Category — History of gardening

Insulinde is a broken tulip – a modern version of the tulips which brought many a person to financial ruin, and caused a breeding frenzy in the Netherlands which was probably the beginning of its tulip industry today.

The story of broken tulips could (and does) take up entire books. These were the ones which caused the famous Tulipomania, the huge run on tulip stock that had Hollanders trading horses and wagons, houses and breweries, for a single bulb. Poorer people bought shares of tulip futures in pubs that catered to the tulip stock market.

No one knew what made some of the tulips break. Since the broken ones were the most valuable and desirable, everyone tried whatever they could to get their tulips to break. Pigeon dung, secret spells, burying bulbs at midnight under a fruit tree.

Because they were so valuable, broken tulips acquired their own market-driven categories, separate from and superior to the others. There were Rosen, red or pink tulips with a white ground; Violetten, purple or lilac on white; and Bizarden: red, purple, or brown on yellow. In the nineteenth century, when a lot of botanical nomenclature was becoming more like the modern type we know, broken tulips still had their own peculiar classification; the only difference was that the former Violetten were now called Byblomen.

By the turn of the twentieth century, when Rev. Joseph Jacobs (a man after my own heart) was stuffing five hundred types of tulips in his rectory garden, people were beginning to suspect that breaking was caused by some sort of disease. Some breeders began trying to eliminate broken tulips from their stock, because broken tulips were smaller and more sickly and made the rest of the stock the same way. Writing in 1912, Jacob describes a letter from E. Gadeceau, a grower in Nantes. M. Gadeceau said he was more and more convinced that broken tulips were “like degenerate or sick Darwins, as it pleases you” (my translation).

He was right. Breaking is caused by a virus carried by the peach potato aphid, which thrives in warm situations surrounded by fruit trees. Turns out those people burying their bulbs at midnight under a fruit tree were right,  too.

While Jacob called broken tulips Rembrandts, he didn’t mean what catalogues mean today when they talk of Rembrandt tulips. What we call Rembrandts now are the thickly streaked ones like Marilyn, World Impresion, Prinses Irene, and others. While fetching, they don’t have anything like the intricacy that true broken tulips have. One of the names Jacob used for broken tulips reflects how they were valued: “rectified” tulips.

Jacob had yet another category to add to the list of broken tulips: Florist’s tulips, often called English tulips today. These tulips were a subset of broken tulips which had been taken over by English breeders, and given a very strict set of standards. (England was awash in plant-breeding societies in the 1800s. Many of the members were working people who bred amazing primroses, roses, tulips, and other plants in their time off . Many of these societies still exist, including the one for English tulips.) Not unnaturally, Jacob considers these the finest of all tulips, better than the Rembrandts, and when you look at pictures of them – well, you can make a case for it.

Insulinde, like most broken tulips, is smaller than the modern tulips we are used to . The first flowering of my bulb was a bloom about the size of a medium egg, and the stem was  less than a foot high (about a third of a meter).

Broken tulips aren’t cheap – the ones I’ve bought have been about $15 to $20 for one bulb – and they aren’t easy (they are diseased, after all). They are especially susceptible to what’s going around, and since they are small, I have found them to be some of the first candidates for burning up and drying out in a heat wave. You also need to plant them separately, so other tulips won’t get diseased. I put mine in small, deep pots. This way you can also be sure to get them out of the way of summer water, which is so damaging to tulips.

So if broken tulips are this much trouble, why bother with them? Because they are so amazing. When you look at one side of a broken tulip, the pattern is subtly different from the other side.

When Insulinde first bloomed, I had never seen anything in the plant world like the loops and whorls and dark and light patches and the faint hints of other colors that decorated this tulip and changed each day. I began to understand how people could become obsessed with such tulips. (Well, it wasn’t a very long step for me, was it?)

