Who was William Allen Richardson? I once asked. Since the publication
of the volume of essays in which the problem was so tiresomely
propounded many letters have reached me, each with its own solution.
All are different; and their differences show how important it was
that a warrior for truth should come forward and fling the question
in the world’s face. For the growth of legend and myth that has been
endangering the fame of this noble deviser of an orange-hearted rose
was becoming too rampant. Let me, therefore, who asked the question,
now answer it; for I know. By dint of careful pruning I have removed
the apocryphal, and the truth remains. William Allen Richardson was--
But you must permit me first to narrate some of the experiences of an
essayist who has the temerity to indulge in interrogation marks.
The first letter I received--almost immediately after the publication
of the book--gave so lucid an account of William Allen Richardson that
I began to think I had made too much of the mystery. “Do you really
want to know about William Allen Richardson?” it began; and then this
story was told: “William Allen Richardson and his wife loved roses, and
the ambition of their lives was to raise an orange-coloured rose. At
last they succeeded, and they called the treasure ‘William and Ellen
Richardson,’ a rather cumbersome title, but meaning much to these two.
Alas, the printer would have none of this sentiment--hence ‘William
Allen Richardson.’”
I cannot say that this narrative satisfied me; but there was nothing in
it to make one violently sceptical. Why should not William and Ellen
have lived this idyllic rose-growing life? Why should not their names
have been thus intertwined for ever, even if a little ungallantly? I
had seen barges on the Thames called “William and Ellen,” I was sure;
why not roses? I therefore went about saying that I now knew the whole
history of William Allen Richardson, and the story was not doubted.
But then arrived an anonymous post card with the Paddington postmark:
“I am of no importance and my brother is of no importance, but William
Allen Richardson was the brother of my brother’s handy man. (At least
he said so.)” What of William and Ellen after that? For the time,
at any rate, the narrative of their fragrant union passed from my
repertory.
That post card will give you an idea of the lightness with which
this matter can be approached. I do not mean that the communication
in itself is frivolous, for, though easy in tone, it yet states the
case briefly and clearly; the lightness that I complain of is in the
attitude of the writer’s brother towards this tremendous problem. Here
he was, with his brother’s handy man claiming to be the own brother of
the great William Allen Richardson, and yet doing no more (apparently)
than treating it as a myth--never investigating--never, in short,
really caring. Now if I had a brother whose handy man was---- But this
is boasting, self-approval; and complacent people conscious of their
own rectitude rarely get at the truth.
Other correspondents followed, all strangers to me, and each with a
pet theory. One had it that William Allen Richardson had been gardener
to a rose-loving duke. Another, that he was a Scotchman who had gone
to France, to manage the Ducher nursery. Another, that he was the
American editor of a horticultural journal. Then came another more
circumstantial story, from a lady in Yorkshire. “I was taught by a
dear old country vicar (himself an enthusiastic rose-grower and close
friend of Dean Hole) that W. A. Richardson was one of the Quaker firm
of Richardson, who had a place near Newry in the north of Ireland.”
This so chimed in with my own Quakerish suspicions, as expressed in
the original essay, that I was inclined to think we might really be
at home at last; but meanwhile an American missive was on its way from
Louisville, Kentucky, and when it arrived I saw at once that here was
Veritas naked and unashamed.
A certain statesman who had taken much interest in the matter will
be amused to read the Louisville communication. “I have often,” he
wrote to me, “wondered, and occasionally asked, who W. A. R. was, and
have been at times impatient that people should be content to live
on without knowing. Now I would almost rather not know, having been
disappointed for so long.” He went on to say that he suspected W. A. R.
to be an American. Well, he was right. Sagacious and far-seeing as
ever, he now has another opportunity of pointing to a fulfilled
conjecture; for there is no doubt (since I have had corroboration from
another transatlantic source) that the following letter is gospel.
The writer, Mr. W. R. Belknap, roundly states himself to be William
Allen Richardson’s nephew. He continues: “William Allen Richardson
was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, on February 20, 1819. When he
was but two years old, his father moved to Lexington, Kentucky,
where he resided until his death, in October, 1892. William Allen
Richardson married Miss Mary Short, daughter of Charles Wilkins
Short, the botanist, who pursued his favourite studies of botany and
horticulture at his country place, Hayfield, some five miles south-west
of Louisville. With this congenial companionship, Mr. W. A. Richardson
established himself in an adjoining place, Ivywood, and became much
interested in the cultivation and propagation of roses. He imported a
good many, and in this way became acquainted by correspondence with
Madame Ducher (or she may have been called Veuve Ducher), at Lyons,
France, who was especially interested in a rose which he sent her of a
pale yellow colour, and she wrote Mr. Richardson that she had a sport
from this rose in her own garden, which, if successful in propagation,
she would name for him; hence the name which has interested you as
applying to the beautiful copperish-yellow rose.... Mr. Richardson
lived until 1892 in his country home near here, and would have enjoyed,
if he might have foreseen, the interest which his namesake has
aroused....”
And now we know. The secret is out, and the rose will smell no less
sweet for it, nor climb less carelessly, nor refresh the eye less
graciously. But I adjure America to be more proud of this feather in
her cap. I do not suggest that William Allen Richardson should have
a monument, for he has one in every right garden more beautiful than
marble and very likely more enduring than bronze; but his name should
be so deeply cut upon the roll of honour that no one need ever have to
ask my question again.
But what a blow to that foolish romantic anecdote about Ellen!