Such
a spectacle is not to be described in prose. But when the enthusiast has
rashly said that earth contains no more ethereal loveliness, let him
behold _L. a. alba_, the white variety. The dullest man I ever knew, who
had a commonplace for all occasions, found no word in presence of that
marvel. Even the half-castes of Mexico who have no soul, apparently, for
things above horseflesh and cockfights, and love-making, reverence this
saintly bloom. The Indians adore it. Like their brethren to the south,
who have tenderly removed every plant of _Cattleya Skinneri alba_ for
generations unknown, to set upon their churches, they collect this
supreme effort of Nature and replant it round their huts. So thoroughly
has the work been done in either case that no single specimen was ever
seen in the forest. Every one has been bought from the Indians, and the
supply is exhausted; that is to say, a good many more are known to
exist, but very rarely now can the owner be persuaded to part with one.
The first example reached England nearly half a century ago, sent
probably by a native trader to his correspondent in this country; but,
as was usual at that time, the circumstances are doubtful. It found its
way, somehow, to Mr. Dawson, of Meadowbank, a famous collector, and by
him it was divided. Search was made for the treasure in its home, but
vainly; travellers did not look in the Indian gardens.
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