The ornithological world is peopled by two classes of human beings. There
are those who study nature inside the museum with the microscope and the
scalpel; and there are those who love to observe birds in the open and
study their habits. The former, if kept in their place, perform a very
useful function, for they co-ordinate and elaborate the observations of
the field naturalist. They should be most useful servants to him.
Unfortunately these museum men are growing very powerful, and, like trade
unions, are beginning to dictate to their masters. Indeed, they bid fair
to become the masters and turn the field naturalists into their slaves.
The chief aim of the arm-chair or museum ornithologist appears to be the
multiplication of new species. Nowadays more species seem to be brought
into being by these men than by natural selection. When they are not
manufacturing new species, they are tampering with those that already
exist.
I have repeatedly had occasion to speak of the marvellous, kaleidoscopic
changes undergone by ornithological terminology—changes which are the
despair of the field naturalist. I am not a statistician, but at a rough
guess I should say that every species of bird has its name changed about
once in each decade. The object of having a classical terminology is that
naturalists of all countries shall have a common name for every bird and
beast, and thus not be at cross-purposes when conversing or
corresponding. But this object is most successfully defeated when the
classical name is continually undergoing alteration. It is practically
impossible for any one but the professional ornithologist to keep pace
with these changes. A poor dilettante like myself has not a look in. For
example, I received by the last mail[1] the latest issue of the
Avicultural Society’s Magazine and noticed in it an article on the
collared turtle-dove of Burma. Wondering what this bird might be, I
looked at its scientific name and found it to be _Turtur decaocta_. I
looked this up in both Jerdon and the _Fauna of British India_, but could
not find it; nor could I see any mention of the collared turtle-dove. On
reading through the paper I found, to my astonishment, that the bird
referred to was our familiar friend the common or garden Indian
ring-dove, which for years has been called _Turtur risorius_. _Risorius_
was a name good enough for Jerdon, Hume, Vidal, Legge, Barnes, Reid,
Davison, and a hundred other good ornithologists; but because, forsooth,
one Salvadori would like a change, we shall, I suppose, be obliged to
adopt the latest new-fangled appellation.
The museum ornithologist has yet another craze. He sees that there must
be some limit to the present multiplication of species, so he has hit
upon the brilliant idea of making sub-species. Just as the inhabitants of
every town and village have little local peculiarities, so have birds of
the same species which live in different provinces. The latest idea is to
make each of these a different sub-species with a special name of its
own. In the near future the scientific name of every bird will be
composed of three parts, the generic, the specific, and the sub-specific.
Thus Mr. T. H. Newman has discovered that the skin round the eye of the
ring-dove of Burma is not whitish, as it is in India, but yellow; Mr.
Newman therefore manufactures a new sub-species, which he calls _Turtur
decaocta xanthocyclus_ as opposed to the Indian bird which he calls
_Turtur decaocta douraca_. We may consider ourselves lucky that he has
not made a new species of the Burmese bird!
This is not an isolated case. Almost every unfortunate species in the
universe is being split up into a dozen or more sub-species. Any local
variation in the colour of the plumage is considered sufficient
justification for the formation of a sub-species, and we shall
undoubtedly, ere long, hear of sub-sub-species!!
The hopeless thing is that any Juggins can make new sub-species. It is as
easy as falling out of a tree. Let me show how it is done. Take the
common sparrow. This pushing little bird, this “feathered Hooligan,” as
Mr. Finn calls him, is found all over the world, and every one is able to
recognise the sparrow wherever he meets him as the same bird that insults
people in London. But the sparrows of each country have their little
peculiarities. For example, the cock sparrow in India has more white on
his neck than his brother in England. Hence we may make a sub-species of
the Indian bird and call him _Passer domesticus indicus_.
Now, close and patient observation during a prolonged sojourn in Madras
has convinced me that the sparrow in the Southern Presidency (I will no
longer call it the Benighted Presidency, for experience has shown me that
there are other parts of India far more benighted) is quite twenty per
cent. more impudent than the sparrows in Northern India. Hence we have no
option but to make a sub-sub-species of him. Let us call him _Passer
domesticus indicus maderaspatensis_. We may go even a step further. The
sparrows that hold chorus along the ledges of the iron rafters of the
Connemara Hotel are far more insulting and exasperating than any other
sparrows I have set eyes upon. This surely is quite sufficient
provocation for making a sub-sub-sub-species of those birds. I propose to
call them _Passer domesticus indicus maderaspatensis connemara
hotelwalla_—a name which I am sure will be received with acclamation both
by sparrows and human beings.
But enough of this foolery. The multiplication of species is really a
very serious matter, for it is likely to deter sane persons from taking
up the most delightful of studies. If the ornithological societies of
every country in the world would combine to suppress the evil, it could
easily be put down. But there is, I fear, no likelihood of such
combination, because these societies are composed mostly of museum
ornithologists, and it is too much to expect of these men that they will
voluntarily suppress their chief enjoyment in life. To persuade them to
act in this altruistic manner it will be necessary to offer them a _quid
pro quo_. The only _quid_ that suggests itself to me is to invite each of
them to name a bird after himself. Let the name of every known species (I
mean proper and indisputable species) be put in a hat and let each member
draw one out. The bird he draws will henceforth be called after him. If
any birds are left undrawn after every man has shed his name on one
species, the remainder could be balloted for, and thus some lucky dogs
would be able to give their name to two birds. When this is once done, it
should be made an offence punishable with death to change the specific
name of any feathered thing. Newly discovered birds and beasts could, as
heretofore, be named after the happy discoverer. This proposal will, if
adopted, cure the evil. My point is that it does not matter a jot what a
bird be called; the important thing is to give it a fixed and immutable
name, so that we poor field naturalists shall know where we are.
[1]Written towards the end of 1906.