The Woodlands Orchids, Described and Illustrated

It was with curiosity rather than hope, therefore, that Roezl scrutinised the airy garden. There were handsome specimens of Cattleya – Skinneri most frequent, of course – Lycaste, Oncidium, and Masdevallia. They had done blooming mostly, but a belated flower showed here and there. In one big clump he saw something white – looked more closely – paused. The plant was Cattleya Skinneri certainly. How should a white flower be there?

All other collectors, perhaps, at that time, would have passed on, taking it for granted that some weed had rooted itself amid the clump. But for many years Roezl had been preaching that all Cattleyas of red or violent tint, so to class them roughly, must make albino ‘sports.’ I believe he had not one instance to cite in proof of his theory, which is a commonplace now. A wondrous instinct guided him – the same which predicted that an Odontoglossum of extraordinary character would be found in a province he had never entered, where, years afterwards, the striking Odont. Harryanum was discovered. Men talked of Roezl’s odd fancy with respect, but very few heeded it.

He tried various points of view, but nowhere could the flower be seen distinctly. After grumbling and fuming a while the Cura left him, and presently he followed. That reverend person was an object of interest now. At the first opportunity Roezl mentioned that he was seeking a white Flor de San Sebastian, as they name Cattleya Skinneri, for which he would pay a good sum, and asked if there were any in the neighbourhood.

The Cura replied at once, ‘You won’t get one here. Many years ago my people found one in the forest, but they never saw another before or since.’

‘What did they do with it?’ Roezl asked breathlessly.

‘Fixed it on the church, of course.’

The man was stupid, but in those parts an idiot can see any opening for trade. To suppose that a cock-fighting Guatemalan priest could have scruples about stripping his church would be grotesque. If he did not snatch at the chance to make money, when told that the stranger would pay for his whim, it must be because the removal of that plant would be so hazardous that he did not even think of it. Roezl dropped the subject.

They ate – more especially, they drank. The leading men of the village came in to hear the sad story of the cock-fight. Not one word on any other topic was spoken until they withdrew to bed. But Roezl was not bored after a while. So soon as he grasped the situation, his quick wits began speculating and contriving means to tempt the Padre. And as he listened to the artless if not innocent discourse of these rustics, gradually a notion formed itself.

The issue of the great match had been a disaster all round. In the first place, there was an antique feud with the victors. Secondly, their cocks had been defeated so often that for two years past they had lain low, saving their money to buy champion birds at the capital. And this was the result! In the assurance of triumph they had staked all they could raise upon the issue. That money was lost, and the cocks besides. Utter rout and bankruptcy! No wonder the priest sent his boy ahead to break the awful news.

Despairingly they speculated on the causes of their bad luck from year to year, and it was in listening to this discussion that Roezl perceived a gleam of hope. The mules arrived with his orchids, and started again in the morning; but he stayed behind. The Cura was more than willing to explain the local system of feeding, keeping, training, and in general of managing cocks. Roezl went into it thoroughly without comment; but when the leading parishioners assembled at night, as usual, he lifted up his voice.

‘My friends,’ said he, ‘you are always beaten because you do not understand the tricks of these wily townsmen. What you should import from Guatemala is not champion cocks, but a good cock-master, up to date. I’m afraid he would sell you indeed, but there is no other way.’

They looked at one another astounded, but the Cura broke out, ‘Rubbish! What do we do wrong?’

‘Only a fool gives away valuable secrets. If you want my information you must pay for it. But I will tell you one thing. You keep your cocks tied up in a cupboard’ – I am giving the sense of his observations – ‘by themselves, where they get spiritless and bored. You have been to Tetonicapan. Is that how they do there? In every house you see the cocks tied in a corner of the living room, where people come and go, often bringing their own birds with them. Hens enter too sometimes. So they are always lively and eager. This you have seen! Is it not so?’

‘It is,’ they muttered with thoughtful brows.

‘Well, I make you a present of that hint. If you want any more valuable, you must pay.’ And he withdrew.

Weighty was the consultation doubtless. Presently they went in search of him, the whole body, and asked his terms.

‘You shall not buy on speculation,’ said Roezl. ‘Is there a village in the neighbourhood where they treat their cocks as you do, and could you make a match for next Sunday? Yes? Well, then, you shall tie up your birds in a public room, follow my directions in feeding, and so forth. If you conquer, you shall pay me; if not, not.’

‘What shall we pay?’ asked the Cura.

‘Your reverence and all these caballeros shall swear on the altar to give me the white Flor de San Sebastian which grows on the church roof.’

The end is foreseen. Roezl carried off his White Cattleya and sold it to Mr. George Hardy of Manchester for 280 guineas.

