I
HYACINTH CULTURE AT HAARLEM IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Chapter I.—Introduction
Saint-Simon, writing in the year 1768, declares there were at that time in Haarlem nearly two thousand named varieties of the hyacinth, and we may suppose they had already been about forty years in cultivation on a soil which seemed particularly adapted for the purpose,—a fine upper stratum of grey sand, superposed by the action of the sea on a thin subsoil of peat, so that Nature prepared, it seems, many thousand years in advance to produce the delicately-tinted and exquisitely-scented flower, which rises as if by magic out of the cold earth in a few weeks’ space.
One well-named variety, “Sceptre of David,” reminds one of the long moral preparation of one people chosen out of the nations of the earth (a stiff soil to work), before the long-desired of the hills should come, when there should come a rod out of the root of Jesse, and a flower should rise up out of his root.
If there are “correspondences” in the material and spiritual worlds, the flower that cometh up in a day has its root in the ages.
The hyacinth is one of the most perfect results of man’s Art—Art, for Saint-Simon is persuaded that the hyacinth has become what it is principally through cultivation, and without human patience and perseverance—if nature had been left entirely alone—a much less pleasing and exquisite flower would have appeared.
Every year new varieties are developed, and hope springs eternal in the breast of the cultivator. Haarlem, the Paradise of Flowers, may be especially described as the home of the hyacinth.
Upon his arrival at Haarlem, the stranger is so dazzled with the spectacle of the wonderful and brilliantly coloured carpet spread before his eyes, that he does not at first realise there is yet further joy to be found in the singular beauty of certain species and varieties taken individually.
There he sees acres of hyacinths, double and single, in uninterrupted ranges of pure colour; the only intervals between the rows being the little grey sand paths, to enable the cultivator to reach the flowers.
It is difficult for the imagination to picture a piece of earth so brilliantly enamelled with flowers, and yet such variety and beauty in detail. The rarest and finest specimens are put apart from the rest in chosen spots, and these again are arranged in symmetrical order, with such taste and so unsullied and trim, that one can hardly believe Nature has been allowed any hand at all in the arrangement. The florist’s art seems to have triumphed almost too completely. Well, one may say the florists of Haarlem have played the predominant part, and their long experience, aided by the succours of reason, have shown them how to assist Nature by seconding her efforts, and thus to raise her to a stage beyond herself. In any case, the flowers they cultivate seldom reach such a high state of development elsewhere. However active and industrious they may be, no amateur, with all his talents, has ever reached to such surprising perfection—in strength and form of stem and blossoms; or to such brilliancy of colouring, though many possessing both talent and experience have spared neither trouble nor expense in their endeavours to produce the same result. They are inclined to attribute their want of success to the nature of their climate and the soil, and like to regard Haarlem as a place especially privileged in these respects.
If amateurs had any idea of the spirit of emulation rife among the Haarlem growers, and the way their whole attention is absorbed,—how unceasingly they labour and continually verify their experiments, always reflecting and improving upon them and making fresh combinations,—they would then know the work is not impossible, and they need only be endowed with the indomitable qualities of the Dutchman, and they might produce the same results.
There is no doubt that there exists, even in Haarlem, a sensible difference between growers of the first class and the more second-rate cultivators; for, although all are imbued more or less with the same spirit, and enjoy the same advantages of soil, climate, etc., yet some, through learning and experience, rise superior to the rest in this line.
If in other countries amateur growers kept more in touch with one another, and co-operated as do the Haarlem cultivators, there would be less occasion for despair. For a good deal of their success comes from their united efforts and experiments, so that among them all they have many ways of knowing how to preserve bulbs, to propagate them, and guard them from destructive accidents.
Nobody knows exactly where hyacinths come from originally—the name of the hyacinth called “Orientalis,” whose origin can be traced back till it is lost in the obscurity of ages—seems to imply that this flower originated in the East, and there has been much discussion about the fact that Moses in the book of Exodus speaks of the colour of the hyacinth—but whether he refers to it only as a colour, or as a flower, or as a precious stone, it is impossible to say—for it has been differently translated in various languages. Saint-Simon tells us that Dioscorides, in the time of Vespasian, describes a flower he calls “Hyacinthos” in these words: “L’Hyacinthe a les feuilles des plantes bulbeuses et la tige dodrantale (c’est-à-dire de trois paulmes, pans ou empans de haut, on n’est pas d’accord sur cette mesure non plus), faible, et plus mince que le petit doigt, de couleur verte, dont le haut s’incline sous le poids d’une tête chargée de fleurs purpurescentes.” People have argued indefinitely on the precise shade of “purple,” and to this day they have not decided if it should be more red than blue or more blue than red. The general opinion seems to be that the original hyacinth was the colour of the natural wild hyacinth (which is a Scilla?) which grows in the woods, where the red variety is not nearly as commonly found as the blue.
