The Woodlands Orchids, Described and Illustrated

The forebodings of the Caribs were sadly verified. Mr. Ponder started back in the afternoon and they followed within a week – ‘made men’ if they had wit enough to keep their booty, but not so rich as they had hoped.

Next rains Sam loyally performed his promise. And thus it happened that Messrs. Stevens were overwhelmed with Brassavola Digbyana once upon a time.

LYCASTES, SOBRALIAS, AND ANGOULOAS

occupy different compartments in one house. The first will not detain us. All the species which orchidists, in a lordly way, term common are represented here – of course, by their best varieties. I can fancy the wonder and delight of a stranger entering when the Lycastes Skinneri alba and virginalis are in bloom, remembering my own emotion at the spectacle elsewhere. Not many of the genus appeal to the aesthetic, and Skinneri in especial lacks grace. But unsymmetrical form and abrupt rigidity of growth are forgotten when those great flowers, so pure, so divinely white, burst upon the eye. Charming also are the pale varieties of Skinneri, such as Lady Roberts, a dainty rose, the petals only just dark enough to show up the labellum almost white; and Phyllis of somewhat deeper rose. Its velvety lip has a crimson margin well displayed by a small white patch upon the disc.

Leucantha, dainty green with white petals, is charming; a pan of aromatica with fifty or sixty delicate golden blooms makes a pretty show. But these things do not call for special notice.

There are varieties, however, of course, as the famous Lycaste plana Measuresiana, coppery, shining, with pure white petals, crimson spotted, and small white lip; plana lassioglossa, olive green of sepal and petal, with a bright rusty stain at the base; lip white, with conspicuous white spots.

Fulvescens.– Large and spreading. Sepals and petals reddish orange, lip clear brightest orange, so lightly poised that it quivers at a breath. It has as many as forty flowers from one bulb sometimes.

Denningiana.– Very large. Sepals and petals whitish green, lip brown.

Mooreana.– An extraordinary variety of L. Locusta, which itself is extraordinary enough. Reichenbach described Locusta in his lively way: ‘Green sepals, green petals, green lip, green callus, green ovary, green bract, green sheath, green peduncle, green bulbs, green leaves – just as green as a green grasshopper or the dress of some Viennese ladies.’ Mooreana is larger, and the heavy fringe of the lip has a faint yellow shade.

Sobralias

It may be granted that all classes of orchid are not equally beautiful, but to compare one with another in this point of view is futile. Each has its own charm which individual taste may prefer, and to set Cattleyas, for instance, above Odontoglots is only to demonstrate that for some persons size and brilliancy of hue are more attractive than grace and purity. But in any competition of the sort Sobralias must rank high. They are all large, they have every fascination which colour can give, and the delicate crumpling of the lip, characteristic of this genus alone, is one of Nature’s subtlest devices. Gardeners also approve them, for they need less attention perhaps than any others, and they grow fast. The sagacious reader will begin to ask by this time what are the disadvantages to set against all these merits? There is only one, but for too many amateurs it is fatal – the glorious flowers last scarcely two days. Certainly a spike will carry four or five, or even six, which open one after another. But then all is over till next year. And the plants are big, occupying much room. Therefore Sobralias are not favoured by the wise, when space is limited.

All are American, growing among the rocks and in the scanty soil of mountain districts. One reads of species so tall that a man on horseback must raise his arm to pick the flowers. This may be an exaggeration, but we have Sobralia macrantha gigas here six feet high, and Hookerae even topping it. Upon the other hand, that marvel, Kienastiana, has a very modest stature. Nearly all the species known are here – it is not a large genus: Lindeni, Hookerae, Lowii, macrantha and macrantha alba, xantholeuca, and Kienastiana, which has its story.

Measuresiana is uncommon; white, an immense flower. The vast lip, circular, daintily crumpled, is palest pink, with a deep yellow throat, round which the pink darkens to pale crimson. Sanderae also is white, faintly tinged with yellow.

In these days, however, it is the hybrids which interest us, and there are two of surpassing merit.

Amesiana (xantholeuca × Wilsonii). – Palest rosy lilac, somewhat more rosy in the centre – the crumpled pink lip is as round and as big as a crown piece. The cavity of the throat, orange, changes to gamboge as it widens; encircling this is a stain of tawny crimson. Lip rose, shaded with reddish brown.

