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Collecting, curating and the construction of zoological knowledge Walter Rothschild’s zoological enterprise, c. 1878-1937

Larsson, Elle

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Collecting, Curating and the Construction of Zoological Knowledge:

Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Enterprise, c. 1878-1937.

Eleanor Julie Larsson

A thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, King’s College London, September 2019

Abstract

Late-Victorian banker and private collector Lionel Walter Rothschild (1868-1937) dedicated his life to the study of zoology. Often dismissed by historians as an ‘eccentric amateur’, he engaged in a wide range of zoological activities, which this thesis defines as an ‘enterprise’: he collected and studied huge quantities of zoological material, created a museum in which to house and display it for the benefit of researchers and visiting publics, and started his own zoological journal for disseminating the research that he, his museum curators and other zoologists performed. This thesis departs from recent historical literature, which tends to compartmentalise the investigation of collecting, museums, journals and zoological research, to explore their historical co-development. It demonstrates the multiple connections between these activities that together constituted museum-based zoological knowledge and practice in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century Britain. In exploring their intersections and synergies, it presents new and fruitful insights into the history of natural history, and establishes Rothschild as a far more significant contributor to this field than historians have previously realised. Standard historical narratives present this period as a time of professionalisation within the British life sciences, emphasising the emergence of specialist, professional and experimental biologists who occupied the growing number of paid positions within laboratories, universities and government departments. These narratives have however neglected to give critical attention to those who, like Rothschild, remained outside of the professional establishment in this period. In contrast, this thesis illustrates his importance, and that of the diverse cast of individuals involved in the world of natural history. It argues that only by examining the totality of the zoological enterprise and the multiple intersections between its practices, institutions, publications and personalities, can the historical significance of such individuals be revealed and understood.

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Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I wish to thank my lead supervisor, Professor Abigail Woods, for her expertise, guidance and continued support throughout the writing of this thesis. It has benefited infinitely from her frequent, insightful and constructive feedback. I would also like to thank my second supervisor, Dr Adelene Buckland, for her ongoing encouragement and enthusiasm, as well as her insightful comments and suggestions. I will be forever grateful for her extra words of reassurance in the weeks leading up to submission. And finally, also to Dr Robert Prŷs-Jones, who, as my partner organisation supervisor, has been a mine of information on all things ornithological and Rothschild. His support has been invaluable for navigating the scientific side of the project.

For their assistance with archival research I would like to pay special thanks to the Library and Archives team at the Natural History Museum, especially to Laura

Brown and Alison Harding, together with Ruth Benny, Paul Cooper, Hellen Pethers and Sarah Sworder. My thanks also go to ZSL archivist Sarah Broadhurst, Quex Park

Museum archivist Hazel Basford and Catherine Taylor, Head Archivist of The

Waddesdon Archive, Windmill Hill.

For conversations and encouragement throughout my research I would like to thank Melanie Aspey, Director of the Rothschild Archive, Tim Amsden and Richard

Tregoning of Tring Local History Society, John Tennant for his advice and insight into all things Meek, as well as Lisa Cardy, Andrea Hart and Eileen Cox of the Natural

History Museum. I would also like to thank Julie Harvey, who was key to making my collaboration with the Natural History Museum possible.

I have been incredibly fortunate to have shared my PhD experience with some fantastic people. Felicity, Alex and Alison, my PhD experience would not have been

2 the same without you. Not only have we become great friends, bonding over the highs and lows of the PhD journey but together we have achieved so much over the past four years. I am so proud of everything we have accomplished with the Animal History

Group and I could not have wished for better friends and colleagues. I want to extend a special thanks to Alison, who was only ever a phone call away in the months leading up to submission when I needed to talk through the most gnarly bits. Thank you.

Above all, I must thank my family who are my strongest supporters and have always encouraged me to believe that I can achieve anything I put my mind to. I especially want to thank my parents, Debbie and Stephan, for their unwavering love, support and encouragement in this and everything.

Finally, of course, I should thank Walter Rothschild for living such an extraordinary life – one which it has been a joy to explore and to use as a lens onto the world of natural history. This thesis was supported by a Professor Sir Richard Trainor

PhD Scholarship.

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Contents

Abstract 1

Acknowledgements 2

Illustrations, Photographs and Tables 5

Introduction – Rothschild’s Zoological Enterprise 9

Chapter I Money Matters 48

Chapter II Research 92

Chapter III Rothschild’s Zoological Museum 132

Chapter IV Acquisition 178

Chapter V Novitates Zoologicae: A Journal of Zoology 222

Conclusion 272

Epilogue – Rothschild’s Legacy 285

Bibliography 293

Appendix I – A full list of the specimen suppliers Rothschild conducted business with in 1895. 330

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Illustrations, Photographs and Tables

Fig. 1.1 Ancestor Tree of Lionel Walter Rothschild 54 Fig. 1.2 Tring Park Mansion from Morning Calls (1896). Image 56 from HathiTrust Digital Library digitised by Google Inc. Fig. 1.3 Rothschild’s childhood specimen collection. PH/13/5, 57 Archives of the Natural History Museum, London. Fig. 1.4 Tring Museum (1899) © Trustees of the Natural History 59 Museum Table 1.1 A breakdown of the minimum total expenditure for 1895 65

Fig. 1.5 A breakdown of the minimum total expenditure for 1895 66

Table 1.2 Expenditure on specimen acquisition by source for 1895 67

Table 1.3 Costs of museum maintenance and upkeep 71

Table 1.4 Costs of museum supplies for 1895 73 Fig. 1.6 Walter Rothschild © Trustees of the Natural History 77 Museum. Karl Jordan Douglas Glass Collection, Neg 25 File 1100, November 1957. Reproduced by permission of the copyright holder. Ernst Hartert from British Birds Vol. XXVII. Reproduced with the permission of British Birds. Table 1.5 The salaries and total payments received by staff for 1895 78

Fig. 1.7 Wage Comparison between Tring and BMNH 81

Fig. 1.8 Triangle of Activity 85 Table 1.6 A breakdown of payments made to produce Novitates in 86 1895 Fig 3.1 Floor plans for Tring Museum c.1892 138 Fig 3.2 Exterior of Tring Museum facing Park Street, showing 139 the extended building. To the left you can see the end of

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“the Cottage”. Copyright The Francis Frith Collection. Reproduced with their permission. Fig 3.3 The phases of development at Tring Museum 141 Fig 3.4 The entomological wing built in 1912 © Trustees of the 142 Natural History Museum Fig 3.5 Original exterior of Tring Museum facing Park Street. 143 From A Year with Nature, Westell (1900). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by University of California Libraries. Fig 3.6 The Hill Museum Exterior, Witley, Surrey. From The Bulletin of the Hill Museum (1921). Image from the 144 Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Smithsonian Libraries. Fig 3.7 The ground floor as per the 1898 museum guide 151

Fig 3.8 The first floor as per the 1898 museum guide 152 Fig 3.9 Plans of the zebra and antelope rooms as per the 1898 153 museum guide Fig 3.10 ‘Some Big Game’. Racing Illustrated, vol. III, no. 78, 2 154 July 1898. Image from Gale Primary Sources, Nineteenth Century UK Periodicals. Fig 3.11 Hummingbird Case Postcard. Natural History Museum, 160 Tring, Library Photographic Collections. Fig 3.12 Deer displays in the 1909-1912 extension (No date). 169 Natural History Museum, Tring, Library Photographic Collections. Fig 3.13 Cetacean displays in the 1909-1912 extension (No date). 169 Natural History Museum, Tring, Library Photographic Collections. Fig 3.14 A Corner of the Antelope Room. Racing Illustrated, vol. 170 III, no. 78, 2 July 1898. Image from Gale Primary Sources, Nineteenth Century UK Periodicals. Fig 3.15 ‘The White Rhinoceros’ in Tring Museum. Racing 173 Illustrated, vol. III, no. 77, 25 June 1898, p.773. Image

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from Gale Primary Sources, Nineteenth Century UK Periodicals. Fig 4.1 The network of specimen acquisition as it centred around 182 Rothschild and Tring Museum Fig 4.2 World map showing the areas in which Rothschild’s 186 collectors operated between 1893 and 1908 Fig 4.3 A sample of the locations William Doherty is recorded as 196 having collected in while exploring South Asia and North Australasia Fig 4.4 Illustration from the Handbook of Instructions for 198 Collectors (1902) showing how to complete a specimen label. Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. Fig 4.5 A Photograph from William Doherty’s 1900/01 201 expedition to East Africa of trying to get down to a bird’s nest. TM/3/4, Archives of the Natural History Museum, London. Fig. 4.6 Image reproduced in Meek’s A Naturalist in Cannibal 202 Land. Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by University of California Libraries. Fig. 4.7 Some of Rothschild’s animals with their keeper Mr 213 Marcham c. 1890 © Trustees of the Natural History Museum Fig. 4.8 Register of Deaths in the Menagerie Vol 6. 1900-1904. 214 Fig. 5.1 Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural 226 History Museum Library, London. Fig. 5.2 Opening page of Stray Feathers (1879). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by 230 Smithsonian Libraries. Fig. 5.3 Breakdown of Novitates Zoologicae articles by 238 taxonomic group.

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Fig. 5.4 ‘Some New Eastern Lepidoptera,’ Novitates Zoologicae 244 (1899). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. Fig. 5.5 ‘Propithecus majori sp.nov.’, Novitates Zoologicae 245 (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. Fig. 5.6 Plate XIV Propithecus majori, Rothsch. by J.G. 249 Kuelemans, Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. Fig. 5.7 Plates XII Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the 251 Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. Fig. 5.8 Plate XIII Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the 252 Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. Fig. 5.9 On Giant Land Tortoises, Novitates Zoologicae (1894). 256 Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. Table 5.1 A breakdown of contributors to Novitates Zoologicae, 264 1894-1942. Fig. 5.10 Percentage of articles by contributing group. 265

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Introduction

Rothschild’s Zoological Enterprise

In January 1906, while collecting near the Owen Stanley Ranges of North-Eastern

New Guinea, naturalist and collector Albert Stewart Meek (1871-1943) stumbled across a specimen of ‘giant butterfly’, distinctive for the length of its hindwings. With little inkling of the significance of his find, Meek shot and collected the specimen, adding it to his daily haul. Despite the damage it had incurred, Meek then packaged it up and sent it to England where it was destined to become a part of Walter Rothschild’s

(1868-1937) zoological collection, housed within his museum in Tring, Hertfordshire.

Regarded by contemporary commentators as ‘the last non-professional zoologist’,

Walter Rothschild was a prominent figure in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century natural history.1 Meek had been his agent and collector since the 1890s and had sent many of the specimens of birds and Lepidoptera gathered on his expeditions to Rothschild and his curators at Tring Museum.

Once the specimen had arrived at the museum it was examined by Rothschild, who noted its distinct physical characteristics and informed Meek that he had discovered the female of a new species of Lepidoptera. Rothschild published his findings in his museum’s journal, Novitates Zoologicae, in 1907, where he declared the specimen ‘a new species, standing intermediate between Troides victoriae and

Troides tithonus’, and gave it the name Troides alexandrae.2 The specimen was then labelled a ‘type’ (the name given to a specimen or specimens on which the description and name of a new species is based), pinned (the insertion of an entomological pin

1 Albert Edward Günther, A Century of Zoology at the British Museum through the Lives of Two Keepers, 1815-1914 (London: Dawsons, 1975), 422; Karl Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, Novitates Zoologicae 41 (1938): 1. 2 Lionel Walter Rothschild, ‘Troides Alexandrae Spec. Nov.’, Novitates Zoologicae v. 14 (1907): 96.

9 through the thorax), set (the spread and placement of the wings) and stored, probably in a compartmentalised drawer with a glass top and bottom, which was then placed within one of the many cabinets in the entomological section of the museum, where it could be consulted by Rothschild, his curators and the wider zoological community for research. However, the story did not end there. Meek had failed to secure a male specimen, which was essential for research on the species. In response, Rothschild authorised a second expedition, at the cost of several hundred pounds, to enable Meek to find one.3 Meek promptly returned to the area around the Owen Stanley Ranges, where it took over seven weeks before he secured the first male specimen. A number of others then followed which led Meek to successfully secure the ‘good series of both sexes’ Rothschild desired for his museum.4

This tale encapsulates the journey of many of the animals that Walter

Rothschild acquired for his zoological collection, which was itself a central component of what I have termed his ‘zoological enterprise’.5 This enterprise is the subject of this thesis and consisted of a museum and several affiliated parts, including a journal, professional curatorial staff, research collections, public displays and a network of collectors. Historians of natural history have tended to analyse each of these parts separately, but the history of specimens like Troides alexandrae illustrates their interconnections. By exploring their historical co-development and demonstrating the multiple connections between these activities, this thesis aims to demonstrate the need for historians to work across their self-imposed compartments. Its goal is not only to shed new light on Rothschild’s zoological enterprise, but to generate broader historical

3 ‘A Fascinating Story...’, Luton Times and Advertiser, 10 May 1912. 4 Rothschild, ‘Troides Alexandrae’, 96. 5 For full account see A. S. Meek, A Naturalist in Cannibal Land, ed. Frank Fox and Lionel Walter Rothschild (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1913), 173–75; W. John Tennent, ‘The “Long-Winged Troides”: Discovery of the Largest Butterfly in the World, in Papua New Guinea, by Albert Stewart Meek (1871-1943)’, The Linnean 26 (2010): 28–38.

10 insights into how, and by whom, natural-historical knowledge was generated in late- nineteenth and early-twentieth century Britain.

Born on the 8th February 1868, the eldest son of Nathaniel Mayer Rothschild,

1st Baron Rothschild (1840-1915), it was anticipated that Rothschild would learn the family business and take a leading role within investment banking firm N.M.

Rothschild & Sons. However, Rothschild showed no aptitude for banking and instead spent most of his life establishing his own zoological museum and collection. By the time of his death in 1937, his research collection consisted of 2.5 million set

Lepidoptera, 300,000 bird skins, 300 dried reptiles and over 1,400 mammal skins and skulls. The general collection for public display included a further 2,000 mounted mammals (i.e. stuffed and articulated into natural positions for display purposes),

2,400 mounted birds, 680 mounted reptiles and amphibians, 914 fishes and a representative collection of invertebrates.6 Both collections were kept in his purpose- built museum at Tring. The research collection was made available to the service of science and Rothschild welcomed colleagues to consult it in person and lent specimens to specialists at home and abroad. The public displays, meanwhile, were enjoyed by the many visitors who passed through the museum doors on an annual basis.7

The primary interest of Rothschild and his curators, Ernst Hartert (1859-1933) and Karl Jordan (1861-1959), was the study of the problems of evolution and the relationships between species. Together with his curators, Rothschild was responsible for describing over 5,000 new species and publishing some 1,200 books and papers based on the collection, many of which were included within the museum’s in-house journal, Novitates Zoologicae. This contribution has marked Rothschild’s place in

6 Miriam Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild: Birds, Butterflies, and History (London: Hutchinson, 1983), xxii–xxiii. 7 Karl Jordan, ‘Lord Rothschild. 1868-1937’, Obituary Notices of Fellows of the Royal Society 2 (1 January 1938): 386.

11 history both as a zoologist and taxonomist. Moreover, the legacy of Rothschild’s collection lives on. After his death on 27 August 1937, Rothschild gifted his museum and collection to the British Museum (Natural History) (BMNH) where it continues to be studied and examined, and remains one of the largest donations of specimens the museum has ever received.8

Current understanding of Rothschild’s contributions has been derived from two main sources. The first is the biography Dear Lord Rothschild, written in 1983 by

Rothschild’s niece, Miriam Rothschild, which is largely based on personal recollections, with emphasis placed on Rothschild’s role in the Balfour Declaration.9

The second, Ordering Life, is a scientific biography of Rothschild’s curator Karl

Jordan, written by Kristin Johnson and published in 2012, which explores Jordan’s career as an early twentieth-century museum-based entomologist and curator.10 Both explore the use of Rothschild’s collection in advancing understanding of biodiversity, but neither has pushed their analysis of Rothschild particularly far. Miriam Rothschild took a broad biographical focus on his life and politics, while Johnson examined him largely as Jordan’s employer and patron.

By contrast, this thesis takes Rothschild and his zoological enterprise as its central focus. As a private collector and museum creator, Rothschild was among a minority of amateur participants in a rapidly professionalising field, and it is perhaps for this reason that he has evaded significant historical scrutiny. Yet as this thesis will

8 This was except for the bird collection which had been sold to the American Museum of Natural History in 1932. The events leading to the sale are discussed later in this thesis. 9 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild. Rothschild was actively engaged in politics throughout his life. Most notably he served as MP for Aylesbury between 1899-1910 and was later involved in negotiations surrounding the Balfour Declaration (1915-1917). It was to Rothschild that the letter from Foreign Secretary, Arthur Balfour, announcing government support for the establishment of a “national home for the Jewish people” in Palestine, was addressed on 2nd November 1917. I do not intend to discuss these activities within the thesis as they had little to do with his work in natural history. 10 Kristin Johnson, Ordering Life: Karl Jordan and the Naturalist Tradition (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012).

12 show, Rothschild was a significant participant in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century natural history and offers a powerful case study for exploring the continuing contributions of those who sat outside the emerging professional establishment.

In addition to positioning Rothschild and his activities within their wider context, this thesis will demonstrate the value of a new historical approach to exploring the construction of museum-based zoological knowledge, which examines its natural- historical practices in tandem rather than separately, as has become the typical historical mode of analysis. I use the term ‘practice’, after Robert Kohler, to refer to

‘the work and performing of science’, which includes both the practice of ‘knowledge making’ and ‘the communal practices of communicating and circulating knowledge’, such as collecting, research, display and publication.11

Each of these practices has been studied by historians and there is substantial literature around each topic, but they tend to be examined in isolation. In many ways this is attributable to broader trends in the history of science. As historian Anna

Maerker has described, ‘exceptional individuals’ were traditionally considered ‘the key agents of historical change’ and as a result, biography had tended to be the default method for writing the history of science.12 Consequently, there have been many biographies of individuals such as Richard Owen, Thomas Huxley and Charles

Darwin, where the narrative has centred on the careers of those ‘great men’ and their own individual stories, rather than as part of larger interlinking stories.13 This extends

11 Robert E. Kohler, ‘Finders, Keepers: Collecting Sciences and Collecting Practice’, History of Science 45 (2007): 428. 12 Anna Maerker, ‘Hagiography and Biography: Narrative’s of “Great Men of Science”’, in History, Memory and Public Life: The Past in the Present, ed. Anna Maerker, Simon Sleight, and Adam Sutcliffe (London: Routledge, 2018), 162–63. 13 Adrian Desmond and James R. Moore, Darwin (London: Penguin, 1992); Nicolaas A. Rupke, Richard Owen: Victorian Naturalist (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994); Adrian Desmond, Huxley: From Devil’s Disciple to Evolution’s High Priest (Reading, Mass: Perseus Books, 1997) These are just a few select examples of the many biographies written about these men.

13 to include the biographies of large institutions, such as the BMNH, and of institutions and their close associations with the careers of particular individuals.14

However, a more recent trend has seen historians push against the ‘great men’ narrative and explore different approaches to understanding the history of science.15

For example, there has been a wave of scholarship which has looked at the practice of

‘collecting’, seeking to understand where collections came from and who was involved, beyond well-known metropolitan figures, to highlight the collective nature of field work and move away from a western-centric history of collecting.16 A similar trend can be observed in the literature which has examined scientific communities.

Here historians have challenged the linear way in which the progress of science was formerly described, with biology seen to displace natural history, and have questioned the applicability of the terms ‘professional’ and ‘amateur’ in a bid to broaden our understanding of the individuals who formed the scientific community.17 Meanwhile, fresh perspectives on the institutional history of museums have involved historians thinking about them not as the products of great men, but as sites of knowledge production and consumption by visiting publics.18 A similar trend in the

14 See for example William T. Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington (London: Heinemann, 1981); Neil Chambers, Joseph Banks and the British Museum: The World of Collecting, 1770-1830 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2007); Mary P. Winsor, Reading the Shape of Nature: Comparative Zoology at the Agassiz Museum (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991). 15 Maerker, ‘Hagiography and Biography’, 174. 16 For example, see Jane R. Camerini, ‘Wallace in the Field’, Osiris 11 (1996): 44–65; Janet Browne, ‘Natural History Collecting and the Biogeographical Tradition’, História, Ciências, Saúde- Manguinhos 8 (2001): 959–67. 17 For example see John V. Pickstone, Ways of Knowing: A New History of Science, Technology and Medicine (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000); Lynn K. Nyhart, ‘Natural History and the “new” Biology’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 426–43; Ruth Barton, ‘“Men of Science”: Language, Identity and Professionalization in the Mid-Victorian Scientific Community’, History of Science 41 (2003): 73–119; James Mussell, ‘Private Practices and Public Knowledge: Science, Professionalization and Gender in the Late Nineteenth Century’, Nineteenth Century Gender Studies 5 (2009). 18 As examples see Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Placing Nature: Natural History Collections and Their Owners in Nineteenth-Century Provincial England’, BJHS 35 (2002): 291–311; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘The Museum Affect: Visiting Collections of Anatomy and Natural History’, in Science in the Market Place: Nineteenth Century Sites and Experiences, ed. Aileen Fyfe and Bernard Lightman (London: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 371–403; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Constructing Nature

14 historiography of scientific literature has elevated periodicals that contributed to the popularisation of science.19 All these histories have opened up new and interesting perspectives on the history of natural history, museums, collecting and publishing. At the same time, they have closed down considerations of connections between them.

Consequently, key questions have gone largely unanswered, such as how knowledge produced in museums might be expressed in specialist journals, what the relationship of those journals might have been to the collections they were associated with, and indeed how a museum’s scientific agenda could influence a collector’s field practices.

A notable exception to this trend includes the work of Aileen Fyfe, who in

Science in the Market Place compared reading books and visiting museum collections as key ways of encountering natural history in the nineteenth century.20

Acknowledging that such topics tend ‘to be studied separately by historians of science’, Fyfe actively sought to ‘undermine that separation’ by examining both subjects in tandem and exploring their similarities and differences.21 Building on her work, this thesis aims to break down the historiographical silos that have developed between the different components of natural history. Rothschild’s zoological enterprise offers a suitable case study because it was both big enough and yet constrained enough to permit in-depth historical mapping of its components. In adopting it as the subject of investigation, this thesis will address questions of funding,

behind Glass’, Museum and Society 6 (2008): 73–97; Carla Yanni, Nature’s Museums: Victorian Science and the Architecture of Display (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000); Sophie Forgan, ‘Building the Museum: Knowledge, Conflict, and the Power of Place’, Isis 96 (2005): 572– 85. 19 See as examples G. N. Cantor and Sally Shuttleworth, eds., Science Serialized: Representation of the Sciences in Nineteenth-Century Periodicals (Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 2004); Gowan Dawson and Jonathan R. Topham, ‘Science in the Nineteenth-Century Periodical’, Literature Compass 1 (2004). 20 See also Jim Endersby, Imperial Nature: Joseph Hooker and the Practices of Victorian Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008). 21 Aileen Fyfe, ‘Reading Natural History at the British Museum and the Pictorial Museum’, in Science in the Market Place: Nineteenth Century Sites and Experiences, ed. Aileen Fyfe and Bernard V. Lightman (London: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 198–99.

15 scientific research, display, specimen acquisition and publication. It will reveal how zoological knowledge, practice and community building developed at the intersections between these activities, and the important contributions made by Rothschild and the diverse cast of individuals involved in the ‘zoological enterprise’.

Literature Review

This thesis will draw on and contribute to five main bodies of literature: the history of natural history; the professionalisation of science; the history of museums; the history of collectors and collecting; and the history of scientific publishing. The following discussion will consider each in turn.

i. Natural History

Over the last forty years a growing number of historians and scholars have turned their attention to the history of natural history. Loosely defined as the acts of collecting, observing, describing, identifying, classifying and labelling of species, natural history became a cultural tradition in Britain as far back as the fifteenth century. In that period and on into the late-eighteenth century, “cabinets of curiosities” – which displayed and ordered novelty in the form of minerals, plants and stuffed animals – played a central role in the production of natural-historical knowledge. By the mid-to-late Victorian period, this interest in natural history had intensified and was pursued with fervour in both the imperial and domestic contexts. As Anne Coote has argued, natural history had a significant role in the imperial project: for colonists, ‘learning about the natural environment of their territory […] was progress towards exploiting it’ and a symbolic reassurance that progress was being made towards ‘establishing European sovereignty’ over those environments.22 Meanwhile, within Britain, natural history

22 Anne Coote, ‘Science, Fashion, Knowledge and Imagination: Shopfront Natural History in 19th- Century Sydney’, Sydney Journal 4 (2013): 10-11.; See also Richard Drayton, Nature’s Government (New Delhi: Orient Blackswan, 2005); John M. MacKenzie, Museums and Empire: Natural History,

16 was considered a ‘pleasure’ that had ‘all the virtues of work’ – long hours, often physical discomfort and precluding idleness – which contributed to a sense of moral uplift and aligned to the serious Victorian temperament.23 Historians have revealed natural history to have been a democratic pastime that brought men and women from all social classes together in pursuit of a new understanding of the natural world.24

Together they would go out into the field and collect specimens before returning home or to the local natural history society to examine, discuss, display and even exchange specimens with a view to expanding their knowledge of nature. Its practices infused

British society and created an extensive network of individuals held together by local and specialist natural history societies, the circulation of popular and scientific literature, and vast correspondence networks.25

Exploring the social and literary dimensions of early-to-mid-nineteenth- century natural history, scholars have placed emphasis on the importance of its social and cultural aspects. David Allen, for example, has explored the collective nature of natural history, which he argued was the result of shared interest – naturalists drawn to other naturalists with whom they could talk about their activities – but also a matter of efficiency, social intercourse allowing naturalists to listen to experts, receive the latest news and to learn and pass on tips to one another.26 Lyn Merrill, meanwhile, has highlighted how some approached natural history from a religious standpoint, with people searching for specimens in order to find evidence of ‘God’s design’, and has

Human Cultures and Colonial Identities (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009); Sarah Longair and John McAleer, eds., Curating Empire: Museums and the British Imperial Experience (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016). 23 Lynn L. Merrill, The Romance of Victorian Natural History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 41–42. 24 Ibid., viii; Barbara T. Gates, ‘Introduction: Why Victorian Natural History?’, Victorian Literature and Culture 35 (2007): 539–49; Anne Larsen, ‘Equipment for the Field’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 364. 25 Camerini, ‘Wallace in the Field’, 46–47. 26 David Elliston Allen, The Naturalist in Britain: A Social History (London: A. Lane, 1976), 172.

17 described it as an ‘aesthetic science’ which people pursued out of ‘a personal sense of awe and beauty’.27

Several historians have since built on these perspectives. Nicholas Jardine,

James Secord and Emma Spary’s Cultures of Natural History, for instance, examined changes in the meaning and significance of natural history and its role in ‘the commonwealth of learning’, and argued that natural-historical knowledge was generated not by isolated individuals but was the product of ‘conglomerates’ of people, natural objects, institutions, collections, and finances, all linked by a range of different practices.28 Robert Kohler and Jim Endersby have taken this approach further by looking at the practices of natural history and what it meant to be a naturalist. Kohler explored the history of survey collecting, a form of methodical expedition guided by scientific agenda, dispatched to map and inventory the world’s flora and fauna, and its roots as both a scientific and social activity within the national context of America.

Endersby, meanwhile, has examined the specific case study of Joseph Hooker (1817-

1911), a botanist and director of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew.29 Endersby argued that in order to understand how social, political and economic circumstances shaped the careers of naturalists like Hooker, historians should examine the scientific practices used by naturalists in their day-to-day work, together with their collections and libraries, and the methods and equipment used to acquire them.30 This thesis is similarly concerned with natural history as practiced and adopts a biographical approach. By examining how and why Rothschild was looking at specimens, together with how he acquired them and from whom, this thesis will look to position

27 Merrill, The Romance of Victorian Natural History, 66 & 79. 28 Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary, Cultures of Natural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 3 & 8. 29 Robert E. Kohler, All Creatures: Naturalists, Collectors, and Biodiversity, 1850 - 1950 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006); Endersby, Imperial Nature. 30 Endersby, Imperial Nature, 54, 312 & 326.

18

Rothschild, a private collector and museum owner, within the scientific context of late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century natural history and determine the circumstances that shaped his career as a zoologist.

