By the expression "warm" we understand that condition which is technically known as "intermediate." It is waste of time to ask, at this day, why a Latin combination should be employed when there is an English monosyllable exactly equivalent; we, at least, will use our mother-tongue. Warm orchids are those which like a minimum temperature, while growing, of 60°; while resting, of 55°. As for the maximum, it signifies little in the former case, but in the latter—during the months of rest—it cannot be allowed to go beyond 60°, for any length of time, without mischief. These conditions mean, in effect, that the house must be warmed during nine months of the twelve in this realm of England. "Hot" orchids demand a fire the whole year round—saving a few very rare nights when the Briton swelters in tropical discomfort. Upon this dry subject of temperature, however, I would add one word of encouragement for those who are not willing to pay a heavy bill for coke. The cool-house, in general, requires a fire, at night, until June 1. Under that condition, if it face the south, in a warm locality, very many genera and species classed as intermediate should be so thoroughly started before artificial heat is withdrawn that they will do excellently, unless the season be unusual.

Warm orchids come from a sub-tropic region, or from the mountains of a hotter climate, where their kinsfolk dwelling in the plains defy the thermometer; just as in sub-tropic lands warm species occupy the lowlands, while the heights furnish Odontoglossums and such lovers of a chilly atmosphere. There are, however, some warm Odontoglossums, notable among them O. vexillarium, which botanists class with the Miltonias. This species is very fashionable, and I give it the place of honour; but not, in my own view, for its personal merits. The name is so singularly appropriate that one would like to hear the inventor's reasons for transfiguring it. Vexillum we know, and vexillarius, but vexillarium goes beyond my Latin. However, it is an intelligible word, and those acquainted with the appearance of "regimental colours" in Old Rome perceive its fitness at a glance. The flat bloom seems to hang suspended from its centre, just as the vexillum figures in bas-relief—on the Arch of Antoninus, for example. To my mind the colouring is insipid, as a rule, and the general effect stark—fashion in orchids, as in other things, has little reference to taste. I repeat with emphasis, as a rule, for some priceless specimens are no less than astounding in their blaze of colour, the quintessence of a million uninteresting blooms. The poorest of these plants have merit, no doubt, for those who can accommodate giants. They grow fast and big. There are specimens in this country a yard across, which display a hundred and fifty or two hundred flowers open at the same time for months. A superb show they make, rising over the pale sea-green foliage, four spikes perhaps from a single bulb. But this is a beauty of general effect, which must not be analyzed, as I think.

Odontoglossum vexillarium is brought from Colombia. There are two forms: the one—small, evenly red, flowering in autumn—was discovered by Frank Klaboch, nephew to the famous Roezl, on the Dagua River, in Antioquia. For eight years he persisted in despatching small quantities to Europe, though every plant died; at length a safer method of transmission was found, but simultaneously poor Klaboch himself succumbed. It is an awful country—perhaps the wettest under the sun. Though a favourite hunting-ground of collectors now—for Cattleyas of value come from hence, besides this precious Odontoglot—there are still no means of transport, saving Indians and canoes. O. vexillarium would not be thought costly if buyers knew how rare it is, how expensive to get, and how terribly difficult to bring home. Forty thousand pieces were despatched to Mr. Sander in one consignment—he hugged himself with delight when three thousand proved to have some trace of vitality.

Mr. Watson, Assistant Curator at Kew, recalls an amusing instance of the value and the mystery attached to this species so late as 1867. In that year Professor Reichenbach described it for the first time. He tells how a friend lent him the bloom upon a negative promise under five heads—"First, not to show it to any one else; (2) not to speak much about it; (3) not to take a drawing of it; (4) not to have a photograph made; (5) not to look oftener than three times at it." By-the-bye, Mr. Watson gives the credit of the first discovery to the late Mr. Bowman; but I venture to believe that my account is exact—in reference to the Antioquia variety, at least.

The other form occurs in the famous district of Frontino, about two hundred and fifty miles due north of the first habitat, and shows—savants would add "of course"—a striking difference. In the geographical distinctions of species will be found the key to whole volumes of mystery that perplex us now. I once saw three Odontoglossums ranged side by side, which even an expert would pronounce mere varieties of the same plant if he were not familiar with them—Od. Williamsi, Od. grande, and Od. Schlieperianum. The middle one everybody knows, by sight at least, a big, stark, spread-eagle flower, gamboge yellow mottled with red-brown, vastly effective in the mass, but individually vulgar. On one side was Od. Williamsi, essentially the same in flower and bulb and growth, but smaller; opposite stood Od. Schlieperianum, only to be distinguished as smaller still. But both these latter rank as species. They are separated from the common type, O. grande, by nearly ten degrees of latitude and ten degrees of longitude, nor—we might almost make an affidavit—do any intermediate forms exist in the space between; and those degrees are sub-tropical, by so much more significant than an equal distance in our zone. Instances of the same class and more surprising are found in many genera of orchid.

