CHAPTER XXIII.
OPHIDIAN NOMENCLATURE AND VERNACULARS.
IN a lecture on ‘Chameleons’ at the Zoological Gardens, Professor St. George Mivart described in his peculiarly lucid, facile manner, some of the features possessed in common by totally different zoological families, and facetiously added, ‘It is tiresome how a single species will come and interfere with our nice definitions in classification.’[116] I will devote a chapter to the confusion arising from some such mixed features.
In the classification of the Ophidia these tiresome complications present themselves more, perhaps, than in any other creatures. We have seen how snakes of entirely opposite families may possess one single feature in common and differ in other generic respects; as, for instance, in the moveable but innocuous fang of the Xenodons; in those ‘pits’ or depressions in the face; the viperine form of head; the position and number of head-shields; the sub-caudal plates, and so on; and in such resemblances I am strongly inclined to suspect that there are other interfering causes than a common ancestry, though this, no doubt, has much to do with it.
‘What is to prevent our having one fixed name, and keeping to it?’ exclaim the sorely-puzzled amateur naturalists. And well they may, on seeing in some works on ophiology a list of synonyms sometimes filling several pages.
By way of illustration let us take the little spine-toothed snake described among the egg-eaters in chap. iii. This snake was known to be edentulus by Linnæus, who nevertheless gave it the generic name of Coluber, because it has two rows of sub-caudal plates; and the specific scaber, because it has roughly-carinated scales—both names equally applicable to a score of other snakes, and not at all describing its unique dentition. This latter was first made a distinguishing feature by Jourdan, 1833, who assigned it the generic name of Rachiodon, spine-toothed. Lacepède called it simply La rude; Wagler, Dasypeltis, thick or rough-scaled, the integument rather than the dentition still receiving prior attention by the majority of observers.
Dr. Andrew Smith in 1829 more closely watched its habits, and considered that its peculiar dentition was sufficient to separate it from the Oligodon (few-toothed) family, under the new generic name of Anodon, with the specific typus to mark it as a distinct type. Afterwards he found that the word Anodon had been already adopted by naturalists for a shell-fish, and he contented himself therefore with Wagler’s name Dasypeltis, adding inornatus for its specific, otherwise D. scaber. It is a small, slender snake, rarely exceeding 2-1/2 feet in length, and of an inconspicuous brownish colour. That it is an extremely slender little snake is evident from the portion of spine copied from the skeleton in the museum of R. C. S., and given in the chapter on egg-eating snakes. Jourdan’s name Rachiodon, though the best that had hitherto been assigned to the spine-toothed tree snake, was yet rather vague, as the teeth might be anywhere along the spinal column; and Professor Owen still further improved upon this name by calling it Deirodon, neck-toothed; for though, as already stated, a snake has no true ‘neck,’ the word Deirodon designates the position of those gular teeth; and for convenience, everybody speaks of a snake’s ‘neck’ in allusion to the part immediately behind the head. So the little egg-eating tree snake is equally well entitled to the generic names of Oligodon, few teeth; Rachiodon, spine teeth; Anodon, toothless (as far as true teeth are concerned); and Deirodon, neck-toothed. In habits it differs entirely from the Oligodontidæ family, which are ground snakes. The Deirodons are frequently found concealed under the loose bark of dead trees; and Dr. A. Smith observed three species all having a like organization, which induced him to conclude that all feed alike on birds’ eggs.
As very few snakes have such an exceptionally distinguishing organization as the Deirodon, few are so happy as to escape with only half a score of titles. Many species that have been longer known have had their names similarly improved upon by fifty naturalists, and are still undergoing renomination as new observers discover closer alliances with one or another family. This is particularly the case in America, where a nomenclature entirely differing from our own is often adopted. It will probably be the same in Australia as the science of ophiology advances and as native naturalists increase. Says Krefft, in allusion to these commingling features and many synonyms: ‘It is difficult for even the scholar to master the vexatious question of snake classification.’ Add to the scientific names an equal number of vernacular ones, and we encounter a list sufficient to dismay the merely lukewarm student at the very outset.
Let me here suggest the utility of first getting at the meaning of scientific terms as an immense assistance towards fixing them in the memory. In the construction of generic and specific names some peculiarity is, or should be, described. This I have endeavoured to keep before the reader throughout this volume; and by first looking at the meaning of the word, it is at once simplified, while that peculiar feature for which it is named is also grasped. Occasionally a name baffles us, it is true, and one fails to see cause or reason in it; but this is an exception. Other names without apparent reason are from persons, as, for instance, when a Mr. Smith thinks to immortalize himself by calling a snake Coluber smithii. Probably the next observer would find this too general to be of much use, and discover some peculiarity more worthy of a specific.
Not long ago, when Lacerda was experimenting with our distinguished ophidian, the ‘Curucucu’ (Bothrops or Lachesis rhombeata), it was variously introduced to the public through the daily press, as the Bothraps rhambeata, the Hachesis rhambeata, and the Lachesis rhambeata. It is doubtful whether many of the ‘general public’ imagined these three names to represent the same snake, or whether—except possibly from the last generic one—they could form any idea of the reptile therefrom. Of the many papers that fell under one’s notice, Land and Water alone on this occasion spelt the words correctly. As yet there is no journal devoted to the Reptilia, and the study is evidently not attractive. Nor do we expect all naturalists to be ophiologists; but those of the editors who were zoologists might have hazarded a guess and made sense of the generic Lachesis, seeing that a deadly, fateful serpent was intended. Some of the scientific ‘weeklies’ having started the wrong names, unscientific ‘dailies’ deferentially transcribed them. The errors were chiefly traceable to caligraphy, and are mentioned here to exemplify the advantage of seeking a meaning in scientific appellations, the meanings of some names being so obvious that in spite of a wrong letter you may frequently decide upon them.