might lead one to suppose he referred to the _Nelumbium_, were it not
for the former contradictory line and the fact that the water-lily grows
in the water itself. At any rate, sufficient authority exists to render
it certain that some species of lotus yielding an intoxicating product
was regarded sacred because of an indwelling god. But whatever species
was really referred to by the classics as the charmed nepenthe—whether
the fruit of the jujube-tree, or merely a fruit of the fabled garden of
Hesperides, to us the name lotus at once brings up the gorgeous
water-lily that once rocked upon the Nile, with its grand pink blossoms
and its great green leaves. The _Nelumbium_ has taken kindly to American
soil, having increased in several marshy localities in New Jersey with
astonishing rapidity, entirely crowding out the native growths of
arrowhead, pickerel weed, and horsetail, where it has been placed and
become established. With its great tendency to spread and multiply, it
will soon supply the dragon-fly a classic flower to rest upon, and the
great green frog a still more spacious paludal throne than that hitherto
supplied by the shield of the native water-lily.
Suspended above the tank are numerous large plants of _Lælia anceps_ and
_L. a. morada_, leaning their long lavender sprays over the pool, like
flocks of hovering butterflies. With them are also suspended large
specimens of the staghorn and the hare’s foot ferns. Ferns and orchids
invariably look well in combination. Palms being somewhat stiff
themselves, do not associate so well with orchids, which need the relief
of more graceful foliage. The hare’sfoot fern is appropriately named,
the innumerable twisting rhizomes being soft and woolly, like the foot
of a hare, and the fronds fine and feathery. Of all the _Lælias_, _L. a.
morada_ has the longest stems, and is among the largest and finest
flowered. I grant the exquisite beauty and fragrance of the white form.
Comparatively an inexpensive variety, the former is to be preferred to
some others quoted at from ten to twenty times its marketable value. For
in orchids, price very frequently does not represent intrinsic beauty of
bloom; and mere rareties or orchidaceous curiosities are preferable in
one’s neighbor’s collection. I am satisfied with fine specimens of a few
of the easier grown and really beautiful species and varieties. A fine
plant of _Cypripedium œnanthum_ which my neighbor values at a thousand
dollars is not worth my _Lælia_ to me. Its flower is stiff in
comparison, and its dorsal sepal, though strikingly rayed—white, striped
with pink—has not the grace and beauty of the _Lælia’s_ velvety petals
and the exquisite blossoms of many other species. After all, may it not
well be questioned whether the hardy pink lady-slipper has a rival among
the numerous species and hybrids of the big labellums and long-tailed
petals?
My orchids, like my roses, have their parasites—the green and yellow
fly, the black thrip, the mealy-bug, the lesser snail, the scale. Of
late years the yellow fly has become more numerous, though, with the
green fly, the rose is his especial prey. It is difficult to know what
plan to adopt against my insect enemies. The rule of three will not
solve the difficulty, for a mean proportional does not exist. If my
houses are too hot or the plants too dry, the red spider and black thrip
swarm; if too cold, the mildew comes; if the weather be muggy, it is a
summons for the green and yellow fly. Tobacco stems placed upon the
hot-water pipes banish the black thrip where fumigating is of no avail.
Fumigating alone will disperse the aphides. The smaller snail I must
bate with lettuce leaves; the larger one must be searched for at night
with a lantern. For mildew I must place sulphur and lime on the pipes,
and the scale and mealy-bug demand their periodical sponge-bath. The
cockroach sips treacle and is lost in the sweets. Wood-lice come from
underneath the benches, and the lesser snail, despite all precautions,
will sometimes bite off a flower-spike six times larger than himself. It
all reminds me of a passage in the Faerie Queen:
A cloud of cumbrous gnats do him molest,
All striving to infixe their feeble stinges,
That from their noyance he no where can rest;
But with his clownish hands their tender wings
He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings.
Care and attention are ever the price of the flower.
