The Woodlands orchids, described and illustrated

All are American, growing among the rocks and in the scanty soil of mountain districts. One reads of species so tall that a man on horseback must raise his arm to pick the flowers. This may be an exaggeration, but we have Sobralia macrantha gigas here six feet high, and Hookerae even topping it. Upon the other hand, that marvel, Kienastiana, has a very modest stature. Nearly all the species known are here—it is not a large genus: Lindeni, Hookerae, Lowii, macrantha and macrantha alba, xantholeuca, and Kienastiana, which has its story.

Measuresiana is uncommon; white, an immense flower. The vast lip, circular, daintily crumpled, is palest pink, with a deep yellow throat, round which the pink darkens to pale crimson. Sanderae also is white, faintly tinged with yellow.

In these days, however, it is the hybrids which interest us, and there are two of surpassing merit.

Amesiana (xantholeuca × Wilsonii).—Palest rosy lilac, somewhat more rosy in the centre—the crumpled pink lip is as round and as big as a crown piece. The cavity of the throat, orange, changes to gamboge as it widens; encircling this is a stain of tawny crimson. Lip rose, shaded with reddish brown.

Veitchii (macrantha × xantholeuca).—White, with a pretty orange throat. Round the edges of the lip, deliciously frilled and crumpled, is a broad band of purplish pink.

Here and there in this house, as room can be made, stand many fine plants of Laelia elegans. Beyond is a second compartment devoted to Lycastes and Selenepeds, the name granted, for distinction’s sake, to Transatlantic forms of Cypripedium; in the gardener’s point of view, however, there is no difference between them, and such of these plants as call for notice, in my very narrow space, are described among the Cypripeds.

One rarity, however, I must not overlook—Miltonia Binottii, assumed to be a natural hybrid of M. candida and M. Regnellii; sepals and petals creamy yellow, tinged with lilac at the base and barred with cinnamon brown; lip pale rosy purple.

Anguloas

Nature has thought fit to produce many clumsy plants, and the well-balanced mind raises no objection so long as they remain in their proper place. A pumpkin is not a thing of grace, but then nobody calls on us to admire it. There is little to choose between an Anguloa and a pumpkin in the way of beauty; yet a multitude of people, not less sane to all appearance than their neighbours, invite one to mark and linger over its charms. This always seems very strange to me. I remember a painting of Adam in Paradise, exhibited by an Academician famous in his day—less perhaps for talent than for the popular belief that he wrote certain wailing letters signed ‘A British Matron,’ which the Times published occasionally. Adam was sitting on a flowery bank. The good Academician had all the Asiatic realm of botany before him, wherein to choose blooms appropriate for Paradise; he spurned them all, crossed the Atlantic, surveyed the treasures of the New World, and from the lovely host selected—Anguloa Clowesii! Upon a bed of these Adam sat—of these alone; nothing else was worthy of a place beside them. Evidently Anguloas have a fascination. But my soul is blind to it. We have all the species here.

STORY OF SOBRALIA KIENASTIANA

There are startling flowers of divers sort. Some astonish by mere size, as Rafflesia Arnoldii, which is a yard across and weighs fifteen to twenty pounds, or Amorphophallus Titanum, eight feet high and fifteen inches thick. The stench of these is not less impressive than their bulk; an artist who insisted upon sketching the latter at Kew fainted over her work. But many of the giants are beautiful, as the Aristolochias, like a bag of silk cretonne with mouth of velvet, wherein a lady might stow her equipment for an informal dance—shoes, gloves, fan, handkerchief, scarf, and, if need be, a bouquet; Bomarias, the Peruvian wonder, trailing a scarlet tassel three feet long and thick in proportion. Others are surprising without qualification, like Nepenthes, which dangle a water jug at the tip of every leaf. But among orchids alone you see flowers of familiar shape and ordinary class, which startle you by the mere perfection of their beauty. One of these is Sobralia Kienastiana. My first sight of it at the Temple Show is not to be forgotten. I had been thrilling and raving over a specimen of Cattleya intermedia Parthenia, ‘chaste as ice and pure as snow,’ when, turning to Baron Schröder’s exhibit, I beheld this glory of Nature. It has all the advantage of ‘setting’ denied to so many among the loveliest of its fellows. That divine Parthenia must be regarded alone. It has no charm of environment. But the Sobralia is a thicket, green and strong and pleasant to the eye, crowned with the flowers of Paradise, snow-white, several inches broad, but tender and dainty as the lily of the valley. Though open to the widest, and exquisitely frilled, their petals are crumpled; you might think fairies had been gauffering them and left the work incomplete, surprised by dawn. Baron Schröder and Mr. Wilson of Westbrook, Sheffield, had the only plants in England then; M. Kienast-Zolly, Consul at Zurich, the only plant known elsewhere—a piece cut off when he sold the bulk. That such a marvel had a legend I did not doubt. It is, in fact, an albino of the common Sobralia macrantha; in speaking of it, by the way, to scientific persons, or in referring to books, the word ‘macrantha’ must be introduced. The family is Central American, and examples reach this country especially from Mexico. A variety so rare and so charming would be found in some hardly known spot. But orchids do not live in the desert. It would be strange if Indians had not noticed such a wonder, and if they noticed, assuredly they would prize it. They would not allow the plant to be removed under ordinary conditions; if a price were accepted it would be very high, but more probably no sum would tempt them. Therefore did I conclude at sight that Sobralia Kienastiana had its legend. And I traced without difficulty the outline which I have filled up.

