Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1008.] APRIL 22, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
[Illustration: A PERILOUS RIDE.
[_By permission of Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich._]
_All rights reserved._]
“OUR HERO.”
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.
CHAPTER XXX.
A HAZARDOUS RETREAT.
The work intended by that spirited advance was done. Nothing remained
for Moore but to fall steadily back before overwhelming odds.
All the bright expectations, with which he had started on this
expedition, were dashed to the ground. In every direction he had met
with indifference, vacillation—even opposition—where he ought to have
found only warm co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves
worthless. Moore’s little Army stood alone in the heart of what was now
practically an enemy’s country.
With almost superhuman energy the greatest General of his age
had exerted himself to bring up such a force, that the complete
annihilation of the British might be a thing assured. In the course of
ten days, and in the bitterest wintry weather, he had marched fifty
thousand soldiers over snow-clad mountains a distance of two hundred
miles, only to find his stupendous efforts unavailing. For the first
time in Napoleon’s career, he was decisively foiled.
Yet the utmost that Moore could hope to do was to save his little Army
from destruction. To that aim he buckled his powers with unfaltering
resolution. As Sir William Napier wrote in after years: “The inspiring
hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of suffering
remained; and with a firm heart he accepted that gift.”
By the greater number of Moore’s troops this long ten days’ retreat
to the coast had to be done on foot. There were steep mountains to
be climbed; there were deep valleys to be passed; there were rapid
rivers to be crossed; while a confident Army, far outnumbering them,
and accustomed to unvarying success—an Army which twice had failed by
only twelve hours to cut them off from all hope of escape—pressed with
ever-growing fierceness upon their rear.
It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short;
the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often, adding to
their difficulties. Shelter was hard to find; provisions were scarce;
time for cooking there was not. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore’s
earnest request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating
up the food on which it depended, and blocking the roads with carts and
mules.
That race between the English and the French, first for Benevente,
next for Astorga, made it imperative that not an hour should be
lost. At all costs the men had to press onward, putting forth
their best speed. Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march
continued—through rain or snow or fog; up steep and slippery ascents,
or down sharp depths where foothold could hardly be found; on and on,
hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and lame, many
a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to rise again.
In the van and centre of the Army some confusion reigned; but in
the reserve, where Moore was always to be found, generally riding
beside his friend General Paget, discipline remained perfect, and an
impregnable front was offered to the pursuing foe. All there knew
themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander; and his presence,
even more than the close presence of the enemy, kept them up to the
mark. Again and again the French advanced guards were charged and
driven back.
Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short
life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady
disheartening rearwards tramp, with the trained battalions of Napoleon
ever “thundering” behind them. He would not forget the bitter snowy
weather, the sleet and hail, the fogs and winds, the mountain heights,
the exposed nights, the dogged pluck and determination shown by
the rear-guard, the ceaseless care and watchfulness of Moore, the
invincible resolution of this man who, by sheer force of will, held the
whole Army together, and never at the worst allowed the retreat for one
moment to become a flight.
Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young
and strong and full of vigour; and the very hardships of the march
seemed to him less hard to bear than those of a certain march which he
could recall—from Verdun to Bitche. For then he had been alone; he had
felt himself to be treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was
fighting for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day
passed without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a
passionate admiration and affection.
He hated the fact of having to retire, but his trust in the judgment
of Moore was complete; and at any time it took a great deal to lower
Roy’s buoyant spirits. Moreover, the reserve had too much of actual
hard fighting on hand, to admit of their growing downhearted. Any one
of them might chance any day to win a smile of commendation from Moore;
and _that_ was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for.
Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the
experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly
used to it. Before long he had the supreme delight of being personally
praised by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy then that
life needed nothing more.
Journalising went to the wall during this retreat. Roy made some
efforts to keep it up, but soon gave in. By the time that the day’s
duties were done, he was commonly fit only for sleep.
He managed, however, to start a letter to Molly, in readiness for the
first chance of getting it off. A thought had come to him one day that
if—if something should happen, which might happen to him as to any
other man, it would be wished that he should have written once more to
his twin-sister. Whereupon he set to work so soon as ten spare minutes
could be found.
“Dec. 30th, 1808.
