One is tempted to linger among the Odontoglots, though time is pressing. In no class of orchids are natural hybrids so mysterious and frequent. Sometimes one can detect the parentage; in such cases, doubtless, the crossing occurred but a few generations back: as a rule, however, such plants are the result of breeding in and in from age to age, causing all manner of delightful complications. How many can trace the lineage of Mr. Bull's Od. delectabile—ivory white, tinged with rose, strikingly blotched with red and showing a golden labellum? or Mr. Sander's Od. Alberti-Edwardi, which has a broad soft margin of gold about its stately petals? Another is rosy white, closely splashed with pale purple, and dotted round the edge with spots of the same tint so thickly placed that they resemble a fringe. Such marvels turn up in an importation without the slightest warning—no peculiarity betrays them until the flowers open; when the lucky purchaser discovers that a plant for which he gave perhaps a shilling is worth an indefinite number of guineas.
Lycaste also is a genus peculiar to America, such a favourite among those who know its merits that the species L. Skinneri is called the "Drawing-Room Flower." Professor Reichenbach observes in his superb volume that many people utterly ignorant of orchids grow this plant in their miscellaneous collection. I speak of it without prejudice, for to my mind the bloom is stiff, heavy, and poor in colour. But there are tremendous exceptions. In the first place, Lycaste Skinneri alba, the pure white variety, beggars all description. Its great flower seems to be sculptured in the snowiest of transparent marble. That stolid pretentious air which offends one—offends me, at least—in the coloured examples, becomes virginal dignity in this case. Then, of the normal type there are more than a hundred variations recognized, some with lips as deep in tone, and as smooth in texture, as velvet, of all shades from maroon to brightest crimson. It will be understood that I allude to the common forms in depreciating this species. How vast is the difference between them, their commercial value shows. Plants of the same size and the same species range from 3s. 6d. to 35 guineas, or more indefinitely.
Lycastes are found in the woods, of Guatemala especially, and I have heard no such adventures in the gathering of them as attend Odontoglossums. Easily obtained, easily transported, and remarkably easy to grow, of course they are cheap. A man must really "give his mind to it" to kill a Lycaste. This counts for much, no doubt, in the popularity of the genus, but it has plenty of other virtues. L. Skinneri opens in the depth of winter, and all the rest, I think, in the dull months. Then, they are profuse of bloom, throwing up half a dozen spikes, or, in some species, a dozen, from a single bulb, and the flowers last a prodigious time. Their extraordinary thickness in every part enables them to withstand bad air and changes of temperature, so that ladies keep them on a drawing-room table, night and day, for months, without change perceptible. Mr. Williams names an instance where a L. Skinneri, bought in full bloom on February 2, was kept in a sitting-room till May 18, when the purchaser took it back, still handsome. I have heard cases more surprising. Of species somewhat less common there is L. aromatica, a little gem, which throws up an indefinite number of short spikes, each crowned with a greenish yellow triangular sort of cup, deliciously scented. I am acquainted with no flower that excites such enthusiasm among ladies who fancy Messrs. Liberty's style of toilette; sad experience tells me that ten commandments or twenty will not restrain them from appropriating it. L. cruenta is almost as tempting. As for L. leucanthe, an exquisite combination of pale green and snow white, it ranks with L. Skinneri alba as a thing too beautiful for words. This species has not been long introduced, and at the moment it is dear proportionately. There is yet another virtue of the Lycaste which appeals to the expert. It lends itself readily to hybridization. This most fascinating pursuit attracts few amateurs as yet, and the professionals have little time or inclination for experiments. They naturally prefer to make such crosses as are almost certain to pay. Thus it comes about that the hybridization of Lycastes has been attempted but recently, and none of the seedlings, so far as I can learn, have flowered. They have been obtained, however, in abundance, not only from direct crossing, but also from alliance with Zygopetalum, Anguloa, and Maxillaria.