THE PHALAENOPSIS HOUSE

Phalaenopsis are noted for whimsicality. They flourish in holes and corners where no experienced gardener would put them, and they flatly refuse to live under all the conditions most approved by science. Most persons who grow them have such adventures to tell, their own or reported. Sir Trevor Lawrence mentioned at the Orchid Conference that he once built a Phalaenopsis house at the cost of £600; after a few months’ trial he restored his plants to their old unsatisfactory quarters and turned this beautiful building to another purpose. The authorities at Kew tell the same story with rueful merriment. In both cases, the situation, the plan, every detail, had been carefully and maturely weighed, with intimate knowledge of the eccentricities to be dealt with and profound respect for them. Upon the other hand, I could name a ‘grower’ of the highest standing who used to keep his Phalaenopsis in a ramshackle old greenhouse belonging to a rough market-gardener of the neighbourhood – perhaps does still. How he came to learn that they would thrive there as if under a blessed spell I have forgotten. But once I paid the market-gardener a visit and there, with my own eyes, beheld them flourishing under conditions such that I do not expect a plain statement of the facts to be believed. In the midst of the rusty old ruin was a stand with walls of brick; above this wires had been fixed along the roof. The big plants hung lowest. Upon the edges of their baskets smaller plants were poised, and so they stood, one above another, like a child’s house of cards – I am afraid to say how high. A labouring man stood first at one end, then at the other, and cheerfully plied the syringe. They were not taken down nor touched from month to month.

Seeing and hearing all this, I cried – but the reader can imagine what I cried.

‘Well,’ replied the market-gardener, ‘I don’t understand your orchids. But I shouldn’t ha’ thought they was looking poorly.’

Poorly! Under these remarkable circumstances some scores of Phalaenopsis were thriving as I never saw them elsewhere.

In this house they do very well, growing and flowering freely, giving no trouble by mysterious ailments. We have most of the large species – amabilis, Stuartiana, Schilleriana, Sanderiana, etc. No description of these is required. Hybrids of Phalaenopsis are few as yet. Here is Hebe, the product of rosea × Sanderiana, rosy white of sepal and petal, bright pink of lip, yellow at the base.

On the left is a ‘rockery’ of tufa, planted with the hybrid Anthuriums which Messrs. Sander have been producing so industriously of late years. To my mind, an infant could make flowers as good as Anthuriums, if equipped with a sufficient quantity of sealing-wax, red and pink and white. Their form is clumsy, and grace they have none. But when they recognise a fashion, the wise cease to protest. Anthuriums are the fashion.

Since that is so, and many worthy persons will be interested, I name the hybrids here.

Of the Andreeanum type, raised by crossing its various forms: —Lawrenciae, pure white; Goliath, blood-red; Salmoniae, flesh-colour; Lady Godiva, white faintly tinged with flesh-colour; Albanense, deep red, spadix vermilion – this was one of the twelve ‘new plants’ which won the First Prize at the International Exhibition 1892.

Of the Rothschildianum type: —Saumon, salmon-colour; niveum, very large, whitish, with orange-red markings; aurantiacum, coloured like the yolk of egg; The Queen, evenly marked in red, orange, and white.

Overhead hang small plants of Phalaenopsis and Dendrobium; on a shelf above the Anthuriums, against the glass, two large specimens of the noble Cyp. bellatulum album – which with a despairing effort I have tried to sketch elsewhere – and no less than 380 plants of Cyp. Godefroyae, and its variety, Cyp. leucochilum, both white, heavily spotted with brownish purple.

The Vanda House

lies beyond. Only the tall species are here, for such gems as V. Kimballiana and Amesiana would be lost among these giants. But there is little to say about our Vandas beyond a general commendation of their fine stature and glossy leaves. It is not a genus which we study, and the plants belong to ordinary species – the best of their class, however. For the benefit of experts I may mention, among specimens of Vanda suavis, the Dalkeith variety, Rollison’s, Veitch’s, Wingate, and Manchester; among Vanda tricolor, planilabris – grandest of all – Dalkeith, aurea, Pattison’s, insignis, Rohaniana.

But Miss Joaquim must be mentioned (V. teres × V. Hookeriana), sepals and petals of a pretty rose colour, lip orange; a flower charming in itself, but still more notable as the product of a young lady’s enthusiasm. Miss Agnes Joaquim is the daughter of a Consul at Singapore, residing at Mount Narcis in the vicinity.

STORY OF VANDA SANDERIANA

There are those who pronounce Vanda Sanderiana the stateliest of all orchids. To compare such numberless and varied forms of beauty is rather childish. But it will be allowed that a first view of those enormous flowers, ten or more upon a stalk – lilac above, pale cinnamon below, covered with a network of crimson lines – is a memorable sensation for the elect.

