L. Perrinii nivea—not less beautiful assuredly, though it has the imperfection, as an albino, of a pale pink labellum and a yellow throat.
Beyond these rise twenty-five stately plants of Angraecum sesquipedale, which we are learning to call Aeranthus sesquipedalis. There are those who do not value the marvel, though none but the blind surely can fail to admire it. In truth, like other giants, it does not readily lend itself to any useful purpose. I think I could design a wreath of Angraecum sesquipedale which would put jewelled coronets to shame; but for a bouquet or for the dress or for table decoration, it is equally unsuited. Wherefore the ladies give a glance of wonder at its ten-inch ‘tail’ and pass by, calling it, as I have heard with my own ears, a vegetable starfish. At Woodlands happily there are other flowers enough for a ‘regiment of women,’ as John Knox rudely put it, and they do not grudge the room which these noble plants occupy.
A LEGEND OF MADAGASCAR
I must not name the leading personage in this sad story. Though twenty-five years have gone by since he met his fate, there are still those who mourn for him. Could it be supposed that my report would come to the knowledge of two among them, old people dwelling modestly in a small French town, I should not publish it. For they have never heard the truth. Those kindly and thoughtful comrades of Alcide Lebœuf—so to name him—who transmitted the news of his death, described it as an accident. But the French Consul at Tamatave sent a brief statement privately to the late Mr. Cutter, of Great Russell Street, in whose employ Lebœuf was travelling, that he might warn any future collectors.
M. Leon Humblot has told how he and his brother once entertained six guests at Tamatave; within twelve months he alone survived. So deadly is that climate. Alcide Lebœuf was one of the six, but he perished by the hand of man. The poor fellow was half English by blood, and wholly English by education. His father, I believe, stuffed birds and sold ‘curiosities’ at a small shop in the East End. At an early age the boy took to ‘collecting’ as a business. He travelled for Mr. Cutter in various lands, seeking rare birds and insects, and he did his work well, though subject to fits of hard drinking from time to time.
At the shop in Great Russell Street, after a while, he made acquaintance with that admirable collector Crossley, whose stories of Madagascar fired his imagination. Mr. Cutter was loath to send out a man of such unsteady character. The perils of that awful climate were not so well understood, perhaps, twenty-five years ago, but enough was known to make an employer hesitate. Crossley had been shipwrecked on the coast, had lived years with the natives, learned their language, and learned also to adopt their habits while journeying among them. But Lebœuf would not be daunted. A giant in stature—over seven feet, they say—of strength proportionate, not inexperienced in wild travel but never conscious of ache or pain, he mocked at danger. When Crossley refused to take an untried man into the swamps of Madagascar, he vowed he would go alone. That is, indeed, the most fascinating of all lands to an enthusiast even now, when we are assured that the Epyornis, the mammoth of birds, is extinct. At that time there was no good reason to doubt the unanimous assertion of the natives that it still lived. Crossley was so confident that he neglected to buy eggs badly shattered, waiting for perfect specimens. His scruples were ‘bad business’ for Mr. Cutter, as that gentleman lived to see, but they appeared judicious at the time. Fragments of Epyornis egg, slung on cords, were the vessels generally used in some parts for carrying water—are still perhaps. Besides this, endless marvels were reported, some of which have been secured in these days. Briefly, the young man was determined to go, and Mr. Cutter gave him a commission.
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.