Veitchii (macrantha × xantholeuca). – White, with a pretty orange throat. Round the edges of the lip, deliciously frilled and crumpled, is a broad band of purplish pink.

Here and there in this house, as room can be made, stand many fine plants of Laelia elegans. Beyond is a second compartment devoted to Lycastes and Selenepeds, the name granted, for distinction’s sake, to Transatlantic forms of Cypripedium; in the gardener’s point of view, however, there is no difference between them, and such of these plants as call for notice, in my very narrow space, are described among the Cypripeds.

One rarity, however, I must not overlook – Miltonia Binottii, assumed to be a natural hybrid of M. candida and M. Regnellii; sepals and petals creamy yellow, tinged with lilac at the base and barred with cinnamon brown; lip pale rosy purple.

Anguloas

Nature has thought fit to produce many clumsy plants, and the well-balanced mind raises no objection so long as they remain in their proper place. A pumpkin is not a thing of grace, but then nobody calls on us to admire it. There is little to choose between an Anguloa and a pumpkin in the way of beauty; yet a multitude of people, not less sane to all appearance than their neighbours, invite one to mark and linger over its charms. This always seems very strange to me. I remember a painting of Adam in Paradise, exhibited by an Academician famous in his day – less perhaps for talent than for the popular belief that he wrote certain wailing letters signed ‘A British Matron,’ which the Times published occasionally. Adam was sitting on a flowery bank. The good Academician had all the Asiatic realm of botany before him, wherein to choose blooms appropriate for Paradise; he spurned them all, crossed the Atlantic, surveyed the treasures of the New World, and from the lovely host selected – Anguloa Clowesii! Upon a bed of these Adam sat – of these alone; nothing else was worthy of a place beside them. Evidently Anguloas have a fascination. But my soul is blind to it. We have all the species here.

STORY OF SOBRALIA KIENASTIANA

There are startling flowers of divers sort. Some astonish by mere size, as Rafflesia Arnoldii, which is a yard across and weighs fifteen to twenty pounds, or Amorphophallus Titanum, eight feet high and fifteen inches thick. The stench of these is not less impressive than their bulk; an artist who insisted upon sketching the latter at Kew fainted over her work. But many of the giants are beautiful, as the Aristolochias, like a bag of silk cretonne with mouth of velvet, wherein a lady might stow her equipment for an informal dance – shoes, gloves, fan, handkerchief, scarf, and, if need be, a bouquet; Bomarias, the Peruvian wonder, trailing a scarlet tassel three feet long and thick in proportion. Others are surprising without qualification, like Nepenthes, which dangle a water jug at the tip of every leaf. But among orchids alone you see flowers of familiar shape and ordinary class, which startle you by the mere perfection of their beauty. One of these is Sobralia Kienastiana. My first sight of it at the Temple Show is not to be forgotten. I had been thrilling and raving over a specimen of Cattleya intermedia Parthenia, ‘chaste as ice and pure as snow,’ when, turning to Baron Schröder’s exhibit, I beheld this glory of Nature. It has all the advantage of ‘setting’ denied to so many among the loveliest of its fellows. That divine Parthenia must be regarded alone. It has no charm of environment. But the Sobralia is a thicket, green and strong and pleasant to the eye, crowned with the flowers of Paradise, snow-white, several inches broad, but tender and dainty as the lily of the valley. Though open to the widest, and exquisitely frilled, their petals are crumpled; you might think fairies had been gauffering them and left the work incomplete, surprised by dawn. Baron Schröder and Mr. Wilson of Westbrook, Sheffield, had the only plants in England then; M. Kienast-Zolly, Consul at Zurich, the only plant known elsewhere – a piece cut off when he sold the bulk. That such a marvel had a legend I did not doubt. It is, in fact, an albino of the common Sobralia macrantha; in speaking of it, by the way, to scientific persons, or in referring to books, the word ‘macrantha’ must be introduced. The family is Central American, and examples reach this country especially from Mexico. A variety so rare and so charming would be found in some hardly known spot. But orchids do not live in the desert. It would be strange if Indians had not noticed such a wonder, and if they noticed, assuredly they would prize it. They would not allow the plant to be removed under ordinary conditions; if a price were accepted it would be very high, but more probably no sum would tempt them. Therefore did I conclude at sight that Sobralia Kienastiana had its legend. And I traced without difficulty the outline which I have filled up.