Locating Rothschild within the wider context of natural history is particularly important in shedding new light on the transition from natural history to biology that occurred over the course of the nineteenth century. Traditionally the field of natural history had been concerned with identifying, classifying and describing organisms based on observations and investigations of an organism’s external appearance. But by the 1870s the field of ‘biology’ had begun to emerge. Its practitioners, biologists, were less concerned with the classification and identification of specific organisms and instead investigated biological problems, such as evolution and physiology, using experimental and analytical techniques in order to investigate the internal form, function and structure of organisms. This approach prioritised the study of morphology and comparative anatomy (the latter a cornerstone of new scientific medicine in the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth century), together with laboratory-based fields such as histology and embryology, over the more traditional taxonomic and descriptive studies, and prompted the creation of a new and distinct discipline – biology.31 Inspired by the German university system, a group of naturalists led by Thomas Henry Huxley (1825-1895) championed this new scientific approach and sought to promote laboratory work, dissection, the use of microscopes, and theories of evolution within British science.32

31 Garland E. Allen, ‘Morphology and Twentieth-Century Biology: A Response’, Journal of the History of Biology 14 (1981): 159; Alison Kraft and Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘“Equal Though Different”: Laboratories, Museums and the Institutional Development of Biology in Late-Victorian Northern England’, Studies in History and Philosophy of Science Part C 34 (2003): 206; Adrian Desmond, ‘Redefining the X Axis: “Professionals,” “Amateurs” and the Making of Mid-Victorian Biology – A Progress Report’, Journal of the History of Biology 34 (2001): 33–35; Kristin Johnson, ‘The Natural Historian’, in A Companion to the History of Science, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chichester, UK: John Wiley & Sons, 2016), 90. 32 Kraft and Alberti, ‘“Equal Though Different”’, 206.

19

This development has been well documented in the existing literature which had, until relatively recently, tended to take the view that natural history and the traditional ways of investigating nature had been supplanted by more investigative and experimental methods.33 In contrast, more recent histories have examined how, rather than biology replacing natural history and the laboratory replacing the museum, new science drew upon the traditions of the old.34 Challenging the notion of ‘rupture’ within knowledge production more generally, John Pickstone for example, demonstrated the simultaneous existence of various ‘ways of knowing’ and ‘ways of working’, and argued that each could be interconnected but that they each varied in

‘relative importance’ over time.35 Furthermore, having been directly influenced by the work of Pickstone, several historians have re-examined the division between natural history and biology. Alison Kraft and Samuel Alberti, for example, examined developments in civic college biology departments and the extent to which they incorporated existing natural history traditions, and Helen Blackman challenged the claim that the demise of Cambridge University’s zoology department was due to the shift away from museum-based description, towards laboratory-based experiment.36

Elsewhere, Lyn Nyhart demonstrated how biology was conceptualised within

German universities and how, by mid-century, natural history and biology had begun

33 D.E. Allen, ‘On Parallel Lines: Natural History and Biology from the Late Victorian Period’, Archives of Natural History 25 (1998): 361; David Elliston Allen, ‘Amateurs and Professionals’, in The Cambridge History of Science, ed. Peter J. Bowler and John V. Pickstone (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 24. 34 Paul L. Farber, Finding Order in Nature: The Naturalist Tradition from Linnaeus to E.O. Wilson (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000); Allen, ‘Morphology and Twentieth-Century Biology’; Kraft and Alberti, ‘“Equal Though Different”’. 35 Pickstone, Ways of Knowing, xi & 209; John V. Pickstone, ‘Working Knowledges Before and After circa 1800: Practices and Disciplines in the History of Science, Technology, and Medicine’, Isis 98 (2007): 489–516; John V. Pickstone, ‘A Brief Introduction to Ways of Knowing and Ways of Working’, History of Science 49 (2011): 235–45. 36 Kraft and Alberti, ‘“Equal Though Different”’; Helen Blackman, ‘The Natural Sciences and the Development of Animal Morphology in Late-Victorian Cambridge’, Journal of the History of Biology 40 (2006): 71–108.

20 to emerge as two distinct disciplines.37 Remarking on the tendency of historians to conceptualise this in terms of ‘progression’ – biology intellectually superseding and replacing natural history – Nyhart argued that the interactions between the two disciplines were instead recast and that there was a stronger degree of continuity than historians had previously appreciated.38 To support this claim Nyhart looked beyond laboratories and universities to public museums and schools, concluding that such an approach demonstrated the co-existence of multiple ways of studying nature.39 This thesis will follow Nyhart in adopting an approach that examines museum-based research but within a British museum context. It will examine the taxonomic work produced by Tring Museum in order to uncover what constituted the study of nature for Rothschild and his curators and, in turn, what their work reveals about the wider landscape of natural history and biology in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century

Britain.

ii. Specialisation and Professionalisation

The transition of natural history to biology is regarded as just one aspect of a broader trend towards the specialisation and professionalisation of science during the nineteenth century. Scholars such as David Allen have largely agreed that the division of natural history into increasingly narrow and specialised fields of research was the result of the immense growth of knowledge, the increase in scientific literature and specimen collections, together with the expansion and organisation of the naturalist community into specialist societies that occurred during the nineteenth century.40

37 Lynn K. Nyhart, Biology Takes Form: Animal Morphology and the German Universities, 1800- 1900 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 28; Nyhart, ‘Natural History and the “new” Biology’, 426. 38 Nyhart, ‘Natural History and the “new” Biology’, 426–27. 39 Lynn K. Nyhart, Modern Nature: The Rise of the Biological Perspective in Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 24. 40 Allen, ‘Amateurs and Professionals’, 15; Paul L. Farber, ‘Discussion Paper: The Transformation of Natural History in the Nineteenth Century’, Journal of the History of Biology 15 (1982): 148–49;

21

Within natural history this resulted in the emergence of botany, geology and zoology, which were concerned with plants, minerals and animals respectively. These were fields which themselves could be further subdivided: zoology, for example, including mammalogy, entomology and ornithology among others. By this stage, individuals tended to specialise in just one area, and within that, would sometimes select just one or two species upon which to focus their research. Helen Blackman, for instance, has argued how specialisation was reflected in the number of students sitting zoology exams at Cambridge University: the number of students fell as they chose to specialise, and zoology was not only forced to compete with the other natural sciences but faced increasing competition between its own sub-departments.41

Even within zoology and its sub-disciplines further divisions could be made, as fields of study became defined not only by taxonomic subdivisions but by disciplinary subdivisions. Mario Di Gregorio, for instance, has argued that zoology cannot be treated as a ‘coherent whole’, for different methodologies divided those who focused on descriptive taxonomic work, whose aim was to analyse structure, from those who were looking to reconstruct evolutionary relationships or pursue physiology and embryology.42 Both could be considered zoologists, despite their different methodologies. These specialists each interacted and shared their research through membership of the emerging specialist societies and by producing articles for the new specialist scientific journals, as discussed further below.43

John Thackray and Bob Press, The Natural History Museum: Nature’s Treasurehouse (London: Natural History Museum, 2004), 111. 41 Blackman, ‘The Natural Sciences and the Development of Animal Morphology in Late-Victorian Cambridge’, 104. 42 Mario A. Di Gregorio, ‘Zoology’, in The Cambridge History of Science, ed. Peter J. Bowler and John V. Pickstone (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 205. 43 Farber, ‘Discussion Paper’, 148–49.

22

However, while the development of specialisation has been well documented by historians, Rothschild bucks this trend, for he did not specialise in one particular species and maintained a broad range of expertise across taxonomic groups, which is reflected both in his scientific output and specimen collection. This thesis asks how, if it had become the norm for naturalists to specialise in a given field, Rothschild was able to build a reputation within the scientific community as a zoologist, with expertise in more than one field? Rothschild was also unusual in that he was an ‘amateur’ – someone who did not earn a living from a scientific occupation and who lacked academic credentials – at a time when science was becoming increasingly professionalised.

Being a professional scientist in the nineteenth century meant earning an income from a scientific occupation, and many who secured these positions possessed academic training and qualifications.44 As Johnson has argued, these were the ideals that were promoted by biologist Thomas Henry Huxley and comparative anatomist

Richard Owen (1804-1892), who sought to ‘wrest control away from traditional title and fortune’ so that ‘science would be controlled by those with professional merit’.45

The rise in the number of professional positions related to the shift towards the institutionalisation of science, which historians such as Paul White have attributed to the rise in ‘state-funded, academic research science’.46 Job openings first occurred within museums, then by the mid-to-late Victorian period, in universities and laboratories and later, at the beginning of the twentieth century, within government departments. Early historians of science had tended to imply that this development had been somewhat automatic and had resulted in professionals replacing the ‘amateur’.

44 Barton, ‘“Men of Science”’, 90; Allen, ‘Amateurs and Professionals’, 15. 45 Johnson, Ordering Life, 47. 46 Paul White, ‘The Man of Science’, in A Companion to the History of Science, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chichester, UK: John Wiley & Sons, 2016), 154–55.

23

This argument has, however, since been robustly challenged and many historians have looked at the ways in which those once viewed as ‘amateurs’ continued to contribute to nineteenth century science, and how the process of professionalisation took place within different disciplines at different times and in different ways.47

For example, John Clark’s study of the history of entomology and how it became institutionalised by the early-twentieth century has challenged the existing historical conception of entomology as an amateur pursuit in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, by demonstrating the ways in which it was included within experimental science and industrial and government initiatives, as the study of insects became embroiled with concerns about national efficiency, health and crop yield.48

However, while Clark has paid particular attention to the paths of professionalisation, to which he attributed the appointment of paid entomologists within universities and government departments, he has not explored the work of so-called ‘amateurs’ or independent students of entomology, many of whom continued to work outside of these institutions and to make critical contributions to science into the twentieth century. This thesis, in contrast, seeks to do just that, by examining the work

Rothschild, a so-called ‘amateur’, was conducting at his museum and its impact on early twentieth century zoological science.

Historians such as Ruth Barton have also problematised the concepts of the

‘professional’ and the ‘amateur’ and have concluded that the division between them was not as defined as one might assume. Barton, for instance, has interrogated the usage of the terms by contemporaries, concluding that they were in fact seldom used

47 Anne Secord, ‘Corresponding Interests: Artisans and Gentlemen in Nineteenth-Century Natural History’, BJHS 27 (1994): 383–408; Dorinda Outram, ‘New Spaces in Natural History’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 249–65; Raf de Bont, Stations in the Field: A History of Place- Based Animal Research, 1870 - 1930 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015). 48 J. F. M. Clark, Bugs and the Victorians (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 238–39.

24 and did not indicate exclusion or hierarchy, but rather appear to have been used to distinguish the employed from the independent.49 Barton thus concluded that professionalisation was a ‘slippery concept’, a conclusion also evident in the work of

James Mussell, who asserted that there were many competing impulses leading to professionalisation, rather than a single homogenous development.50

Yet despite this acknowledgement, historians have not been prevented from directing their attention almost wholly at those recognised as ‘professionals’, such that we have little idea of what it meant to be an amateur in this period. In contrast, and in response to Nicolas Jardine and Emma Spary’s call for further work on ‘the relations between ‘professionals’ and ‘amateurs’’ in the recently published Worlds of Natural

History, this thesis aims to advance understandings of this issue by investigating a figure whose status and activities defy easy categorisation.51 In doing so, it will pose a challenge to the continuing historical focus on those who, by modern standards, appear to be professional forerunners of today’s biologists while the amateurs simply disappear from sight.

iii. Museums

In addition to the history of natural history, the histories of museums have been well attended to within the existing scholarship and have traditionally taken the form of museum biographies.52 However, more recent perspectives on the institutional history

49 Barton, ‘“Men of Science”’. 50 Mussell, ‘Private Practices and Public Knowledge: Science, Professionalization and Gender in the Late Nineteenth Century’, 2–3; see also Desmond, ‘Redefining the X Axis’; Barbara T. Gates, ‘Ordering Nature: Revisioning Victorian Science Culture’, in Victorian Science in Context, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1997), 181. 51 Helen Anne Curry et al., eds., Worlds of Natural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 12. 52 For example Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington; Thackray and Press, The Natural History Museum; See also Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Arthur MacGregor, Curiosity and Enlightenment: Collectors and Collections from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007) for more general histories about museums.

25 of museums have focused on three main aspects – museums as sites of knowledge building and as sites for the public consumption of science, and the construction of museum collections.53 This thesis will draw on and contribute to each of these three bodies of literature.

The nineteenth century has often been referred to as the ‘Age of the Museum’, a period when, as Pickstone has argued, nation-states put great investments into the construction of museums as ‘expressions of national and imperial power’.54 For instance, the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH) was established in 1869 and the Vienna Museum of Natural History in 1889. Carla Yanni has argued that construction of these museums correlated to the rise in professionalisation which marked the end of a period in which the pursuit of natural knowledge could legitimately take place in gentlemen’s houses. It now had to occur in buildings associated with universities and state-funded institutions if the natural-historical knowledge produced was to be legitimised.55

Yanni’s work comes out of a broader set of arguments, in which museums have been considered important sites of knowledge-production in order to challenge a narrative which had situated professionalisation in the laboratory alone.56 This thesis looks to build on this scholarship. By examining Tring Museum in conjunction with the scientific research that was being produced and the motives involved in collection- building, this thesis will examine how the work of Rothschild and his curators was informed by wider developments within biology, how they continued to contribute to

53 Another theme within this literature is museums as architectural expressions of science. See for example Yanni, Nature’s Museums; Forgan, ‘Building the Museum’. 54 Pickstone, Ways of Knowing, 73. 55 Yanni, Nature’s Museums, 1. 56 Alberti, ‘Placing Nature’; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, Nature and Culture: Objects, Disciplines, and the Manchester Museum (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009); Secord, ‘Corresponding Interests’; Simon Naylor, ‘The Field, the Museum and the Lecture Hall: The Spaces of Natural History in Victorian Cornwall’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 27 (2002): 494– 513.

26 science, and how that work was received. It will also consider the overall significance and impact of their museum-based research on early-twentieth-century science and, in doing so, will contribute to the rehabilitation of museums as important sites of early twentieth-century natural-historical knowledge production.

One of the ways in which historians have shown that museums remained important is by examining their role as sites which facilitated the public consumption of science. While museums became important for the advancement of research, in the mid-to-late-nineteenth century they also had an important role as educational tools.

Sophie Forgan argued that museums have been of particular interest to the historian because they stand at the intersection between scientific work and public display.57

Throughout the nineteenth century the organisation and presentation of nature within museums became increasingly tailored towards public audiences. Susan Sheets-

Pyenson, for example, has shown how museums were ‘expected to serve the middle classes experiencing greater leisure, wealth, physical mobility, and educational opportunity’ by providing a ‘socially-sanctioned’ activity that provided ‘the perfect mixture of education and amusement’.58 This resulted in the division of museum collections into both research and public collections, known as ‘dual arrangement’ – a design which Rothschild also adopted, with Tring Museum consisting of both a scientific collection and public galleries.59

Subsequent scholarship has paid particular heed to public collections within

‘dual arrangement’ museums, as historians have sought to explore the role of museums

57 Forgan, ‘Building the Museum’, 573; See also Yanni, Nature’s Museums, 1; Mary E. Sunderland, ‘Collections-Based Research at Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology’, Historical Studies in the Natural Sciences 42 (2012): 83–113. 58 Susan Sheets-Pyenson, ‘Cathedrals of Science: The Development of Colonial Natural History Museums during the Late Nineteenth Century’, History of Science 25 (1987): 279; See also Sally Gregory Kohlstedt, ‘“Thoughts in Things”: Modernity, History, and North American Museums’, Isis 96 (2005): 586–601. 59 Nyhart, Modern Nature; Mary P. Winsor, ‘Museums’, in The Cambridge History of Science, ed. Peter J. Bowler and John V. Pickstone (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 60–75.

27 in the public understandings of science and cultures of display.60 Sharon Macdonald, for example, has explored how museums ‘creat[e] particular kinds of science for the public’ and has argued that science displays were never ‘just representations of uncontestable facts’ but have ‘always involved the culturally, socially and politically saturated business of negotiation and value-judgment’.61 Elsewhere, particular features of displays have come under scrutiny – perhaps none more so than taxidermy.62 Meanwhile, scholars such as Stephen Asma, Helen Cowie and Samuel

Alberti have examined the ways in which collections were assembled and interpreted, in order to explore what this reveals about museum creation and the wider social and scientific context of museum collections.63

This scholarship has revealed interesting new perspectives around museums as sites of consumption for the visiting public, but has enforced another rigid division between museums as sites of research and museums as sites of public display, tending primarily to discuss the latter and obscuring from the narrative the active research these museums may have been conducting. In contrast, this thesis will examine both

60 Tony Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums Colonialism (London: Routledge, 2004); Liv Emma Thorsen, Karen A Rader, and Adam Dodd, Animals on Display: The Creaturely in Museums, Zoos, and Natural History (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013); Carin Berkowitz and Bernard V. Lightman, eds., Science Museums in Transition: Cultures of Display in Nineteenth-Century Britain and America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2017). 61 Sharon Macdonald, ed., The Politics of Display: Museums, Science, Culture (London: Routledge, 1998), 1–3; see for example Juliana Adelman, ‘Evolution on Display: Promoting Irish Natural History and Darwinism at the Dublin Science and Art Museum’, BJHS 38 (2005): 411–36. 62 Pat A. Morris, Edward Gerrard & Sons: A Taxidermy Memoir (Ascot: MPM, 2004); P. A. Morris, A History of Taxidermy: Art, Science and Bad Taste (Ascot: MPM, 2010); Rachel Poliquin, ‘The Matter and Meaning of Museum Taxidermy’, Museum and Society 6 (2008): 123–34; Rachel Poliquin, The Breathless Zoo: Taxidermy and the Cultures of Longing (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012); See also Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Introduction: The Dead Ark’, in Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie (Virginia: University of Virginia Press, 2012), 1–16. 63 Stephen T Asma, Stuffed Animals and Pickled Heads: The Culture and Evolution of Natural History Museums (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Helen Cowie, ‘Sloth Bones and Anteater Tongues: Collecting American Nature in the Hispanic World (1750–1808)’, Atlantic Studies 8 (2011): 5–27; Alberti, Nature and Culture; Samuel J. M. M Alberti, The Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2011); Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, Morbid Curiosities: Medical Museums in Nineteenth-Century Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Museum Nature’, in Worlds of Natural History, ed. Helen Anne Curry et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 348–62.

28 elements alongside one another to explore the interactions between the front of house displays and back of house research, to consider how displays were shaped by the scientific work of the museum, and to ask how Rothschild’s displays contributed to public understandings of natural history. Moreover, this thesis looks beyond the museum to consider the ways in which the constituent parts – the journal, curatorial staff, research collections, public displays and network of collectors – overlapped, in order to reveal new insights into late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century museums.

To do so, I take inspiration from the work of Alberti. Alberti has argued that museum collections should be viewed as ‘dynamic entities’ – a set of relations enacted through material – in order to explore the functions of museums and the meanings of the objects within them.64 By understanding how specimens were collected, the meanings they accrued and how they were used, arranged and experienced, Alberti has argued that it is possible to gain greater insight into how museums influenced the disciplines with which they were associated and vice versa.65 Moreover, Alberti has promoted the identification of ‘communities of practice’ within museum histories, arguing that such histories are not just about collecting and collectors, but ‘also the history of people, the history of relationships and a history of practice’.66 In this thesis

I adopt both approaches in an attempt to make sense of Rothschild’s zoological enterprise. By approaching Rothschild’s collection as a dynamic entity and the museum as a ‘community of practice’, this thesis will explore who was involved and what their roles were, as well as who was viewing the collection, in order to gain an understanding of the significance of Rothschild’s collection, both scientifically and socially. It will also extend this concept of the ‘dynamic entity’ to the entire enterprise

64 Alberti, Morbid Curiosities, 7; Alberti, Nature and Culture; Alberti, The Afterlives of Animals. 65 Alberti, Morbid Curiosities, 26 & 66; Alberti, ‘Museum Nature’, 352. 66 Alberti, Nature and Culture, 144 & 191.

29 by looking at the interactions between different components and asking questions such as: how did the collection relate to the scientific work being carried out within the museum? What was its association with the zoological journal that Rothschild was producing? And more importantly how, together with the community associated with the museum, was it involved in the construction of zoological knowledge?67

iv. Collecting

As with the histories of museums, the histories of collectors and collecting are well attended to by historians, and there are three aspects of this history with which this thesis will engage. First is the history of collectors, which includes both cabinet collectors and field collectors. As Arthur and Paula Lucas have argued, what was meant by the term ‘collector’ could change depending on where in the transaction the term was ‘earned’. Thus, there were those who could be described as ‘field collectors’

– individuals who sourced specimens directly from the field – but also ‘cabinet collectors’ – individuals who acquired or purchased the specimens sourced by the former to build up their own collections.68 Of the two, it is field collectors who have been the focus of most historical scholarship, as will be discussed further below, while the roles of ‘cabinet collectors’, and more specifically of wealthy private collectors, have been largely neglected.

Owing to the popularity of natural history and its democratic reach it was not uncommon for people of all social classes to have their own natural history collections

67 Jean Lave and Etienne Wenger first used the term ‘communities of practice’ to define a theory of learning in 1991 and it has since been defined by Wenger as: ‘groups of people who share a concern or a passion for something they do and learn how to do it better as they interact regularly’. See Jean Lave and Etienne Wenger, Situated Learning: Legitimate Peripheral Participation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); Etienne Wenger, Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Etienne Wenger-Trayner and Beverly Wenger-Trayner, ‘Introduction to Communities of Practice’, accessed 29 January 2019, http://wenger-trayner.com/introduction-to-communities-of-practice/. 68 A.M Lucas and P.J Lucas, ‘Natural History “Collectors”: Exploring the Ambiguities’, Archives of Natural History 41 (2014): 63.

30 in nineteenth and early twentieth century Britain. Manchester businessman Joseph

Sidebotham, for example, acquired collections of Lepidoptera and coleoptera; father and son Gerald and John Tomkinson collected a large collection of birds’ eggs between the 1890s and 1950s, and almost anyone could develop a collection of butterflies, moths or beetles – species which were easy to find in local areas, to trade with other collectors, and could be bought from natural history dealers with minimal financial investment.69 Likewise, it was common for aristocrats to acquire vast collections, and scholars have documented the lives of numerous individuals who collected natural history specimens and kept live animal menageries on their estates.

This included Lord Lilford, the Duke of Bedford and perhaps most famously the 13th

Earl of Derby, whose collection became the basis for the collections of the Liverpool

Museum, which opened in 1851.70

However, by the time that Rothschild established his museum in the late 1880s, many of these private collectors had, or would soon, donate their collections to the growing number of local and regional museums, or to the BMNH. The latter experienced a significant growth in its collections as a result of this trend. For example,

William Stearn described how the BMNH’s collection of birds increased from 30,000 mounted skins and specimens in 1872, to some 400,000 by 1906, the expansion attributable to the many gifts and bequests from notable collectors, such as Henry

Seebohm, F. Ducane Godman and Osbert Salvin.71 These donations demonstrated a

69 Laurence M. Cook, ‘Joseph Sidebotham: Vicissitudes of a Victorian Collector’, Archives of Natural History 42 (2015): 197; Alice Hunter, ‘Revisiting a Family Collection’, Alice Hunter Photography (blog), 27 April 2017, http://www.hunterphotos.co.uk/blog/tomkinson-collection/; Larsen, ‘Equipment for the Field’, 364. 70 Eric Baratay and Elisabeth Hardouin-Fugier, Zoo: A History of Zoological Gardens in the West (London: Reaktion Books, 2003), 107; Clemency Thorne Fisher and National Museums and Galleries on Merseyside, A Passion for Natural History: The Life and Legacy of the 13th Earl of Derby (Liverpool: National Museums and Galleries on Merseyside, 2002). 71 Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington, 175; Henry A. McGhie, Henry Dresser and Victorian Ornithology: Birds, Books and Business (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2017), 180–82.

31 confidence in the ability of the museum to care for the specimens and use them for critical study.72

Death further contributed to the decline of private collectors. Often, when such collectors died there was a notable lack of interest shown by their descendants to continue collecting, prompting further donations to museums. In other cases, private collectors specified that their collections should be donated to museums and, as Alberti has argued, most Victorian museums ‘were based upon a considerable personal collection, or benefited from the donation of one soon after their establishment’.73

These donations were arguably a legacy of the ‘man of science’ mentality. Gifting or donating a collection was the ultimate act of disinterestedness which embodied ‘civic- mindedness and public spiritedness’ and ensured that it would offer future research benefits, all of which were key to what White terms the ‘ethos of scientific life’ in the nineteenth century.74

Thus, historians have tended to hold the view that by the late-nineteenth century the role of wealthy private collectors had been largely reduced from active collector to patron of the growing number of state-funded museums.75 They do not include such individuals in their accounts, not least because they do not fit within the narrative of professionalisation and the emergence of the ‘professional scientist’ as discussed above. This means that they have tended to overlook several individuals like

Rothschild, who, in stark contrast to other wealthy private collectors, were actually

72 Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington, 175. 73 Samuel J.M.M Alberti, ‘Owning and Collecting Natural Objects in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, in From Private to Public: Natural Collections and Museums, ed. Marco Beretta (Sagamore Beach, Mass: Science History Publications, 2005), 145. 74 White, ‘The Man of Science’, 155–56. 75 John M. A. Thompson, Manual of Curatorship: A Guide to Museum Practice (London: Routledge, 2015), 74. The 1891 Museums and Gymnasiums Act had enabled urban authorities to provide and maintain museums in England, Wales and Ireland which were expected to be open to the public free of charge on no less than three days a week and permitted the levying of a separate one-halfpenny rate for museum purposes, giving museums a new state-sponsored source of funding.

32 expanding their collections. Major Percy Powell-Cotton (1866-1940), for example, established a museum at Quex Park in 1896, in which he displayed his hunting trophies from North India, Tibet and Africa. Construction of the Horniman Museum began in

1898 under the auspices of businessman Frederick John Horniman (1835-1906), who, having made his money in tea, used the capital to indulge his passion for collecting natural history, cultural artefacts and musical instruments. Elsewhere, James John

Joicey (1871-1932) established The Hill Museum, in Witley, Surrey, in 1913, a private research museum with a focus on the study of Lepidoptera.76 Looking beyond natural history, the medical and anthropological collections of Sir Henry Wellcome (1853-

1936) constitute another significant private collection of the era.

It has only been in the last few years that historians, informed by renewed understandings of professionalisation, of practice and of the role of museums, and seeking to enlighten understandings of the role of private collectors in late-Victorian natural history, have begun to examine these private ‘cabinet’ collectors. For instance,

Karen Jones has examined the development of Powell-Cotton’s museum, arguing that the collection presented ‘the representative species of empire for the purposes of education, erudition and posterity’.77 Similarly, Henry McGhie has attempted to situate gentleman-naturalist Henry Dresser (1838-1915) within the wider context of nineteenth-century natural history, arguing that Dresser’s activities ‘were underpinned by his success in business’, which provided the capital both to support his ornithological activities and to elevate his position in society, which in turn enabled

76 It also produced a publication, The Bulletin of the Hill Museum which was published at irregular intervals between 1921 and 1932. Upon Joicey’s death in 1932, his collection of Lepidoptera was passed to the BMNH, and together with the collections of Rothschild and Charles Oberthür, has contributed to the numerical predominance of the BMNH’s Lepidoptera collections. 77 Karen Jones, ‘The Rhinoceros and the Chatham Railway: Taxidermy and the Production of Animal Presence in the “Great Indoors”’, History 101 (2016): 713 & 730–31.

33 him to mix with the leading figures in ornithology.78 Another important work is

Frances Larson’s biography of Wellcome’s collection. She has argued that ‘Wellcome and his collection emerged concomitantly. Their fates entwined’, for while collection building was a social enterprise, the collection was owned by one individual and it was that individual who attained the ‘scholarly respect’ that came with having a collection which was the ‘empirical foundation’ for greater knowledge. Larson has therefore argued that the collection was crucial in facilitating Wellcome’s role and status within the academic community.79 This thesis seeks to investigate similar questions, albeit through a wider lens, by examining the biography of an enterprise, within which the collection was the central component. Thus, expanding on the scope of Larson’s study, this thesis will explore how Rothschild’s collection was formed, the relationship between Rothschild, his collection and his wider enterprise, and what that meant for his position within the scientific community. In doing so, it will enhance understandings of the ongoing role of private collectors like Rothschild, but also of the cast of diverse individuals involved in the zoological enterprise, and of their varied contributions to late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century natural history.80

As part of his role as a cabinet collector, Rothschild engaged a large network of field collectors to assist in building his collection. Field collecting is therefore the second aspect of the history of collecting that this thesis engages with. Field collectors have received considerable attention in recent years and, in particular, historians have sought to look beyond individuals such as Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace

78 McGhie, Henry Dresser and Victorian Ornithology, 2, 20 & 60. 79 Frances Larson, An Infinity of Things: How Sir Henry Wellcome Collected the World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 3–5 & 287. See also Janet Browne, ‘Do Collections Make the Collector? Charles Darwin in Context’, in From Private to Public: Natural Collections and Museums, ed. Marco Beretta (Sagamore Beach, Mass: Science History Publications, 2005), 171–88 in which Browne examines how Darwin used his collection in a similar manner. 80 Larson, An Infinity of Things, 5.