“MY DEAR MOLLY,—Jack thinks I may be able soon to send a letter on,
with Despatches from Headquarters, and I w^d fain have one ready. Close
upon the end of the year—truly an eventful year to me. Jack and I keep
well, I am glad to say. There is much that I c^d tell you, but have
not time. An event which took place yesterday, will, however, be of
interest.
“We of the Reserve marched at daybreak for La Banessa, and Lord Paget
as usual was to bring up the rear. At nine o’clock the Enemy was seen
to be examining a ford near to the bridge which had been blown up,
and next thing six hundred of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard came over.
By-the-by, at the time of the blowing up of the bridge, Napoleon
himself was seen by one of our officers standing over on the other side.
“Only a small body of the British piquet was there to oppose ’em, and
they held on gallantly, but were forced back inch by inch, fighting
hard. The English and French squadrons charged one another by turns;
and when our men were joined by a few of the 3rd Dragoons, they all
went at the Enemy with such Desperate Valour as to break through their
front squadron, and to be surrounded by the French. Nothing daunted,
they charged back, and broke through again, and so got ’emselves quick
out of that scrape.
“Then they rallied and formed up anew, and made another charge,
supported by the 10th Hussars. The French broke before ever they c^d
get up with ’em, and fled through the river, hard pressed by our brave
fellows. A lot of prisoners were taken, and among ’em is Marshal
Lefebre Desnouettes, Duke of Dantzic—I say, doesn’t Boney love
dukes?—Commander of the Imperial Guard. Pretty big haul that!
“No question but the French fought with great valour, as was to be
expected. General Lefebre says this same Guard at Austerlitz sent
thirty thousand Russians flying. They didn’t send our Dragoons flying
yesterday, though. ’Twas just about the other way.
“And now for what you and Polly will like best to hear. Lefebre was
awfully down in the mouth at being taken prisoner, and his men being
beaten. He counts himself a ruined man, for, says he, ‘Buonaparte never
forgives the unfortunate.’ Sir John was all kindness to the poor chap.
Lefebre had a slight wound in the head, and the first thing that Sir
John did was, not only to try to comfort him, but to send for water,
and _with his own hands_ to wash the wound! Can’t you picture the way
it was done? Wasn’t it like Moore?
“Well, and it so happened that Jack was in luck, having been asked
to dine at the General’s. So he came in for a scene, which, I should
conjecture, has perhaps been scarce matched since the days of the Black
Prince. Just before they all took their seats, Sir John turned to
the French General, and asked him—was there anything he wanted? And
Lefebre said never a word, but looked down to where his sword ought to
have been, that was taken away by the private who made him surrender.
Then he looked up at Sir John in a meaning way.
“In a moment Sir John unbuckled his own sword—’twas a fine Eastern
scimitar—and gave it to Lefebre. I wish you could have heard Jack
and Captain Napier tell it all—the graceful way in which the thing
was done, and, beyond everything, the wonderful look of kindness and
‘soldier-like sympathy’ on Sir John’s face. Napier tried to describe it
to me, and finished off with, ‘It was—perfectly beautiful! But when
does Moore ever do anything that is not perfect!’[1]
“Take good care, mind you, that no word of this goes beyond yourselves,
and above all, on no account risk that it sh^d find its way into print.
For yourselves, ’tis a tale worth remembering of one who is the very
Flower of Chivalry in Modern Days. This George Napier is, as Polly
knows, Jack’s friend, brother to Major Charles Napier of the 50th, and
to William Napier of the 43rd—a brave trio.”
The letter begun thus waited unfinished for some days. Roy’s time was
occupied otherwise than in penmanship.
Advices by this date received from the coast decided Moore to shape his
course, with the bulk of his Army, for Coruña, where he expected to
find the British transports waiting.
At Nogales, on the road to Constantino, occurred the one instance of
treasure to any large extent having to be abandoned. A sharp action
took place between the English rear-guard and the French advance-guard;
and the rear-guard coming on found upon the hillside two guns broken
down, and two carts heavily laden with casks full of dollars, to the
value, it was afterwards said, of twenty-five thousand pounds. The
bullocks by which both the carts and the guns had been drawn thus far
were utterly exhausted, quite unable to go any farther.
