by Mr. Edward Wallace in parts unknown, and he is probably among us. Mr.
Wallace has no adventures in particular to relate this time, but he
tells, with due caution, where and how his treasures were gathered in
South America. There is a land which those who have geographical
knowledge sufficient may identify, surrounded by the territories of
Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, Venezuela, and Brazil. It is traversed by some
few Indian tribes, and no collector hitherto had penetrated it. Mr.
Wallace followed the central line of mountains from Colombia for a
hundred and fifty miles, passing a succession of rich valleys described
as the loveliest ever seen by this veteran young traveller, such as
would support myriads of cattle. League beyond league stretches the
"Pajadena grass," pasturage unequalled; but "the wild herds that never
knew a fold" are its only denizens. Here, on the mountain slopes, Mr.
Wallace found _Bletia Sherrattiana_, the white form, very rare; another
terrestrial orchid, unnamed and, as is thought, unknown, which sends up
a branching spike two feet to three feet high, bearing ten to twelve
flowers, of rich purple hue, in shape like a Sobralia, three and four
inches across; and yet another of the same family, growing on the rocks,
and "looking like masses of snow on the hill-side." Such descriptions
are thrilling, but these gentlemen receive them placidly; they would
like to know, perhaps, what is the reserve price on such fine things,
and what the chance of growing them to a satisfactory result. Dealers
have a profound distrust of novelties, especially those of terrestrial
genus; and their feeling is shared, for a like reason, by most who have
large collections. Mr. Burbidge estimates roughly that we have fifteen
hundred to two thousand species and varieties of orchid in cultivation;
a startling figure, which almost justifies the belief of those who hold
that no others worth growing will be found in countries already
explored. But beyond question there are six times this number in
existence, which collectors have not taken the trouble to gather. The
chances, therefore, are against any new thing. Many species well known
show slight differences of growth in different localities. Upon the
whole, regular orchidaceans prefer that some one else should try
experiments, and would rather pay a good price, when assured that it is
worth their while, than a few shillings when the only certainty is
trouble and the strong probability is failure. Mr. Wallace has nothing
more to tell of the undiscovered country. The Indians received him with
composure, after he had struck up friendship with an old woman, and for
the four days of his stay made themselves both useful and agreeable in
their fashion.
The auctioneer has been chatting among his customers. He feels an
interest in his wares, as who would not that dealt in objects of the
extremest beauty and fascination? To him are consigned occasionally
plants of unusual class, which the owner regards as unique, and expects
to sell at the fanciest of prices. Unique indeed they must be which can
pass unchallenged the ordeal of those keen and learned eyes. _Plumeria
alba_, for instance, may be laid before them, and by no inexperienced
horticulturist, with such a "reserve" as befits one of the most
exquisite flowers known, and the only specimen in England. But a quiet
smile goes round, and a gentleman present offers, in an audible whisper,
to send in a dozen of that next week at a fraction of the price. So
pleasant chat goes on, until, at the stroke of half-past twelve, the
auctioneer mounts his rostrum. First to come before him are a hundred
lots of _Odontoglossum crispum Alexandræ_, described as of "the very
best type, and in splendid condition." For the latter point everyone
present is able to judge, and for the former all are willing to accept
the statements of vendors. The glossy bulbs are clean as new pins, with
the small "eye" just bursting among their roots; but nobody seems to
want _Odontoglossum Alexandræ_ in particular. One neat little bunch is
sold for 11s., which will surely bear a wreath of white flowers,
splashed with red brown, in the spring--perhaps two. And then bidding
ceases. The auctioneer exclaims, "Does anybody want any _crispums_?" and
instantly passes by the ninety-nine lots remaining.
It would mislead the unlearned public, and would not greatly interest
them, to go through the catalogue of an orchid sale and quote the
selling price of every lot. From week to week the value of these things
fluctuates--that is, of course, of bulbs imported and unestablished.