34 to examine lesser-known individuals and ask how they became involved in collecting and how collecting became a career during the nineteenth century.81 Aoife O’Brien, for instance, has contended with the professional-amateur debate in her analysis of the career of Charles Morris Woodford (1852-1927), a professional civil servant and amateur collector for the BMNH.82 Woodford’s story is tied to the surge in demand for natural history specimens that occurred during the nineteenth century. This was a result of a growth in the number of provincial and national natural history museums, each looking to build their own collections and reputations as important repositories of both local and global flora and fauna, and of the expansion of biology within museums and university departments. Whereas previously, possessing specimens and displaying them within “cabinets of curiosities” had been largely about ‘novelty’, by the early nineteenth century, specimens were essential for scientific work, with biological investigations requiring multiple specimens for dissection and experimentation. Moreover, the breadth of animal species on display gained imperial significance, the possession of a specimen acting as a symbol of influence and even power over that particular region of the world.83 These developments each opened new opportunities for individuals, allowing some to make their living from the collection and sale of specimens, as in the case of Wallace, while for others it became an

81 Melinda B. Fagan, ‘Wallace, Darwin, and the Practice of Natural History’, Journal of the History of Biology 40 (2007): 601–35; Chambers, Joseph Banks and the British Museum; A. Marples and V. R. M. Pickering, ‘Patron’s Review: Exploring Cultures of Collecting in the Early Modern World’, Archives of Natural History 43 (2016): 1–20; Anne Coote, ‘“Pray Write Me a List of Species ... That Will Pay Me Best”: The Business and Culture of Natural History Collecting in Mid-Nineteenth Century New South Wales’, History Australia 11 (2014): 80–100; Larsen, ‘Equipment for the Field’. 82 Aoife O’Brien, ‘The Professional Amateur: An Exploration of the Collecting Practices of Charles Morris Woodford’, Journal of Museum Ethnography, 2010, 21–40. 83 See for example Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1987), 205; Harriet Ritvo, ‘Zoological Nomenclature and the Empire of Victorian Science’, in Victorian Science in Context, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1997), 336; Browne, ‘Natural History Collecting and the Biogeographical Tradition’, 964–65.

35 important side line through which they could supplement their main source of income, just as Woodford had done.

The ‘collective nature’ of fieldwork has been a particular area of interest among scholars examining field collectors, with historians seeking to demonstrate the diverse range of individuals involved. Cowie’s work on the natural history of Spain and its empire, for instance, has emphasised the collaborative nature of the ‘collecting enterprises’ undertaken by naturalists in Spain and its colonies, and has argued that its success relied on the effective management of teams of men, the ‘mastering of foreign tongues’ and skilful practice.84 This work is part of a more general trend which has seen historians challenge the imperial/centre vs. colonial/periphery model.85 Scholars have sought to demonstrate the ways in which field collectors were reliant upon the indigenous collectors they themselves employed, while highlighting that often these individuals are absent from the surviving record.86

This scholarship has mapped out the complex networks of individuals involved in the collection of natural history specimens. However, within this literature historians have tended to look at a single point in the transaction, perhaps how specimens were collected, or how they were sold. Less often have the negotiations or scientific principles which might have informed that collecting been considered, or how the field collector may have continued to be involved with those specimens after their sale. In contrast, this thesis will use Rothschild’s zoological enterprise and the extensive surviving correspondence that traces relationships between Rothschild and

84 Helen Cowie, ‘A Creole in Paris and a Spaniard in Paraguay: Geographies of Natural History in the Hispanic World (1750-1808)’, Journal of Latin American Geography 10 (2011): 193. 85 Browne, ‘Natural History Collecting and the Biogeographical Tradition’; Janet Browne, ‘Biogeography and Empire’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 305–21. 86 Camerini, ‘Wallace in the Field’, 61–62; Browne, ‘Natural History Collecting and the Biogeographical Tradition’, 961–62.

36 his collectors, in some cases over decades, to widen the lens and consider the entire chain of acquisition. It will ask how and why collections were commissioned, organised and built, how relationships with collectors were facilitated and maintained, and how Rothschild’s personal circumstances may have affected his relationships with collectors. Moreover, it will look to cut across the rigid divisions between museums, journals and natural history and ask how collecting methods and the practices employed by field collectors could be influenced by the scientific aims of a museum, and if, how, and with what effects the observations of field collectors fed into publications or display narratives.

The third and final aspect of the literature that this thesis engages with is collecting as practice. Recent scholarship has seen historians look beyond who was involved in collecting to interrogate field collecting as a scientific practice in its own right.87 Kohler, for instance, has addressed collecting as a scientific practice in the modern period and looked at frontier exploration in the USA, particularly survey collecting, in order to demonstrate how museums transformed from ‘passive repositories of stuff to active collectors’, and museum curators from ‘housekeepers to field naturalists’. Kohler has argued that modern scientific exploration should be seen as a ‘complex scientific instrument’ and that systematics and biogeography (the mapping of the geographical distribution of plants and animals) experienced ‘vigorous growth and intellectual progress’ and should not therefore be viewed as simply having been replaced by expansive laboratory sciences. Kohler did this by examining collecting as a practical activity, assessing what it involved, who it involved and how they responded to environmental, cultural and scientific trends.88 Similarly, Endersby

87 Bruno J. Strasser, ‘Collecting Nature: Practices, Styles, and Narratives’, Osiris 27 (2012): 303–40. 88 Kohler, All Creatures, xii & 284.

37 placed emphasis on viewing collecting as a scientific practice, arguing that it was not simple, but rather a ‘complex craft activity, requiring skills that took time to master’, and sought to demonstrate how botanical collecting and classification were shaped by theory, the community and the shared common practices involved.89 This thesis will apply this methodology to Rothschild’s methods of collecting. As an active collector and museum proprietor, Rothschild’s work aligns with Kohler’s observation that museums became active collectors in this period. Examination of Rothschild’s approach can therefore help answer questions about his motivations for collecting and of the practices involved. In doing so, this thesis will interrogate the practice of collection-building in the late-nineteenth century and, crucially, its importance within the wider Tring enterprise and how it operated in relation to the journal, museum and scientific work that was being conducted.

More recent scholarship has continued to look at collecting practice. The edited collection Naturalists in the Field, for example, has focused extensively on the field practices associated with collecting, from the sixteenth century to the present, paying particular heed to practicalities and the ‘labour relations and social interactions which made scientific expeditions possible’.90 Similarly, the recently published Worlds of

Natural History examines the ‘shared practices’ of natural history and explores both the day-to-day activities involved and ‘the complex interactions of people, materials, tools and machines in the production and communication of knowledge’ that took place ‘in and between diverse sites and settings’.91 The difference between these two works is that the latter strives to address the ‘bigger picture’, recognising, as Curry and Secord describe, that ‘the history of natural history is now at the centre of general

89 Endersby, Imperial Nature, 54–55. 90 Arthur MacGregor, ed., Naturalists in the Field: Collecting, Recording and Preserving the Natural World from the Fifteenth to the Twenty-First Century (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 12 & 15. 91 Curry et al., Worlds of Natural History, 7.

38 historical debates about globalisation, circulation, empire and exchange’ and should be examined alongside the ‘histories of agriculture, exploration, commerce, politics, art and collecting and public entertainment’.92

This thesis cannot claim to speak to such a global story but is inspired by the suggestion. By bringing collecting into conversation with museums, journals and natural history it seeks to follow the lead of Curry et al. and examine histories side by side and not in isolation, in order to demonstrate the ways in which the practices of natural history were more interconnected than the existing literature would suggest.

v. Journals

The final area of literature that this thesis engages with is the history of scientific publishing. The nineteenth century saw a plethora of new scientific journals and popular science periodicals established and made available to both specialist and general audiences. Historians have attributed this growth to technological advances in both printing and paper-making, the abolition of tax on paper (1861), and cheaper raw materials, all of which contributed to the reduction of publishing costs.93 Yet it is only recently that science writing in this period has begun to be an object of sustained scholarly interest. Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer made a critical early intervention into this field by portraying scientific writing as a ‘literary technology’, enabling the dissemination of scientific knowledge to those who did not directly witness its

92 Helen Anne Curry and James A. Secord, ‘Natural History and Its Histories in the Twenty-First Century’, in Worlds of Natural History, ed. Helen Anne Curry et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 541; Curry et al., Worlds of Natural History, 10. 93 David Elliston Allen, ‘The Struggle for Specialist Journals: Natural History in the British Periodicals Market in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century’, Archives of Natural History 23 (1996): 118; Ruth Barton, ‘Just before Nature: The Purposes of Science and the Purposes of Popularization in Some English Popular Science Journals of the 1860s’, Annals of Science 55 (1998): 2–3; G. N. Cantor et al., eds., Science in the Nineteenth-Century Periodical: Reading the Magazine of Nature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 16; Aileen Fyfe, Steam-Powered Knowledge: William Chambers and the Business of Publishing, 1820-1860 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012).

39 production by experiment, so that writing became a key process in the establishment

(rather than simply the communication) of scientific ‘facts’.94 This observation has since been expanded on by a number of scholars interested in science communication.

Charles Bazerman, Greg Myers and Alan Gross, for instance, all build on ideas first suggested by Shapin and Schaffer, though they do so in order to teach scientists how to practice the art of article-writing.95 Bazerman, for example, argued that part of the motivation behind scientific writing was the representation and replication of results, arguing that only when a fact was made communal could one claim a discovery and reap the rewards of it. Myers meanwhile has argued that scientific articles do not just report scientific facts but construct them and that for that process to be understood, it is important to first understand the social contexts in which those texts have been produced.96 These discussions have focused on the history of the experimental article.

By studying Rothschild’s journal, Novitates, I will look to test and extend their hypotheses to natural history writing in the late-nineteenth early-twentieth centuries.

Historians have recently turned their attention to the ways in which scientific journals were used to create scientific communities. Alex Csiszar, for example, has explored why the scientific journal emerged as the dominant format in scientific communication and has argued that this can be attributed to journals becoming ‘venues not simply for diffusing scientific news, but for conferring scientific identities, rewards and credibility’.97 Elsewhere, Melinda Baldwin has examined the history of

94 Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air-Pump: Hobbes, Boyle, and the Experimental Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985). 95 Charles Bazerman, Shaping Written Knowledge: The Genre and Activity of the Experimental Article in Science (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988); Greg Myers, Writing Biology: Texts in the Social Construction of Scientific Knowledge, Science and Literature (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1990); Alan G. Gross, Joseph E. Harmon, and Michael S. Reidy, Communicating Science: The Scientific Article from the 17th Century to the Present (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 96 Bazerman, Shaping Written Knowledge, 139–40; Myers, Writing Biology, 67. 97 Alex Csiszar, The Scientific Journal: Authorship and the Politics of Knowledge in the Nineteenth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018), 2 & 119.

40

Nature and has argued that it was, and remains, an ‘important publication not only because of the famous papers printed in its pages but because of its significance as a place where scientific practitioners have worked to define what science is and what it means to be a scientist.’98 This thesis asks similar questions of Rothschild’s publication, Novitates: in particular, how it may have created a community from its pages, and if so, what role that community fulfilled. But, if one key function of a scientific journal is to create a community, then to fully understand that community the journal cannot be looked at in isolation from the networks of collectors, the collections they built, and the research performed upon those collections. Thus, by looking at Novitates in conjunction with other parts of the zoological enterprise, this thesis will reveal new insights into the practices and social relationships of natural history and how they shaped the creation of scientific knowledge.

In addressing these questions, this thesis also builds on insights of recent literature on ‘popular’ science writing – particularly popular periodicals and those publications aimed at engaging wider audiences with science – to examine the ways in which science could be cultivated through dialogue, communication and contestations on the pages of a specialist journal and the extent to which that helped to create and sustain communities. Susan Sheets-Pyenson, Ruth Barton and Bernard

Lightman have all examined the popularisation of science during the Victorian period and have placed emphasis on the diversity of Victorian popularisers.99 Geoffrey

Cantor, Sally Shuttleworth, Jonathan Topham and Gowan Dawson have focused on

98 Melinda Baldwin, Making Nature: The History of a Scientific Journal (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), 5–6 & 229. 99 Susan Sheets-Pyenson, ‘Popular Science Periodicals in Paris and London: The Emergence of a Low Scientific Culture, 1820–1875’, Annals of Science 42 (1985): 549–72; Barton, ‘Just before Nature’; Bernard V. Lightman, ed., Victorian Science in Context (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997); Aileen Fyfe, Science and Salvation: Evangelical Popular Science Publishing in Victorian Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004).

41 aspects of the popular periodical press, arguing that as the dominant form of cultural circulation in the Victorian period, it offers an important source for understanding the cultural roles of science.100 More recently, Geoff Belknap and Matthew Wale have demonstrated the ways in which periodicals helped to create and sustain communities and networks of naturalists by circulating information, opinions and specimens, and by articulating ‘a shared sense of identity’.101

This thesis will similarly explore the importance of Novitates in community building at Tring Museum, but crucially, extends that analysis to consider the entire

‘zoological enterprise’. To do so, I look to build on the methods developed by the

‘Publishing the Philosophical Transactions’ project which ran between 2013 and 2017 and was led by Aileen Fyfe. This project sought to provide a comprehensive account of the history of the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, examining it as a record of scientific activity but also considering the social, economic and cultural history of the publication and its impact on science communication.102 This included looking at its form and content, circulation and editorial practices, the commercial and financial side of the publication’s history, and the interplay between publications and the meetings of learned scientific societies.103 This thesis intends to ask similar questions in order to examine how Novitates contributed to the construction and

100 Cantor and Shuttleworth, Science Serialized; Cantor et al., Science in the Nineteenth-Century Periodical; Dawson and Topham, ‘Science in the Nineteenth-Century Periodical’. 101 Belknap, ‘Illustrating Natural History’, 410; Matthew Wale, ‘“The Sympathy of a Crowd”: Periodicals and the Practices of Natural History in Nineteenth-Century Britain’ (University of Leicester, 2018); Matthew Wale, ‘Editing Entomology: Natural-History Periodicals and the Shaping of Scientific Communities in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, BJHS, 2019, 1–19. 102 ‘Publishing the Philosophical Transactions: Project Aims’, accessed 17 August 2016, https://arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/philosophicaltransactions/project/project-aims/; Aileen Fyfe, Julie McDougall-Waters, and Noah Moxham, ‘350 Years of Scientific Periodicals’, Notes and Records 69 (2015): 227–39. 103 Aileen Fyfe, ‘Publishing the Philosophical Transactions: The Social, Cultural and Economic History of a Learned Journal, 1665-2015 - AHRC’, Impact, no. 4 (2018): 33; Aileen Fyfe, ‘Journals, Learned Societies and Money: Philosophical Transactions, ca. 1750–1900’, Notes and Records 69 (2015): 277–99; Aileen Fyfe and Noah Moxham, ‘Making Public Ahead of Print: Meetings and Publications at the Royal Society, 1752–1892’, Notes and Records 70 (2016): 361–79.

42 dissemination of zoological knowledge. However, as with the Philosophical

Transactions, Novitates was a publication which was tied to a specific institution –

Tring Museum. This thesis will therefore look to interrogate how the journal functioned as an organ in its own right, but also how it worked as a constituent part of a much larger enterprise, placing the journal in relation to the museum’s collections and exploring the relationship that could exist between journals and practical scientific work. This is particularly significant in this instance for such enquiry allows for the examination of how a journal may have helped facilitate the enduring role of the private collector in early-twentieth century science.

Source Materials and Chapter Outlines

A rich amount of material survives which illuminates the history of Rothschild’s zoological enterprise. This thesis draws on newspapers, periodicals, scientific papers and publications, as well as photographs, illustrations, the museum and its collections.

It also draws on material within the archives of the Zoological Society of London, The

Rothschild Archive and The Waddesdon Archive at Windmill Hill. However, the primary source for this thesis has been the Tring Museum Correspondence held by the

Natural History Museum (London) (NHM).104 The collection includes over a dozen volumes of administrative records and over 250 boxes of correspondence written by the various collectors, suppliers and zoologists from around the world with whom

Rothschild and his curators were in contact.

The archive material is extensive and covers a wide chronological period, but navigating it is difficult because it is catalogued by person or date, not subject or theme, which makes it hard to follow up on specific thematic questions. Moreover, the

104 When Rothschild died in 1937, the museum, his collection, library and all the relevant administrative records were left to the BMNH (as it was then).

43 vast majority is only incoming correspondence and Rothschild’s letters are proportionately few in number. This is supposedly because a vast quantity of documentation relating to Tring Museum was destroyed. Miriam Rothschild claimed that in the 1960s the NHM cleared the basement of Tring Museum in order to conduct some building work, and that museum account ledgers, visitor books, letters, diaries, breeding records and photographs were consigned to a bonfire.105 It is unclear if these claims are accurate, but it seems likely that what remains is representative but not exhaustive. Having spent the past four years getting to grips with this material and with the meticulous management styles of Hartert and Jordan, I suspect there were at one stage far more records than those which survive, particularly pertaining to visitors, specimens and accounts.

Despite the fact that many records may have been lost, there is still an overwhelming abundance of source material – each of the 250 boxes containing hundreds of letters. Here I have predominantly focused my research on the period

1889-1900, when Rothschild had access to significant financial resources and was building his enterprise rapidly without limitation. By 1900, the museum, staff, scientific approach, galleries and journal were all well established and I wanted to understand how he built his enterprise and why. Though Rothschild left few reflective records about his work, deep acquaintance with the wide range of sources – from financial ledgers to correspondence with suppliers – can help build a clearer picture of his motivations, ambitions and attitudes towards the scientific work undertaken at

Tring Museum.

105 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 299–301. Even in the surviving material, Miriam Rothschild claimed that certain letters, many written by Rothschild, had been purposefully removed.

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Chapter one sets the scene by offering an overview of the components of

Rothschild’s zoological enterprise and the synergies between them, which will be explored further in future chapters. It employs a novel and valuable methodology: the analysis of archival evidence of Rothschild’s financial transactions, which were on a scale comparable to that of national natural history museums. It argues that money provides a uniquely traceable connection between seemingly diverse natural-historical practices, and the communities that grew up around them. Analysing Rothschild’s spending reveals how he financed his zoological enterprise and what purchases he made. It also illuminates the costs of creating a specimen, a collection, a museum, and the wider zoological enterprise, and highlights the broad, inclusionary, and complex social networks that were engaged in these activities.

The next two chapters focus down on particular aspects of Rothschild’s enterprise. Chapter two examines the scientific agenda that drove the work of Tring

Museum. It reveals how Rothschild and his curators forged a shared intellectual agenda that centred on the study of geographical variation and the identification of subspecies, which they believed were key to understanding evolutionary development.

They also favoured the controversial adoption of trinomial nomenclature – the use of a third name to designate geographical varieties or subspecies – to illustrate the relationships between species. It argues that these activities were crucially dependent on, and drove, the further development of the museum’s research collection, which was in turn used to promote highly collaborative working practices. It illustrates how other researchers became dependent on Tring Museum for both physical and intellectual resources and thus how the collection enabled Rothschild and his curators to build a community around their institution. This community was significant enough

45 to establish their scientific credentials and enabled them to challenge the scientific and social norms of the emerging professional natural history community.

Chapter three explores the public-facing side of Rothschild’s zoological enterprise – the museum’s public galleries. It considers the origins of the museum and explores why Rothschild considered it important to have public galleries, and what narratives they conveyed. It examines the layout and key features of the displays to illustrate how Tring Museum conveyed an evolutionary narrative in a manner comparable to public zoological museums of the period. It also reveals features of display common in private museums, such as elements of spectacle and personal achievement, which foregrounded Rothschild’s personal interests, tastes, wealth and exploits. It argues that both narratives were complementary and made possible by the manner of specimen display, thereby emphasising his ambiguous positioning at the boundary of what historians regard as ‘professional’ and ‘amateur’ zoologists. It also builds on analysis from chapter two by exposing the crossover between display practices and the museum’s scientific agenda, and highlights how Rothschild’s museum blurred the boundary between the public and the private museum.

Chapter four examines the process of acquisition and how Rothschild built his collection. It builds on chapters two and three to reveal how Rothschild’s desire to illuminate the influence of geography on species variation, and to present a profusion of nature to museum visitors, drove him to deploy a wide range of acquisition methods.

It examines the museum’s relationships with suppliers and uses Rothschild’s activities to reveal the processes and practices involved in specimen acquisition at the turn of the century. It demonstrates how Rothschild and his curators used acquisition to create a community around the museum and argues that that community were integral to the museum’s scientific and public-facing work, with suppliers often contributing directly

46 to the construction of zoological knowledge. It also argues that the broad range of living, study and stuffed specimens Rothschild looked to acquire were not disparate collections, but in fact part of a single integrated enterprise that became an effective instrument in advancing the museum’s public and scientific agendas.

The final chapter turns its attention to the museum’s zoological journal,

Novitates Zoologicae, and examines its role in the construction of zoological knowledge. It considers Rothschild’s rationale for producing a journal rather than other types of publication, and explores the various ways in which it was used to communicate, defend and advance Rothschild’s scientific aspirations to map and understand species diversity. Equally importantly, Novitates was instrumental in building the collection by recruiting the people, specimens and information that would constitute it. Its contents also reflect Rothschild’s personalised curatorial practices, specifically in the use of comparison and emphasis on ‘novelty’, which he used to make the case for species diversity, and to highlight the inadequacy of existing scientific nomenclature.

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Chapter I

Money Matters

‘Mr. Walter de Rothschild, whose admission to partnership in the great financial house is just announced, is the elder son of Lord Rothschild, and is just twenty-two years old […] His chief interest is in natural history, and he has formed at his home at Tring a curious and valuable museum, illustrating the fauna and flora of the neighbourhood, and has good- naturedly thrown it open to the inhabitants of the town’.1 Periodicals and newspapers from the 1890s were littered with articles reporting on

Rothschild’s creation of a museum at Tring. In 1893, the ‘Society’ section of the

British periodical Bow Bells, for example, reported Rothschild to be ‘the owner of the finest private museum in the world’.2 Meanwhile, the Bucks Herald reported how the public galleries housed some 950 stuffed mammals, 3,600 stuffed birds, 200 reptiles,

300 fishes, 1,500 insects and a further 1,500 shells, corals, sponges and lower animals.3

These reports firmly established Rothschild’s passion for natural history as part of his public image as a society gentleman. Behind the scenes, Rothschild was amassing a research collection, which eventually totalled some 2.5 million set Lepidoptera,

300,000 bird skins, 300 dried reptiles and over 1,400 mammal skins and skulls. To build and interpret these collections he relied on two professional curators and a global network of over 400 collectors.4 To disseminate the findings from research conducted on them, in 1894 Rothschild began to publish his own zoological journal, Novitates

Zoologicae. These activities constituted his ‘zoological enterprise’.

1 ‘From Pall Mall Windows’, The Speaker: The Liberal Review, 1 March 1890, 233. 2 ‘Society’, Bow Bells: A Magazine of General Literature and Art for Family Reading 24 (10 November 1893): 468. 3 ‘Mr. Walter Rothschild’s Museum at Tring’, Bucks Herald, 28 October 1893. 4 Miriam Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild: Birds, Butterflies, and History (London: Hutchinson, 1983), 155. This figure is likely to be an underestimation for, as Miriam Rothschild has shown, records of collectors in Novitates Zoologicae reveal that 26 of those contributing to entomological collections were not included in the 400.

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The building of this enterprise depended on a constant stream of financial transactions. Collectors had to be kitted out and paid. Specimens had to be transported and made ‘presentable’ for the public and ‘useful’ for science. Facilities were constructed in which to house the collections, and staff hired to curate them. Collecting was not just a scientific and social enterprise, but a vast expense. Yet, surprisingly, neither contemporary commentators nor subsequent scholars have considered how money shaped the development of Rothschild’s enterprise, presumably assuming that his family’s vast wealth amply supported his needs. But analysing how much money was given and spent, when and for what specific purpose, can offer unique opportunities to study the workings, motivations, and scientific predilections of

Rothschild and Tring Museum.

In fact, historians in general have taken little account of the ubiquity and necessity of money in building large-scale zoological collections.5 While they occasionally refer to money earned from the sale of specimens, spent on a museum building, or used to purchase specimens, they focus more frequently on instances where a lack of money has been argued as a reason behind the failure of an enterprise, or for contributing to the limit of an individual’s accomplishments.6 In his examination of Richard Owen (1804-1892), Nicolaas Rupke, for example, has highlighted how not being a man of independent means forced Owen to rely on ‘networks of patronage’ and limited the opportunities he could accept, owing to the obligations of his

5 See as examples Kees Rookmaaker and John van Wyhe, ‘In Alfred Russel Wallace’s Shadow: His Forgotten Assistant, Charles Allen (1839-1892)’, JMBRAS 85 (2012): 17–54; Robert E. Kohler, All Creatures: Naturalists, Collectors, and Biodiversity, 1850 - 1950 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006); Neil Chambers, Joseph Banks and the British Museum: The World of Collecting, 1770- 1830 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2007); Melinda B. Fagan, ‘Wallace, Darwin, and the Practice of Natural History’, Journal of the History of Biology 40 (2007): 601–35. 6 William T. Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington (London: Heinemann, 1981), 105.

49 employment.7 Similarly, Adrian Desmond and Sarah Parker both directly attribute the decline of Robert Edmond Grant (1793-1874), Chair of Zoology and Comparative

Anatomy at University College London, to financial hardship and the fact that his annual income barely averaged £100.8 In addition, there can be a tendency among scholars to view the expenditure of a man like Rothschild – and of other, smaller (but still wealthy) collectors – as an amateurish desire for material things. Money has therefore often been used as a tool by which to exclude somebody from the category of ‘scientist’ or ‘zoologist’. But the possession of money and scientific expertise were not mutually exclusive. In fact, money was essential to the enterprise of collecting – for sourcing, transporting, preparing, storing and displaying specimens – and, at least in Rothschild’s case, was used to shape an ambitious and large-scale scientific enterprise.

This chapter therefore adopts a positive approach to money. It employs

Rothschild as a case study to demonstrate the value of using financial transactions to illuminate the wider history of collecting and museums, and uses money as a methodological tool to scope out the extent of Rothschild’s entire zoological enterprise.9 Later chapters will expand on this overview, by bringing additional source materials to bear on specific aspects of the enterprise. In the first instance, money offers a tangible method for uncovering the role and importance of Rothschild’s family in providing the money and resources which enabled the development of his enterprise. By examining the extent to which he had the freedom to spend that money

7 Nicolaas A. Rupke, Richard Owen: Victorian Naturalist (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 11–12 & 47–48. 8 Adrian Desmond, ‘Robert E. Grant: The Social Predicament of a Pre-Darwinian Transmutationist’, Journal of the History of Biology 17 (1984): 190, 194 & 221; Sarah E. Parker, Robert Edmond Grant (1793-1874) and His Museum of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy, ed. Helen Chatterjee (London: Grant Museum of Zoology, 2006), 25 & 38–39. 9 To the best of my knowledge there are no other examples where money is used to examine the histories of collections or museums.

50 in the manner of his choosing it is also possible to begin to understand his motives for developing the enterprise and the value he placed on its different parts.

Moreover, retracing and compiling the financial transactions which supported an enterprise like Rothschild’s, not only allows his spending to be mapped and quantified – to reveal, for instance, how much money was needed to create and maintain a museum. It brings to the fore the materiality of scientific practice – the role of people, equipment and processes – in a way that otherwise gets lost. Likewise, tracking spending highlights the sheer complexity and extent of the work involved in turning a live animal found in an exotic part of the world into a museum specimen, and in doing so, offers crucial insight into the day-to-day operations involved in running a museum. In addition, analysing financial transactions permits a holistic view of Rothschild’s enterprise, by permitting access to all aspects of his zoological practice

– from the acquisition and curation of specimens to the publication of a journal. Money was the one thing that connected these seemingly diverse practices and the precise ways in which they were connected can be best revealed by the ways in which money flowed through and between them.

Finally, money illuminates value and investment in terms beyond the merely pecuniary: Rothschild’s spending can reveal scientific, emotional, intellectual and social values too. The approach of ‘following the money’ can therefore enhance our understanding of why collections, and enterprises like Rothschild’s, took the form and shape that they did. This is particularly significant when considering the roles that individuals like Rothschild were able to take in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century science and how their investment in different forms of natural-historical practice may have carved out their positions in the scientific community.

