| LÆLIA, GRANDIS, TENEBROSA. WALTON GRANGE VARIETY. | ||
| Painted from nature also | Chromo by Macfarlane F.R.H.S. | |
| Printed in London | ||
To right, in the Vanda House, are many hybrids of Cattleya and Laelia; but we have many more, and it will be convenient to notice them all together in this place. Some have not flowered yet, and therefore have received no name; but even of these it is worth while to give the parentage, seeing that there is no official record of hybridisation as yet. Mr. Rolfe at Kew tries hard to keep pace with the enterprise of enthusiastic amateurs and energetic professionals throughout the world. But comparatively few report to him, and not every one files the Orchid Review. Thus it happens that experiments carried to an issue long ago are continually repeated, in the expectation of producing a novelty. The experimenter indeed loses nothing save the credit he hoped to win. But in the scientific point of view time is wasted and the confusion of names is increased. To contribute in my small way towards an improvement in this state of things I give a list of the Cattleya and Laelia hybrids at Woodlands, long though it be, and uninteresting to the public at large; assured that it will be welcome to those who study this most fascinating subject.
I may take the hybrids as they stand, with no methodical arrangement. L.-C. means the product of a Laelia and a Cattleya, or, somewhat loosely, of a Cattleya and a Laelia. C. × means the product of two Cattleyas; L. × of two Laelias.
L.-C. Ancona (Catt. Harrisoniae × L. purpurata) represents each parent almost equally, taking after Catt. Harrisoniae in colour and size of sepal and petal; in general shape and in the hues of the labellum after L. purpurata.
L.-C. Nysa (L. crispa × Catt. Warcewiczii).—Pale mauve—the petals have a sharp touch of crimson at the tips. Labellum all evenly crimson with a narrow outline of white, gracefully frilled.
L. × Measuresiana.—A natural hybrid, very rare, assumed to be the product of L. elegans × L. purpurata. Rosy mauve. From the tube, very long, the labellum opens squarely, purple, with a clouded throat and dusky yellow ‘eyes.’
L.-C. Arnoldiana (L. purpurata × Catt. labiata). Large, clear mauve. Petals much attenuated at the ends, which gives them a sort of ‘fly-away’ appearance. The fine expanded lip, of carmine crimson, is clouded with a deeper tint round the orange throat.
L. × Claptonensis (L. elegans × L. Dormaniana).—Small, white with a rosy flush. The long shovel lip is brilliantly crimson, fading to a white edge.
L.-C. amanda.—A natural hybrid of which Catt. intermedia is one parent, L. Boothiana perhaps the other. Pale pink. The yellow throat and the bright rosy lip show lines of deep crimson, strongly ‘feathered’ on either side.
L. × Gravesiae (L. crispa superba × L. praestans).—Small, rosy white. The spade-like lip is magenta-crimson, wonderfully smooth and brilliant, with two little yellow ‘eyes’ in the throat.
L.-C. Tiresias (Catt. Bowringiana × L. elegans).—The petals are exactly oval, saving pretty twirls and twists at the edges—soft bright mauve, the narrow sepals paler. The funnel lip does not open wide, but in colour it is like the richest and silkiest crimson velvet, almost maroon at the throat; charmingly frilled and gauffered.
C. × Portia.—Parents doubtful, but evidently Catt. Bowringiana is one of them, Catt. labiata perhaps the other. Sepals and petals lively mauve, the latter darker. The funnel of the lip brightest rose, disc of the softest tenderest crimson imaginable, deepening against the pale yellowish throat.
L.-C. Tresederiana (Catt. Loddigesii × L. crispa superba).—Rather curious than beautiful. The narrow petals and narrower sepals are pallid violet; the labellum has a faintly yellow throat, and the dull purple disc of Catt. crispa; not evenly coloured but in strong lines.
C. × Mantinii nobilior (Catt. Bowringiana × Catt. aurea).—Raised by M. Mantin. Delicious is a proper word for it—neat and graceful in shape, rosy-crimson in colour. The lip opens widely, exquisitely veined with gold within. It has a golden tinge on either side the throat, and a margin of deeper crimson. The whole colouring is indescribably soft and tender.
C. × Mantinii inversa represents the same parentage transposed (Catt. aurea × Catt. Bowringiana).—Small like its mother, of brightest deepest rose. The lip, loosely open above, swells to a fine expanse below, of darker tint. Throat golden, charmingly scored with crimson-brown, like aurea. The disc shows an arch of dark crimson on a rosy ground. It will be seen that the influence of Bowringiana strongly predominates.
C. × Chloris (Catt. Bowringiana × Catt. maxima) much resembles the above. It is less brilliant, however; the lip does not open so freely, and the arch mentioned, though even darker, is not so effective on a less lively ground.
L.-C. Fire Queen.—Parentage not recorded. I have not seen this flower, nor even an account of it, but it received an Award of Merit, June 6, 1897.
L.-C. Lady Wigan (L. purpurata Russelliana × Catt. Mossiae aurea).—Dainty pink of sepal and petal. From the pale yellow throat issue a number of crimson rays which darken to violet purple in the disc.
C.-L. Parysatis (Catt. Bowringiana × L. pumila).—Rosy pink. The funnel-shaped lip opens handsomely, showing a disc of soft crimson with a white speck at the tip.
L.-C. Robin Measures is assumed to be a natural hybrid of Laelia xanthina × Catt. Regnieri, a variety of Catt. Schilleriana. Sepals and petals smooth dainty green, the latter just touched with a suspicion of purple at the tips. It has the shovel lip of Schilleriana, a yellow tube and golden throat, from which descends a line of darkest crimson. The ground-colour of the disc is white, but clouded with crimson-lake and closely barred with dark crimson up to the white edge.
L.-C. Bellairensis (Catt. Bowringiana × L. Goldiana).—So curiously like L. autumnalis that a close observer even would take it for that species. In shape, however, it is more graceful than the pink form, and in colour much more pale than atro-rubens.
L.-C. Tiresias superba (Catt. Bowringiana × L. elegans Turneri).—I heard some one exclaim ‘What a study in colour!’ It is indeed, and in form too—not large, but smoothly regular as pencil could draw. The sepals make an exact triangle, delicate rosy purple, netted over with soft lines. Petals broad and short, darker. Lip rather long, white in the throat with a faintest stain of yellow, the disc and edges of the lobes glorious crimson-purple, with a dark cloud above which stretches all up the throat. A gem of beauty indescribable.
C. × Browniae.—Bought as a hybrid of Catt. Bowringiana × Catt. Loddigesii, but it shows no trace of either parent. Very pretty and odd, however. The tiny little sepals are hardly seen, lost behind the huge pink petals. The lip also has pink lobes above a gamboge throat, and a bright crimson-purple disc.