Various circumstances effect it, but especially the time of year. They
sell best in spring, when they have months of light and sun before them,
in which to recover from the effects of a long voyage and uncomfortable
quarters. The buyer must make them grow strong before the dark days of
an English winter are upon him; and every month that passes weakens his
chance. In August it is already late; in September, the periodical
auctions ceased until lately. Some few consignments will be received,
detained by accident, or forwarded by persons who do not understand the
business.
That instance of _Odontoglossum Alexandræ_ shows well enough the price
of orchids this month, and the omission of all that followed illustrates
it. The same lots would have been eagerly contested at twice the sum in
April. But those who want that queenliest of flowers may get it for
shillings at any time. The reputation of the importer, and his assurance
that the plants belong to the very best type, give these more value than
usual. He will try his luck once more perhaps this season; and then he
will pot the bulbs unsold to offer them as "established" next year.
_Oncidium luridum_ follows the Odontoglots, a broad-leaved, handsome
orchid, which the untrained eye might think to have no pseudo-bulb at
all. This species always commands a sale, if cheap, and ten shillings is
a reasonable figure for a piece of common size. If all go well, it may
throw out a branching spike six or seven feet long next summer,
with--such a sight has been offered--several hundred blooms, yellow,
brown and orange, _Oncidium juncifolium_, which comes next, is unknown
to us, and probably to others; no offer is made for its reed-like
growths described as "very free blooming all the year round, with small
yellow flowers." _Epidendrum bicornutum_, on the other hand, is very
well known and deeply admired, when seen; but this is an event too rare.
The description of its exquisite white blossoms, crimson spotted on the
lip, is still rather a legend than a matter of eye-witness. Somebody is
reported to have grown it for some years "like a cabbage;" but his
success was a mystery to himself. At Kew they find no trouble in certain
parts of a certain house. Most of these, however, are fine growths, and
the average price should be 12s. 6d. to 15s. Compare such figures with
those that ruled when the popular impression of the cost of orchids was
forming. I have none at hand which refer to the examples mentioned, but
in the cases following, one may safely reckon shillings at the present
day for pounds in 1846. That year, I perceive, such common species as
_Barkeria spectabilis_ fetched 5l. to 17l. each; _Epidendrum
Stamfordianum_, five guineas; _Dendrobium formosum_, fifteen guineas;
_Aerides maculosum_, _crispum_ and _odoratum_ 20l., 21l., and
16l., respectively. No one who understands orchids will believe that
the specimens which brought such monstrous prices were superior in any
respect to those we now receive, and he will be absolutely sure that
they were landed in much worse condition. But the average cost of the
most expensive at the present day might be 30s., and only a large
piece would fetch that sum. It is astonishing to me that so few people
grow orchids. Every modern book on gardening tells how five hundred
varieties at least, the freest to flower and assuredly as beautiful as
any, may be cultivated without heat for seven or eight months of the
year. It is those "legends," I have spoken of which deter the public
from entertaining the notion. An afternoon at an orchid sale would
dispel them.
ORCHIDS.
There is no room to deal with this great subject historically,
scientifically, or even practically, in the space of a chapter. I am an
enthusiast, and I hold some strong views, but this is not the place to
urge them. It is my purpose to ramble on, following thoughts as they
arise, yet with a definite aim. The skilled reader will find nothing to
criticize, I hope, and the indifferent, something to amuse.
Those amiable theorists who believe that the resources of Nature, if
they be rightly searched, are able to supply every wholesome want the
fancy of man conceives, have a striking instance in the case of orchids.
At the beginning of this century, the science of floriculture, so far as
it went, was at least as advanced as now. Under many disadvantages which
we escape--the hot-air flue especially, and imperfect means of
ventilation--our fore-fathers grew the plants known to them quite as
well as we do. Many tricks have been discovered since, but for lasting
success assuredly our systems are no improvement. Men interested in such
matters began to long for fresh fields, and they knew where to look.
