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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1003.] MARCH 18, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
“OUR HERO.”
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.
[Illustration: “PUTTING UP THE PONY AND CART AT A WAYSIDE INN.”]
_All rights reserved._]
CHAPTER XXV.
ROY BARON A FUGITIVE.
[Illustration]
On the edge of a little clearing in the centre of the wood stood a
small square charcoal-burner’s cottage, built of stone. Near behind
might be seen a good-sized outhouse or woodhouse; and to one side was
the pile of slowly-burning charcoal. Round and about were heaps of
unsightly rubbish and of blackened moss.
Nobody seemed to be within or at hand. Jean opened the cottage door
without difficulty; and when they had passed through, he bolted it in
their rear.
Then in the darkness he found his way to a corner, struck a light with
flint and steel, made a “dip” to burn, and groped anew. The one window
was closely shuttered.
Roy flung himself upon a small bench, glad to get his breath, and
watched the other’s doings curiously.
“Are we to stop here?” he asked. “But if the gendarmes come?”
“We must circumvent them, M’sieu.”
“How? What are you going to do?”
Jean was too busy to reply. He produced a blouse, such as would be
worn by a French labouring lad, with shirt and trousers to match, and
brought them to Roy. “M’sieu must change his clothes,” he said. “Rest
afterwards.”
“All right,” once more assented Roy, though the cottage was swimming
and his ears were buzzing with fatigue. He stood up, and promptly
divested himself of what he wore, to assume a different guise. Jean
brought from the same corner a small bottle of dark liquid, which he
mixed with a little water in a basin, and then dyed Roy’s hair and
eyebrows, thereby altering his look to such an extent that even his
mother might almost have passed him by. Roy laughed so much under this
operation, as to discompose the operator.
“Tenez, M’sieu! Taisez-vous, donc, s’il vous plait! M’sieu, I entreat.
I assure Monsieur it is no matter for laughter.”
“If you knew what it is to be free again, you’d laugh too,” declared
Roy, and then his merriment passed into a big yawn. “But I’m awfully
sleepy.”
“Deux minutes, and Monsieur shall rest. Monsieur is hungry.”
Monsieur undoubtedly was, though the craving to lie down was even
greater than the craving to eat. Jean handed him a hunch of bread and
cheese and a glass of milk; and while Roy was occupied with the same,
he proceeded to array himself in holiday costume. He donned an old and
shabby but once gorgeous coat, with standing collar and gay buttons,
which, as he informed Roy, had many long years before been the best
holiday coat of his esteemed grandfather.
“I go to the wedding of my niece,” he remarked, with so much
satisfaction that, for a moment, Roy really thought he meant it. “Does
Monsieur perceive? And Monsieur will be the boy—Joseph—who goes with
me in the little cart.”
“But where is the little cart?”
“All in good time, M’sieu. Now we have for the moment to get rid of
these things.”
Jean rolled the discarded clothes into a bundle, with which he
disappeared out of the cottage for a few minutes. Roy conjectured that
he might have buried it in the bushes, or under heaps of black rubbish,
abundance of which lay ready to hand. Jean then took Roy into the
outhouse, which was more than two-thirds full of heavy logs and faggots
of wood—the winter supply—piled together.
“Am I to get underneath all that, Jean?”
“Oui, M’sieu. The gendarmes will not easily find you there.”
“And you too?”
“Non, M’sieu. I betake myself to the _soupente_.”
The _soupente_ in a French cottage is a kind of upper cupboard, a small
corner cut off from the one room, near the ceiling, descending only
half-way to the ground, and reached by a ladder.
“And if they find you there——”
“M’sieu, if they find me, they will not know me—see, in this dress!
I am not like the Jean who chopped wood at Bitche. And I hope then to
draw their attention from M’sieu! Voyez-vous?”
Roy wrung his hand. “I don’t know what makes you so good to me,” the
boy said huskily. “I—I don’t think it’s fair upon you, though. And—I
can’t think why!”
“It is not difficult to tell M’sieu why!” Jean looked abstractedly
at the roof of the wood-hut. “It is for the sake of my mother—for
the sake of that kind Monsieur le Capitaine, who would not leave her
unhappy. Does M’sieu remember—how Monsieur le Capitaine regarded my
mother that day?”
