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My articles brought upon me a flood of questions almost as
embarrassing as flattering to a busy journalist. The burden of them was
curiously like. Three ladies or gentlemen in four wrote thus: "I love orchids. I
had not the least suspicion that they may be cultivated so easily and so
cheaply. I am going to begin. Will you please inform me"—here diversity set in
with a vengeance! From temperature to flower-pots, from the selection of species
to the selection of peat, from the architecture of a greenhouse to the
capabilities of window-gardening, with excursions between, my advice was
solicited. I replied as best I could. It must be feared, however, that the most
careful questioning and the most elaborate replies by post will not furnish that
ground-work of knowledge, the ABC of the science, which is needed by a person
utterly unskilled; nor will he find it readily in the hand-books. Written by men
familiar with the alphabet of orchidology from their youth up, though they seem
to begin at the beginning, ignorant enthusiasts who study them find woeful gaps.
It is little I can do in this matter; yet, believing that the culture of these
plants will be as general shortly as the culture of pelargoniums under glass—and
firmly convinced that he who hastens that day is a real benefactor to his kind—I
am most anxious to do what lies in my power. Considering the means by which this
end may be won, it appears necessary above all to avoid boring the student. He
should be led to feel how charming is the business in hand even while engaged
with prosaic details; and it seems to me, after some thought, that the sketch of
a grand orchid nursery will best serve our purpose for the moment. There I can
show at once processes and results, passing at a step as it were from the
granary into the harvest-field, from the workshop to the finished and glorious
production.
"An orchid farm" is no extravagant description of the establishment at St.
Albans. There alone in Europe, so far as I know, three acres of ground are
occupied by orchids exclusively. It is possible that larger houses might be
found—everything is possible; but such are devoted more or less to a variety of
plants, and the departments are not all gathered beneath one roof. I confess,
for my own part, a hatred of references. They interrupt the writer, and they
distract the reader. At the place I have chosen to illustrate our theme, one has
but to cross a corridor from any of the working quarters to reach the showroom.
We may start upon our critical survey from the very dwelling-house. Pundits of
agricultural science explore the sheds, I believe, the barns, stables,
machine-rooms, and so forth, before inspecting the crops. We may follow the same
course, but our road offers an unusual distraction.
It passes from the farmer's hall beneath a high glazed arch. Some thirty feet
beyond, the path is stopped by a wall of tufa and stalactite which rises to the
lofty roof, and compels the traveller to turn right or left. Water pours down it
and falls trickling into a narrow pool beneath. Its rough front is studded with
orchids from crest to base. Cœlogenes have lost those pendant wreaths of bloom
which lately tipped the rock as with snow. But there are Cymbidiums arching long
sprays of green and chocolate; thickets of Dendrobe set with flowers beyond
counting—ivory and rose and purple and orange; scarlet Anthuriums: huge clumps
of Phajus and evergreen Calanthe, with a score of spikes rising from their broad
leaves; Cypripediums of quaint form and striking half-tones of colour; Oncidiums
which droop their slender garlands a yard long, golden yellow and spotted,
purple and white—a hundred tints. The crown of the rock bristles all along with
Cattleyas, a dark-green glossy little wood against the sky. The Trianæs are
almost over, but here and there a belated beauty pushes through, white or rosy,
with a lip of crimson velvet. Mossiæs have replaced them generally, and from
beds three feet in diameter their great blooms start by the score, in every
shade of pink and crimson and rosy purple. There is Lœlia elegans, exterminated
in its native home, of such bulk and such luxuriance of growth that the
islanders left forlorn might almost find consolation in regarding it here. Over
all, climbing up the spandrils of the roof in full blaze of sunshine, is Vanda
teres, round as a pencil both leaves and stalk, which will drape those bare iron
rods presently with crimson and pink and gold.[8] The way to our farmyard is not
like others. It traverses a corner of fairyland.