M. Kienast-Zolly dwelt many years at Orizaba in Mexico, where he collected orchids with enthusiasm for his own delight. An Indian servant gave zealous help, partly, doubtless, for love of the flowers, but partly also for love of the master whose ‘bread he had eaten’ from childhood – and still eats, I believe. This man, Pablo, ceaselessly inquired for rarities among his own people, made journeys, bargained, bought, and by times, they say – but stole is not the proper word to use when an object has no owner nor intrinsic value. Pablo had a younger brother, a priest, in the neighbourhood of Tehuacan. They had not met since his ordination, until, once on a time, M. Kienast-Zolly visited those parts, and Pablo took the opportunity to spend a day and night at the Indian village, Nidiri, where his brother was priest. This ecclesiastic was an earnest man. He found no satisfaction in compounding the heathen practices of his flock for money, as do his fellows. His legitimate dues sufficed him – I daresay they reached ten pounds a year. He found a melancholy diversion in writing plaintive memorials to the Bishop. Week by week the good man raised his moan. He could not see very deep. It did not occur to him that the Christian faith itself, as the Indians understand it, is but a form of heathendom. The doings of which he complained were acts of positive worship towards the old idols. He demanded an investigation, special magistrates; in brief, the re-establishment of the Inquisition. The Bishop had long ceased to acknowledge these dolorous reports; doubtless they contained nothing new to him.

Out of the fulness of his heart a man speaketh, and after discussing family affairs, the Cura broached his spiritual sorrows. Pablo had not been trained at a seminary, and religious questions did not interest him. As a townsman, also, he had picked up some liberal ideas, and when the brother talked of converting his flock from their evil ways by force, he observed that opinions are free in Mexico nowadays. Then the Cura grew warm. Opinions? Rising hurriedly, he produced horrid little figures of clay or wood, actual idols, found and confiscated, not without opposition. When Pablo did not seem much impressed by these things – not unfamiliar, probably – he hinted suspicions more awful. There was a spot somewhere in the hills, frequented at certain seasons by these wretches, where they performed sacrifice. Blood was shed, and the Cura had reason to think – he dropped his voice, and bent across the little table to whisper awfully in his brother’s ear.

‘Why,’ said Pablo, ‘if you can prove that, the Government will interfere fast enough. It’s murder!’

‘I am not quite certain. But give me authority to arrest the Cacique – the head-man of the village – and some others! They held one of their impious festivals only last week. I met them returning just after dawn, crowned with flowers, all the men intoxicated. Oh no, it wasn’t a mere drinking bout. The Cacique and that vile Manuele – whom I believe to be the priest – carried nosegays of the accursed flower the demons give them. I know it! They used formerly – the sons of perdition! – to bring it to my church and offer it upon the holy altar. And I – Heaven pardon me! – rejoiced in its beauty. With prayers and thanksgivings I laid the Devil’s Flower before the Blessed Mother. I did not know! It will not be counted against me for a sin, brother?’ So he went on, bemoaning his unconscious offence.

Pablo woke up instantly. What did the Cacique do with his nosegay since he was not allowed to deposit it on the altar? What sort of flower was it? All this seemed trivial to the agitated Cura. With difficulty he was brought to the statement that it resembled the Flor de San Lorenzo, but snow-white. Then Pablo showed much concern. These shocking practices must be made to cease; but first they must have evidence. That mysterious spot on the hills? Did his brother know where it was? No, he had only pieced together hints and fragmentary observations. They suggested a certain neighbourhood. It had never occurred to him to look for it. If his conjectures were sound, the place was desert. Indians always choose a barren unpeopled site for their ancestral worship, as Pablo knew.

He considered. There was a certain risk, for the priests might dwell by their idols. But most even of these look upon their Christian rival with reverence. He asked his brother how he was regarded? Indignantly the latter confessed that all these wicked folk treated him with the utmost deference. He had denounced them again and again from the altar, threatened to excommunicate the whole community – but the Bishop promptly crushed that idea. They listened in respectful silence, and went their own way. Pablo came to a resolve. He proposed that they should start before daylight and search for the accursed place. The Cura was startled, but he assented with passionate zeal; of his stuff, unenterprising, unimaginative, with room for one idea only, martyrs are made. Martyrdom he half expected, and he was ready. Whilst Pablo snored in his hammock, the good man prayed all through the night.

