We have another house devoted mainly to Cymbidium, in which they have been planted out for some years, with results worth noting. I am convinced that in a future day amateurs who put the well-being of their orchids above all else—above money in especial!—will discard pots entirely. Every species perhaps—every one that I have observed, at least—grows more strongly when placed in a niche, of size appropriate, on a block of tufa. There are objections, of course—quite fatal for those who have not abundance of labour at command; for the compost very quickly turns sour under such conditions if not watered with great care and judgment. Moreover, what suits the plant suits also the insects which feed upon it. And if there be rats in the neighbourhood they soon discover that there is snug lying against the pipes, behind the wall of stone. Anxious mothers find it the ideal spot for a nursery. I cannot learn, however, that they do any wanton damage, beyond nipping off a few old leaves to make their beds, which is no serious injury. I have rats in my own cool house. Many years ago, on their first arrival probably, an Odontoglossum bulb was eaten up. Doubtless that was an experiment which did not prove satisfactory, for it has never been repeated. However, rats and insects can be kept down, if not exterminated.
The Cymbidiums here were rough pieces, odds and ends, consigned to this house to live or die. Now they are grand plants, in the way to become ‘specimens,’ set among ferns and creepers on a lofty wall of tufa, the base of which is clothed with Tradescantia and Ficus repens. In front and on one side are banks of tufa planted with Masdevallias, Lycastes, Laelia harpophylla, and so forth.
STORY OF COELOGYNE SPECIOSA
Orchid stories lack one essential quality of romance. They have little of the ‘female interest,’ and nothing of love. The defect is beyond remedy, I fear—collectors are men of business. It is rumoured, indeed, that personages of vast weight in the City could tell romantic adventures of their own, if they would. So, perhaps, could my heroes. But neither do tell willingly. I have asked in vain. However, among my miscellaneous notes on Orchidology, it is recorded that ‘W. C. Williams found Coelogyne speciosa up the Baram River. Books confine its habitat to Java and Sumatra.’ The Baram is in Borneo. When travelling in that island thirty years ago I heard a story of Williams’ doings, and I think I can recall the outline. But imagination furnishes the details, of course, aided by local knowledge.
It may be worth while to tell briefly how this gentleman came to be wandering in Borneo—in the Sultan’s territory also—at a date when Rajah Brooke had but just begun to establish order in his own little province. Williams’ position or business I never heard. Some Dutch firm sold or entrusted to him a stock of earthenware jars made in Holland, facsimiles of those precious objects cherished by the Dyaks. The speculation was much favoured in that day—it seemed such in easy cut to fortune. But they say that not a solitary Dyak was ever taken in. The failure was attributed, of course, to some minute divergence from the pattern. Manufacturers tried again, still more carefully. They sent jars to be copied in China, whence the originals came, evidently, at an unknown period. But it was no use; the Dyaks only looked somewhat more respectfully at these forgeries before rejecting them. For many years the attempt was made occasionally. Rich Chinamen tried their skill. But at length everybody got to understand, though no one is able to explain, that those savages possess some means of distinguishing a jar of their own from a copy absolutely identical in our eyes.
Mr. Williams had tried elsewhere without success, I fancy, before visiting Brunei, the capital. But he had good reason to feel confidence there. The Malay nobles would buy his jars without question, and compel their Dyak subjects to accept them at their own price; such was the established means of collecting subsidies. In fact, the nobles were overjoyed. But the Sultan heard what was afoot. He possesses several of these mystic objects, and he makes no inconsiderable portion of his revenue by selling water drawn from them to sprinkle over the crops, to take as medicine, and so forth. For his are the finest and holiest of all—beyond price. One speaks upon occasion, giving him warning when grave troubles impend. Sir Spencer St. John says he asked the Sultan a few years afterwards ‘whether he would take £2000 for it; he answered he did not think any offer in the world would tempt him.’
The Brunei monarch was shrewd enough to see that passing off false jars could not be to his interest. The Pangarans argued in vain. There’s no telling where it would end, he said, if the idolaters once began to feel suspicious. ‘Let your Englishman take his wares among the Kayan dogs. He may swindle them to his heart’s content.’ The Kayans were not only independent but ruthless and conquering foes of Brunei.