M. Kienast-Zolly dwelt many years at Orizaba in Mexico, where he collected orchids with enthusiasm for his own delight. An Indian servant gave zealous help, partly, doubtless, for love of the flowers, but partly also for love of the master whose ‘bread he had eaten’ from childhood—and still eats, I believe. This man, Pablo, ceaselessly inquired for rarities among his own people, made journeys, bargained, bought, and by times, they say—but stole is not the proper word to use when an object has no owner nor intrinsic value. Pablo had a younger brother, a priest, in the neighbourhood of Tehuacan. They had not met since his ordination, until, once on a time, M. Kienast-Zolly visited those parts, and Pablo took the opportunity to spend a day and night at the Indian village, Nidiri, where his brother was priest. This ecclesiastic was an earnest man. He found no satisfaction in compounding the heathen practices of his flock for money, as do his fellows. His legitimate dues sufficed him—I daresay they reached ten pounds a year. He found a melancholy diversion in writing plaintive memorials to the Bishop. Week by week the good man raised his moan. He could not see very deep. It did not occur to him that the Christian faith itself, as the Indians understand it, is but a form of heathendom. The doings of which he complained were acts of positive worship towards the old idols. He demanded an investigation, special magistrates; in brief, the re-establishment of the Inquisition. The Bishop had long ceased to acknowledge these dolorous reports; doubtless they contained nothing new to him.

Out of the fulness of his heart a man speaketh, and after discussing family affairs, the Cura broached his spiritual sorrows. Pablo had not been trained at a seminary, and religious questions did not interest him. As a townsman, also, he had picked up some liberal ideas, and when the brother talked of converting his flock from their evil ways by force, he observed that opinions are free in Mexico nowadays. Then the Cura grew warm. Opinions? Rising hurriedly, he produced horrid little figures of clay or wood, actual idols, found and confiscated, not without opposition. When Pablo did not seem much impressed by these things—not unfamiliar, probably—he hinted suspicions more awful. There was a spot somewhere in the hills, frequented at certain seasons by these wretches, where they performed sacrifice. Blood was shed, and the Cura had reason to think—he dropped his voice, and bent across the little table to whisper awfully in his brother’s ear.

‘Why,’ said Pablo, ‘if you can prove that, the Government will interfere fast enough. It’s murder!’

‘I am not quite certain. But give me authority to arrest the Cacique—the head-man of the village—and some others! They held one of their impious festivals only last week. I met them returning just after dawn, crowned with flowers, all the men intoxicated. Oh no, it wasn’t a mere drinking bout. The Cacique and that vile Manuele—whom I believe to be the priest—carried nosegays of the accursed flower the demons give them. I know it! They used formerly—the sons of perdition!—to bring it to my church and offer it upon the holy altar. And I—Heaven pardon me!—rejoiced in its beauty. With prayers and thanksgivings I laid the Devil’s Flower before the Blessed Mother. I did not know! It will not be counted against me for a sin, brother?’ So he went on, bemoaning his unconscious offence.

Pablo woke up instantly. What did the Cacique do with his nosegay since he was not allowed to deposit it on the altar? What sort of flower was it? All this seemed trivial to the agitated Cura. With difficulty he was brought to the statement that it resembled the Flor de San Lorenzo, but snow-white. Then Pablo showed much concern. These shocking practices must be made to cease; but first they must have evidence. That mysterious spot on the hills? Did his brother know where it was? No, he had only pieced together hints and fragmentary observations. They suggested a certain neighbourhood. It had never occurred to him to look for it. If his conjectures were sound, the place was desert. Indians always choose a barren unpeopled site for their ancestral worship, as Pablo knew.

He considered. There was a certain risk, for the priests might dwell by their idols. But most even of these look upon their Christian rival with reverence. He asked his brother how he was regarded? Indignantly the latter confessed that all these wicked folk treated him with the utmost deference. He had denounced them again and again from the altar, threatened to excommunicate the whole community—but the Bishop promptly crushed that idea. They listened in respectful silence, and went their own way. Pablo came to a resolve. He proposed that they should start before daylight and search for the accursed place. The Cura was startled, but he assented with passionate zeal; of his stuff, unenterprising, unimaginative, with room for one idea only, martyrs are made. Martyrdom he half expected, and he was ready. Whilst Pablo snored in his hammock, the good man prayed all through the night.

It was still dark when they set forth, and before even Indians were stirring they had passed beyond the village confines; but the sun was high when they reached the hills. These are, in fact, a range of low volcanoes, all extinct now; the most ancient overgrown with trees and brushwood, the most recent still bare. Towards this part the Cura led the way. They passed through blinding gorges where no green thing found sustenance. Cacti and yuccas and agaves, white with dust, clung to the naked tufa. So they went on, mounting always, encouraged from time to time by some faint trace of human passage, which their keen Indian eyes discerned. But from the crest nothing could be seen save gorges such as they had traversed, and long slopes of dazzling rock.