It was still dark when they set forth, and before even Indians were stirring they had passed beyond the village confines; but the sun was high when they reached the hills. These are, in fact, a range of low volcanoes, all extinct now; the most ancient overgrown with trees and brushwood, the most recent still bare. Towards this part the Cura led the way. They passed through blinding gorges where no green thing found sustenance. Cacti and yuccas and agaves, white with dust, clung to the naked tufa. So they went on, mounting always, encouraged from time to time by some faint trace of human passage, which their keen Indian eyes discerned. But from the crest nothing could be seen save gorges such as they had traversed, and long slopes of dazzling rock.

The quest began to look hopeless, but they persevered. And presently Pablo noted something on the ground, at a distance, beside a clump of Opuntia. It was a bunch of withered flowers. Approaching they saw a cleft in the ridge of tufa masked by that straggling cactus. They passed through – and the idols stood before them! The Cura fell on his knees.

It was a small plateau, as white and as naked as the rest. In the midst stood three cairns, each bearing large stone figures, painted red and blue and yellow. Before each cairn was an altar, built of unhewn stones topped by a slab.

The scene was impressive. Pablo recalled his prayers in looking on it. The white and glittering dust lay even as a floor around those heaps of stone. All was still, but the painted statues seemed to tremble and flicker in that awful heat. Tiny whirls of sand arose, and danced, and scattered, though never a breath of wind moved the burning air. The shadow of a vulture sailing passed slowly from side to side.

The Cura ended his prayer, leapt up and rushed – his old black gown streaming like wings. He grasped the foremost idol and pushed and pulled with all his might – he might as well have tried to overthrow the rock itself. Another and another he attempted; all in vain. He paused at length, mopping his drenched face, disheartened but still resolved. Then he took stones and battered the features.

Pablo was scarcely disappointed. So soon as they entered that barren tract, he knew that the Flor de San Lorenzo could not live there. Approaching he scrutinised the altars. Heaps of ashes and charred wood lay upon them, beneath leaves and fruits and flowers, unburnt but shrivelled and crackling in the sunshine. Carefully Pablo turned these over. On the largest slab were found bones and dry pools of blood.

I have not room to follow the story in detail. Next day they started for Orizaba, the priest carrying a passionate recital of these discoveries to the Bishop. What came of it I do not know. Pablo returned forthwith, in pressing haste, accompanied by two soldiers. With these he called on the Cacique and charged him with human sacrifice. For a while the Indian could not speak; then he vehemently denied the accusation. The conference was long; in the end, Pablo admitted his innocence of the graver charge, but the acts of paganry could not be disputed. He agreed to say no more about them, however, on condition that the accursed flower should be surrendered and destroyed in his presence. By evening it was brought. But he changed his mind about destroying it just then. As has been said, this was the pride of M. Kienast-Zolly’s collection for many years; then it passed, the half of it, to Baron Schröder, and a quarter to Mr. Wilson. Shortly afterwards Mr. Measures secured the latter fragment.

The description of the sacred place certainly does not apply to an Indian temple. The cairns were graves of ancient heroes doubtless, and the figures portrait-statues, such as I myself have seen in abundance to the southward. The Indians made this desert spot a temple perhaps, and treated the statues as idols, when their places of worship were destroyed.

THE CYPRIPEDIUM HOUSE

Perhaps our collection is most famed for its Cypripeds. During twenty years and more the owner has been securing remarkable hybrids and varieties – labouring on his own account also to produce them. But the pretty house which lodges these accumulated treasures is not more than 48 feet long and 17 wide. No room here for vulgar beauties; only the best and rarest can find admission. There are, to be precise, 980 plants upon the stages, 169 hanging from the roof. They are close packed certainly, but a glance at the vivid foliage satisfies even the uninitiated that they have space enough. Orchids generally are the most accommodating of plants – the best tempered and the strongest in constitution; and among orchids none equal the Cypripeds in both respects. It is pleasant to fancy that they feel gratitude for our protection. Darwin convinced himself that the whole family is doomed. In construction and anatomy it preserves ‘the record of a former and more simple state of the great orchidaceous family,’ now outgrown. Such survivals are profoundly interesting to us, but Nature does not regard them kindly. They betray her secrets. All the surrounding conditions have changed while the Cypriped clings to its antique model – at least, it has not changed in proportion. Few insects remain, apparently, adapted to fertilise it and it cannot fertilise itself. In the struggle for existence, therefore, it is terribly handicapped. Man comes to the rescue, and no class of orchid accepts his intervention so readily.