On the other hand, the first species may have been red, for in old fables it seems the hyacinth was thought to be red. Ovid relates how a flower sprang from the blood of the young Hyacinthus,[2] whom Apollo slew by accident with a quoit. Others, like Pliny and Pausanias, say the blood of Ajax, slain near Salamis, was changed into this flower.
2. Unless blue blood was spilt.
Whatever its original colour, and whatever country it came from, it is certain that many species have been produced by the florists of Haarlem, and have entirely originated in their gardens. Yet it is to be remembered that all came from the old original stock, however different they have now become. Their natural simplicity has been lost to a certain extent.
Florists divide hyacinths into four classes:
1. The Single Hyacinth—the corolla divided into six segments.
2. Semi-Double—only slightly double, with a few petals irregularly disposed behind the single.
3. Double—the outer petals lined with an equal number of other petals in regular order.
4. Full Hyacinth—which has a heart as full of petals as it can hold.
These four classes furnish a great number of varieties. We cannot define further without going into their distinguishing features and numerous subdivisions.
The Full Hyacinth possesses the greater number and best varieties. It is important a hyacinth should belong to the best (one of full) varieties—but this is not sufficient to constitute a good flower. The petals should grow in very regular order—especially those within the heart of the flower, and the petals should as well be curved back very evenly at their tip. They should also be of a beautiful clear and decided colour, and this is a great charm in a hyacinth. As well as being as perfect and decided as possible, the colour of the inner should harmonise agreeably with the colour of the outer petals.
In this respect there is nothing to be found to surpass the Gloria Florum Suprema[3]—the blossoms being perfectly disposed the full length of the stem, which rises tall and very straight, but is, unfortunately a little too thin to support the weight of the flowers. The petals are very pure white, and their tips fold back with the greatest regularity, forming a perfectly symmetrical bud (or button). Colours such as blue and black, red and white are satisfactory combinations. White hyacinths, as a rule, are the most delicately shaded, but each variety has a beauty entirely its own.
3. No longer in existence.
Of every colour there are kinds which obtain high prices, but the beauty or merit of a flower is not exactly determined by the monetary value—for people pay for novelty; the rarity it is which enhances the value. However, they must, besides, have other essential qualities. Gloria Mundi and François Ist, and other blues, which used to be the only ones which could at all compete with Gloria Florum Suprema, have at last found their rival among the white varieties. “Og Roi de Basan,” “Le Comte de Provence,” etc., lose nothing by comparison. Some of the reds, Rex Rubrorum and Mine d’Or have as many points in their favour. There are now hyacinths of almost every shade. But only at Haarlem are thousands of varieties and shades to be seen together, and there one can feast one’s eyes to one’s heart’s content. When a new kind is raised from seed it causes a great sensation.
Saint-Simon, after expatiating at length on the endurance of the hyacinth through centuries of growth, ever reproducing itself with renewed vigour,—showing no sign of exhausting the stock, says: “Cependant cet oignon si merveilleux, éternel, pour ainsi dire, dans l’imagination et présent aux yeux pendant tant de siècles, ne dure effectivement que quatre à cinq ans.”
The hyacinth is propagated by its offshoots or young bulbs. It also reproduces itself from seed. From the seed new varieties are produced. Hyacinth bulbs will bloom in any direction they are placed, even upside down—the flower will grow downwards in a vase of water.
If you take the bulb at the moment of planting, that is, when it is beginning to show the tender green point of its shoot, the first thing to do is to examine if it is healthy. It should be round and full, and not shrivelled; though each variety differs slightly in form, yet all should be properly rounded in appearance, because this shows the bulb is in good condition, nor should it be too light in weight for its size. If it is, it shows it is drying up inside and is deficient in sap. But to be small in size does not matter, for some of the beautiful red varieties have very small bulbs, and very often single hyacinths have larger bulbs than the double.
