The Woodlands Orchids, Described and Illustrated

It was despatched by Messrs. Brown, Ponder, and Co., of Belize, who dealt in mahogany and logwood – do still, I hope. That trade appears to be rather interesting. The merchant keeps a gang of Caribs, who have been in the employment of the firm all their lives perhaps. They go out at the proper season to find and mark the trees; fell them presently and return whilst the timber is drying; or amuse themselves in the bush, hunting and gathering miscellaneous produce. Then they float the raft down to Belize.

These Caribs are more or less descended from the Indians of Jamaica. Early in the last century the British Government collected the survivors of that hapless race, and planted them out of harm’s way in the Island of St. Vincent, uninhabited at the time. They did not thrive, however, and in 1796 the Government transported them once more to the Island of Roatan, in the Bay of Honduras.

But an extraordinary change had come over the poor creatures. We are to suppose that when landed at St. Vincent their type was mostly if not wholly Indian; when taken away it was to all appearance negro. Probably a slave ship had been wrecked there, and the blacks, escaping, killed all the male Indians, taking the women to wife; such is the theory, but there is no record. A transformation so sudden and complete in such brief time is striking evidence of the African vigour, for in hair, features, complexion, and build the Carib is a negro.

But not in character. He has virtues to which neither red man nor black lay claim – industry, honesty, truthfulness, staunch fidelity to his engagements and readiness to combine. The mahogany cutters have a Guild, which holds itself responsible for the failure of any member to execute work for which he has been paid; it cannot be called a Trade Union, because, so far as I learn, it has no other purpose – except jollification. In brief, the Carib of Honduras is one of the best fellows on earth in his way. He looks down on all about him, negro and Indian and ‘poor white.’ If a stranger suspect him of trickery, he thinks it defence enough to exclaim – ‘Um Carib man, sah!’ And so it is, as a rule.

Messrs. Brown Ponder had lately taken on a new hand – let us call him Sam. This young fellow had been wandering up and down the coast some years, doing any honest work that turned up. Thus he had served in the boat’s crew of M. Sécard, when that gentleman was collecting orchids in Guiana. The experience had taught him that flowers have value, and he returned from his first visit to the bush, after entering the firm’s service, with the announcement of a marvel. We may fancy the report which negro imagination would draw of Brassavola Digbyana. The mysterious fringe did not puzzle Sam at all. It was long enough to serve the purpose of chevaux de frise, to keep off monkeys and birds! M. Sécard used to give him a dollar apiece for things not to be compared with it! In short, here was a fortune for the gathering – and what terms would Mr. Brown offer him?

Mr. Brown offered nothing at all. Residents in Honduras are curiously apathetic about orchids even now. I think it may be said that no collector has visited their country, which is the explanation perhaps. Moreover, Mr. Brown well knew the liveliness of the Carib imagination. Sam had met with only one or two belated flowers, which he displayed. But the shapeless little cluster of withered petals was no evidence of beauty – quite the reverse. Everybody cut his jokes upon it.

It might be supposed that a man would carry his wares to another market under such circumstances. But that is not the Carib way; it would be a breach of loyalty. Good-naturedly Sam told Mr. Brown that he was a fool, with an adjective for emphasis. They were all adjective fools, he assured them daily. But to treat with a rival could not enter his mind.

The gang had returned to the bush when young Mr. Ponder came back from Bluefields. His partner mentioned Sam’s idea as a jest in conversation when several friends were present. One of them recalled how Governor Digby had sent some orchids to Europe ages ago, which sold for a mint of money. Others had heard something of the legend. Ponder, young and enterprising, inclined to think the matter worth notice. He inquired among the oldest inhabitants, Carib and negro. Many recollected the Governor’s speculation, and the orchid also, when pressed. It was as big as a bunch of bananas, blue – no, red – no, yellow; shaped just like a boat, or a bird, or a star, or a monkey climbing a tree, and so forth. But all agreed about the fringe, ‘now you come to mention it.’ Ponder saw they knew nothing beyond the mere fact. But he made up his mind to get some specimens next rainy season, and judge for himself whether a consignment would be likely to pay.

In due time the cutters appeared with their rafts of timber. It was not the moment to broach an unfamiliar subject. Calculations awfully intricate for those honest fellows had to be made intelligible to them once more, and then to be discussed, approved, explained again, and finally accepted or compromised. The Caribs passed all day in argument and in measuring the logs over and over; all night in working sums of arithmetic on fingers and toes. At length the amount due was computed amicably, as usual, and paid. But then, not without embarrassment, the whole gang, ‘gave notice.’