The quest began to look hopeless, but they persevered. And presently Pablo noted something on the ground, at a distance, beside a clump of Opuntia. It was a bunch of withered flowers. Approaching they saw a cleft in the ridge of tufa masked by that straggling cactus. They passed through—and the idols stood before them! The Cura fell on his knees.

It was a small plateau, as white and as naked as the rest. In the midst stood three cairns, each bearing large stone figures, painted red and blue and yellow. Before each cairn was an altar, built of unhewn stones topped by a slab.

The scene was impressive. Pablo recalled his prayers in looking on it. The white and glittering dust lay even as a floor around those heaps of stone. All was still, but the painted statues seemed to tremble and flicker in that awful heat. Tiny whirls of sand arose, and danced, and scattered, though never a breath of wind moved the burning air. The shadow of a vulture sailing passed slowly from side to side.

The Cura ended his prayer, leapt up and rushed—his old black gown streaming like wings. He grasped the foremost idol and pushed and pulled with all his might—he might as well have tried to overthrow the rock itself. Another and another he attempted; all in vain. He paused at length, mopping his drenched face, disheartened but still resolved. Then he took stones and battered the features.

Pablo was scarcely disappointed. So soon as they entered that barren tract, he knew that the Flor de San Lorenzo could not live there. Approaching he scrutinised the altars. Heaps of ashes and charred wood lay upon them, beneath leaves and fruits and flowers, unburnt but shrivelled and crackling in the sunshine. Carefully Pablo turned these over. On the largest slab were found bones and dry pools of blood.

I have not room to follow the story in detail. Next day they started for Orizaba, the priest carrying a passionate recital of these discoveries to the Bishop. What came of it I do not know. Pablo returned forthwith, in pressing haste, accompanied by two soldiers. With these he called on the Cacique and charged him with human sacrifice. For a while the Indian could not speak; then he vehemently denied the accusation. The conference was long; in the end, Pablo admitted his innocence of the graver charge, but the acts of paganry could not be disputed. He agreed to say no more about them, however, on condition that the accursed flower should be surrendered and destroyed in his presence. By evening it was brought. But he changed his mind about destroying it just then. As has been said, this was the pride of M. Kienast-Zolly’s collection for many years; then it passed, the half of it, to Baron Schröder, and a quarter to Mr. Wilson. Shortly afterwards Mr. Measures secured the latter fragment.

The description of the sacred place certainly does not apply to an Indian temple. The cairns were graves of ancient heroes doubtless, and the figures portrait-statues, such as I myself have seen in abundance to the southward. The Indians made this desert spot a temple perhaps, and treated the statues as idols, when their places of worship were destroyed.

THE CYPRIPEDIUM HOUSE

Perhaps our collection is most famed for its Cypripeds. During twenty years and more the owner has been securing remarkable hybrids and varieties—labouring on his own account also to produce them. But the pretty house which lodges these accumulated treasures is not more than 48 feet long and 17 wide. No room here for vulgar beauties; only the best and rarest can find admission. There are, to be precise, 980 plants upon the stages, 169 hanging from the roof. They are close packed certainly, but a glance at the vivid foliage satisfies even the uninitiated that they have space enough. Orchids generally are the most accommodating of plants—the best tempered and the strongest in constitution; and among orchids none equal the Cypripeds in both respects. It is pleasant to fancy that they feel gratitude for our protection. Darwin convinced himself that the whole family is doomed. In construction and anatomy it preserves ‘the record of a former and more simple state of the great orchidaceous family,’ now outgrown. Such survivals are profoundly interesting to us, but Nature does not regard them kindly. They betray her secrets. All the surrounding conditions have changed while the Cypriped clings to its antique model—at least, it has not changed in proportion. Few insects remain, apparently, adapted to fertilise it and it cannot fertilise itself. In the struggle for existence, therefore, it is terribly handicapped. Man comes to the rescue, and no class of orchid accepts his intervention so readily.

It is a pretty house, as I have said. Experienced gardeners have a deep distrust of pretty houses. Picturesque effect and good culture can seldom be reconciled; the conditions needed for the one are generally fatal to the other. But here we have a pleasing exception. All is green and fresh—no brickwork, nor shelves, nor pipes, nor ‘tombstone’ labels obtrude upon the view. The back wall is draped with ferns and creepers, orchids peeping through here and there. A broad stand down the middle, accommodating five rows of Cypripediums on either side, has all its substructures masked with tufa, which bears a mantle of green. The side stands, each accommodating seven rows of pots, are equally clothed in verdure, moss and fern. At the end, through a glass partition open in the centre, is a fountain, with similar stands all round it. And—an essential point, whereby we understand the glorious health of all these plants—there is not one which the gardener cannot see perfectly as he goes by, and reach without an effort, saving those overhead in the middle. No chance of thrips flourishing unsuspected in this house, nor of slugs following their horrid appetite from pot to pot unnoticed.