Roy remembered—and understood.
“Now, Monsieur! We may not lose time. The light grows fast.”
Jean pulled down and hauled aside logs and masses of wood, making a
kind of little cave or hollow far back, where Roy could creep in and
lie close to the wall. Jean wrapped round him an old coat, for warmth;
and then, when he had laid himself down, threw light black rubbish
over him as an additional security, before carefully heaping up anew
the logs and faggots, till not the faintest sign remained of any human
being beneath. Jean did his utmost to deface all tokens that the
wood-pile had been disturbed.
“M’sieu must lie still,” he said. “On no account must M’sieu move or
speak. If by chance I should have to go away, M’sieu must wait till
nightfall, when the cart will come to take M’sieu elsewhere.”
“But I say, Jean—you must not get into trouble for me,” called Roy,
his voice sounding far and muffled.
“Bien, M’sieu. Trust Jean to do his best. Can M’sieu breathe easily?”
“Rather stuffy, but it’s all right.”
“Au revoir, M’sieu. I go to the _soupente_. M’sieu will remain in the
_bûcher_, till I or my friend come again.”
Then silence. Jean returned to the cottage, where he rinsed the basin
which had been used for dyeing purposes, put things straight, unbolted
the front door, climbed up into the little _soupente_, drawing the
ladder after him, and there laid himself flat, under a pile of loose
rubbish. Soon he was or pretended to be asleep.
Roy’s sleep was no pretence. Despite his hard bed, and the “stuffiness”
of the limited atmosphere which he had to breathe, despite fear of
gendarmes and risks of discovery, he was very soon peacefully sound
asleep, and knew no more for the next two hours.
Something roused him then. In a moment he was wide awake; his heart
thumping unpleasantly against his side.
The gendarmes had come.
Roy of course could see nothing; he could only hear; and he heard a
good deal more than might have been expected from his position, since
his senses were quickened by the exigency of the moment. Also, the men
made a good deal of noise, after the manner of gendarmes. Roy imagined
that three or four of them must be there.
They made their way first into the cottage, surprised to find the door
on the latch, and nobody within. The fact of finding the door thus
tended to allay their suspicions, as Jean had hoped. On the face of
matters, nothing was less probable than that fugitives hiding within
should not so much as have drawn the bolt. They walked round the one
room, knocking things about a little. One of them looked vaguely about
for a ladder, but seeing none he did not trouble himself further as to
the _soupente_.
Then they left the cottage, and entered the _bûcher_, where the wood
was solidly and firmly piled together, as for the winter’s use. No
signs here of human life. Roy below the pile lay motionless, every
faculty concentrated into listening. One of the men kicked down a few
faggots, and another pulled at a log. To Roy it sounded as if they
were making their way to where he was. But the search stopped at last,
after what seemed to Roy a small century of suspense, and they took
themselves off. He heard them mount their horses and trot away.
“Safe!” murmured Roy, and in his heart there was a fervent “Thank God!”
not spoken in words.
He wondered whether Jean would come to him; but Jean remained absent;
and Roy obeyed orders, staying where he was. Presently he dropped
asleep again, and remembered nothing more for hours.
How many hours he had no means of knowing. Where he lay, he was in
pitch darkness. When he woke, he had the consciousness which we often
have after sleep, of a considerable time having elapsed; but whether
it was now morning or afternoon or evening he could not even guess.
He only knew that he was growing frightfully weary of his constrained
position, longing to get out and exert himself. To sleep more was not
possible. He waited, minute after minute, wondering if the long slow
day would ever come to an end. At length a voice sounded—
“M’sieu!”
“All right,” called Roy.
“Can M’sieu wait a little longer? I hope to get Monsieur out
soon—after dark. It is not safe before then.”
“I’ll wait, Jean. Only as soon as possible, please.”
“Oui, M’sieu.”
Jean disappeared anew. Roy put a question, and had no answer. He was
wildly hungry, but there was nothing to be done except to endure.