Linnæus had told them something of exotic orchids in 1763, though his
knowledge was gained through dried specimens and drawings. One bulb,
indeed--we spare the name--showed life on arrival, had been planted, and
had flowered thirty years before, as Mr. Castle shows. Thus
horticulturists became aware, just when the information was most
welcome, that a large family of plants unknown awaited their attention;
plants quite new, of strangest form, of mysterious habits, and beauty
incomparable. Their notions were vague as yet, but the fascination of
the subject grew from year to year. Whilst several hundred species were
described in books, the number in cultivation, including all those
gathered by Sir Joseph Banks, and our native kinds, was only fifty. Kew
boasted no more than one hundred and eighteen in 1813; amateurs still
watched in timid and breathless hope.
Gradually they came to see that the new field was open, and they entered
with a rush. In 1830 a number of collections still famous in the legends
of the mystery are found complete. At the Orchid Conference, Mr. O'Brien
expressed a "fear that we could not now match some of the specimens
mentioned at the exhibitions of the Horticultural Society in Chiswick
Gardens between 1835 and 1850;" and extracts which he gave from reports
confirm this suspicion. The number of species cultivated at that time
was comparatively small. People grew magnificent "specimens" in place of
many handsome pots. We read of things amazing to the experience of forty
years later. Among the contributions of Mrs. Lawrence, mother to our
"chief," Sir Trevor, was an Aerides with thirty to forty flower spikes;
a Cattleya with twenty spikes; an _Epidendrum bicornutum_, difficult to
keep alive, much more to bloom, until the last few years, with "many
spikes;" an Oncidium, "bearing a head of golden flowers four feet
across." Giants dwelt in our greenhouses then.
So the want of enthusiasts was satisfied. In 1852 Mr. B.S. Williams
could venture to publish "Orchids for the Million," a hand-book of
world-wide fame under the title it presently assumed, "The Orchid
Grower's Manual." An occupation or amusement the interest of which grows
year by year had been discovered. All who took trouble to examine found
proof visible that these masterworks of Nature could be transplanted and
could be made to flourish in our dull climate with a regularity and a
certainty unknown to them at home. The difficulties of their culture
were found to be a myth--we speak generally, and this point must be
mentioned again. The "Million" did not yet heed Mr. Williams'
invitation, but the Ten Thousand did, heartily.
I take it that orchids meet a craving of the cultured soul which began
to be felt at the moment when kindly powers provided means to satisfy
it. People of taste, unless I err, are tiring of those conventional
forms in which beauty has been presented in all past generations. It may
be an unhealthy sentiment, it may be absurd, but my experience is that
it exists and must be taken into account. A picture, a statue, a piece
of china, any work of art, is eternally the same, however charming. The
most one can do is to set it in different positions, different lights.
Théophile Gautier declared in a moment of frank impatience that if the
Transfiguration hung in his study, he would assuredly find blemishes
therein after awhile--quite fanciful and baseless, as he knew, but such,
nevertheless, as would drive him to distraction presently. I entertain a
notion, which may appear very odd to some, that Gautier's influence on
the æsthetic class of men has been more vigorous than that of any other
teacher; thousands who never read a line of his writing are
unconsciously inspired by him. The feeling that gave birth to his
protest nearly two generations since is in the air now. Those who own a
collection of art, those who have paid a great sum for pictures, will
not allow it, naturally. As a rule, indeed, a man looks at his fine
things no more than at his chairs and tables. But he who is best able to
appreciate good work, and loves it best when he sees it, is the one who
grows restless when it stands constantly before him.
"Oh, that those lips had language!" cried Cowper. "Oh, that those lovely
figures would combine anew--change their light--do anything, anything!"
cries the æsthete after awhile. "Oh, that the wind would rise upon that
glorious sea; the summer green would fade to autumn yellow; that night
would turn to day, clouds to sunshine, or sunshine to clouds." But the
_littera scripta manet_--the stroke of the brush is everlasting. Apollo
always bends the bow in marble. One may read a poem till it is known by
heart, and in another second the familiar words strike fresh upon the
ear. Painters lay a canvas aside, and presently come to it, as they say,
with a new eye; but a purchaser once seized with this desperate malady
has no such refuge. After putting his treasure away for years, at the
first glance all his satiety returns. I myself have diagnosed a case
where a fine drawing by Gerôme grew to be a veritable incubus. It is
understood that the market for pictures is falling yearly. I believe
that the growth of this dislike to the eternal stillness of a painted
scene is a chief cause of the disaster. It operates among the best class
of patrons.