51

To produce this analysis, the chapter draws on two key sets of records, which are representative of Rothschild’s spending habits and offer crucial insight into the day-to-day running of Tring Museum. Firstly, the family’s financial ledgers held by the Rothschild Archive – which detail the various accounts held by family members and record various debit and credit transactions – and secondly, a series of cheque stubs, cashbooks and invoices contained within the Tring Museum Correspondence held by the Natural History Museum.10 These records have been used to compile a data set which illuminates Rothschild’s spending between 1889, when the museum was first established, and 1900.11 This was a crucial period in the development of

Rothschild’s zoological enterprise, such that by 1900 the museum, staff, collections, galleries and journal were all well established. This was possible because Rothschild’s finances were virtually limitless during this time. Subsequent discussion will then predominantly draw on analysis of the year 1895, which has been taken as the midway point in this particularly active period in the history of Rothschild’s enterprise. The surviving records for this year are particularly extensive and, significantly, all the constituent parts of what I have termed his “zoological enterprise” were in place by this time and therefore indicate how Rothschild was dividing resources between each of the different parts.

To set the scene, the chapter begins with a discussion of Rothschild’s family background and how it enabled and shaped his zoological enterprise. It then moves on

10 ‘Current Accounts’, I/2/24 to I/2/31, Rothschild Archive, London; ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’, TM3/1, NHM, London. 11 This data set is not an exhaustive record of Tring Museum’s finances between 1889 and 1900, as the running of an enterprise of this scale is likely to have produced far more financial documentation than what has survived. Any indication of amounts here should thus be considered a minimum estimation of how much Rothschild was spending on his museum during this period. Moreover, a more extensive survey of the surviving correspondence, cross-checked with the material from the ledgers, cheque-stubs and cashbooks would yield even further data.

52 to analyse his day-to-day expenditure on natural history in 1895, looking in turn at each part of his enterprise – specimens, the museum, books, staff and the journal.

Bankrolling Natural History

The elder son of Nathaniel Mayer (1840-1915), known as Natty, and Emma Louisa

Rothschild (1844-1935), Walter was born into one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Victorian Society.12 By the mid-nineteenth century the House of Rothschild had established itself as ‘the world’s banker’.13 The family operated the largest bank in the world and rapidly accumulated capital which gave them elevated standing in global society. The business was originally established by Walter’s great- great-grandfather Mayer Amschel Rothschild (1743-1812) in Frankfurt in the late- eighteenth century, where he had initially traded in rare coins, before operating as a bill broker and merchant banker.14 Together with his sons, Mayer Amschel pursued various opportunities and developed branches of the business across five European capitals (Frankfurt, London, Paris, Vienna and Naples), giving it a unique multinational structure. The London branch was led by Nathan Mayer (1777-1836), who established the investment banking firm N.M. Rothschild & Sons at New Court in the City of London in 1811. The company engaged in a range of profitable business activities, but most notably invested in government bonds, foreign loans, railway construction and mining companies. Particularly significant to their success was the relationship that the Rothschilds forged with the British government. Nathan Mayer, for example, helped to finance British campaigns during the Napoleonic wars, while his son, Lionel Rothschild (1808-1879), secured the necessary finance for the British

12 For more on the history of the Rothschilds and banking see Niall Ferguson, The House of Rothschild: The World’s Banker 1849-1999. (New York: Penguin, 1998); Niall Ferguson, The House of Rothschild: Money’s Prophets 1798-1848. (New York: Penguin, 1998); Richard W. Davis, The English Rothschilds (London: Collins, 1983). 13 Ferguson, The House of Rothschild: The World’s Banker 1849-1999. 14 Ibid., xxi.

53 government to buy shares in the Suez Canal in 1875.15 As a result of these investments, the Rothschild family came to possess significant financial and political influence within British and European society. Walter’s father served as a Liberal MP (1865-

1885), before being made the first Jewish peer to sit in the House of Lords in 1885, while Natty’s brother, Alfred (1842-1918), served as Director of the Bank of England between 1868 and 1889.

Figure 1. Ancestor Tree of Lionel Walter Rothschild

As well as possessing significant political and economic influence, the British- based branch of the Rothschild family were leaders of the Anglo-Jewish community.

Natty, for instance, served as President of the United Synagogue (1879-1915),

President of the Jews’ Free School and Vice-President of the Anglo-Jewish

Association, and, together with his wife, was involved in various philanthropic efforts to improve the health and wellbeing of his employees and members of wider society.16

15 John Cooper, ‘Nathaniel Mayer Rothschild (1840-1915), the Last of the Shtadlanim’, Jewish Historical Studies 43 (2011): 127. 16 Ibid., 129–30; Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 20–21; Derek Wilson, Rothschild: A Story of Wealth and Power (London: Mandarin, 1994), 256; Tim Amsden, The Rothschilds and Tring (London: Ludo Press, 2017), 5.

54

This was the world in which young Walter was raised – one of affluence and luxury, with the family exerting far reaching influence over many sectors of society on an international level.

Walter himself (hereafter referred to as Rothschild) was raised alongside his siblings, Charles and Evelina, on the family estate at Tring Park, one of several estates across Buckinghamshire owned by members of the Rothschild family. Tring Park was a sizeable property with a large household and estate. The 1881 census indicates the family had seventeen live-in servants and, at its peak, the estate is said to have

‘employed over three hundred people in its farms, stables and other departments’.17

The family also had a residence at 148 Piccadilly in London. Members of the

Rothschild family lived opulent lifestyles and spent exorbitant sums on their hobbies, which included yachting and horse racing. Alfred Rothschild (1842-1918), for example, had a love for ‘music, clothes, furniture, paintings, beautiful women, and above all, luxury’ and would regularly withdraw £1000 cash for his ‘week-end spending money’.18 Many other family members had begun to build exquisite collections of art, literature, furniture and jewellery.19

17 ‘“N.M de Rothschild” 1881 England Census’, Class: RG11; Piece: 1448; Folio: 17; Page: 27; GSU roll: 1341351, accessed 5 April 2019, https://search.ancestry.co.uk; Amsden, The Rothschilds and Tring, 5. 18 Virginia Cowles, The Rothschilds: A Family of Fortune (London: Wiedenfeld and Nicolson, 1973), 171–73. 19 Ibid., 190–91.

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Figure 2. Tring Park Mansion from Morning Calls (1896). Image from HathiTrust Digital Library digitised by Google Inc.

As the eldest son Rothschild was expected to become a partner in N.M.

Rothschild & Sons, thus securing the next generation of financiers. However, exposure to natural history permeated Rothschild’s childhood. Natty, for example, had strong interests in hunting dogs, horses and cattle breeding.20 These interests undoubtedly influenced his children, for both his sons developed a love for the natural world.21 The

Rothschilds were not unique in this regard. The practices of natural history infused

British society during the nineteenth century and people from across the social strata

20 John Cooper, The Unexpected Story of Nathaniel Rothschild (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 51; Shelley Savage, A Surprising Walk in Tring Park: The Story from the Ice Age to the Present (London: Tring & District Local History and Museum Society, 2014), 9; Cooper, ‘Nathaniel Mayer Rothschild’, 126. 21 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 86. In later life, having benefited from the tutelage of his elder brother, Charles became a renowned specialist in fleas and their role in disease transmission. He also contributed to Rothschild’s journal and specimen collection, but perhaps most significantly, Charles was the founder of the Society for the Protection of Nature Reserves (the SPNR) for Britain and the Empire, which he established in 1912. The aim of the society was to promote the protection of nature by interfering with it as little as possible by forming a large number of local reserves to safeguard species and types of scenery on their native ground. The Society, in its original incarnation at least, was only short lived and suffered a significant loss of momentum after Charles’s death in 1923.

56 sought to expand their knowledge of nature by collecting, identifying, classifying, exchanging, displaying and discussing specimens.22 But for Rothschild, interest in the natural world became more than a childhood hobby and he developed grand ambitions.

According to family legend, he declared aged seven that he would one day run a zoological museum, and began collecting in earnest shortly thereafter. Outhouses and sheds around the family estate were soon bulging with specimens for his future

‘museum’.23

Figure 3. Rothschild’s childhood specimen collection. PH/13/5, Archives of the Natural History Museum, London.

Rothschild continued to pursue his interest in natural history and in July 1887 enrolled in the Natural Science Tripos at Cambridge’s Magdalene College. However,

Rothschild did not graduate, since – as was common for wealthy young men of the

22 See for example Lynn L. Merrill, The Romance of Victorian Natural History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 41–42; Jane Camerini, ‘Remains of the Day: Early Victorians in the Field’, in Victorian Science in Context, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1997), 355; Barbara T. Gates, ‘Introduction: Why Victorian Natural History?’, Victorian Literature and Culture 35 (2007): 539–49. 23 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 1.

57 period – he did not require ‘qualifications’ to succeed.24 He left Cambridge after two years’ study and entered the bank at New Court in 1889.25

There are no records to indicate the tasks Rothschild performed while working for N.M. Rothschild & Sons, but correspondence written between members of the

London and Paris branches of the business between 1906 and 1914 give some indication of the daily activities in which the family were involved. This included the negotiation and issue of loans, discussion of current stock prices, and observations on the economic and political situations in countries where they had investments.26

Rothschild’s daily attendance at the bank, at least from 9am until noon, gave the appearance that he was conforming to what was expected of wealthy aristocrats and of Rothschild men.27 However, his entry into N.M Rothschild & Sons coincided with the construction of Tring Museum and natural history continued to be his primary focus.

The construction of the museum was largely orchestrated by his mother,

Emma, and represented the realisation of Rothschild’s childhood dream. As Miriam

Rothschild recalled, Emma recognised that Rothschild’s love of zoology was not a

‘passing boyish fancy’ and that he was ‘highly gifted and deserved some encouragement’. She persuaded her husband to put aside his disapproval of his son’s

24 G. R. Evans, The University of Cambridge: A New History (London: I.B. Tauris, 2010), 248 & 319–22; E. S. Leedham-Green, A Concise History of the University of Cambridge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), chap. 5. 25 ‘A Cambridge Alumni Database 1200-1900: Record for Lionel Walter Rothschild.’, accessed 18 April 2017, http://venn.lib.cam.ac.uk/Documents/acad/2018/search-2018.html; Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 75. 26 ‘Nathaniel, 1st Lord Rothschild, London to Rothschild Cousins, Paris’, 1 January 1906, XI/130A/0/1, Rothschild Archive, London, https://nathaniel100.rothschildarchive.org/the- letters/depts/1906/record/2438/document/18694; ‘Leopold de Rothschild, London to Rothschild Cousins, Paris’, 22 October 1908, XI/130A/2/196, Rothschild Archive, London, https://nathaniel100.rothschildarchive.org/the-letters/depts/1908/record/2364/document/20711; ‘Nathaniel, 1st Lord Rothschild, London to Rothschild Cousins, Paris’, 2 June 1910, XI/130A/4/101, Rothschild Archive, London, https://nathaniel100.rothschildarchive.org/the- letters/depts/1910/record/2384/document/21082. 27 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 220.

58 passion for natural history and together they built him a museum, in honour of his twenty-first birthday. However, this ‘gift’ had come with the caveat that Rothschild join the family business.28 Rothschild’s parents consulted with the British Museum

(Natural History)’s Keeper of Zoology, Albert Günther, on how to best proceed.29 The outcome of these discussions was ‘the decision to erect a special building as a museum provided with studies and work rooms for Walter and a staff’.30 Natty and Emma then commissioned local architect William Huckvale to draw up plans for the museum and local building firm, J. Honour & Sons, were hired to erect the museum, together with rooms and a cottage, for a total of £3,300. The contract was signed on the 20th March

1889 and construction of the museum began the same year.

Figure 4. Tring Museum (1899) © Trustees of the Natural History Museum

28 Ibid., 104. 29 Albert Edward Günther, A Century of Zoology at the British Museum through the Lives of Two Keepers, 1815-1914 (London: Dawsons, 1975), 420; for an example of the continued involvement of Günther as an advisor for the management of the museum see ‘Richardson Carr to Albert Günther’, 27 April 1890, Box 23. A. Günther Collection 1795-1980, NHM, London. 30 Günther, A Century of Zoology, 420.

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Construction of the museum sparked a period of heavy spending for

Rothschild: around £11,250 per year between 1889 and 1900, which was some one hundred and thirty times more than the average wage of a builder in 1901, seventy- five times more than a national government employee and seventeen times more than a private sector professional.31 This gives a total of £123,750 over the eleven-year period, which, if taken as the value in 1900 and adjusted for inflation, equates to just under £14,950,000 in 2018.32 This is a staggering sum of money but should be considered a conservative estimate, as the surviving documentation is fragmented and references to payments made by Rothschild during this period exist which do not correspond to any financial records traced so far.33

To provide some context, Susan Sheets-Pyenson has estimated that major national museums, such as those in Paris and London, were spending some £40,000 a year by the end of the nineteenth century, while ‘the budget of a first-class museum in

Britain (outside of London) was not even £1,000’.34 Rothschild was spending more than ten times what Sheets-Pyenson surmises as the annual budget for museums

31 Jeffrey G. Williamson, ‘Earnings Inequality in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, The Journal of Economic History 40 (1980): 474. 32 To calculate this estimate I have used my case study year, 1895, to work out an average sum per transaction (£15), multiplied that sum by the number of transactions I have been able to identify for that year (750) and multiplied that by eleven to cover the time period. This is a rough estimate as there are several variables and more extensive mining of the archive could improve its accuracy. The 2018 valuation has been reached using ‘UK Inflation Calculator | Bank of England’, www.bankofengland.co.uk, accessed 25 July 2019, https://www.bankofengland.co.uk/monetary- policy/inflation/inflation-calculator. These calculations offer only a very rough guide as the shifting values of different goods and commodities, and the different social distribution of money, mean that £15 million today is very different to the £123,750 in 1900. 33 For example, Andrew Esposito references evidence that Rothschild paid $1,000 (£205) for two specimens of Hawaiian Rail in 1889 and Bartle and Tennyson show Walter Buller receiving £692 for sales of live New Zealand birds and skins to Rothschild between 1894 and 1895. Andrew Esposito, ‘Which Two Bird Specimens Cost Walter Rothschild $500 Each in 1889?’, goodreads.com, accessed 4 May 2017, https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8188260.Andrew_Esposito/blog/tag/scott-b- wilson; Conversion of $ to £ has been worked out using Officer H. Lawrence, ‘Dollar-Pound Exchange Rare from 1791’, MeasuringWorth, 2018, http://www.measuringworth.com/exchangepound/ with an exchange rate in 1889 of $4.87; J.A. Bartle and Alan J.D. Tennyson, ‘History of Walter Buller’s Collections of New Zealand Birds’, Tuhinga 20 (2009): 93. 34 Susan Sheets-Pyenson, ‘Cathedrals of Science: The Development of Colonial Natural History Museums during the Late Nineteenth Century’, History of Science 25 (1987): 285 & 293.

60 outside London. In fact, this analysis puts Rothschild on par with museums of a national standing rather than local ones, especially when it is considered that

Rothschild was only developing a zoology collection and that national museums such as BMNH would be dispersing that annual expenditure between additional departments, such as botany and palaeontology. On that reckoning, Rothschild’s annual expenditure on his museum each year may have approximated closely to equivalent annual spending of the BMNH.

Rothschild’s funds were largely derived from inherited stocks and shares in companies such as Rio Tinto and De Beers, as well as Australian gold mines and the

Austrian State Railway. He also earned a salary from N.M. Rothschild & Sons which amounted to £5000 a year and received an income of c. £8000 a year from the estate of his grandmother, Baroness Lionel Rothschild. This gave Rothschild an average annual income of between £30,000 and £40,000.35 Putting this in perspective,

Rothschild was spending at least a third of his annual income on his museum.

It is notable that throughout this period, Rothschild continued to live in the family home. He never married or established his own household. Thus, while he made quarterly payments of £2000 towards the running of Tring Park Estate, this was a marginal sum compared to what it would have cost him to run his own estate.36 This would have included the cost of the property and its upkeep, utilities and the wage bill, which for an estate the size of Tring Park would have cost on average around £25,000 a year to run.37 Rothschild’s domestic arrangements therefore freed up his money for spending elsewhere. Significantly, he also passed museum bills through the Tring Park

35 ‘Current Accounts Commencing Jan 1904-Dec 1908’, I/2/29, Rothschild Archive, London. 36 Ibid. 37 ‘Accounts Ledger for Emma, Lady Rothschild and the Tring Estate, Private Collection’, 170.1997, The Waddesdon Archive at Windmill Hill; ‘Account Books Belonging to Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild. Waddesdon (Rothschild Family)’, 167.1997.1-7, The Waddesdon Archive at Windmill Hill.

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Estate Office, where they were paid by his father. Miriam Rothschild described how

‘these sums were engulfed in the much larger amounts expended on the livestock enterprise at Tring Park’ and went unnoticed, meaning that his expenditure was likely to have far exceeded the estimates given here.38

However, it would be wrong to simply think that Rothschild – for all his wealth and expenditure – had unlimited funds. At key points, Tring Museum was shaped as much by financial difficulty as by extreme wealth. For instance, by the turn of the century Rothschild was not only spending exorbitant sums on his museum. From around 1902 he was repeatedly blackmailed for large sums of money by a wealthy peeress with whom he had had an affair. In addition, from around 1905 he was supporting two mistresses, one of whom had borne him a daughter, providing them both with flats and living expenses. These costs, combined with the museum, the growing network of collectors and publication of the museum’s monographs and revisions, resulted in growing debts. Around 1906, he mortgaged his museum and gradually began to sell property he owned in order to raise funds.39 By 1907,

Rothschild responded to this increasing financial pressure by ceasing to open his correspondence and locking it away in laundry baskets.

The truth about his financial predicament was finally revealed to his family in

January 1908 when his investments in companies not listed on the stock exchange, made at the suggestion of the blackmailing peeress and her husband, were brought to the attention of the Chief Clerk at New Court, Joseph Nauheim, who immediately informed Natty. At the same time, Rothschild’s mistresses found out about each other and informed his parents. These events destroyed Rothschild’s relationship with his

38 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 106–7. 39 Ibid., 92 & 98.

62 father, who never forgave his actions.40 Recalling the events in his diary, politician

James Lindsay, 9th Earl of Balcarres (1847-1913), described how: ‘[Natty] is furious: most of all that, for the first time in history, a Rothschild has speculated unsuccessfully. It is a great blow to the acumen of the family’.41

Rothschild was immediately dismissed from the family business and Charles, who was now expected to exceed Natty as head of the family, was tasked with securing the museum’s finances and setting it up as a separate enterprise independent of the

Tring Park Estate.42 He was given the keys to all the linen baskets (except the one with letters from the peeress – Rothschild had wanted to shield his mother from this additional embarrassment) and set about his task. Charles immediately liquidated some of Rothschild’s assets, set up pensions for the museum staff, sold material outside of the museum’s research scope, cancelled existing orders and planned expeditions, and put an end to the lavishly illustrated monographs and revisions the museum produced.43 He also made settlements on Rothschild’s mistresses, who each received a house and annual income of £10,000 on the condition that they never again contact the family.44 Natty, meanwhile, paid off his son’s debts with collectors, taxidermists and dealers, and the museum’s mortgage. Thereafter, Rothschild was left

40 Ibid., 92 & 219–20. 41 Quoted in Cooper, The Unexpected Story of Nathaniel Rothschild, 313. 42 Ibid., 53; Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 116; Unlike his elder brother, Charles did not allow his work on fleas or nature conservation to interfere with his nine-to-five role at the Bank. Charles became a senior partner in N.M. Rothschild & Sons, and in 1905 was put in charge of the bullion department and tasked with updating and making more efficient the accounting system of the Bank. This was a significant responsibility and increasing pressures on his time had led Charles to sell his own bird collection and the majority of his butterfly collection, only keeping his British specimens and fleas, which he worked on during the evenings and at weekends. See Miriam Rothschild and Peter Marren, Rothschild’s Reserves: Time and Fragile Nature (Rehovot, Israel: Balaban Publishers, 1997), 1 & 5; Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 101. 43 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 116. 44 While this was happening Rothschild, together with Hartert, set sail for an expedition to the Sahara. See ibid., chap. 25 'The Great Row'.

63 funding the museum from a reduced annual income of c. £16,000, roughly half of what he had had before.45

Though the period 1908 offers exciting challenges to the historian, as the period in which Rothschild was forced to make revealing decisions about his priorities for financial investment in the museum and its collections and networks, this chapter returns to the period in which both Rothschild and Tring Museum were in their heyday

– the mid-1890s. At this point Rothschild had already built the constituent parts of his zoological enterprise. The galleries, the research collections, the collectors, the journal and the curators were all in place and, with no significant financial restrictions placed upon his endeavours, Rothschild could spend freely on whatever specimens, staff, collectors, taxidermists and illustrations he deemed necessary. It was in this period that Rothschild’s money enabled him to build his scientific vision of a museum and research collections which would reveal geographical variations, and to carve out a powerful position for himself as not only a scientific patron, but as the director of a zoological enterprise with far-reaching influence. Using surviving financial records for the year 1895, this chapter breaks down Rothschild’s annual spending on his museum. Following the money, it will expose the connections between the different practices and activities that took place at the museum, and reveal the specific ways in which such an important collection was built.

Day to day expenditure in 1895

1895 can be considered one of the museum’s ‘golden years’. By this stage, the museum had been open for just over five years, and to the public for the latter three, and had begun to receive public recognition. The Leeds Mercury, for instance, reported

45 ‘Current Accounts Commencing Jan 1909-Dec 1912’, I/2/30, Rothschild Archive, London; ‘Current Accounts Commencing Jan 1913’, I/2/31, Rothschild Archive, London.

64 how ‘the finest private museum of natural history in the world stands, not in London or any of the great towns…[but] in the little village of Tring’.46 Ernst Hartert (1859-

1933) had been in post as Museum Director for three years and Karl Jordan (1861-

1959) as curator of invertebrates for two. Publication of Novitates Zoologicae had begun in 1894, and Rothschild had begun to establish a network of collectors and correspondents all over the globe who were involved in collecting for his museum.

To sustain this growing enterprise, Rothschild spent a minimum of £11,188 on funding his endeavours in 1895, equating in today’s money to just shy of £1.5 million.47 As shown in Table 1 and Figure 5, this included payments for books, the production of the journal, and staff salaries, as well as the acquisition of specimens for both the research and public collections, and the upkeep and development of the museum. These categories of spending will be analysed in turn, and developed in subsequent chapters.

Table 1. A breakdown of the minimum total expenditure for 1895.48

46 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, The Leeds Mercury, 3 September 1895. 47 ‘UK Inflation Calculator | Bank of England’ was used to make this calculation. 48 I have compiled this information from financial ledger I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London, and TM3/1 NHM, London.

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Estimated Overall Expenditure Breakdown for 1895

1% Specimens 4% 5% Museum upkeep, maintenance and supplies 9% Miscellaneous e.g. petty cash, telegrams, postage etc.

11% Staff 56% Journal

14% Lawyers

Books and Society Memberships

Figure 5. A breakdown of the minimum total expenditure for 1895.49

Specimens

The acquisition of specimens was the largest of Rothschild’s overheads and at £6217 accounts for 56% of his annual expenditure in 1895. This was a time when Rothschild and his curators were looking to expand the collections in order to pursue their work and interest in species and their distribution (discussed in chapter two). To do so they required long series of specimens from numerous localities, which permitted detailed study of variation within species and sub-species and of comparisons between them.

Rothschild was also looking to secure specimens to populate his public galleries

(discussed in chapter three) in order to display the great variety of species that existed in the natural world. This included several particularly valuable specimens whose presence not only represented what today would be considered biodiversity, but also

49 I have compiled this information from financial ledger I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London, and TM3/1 NHM, London.

66 a sizeable financial investment. For example, the Dartmouth Chronicle valued the egg of a great auk at £340 apiece and Rothschild had two!50

Financial records reveal the great variety of sources from which Rothschild obtained his specimens (Table 2). The process of specimen acquisition will be discussed further in chapter four, but financial analysis reveals how specimens were sourced not only by the collectors that Rothschild had hired and instructed to collect specific material from specific locations, but from an array of providers, both in Britain and beyond. This included natural history dealers, live animal dealers and taxidermists, as well as an Ostrich and Fancy Feather Merchant and a lepidopterist

(someone who bred butterflies and could supply eggs and pupae as well as living and dead specimens).

Table 2. Expenditure on specimen acquisition by source for 1895.51

50 ‘A Wonderful Museum’, Dartmouth & South Hams Chronicle, 27 August 1909. 51 I have compiled this information from financial ledger I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London, and TM3/1 NHM, London.

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Very few individuals had the resources to engage with as many different suppliers as Rothschild. Their involvement demonstrates his keenness to acquire material and his willingness to engage with whoever seemed likely to deliver it.

Furthermore, it reveals the way in which Rothschild’s ambition to acquire vast amounts of natural-historical material was underpinned by the fact he had money, making him uniquely positioned to create a collection of this kind.

The cheque stubs offer a fairly complete record of who these people were: taxidermists Edward Gerrard and Rowland Ward, entomological dealers Watkins and

Doncaster, live animal dealer A.E. Jamrach, as well as natural history dealers such as

O.E. Janson and Miss E. Cutter. It is notable that the museum did a lot of business on the continent, particularly in France and Germany. Records show dealings with Dr.

Otto Staudinger, Henri Donckier, Herman Rolle and Carl Ribbe.52 Dealings with

Jamrach and Ward highlight the different material that Rothschild purchased – on some occasions ‘dead’ specimens and in other cases ‘live’ ones.53 This raises interesting questions about Rothschild’s agenda for his collection, which will be explored further in chapters two and three. In addition to buying specimens from these reputable and established sources, the petty cash books provide evidence of the museum paying for specimens brought to them by individuals, about whom little is known apart from their name. For instance, a Geo. W. Wheatley was paid £1 2/8 for providing ‘2 small caterpillars’, while a further shilling was paid ‘for bats caught by man in woods’.54 These examples highlight Rothschild’s alertness to all opportunities to purchase specimens which would enhance his collection.

52 A full tabulated list of the suppliers of specimens Rothschild conducted business with in 1895 can be viewed in Appendix I. 53 Payments to Rowland Ward 2 Apr 1895 and A.E. Jamrach 4 Jul 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 54 Payments to G.W. Wheatley, 30 June 1896 and unknown, 1 Feb 1895, ibid.

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Analysis shows that most acquisitions were of birds and insects, the taxa which were the focus of the museum’s research agenda. These normally came from dealers and collectors, ready prepared for storage in the research collection, and with detailed provenance which was critical to their use as scientific material. Rothschild and his curators instructed collectors to provide accurate, scientifically relevant information

(including location, date and name of collector) on specimen labels. Mammals on the other hand, were more commonly destined for the public galleries and tended to come via the taxidermist – a necessary intermediary between the collector and museum, who mounted specimens for public display. Taxidermied specimens incurred more cost, and surviving bills detail the services for which Rothschild paid. Rowland Ward, for instance, billed Rothschild £22 10/- for ‘preserving & dressing Uran Utan skin, making cast of skull & modelling as animal entire […] box & packing’. It also contained the seemingly mundane instruction that the Uran Utan be modelled ‘in natural position’.55 Different species can thus be seen taking different routes into the museum, depending on their destination, and when instructions issued to collectors are compared with those issued to taxidermists, the different agendas that Rothschild had for his public galleries compared to his research collection begin to be revealed.

While Rothschild sought out most specimens for himself, his business was often solicited, for example by those who sent specimens directly to the museum ‘on approval’. Rothschild’s curators tried to curtail this practice by returning unwanted specimens and reprimanding prospective vendors but, as Kristin Johnson has shown, vendors responded with letters that quoted Rothschild as having already agreed to pay for the specimens sent.56 This reveals that Rothschild’s interests did not always align

55 ‘Rowland Ward to Tring Museum, Record of Account’, 4 November 1904, TR1/1/26/579, NHM, London. 56 Kristin Johnson, Ordering Life: Karl Jordan and the Naturalist Tradition (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012), 30.

69 with those of his curators and that he was motivated by additional considerations.

Thus, while Hartert and Jordan were able to accept and deny offers of specimens, their decision-making power was limited and could always be overturned, or indeed undermined, by Rothschild.

Rothschild’s enthusiasm for collecting brought with it an element of danger that his good will could be exploited. According to Miriam Rothschild, Rothschild

‘was relentlessly victimised, bamboozled and deceived by dealers’.57 In a letter to

Hartert from 1910 he highlighted his frustration that ‘somehow animals, birds, insects

& co seem to have the power of sucking honesty out of people like the vampire sucks the blood’.58 While he may have been intent on acquiring specimens by any means necessary and prepared to pay what it took to gain possession of material that would enhance his collections, this made him vulnerable to the power of the supplier, who could manipulate that desire for their own financial gain.