Matters had reached this stage, when Moore rode up, and in a moment he
grasped the state of the case. It was a question between sacrificing
guns and treasure, or running the risk that his rear-guard should be
cut off by the enemy. Moore did not hesitate. He turned to Roy, who
happened at that moment to be the nearest junior officer, and said
decisively, pointing to the edge of the precipice—
“Take those carts and guns to the brink, and roll them over.”
“Sir, it is money!” exclaimed one present in consternation.
“So are shot and shell,” replied Moore.
Roy promptly carried out the order, and, under the energetic action of
his men, both guns and treasure soon went plunging down the depth—out
of sight of the French advance-guard, which only five minutes later
passed this very spot. They, however, did not know what had just taken
place. Moore’s hope, that the money might in the end fall into Spanish
instead of into French hands, was fulfilled. Some Spanish peasants
found it not long after.
On January 5th, at Constantino, much fighting took place; and in the
evening a heavy trouble fell upon Roy.
Jack was missing!
All searching failed to find him; all inquiries brought no result.
Among the sick and the wounded Roy went, alone or with Jack’s friend,
George Napier, but in vain. On the field, amid the slain, he hunted,
torch in hand; and as he turned up face after face of those who had
fallen, finding _not_ Jack’s features, a low-breathed “Thank God!”
again and again escaped him. The only explanation seemed to be that
Jack was surely taken prisoner.
At Lugo the whole Army was halted. The march thither had been severe,
through deep mud and pelting rain, with much suffering and fatigue.
Collision here again took place between the English and French, and
Moore in person led his troops, sending the enemy flying with heavy
loss.
Then, during two days, he offered battle to the French; and hardly
was his intention known, before the whole British Army presented, as
by magic, a changed look. Stragglers came hurrying in, the ranks were
filled up, and all were in the highest spirits, eager for a fight.
But though the British were by this time reduced to only nineteen
thousand—three thousand having been sent under General Crauford by
another route to Vigo, and many having fallen out by the way[2]—yet
Soult, with his greatly superior numbers, did not respond. The lack of
provisions made it impossible for Moore to delay longer.
While in the neighbourhood of Lugo, Roy found time to add a few words
to his unfinished letter to Molly.
“Jan. 6th. Near Lugo.
“We had yesterday a sharp brush with the Enemy, after reaching this;
and I am sorely put about, for Jack has vanished. When last I set
eyes on him, he was well in advance of his Company, waving his sword,
and shouting to us to come on. And come on we did, and put the Enemy
to rout; yet Jack may have fallen into their hands. I with others
searched in every direction, both among those who were wounded and
those who were killed; but, thank God, Jack was not among them. He must
therefore, I fear, be prisoner. This sheet I will not send off, even
should opportunity offer, until I know as to Jack. I w^d not awake
Polly’s fears for naught. He may even yet turn up again unharmed. We
rest here for two days.”
Roy wrote these words by the light of a small lamp, lying flat upon
the ground in a bare little hut, which he occupied while at Lugo. Some
slight movement, as of one coming in, made him glance up, with a spring
of hope. Had Jack returned?
A tall cloaked figure quietly entered. Roy leaped to his feet as if he
had received an electric shock, his bewildered gaze encountering the
last face that he would have expected to see at that moment—a face
pale, tried and stern, with the dark steadfast eyes which never yet had
flinched before life’s battles. They did not flinch now, meeting this
heaviest of all trials to one of Moore’s temperament—having to retire
before his Country’s foes.[3]
The last three years had brought sharp discipline to John Moore. Strain
had followed strain; disappointment had followed disappointment; while
still through all his dauntless spirit had risen superior to every
opposition. But the sufferings of his men upon this march went to his
very heart; and the partial loss of discipline, in a force of which he
had been so justly proud, cut him to the quick. Despite everything, he
was as a rule not calm only, but serene. Yet now and again a shadow of
deep though passing sadness would fall upon him, as at this moment.
Something in that face appealed keenly to the young Ensign’s
sympathies. Then in a flash dread seized upon Roy. What might
this visit portend? Moore _could_ rebuke his subordinates
scathingly—crushingly—when necessity arose. Roy felt that death would
be far preferable to any words of stern reproof from those lips. But
he had not consciously failed in his duty. Could it, perhaps, mean ill
news of Jack?
Sir John glanced round before speaking.
