Women and Horticulture

Pineapple from Maria Merian’s Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium, Biodiversity Heritage Library

As I mentioned in the last post, the role of women in Western culture was hidden in part because they didn’t published about their knowledge.  There are of course exceptions to this, but when women did publish, it was often in forms that were not considered of interest to the intellectual elites, such as formulas for herbal medicines rather than more formal herbals or books of advice on domestic issues like cooking or housekeeping or gardening.  These were often published locally and unlikely to be republished in successive editions, so the few copies that may remain are known only to those steeped in the history of a field.

In some cases, women did not want to get into print.  It was considered vulgar to display expertise in public and not done by women of the upper classes.  This is one explanation Nicole LaBouff (2020) gives for why three 18th-century British noblewomen, Lady Amelia Hume, Jane Barrington, and Mary Watson-Wentworth, are so little known even though they made important contributions to the work of noted male botanists such as Joseph Banks, James Edward Smith, and William Roxburgh.  At one point LaBouff notes that “these women wrote themselves out of the botanical record when they either internalized or outwardly conformed to a cultural belief that the worlds of print and public dialogue were not appropriate places for modest ladies” (p. 30).  I hesitate to even use this quote since by doing so I might contribute to further enshrining this view, but not including it would make it more difficult to understand why these women chose to downplay their expertise, and they did indeed have botanical expertise. 

They were wealthy women who engaged in gardening on their estates on an impressive scale and like the many males dedicated to horticulture, were always looking for new and exceptional plants to nurture.  They also had the means to amass extensive libraries of botanical and gardening books for reference, to employ teams of gardeners, to have hothouses and other contrivances to grow delicate species from the tropics, and to not only purchase material from nurseries specializing in exotic plants but also from plant collectors who shipped directly to their estates.  They used all their resources as well as their intellects honed by their education, reading, conversations with likeminded men and women, and observations on the plants they wanted so much to successfully cultivate.  In many cases their expertise exceeded that of professional nurserymen, and male botanists appreciated that.

Smith and Banks visited the gardens of noblewomen not only to see what was growing there but to obtain specimens to study and seeds or cuttings to cultivate, and perhaps more importantly, to learn from these women’s observations.  Two references LaBouff cites are Dorinda Outram (1996) on “sedentary fieldwork” and James Secord (2007) on conversation as central to the formation of scientific knowledge during the period of polite science in the 18th century.  She argues that this is why “it is crucial to recognize the home garden as a museum-like space in which women actively shaped scientific dialogue through their interaction with other experts. (LaBouff, p. 23)”  While such women did not usually put their knowledge into print, their male colleagues did, and James Smith among others was careful to give the three women LaBouff highlights credit for their contributions.  He dedicated a volume of his writings to each of them. 

I use LaBouff’s work here to exemplify an area of female expertise that was much more widespread than just in 18th-century England.  The early modern botanist Carolus Clusius had an extensive correspondence with women gardeners in which the information was freely exchanged in both directions (Egmond, 2010).  In the 17th century Hans Sloane, James Petiver and John Ray all visited the Duchess of Beaufort Mary Somerset’s gardens and hothouses to see plants they would otherwise only know from dried specimens (see earlier post).  At about the same time, Agneta Block, a wealthy Dutch widow, was using her hothouse to coax pineapples to flower and fruit from small, rather dull looking tufts of leaves obtained from the Leiden Botanical Garden.  While the plant grew in the garden, it hadn’t flowered, which is not surprising since the Netherlands’ climate is very different from the pineapple’s native home in the South American tropics.

Like her British counterparts, Block had the combination of knowledge, observational skills, and horticultural expertise to be successful.  I can’t help making an overtly sexist comment here:  she may have called on a dose of feminine patience as well.  She success increased her status among other Dutch naturalists who visited her garden and greenhouses, including the botanist Jan Commelin and the naturalist/painter Maria Merian.  Block commissioned paintings from Merian and also from another noted artist, Alida Withoos, who did a watercolor of the pineapple to commemorate its flowering.  The painting doesn’t survive, though one by Merian does (see image above).  In a blog post on Block, there is more information on her connections with gardeners, naturalists, and artists, as well as more information on the pineapple.  It became such an object of interest that Block’s success was repeated in many botanical gardens and private estates.  Still, the pineapple remained so difficult to cultivate that the rich would sometimes rent one to display on a dinner table for a particularly important event.  Who knew plant rentals went back that far?    


Egmond, F. (2010). The World of Carolus Clusius: Natural History in the Making, 1550-1610. London: Pickering and Chatto.

LaBouff, N. (2020). Public science in the private garden: Noblewomen horticulturalists and the making of British botany c. 1785–1810. History of Science, 0073275320961908. https://doi.org/10.1177/0073275320961908

Outram, D. (1996). New spaces in natural history. In N. Jardine, J. A. Secord, & E. C. Spary (Eds.), Cultures of Natural History (pp. 249–265). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Secord, J. A. (2007). How scientific conversation became shop talk. Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 17, 129–156.

Art and Botany: Methods of Recording

Watercolor of Neopolitan apple (1904) by Bertha Heiges, U.S. Department of Agriculture Pomological Watercolor Collection. 

In this series of posts on botany and art (1,2,3), I’m looking at a number of ways botanists have documented plants, from Ludwig Reichenbach having herbarium specimens traced to create illustrations (1), to Joseph Banks using the works of Chinese artists as guides in plant collecting (2).  In this post, I focus on recording the attributes of fruits.  My reference is an article from the first issue of the British Journal of Pomology and Horticultural Science, published in 1919.  I cannot recall how I came to this carefully researched piece.  The author is Herbert E. Durham, President of the Herefordshire Association of Fruit Growers and Horticulturalists.  Fruits, particularly apples I would say, were important to Durham, and he was not happy with the inaccuracies he found in illustrations which were supposed to distinguish among varieties. 

Durham considered it difficult if not impossible to communicate the precise placement of structures within the fruit without illustrations, and even illustrations could miss the mark.  He writes of a book on British apples in which a plate is described as presenting round fruits where the diameter and height were about equal, yet the height of one fruit was given as 72 mm and the width 85; another fruit referred to as oblong had a height of 80 mm and a diameter of 82 mm.  He adds that he himself has “often been surprised when measuring” (p. 30).  After introducing other types of errors in illustrations of whole fruits as well as sections through them, Durham presents several approaches to getting dimensions and placement right.  I am definitely not going into all the details here; much of the article reads like an instruction manual.  But I will briefly note some of the techniques to give a flavor of the care Durham took in his work of representing different varieties, documenting them for the future.  Many of the varieties he cared so much about no longer exist, but his working method says a lot to future horticulturalists and botanists about the importance of precision in any form of representation.