There is a kind of double hyacinth, white with a red heart, which is known by its outer tunic, which is always wrinkled and defective. In spite of its appearance, by its weight and form one may judge if it is in good condition. The roots often grow like a crown round the base of the bulb, and the space in the centre is called the “eye” of the roots. This space is covered with a membrane; and in choosing bulbs, this is the part you must first examine carefully to see if there are any signs of decay. There should be no marks of damp or of mildew in the eye at the base of the bulb.
When the time draws near for planting, the bulb should show little swollen white points at the base where the roots are to come.
The tunics or suberous leaves (what is called skin on an ordinary onion) are always covered over with a thin, dry, reddish skin, which falls off after a time, but is at first useful in protecting the other tunics when the bulb is in the earth, for it is planted in the dampest season of the year. No tunic entirely embraces the circumference of the bulb, but only about two-thirds of it. The tunics are really an extension (in the bulb) of the long green leaves, only the part of these leaves which show green above ground fall off in the end of the year, and the base of them, which remain within the bulb as tunics, spread and increase till, when they are pushed by each year’s growth from the centre to the outside of the bulb (by the growth of new stem and leaves within), they get weaker and thinner, until at last they turn into the dry, red, outside skin, which finally decays and falls off.
The tunics are of the same substance as the rest of the bulb (which is composed of fleshy scales), and the difference is so gradual that it is impossible to see where the fleshy substance of the bulb begins to change into the suberous quality of the leaves, and yet there is a very marked difference between the bulb and its leafy scales; they are, however, an undetachable whole, and you cannot pull off the inner tunic leaves of the hyacinth from the base, as you can pull off the leaves of an artichoke.
As soon as the bulb is taken from the ground it begins to grow and increases rapidly during the three months it lies on the shelf, and all this time it lives on the sap-nourishment accumulated by it when in the earth. The sap concentrated in the bulb can preserve it for a great length of time, but it is not quite sufficient to enable the bulb to finish all the work it has to do, and if it flowers it will not have strength enough to bring its seeds to maturity. (Saint-Simon here observes that this is not attributable to the bulb having no roots, but to its inward indisposition.)
Some people imagine that a bulb which has been kept from flowering can reserve itself for the following year. Many such experiments have been made, and bulbs have been kept back on the shelves and have not been allowed to flower; they have invariably perished, and, growers say, scarcely a year passes that they have not tried the experiment,—they have lost every bulb which was not put into the ground. As a rule the sap in a bulb will be sufficient nourishment during its ordinary growth till January or February, but after that it will begin to grow mouldy and go bad. The moment it is put in earth or over water, in the proper season, the bulb, which is just beginning to be exhausted, pumps up sap so vigorously that it begins at once to throw out roots from almost the first day, and growers dare not move them again, even a few hours after they have been put in, to send them away, however carefully packed, even a short distance, for fear the fresh moisture they have sucked up so quickly should cause them to rot, and they even consider it a dangerous process to change them from one place to another, in the same bed, if they have been but half an hour in the ground. The roots, which are in such a hurry to show themselves when first the bulbs are planted, perish as quickly as they grow. They stop growing before the flower is in full bloom, and are always quite dried up before the seed begins to ripen. While the root is perishing the flower continues, the stem grows, and all the flowers expand completely. When the flower is quite over and the seed is left to ripen, the sap goes into the leaves, which lengthen considerably, then these die in their turn, till they separate from the bulb of themselves.
Chapter II.—Bulbs
It has already been shown what sort of appearance the outer tunics present, and it has been explained how the tunics in general are formed. We are now going to push our examination further. After divesting the bulb of seven or eight tunics (or fans), one comes (A) upon a little thin flattened thread of crimson colour, like a line. It is, as it were, embedded in one of the tunics; it starts from the base of the bulb and rises to the extreme top.
Continuing to take away again the same number of tunics, one comes upon a second thread (B) like the first, A, only that it is less red and thicker; then, for the third time, taking off another seven or eight tunics, one meets with a third line or fillet (C), very like the two first, with this difference, it is quite white and much thicker. Under the last fillet are the new leaves (or fans), beginning to bud, about seven or eight in number, and in the centre of them is the stem, which is going to flower in a few months.
Now all the tunics are supposed to be taken off, and only the three fillets or threads which we spoke of are left (A, B, C). Fillet A is all that is left (within the bulb) of the stem which flowered eighteen months ago.
Fillet C is the remains of the stem of the last flower borne by the bulb, six months before.