L.-C. Albanensis.—A natural hybrid, doubtless the product of L. grandis × Catt. Warneri. Pale rosy-mauve, lip crimson, deepening as it expands, but fading again towards the margin. A large and grand flower.
L.-C. Aphrodite (Catt. Mendelii × L. purpurata).—Sepals and petals pure white. Labellum deepest crimson with rosy tip.
L. × Sanderae (L. xanthina × L. Dormaniana).—Sepals and petals crimson, lip purplish rose.
C. × Mariottiana (Catt. Eldorado × Catt. gigas).—Very pretty, dark rose, lip bright crimson with yellow throat.
L. × splendens (L. crispa × L. purpurata).—Pink. Lip crimson-purple, edged with white, heavily fringed.
C. × Atalanta (Catt. Leopoldii × Catt. Warcewiczii).—Large and waxy. Sepals and petals rose veined with crimson, lip bright magenta.
L.-C. excellens (Catt. gigas ocullata × L. purpurata Brysiana).—A superb flower, very large, rosy mauve, lip crimson.
L.-C. Amazon (Catt. maxima × L. purpurata).—Sepals and petals softly flushed, lip much darker in tone, veined with crimson.
C. × Prince of Wales (Catt. fimbriata × Catt. Wageneri).—White. The lip amethyst, veined with rose and frilled; throat golden.
C. × Kienastiana (Catt. Luddemanniana × Catt. aurea).—Sepals flushed white, petals warm lilac, the veins paler; magenta lip with shadings of orange and lilac towards the edge and a white margin.
L.-C. Hon. Mrs. Astor (Catt. Gaskelliana × L. xanthina).—Sepals clear yellow, petals white with a sulphur tinge; throat golden yellow veined with purple, disc rose, veined with crimson and edged with lilac.
L.-C. Broomfieldensis (Catt. aurea-chrysotoxa × L. pumila Dayana).—Mauve. The lip deep crimson, gracefully frilled; the throat has crimson and gold markings on a purple ground.
C. × Fowleri (Catt. Leopoldii × Catt. Hardyana).—Rosy lilac, lip crimson. The side lobes are white tipped with crimson.
C. × Miss Measures (Catt. speciosissima × Catt. velutina).—Pretty mauve-pink with darker lines. Golden throat, lip crimson veined with purple.
C. × William Murray (Catt. Mendelii × Catt. Lawrenceana).—Rosy with a purple tinge. Throat veined with orange and purple, lip purple-crimson.
L.-C. C.-G. Roebling (L. purpurata alba × Catt. Gaskelliana).—Sepals and petals flushed, lip deepest violet, suffused with crimson and edged with white.
L.-C. D. S. Brown (Catt. Trianae × L. elegans).—Soft pink, throat yellow with a brownish tinge, lip carmine-crimson.
L.-C. Mardellii fascinator (L. elegans Turneri × Catt. speciosissima).—Mauve. Throat yellow, darkening to orange in front, lip purple-crimson.
L.-C. callistoglossa (L. purpurata × Catt. gigas).—Sepals pale rosy mauve, petals darker. Throat yellow streaked with purple; lip purple.
L.-C. callistoglossa ignescens (Catt. gigas × L. purpurata).—Sepals rosy lilac, petals a deeper shade, lip glowing purple.
L. × Latona (L. purpurata × L. cinnabarina).—Pale orange. Lip whitish at the base, the disc crimson bordered with orange.
L.-C. Decia (L. Perrinii × Catt. aurea).—Pale violet, deepening towards the tips. Lip crimson, streaked with white on the side lobes, with white and rosy purple on the disc.
L.-C. Eudora (Catt. Mendelii × L. purpurata).—Rosy purple. Lip deepest crimson shaded with maroon.
L.-C. Eudora alba (L. purpurata alba × Catt. Mendelii).—Ivory white. Lip crimson with purple shadings.
L.-C. Hippolyta (Catt. Mossiae × L. cinnabarina).—Bright orange with a rosy purplish tinge. The lip red-purple, much frilled.
L.-C. Zephyra (Catt. Mendelii × L. xanthina).—All Nankin yellow except the crimson disc, which has a pale margin.
L.-C. Amesiana (L. crispa × Catt. maxima).—White washed with amethyst. Lip purple-crimson fading towards the margin.
L.-C. Exoniensis (Catt. Mossiae × L. crispa).—White flushed with rosy mauve. Lip purple-crimson.
L. × Yula (L. cinnabarina × L. purpurata).—Scarcely larger than cinnabarina, bright orange, the petals veined and flushed with crimson. The lip of size proportionate—that is, small—shows more of the purpurata influence in its bright crimson disc.
L. × Yula inversa (L. purpurata × L. cinnabarina).—The same parentage but transposed. More than twice as large as the other and spreading, but thin. Sepals of the liveliest orange, petals agreeably tinged with purple. On the long narrow lip this pink shade deepens almost to red. Upon the whole, neither of them is to be commended for its own sake, but the brilliant orange of cinnabarina is retained so perfectly that both will prove valuable for hybridising.
C. × Our Queen (Catt. Mendelii × unknown).—Sepals and petals white, faintly flushed. In the throat, of brightest yellow, are several brown lines. The upper part of the lip is crimson, the disc purple.
L.-C. Empress of India (L. purpurata Brysiana × Catt. Dowiana).—Sepals and petals rose, tinged with violet at the ends, lip large, spreading, of the richest crimson-purple.
L.-C. Leucoglossa (Catt. Loddigesii × L.-C. fausta).—Rose-pink. Lip white, touched with yellow in the throat.
L.-C. Henry Greenwood (L.-C. Schilleriana × Catt. Hardyana).—Sepals and petals cream-coloured, tinged with pink, the latter veined with rosy purple. Lip purple with yellow throat.
L.-C. Canhamiana (Catt. Mossiae × L. purpurata).—White tinged with mauve. Lip crimson-purple, with a narrow white margin, crisped.
L.-C. Pallas superba (L. crispa × Catt. aurea).—Dark rose. Lip purple in the throat, golden in the disc, finely striped with crimson.
C. × Wendlandiana (Catt. Bowringiana × Catt. gigas).—Bright soft rose, lip purple-crimson with two yellow ‘eyes’ beneath the tube.
C. × Cecilia (Catt. Lawrenceana × Catt. Trianae).—Sepals and petals deep violet, throat buff changing to violet, disc purple.
C. × Louis Chaton (Catt. Trianae × Catt. Lawrenceana—the same parentage as Cecilia but reversed).—A most successful combination. Fine in shape, petals soft rosy mauve, sepals paler, and superb crimson lip, with the yellow of Trianae strongly expressed in the throat.