To draw the shape of a fruit accurately, Durham devised a simple wooden tool into which a pencil was inserted; this “projection tracer” allowed drawing the circumference and picking up any unevenness in it.  Needless to say, he describes not only his method, but how to construct such a tool.  He also presents a device, essentially a blade, to cut longitudinal and transverse sections through the fruit to reveal the seeds, intercarpellary space (which he calls the axial sac), and the stalk attachment.  The blade has to be very thin, sharp, about 6 inches long, and attached to a bow so it can be accurately placed to get an ideal central longitudinal cut.  Durham has unkind words about some drawings made from cuts that were off-center.

Of course, Durham provides illustrations to show what should be revealed in each cut, using apples and pears as examples.  The images also demonstrate what he thinks a good illustration should and should not include.  These are very simple line drawings with just a surface outline, and the positioning of the seeds and sac wall.  Really they are diagrams, extremely clear and understandable.  They would not be considered works of art, but they are meticulously drawn for accuracy and clarity, Durham’s chief criteria.  He is trying to represent rather subtle differences among varieties, but only in regards to particular traits.

This approach is very different from that used in another set of fruit illustrations that I find particularly satisfying.  They are the pomological watercolors created by artists for the USDA in the early part of the 20th century and now preserved in its National Agricultural Library.  There is an unofficial Twitter feed (@pomological) that posts images from this digitized collection.  I love to look at these illustrations, most picture the whole fruit along with a cross section that even Durham would admire.  There are also images of fruit with pathologies and many of these are strangely beautiful.  Now a book of the illustrations has been published (Landy, 2021).

After all this emphasis on accuracy, I want to end with another way to record fruit form that intrigues me.  I read about it a number of years ago in a blog post from the Smithsonian Institution’s Field Book Project.  Emily Hunter, one of the transcribers, described a notebook kept by a US Department of Agriculture botanist, David Griffiths (1867-1935) during a collecting trip to Texas and Mexico in 1905.  He was focusing on the Opuntia genus of cacti, and specifically on their fruit which are fleshy—I think Durham would describe them as oblong.  On several pages, there are blotches stamped, and they vary in size and shape with the species discussed in the accompanying notes.  While Griffiths doesn’t identify what they are, Hunter surmises that they were made by cutting the fruit in half and pressing the cut surface to the paper.  Each pressing is outlined in pencil and the central fleshy area is also outlined.  This was a rough-and-ready form of nature printing, but an effective one.  Griffiths had neither the tools nor probably the time to make measurements and diagrams like Durham’s, but he figured out how he could quickly get the basic information down in his notebook.  I think of their respective images as a link between these two horticulturalists, in different countries, with very different interests and methods, but united in wanting to do justice to the forms they studied.


Durham, H. E. (1919). The Recognition of Fruit—Graphic Records. Journal of Pomology and Horticultural Science, 1(1), 28–36.

Landy, J., United States, & Department of Agriculture. (2021). An illustrated catalog of American fruits & nuts: The U.S. Department of Agriculture Pomological Watercolor Collection. Los Angeles: Atelier.

Victorian Botany: The Wardian Case

The Contest for the Bouquet by Seymour Guy (1866), The Metropolitan Museum of Art

The last post dealt with the rising influence of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew in 19th-century botany and horticulture with the Palm House conservatory as the symbol of this sway.  Just as improvements in construction technologies made this marvel possible, another new technology, the Wardian case, helped to fill it with new wonders.  Nathaniel Ward was a physician with an interest in natural history, a common pursuit at the time.  He was fascinated by insects and experimented with taking corked bottles and putting into them leaf debris and moth larvae to study their development.  The insects did indeed flourish, and he also noticed little plants growing in the debris.  That set him thinking about nurturing not insects but plants in sealed containers, protecting them from the soot and noxious fumes of the industrial area of London where he lived.  From there his experiments moved in two directions, as Luke Keogh (2020) describes in his book, The Wardian Case.  Some cases were more in line with Ward’s first work, small glass-covered containers to grow plants and often insects and perhaps snails.  These became popular and were often decorative and designed to be focal points in Victorian parlors.  When my husband and I would visit the American Wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, we usually spent time with Seymour Guy’s The Contest for the Bouquet: The Family of Robert Gordon in Their New York Dining(1866).  While its focus is the children’s tussle over a flower, for us it was on the Wardian in the window, an item of Victorian interior decoration. 

Keogh devotes most of the book to the Wardian case’s other use in moving plants from place to place, which he argues had a profound effect on botany, horticulture, agriculture, and present-day environmental problems.  Almost as soon as Ward created his first cases, he wanted to test them out by shipping plants to Australia.  As an avid gardener, he knew the nurseryman George Loddiges and together they packed up two strong wooden boxes of ferns, mosses, and grasses, then sealed them with glass lids.  Most of the plants survived the five-month voyage as did Australian plants that were sent back to England in the same cases.  This success caused a sensation among gardeners in Britain, particularly those in the upper classes who could afford exotics and often had greenhouses or hothouses in which to pamper them.  Since the beginning of the age of exploration, plants were transported long distances, but cultivation success rates were low.  Attempting to ship live plants from the Americas or Asia was daunting.  Fresh water was needed for the crew and usually couldn’t be spared for other uses.  If plants were kept on deck to get sunlight, they were subjected to salt breezes and the hot sun.  Yet months at sea without light was disastrous; it might work for dormant roots or bulbs, but even then most shipments rotted, as did most seeds unless they were properly dried and packaged. 

It is amazing that so many plants did make it.  Once a few examples of a species reached Europe they were carefully cultivated, with seeds and seedlings widely distributed.  That’s why by the end of the 16th century, tomatoes grew from Spain to Germany and Italy, and tobacco was the subject of more publications than any other exotic.  What the Wardian case allowed was a greater and more systematic movement of plants.  Needless to say, William Hooker made good use of cases to funnel plants into Kew where they were cultivated and then shipped to Britain’s far-flung colonial gardens.  Robert Spruce sent Cinchona plants to Kew, and these became the foundation of cinchona cultivation for quinine in the many parts of Africa and Asia where the British Empire ruled (Crawford, 2016).

