Frederick Boyle - About Orchids

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[Illustration: VANDA SANDERIANA
Reduced to One Sixth.]

ABOUT ORCHIDS

_A CHAT_

BY

FREDERICK BOYLE

_WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS_

LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, LTD.
1893

[_All rights reserved_]

LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED,
ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, E.C.

I INSCRIBE
THIS BOOK TO MY GUIDE, COMFORTER
AND FRIEND,
JOSEPH GODSEFF.

CONTENTS.

PAGE
MY GARDENING 1

AN ORCHID SALE 24

ORCHIDS 42

COOL ORCHIDS 60

WARM ORCHIDS 103

HOT ORCHIDS 138

THE LOST ORCHID 173

AN ORCHID FARM 183

ORCHIDS AND HYBRIDIZING 210

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE
VANDA SANDERIANA _Frontispiece_

ODONTOGLOSSUM CRISPUM ALEXANDRAE 67

ONCIDIUM MACRANTHUM 88

DENDROBIUM BRYMERIANUM 127

COELOGENE PANDURATA 160

CATTLEYA LABIATA 173

LOELIA ANCEPS SCHROEDERIANA 197

CYPRIPEDIUM (HYBRIDUM) POLLETTIANUM 210

PREFACE.

The purport of this book is shown in the letter following which I
addressed to the editor of the _Daily News_ some months ago:--

"I thank you for reminding your readers, by reference to my humble work,
that the delight of growing orchids can be enjoyed by persons of very
modest fortune. To spread that knowledge is my contribution to
philanthropy, and I make bold to say that it ranks as high as some which
are commended from pulpits and platforms. For your leader-writer is
inexact, though complimentary, in assuming that any 'special genius'
enables me to cultivate orchids without more expense than other
greenhouse plants entail, or even without a gardener. I am happy to know
that scores of worthy gentlemen--ladies too--not more gifted than their
neighbours in any sense, find no greater difficulty. If the pleasure of
one of these be due to any writings of mine, I have wrought some good in
my generation."

With the same hope I have collected those writings, dispersed and buried
more or less in periodicals. The articles in this volume are
collected--with permission which I gratefully acknowledge--from _The
Standard_, _Saturday Review_, _St. James's Gazette_, _National Review_,
and _Longman's Magazine_. With some pride I discover, on reading them
again, that hardly a statement needs correction, for they contain many
statements, and some were published years ago. But in this, as in other
lore, a student still gathers facts. The essays have been brought up to
date by additions--in especial that upon "Hybridizing," a theme which
has not interested the great public hitherto, simply because the great
public knows nothing about it. There is not, in fact, so far as I am
aware, any general record of the amazing and delightful achievements
which have been made therein of late years. It does not fall within my
province to frame such a record. But at least any person who reads this
unscientific account, not daunted by the title, will understand the
fascination of the study.

These essays profess to be no more than chat of a literary man about
orchids. They contain a multitude of facts, told in some detail where
such attention seems necessary, which can only be found elsewhere in
baldest outline if found at all. Everything that relates to orchids has
a charm for me, and I have learned to hold it as an article of faith
that pursuits which interest one member of the cultured public will
interest all, if displayed clearly and pleasantly, in a form to catch
attention at the outset. Savants and professionals have kept the
delights of orchidology to themselves as yet. They smother them in
scientific treatises, or commit them to dry earth burial in gardening
books. Very few outsiders suspect that any amusement could be found
therein. Orchids are environed by mystery, pierced now and again by a
brief announcement that something with an incredible name has been sold
for a fabulous number of guineas; which passing glimpse into an unknown
world makes it more legendary than before. It is high time such noxious
superstitions were dispersed. Surely, I think, this volume will do the
good work--if the public will read it.

The illustrations are reduced from those delightful drawings by Mr. Moon
admired throughout the world in the pages of "Reichenbachia." The
licence to use them is one of many favours for which I am indebted to
the proprietors of that stately work.

I do not give detailed instructions for culture. No one could be more
firmly convinced that a treatise on that subject is needed, for no one
assuredly has learned, by more varied and disastrous experience, to see
the omissions of the text-books. They are written for the initiated,
though designed for the amateur. Naturally it is so. A man who has been
brought up to business can hardly resume the utter ignorance of the
neophyte. Unconsciously he will take a certain degree of knowledge for
granted, and he will neglect to enforce those elementary principles
which are most important of all. Nor is the writer of a gardening book
accustomed, as a rule, to marshal his facts in due order, to keep
proportion, to assure himself that his directions will be exactly
understood by those who know nothing.