The Frontino vexillarium grows "cooler," has a much larger bloom, varies in hue from purest white to deepest red, and flowers in May or June. The most glorious of these things, however, is O. vex. superbum, a plant of the greatest rarity, conspicuous for its blotch of deep purple in the centre of the lip, and its little dot of the same on each wing. Doubtless this is a natural hybrid betwixt the Antioquia form and Odontoglossum Roezlii, which is its neighbour. The chance of finding a bit of superbum in a bundle of the ordinary kind lends peculiar excitement to a sale of these plants. Such luck first occurred to Mr. Bath, in Stevens' Auction Rooms. He paid half-a-crown for a very weakly fragment, brought it round, flowered it, and received a prize for good gardening in the shape of seventy-two pounds, cheerfully paid by Sir Trevor Lawrence for a plant unique at that time. I am reminded of another little story. Among a great number of Cypripedium insigne received at St. Albans, and "established," Mr. Sander noted one presently of which the flower-stalk was yellow instead of brown, as is usual. Sharp eyes are a valuable item of the orchid-grower's stock-in-trade, for the smallest peculiarity among such "sportive" objects should not be neglected. Carefully he put the yellow stalk aside—the only one among thousands, one might say myriads, since C. insigne is one of our oldest and commonest orchids, and it never showed this phenomenon before. In due course the flower opened, and proved to be all golden! Mr. Sander cut his plant in two, sold half for seventy-five pounds to a favoured customer, and the other half, publicly, for one hundred guineas. One of the purchasers has divided his plant now and sold two bits at 100 guineas. Another piece was bought back by Mr. Sander, who wanted it for hybridizing, at 250 guineas—not a bad profit for the buyer, who has still two plants left. Another instance occurs to me while I write—such legends of shrewdness worthily rewarded fascinate a poor journalist who has the audacity to grow orchids. Mr. Harvey, solicitor, of Liverpool, strolling through the houses at St. Albans on July 24, 1883, remarked a plant of L?lia anceps, which had the ring-mark on its pseudo-bulb much higher up than is usual. There might be some meaning in that eccentricity, he thought, paid two guineas for the little thing, and on December 1, 1888, sold it back to Mr. Sander for 200l. It proved to be L. a. Amesiana, the grandest form of L. anceps yet discovered—rosy white, with petals deeply splashed; thus named after F.L. Ames, an American amateur. Such pleasing opportunities might arise for you or me any day.

The first name that arises to most people in thinking of warm orchids is Cattleya, and naturally. The genus Odontoglossum alone has more representatives under cultivation. Sixty species of Cattleya are grown by amateurs who pay special attention to these plants; as for the number of "varieties" in a single species, one boasts forty, another thirty, several pass the round dozen. They are exclusively American, but they flourish over all the enormous space between Mexico and the Argentine Republic. The genus is not a favourite of my own, for somewhat of the same reason which qualifies my regard for O. vexillarium. Cattleyas are so obtrusively beautiful, they have such great flowers, which they thrust upon the eye with such assurance of admiration! Theirs is a style of effect—I refer to the majority—which may be called infantine; such as an intelligent and tasteful child might conceive if he had no fine sense of colour, and were too young to distinguish a showy from a charming form. But I say no more.

The history of Orchids long established is uncertain, but I believe that the very first Cattleya which appeared in Europe was C. violacea Loddigesi, imported by the great firm whose name it bears, to which we owe such a heavy debt. Two years later came C. labiata, of which more must be said; then C. Mossi?, from Caraccas; fourth, C. Trian? named after Colonel Trian, of Tolima, in the United States of Colombia. Trian well deserved immortality, for he was a native of that secluded land—and a botanist! It is a natural supposition that his orchid must be the commonest of weeds in its home; seeing how all Europe is stocked with it, and America also, rash people might say there are millions in cultivation. But it seems likely that C. Trian? was never very frequent, and at the present time assuredly it is so scarce that collectors are not sent after it. Probably the colonel, like many other savants, was an excellent man of business, and he established "a corner" when he saw the chance. C. Mossi? stands in the same situation—or indeed worse; it can scarcely be found now. These instances convey a serious warning. In seventy years we have destroyed the native stock of two orchids, both so very free in propagating that they have an exceptional advantage in the struggle for existence. How long can rare species survive, when the demand strengthens and widens year by year, while the means of communication and transport become easier over all the world? Other instances will be mentioned in their place.