We may fancy the emotions of Mr. Roebelin on seeing it – the earliest of articulate mortals so favoured. His amazement and delight were not alloyed by anticipation, for no rumour of the marvel had gone forth. Roebelin was travelling ‘on spec’ for once. In 1879 Mr. Sander learned that the Philippine Government was about to establish a mail service from Manila to Mindanao. Often had he surveyed that great island longingly, from his arm-chair at St. Albans, assured that treasures must await the botanist there. But although the Spaniards had long held settlements upon the coast, and, of course, claimed sovereignty over the whole, there had hitherto been no regular means of communication with a port whence steamers sailed for Europe. A collector would be at the mercy of chance for transmitting his spoil, after spending assuredly a thousand pounds. It was out of the question. But the establishment of a line of steamers to Manila transformed the situation. Forthwith Roebelin was despatched, to find what he could.

He landed, of course, at the capital, Mindanao; and the Spaniards – civil, military, even ecclesiastic – received him cordially. Any visitor was no less than a phenomenon to them. It is a gay and pleasant little town, for these people, having neither means nor opportunity, as a rule, to revisit Europe, make their home in the East. And Roebelin found plenty of good things round the glorious bay of Illana. But he learned with surprise that the Spaniards did not even profess to have authority beyond a narrow strip here and there upon the coast. The interior is occupied by savages, numerous and warlike, Papuan by race, or crossed with the Philippine Malay. Though they are not systematically hostile to white men, Roebelin saw no chance of exploring the country.

Then he heard of a ‘red Phalaenopsis,’ on the north coast, a legendary wonder, which must have its own chronicle by and by. Seduced especially by this report, Roebelin sailed in a native craft to Surigao, a small but very thriving settlement, which ranks next to the capital. People there were well acquainted with Phalaenopsis, but they knew nothing of a red one; some of them, however, talked in vague ecstasy of an orchid with flowers as big as a dinner-plate to be found on the banks of Lake Magindanao, a vast sheet of water in the middle of the island. They did not agree about the shape, or colour, or anything else relating to it; but such a plant must be well worth collecting anyhow. It was not dangerous to ascend the river, under due precautions, nor to land at certain points of the lake. Such points are inhabited by the Subano tribe, who live in hourly peril from their neighbours the Bagabos, against whom they beg Spanish protection. Accordingly white men are received with enthusiasm.

The expedition, therefore, would be comparatively safe, if a guide and interpreter could be found. And here Roebelin was lucky. A small trader who had debts to collect among the Subanos offered his sampan, with its crew, on reasonable terms, and proposed to go himself. He was the son of a Chinaman from Singapore, by a native wife, and spoke intelligible English. The crew also had mostly some Chinese blood, and Roebelin gathered that they were partners of Sam Choon, his dragoman, in a very small way. The number of Celestials and half-breeds of that stock in Mindanao had already struck him, in comparison with Manila. Presently he learned the reason. The energetic and tenacious Chinaman is hated by all classes of Spaniards – by the clergy because he will not be converted, by the merchants because he intercepts their trade, by the military because he will not endure unlimited oppression, and by the public at large because he is hard-working, thrifty, and successful. He is dangerous, too, when roused by ill-treatment beyond the common, and his secret societies provide machinery for insurrection at a day’s notice. But in Mindanao the Chinaman is indispensable. White traders could not live without his assistance. They do not love him the better, but they protect him so far as they may from the priests and the military.

I have no adventures to tell on the journey upwards. It lasted a good many days. Roebelin secured few plants, for this part is inhabited by Bagabos, or some race of their kidney, and Sam Choon would not land in the forest.

At length they reached Lake Magindanao; the day was fine, and they pushed across. But presently small round clouds began to mount over the blue hills. Thicker and thicker they rose. A pleasant wind swelled the surface of the lake, but those clouds far above moved continually faster. Roebelin called attention to them. But the Chinaman is the least weatherwise of mortals. Always intent on his own business or pleasure – the constitution of mind which gives him such immense advantage above all other men in the struggle for existence – he does not notice his surroundings much. Briefly, a tremendous squall caught them in sight of port – one of those sudden outbursts which make fresh-water sailing so perilous in the Tropics. The wind swooped down like a hurricane from every quarter at once, as it seemed. For a moment the lake lay still, hissing, beaten down by the blow; then it rose in solid bulk like waves of the ocean. In a very few minutes the squall passed on; but it had swamped the sampan. They were so near the land, however, that the Subanos, hastening to the rescue, met them half way in the surf, escorted them to shore, laughing and hallooing, and returned to dive for the cargo. It was mostly recovered in time.