The brief hints in "Reichenbachia" are admirable, but one does not
cheerfully refer to an authority in folio. Messrs. Veitch's "Manual of
Orchidaceous Plants" is a model of lucidity and a mine of information.
Repeated editions of Messrs. B.S. Williams' "Orchid Growers' Manual"
have proved its merit, and, upon the whole, I have no hesitation in
declaring that this is the most useful work which has come under my
notice. But they are all adapted for those who have passed the
elementary stage.

Thus, if I have introduced few remarks on culture, it is not because I
think them needless. The reason may be frankly confessed. I am not sure
that my time would be duly paid. If this little book should reach a
second edition, I will resume once more the ignorance that was mine
eight years ago, and as a fellow-novice tell the unskilled amateur how
to grow orchids.

FREDERICK BOYLE.

North Lodge, Addiscombe, 1893.

ABOUT ORCHIDS.

MY GARDENING.

I.

The contents of my Bungalow gave material for some "Legends" which
perhaps are not yet universally forgotten. I have added few curiosities
to the list since that work was published. My days of travel seem to be
over; but in quitting that happiest way of life--not willingly--I have
had the luck to find another occupation not less interesting, and better
suited to grey hairs and stiffened limbs. This volume deals with the
appurtenances of my Bungalow, as one may say--the orchid-houses. But a
man who has almost forgotten what little knowledge he gathered in youth
about English plants does not readily turn to that higher branch of
horticulture. More ignorant even than others, he will cherish all the
superstitions and illusions which environ the orchid family.
Enlightenment is a slow process, and he will make many experiences
before perceiving his true bent. How I came to grow orchids will be told
in this first article.

The ground at my disposal is a quarter of an acre. From that tiny area
deduct the space occupied by my house, and it will be seen that myriads
of good people dwelling in the suburbs, whose garden, to put it
courteously, is not sung by poets, have as much land as I. The aspect is
due north--a grave disadvantage. Upon that side, from the house-wall to
the fence, I have forty-five feet, on the east fifty feet, on the south
sixty feet, on the west a mere _ruelle_. Almost every one who works out
these figures will laugh, and the remainder sneer. Here's a garden to
write about! That area might do for a tennis-court or for a general
meeting of Mr. Frederic Harrison's persuasion. You might kennel a pack
of hounds there, or beat a carpet, or assemble those members of the
cultured class who admire Mr. Gladstone. But grow flowers--roses--to cut
by the basketful, fruit to make jam for a jam-eating household the year
round, mushrooms, tomatoes, water-lilies, orchids; those Indian jugglers
who bring a mango-tree to perfection on your verandah in twenty minutes
might be able to do it, but not a consistent Christian. Nevertheless I
affirm that I have done all these things, and I shall even venture to
make other demands upon the public credulity.

When I first surveyed my garden sixteen years ago, a big Cupressus stood
before the front door, in a vast round bed one half of which would yield
no flowers at all, and the other half only spindlings. This was
encircled by a carriage-drive! A close row of limes, supported by more
Cupressus, overhung the palings all round; a dense little shrubbery hid
the back door; a weeping-ash, already tall and handsome, stood to
eastward. Curiously green and snug was the scene under these conditions,
rather like a forest glade; but if the space available be considered and
allowance be made for the shadow of all those trees, any tiro can
calculate the room left for grass and flowers--and the miserable
appearance of both. Beyond that dense little shrubbery the soil was
occupied with potatoes mostly, and a big enclosure for hens.