We find a door masked by such a rock as that faintly and vaguely pictured, which
opens on a broad corridor. Through all its length, four hundred feet, it is
ceilinged with baskets of Mexican orchid, as close as they will fit. Upon the
left hand lie a series of glass structures; upon the right, below the level of
the corridor, the workshops; at the end—why, to be frank, the end is blocked by
a ponderous screen of matting just now. But this dingy barrier is significant of
a work in hand which will not be the least curious nor the least charming of the
strange sights here. The farmer has already a "siding" of course, for the
removal of his produce; he finds it necessary to have a station of his own also
for the convenience of clients. Beyond the screen at present lies an area of mud
and ruin, traversed by broken walls and rows of hot-water piping swathed in felt
to exclude the chill air. A few weeks since, this little wilderness was covered
with glass, but the ends of the long "houses" have been cut off to make room for
a structure into which visitors will step direct from the train. The platform is
already finished, neat and trim; so are the vast boilers and furnaces, newly
rebuilt, which would drive a cotton factory.
A busy scene that is which we survey, looking down through openings in the wall
of the corridor. Here is the composing-room, where that magnificent record of
orchidology in three languages, the "Reichenbachia," slowly advances from year
to year. There is the printing-room, with no steam presses or labour-saving
machinery, but the most skilful craftsmen to be found, the finest paper, the
most deliberate and costly processes, to rival the great works of the past in
illustrating modern science. These departments, however, we need not visit, nor
the chambers, lower still, where mechanical offices are performed.
The "Importing Room" first demands notice. Here cases are received by fifties
and hundreds, week by week, from every quarter of the orchid world, unpacked,
and their contents stored until space is made for them up above. It is a long
apartment, broad and low, with tables against the wall and down the middle,
heaped with things which to the uninitiated seem, for the most part, dry sticks
and dead bulbs. Orchids everywhere! They hang in dense bunches from the roof.
They lie a foot thick upon every board, and two feet thick below. They are
suspended on the walls. Men pass incessantly along the gangways, carrying a load
that would fill a barrow. And all the while fresh stores are accumulating under
the hands of that little group in the middle, bent and busy at cases just
arrived. They belong to a lot of eighty that came in from Burmah last night—and
while we look on, a boy brings a telegram announcing fifty more from Mexico,
that will reach Waterloo at 2.30 p.m. Great is the wrath and great the anxiety
at this news, for some one has blundered; the warning should have been
despatched three hours before. Orchids must not arrive at unknown stations
unless there be somebody of discretion and experience to meet them, and the next
train does not leave St. Albans until 2.44 p.m. Dreadful is the sense of
responsibility, alarming the suggestions of disaster, that arise from this
incident.
The Burmese cases in hand just now are filled with Dendrobiums, crassinode and
Wardianum, stowed in layers as close as possible, with D. Falconerii for packing
material. A royal way of doing things indeed to substitute an orchid of value
for shavings or moss, but mighty convenient and profitable. For that packing
will be sent to the auction-rooms presently, and will be sold for no small
proportion of the sum which its more delicate charge attains. We remark that the
experienced persons who remove these precious sticks, layer by layer, perform
their office gingerly. There is not much danger or unpleasantness in unpacking
Dendrobes, compared with other genera, but ship-rats spring out occasionally and
give an ugly bite; scorpions and centipedes have been known to harbour in the
close roots of D. Falconerii; stinging ants are by no means improbable, nor huge
spiders; while cockroaches of giant size, which should be killed, may be looked
for with certainty. But men learn a habit of caution by experience of cargoes
much more perilous. In those masses of Arundina bambusæfolia beneath the table
yonder doubtless there are centipedes lurking, perhaps even scorpions, which
have escaped the first inspection. Happily, these pests are dull, half-stupefied
with the cold, when discovered, and no man here has been stung, circumspect as
they are; but ants arrive as alert and as vicious as in their native realm.