C. O’Brieniana.—A natural hybrid of Catt. Loddigesii and Catt. Walkeriana apparently; pale mauve; lip yellow.
L.-C. Miss Lily Measures (L.-C. Arnoldiana × Gottoiana).—Very large. Sepals and petals dark rose; lip rosy purple.
L.-C. velutino-elegans (Catt. velutina × L. elegans).—Sepals and petals white with a yellow tinge, veined with rose. At the throat an orange blotch. Lip darkest crimson with white veins.
I append a list of hybrid seedlings which have not yet flowered and therefore have received no name as yet. It will be useful only to those who practise the fascinating art of Hybridisation. But such are a multitude already, and each year their numbers swell.
Beyond the hybrids are twenty plants of white Cattleya intermedia. The owner of our collection was first among mortals, in Europe at least, to behold that marvel of chaste loveliness. Mr. Sander received a plant of intermedia from Brazil, which the collector labelled ‘white.’ Albino Cattleyas were few then, and Roezl alone perhaps ventured to imagine that every red species had a white sister. So they took little notice of the label at St. Albans. When Mr. Measures paid a visit, it was even shown to him as an example of the reckless statements forwarded by collectors. He, however, in a sporting mood, offered ten guineas, and Mr. Sander gladly accepted, but under a written proviso that he guaranteed nothing at all. And in due time Cattleya intermedia Parthenia appeared, to astonish and delight the universe. Several other albino forms have turned up since, all of which are represented here, but Parthenia remains the finest—snowy white, with a very long lip, which scarcely expands beyond the tube. That is to say, ‘the books’ describe it as snowy white. A careful observer will remark the faintest possible tinge of purple in the throat.
We have also a natural hybrid, Catt. Louryana, which the learned dubiously assign to intermedia alba × bicolor; all white saving the lip, which is mauve-pink with darker lines.
Among other albino rarities here is the charming L. praestans alba, pure as snow but for a plum-coloured edging round the upper portion of the lip.
L. Perrinii alba—stainless throughout. This exquisite variety also appeared for the first time in our collection.
L. Perrinii nivea—not less beautiful assuredly, though it has the imperfection, as an albino, of a pale pink labellum and a yellow throat.
Beyond these rise twenty-five stately plants of Angraecum sesquipedale, which we are learning to call Aeranthus sesquipedalis. There are those who do not value the marvel, though none but the blind surely can fail to admire it. In truth, like other giants, it does not readily lend itself to any useful purpose. I think I could design a wreath of Angraecum sesquipedale which would put jewelled coronets to shame; but for a bouquet or for the dress or for table decoration, it is equally unsuited. Wherefore the ladies give a glance of wonder at its ten-inch ‘tail’ and pass by, calling it, as I have heard with my own ears, a vegetable starfish. At Woodlands happily there are other flowers enough for a ‘regiment of women,’ as John Knox rudely put it, and they do not grudge the room which these noble plants occupy.
I must not name the leading personage in this sad story. Though twenty-five years have gone by since he met his fate, there are still those who mourn for him. Could it be supposed that my report would come to the knowledge of two among them, old people dwelling modestly in a small French town, I should not publish it. For they have never heard the truth. Those kindly and thoughtful comrades of Alcide Lebœuf—so to name him—who transmitted the news of his death, described it as an accident. But the French Consul at Tamatave sent a brief statement privately to the late Mr. Cutter, of Great Russell Street, in whose employ Lebœuf was travelling, that he might warn any future collectors.
M. Leon Humblot has told how he and his brother once entertained six guests at Tamatave; within twelve months he alone survived. So deadly is that climate. Alcide Lebœuf was one of the six, but he perished by the hand of man. The poor fellow was half English by blood, and wholly English by education. His father, I believe, stuffed birds and sold ‘curiosities’ at a small shop in the East End. At an early age the boy took to ‘collecting’ as a business. He travelled for Mr. Cutter in various lands, seeking rare birds and insects, and he did his work well, though subject to fits of hard drinking from time to time.
At the shop in Great Russell Street, after a while, he made acquaintance with that admirable collector Crossley, whose stories of Madagascar fired his imagination. Mr. Cutter was loath to send out a man of such unsteady character. The perils of that awful climate were not so well understood, perhaps, twenty-five years ago, but enough was known to make an employer hesitate. Crossley had been shipwrecked on the coast, had lived years with the natives, learned their language, and learned also to adopt their habits while journeying among them. But Lebœuf would not be daunted. A giant in stature—over seven feet, they say—of strength proportionate, not inexperienced in wild travel but never conscious of ache or pain, he mocked at danger. When Crossley refused to take an untried man into the swamps of Madagascar, he vowed he would go alone. That is, indeed, the most fascinating of all lands to an enthusiast even now, when we are assured that the Epyornis, the mammoth of birds, is extinct. At that time there was no good reason to doubt the unanimous assertion of the natives that it still lived. Crossley was so confident that he neglected to buy eggs badly shattered, waiting for perfect specimens. His scruples were ‘bad business’ for Mr. Cutter, as that gentleman lived to see, but they appeared judicious at the time. Fragments of Epyornis egg, slung on cords, were the vessels generally used in some parts for carrying water—are still perhaps. Besides this, endless marvels were reported, some of which have been secured in these days. Briefly, the young man was determined to go, and Mr. Cutter gave him a commission.
Thus Lebœuf made one of M. Humblot’s guests at Tamatave. Another was Mr. Wilson, the only orchid collector there; for M. Humblot did not feel much interest in those plants, I believe, at the time. I have not been able to learn anything about Wilson’s antecedents. His diary, upon which this narrative is framed, was lying about at Tamatave for years; we may conclude, perhaps, that the French Consul did not know to whom it should be forwarded—there was no English Consul. Probably Wilson travelled on his own account; certainly none of the great orchid merchants employed him. He was young and inexperienced; glad to attach himself, no doubt, to a big and self-confident old hand like Lebœuf.
Some weeks or months afterwards we find the pair at a large village called Malela, which lies at the foot of Ambohimiangavo, apparently a well-known mountain. Ellis mentions it, I observe, but only by name, as the richest iron district of the Central Provinces. They had had some trouble on the way. Among the hints and instructions which Crossley furnished, one in especial counselled Lebœuf to abstain from shooting in the neighbourhood of houses. Each tribe, he wrote, holds some living creature sacred—it may be a beast or a bird, a reptile, or even an insect. ‘These must not be hurt within the territory of such tribe; the natives will readily inform you which they are. But, in addition, each village commonly has its sacred creature, and it will be highly dangerous to shoot until you have identified the object. As you do not speak the language you had very much better make it a rule not to shoot anything on cultivated ground.’