First I dug up the fine Cupressus. They told me such a big tree could
not possibly "move;" but it did, and it now fills an out-of-the-way
place as usefully as ornamentally. I suppressed the carriage-drive,
making a straight path broad enough for pedestrians only, and cut down a
number of the trees. The blessed sunlight recognized my garden once
more. Then I rooted out the shrubbery; did away with the fowl-house,
using its materials to build two little sheds against the back fence;
dug up the potato-garden--made _tabula rasa_, in fact; dismissed my
labourers, and considered. I meant to be my own gardener. But already,
sixteen years ago, I had a dislike of stooping. To kneel was almost as
wearisome. Therefore I adopted the system of raised beds--common enough.
Returning home, however, after a year's absence, I found my oak posts
decaying--unseasoned, doubtless, when put in. To prevent trouble of this
sort in future, I substituted drain-pipes set on end; the first of those
ideas which have won commendation from great authorities. Drain-pipes do
not encourage insects. Filled with earth, each bears a showy
plant--lobelia, pyrethrum, saxifrage, or what not, with the utmost
neatness, making a border; and they last eternally. But there was still
much stooping, of course, whilst I became more impatient of it. One day
a remedy flashed through my mind: that happy thought which became the
essence or principle of my gardening, and makes this account thereof
worth attention perhaps. Why not raise to a comfortable level all parts
of the area over which I had need to bend? Though no horticulturist,
perhaps, ever had such a thought before, expense was the sole objection
visible. Called away just then for another long absence, I gave orders
that no "dust" should leave the house; and found a monstrous heap on my
return. The road-contractors supplied "sweepings" at a shilling a load.
Beginning at the outskirts of my property, I raised a mound three feet
high and three feet broad, replanted the shrubs on the back edge, and
left a handsome border for flowers. So well this succeeded, so admirably
every plant throve in that compost, naturally drained and lifted to the
sunlight, that I enlarged my views.

The soil is gravel, peculiarly bad for roses; and at no distant day my
garden was a swamp, not unchronicled had we room to dwell on such
matters. The bit of lawn looked decent only at midsummer. I first
tackled the rose question. The bushes and standards, such as they were,
faced south, of course--that is, behind the house. A line of fruit-trees
there began to shade them grievously. Experts assured me that if I
raised a bank against these, of such a height as I proposed, they would
surely die; I paid no attention to the experts, nor did my fruit-trees.
The mound raised is, in fact, a crescent on the inner edge, thirty feet
broad, seventy feet between the horns, square at the back behind the
fruit-trees; a walk runs there, between it and the fence, and in the
narrow space on either hand I grow such herbs as one cannot easily
buy--chervil, chives, tarragon. Also I have beds of celeriac, and cold
frames which yield a few cucumbers in the summer when emptied of plants.
Not one inch of ground is lost in my garden.

The roses occupy this crescent. After sinking to its utmost now, the
bank stands two feet six inches above the gravel path. At that elevation
they defied the shadow for years, and for the most part they will
continue to do so as long as I feel any interest in their well-being.
But there is a space, the least important fortunately, where the shade,
growing year by year, has got the mastery. That space I have surrendered
frankly, covering it over with the charming saxifrage, _S. hypnoides_,
through which in spring push bluebells, primroses, and miscellaneous
bulbs, while the exquisite green carpet frames pots of scarlet geranium
and such bright flowers, movable at will. That saxifrage, indeed, is one
of my happiest devices. Finding that grass would not thrive upon the
steep bank of my mounds, I dotted them over with tufts of it, which have
spread, until at this time they are clothed in vivid green the year
round, and white as an untouched snowdrift in spring. Thus also the
foot-wide paths of my rose-beds are edged; and a neater or a lovelier
border could not be imagined.

With such a tiny space of ground the choice of roses is very important.
Hybrids take up too much room for general service. One must have a few
for colour; but the mass should be Teas, Noisettes, and, above all,
Bengals. This day, the second week in October, I can pick fifty roses;
and I expect to do so every morning till the end of the month in a sunny
autumn. They will be mostly Bengals; but there are two exquisite
varieties sold by Messrs. Paul--I forget which of them--nearly as free
flowering. These are Camoens and Mad. J. Messimy. They have a tint
unlike any other rose; they grow strongly for their class, and the bloom
is singularly graceful.

The tiny but vexatious lawn was next attacked. I stripped off the turf,
planted drain-pipes along the gravel walk, filled in with road-sweepings
to the level of their tops, and relaid the turf. It is now a little
picture of a lawn. Each drain-pipe was planted with a cutting of ivy,
which now form a beautiful evergreen roll beside the path. Thus as you
walk in my garden, everywhere the ground is more or less above its
natural level; raised so high here and there that you cannot look over
the plants which crown the summit. Any gardener at least will understand
how luxuriantly everything grows and flowers under such conditions.
Enthusiastic visitors declare that I have "scenery," and picturesque
effects, and delightful surprises, in my quarter-acre of ground!
Certainly I have flowers almost enough, and fruit, and perfect seclusion
also. Though there are houses all round within a few yards, you catch
but a glimpse of them at certain points while the trees are still
clothed. Those mounds are all the secret.

II.