“Not too luxurious quarters, Baron,” he remarked, and his smile lacked
its usual brilliance.
“Good enough, sir!” replied Roy, with the prompt cheerfulness which
from the first had marked him out in Moore’s eyes. “If only Captain
Keene——”
“Ay! You are anxious about Keene.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been able to find out nothing.”
“So Napier informed me. I was passing this way, and I have looked in to
tell you. He is prisoner.”
Roy drew one hasty breath. Till that moment he had not realised how
heavily the fear had weighed upon him of other than imprisonment. To be
aware that Jack was still in the land of the living meant much.
“Two French prisoners brought in this afternoon have told us about him.
His leg was wounded and his right arm broken, and when helpless he was
taken. Already, they say, he has been sent some distance beyond their
lines.”
“Thank you, sir!”—gratefully. “I’m glad to know. It might have been
worse.”
“You are writing home, perhaps. Make light of his wounds. I hope he is
not in any danger.”
“Yes, sir. I am writing to my sister.”
Moore stood for a few seconds, lost in deep thought. Then, glancing up,
he met the concerned gaze of Roy’s frank grey eyes. Not frank only, not
concerned only, but full of unmistakable boyish adoration. In response,
Moore’s hand was laid on Roy’s arm, with one of those quick gestures
of overflowing kindness, which went far to enthral the hearts of those
about him.
“I hear no report of you but what is good. Keep on as you have begun.
You are treading worthily in Ivor’s steps.”
Roy’s power of speech failed him, with something which went far beyond
ordinary joy. This—from Moore himself! Despite Jack’s misfortunes,
Roy’s world grew instantly radiant.
Moore smiled again at the boy’s look, yet he sighed. There were some in
his force, and not young fellows only, of whom he could not have spoken
in such terms—some who gave the rein to bitter discontent at having to
retreat, and who did not do their utmost to preserve discipline. But
they were not in the Reserve.
“We may hear of Keene again before long. Give your letter to Napier,
and it shall go with the first despatches that are sent on.”
Then he was gone. Roy, after seeing him off, drew out the latest
page of his scribbled journal-notes, that he might write down those
priceless words, while they were fresh in his mind. Not that he ever
would or ever could forget them. But some day he would show them to his
father and mother—to Denham—to Molly.
Having thus turned anew to his journalising, he found time for two more
brief entries during days following.
“Jan. 8. Near Lugo.
“Nothing further as to Jack. I fear that for a while I shall see and
know no more of him. I wonder much where he may be sent. Both yesterday
and to-day General Moore has challenged the French to battle; but they
do not accept his challenge.
“Jan. 10. Betanzos.
“We came hither by a night-march from Lugo, thus evading the French,
who w^d seem to have been somewhat awed by Sir John’s fearless defiance
of ’em at Lugo. For some hours our rear-guard was not Harassed as
usual, and the Enemy’s advanced guard did not get up with us till
twenty-four hours or more after our start. Since we left our camp-fires
burning, they doubtless did not know till dawn that we had given them
the slip. It may be too that, after that defiance, they were in no vast
hurry to follow.”
On the day following this entry, the 11th of January, Coruña was
reached.
As they drew near to the coast, Moore, quitting at last his post
with the Reserve, went forward, passing regiment after regiment, and
anxiously scanning the distant sea for the transports which he hoped to
find in waiting.
But they were not there.
During the greater part of a fortnight he had been incessantly at work,
conducting this arduous retreat, bringing his Army through dangers and
difficulties innumerable. Perpetual fighting had been the order of the
day. Yet not once had the Regiments of the Reserve, either horse or
foot, been beaten; not once had the rear-guard quailed.
Some seventy or eighty thousand soldiers, trained veterans of
Napoleon, at first under Napoleon himself, and then under two of his
most experienced commanders, had striven hard to overtake Moore, to
outflank him, to cut off his little force of twenty-three thousand men.
But they had been baffled.
More than two hundred and fifty miles of rough country had been
traversed, in bleakest winter weather; and the Army reached Coruña,
somewhat lessened in numbers, it is true, yet absolutely unbroken. And
though baggage had had to be abandoned or destroyed, for lack of means
to convey it further, though a few small cannon had had to be left
behind for the same reason, not a single British gun had been captured
in fight, not a single standard or military trophy of any kind had been
taken.