Museum upkeep, maintenance and supplies

Another significant source of expenditure for Rothschild was the cost of the museum, which in 1895 accounted for 14% of the overall outlay. This included payments for the upkeep and maintenance of the museum (Table 3). For instance, the cheque stubs reveal construction work that took place in the museum, with J. Honour & Son receiving £82 3/- to adapt and refit mahogany cabinets in Hartert’s office.59

Meanwhile, J. Crockett & Sons were paid £225 for the supply of five mahogany cabinets for specimen storage.60 The museum also had a monthly account with A.&E.

Amsden for the supply of coke and coal which fuelled the museum’s electric lighting

57 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 105. 58 ‘Walter Rothschild to Ernst Hartert’, 11 July 1910, TM3/12, NHM, London. 59 Payment to J Honour & Son, 4th July 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 60 Payments to J. Crockett & Sons 19 Mar 1895 & 8 Oct 1895, ibid.

70 and heating.61 Clearly, in commissioning such high-specification furnishings,

Rothschild intended the museum to be a comfortable place.

Table 3. Costs of museum maintenance and upkeep.62

Following the initial phase of construction, Rothschild continued to invest in high specification infrastructure. In 1903 he commissioned showcase makers

Frederick Sage & Co. to make eight new display cases for the museum for a total of

£77. These were to feature iron frame doors with locking mechanisms and be ‘glazed with plate glass’.63 In 1911, he paid them a further £381 for repairing the museum’s old wooden cases which included re-lining, painting and replacing the tongue and groove flooring.64 Crucially, they were also made ‘dust proof’, with small ventilators added to the top of the display cases and filled with cotton wool, to prevent any dust

61 Payment to A&E Amsden, 5 Feb 1895 ibid. 62 I have compiled this information from financial ledger I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London, and TM3/1 NHM, London. 63 ‘Frederick Sage & Co. to Tring Museum’, 8 December 1903, TR1/1/24/384, NHM, London. 64 ‘Frederick Sage & Co to Tring Museum’, 3 November 1911, TR1/1/33/432, NHM, London.

71 from penetrating the cases and causing damage to the mounts within.65 Rothschild was clearly aspiring to a high quality museum which contained the best specimens, displayed in the best possible way.

It is also possible to trace the suppliers of equipment (Table 4). Kirby Beard &

Co. were paid £2 15/- for the supply of entomological pins, used for setting entomological specimens. A. Marshall was paid quarterly for the supply of specimen labels, and James Purdey & Son were paid for cartridges sent to Dr. Percy Rendall, one of Rothschild’s collectors in Africa, presumably for guns used to kill the bird specimens sent back to Tring.66 However, it was Watkins & Doncaster, a supplier and manufacturer of equipment for the study of natural history, from whom Rothschild obtained most of his equipment in 1895. The company dealt in a wide range of products including field equipment, such as butterfly nets and traps; study equipment, such as pins and forceps; specimen collections; and taxidermy.67 In addition, the petty cash books list some of the more mundane purchases made by the museum, such as slate, pencils, string, sealing wax, stamps, magnifying glasses, formaldehyde and paper for setting specimens.68

This category of spending also includes ‘miscellaneous payments’, which account for a further 11% of the expenditure in 1895. They covered the cost of the shipment and transportation of specimens, the sending of telegrams and postage, the weekly petty cash allocation, as well as payments made to food companies, such as

Aylesbury Food Co. Ltd. who were paid quarterly for the supply of ‘biscuits’.69 One

65 ‘Urban District Councillors’ Visit to Tring Museum’, Bucks Advertiser and Aylesbury News, 29 June 1912. 66 Payments to Kirby Beard & Co, 13 Aug 1895, A. Marshall, 17 Apr 1895, and James Purdey & Sons 7 Oct 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 67 ‘Watkins & Doncaster: Our History’, accessed 17 August 2018, https://www.watdon.co.uk/acatalog/History.html. 68 Payment to James Purdey & Son, 7 Oct 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 69 Payment of £4/10 made to Aylesbury Food Co. Ltd, 2 Apr 1895, ibid.

72 can infer that these were used to feed some of Rothschild’s collection of live animals kept at Tring Park. On one occasion Rothschild wrote to Hartert to inform him to anticipate the arrival of two marmots which he was to release in Glover’s Meadow and “sie fressen Dog-biscuits und Kohl (feed them dog biscuits and cabbage)”.70

Table 4. Costs of museum supplies for 1895.71

By following the payments that Rothschild made for supplies and equipment, a picture begins to emerge of how he obtained, handled and stored his specimens. It reinforces the fact that acquiring specimens was only the first step in a much longer process which made them usable for research or of interest to the public, as will be explored further in chapters two and three. In doing so it brings to the foreground the materiality of scientific practice and prompts us to reconsider who was a part of the

70 ‘Rothschild to Hartert’, 24 April 1893, TM3/12, NHM, London. 71 I have compiled this information from financial ledger I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London, and TM3/1 NHM, London.

73 scientific community. Naturalists may have carried out the scientific work but they were supported by a whole industry of tradesmen, many of whom developed highly specialised skills. Money helps write those individuals back into history and shows how a collector like Rothschild helped to sustain a specialised industry.

Books and Society Memberships

Booksellers such as Kennick and Jefferson, H. Sotheran & Co. and Baer & Co. also appear frequently in the records.72 Books were important for knowledge circulation and for reference, and in addition to developing an extensive specimen collection,

Rothschild developed a vast library containing some 30,000 volumes.73 As one contemporary commentator noted, without ‘an excellent zoological library […] any really scientific work would be all but impossible’, and Rothschild’s library was essential to the work that he and his curators produced.74 It contained volumes from throughout the history of natural history, including Linnaeus’s Systema naturae

(1740), Darwin’s Origin of species by means of natural selection (1859) and

Livingstone’s Missionary Travels and researches in South Africa (1857).75 Books and journals were important for establishing precedent and whether a species had already been described. Thus, having access to a large range of reference works and recent publications, which could be consulted when faced with a new or unfamiliar species, reduced the likelihood of a duplication in identification, something which had traditionally caused many problems in natural history. The acquisition of books therefore became an important supportive resource to the developing specimen

72 ‘Current Accounts Commencing 1893-1898’, I/2/27, Rothschild Archive, London. 73 Karl Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, Novitates Zoologicae 41 (1938): 16. 74 Louis Wain, ‘The Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Pets: A Visit to the Tring Museum’, The Windsor Magazine 2 (1895): 669. 75 Rothschild’s Origin of Species is a 6th edition, 33rd thousand, in two volumes, published by John Murray in 1888. As with all Rothschild’s Darwin volumes, they have been bound in the same brown leather with gold edging to the pages, and marked with his initials and the date 1889, the year of his 21st Birthday, suggesting these were a birthday gift.

74 collections, so much so that by 1908 Rothschild had employed a librarian, who doubled as Hartert’s secretary, to unite all the books into one newly-constructed purpose-built library and to manage it.76 This post would later be taken by Miss Phyllis

Thomas in 1919.77

In addition to a well-stocked library, society memberships and journals subscriptions were similarly important. In 1895, Rothschild subscribed as a member to the Zoological Society of London, Entomological Society and Royal Horticultural

Society, as well as the British Ornithologists’ Union (BOU) and British

Ornithologists’ Club (BOC), of which he had been a member of since 1893.78 The

BOC had only formed in 1892 so Rothschild was clearly eager to join as soon as he could. These were memberships which he renewed on an annual basis. Societies were an important part of natural history during this period and offered their members opportunities to present their own research, to borrow and consult books, and provided forums for the display and observation of specimens.79 They were highly social places which offered interested individuals the chance to come together, exchange ideas and discuss their findings. For Rothschild in particular, they were a way of connecting with people within the zoological community, and in later years he served as Vice President of the Zoological Society of London (1907-1908), Chairman of the BOC (1913-1918) and President of the BOU (1923-1928). Beyond 1895, Rothschild became a member of the American Entomological Society, Deutsche Ornithologische Gesellschaft and

Zurich Entomological Society.80 Aided by his ability to speak and read German, the

76 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 11. 77 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 115. 78 ‘Current Accounts Commencing 1893-1898’. 79 Anne Secord, ‘Artisan Botany’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 381. 80 ‘Current Accounts Commencing 1893-1898’; ‘Current Accounts Commencing Jan 1889-Dec 1903’, I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London.

75 other key language of scientific exchange at the time, subscriptions to international societies highlight Rothschild’s awareness of the importance of developments beyond

Britain and his appreciation of the fact that zoologists needed to communicate with one another beyond geographical boundaries to ensure their scholarship was new and not merely duplicating other results.

The importance of communication is further demonstrated by evidence that

Rothschild subscribed to a large number of scientific publications and periodicals including Science Gossip, The Naturalist, and The Zoological Record, which, similarly to society memberships, were important for the circulation of knowledge.81

Publication of Rothschild’s own journal, Novitates Zoologicae, was also tied to this, for in addition to subscriptions, Rothschild exchanged Novitates for other publications, a more detailed discussion of which follows in chapter five.

Staff

Staff wages account for a further 9% of the annual expenditure for 1895 and provide evidence of museum employees and the work place hierarchy (Table 5). At the top was museum director Ernst Hartert. Born in Hamburg, Hartert was an experienced ornithologist with extensive practical experience in preparing skins and collecting in the field, which he completed in regions of Germany, and later Africa, Asia and South

America. This work led him to produce an important work on the bird life of Prussia which was published in Die Schwalbe in 1887. Hartert then went on to produce a catalogue of the Senckenberg Museum at Frankfurt in 1891, which resulted in him receiving an invitation to work at the BMNH.82 It was owing to his time there that

81 A full list of Rothschild’s journal subscriptions could be compiled from the journals which remain within the Rothschild Library, Tring. 82 H.F. Witherby and F.C.R. Jourdain, ‘Obituary: Ernst Johann Otto Hartert. 1859-1933’, British Birds 27 (1934): 225.

76

Rothschild was encouraged by Günther, Keeper of Zoology, to offer Hartert the position of director of Tring Museum, which he accepted and took up in 1892. For this role Hartert was paid a monthly salary of £31 13/4.83

Second in command was Dr Karl Jordan who, as curator of invertebrates, received a monthly salary of £18 15/-.84 Jordan was born in the village of Almstedt, near Hildesheim, Germany, and had studied botany and zoology at the University of

Göttingen (1882-1886).85 Once Jordan had graduated, he secured a teaching diploma and in 1888 was appointed a master at Münden Grammar School. He held this position for five years, during which he met two men who would shape his future career. The first was A. Metzger, Professor of Zoology at the Academy of Forestry and the second

Count Berlpesch, an enthusiastic amateur ornithologist. In 1892 Jordan took an appointment at the School of Agriculture in Hildesheim. However, no sooner had he arrived than he received an invitation to join the staff of Tring Museum as an entomologist, Metzger and Berlpesch having recommended Jordan for the post.86

Figure 6. L to R Walter Rothschild © Trustees of the Natural History Museum. Karl Jordan Douglas Glass Collection, Neg 25 File 1100, November 1957. Reproduced by permission of the copyright holder. Ernst Hartert from British Birds Vol. XXVII. Reproduced with the permission of British Birds.

83 Payment to E. Hartert 25 May 1897, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 84 Payment to Dr. K. Jordan, 18 July 1895, ibid. 85 The career of Karl Jordan has been well documented in Johnson, Ordering Life. 86 N. D. Riley, ‘Heinrich Ernst Karl Jordan. 1861-1959’, Biographical Memoirs of Fellows of the Royal Society 6 (1 November 1960): 107.

77

Together, Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan formed the core of Tring Museum.

However, receipt of large quantities of material, at frequent intervals and from all parts of the world, required Rothschild to employ more than just two curators, and evidence of these further employees can be found in the surviving financial documents.

Table 5. The salaries and total payments received by staff for 1895. The total payments received were often in excess of the annual salaries owing to staff being reimbursed for expenses.87

Rothschild had employed Alfred Minall as the ‘first custodian’ of his

‘museum’ in 1880.88 Minall was a particularly skilled taxidermist and became a significant influence on Rothschild once he was put in charge of Rothschild’s growing childhood specimen collection.89 After years of loyal service, Minall was still on staff in 1895 and responsible for carrying out a variety of duties, including the purchase of dead specimens, maintenance of live animals, and taxidermy. For this he received just shy of £360 which consisted of his monthly salary of £6 5/- and the reimbursement of the expenses he incurred while carrying out business on Rothschild’s behalf, such as

87 I have compiled this information from financial ledger I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London, and TM3/1 NHM, London. 88 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 1–2. 89 ‘Death Of Mr. Alfred Minall’, Bucks Herald, 16 December 1911.

78 the purchase of specimens.90 Minall’s annual income equated to that of a skilled manual worker (roughly £74 per annum).91 By this time Minall had an apprentice,

Frederick Young, who was paid a weekly salary of 14 shillings, giving an annual income of around £36, which was less that than of an agricultural labourer (roughly

£46 per annum).92 Young eventually replaced Minall as museum taxidermist in 1911.

These appear to be the only salaried members of staff in 1895. The remaining staff were employed on a casual basis and received payments for work completed on a week-by-week basis. Mrs Minall performed a number of cleaning tasks and was paid expenses.93 John W. Shipp, an entomologist previously employed as assistant to the chair of Zoology at Oxford, was paid £1 0/6 for pinning 1200 beetles and 50 butterflies.94 William Rosenberg, an entomologist and later a natural history dealer, was paid £1 16/0 for a week’s work arranging insects in the museum. William Warren, an entomologist who specialised in Lepidoptera and had experience working at the

BMNH on their Pyralidae and Geometridae collections, completed similar tasks to

Shipp and Rosenberg for Rothschild in 1896. Rothschild appears to have brought

Warren in to make use of his particular expertise and not just as a source of extra manpower, with the result that Warren was paid significantly more than Shipp and

Rosenberg. He received £6 17/10 on 10 July and a further £5 15/2 on 18 July 1896 for naming and describing Lepidoptera. Interestingly, Warren received a further 5/6 in expenses for coming to Tring.95 This would suggest that Warren’s work was considered more valuable than that of both Shipp and Rosenberg. Their weekly wage

90 Payment to Alfred Minall, 25 Jan 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 91 See Williamson, ‘Earnings Inequality in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, 474. Appendix Table 1. 92 Payment to Frederick Young, 11 Jan 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’; Williamson, ‘Earnings Inequality in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, 474. Appendix Table 1. 93 Payment to Mrs Minall, 27 Sept 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 94 For more on Shipp see Audrey Z. Smith, A History of the Hope Entomological Collections in the University Museum, Oxford with Lists of Archives and Collections (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1986), 26. 95 Payments to William Warren, July 1896, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’.

79 was considerably less and is likely to indicate Warren’s established reputation and level of expertise, when compared to Shipp and Rosenberg who were in the early stages of their careers. This is also suggested by the fact that if Warren was earning an average of £6 per week, then pro-rata he was earning more than Jordan. Evidently there was a carefully choreographed sense of value attached to particular kinds of expertise within natural history during this period, and Rothschild was willing to pay what was necessary to secure that expertise to work on his collection.

In 1895 payments were also made to Arthur T. Goodson and G. Grace. After

1895, records in the cashbooks show a gentleman called Wells receiving payment for making papers for Lepidoptera. This involved folding oblong pieces of paper into different sized ‘triangular envelopes’ in which Lepidoptera collected in the field could then be placed, with their wings folded together over their backs.96 Rothschild also employed several ladies in Tring to assist in the setting of butterflies. As Jordan later recalled, these ladies ‘work[ed] at home, so that at one time there were more than half a dozen outside helpers to cope with the many collections that came in’.97

Unfortunately no payments have survived to suggest who these women were or what they might have been paid, but it does show how, while the majority of work may have been completed by men, women were contributing to these museum enterprises. These examples highlight the sheer range of tasks completed by staff at the museum and further demonstrate the intricacies of the activities involved in making specimens usable, either for scientific research or public display.

By way of comparison, the BMNH’s ‘Establishment Books’ offer information on the wages paid to its staff. In 1893 Günther, as Keeper of Zoology, was paid £750

96 Handbook of Instructions for Collectors (London: British Museum (Natural History), 1902), 57-58. 97 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 10.

80 per annum, plus £125 in lieu of residence vacated, while Assistant Keeper (Zoology)

Arthur Gardiner Butler was paid £600 per annum.98 Further examples of annual wages and a comparison between the BMNH and Tring Museum is offered by Figure 7.

Figure 7. Wage Comparison between Tring and BMNH.99

By comparing these figures, it becomes clear that those in the employment of

Tring Museum were paid significantly less than their BMNH equivalents. Hartert, as

Museum Director and Rothschild’s ornithological expert, earned an annual wage comparable to the position of 1st Class Assistant at the BMNH, while Jordan was equivalent to an experienced 2nd Class Assistant. Even when a possible London- weighting is considered there remains a notably large disparity, especially when

Rothschild’s overall spending may have approximated to that of a national museum like the BMNH.100

98 ‘Establishment Book, Giving Salary and Tax Details 1887-1893’, DF ADM/1006/3, NHM, London. 99 Figure compiled using information from DF ADM/1006/3 and TM3/1, NHM, London. 100 There is some precedent for this. Domestic servants received higher wages if employed in the city than in the country. See The Author of ‘Manners and tone of good society’, The Servants Practical Guide: A Handbook of Duties and Rules (London: Frederick Warne and Co., 1880), 164,

81

There is another factor which needs to be considered – the additional benefits that were offered to museum staff. Some employees at the BMNH were entitled to official residences. Prior to the division of the British Museum and the creation of the

BMNH in 1881, all keepers received an official residence in addition to their salary.101

If they had no need of a residence, they received additional payment instead, as in the case of Günther who had purchased his own home in 1859 and began to received £125

‘in lieu of residence vacated’. When the BMNH was established in 1881, in order to entice existing staff to relocate to the new museum building in South Kensington, the museum authorities temporarily replicated the arrangement. Keepers that transferred museums, like Günther, kept their additional payment until they either left their post or retired. Such an arrangement then came to an end and the new keeper (where applicable) was hired on new terms.102

Rothschild’s museum appears to have worked on a similar model to the

BMNH. Both Hartert and Jordan lived in properties located in Tring – the Harterts in

Belle Vue and the Jordans in Hildene. Miriam Rothschild described how Jordan’s house was built and paid for by the Tring Park Estate and further claimed that

Rothschild paid all the expenses (it is likely that if it was true for one, then it was true for both).103 Tim Amsden’s research has shown that a row of fairly high-class houses in Tring were put up for sale in 1914 and were described as renting for between £25

http://archive.org/details/b21528147; Miss C.E Collet and Board of Trade (Labour Department), ‘Report by Miss Collet on Money Wages of Indoor Domestic Servants’ (London: Darling & Son Ltd, 1899), 5–7, 19th Century House of Commons Sessional Papers, Command Papers, C.9346 Vol. XCII.1, UK Parliamentary Papers. 101 Susannah Gibson, ‘The Careering Naturalists: Creating Career Paths in Natural History, 1790– 1830’, Archives of Natural History 44 (2017): 203. 102 The last Keeper to receive an ‘in lieu’ payment was Henry Woodward of the Geology department who left the museum in October 1901. Woodward had received an annual salary of £800 plus £125 ‘in lieu of residence’. Thereafter the salary offered for the post was decreased and the person appointed to his position, Arthur Smith Woodward, received £700. See ‘Printed Lists of Trustees and Staff Volume 6 1898-1905’, DF909/7, NHM, London. 103 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 118.

82 and £40 per annum. These were comparable to, if slightly less commodious than,

Hildene and Belle View, which would have perhaps yielded an annual rental of between £40-£50.104 Nonetheless, while this additional benefit improved their annual financial position, both Hartert and Jordan still received substantially less than their

BMNH counterparts.

A second additional benefit came with working for Rothschild – the provision of a pension. While there is no evidence to suggest how much Hartert and Jordan received, Minall received a monthly pension of £7 10/- and in August 1919, Charles

Rothschild arranged to provide pensions for all the museum staff by setting up another

Trust Fund.105 The terms of the fund meant that all existing museum staff – Llewellyn

Guy Thomas, Arthur Thomas Goodson and Frederick William Goodson – together with any person appointed at a future time, would be entitled to a pension, which could be claimed when they reached sixty years of age, or if, through ill-health, they were deemed incapable of carrying on in employment of the museum. The pension was calculated ‘at 1/50 of his ultimate salary for each year of service, but not more than

50/- a week’.106 This arrangement made provision for the wives too, who, if they outlived their husbands, were entitled to their husbands’ pension throughout their widowhood. This was a generous arrangement that does not seem to have been replicated by the BMNH.

It is perhaps unfair to compare the national BMNH with the private Tring

Museum. But the difference in wages does raise the question as to why Hartert and

Jordan remained at the museum given that disparity. Admittedly, the job market for natural history was competitive and they might not have obtained a similar position

104 Tim Amsden, ‘Rents for Tring c.1900’, 21 June 2018. 105 ‘Walter Rothschild to Ernst Hartert’, 18 July 1908, TM3/12, NHM, London. 106 ‘Letters Concerning Tring Museum Pension Fund’, 5 August 1919, TM2-85, NHM, London.

83 elsewhere. But Rothschild’s museum offered unique advantages. In monetary terms, he paid for housing and provided a pension. But crucially, as discussed at greater length in chapter two, in Rothschild’s employment Hartert and Jordan had the intellectual freedom, supported by the power and money to purchase specimens in the vast numbers they needed, to conduct research into geographical variation and to adopt trinomial nomenclature – the use of a third name to designate geographical varieties or subspecies. Together they were ardent proponents of this taxonomic approach, at a time when most British naturalists fervently opposed it. Working for Rothschild,

Hartert and Jordan avoided subjection to the intellectual (and simultaneously financial) constraints that existed at larger, state-funded institutions and this must have been a considerable factor in their choice of employment.

As time went on, and demand made this reasonable, tasks which had previously been contracted out were brought in-house. By 1908, in addition to those named above, the staff included Gerald Tite, a full-time butterfly setter, James Rance, a public gallery attendant, Frederick William Goodson, an insect preparator, and

Arthur Poulton, who fulfilled several maintenance tasks around the museum.107 When reflected on in conjunction with the individuals identified as involved in specimen acquisition, it can be useful to view the working structure of Tring Museum as a

‘triangle of activity’ (Figure 8). There were hundreds of collectors and dealers at the bottom, responsible for sourcing specimens. At the next level, museum employees and casual workers helped to set, identify and store specimens, while taxidermists mounted specimens for public display. Then, finally, at the top were Rothschild, Hartert and

Jordan who were coordinating the whole enterprise and producing most of the scientific work.

107 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 115.

84

Rothschild

Hartert

Jordan

Museum Employees, Casual Workers, Taxidermists

Collectors, Natural History Dealers, Animal Dealers etc.

Figure 8. Triangle of Activity

Journal

The final 5% of expenditure for 1895 was spent on the production of Rothschild’s journal, Novitates Zoologicae, which the museum began to publish in 1894. It had become common practice for museums and societies to produce journals, but what made Rothschild unusual, as will be explored further in chapter five, was the fact it was produced by a private collector and focused on his collection and multiple branches of zoology. Surviving financial material reveals the cost incurred at each stage of the production, from printing to illustration, colouration to circulation (Table

6).

85

Table 6. Payments made to produce Novitates in 1895.108

The main text of the journal was produced by Hazell, Watson and Viney, for a total of £264 3/4.109 Zoological artist and lepidopterist Frederick W. Frohawk (1861-

1946) was employed to produce four of the ten illustrations which featured in the 1895 issues, and was paid at least £4 18/- for doing so.110 Of the remaining six plates, one was produced by Jordan and five by bird illustrator John Gerrard Kuelemans (1842-

1912) but there are no records of how much he was paid for these. Once produced the illustrations were sent to Mintern Bros., a chromolithograph company based at 84

Southampton Row, London, where the plates for the journal were printed. In 1895

108 I have compiled this information from financial ledger I/2/28, Rothschild Archive, London, and TM3/1 NHM, London. 109 ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’; ‘Current Accounts Commencing 1893-1898’. 110 Payment to Frohawk, 5 Feb 1895, ‘Current Accounts Commencing 1893-1898’.

86

Mintern Bros were paid £29 2/6 for 525-530 copies of five of the nine plates that they produced for the journal that year.111 An additional tenth plate was prepared by Werner

& Winter for a further £4 19/-.112 The plates were then sent to colourist T.E. Cleere, for the colouring which makes the illustrations in Novitates so memorable. In 1895

Cleere received a total of £211 2/6 for her work.113 Finally, the petty cashbooks show that the museum then also despatched the journal, and for one part did so in two stages on 26 and 27 June 1895 for total cost of £15 1/8.114

By way of comparison, in 1895 the Zoological Society of London (ZSL) produced both the Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London and Transactions of the Zoological Society for a combined total of £1440. Together they contained 118 plates (of which 32 were colour) and 168 woodcuts. The images were predominately anatomical illustrations, with a few full-scale specimens, and colour was used sparingly. Rothschild, meanwhile, had fewer illustrations but those he did have were twice the size, all full-scale specimens and fully coloured, which was applied by hand even though the chromolithographic process could do this while printing for less cost.

Thus, some 40% of the traceable journal expenditure was spent on colouring plates for

Novitates, while ZSL spent around 5% of their overall budget.115

The total estimated cost of the production of Novitates is £529 7/-, around a third of what ZSL had spent on their two publications, which had many more pages and images. As previously outlined, there are limitations to the sources available.

Novitates was published in four parts in 1895 and contained 10 illustrated plates for

111 Payments to Mintern Bros, Apr, Sept and Dec 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’; Payment to Mintern Bros, 8 Jan 1895, ‘Current Accounts Commencing 1893-1898’. 112 Payment to Werner & Winter, 30 Jul 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 113 ‘Current Accounts Commencing 1893-1898’; ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 114 Payments for 1895, ‘Petty Cash Books, 1890s’. 115 Meeting Minutes for 18th December 1895, ‘Council Minutes Vol XIX Jan 18 1893- Mar 16 1898’, GB 0814 FAA, Zoological Society of London.

87 which it has only been partially possible to trace the corresponding transactions. While

I have therefore been able to retrace the process of creating the journal and identify those involved, the cost is only a minimum estimate. Nonetheless, it is possible to draw some provisional conclusions. For instance, ‘Payment Received’ books for 1895 show that the museum only received £145 3/8 for subscriptions to Novitates. By my estimation this means that the journal was running at a loss of £384 3/8. Subscriptions were not covering the cost and although other evidence shows that by end of 1895 there were at least 150 subscribers to Novitates, as indicated by correspondence and subscription certificates, even if everyone had paid their subscription that would still only give £157 10/-.

In the case of most society publications, if subscription failed to meet the overheads either quality was sacrificed, or the publication ceased production altogether.116 In Rothschild’s case this did not need to happen. Rothschild could simply absorb the cost and keep publishing the journal. Significantly, however, financial analysis does not consider the non-financial benefits to a museum which were offered by the production of a scientific journal, such as its use as an item for exchange with other institutions for their journals or specimens, for campaigning for particular scientific approaches and creating a network of naturalists around a museum. As chapter five will show, these non-financial benefits were hugely significant for Rothschild and his museum.

Conclusion

An examination of the economics of Tring Museum has provided a unique insight into what was involved in creating a collection and making it useable for both research and

116 David Elliston Allen, ‘The Struggle for Specialist Journals: Natural History in the British Periodicals Market in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century’, Archives of Natural History 23 (1996): 107.

88 education. Behind each step in the process of an animal becoming a natural history specimen, there was a transaction to be made, and examination of the financial records has brought each of these processes to life. Hidden within the records are payments for purchases of forceps and entomological pins for the preparation of specimens; the commissioning of cabinet makers for their storage and display; and payments for the folding of butterfly papers, which both ensured that specimens were sent back to the museum safely and in one piece, and assisted in that specimen becoming an object of scientific research. These details are rarely, if at all, discussed within the historiography, and yet they reveal a great deal about the day-to-day functioning of a museum.

Following the money has therefore enabled the mapping of the nature and scale of Rothschild’s enterprise, but also begun to explain its very existence. The analysis presented here has illuminated the extent to which Rothschild’s financial wealth underpinned his enterprise and his contribution to natural history, demonstrating how he was spending approximate sums to national museums. It has been possible to recreate the staffing structure and identify the individuals who were employed by the museum, the types of work completed and how tasks were distributed. Tracing payments made to butterfly setters, cabinet makers and even the cleaner, has foregrounded the collective nature of science and brought to light those to whom

Steven Shapin’s term the ‘invisible technician’ can be applied: individuals whose work could be regarded as unskilled or semi-skilled but which ultimately contributed to the overall success of the zoological enterprise.117 Moreover, tracking book purchases, society memberships and journal subscriptions has begun to suggest how

117 Steven Shapin, ‘The Invisible Technician’, American Scientist 77 (1989): 554–63. See also Iwan Rhys Morus, ‘Invisible Technicians, Instrument Makers, and Artisans’, in A Companion to the History of Science, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chichester, UK: John Wiley & Sons, 2016), 108–9.

