Wild uproar broke out on the instant, men shouted, women screamed and wailed—in a solid mass they rushed from the spot. Tuzzadeen caught Baker and ran him back up the passage, the sailors following. They fled for their lives, slid down the notched log and along the path, pursued by terrific clamour—but not by human beings apparently. Perceiving this, Tuzzadeen stopped.
‘I go back,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Them kill us in jungle when them like. I make trade. You pay?’
‘Anything—anything!’ cried Baker. ‘We haven’t even our guns!’
So the Malay went back to negotiate, but they ran on—came to the awful bridge, Baker foremost. He reached the middle. One of the sailors behind would wait no longer—advanced and both fell headlong down. The sailor was killed instantly; Baker, in the middle of the bridge, dropped among the branches of a tree.
There he lay, bruised, half conscious, until Tuzzadeen’s shouts roused him, and he answered faintly.
‘Hold on!’ cried the Malay. ‘We come good time, Tuan Cap’n! Before dark!’ Six hours to wait at least!
Baker began to stir—found he had no limbs broken, and thought of descending. His movements were quickened by the onslaught of innumerable ants, not a venomous species happily. But in climbing down he remarked that the tree-top was loaded with orchids, which he tore off and dropped; long before nightfall he met the search-party, toiling up the ravine from its opening on the shore.
Next day Tuzzadeen returned to bury the dead man and bring away the orchids; among them was Mr. Vicars’ Dendrobium Lowii.
The Dyak practice referred to—of putting the father to bed when a child is born—prevails, or has prevailed, from China to Peru. It lingers even in Corsica and the Basque Provinces of Europe. Those who would know more may consult an Encyclopaedia, under the heading ‘Couvade.’ The house is ‘taboo’—called ‘pamali’ in Borneo—for eight days. Hence the commotion.
CALANTHE HOUSE
For my own part I rank Calanthes among the most charming of flowers, and in the abstract most people agree with me perhaps. Yet they are contemned—the natural species—by all professed orchidists; and even hybrids mostly will be found in holes and corners, where no one is invited to pause and look at them. There are grand exceptions certainly. In Baron Schröder’s wondrous collection, the hybrid Calanthes hold a most honourable place. I have seen them in bloom there filling a big house, more like flowering shrubs than orchids—a blaze and a mass of colour almost startling. But these are unique, raised with the utmost care from the largest and rarest and most brilliant varieties which money unlimited could discover. The species used for hybridising were, as I understand, Cal. vestita oculata gigantea with Cal. Regnieri, Sanderiana, and igneo-oculata—but picked examples, as has been said.
Here we have, among others, Sandhurstiana, offspring of Limatodes rosea × Cal. vest. rubro-oculata. The individual flowers are large, and a spike may bear as many as forty; brightest crimson, with a large yellow ‘eye’ upon the lip. No mortal contemns this.
Bella (Veitchii × Turneri).—Sepals white, petals daintily flushed; lip somewhat more deeply flushed, with a white patch upon the disc, and in this a broad spot of the deepest but liveliest crimson.
Veitchii of course; but also the pure white form of Veitchii, which is by no means a matter of course.
William Murray (vest. rubro-oculata × Williamsii).—A hybrid notably robust, which is always a recommendation. White sepals and petals, a crimson patch on the lip, darkest at the throat.
Florence (bella × Veitchii).—Flowers large, of a deep rose, with purplish rose markings.
Clive.—The parentage of this hybrid is lost. Petals lively carmine, sepals paler. Throat yellow, lip white at base with carmine disc.
Victoria Regina (Veitchii × rosea).—The large flowers are all tender rose, saving a touch of sulphurous yellow at base of the lip.
Phaio-calanthe Arnoldiae is a bi-generic hybrid (C. Regnieri × Phajus grandifolius).—Sepals and petals yellow; lip rose-pink.
Here also I may mention some interesting Phajus hybrids:—
Phoebe (Sanderianus × Humblotii).—Sepals and petals light fawn-colour with a pinkish tone; lip crimson, veined with yellow.
Owenianus (bicolor Oweniae × Humblotti).—Sepals and petals milk-white, tinged with purplish brown. Lip like crimson velvet, orange at the base.
Ashworthianus (Mannii × maculatus).—Sepals and petals deep yellow, touched with ochre, lip similarly coloured, marked with heavy radiating lines of chocolate.
Cooksoni (Wallichii × tuberculosus).—The sepals and petals are those of Wallichii—buff tinged with reddish purple, china-white at back; the lip is that of tuberculosus—side-lobes yellow, spotted with crimson; disc white, with purple spots.
Marthae (Blumei × tuberculosus).—Sepals and petals pale buff. The large lip white, touched with pale rose, and thickly covered with golden-brown spots.
Very notable is the Zygo-colax hybrid, Leopardinus (Zygopetalum maxillare × Colax jugosus), of which we give an illustration.
Here is also the Zygopetalum hybrid, Perrenoudii (intermedium × Guatieri).—Sepals and petals green, heavily blurred with brown. Lip violet, deepening to purple.
Against the back wall of this house stands a little grove of Thunias Bensoniae and Marshalliana; the former magenta and purple, and the latter white with yellow throat, profusely striped with orange red. The wondrous intricacy of design so notable in the colouring of orchids is nowhere more conspicuous than in Thunia Marshalliana.
The Cymbidium House
Our ‘specimen’ Cymbidiums, that is, the large plants, are scattered up and down in other houses; for singly they are ornaments, and together their great bulk and long leaves would occupy too much space. Here are only small examples, or small species, planted out upon a bed of tufa amidst ferns and moss and begonias, Cyrtodeira Chontalensis, and the pretty ‘African violet,’ St. Paulii ionantha.