The wisdom of Jean’s caution became apparent. Before darkness settled
down the same party of gendarmes again galloped up and sprang to the
ground. They walked as before through cottage and shed, once more
kicking the furniture about. This time one of them found the ladder,
went up it, and stepped inside the _soupente_; but Jean had betaken
himself to another hiding-place outside the cottage, and the search
bore no fruit. The men entered the wood-hut again, in a perfunctory
manner, knocking down a log or two carelessly, and using one to
another rough language as to the escaped prisoner, which boded no
gentle treatment for Roy should he fall into their clutches. Then they
vanished, and silence settled down anew upon the scene.
“Not likely to come again, I hope,” murmured Roy. “O I am tired of
this!”
One more hour he had to endure; and then came the welcome sound of Jean
removing the wood-piles.
“Can M’sieu stand?” asked Jean.
Roy crept out slowly, made the effort, and fell flat. Jean pulled him
up, and held him on his feet.
“All right, I’m only stiff,” declared Roy. “They won’t come back, I
suppose.”
“Non, M’sieu.”
“Why, it’s night, I declare! Been so dark in there, I didn’t know the
difference between night and day. There, now I can walk.” Roy managed
to reach the cottage on his own limbs unassisted. “What a desperately
long day it has been.”
“M’sieu has found it wearying, sans doute.”
“But as if that mattered! As if anything mattered—only to get away
safely!” Roy said energetically. “Jean, you are a good fellow! Is this
for me to eat? I’m as hungry as a bear! Jean, I shall always think
better of Frenchmen for your sake.”
“Yet M’sieu will doubtless fight us one day.”
“I shall fight Buonaparte, not the French nation. I like some of
your people awfully—some at Fontainebleau, and some at Verdun. And
Mademoiselle de St. Roques most of all.”
“Oui, M’sieu. M’sieu had better eat.”
“All right, I’m eating, and you must too. Oh, lots of French have been
as good and as kind to us détenus as they possibly could be. And I only
know one single lodging-house keeper who behaved like a brute. Most of
them have been just the other way. Why, they have kept on lodgers month
after month, out of sheer kindness, when they couldn’t pay anything
because no money reached them from England. I know all that! And I like
the French—only not Boney!”
Jean smiled to himself.
“Cependant, M’sieu, the army of the Emperor is made of French soldiers.”
“Can’t help that,” retorted Roy. “And they can’t help it either, poor
fellows—most of them. I say, this cheese is uncommonly good. Where did
you manage to hide it away, so as to keep it from the gendarmes? Jean,
were you long at Bitche? Tell me about it.”
Jean was cautious. He evidently preferred not to enter into details.
It was better for Roy’s own sake that he should not know too much. It
seemed, however, that on Jean’s arrival at Bitche, he had found one of
the gendarmes to be an old acquaintance; and through this gendarme, not
through his soldier-friend, he had obtained a temporary post in the
fortress. A man who did rough work, chopping and carrying wood and so
on, had fallen ill and had gone home for a fortnight to a neighbouring
village. Meanwhile, Jean was allowed to undertake his work.
This gave Jean a good opportunity to study the fortress and to make
himself acquainted with the surrounding country. He did not fully
explain to Roy the maturing of his plans during that fortnight, nor
precisely what those plans had been. The careful manner in which he
avoided speaking of his soldier-friend made Roy pretty sure that the
said friend had had some sort of hand in aiding his escape; but he put
no more questions in this direction. Jean had had two or three glimpses
of Roy from time to time; but he had held carefully aloof, until he saw
his way to action. Then he contrived to be sent into the yard just when
the better class of prisoners was assembled there; and the rest Roy
knew.
“Why was I sent to that upstairs room?” demanded Roy.
“M’sieu, there were doubtless reasons. It is sometimes best that
one should not know all the reasons that may exist,” observed Jean
meditatively. “What if, perhaps, somebody had known of the intended
escape, and had tried by that means to save M’sieu from danger?”
“Jean, was it you?”
“Non, M’sieu!”—decidedly. But whether Jean spoke the truth on
this point, whether Jean might or might not have had a hand in the
wire-pulling which led to that event, Roy had no means of knowing.