It is a pretty house, as I have said. Experienced gardeners have a deep distrust of pretty houses. Picturesque effect and good culture can seldom be reconciled; the conditions needed for the one are generally fatal to the other. But here we have a pleasing exception. All is green and fresh – no brickwork, nor shelves, nor pipes, nor ‘tombstone’ labels obtrude upon the view. The back wall is draped with ferns and creepers, orchids peeping through here and there. A broad stand down the middle, accommodating five rows of Cypripediums on either side, has all its substructures masked with tufa, which bears a mantle of green. The side stands, each accommodating seven rows of pots, are equally clothed in verdure, moss and fern. At the end, through a glass partition open in the centre, is a fountain, with similar stands all round it. And – an essential point, whereby we understand the glorious health of all these plants – there is not one which the gardener cannot see perfectly as he goes by, and reach without an effort, saving those overhead in the middle. No chance of thrips flourishing unsuspected in this house, nor of slugs following their horrid appetite from pot to pot unnoticed.

Since it is especially the number of rare ‘garden mules’ which have won us renown, I ought perhaps to say a word in passing upon the matter of hybridisation. But what can be said in a few lines? It is a theme for articles and books, even in the hands of a smattering amateur like myself. The public has no suspicion how far this novel manufacture has been carried already. There is a hint in the tiny volume compiled by Mr. R. H. Measures ‘for private circulation,’ showing the number of hybrids in the genus Cypripedium of which he could hear. It contains more than eleven hundred items. Of these we have upwards of eight hundred in our collection. But it must be remembered, in the first place, that there is no authoritative list as yet; each inquirer must get information as he can. In the second place, that the number increases daily. Such a list could be framed only by an international committee of botanists, for in France and Belgium orchid-growers are as enthusiastic as our own; whilst in Germany, Italy, Austria and the United States, if the workers be comparatively few they are very busy.

It has often been suggested that an Orchid Farm would pay handsomely, if established in some well-chosen district of the Tropics and intelligently conducted. A gentleman resident in Oviedo, Florida, Mr. Theodore S. Mead, has carried the notion into practice on a small scale with startling results. I quote from the Orchid Review, June 1896: —

‘I have built a small platform in the top of a live oak, about 45 feet from the ground … where I propose to try seeds of some thirty or forty different orchid crosses, including pods from Vanda coerulea and Cattleya citrina, which are thought difficult to manage under glass…’

In September 1897 we hear further: —

‘The season has been a very trying one, and though my orchid-eyrie in the live oak-top promised great success in June, it was very difficult to keep the compost in good condition during the hot, muggy days of July. Still, out of thirty-two crosses planted on a space of peat, 16 inches long by 12 broad, I obtained plants having first leaf of twenty-two of them – mostly Cattleyas and Laelias; – though a good many died when it was necessary to transplant them, on account of mould and algae threatening to swamp the tiny plants. A single plant of Vanda coerulea × V. Amesiana appeared, and is now showing its third leaf. This year I have repeated the cross Bletia verecunda × Schomburgkia tibicinis and have several plants in their first leaf; and also one of Bletia verecunda crossed with our native Calopogon pulchellus…’

In March 1899: – ‘… My seed-planting was very successful after June in polypodium fibre (fresh fern mats) in my tree-top eyrie, and from July till October I averaged 500 little hybrids transplanted to pots every month; about one-fourth still survive… I had an ancient moss-grown magnolia chopped down and cut into slabs, some thirty of which I planted with orchid-seed and kept sprayed. The slabs coming from near the ground scarcely germinated a seed, but those from 20 to 30 feet up yielded from 2 to 3 up to about 150. I also tried oak bark, but while the seeds started promptly they were more subject to disease;… when transplanted to pots nearly all died.