Cymbidiums are not showy, as the term applies to Cattleyas and Dendrobes. Their colour, if not white, is brown or yellow, with red-brown markings. We hear indeed of wonders to be introduced some day—of a gigantic species, all golden, which dwells in secluded valleys of the Himalayas, and another, bright scarlet, in Madagascar. In fact, this was collected again and again by M. Humblot and shipped to Europe; but every piece died before arrival. At length M. Humblot carried some home himself, and a few survived. Sir Trevor Lawrence bought two, I believe, but they died before flowering. So did all the rest.
But if the Cymbidiums of our experience make no display of brilliant colour, assuredly they have other virtues. When eburneum thrusts up its rigid spikes, in winter or earliest spring, crowned with great ivory blooms, the air is loaded with their perfume. I have seen a plant of Lowianum with more than twenty garlands arching out from its thicket of leaves, each bearing fifteen to twenty-five three-inch flowers, yellow or greenish, with a heavy bar of copper-red across the lip. And they grow fast. It is said that at Alnwick the Duke of Northumberland has specimens of unknown age filling boxes four feet square; each must be a garden in itself when the flowers open. And they last three months when circumstances are favourable. Sometimes also—but too rarely—the greenish yellow of Lowianum is changed to bright soft green. Nobody then could say that the colouring is not attractive.
We have here most of the recognised species—Cymbidiums are not much given to ‘sporting’: Devonianum, buff, freckled with dull crimson—lip purplish, with a dark spot on either side; Sinensis, small, brown and yellow, scented; Hookeri, greenish, dotted and blotched with purple; Traceyanum, greenish, striped with red-brown, lip white, similarly dotted, and the famous Baron Schröder variety thereof, which arrived in the very first consignment, but never since; pendulum, dusky olive, lip whitish, reddish at the sides and tip; and so on.
The only hybrids of Cymbidium known to me are eburneo-Lowianum and its converse, Lowiano-eburneum. The former is creamy yellow, with the V-shaped blotch of its father on the lip; the latter pure white, with the same blotch more sharply defined—which is to say, that Lowiano-eburneum is much the better of the two. Both are represented here.
Against the glass, right and left all round, are Coelogynes of sorts.
We have another house devoted mainly to Cymbidium, in which they have been planted out for some years, with results worth noting. I am convinced that in a future day amateurs who put the well-being of their orchids above all else—above money in especial!—will discard pots entirely. Every species perhaps—every one that I have observed, at least—grows more strongly when placed in a niche, of size appropriate, on a block of tufa. There are objections, of course—quite fatal for those who have not abundance of labour at command; for the compost very quickly turns sour under such conditions if not watered with great care and judgment. Moreover, what suits the plant suits also the insects which feed upon it. And if there be rats in the neighbourhood they soon discover that there is snug lying against the pipes, behind the wall of stone. Anxious mothers find it the ideal spot for a nursery. I cannot learn, however, that they do any wanton damage, beyond nipping off a few old leaves to make their beds, which is no serious injury. I have rats in my own cool house. Many years ago, on their first arrival probably, an Odontoglossum bulb was eaten up. Doubtless that was an experiment which did not prove satisfactory, for it has never been repeated. However, rats and insects can be kept down, if not exterminated.
The Cymbidiums here were rough pieces, odds and ends, consigned to this house to live or die. Now they are grand plants, in the way to become ‘specimens,’ set among ferns and creepers on a lofty wall of tufa, the base of which is clothed with Tradescantia and Ficus repens. In front and on one side are banks of tufa planted with Masdevallias, Lycastes, Laelia harpophylla, and so forth.
STORY OF COELOGYNE SPECIOSA
Orchid stories lack one essential quality of romance. They have little of the ‘female interest,’ and nothing of love. The defect is beyond remedy, I fear—collectors are men of business. It is rumoured, indeed, that personages of vast weight in the City could tell romantic adventures of their own, if they would. So, perhaps, could my heroes. But neither do tell willingly. I have asked in vain. However, among my miscellaneous notes on Orchidology, it is recorded that ‘W. C. Williams found Coelogyne speciosa up the Baram River. Books confine its habitat to Java and Sumatra.’ The Baram is in Borneo. When travelling in that island thirty years ago I heard a story of Williams’ doings, and I think I can recall the outline. But imagination furnishes the details, of course, aided by local knowledge.
It may be worth while to tell briefly how this gentleman came to be wandering in Borneo—in the Sultan’s territory also—at a date when Rajah Brooke had but just begun to establish order in his own little province. Williams’ position or business I never heard. Some Dutch firm sold or entrusted to him a stock of earthenware jars made in Holland, facsimiles of those precious objects cherished by the Dyaks. The speculation was much favoured in that day—it seemed such in easy cut to fortune. But they say that not a solitary Dyak was ever taken in. The failure was attributed, of course, to some minute divergence from the pattern. Manufacturers tried again, still more carefully. They sent jars to be copied in China, whence the originals came, evidently, at an unknown period. But it was no use; the Dyaks only looked somewhat more respectfully at these forgeries before rejecting them. For many years the attempt was made occasionally. Rich Chinamen tried their skill. But at length everybody got to understand, though no one is able to explain, that those savages possess some means of distinguishing a jar of their own from a copy absolutely identical in our eyes.
Mr. Williams had tried elsewhere without success, I fancy, before visiting Brunei, the capital. But he had good reason to feel confidence there. The Malay nobles would buy his jars without question, and compel their Dyak subjects to accept them at their own price; such was the established means of collecting subsidies. In fact, the nobles were overjoyed. But the Sultan heard what was afoot. He possesses several of these mystic objects, and he makes no inconsiderable portion of his revenue by selling water drawn from them to sprinkle over the crops, to take as medicine, and so forth. For his are the finest and holiest of all—beyond price. One speaks upon occasion, giving him warning when grave troubles impend. Sir Spencer St. John says he asked the Sultan a few years afterwards ‘whether he would take £2000 for it; he answered he did not think any offer in the world would tempt him.’