This was not a man to heed fantastic warnings, but he learned prudence before they had gone too far into the wilds. At a short distance from Tamatave, in a field of sugar-cane, Lebœuf saw a beautiful bird, new to him, which had a tuft of feathers on each side the beak—so Wilson described it. He followed and secured the prize. The semi-civilised natives with them paid no attention. But when, an hour later, surrounded by the people of the village, he took out his bird to skin, there was a sudden tumult. The women and children ran away screaming, the men rushed for their weapons. But collectors were not unfamiliar beings, if incomprehensible, so near the port. After some anxious moments, the headmen or priests consented to take a heavy fine, and drove them from the spot.
Their arrival at Malela had been announced, of course, and they found an uproarious welcome. All the people of the neighbourhood were assembling for a great feast. While their men built a hut of branches outside the fortifications—for no house was unoccupied—they sat beneath the trees in the central space. Such was the excitement that even white visitors scarcely commanded notice. Chief after chief arrived, sitting crosswise in an ornamented hammock—not lying—his folded arms resting on the bamboo by which it was suspended. A train of spearmen pressed behind him. They marched round the square, displaying their magnificence to the admiration of the crowd, and dismounted at the Prince’s door—if that was his title—leaving their retainers outside. The mob of spearmen there numbered hundreds, the common folk thousands, arrayed in their glossiest and showiest lambas of silk or cotton. No small proportion of them were beating tom-toms; others played on the native flutes and fiddles; all shouted. The row was deafening. But doubtless it was a brilliant spectacle.
One part of the vast square, however, remained empty. Beneath a fine tree stood three posts firmly planted. They were nine or ten feet high, squared and polished, each branching at the top into four limbs; tree trunks, in fact, chosen for the regularity of their growth. In front was a very large stone, unworked, standing several feet above the ground. The travellers were familiar with these objects now. They recognised the curious idols of the country and their altar. On each side of the overshadowing tree barrels were ranged, one on tap, and another waiting its turn. This also they recognised. However savage the inland population, however ignorant of the white man’s arts, all contrived even then to transport puncheons of rum through swamp and jungle for occasions like this. Now and again persons distinguished from the throng by costlier dress and ornaments were escorted to the spot and they drank with ceremonies. Wilson did not like the prospect. His companion had broken loose once before under a similar temptation. But there was no help.
Presently the Chamberlain, so to call him, approached with a number of officers, and invited them to attend the Prince. They found that potentate sitting at the end of a long file of chiefs. The floor of the hall was covered with snowy mats, which set off the beauty of their many-coloured robes. Beside the Prince squatted a pleasant-looking man in pink vest and white lamba. He wore a broad-brimmed hat of silky felt, black, with a band of gold lace, contrasting at every point with the showily-dressed chiefs around. This, they knew, must be the high priest, the Sikidy. The Prince received them courteously, but since their interpreter knew but little French, and less, as it seems, of the language of this tribe, communication was limited to the forms of politeness. Then slaves brought in the feast, setting great iron dishes on the mats all along the row. Simultaneously the band struck up, and women began singing at the top of their voices.
The heat, the smell, the noise, the excitement of the scene were intoxicating without alcohol. But rum flowed literally in buckets, and palm wine several days old, which is even stronger. Wilson ventured to urge caution after a while, and at length Lebœuf tore himself away. Men came and went all the time, so their departure was unnoticed.
They reached the hut of boughs, now finished. Lebœuf threw himself down and slept; relieved of anxiety, Wilson set off to gather orchids. Malela appears to be a fine hunting-ground for collectors, but he only mentions the fact to explain his imprudence in leaving Lebœuf for some hours. The latter woke, found himself quite alone—for all the servants were merry-making, of course—and he also started off collecting. Unfortunately he traversed the village. And some of the chiefs took him in a friendly spirit to the barrel under the tree.
Wilson was returning—happy with a load of new orchids maybe—when he heard a shot, followed by a clamour of young voices. Next instant a swarm of children burst from the forest, and ran screaming across the open ground. Wilson had heard that cry before. His blood chilled. If the men of the other village were furious, how would it be with these drunken savages! He hurried to the spot whence the children had emerged.
As their voices died away he became conscious of shouting—an exultant tone. It was Lebœuf. They met in the outskirts of the wood. At sight of Wilson he bawled—
‘Hi, young un! got any weeds to sell? Give you tuppence for the lot. Pretty flowers—all a-blowing and a-growing! Take ’em to the missus! The ladies loves you chaps. I say, what’ll old Cutter look like when he sees that?’ Lebœuf threw down an animal which he carried on his shoulder, and danced round it, shouting and laughing.
It was a small creature, brownish grey, with enormous ears very human in shape, long skeleton hands, and a bushy tail thicker than a lady’s boa. By that and the ears Wilson recognised the Madagascar sloth, rarest of all animals then in museums, and very rare still. He had no particular reason to suspect that the natives reverenced it, but a beast so eerie in appearance and habits might well be thought sacred.
He implored Lebœuf to leave it and come away; Lebœuf did not even listen. After dancing and roaring till he was tired he picked up the aye-aye and marched on, talking loud.
Thus they did not hear the noise of a multitude approaching. But from the edge of the forest they saw it. Chiefs led the van, stumbling and staggering; among the foremost was that personage in snowy lamba and broad black hat—not pleasant-looking now. A mob of spearmen pressed behind. The clearing was a compact mass of natives, running, wailing, gesticulating—and they still streamed in thousands through the narrow gate. It was like the rush of ants when their nest is disturbed.
The sight paralysed even Lebœuf; Wilson, after an awful glance, ran back and hid. He could hear his comrade’s shouts above the uproar for a moment—then there was a pause, and the interpreter’s voice reached him faintly. Wilson still crept away. He heard only a confused clamour for some minutes, but then a burst of vengeful triumph made the forest ring. It needed no explanation. Lebœuf was overpowered. The noise grew fainter—they were dragging him away—and ceased.
For hours Wilson lay in an agony of fear. That Lebœuf was killed he did not doubt; but how could he himself escape, alone in the forest, ignorant of the roads, many weeks journey from the coast? A more cruel fate would probably be his. It might be hoped that Lebœuf’s tortures had been short.
He did not dare push deeper into the wood; his single chance lay in creeping round the village after dark, and possibly rejoining his servants, if they still lived. If not, he might recover the road at least. But man could not be in more desperate straits.
Remaining thus in the vicinity, towards dusk he heard a whistle far off. The frenzy of his relief is not to be described—it was the rallying signal of the party. But suppose the enemy used this device to ensnare him? It might be! And yet—there was the hope. At worst they would give him a speedy death. He answered. Gradually the searchers drew near. They were his own men, led by the interpreter.