Fillet D is the stem which is about to flower in six months’ time (the flower buds are already sufficiently formed to be seen), and E contains the stem and tunic leaves, which are to come into bud in another eighteen months.
If, when the bulb is in full flower, you divest it of all its tunics, till you come to the flower stem,—you will find at the base of it a very tiny bud; if you take away the stem, which easily breaks off, you will find the bud remains firmly attached to the base of the bulb. If you open the bud with a penknife, you will see it is composed of six or seven little leaves (or fans), and inside a tiny stem, furnished with buds, which has begun to grow already, and from the moment the bulb is laid on the shelves it increases till the time comes for putting it again in the earth. We have been speaking all this time of the double hyacinth. The single hyacinth is somewhat differently constructed, for it usually throws out several shoots from the sides as well as from the centre. The single bulb does not appear to last so long, for its fillets are fewer, but the number of flowering stems it produces, and the irregularity of their growth, makes it difficult to follow it in its various stages of development as exactly as one can the double. By dint of observing, year after year, bulbs, both those in a good state of preservation and some partially decomposed, it has been discovered that the bulb always loses the same number of outer tunics as it gains interiorly new ones. When once a bulb has acquired the regulation number of tunics, it will always keep to the same number year by year, and nevertheless every year it is putting forth seven or eight from its centre. The outer tunics, which we call “red skin,” regularly shrivel and decay in the earth, and thus they disappear.
The central (fans) or young tunics, when they turn into leaves, do the work of an air-pump; they are the lungs by which the plant lives; they dilate in heat and contract in cold. When dilated they take in the air, with all with which it is impregnated, and they give it out again with the regularity that an animal breathes through its lungs.
Plants do not like the shade of trees; they need open air and sunshine, and they like places where they catch the dew and rain and mist; the moisture thus obtained through their leaves is better for them than water poured upon them from a watering-pot.
Planted in hot-houses or under glass they do without much water, because the hot air produces vapour by the sun’s rays from above or from the fire beneath, and it is necessary to introduce a little air in order to let it evaporate (but the plants must not be chilled by cold seizing them in the process). Hyacinths which are protected by planks sometimes do better than those under glass.
The planks are lifted and the plants find themselves exposed to the open air, this is only done when the air is not likely to injure them. To be kept constantly under glass or in a room sometimes affects their colour and shape. It also spoils their colour to be exposed to heavy rain or a very hot sun, which exhausts them. The leaves (as the leaves of a tree) turn on their pedicels one side to the earth, for one surface of the leaf sucks in moisture and the other gives it out. What they receive through the upper surface by day they give out through their under surface at night by a process of evaporation.
When the bulbs are planted the leaves (or fans) are already pushing forth a green shoot. The gardener does not feel particularly uneasy if the frost touches the tip of the shoot, but they are very much afraid of (the frost) its reaching the flower-buds within the shoot, for if their tops are nipped by the frost, the hyacinths will be disfigured. If any one or two of the leaf sheaths get yellow or diseased they can be cut away without injuring the bud, and neither will the bulb itself suffer, as in any case the leaves drop off in the end of the year.
It is evident now that Nature works in the bulb from the interior to the exterior, and this principle must be well borne in mind by the cultivator.
Chapter III.—Young Bulbs
Having thoroughly examined roots, leaves, and tunics, we now come to the organs of reproduction, and as the young bulbs form them themselves very oddly and irregularly at the base of the old bulb, it is very difficult even for a connoisseur to judge whether any little bulbs are coming, and still less can he foretell how many he may hope for. Sometimes they are numerous, and on single hyacinths twenty-four have been known to develop on one bulb, but on single hyacinths they develop very irregularly, while on the double they are more regular in their growth; growing from the centre; though, as the central stem with all its leaves grows, the new little bulbs are pushed more and more to the sides—sometimes they push through to the outside of the bulb, sometimes between the tunics, wherever they can get air.
Each baby bulb contains the same number of (fans) leaves as the parent shoot, and develops in the same way—only that the first flower of the new bulb is very thin and small. The tunics partake of the same bulbous substance which forms the base of the bulb until it grows to the height (or point) when it begins to take the suberous quality which distinguishes the leaves from the bulb substance, and so the tunics, as far upwards as they partake of the bulb substance, possess the same capacity of producing young bulbs, which grow from them in the same manner as from the base.