The Brunei monarch was shrewd enough to see that passing off false jars could not be to his interest. The Pangarans argued in vain. There’s no telling where it would end, he said, if the idolaters once began to feel suspicious. ‘Let your Englishman take his wares among the Kayan dogs. He may swindle them to his heart’s content.’ The Kayans were not only independent but ruthless and conquering foes of Brunei.
There was no other hope of selling the confounded jars. After assuring himself that the enterprise was not too hazardous, Williams sought a merchant familiar with the Kayan trade. He chose Nakodah Rahim, a sanctimonious and unprepossessing individual, but one whose riches made a guarantee of good faith. This man contracted to transport him and his goods to Langusan, the nearest town of the Kayans on the Baram, and to bring him back.
Williams was the first European perhaps to reach that secluded but charming settlement. The Nakodah prudently anchored in mid-stream and landed by himself to call on the head chief. When the news spread that a white man was aboard the craft, swarms of delighted Kayans tumbled pell-mell into their canoes and raced towards it, yelling, laughing, splashing one another in joyous excitement. But the great chief Tamawan put a stop to this unseemly demonstration. Rushing from the Council Hall, where he and his peers were giving audience to the Nakodah, he commanded the people to return, each to his own dwelling. Stentor had not a grander voice. It overpowered even that prodigious din. The mob obeyed. They swarmed back, and, landing, shinned up the forty-foot poles which are their stairs, like ants; reappearing a moment afterwards on the verandah, among the tree-tops. These vast ‘houses,’ containing perhaps a thousand inmates, lined each bank of the river, and every soul pressed to the front, mostly shouting—a wild but pleasant tumult.
The chiefs sent an assurance of hearty welcome. Williams paid his respects; they returned his call on board, and Tamawan invited him to a feast. Next day another potentate entertained him and then another. Drink of all sorts, including ‘best French brandy,’ flowed without intermission. Williams began to be ill. But there was no talk of business. His goods had been landed at the Council Hall, as is usual, but not unpacked. The Nakodah assured him all was right. He himself had a quantity of merchandise waiting under the same conditions.
So a week passed; etiquette was satisfied, and Tamawan invited him to open his bales. The chiefs squatted in a semi-circle, all the population behind, in delicious expectancy. The jars were brought forth—first a Gusi, the costliest species, worth £300 to £1000 in ‘produce,’ among the Dyaks, had it only been genuine. This Williams presented, with an air, to Tamawan. The chief glanced at it, observed with Kayan frankness that for his own part he liked brighter colours, and, so to speak, called for the next article. Williams grasped the fatal truth when he saw how carelessly his precious Gusi was regarded, not by Tamawan alone but by all. Hoping against hope, however, he brought forth a Naga—a Rusa. The chiefs became impatient. ‘Show your good trade, Tuan,’ they said. Perhaps it was lucky that he had some miscellaneous ‘notions’; but there was only enough to make the needful presents.
Utter collapse! The foolish fellow had not thought of asking whether Kayans valued these unlovely jars. Perhaps the Brunei nobles could not have told him, but Nakodah Rahim must have been perfectly well aware. By keeping silence he had transported a cargo of his own goods to Langusan at Williams’ expense—without freight or charges! The victim could not quite restrain his anger, but it would have been madness to quarrel. He had indeed several Malays, perhaps trusty. But the crew outnumbered them, and the Kayans doubtless would back the Nakodah. There was nothing to be done but wait, with as much good temper as he could summon, until that worthy had sold out. During this time Williams hunted, explored the woods, and collected a variety of plants, some of which we do not recognise from the description. But among those he brought to Singapore was Coelogyne speciosa.
Meantime sickness attacked the crew, whilst Williams’ servants escaped it. The Nakodah hurried his sales, but when he was ready to start, it became necessary to engage some of the latter, with their master’s consent, for navigating the vessel; but for this mischance there would have been no need to ask the white man’s co-operation in a little stroke of business.
At each of the festivities Williams had remarked a very pretty girl always in attendance on the chief Kum Palan. Charming faces are common among those people, and graceful figures a matter of course. Kayan maidens do not pull out their eyebrows, nor blacken their teeth, nor shave the top of the head, nor, in fact, practise any of the disfigurements which spoil Dyak beauty; for their tattooing, though elaborate, is all below the waist. Most of them even do not chew betel before marriage, and you hardly find one of these whose teeth are not a faultless row of pearls. Cool scrutiny reveals that their noses are too flat and their mouths unsymmetrical. But the girl would have a mane of lustrous hair decked with flowers, restrained by a snowy fillet over the brow, streaming loose down her back. Her skin would be pale golden bronze and her eyes worthy of the tenderest epithets. Even a chief’s daughter wears little clothing beyond armlets and waist-belt of gold, white shell, and antique beads, as mysterious and as costly in proportion as the Dyak jars. Only a silken kerchief, clasping one thigh in studied folds, gathered and tucked in over the other, would represent what we call dress; but the tattooing from waist to knee is so close that feminine limbs seem to be enveloped in black tights.
Williams learned that this beauty was daughter to Kum Palan. Parent and child must be warmly attached, he thought, for she was always near him. Other chiefs had pretty daughters, but they received no such attention. The girl looked sad, but that is frequent with Kayan and Dyak maidens, when, in truth, their souls are dancing with fun and devilment—a mere expression of the features.