Keogh writes that the cases were hardly fool-proof.  Plant mortality was still high on ocean voyages, though shipments fared better when steamships speeded travel.  The cases had a higher success rate when they were accompanied by gardeners or where crewmen with some horticultural expertise looked after them.  Eventually, the French and Germans were even more ardent users than the British, but as time went on some of the environmental consequences of large-scale plant movements became obvious.  There had been evidence of what are now called invasive species from the early years of exploration; by the 18th century there were many examples of colonial landscapes being altered by plants brought by homesick immigrants.  This became particularly apparent in 19th-century Australia and New Zealand, where their fragile ecosystems were overrun with plants that had been loved in England.

Not only plants traveled, but insects, fungi, and other soil pests tagged along and were frequently difficult to control in non-native habitats.  By the early 20th century, the ill effects of such transmission were so great that Wardian cases were used less and less.  The boxes were often destroyed after one trip to prevent further spread of organisms that could lurk in the wood.  Ironically, many of the last cases were used to transport insects that were used to control invasive plants that had earlier traveled the same way. 

Wardian case in the Economic Botany Collection at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew

At the beginning of the book, Keogh tells of seeking out Wardian cases early in his research and finding very few of them; there is only one left in Britain, not surprisingly in Kew’s economic botany collection.  Later, he realized that this dearth was probably tied to the case’s later history; few survived because they were destroyed to prevent infestations, a sad end for such a clever piece of technology.  The home models fared a little better, being resurrected as terraria in the late 20th century.


Crawford, M. J. (2016). The Andean Wonder Drug: Cinchona Bark and Imperial Science in the Spanish Atlantic, 1630-1800. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press.

Keogh, L. (2020). The Wardian Case. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.


I want to thank Mark Nesbitt, Curator of the Economic Botany Collection at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, for showing me the Wardian case and many other treasures during my visit in 2018.

Victorian Botany: Conservatories

This series of posts is on plants and plant technologies that were popular in Victorian Britain and its spheres of influence, which means just about everywhere.  What started me on this topic was coming upon several books that fitted the theme including Kate Teltscher’s (2020) Palace of Palms: Tropical Dreams and the Making of Kew.  It deals with the transformation of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew from a failing establishment to the hub of a horticulture empire in the mid-19th century.  She begins with the botanical politics involved in rescuing Kew in the 1830s.  At that point it was composed of 11 acres that abutted the much larger Royal Pleasure Grounds.  It was directed by William Aiton who had been there for years and who wouldn’t share plants with other botanical gardens and even refused to label plants after several prized specimens had been stolen. 

It seemed to many that Kew was not worth saving, but there was push back and a commission was formed to investigate the situation.  It was comprised of John Lindley from the Royal Horticultural Society, Joseph Paxton gardener for the Duke of Devonshire, and John Wilson, gardener for the Earl of Surrey.  While the first two were well-known and respected in botanical and horticultural circles, Wilson was a political appointee.  With much behind-the-scenes maneuvering, the commission recommended that the garden be saved and converted from royal to governmental control.  The next step was finding someone to direct it, with Aiton staying on as director of the pleasure grounds.  Lindley wanted the job, but it ultimately went to William Jackson Hooker, professor of botany at the University of Glasgow.  He brought with him a library and a herbarium of over a million specimens, the largest in Britain at the time.

Teltscher does a great job of describing how Hooker set about improving Kew’s reputation in the botanical and horticultural communities.  He sent John Smith, the curator of living collections, on a tour of gardens throughout the United Kingdom to learn about novel practices, pick up design ideas, and let it be known that Kew was interested in sharing its duplicate stock with gardens that could reciprocate.  Smith returned with a feeling of accomplishment and a greater willingness to work with Hooker, who had gotten the job Smith  thought he should have.  Relatively early in this new regime, plans began for a new palm house, since Kew’s palms were pushing through the roof of their greenhouse.  A new glass and iron conservatory was modeled on the one that Paxton had designed for the Duke of Devonshire’s estate at Chatsworth.  I had known of Paxton’s involvement, but I knew nothing of the role played by Richard Turner, an engineer with a foundry in Dublin.  He devised a new type of iron framework for the glass panes and also designed a heating and ventilation system.  Just as in describing Kew’s rescue, Teltscher is good at laying out the intricacies involved in building this massive structure that covered over half an acre.

When the Palm House was completed in 1848, it fell to Smith to fill the vast space.  Massive palms had to be moved from their old venue and from several other greenhouses.  Still, this left the side aisles bare in the early days, as fast-growing species were nurtured in the emptied structures.  However, the public was thrilled with what they saw, and visitors to Kew increased as did its reputation in horticultural circles.  The garden now had a focal point, a symbol of its botanical wealth and reputation.  Meanwhile, Hooker was building the garden in other ways.  Aiton had retired in 1845 and Hooker was given control over the pleasure grounds, which meant that Kew had grown from 11 acres to over 200.  Plant exchanges continued to enrich the garden’s variety of plants, as Kew was encouraging donations not only from other botanic gardens but from those who traveled widely.  Hooker also maintained correspondence with botanists and plant collectors who sent him specimens from around the world.  Vast collections came from botanists working in gardens in India, Australia, and other British colonies.  Kew became a hub for the global transfer of plants including, of course, palms. 

Palms were sources of fruits like dates and coconuts, as well as oil, building materials, and fiber for ropes, baskets, and even cloth.  Though Aiton had stored economic botany materials that Joseph Banks had sent to Kew as evidence of the financial potential of exotic species, the materials had never been organized or catalogued until John Smith employed his son to do the job.  Eventually Alexander Smith became curator of the collection and in charge of the Museum of Vegetable Products opened in 1847.  This was soon renamed the Museum of Economic Botany and eventually grew to spread over four buildings in its heyday (Nesbitt & Cornish, 2016). 

Despite all this garden administration, Hooker still found time to continue his studies on ferns and produce a multi-volume work.  In addition, he nurtured the botanical career of his son, Joseph Dalton Hooker.  The Hooker family was not wealthy, so Joseph had to earn a living.  His father engineered his appointment to an expedition to India, and later Joseph became assistant director at Kew.  At his father’s death, Joseph was named director, and after some negotiations, William Hooker’s herbarium and library were sold to Kew, thus providing Joseph with a modest inheritance and Kew with solid scientific resources.  This is essentially where Teltscher’s story ends, though Kew continued to move from strength to strength, always with the Palm House as its symbol.