Distinctly they are no joke. To handle a consignment of Epidendrum bicornutum
demands some nerve. A very ugly species loves its hollow bulbs, which, when
disturbed, shoots out with lightning swiftness and nips the arm or hand so
quickly that it can seldom be avoided. But the most awkward cases to deal with
are those which contain Schomburghkia tibicinis. This superb orchid is so
difficult to bloom that very few will attempt it; I have seen its flower but
twice. Packers strongly approve the reluctance of the public to buy, since it
restricts importation. The foreman has been laid up again and again. But they
find pleasing curiosities also, tropic beetles, and insects, and cocoons.
Dendrobiums in especial are favoured by moths; D. Wardianum is loaded with their
webs, empty as a rule. Hitherto the men have preserved no chrysalids, but at
this moment they have a few, of unknown species.
The farmer gets strange bits of advice sometimes, and strange offers of
assistance. Talking of insects reminds him of a letter received last week. Here
it is:—
Sirs,—I have heard that you are large growers of orchids; am I right in
supposing that in their growth or production you are much troubled with some
insect or caterpillar which retards or hinders their arrival at maturity, and
that these insects or caterpillars can be destroyed by small snakes? I have
tracts of land under my occupation, and if these small snakes can be of use in
your culture of orchids you might write, as I could get you some on knowing what
these might be worth to you.
Yours truly
——
Thence we mount to the potting-rooms, where a dozen skilled workmen try to keep
pace with the growth of the imported plants; taking up, day by day, those which
thrust out roots so fast that postponement is injurious. The broad middle tables
are heaped with peat and moss and leaf-mould and white sand. At counters on
either side unskilled labourers are sifting and mixing, while boys come and go,
laden with pots and baskets of teak-wood and crocks and charcoal. These things
are piled in heaps against the walls; they are stacked on frames overhead; they
fill the semi-subterranean chambers of which we get a glimpse in passing. Our
farm resembles a factory in this department.
Ascending to the upper earth again, and crossing the corridor, we may visit
number one of those glass-houses opposite. I cannot imagine, much more describe,
how that spectacle would strike one to whom it was wholly unfamiliar. These
buildings—there are twelve of them, side by side—measure one hundred and eighty
feet in length, and the narrowest has thirty-two feet breadth. This which we
enter is devoted to Odontoglossum crispum, with a few Masdevallias. There were
twenty-two thousand pots in it the other day; several thousand have been sold,
several thousand have been brought in, and the number at this moment cannot be
computed. Our farmer has no time for speculative arithmetic; he deals in produce
wholesale. Telegraph an order for a thousand crispums and you cause no stir in
the establishment. You take it for granted that a large dealer only could
propose such a transaction. But it does not follow at all. Nobody would credit,
unless he had talked with one of the great farmers, on what enormous scale
orchids are cultivated up and down by private persons. Our friend has a client
who keeps his stock of O. crispum alone at ten thousand; but others, less
methodical, may have more.
Opposite the door is a high staging, mounted by steps, with a gangway down the
middle and shelves descending on either hand. Those shelves are crowded with
fine plants of the glorious O. crispum, each bearing one or two spikes of
flower, which trail down, interlace, arch upward. Not all are in bloom; that
amazing sight may be witnessed for a month to come—for two months, with such
small traces of decay as the casual visitor would not notice. So long and dense
are the wreaths, so broad the flowers, that the structure seems to be festooned
from top to bottom with snowy garlands. But there is more. Overhead hang rows of
baskets, lessening in perspective, with pendent sprays of bloom. And broad
tables which edge the walls beneath that staging display some thousands still,
smaller but not less beautiful. A sight which words could not portray. I yield
in despair.
The tillage of the farm is our business, and there are many points here which
the amateur should note. Observe the bricks beneath your feet. They have a
hollow pattern which retains the water, though your boots keep dry. Each side of
the pathway lie shallow troughs, always full. Beneath that staging mentioned is
a bed of leaves, interrupted by a tank here, by a group of ferns there, vividly
green. Slender iron pipes run through the house from end to end, so perforated
that on turning a tap they soak these beds, fill the little troughs and hollow
bricks, play in all directions down below, but never touch a plant. Under such
constant drenching the leaf-beds decay, throwing up those gases and vapours in
which the orchid delights at home. Thus the amateur should arrange his
greenhouse, so far as he may. But I would not have it understood that these
elaborate contrivances are essential. If you would beat Nature, as here, making
invariably such bulbs and flowers as she produces only under rare conditions,
you must follow this system. But orchids are not exacting.