In after years there were men who lightly criticised this retreat,
calling it needless, and wondering why Moore had not made a stand, or
had not continued his advance.
Small wonder was it that Charles Napier, who in the Reserve had gone
through the whole, and who from actual knowledge understood it all,
should, in the face of these after-criticisms, break into bitter and
passionate words in defence of that beloved Chief, under whose eyes he
had fought. And though he was somewhat hard upon the people of England,
not only because they had no means of knowing the true state of
affairs, but because also it was but a section of them who criticised
thus, yet one can well understand what he must have felt.
“Had Moore sacrificed an Army, instead of saving one, he would have
been perfect in the eyes of his country. Nothing but his unpardonable
humanity, which made him fancy England cared as much for her soldiers
as he did, caused him to act as he did act. Had he saved his own life,
and contrived to have twenty thousand bayoneted—and I firmly believe
he was the only man in our Army who could have saved us—he would have
done a job for which England would have made him anything he wished.
Alas, for himself, he thought of everything but himself! Fortunately,
another Hero has come up. But we want both!”
So wrote Charles Napier, himself one of England’s Heroes.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Early Military Life of General Sir George Napier._
[2] Many of these wanderers were sheltered and hidden by the Spaniards,
among whom some at least felt kindly towards their English friends; and
numbers afterwards escaped safely to England.
[3] “This is a cruel determination for me to make—I mean, to
retreat.”—From a letter of Moore’s.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.
BY CHARLES PETERS.
A few years ago the culture of the lily received a great impetus from
the arrival in England of “the golden-rayed lily of Japan.”
Some bulbs were sent over to us from Japan which were said to be of a
very large lily which grows wild upon the Japanese Islands.
Fabulous prices were charged for the bulbs, and of those who had
paid through their teeth for these rare bulbs very few obtained any
recompense.
The first consignment was a failure, but the gorgeousness of the plant
was sufficient inducement to the Japanese growers to send over another
batch.
The bulbs rapidly became cheaper, and the lily at once rose to a
foremost position amongst garden plants.
The _Lilium Auratum_, or golden-rayed lily, is perhaps the most
popular member of the genus. Its flowers are immense, indeed, it has
the largest flowers of all the lilies. Of fine colour, producing many
flowers on each stem, of great hardiness and of moderate ease to
cultivate, it is not surprising that this lily should have attained its
high popularity.
The _Lilium Auratum_ is the most variable of all the lilies. There
are eight named varieties. But even these are liable to considerable
variation. If you were to plant one hundred bulbs, probably not more
than three or four would be absolutely similar.
This extreme variability is very remarkable, when we remember that this
lily is a wild flower, but rarely cultivated until recently either in
Japan or elsewhere.
Vast numbers of the bulbs of this species are sent over to England
from Japan every year, so that the species is by no means difficult to
obtain. The bulbs are large, heavy, and if good, they are very compact.
They are of a yellowish or purplish colour.
When you buy bulbs of _L. Auratum_, do not go for the mammoth bulbs.
These are very rarely the best, though always the most expensive. Buy
small, very heavy bulbs, and purchase them from November to January.
The shoots of _L. Auratum_ begin to show about the middle of March,
though this lily, as indeed is every other, is very variable in this
respect. The season has a lot to do with it. In a warm rainy year the
shoots often appear in February. The time when the bulb was planted and
the depth at which it was placed also affect the time at which the lily
shows above the soil.
When the shoot has appeared, it grows with great rapidity. We had a
specimen in our garden which grew nine feet in twelve weeks! You could
almost see it grow!
In connection with the shoots of lilies, there is an important point to
notice, which is often overlooked and leads to misconception, unless it
is fully appreciated. Lily shoots present extraordinary differences.
The shoot of _L. Umbellatum_ or _L. Candidum_, when it first appears,
is like an exceedingly thick head of asparagus. From this many people
imagine that if a lily shoot is not thick and solid, it is not going to
produce a flower. This opinion is quite wrong. Some lilies, especially
_L. Speciosum_, never start with a thick shoot, but show above ground
as a thin lanky growth.
_L. Auratum_ begins as a thin shoot, but it rapidly gains in size and
strength if circumstances are favourable.