He felt that further questioning would be unfair. He had but to be
thankful that he was free.
By the time hunger and thirst were satisfied, Roy’s spirits had risen
to a pitch unknown to him during eight months past. Then, the land
being shrouded in darkness, a rough little cart drawn by a rough little
pony and driven by a charcoal-burner came to the door. Roy spoke a few
grateful words to him, as well as again to Jean, for their generous
help. After which, he and Jean started in the cart, taking a small
lantern with them.
This next stage of the journey meant quicker and easier advance than
that of the night before. The pony was both strong and willing; and all
through the hours of darkness they were getting farther and farther
away from Bitche. By dawn of day the fear of pursuit was immensely
lessened. Even if the gendarmes had overtaken them, they would hardly
have suspected the odd figure in a smart old coat and ancient cocked
hat of being the temporary wood-chopper at Bitche, or the black-haired
boy in a rough blouse of being their prisoner, Roy Baron.
For greater safety, both that day and the next, they found a retired
spot in which to hide, letting the pony loose to browse and rest on
some rough ground, or putting up it and the cart at a wayside inn, and
calling for it later. One way and another, the dreaded pursuit was
eluded; and, as day after day went by, Roy felt himself indeed free and
on the road for Home.
* * * * *
“Why should you not come with me to England, Jean? I can promise you
that you’d be well looked after there by my friends,” urged Roy. He had
grown sincerely fond of this kind, thoughtful Frenchman.
They were now fast nearing the coast, and their next halting-place
was to be at a farm-house within sight of the sea. There they would
have to remain until an opportunity should occur for Roy to cross the
Channel. Since he had no passport he could not attempt to journey by
the ordinary routes. But even here Jean’s resources did not fail, and
the owners of the said farmhouse were near relatives of his own.
“Non, M’sieu. I should feel strange in another country. Also—have I
not promised to let Monsieur le Capitaine, and Monsieur votre Père, and
Madame votre Mère, hear of your safety? Could I disappoint them?”
“But, I say, will it be safe for you to go back to Verdun? What if
they find out that you have helped me to get away?”
“They will not find out, M’sieu. It was known that I should leave
Bitche that night—and my friends will have diverted suspicion from
me. Moreover, it is no such hard matter to make a little disguise of
myself—if need be.”
Then they reached the farm, and Roy found himself among friends, ready
all to shield him for Jean’s sake. It was decided that he should work
as a boy upon the farm, sufficiently to draw no attention upon himself,
since the waiting for a passage might be long. Roy was willing to be or
to do anything, if only he might at last escape to England.
The farmer’s eldest son, a soldier by conscription in the army of
Napoleon, had been a prisoner in England; and he, like Roy, had made
his escape, getting safely back to France. Roy, immensely interested
in this story, plied the farmer and his wife with questions as to the
experiences of the young fellow in an English prison—questions which
they were not loath to answer. They had, of course, the whole story at
their fingers’ ends.
It was at a place called “Norman’s Cross” that their Philippe had
been confined—somewhere not far from the eastern coast of England.
About seven thousand prisoners of war, chiefly Frenchmen, were there
kept under close surveillance. The prison and the barracks were built
on high land, healthy enough—yes, certainly, as to that, the farmer
said—with plenty of fresh air. And the prisoners were guarded more by
sentinels in all directions, than by fortifications, walls, moats, or
dungeons.
“Not like Bitche!” interjected Roy.
Well, no, certainly—Monsieur spoke correctly. The place—Norman’s
Cross, and the old farmer made a funny sound of these two words—was
not precisely like Bitche. As to arrangements, Philippe had had no
fault to find with the food provided. It was good of its kind; and
cooks were chosen from among the French prisoners by themselves, being
paid for their work of cooking by the English Government. Also, when
Philippe fell ill, he found the hospital well managed. A school for
prisoners was kept going; and several billiard-tables as well as other
amusements were provided.