Nakodah Rahim’s secret concerned this damsel—Kilian by name. She was in love with a youth, Nikput, popular and distinguished—he had taken heads already—but not yet in the position which Kum Palan’s son-in-law ought to occupy. Other suitors did not come forward, however, for the eldest son of Tamawan, the Great Chief, entertained for the youth one of those romantic friendships common among warriors in Borneo. Tamawan could not interfere, but there was a general impression that he would not feel kindly towards the man who robbed Nikput of his bride. Kum Palan resented this state of things. He feared an elopement, and with good reason, for that was the little stroke of business which the Nakodah proposed. Nikput offered fair terms. All was arranged. On the morrow early the prau was to start, dropping down stream. It would anchor for the night, as usual, at a certain spot, and there the lovers would come on board, having taken such steps as should lead the pursuing parent in another direction. Nikput had a friend among the Milanaus lower down. When the disaster was beyond remedy, Tamawan would compel his subordinate to be reconciled. Would the Tuan object to this little speculation?
That the villain intended from the first to murder Nikput and kidnap his bride is certain. He declared at his trial that Williams had been his accomplice, and on this account Sir Spencer St. John held an inquiry. There was no shadow of evidence; the charge is grotesque. But it may possibly be that Williams exacted a share of the gold which Nikput agreed to pay.
All went well. At the time and place appointed, in pitch darkness, a canoe grated softly against the vessel’s side—a few whispers passed—and Kilian climbed aboard. But, as it turned out, she was not wearing only a few ornaments and a kerchief. All the family jewels, so to speak, hung about her pretty figure. She was swathed in silk, garment over garment. And Nikput handed up several baskets that must have been a very heavy load even for his stalwart frame. They had looted the paternal treasure at the Nakodah’s suggestion.
Next day passed without alarm; there are only farmhouses and villages, where a trader need not stop, between Langusan and the Brunei frontier. The fugitives remained below in the tiny cabin, amidst such heat and such surroundings that those who know may shudder to think of their situation. After dark, however, they came up, and, until he fell asleep, doubtless, Williams heard their murmuring and low happy laughter. On the morrow they would be safe.
A terrible cry awoke him—screams and trampling on the palm-leaf deck; then a great splash. Dawn was breaking, but the mists are so dense at that hour that the Malays call it white darkness. The sounds of struggle and the girl’s wild shrieks directed him; but at the first movement he was borne backwards and overthrown by a press of men stumbling through the fog, with Kilian writhing and screaming in their midst. They tossed her down into the hold and threw themselves upon him, his own servants foremost. Perhaps these saved him from the fate of poor Nikput. What could he do?—he had no arms. They swore him to silence. But in that bloody realm of Brunei to whom should a wise man complain?
All that day and the next Kilian’s shrieks never ceased. ‘She will go mad,’ Williams cried passionately; the Nakodah smiled. When her raving clamour was interrupted—died down to silence—they brought her on deck, a piteous spectacle. I have not to pain myself and my readers by imagining the contrast with the bright and lovely girl we saw a week ago.
They reached the capital, and Williams fled; of his after life I know only that he sold some orchids in Singapore. Happily the tale does not end here.
The crime would have passed unknown or unnoticed, like others innumerable of its sort in Brunei, had not Kilian avenged her own wrongs. She was raving mad for a while, but such a prize was worth nursing. Gradually she recovered her beauty and so much of her wits that the Nakodah sold her for a great sum to one of the richest nobles. A few days after, perhaps the same day, she stabbed this man and threw him from a window into the river—possibly with some distracted recollection of her lover’s fate. The Nakodah was seized and others. All the horrid story came out. They were executed, and the Sultan restored their victim—quite mad now—to her father. But on the way she leapt overboard.
| CATTLEYA LABIATA. var. MEASURESIANA. | ||
| Painted from nature also | Chromo by Macfarlane F.R.H.S. | |
| Printed in London | ||
CATTLEYA LABIATA HOUSE
This is the oldest of Cattleyas, for the plant now recognised as Catt. Loddigesii, which was introduced to Europe a few years earlier, passed under the name of Epidendrum. One might call labiata the ‘eponymous hero’ of its tribe, for Lindley christened it in honour of his friend Mr. Cattley, an enthusiastic amateur of Barnet. This was in 1818; from that year until 1889 Cattleya labiata was lost. It seemed easy enough to follow the journeyings of Swainson, who discovered it, and so reach the country where it dwelt; collectors innumerable made the attempt, but never succeeded. Mr. Sander, for instance, sent three at different times, expressly to trace Swainson’s footsteps so far as they are recorded—Oversluys, Smith, and Bestwood; beside four others who skirmished along the track. He assured himself that they had explored every district which Swainson could possibly have visited; but of Cattleya labiata they found no sign. Meanwhile the plants of the first importation died off gradually, and the richest of mortals competed for the few surviving. Ten years ago, when the long search came to an end, very few were the persons in England who owned a specimen. I think I can name most of them—Baron Schröder, Sir Trevor Lawrence, Lord Rothschild, Duke of Marlborough, Lord Home, Lord Howe, Messrs. J. Chamberlain, Statter, R. H. Measures, R. I. Measures, Blandy, Hardy, Coleman, and Smith of the Isle of Wight. One of the examples possessed by Mr. R. H. Measures belonged to the variety Pescatorei, named after General Pescatore, the same leading amateur of early days whose memory is kept green by the sweetest of Odontoglossums, saving crispum. Cattleya labiata Pescatorei was a precious treasure then; ‘none so poor as do it reverence’ in this generation. The plant is still here, pretty enough so far as it goes, slightly distinguished by a silver edging to the petals.