Teltscher, K. (2020). The Palace of Palms: Tropical Dreams and the Making of Kew. London: Picador.

Using Biodiversity

Seed collection at the herbarium, Penn State University

To continue with the discussion of the Global Strategy for Plant Conservation (GSPC) targets from the last post, they deal with not only conserving plant species, but using them.  The rising human population exacerbates environmental problems and the demand for resources.  Sustainability is a term that suggests a solution:  employing resources in a way that can be stably continued over time and relying on resources that can be stably renewed.  Many themes come into play in this effort from saving seeds to using plants’ genetic diversity and the rich plant knowledge base of indigenous peoples. 

Seeds have always been of interest to botanists; they are an easy way to transport and share plants.  Luca Ghini did not just create one of the first herbaria, he also kept a catalogue of the seeds he collected from plants at the botanical garden of Pisa he founded.  He sent the list to other botanists and offered them seeds of any listed species.  However, seed saving was going on long before that.  Farmers kept seed to plant the next year’s crops, taking those from the best performing plants, thus selectively breeding for particular traits.

As agriculture scaled up and became more mechanized, a different model developed, with farmers buying seed from companies that grew plants for seeds, often with limited genetic variation.  Recently, seeds for many crops are from genetically engineered plants with traits like increased nutrient levels, resistance to pests, or faster growth.  Using these seeds decreases genetic variation in crop plants, with resulting susceptibility to pathogens.  With greater genetic diversity, at least a portion of the plants would survive.  Some farmers and gardeners have saved seed from what are called heirloom varieties or landraces, strains that were developed to grow well in particular areas, rather than being mass-produced.  These growers were doing a service to the larger community by conserving and propagating biodiversity and are now more appreciated. 

Many herbaria have seed collections; they were popular early in the century, and were often sold in custom-made cases, with each seed type in a small labeled vial.  These samples were not meant for propagation—seeds usually lose their viability rather quickly.  Instead, the seeds aided in identifying species that might have been collected with seeds.  In most cases the seeds are so old that they will not germinate, though they can be a source of DNA.  Seedbanks, on the other hand, are designed to save seed for future planting and some are of long standing.  They are crucial in preserving genetic diversity of crop plants and their wild relatives, and also of plant biodiversity in general.  Many nations have seeds banks, especially for agricultural crops and also for horticulturally important species.  The Russian botanist Nikolai Vavilov created an early bank for the many seeds he collected during his surveys of regions where various crop plants had originated.  The massive Svalbard Global Seed Bank built into permafrost within the Arctic Circle focuses on crop species, their wild relatives, and landraces.  It was created as a backup facility for seed collections throughout the world, in case any suffer damage.  The largest seed repository is the Millennium Seed Bank managed by Kew that aims to store seed for as many wild plant species as possible extending beyond the useful.

At the Max Planck Institute for Plant Breeding Research, the Ross Potato Herbarium was founded after its namesake collected specimens as well as seed potatoes in South America in 1959, and it grew as additional material was added.  The USDA has a number of facilities for germplasm (seeds, cuttings, and plant tissue) throughout the country, and the National Arboretum in Washington, DC hosts the USDA’s herbarium.  In the United States, many crop-related specimens are housed in the institutions that grew out of the nineteenth-century land grant colleges.  These herbaria often have large collections of cultivated plant specimens because of their strong horticulture and agriculture programs.  The University of California, Davis is known for these, and being in California, it had a viticultural herbarium of grape vine specimens that has now been incorporated into the general herbarium. 

Some herbaria, particularly those with ties to indigenous peoples and to the high-diversity areas where many reside can be particularly focused on species that have agricultural and medicinal uses.  These communities are also the source for many plant varieties that are now of interest because they are landraces grown for generations and are outside of the agricultural-industrial complex.  It makes sense that if biodiversity is important for sustainable agriculture, then focus needs to be put on working with local communities, as has been done for many years in collecting potato varieties in the Andes for the International Potato Center in Lima, Peru.  This center and others around the world that focus on specific crops such as rice, wheat and corn not only store valuable genetic material but also do research on plant varieties with increased nutrients and other useful characteristics.  They also work with local populations in finding ways to make agriculture sustainable.  There are efforts to move away from concentrating on a single crop and create agricultural practices less damaging to soil and surrounding ecosystems.  Mixing crops including within forest environments instead of completely cutting down the trees are becoming more common initiatives and definitely in line with the GSPC. 

Gardens and Herbaria: Colonial America

Acer saccharinum by Redouté from Michaux’s The North American Sylva, Biodiversity Heritage Library

In this series of posts on gardens (1,2,3), I’ve written primarily of British gardens and gardeners:  women, nurserymen, and acclimatization of exotics in colonial botanical gardens.  Now I want to turn to a subject that combines the themes of these earlier posts:  North American colonial gardens.  Just as the European colonial powers moved plants around the globe, with Brazilian rubber ending up in Malay Peninsula plantations and Asian breadfruit in the West Indies, American colonists were eager to grow European plants and other exotics.  This side of the bilateral trade has been less emphasized than the many North American plants that became prized items in European gardens such as magnolias, kalmias, and tulip trees.

The Philadelphia farmer John Bartram was a well-known exporter of seeds and seedlings of such species to the British textile merchant Peter Collinson, the middle man in dealings with wealthy British gardeners who awaited Bartram’s yearly boxes of botanical treasures.  Collinson also sent seeds and seedlings in return, including fruit trees.  He even shared seeds of a Chinese aster species that had been collected by French Jesuit missionaries and sent home where its seeds were propagated and passed from France to England through the eager network of botanists that existed at the time.  Trading was a way to insure that one was on the receiving end of the next interesting exotic to come along (O’Neill & McLean, 2008).