The following year, I had a smaller bloom from Insulinde, and then my tulip split into offsets and went blind. I have four small bulbs now, and this year I got another, smaller bloom, about the size of a walnut in its shell. It has the same amazing patterning of the first, with variations. I’m looking forward to seeing all of those little offsets grow out. And I can’t help thinking that it would be interesting to try putting them in with other tulips, to see if I can create my own degenerate Darwins.
(For more on antique tulips, visit the English tulips pictures link above, or check out Hortus Bulborum, the place Old House Gardens (where I got Insulinde) calls “the Noah’s Ark of bulbs.”)

Lady Jane is a tulip I’ve seen on a lot of blogs, so I know I’m not the only one who enjoys its beautiful, spunky character, and its tendency to return, without any special prima-donna attention.

It seems like such a simple tulip. But there’s a lot of confusion around it.  First of all, it isn’t “the clusiana” tulip. You can find Tulipa clusiana at old-bulb specialists; it has narrower petals, a deeper red coloring, and less white-per-red ratio. It looks like this:

The actual, genuine, real Tulipa clusiana

 Second, Lady Jane isn’t a species tulip. The real Tulipa clusiana  was named after Carolus Clusius, who collected bulbs in Turkey and Spain and became curator at the Leyden botanical garden in the late 1500s -  a time when tulips were just starting to arrive in Europe. T. clusiana, named after him, is a species tulip from Iran. (Its coloring and general shape does make it look as if it’s a likely ancestor for Lady Jane). Clusius got it from a Florentine and brought it to Europe, to great acclaim. It was called the ‘Lady Tulip’ (particularly beautiful flowers were often prefaced with ‘Lady’, referring either to the Christian Virgin Mary or more pagan fertility goddesses or both). This, and the somewhat similar coloring, may be the cause of confusion.

Yep. Another “species” tulip that isn’t, even though you will find them listed as such in many catalogues and websites (why is it “in” catalogues and “on” websites?) According to Brent and Becky’s bulbs, the RGBA lists this tulip as “miscellaneous”, meaning that it’s not in any of the cultivar groups for T. clusiana. (Tulipa clusiana chrysantha is, and since it’s a lot cheaper and easier to keep in the garden than the original T. clusiana, a lot of people know this one.)

The real Lady Jane, in bud

Despite its complicated origins, clothed in obscurity (if anybody knows of a good source for info on this, please say: all my usual ones are stonewalling me. Sheesh. This was supposed to be a quick and easy post, I know this flower) – despite its complicated origins, Lady Jane is an easy, uncomplicated tulip to grow. Its closeness to its origins does mean that it’s good in warmer climates; some say to zone 9, others to zone 8b.  And it returns, and multiplies, always a welcome character trait in someone beautiful. And here’s the real beauty part: it’s cheap. Especially if you buy in quantity. And why not?

Because it’s smaller than the booming garden-variety tulips, Lady Jane’s bulbs are small, too. They can be tucked into little crevices in rocks, pots of low-water plants, or just wherever you have a spare space for this sweetly reliable flower. They give you a lot of bloom, too; mine usually last about a month, opening in staggered rhythm so I have some in bud while others are going all curly.

I’ve read that there are some who don’t like this tulip’s full-on, open stage; they only like the closed-up morning/evening/rain versions.

All tulips spread themselves out every sunny day – the better for pollination, my dear – and I love Lady Jane’s gentle exuberance as much as her quieter, more introspective moments.

As with so many things in life, you don’t have to know everything about Lady Jane to enjoy her.

Digitalis purpurea is the digitalis species with the most venerable medical history, at least in English-speaking cultures. It’s been in gardens since 1440, when it is mentioned in Feate of Gardening (by the well-named John Gardener). In 1636 Gerard mentions it in his Herbal as a medicinal plant.

I would guess that foxglove was in many gardens, and used medicinally, long before.

In 1636,  the educated world didn’t know that foxgloves had medicinal powers. Gerard said they had “…a certaine kinde of clensing qualitie joyned therewith; yet are they of no use, neither have they any place amongst medicines, according to the Antients.”