The genus Cypripedium, Lady's Slipper, is perhaps more widely scattered over the globe than any other class of plant; I, at least, am acquainted with none that approaches it. From China to Peru—nay, beyond, from Archangel to Torres Straits,—but it is wise to avoid these semi-poetic descriptions. In brief, if we except Africa and the temperate parts of Australia, there is no large tract of country in the world that does not produce Cypripediums; and few authorities doubt that a larger acquaintance with those realms will bring them under the rule. We have a species in England, C. calceolus, by no means insignificant; it can be purchased from the dealers, but it is almost extinct in this country now. America furnishes a variety of species; which ought to be hardy. They will bear a frost below zero, but our winter damp is intolerable. Mr. Godseff tells me that he has seen C. spectabile growing like any water-weed in the bogs of New Jersey, where it is frozen hard, roots and all, for several months of the year; but very few survive the season in this country, even if protected. Those fine specimens so common at our spring shows are imported in the dry state. From the United States also we get the charming C. candidum, C. parviflorum, C. pubescens, and many more less important. Canada and Siberia furnish C. guttatum, C. macranthum, and others. I saw in Russia, and brought home, a magnificent species, tall and stately, bearing a great golden flower, which is not known "in the trade;" but they all rotted gradually. Therefore I do not recommend these fine outdoor varieties, which the inexperienced are apt to think so easy. At the same cost others may be bought, which, coming from the highlands of hot countries, are used to a moderate damp in winter.
Foremost of these, perhaps the oldest of cool orchids in cultivation, is C. insigne, from Nepal. Everyone knows its original type, which has grown so common that I remarked a healthy pot at a window-garden exhibition some years ago in Westminster. One may say that this, the early and familiar form, has no value at present, so many fine varieties have been introduced. A reader may form a notion of the difference when I state that a small plant of exceptional merit sold for thirty guineas a short time ago—it was C. insigne, but glorified. This ranks among the fascinations of orchid culture. You may buy a lot of some common kind, imported, at a price representing coppers for each individual, and among them may appear, when they come to bloom, an eccentricity which sells for a hundred pounds or more. The experienced collector has a volume of such legends. There is another side to the question, truly, but it does not personally interest the class which I address. To make a choice among numberless stories of this sort, we may take the instance of C. Spicerianum.
It turned up among a quantity of Cypripedium insigne in the greenhouse of Mrs. Spicer, a lady residing at Twickenham. Astonished at the appearance of this swan among her ducks, she asked Mr. Veitch to look at it. He was delighted to pay seventy guineas down for such a prize. Cypripediums propagate easily, no more examples came into the market, and for some years this lovely species was a treasure for dukes and millionaires. It was no secret that the precious novelty came from Mrs. Spicer's greenhouse; but to call on a strange lady and demand how she became possessed of a certain plant is not a course of action that commends itself to respectable business men. The circumstances gave no clue. Messrs. Spicer were and are large manufacturers of paper; there is no visible connection betwixt paper and Indian orchids. By discreet inquiries, however, it was ascertained that one of the lady's sons had a tea-plantation in Assam. No more was needed. By the next mail Mr. Forstermann started for that vague destination, and in process of time reached Mr. Spicer's bungalow. There he asked for "a job." None could be found for him; but tea-planters are hospitable, and the stranger was invited to stop a day or two. But he could not lead the conversation towards orchids—perhaps because his efforts were too clever, perhaps because his host took no interest in the subject. One day, however, Mr. Spicer's manager invited him to go shooting, and casually remarked "we shall pass the spot where I found those orchids they're making such a fuss about at home." Be sure Mr. Forstermann was alert that morning! Thus put upon the track, he discovered quantities of it, bade the tea-planter adieu, and went to work; but in the very moment of triumph a tiger barred the way, his coolies bolted, and nothing would persuade them to go further. Mr. Forstermann was no shikari, but he felt himself called upon to uphold the cause of science and the honour of England at this juncture. In great agitation he went for that feline, and, in short, its skin still adorns Mrs. Sander's drawing-room. Thus it happened that on a certain Thursday a small pot of C. Spicerianum was sold, as usual, for sixty guineas at Stevens's; on the Thursday following all the world could buy fine plants at a guinea.