But, ah, the poor Philippe, he had been unhappy in captivity! Was
it not natural? Had not Monsieur himself experienced the same? He
had longed to be free—to return to his own country once more. And
though on the whole the prisoners had been fairly well treated, at all
events in that particular place, yet of course there had been cases of
roughness and of harsh treatment. Moreover, there was much to make a
prisoner sad—the desperate gaming, the perpetual duelling, among his
fellow-prisoners were of themselves sufficient.[1] So, after more than
a year of captivity, always more and more hopeless, with no token of
the war drawing to a close, he had at last resolved to make his escape.
And, through great dangers, privations, difficulties, he had actually
succeeded.
Where was Philippe now? Ah—pour cela—he had rejoined his regiment,
and was again at his old occupation. Fighting, fighting—who could say
for how long? Perhaps to be again taken prisoner, and once again to be
at Norman’s Cross! Who could foretell?
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] All this from a Frenchman’s account.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.
BY CHARLES PETERS.
[Illustration: _Lilium Brownii._]
Japan is the home of lily culture. Not only are the Japanese Islands
rich in native lilies, but their inhabitants, imbued with a love of
flowers, which to our Western minds is almost incomprehensible, have
introduced into their country all the prominent plants of Eastern Asia.
And with a knowledge which we possess in but a small degree, they have
modified and beautified both their own plants and those that they have
introduced from foreign countries.
The culture of the lily in Japan has reached a high stage of
development, and most of our best varieties of lilies owe their origin
to Japanese gardeners.
Foremost among the lilies of Japan is the one which bears the name of
its native place. _Lilium Japonicum Odorum_ is one of the very finest
of the lilies, and in the strength of its perfume it is absolutely
without a rival.
The true _L. Japonicum_, or, as it is now more generally termed,
_L. Japonicum Odorum_ is but little known in England, but an allied
species, _L. Brownii_, is well known, and though not grown so
frequently as it should be, it is deservedly popular.
It has always been a question whether _L. Japonicum_ and _L. Brownii_
are but varieties of the same plant. Certainly there is a great
similarity between them, but there are points in which the two plants
differ and these differences are very constant.
In Dr. Wallace’s little book on lily culture the differences between
these two lilies are detailed in tabular form, and for ourselves we are
fully convinced that _L. Brownii_ and _L. Japonicum_ are distinct but
very nearly allied species.
The bulb of _L. Japonicum_ is white or yellowish, but never brown. The
scales are narrow and are very loosely connected with the base. The
bulb is always rather loose and the scales divergent, but good bulbs
have a very firm centre. The bulb of _L. Brownii_ is usually reddish
and the scales are broad. The base is very small, and the whole bulb
has a curious and very characteristic shape.
The shoot of _L. Japonicum_ is greener and blunter than that of _L.
Brownii_. The shoot of the latter lily very much resembles thick
asparagus.
During growth it is easy to distinguish between these two lilies, for
the stem of _L. Japonicum_ is green, while that of _L. Brownii_ is
brown.
There is not very much difference in the flowers of these lilies. _L.
Brownii_ often bears three blossoms, and in one case, recorded in _The
Garden_, five blossoms upon one stem. Two blossoms are very frequently
present on the same stem. We have never known _L. Japonicum_ to bear
more than one blossom on each shoot.
[Illustration: _Lilium Longiflorum._]
The flowers of _L. Japonicum_ are a rich custard yellow while they are
opening, but in the fully expanded blossom the colour of the interior
is a rich creamy white. The pollen is reddish brown. The exterior of
the perianth is thickly streaked with chocolate colour. The scent of
this flower is very strong, resembling that of the Jasmine.
The flowers of _L. Brownii_ never show the deep yellow colour which is
present in the partially opened buds of _L. Japonicum_. The pollen is
deep brown and the exterior of the blossoms is more streaked with brown
than are those of _L. Japonicum_. We cannot recognise any difference
in the smell of these two lilies, but Dr. Wallace contends that the
smell of _L. Brownii_ is only moderately strong, like that of _L.
Longiflorum_; while other authors have denied to _L. Brownii_ any scent
whatever!