One of Bartram’s cousin, Humphry Marshall, had a farm in the Brandywine Valley where he created a botanical garden and also an arboretum.  He specialized in exporting tree seeds and seedlings of native trees to such British customers as Joseph Banks, but Marshall also imported European species for local customers.  After the Revolution they were interested in enriching their properties in the new nation with botanic novelties (Harshberger, 1903).  In 1785, Marshall produced the first botanical book about native plants written by an American and published in America, Arbustrum Americanum: The American Grove.  In the same year, a French botanist with an interest in trees, André Michaux, arrived in the United States, sent by the French government to set up a more formal plant exchange than that between Bartram and Collinson.  Michaux brought European plants with him to sell and to trade with collectors.  He set up a nursery in New Jersey where his assistant could grow seedlings from the plants he collected and then send them to France.  Michaux went on to Charleston, South Carolina, which had long had a French flavor because of its Huguenot population, Protestants who had fled Catholic France years before.

By this time the botany of the Carolinas was relatively well known in Europe thanks to Mark Catesby’s The Natural History of Carolina, Florida and Bahama.  Even earlier, James Petiver had a number of collectors who either visited or lived there.  Alexander Garden, a Scottish physician, set up a practice in Charleston in 1752.  He was an enthusiastic botanist, collected in the area and sent plant and animal specimens to John Ellis in England and Carl Linnaeus in Sweden.  Garden corresponded with John Bartram, visited him in Philadelphia, and hosted him on his trip to Charleston.  Bartram was encouraged by Collinson to collect broadly, hence his travels that took him from northern New York to Florida.  In Charleston he met not only Garden, but Martha Logan, a nurserywoman who too was involved in sending and receiving seeds and bulbs (Stearns, 1970).

Michaux’s work for the French government was on a larger scale.  Unlike Logan who had a small plot, he bought over 100 acres outside Charleston, and employed enslaved people to clear the land in preparation for the plants and seeds he began collecting.  He had brought his teenage son, François André, with him and together they explored not only around Charleston but went on more extended trips.  His son returned to France for further education, while Michaux continued to explore and collect plants.  He sent specimens back to botanists at the Paris botanical garden, and also cultivated thousands of plants, shipping them to France.  Most did not survive, which he discovered when he returned to France after 10 years in the United States.

Michaux worked on his specimens at the Paris garden and a few years later was part of an expedition to Africa where he died in 1802.  His son François André Michaux returned to the United States to dispose of the two nurseries and spent time collecting as well.  He traveled to Mexico and around the United States, so he added many species to the ones his father collected.  From 1810 to 1813 he published three volumes of what was translated as The North American Sylva.  The original edition had illustrations by the noted botanical artists Pierre-Joseph Redouté and Pancrace Bessa (see image above).  In 1853 there was a supplement produced with more species, including ones from the West, collected by Thomas Nuttall (Savage & Savage, 1986).


Harshberger, J. W. (1913). Exercises in memory of Humphry Marshall and William Darlington, at Marshallton, Pa., September 27, 1913. Hickman. http://hdl.handle.net/2027/hvd.32044106373145

O’Neill, J., & McLean, E. (2008). Peter Collinson and the 18c Natural History Exchange. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society.

Savage, H. Jr., & Savage, E. J. (1986). André and François André Michaux. Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press.

Stearns, R. P. (1970). Science in the British Colonies of America. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press.

Gardens and Herbaria: Acclimatization and Cultivation

Panax quinquefolius, Mark Catesby, The Natural History of Carolina, Florida, and the Bahama Islands,  Biodiversity Heritage Library

In the age of exploration, growing exotic plants in gardens, botanic or personal, could be a challenge and “acclimatization” became an important goal:  to have a plant from one climate and ecosystem thrive in a different one.  Mary Somerset (see earlier post) did this on a small scale, but to introduce a plant into agriculture or horticulture required much more time and a larger operation.  In 1652, the Dutch created a botanical garden at Cape Town, a trading post for the Dutch East India Company (VOC).  Like many colonial gardens, its function changed over time, as the needs of the colonial government did.  At first, it produced fresh vegetables, mostly European varieties, to supply VOC ships stopping at the Cape.  Later many European and Indian food plants were grown there.  When the garden was enlarged, it had a dedicated space for flowering plants and eventually a program for acclimatizing promising species collected from the parts of Asia involved in Dutch trade.  In the 1690s, Henrik Bernard Oldenland worked for the VOC exploring parts of South Africa and collecting plants.  Later he was superintendent of the Cape Town garden and created a 14-volume herbarium from the plants he collected, especially those he then cultivated in the garden.  It is now at the Geneva Botanical Garden Herbarium (Gunn & Codd, 1981).

Successful cultivation at garden’s like Oldenland’s made more plants available for distribution to other colonies and to the home country.  There were also studies on whether or not related species, or ones that were thought to be related, had similar properties.  This issue arose with a form of cinnamon, now identified as Laurus cinnamomum, found in South America that was ultimately a disappointment to those looking for a new source of the expensive Asian spice from Cinnamomum ceylanicum native to Ceylon, now Sri Lanka (Bleichmar, 2017).  Ginseng from Asia, Panax ginseng, with a root resembling a human form, had been highly prized in Europe for centuries, and when a similar plant, ultimately designated Panax quinquefolius, was found in North America, it spurred the hope that this new supply source would provide ginseng at a greatly reduced price (see image above).  But did it have the same medicinal properties?  For this work, there was no substitute for growing the plants and testing their potency, coupled with herbarium specimens for documenting precisely what was grown.  Eventually, the two plants were deemed different species, though with similar medicinal properties (Stearns, 1970).

The story of Cinchona lancifolia, source of quinine and native to the Andes, is an example of how difficult it was to work out a plant’s chemistry.  The Spanish struggled to learn both to extract the active ingredient from the tree’s bark and to find cinchona varieties that were particularly rich in it.  In 1783, when Spain was seeking to better use their colonies’ botanical resources, the viceroy of New Granada asked one of his governors to supply “skeletons,” herbarium specimens, of the local cinchona trees, ones from which the precious bark was harvested.  The governor was suspicious of this request, judging rightly that the botanists in Bogota, the capital, wanted to compare these specimens with ones from trees they were growing.  There was a great deal of debate about the quinine level in different trees, and even how to measure it, with some arguing for chemical tests, and others seeing medical effectiveness as the only valid measure.  One problem was that there were several species of the Cinchona genus that had varying quinine levels; purification also resulted in unpredictable yields (Crawford, 2016).