These people do not build houses in the water, like so many of their kin. They prefer the safety of high trees; it is not by any means so effectual, but such, they would say, was the custom of their ancestors. At this village the houses were perched not less than fifty feet in air, standing on a solid platform. But if the inhabitants are thus secured against attack, on the other hand – each family living by itself up aloft – an enemy on the ground would be free to conduct his operations at leisure. So the unmarried men and a proportion of the warriors occupy a stout building raised only so far above the soil as to keep out reptiles. Here also the chief sits by day, and public business is done. The visitors were taken thither.

When Roebelin had dried his clothes the afternoon was too far advanced for exploration. The crew of the prau chattered and disputed at the top of their shrill voices as case after case was brought in, dripping, and examined. But Sam Choon found time in the midst of his anxieties to warn Roebelin against quitting the cleared area. ‘Bagabos come just now, they say,’ he shouted. But the noise and the fuss and the smell were past bearing. Roebelin took his arms and strolled out till supper was ready.

I do not know what he discovered. On returning he found a serious palaver, the savages arguing coolly, the Chinamen raving. Sam Choon rushed up, begging him to act as umpire; and whilst eating his supper Roebelin learned the question in dispute. Sam Choon, as we know, had debts to collect in this village, for cloth and European goods, to be paid in jungle produce – honey, wax, gums, and so forth. The Subanos did not deny their liability – the natural man is absolutely truthful and honest. Nor did they assert that they could not pay. Their contention was simply that the merchandise had been charged at a figure beyond the market rate. Another Chinaman had paid them a visit, and sold the same wares at a lower price. They proposed to return Sam Choon’s goods unused, and to pay for anything they could not restore on this reduced scale. It was perfectly just in the abstract, and the natural man does not conceive any other sort of justice. Sam Choon could not dispute that his rival’s cloth was equally good; it bore the same trademark, and those keen eyes were as well able to judge of quality as his own. But the trader everywhere has his own code of morals. Those articles for which the Subanos were indebted had been examined, and the price had been discussed, at leisure; an honest man cannot break his word. Such diverse views were not to be reconciled. Roebelin took a practical course. He asked whether it could possibly be worth while to quarrel with these customers for the sake of a very few dollars? At the lower rate there would be a profit of many hundreds per cent. But the Chinaman, threatened with a loss in business, is not to be moved, for a while at least, by demonstrations of prudence.

Meantime the dispute still raged at the Council fire, for the crew also were interested. Suddenly there was a roar. Several of them rushed across to Sam Choon and shouted great news. Roebelin understood afterwards. The caitiff who had undersold them was in the village at that moment! Whilst they jabbered in high excitement another roar burst out. One of the men, handling the rival’s cloth, found a private mark – the mark of his ‘Hoey.’ And it was that to which they all belonged.

The Hoey may be described as a trade guild; but it is much more. Each of these countless associations is attached to one of the great secret societies, generally the T’ien T’i Hung, compared with which, for numbers and power, Freemasonry is but a small concern. By an oath which expressly names father, son, and brother, the initiated swear to kill any of their fellows who shall wrong a member of the Hoey. This unspeakable villain who sold cheap had wronged them all! He must die!

They pressed upon the chief in a body, demanding the traitor. All had arms and brandished them. Probably the savages would not have surrendered a guest on any terms; but this demonstration provoked them. In howling tumult they dispersed, seized their ready weapons, and formed line. The war-cry was not yet raised, but spears were levelled by furious hands. The issue depended on any chance movement. Suddenly from a distance came the blast of a cow-horn – a muffled bellow, but full of threat. The savages paused, turned, and rushed out, shouting. Roebelin caught a word, familiar by this time – ‘Bagabos.’ He followed; but Sam Choon seized his arm. ‘They put ranjows,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You cut foot, you die!’ And in the moonlight Roebelin saw boys running hither and thither with an armful of bamboo spikes sharp as knives at each end, which they drove into the earth.

Men unacquainted with the plan of this defence can only stand aside when ranjows are laid down. Roebelin waited with the Chinamen, tame and quiet enough now. The Subanos had all vanished in the forest, which rose, misty and still, across the clearing. Hours they watched, expecting each moment to hear the yell of savage fight. But no sound reached them. At length a long line of dusky figures emerged, with arms and ornaments sparkling in the moonlight. It was half the warriors returning.

They still showed sullenness towards the Chinamen; but the chief took Roebelin by the hand, led him to the foot of a tree upon which stood the largest house, and smilingly showed him the way up. It was not a pleasant climb. The ladder, a notched trunk, dripped with dew; it was old and rotten besides. Roebelin went up gingerly; the chief returned with a torch to light his steps before he had got half way. But the interior was comfortable enough – far above the mosquito realm anyhow. Roebelin felt that an indefinite number of eyes were watching from the darkness as he made his simple preparations for turning in; but he saw none of them, and heard only a rustling. ‘What a day I’ve had!’ he thought, and fell asleep.