Wilson could not speak French, but he grasped that the natives would not harm him. Lebœuf?—It was almost a comfort that he could not understand precisely. The interpreter’s pantomime suggested an awful fate. Lebœuf stood at bay with his gun, and the chiefs held him in parley while men crept through the brushwood. They threw a lasso from behind, and dragged him down. He was borne to the square, and after dread ceremonies which Wilson shuddered to comprehend, laid upon the altar.
In a maze of horror and anxiety he entered the village. It was not yet dark. But of all the multitude swarming there some hours before not a soul was visible. They had not left; every house resounded with the hum of many voices—low, and, as it seemed to Wilson, praying. The square also was deserted; upon the high stone altar he saw a shapeless mass from which small wreaths of smoke still curled.
That was the fate of poor Lebœuf. The same night Wilson was seized by fever. He struggled on, but died within a few hours’ march of Tamatave.
The next house is given up to L. purpurata with some L. grandis tenebrosa intermixed. Not much can be said of the latter species. Its extraordinary colour is best described as madder-brown, but here we have a variety of which the ends of the sepal and petal are yellowish. The broad lip, dull purple, has a madder-brown cloud at its throat, whence lines of the same hue proceed to the edges all round. The value of L. tenebrosa for hybridising needs no demonstration—it introduces a colour unique, of which not a trace can be found elsewhere. But as for the flower itself, I protest that it is downright ugly. This is à propos of nothing at all. Liberavi animam meam.
It is always difficult to realise that an orchid of the grand class is a weed. All our conventional notions of a flower revolt against the proposition. I have remarked that it seems specially absurd to an ingenuous friend, if one recall the fact while he contemplates Laelia purpurata. That majestic thing, so perfect in colour and shape, so delicately finished—a weed! So it is, nevertheless, as lightly regarded by Nature or by man in its native home as groundsel is by us. The Indians of Central America love their forest flowers passionately. So do those in the north of the Southern Continent. But I never heard that the Indians of Brazil showed a sign of such intelligence. The most glorious Cattleyas to them are what a primrose was to Peter Bell.
The obvious, unquestionable truth that Laelia purpurata is nothing but a weed has suggested some unorthodox thoughts, as I considered it, ‘pottering about’ my houses. This is not the place to set them down at length. But we have reached a less important part of the collection; I may chatter for a moment.
All things are grandest in the hot zone, from mountains to plagues. Excepting the Mississippi and the Yang-tse-Kiang, all the mightiest rivers even are there. We have no elephants, nor lions, nor anacondas; no tapong trees three hundred feet high, nor ceibas almost as tall; no butterflies ten inches across, no storms that lay a province waste and kill fifty thousand mortals. Further, all things that are most beautiful dwell within the Tropics—tigers, giraffes, palm-trees, fish, snakes, insects, flowers. Further still, the most intelligent of beasts are there—apes and monkeys.
It may well be doubted whether man, the animal, is an exception. In this very country of Brazil, Wallace found among the Indians ‘a development of the chest such as never exists, I believe, in the best-formed European.’ No race of the Temperate Zone approaches the Kroomen in muscular force, and negroes generally are superior. The strength of the Borneo Dyaks I myself have noted with amazement. Black Papuans are giants, and the brown variety excel any white race in vigour. The exception is that most interesting Negrito strain, represented by a few thousands here and there from Ceylon to the Philippines. But even they, so small and wretched, have marvellous strength.
Thus all natural things rise to their highest level in the hot zones—I have to put the case very roughly, for this is a monstrous digression. Does it not seem to follow that man should rise to his highest level there? The aborigines are savages mostly and ever have been; no people of whom we have record has become civilised unless by an impulse from without, and none could reach the bulk of these. But India shows that the brain, as the form, of man may develop to perfection under the hottest sky. Therefore, to end this brief excursus, I conclude that as the tropical weed Laelia purpurata is more majestic and more beautiful than our weeds, so will tropic man some day rise to a height of majesty unattainable in our zone.
But the reader has had enough of it—and so have I; for to crowd a volume of facts and arguments into a paragraph is irritating labour. Let us get back to business. Here are some of our finest varieties of L. purpurata.
Marginata.—White of sepal and petal. It takes its name from the white margin surrounding the crimson purple lip. Very striking also is a large white triangle upon the disc, charmingly netted over with crimson.
Archduchess is faintly rosy. The lobes, closely folded, are deepest purple-crimson, over an orange throat. On either side the dark central line of the labellum is a pale blur.
Macfarlanei.—Sepals and petals very narrow, of a clear rose tint, with darker lines. A patch almost white in the front of the dark crimson lip.
Lowiana.—Petals rose, sepals paler. The tube is not large, but it, and also the labellum, could not be darker if still to be classed as crimson. Even the yellow of the throat is obscured, but there is a lighter blotch at the tip.
Tenebrosa.—The name is due apparently to branching lines of deep maroon which intersect the crimson lip. Petals and sepals are white, and there is a white patch on the labellum.
is the last in this series, where we see the usual varieties in perfection; there are pseudo-bulbs of Wardianum more than 4 feet long. At the present day, however, orchidists will not look at ‘usual varieties’ of Dendrobium with patience—nobile, cupreum, fimbriatum, thyrsiflorum, etc. etc. etc. They are exquisitely lovely, of course. Examine them as often as you will, new marvels of beauty appear. The fact is that most experts never do examine these common things; they look about for varieties. Such blasé souls can be accommodated, if needful. Here are specimens of nobile album, all white save the deep crimson blotch and a faint yellowish tinge upon the lip; nobile virginale, which has lost even this trace of colour; nobile murrhinianum, very rare, understood to be a hybrid with Wardianum, snow white, the tips of sepal, petal and lip purple, and a great purple blotch in the throat; nobile Cooksoni, no hybrid, but a sport, in which the ordinary colouring of the lip is repeated in the petals; nobile Ruckerianum, very large, the deep blotch on the lip bordered with white; nobile splendens grandiflorum, an enlarged and intensified form of the type.
Of hybrids I may name Leechianum (nobile × aureum), white, sepals, petals, and lip tipped with rosy purple, the great blotch on the disc crimson with a golden tinge. Ainsworthii, of the same parentage and very similar, but the blotch is wine-colour. Schneiderianum (Findleyanum × aureum), bearing white sepals, petals and lip tipped with rosy purple, throat orange, similarly striped.
Here are several ‘specimens’ of Epidendrum radicans, a tangle of fresh green roots and young shoots of green still more fresh and tender, pleasant to look upon even though not flowering; but verdant pillars set with tongues of flame at the right season. And an interesting hybrid of it, Epidendrum × radico-vitellinum (radicans × vitellinum),—brightest orange, the lip almost scarlet, with three yellow keels upon the disc; very pretty and effective.
Besides, we have here a Spathoglottis hybrid, aureo-Veillardii, Wigan’s var. (Kimballiana × Veillardii),—most charming of all the charming family. Golden—the sepals tinged, and the petals thickly dotted with crimson; lip crimson and yellow.