Some gardeners, in order to multiply their bulbs more rapidly, perform the following operation: with the point of a penknife they cut into the base of the bulb (the point turned upwards and inwards), turning the knife round inside the bulb, the base is cut out (with crown and centre) in the shape of a cone—the upper portion forming a concave, exactly fitting the convex of the base (which is the interior which has been separated by the knife).
The separated base forms no stem the first year, and the inner tunic leaves (fans) are little and poor, and seem hardly to have strength to grow, but they form themselves into tunics quite well, and are grown enough by the following year to cover the stem, which, however, is not quite developed as it should be till the third year—then it is as good as any other of its species. The inferior or lower part scarcely ever produces young bulbs after it is cut from the rest.
The two parts of the bulb should be carefully put into very dry sand, covering them about two inches—they must be left some little while exposed to the sun, which would burn them if not well covered with sand: they must then be put in a window or in some place where they are well preserved from damp; they are thus left for four or five weeks—the superior part turned top upwards—the under part anyhow, it is a matter of indifference how it is placed. In four or five weeks’ time the upper portion has developed such a number of young bulbs that they are injuring one another.
The baby bulbs are by this time perfectly formed, and one can count their leaves or tunic leaves (fans), six or more, and each possesses its stem.
The upper part (of the bulb operated upon), consisting of tunics without base or crown, which is thus able to produce so many young bulbs, can also manage to nourish them during their early growth (though without roots).
This operation will sometimes save a bulb when it is beginning to decay at the base, and it will thus produce bulbs when the decayed part has been cut away. The bulb called “l’Eveque” has a way of bringing forth young bulbs like buds at the base of the flower-stalk—one or two young bulbs will be found adhering to it an inch or so above ground. These little bulbs are as well formed as if they had come from the base and had been nurtured in the earth. Perfect bulbs can be raised from them by cutting the stem an inch above and an inch below the part to which the young bulbs are attached; they are then put by in earth, and treated in the same way as those which had the conic operation performed on them; and just as those were grown and nurtured, simply fed by the tunics—so these obtain their sap for the first year entirely at the expense of the stem, and without starting any roots on their own account. Never more than two bulbs grow thus upon a stem, while very often nearly thirty appear on the upper part of the bulb, which has been separated from the lower part (cone shape). The bulbs grown on the stem take a longer time in coming to perfection than those that start from the base, as a rule in their first year they seem to reach to the same stage as a three-year-old bulb which has been raised from seed—and follow the same gradual course of development, not producing a perfect stem in the beginning.
It is a well-known method with gardeners to cut their bulbs in order to give air and outlet to the young bulbs that are coming. They are simply sliced across (not very deeply) underneath, at their base; sometimes they are slit crosswise, good care being taken the knife does not cut into the growing flower stem in the centre (the centre of the cross-cuts meeting a little to one side to avoid the central stem). By this means this year’s shoot is preserved, and when the bulb bursts asunder (along the lines cut for it, through the strength of the young bulb-shoots pushing their way through) a principal bulb forms itself in the centre, which by the second year is as perfect as any.
There is no part of a bulb which can be pointed out as exclusively serving for the production of young bulbs. They come sometimes from the centre, sometimes from the stem—bursting open the bulb and becoming so like it in form that gardeners have some difficulty in distinguishing the parent bulb from the new. It seems inconceivable that Nature should put such strength into such a delicate production as the young bulb; when once it finds space to develop itself there is no part of the old bulb it will not force to let it through. The angular form of the young bulb comes from the kind of resistance it meets and moulded by the space in which it is free to expand. If it grows on the outside of the bulb, it is concave on the side which joins the round side of the bulb, while on its outer side it is round.
After the first year the young bulb becomes its normal shape, like those which are raised from seed. It is difficult to ascertain if a bulb is going to produce young ones or not,—it is easy to be mistaken, though the conic operation will show clearly in a few weeks if young bulbs are going to develop. It seems scarcely possible that those which develop more naturally can force their way through the tunics without aid, and do their work in the space of one year.
It has been found that when young bulbs have not strength sufficient in their first year to burst the tunics, their development is much assisted by the bulb being cut. The different experiments which have been made prove convincingly that a bulb can bear many amputations safely, and if at any time a sickly bulb has to be cut, one may be pretty certain to get young bulbs from it by taking care to keep the wound made by the cut quite dry.