It is hardly to be wondered at that orchids have their insects; the
wonder is they do not possess them in greater numbers, the flowers
themselves so resemble insects and strange creatures of the air. I can
scarcely define which attracts me most, the singular flowers or the
fantastic odors they exhale. Perfumes of lilacs and primroses—lilacs and
primroses thrice intensified—greet me when _Oncidium incurvum_ and
_Dendrobium heterocarpum_ are in bloom. The redolence of jasmines,
jonquils, and cyclamens is combined in many of the _Cattleyas_, while
_Odontoglossum gloriosum_ seems a whole hawthorn hedge in flower. I open
the door of the warm-house when the _Vandas_ are in bloom, and I know
not what subtle overpowering fragrance weighs down the air. What a
sachet and censer of perfume! what a spice-box of the Orient! Cleopatra
might have just passed through. Such strange odors! languorous,
sensuous, all but intoxicating! I expect to hear a tom-tom’s beat, or
the rustle of a houri’s skirt. Some of the _Stanhopeas_, how powerful
their scent—a _pot-pourri_ of all the gums of Brazil! The suave yet
pungent aroma exhaled by one of the _Oncidiums_ (_O. ornithorhynchum_),
I can never get enough of. Its insidious, delicious fragrance defies
analysis; it haunts me like an unremembered dream or a thought that has
escaped. Intensely red flowers are seldom odorous; the brilliant
_Sophronites_—some of them the purest essence of scarlet—are scentless.
The _Phalænopsis_, too, although among the most floriferous of orchids,
are likewise inodorous.
It is fascinating to attempt to trace the resemblance of some of the
odors. G. W. Septimus Piesse would be at a loss to place many of them or
to determine their combination. Some, on the contrary, are distinctly
like many well-known and grateful odors, though generally much more
pronounced. From _Dendrobium aureum_ and _Cattleya gigas_ there rises a
triple extract of violets; from _Cattleya citrina_, a strong fragrance
of limes; from _D. scabrilingue_, a delicious breath of wall-flowers;
from _D. moschatum_, a pronounced musk-like scent. Besides
_Odontoglossum gloriosum_, both _Burlingtonia fragrans_ and _Trichopilia
suavis_ emit a perfume of hawthorn. One of the _Zygopetalums_ smells
like hyacinths, one of the _Oncidiums_ like cinnamon, one of the
_Catasetums_ like anise. The straw-colored flowers of _C. scurra_ have a
pronounced perfume of lemons. _Cymbidium Mastersii_ is charged with the
odor of almonds. _Dendrobium incurvum_ is distinctly jasmine scented. A
mellifluous essence of cyclamen clusters about _D. Dominianum_. Not a
few orchids smell like honey, while in others I can plainly trace the
scent of elder flower, heliotrope, the wild grape, sweet pea, vanilla,
tuberose, honeysuckle, lily of the valley, and various tropical fruits,
like the pine-apple, banana, and _Monstera_. The majority of the
_Vandas_ and _Stanhopeas_, and not a few of the _Cattleyas_, are
puzzling to place.
Form is scarcely less strange than odor in many orchids, most of the
species bearing a pronounced or faint resemblance to some form of bird,
insect, or animal life. The _Masdevallias_ and _Maxillarias_, how like
the walking-stick and water-skaters many of them are! My
primrose-scented _Dendrobium_ looks like a flock of lovely buff-colored
moths ready to take flight from the stems. The ivory-white flowers of
_Angræcum sesquipidale_, whose perfume so strongly resembles that of the
white garden lily, look like a starfish. These _Stanhopeas_, whose
emanations are almost overpowering and whose spikes emerge from the
bottom of their suspended baskets, remind me of serpents in the form and
spots of their fleshy, purplish or orange-dyed flowers. The flowers of
the species _Anguloa_ resemble a bull’s head; those of _Cycnoches
Loddigesii_, a swan. In the white waxen flower of _Peresteria elata_ I
trace the symbol of immortality—a dove with expanded wings; in the
terrestrial _Ophrys_ I almost hear the humming of its bees. Many species
closely resemble spiders and beetles; others seem almost an exact
counterfeit of various moths and butterflies—there is no end to the
strange resemblances.
Color is scarcely less strange than odor and form. These abnormal spots
and blotches, these oddly tipped petals and painted sepals, I meet in no
other flower. The lily, _Sternbergia_, and anemone have each been
singled out as the candidate for the honor of being referred to in the
twenty-ninth verse of the sixth chapter of St. Matthew. But was any one
of these, or even Solomon himself, arrayed like _Dendrobium Wardianum_?
The most gorgeous of its gorgeous tribe, it is perhaps the most gorgeous
of flowers; and among the easiest grown species, it blossoms freely,
suspended in the library from a block of wood.
I must watch long to see a blue or purple orchid in bloom, colors common
enough among garden and other greenhouse flowers. True red and vermilion
are extremely rare, yellow in its various shades being perhaps the most
common color, green and white occupying an almost equal place.