When such an event occurs, under such circumstances, an employer knows the reason. His Caribs have found gold. There is nothing to be said beyond wishing them luck. But Mr. Ponder asked Sam to get him a few of his orchids next rains. Sam declined, somewhat roughly. Mr. Ponder laid the dispute before the Guild, so to call it, which pronounced that Sam must carry out his proposal before leaving the firm’s service.

The dry season was well advanced by this time, and all flowers had withered. Nevertheless Sam jumped into a canoe, swearing, and started up the river with a couple of Indians. In three or four days he returned with a boat-load of orchids, sent them to the warehouse, and vanished. They proved to be a miscellaneous collection, all sorts and sizes; evidently the men had just gathered anything they came across.

Mr. Ponder grew angry. It was an impudent trick, a defiance of himself and the Guild, such as no true Carib would be guilty of. Foreign travel had demoralised Sam. Those honest fellows, his partners, would be not less indignant, if the shameful proceeding could be laid before them. But all had gone up the river – to their gold-field, of course – and no one knew where that might be. Mr. Ponder got more and more warm as he revolved the insult. Business was slack. He decided to follow, and sent out forthwith to engage a crew of Indians; gold-diggers do not mind the intrusion of Indians so much, for when these savages have obtained a very little dust, they withdraw to turn it into drink. And they never chatter. Moreover he had to find the Caribs’ camp, and they are sleuth-hounds.

The search was not so hopeless as it might seem. Carefully reviewing the circumstances, Mr. Ponder felt sure that his Caribs had discovered their placer whilst collecting the felled trees – not before; that is, in the rainy season. Men would not wander far into the bush at that time. Probably, therefore, the scene lay pretty close to one or other of the spots where they had found mahogany. Of those spots he had a minute description.

The reasoning proved to be quite correct, but luck interposed before it had been severely tested. On arrival at one of the stations to be explored – after a week or ten days’ voyaging, as I imagine – he saw a canoe just pushing out from beneath the wooded bank with two of the missing Caribs therein, going to Belize on some errand. Their astonishment was loud, but not angry; they had no quarrel with Mr. Ponder. After a very little hesitation they consented to lead him to the camp, the Indians remaining in their boat.

It was not a long walk, nor uncomfortable. A broad path had been cut to the top of the ridge, for hauling down the trunks, and the rollers had smoothed it like a highway; but not so broad that the great trees on either hand failed to overshadow it. Mr. Ponder questioned his guides laughingly. Was it a real good placer, with nuggets in it? – how much had they pouched, and was the game likely to last? They grinned and patted their waist-scarves, which, as he now remarked, were round and plump as monster sausages.

‘Oh, I know that trick,’ laughed Mr. Ponder. ‘You’ve filled them with maize-flour for your journey.’

They whooped and roared with triumph. ‘Say, Mis’r George, you tell nobody – honour bright? – not nobody?’ One of them turned down the edge of his scarf, with no small effort – for it was twisted very tightly and secured. Presently the contents glimmered into sight – little golden figures, mostly flat, carved or moulded, one to three inches long. ‘Our placer all nuggets, Mis’r George!’

Any child in those seas would have understood. The Caribs had discovered not a washing nor a mine, but a burial-ground of the old Indians, called in those parts a ‘huaco.’ There are men who make it their sole business to look for such treasure-heaps. Since they bear, in general, no outward indication whatsoever at the present time, one would think that the hunt must be desperate; but these men, like other gamblers, have their ‘system.’ Possibly they have noted some rules which guided the antique people in their choice of a cemetery. And if they find one in a lifetime – provided they can keep the secret – that suffices.

Mostly, perhaps, huacos are discovered by accident. So it was in the memorable instance on Chiriqui lagoon, where many thousand people dug for months and many brought away a fortune – for them. And so it was here. The Caribs told their story gleefully. From the crest of the ridge the land sloped gently down towards a stream. When they reached this place to secure the timber, now dry, the rains were very heavy. But Sam and another, heaven-directed, roamed down the slope. A big tree had fallen, and among its roots Sam’s lynx eyes marked a number of the little figures, washed clean, sparkling in the sun-rays. These good fellows have no secrets of the sort among themselves. They dug around, assured themselves that it was indubitably a huaco; then returned, like honest Caribs, to float the trunks down to Belize, and fulfil their contract, before attending to personal interests.

They had cleared a space and built a hut of boughs, a ‘ramada.’ There Mr. Ponder found them assembled, smoking and sleeping after the mid-day meal. Warned by the guide’s cheery shout they welcomed Mis’r George heartily – all but Sam; unanimously they asked, however, what on earth he wanted there, so far from home? Mr. Ponder told his complaint.

The gang resolved itself into a sort of court-martial forthwith, the eldest seating himself upon a stump and the others grouping round. There was a moment’s silence for thought; then the president, gravely:

‘You, Carib Sam, what you say?’