Many who care nothing for our pleasant science recall the chatter and bustle which greeted the reappearance of Dendrobium Schröderianum in 1891. For they spread far beyond the ‘horticultural circles.’ Every newspaper in the realm gave some sort of a report, and a multitude of my confrères were summoned to spin out a column, from such stores of ingenuity as they could find, upon a plant which grew on human skulls and travelled under charge of tutelary idols. The scene at ‘Protheroe’s’ was a renewal of the good old time when every season brought its noble plant, and every plant brought out its noble price—in short, a sensation.
The variety of Dendrobium phalaenopsis hereafter to bear Baron Schröder’s name was sent to Kew by Forbes about 1857. This single plant remained a special trophy of the Royal Gardens for many years. It throve and multiplied. In course of time Sir Joseph Hooker was able to give a small piece, in exchange for other varieties, to Mr. Day, of Tottenham, to Baron Schröder, and to Messrs. Veitch. The latter sold their specimen to Baron Schröder; Mr. Day’s collection was dispersed, and the same greatest of amateurs bought his fragment. Thus all three plants known to exist in private hands came into Baron Schröder’s possession, and the variety took his name.
This state of things lasted ten years. Mr. Sander then resolved to wait no longer upon chance. He studied the route of Forbes’s travels, consulted the authorities at Kew, and, with their aid, came to a conclusion. In 1890 my friend Mr. Micholitz went out to seek Dendrobium Schröderianum in its native wilds.
The man of sense who finds a treasure does not proclaim the spot till he has filled his pockets, nor even, if it may be, till he has cleared out the hoard. It is universally understood that Micholitz discovered the object of his quest in New Guinea. If that error encouraged the exploration of a most interesting island, as I hear, it has done a public service. And the explorers have not wasted their time. They did not fall in with Dendrobium Schröderianum, because it was not there; but they secured other valuable things. Very shortly now the true habitat will be declared. Meantime I must only say that it is one of the wildest of those many ‘Summer Isles of Eden’ which stud the Australasian Sea.
Micholitz arrived in a trading-vessel, the captain of which was trusted by the natives. Under that protection the chiefs allowed him to explore, agreeing to furnish men and canoes—for a consideration, naturally. Their power did not stretch beyond a few miles of coast; the neighbours on each side were unfriendly, or at least distrusted; and bitterly hostile tribes lay beyond—hostile, that is, to the people among whom Micholitz landed. All alike are head-hunters, and all charge one another with cannibalism—but falsely in every case, I understand.
The field was narrow, therefore, and uncommonly perilous, for the best-intentioned of these islanders cannot always resist the impulse to crown their trophies with a white man’s head—as the Captain assured Micholitz day by day with an earnestness which became oppressive after a while. But he was very lucky—or rather the probabilities had been studied so thoughtfully before any step was taken that he sailed to the very island. I do not mean that it is wonderful to find an orchid on the first day’s search when once its habitat is known. Dendrobiums cover a great tract of land. It is the nicety of calculation ten thousand miles away which should be admired.
There were no plants, however, just around the little port. After some days spent in making arrangements, Micholitz received an intimation that the chiefs were going to a feast and he might accompany them; there is no lack of interpreters on that coast, whence so many poor wretches are enticed to English or French colonies—some of whom return nowadays. The Captain could not go. In refusing he looked at Micholitz with a quizzical, hesitating air, as though inclined to make a revelation.
‘Is there any danger?’ Micholitz asked.
‘Oh no! not a bit!—not a bit of danger! I answer for that. You’ll be amused, I daresay. They’re rum chaps.’
The chance of making a trip beyond the narrow friendly area in safety was welcome, and at daylight he started with the chiefs. It was but a few hours’ paddling—to the next bay. The feast was given, as is usual, to celebrate the launch of a war-prau. In martial panoply the guests embarked, paint and feathers, spears and clubs. They were met by their hosts in the same guise upon the beach. After ceremonies probably—but I have no description—all squatted down in a circle, and a personage, assumed to be the priest, howled for a while. Then the warriors began to dance, two by two. It was very wearisome, and besides, very hot. Micholitz asked at length whether he might leave. The interpreter said there was no objection. He walked towards the forest, which stood some distance back, even as a wall, skirting the snowy beach. The grey huts of the village glimmered among palms and fruit-trees on one hand.
A sunken way had been dug from the edge of the surf to a long low building a hundred yards back; within it lay the prau doubtless, ready to be launched. Micholitz skirted this channel. He noticed a curious group of persons sitting apart—an old man, two women, a boy, and a girl. The elders were squatting motionless upon the sand, so bowed that the long wool drooping hid their faces; the children lay with their heads in the women’s laps. None looked up; in passing he observed that these latter were bound.
The boat-house—so to call it—spanning the channel, was a hundred feet long, built of palm thatch, with substantial posts at due distance. As he walked along it, Micholitz became aware of an unpleasant smell. It was not strong. But in turning the further corner he marked a great purple stain upon the sand. Flies clustered thick there. It was blood. And then, upon the wall of thatch above, and the corner post, he traced the stain streaming broadly down. He looked to the other angle. The horrid mark was there also. They could not see him from the beach. Easily he parted the crackling palm leaves, and thrust in his head. At a few feet distance rose the lofty stern-post, carved and painted, with two broad shells glistening like eyes in the twilight. No more could he see, dazzled by the glare outside. That passed. He turned to the right hand-and drew back with a cry. A naked corpse, with head hanging on its chest, was bound to the corner post—the same to left.
Poor Micholitz felt sick. He ran from the cursed spot. So glowing was the sunlight round, so sweet and soft the shadow of the near forest—and those awful things in the midst! The old hymn rang in his ears—
Where every prospect pleases
And only man is vile.
He hurried towards the trees.
An outburst of yells and laughter made him turn. The circle had broken up. A swarm of warriors danced towards the boat-house—tore down the walls; in an instant the posts stood naked—with their burdens. Chiefs climbed aboard the prau and mustered, with tossing feathers, brandishing their arms, shouting and singing, on its deck. Ropes were manned. Scores of brawny savages started at a run, whilst the boys howled with delight and tumbled over one another. The great vessel moved, quickened. Then a party rushed upon that little group, trampling it under foot, snatched up the boy and girl, and sped with them towards the sea. The old man and women lay where they were tossed: there was no help for them in earth or heaven. The prau glided quicker and quicker amidst a roaring tumult. As it neared the sea, those small victims, tossed aloft from either side, fell across its course. Micholitz looked no more.
‘Let me attend to my business, for God’s sake!’ he kept repeating.