Island species are doomed, unless, like L?lia elegans, they have inaccessible crags on which to find refuge. It is only a question of time; but we may hope that Governments will interfere before it is too late. Already Mr. Burbidge has suggested that "some one" who takes an interest in orchids should establish a farm, a plantation, here and there about the world, where such plants grow naturally, and devote himself to careful hybridization on the spot. "One might make as much," he writes, "by breeding orchids as by breeding cattle, and of the two, in the long run, I should prefer the orchid farm." This scheme will be carried out one day, not so much for the purpose of hybridization as for plain "market-gardening;" and the sooner the better.

The prospect is still more dark for those who believe—as many do—that no epiphytal orchid under any circumstances can be induced to establish itself permanently in our greenhouses as it does at home. Doubtless, they say, it is possible to grow them and to flower them, by assiduous care, upon a scale which is seldom approached under the rough treatment of Nature. But they are dying from year to year, in spite of appearances. That it is so in a few cases can hardly be denied; but, seeing how many plants which have not changed hands since their establishment, twenty or thirty or forty years ago, have grown continually bigger and finer, it seems much more probable that our ignorance is to blame for the loss of those species which suddenly collapse. Sir Trevor Lawrence observed the other day: "With regard to the longevity of orchids, I have one which I know to have been in this country for more than fifty years, probably even twenty years longer than that—Renanthera coccinea." The finest specimens of Cattleya in Mr. Stevenson Clarke's houses have been "grown on" from small pieces imported twenty years ago. If there were more collections which could boast, say, half a century of uninterrupted attention, we should have material for forming a judgment; as a rule, the dates of purchase or establishment were not carefully preserved till late years.

But there is one species of Cattleya which must needs have seventy years of existence in Europe, since it had never been re-discovered till 1890. When we see a pot of C. labiata, the true, autumn-flowering variety, more than two years old, we know that the very plant itself must have been established about 1818, or at least its immediate parent—for no seedling has been raised to public knowledge.[4]

In avowing a certain indifference to Cattleyas, I referred to the bulk, of course. The most gorgeous, the stateliest, the most imperial of all flowers on this earth, is C. Dowiana—unless it be C. aurea, a "geographical variety" of the same. They dwell a thousand miles apart at least, the one in Colombia, the other in Costa Rica; and neither occurs, so far as is known, in the great intervening region. Not even a connecting link has been discovered; but the Atlantic coast of Central America is hardly explored, much less examined. In my time it was held, from Cape Camarin to Chagres, by independent tribes of savages—not independent in fact alone, but in name also. The Mosquito Indians are recognized by Europe as free; the Guatusos kept a space of many hundred miles from which no white man had returned; when I was in those parts, the Talamancas, though not so unfriendly, were only known by the report of adventurous pedlars. I made an attempt—comparatively spirited—to organize an exploring party for the benefit of the Guatusos, but no single volunteer answered our advertisements in San José de Costa Rica; I have lived to congratulate myself on that disappointment. Since my day a road has been cut through their wilds to Limon, certain luckless Britons having found the money for a railway; but an engineer who visited the coast but two years ago informs me that no one ever wandered into "the bush." Collectors have not been there, assuredly. So there may be connecting links between C. Dowiana and C. aurea in that vast wilderness, but it is quite possible there are none.

Words could not picture the glory of these marvels. In each the scheme of colour is yellow and crimson, but there are important modifications. Yellow is the ground all through in Cattleya aurea—sepals, petals, and lip; unbroken in the two former, in the latter superbly streaked with crimson. But Cattleya Dowiana shows crimson pencillings on its sepals, while the ground colour of the lip is crimson, broadly lined and reticulated with gold. Imagine four of these noble flowers on one stalk, each half a foot across! But it lies beyond the power of imagination.

