Great crazes from history? No contest for me. It's got to be the mid-Victorian madness known as Fern Fever, or pteridomania to give it's official name. Fern Fever was a peculiarly British eccentricity that is thought to have originated in the 1830s at a time when amateur and professional botanists began taking a serious interest in the countryside of the United Kingdom in increasing numbers, sleuthing for new discoveries.
Why ferns in particular? Partly because as a group they had been less researched and written about than our native flowering plants, and partly because they could be found in greater variety and abundance in the wetter, wilder parts of the north and west, regions that had just begun to become more accessible with the rise of railways and decent roads.
By the 1850s, pteridomania (a phrase conjured up by Charles Kingsley) had become something of a national obsession, regardless of class. A hobby for some, a scientific pursuit for others, a commercial undertaking for horticulturalists and publishers, fern fever gripped doctors, labourers, merchants, miners, school teachers, solicitors, men of leisure, shopgirls and society wives alike.
As Kingsley wrote in his 1855 book 'Glaucus':
"Your daughters, perhaps, have been seized with the prevailing 'Pteridomania' ...and wrangling over unpronounceable names of species (which seem different in each new Fern-book that they buy) ...and yet you cannot deny that they find enjoyment in it, and are more active, more cheerful, more self-forgetful over it, than they would have been over novels and gossip, crochet and Berlin-wool."
Fern collecting became commercialised and respectable with the provision of literature and merchandise to support the craze.
A recent invention, the Wardarian Case (fore-runner of the modern terrarium), was a popular purchase and could be found in many stylish drawing-rooms. This protected the ferns from pollution, a growing hazard in metropolitan areas. Fern houses, adjuncts equivalent to modern conservatories, and much grander outdoor ferneries served a similar purpose.
In fact Ward's invention paved the way for botanist George Loddiges to build the world’s largest hothouse in East London (illustrated above), which included a fern nursery. Even though the fern was already associated with magic and nature folklore, Loddiges knew that he needed to further enhance its reputation in order to attract visitors to his hothouse. So he encouraged a belief that fern collecting showed intelligence and improved both virility and mental health. Soon, his neighbour, the famed botanist Edward Newman, published 'A History of British Ferns', a very well-received book which supported Loddiges’ claims and fuelled fern fever.
A devoted pteridomaniac, armed with Newman's book or a copy of Thomas Moore's 'The Ferns of Great Britain and Ireland' could set off like an intrepid adventurer on a wild fern hunt for the seventy or so native species. And some fern collectors didn't just restrict themselves to the British Isles. They would tour Europe or even further abroad into Asia in search of obscure samples for their ferneries. Or without going to such lengths themselves, they would purchase interesting specimens from a growing number of Fern Dealers.
At the height of fern fever, possibly on the back of Loddiges' claims about the efficacy of fern collecting, fern hunting parties became popular social occasions. The appeal may also have had something to do with the fact that these parties afforded romantic opportunities for young couples to meet in an informal setting.
Soon. even the truly discerning Victorian hostesses abandoned tea parties in favour of organized outings, daylong woodland expeditions complete with picnic baskets and competitions for who would find the rarest specimen of fern. Botany was, after all, one of the few avenues open to women who wanted to experience adventure for themselves. It was popular and widespread enough to be deemed an acceptable outdoor activity for the ladies who could even engage in fern hunting unchaperoned, since it was considered an entirely wholesome, healthy, and moral activity. Even very young girls (as noted by Kingsley above) would collect samples of ferns, dry and press them, and display them in albums.
Out of this upswell of fern fever came a response firstly from the world of decorative arts and then from homeware manufacturers. By the time of the 1862 International Exhibition, the fern motif was ubiquitous, on everything from glassware, pottery, metal, wood, wallpaper, and printed fabrics to jewellery, cutlery, gravestones and memorials. Even the contemporary custard cream biscuit features a baroque fern design if you look closely.
On a slightly more salacious note, apparently it was understood that a woman wearing a sprig of fern or fern motif in the form of an accessory (brooch or scarf maybe), was sending a coded message that she was up for a bit of adventure.
I tried to access the British Pteridological Society website to verify, but the site is currently unavailable.
As fern fever proliferated, some botanists began to express concerns that the rarer populations of British ferns might be in jeopardy from zealous collectors. As early as 1865, Nona Bellairs in her botanical guidebook 'Hardy Ferns' was calling for legislation:
It is true that some of the rare species were nearly decimated and have never quite recovered, They hang on in isolated pockets. But by the 1890s, and for no obvious reason, fern fever had practically run its course. Fern nurseries fell into neglect and fern houses and ferneries collapsed into ruin. Wild populations of ferns were left in peace and by and large recovered unmolested and unnoticed after their half-century brush with fame.
This latest poem is decidedly a work-in-progress, and I shall probably take it to the next meeting of our Blackpool & Fylde Stanza group for their considered input.
The Fern Collectors
Up with the snark in their thoughts
and quaintly mannered as Wesleyans
on a Sunday School trip, they fit
tight with excitement, all smiles
and smelling of bay rum and lilies,
into a third-class coach on a train
from Liverpool Street bound for
Epping and forest and ferns.
Clutching their maps of Essex,
their copies of Newman or Moore
and talking in turns about
that visit to the Hackney hothouse
the week before and where they might
explore today, their eyes burn with
fern fever, their presses await.
A whistle blows and the fun begins.
"Will you go hunt, my Lord?" quips one
and they fall to discussing specimens
they could happen upon. Broad Buckler
is common in those parts, likewise
Hartstongue fern, less so Adderstongue.
They do not use their Latin names,
too stilted and serious for the air
of flirtatious badinage arising
in the carriage, as the young men
wax lyrical about the Lady fern,
its delicate and lacy qualities,
and the maidens blush demurely
at talk of how Male and Hard ferns
stand proud from the undergrowth.
They've not even passed Leyton yet
but they cannot arrive too soon.
Thanks for reading, S ;-)