For such men orchids are a blessed relief. Fancy has not conceived such
loveliness, complete all round, as theirs--form, colour, grace,
distribution, detail, and broad effect. Somewhere, years ago--in Italy
perhaps, but I think at the Taylor Institution, Oxford--I saw the
drawings made by Rafaelle for Leo X. of furniture and decoration in his
new palace; be it observed in parenthesis, that one who has not beheld
the master's work in this utilitarian style of art has but a limited
understanding of his supremacy. Among them were idealizations of
flowers, beautiful and marvellous as fairyland, but compared with the
glory divine that dwells in a garland of _Odontoglossum Alexandræ_,
artificial, earthy. Illustrations of my meaning are needless to experts,
and to others words convey no idea. But on the table before me now
stands a wreath of _Oncidium crispum_ which I cannot pass by. What
colourist would dare to mingle these lustrous browns with pale gold,
what master of form could shape the bold yet dainty waves and crisps and
curls in its broad petals, what human imagination could bend the
graceful curve, arrange the clustering masses of its bloom? All beauty
that the mind can hold is there--the quintessence of all charm and
fancy. Were I acquainted with an atheist who, by possibility, had brain
and feeling, I would set that spray before him and await reply. If
Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like a lily of the field, the
angels of heaven have no vesture more ethereal than the flower of the
orchid. Let us take breath.
Many persons indifferent to gardening--who are repelled, indeed, by its
prosaic accompaniments, the dirt, the manure, the formality, the spade,
the rake, and all that--love flowers nevertheless. For such these plants
are more than a relief. Observe my Oncidium. It stands in a pot, but
this is only for convenience--a receptacle filled with moss. The long
stem feathered with great blossoms springs from a bare slab of wood. No
mould nor peat surrounds it; there is absolutely nothing save the roots
that twine round their support, and the wire that sustains it in the
air. It asks no attention beyond its daily bath. From the day I tied it
on that block last year--reft from home and all its pleasures, bought
with paltry silver at Stevens' Auction Rooms--I have not touched it save
to dip and to replace it on its hook. When the flowers fade, thither it
will return, and grow and grow, please Heaven, until next summer it
rejoices me again; and so, year by year, till the wood rots. Then
carefully I shall transfer it to a larger perch and resume. Probably I
shall sever the bulbs without disturbing them, and in seasons following
two spikes will push--then three, then a number, multiplying and
multiplying when my remotest posterity is extinct. That is, so Nature
orders it; whether my descendants will be careful to allow her fair play
depends on circumstances over which I have not the least control.
For among their innumerable claims to a place apart among all things
created, orchids may boast immortality. Said Sir Trevor Lawrence, in the
speech which opened our famous Congress, 1885: "I do not see, in the
case of most of them, the least reason why they should ever die. The
parts of the orchideæ are annually reproduced in a great many instances,
and there is really no reason they should not live for ever unless, as
is generally the case with them in captivity, they be killed by errors
in cultivation." Sir Trevor was addressing an assemblage of
authorities--a parterre of kings in the empire of botany--or he might
have enlarged upon this text.
The epiphytal orchid, to speak generally, and to take the simple form,
is one body with several limbs, crowned by one head. Its circulation
pulsates through the whole, less and less vigorously, of course, in the
parts that have flowered, as the growing head leaves them behind. At
some age, no doubt, circulation fails altogether in those old limbs, but
experience does not tell me distinctly as yet in how long time the
worn-out bulbs of an Oncidium or a Cattleya, for example, would perish
by natural death. One may cut them off when apparently lifeless, even
beginning to rot, and under proper conditions--it may be a twelvemonth
after--a tiny green shoot will push from some "eye," withered and
invisible, that has slept for years, and begin existence on its own
account. Thus, I am not old enough as an orchidacean to judge through
how many seasons these plants will maintain a limb apparently
superfluous. Their charming disposition is characterized above all
things by caution and foresight. They keep as many strings to their bow,
as many shots in their locker, as may be, and they keep them as long as
possible. The tender young head may be nipped off by a thousand chances,
but such mishaps only rouse the indomitable thing to replace it with
two, or even more. Beings designed for immortality are hard to kill.