Brown-shaded or brown-spotted flowers are common, and there exist
numerous pink-purples and crimsons. Magenta frequently creeps into the
_Cattleyas_, staining the crest of the pearl or cream-colored lobe, or
splashing the curled or fimbriated lip. But magenta lends itself better
to orchids than to other flowers; and objectionable as it generally is,
it may be pardoned in some of the _Cattleyas_. It is a tropical color
and brings perfume. Apart from the strange odors, shapes, and colors of
the flowers, the orchid still continues exceptional in the wonderful
duration of its blooms both upon the plant and in the cut stage.
Epiphytal or terrestrial, tropical or native, in all its aspects the
orchid is strange.
How few, while admiring the gorgeous beauty of an epiphytal orchid,
think of the price it has cost to transfer it from its tropical habitat!
For very many of the numerous species have been obtained at the
sacrifice of human lives—martyrs to hardship, exposure, and disease
engendered while wresting a new species from its miasma-infested home.
The accounts of many orchid collectors who have lived to relate their
experiences read like the exploits of a Stanley or a tale of Verne.
If my orchids are chary of red, many foliage plants supply this color
abundantly, and ferns the graceful leafage and lovely greens which
orchids lack. I say nothing of the palm, the tree-fern, the _Monstera_,
the _Musa_, and similar large plants that require special quarters where
they may have ample space to do them justice. But color and form are
supplied by many medium-sized foliage plants of comparatively easy
culture; and in selecting these, like orchids, it is well to choose a
few of the finest and most distinct, rather than crowd the stages with a
mass of plants of only average merit. One can never cease to admire the
brilliant mottling and veining of the Croton’s evergreen foliage, the
grand purplish green leaves of _Maranta Zebrina_, the elegant markings
of the _Calladium_, the velvety crimson-mottled leaves of the
_Gesneras_, the polished bronze shields of _Alocassia metallica_, the
bronze-green and satiny luster of the _Camphylobtrys_, the vivid
exquisite red tones of the _Dracæna’s_ younger leafage, and the
_Poinsettia’s_ fiery scarlet whorls. Perhaps no other red, even that of
the pomegranate, is quite so intense as the flaming spathe and spadix of
several of the great tropical aroids belonging to the species
_Anthurium_, valuable for their fine foliage as well as for their
startling flowers. An interesting foliage plant is the old _Strelitzia
reginæ_, producing singular brilliant orange and purple flowers, one
continually pushing up beneath the other from its magical wand. The
_Imatophyllum_, or _Clivia_, is likewise a satisfactory foliage plant,
apart from the showy florescence of its large umbel of twelve to fifteen
coppery-red blossoms.
The variegated form of the pine-apple (_Ananas bracteatus_) goes farther
than any other greenhouse plant in its combined appeal to the senses,
its rich reddish foliage pleasing the eye, and its rich red fruit
captivating the sense of sight, smell, and taste. I fancy the smaller
fruit of this variety is of more pronounced flavor than that of the
type; but this may be simply owing to its more inviting appearance. One
needs no other odor in the greenhouse when the pine-apple is in fruit.
It was a Huguenot priest who described the pine-apple, three centuries
ago, as a gift of such excellence that only the hand of Venus should
gather it. It might have fallen from the sky a larger and more delicious
strawberry. No one who has tasted it only after it has been plucked
green and subjected to a long voyage in the hold of a vessel, can
conceive its ambrosial flavor when cut ripe from the stem. It is a fresh
revelation to the taste; it almost renews one’s youth.
Some specimens of the _Sarracenias_ or pitcher-plants are interesting,
though when suspended from their baskets they lack their native grace. I
always recall the _Sarracenia_ as I first met it, its purple cups and
rufous-green leaves fringing a deep black pool. Springing from the
sphagnum, cotton-rose, and cranberry tangle of the swamp, it seemed to
possess a conscious life of freshness and of color, callous to November
frost and cold. The thick carpet of cranberry upheld the footstep on the
quaking bog, and every tread spilled the water from the _Sarracenia’s_
brimming cups and leaves. Aflame with scarlet berries, a growth of
black-alder skirted the outer edges of the pool; on the rising ground
beyond, the gray boles and gilded foliage of a beech grove were
illumined by the sinking sun. It was a study for a Ruysdael or a Diaz,
if a Diaz could reproduce the mellow grays and reds of the sphagnum and
the _Sarracenia_. Fontainebleau or the thickets of Bas-Bréau hold no
such pool; it is alone the product of a wild New World swamp.