There is but little reason in the naming of any plant nowadays, and the
foolish and unscientific methods of naming plants after some person who
has discovered, or described, or who has often done nothing more than
bought a specimen of the plant, is unfortunately very rife. Scientists
have tried and are still trying to put down this absurd nomenclature,
but they are thwarted in every way by gardeners and others. Mr. Jones,
Nurseryman, has just flowered a lily. He does not know its name. What
does he do? Does he trouble to find out if the plant is known to
science? Not he! He labels it _Lilium Jonesii_. Mrs. Smith, a very
aristocratic lady and a great patron of Mr. Jones, comes along, sees,
admires and buys that lily. She asks Mr. Jones to send her the plant,
and it arrives labelled, “_Lilium Jonesii var. Smithii_.” So much for
gardeners’ floral nomenclature!
Can anyone tell us who is the Mr. Brown after whom _L. Brownii_ is
named? As far as we can find out that gentleman is quite unknown to
science. Perhaps some wag might suggest that the name originated
through ignorance. The man who discovered the lily—or rather who
thought he had discovered it, for the plant has been cultivated
in Japan for centuries—perceiving that the colour brown was very
characteristic of the flower, wanted to name the lily with a Latinised
version of “The Brown Lily,” but his classical education, having been
somewhat neglected, he knew not the Latin for brown, so he named the
plant _Lilium Brownii_ or _Browni_ to cloak his ignorance.
As no one is certain of the origin of the name _Brownii_, so no one
knows the original habitat of this species. All our specimens come from
Japan, but it is very doubtful whether it is a native of that land.
Have you ever seen a clump of _L. Brownii_ in flower? Last July there
was a bed of this lily at Kew in full blossom, and as the weather had
been remarkably suitable to the plant, and its blossoms had not been
injured by rain, the sight of that bed was one of the loveliest sights
we can remember.
This lily has lately become more popular than formerly, but it is very
far from enjoying that universal admiration which it amply deserves.
One reason for its comparative scarcity is its tendency to degenerate,
a tendency which we strongly suspect is due to improper culture.
It is usually stated that this lily should be grown in very light
sandy soil. We have grown it in such a soil and also in a strong,
well-manured, peaty loam—a soil as different from a light sandy soil
as can be well imagined. Those lilies grown in the light soil became
diseased and died without flowering. Those in the heavy soil grew
strong and very tall, never showed any trace of disease, and each spike
produced two perfect blossoms.
The depth of the colour of the exterior of the blossoms varies with the
amount of light in which the lily is grown. Specimens grown indoors
usually have a pure white exterior. The blossoms are very tender and
are often cankered by rain at the flowering time.
Both _L. Brownii_ and _L. Japonicum_ make admirable pot plants, and
their blossoms last a long time as cut flowers.
The variety of _L. Brownii_ called _Leucanthum_ lacks the brown
coloration of the blossoms. We cannot distinguish it from the ordinary
variety when grown indoors. There are several other so-called varieties.
All the lilies which we have described are natives of Asia, but now we
come to one which inhabits our own continent.
_Lilium Candidum_, the white, or Madonna, or St. Joseph’s Lily, is
unquestionably _the_ lily. And when we mention the lily, this is the
plant which is usually meant.
Common as this lily has been in English gardens for very many
centuries, it is not a native plant, and has very rarely escaped from
cultivation. We have only once seen this lily growing wild. This was
in a wood in Surrey, and it was probably a garden escape. There was
but one spike of blossoms in 1895 when we first saw it. Next year it
produced one solitary flower, but since that period it has entirely
disappeared.
Why this lily has never become wild in England is not very obvious,
for though it never seeds in our Island, it very rapidly increases by
off-sets formed round the bulbs, and hundreds of these must be thrown
away yearly.
Perhaps it is that the lily is not really hardy in our climate, and
though it will flourish when tended in the garden, it is unable to hold
its own in the strife with our native plants.
Where the white lily will grow, it is one of the loveliest of
garden plants. Always better where it has been long established and
undisturbed for years, it is in old gardens that this lily is seen in
perfection.
Unlike the lilies we have already considered, the _Lilium Candidum_
bears from four to thirty blossoms on each stem. It is true that one
very rarely sees an umbel of more than ten blossoms, but a plant
bearing only this number is a very marked feature in a garden.