Among the gentle forms of intellectual excitement I know not one to
compare with the joy of restoring a neglected orchid to health. One may
buy such for coppers--rare species, too--of a size and a "potentiality"
of display which the dealers would estimate at as many pounds were they
in good condition on their shelves. I am avoiding names and details, but
it will be allowed me to say, in brief, that I myself have bought more
than twenty pots for five shillings at the auction-rooms, not twice nor
thrice either. One half of them were sick beyond recovery, some few had
been injured by accident, but by far the greater part were victims of
ignorance and ill-treatment which might still be redressed. Orchids tell
their own tale, whether of happiness or misery, in characters beyond
dispute. Mr. O'Brien alleged, indeed, before the grave and experienced
signors gathered in conference, that "like the domestic animals, they
soon find out when they are in hands that love them. With such a
guardian they seem to be happy, and to thrive, and to establish an
understanding, indicating to him their wants in many important matters
as plainly as though they could speak." And the laugh that followed this
statement was not derisive. He who glances at the endless tricks,
methods, and contrivances devised by one or other species to serve its
turn may well come to fancy that orchids are reasoning things.
At least, many keep the record of their history in form unmistakable.
Here is a Cattleya which I purchased last autumn, suspecting it to be
rare and valuable, though nameless; I paid rather less than one
shilling. The poor thing tells me that some cruel person bought it five
years ago--an imported piece, with two pseudo-bulbs. They still remain,
towering like columns of old-world glory above an area of shapeless
ruin. To speak in mere prose--though really the conceit is not
extravagant--these fine bulbs, grown in their native land, of course,
measure eight inches high by three-quarters of an inch diameter. In the
first season, that _malheureux_ reduced their progeny to a stature of
three and a half inches by the foot-rule; next season, to two inches;
the third, to an inch and a half. By this time the patient creature had
convinced itself that there was something radically wrong in the
circumstances attending its normal head, and tried a fresh departure
from the stock--a "back growth," as we call it, after the fashion I have
described. In the third year then, there were two heads. In the fourth
year, the chief of them had dwindled to less than one inch and the
thickness of a straw, while the second struggled into growth with pain
and difficulty, reached the size of a grain of wheat, and gave it up.
Needless to say that the wicked and unfortunate proprietor had not seen
trace of a bloom. Then at length, after five years' torment, he set it
free, and I took charge of the wretched sufferer. Forthwith he began to
show his gratitude, and at this moment--the summer but half through--his
leading head has regained all the strength lost in three years, while
the back growth, which seemed dead, outtops the best bulb my predecessor
could produce.
And I have perhaps a hundred in like case, cripples regaining activity,
victims rescued on their death-bed. If there be a placid joy in life
superior to mine, as I stroll through my houses of a morning, much
experience of the world in many lands and many circumstances has not
revealed it to me. And any of my readers can attain it, for--in no
conventional sense--I am my own gardener; that is to say, no male being
ever touches an orchid of mine.
One could hardly cite a stronger argument to demolish the superstitions
that still hang around this culture. If a busy man, journalist,
essayist, novelist, and miscellaneous _littérateur_, who lives by his
pen, can keep many hundreds of orchids in such health that he is proud
to show them to experts--with no help whatsoever beyond, in emergency,
that which ladies of his household, or a woman-servant give--if he can
do this, assuredly the pursuit demands little trouble and little
expense. I am not to lay down principles of cultivation here, but this
must be said: orchids are indifferent to detail. There lies a secret.
Secure the general conditions necessary for their well-doing, and they
will gratefully relieve you of further anxiety; neglect those general
conditions, and no care will reconcile them. The gentleman who reduced
my Cattleya to such straits gave himself vast pains, it is likely,
consulted no end of books, did all they recommend; and now declares that
orchids are unaccountable. It is just the reverse. No living things
follow with such obstinate obedience a few most simple laws; no machine
produces its result more certainly, if one comply with the rules of its
being.