Of flowers grown for the sake of fragrance alone, or beauty of blossom
and fragrance combined, it is difficult to specify which are the most
desirable—so many are so beautiful. Such stiff, soulless subjects as the
camellia and calla are worthless, and should be thrown out of the
greenhouse—there are too many good things to take their place. A flower
should have a meaning, or a sentiment attached to it; and the camellia
and calla have none; they are frigid even for the grave. Many of the
glaring blues, purples, crimsons, and magentas of the _Cinerarias_, and
some of the agonizing reds of the Chinese primrose are equally to be
avoided as so much rubbish for which the greenhouse has no room. The
common pink begonia, which every one grows because every one else grows
it, should likewise be left out in favor of many other better varieties
of its class. Of roses there can not well be too many; and of these a
well-grown Maréchal Niel or a Gloire de Dijon can scarcely be excelled
for luxuriance, fragrance, and beauty of bloom.
I should hesitate which to pronounce the most satisfactory—the cyclamen
or the lily of the valley, both are so sweet. The latter is much more
easily raised; the former must be sowed from seed yearly; it does not
propagate. The fragrance of the cyclamen is delicious and distinct. But
it is of a variable quantity, some kinds being delightfully scented, and
some odorless. Marie Louise violets—
The violet of March that comes with spring,
should, of course, be generously grown in frames connected with the
greenhouse, to cut from _ad libitum_; there is no other indoor or
outdoor flower to take the place of the violet. Neither can the
carnation be dispensed with, this colored clove among flowers, which
only demands a cool temperature to repay cultivation. And how could one
be without the haunting fragrance of mignonette!
Tulips, hyacinths, and crocus, methinks, should not be raised
indoors—their true place is in the April garden without, to herald the
returning spring. A few of the white, salmon, and vermilion geraniums
are showy and sometimes useful, especially the small double vermilion;
the majority do not compare with many of the fine discarded pelargoniums
which florists complain they can not sell, for the simple reason that
they do not raise them. The fuchsia has some fine and striking forms;
the majority are undesirable. The heliotrope is desirable for its
fragrance, though it withers quickly when cut. The _Freesia_ is an
easily grown and beautiful flower that should be forced as abundantly as
the _Convallaria_ for cutting. _Daphne Indica_ and _odora_ one can not
well do without, and equally valuable for fragrance are the climbing
Madagascar _Stephanotis_ and some of the jasmines.
Among other desirable climbers possessing fragrance should be included
some of the passion flowers and the showy yellow Brazilian _Allamanda_.
A few specimen plants of the fragrant Chinese azalea are always
ornamental, and useful for cutting; some of the rose-colored kinds are
among the gayest of greenhouse flowers, notably the old variety
“Rosette.” A somewhat difficult hot-house plant to grow is _Alstrœmeria
ligtu_, with white and scarlet flowers appearing during February, and
possessing a strong scent of mignonette. The pure waxy white flowers of
the _Eucharis_, or lily of the Amazon, are invaluable for cutting, the
robust bulbous plants being easily raised, and producing their
flower-trusses in great luxuriance. For cutting, the numerous species of
narcissus can scarcely be equaled; from the many beautiful
bunch-flowered varieties of the _tazetta_, and the glorious blooms of
the large trumpeters, to the smaller hoop-petticoat daffodil and golden
campernelle jonquil. A plant seldom seen under glass, but an excellent
plant, notwithstanding, is the common sweet-scented yellow day lily
(_Hemerocallis flava_), than which few flowers are more beautiful either
in the garden or greenhouse. Where one has sufficient space, the garden
lilac may be advantageously grown in the greenhouse, care being taken
not to force it too fast, or the trusses soon droop when cut.
Naturally, no greenhouse is complete without the chrysanthemum, which,
defying the first frosts without, makes us forget the approach of winter
within. I still grow the old-fashioned small-flowered white, yellow, and
maroon pompons. Of recent years hybridizing has produced an innumerable
quantity of large, loose _outré_ forms among the Chinese and Japanese
sections. In many cases this has been done at the sacrifice of bloom and
beauty of color. Dingy brown disks have crept into the flowers; and the
chrysanthemum may be said to have deteriorated rather than improved
under too much cultivation.
[Illustration]
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