The Woodlands Orchids, Described and Illustrated

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.

LAELIA PURPURATA

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.

The Dendrobium House

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.

STORY OF DENDROBIUM SCHRÖDERIANUM

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.