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Rothschild engaged with the scientific community, and identifying the suppliers of equipment and specimens has revealed the individuals and auxiliary industries which formed a crucial part of the network which developed around Rothschild’s enterprise.

Rothschild used his money not only to sustain this enterprise but to make it the centre of a large network of zoological collectors, institutions and suppliers, thus carving out his place within the zoological community.

More generally, however, this analysis has shown that money was important not just in building museums and in shaping the careers of their staff, but in every aspect of the museum enterprise – the quality of its furnishing and equipment, the ability to learn about developments in the wider fields of their disciplines, the methods which could be deployed to acquire specimens and who could be hired to fulfil certain tasks. Collecting was not just a social or scientific enterprise, but a financial one, and money, specimens, books, equipment and networks of information were all powerfully interconnected.

Finally, by using money to approach the history of this particular collection, it has been my intention to show how valuable it can be and to encourage other scholars to adopt a similar approach when examining the histories of collectors and of collections in the future. As the scant attention to money paid by historians attests, there are considerable barriers to this approach. Money is often a taken-for-granted subject – its existence acknowledged but not interrogated. It can be hard to make explicit connections between monetary and the emotional, social, or intellectual values accorded to an object. And, in the case of many collections, financial records have often been less well-preserved than the natural-historical specimens they record. In particular, many zoological collections now exist as amalgamations of smaller collections, formed over long periods of time: they have been gifted, bought and

90 exchanged, passing through multiple owners over the course of their existence, meaning that there is not necessarily easy access to a simple chronological record for the history of a collection and its finances. Consequently, what I am proposing will not be applicable to all collections. But for those where records do survive, an examination of finances can be a valuable way of exploring how and why a collection, or in this case an enterprise, took the shape that it did, which is brought to light as a result of the stories, networks and overlaps between natural-historical practices that money reveals.

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Chapter II

Research

‘[The] chief intention of the collection is real sound research work. That is carried on by Mr. Rothschild and his colleagues here, Dr. Ernst Hartert and Dr. K. Jordan, in the studies and workshops, to which the public are not admitted. […] Some idea of the work is to be got from [Novitates Zoologicae]; but to understand it aright, you must have peeped behind the scenes – at the library, fully equipped with zoological books; at the “dens” of the naturalists, with the traces of the scientific food they have been devouring; and into the work-shops, where are cases of insects innumerable, and stacks of drawers, full of birds in the skin, all carefully described for future reference, each with the date and place of its collection’.1 This Morning Calls reporter begins his description of Tring Museum by emphasising the dual nature of Rothschild’s endeavour – that it was ‘at once a museum and a workshop’ and while the public galleries amazed and entertained museum visitors,

‘the real treasures of the place’ lay in the areas to which the public were not admitted.2

It was in these areas, described as ‘laboratories’ by Nature in 1901, that the ‘science’ of Tring Museum unfolded and guided the development of the wider enterprise – determining how and why things were acquired, how they were displayed and interpreted, and how and why they were studied and written about.3 The purpose of this chapter is to examine the nature of that science by asking what epistemological approach Rothschild and his curators adopted and why? How did that epistemology inform and influence their scientific practices? How did their approach compare to those taken by their contemporaries? And what did that mean for the position and reputation of Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan within the wider zoological community?

1 ‘Morning Calls’, The English Illustrated Magazine, June 1896, 211–14. 2 Ibid., 211. 3 ‘Rothschild’s Novitates Zoologicae’, Nature 64 (11 July 1901): 249.

92

At the heart of Tring Museum lay the extensive research collections, acquired with Rothschild’s vast financial resources. Long series of specimens were collected, each labelled with the location, date and name of its collector. These carefully identified specimens were not needed for the mounted displays which attracted visitors to the public galleries of the museum. Rather, they were integral to the museum’s main business – the study of taxonomy – the identification, classification and naming of specimens. Rothschild and his curators set out to document what today would be considered biodiversity. Hartert studied ornithology and Jordan entomology

(particularly Lepidoptera), while Rothschild shared the interests of his curators but also studied mammals and reptiles, and had a keen interest in large and unusual looking animals such as giant tortoises. They also had at their disposal a vast zoological library, together with many original paintings, lantern slides and photographs. Using these resources Rothschild and his curators made a significant contribution to zoology during this period, and yet they feature rarely, if at all, in discussions around the history of zoology.

Historians of late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century science have tended to focus on experimental sciences rather than museum-based sciences like taxonomy.

This trend is a reflection of the lingering influence of the professionalisation narrative, part of which centred on the idea that, during the nineteenth century, museums declined as legitimate sites of production of scientific knowledge, in favour of universities, laboratories and government departments. This argument has since been well challenged by historians, but subsequent scholarship has continued to neglect the museum as a site for the production of scientific knowledge in the late-nineteenth and

93 early twentieth centuries.4 Rather, historians have focused on the public-facing role of museums and their place in scientific and civic culture by examining the construction and reception of public galleries.5 Rarely, if at all, have historians asked what went on behind the scenes. What did turn of the century museum-based zoology involve and what was its impact? We need to ask, as John Pickstone has done, ‘What did zoologists and botanists do in the nineteenth century?’ and by extension, in the early twentieth century?6 This chapter asks that question of the zoologists at Tring Museum.

Moreover, and again as a result of the dominance of the professionalisation narrative which has emphasised the rise of the ‘professional scientist’ (someone who earned an income from a scientific occupation, and often possessed academic training and qualifications), historians have overlooked men like Rothschild.7 There has been no place within this narrative for wealthy, gentleman scientists who not only bankrolled scientific studies, but actively participated in the research. In taking this stance, historians have overlooked a significant period in the history of science which illuminates the continued importance and contributions of those outside the emerging professional ranks of early-twentieth century natural history.

Rothschild in particular, has been written off as a marginal and eccentric character. Geoffrey Cantor reduced him to a mere footnote: ‘The eccentric zoologist

4 Dorinda Outram, ‘New Spaces in Natural History’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 249–65; Helen Blackman, ‘A Spiritual Leader? Cambridge Zoology, Mountaineering and the Death of F.M. Balfour’, Studies in History and Philosophy of Science Part C 35 (2004): 96; Raf de Bont, Stations in the Field: A History of Place-Based Animal Research, 1870 - 1930 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015). 5 Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Objects and the Museum’, Isis 96 (2005): 561; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Constructing Nature behind Glass’, Museum and Society 6 (2008): 76; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Placing Nature: Natural History Collections and Their Owners in Nineteenth-Century Provincial England’, BJHS 35 (2002): 311. 6 John V. Pickstone, Ways of Knowing: A New History of Science, Technology and Medicine (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), 119. 7 Ruth Barton, ‘“Men of Science”: Language, Identity and Professionalization in the Mid-Victorian Scientific Community’, History of Science 41 (2003): 90; David Elliston Allen, ‘Amateurs and Professionals’, in The Cambridge History of Science, ed. Peter J. Bowler and John V. Pickstone (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 15.

94

Walter Rothschild, who amassed private collections at Tring, published extensively and was principally concerned with describing and classifying specimens, but he did not address evolutionary problems. Also, he was somewhat peripheral to the scientific establishment’.8 Such remarks are compounded by the enduring impact of the mythologization of Rothschild in popular culture which focuses on him driving a zebra-drawn carriage, having chimpanzees to tea, and simply throwing money at natural history.9

This chapter challenges this narrative. It builds on analysis from chapter one by exploring the scientific rationale which underpinned Rothschild’s expenditure on natural history. At the centre of this story lie the ideas and practices of classifying the natural world. Rothschild and his curators were part of a new generation of zoologists who sought to make the investigation of evolutionary questions central to the pursuit of zoology. They believed that geographical variation and the identification of subspecies were key to understanding evolutionary development. Consequently, they described the relationships between species using trinomial nomenclature – the use of a third name to designate geographical varieties or subspecies e.g. Giraffa camelopardalis rothschildi. This scientific approach was undoubtedly made possible by the resources Rothschild had at his disposal. As shown in the previous chapter, building a collection was not just a social or scientific enterprise but a financial one, and the science that Rothschild wanted to pursue – documenting the diversity of the world’s wildlife and classifying nature in all its forms – was most easily undertaken by an individual who had the resources to acquire the extensive material required.

8 G. N. Cantor, ‘Anglo-Jewish Responses to Evolution’, in Jewish Tradition and the Challenge of Darwinism, ed. G. N. Cantor and Marc Swetlitz (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 24. 9 Terry Deary, Horrible Histories: Vile Victorians (Scholastic UK, 2011), 99.

95

This chapter will show how the scientific approach adopted by Rothschild and his curators developed symbiotically with the expansion of the specimen collection.

The two components became co-constitutive, each integral to the other. The collection was used by Rothschild and his curators to support their own scientific work, and to advance their campaign for the study of geographical variation and use of trinomial nomenclature, against some vehement opposition from the scientific establishment.

One of their key strategies was to promote a collaborative approach to science, which saw them invite zoologists into the collections and lend out specimens. Its success was underpinned by the importance of the collection, which ultimately established

Rothschild and his curators as key figures in natural history and enabled them to make a significant and enduring contribution to zoological science.

This chapter begins by examining the evolution of Rothschild’s scientific epistemology, and by extension Hartert’s and Jordan’s. It then moves on to discuss the importance of trinomials and how their usage was developed and extended at Tring

Museum. This is followed by an examination of the conflict that the adoption of trinomials generated between Tring Museum and parts of the wider zoological community, and why it was eventually resolved in their favour. In doing so, it demonstrates the contributions that could still be made by private collectors and how they continued to shape zoological practice into the early-twentieth century.

Tring Museum and species classification

Rothschild developed a research agenda for Tring Museum throughout his formative years. It was shaped by his education and exposure to the ideas and approaches of several influential figures within the zoological community. As with many zoologists of his generation, Rothschild was influenced by the ideas of Alfred Russel Wallace

(1823-1913) and Charles Darwin (1809-1882). In 1858 Wallace and Darwin published

96 papers in which they proposed a theory of evolution based on the principles of natural selection: the idea that all species of living things had evolved from simple life forms over a period of time, and that those species which had survived and produced offspring were organisms which had best adapted to their environments. The theory emphasised the idea that species were not fixed, isolated and neatly demarcated units but rather were constantly evolving.10 Thereafter, many zoologists focused their investigations on determining what defined a species, what made one different from another and how species might be related to each other. Interest in biogeography (the study of the geographical distribution of plants and animals) grew, in the belief that it would illuminate the question of species’ origins, by revealing how species had changed over time and been shaped by natural laws.11 Influenced by these developments, Rothschild set out to build collections of birds, insects, reptiles and mammals which allowed him to observe and record the diversity of nature.

Rothschild was aided in these activities by an early mentor, Albert Günther

(1830-1914), Keeper of Zoology at the British Museum (Natural History) (BMNH) and a ‘systematic zoologist’ who specialised in ichthyology and herpetology. Günther had originally studied medicine but turned his attention to zoology and took an appointment at the BMNH in 1857, where he was tasked with arranging and describing the collections of fishes, amphibians and reptiles.12 Günther’s work focused on the description of new species, the distribution of animals and zoological nomenclature.

He subscribed to Darwinian ideas and notably, he contributed information on the

10 Mark W. Ellis, ‘The Problem with the Species Problem’, History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 33 (2011): 348. 11 Michael Paul Kinch, ‘Geographical Distribution and the Origin of Life: The Development of Early Nineteenth-Century British Explanations’, Journal of the History of Biology 13 (1980): 91. 12 W.C.M, ‘Obituary Notices of Fellows Deceased: A.C.L.G Günther, 1830-1914’, Proceedings of the Royal Society of London. Series B 88 (1 June 1915): xi–xii & xxvi.

97 distribution and classification of fishes and reptiles to Wallace’s ‘Geographical

Distribution of Animals’.13

Günther’s relationship with Rothschild was formed during the latter’s teenage years when they crossed paths during one of Rothschild’s childhood visits to the museum. Günther was apparently ‘captivated by Walter’s wild enthusiasm, and avid thirst for information, and was soon escorting him around the galleries, instructing him as they went’.14 Thereafter the two engaged in a lengthy correspondence. Rothschild regularly drew on Günther’s expertise, invited him to visit his collection and to partake in shoots at Tring, and frequently discussed his collecting activities, research and preparation of papers.15 Miriam Rothschild described how ‘Günther provided him with the taste of the formal education he lacked at home, for Walter was entirely self- taught in all matters zoological until at the age of 19’ when he went to Cambridge.16

At this stage the frequency of their correspondence lessened, although it was maintained throughout Günther’s life.17

Rothschild enrolled in the Natural Science Tripos at Magdalene College,

Cambridge, in 1887. At this time a number of zoology courses were available to students, including Advanced Evolution in the Animal Kingdom and Advanced

Geographical Distribution of Vertebrates.18 These courses were taught by Alfred

Newton (1829-1907), Professor of Zoology (1866-1907), and a founding member of the British Ornithologists’ Union, editor of its journal The Ibis, and later, a Fellow of

13 Ibid., xiii–xv. 14 Miriam Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild: Birds, Butterflies, and History (London: Hutchinson, 1983), 57. 15 ‘A Günther Collection. 16. Letters L.W & N.C Rothschild 1898-1914. Box 23’, n.d., NHM, London; ‘A. Günther Collection. 16. Letters L.W. Rothschild 1884-1898. Box 25’, n.d., NHM, London. As discussed in Chapter one, Günther guided Rothschild in the development of his museum, advising his parents on what form the museum should take and recommending Hartert as a curator. 16 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 57. 17 Ibid., 72–73. 18 Helen Blackman, ‘The Natural Sciences and the Development of Animal Morphology in Late- Victorian Cambridge’, Journal of the History of Biology 40 (2006): 94. See Table 1.

98 the Royal Society, who became Rothschild’s mentor.19 Newton was a distinguished ornithologist with expertise in systematics (the classification and study of organisms) and zoogeography (the geographical distribution of animals) and had been an early adopter of Darwinism.20 In his publication A Dictionary of Birds, Newton stated his belief that the concept of natural selection had given ornithologists a new purpose, and that the introduction of the concept of common descent and evolution meant that:

‘Ornithologists now felt they had something before them that was really worth investigating. Questions of Affinity, and the details of Geographical Distribution, were endowed with a real interest, in comparison with which any interest that had hitherto been taken was a trifling pastime. Classification assumed a wholly different aspect. It had up to this time been little more than the shuffling of cards, the ingenious arrangement of counters in a pretty pattern. Henceforward it was to be the serious study of the workings of Nature in producing the beings we see around us from beings more or less unlike them, that had existed in bygone ages and had been the parents of a varied and varying offspring – our fellow-creatures of to-day’.21 For Newton, Darwinism was ‘a means of advancing ornithology’ as ‘natural selection offered a better way to solve ornithological problems, whether of classification, instinctual behaviour, extinction or geographical distribution’.22 However, while

Newton accepted the theory of natural selection and contributed significantly to knowledge of the avifauna of the world, he did little to investigate how a species could be defined and delineated and held rather conservative views with regard to what could be considered a species.

The dominant ‘species concept’ in the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries was the ‘morphological’ or ‘typological’, which determined a species based

19 Tim R. Birkhead and Peter T. Gallivan, ‘Alfred Newton’s Contribution to Ornithology: A Conservative Quest for Facts Rather than Grand Theories’, Ibis 154 (2012): 887–88. 20 Ibid., 887–91. 21 Alfred Newton et al., A Dictionary of Birds (London: Adam and Charles Black, 1893), 78–79. 22 Jonathan Smith, ‘Alfred Newton: The Scientific Naturalist Who Wasn’t’, in The Age of Scientific Naturalism: Tyndall And His Contemporaries, ed. Bernard V. Lightman and Michael S. Reidy (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2014), 138.

99 exclusively on the analysis of morphological characteristics.23 Those who adopted this approach could be further subdivided based on two differing notions of species limits.

This has since become known as the ‘lumper’ vs. ‘splitter' debate, which raged from the 1850s onwards. ‘Splitters’ viewed species limits as narrow. They declared new species based on only slight variation between specimens, splitting them into many smaller categories and labelling them as species. In contrast ‘lumpers’ viewed species limits as ‘wide’ and downplayed taxonomic differences, sorting specimens into fewer larger categories and increasingly deploying the subspecies concept to subcategorise under the species level.24 As Kohler has argued, the approach adopted often depended on the size and scope of the collection available to an individual: ‘Periods in which collecting is expanding but not yet comprehensive will favour splitters, because incomplete knowledge of natural variability makes it easy to see a few distinctive individuals as representatives of true species. As collections grow and fill in, however, the world becomes a kinder place for lumpers, who downgrade species to subspecies or synonyms, and root out false pretenders from taxonomic lists’.25

Newton was a splitter and, rather than encourage his students to engage with changing notions of species limits and the practice of describing subspecies, he passed on his interests in zoogeography, island fauna and extinction.26 Preferring to hold small evening soirées in his college rooms, where he could tell stories and stimulate discussion, Newton excelled in inspiring successive generations of young

23 Jürgen Haffer, ‘The History of Species Concepts and Species Limits in Ornithology’, Bulletin of the British Ornithologists’ Club 112A (1992): 109. 24 Robert E. Kohler, All Creatures: Naturalists, Collectors, and Biodiversity, 1850 - 1950 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 242. 25 Ibid. 26 A.F.R Wollaston, Life of Alfred Newton (London: John Murray, 1921), 215–17; Newton’s interest in extinction may have also inspired Rothschild’s own interest in extinction and conservation. See Henry M. Cowles, ‘A Victorian Extinction: Alfred Newton and the Evolution of Animal Protection’, BJHS 46 (2013): 695–714.

100 ornithologists.27 In 1888 this resulted in one of his students, Scott Barchard Wilson

(1865-1923), undertaking an expedition to Hawaii to collect birds for Newton.

Significantly, Newton must have shown these birds to his students for Rothschild was inspired to send his own collector, Henry Palmer, to Hawaii in 1890 – a year after he had left Cambridge. This permanently soured the relationship between Newton and

Rothschild: Newton envied Rothschild’s means to fund an expedition which could yield such important zoological finds and Rothschild pursued his objectives with little regard for the ambitions and interests of his former mentor.28 However, in steering

Rothschild’s interests towards island fauna, zoogeography and Darwinism, and inspiring his first expedition, Newton played an important role in shaping Rothschild’s early scientific endeavours.

Following his time at Cambridge, Rothschild’s ideas began to diverge from those of Newton. While he continued to display an interest in zoogeography, he began to foreground geographical variation as the centre piece of his own scientific endeavours. In the summer of 1893, Rothschild delivered a paper entitled ‘Island Life’ at the Harrow Scientific Society. The paper focused on zoogeography and discussed the variation found in fauna across different groups of islands.29 Rothschild used the example of the ‘Indo and Austro-Malayan Islands’ on the basis that ‘they present a most unique feature in being very sharply separated from each other into two different zoological regions, one presenting a fauna entirely Indian in its affinities, while the other, the Austro-Malayan Islands, shows an Australian or rather Papuan character’.30

He argued that these differences were ‘produced by isolation & climatic influence’,

27 Birkhead and Gallivan, ‘Alfred Newton’s Contribution to Ornithology’, 887 & 891; Wollaston, Life of Alfred Newton, Preface viii-ix. 28 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 76. 29 Walter Rothschild, ‘Harrow Lecture: Island Life’, Summer 1893, TM3/3, NHM, London. 30 Ibid., 6.

101 with those differences more apparent ‘the smaller the islands are & the further they are away from either the mainland or other islands’.31 In this example, Rothschild focused on the same geographical locations that were the focus of Wallace’s work and the area proximate to that later designated the ‘Wallace Line’ – the boundary between the Asian and Australian biotas.32 Moreover, he explained why birds had ‘the most prominent position’ in his paper: ‘they show the divisions and boundaries of our zoogeographical regions more distinctly than other classes of living creatures’.33

The increasing importance Rothschild placed on geographical variation was consolidated once Tring Museum had been built and Hartert and Jordan took their positions as curators, in 1892 and 1893 respectively. Together the trio developed a research agenda dedicated to the study of geographical variation, each having reached the conclusion that the recognition of subspecies was crucial for understanding the development of the natural world. Both Hartert and Jordan arrived from Germany, where over the course of the nineteenth century ‘biology’ had become a problem based and theoretically driven field of study. This development occurred much earlier in

Germany than in Britain, with the result that by the 1870s and 1880s there were what historian Lyn Nyhart considers to be three emerging zoological perspectives within

Germany. The first was the traditional ‘systematic’ perspective, possessed by those doing empirical classifications, which placed focus on ‘family relationships of closeness and distance, marked by similarities and differences of form’.34 Then there was the ‘biological perspective’ pursued by ‘scientific zoologists’, who focused on

‘function, emphasising relationships among organisms, their physical environment,

31 Ibid., 2. 32 Ibid.; Jane R. Camerini, ‘Evolution, Biogeography, and Maps: An Early History of Wallace’s Line’, Isis 84 (1993): 700 & 722. 33 Rothschild, ‘Harrow Lecture: Island Life’, 7. 34 Lynn K. Nyhart, Modern Nature: The Rise of the Biological Perspective in Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 22–23.

102 and their geographical and ecological place in the world’.35 Finally there were the

‘evolutionary morphologists’, who ‘undertook anatomical and developmental studies based primarily on preserved and fixed material, developing species distinctions purely from comparing adult and embryonic forms’.36 It was against this background that Hartert and Jordan formulated their scientific ideas, drawing particularly upon the

‘biological perspective’ and, in Jordan’s case, also on ideas of ‘evolutionary morphology’.

Hartert was a knowledgeable ornithologist with plenty of first-hand overseas field experience and ‘a remarkably intimate knowledge of birds’.37 Notably, his systematic work was based on the recognition of geographical forms and the use of the subspecies concept. At the end of the nineteenth century, and mirroring the rise of the ‘biological perspective’, ornithology was undergoing what historian Kristin

Johnson has described as a ‘transformation’, as focus shifted from descriptive studies and empirical fact gathering to more ‘biological research’ including ecology, ethology and evolutionary studies.38 Interest in subspecies was an expression of the last-named, as subspecies, or geographical varieties, were regarded as ‘incipient species’ – i.e. those taxa partway to becoming a new species but not quite there yet.39 Ornithologists had begun looking for patterns which indicated the process of evolution (and which could not be explained by random individual variation) in order to understand how species had evolved over time. This included Hartert, who delimited species broadly

35 Ibid. 36 Lynn K. Nyhart, ‘Natural History and the “new” Biology’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 430–32. 37 H.F. Witherby and F.C.R. Jourdain, ‘Obituary: Ernst Johann Otto Hartert. 1859-1933’, British Birds 27 (1934): 227–28. 38 Kristin Johnson, ‘“The Ibis”: Transformations in a Twentieth Century British Natural History Journal’, Journal of the History of Biology 37 (2004): 516–17 & 548. 39 Kohler, All Creatures, 246.

103 and had formulated clear ideas about how research into geographical varieties should be done:

‘we must base our judgment on as much material as possible; we must become acquainted with the various ages and seasonal changes which are produced by moult and wear of plumage, etc., etc. Moreover, we must know geography — not the political boundaries of countries, but the physical aspect of the land. If we do this we shall, perhaps, understand why closely-situated countries have different subspecies, and we shall get a wonderful insight into the working of nature, which magnifies our interests and makes us, if possible, still more enthusiastic and ardent in our pursuits’.40 Hartert also believed that this kind of study, when done well, formed a solid foundation which would allow other areas of ornithological research to open up:

‘if we understand and know all the local forms, species, and subspecies of birds and their distribution, we shall find the field-observations […] much more interesting and of much more value, the variations in eggs will have an increased interest and value, the aviculturist will, sometimes, know better why a certain bird is wilder, or sings better or worse, and last, but not least, the observations of migration will cease to be a mass of data, becoming important, and teaching us much sooner the directions and routes which the birds take, if we can trace the home of migrants from the examination of specimens’.41 For Hartert, geographical variation was the key to unlocking valuable ornithological knowledge, not just about variation and distribution but also behaviour and migration.

Hartert’s field experience and the knowledge he acquired while travelling during the early part of his career is likely to have contributed to the formulation of these ideas.

Between 1885 and 1892 Hartert travelled to West Africa, the East Indies, the West

Indies and Venezuela, where he made extensive observations on birds which he subsequently published.42 During these trips he was likely to have witnessed first-hand

40 Ernst Hartert, ‘The Principal Aims of Modern Ornithology’, ed. Richard Bowdler Sharpe, Ernst Hartert, and J. Lewis Bonhote, Proceedings of the Fourth International Ornithological Congress, London June 1905, February 1907, 269. 41 Ibid. 42 Ernst Mayr, ‘Obituaries’, The Auk 51 (1934): 283.

104 patterns of variation and may well have begun to hypothesise about how these could be attributed to the environment and geography.

Similarly, Jordan was a systematist with a particular interest in geographical variation. However, he possessed a complementary skill set and conducted anatomical investigations in addition to the morphological study of specimens. This involved the use of a microscope to examine a broad range of characters used to inform classifications.43 Jordan learnt this approach while studying under the tutelage of

Professor Ernst Ehlers (1835-1925), Director of the Zoological Institute at the

University of Göttingen. Johnson has described how Ehlers shared the opinion of many German zoologists that ‘only an explicit incorporation of evolutionary theory within the work of classification would establish zoology as a science’, but that he also maintained the opinion that natural history collections were important to this work and that careful descriptive and classification work were the foundation of modern biology.44 Ehlers therefore combined traditional museum-based systematics with modern laboratory techniques. He encouraged his students to use microscopes within collections to examine both internal and external microscopic morphological characters on which to base more accurate classifications, and therefore also more accurate phylogenies.45

While still at university, Jordan put this training into practice by studying the

Stromeyer butterfly collection. It was this research which Johnson has argued, crystallised Jordan’s scientific interests in variation and geography. The specimen labels attached to each butterfly noted where and when it had been obtained. This allowed Jordan to place the different species of butterflies within various different

43 Kristin Johnson, Ordering Life: Karl Jordan and the Naturalist Tradition (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012), 16–17. 44 Ibid., 15. 45 Ibid., 15–17.

105 habitats and ‘study not only the facts of distribution but the reasons for the occurrence of particular species in certain environments’, with Jordan concluding that variation was determined by climate, terrain and vegetation.46 Jordan thus left university with a distinct form of zoological training which placed emphasis on the morphological investigation of specimens, but also with a firm interest in distribution and the causes of variation, which he determined it was only possible to study if detailed locality labels and collectors’ notes were provided. These were the principles he subscribed to and which he continued to follow when he arrived at Rothschild’s museum in 1893.

Evidently, it was an interest in geographical variation which united the curatorial team of Tring Museum. It seems likely that Rothschild appointed both

Hartert and Jordan because of their epistemological approaches to ornithology and entomology, which aligned with Rothschild’s own existing interests in zoogeography and island fauna. Working together, the trio developed a research agenda dedicated to the study of geographical variation and made the investigation of evolutionary questions a central part of the scientific agenda of Tring Museum. To pursue this aim, they developed an extensive collection.47 As will be explored in chapter four, this involved the acquisition of long series of specimens of species, each labelled with accurate locality information, on the grounds that ‘as much material as possible’ was needed to study geographical variation – there was no such thing as a duplicate.

Evolutionary biologist Ernst Mayr (1904-2005) considered Rothschild’s bird collection to be ‘the largest private bird collection of the world, but also better balanced and representative of the bird fauna of the whole world than the collection of any other museum’.48 The collection enabled Hartert to pursue many of the

46 Ibid., 17–18. 47 Karl Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, Novitates Zoologicae 41 (1938): 1–2. 48 Mayr, ‘Obituaries’, 283.

106 problems concerning ornithologists at the turn of the twentieth century, including the study and definition of species limits, how species related to one another, how they could be grouped together and how to make that classification informative and accessible in a list.49 Hartert would go on to write a large number of significant works on the taxonomy of birds, but the collection also enabled him to advance the study of geographical variation.

Jordan investigated similar problems within the extensive entomological collection, which he likewise used as evidence to support his scientific arguments.