While South America was the only source for cinchona worldwide, other countries were attempting to raise the trees in their colonies.  The Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew grew cinchona seeds collected by Richard Spruce, a nineteenth-century British collector.  The garden was also offered seed from a British expatriate living in Peru, Charles Ledger.  Kew turned him down, not knowing the origin of the seeds, but the Dutch were willing to take a chance.  Ledger’s seeds were from what was found to be a different species, now named Cinchona calisaya, that produced more quinine, allowing the Dutch in Java to corner the market until World War II.  While Britain never competed in the international quinine trade, the Kew experiments led to transfer of Cinchona succirubra plants from Kew to Britain’s colonies in Africa and Asia that were plagued by malaria, so they could avoid paying the high Dutch prices (Brockway, 1979).

In the nineteenth century, Kew was center of a network of botanical gardens in British colonies with acclimatization as a major aim.  As with the French and Dutch, some of these gardens had already been founded in the eighteenth century, such as one in Calcutta.  The Calcutta Botanic Garden and others in India were under the control of the East India Company (EIC), a quasi-governmental body ruling large areas of India.  Among the major interests of the EIC was forestry.  Britain had long ago decimated many of its own forests, while its need for lumber continued to expand.  Trees were an important element of economic botany in the colonies.  In India, the exploitation and destruction of forests became so intense, it caused fears of future shortages and also environmental change:  cutting down trees led to changes in local weather patterns, loss of soil fertility, and consequently environmental deterioration in large areas of the country (Noltie, 2016).  Botanic gardens were used as experimental stations to study trees that might be grown on plantations to produce lumber and for reforestation projects.  At one point the Singapore Botanic Gardens focused on growing large numbers of plants, particularly rubber trees, to be distributed throughout the country and to other parts of the British Empire (Barnard, 2016).  In order to document what was grown and to understand the differences among various species and subspecies, herbarium specimens, wood samples, and drawings were collected.


Barnard, T. P. (2016). Nature’s Colony: Empire, Nation and Environment in the Singapore Botanic Gardens. Singapore: National University of Singapore Press.

Bleichmar, D. (2011). Visible Empire: Botanical Expeditions and Visual Culture in the Hispanic Enlightenment. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Brockway, L. B. (1979). Science and Colonial Expansion: The Role of the British Royal Botanic Gardens. Interdisciplinary Anthropology, 6(3), 449–465.

Crawford, M. J. (2016). The Andean Wonder Drug: Cinchona bark and imperial science in the Spanish Atlantic, 1630-1800. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press.

Gunn, M., & Codd, L. E. (1981). Botanical exploration of Southern Africa. Cape Town: Balkema.

Noltie, H. J. (2016). Indian Forester, Scottish Laird: The Botanical Lives of Hugh Cleghorn of Stravithie. Edinburgh: Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh.

Stearns, R. P. (1970). Science in the British Colonies of America. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press.

Gardens and Herbaria: The Nursery Trade

Specimen of Medicago lupulina with description in German from Kaufmann and Saamenhandler catalogue, 1826; Oak Spring Foundation Library.

As the examples of Mary Somerset and Margaret Bentinck illustrate (see last post), large sums of money were lavished on gardens.  Over the centuries as the number of gardeners grew, gardening became a business.  The wealthy employed managers for their estates and these men in turn hired those who actually did the work.  John Tradescant the Elder spent many years as head gardener to the Duke of Buckingham, who financed collecting trips to Russia, Algiers, and the Middle East in search of new plants to cultivate.  His son John Tradescant the Younger made trips to Virginia between 1628 and 1637, introducing the magnolia, bald cypress, and tulip tree to Britain.  The Tradescants had their own garden on the outskirts of London where they grew the plants they had collected and sold them to interested gardeners, while maintaining their positions on estates.  After Buckingham died, the father served King Charles I as did his son (Potter, 2016).

The Tradescants were early to a new form of business:  the nursery, where gardeners could buy equipment and also novel plants.  On the outskirts of London nurseries cultivated plants in large number and sold the seeds they harvested.  Plants from North America and South Africa became particularly popular because their native ranges had climates more similar to Europe than those from India or South America.  Nurserymen often dealt directly with collectors or plant importers.  There was much communication of information and plants, especially seeds, across Spain, France, the Netherlands, and Britain, with each country’s plantsmen having different sources for exotics.  Some nurseries specialized in exotic plants and had connections with collectors, some of them officers on the British naval vessels.  Another good source of novel species was the Netherlands, with its colonies in the Far East and connections to Spanish and Portuguese trading vessels that stopped at Dutch ports.

Besides cultivating exotics, nurserymen also experimented with better ways of nurturing common garden plants and finding new varieties.  Thomas Fairchild who grew and sold plants in London, was the first to create a hybrid between two plant species.  There is a herbarium specimen at the Oxford University Herbarium of “Fairchild’s mule,” a cross between sweet William and carnation pink—an example of how herbaria can document otherwise fleeting botanical accomplishments (Leapman, 2000).  Fairchild was also the first to have a blooming horse chestnut tree in Britain, almost 200 years after Ogier Ghiselin de Busbecq brought seeds and specimens from Greece for Carolus Clusius and Pietro Andrea Mattioli.

As with any business, nurserymen needed ways to advertise their wares.  William Darby, who dealt in exotics, used a herbarium as a sales catalogue; it was portable and provided proof that he in fact had possession of the species (Harris, 2011).  It was also a way to appeal to the more sophisticated gardeners, who also documented their plants this way.  Kaufmann and Saamenhandler, nurserymen in Rostock, Germany, had a sales catalogue for forage herbs and grasses that was sold with and without specimens pasted to its pages (see image above).  There was even a deluxe version that included vials of seeds for each species, except for the six at the end of the catalogue that were considered noxious weeds and were included to help customers identify these interlopers.

Some sellers simply printed up lists of what they had in stock, perhaps with a brief description of each variety.  Others added woodcuts picturing their wares, but for the most elite clients, there were colored engravings as in Robert Furber’s Twelve Months of Flowers with plates of flowering plants he sold, organized by the month they bloomed.  At times the advertising was more subtle.  Mark Catesby, perhaps the best known British naturalist who visited colonial North America, made two trips there.  On the second begun in 1722, he amassed a large collection of plants and animal specimens, as well as notes and drawings he used in his two-volume The Natural History of the Carolinas, Florida, and the Bahamas.  He engraved the illustrations himself because he could not afford to hire an engraver.  To make ends meet, Catesby was involved in London’s nursery trade, where North American plants were popular (Nelson & Elliott, 2018).  Particularly in the second volume, a number of plant descriptions include the names of nurserymen who had successfully grown particular species.  Since only the wealthy could afford these books, they served almost as catalogues for American exotics aimed at a receptive clientele.  After Catesby’s death, his Hortus Europae Americanus was published.  It focused on North American trees and shrubs that could be grown in British gardens and was a more explicit advertisement for these species.