Since it is especially the number of rare ‘garden mules’ which have won us renown, I ought perhaps to say a word in passing upon the matter of hybridisation. But what can be said in a few lines? It is a theme for articles and books, even in the hands of a smattering amateur like myself. The public has no suspicion how far this novel manufacture has been carried already. There is a hint in the tiny volume compiled by Mr. R. H. Measures ‘for private circulation,’ showing the number of hybrids in the genus Cypripedium of which he could hear. It contains more than eleven hundred items. Of these we have upwards of eight hundred in our collection. But it must be remembered, in the first place, that there is no authoritative list as yet; each inquirer must get information as he can. In the second place, that the number increases daily. Such a list could be framed only by an international committee of botanists, for in France and Belgium orchid-growers are as enthusiastic as our own; whilst in Germany, Italy, Austria and the United States, if the workers be comparatively few they are very busy.

It has often been suggested that an Orchid Farm would pay handsomely, if established in some well-chosen district of the Tropics and intelligently conducted. A gentleman resident in Oviedo, Florida, Mr. Theodore S. Mead, has carried the notion into practice on a small scale with startling results. I quote from the Orchid Review, June 1896:—

‘I have built a small platform in the top of a live oak, about 45 feet from the ground ... where I propose to try seeds of some thirty or forty different orchid crosses, including pods from Vanda coerulea and Cattleya citrina, which are thought difficult to manage under glass...’

In September 1897 we hear further:—

‘The season has been a very trying one, and though my orchid-eyrie in the live oak-top promised great success in June, it was very difficult to keep the compost in good condition during the hot, muggy days of July. Still, out of thirty-two crosses planted on a space of peat, 16 inches long by 12 broad, I obtained plants having first leaf of twenty-two of them—mostly Cattleyas and Laelias;—though a good many died when it was necessary to transplant them, on account of mould and algae threatening to swamp the tiny plants. A single plant of Vanda coerulea × V. Amesiana appeared, and is now showing its third leaf. This year I have repeated the cross Bletia verecunda × Schomburgkia tibicinis and have several plants in their first leaf; and also one of Bletia verecunda crossed with our native Calopogon pulchellus...’

In March 1899:—‘... My seed-planting was very successful after June in polypodium fibre (fresh fern mats) in my tree-top eyrie, and from July till October I averaged 500 little hybrids transplanted to pots every month; about one-fourth still survive.... I had an ancient moss-grown magnolia chopped down and cut into slabs, some thirty of which I planted with orchid-seed and kept sprayed. The slabs coming from near the ground scarcely germinated a seed, but those from 20 to 30 feet up yielded from 2 to 3 up to about 150. I also tried oak bark, but while the seeds started promptly they were more subject to disease;... when transplanted to pots nearly all died.

‘Note.—These magnolia slabs were placed in a green-house, not in the “eyrie.”’

It is hardly worth while to quote the list of seedlings obtained by Mr. Mead through crossing plants of the same genus. But here are some successes which, very few years ago, would have been declared flatly impossible—as impossible as a fertile union betwixt cat and dog.

Cattleya amethystoglossa × Epidendrum O’Brienianum; a few plants alive.

Cattleya amethystoglossa × Epid. radicans; two plants alive.

Schomburgkia undulata × Epid. radicans; several plants.

Cattleya Bowringiana × Epid. cochleatum; several plants.

Epidendrum nocturnum × Epid. osmanthum and Epid. cucullatum, pollen mixed; several plants.

Cattleya Bowringiana × Epid. osmanthum (Godseffianum); three plants.

Bletia verecunda × Schomburgkia tibicinis; several plants.

Bletia verecunda × Calopogon pulchellus; one or two plants.

Schomburgkia tibicinis × Laelia purpurata; one plant.

The discovery that fertile unions may be concerted between species, and even genera, differing in all visible respects, gives profound interest to the study of hybridisation in the scientific point of view. We have gone so far already that classifications which appeared to be unquestionable have been rudely upset. That Laelias and Cattleyas should combine is not surprising, even though one come from North Mexico and the other from South Brazil. But what shall we say when Epidendrums combine with both?—with Sophronitis, Zygopetalum!—nay, with Oncidium!!—with Dendrobium!!! Sobralia proves fertile with Cattleya; so does Sophronitis. Spathoglottis has been crossed with Bletia and with Phajus. Zygopetalum with Colax, with Oncidium, with Epidendrum, with Odontoglossum. Schomburgkia with Laelia and Bletia. Combinations even more astonishing are reported, but for those named there is responsible authority.

I cannot go into detail; these remarks are designed only to call attention to the subject. Not all the bigeneric hybrids mentioned have flowered; and at the present time we have learned enough to be aware that possibly one parent will be ignored by the offspring—that a seedling of Epidendrum crossed with Dendrobium, for example, will bloom a pure Epidendrum or a pure Dendrobium of the species used; which in itself is sufficiently strange. But seedlings have actually been produced in every case which I have named. It is one of the fixed rules in biology that the offspring of different species must be barren—otherwise the parents are not truly species—and that different genera will not breed at all. But in most instances which have been brought to the test as yet, hybrid orchids of different species prove fertile, and some bigeneric crosses yield a progeny at least. What follows? Evidently that the genera or the species are not really distinct—in the cases given. Must we admit, then, that a Dendrobium of the Himalayas (crystallinum) does not differ generically from an Epidendrum of Mexico (radicans)?