As in every other particular, _L. Auratum_ is exceedingly variable in
the height to which the stem grows. We have had in our garden bulbs
from the same source, planted at the same time, in the same soil and
position. They have all flowered well, yet some are only thirty inches
high, while others tower to the height of nine feet!
The golden-rayed lily does not show its flower-buds until the stem is
almost fully grown. The buds are borne on long stalks, each furnished
with a single bract. From one to forty buds are produced on each stem.
The leaves of this species are long and linear in the type, but in the
variety _Platyphyllum_ they are very broad. There are rarely more than
thirty or forty leaves, which are of a deep glossy green.
We have followed the lily to the stage when its buds become apparent.
The next chapter in its history is too often one of mishaps. The strain
on the plant at this stage must be enormous, and it is no wonder that
such a large number of plants die at this time.
The buds develop quickly until they become the size of a large
capsicum. Then they change colour, and if the weather is dry, they open
in about a week.
Rain at the flowering time is the greatest enemy to this lily.
What a magnificent object is the _L. Auratum_ when in full blossom!
How beautiful is the wide open perianth! And what a size! Ten inches
across, at the least, and fully a foot when measured from the tips of
the petals! How elegantly do the goffered segments curl round at their
tips! The brilliant stripe of golden yellow running down each segment,
which has given the flower its name, is exceedingly characteristic; and
the brownish purple spots, curiously elevated and in places raised into
a distinct spine, relieve the pure white of the background.
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN-RAYED LILY.
(_From photo by Valentine and Sons, Dundee._)]
Proceeding from the centre of the flower are the seven greenish
threads which constitute the floral organs. Each is armed with a deep
brown extremity, the pistil with a trefoil, and the six stamens with
crescents!
+-----------------------------+--------+----------------+-----------------+
| | |
Name of Variety. |Shape of| Shape and |
| leaves.| colour of ray. | Colour of spots.
| | |
+-----------------------------+--------+----------------+-----------------+
| | |
Type | Linear |{ Golden, | Reddish brown
| |{ ½ in. wide | (numerous)
| | |
_Virginale_ | Linear |{ Golden, | Golden yellow
| |{ ½ in. wide | (numerous)
| | |
_Wittei_ | Linear |{ Golden, }| Spots absent
| |{ ¾ in. wide }|
| | |
_Pictum_ | Linear |{ Gold-green, }| Blood red
| |{ tips red, }| (numerous)
| |{ ¾ in. wide }|
| | |
_Rubro-Vittatum_ | Linear |{ Blood red, | Blood red
| |{ ¾ in. wide | (numerous)
| | |
_Cruentum_ | Linear |{ Blood red, | Blood red
| |{ 1 in. wide | (numerous)
| | |
_Platyphyllum_ |Palmate |{ Golden, | Brown
| |{ ½ in. wide | (few)
| | |
_Macranthum_ |Palmate |{ Golden, | Golden
| |{ ¾ in. wide | (few)
| | |
_Alexandrae_ (hybrid between | Linear | Absent | Absent
_L. Auratum_ and | | |
_L. Longiflorum_) | | |
| | |
_Parkmanni_ (hybrid between | Linear |{ Reddish, | Red
_L. Auratum_ and | |{ Indistinct | (numerous)
_L. Speciosum_) | | |
| | |
+-----------------------------+--------+----------------+-----------------+
As we have said before, the flowers of _L. Auratum_ are sometimes
extremely numerous. We saw one plant last summer (we believe at the
Royal Gardens, Kew) of one of the varieties of this species which bore
thirty-seven well-developed blossoms.
But it is not the prize specimens of _L. Auratum_ which are the
most beautiful. Plants bearing four to six blossoms give the finest
effects, for here each flower has room to fully expand, and so the
extreme elegance of the blossoms can be appreciated. In plants bearing
twenty or thirty blossoms on the other hand, the general effect from
a distance is one of extreme luxuriance; but on closer examination
the effect is not so striking, for the individual blossoms cannot be
perfectly formed, and the result is often bizarre and unsatisfactory.
_L. Auratum_ has an extremely strong scent, which though pleasant in
the garden is far too overpowering in a room.
In no lily does one meet with such great variety as in this species.
The blossoms are exceedingly variable; but there are some varieties
which are sufficiently marked and constant to have gained special names.