C. Dowiana was discovered by Warscewicz about 1850, and he sent home accounts too enthusiastic for belief. Steady-going Britons utterly refused to credit such a marvel—his few plants died, and there was an end of it for the time. I may mention an instance of more recent date, where the eye-witness of a collector was flatly rejected at home. Monsieur St. Leger, residing at Asuncion, the capital of Paraguay, wrote a warm description of an orchid in those parts to scientific friends. The account reached England, and was treated with derision. Monsieur St. Leger, nettled, sent some dried flowers for a testimony; but the mind of the Orchidaceous public was made up. In 1883 he brought a quantity of plants and put them up at auction; nobody in particular would buy. So those reckless or simple or trusting persons who invested a few shillings in a bundle had all the fun to themselves a few months afterwards, when the beautiful Oncidium Jonesianum appeared, to confound the unbelieving. It must be added, however, that orchid-growers may well become an incredulous generation. When their judgment leads them wrong we hear of it, the tale is published, and outsiders mock. But these gentlemen receive startling reports continually, honest enough for the most part. Much experience and some loss have made them rather cynical when a new wonder is announced. The particular case of Monsieur St. Leger was complicated by the extreme resemblance which the foliage of Onc. Jonesianum bears to that of Onc. cibolletum, a species almost worthless. Unfortunately the beautiful thing declines to live with us—as yet.

Cattleya Dowiana was rediscovered by Mr. Arce, when collecting birds: it must have been a grand moment for Warscewicz when the horticultural world was convulsed by its appearance in bloom. Cattleya aurea had no adventures of this sort. Mr. Wallis found it in 1868 in the province of Antioquia, and again on the west bank of the Magdalena; but it is very rare. This species is persecuted in its native home by a beetle, which accompanies it to Europe not infrequently—in the form of eggs, no doubt. A more troublesome alien is the fly which haunts Cattleya Mendellii, and for a long time prejudiced growers against that fine species, until, in fact, they had made a practical and rather costly study of its habits. An experienced grower detects the presence of this enemy at a glance. It pierces an "eye"—a back one in general, happily—and deposits an egg in the very centre. Presently this growth begins to swell in a manner that delights the ingenuous horticulturist, until he remarks that its length does not keep pace with its breadth. But one remedy has yet been discovered—cutting off any suspected growth. We understand now that C. Mendellii is as safe to import as any other species, unless it be gathered at the wrong time.[5]

Among the most glorious, rarest, and most valuable of Cattleyas is C. Hardyana, doubtless a natural hybrid of C. aurea with C. gigas Sanderiana. Few of us have seen it—two-hundred-guinea plants are not common spectacles. It has an immense flower, rose-purple; the lip purple-magenta, veined with gold. Cattleya Sanderiana offers an interesting story. Mr. Mau, one of Mr. Sander's collectors, was despatched to Bogota in search of Odontoglossum crispum. While tramping through the woods, he came across a very large Cattleya at rest, and gathered such pieces as fell in his way—attaching so little importance to them, however, that he did not name the matter in his reports. Four cases Mr. Mau brought home with his stock of Odontoglossums, which were opened in due course of business. We can quite believe that it was one of the stirring moments of Mr. Sander's life. The plants bore many dry specimens of last year's inflorescence, displaying such extraordinary size as proved the variety to be new; and there is no large Cattleya of indifferent colouring. To receive a plant of that character unannounced, undescribed, is an experience without parallel for half a century. Mr. Mau was sent back by next mail to secure every fragment he could find. Meantime, those in hand were established, and Mr. Brymer, M.P., bought one—Mr. Brymer is immortalized by the Dendrobe which bears his name. The new Cattleya proved kindly, and just before Mr. Mau returned with some thousands of its like Mr. Brymer's purchase broke into bloom. That must have been another glorious moment for Mr. Sander, when the great bud unfolded, displaying sepals and petals of the rosiest, freshest, softest pink, eleven inches across; and a crimson labellum exquisitely shown up by a broad patch of white on either side of the throat. Mr. Brymer was good enough to lend his specimen for the purpose of advertisement, and Messrs. Stevens enthusiastically fixed a green baize partition across their rooms as a background for the wondrous novelty. What excitement reigned there on the great day is not to be described. I have heard that over 2000l. was taken in the room.

Most of the Cattleyas with which the public is familiar—Mossi?, Trian?, Mendellii, and so forth—have white varieties; but an example absolutely pure is so uncommon that it fetches a long price. Loveliest of these is C. Skinneri alba. For generations, if not for ages, the people of Costa Rica have been gathering every morsel they can find, and planting it upon the roofs of their mud-built churches. Roezl and the early collectors had a "good time," buying these semi-sacred flowers from the priests, bribing the parishioners to steal them, or, when occasion served, playing the thief themselves. But the game is nearly up. Seldom now can a piece of Cat. Skinneri alba be obtained by honest means, and when a collector arrives guards are set upon the churches that still keep their decoration. No plant has ever been found in the forest, we understand.

It is just the same case with L?lia anceps alba. The genus L?lia is distinguished from Cattleya by a peculiarity to be remarked only in dissection; its pollen mass............