I was my own gardener, and sixteen years ago I knew nothing whatever of
the business. The process of education was almost as amusing as
expensive; but that fashion of humour is threadbare. In those early days
I would have none of your geraniums, hardy perennials, and such common
things. Diligently studying the "growers'" catalogues, I looked out,
not novelties alone, but curious novelties. Not one of them "did any
good" to the best of my recollection. Impatient and disgusted, I formed
several extraordinary projects to evade my ignorance of horticulture.
Among others which I recollect was an idea of growing bulbs the year
round! No trouble with bulbs! you just plant them and they do their
duty. A patient friend at Kew made me a list of genera and species
which, if all went well, should flower in succession. But there was a
woeful gap about midsummer--just the time when gardens ought to be
brightest. Still, I resolved to carry out the scheme, so far as it went,
and forwarded my list to Covent Garden for an estimate of the expense.
It amounted to some hundreds of pounds. So that notion fell through.

But the patient friend suggested something for which I still cherish his
memory. He pointed out that bulbs look very formal mostly, unless
planted in great quantities, as may be done with the cheap sorts--tulips
and such. An undergrowth of low brightly-coloured annuals would correct
this disadvantage. I caught the hint, and I profit by it to this more
enlightened day. Spring bulbs are still a _specialite_ of my gardening.
I buy them fresh every autumn--but of Messrs. Protheroe and Morris, in
Cheapside; not at the dealers'. Thus they are comparatively inexpensive.
After planting my tulips, narcissus, and such tall things, however, I
clothe the beds with forget-me-not or _Silene pendula_, or both, which
keep them green through the winter and form a dense carpet in spring.
Through it the bulbs push, and both flower at the same time. Thus my
brilliant tulips, snowy narcissus poeticus, golden daffodils, rise above
and among a sheet of blue or pink--one or the other to match their
hue--and look infinitely more beautiful on that ground colour. I venture
to say, indeed, that no garden on earth can be more lovely than mine
while the forget-me-not and the bulbs are flowering together. This may
be a familiar practice, but I never met with it elsewhere.

Another wild scheme I recollect. Water-plants need no attention. The
most skilful horticulturist cannot improve, the most ignorant cannot
harm them. I seriously proposed to convert my lawn into a tank two feet
deep lined with Roman cement and warmed by a furnace, there to grow
tropical nymphaea, with a vague "et cetera." The idea was not so
absolutely mad as the unlearned may think, for two of my relatives were
first and second to flower _Victoria Regia_ in the open-air--but they
had more than a few feet of garden. The chances go, in fact, that it
would have been carried through had I been certain of remaining in
England for the time necessary. Meanwhile I constructed two big tanks of
wood lined with sheet-zinc, and a small one to stand on legs. The
experts were much amused. Neither fish nor plant, they said, could live
in a zinc vessel. They proved to be right in the former case, but
utterly wrong in the latter--which, you will observe, is their special
domain. I grew all manner of hardy nymphaea and aquatics for years, until
my big tanks sprung a leak. Having learned by that time the ABC, at
least, of _terra-firma_ gardening, I did not trouble to have them
mended. On the contrary, making more holes, I filled the centre with
Pampas grass and variegated Eulalias, set lady-grass and others round,
and bordered the whole with lobelia--renewing, in fact, somewhat of the
spring effect. Next year, however, I shall plant them with _Anomatheca
cruenta_--quaintest of flowering grasses, if a grass it must be called.
This charming species from South Africa is very little known; readers
who take the hint will be grateful to me. They will find it decidedly
expensive bought by the plant, as growers prefer to sell. But, with a
little pressing seed may be obtained, and it multiplies fast. I find
_Anomatheca cruenta_ hardy in my sheltered garden.

The small tank on legs still remains, and I cut a few _Nymphaea odorata_
every year. But it is mostly given up to _Aponogeton distachyon_--the
"Cape lily." They seed very freely in the open; and if this tank lay in
the ground, long since their exquisite white flowers, so strange in
shape and so powerful of scent, would have stood as thick as blades of
grass upon it--such a lovely sight as was beheld in the garden of the
late Mr. Harrison, at Shortlands. But being raised two feet or so, with
a current of air beneath, its contents are frozen to a solid block, soil
and all, again and again, each winter. That a Cape plant should survive
such treatment seems incredible--contrary to all the books. But my
established Aponogeton do somehow; only the seedlings perish. Here again
is a useful hint, I trust. But evidently it would be better, if
convenient, to take the bulbs indoors before frost sets in.