This is not the place to argue it out; nor, in truth, would there be much profit in arguing the question while the number of facts to be adduced is still so small that error is not improbable. I hope I have made it clear that the hybridisation of orchids is the most fascinating of botanic studies at this time; which is all I have in view.

But professional ‘growers’ are not likely to help the cause of science much—no blame to them either. They cannot afford to make experiments which demand a great deal of time, and increasing attention, for years, from the most highly-paid of their staff—too probably remaining a dead loss after no small portion of a lifetime has been spent in bringing the produce to flower. A man of business must make such crosses as are most likely to pay in the shortest time—easy species, big, highly coloured. Under the best conditions he must wait three to six years, perhaps ten, or even more. Evidently the most valuable hybridisations in a scientific point of view would be those least likely to succeed; all would be doubtful, all would require a long term of years, and most would not ‘sell’ in the end probably. Such work is for amateurs.

I can mention only a few of the Cypripediums here which seem most notable, and it will always remain dubious whether I have chosen the best examples.

Bellatulum eximium.—The dorsal is small, low and spreading, white, with carmine specks along the edges, large red-chocolate spots inside. Petals closely depressed, mottled with carmine here and there at the edges, and spotted like the dorsal. Lip insignificant—white with a few small dots.

Olivia (tonsum × concolor).—Dorsal white above, changing to pink; base greenish, slenderly feathered with carmine. Petals bowed, flushed with pink, pink lined, dotted with carmine. Slipper pink, deepening to carmine along the front, fading at the toe.

M. Finet (callosum superbum × Godefroyae).—White with a faint rosy blush. At the base of the dorsal is a greenish tinge, which reappears somewhat stronger on the petals. There are a few specks of crimson on the latter, and a few crimson markings at the top of the slipper.

Gertrude Hollington (ciliolare × bellatulum).—A flower of remarkable size. The dorsal is low but exceedingly broad; white, very strongly scored with crimson. Upon the scores stand spots of maroon, and a crimson splash follows the midrib. The great broad petals are white of ground, but obscured at the base by a cloud of crimson-maroon, save the edges. Crimson lines, carrying spots and specks of maroon, overrun the whole. Slipper purplish crimson.

Macropterum (Lowii × superbiens).—Dorsal green, darker below. Petals long, curving downwards, greenish at base, heavily spotted; the ends clouded with purple. Slipper large, tawny purple.

Bellatulum album.—The pure white variety of this striking species, so densely spotted in its normal form. It was discovered by Mr. R. Moore when Assistant-Commissioner of the Shan States in 1893. The dorsal is very low, spreading and depressed; the high-shouldered petals clasp the slipper close all round, in such manner that their ends hang below its tip. Grandly beautiful.

Baconis (chlorops × Schlimii).—Very small, rosy. Sepals scored with a brighter hue. They reverse half their length, showing the back of brilliant rose. Slipper carmine.

H. Ballantine (purpuratum × Fairieanum).—Dorsal rosy white, ribbed with dark crimson branching lines. Petals greenish, lined, dotted, and edged with coppery crimson. Slipper purple above, green below, handsomely lined with crimson.

Barbato-bellatulum.—Takes after the latter parent in shape, but all purple; the white-edged dorsal lined and the petals finely spotted with a darker tint.

Mrs. E. Cohen (callosum × niveum).—All pinkish white, suffused with crimson, lined with crimson and speckled with purple. Slipper carmine-purple.

Cardinale (Sedenii × Schlimii-albiflorum).—Takes its name from the carmine slipper. White in general colour; the petals have a rosy base and rosy tips.

Chrysocomes (caudatum Warcewiczii × conchiferum).—Dorsal greenish-yellow, edged with white. Its tip or crest is most extraordinary, hanging forward like a tongue between high jaws curved and serrated. The ochreous-greenish petals have an edging of crimson and an outer edging of white, prettily frilled and gauffered. They twine and twist through a length of ten or twelve inches, showing the crimson reverse.

Claudii (Spicerianum × vernixium).—The dorsal is white above, with a strong purple midrib, and a purple flush towards the edge; the base is olive green. Petals olive green, shaded in a darker hue, and tipped with purple. The slipper purple above, green below.

Beeckmanii (Boxalli sup. × bellatulum).—The yellow-green dorsal is broadly margined in its upper part with white, and marked profusely with large crimson-brown spots. The petals are depressed, spreading like wings, of madder-purple hue, lined and spotted, the lower margin greenish. Slipper dark purple, with a greenish toe.

Bellatulum egregium.—Doubtless a natural hybrid. The depressed dorsal is pale green, spotted with pink in lines. Petals and slipper white above, pale greenish below, with large pink spots all over. A most remarkable variety.

Brownii (leucorrhodum × longifl. magnificum).—The dorsal takes a very singular form. Narrow and almost rectangular, it is sharply constricted towards the top, then widens out again like the ace of spades. The colour is white, touched with green and rose. Petals long, narrow, with an edging of carmine, and outer edging of white; as they reverse towards the tip the colour is all rose. Big broad slipper, rosy, prettily spotted with carmine on the white lining.