As a brief postscript, a stained glass window honoring Catesby has recently been installed in St. Giles’ Cripplegate Church in London.  It was a joint project of the Mark Catesby Centre at the University of South Carolina and the Worshipful Company of Gardeners, which received a British royal charter in 1605 to regulate the sale of plants, a sign of maturation of the nursery trade.  The window is a reminder of the close ties between plant collecting and plant selling as well as an indication of how Britain values its garden history.  A second example of this is another church building a few miles away.  St. Mary’s Lambeth Church where John Tradescant the Elder is buried.  It was due to be demolished and was saved by being turned into the Garden Museum.  It’s a beautiful building with a lovely old churchyard that includes a prominent memorial to Tradescant erected by his wife.


Harris, S. (2011). Planting Paradise: Cultivating the Garden 1501-1900. Oxford: Bodleian Library.

Leapman, M. (2000). The Ingenious Mr. Fairchild: The Forgotten Father of the Flower Garden. St. Martin’s.

Nelson, E. C., & Elliott, D. J. (Eds.). (2015). The Curious Mister Catesby: A Truly Ingenious Naturalist Explores New Worlds. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press.

Potter, J. (2006). Strange Blooms: The Curious Lives and Adventures of the John Tradescants. Atlantic Books.

Gardens and Herbaria: Women

Embroidery of cherry tree by Bess of Hardwick, Oxburgh Hall, Norfolk, UK

This series of posts is on gardens and the herbaria that document what has been grown in them.  Most gardeners do not preserve specimens of their favorite plants, though some might press a flower or beautiful leaf between the pages of a gardening guide.  In the past however, some gardeners were so tied into botanical networks that pressing plants was an important part of their practice.  I am thinking specifically of two British noblewomen who gardened on a grand scale.  The first is Mary Somerset, Duchess of Beaufort (1630-1715), who traded plant information with such botanical notables as Hans Sloane, William Sherard, and James Petiver.  Even John Ray consulted her herbarium in writing some of his plant descriptions.

Somerset had the wealth to pay collectors for exotic plants from around the world and also to create conditions in which these plants could flourish.  She and her gardeners gave delicate plants a great deal of attention.  She was among the first to have a stove or heated greenhouse with large windows and heating under a stone floor provided by an open fire in a mobile cart on tracks so it could be moved around under the floor.  Botanists like Petiver enjoyed visiting her because of the plants he found flourishing, some of which he only knew from pressed specimens.  Somerset was assisted by William Sherard, a botanist who later worked at Oxford and whom she hired as her grandson’s tutor.  He schooled her in botany, used his connections to add many exotics to her garden, and developed her herbarium as she worked side by side with him (Davies, 2016).

The Duchess kept track of both the rare and familiar plants she grew, and in her herbarium there are pages of anemone flowers, for example, from varieties that have long since disappeared and for which the collection provides a permanent physical record of their existence.  There are few such horticultural herbaria, particularly from this period.  It is not surprising that the 12-volume Somerset herbarium is now part of Sloane’s at the Natural History Museum, London (NHM).  Later in life when she moved from her estate in Beaufort to a house and garden in Chelsea, she was Sloane’s neighbor.  Anxious to get plant names right, she corresponded with Sloane and others, admitting that neither she nor her gardener knew Latin, yet Sloane thought so highly of her cultivation skills and facilities that he had her grow medicinal plants for the Royal College of Physicians (McClain, 2001).

Somerset documented her successes not only in her herbarium but by having her plants drawn by artists including Everhard Kick, who had painted the Jamaican plants in Sloane’s collection.  Kick spent from 1703 to 1705 at Somerset’s estate depicting species she was growing.  One was a Polygala or milkwort species from the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa that was not introduced into British horticulture until 1707, suggesting that Somerset had received a plant directly from the collector, a sign of her status in the botanical network (Cottesloe & Hunt, 1986).

Somerset used Kick’s paintings and those of others as templates for embroidery designs.  She was a skilled needleworker, as were many upper-class women of her time, and flowers were a favorite subject.  In an article on Mary Queen of Scots and Bess of Hardwick, Nicole LaBouff (2018) argues that women used embroidery as a way to display and also increase their botanical knowledge.  Among the references for these women’s work was Andrea Mattioli’s herbal from Mary’s library.   They considered sewing another form of study, a way to learn about plant form and structure, an adjunct to working in the garden or creating a herbarium.  Each enriched their understanding of plants.  Since women were limited in their educational opportunities, they used such outlets to grow intellectually through what were considered feminine arts.

Years later, the constraints remained but the number of women horticulturists had grown.  The Duchess of Portland Margaret Bentinck (1715-1785) was another wealthy woman who used plants as a way to develop her intellect, her aesthetic sense, and her gardens.  Like Somerset, she had a leading botanical artist, Georg Ehret, document her plants in watercolors and teach her daughters painting.  Bentinck was also a patron to the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who later in life studied botany, seeing it as calming the emotions by focusing the mind on something outside itself.  Botany became an important manifestation of his interest in nature, especially in common species rather than exotics and horticultural “monstrosities.”  When Rousseau visited England, he stayed at Bentinck’s estate and botanized with her.  He gave her two portable herbaria since he considered a plant collection a way to reinforce botanical knowledge (Laird, 2015).

Mary Delany, known for her exquisite floral embroideries and even more for her floral paper cutouts, was a good friend of Bentinck and spent months at a time visiting her.  They studied Linnaean botany with the Rev. John Lightfoot, who organized Bentinck’s specimens, collected for her, and served as her chaplain (Laird & Weisberg-Roberts, 2009).  Through her work with Lightfoot, Delany was familiar with specimen preparation and so with arranging a plant on paper, flattening it out, and making sure all its essential features were displayed.  With her cutouts she was doing something similar and often depicted both sides of a plant’s leaves, common practice in mounting a specimen.  Delany’s collages can be likened to herbarium specimens in having more depth and texture than an illustration; there are even a few cases where Delany added real leaves to a work (see above).  Botany, specimen preparation, and art sharpened her observations and drove her to look closely and to become more connected with flower form.