But when he reached the trees his business was done. Those horrors had so disconcerted him that for an instant he saw long green stems of orchid perched upon the boughs without regarding them. But here was one from the top of which depended a cluster of rosy garlands, four or five, bearing a dozen, or twenty, or thirty great flowers, all open; and there a cluster snow-white—a crimson one beyond, darkening almost to purple. Dendrobium Schröderianum was rediscovered!
Of Mitcholitz’s emotion it is enough to tell that it drove all else from his mind, or almost. When the interpreter summoned him he sat down and hobnobbed with those murderers and ate their dubious viands. The triumph was startling, so speedy and complete; but so much the heavier were his responsibilities. When, with a chilling shock, he recalled distinctly the dread spectacle, he said again:
‘Let me attend to my business! I can’t help it!’
All went well. So soon as the chiefs understood that this eccentric white man fancied their weeds, they joyously offered them—at a price. The time of year was excellent—early in the dry season. Next day Micholitz returned aboard and the Captain brought his ship round to the bay. But he would not listen to the story. ‘I told you they was rum chaps, didn’t I? Well, you see I told you true.’ In three days, so plentiful was the supply, Micholitz had gathered as many as he thought judicious, and heaped them on deck. They could be dried while the vessel was waiting for cargo elsewhere, and he longed to get away from that ill-omened spot.
Still luck attended him. The Captain ‘filled up’ quickly, and sailed, as by agreement, for a Dutch port, where the orchids would be shipped for England. He arrived in the evening, the ship lay alongside the wharf; next day his precious cases would be transferred to the steamer. In great content Micholitz went to sleep; so did everybody else, the watch included. Towards morning the harbour police raised a cry of ‘Fire!’ It must have been smouldering for hours. Not a plant could poor Micholitz save!
On arrival, he had telegraphed his success, and joy reigned at St. Albans all day. Foresight and enterprise were justly rewarded for once. What a coup—what a sensation! Let us not speculate upon the language used when a second dispatch came in the morning.
‘Ship burnt! What do?—Micholitz.’
The reply was emphatic: ‘Go back—Sander.’
‘Too late—rainy season.’
‘Go back!’
And Micholitz went. His protest, had he insisted upon it, was unanswerable. Hard enough it would be to return among those anti-human wretches when the delights of home had been so near. But there was no chance of regaining the bay—a vessel might not sail thither for months or years. The work must be begun again—the search renewed. And in the rainy season, too!
But the good fellow did not even hesitate. Forthwith he inquired for a ship trading with the island. There was none, and he had no time to wait, for the rain grew heavier daily. A mail steamer was leaving for the nearest settlement. Trusting to the ‘courtesy of nations,’ Micholitz claimed a passage as a shipwrecked man. It was flatly refused, but at length the Dutch officials yielded to his indignant appeal so far as to make a deduction of 30 per cent. ‘Well,’ he wrote to St. Albans, ‘there is no doubt these are the meanest people on earth.’ The Captain of the Costa Rica whaling ship agrees with him.
I have no space for the adventures of this second journey now. The Dendrobe was found once more, which is not at all surprising when its habitat had been discovered. At this spot, however, it was growing, not on trees, but on rocks of limestone—most epiphytal orchids love to cling on that rough and porous surface. Especially was it abundant in the graveyard of the clan, a stony waste where for generations they had left their dead—not unmourned, perhaps—beneath the sky. The plants grew and flowered among bones innumerable. To suggest the removal of them under such circumstances was a nervous duty. But in the graveyard they were not only most plentiful, but by far most vigorous. It had to be done, and with all precautions, after displaying a sample of his ‘trade,’ looking-glasses and knives and beads, and so forth, Micholitz did it.
A clamour of indignation broke out. It was swelling into passion when he produced a roll of brass wire; at that spectacle it suddenly calmed down. After debate among themselves the warriors stipulated that two of their most sacred idols should travel with the plants, and be treated with all honour on the way. They would not assist in collecting, but after the distribution of brass wire they helped to pack the cases.
Thus it happened that one of the Dendrobes sold at ‘Protheroe’s’ on October 16, 1891, was attached to a human skull. As for the idols, they were bought by the Hon. Walter Rothschild, and we are free to hope that they are treated with reverence, as per agreement.
The authorities assert that Dendrobium Lowii was introduced to Europe by Sir Hugh Low in 1861. My friend has so many titles to honour, in this and other forms of public service, that he will not feel the loss of one. The statement is not absolutely correct. An unnamed species, which must have been Dendrobium Lowii, flowered in the collection of Mr. H. Vicars, at Heath House, near Chelmsford, in 1845. I do not propose to describe the plant whereby hangs my tale; suffice it that this is a pale yellow Dendrobe, peculiarly charming, very delicate, and still rare. We do not hear of Mr. Vicars’ specimen again. He obtained it, with others, from Fraser, Cumming, and Co., of Singapore, probably in 1842. It was brought to them from Borneo by Captain Baker, commanding the ship Orient Pioneer.
When lying at Singapore Captain Baker heard of the coal seams just discovered at Kiangi, on the Brunei river, which made such a stir in the City a few months afterwards. It seemed to him that his owners would like a report upon them. And he sailed thither.
I picture the man as big and rough—fat he was certainly; one of those sailors, careful enough aboard ship, who think it necessary to take a ‘drop’ at every halt when making holiday.
Pirates were no tradition in that era. They swarmed among the islands, and the younger chiefs were not proof against temptation when they fell in with an European ship that seemed to be in difficulties. Doubtless Captain Baker kept all his wits about him on a perilous voyage beyond the track of commerce then. But he reached the Bay of Brunei safely, ascended the river in a well-armed boat, and visited the coalfields at Kiangi. A few Chinamen were working there. Baker had shrewdness enough to see that immense capital would be required, that the Sultan would give endless trouble, and that the coal, when won, might prove to be dubious in quality. We may hope, therefore, that his owners kept out of the ‘rush’ which followed, and were duly grateful.
His business was finished. Messrs. Fraser and Cumming, indeed, had asked him to collect a few of the ‘air-plants’ which began to make such a stir in England, but that would not detain him. They grew so thick on every tree that a boatload could be gathered in dropping down the river. He had instructions to choose those upon the highest branches, where, as was thought, the best species are found; but it made no difference, for a sailor could walk up those trees hung with creepers as easily as up the shrouds! So Captain Baker looked out for a place to land among the mangroves, expecting to fulfil his commission in an hour at most. A place was found presently, the boat turned to shore, and he directed a couple of sailors to climb. They were more than willing, under a promise of grog. I may venture to drop the abstract form of narrative here, and put the breath of life into it.
Baker had engaged a Malay as interpreter for the voyage; by good luck he was a native of Brunei. This man stared and laughed a little to himself on hearing the order. As the sailors began to mount, he said:
‘Tuan Cap’n! Say ’m fellows looky sharp on snakes.’