The puzzle of that first consignment has not been explained—we have only eluded it, like Alexander at Gordium. Certainly Swainson did not find his plants in the neighbourhood where they exist at this time. It is conjectured that there were woods close to Rio, now cultivated ground, where it flourished at the beginning of the century. However, in 1889, Cattleya labiata reappeared; oddly enough a collector of insects found it originally, and a collector of insects rediscovered it. The ‘professionals’ were beaten to the last.
And now it has become almost the commonest of orchids; but for the same reason we may be sure that it will grow scarce again in no long time. Not to England only but to France, Belgium, Germany, the United States, such vast quantities have been consigned that to one who knows something of the facts it seems amazing that the limited area could furnish so many. And for one that reaches the market three, perhaps six, die.
I have alluded to the extermination of orchids already. It is a sadly fascinating subject for those who think, and ‘out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh.’ The time is very close when Odontoglossum crispum, most heavenly of created things, will arrive by tens and units instead of myriads—and then will arrive not at all. Already a gentleman who boasts that he has leased the whole district where the ‘Pacho’ form still survives, reckons the number of plants remaining at 60,000 only. Some months ago he issued quaint proposals for a Company (limited) to secure the utmost profit on the collection of these. Business men ‘smiled and put the question by,’ however enthusiastic they might be as orchidists; but I believe that the statement of facts was not altogether inaccurate. It is no longer worth while to send out collectors of Odontoglossum crispum; natives of the country gather such as they find and store them until the opportunity occurs to sell a dozen or so.
I could give other instances; some have been already mentioned. But what is the use? Unless governments interfere, there is no remedy. Some indeed have taken steps. Several years ago the Rajah of Sarawak decreed that no one should collect orchids in his territory, for sale, without a license. The exportation of Dendrobium Macarthiae from Ceylon is forbidden, and the authorities of Capetown have made stringent rules about gathering Disa grandiflora. But I have heard of no other restrictions, and these, commendable as they are, scarcely touch the mischief. But that is enough upon a melancholy subject, with which I have no need to meddle here.
In this house and elsewhere we have some eleven hundred labiatas. No Cattleya is more variable. From white to deep crimson every shade of colour may be found, with endless diversities of combination. Here are a few of the most important.
Imperatrix.—Rosy mauve. Distinguished by a broad fringe of the same colour round the lip, which, inside, shows a fine crimson. Next to it is one, unnamed, which makes a good contrast. Very big and broad; pale. The tube, opening wide, is superbly striped with crimson over a gold ground. The great lip all crimson.
Nobilis.—Big and evenly rosy. The gold in the throat is faint, and the lip, grandly frilled, has no lines.
Measuresiana.—Somewhat pale; at base of the petals the midrib is white. The gamboge stain does not spread beyond the throat, and it fades to white as the crimson lip spreads. Another has a deep golden throat, but the crimson of the lip is only a triangle, dispersing in broad lines upon the margin of mauve.
But here is one, on the contrary, in which the lip is all deepest crimson except a very narrow edging of white. Scarcely a trace of gold is seen; the crimson stretches back all up the throat in heavy lines.
And here again is one of palest rose, in which the lip carries only a single slender touch of crimson.
Sanderae.—A supreme beauty. Sepals almost white, petals somewhat more deeply tinged with mauve. Lip snow-white, saving the ochreous-orange throat and a lovely stain of crimson lake in the midst; with a purple blotch above and mottled lines of the same hue descending from it.
Mrs. R. H. Measures.—Purest white. The broad lower sepals curl downwards, almost encircling the lip, which has a faintly-yellow throat and a tender cloud of purplish crimson on the front, scored with three strong lines of purple.
Macfarlanei.—Crimson purple sepals and petals of the brightest tint; lip crimson-maroon and orange throat striped with brilliant crimson—a superb flower.
Baroness Schröder.—A famous variety. The petals are remarkably wide and graceful in shape, pale mauve of colour. The lip, somewhat paler, tinged with rose, shows in front a bundle of purple lines, as it were, the ends of which diverge from a purplish cloud over the rosy margin.
Princesse de Croix.—All pink except the white edges of the lip unrolling from the tube, and a small purple blur, scored with short heavy lines, which runs far up the throat, leaving a broad pink disc below.
Alba.—Perfectly beautiful. All ivory white, as it seems at a glance, save a faint stain of yellow in the throat; but close scrutiny detects a purple tinge also on the lip.
Archduchess.—The shape is even more graceful than usual. Sepals and very broad leaf-like petals rosy mauve, the yellow of the throat subdued, a fine patch of crimson lake on the labellum, with darker lines, leaving a wide margin of rosy mauve.
Robin Measures.—Rosy. The lip spreads so broad that its disc forms a perfect circle. The yellow of the throat is only a slight stain, and the fine crimson patch on the lip leaves a handsome margin of rose.
Bella.—Distinguished especially by the fine purple frilling of the lip which, like the sepals and petals, is nearly white of ground. A triangle of brightest crimson, sharply defined, issues from the handsome orange throat.
Adelina resembles this, but the crimson of the triangle has a deeper tone and the margin is distinctly mauve.
Princess of Wales.—An enormous flower, of remarkable colouring. Sepals and petals purplish. The usual crimson of the lip deepens almost to plum-colour. The margin, paler, is finely frilled.
Juno.—Somewhat pale. Notable for the breadth of crimson in the lip, which mounts far up the throat, running across it from side to side in a line perfectly straight.
Princess May.—A grand variety; the petals spread like birds’ wings, and the lip opens very wide. On its folds are broad whitish discolorations, against which the deep crimson of the disc seems even richer than usual.
Her Majesty.—A pink giant, as notable for shape as for size. On the broad lip a crimson cloud stands out against a pale margin, finely frilled.