Among the unlettered holders of knowledge, though, foxglove was probably already in place as a heart remedy. In the hundred years before Gerard, there had been a wholesale murdering of healers and herbalists by the Church. They were called witches and heretics, and were burned at the stake, tortured, drowned. In this way, the Church acquired the accused witches’ property, plus sovereignty over the healing arts, a domain they awarded to the academically trained doctors. The era that we call the Renaisance had its evil side; progress often seems to involve wholesale slaughter. At least in Western European civilization.

Witch-killing still wasn’t over by  1636, so it’s likely that anyone who knew how to use foxglove kept pretty quiet, especially around lettered men, educated in church-run schools. Foxglove was used in ointments or poultices for swellings, old sores, and scrofulous swellings: that use was known.  Though it might not have worked for everybody: some people are sensitive to the touch of foxglove leaves on bare skin, and come up with rashes, headaches, and nausea.

Foxglove’s use internally, as a heart remedy, was for a long time a secret, partly because it was something that took a lot of skill. Foxglove’s active ingredients make the heart constrict and blood pressure rise rapidly. Getting the dose right is essential: if you don’t the patient dies. It’s also tricky: the strength of the active ingredients varies from plant to plant, some people have much higher tolerance to drugs than others, and a person’s individual response varies as fast as internal chemistry, which is to say, from mood to mood. Getting a dose right under such circumstances – and without scientific measuring technology – required skill and insight.

William Withering, an English doctor, seems to have been the first educated man to crack the secret of foxglove. and bring it to the world’s attention. In 1775, a patient of his was afflicted with dropsy (excess fluid retention), often associated with heart and kidney problems. The case had gone too far; Withering could do nothing: he expected his patient to die.

Next post: Miracle cure by foxglove – and a couple of problems along the way

One of the common ways wild foxglove sports is to white, with the same deep maroon spots. You can see this sport in any population of foxgloves of pretty good size, in your garden or in the wild. Gerard’s Herbal, published in 1636,  mentions white foxgloves, but I’d be willing to bet that their appearance in gardens goes back even further than that.

Select Seeds says that there are records of white foxgloves in the U.S. as early as 1838. I don’t doubt that there white foxgloves were grown in U.S. gardens well before that, but 1838 was an era when seed vendor-garden writers were springing up all over, so this may well have been one of their early offerings.

While saved Digitalis purpurea alba seeds will sometimes sport back to the purple form, I’ve found these to be much more stable than the apricot-flowered kind. This is another clue as to why white foxglove was offered so early as a distinct type of seed; it doesn’t take as long to select and stabilize.

Breeders have made good use of white foxglove’s sporty character, cultivating variations. ‘Pam’s Choice’ is probably the best-known of these cultivars, and it irritates me that I must send you to another site for its photo, since my first successful closeups were of ants working ‘Pam’s Choice’ interiors. (Of course, what was a successful closeup to me then, and what works for me now, are two different things, so maybe it’s as well that I’ve lost track of those early photos.)

Ants love foxgloves; I’m not sure what the relationship is between the two of them, but they can be sighted in foxglove flowers, crawling up the nectaries, more frequently than you find them  in most other plants. I don’t know whether they are pollinators (along with bees, the official pollinators of foxgloves), or serve some other purpose.

‘Elsie Kelsey’ is a newer white foxglove cultivar, offered by Pine Tree Seeds. It appears to be a variation on the ‘Pam’s Choice’ make-the-dark-blotches bigger theme. And a fine theme it is, too, though I don’t really see significant difference between the two from looking at the ‘Elsie Kelsey’ photo. I’d be interested to hear if someone has grown them both out and noticed any marked differences.

Another kind of white foxglove sport is Digitalis purpurea ‘Snow Thimble’, which has no spots at all. While this three-foot foxglove might be a beautiful sight in the garden, I’m going to give it a pass until I have more garden room: to me, the spots are one of the major charms of a foxglove. ‘Snow Thimble’ is supposed to make a good cutting flower, and I imagine it would be spectacular in the vase. (Sorry, I couldn’t locate a photo.)