Having water thus at hand, it very soon occurred to me to make war upon
the slugs by propagating their natural enemies. Those banks and borders
of _Saxifraga hypnoides_, to which I referred formerly, exact some
precaution of the kind. Much as every one who sees admires them, the
slugs, no doubt, are more enthusiastic still. Therefore I do not
recommend that idea, unless it be supplemented by some effective method
of combating a grave disadvantage. My own may not commend itself to
every one. Each spring I entrust some casual little boy with a pail; he
brings it back full of frog-spawn and receives sixpence. I speculate
sometimes with complacency how many thousand of healthy and industrious
batrachians I have reared and turned out for the benefit of my
neighbours. Enough perhaps, but certainly no more, remain to serve
me--that I know because the slugs give very little trouble in spite of
the most favourable circumstances. You can always find frogs in my
garden by looking for them, but of the thousands hatched every year,
ninety-nine per cent. must vanish. Do blackbirds and thrushes eat young
frogs? They are strangely abundant with me. But those who cultivate
tadpoles must look over the breeding-pond from time to time. My whole
batch was devoured one year by "devils"--the larvae of _Dytiscus
marginalis_, the Plunger beetle. I have benefited, or at least have
puzzled my neighbours also by introducing to them another sort of frog.
Three years ago I bought twenty-five Hyloe, the pretty green tree
species, to dwell in my Odontoglossum house and exterminate the
insects. Every ventilator there is covered with perforated zinc--to
prevent insects getting in; but, by some means approaching the
miraculous, all my Hyloe contrived to escape. Several were caught in
the garden and put back, but again they found their way to the open-air;
and presently my fruit-trees became vocal. So far, this is the
experience of every one, probably, who has tried to keep green frogs.
But in my case they survived two winters--one which everybody
recollects, the most severe of this generation. My frogs sang merrily
through the summer; but all in a neighbour's garden. I am not acquainted
with that family; but it is cheering to think how much innocent
diversion I have provided for its members.

Pleasant also it is, by the way, to vindicate the character of green
frogs. I never heard them spoken of by gardeners but with contempt. Not
only do they persist in escaping; more than that, they decline to catch
insects, sitting motionless all day long--pretty, if you like, but
useless. The fact is, that all these creatures are nocturnal of habit.
Very few men visit their orchid-houses at night, as I do constantly.
They would see the frogs active enough then, creeping with wondrous
dexterity among the leaves, and springing like a green flash upon their
prey. Naturally, therefore, they do not catch thrips or mealy-bug or
aphis; these are too small game for the midnight sports-man. Wood-lice,
centipedes, above all, cockroaches, those hideous and deadly foes of the
orchid, are their victims. All who can keep them safe should have green
frogs by the score in every house which they do not fumigate.

I have come to the orchids at last. It follows, indeed, almost of
necessity that a man who has travelled much, an enthusiast in
horticulture, should drift into that branch as years advance. Modesty
would be out of place here. I have had successes, and if it please
Heaven, I shall win more. But orchid culture is not to be dealt with at
the end of an article.

III.

In the days of my apprenticeship I put up a big greenhouse: unable to
manage plants in the open-air, I expected to succeed with them under
unnatural conditions! These memories are strung together with the hope
of encouraging a forlorn and desperate amateur here or there; and surely
that confession will cheer him. However deep his ignorance, it could
not possibly be more finished than mine some dozen years ago; and yet I
may say, _Je suis arrive_! What that greenhouse cost, "chilled
remembrance shudders" to recall; briefly, six times the amount, at
least, which I should find ample now. And it was all wrong when done;
not a trace of the original arrangement remains at this time, but there
are inherent defects. Nothing throve, of course--except the insects.
Mildew seized my roses as fast as I put them in; camellias dropped their
buds with rigid punctuality; azaleas were devoured by thrips; "bugs,"
mealy and scaly, gathered to the feast; geraniums and pelargoniums grew
like giants, but declined to flower. I consulted the local authority who
was responsible for the well-being of a dozen gardens in the
neighbourhood--an expert with a character to lose, from whom I bought
largely. Said he, after a thorough inspection: "This concrete floor
holds the water; you must have it swept carefully night and morning."
That worthy man had a large business. His advice was sought by scores of
neighbours like myself. And I tell the story as a warning; for he
represents no small section of his class. My plants wanted not less but
a great deal more water on that villainous concrete floor.

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