The edging of the central stand in this house should be noticed. It is formed by a single plant of Pothos aurea, which, starting from the end wall, has already encircled the structure twice. Now it is hurrying to make a third turn. Pothos is the neatest of climbers, pushing no side-shoots, growing very fast, and thrusting forth its large leaves at equal intervals. The variety aurea is touched with gold here and there, and to my mind it makes the ideal edging of a stand.
To right in this house is Cattleya Lawrenceana, of which we have probably 150 plants. This again is a species threatened with extinction—indeed the threat is very near fulfilment. It was never common in its native woods. I may quote a few lines from the report of Mr. Seyler who went to collect this, and two other orchids which dwell on the Roraima Mountain, for Mr. Sander; the date is January 19, 1893:—
‘... I collected everything at Roraima except Catt. Lawrenceana, which was utterly rooted out already by other collectors.... We hunted all about for Catt. Lawrenceana and got only 1500 or so, it growing only here and there.... What I want to point out to you is that Catt. Lawrenceana is very rare in the interior now.... If you want to get any Lawrenceana you will have to send yourself, and, as I said to you, the results will be very doubtful.’
The variety Macfarlanei has rosy pink sepals; petals of club shape, bowed, crimson, deepening towards the tips. Labellum long, narrow, all crimson of the darkest shade.
Noteworthy is a plant which we may suppose a natural hybrid of L. purpurata with L. elegans, resembling the latter in size, comparatively small, as in its narrow sepals and petals flushed with rose. The lip is very bright and pretty, with large clear yellow throat, ringed with white; the disc, of lively crimson, has a purple margin finely frilled, and a whitish purple patch in front.
Among miscellaneous examples here is a handsome specimen of Cymbidium Devonianum, and a very remarkable hybrid of Catt. Gaskelliana × Catt. Harrisoniae—Mary Measures; rather ghostly but pleasant to look upon. Its colour of sepal and petal is palest mauve, the tube prettily lined and mottled with pale yellow; labellum, gamboge-yellow in the throat, fading towards the edge, and a pale crimson tip.
A STORY OF BRASSAVOLA DIGBYANA
Brassavola Digbyana is a flower for all tastes—large, stately, beautiful, and supremely curious; I use the familiar name, though it should be Laelia Digbyana. Charming are the great sepals and petals, greenish white, around the snowy lip; but why, the thoughtful ask in vain, does that lip ravel out into a massive fringe, branched and interlacing, near an inch wide? The effect is lovely, but the purpose inscrutable. In Dendrobium Brymerianum we find a puzzle exactly similar. But it does not help us to understand. Countless are the species of Dendrobium, many those of Laelia; but in each case no other shows this peculiarity.
Brassavola Digbyana was first sent to Europe in 1845 by the Governor of British Honduras, who named it in honour of his kinsman, Lord Digby. Once only had the plant been received since that time, so far as I can learn, until last year. But the second cargo, in 1879, ‘went a very long way.’ Messrs. Stevens have rarely been so embarrassed with treasures. The history of that prodigious consignment is worth recording.
It was despatched by Messrs. Brown, Ponder, and Co., of Belize, who dealt in mahogany and logwood—do still, I hope. That trade appears to be rather interesting. The merchant keeps a gang of Caribs, who have been in the employment of the firm all their lives perhaps. They go out at the proper season to find and mark the trees; fell them presently and return whilst the timber is drying; or amuse themselves in the bush, hunting and gathering miscellaneous produce. Then they float the raft down to Belize.
These Caribs are more or less descended from the Indians of Jamaica. Early in the last century the British Government collected the survivors of that hapless race, and planted them out of harm’s way in the Island of St. Vincent, uninhabited at the time. They did not thrive, however, and in 1796 the Government transported them once more to the Island of Roatan, in the Bay of Honduras.
But an extraordinary change had come over the poor creatures. We are to suppose that when landed at St. Vincent their type was mostly if not wholly Indian; when taken away it was to all appearance negro. Probably a slave ship had been wrecked there, and the blacks, escaping, killed all the male Indians, taking the women to wife; such is the theory, but there is no record. A transformation so sudden and complete in such brief time is striking evidence of the African vigour, for in hair, features, complexion, and build the Carib is a negro.
But not in character. He has virtues to which neither red man nor black lay claim—industry, honesty, truthfulness, staunch fidelity to his engagements and readiness to combine. The mahogany cutters have a Guild, which holds itself responsible for the failure of any member to execute work for which he has been paid; it cannot be called a Trade Union, because, so far as I learn, it has no other purpose—except jollification. In brief, the Carib of Honduras is one of the best fellows on earth in his way. He looks down on all about him, negro and Indian and ‘poor white.’ If a stranger suspect him of trickery, he thinks it defence enough to exclaim—‘Um Carib man, sah!’ And so it is, as a rule.
Messrs. Brown Ponder had lately taken on a new hand—let us call him Sam. This young fellow had been wandering up and down the coast some years, doing any honest work that turned up. Thus he had served in the boat’s crew of M. Sécard, when that gentleman was collecting orchids in Guiana. The experience had taught him that flowers have value, and he returned from his first visit to the bush, after entering the firm’s service, with the announcement of a marvel. We may fancy the report which negro imagination would draw of Brassavola Digbyana. The mysterious fringe did not puzzle Sam at all. It was long enough to serve the purpose of chevaux de frise, to keep off monkeys and birds! M. Sécard used to give him a dollar apiece for things not to be compared with it! In short, here was a fortune for the gathering—and what terms would Mr. Brown offer him?