The house opens, at its further end, in a magnificent structure designed
especially to exhibit plants of warm species in bloom. It is three hundred feet
long, twenty-six wide, eighteen high—the piping laid end to end, would measure
as nearly as possible one mile: we see a practical illustration of the resources
of the establishment, when it is expected to furnish such a show. Here are
stored the huge specimens of Cymbidium Lowianum, nine of which astounded the
good people of Berlin with a display of one hundred and fifty flower spikes, all
open at once. We observe at least a score as well furnished, and hundreds which
a royal gardener would survey with pride. They rise one above another in a great
bank, crowned and brightened by garlands of pale green and chocolate. Other
Cymbidiums are here, but not the beautiful C. eburneum. Its large white flowers,
erect on a short spike, not drooping like these, will be found in a cool
house—smelt with delight before they are found.
Further on we have a bank of Dendrobiums, so densely clothed in bloom that the
leaves are unnoticed. Lovely beyond all to my taste, if, indeed, one may make a
comparison, is D. luteolum, with flowers of palest, tenderest primrose, rarely
seen unhappily, for it will not reconcile itself to our treatment. Then again a
bank of Cattleyas, of Vandas, of miscellaneous genera. The pathway is hedged on
one side with Begonia coralina, an unimproved species too straggling of growth
and too small of flower to be worth its room under ordinary conditions; but a
glorious thing here, climbing to the roof, festooned at every season of the year
with countless rosy sprays.
Beyond this show-house lie the small structures devoted to "hybridization," but
I deal with them in another chapter. Here also are the Phalœnopsis, the very hot
Vandas, Bolleas, Pescatoreas, Anæctochili, and such dainty but capricious
beauties.
We enter the second of the range of greenhouses, also devoted to Odontoglossums,
Masdevallias, and "cool" genera, as crowded as the last; pass down it to the
corridor, and return through number three, which is occupied by Cattleyas and
such. There is a lofty mass of rock in front, with a pool below, and a pleasant
sound of splashing water. Many orchids of the largest size are planted out
here—Cypripedium, Cattleya, Sobralia, Phajus, Lœlia, Zygopetalum, and a hundred
more, "specimens," as the phrase runs—that is to say, they have ten, twenty,
fifty, flower spikes. I attempt no more descriptions; to one who knows, the
plain statement of fact is enough, one who does not is unable to conceive that
sight by the aid of words. But the Sobralias demand attention. They stand here
in clumps two feet thick, bearing a wilderness of loveliest bloom—like Irises
magnified and glorified by heavenly enchantment. Nature designed a practical
joke perhaps when she granted these noble flowers but one day's existence each,
while dingy Epidendrums last six months, or nine. I imagine that for stateliness
and delicacy combined there are no plants that excel the Sobralia. At any single
point they may be surpassed—among orchids, be it understood, by nothing else in
Nature's realm—but their magnificence and grace together cannot be outshone.
I must not dwell upon the marvels here, in front, on either side, and above—a
hint is enough. There are baskets of Lœlia anceps three feet across, lifted
bodily from the tree in their native forest where they had grown perhaps for
centuries. One of them—the white variety, too, which æsthetic infidels might
adore, though they believed in nothing—opened a hundred spikes at Christmas
time; we do not concern ourselves with minute reckonings here. But an
enthusiastic novice counted the flowers blooming one day on that huge mass of
Lœlia albida yonder, and they numbered two hundred and eleven—unless, as some
say, this was the quantity of "spikes," in which case one must have to multiply
by two or three. Such incidents maybe taken for granted at the farm.
About Orchids
About Orchids, 1893
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