The men paused suddenly, looking down, but Baker swore very loud and very often to the effect that he’d eat every snake within miles, and that Tuzzadeen was the son of a sea-cook. So the climbers went up, but gingerly. Tuzzadeen sat grinning. They had not mounted high, luckily, for on a sudden one gave a screech, and both crashed down, the second dropping in sheer fright. But he who uttered that yell had good cause for it, evidently. He danced and twisted, threw himself down and bounded to his feet, roaring with pain. His eyes showed the white in a circle all round, and his brows, strained upward, almost touched the hair. All leapt out, splashing through the shallow water, pale with alarm—seized their writhing comrade, and stripped him. Tuzzadeen examined his body; presently the convulsions grew fainter, and he struggled in a more intelligent sort of way, though still roaring.
‘Him bit by fire-ant, I say, Tuan Cap’n,’ observed Tuzzadeen.
‘Well! Here’s a blasphemous fuss about an unmentionable little ant! D’you call yourself a gore-stained British seaman, Forster? Just let’s hear you do it, you unfit-for-repetition lubber, so as we may have a right-down blank laugh.’
Forster collected his wits and answered earnestly, ‘It was an ant maybe. But I tell you, Cap’n Baker, there ain’t no difference betwixt that ant and a red-hot iron devil. Oh law! I’ll be good from this day. I know how the bad uns fare now.’
‘That’s a blessed resolution anyhow,’ said Baker. ‘But it didn’t last above a minute, you see. Come, show yourself a man, and shin up them shrouds again.’
‘No, Cap’n Baker,’ he answered slowly and impressively, ‘not if you was to put the Queen’s crown on top of the tree and fix a keg of rum half-way up.’
Then they found that the other man had hurt himself badly in falling. Baker was stubborn. But promises and taunts failed to move one of them, and he was too fat to climb himself.
‘Confound it, Tuz,’ said he discontentedly, as they pulled into the stream. ‘Other men have got these things. How did they do it?’
‘Them get Dyaks—naked chaps what see ants and snakes.’
‘Oh! And can I get Dyaks?’
‘You pay, Tuan Cap’n, I find plenty naked chaps.’
In the evening all was settled. Tuzzadeen knew the chief of a Sibuyou Dyak village on a hill just above the bay; they would scarcely lose sight of the ship. No preparations were necessary. He himself would go ahead when they approached a village, and the Dyaks would be pleased to see them.
At dawn next day Baker started, with Tuzzadeen and four armed sailors. They crossed the broad white beach, studded with big rocks, moss-grown, weather-stained, clothed with creepers and plumed with fern; through a grove of cocoanut palms, scaring a band of children—Malay, but clad only in a heart-shaped badge of silver dangling at their waists—and entered the forest. There was a well-worn path. In a hilly district like this Dyaks are content to walk upon the ground; elsewhere they lay tree-trunks, end to end, on crossed posts, and trot along, raised above the level of the bush.
It is likely that this was the first time Captain Baker had entered a tropic forest. A very few steps from the busy go-downs of Singapore would have taken him into one peculiarly charming; but tigers lay in wait all round the town—so at least it was believed, not without probability. A few daring souls already dwelt at Tanglin; but they left business early, looked to their arms before setting out, and never dreamed of quitting the bungalow when safe home once more.
Anyhow, the good man was struck with the beauty of that jungle. Scarcely a flower did he see, or a butterfly, or any living thing save ants and wasps. Vast trees arching above the path shut out every sun-ray in that early hour. But all beneath them was a garden such as he had never conceived. The dews had not yet dried up. They outlined every thread in the great webs stretching from bush to bush, edged the feathers of bamboo with white, hung on the tip of every leaf. And the leaves were endless in variety. Like a green wall they stood on either hand—so closely were they pressed together along the track, which gave them some faint breath of air and glimmer of sunshine at noonday. Living things were heard, too, though unseen. The wah-wahs called ‘jug-jug’ in a long gurgling cadence, like water pouring from a bottle. Boughs clashed in sudden tumult, and dimly one caught a glimpse of monkeys flying through the air in alarm. A crow upon the top of some dead tree uttered its clanging call, slow and sonorous like strokes upon a bell. In short, Baker was much pleased and interested. Often he came to a halt, and at every halt he served out rum.
It was a walk of some miles, very steep at the last. Near the village they crossed a ravine, dry at this season; so deep it was that the bridge which spanned it hung far above the tops of lofty trees growing on an island in the midst.
The bridge was actually the greatest wonder seen as yet on this delightful excursion. Huge bamboos, lashed end to end, were suspended over the abyss by rattans beyond counting, fixed in the trees at either side. Not only wonderful but most elegant it was, for the rattans had been disposed symmetrically. But Baker, though a seaman from his youth up, surveyed it with dismay. Boards a foot wide at the utmost had been laid across the bamboo. There was a hand-rail on each side, but so slight that he perceived it could not be meant for a support. Moreover, Tuzzadeen warned him earnestly, before leading the way, that he must not grasp the hand-rail—it must be touched only, to assist the balance.
Then the Malay went across. At a yard out the bridge began to shiver, and when he reached the middle, which dipped many feet, it was swinging to and fro like a pendulum. If Baker had not drunk just enough to make him reckless he would have turned back. A couple of the men refused. That was another prick of the spur. He followed Tuzzadeen, with his heart in his mouth, and arrived safely. Guess how deep was the refresher after that.
Tuzzadeen pushed on, and returned presently with an invitation from the chief—the Orang kaya, as his title goes. I can fancy Baker’s astonishment when he came in sight of the village. It was one house, perhaps three hundred feet long, raised thirty feet in the air on posts. They climbed a notched log to the entrance, where the chief was waiting with his councillors. He had sent for young men, readily spared at this season, and meantime he asked the Tuan to rest.
Baker perceived that the house was open from end to end in front and on his left hand as he entered; on the right, however, stretched a wooden party wall, with many doors. He rightly concluded that the open space was common and each family occupied one chamber. Hundreds of people crowded round, especially children.
Then he lunched, the chief looking on, and in due time a score of stalwart young Dyaks arrived. After resting he started again with them.
What with drink and interest Baker was now jovially excited. In passing through the house he noticed a door festooned with greenery. A noise of howling came through it. He asked Tuzzadeen what this meant. Tuzzadeen, Malay and Moslem, was much amused.
‘Baby born!’ he laughed. ‘Father go to bed; mother feed him with rice and salt.’
‘Feed the father?’ Baker cried.
‘Yes. Them naked chaps say father’s child, not mother’s. Women cry over him. You hear?’
‘Lord ’a mercy, I must see this!’ And before Tuzzadeen could interfere he opened the door.