LAELIA JONGHEANA
The back wall carries a broad sloping ledge of tufa, where little chips of Odontoglossum and the rest are planted out to grow until they become large enough to be potted—no long time, for they gather strength fast in niches of the porous stone. Along the top, however, are ranged flowering plants of Odontoglossum grande which make a blaze in their season—three to six blooms upon a spike, the smallest of them four inches across. Overhead is a long row of Laelia Jongheana—some three hundred of them here and elsewhere. It is a species with a history, and I venture to transcribe the account which I published in the Pall Mall Gazette, July 18, 1899.
‘A Sensation for the Elect.—The general public will hear without emotion that Laelia Jongheana has been rediscovered. The name is vaguely suggestive of orchids—things delightful in a show, or indeed elsewhere, when in bloom, but not exhilarating to read about. Therefore I call the news a sensation for the elect. At the present moment, I believe, only one plant of L. Jongheana is established in this country, among Baron Schröder’s wonders. Though its history is lost this must be a lonely survivor of those which reached Europe in 1855—a generation and a half ago. It is not to be alleged that no civilised mortal has beheld the precious weed in its native forests since that date; but no one has mentioned the spectacle, and assuredly no one has troubled to gather plants. Registered long since among the “Lost Orchids,” which should bring a little fortune to the discoverer, native botanists and dealers in all parts of South America have been looking out. And the collectors! For forty years past not one of the multitude has left the shores of Europe or the United States, bound for the Cattleya realm, without special instructions to watch and pray for L. Jongheana. More and more pressing grew the exhortations as years went by and prices mounted higher, until of late they subsided in despair. Yet the flower is almost conspicuous enough to be a landmark, and it does not hide in the tree-tops either, like so many.
‘Every one who takes interest in orchids will be prepared already to hear that Messrs. Sander are the men of fate. How many of such spells have they broken! Without book I recall Oncidium splendidum, of which not a plant remained in Europe, nor a hint of the country where it grew; the “scarlet Phalaenopsis” of native legend, never beheld of white man, which, in fact, proved to be brick-red; Cattleya labiata, the Lost Orchid par excellence, vainly sought from 1818 to 1889. The recovery of Dendrobium Schröderium was chronicled by every daily paper in London, or almost, with a leader, when a skull was shown in Protheroe’s Rooms with a specimen clinging to it, and a select group of idols accompanying the shipment. Less important, but not less interesting, was the reappearance of Cypripedium Marstersianum at a later date. Verily, we orchidists owe a debt to the St. Albans firm.
‘In these cases success was merited by hard thought, patient inquiry, and long effort. Working out the problem in his study, Mr. Sander fixed upon a certain country where the prize would be found, and sent his collector to the spot. Oversluys searched for Oncidium splendidum during three years, until he wrote home that it might be in —— or ——, but it certainly was not in Costa Rica; yet he found it at last. In this present case, however, the discovery is due to pure luck; but one may say that a slice of luck also was well deserved after those laborious triumphs. One of the St. Albans collectors, M. Forget, was roaming about Brazil lately. The Government invited him to join a scientific mission setting out to study the products and resources of Minas Gaeras. It is comparatively little known. M. Forget was unable to accept the invitation, but he heard enough about this secluded province to rouse his interest, especially when the savants reported that no collector had been there. Accordingly, he made an expedition as soon as possible, and at the very outset discovered an orchid—not in flower—resembling Laelia pumila in every detail but size. It was at least twice as big as that small, familiar species, but the points of similarity were so striking that M. Forget pronounced it a grand local form of L. pumila. And when the consignment reached St. Albans, even the wary and thoughtful authorities there endorsed his view! Not without hesitation. I believe that the name of L. Jongheana was whispered. But despair had grown to the pitch that no one ventured to speak out. Yet by drawings and descriptions, anxiously studied for years, all knew perfectly well that in growth the lost species must be like L. pumila, enlarged. It is, indeed, strong evidence of the absorbing interest of the search that when at length it ended, neither M. Forget nor his employers dared to believe their own eyes.
‘So in November last year some hundreds or thousands of a remarkable orchid were offered at Protheroe’s under the title “L. pumila (?).” Nearly all the leading amateurs and growers bought, I think, but at a very cheap rate. Half a crown apiece would be a liberal average for plants over which millionaires would have battled had they known. But, after all, the luck of the purchasers was not unqualified. Many who read this will feel a dreary satisfaction in learning that if their plants have perished or dwindled, plenty of others are in like case. Further experience shows that they were gathered at the wrong time; of course they reached Europe at the wrong time. And nearly every one put them into heat, which was a final error. L. Jongheana is quite a cool species. Through these accumulated misfortunes only two out of the multitude have flowered up to this, so far as I can hear. The dullest of mortals can feel something of the delicious anxiety of those gentlemen who watched the great bloom swelling from day to day when it began to show its tints, and they proved to be quite unlike those of L. pumila. At length it opened, and L. Jongheana was recovered.
‘What sort of a thing is it, after all? For an unlearned description, I should say that the flowers—two, three, or even five in number—are from four to five inches across—sepals, petals, and curl of lip bright amethyst, yellow throat, white centre; the crisped and frilled margin all round suffused with purple. It was discovered in 1855 by Libon, who died soon after, carrying his secret with him. He was sent out by M. de Jonghe, of Brussels—hence the name.’
Up to the present time only one of the plants here has flowered—and it opened pure white, saving a yellow stain on the lip. This was not altogether a surprise, for a close examination of the faded blooms convinced M. Forget that some of them must have been white, whatever the species might be. And he marked them accordingly. That a collector of such experience should prove to be right was not astonishing, as I say, but remarkably pleasant.
At the end of the house is a pretty verdant nook where Cypripedium insigne is planted out upon banks of tufa among Adiantums and overshadowing palms.