This lily differs from every one of its colleagues in many points. Its
bulb which we figured in our first part is very characteristic. About
the end of October the white lily begins to throw up an autumn crop
of leaves. This alone marks it off from all other lilies, for though
one or two species do sometimes send up a stray leaf or two in autumn,
none of them do so regularly. But with _L. Candidum_ the autumn leaves
are never absent, and they remain green and fresh till long after the
flower shoot has appeared.
The flowers of the white lily are very different from those of _L.
Longiflorum_ and its allies. They are very short, widely-expanded and
very numerous. The pollen is yellow. The flowers have a pleasant though
rather strong perfume.
Though this plant has been grown for centuries in gardens, there are
but few varieties of it.
One variety named _Aureo-Marginatis_ has its leaves bordered with
golden-yellow and the autumn growth looks very striking in winter.
Three other varieties are recognised. _Monstrosum_ or _Flora-pleno_,
has double flowers. But the flowers themselves never develop, the
bracts becoming a greenish-white. It is an ugly and worthless plant
and is deservedly neglected. The two other varieties are called
_peregrinus_ and _striatum_. In the latter the flowers are streaked
with purple. Neither variety is of any value.
The white lily is one of the oldest of all garden plants. It was
certainly cultivated by the Romans, and is in all probability the
origin of the “_Fleur de Lys_.”
If you turn up _L. Candidum_ in any book of gardening, you will find
something like this: “The _Lilium Candidum_ will grow anywhere,
provided the soil is of a light sandy nature.” If you follow this
advice, you will probably lose every one of your plants.
We cannot, alas, tell you how to grow this lily to perfection, for the
simple reason that we cannot do so ourselves. We can only tell you how
not to grow it and how we have obtained moderate success.
The bulbs must be planted early in autumn. It is best to plant them in
late August or early September. If you defer planting till December or
later, the bulbs will not produce an autumn crop of leaves, they will
not send up a flower spike next season, and will probably lie rotting
in the ground.
Except in very exceptional circumstances this lily will not flower well
the first year it is planted, for it needs several years to accustom
itself to new surroundings.
When once this plant is established and flowers well, it should never
be disturbed.
The bulbs should be planted about a foot deep. Often when the bulbs
have been in the ground for some years, they will work their way to
the surface. Even if this happens it is best to leave them alone, if
they flower well. But if the blossoms begin to deteriorate, take up the
bulbs and replant them.
Now about the soil. _L. Candidum_ won’t grow in sand and does not like
a sandy soil at all. It must have a rich moderately heavy loam of good
depth. It is in the black heavy loam of the Thames valley that we have
seen this lily at its best. It likes lime in the soil, but dislikes
peat.
If this lily is grown in light sandy soil, it grows beautifully till
about the middle of May. Disease then commences and kills all your
lilies with rapid strides, so that out of one hundred spikes you may
get perhaps three half-rotten flowers. This has been our experience
of growing this lily in the orthodox way, and we have lost very many
hundreds of flowers through following the generally received opinions.
_Lilium Candidum_ makes a fairly good pot-plant, if the pot in which it
is placed is very deep.
This plant is grown in nearly every cottage garden, and is very cheap
to purchase. About ten shillings a hundred is the ordinary price of the
bulbs.
Since we wrote our account of the diseases of lilies we have heard of a
new method of treating the bulbs of _Lilium Candidum_, when year after
year the spikes become diseased. The bulbs are washed and then baked in
a cool oven. We have heard that though this method does, to a certain
extent, check the disease, it very materially interferes with the
growth and blossoming of the plant.
Resembling _L. Candidum_ in the form and number of its flowers, but
differing from it in almost every other particular, the next lily, “The
Lily of Washington,” is a species which taxes the resources of the
lily-growers to their utmost.
_Lilium Washingtonianum_ is the first lily which we meet with from the
great Western Continent. It inhabits California and the North West,
growing upon the rocks and mountain slopes of its native home.
The bulb of this lily is different from that of any other. It is long,
oblique, and rhizomatous. Its peculiar ovoid shape is due to the fact
that it grows at one end only. The flower-spike always appears from
near the growing end. The far end of the bulb gradually decays as the
near end grows. Bulbs of this lily are often five or six inches long
and two inches broad. The only other lily which bears a bulb in any way
resembling this is _L. Humboldti_, a native of the same places.
