but much larger. There is D. Albertesii, snow-white; D.
Broomfieldianum, curiously like Lœlia anceps alba in its
flower—which is to say that it must be the loveliest of all
Dendrobes. But this species has a further charm, almost 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. Léon 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 with paraffin, and burnt him on
a table—perhaps their altar. M. Humblot himself has had awful
experiences. He was attached to the geographical survey directed by
the French Government, and ten years ago he found Phajus Humblotii
and Phajus tuberculosus in the deadliest swamps of the interior. A
few of the bulbs gathered lived through the passage home, and caused
much excitement when offered for sale at Stevens' Auction Rooms. M.
Humblot risked his life again, and secured a great quantity for Mr.
Sander, but at a dreadful cost. He spent twelve months in the
hospital at Mayotte, and on arrival at Marseilles with his plants
the doctors gave him no hope of recovery. P. Humblotii is a marvel
of beauty—rose-pink, with a great crimson labellum exquisitely
frilled, and a bright green column.
Everybody who knows his "Darwin" is aware that Madagascar is the
chosen home of the Angræcums. All,
indeed, are natives of Africa, so far as I know, excepting the
delightful A. falcatum, which comes, strangely enough, from Japan.
One cannot but suspect, under the circumstances, that this species
was brought from Africa ages ago, when the Japanese were
enterprising seamen, and has been acclimatized by those skilful
horticulturists. It is certainly odd that the only "cool" Aerides—the
only one found, I believe, outside of India and the Eastern
Tropics—also belongs to Japan, and a cool Dendrobe, A. arcuatum, is
found in the Transvaal; and I have reason to hope that another or
more will turn up when South Africa is thoroughly searched. A pink
Angræcum, very rarely seen, dwells somewhere on the West Coast; the
only species, so far as I know, which is not white. It bears the
name of M. Du Chaillu, who found it—he has forgotten where,
unhappily. I took that famous traveller to St. Albans in the hope of
quickening his recollection, and I fear I bored him afterwards with
categorical inquiries. But all was vain. M. Du Chaillu can only
recall that once on a time, when just starting for Europe, it
occurred to him to run into the bush and strip the trees
indiscriminately. Mr. Sander was prepared to send a man expressly
for this Angræcum. The exquisite A. Sanderianum is a native of the
Comorro Islands. No flower could be prettier than this, nor more
deliciously scented—when scented it is! It grows in a climate which
travellers describe as Paradise, and, in truth, it becomes such a
scene. Those who behold young plants with graceful garlands of snowy
bloom twelve to twenty inches long are prone to fall into raptures;
but imagine it as a long-established specimen appears just now at St
Albans, with racemes drooping two and a half feet from each new
growth, clothed on either side with flowers like a double train of
white long-tailed butterflies hovering! A. Scottianum comes from
Zanzibar, discovered, I believe, by Sir John Kirk; A. caudatum, from
Sierra Leone. This latter species is the nearest rival of A.
sesquipedale, showing "tails" ten inches long. Next in order for
this characteristic detail rank A. Leonis and Kotschyi—the latter
rarely grown—with seven-inch "tails;" Scottianum and Ellisii with
six-inch; that is to say, they ought to show such dimensions
respectively. Whether they fulfil their promise depends upon the
grower.
With the exceptions named, this family belongs to Madagascar. It has
a charming distinction, shared by no other genus which I recall,
save, in less degree, Cattleya—every member is attractive. But I
must concentrate myself on the most striking—that which fascinated
Darwin. In the first place it should be pointed out that savants
call this plant Æranthus sesquipedalis, not Angræcum—a fact useful
to know, but unimportant to ordinary mortals. It was discovered by
the Rev. Mr. Ellis, and sent home alive, nearly thirty years ago;
but civilized mankind has not yet done wondering at it. The stately
growth, the magnificent green-white flowers, command admiration at a
glance, but the "tail," or spur, offers a problem of which the
thoughtful never tire. It is commonly ten inches long, sometimes
fourteen inches, and at home, I have been told, even longer; about
the thickness of a goose-quill, hollow, of course, the last inch and
a half filled with nectar. Studying this appendage by the light of
the principles he had laid down, Darwin ventured on a prophecy which
roused special mirth among the unbelievers. Not only the abnormal
length of the nectary had to be considered; there was, besides, the
fact that all its honey lay at the base, a foot or more from the
orifice. Accepting it as a postulate that every detail of the
apparatus must be equally essential for the purpose it had to serve,
he made a series of experiments which demonstrated that some insect
of Madagascar—doubtless a moth—must be equipped with a proboscis
long enough to reach the nectar, and at the same time thick enough
at the base to withdraw the pollinia—thus fertilizing the bloom.
For, if the nectar had lain so close to the orifice that moths with
a proboscis of reasonable length and thickness could get at it, they
would drain the cup without touching the pollinia. Darwin never
proved his special genius more admirably than in this case. He
created an insect beyond belief, as one may say, by the force of
logic; and such absolute confidence had he in his own syllogism that
he declared, "If such great moths were to become extinct in
Madagascar, assuredly this Angræcum would become extinct." I am not
aware that Darwin's fine argument has yet been clinched by the
discovery of that insect. But cavil has ceased. Long before his
death a sphinx moth arrived from South Brazil which shows a
proboscis between ten and eleven inches long—very nearly equal,
therefore, to the task of probing the nectary of Angræcum
sesquipidale. And we know enough of orchids at this time to be
absolutely certain that the Madagascar species must exist.
About Orchids
About Orchids, 1893 |