There are some bulbs, such as François Ist, which may exist years without producing a single young bulb, while others produce at so great a rate that one only wishes they would stop. This shows that young bulbs are plentiful, and may grow in all parts of a bulb,—only that in some they find more resistance than in others,—and the difficulty they find in working their way through the harder sorts causes the slight difference in the forms of the bulbs in the different species. Though all look very much alike to the casual observer, there are nevertheless differences between them. There are some famous growers, such as George Voorhelm, who seldom makes a mistake though he owns 1200 sorts. Each sort has its own regular and distinctive method of reproduction, and peculiarities which mark one species never become accidental in another; each kind keeps to its own manners and customs.
Nature being ever obedient to laws, certain knowledge of her ways is the more easy to acquire—the law of species will be the same in a thousand years as it is to-day. Culture has certainly improved species, and finished what Nature could not by herself complete. Some accidents have become thus a second nature, remaining permanent if another accident does not again occur to disturb the existing order.
Chapter IV.—Seeds
Although there is a way of propagating hyacinths by seed, like other plants, yet it should be known to all that it is seldom that a double hyacinth produces seed, and such a thing has not been known as a seed (from either double or single hyacinth) ever producing a species at all resembling the hyacinth from which the seed is taken. “La Perruque quarrée,” a red hyacinth, has produced “La Comète”—a very fine sort, and a splendid red, but it has no resemblance to “La Perruque quarrée,” and yet they are about the nearest in likeness that have been produced. There is no visible difference between the seeds of double and single hyacinths. Gardeners are more hopeful of raising double flowers from the seeds of single hyacinths than of raising double from the seeds of double. They have not yet found any principle to go upon in the choice of seeds, however many experiments have been made. Some have thought a well-formed hyacinth in its seventh year, being then in its prime, is more likely to produce double flowers from its seed than it would be if ten or fifteen years older. It is supposed that the seed of a full hyacinth, which has its petals redoubled to the centre of the flower, possesses an advantage over others, or double may be raised from its seed, but it very rarely produces seed at all; when it does, success is still very uncertain. Some like to try semi-double; some follow one method, some another, few obtain the same result twice over. Some amateurs, once upon a time, longing to obtain a new sort of flower, sowed the seeds of a single yellow hyacinth, very pale in colour, and of quite a small and common sort; they were lucky enough to obtain splendid flowers of a very good white, the centre a perfect yellow, stems and blossoms all superb,—“Saturne,” “Heroine,” “Flavo Superbe.” “Og Roi de Basan” also derives its origin from the stock raised from this seed.
Countless experiments have been made, and all tend to show that flowers produced from seed never resemble the flower from which the seed was taken. As a rule they differ in every point, shape, colour, and height. Nature insists so much on variety that even seeds taken from the same seed-vessel do not produce flowers alike. Some may be red, others blue or white, large or small, as the case may be, sometimes they are fortunate enough to get several double varieties from the seed of the single hyacinth. It must be confessed, added to other difficulties there is this: it is four years before the seed produces its flower—that is, in an ordinary way, for sometimes it is more advanced by one or two years. As during the course of four years the bulbs are taken up three times out of the ground, it may sometimes happen that the experiment has failed through negligence, but there has never been any doubt at all about the fact of a seed never producing the same kind of hyacinth as the parent stock.
One should not cut the hyacinth stalk, or separate it from the bulb, if seeds are to be taken from it, until the ovaries are yellow and beginning to open and show their seeds, which should be already black. Then they can be cut and put in a place where they are protected from sun and rain, and when the ovaries are quite dry the seed can be taken from them and very carefully kept (not wrapped up or covered) until the time for sowing them, about the middle of October. Growers who have no interest in preserving the seed believe it is a bad thing to exhaust their bulbs by leaving the seed to ripen on the plant. The earth that the seeds are thrown upon should be well prepared (I shall describe its composition presently).
The seed is visible enough to be spread about without the necessity of mixing it with sand, as is sometimes done with vegetable garden seeds. They must not be sown too thick, and about an inch deep. When it is beginning to turn cold they must be protected from the frost by a covering of manure, leaves, or tan. The seed, which begins soon to germinate, is very sensitive to heat and cold. The parts of the seed are not unlike a fruit. It is first covered by a strong black skin, and under this a fleshy substance. This contains an almond, within which is enclosed the germ; this develops in the same manner as in the seeds of all plants that are called by botanists “one lobed” or “monocotyledon.” During growth this almond part of the seed detaches itself from its wraps.