Antigone (Lawrenceanum × niveum).—The big dorsal sepal is pink with a white border. Strong branching ribs of crimson spring from a base of vivid green and form a network. The drooping petals show a deeper pink, with similar lines and maroon specks; as does the slipper.

H. Hannington (villosum × fascinator).—The great dorsal bears a purple mauve cloud within its broad white margin, changing to dusky green at the base and scored with branching lines of somewhat darker mauve. Petals and lip greenish ochre, frilled and shining, lined with brown in dots.

Hector (Leeanum var. × Sallierii var.)—Dorsal white with a greenish-blue centre, traversed by dull brown lines. Petals yellow at the base, set with a quantity of short, stiff black hairs; changing to ochreous dun, the upper half bearing a dusky brownish network. Lip of the same dusky hue.

Myra (Chamberlainianum × Haynaldianum).—Tall, graceful in form as in colouring. The long narrow dorsal is pale green, edged with white. At the base is a patch of dusky chocolate and spots of the same tone run upward in lines. The pale-green petals, narrow and rectangular, bear a few large dun blotches outlined with chocolate; their tips reverse, showing a faint mauve tint.

Aphrodite superbum (niveum × Lawrenceanum).—The same parentage reversed; as usual the produce is quite dissimilar. Its colour is white, purple-tinged except the margin, overlaid with a crimson network of dots. Another example from the same seed-pod has a palest pink network instead of crimson, and tiny dots of maroon. It looks like the ghost of its sister.

Arnoldiae (bellatulum × superciliare).—Whitish, with bold spots of crimson-brown arranged in lines upon the dorsal. Slipper purple-lake above, greenish below.

Arnoldianum (superbiens × concolor).—Dusky shining yellow, tinged at the edges with crimson, spotted and lined with the same. A hybrid remarkable for its shyness to flower.

Cyanides (Swanianum × bellatulum).—A dusky flower, of green and purple tones. The greenish dorsal is clouded at base, lined and spotted, with purple. Petals the same, but the spotting is darker and more distinct. Slipper clear purple.

Callosum Sanderae.—A sport or natural hybrid of most singular beauty. I remember the delighted amazement which possessed me when Mr. Sander unlocked a door and showed this exquisite flower just opening—a treasure hidden from all but the trustiest friends until it could be displayed at the Temple Show in 1894. The great dorsal sepal is white above, tender green in two shades below, with strong green lines ascending from the base. The petals, much depressed, are bright green, lined with a darker hue and tipped with white. The slipper yellowish-green.

It may be mentioned that the owner of this collection declined to accept 1000 guineas for his stock of callosum Sanderae three years after buying the original plant.

Aylingii (niveum × ciliolare).—Small, white ground. The dorsal and petals alike are boldly striped with carmine-crimson. Slipper all white.

Conco-Curtisii.—The triangular dorsal is bright green in the centre, with a dark crimson cloud at the base and crimson lines. The broad depressed petals are dark crimson, fading towards the tips, similarly lined. Slipper green at the toe, crimson above.

Conco-callosum.—The dorsal, almost a diamond in shape, is crimson, with darker lines extending from a greenish base; petals greenish, margined, lined and spotted with crimson. Slipper crimson-purple above, green below.

Alfred (laevigatum × venustum).—Strong ribs of crimson-brown circle up from a green base over the white dorsal, which is pointed sharply. The drooping twisted petals are brightest green above, with a white margin, changing to tawny crimson as they reverse. The whole heavily spotted with crimson-brown. Slipper green, broadly netted over with a darker tint.

Calloso-niveum.—Where the parentage is shown in the name it need not be expressed at full length. A pale flower, dorsal and sepals greenish at base, faintly tinged and lined with pink, dotted carmine.

Amphion (Harrisianum × Lawrenceanum).—The grand dorsal sepal—greenish-yellow, dotted and ribbed with coppery brown—has a broad white margin. Petals narrow and bowed, greenish at base, changing to copper; a few heavy dots. The slipper coppery.

Cowleyanum (Curtisii × niveum).—Dorsal low and spreading, purplish and lined with purple; the edges white. Petals purple, very much darker at base and tips, with a white outline above, and tiny speckles of purple. Purple slipper.

Conco-Lawre (concolor × Lawrenceanum).—Dorsal large, suffused and lined with purple, edged white. Petals green at base, margined and lined with crimson, with a few dots of chocolate. Slipper purplish above, greenish below.

Curtisii (Woodlands variety) does not depart from the ordinary form in its scheme of colouring, but all the hues are intensified, and the enormous slipper, tinged with green at the edge, is deepest crimson-maroon.

I may interrupt the dry enumeration with a story.

STORY OF CYPRIPEDIUM CURTISII

My tales do not commonly bear a moral. If one they have it is apt to be such as grandmamma teaches—foresight, perseverance, the habit of observation. Those virtues need no finger-post. They are illustrated by the story of Cypripedium Curtisii, and rewarded there, as they should be always, by a notable instance of luck. I have not heard of any special circumstances attending the first discovery of this plant. It was found in Sumatra by Mr. Curtis, travelling for Messrs. Veitch, in 1882—a large green flower, margined and touched here and there with white, the pouch vinous purple. This brief and vague description may suffice for readers who take more interest in romance than in orchidology. Mr. Curtis did not tell the world at large where he found the treasure. It was his intention, doubtless, to work the mine himself. But after sending home the first fruits, he was offered the Directorship of the Botanic Gardens at Penang, and left Messrs. Veitch’s service. He may well have hoped to revisit Sumatra one day, but the opportunity never came. Messrs. Veitch knew the secret, doubtless, and kept it faithfully; but they took no steps. And so, the first consignment being scanty, no more arriving, and the plant growing in favour, Cypripedium Curtisii rose to famine price.