There are eight named varieties of _L. Auratum_, and the difference
between them is so striking that a person without previous knowledge
would take them for separate species.
We append in tabular form the chief differences between these eight
varieties.
All these varieties are fine, and are all worth growing; but some are
expensive, and some are very difficult to cultivate.
Of all the varieties we prefer that known as _Platyphyllum_. Its
fine large foliage, immense and gorgeous blossoms, and its hardy
constitution, make this lily the most desirable of all. Indeed, we
would put a well-grown sample of _L. Auratum Platyphyllum_ in its
perfection as the most beautiful of all the vegetable productions of
our planet.
A few years ago _L. Auratum Platyphyllum_ was a very rare lily; but
last year this lily did exceedingly well, and consequently very good
bulbs can now be obtained at a cheap rate. All over the country this
variety did well last year, and many were the correspondents who wrote
in enthusiastic measures to the various papers about this wonderful
plant, which not a few of the writers imagined they had discovered.
The variety _Wittei_ is a most beautiful one, but it is difficult to
grow, and is moreover rather expensive.
The red varieties of _L. Auratum_ are fine in their way, but are a
little crude in colour and not altogether satisfactory.
The cultivation of _L. Auratum_ and its varieties does not present much
difficulty. A well-drained peaty soil with plenty of sand suits it
well; but the soil must not be too loose. A few lumps of clay may be
placed round the plants if the soil is too sandy.
No manure should be placed near the bulbs, but a good dressing of rich
old manure may be applied to the plants with advantage as soon as the
shoots are a foot high.
If grown in a good soil and looked after carefully, _L. Auratum_ does
not degenerate, but increases and improves year after year. Both the
type and the varieties are perfectly hardy.
The varieties are not all equally easy to grow. _Platyphyllum_,
_Macranthum_, and _Rubro-Vittatum_ are as easy, if not easier, to grow
than the type. _Wittei_ and _Virginale_ are very difficult to do well
with.
The two hybrids mentioned in the table will be described later on.
All the varieties of _L. Auratum_ make excellent pot-plants.
The lily which bears the title of _Speciosum_, or showy, was formerly
the most admired member of the genus. Even at the present day this lily
is looked upon by many as being the finest. Personally we cannot concur
with this opinion. There is a certain falseness about its blossoms and
a hardness in their shape which to our minds places it far below _L.
Auratum_ for beauty.
Yet there can be no question that _Lilium Speciosum_ is a very fine
plant. It has a tremendous number of points in its favour which must
not be overlooked by the flower-grower.
_L. Speciosum_ flowers late in the year, usually at the end of
September, a time when showy flowers are not numerous; too late for
summer blossoms, but too early for chrysanthemums.
Although this lily is supposed to be tender, it is perfectly hardy in
England. The blossoms, which are produced very freely, are not so much
injured by rain at their flowering time as are most lilies. Deformity
of the flowers is not very common, and the peculiar shape of the
blossoms renders any slight deformity which may be present of little
consequence.
Another point in favour of this lily is that instead of degenerating,
it increases rapidly, blossoms every year, and gives scarcely any
trouble.
_L. Speciosum_ is a native of Japan. Both in its native land and
elsewhere this lily has been cultivated for years. There is now an
immense number of named varieties of this plant; but, unfortunately,
there are very many more names than there are distinct varieties.
Probably the variety we call _Rubrum_ is the type of the species.
The bulbs of _L. Speciosum_ are large with loose scales. The flower
spike is not often so evident in the bulb as it is with most lilies.
The bulbs vary a good deal in colour from white to deep purple; but the
colour of the bulb is no criterion as to the colour of the blossoms. In
the variety known as _Kraetzeri_ the bulbs are usually yellow.
This lily first sees the light as a thin, lanky shoot. In fact, those
who have grown other lilies but not _Speciosum_ would at once pronounce
a perfectly healthy shoot of this lily to be “blind.”
When we first grew _L. Speciosum_, and saw the feeble-looking shoots
appear, we felt certain that they would not blossom. But fortunately we
were mistaken in this surmise, for they did blossom, and they blossomed
well.
The stem of _L. Speciosum_ is thin but very flexible. Indeed, the lily
rarely needs a stick, as it bends before the wind. We have never had
the stem of one of these lilies broken.