Jordan’s first task was to examine Rothschild’s beetle and butterfly collections to determine what were species and what were varieties.50 In entomology, the designation of a new species involved examination of the genital armature for differences.51 However, as Johnson has shown, upon examining Rothschild’s large series of specimens, Jordan realised that: ‘differences in the genitalia could be both specific or varietal […] [and] that geographical differences within forms usually correlated with variation in the genitalia, while individual variation and discontinuous variation such as polymorphism did not’.52 Jordan thus emphasised the need to examine other characteristics, such as antennae and wings, alongside the genital armature, just as he had been taught to do by Ehlers. This ultimately led Jordan to conclude that ‘Geographically separate races are entirely different from aberrations, seasonal forms, and forms of dimorphic species that occur in the same locality’ and,

49 Tim Birkhead, Jo Wimpenny, and Bob Montgomerie, Ten Thousand Birds: Ornithology since Darwin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), 92–93. 50 N. D. Riley, ‘Heinrich Ernst Karl Jordan. 1861-1959’, Biographical Memoirs of Fellows of the Royal Society 6 (1 November 1960): 108. Rothschild later disposed of the beetle collection to concentrate on Lepidoptera. 51 Kristin Johnson, ‘The Tail End of the Moth: Clarifying Species Boundaries’, Endeavour 28 (2004): 161. 52 Kristin Johnson, ‘Ernst Mayr, Karl Jordan, and the History of Systematics’, History of Science 43 (2005): 4.

107 as such, that he had found proof of geographical variation being the beginning of the evolutionary process.53 Moreover, from this work on Lepidoptera Jordan came to the conclusion that the difference between species and subspecies was their ability, or lack of, to re-converge; subspecies being at a lower degree of development and able to re- converge via interbreeding.54 In drawing such a conclusion, Jordan proposed a reproductive species concept which led him to conclude that: ‘The criterion for the species concept is therefore threefold, and every single point is testable: a species has certain morphological traits (is syndiagnostic), produces no offspring like individuals of other species (synepigonic) and does not blend with other species’.55 Together with

E.B. Poulton and Hartert, Jordan was among the earliest zoologists to contribute to the development of the idea of the ‘biological species concept’, although it would not be fully developed until the 1930/40/50s by evolutionary biologists such as Ernst Mayr, who brought taxonomy into evolutionary biology via ‘new systematics’.56

Under the influence of Hartert and Jordan, Rothschild’s own scientific ideas evolved. By 1900, he too was fully committed to the study of geographical variation and the identification of subspecies. Rothschild designated a specimen as a subspecies if the animal exhibited enough morphological similarity to be grouped within the same species, but had a distinct geographical range and exhibited slightly different physical characteristics.57 He privileged geographical variation as the prime cause of

53 Ibid.; Johnson, ‘The Tail End of the Moth’, 163–64. 54 Johnson, ‘Ernst Mayr, Karl Jordan, and the History of Systematics’, 5–6. 55 Karl Jordan, ‘Der Gegegensatz Zwischen Geographischer Unt Nichtgeographischer Variation’, Zeitschrift Für Wissenschaftliche Zoologie 83 (1905): 151–210 quoted in; James Mallet, ‘Perspectives Poulton, Wallace and Jordan: How Discoveries in Papilio Butterflies Led to a New Species Concept 100 Years Ago’, Systematics and Biodiversity 1 (2004): 449. 56 Birkhead, Wimpenny, and Montgomerie, Ten Thousand Birds, 91; Mallet, ‘Perspectives Poulton, Wallace and Jordan’, 449. 57 See for example ‘Walter Rothschild to Albert Günther’, 16 October 1904, Box 23. A. Günther Collection 1795-1980, NHM, London; ‘Walter Rothschild to Albert Günther’, 23 August 1904, Box 23. A. Günther Collection 1795-1980, NHM, London.

108 morphological differences between specimens and therefore as an important driver in the process of evolution.58 For that reason, Rothschild saw it as essential to classify specimens not simply according to their physical variation but in accordance with the geographical location in which such variations could be found. He defended the subspecies concept as a way to understand evolutionary development within classification.

Rothschild elaborated on these ideas in the paper ‘Notes on Anthropoid Apes’ which he presented to the Zoological Society of London in 1904.59 Here Rothschild presented the findings of his systematic work on a selection of apes. Of particular interest to him was the question of: ‘whether there are a number of different species

[of Orang-Outans] or whether there is only one variable species consisting of a number of geographical races or subspecies’. Reflecting the changing notions of species limits described above, Rothschild explained the two opposing views held by the leading primatologists of the period: Professor Matschie, who thought there were several different species, and Dr Selenka who believed there were several subspecies.

Rothschild aligned himself with Dr Selenka:

‘I am convinced that this is the right view to take, and that many who side with Professor Matschie go too far in splitting up the forms of Orang. Dr. Selenka gives a very plausible and, I believe, well justified explanation for the existence of a number of local races in Borneo, viz., that the Orang- Outans cannot swim and can only climb mountains, when bare of trees, with difficulty; and as Borneo is intersected in all directions by broad rivers and high mountain-ranges, the Orangs in the various districts are almost as much isolated as if confined to separate islands’.60 Rothschild concluded that the isolation of a group, in this instance owing to the presence of rivers and mountains, enabled subtly different morphology to develop

58 Rothschild was also very interested in individual variation – both albino/leucistic and melanistic individuals – and collected specimens which allowed him to investigate this. 59 Lionel Walter Rothschild, ‘Notes on Anthropoid Apes’, PZSL 1904 (1904): 431–32. 60 Ibid., 432–33.

109 which made it distinct from other similar groups, but that that level of variation was not reason enough to justify their classification as a separate species, but rather as subspecies.

Rothschild’s discussion of his scientific principles was not just confined to the scientific papers that he delivered; he also spoke to more general audiences about them. In a lecture entitled ‘Polymorphism in the Animal World’, given to the West

End Jewish Literary Society in 1906, Rothschild talked extensively about geographical variation.61 He drew his audience’s attention to ‘certain dissimilarities between the same species of animals of this country and the neighbouring ones’ and offered the example of the ‘robin redbreast’, which he described as having ‘a much darker red breast in England than on the continent’, which he attributed to the ‘external influence of climate and surroundings’. He went on to say:

‘This variation is called geographical variation, and often the results show us what produced it, for in the crested larks I show here you will see that the bird of the dark rich soil of Northern Egypt is blackish brown, while the bird of the deserts of Upper Egypt is yellow, and the bird of the Algerian desert is reddish sand-colour. This shows us that the birds most like their surroundings were alone protected, and reproduced their kind […] The study of the differences in generations, and geographical varieties, gives the answer to the question as to where we have to look for the causes of the great diversity among individuals, of one kind of animal, and finally for the causes of the great diversity among species themselves’.62 This example again shows the influence of Darwinism on Rothschild’s research, for he described the process of natural selection. But crucially this lecture saw Rothschild highlight the importance of ‘geographical variation’, demonstrating his commitment to the subspecies concept as a way to understand evolutionary development.

61 ‘The Hon. Walter Rothschild M.P., on Polymorphism in the Animal World’, The Jewish Chronicle, 4 May 1906. 62 Ibid., 15.

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By supporting this approach, Rothschild aligned himself with the emerging generation of zoologists who were considered ‘lumpers’ and who viewed species limits as being wide. This development is directly attributable to the arrival of

Rothschild’s curators. In coming together, Hartert and Jordan helped Rothschild to crystallise his interest in distribution and variation and gave a greater sense of purpose to his research. Meanwhile, Hartert and Jordan were able to use his growing collection to engage with the concepts of evolution and push the importance of subspecies for understanding the development of the natural world – an important fact which helps to answer the question posed earlier in this thesis about why they stayed at Tring

Museum despite the relatively low pay.

Tring Museum and Trinomials

A crucial component of the shared epistemological approach that Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan formed was their advocacy for the use of trinomial nomenclature – the use of a third name to designate geographical varieties or subspecies. Binomial nomenclature, as introduced by Carl Linnaeus in the 10th edition of his Systema

Naturae, had previously been the dominant form of zoological nomenclature. This involved giving every living plant and animal a unique two-word name combination, one to denote the genus and a second more specific and often descriptive name to distinguish the species.63 However, by the mid-nineteenth century some zoologists concluded that binomial nomenclature was no longer an adequate approach for dealing with the increasing levels of variation they were witnessing within expanding natural history collections. As Aaron Van Neste has argued, ‘systematics was the science of

63 Gordon McOuat, ‘Naming and Necessity: Sherborn’s Context in the 19th Century’, ZooKeys 550 (2016): 60–63; Edward C. Dickinson, ‘Reinforcing the Foundations of Ornithological Nomenclature: Filling the Gaps in Sherborn’s and Richmond’s Historical Legacy of Bibliographic Exploration’, ZooKeys 550 (2016): 114; Judith E. Winston, Describing Species: Practical Taxonomic Procedure for Biologists (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 26.

111 classifying things [and] systematists could only study variation if they could classify it’.64 Various terms were used to label these variants, including varieties, races, subspecies, geographical races and incipient species.65 Ultimately, naturalists settled on subspecies and some zoologists favoured adding a third name to indicate this, on the basis that, as Johnson has argued, ‘the provision of a third name for geographical varieties helpfully broke down each species into smaller, geographically defined units, illustrating their relationship to one another and their distribution in space. Linnaeus, they argued had rendered order with his binomial naming system. The use of trinomials would render detail and order according to geography’.66 Trinomial nomenclature gave precedence to geographical variation and allowed evolutionary relationships to be signposted within the classificatory system.

However, the widespread adoption of trinomials was not immediate or without controversy, and it was not until the 1870s, when a number of prominent American zoologists began to advocate their use, that trinomials became a recurrent feature of zoological nomenclature.67 Naturalist Erwin Stresemann attributed this development to the particular style of natural history pursued in America in this period, under the influence of Spencer Fullerton Baird (1823-1887). As Assistant Secretary of the

Smithsonian Institute, Baird led efforts to conduct detailed exploration of North

64 Aaron Van Neste, ‘Practising Taxonomy: Joel Asaph Allen and Species-Making’, Archives of Natural History 45 (2018): 207. 65 Kevin Winker, ‘Chapter 1: Subspecies Represent Geographically Partitioned Variation’, Ornithological Monographs 67 (2010): 7. 66 Johnson, Ordering Life, 58. 67 Individuals such as Christian Brehm (1831), Carl Sundevall (1840), Hermann Schlegel (1844), and John Cassin (1856) had all trialled the approach in an embryonic form in the early nineteenth century, but their work had not led to its widespread adoption. See Michael Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology: The Lives and Works of Its Founding Figures (London: Christopher Helm, 2003), 134; Paul Russell Cutright and Michael J. Brodhead, Elliot Coues: Naturalist and Frontier Historian (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1981), 148; Winker, ‘Chapter 1: Subspecies Represent Geographically Partitioned Variation’, 8.

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America and its fauna in the 1850s through boundary surveys.68 The naturalists attached to these surveys collected vast numbers of specimens, all of which were collated within a central museum, the Smithsonian, where they were combined with specimens collected by Baird’s growing network of collectors and correspondents.69

The resulting collections were extensive and included multiple specimens of the same species derived from many different localities. They allowed even slight variations to become more apparent and illustrated how some apparently distinct forms intergraded through specimens from intermediate locations.70 Consequently, when Baird examined these specimens, he became increasingly aware of laws governing geographic variation. In particular he noted that in bird species distributed along the meridians, their bodies were larger when nearer the north and smaller nearer the south and that a similar pattern applied to increasing altitude.71 Baird concluded that the large number of variants he witnessed within the collections were not distinct species, but could not be dismissed as individual variants either and so needed names which reflected this. Kohler concludes: ‘As possible species they had to be acknowledged, but without flooding the literature with official species, many of which would clearly fail the test of time. But lumping variants into existing species was even worse, because it would render forms invisible that might one day be revealed as distinct species. Subspecies and trinomials were a practical compromise, publicly registering variants without endangering the sanctity of the well-policed Linnaean system’.72

68 Erwin Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, ed. G. William Cottrell, trans. Hans J. Epstein and Cathleen Epstein (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1975), 244. 69 J. A. Allen, ‘To What Extent Is It Profitable to Recognize Geographical Forms among North American Birds?’, The Auk 7 (1890): 2. 70 Ibid., 6.7; Mark Barrow, A Passion for Birds: American Ornithology After Audubon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 83. 71 Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, 244; Barrow, A Passion for Birds, 81; See also Haffer, ‘The History of Species Concepts and Species Limits in Ornithology’, 129. 72 Kohler, All Creatures, 255.

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As one of America’s leading zoologists, Baird inspired the next generation of ornithologists to follow this approach, including Joel Asaph Allen (1838-1921), Dr.

Elliot Coues (1842-1899) and Robert Ridgway (1850-1929), who each championed the use of trinomials and encouraged their adoption by ornithologists around the world.73 For example, in an 1884 series of articles in the American Ornithologist

Union’s (AOU) publication The Auk, Allen stated ‘that the use of trinomials was forced upon us by conviction of their utility and necessity’. He believed that if he could

‘lay before [his opponents] series of specimens illustrating the forms to which trinomials are applied, showing them how different many of them are in their extreme phases of divergence, and at the same time how completely they inosculate’, those who opposed the idea would be convinced.74 The style of collecting promoted by Baird and abundance of material collected during the survey expeditions, had brought to light new patterns for museum-based naturalists to study and at the same time drew attention to the inadequacy of using binomial nomenclature – just as Rothschild’s own collection would later do in Britain.75

With influential American zoologists supporting the adoption of trinomial nomenclature, it soon became a topic of international discussion.76 In Germany, the ideas resonated with both Hartert and Jordan, aligning to their interests in the study of geographical variation. By the turn of the century, they had become two of the most outspoken advocates for the use of trinomials and made them a central tenet of their work. As Miriam Rothschild asserted, Hartert had ‘boldly defined sub-species to

73 Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology, 150–52; Cutright and Brodhead, Elliot Coues, 150. 74 Montague Chamberlain and J. A Allen, ‘Are Trinomials Necessary?’, The Auk 1 (January 1884): 104; Montague Chamberlain and J.A Allen, ‘Are Trinomials Necessary?’, The Auk 1 (April 1884): 200. 75 Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology, 152. 76 In 1884 Elliot Coues, as one of the greatest proponents of trinomials, was invited to speak at a meeting at the BMNH about his reasons for advocating their use. Reports of this meeting featured in two consecutive editions of Nature and had led the Deutsche Ornithologische Gesellschaft to meet and agree upon terms for their use of trinomials. See ibid., 155.

114 which the trinomial system should apply as “forms not sufficiently distant from others to entitle them to the rank of a species”’ in his Katalog der Vogelsammlung im Museum der Senckenbergischen Naturforschenden Gesellschaft in 1891.77 Hartert described how:

‘I believe that it is right to regard as subspecies forms that differ only in a small variation in size, lighter or darker colouring, or small variations in pattern, even though one does not have the intermediate forms at hand. This type of nomenclature shows the closeness of the relationship, whereas the simple specific name gives no indication whether the species are poles apart or very nearly related’.78 Jordan agreed for similar reasons, concluding that the degree of difference between supposed species was often so slight that it was not always apparent. An additional name, that indicated subspecies, would therefore make this obvious to those studying the specimens.79

Under the influence of Hartert and Jordan, Rothschild adopted the use of trinomials, believing it best facilitated the study of geographical variation and prevented unnecessary errors and hinderances when considering nomenclature.80

Writing in 1918 Rothschild argued that the debate over trinomials

‘…raises directly the fundamental question of the purpose and convenience of "Nomenclature." Surely the following illustration should clinch the argument. Of the butterfly Colias fieldii there are two geographical races — one the Indo-Burmese race, which is smaller and paler and is the typical race, and a much larger and brighter Chinese race. Now surely it is much more concise and comprehensive to say Colias fieldii chinensis than to say "THE LARGER AND MORE BRIGHTLY- COLOURED CHINESE RACE OF COLIAS FIELDII"’.81

77 The AOU adopted the use of trinomial names for subspecies as official procedure in 1884. See Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, 259; Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 129; Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology, 155. 78 Quoted in Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, 259. 79 Johnson, ‘Ernst Mayr, Karl Jordan, and the History of Systematics’, 4; Johnson, Ordering Life, 5–6 & 304. 80 Rothschild, ‘Notes on Anthropoid Apes’, 440. 81 Lionel Walter Rothschild, ‘On the Naming of Local Races, Subspecies, Aberrations and Seasonal Forms, Etc.’, in Transactions of the Entomological Society of London, vol. 1918 (London, 1918), 116.

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His extensive collection both enabled the application of this approach and was built as a consequence of it. As Rothschild described in 1912: ‘the need of so large a number of specimens was to be found in the requirements of the study of variation in species related to climate and other environmental conditions’.82

Nonetheless, while Hartert, Jordan and Rothschild were convinced of the utility of trinomials and their importance for research into geographical variation, their use remained controversial within the wider zoological community. Despite the international discussion that had followed the official adoption of trinomials in

America in 1884, during the 1890s there continued to be ardent and widespread opposition among British zoologists. According to Rothschild, ‘The zoologists of the old school maintain that such races should not be named, and any variation of less than specific value should be ignored as regards the nomenclatorial point. The younger generation, however, declare that any distinction, however slight, ought to be signified by a name so long as it has geographical foundation’.83 Thus, while Hartert, Jordan and Rothschild may have shared a common epistemology based on geographical variation and the use of trinomial nomenclature, this zoological approach separated them from the mainstream zoological position in the UK.

Tring Museum vs. the Zoological Establishment

During the late-nineteenth century, the British zoological establishment, including, significantly, the BMNH, gave very little consideration to the idea that geographical varieties should be examined and designated as subspecies. Men like Richard Bowdler

Sharpe (1847-1909), a senior assistant in the Department of Zoology at the BMNH in charge of the bird collection, Philip Lutley Sclater (1829-1913) Secretary of the

82 ‘The Tring Museum’, The British Medical Journal 2, no. 2708 (1912): 1490. 83 Rothschild, ‘Notes on Anthropoid Apes’, 439–40.

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Zoological Society of London, and Alfred Newton, conceived of species narrowly and concluded that any minor variation justified classification as a species in its own right.84 They found their notion of what it meant to be a species challenged by the widespread study of geographical variation and proposed universal use of trinomials, and spoke out strongly against them.85 While prepared to consider some modifications in existing zoological nomenclature, Sharpe remarked that:

‘the great difficulty which I perceive in the adoption of trinomial nomenclature, both at home and abroad, lies in the fact that it will open the door to a multiplication of species, or races, founded on insufficient materials, and bestowed by authors who have not sufficient experience of the difficulties of the subject…’.86 Sclater was of a similar opinion:

‘If too much stress were laid upon the value of trinomialism we should open the flood-gates to an avalanche of new names by naturalists who have not taken enough trouble to investigate the matter under consideration’.87 Such remarks indicate that resistance to trinomials was partly grounded in scientific thinking and partly motivated by the desire to preserve the status of the zoological elite. The prevailing methodological framework within British natural history at the time focused on fact-gathering and the tentative exploration of evolutionary theory within systematics – a stark contrast to what was happening contemporaneously in both America and Germany. The style of collecting adopted in the US, which involved obtaining long series of specimens, was not replicated in British collections at this time – a deficit Sharpe seemed aware of in his remark about ‘insufficient materials’.

The BMNH also had a policy of disposing of “duplicates” which was not conducive to building up the long series of specimens needed to effectively use this approach.88

84 Haffer, ‘The History of Species Concepts and Species Limits in Ornithology’, 118. 85 See Wollaston, Life of Alfred Newton, 217. 86 ‘Zoological Nomenclature’, Nature 30, no. 767 (10 July 1884): 258. 87 ‘Zoological Nomenclature’, Nature 30, no. 768 (17 July 1884): 277. 88 Albert Günther, The History of the Collections Contained in the Natural History Departments of the British Museum, vol. 3 (London, 1912), 47–48.

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Thus, British naturalists may well not have been able to see the patterns of variation observed by their US colleagues or by Rothschild and his curators, in the collections to which they had access and therefore discerned no apparent need for trinomial nomenclature.

At the same time, Sharpe and Sclater were clearly concerned with ensuring that the classification of species should be done by those with the right credentials and not by those with ‘[in]sufficient experience’. They feared that the adoption of trinomials would give greater opportunity to ‘amateurs’ and those less experienced, to create endless numbers of species based on insufficient evidence. These individuals were sometimes referred to as ‘species mongers’. Jim Endersby argues that this term had strong commercial connotations which ran counter to those of scientists who sought to understand the natural world through classification and mapping the distribution of animals and plants.89 The practice of naming animals and plants was therefore a display of an individual’s credentials as a scientist. As Gordon McOuat has argued, it not only brought value to natural objects but ‘brought with it social capital: it demarcated who could count as a legitimate natural historian and who had access to the discourse of species talk’.90

The debate over the use of trinomials therefore illustrates the emerging distinctions between those working on zoology within professional and institutional frameworks and those outside of them. Owing to the institutionalisation of science over the course of the nineteenth century, which saw job openings occur first within museums, and later in universities and laboratories, it became possible to earn an

89 Jim Endersby, ‘Lumpers and Splitters: Darwin, Hooker, and the Search for Order’, Science 326 (11 December 2009): 1497; Jim Endersby, Imperial Nature: Joseph Hooker and the Practices of Victorian Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 270–71. 90 Gordon McOuat, ‘Cataloguing Power: Delineating “Competent Naturalists” and the Meaning of Species in the British Museum’, BJHS 34 (2001): 2.

118 income from a scientific occupation.91 The effect of this was twofold. On the one hand, as Ruth Barton has argued, science became ‘a profession in an exclusive, learned sense’, and ‘in the sense that amateurs became inferior in achievement and reputation’.92 Secondly, as Anne Secord has argued: ‘scientific practice became increasingly associated with specific sites from which ‘the people’ were excluded’, such as the laboratory and experimental stations.93 Consequently, a large number of people were excluded from carrying out what was considered to be ‘proper’ zoology.

Rothschild was particularly sensitive to the criticism of men like Sclater. In

1892 he asked Günther to intercede on his behalf in a disagreement: ‘I should be much obliged to you if you will either write or tell Dr Sclater […] that I am not an ignorant amateur but that I am so far acquainted with zoology that I am quite able to find out for myself when a bird or insect is new’.94 That Rothschild brought the term ‘ignorant amateur’ into the discussion is telling of how the field was changing, with men like

Rothschild considered to be of a lesser status than those in employment of organisations such as ZSL and BMNH. Reflecting on Rothschild’s early career, Albert

Edward Günther concurred with this conclusion: ‘Among scientists a Rothschild was at a disadvantage, for few believed that a wealthy man could be anything other than an amateur’.95 Despite the fact Rothschild had studied natural sciences at Cambridge, had been mentored by Newton and his two curators, and was influenced by Darwinian ideas, his social position, and what he represented as a wealthy private collector, marked him as an outsider to the new breed of professionals. The trinomial debate was

91 Barton, ‘“Men of Science”’, 90; Allen, ‘Amateurs and Professionals’, 15. 92 Barton, ‘“Men of Science”’, 94. 93 Anne Secord, ‘Artisan Botany’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 390–91. 94 ‘Walter Rothschild to Albert Günther’, 25 February 1892, TM3/12, NHM, London. 95 Albert Edward Günther, A Century of Zoology at the British Museum through the Lives of Two Keepers, 1815-1914 (London: Dawsons, 1975), 422.

119 part of this process of professionalisation. It provoked such questions as: Who should be identifying and describing new species? What were their motivations? And were they qualified to be looking at geographical varieties and what they said about evolutionary biology?

By making the use of trinomials a key principle of their scientific agenda,

Rothschild and his curators put themselves at the very centre of this debate. One of their key strategies for challenging and overcoming this opposition was to produce publications in which trinomials were foregrounded. Over the course of his career

Hartert produced an extensive bibliography, but Die Vögel der palaarktischen Fauna, published in three volumes between 1903 and 1922, is taken here as a key example.

Die Vögel has been described as ‘one of the classics of ornithological literature’, in which Hartert collated all known information about birds for the entire Palaearctic region, and it was one of the first published works to consistently apply the use of trinomials for geographical representatives.96 However, when the first volume was published in 1903 it received a mixed reception with Hartert criticised as a ‘splitter’.97

Whereas previously the label of ‘splitter’ had been given to those who deemed a species ‘new’ on the basis of slight variation, by the turn of the twentieth century the term had taken on new meaning. It was now applied to those who endorsed the use of subspecies but continued to be associated with the previous connotations of ‘species mongers’ and amateurism. Hence Hartert’s Die Vögel, championing the trinomial system, was scathingly criticised by ‘the old guard among the BOU’.98 Hartert responded to this criticism by accusing ardent binomialists and the editors of the Ibis

96 Mayr, ‘Obituaries’, 284. 97 Henry A. McGhie, Henry Dresser and Victorian Ornithology: Birds, Books and Business (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2017), 208–9. 98 Ibid.

120 of ‘arrest[ing] the progress of science and nomenclature’ if they insisted on use of the

‘conservative’ binomial method.99

That Hartert was able to respond so firmly to this criticism was the direct result of the collection he and Rothschild amassed, which provided him with the material evidence for the claims he was making. As E.W. Macbride (1866-1940), a marine biologist, commented: ‘The investigation of these local races is a difficult problem far beyond the means of the average zoologist. It can only be carried out by great museums with large funds at their disposal, and yet it is vital to the solution of the problem of species’.100 Rothschild was by no means an ‘average zoologist’ for he had the means to continue developing a collection of this nature, as discussed in chapter one. In turn, Hartert’s own authority was based on his connection to Rothschild’s material, which allowed him to lay claim to the field of natural history and profess a level of expertise which saw him contribute to the advancement of zoology.

Although a renowned entomologist, Jordan was also criticised for his use of trinomials and was careful to disassociate himself from monikers like ‘species maker’.

Throughout his career Jordan personally described some 2,575 species of Coleoptera,

Lepidoptera and Siphonaptera, and a further 851 species while working together with

Walter and Charles Rothschild. As Johnson notes: ‘Jordan was obviously very aware that the constant stream of specimens coming in and the dozens of new species descriptions going out of Rothschild’s museum epitomized the stereotypes of museum work […] [and] became quite sensitive to the impression given by the long lists of new species emanating from the museum halls’.101 His response to criticism was to demonstrate in his scientific papers that trinomials were not simply about

99 Ernst Hartert, ‘Some Anticriticisms.’, Ibis 46 (1904): 543. 100 E.W. Macbride, ‘The Present Position of Darwinian Theory’, Science in Progress in the Twentieth Century 18 (July 1923): 91. 101 Johnson, Ordering Life, 53.

121 nomenclature, but were informed by principles that related directly to improving understandings of evolution.102

One important example was A Revision of the Papilios of the Eastern

Hemisphere exclusive of Africa, published in 1895, which sought to resolve issues of priority and nomenclature surrounding Swallowtail butterflies. Rothschild was credited as sole author, but, as Johnson states, ‘Jordan wrote the entire “Introductory

Notes”, since cited as one of his most important commentaries on the study of geographical variation and subspecies’.103 Jordan used the paper to justify the systematic study of subspecies and its importance in advancing understandings of evolutionary development, thereby establishing his and Rothschild’s claims to be leaders in the field:

‘The systematist who undertakes to characterise the families and genera without an extended knowledge of the species, which are the foundation- stones of the zoological system, will often come to erroneous conclusions, and so will everybody who characterises species without studying the variations. It is impossible to understand the relationship of closely allied species without a knowledge of the varieties, and when one neglects the latter, one neglects also the most striking facts which can serve to explain the origin of species. The highest degree of variation of a Papilio is the development into another species.’104 There probably was some truth in the claims that Rothschild was a ‘species- monger’. Some of his work indicates that he was enraptured by the ‘fame’ garnered by naming new species. The identification of subspecies – as demarcated through the use of trinomials – also appealed in part because of their novelty. In his appendix to

Powell-Cotton’s A Sporting Trip through Abyssinia, Rothschild wrote that

‘[m]any zoologists will find fault with the nomenclature I employ, but not only do I consider it the only right one, but I also wish, by drawing attention, by the use of trinomials, to the existence or possible existence

102 Ibid., 111. 103 Ibid., 80–81. 104 Lionel Walter Rothschild, ‘A Revision of the Papilios of the Eastern Hemisphere, Exclusive of Africa’, Novitates Zoologicae 2 (1895): 180–81.

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of well-defined local races in large mammals as well as in small ones, to the fact that there is much work still left to be done among the well- known larger mammals for those who cannot hope to get many such startling novelties to describe as the Okapia johnstoni’.105 This attitude is suggestive of the gentleman-sportsman mentality of filling the ‘bag’ – which is also evident in some of his museum displays (see chapter three) – and reveals the contrast between Rothschild and his curators, whose work was purely about the stability of nomenclature and understanding distribution and evolutionary relationships.