The St. Albans firm took note of this. The home of the new Cypriped was admitted. Sumatra yields a profitable harvest always, even of familiar species, and besides, there is an excellent chance—vastly stronger fifteen years ago—of finding novelties. An intelligent man upon the spot should be able to trace the route of an earlier traveller. One of the St. Albans staff was disengaged. In short, Mr. Ericsson, a Swedish collector of great experience, was commissioned to seek Cypripedium Curtisii. He sailed in 1884. Nearly five years did Ericsson wander up and down the island—that is, in the Dutch territory. Working at leisure from Bencoolin northwards, he searched the range of mountains which bounds it on the east, and often descended the further slope—visiting peoples scarcely known, whom the Dutch had not yet invaded. They proved to be amiable enough. Many fine orchids did he send home, and the issue of the search was patiently awaited at St. Albans.

It did not seem more hopeful as years went by. Mr. Curtis’s footsteps were traced easily enough here and there; but the Dutch frontier officials rarely speak any language but their own and the Malay, nor does their discourse generally turn upon orchids when they have a visitor. It was just as likely as not that Ericsson had already traversed the district he sought, without identifying it. Cypripeds, as a rule, occupy a very narrow area, especially the fine species. They are a doomed race, belonging to the elder world, and slowly following its inhabitants to extinction. That fascinating theme I must not touch; readers interested may refer to Darwin. The point is that a collector may skirt a field of Cypripeds very closely without suspecting his good fortune.

But travel in Sumatra at that time was more limited than it had been—more than it is now. The Achinese still held out—for that matter, while I am writing, comes news of a skirmish wherein three officers and nineteen soldiers lost their lives. Ten years ago that stubborn and fearless people not only defended their own soil but also made forays into the Dutch territory. Desperate patriots allied themselves with the Battas, a cannibal race dwelling between their country and the province of Tapanuli; and hatred to the white man—or rather to the Dutch—carried the Achinese so far, though strict Moslems, that they tempted these savages to move by a promise of surrendering all captives—to be devoured. Thus the northern parts of Dutch Sumatra were very unsafe. When Ericsson desired to explore there he was refused permission. At Padang, the capital, however, in 1887, he made acquaintance with the Controleur—Magistrate, as we should say—of Lubu Sikeping, a district which lies along the Batta country. This gentleman spoke Swedish—an accomplishment grateful beyond expression to Ericsson, who had not heard his native tongue for years. Promptly they made friends.

The Controleur had been summoned to report upon the state of things in his Residency. He presented a long list of outrages and murders. Scores, if not hundreds, of peaceful subjects had been not only plundered and killed, but eaten, on Dutch soil, in the last few months. He represented that active measures must be taken forthwith. The Battas, inhabiting a high tableland beyond the mountains, crept through the defile, ravaged, burnt, massacred, and trooped back, carrying their prisoners away for leisurely consumption. Before news of the inroad reached the nearest outpost they were half-way home. Smaller parties lay in wait along the roads, stopping all communication. They had not yet ventured to assail a post, or even a large village, but the Achin desperadoes urged them to bolder feats, and they grew continually more aggressive. An expedition must be sent. It need not be large, for the cannibals are not fighting men. The Governor was persuaded. He ordered a small force to be equipped, and meantime the Controleur returned to his station.

It was a rare opportunity for Ericsson. He begged permission to accompany his new friend, who good-naturedly presented him to the Governor. An historian may be allowed to say that the hero of this narrative is fat, and there is no offence in supposing that the most exalted functionary has a sense of humour. His Excellency appears to have been tickled. The cannibals would rage with disappointment in beholding this succulent mortal—beyond their reach. He laughed and consented. I have no details of the expedition striking enough to be set down in a brief chronicle like this. It was a slow and toilsome march through jungle and mountain passes, the Barizan range, where a score of determined men might have stopped an army. The Achinese proved that; they held the force at bay for hours in a gorge, though less than a score. But the Battas would not fight even when their capital was reached, on Lake Toba. The Rajahs submitted, paid an indemnity, gave hostages, yielded up the surviving victims, and undertook to have no more dealings with the Achinese. So the matter ended. Ericsson found some new plants in their country, and many old well worth collecting. Doubtless the results would have been far more important could he have wandered freely. But those demons of Achin hung upon the line of march, joyously sacrificing their own lives to kill a Dutchman. If his personal adventures were not so curious, however—perhaps I should rather say so dramatic—that I could single out one of them, Ericsson gained much information about an extraordinary people. I can only set down a few facts.