Mr. Brown offered nothing at all. Residents in Honduras are curiously apathetic about orchids even now. I think it may be said that no collector has visited their country, which is the explanation perhaps. Moreover, Mr. Brown well knew the liveliness of the Carib imagination. Sam had met with only one or two belated flowers, which he displayed. But the shapeless little cluster of withered petals was no evidence of beauty—quite the reverse. Everybody cut his jokes upon it.
It might be supposed that a man would carry his wares to another market under such circumstances. But that is not the Carib way; it would be a breach of loyalty. Good-naturedly Sam told Mr. Brown that he was a fool, with an adjective for emphasis. They were all adjective fools, he assured them daily. But to treat with a rival could not enter his mind.
The gang had returned to the bush when young Mr. Ponder came back from Bluefields. His partner mentioned Sam’s idea as a jest in conversation when several friends were present. One of them recalled how Governor Digby had sent some orchids to Europe ages ago, which sold for a mint of money. Others had heard something of the legend. Ponder, young and enterprising, inclined to think the matter worth notice. He inquired among the oldest inhabitants, Carib and negro. Many recollected the Governor’s speculation, and the orchid also, when pressed. It was as big as a bunch of bananas, blue—no, red—no, yellow; shaped just like a boat, or a bird, or a star, or a monkey climbing a tree, and so forth. But all agreed about the fringe, ‘now you come to mention it.’ Ponder saw they knew nothing beyond the mere fact. But he made up his mind to get some specimens next rainy season, and judge for himself whether a consignment would be likely to pay.
In due time the cutters appeared with their rafts of timber. It was not the moment to broach an unfamiliar subject. Calculations awfully intricate for those honest fellows had to be made intelligible to them once more, and then to be discussed, approved, explained again, and finally accepted or compromised. The Caribs passed all day in argument and in measuring the logs over and over; all night in working sums of arithmetic on fingers and toes. At length the amount due was computed amicably, as usual, and paid. But then, not without embarrassment, the whole gang, ‘gave notice.’
When such an event occurs, under such circumstances, an employer knows the reason. His Caribs have found gold. There is nothing to be said beyond wishing them luck. But Mr. Ponder asked Sam to get him a few of his orchids next rains. Sam declined, somewhat roughly. Mr. Ponder laid the dispute before the Guild, so to call it, which pronounced that Sam must carry out his proposal before leaving the firm’s service.
The dry season was well advanced by this time, and all flowers had withered. Nevertheless Sam jumped into a canoe, swearing, and started up the river with a couple of Indians. In three or four days he returned with a boat-load of orchids, sent them to the warehouse, and vanished. They proved to be a miscellaneous collection, all sorts and sizes; evidently the men had just gathered anything they came across.
Mr. Ponder grew angry. It was an impudent trick, a defiance of himself and the Guild, such as no true Carib would be guilty of. Foreign travel had demoralised Sam. Those honest fellows, his partners, would be not less indignant, if the shameful proceeding could be laid before them. But all had gone up the river—to their gold-field, of course—and no one knew where that might be. Mr. Ponder got more and more warm as he revolved the insult. Business was slack. He decided to follow, and sent out forthwith to engage a crew of Indians; gold-diggers do not mind the intrusion of Indians so much, for when these savages have obtained a very little dust, they withdraw to turn it into drink. And they never chatter. Moreover he had to find the Caribs’ camp, and they are sleuth-hounds.
The search was not so hopeless as it might seem. Carefully reviewing the circumstances, Mr. Ponder felt sure that his Caribs had discovered their placer whilst collecting the felled trees—not before; that is, in the rainy season. Men would not wander far into the bush at that time. Probably, therefore, the scene lay pretty close to one or other of the spots where they had found mahogany. Of those spots he had a minute description.
The reasoning proved to be quite correct, but luck interposed before it had been severely tested. On arrival at one of the stations to be explored—after a week or ten days’ voyaging, as I imagine—he saw a canoe just pushing out from beneath the wooded bank with two of the missing Caribs therein, going to Belize on some errand. Their astonishment was loud, but not angry; they had no quarrel with Mr. Ponder. After a very little hesitation they consented to lead him to the camp, the Indians remaining in their boat.
It was not a long walk, nor uncomfortable. A broad path had been cut to the top of the ridge, for hauling down the trunks, and the rollers had smoothed it like a highway; but not so broad that the great trees on either hand failed to overshadow it. Mr. Ponder questioned his guides laughingly. Was it a real good placer, with nuggets in it?—how much had they pouched, and was the game likely to last? They grinned and patted their waist-scarves, which, as he now remarked, were round and plump as monster sausages.
‘Oh, I know that trick,’ laughed Mr. Ponder. ‘You’ve filled them with maize-flour for your journey.’
They whooped and roared with triumph. ‘Say, Mis’r George, you tell nobody—honour bright?-not nobody?’ One of them turned down the edge of his scarf, with no small effort—for it was twisted very tightly and secured. Presently the contents glimmered into sight—little golden figures, mostly flat, carved or moulded, one to three inches long. ‘Our placer all nuggets, Mis’r George!’
Any child in those seas would have understood. The Caribs had discovered not a washing nor a mine, but a burial-ground of the old Indians, called in those parts a ‘huaco.’ There are men who make it their sole business to look for such treasure-heaps. Since they bear, in general, no outward indication whatsoever at the present time, one would think that the hunt must be desperate; but these men, like other gamblers, have their ‘system.’ Possibly they have noted some rules which guided the antique people in their choice of a cemetery. And if they find one in a lifetime—provided they can keep the secret—that suffices.