‘Say d – sorry, sah! Mis’r Brown an’ all the Mis’rs make fool of me! Then Mis’r George come – I never see Mis’r George before! He says go to bush an’ pick orchid – a month contract! – a month! But I found gold here, an’ I want pick it up – have no more say! d – sorry!’

Mr. Ponder relented. ‘Why didn’t you explain at the time, Sam? – I’m quite satisfied, Caribs! Sam and I will shake hands and there’s an end of it!’

But the others were not quite satisfied. The president sat shaking his head. ‘When rains come,’ said Sam to him anxiously, ‘I get Mis’r George two canoe-loads, six canoe-loads of orchid, an’ no mistake!’

‘There, men! That’s final! Let’s shake hands round, and wash away all unpleasantness – here’s the wash! – drink it up! Now will you show me your huaco?’

First they showed him the plunder – hundreds of those little images, mostly human, in the rudest style of art, but pure gold; a large proportion alligators, some probably meant for birds, not a few mere lumps. Mr. Ponder calculated rapidly that the whole might represent three thousand pounds for division among ten men. But the Caribs began to fear that their huaco would prove to be a very small one. The yield had been failing in all directions lately. They had prospected round, but hitherto without success. No bones, nor weapons, nor anything but a few jars of pottery had been found. Such is the rule – without exception, I believe – in burial-grounds of this class, without cairn or statues; in fact, it is a mere assumption to declare them burial-grounds at all. Men who dug at Chiriqui told me that nothing whatever besides gold was found in that great area. The statement is not quite exact, but it shows how little turned up.

The forebodings of the Caribs were sadly verified. Mr. Ponder started back in the afternoon and they followed within a week – ‘made men’ if they had wit enough to keep their booty, but not so rich as they had hoped.

Next rains Sam loyally performed his promise. And thus it happened that Messrs. Stevens were overwhelmed with Brassavola Digbyana once upon a time.

LYCASTES, SOBRALIAS, AND ANGOULOAS

occupy different compartments in one house. The first will not detain us. All the species which orchidists, in a lordly way, term common are represented here – of course, by their best varieties. I can fancy the wonder and delight of a stranger entering when the Lycastes Skinneri alba and virginalis are in bloom, remembering my own emotion at the spectacle elsewhere. Not many of the genus appeal to the aesthetic, and Skinneri in especial lacks grace. But unsymmetrical form and abrupt rigidity of growth are forgotten when those great flowers, so pure, so divinely white, burst upon the eye. Charming also are the pale varieties of Skinneri, such as Lady Roberts, a dainty rose, the petals only just dark enough to show up the labellum almost white; and Phyllis of somewhat deeper rose. Its velvety lip has a crimson margin well displayed by a small white patch upon the disc.

Leucantha, dainty green with white petals, is charming; a pan of aromatica with fifty or sixty delicate golden blooms makes a pretty show. But these things do not call for special notice.

There are varieties, however, of course, as the famous Lycaste plana Measuresiana, coppery, shining, with pure white petals, crimson spotted, and small white lip; plana lassioglossa, olive green of sepal and petal, with a bright rusty stain at the base; lip white, with conspicuous white spots.

Fulvescens.– Large and spreading. Sepals and petals reddish orange, lip clear brightest orange, so lightly poised that it quivers at a breath. It has as many as forty flowers from one bulb sometimes.

Denningiana.– Very large. Sepals and petals whitish green, lip brown.

Mooreana.– An extraordinary variety of L. Locusta, which itself is extraordinary enough. Reichenbach described Locusta in his lively way: ‘Green sepals, green petals, green lip, green callus, green ovary, green bract, green sheath, green peduncle, green bulbs, green leaves – just as green as a green grasshopper or the dress of some Viennese ladies.’ Mooreana is larger, and the heavy fringe of the lip has a faint yellow shade.

Sobralias

It may be granted that all classes of orchid are not equally beautiful, but to compare one with another in this point of view is futile. Each has its own charm which individual taste may prefer, and to set Cattleyas, for instance, above Odontoglots is only to demonstrate that for some persons size and brilliancy of hue are more attractive than grace and purity. But in any competition of the sort Sobralias must rank high. They are all large, they have every fascination which colour can give, and the delicate crumpling of the lip, characteristic of this genus alone, is one of Nature’s subtlest devices. Gardeners also approve them, for they need less attention perhaps than any others, and they grow fast. The sagacious reader will begin to ask by this time what are the disadvantages to set against all these merits? There is only one, but for too many amateurs it is fatal – the glorious flowers last scarcely two days. Certainly a spike will carry four or five, or even six, which open one after another. But then all is over till next year. And the plants are big, occupying much room. Therefore Sobralias are not favoured by the wise, when space is limited.

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.