He says that the Battas themselves do not regard their cannibalism as an immemorial practice. They have a story, not worth repeating, to account for it. But I may observe that if Marco Polo’s ‘kingdom of Mangi, called Concha,’ lay in those parts, as geographers believe, some race of the neighbourhood was cannibal in the thirteenth century. ‘They commonly eat men’s flesh, if the person die not of sickness, as better tasted than others.’ That is the motive still—the only one adduced—mere liking. Elsewhere the practice may be due to superstition in one form or another; among the Battas it is simply gourmandise. The head Rajah questioned gave a matter-of-fact answer. ‘You Dutch eat pig,’ said he, ‘because you like it; we eat man because that is our fancy.’ To be devoured alive is the punishment of four offences among themselves—adultery, robbery after nightfall, unprovoked assault, and marrying within the clan; the last an interesting item of which Sir John Lubbock should certainly take note for his next edition of The Origin of Civilisation. The instinct of ‘exogamy’ has no such striking illustration elsewhere. As for foreigners and strangers there is no rule; they are devoured at sight. And it may well be believed that people so fond of eating one another do not demand unquestionable evidence when a man of low station is charged with one of the four crimes which may give them a meal. I must not repeat the horrors which Ericsson learned. Suffice it that the victim is tied up, and those present exercise their choice of morsels. At a former time, they say, not long ago, the flesh was cooked—a statement which confirms the theory, so far as it goes, of a recent introduction. At this present they dip the slice in salt and pepper and eat it on the spot.

A good many missionaries, English, Dutch, French, and American, have not only settled on the confines of the Batta territory, but have travelled in the interior. The earliest of these, Messrs. Ward and Burton, found the people kindly, which again must be noted as suggesting that they were not so ferocious in 1820. The second party, Messrs. Lyman and Munson, of Massachusetts, were eaten. Mdme. Pfeiffer nearly crossed the tableland unmolested, though the savages were not friendly; but, as she says, they regarded her as a witch. Encouraged by this example, three French priests made an attempt two years later; they were promptly devoured. Two Dutchmen shared their fate not long afterwards, and the Government forbade more experiments.

I have no room for detail, but one very curious point must be indicated. These cannibals unredeemed possess an alphabet of their own, bearing no resemblance to the Malay, which latter is a corrupt amalgamation of Arabian, Persian, and Tamil. The Batta characters are original. They write commonly on strips of bamboo, scratching the letters.

On the return of the expedition, a party of invalids was despatched to the local sanitarium on Selimbang Hill, and Ericsson obtained leave to accompany it. There was no danger now. A few huts had been built there for troops, and a bungalow for officers—who made him welcome, of course. They arrived at dusk. The officers went out early next morning to their duties, and Ericsson lay waiting for his coffee. The rough timbers of the bungalow were concealed by boards, smooth and neat. Invalids quartered there had amused themselves by scribbling their names. Some, more ambitious, added verses, epigrams, and caricatures; others, drawings and even paintings. From his bed-place Ericsson scrutinised these artless memorials in the early light. Presently he observed a flower—a Cypripedium; the shape could not be mistaken. It was coloured, but dimly—the tints had soaked into the wood. With professional interest his eye lingered on this sketch. And then the first sun-ray streamed across the verandah and fell upon the very spot. Its faded colours shone brightly for a moment, green, white margin, vinous purple—Ericsson sprang out of bed.

No room for doubt! To make assurance doubly sure there was an inscription—‘C. C.’s contribution to the adornment of this room.’

Hurriedly he sought a pencil and wrote—‘Contribution accepted. Cypripedium collected, C. E.’

It was not such a smart réplique as the occasion seems to demand. But Ericsson is perfectly well satisfied with it to this day.

We can imagine how blithely he set to work that morning. Cypripedium Curtisii was selling in London at the moment for many guineas—a small plant too. And he had found the goose with golden eggs innumerable, waiting to be picked up. These orchids ‘travel’ well. There was no great distance to carry them before embarkation. The good fellow’s fortune was made, and he had the pleasure of knowing it well earned.

With such cheerful thoughts, Ericsson sallied out day after day for a while, searching the mountain. He had a following of miscellaneous ‘natives’ by this time, experienced in their work. The neighbourhood was rich. Every evening they brought in a load of orchids more or less valuable, but never Cypripedium Curtisii. He engaged men of the district and showed them the picture. Some recognised it, and undertook to bring specimens; but they were always mistaken. The invalids withdrew, one after another. Ericsson found himself alone. His accumulated spoil of plants, well worth shipping, began to be as much as he could transport. As time went by, despair possessed him. After all, it did not follow that Mr. Curtis had found the prize just here because he painted it on the wall. To discover a new and fine orchid is a great achievement, and the lucky man might very well commemorate it anywhere when choosing a device.

Finally, ‘time was up.’ To wait longer would be sacrificing the great heap of treasures secured. After shipping them he might return. It was a sad disappointment after such reasonable hopes, but things might have been worse. So Ericsson gave orders to pack and start as soon as possible. When all was ready, on the very evening before departure, one of the local assistants brought him a flower. This time it was right. In three days several thousand plants had been collected, and Ericsson went his way rejoicing.

No reader, I hope, will fancy that these coincidences are invented. The story would be childish as fiction. It is literal fact, and therefore only is it worth telling.