Cottesloe, G., & Hunt, D. (1983). The Duchess of Beaufort’s Flowers. Exeter, UK: Webb and Bower.

Davies, J. (2016). Botanizing at Badminton: The botanical pursuits of Mary Somerset, First Duchess of Beaufort. In D. Optiz, S. Bergwik, & B. Van Tiggelen (Eds.), Domesticity in the Making of Modern Science (pp. 19–40). London: Palgrave Macmillan.

LaBouff, N. (2018). Embroidery and Information Management: The Needlework of Mary Queen of Scots and Bess of Hardwick Reconsidered. 81(3), 315–358. https://doi.org/10.1353/HLQ.2018.0014

Laird, M. (2015). A Natural History of English Gardening 1650-1800. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

Laird, M., & Weisberg-Roberts, A. (2009). Mrs. Delany and Her Circle. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

McClain, M. (2001). Beaufort: The Duke and his Duchess. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

Other Callings: Miscellanea

Anemones from the Rosa Luxemburg Herbarium

This post, the last in a series on plant collectors who also were involved in other careers, should really be called “other, other callings.”  It deals with those who weren’t involved in religion, philosophy, or business, the subjects of the last three posts (1,2,3).  The most obvious group I’ve missed are physicians, and I did that on purpose:  there are just too many of them.  Through much of botanical history, materia medica focused on plant material, and many physicians from Luca Ghini to John Torrey became more interested in plants than in patients.  Even in the 20th-century, Baruch Blumberg, who won the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for his discovery of hepatitis B, went on to seek a cure by screening plants for active antiviral agents.  The research didn’t pan out, but in the process he created a herbarium at the Fox Chase Cancer Center to house the voucher specimens his team collected (Blumberg, 1998).

Sometimes life takes someone into a field far from botany, only to lead back to it.  Gunnar Seidenfaden was a Danish diplomat who studied botany at the University of Copenhagen, but failed his master exam and turned to studying economics and political science, then joining the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs.  In the 1950s, he became ambassador to Thailand.  This post allowed him to collect, grow, and study the country’s orchids, which had never been adequately documented.  He continued this work for the rest of his life and made a significant contribution to orchid taxonomy, especially Thai species (Pedersen et al., 2009).

A person in any walk of life can be seduced by plants and the desire to collect them:  to have a physical record of what they have seen and studied.  Sometimes what is of interest is not even a plant, but a fungus.  The avant-garde composer John Cage focused on mushrooms, and several of his specimens are in the New York Botanical Garden Steere Herbarium.  He had a long-term fascination with macrofungi in part because he considered their mycelia as a metaphor for the twists and turns of music.  He even produced a book on them, A Mycological Foray, that was very Cagean in its mixture of remembrances of foraging trips, discussions of cooking with mushrooms, and experiments in poetry.

Cage also created a portfolio of illustrations with the artist Lois Long.  Each of her graceful and accurate lithographs has a cover sheet done by Cage with his notes on the species pictured.  His contribution reproduces pencil notes that are written helter-skelter and often overlap each other.  Saving the day is a translucent cover sheet over the lithograph with the notes clearly printed, though in what I consider overly small print.  Both the book and portfolio were published in 1972 and have been re-released along with a set of postcards of Cage’s recipes and of contemporary art works (Cage, 2020).  Two of the cards are scratch-offs to give the reader/viewer, an olfactory experience as well; this was not my favorite part of the collection.

Another artist interested in fungi was Erio Camporesi who made a living as an accountant.  While Cage’s herbarium contributions were meager, Camporesi’s specimens now in herbaria number in the thousands.  He contributed them to many mycologists working on a number of different groups.  Earlier this year, the journal Fungal Diversity dedicated an issue to his contributions, including reproductions of several of his artworks (see image above).  These are brightly-colored, fanciful paintings that emphasize the interconnections fungi make with the world around them (Phukhamsakda et al., 2020).

Not all plant collectors have a purpose so closely tied to science.  In the 19th century, it was common to collect plants while on vacation as a way to preserve memories of experiences in nature.  Pressed plants can also serve as reminders of nature for those less privy to it.  The Marxist revolutionary Rosa Luxemburg filled 17 notebooks with specimens, mostly wildflowers, between 1913 and 1918, during which she was jailed several times for her activities in Germany.  Her herbarium was how she kept in touch with what she considered the best parts of her world.  When she could collect she did, and at other times, friends sent her pressed specimens to help her stay connected to the beauties of the world around her.  A German publisher produced a book in 2016 with photos of pages from these notebooks, and some were exhibited last year in New York.

I would like to argue that the Luxemburg exhibition is yet one more sign of a resurgence of interest in plant collections.  In this case, it is not so much for scientific reasons but for historical and cultural ones.  Luxemburg was a political radical and also a feminist at a time when both could be dangerous pursuits.  We tend to think of pressing flowers as something done by delicate young women of privilege, but flowers can be a source of pleasure and comfort to people of all classes and beliefs.  Many have turned to pressing plants during the Covid lockdown, with Quarantine Herbarium projects in both the United States and Britain.  And don’t forget Tanisha M. Williams of this summer’s Black Botanists Week project that blossomed on Twitter this summer.  She is a post-doctoral fellow in Bucknell University’s biology department and a herbarium habitué who sees diversity in the botanical community as key to maintaining biodiversity throughout the world.  Herbaria and herbaria lovers seem to be burgeoning in number and that can only be a good thing for the future of plant life on earth.


Blumberg, B. S. (1998). Case study of plant-derived drug research: Phyllanthus and hepatitis B virus. In T. R. Tomlinson & A. Olayiwola (Eds.), Medicinal Plants: Their Role in Health and Biodiversity. (pp. 3–10). Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

Cage, J. (2020). A Mycological Foray. Los Angeles: Atelier.

Luxemburg, R. (2016). Herbarium by Rosa Luxemburg (E. Wittich, Ed.). Berlin: Dietz.

Pedersen, H., Watthana, S., & Srimuang, K. (2009). Gunnar Seidenfaden and his heritage: Developments in the diversity and organization of Thai orchid studies. Thai Forest Bulletin, 37, 156–168.

Phukhamsakda, C., & et al. (2020). The contributions of Erio Camporesi. Fungal Diversity, 100, 1–3.