When the grain is put into the ground in the month of October it swells, and the germ, piercing through the pericarp or fleshy part of the seed, begins to develop itself. The little leafy shoot which pushes upward is the part that botanists call the plumule, and the part which pushes from the central axis (or plantule) is called the radicle or little root. During the first year the little root is always tuberous or knotted. It does not yet draw sap from the earth. It is generally agreed among botanists that the plumule and radicle (the plant and little root) at this stage draw their nourishment from the cotyledon or seed-lobe, to which they are still joined. This lobe goes on nourishing the plant till the bulb has already taken form, and takes in nourishment from the earth (through its base).
The thin round leaf-shoot which comes up remains bent a whole year before it has gained sufficient strength to rise straight. The first year the root is only a thin thread; sometimes it grows very long and is full of knots, then it is organically diseased, and the bulb will be very weak and worthless. They often die when the root is thus deformed. To make a well-formed bulb the root should have only one knot at the place where it comes from the seed; upon this the bulb forms itself. At first it is composed of a single tunic, and this tunic is joined and completely closed on all sides.
At the end of one year (after sowing the seed), if the bulb were taken up, one would find this tunic lined with two other tunics exactly like it.
The bulbs being still very small, they exhaust the soil very little, so that the first year growers do not take the trouble to take them up. But an amateur, who raised a great many from seed, used to say he thought taking them up every year certainly assisted their growth.
After it has been eighteen months in the ground the bulb has gained a certain consistency; it is now composed of four tunics, each of which encloses it entirely, the outside tunic appearing brown and dry (as if the drying process had begun, for this outer one has to shrivel away in the earth next year). The leaf-shoot still looks thin and round like a rush, but it holds itself straight, and has gathered strength since last year. The second year (about the time it has to be taken up) it has lost its outside tunic, but has still three left, completely surrounding it, but within the inmost envelope the base of the leaf-shoot or fan (which now shows a double shoot) is already spreading and forming in the centre of the bulb a tunic, like the tunics of the proper (grown) bulb; that is to say, it wraps it only two-thirds of the way round its circumference. The roots have now strengthened. The following year they are yet stronger. The bulb casts off all its binders, the early tunics which enveloped it completely (like a bandage). After this it enters into its mature state, the leaves, instead of clinging together like a round rush, separate, slowly detaching themselves and taking the shape they are to preserve to the end, though every year they increase considerably.
From the time the bulb loses its first closed tunics it is able to produce its flower, which it never can do while it remains with closed tunics. The first flower has a long feeble stem, which bears one, two, or three small blossoms, but these are enough to show the sort of flower it is going to be. If it is single it will remain a single always, neither will its colour vary again, and it can be classed among the red, blue, or white of its kind, but it will grow more perfect and improve in height, size, and colour. If the flower turns out to be double, the growers are delighted, and then they will spare no pains in developing its beauty, for they know not what degree of perfection it may yet attain.
When the bulb is three years old (having a treble shoot, and having lost its last completely enveloping tunic) it possesses only the ordinary tunics, which are formed by the expansion at the base of the leaves (these envelop only two-thirds of the bulb).
The bulb, when four years old (having developed more perfect leaves and begun to produce flowers), is composed of about twenty tunics.
If the flower, during the fifth year, continues to develop and shows to advantage in colour, form, etc., the growers’ hopes rise higher still, but they cannot tell even yet if the flower will fulfil its great promise.
A bulb which has grown too rapidly will sometimes throw out young bulbs (or offshoots) at four or five years old, but never before it has once, during the course of its life, put forth a flower. This fact is important to remember in regard to observations to be made later on, on the subject of vegetation.
In the ordinary course of nature the bulb does not arrive at its final state of perfection until its seventh year. The grower delights to note its yearly growth in grace and beauty, till at length it becomes précieuse, then he is fully repaid his care, and the kind is for ever fixed, and will never vary again, and it will produce young bulbs which will, in their turn, produce again, and all will perfectly resemble their first parent bulb (though it has happened very seldom indeed that flowers have changed in colour, but this will be explained).
Growers call the flowers they obtain by raising from seed “Conquests.” They share and exchange among themselves these seeds of promise, and sell to each other the third quarter or half of the bulb productions, which, however, should not be parted with unless there are a certain number of young bulbs to be divided. The prices they pay for these invaluable seedlings would astonish an amateur. They enhance the value of the bulb, for which the fixed price is sometimes above 1000 florins. Some are worth as much again. Growers usually keep notes of the origin and date of bulbs.