The leaves are broader than is usually the case in this genus. They
somewhat resemble the leaves of _L. Auratum Platyphyllum_.
The flower buds grow out from the main stem, and when they are fully
grown they are furnished with very long stalks. This enables us to cut
the flowers singly—which is very desirable, for one can take flowers
from a single plant for some weeks, removing each as it opens.
The flowers themselves are about five inches across, with the segments
very much recurved and the edges beautifully curled. The colour
varies from pure white to deep crimson with white edges. A green
line, deeply sunk, runs down the centre of each segment, being broad
at the attachments and narrowing to a point about half way down.
These six green lines give the appearance of a green star, which is
highly characteristic. It is most evident in the white varieties, and
especially so in the variety called _Kraetzeri_. The petals which are
broadest about their centre are roughened with numerous spines and
tubercles. The pollen is brown.
The scent of this lily resembles that of chocolate creams. It is not
very powerful in any of the varieties, while some forms are apparently
scentless.
The varieties of _L. Speciosum_ may be grouped under the headings of
white, rose, red, and purple kinds.
All the white varieties are fine. _Lilium Speciosum Album Kraetzeri_,
notwithstanding its big name, is the smallest of the white forms. But
though small, it is extremely delicate in colour and shape. The green
star is very conspicuous. It is, however, rather tender and requires a
certain amount of care to cultivate properly.
Of the rose varieties, the “Opal” and the “Rose” are undoubtedly the
finest. The former is the more beautiful in colour, but the blossoms
are rather thin and straggling.
The old _Rubrum_ is the best of the red varieties. It is the most
prolific of all the varieties.
The deepest coloured of all is a Japanese variety, _Melpomone_. This
is a very fine big flower. Its colour is blood-crimson, spotted and
bordered with white. The exterior of the blossoms is pale pink.
_Rubro-Cruentum_ and _Purpureum_ are other fine purple varieties. They
differ very slightly from _Melpomone_.
Some forms of _L. Speciosum_ in which the stem splits into two or three
parts are called monstrous or corymbiform varieties. There are white,
red, and purple monstrous forms. They are inferior to the ordinary
varieties.
But little need be said of the cultivation of _L. Speciosum_. Where _L.
Auratum_ will grow, _L. Speciosum_ will grow; and it will grow in most
places where _L. Auratum_ will not grow. It likes a peaty soil with
plenty of sand. Water must be given freely during growth.
_L. Speciosum_ makes an excellent pot plant, and is grown by many
people in their conservatories. In fact, it shares the honour with
_Lilium Harrisii_ of being the only lily commonly grown under glass. As
a cut flower it is very useful.
Just a word about cutting lilies. Never cut the stem down near the
ground. Always leave about twenty leaves, else the bulb may suffer.
If you are going to bring lilies up to town from the country, cut the
buds off just before they open. These stand less risk of damage in
moving, and they will open perfectly if placed in water.
Cut lilies are thirsty plants and need a lot of water. They last from
one to two weeks if plentifully watered, but die almost immediately
when water is withheld. We have before warned you against spoiling your
lilies by removing the anthers.
A lovely little lily is _Lilium Krameri_. The delicate pink of its
blossoms, its slender growth, its early flowering, and its fragrance
render it worthy of a place in every garden.
Like most of the lilies we have described, _L. Krameri_ hails from
Japan. In most particulars it resembles a little _L. Auratum_, but its
flowers are totally different from any other species. They are about
four inches across, of a waxy white to deep blush pink colour. The
anthers are brown.
This lily flowers in June. It is not easy to do well with. It is rather
tender and very susceptible to early frosts. Its cultivation is similar
to that of _L. Auratum_.
Last year there was exhibited in London flowers of a new lily somewhat
resembling _L. Krameri_. It flowered at Kew in June, and we were
fortunate enough to flower a specimen in our own garden. This new
species has received the name of _Lilium Rubellum_, and, though it
resembles _L. Krameri_, it is undoubtedly a true species.
The flowers are small (our one was two and a half inches across), the
petals have the tissue-paper look like a _Cistus_ instead of the waxy
appearance presented by most lilies. The colour is a full rich pink,
and the anthers are yellow.
Its cultivation is similar to that of the other _Archelirions_.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.
BY MARGARET INNES.