The leaves of _L. Washingtonianum_ are arranged in whorls, and are
quite different from any other Eulirion except _Lilium Parryi_, the
next species.
The flowers are borne in a dense raceme. Good specimens often bear as
many as twenty or thirty blossoms, but only too commonly but one or two
flowers are borne on each stem.
Individually the flowers are not much, being small, thin, and of a pale
purple, fading to the deeper shades of purple. The pollen is yellow.
There is a variety of this species, called _Purpureum_, in which the
flowers are upright. In this type the upper flowers look upwards, the
middle ones are horizontal and the lower flowers droop. Although the
variety is called _Purpureum_, the flowers are by no means always
purple, but vary from pure white to deep violet.
Beautiful as this lily is when seen in perfection, we cannot regard it
otherwise than as a fraud. It is one of the most difficult to grow; it
is very liable to disease; it rapidly degenerates, and it is expensive.
The bed of these lilies at Kew was the least effective of all the
groups of lilies.
If you wish to grow this lily, you must carefully study its native
climate, and the habits of the plant when at home.
It is a moderately hardy lily, but will not stand excessive frosts.
Neither will it stand great heat. For this reason the bulbs should be
planted very deeply. In its native land the bulbs live at the depth
of twelve to thirty inches below the surface, and though we do not
recommend so great a length as the latter, twelve inches should be the
minimum depth at which the bulbs are planted.
A very rich soil is required, but sharp drainage is essential. The
latter may be obtained by mixing gravel with the soil.
Whatever you do, the lilies will probably fail, or if they do live,
they will give you one or two poor blossoms to repay you for your
trouble.
In pots the culture of this lily is rather more satisfactory. The pots
must be of good depth and sharp drainage is essential.
The last group of the Eulirions contains three lilies which possess
drooping bell-like flowers.
_Lilium Parryi_ is an American species coming from the same place as
_L. Washingtonianum_.
It is a little lily with citron-yellow coloured blossoms and deep
orange pollen-grains. The blossoms, of which there are rarely more than
three on each stem, are small but pretty and curious.
_L. Parryi_ should be grown in the same way as _L. Washingtonianum_. It
is a difficult plant to flower, but is more satisfactory than its showy
ally.
It is rather a rare plant and has not been grown in England for very
long.
The second of the drooping Eulirions is also yellow. It is a native of
Nepaul and takes its name, _L. Nepaulense_, from its native place.
This lily in its growth resembles the other Himalayan lilies,
especially _Lilium Wallichianum_. It is not very commonly grown in this
country, but it is an interesting species and deserves more attention
than it has received.
It grows at the height of five and ten thousand feet, and so should
prove as hardy in our gardens as _L. Giganteum_ has done. But its
hardiness, as far as we are concerned, remains to be proved.
The flowers are about the size of those of _L. Candidum_, but are of
a deep yellow colour, deeply striped and spotted on the interior with
rich purple. The flowers are drooping and somewhat resemble those
of _L. Giganteum_ in form, but they are shorter, thicker and more
revolute. We have never seen more than two flowers on one stem. It
requires similar treatment to _L. Wallichianum_.
In _The Garden_ for April 19th, 1890, was reproduced a plate of
“_Lilium Napaulense var. Ochroleuceum_.” If this plate is accurate,
this variety is indeed a fine lily, being yellowish-white on the
exterior with a deep primrose inside. To our minds this plate recalls
_L. Brownii_ more than any other variety of lily that we are conversant
with.
We must also go to a plate in _The Garden_ for the last of the nodding
Eulirions. This lily is _L. Lowi_, and hails from Burmah.
It resembles _L. Nepaulense_ in shape and growth, but the flowers are
white, densely spotted with rich claret-colour on the interior.
We have never seen the plant, and though we tried hard to obtain a bulb
of this species we were unsuccessful in our quest. So of its culture we
know nothing.
(_To be continued._)
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
BY RUTH LAMB.