Cypripedium is the favourite orchid of the day. It has every advantage, except, to my perverse mind—brilliancy of colour. None show a whole tone; even the lovely C. niveum is not pure white. My views, however, find no backing. At all other points the genus deserves to be a favourite. In the first place, it is the most interesting of all orchids to science.[3] Then its endless variations of form, its astonishing oddities, its wide range of hues, its easy culture, its readiness to hybridize and to ripen seed, the certainty, by comparison, of rearing the proceeds, each of these merits appeals to one or other of orchid-growers. Many of the species which come from torrid lands, indeed, are troublesome, but with such we are not concerned. The cool varieties will do well anywhere, provided they receive water enough in summer, and not too little in winter. I do not speak of the American and Siberian classes, which are nearly hopeless for the amateur, nor of the Hong-Kong Cypripedium purpuratum, a very puzzling example.
On the roll of martyrs to orchidology, Mr. Pearce stands high. To him we owe, among many fine things, the hybrid Begonias which are becoming such favourites for bedding and other purposes. He discovered the three original types, parents of the innumerable "garden flowers" now on sale—Begonia Pearcii, B. Veitchii, and B. Boliviensis. It was his great luck, and great honour, to find Masdevallia Veitchii—so long, so often, so laboriously searched for from that day to this, but never even heard of. To collect another shipment of that glorious orchid, Mr. Pearce sailed for Peru, in the service, I think, of Mr. Bull. Unhappily—for us all as well as for himself—he was detained at Panama. Somewhere in those parts there is a magnificent Cypripedium with which we are acquainted only by the dried inflorescence, named planifolium. The poor fellow could not resist this temptation. They told him at Panama that no white man had returned from the spot, but he went on. The Indians brought him back, some days or weeks later, without the prize; and he died on arrival.
Oncidiums also are a product of the New World exclusively; in fact, of the four classes most useful to amateurs, three belong wholly to America, and the fourth in great part. I resist the temptation to include Masdevallia, because that genus is not so perfectly easy as the rest; but if it be added, nine-tenths, assuredly, of the plants in our cool house come from the West. Among the special merits of the Oncidium is its colour. I have heard thoughtless persons complain that they are "all yellow;" which, as a statement of fact, is near enough to the truth, for about three-fourths may be so described roughly. But this dispensation is another proof of Nature's kindly regard for the interests of our science. A clear, strong, golden yellow is the colour that would have been wanting in our cool houses had not the Oncidium supplied it. Shades of lemon and buff are frequent among Odontoglossums, but, in a rough, general way of speaking, they have a white ground. Masdevallias give us scarlet and orange and purple; Lycastes, green and dull yellow; Sophronitis, crimson; Mesospinidium, rose, and so forth. Blue must not be looked for. Even counting the new Utricularia for an orchid, as most people do, there are, I think, but five species that will live among us at present, in all the prodigious family, showing this colour; and every one of them is very "hot." Thus it appears that the Oncidium fills a gap—and how gloriously! There is no such pure gold in the scheme of the universe as it displays under fifty shapes wondrously varied. Thus—Oncidium macranthum! one is continually tempted to exclaim, as one or other glory of the orchid world recurs to mind, that it is the supreme triumph of floral beauty. I have sinned thus, and I know it. Therefore, let the reader seek an opportunity to behold O. macranthum, and judge for himself. But it seems to me that Nature gives us a hint. As though proudly conscious what a marvel it will unfold, this superb flower often demands nine months to perfect itself. Dr. Wallace told me of an instance in his collection where eighteen months elapsed from the appearance of the spike until the opening of the first bloom. But it lasts a time proportionate.