Some hundred years ago double hyacinths were thought little of; they were almost unknown. Swertius, in 1620, gives a list of about forty kinds of hyacinths; none of them were double. The gardens of George Voorhelm belonged also to his grandfather, who had already tried raising hyacinths from seed, and whenever he made a Conquest, Pierre Voorhelm would reject any which seemed out of the ordinary, or out of proportion to the rest of his flowers, for in those days they took a pride in the formal and regular arrangements of their flower-beds. He took care, especially, to destroy double hyacinths when they appeared, without waiting to see what they might become if they were allowed to develop. He was only anxious to keep flowers which promised seed. It is certain that double flowers have not a seed-bearing quality; they are not formed for maturing the seed enclosed in the ovary, so that any flower without this particular good quality did not fail to be rejected. No one took the least pleasure in the idea of a double hyacinth; it was rather regarded as a monster (or freak of nature), just as at the present day nobody cares for a double tulip.
Pierre Voorhelm fell ill, and being quite unable to visit or attend to his plants until the hyacinth season was nearly over, he happened then to see a double hyacinth (the kind is now lost) which had been forgotten, and had not been thrown away as usual; it was very small, and he only liked it because it seemed to match very well with the single ones—so he cultivated it with the rest and obtained bulbs from it. He found it was much admired by amateurs, who were ready to pay a good price for it. So he took to cultivating the double as well as the single, and soon began to be as anxious to find them among “Conquests” as before he was to get rid of them.
Of the double species the first known was named “Marie,” this and the two kinds that followed are now lost. “Le Roi de la grande Bretagne” existed only seventy years—this was rare and much sought after, and the price rose to many thousand florins. This bulb, imported to hot climates, grew infinitely better than in Haarlem; for it soon died in cold or damp spots. From this time great attention began to be paid to the cultivation of hyacinths raised from seed.
The number of “Conquests” has now become immense, and many more grow bulbs than in former days, and every grower makes his own catalogue, in which his “Conquests” are known under names which are kept in all the lists which are re-written every year. In this list there may be flowers of different colour bearing the same name—such as “Gloria Mundi,” which is classed with the blues; the same name re-occurs classed with reds and whites. Frequently double-flowering bulbs of different colour have the same name—so that it is as well, when ordering a particular bulb, to specify and enter into details when writing the order. Then mistakes will be prevented, which are as distasteful to the grower as to the dissatisfied purchaser. Growers do not all agree in classing their bulbs, some for example classing among reds a hyacinth which another would call white with red heart, and which a third might call pink and white, or flesh colour. Besides which the exact shade or nuance differs perhaps in every garden—and it is not so easy to class hyacinths in a way to satisfy everyone, any more than it is easy to produce a completely satisfactory Method of Botany. Seasons are variable, and colours of flowers are much affected by changes of weather. 1767 was a very disastrous season by reason of the cold north wind which prevailed in the early part of the year. Red hyacinths were infinitely poorer than the preceding year, which was a particularly favourable one to bulb growers.
One must make allowances for seasons and accidents, and one ought not to expect the bulbs sent off annually by the growers to be always equally good, for in some years they are more successful than in others—also the same bulb which flowers splendidly, as a rule, may take it into its head to yield a very poor flower, though it may be planted in the same soil—between two others which are doing their best; one can see no cause why they should be so uncertain, except perhaps they pump in sap more vigorously at one time than another. It can be accounted for sometimes by the fact that the bulb itself is feeling disposed to throw out young bulbs, and the sap is being drawn away from the flower-stalk—or it may have suffered from a cold draught, when it was lying on the shelf in the winter—or it may be it is feeling the damp.
Chapter V.—Organs of Reproduction
The various species of hyacinths, though apparently different and distinct, are essentially alike. Bulbs of one sort differ very little from those of another—the leaves are always alike, their stalks grow in the same way—their blossoms, though infinitely varied, are arranged in the same regular order—each connected with the stem by a little thread, called the pedicel.[4] The double scarcely differs from the single, except in the blossom. We have already followed the gradual course of the growth of the bulb, and described its general composition. We will now go back to the single hyacinth, for in explaining its work of reproduction it is easier and more convenient to dissect than the double flower.