Mostly, perhaps, huacos are discovered by accident. So it was in the memorable instance on Chiriqui lagoon, where many thousand people dug for months and many brought away a fortune—for them. And so it was here. The Caribs told their story gleefully. From the crest of the ridge the land sloped gently down towards a stream. When they reached this place to secure the timber, now dry, the rains were very heavy. But Sam and another, heaven-directed, roamed down the slope. A big tree had fallen, and among its roots Sam’s lynx eyes marked a number of the little figures, washed clean, sparkling in the sun-rays. These good fellows have no secrets of the sort among themselves. They dug around, assured themselves that it was indubitably a huaco; then returned, like honest Caribs, to float the trunks down to Belize, and fulfil their contract, before attending to personal interests.
They had cleared a space and built a hut of boughs, a ‘ramada.’ There Mr. Ponder found them assembled, smoking and sleeping after the mid-day meal. Warned by the guide’s cheery shout they welcomed Mis’r George heartily—all but Sam; unanimously they asked, however, what on earth he wanted there, so far from home? Mr. Ponder told his complaint.
The gang resolved itself into a sort of court-martial forthwith, the eldest seating himself upon a stump and the others grouping round. There was a moment’s silence for thought; then the president, gravely:
‘You, Carib Sam, what you say?’
‘Say d—— sorry, sah! Mis’r Brown an’ all the Mis’rs make fool of me! Then Mis’r George come—I never see Mis’r George before! He says go to bush an’ pick orchid—a month contract!—a month! But I found gold here, an’ I want pick it up—have no more say! d—— sorry!’
Mr. Ponder relented. ‘Why didn’t you explain at the time, Sam?—I’m quite satisfied, Caribs! Sam and I will shake hands and there’s an end of it!’
But the others were not quite satisfied. The president sat shaking his head. ‘When rains come,’ said Sam to him anxiously, ‘I get Mis’r George two canoe-loads, six canoe-loads of orchid, an’ no mistake!’
‘There, men! That’s final! Let’s shake hands round, and wash away all unpleasantness—here’s the wash!—drink it up! Now will you show me your huaco?’
First they showed him the plunder—hundreds of those little images, mostly human, in the rudest style of art, but pure gold; a large proportion alligators, some probably meant for birds, not a few mere lumps. Mr. Ponder calculated rapidly that the whole might represent three thousand pounds for division among ten men. But the Caribs began to fear that their huaco would prove to be a very small one. The yield had been failing in all directions lately. They had prospected round, but hitherto without success. No bones, nor weapons, nor anything but a few jars of pottery had been found. Such is the rule—without exception, I believe—in burial-grounds of this class, without cairn or statues; in fact, it is a mere assumption to declare them burial-grounds at all. Men who dug at Chiriqui told me that nothing whatever besides gold was found in that great area. The statement is not quite exact, but it shows how little turned up.
The forebodings of the Caribs were sadly verified. Mr. Ponder started back in the afternoon and they followed within a week—‘made men’ if they had wit enough to keep their booty, but not so rich as they had hoped.
Next rains Sam loyally performed his promise. And thus it happened that Messrs. Stevens were overwhelmed with Brassavola Digbyana once upon a time.
LYCASTES, SOBRALIAS, AND ANGOULOAS
occupy different compartments in one house. The first will not detain us. All the species which orchidists, in a lordly way, term common are represented here—of course, by their best varieties. I can fancy the wonder and delight of a stranger entering when the Lycastes Skinneri alba and virginalis are in bloom, remembering my own emotion at the spectacle elsewhere. Not many of the genus appeal to the aesthetic, and Skinneri in especial lacks grace. But unsymmetrical form and abrupt rigidity of growth are forgotten when those great flowers, so pure, so divinely white, burst upon the eye. Charming also are the pale varieties of Skinneri, such as Lady Roberts, a dainty rose, the petals only just dark enough to show up the labellum almost white; and Phyllis of somewhat deeper rose. Its velvety lip has a crimson margin well displayed by a small white patch upon the disc.
Leucantha, dainty green with white petals, is charming; a pan of aromatica with fifty or sixty delicate golden blooms makes a pretty show. But these things do not call for special notice.
There are varieties, however, of course, as the famous Lycaste plana Measuresiana, coppery, shining, with pure white petals, crimson spotted, and small white lip; plana lassioglossa, olive green of sepal and petal, with a bright rusty stain at the base; lip white, with conspicuous white spots.
Fulvescens.—Large and spreading. Sepals and petals reddish orange, lip clear brightest orange, so lightly poised that it quivers at a breath. It has as many as forty flowers from one bulb sometimes.
Denningiana.—Very large. Sepals and petals whitish green, lip brown.
Mooreana.—An extraordinary variety of L. Locusta, which itself is extraordinary enough. Reichenbach described Locusta in his lively way: ‘Green sepals, green petals, green lip, green callus, green ovary, green bract, green sheath, green peduncle, green bulbs, green leaves—just as green as a green grasshopper or the dress of some Viennese ladies.’ Mooreana is larger, and the heavy fringe of the lip has a faint yellow shade.
Sobralias
It may be granted that all classes of orchid are not equally beautiful, but to compare one with another in this point of view is futile. Each has its own charm which individual taste may prefer, and to set Cattleyas, for instance, above Odontoglots is only to demonstrate that for some persons size and brilliancy of hue are more attractive than grace and purity. But in any competition of the sort Sobralias must rank high. They are all large, they have every fascination which colour can give, and the delicate crumpling of the lip, characteristic of this genus alone, is one of Nature’s subtlest devices. Gardeners also approve them, for they need less attention perhaps than any others, and they grow fast. The sagacious reader will begin to ask by this time what are the disadvantages to set against all these merits? There is only one, but for too many amateurs it is fatal—the glorious flowers last scarcely two days. Certainly a spike will carry four or five, or even six, which open one after another. But then all is over till next year. And the plants are big, occupying much room. Therefore Sobralias are not favoured by the wise, when space is limited.