Even without any manipulation by breeders, Digitalis purpurea alba is a fine plant. And a powerful one. While white foxglove may have a weaker strain of wild foxglove’s medicinal qualities, those active ingredients are still there, which means this is a plant you don’t want young children or animals to nibble – and you definitely don’t want it in your herb tea collection, unless you really know what you are doing or are ready to die.  Fortunately, the bitter taste of the alkaloids keeps most curious animals of all types from munching on it for long.

Despite its drastic qualities, there’s something innocently appealing about  white foxglove. Its gorgeous stalks, shining out of the shade – and its deer resistance – make Digitalis pupurea alba and its cultivars stars in the garden, especially a woodland garden. White foxgloves and red-purple Digitalis purpurea set each other off nicely when planted together ( and they often cross to make shades that bridge the spectrum between white and purple). And white foxglove is wonderful in the vase, where a single stalk makes a spectacular statement for weeks.

It’s powerful, it’s radiant, it’s magical: it’s well worth inviting white foxglove into any garden.

In my last post, I discussed Peter Henderson’s 1875 greenhouse/hothouse plans for the wealthy. But Henderson deserves credit: he didn’t just write for the rich, he wanted people of every income to have a chance to grow a plentitude of houseplants and exotics.

After he’s exhausted himself on the subject of the Ideal Greenhouse, his Gardening for Pleasure continues with ideas for attached greenhouses and greenhouse-pits that need no artificial heating to hold the plants you would keep in a cool greenhouse. It’s advice that modern half-hardy and tender plant growers might use, since rising fuel prices make heating a greenhouse an increasingly expensive proposition.

The attached-greenhouse method only works in areas with relatively mild winters; Henderson wrote from Jersey City Heights, where it freezes and snows, but not inordinately. (New Jersey, whose car licenses still read “Garden State”, was at that time a huge market-garden area that served the massive population of New York City.) A small greenhouse attached to a heated building, properly constructed, says Henderson, will keep plants going in places where the temperature doesn’t fall below 25 degrees F (-4 C). It needs to be tightly glazed, and shielded from the north and north-west (if you’re below the equator, change the directions accordingly).

The pit greenhouse (which seems to be a kind of glorified sunken cold frame) is even better, Henderson says. “This is formed by excavating the soil to the depth of from 18 inches (45.7 cm) to 36 inches (91.4 cm), according to the size of the plants it is intended to contain. A convenient width is 6 feet (1.83 meters)…and of such length as may be desired.” He cautions that the ground must be dry enough that water won’t seep into the pit, and advises walling the sides of the pit  4  (10.2 cm) to 8 inches (20.3 cam) high with brick or planks.

“The back wall should be raised about eighteen inches (45.7 cm), and the front six inches (15.2 cm) above the surface, in order to give the nursery slope to receive the sun’s rays and to shed the water.” If glass is laid on top, and light shutters or half-inch boards  laid on top of the glass every evening, “it may be used to keep all the hardier class of greenhouse plants, even in localities where the thermometer falls to zero (-18 C). ”

While plants in such cool greenhouses won’t thrive lustily, they will be ready to go at the first sign of warm weather. That way, you wouldn’t have to grow out tender or half-hardy plants from small slips every year, or buy them new.  If I bestirred myself to make such a pit-greenhouse, I could  have the large collection of scented and flowering geraniums I’ve fantasized about, or keep beautiful brugmansias over winter reliably, and flower them before frost. I wouldn’t have to beg friends to babysit my houseplants when I go away in winter, either. (I don’t have central heating, so if temperatures fall below freezing, my houseplants turn to mush.)

Older technology has a lot to teach us. While we may not have the stay-at-home lifestyles or cheap help of past eras, many of these antique ideas make better sense than energy-eating options we are offered today.