The second strategy used by Rothschild and his curators to overcome opposition to trinomials was to promote collaborative working practices. They regularly encouraged researchers to visit the collections. For example in 1898, when the International Congress of Zoology was held in Cambridge, Rothschild and his curators invited its 150 members for a tour of the museum, where they were acquainted

‘with the methods of research there carried on’.106 They also lent specimens to other researchers, providing them with a sufficient quantity of material to identify geographical variations and thereby ‘lump’ rather than ‘split’ species. This in turn validated Rothschild’s collecting practices, for as Hartert pointed out:

‘[materials] are intended for study, and not only for the officers at such museums, they should be available for scientific work, and should be lent and sent freely to all qualified persons. If a collection is only used by a few persons, the work and money spent on it is hardly justified. A large group of birds can seldom be fully understood from the material in one single museum, while all the series together in various collections may fully elucidate it’.107 Rothschild welcomed requests to lend specimens to other zoologists. Writing to the Director of the BMNH, Professor William Henry Flower (1831-1899),

105 Lionel Walter Rothschild, ‘Appendix III Mammals’, in A Sporting Trip Through Abyssinia, by P. H. G. Horace Powell-Cotton (London: Rowland Ward, 1902), 453–54. 106 ‘The Congress of Zoology’, The Standard, 30 August 1898. 107 Hartert, ‘The Principal Aims of Modern Ornithology’, 267–68.

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Rothschild expressed how ‘I shall be only too delighted to send you any specimens you may require’, a sentiment repeated in correspondence with Herbert Druce (1846-

1913), who requested to see types of Costa Rican Geometridae, and with Frederic

Moore (1830-1907), who requested specimens from Tring Museum on the basis that they were not accessible elsewhere.108 Rothschild and his curators may have developed a collection which supported their own research agenda but it became invaluable to other zoologists. It made other researchers dependent on them for both physical and intellectual resources. Charles Usher, Edward Nettleship and Karl

Pearson, for example, drew on Rothschild’s collection of albino birds for their A

Monograph on Albinism in Man.109 Similarly, ornithologist Harry Forbes Witherby described how his task of writing The Practical Handbook of British Birds ‘would have been impossible but for the facilities given by Lord Rothschild […] for the free use of his magnificent collection at Tring’ – an important statement when it is considered that the Handbook was described as giving a ‘masterly treatment’ of British

Birds.110

This liberal lending of specimens by Tring Museum was unusual.111 While it was common practice for zoologists to visit other collections to consult material – the

Bird Room at the BMNH, for example, was a popular destination for ornithologists from around the world – it was highly unusual for museums to lend their specimens so freely, as Jordan remarked:

‘Whereas many curators of Museums and private collectors frowned upon the opening of boxes of lepidoptera for study of structural detail, at Tring,

108 ‘Walter Rothschild to Professor Flower’, No date, DF DIR/932/1/34, NHM, London; ‘Herbert Druce to Tring Museum’, 24 June 1898, TM1/33/17, NHM, London; ‘Frederic Moore to Tring Museum’, July 1893, TM1/3/16, NHM, London. 109 ‘Charles Usher to Karl Pearson’, 13 May 1911, Pearson/3/13/73. Box 106, UCL Special Collections. 110 B.W. Tucker, ‘Obituary: Harry Forbes Witherby: A Biographical Sketch’, British Birds 37 (1 February 1944): 166. 111 See H.F. Witherby, ‘The Tring Collection of Birds’, British Birds 26 (1 June 1932): 19.

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morphological research was not only permitted but encouraged, and material freely lent to specialists, a fact which has had a salutary influence on other Museums: systematic zoology has much benefited by this liberality’.112 Rather than following the precedent set by other museums, Tring Museum forged their own path – one which prioritised research and a collaborative ethos. Undoubtedly, and as suggested by the financial analysis in chapter one, Rothschild, like many private collectors, shared with other museums and professional institutions the desire to generate the biggest and the best collection. But that was coupled with an ambition for the museum to compete as a scientific institution which contributed to the advancement of zoology. The unique nature of Rothschild’s collection, and his promotion of collaborative working practices, helped him and his curators to build authority within the zoological community and to propagate their views on trinomial classification.113 Moreover, the fact that they allowed extensive borrowing and use of the collections by a wide range of researchers, enabled Jordan, Hartert and Rothschild to develop their own zoological community, which (as explored further in chapters four and five) was sufficiently large and significant to prevent their scientific marginalisation.

Their collaborative working practices extended to participation in specialist societies and international congresses. As discussed in chapter one, Rothschild was a member of the Zoological Society of London, the Royal Entomological Society, the

British Ornithologists’ Union (BOU) and the British Ornithologists’ Club (BOC).

Hartert meanwhile was a member of the BOU and Jordan of the Royal Entomological

Society. It was not long before Rothschild and his curators took leading positions

112 Karl Jordan, ‘Obituary: Lord Rothschild, F.R.S. (1868-1937)’, British Birds 31 (1 October 1937): 148. 113 See also Janet Browne, ‘Do Collections Make the Collector? Charles Darwin in Context’, in From Private to Public: Natural Collections and Museums, ed. Marco Beretta (Sagamore Beach, Mass: Science History Publications, 2005), 187.

125 within these organisations. Hartert was unanimously elected President of the 6th

International Ornithological Congress in 1926, and in 1929 received the Godman-

Salvin Medal from the BOU.114 Jordan initiated and founded the first Congress of

Entomology in 1910 and between 1929-1930 served as President of the Royal

Entomological Society. Similarly, Rothschild served as Chairman of the BOC (1913-

1918), President of the Royal Entomological Society (1921-22) and President of the

BOU (1923-1928).

The meetings of these societies served to work out disciplinary boundaries and debate topical issues. As central figures, Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan used them to share their research and display the specimens upon which they were drawing their conclusions, thereby exposing more people to their ideas. Nomenclature was frequently discussed as zoologists from around the world sought standardisation, and

Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan used the opportunity to advance their views on trinomials. For instance, at the Fourth International Ornithological Congress held in

London in June 1905, Hartert held the position of secretary and gave a paper entitled

‘The Principal Aims of Modern Ornithology’, in which he emphasised the importance of the study of geographical variation and of trinomials as a ‘simple and practicable method’ through which to identify those forms.115 Similarly, at the 9th meeting of the

International Congress of Zoology in 1913, Rothschild and Jordan were invited in an advisory capacity to attend the meetings of the International Commission on

Zoological Nomenclature, which had been established in order to bring ‘international uniformity in use of technical names’ – through the introduction of rules by which to use priority, bi or tri nomenclature and which edition of Linnaeus should be used as a

114 Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology, 163; Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, 267. 115 Hartert, ‘The Principal Aims of Modern Ornithology’, 268.

126 starting point.116 By holding key positions within these organisations, Rothschild,

Hartert and Jordan not only functioned as part of the wider zoological community but were being afforded authority within it.

Conclusion

By examining Rothchild’s scientific activities alongside those of his curators, this chapter has uncovered the scientific ideas which drove Tring Museum’s research agenda, and thereby dispelled the myths that he was merely an eccentric amateur collector. Rothschild and his curators were unified in their epistemological approach.

They prioritised the study of geographical variation and implementation of trinomials, which they each saw as being central to understanding evolutionary development. This approach and Rothschild’s specimen collection were co-constructed. Rothschild built his collection with the intention of supporting and advancing the study of geographical variation and use of trinomials, which in turn was dependent on, and drove the collection of, more material.

By taking an active part in the discussions around the study of subspecies and use of trinomials, Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan propelled Tring Museum into the centre of taxonomic debate. This chapter has demonstrated how the opposition

Rothschild and his curators faced, and which was levied at trinomials more generally, was as much sociological as epistemological. It reflected both different approaches to, and the resources for developing, zoological knowledge, and the efforts made by professional scientists and curators to elevate their status at the expense of amateurs like Rothschild. He and his curators countered criticisms and consolidated their scientific authority through their association with the collection, and with each other.

116 C. W. Stiles, ‘Report of the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature’, Science 38 (4 July 1913): 7 & 11–12.

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They used the collection as evidence for the validity of their claims, and – by working collaboratively with other zoologists through the lending of specimens and through their participation in learned societies – to convince other zoologists of the merits of trinomial nomenclature. Thus, far from being on the scientific periphery, Rothschild and his curators positioned themselves at the centre of the zoological community, with

Rothschild taking a leading role in scientific discourse despite being a private collector.

The men continued to challenge the arguments raised against the adoption of trinomials in British zoology, until, by the 1920s, much of the earlier opposition had ceased. Within ornithology trinomials eventually became the main form of nomenclature. This can be attributed to three factors. Firstly, by the early-twentieth century the collections of national museums in Britain had expanded, particularly as a result of donations and bequests from notable private collectors. The BMNH’s bird collections, for example, increased from 30,000 specimens in 1872 to 400,000 by

1906.117 With new material upon which to observe geographical variation, which in turn prompted changing notions of species limits, a greater number of ornithologists came to recognise the benefits of using trinomials. This had a knock-on effect on the reputation of Hartert and Rothschild, for suddenly their colleagues could see for themselves the benefits of the approach they had long since adopted.

This in turn was aided by the decline of the ‘old guard’ within ornithology.118

By the early-twentieth century those who had put up unwavering resistance to trinomials, including Newton and Sharpe, had died and a new generation of ornithologists, who were inspired by the work of the ‘Tring Triumvirate’ and favoured

117 William T. Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington (London: Heinemann, 1981), 175. 118 See McGhie, Henry Dresser and Victorian Ornithology, 230.

128 the use of trinomials, were coming forward.119 A central figure in this development was Harry Forbes Witherby (1873-1943), a senior partner in his family’s publishing firm and later a leader of British ornithology. Witherby’s interests in distribution and migration led him to come into contact with Hartert, and he subsequently became one of the first to pledge his support to Hartert’s campaign for the use of trinomials.120 He applied Hartert’s principles in his own writings and in 1907 established the periodical

British Birds, in which he employed the use of trinomials; a move which influenced a number of other publications to permit their use, including the Ibis which conceded in

1912.121 That same year, Witherby joined forces with Hartert, together with his British

Birds co-editors F.C.R Jourdain (1865-1940) and N.F. Ticehurst (1873-1969), to publish The Hand-List of British Birds, in which the classification and nomenclature used were Hartert’s. The Hand-List received a mixed reception for its use of trinomial nomenclature amongst the remaining ‘old-guard’; however, to quote Witherby, ‘the opposition gradually died down, so that by the time The Practical Handbook of British

Birds appeared (1919-24) . . . the system had become generally adopted’.122 By the

1920s, Hartert and Witherby had replaced individuals such as Newton and Sharpe as leaders in the ornithological community, and through their consistent adoption of trinomials in their own work and publications, which were important in their field, they were able to show that they were not a passing ‘fad’ but an approach of great utility.

119 The phrase ‘Tring Triumvirate’ was coined by Kristin Johnson to refer to Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan. See Johnson, Ordering Life, 36. 120 Tucker, ‘Obituary’, 162–66. 121 Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology, 161; Stresemann, Ornithology from Aristotle to the Present, 263; Johnson, ‘“The Ibis”: Transformations in a Twentieth Century British Natural History Journal’, 524. 122 Tucker, ‘Obituary’, 165–66.

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A final factor in the change in the fortune of trinomials was the change in the status and focus of ornithology more generally. Whereas during the nineteenth century the focus had been on systematic work, in the twentieth the emphasis was placed on questions of behaviour, ecology and conservation.123 Ecology in particular helped ornithology flourish within the new and expanding universities of the post-World War

One period, where it became a key group in the study of zoology.124 Just as Hartert had predicted, it came to be seen that knowing and understanding geographical detail enhanced the study of these other areas of ornithological research, leading to the wider adoption of trinomials.125 This in turn resulted in Rothschild and his curators gaining further authority within the wider zoological community.

The history of Tring Museum is not only significant in the history of the adoption of trinomials. The work that Hartert and Jordan produced, and the methods they advocated, also had a direct impact on the history of evolutionary biology. In

1942 Ernst Mayr (1902-2005), an avian taxonomist and evolutionary biologist, published Systematics and the Origin of Species, which has since been considered a critical turning point in the history of the ‘species problem’. In it Mayr argued for the

Biological Species Concept (BSC) – the idea that ‘Species are groups of interbreeding natural populations that are reproductively isolated from other such groups’.126 While on the surface this seems unconnected to research at Tring Museum, there is a tangible

123 Walters, A Concise History of Ornithology, 10. 124 Ibid., 165–66. 125 By contrast within entomology trinomials were never fully accepted. Jordan’s efforts to make the study of geographical variations central to the systematic work of entomologists were particularly hampered by World War One, which shifted the focus of entomological work onto economic entomology that could be used to advance agricultural science and tropical medicine. Systematists were expected to assist in this process via identification, and this often prevented them from conducting the systematic work which Jordan had tirelessly encouraged. See J. F. M. Clark, Bugs and the Victorians (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 212–13; Johnson, ‘Ernst Mayr, Karl Jordan, and the History of Systematics’, 9–10. 126 Ernst Mayr, ‘What Is a Species, and What Is Not?’, Philosophy of Science 63 (1996): 264. This was a view shared by Theodosius Dobzhansky (1900-1975), with whom Mayr is jointly credited with emphasising the importance of reproductive isolation in defining species.

130 link, for evidently Mayr drew on the ideas of Jordan and Hartert when formulating the

BSC.127 Rothschild’s curators had expanded the definition of subspecies to include geographically isolated, closely related populations, and Jordan had been among the first to articulate the idea of a reproductive species concept in 1905.128 Both these concepts and how they were applied were an integral part of the development of

Mayr’s BSC. Thus, in having such an influential role in determining how subspecies were identified and named, Rothschild’s curators left a significant legacy in the fields of both natural history and evolutionary biology.

127 Winker, ‘Chapter 1: Subspecies Represent Geographically Partitioned Variation’, 9. 128 Mayr, ‘What Is a Species, and What Is Not?’, 269; Mallet, ‘Perspectives Poulton, Wallace and Jordan’, 441.

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Chapter III

Rothschild’s Zoological Museum

‘…the Valhalla at Tring.’1

Rothschild timed the grand opening of the Zoological Museum at Tring, on 11th

August 1892, to coincide with the Tring Agricultural Association Show – the largest one-day agricultural show in the country.2 He had a captive audience as he threw open the doors to his museum for the very first time. Once inside visitors experienced a zoological masterclass curated by Rothschild himself. On display were some 950 stuffed mammals, 3,600 stuffed birds, 200 reptiles and 300 fishes (some stuffed and others in spirit), 1,500 insects ‘of the most typical and representative forms’ and a further 1,500 shells, corals, sponges and lower animals.3 All of the specimens were positioned in mahogany cases and were labelled ‘in a manner legible and intelligible to laymen’.4 The museum was free to enter and many took the opportunity to see what

Rothschild had put on display. One source recalled that over 500 visitors trooped through the museum on that opening weekend, while another estimated that figure to be nearer 5,000.5

The event was a zoological performance for attendees of the agricultural show and demonstrated Rothschild’s commitment to displaying the natural world to public

1 ‘White Penguin’, Aberdeen Press and Journal, 19 December 1906. 2 Shelley Savage, A Surprising Walk in Tring Park: The Story from the Ice Age to the Present (London: Tring & District Local History and Museum Society, 2014), 9. 3 ‘Mr. Walter Rothschild’s Museum at Tring’, Bucks Herald, 28 October 1893; This number had risen substantially by the time of Rothschild’s death in 1937, to include 2,004 complete mounted mammals, 207 heads, 335 pairs of horns and antlers, 6 large Elephant tusks, and many skeletons, and skulls; 2,400 mounted birds; 680 Reptiles and Amphibians; 914 Fishes and a representative collection of Invertebrates. See Karl Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, Novitates Zoologicae 41 (1938): 15. 4 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, The Leeds Mercury, 3 September 1895. 5 Albert Edward Günther, A Century of Zoology at the British Museum through the Lives of Two Keepers, 1815-1914 (London: Dawsons, 1975), 420; Miriam Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild: Birds, Butterflies, and History (London: Hutchinson, 1983), 101.

132 audiences. He had planned for his museum to include public galleries from the outset and its opening was timed both to entice the largest possible audience and to capitalise on the publicity which surrounded the events of the museum’s opening. Tring Museum was not only intended as a museum where (as described in the last chapter) research was carried out behind the scenes on taxonomy and geographical variation. Rothschild also channelled considerable effort and resources into its galleries and their displays.

The purpose of this chapter is to determine the motivations which guided their creation. What was Rothschild’s agenda for the public-facing aspect of his museum?

Why did he consider it important to have public galleries? And what narratives did those galleries convey?

Existing literature on nineteenth and early-twentieth century museums has largely focused on the role of ‘public’ museums in scientific and civic culture, and the construction and reception of their displays. Such museums are described as ‘public’ because they were owned, managed and funded by either the central state or local authorities and were committed to universal access.6 They increased in number throughout the nineteenth century as part of a government and middle-class drive to improve ‘urban cultural provision’, in a bid to offer supposedly improving forms of

‘rational entertainment’ to the working classes.7 Historians have traced the shifting scientific, cultural and emotional meanings of their displays by examining both particular exhibits and the animal biographies of particular specimens.8 They have

6 Funding was provided by the 1845 Free Museums Act and 1891 Museums and Gymnasiums Act. The latter enabled urban authorities to provide and maintain museums in England, Wales and Ireland which were expected to be open to the public free of charge on no less than three days a week and permitted the levying of a separate one-halfpenny rate for museum purposes. See Kate Hill, Culture and Class in English Public Museums, 1850-1914 (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2005), 43–44; John M. A. Thompson, Manual of Curatorship: A Guide to Museum Practice (London: Routledge, 2015), 74. 7 Susan Sheets-Pyenson, ‘Cathedrals of Science: The Development of Colonial Natural History Museums during the Late Nineteenth Century’, History of Science 25 (1987): 279; Hill, Culture and Class in English Public Museums, 1850-1914, 36–37. 8 See as examples Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, Nature and Culture: Objects, Disciplines, and the Manchester Museum (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 32–33; Samuel J.M.M.

133 highlighted how different theoretical positions, arguments about classificatory systems, ecological contexts and statements of imperial prowess could all be articulated through the careful arrangement and management of displays by professional curators, and by the routes visitors were expected to take through the museum.9 Juliana Adelman, for example, has shown how displays in Dublin Museum endorsed Charles Darwin and the concept of evolution by natural selection, and Simon

Naylor has described the way in which local museums were often arranged as if a

‘guidebook’ for the local area.10

In contrast to public museums, the privately-owned museums of amateur collectors are generally thought to have declined in number over the course of the nineteenth century, and perhaps as a consequence have received little attention from historians. These museums were in the main not intended for the general public and were usually curated by their owners to display objects and artefacts which reflected that individual’s personal interests, tastes, wealth and exploits.11 Whereas many eventually donated their collections to the growing number of local, regional and

Alberti, ‘Introduction: The Dead Ark’, in Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie (Virginia: University of Virginia Press, 2012), 1; Rachel Poliquin, The Breathless Zoo: Taxidermy and the Cultures of Longing (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012). 9 Stephen T Asma, Stuffed Animals and Pickled Heads: The Culture and Evolution of Natural History Museums (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 75; Narisara Murray, ‘From Birds of Paradise to Drosophila: The Changing Role of Scientific Specimens to 1920’, in A Cultural History of Animals in the Age of Empire, ed. Kathleen Kete (Oxford: Bloomsbury 3PL, 2009), 113–14 & 128; John M. MacKenzie, Museums and Empire: Natural History, Human Cultures and Colonial Identities (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 7–8; Liv Emma Thorsen, Karen A Rader, and Adam Dodd, Animals on Display: The Creaturely in Museums, Zoos, and Natural History (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013). 10 Juliana Adelman, ‘Evolution on Display: Promoting Irish Natural History and Darwinism at the Dublin Science and Art Museum’, BJHS 38 (2005): 411–36; Simon Naylor, ‘The Field, the Museum and the Lecture Hall: The Spaces of Natural History in Victorian Cornwall’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 27 (2002): 501 & 503. 11 Susan M. Pearce, On Collecting: An Investigation into Collecting in the European Tradition (London: Routledge, 2005), 32; Samuel J.M.M Alberti, ‘Owning and Collecting Natural Objects in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, in From Private to Public: Natural Collections and Museums, ed. Marco Beretta (Sagamore Beach, Mass: Science History Publications, 2005), 143–45; Hill, Culture and Class in English Public Museums, 1850-1914, 47; Carin Berkowitz and Bernard V. Lightman, eds., Science Museums in Transition: Cultures of Display in Nineteenth-Century Britain and America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2017), 1; Sharon Macdonald, ed., The Politics of Display: Museums, Science, Culture (London: Routledge, 1998), 8.

134 national museums to ensure their legacy, some private individuals continued to collect and develop their own museums. However, little is known about their activities, their motivations, and how their museums resembled or differed from their ‘public’ counterparts.12 In fact, far from experiencing a linear progression of museum types, the period around the turn of the century witnessed the co-existence of a range of different kinds of museums – the exclusively public and private, the privately-owned but marketed at the public, and publicly-funded but with restricted public access to collections.13 Thus, while this period saw the formation of many public museums it was also a period in which private interests and agendas still had the power to shape the direction of the more publicly-orientated institutions.

Tring Museum serves as an interesting example of these overlapping interests as it was both private and public. The collection itself was owned by a private individual, but Rothschild had prioritised a public agenda by including in his plans for the museum public galleries, which displayed large numbers of taxidermied specimens and were made accessible to the public, free of charge, on a regular basis. As this chapter will demonstrate, he used his own resources to present nature to museum visitors in a manner comparable, both in intent and execution, to public museums. Yet at the same time, he behaved in a manner akin to the creators of private museums by foregrounding his personal interests, tastes, wealth and exploits. Tring Museum therefore exemplifies Alberti’s argument that ‘the categories “private” and “public”

12 William T. Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington (London: Heinemann, 1981), 175; Alberti, ‘Owning and Collecting Natural Objects in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, 145; Henry A. McGhie, Henry Dresser and Victorian Ornithology: Birds, Books and Business (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2017), 180–82; Two exceptions include Frances Larson, An Infinity of Things: How Sir Henry Wellcome Collected the World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Karen Jones, ‘The Rhinoceros and the Chatham Railway: Taxidermy and the Production of Animal Presence in the “Great Indoors”’, History 101 (2016): 710–35. 13 Alberti, ‘Owning and Collecting Natural Objects in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, 152.

135 are themselves fluid and contingent’, and demonstrates the ambiguity of Rothschild’s museum in regard to standard categories of professional and amateur zoologists.14

In order to understand the nature of this public/private museum, this chapter draws on and expands the application of techniques used by historians to analyse the displays of public museums. It will consider both examples of ‘biographies’ of particular specimens and the arrangement of larger displays, in order to deduce the narratives that Rothschild intended his museum to convey to visitors. Using plans, guidebooks, surviving accounts and photographs, it will uncover what visitors saw on a visit to Tring Museum and how they were intended to interpret its displays. Building on analysis from chapter two, it will reveal how Rothschild’s scientific focus on species variation played out alongside his desire to inspire wonder, provoke aesthetic appreciation and convey personal stories about encounters with animals in the field.

In revealing these aspects of Tring Museum, this chapter not only illuminates the motives and working practices of Rothschild as he assembled his collection, but also reappraises the relationships between public and private museums, between amateur and professional curators, and between public-facing galleries and research collections, during this period.

This chapter begins by exploring the history of Tring Museum as an institution, examining its architecture, function within the local community and its status as a private and/or public museum. It then examines the zoological arrangement of the museum in order to deduce the scientific narrative that Rothschild’s displays conveyed and how they related to those presented by other public zoological museums. Finally, it considers some additional features that were more commonly found in private museums of the period, including the use of spectacle and displays that expressed

14 Ibid., 141.

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Rothschild’s personal interests and achievements, and explores the ways in which the different narratives on display within the museum could coalesce in single specimens.

The Zoological Museum, Tring

Construction of the Zoological Museum at Tring began in 1889. It was built by local building firm, J. Honour & Sons, for the cost of £3,300 and followed the design of local architect William Huckvale, who had been commissioned by Lord and Lady

Rothschild to design a museum for Walter, in honour of his twenty-first birthday.

Nathaniel had hoped construction of the museum would compel Rothschild to become an active partner in the family banking firm, with natural history remaining purely as his hobby.15 Unfortunately for Nathaniel, that proved not to be the case, and his investment in the construction of the original building merely provided the foundation for future extensions.

The original building consisted of public galleries, staff rooms, a library and accommodation for the research collections. In keeping with other Rothschild building projects, it was built to a high standard and included mahogany fixtures, electric lighting and a heating system. The floor plans in Figure 1 give an indication of the original layout of the museum. This includes the central hall which formed the core of the public galleries, with the first floor accessed via a stone staircase off the lobby.

The lobby also gave access to the front of the building, known as the “Cottage”, which enclosed the private section of the museum, including workrooms, the library, and entomological research collection. The bird rooms and general workshop, where taxidermy took place, were at the far end of the museum.16

15 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 104. 16 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, 3 September 1895.

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Figure 1. Floor plans for Tring Museum c.1892.17

Three further phases of development occurred which were similarly the result of investment by Rothschild’s immediate family. The first phase occurred in 1908 and involved construction of the current library and additional work rooms (shown in blue on Figure 3). The work was completed while Rothschild and Hartert were in Algeria in the wake of the 1908 crisis, which had seen Rothschild removed from the bank and become estranged from his father, owing to revelations concerning his debts and

‘amorous adventures’.18

17 This diagram has been created using surviving photographs and written descriptions of the museum from the time of its opening, and examination of the building as it stands today 18 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 221.

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Figure 2. Exterior of Tring Museum facing Park Street, showing the extended building. To the left you can see the end of “the Cottage”. Copyright The Francis Frith Collection. Reproduced with their permission.

Events following this crisis led to a second phase of development between

1909 and 1912. As discussed in chapter one, in order to resolve Rothschild’s debts,

Nathaniel tasked Charles with severing the museum finances from the Tring Park

Estate, establishing the museum as a separate enterprise. To quote Miriam Rothschild,

Emma and Charles felt ‘profoundly sorry for Walter’ in the wake of this and sought a way to compensate him. They consulted with Hartert and Jordan and discovered that a separate wing for the entomology department was urgently needed, which would also give the birds more space.19 Emma and Charles agreed to fund this extension and between 1909-1911 the L-shaped north and east wings were constructed, which roughly doubled the floor area of the public galleries and included the much needed

19 Ibid., 222 For a full account of this episode see Chapter 25 The Great Row.

139 additional work space and Lepidoptera halls (shown in pink in Figure 3). Finally, in

1912 a separate entomological wing was built to the north-east of the site (Figure 4).20

20 This building was pulled down in the 1970s to make way for what is now the NHM Bird Department. I am again grateful to Tim Amsden for helping me to understand the chronology of the development of the museum.

140

Figure 3. The phases of development at Tring Museum.21

21 This figure has been created using surviving photographs, archive material and written descriptions of the museum, together with modern floor plans.

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Figure 4. The entomological wing built in 1912 © Trustees of the Natural History Museum

The architectural design of Tring Museum was relatively simple, with a basic interior intended to maximise display capacity. The simplicity of the design can be attributed to several factors. Firstly, whereas Rothschild was likely to have been involved in decisions regarding the interior of the museum, his father was likely to have decided on its exterior appearance and would have wanted it to adhere to the general design themes of the estate.22 Secondly, as a trained architect, Huckvale would have wanted to ensure that the design complemented and developed a body of work he had previously completed for the Tring Park Estate and finally, like any good architect, he would have sought to ensure that the museum fitted in with the surrounding buildings, which were modest, small in scale and simple in design.23

22 Tim Amsden’s biography of William Huckvale is forthcoming. 23 Tim Amsden, ‘Design of the Tring Museum’, 26 February 2018. I am grateful to Tim for his insight into the background to the construction of the Tring Museum and this discussion is drawn from those conversations.

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Figure 5. Original exterior of Tring Museum facing Park Street. From A Year with Nature, Westell (1900). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by University of California Libraries.

The simplicity of Tring Museum stands in stark contrast to public natural history museums of the period, which were built in ornate styles such as Greek,

Romanesque and Gothic. As Carla Yanni has argued, the architectural design of museums can offer a ‘guide of the Victorian understanding of the natural world’ and how museum patrons and curators thought that nature could best be presented to diverse audiences.24 The British Museum (Natural History) (BMNH) at South

Kensington, for example, was Romanesque in style and, as J.B. Bullen has argued,

‘was designed to draw attention both to itself and to its contents’.25 It was at once intended to display nature’s diversity, to provoke wonder at God’s creation, to demonstrate man’s control over the natural world, and to showcase the nation’s

24 Carla Yanni, Nature’s Museums: Victorian Science and the Architecture of Display (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 2, 13 & 159; Carla Yanni, ‘Development and Display: Progressive Evolution in British Victorian Architecture and Architectural Theory’, in Evolution and Victorian Culture, ed. Bernard V. Lightman and Bennett Zon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 227–60. 25 J.B. Bullen, ‘Alfred Waterhouses’s Romanesque “Temple of Nature”: The Natural History Museum, London’, Architectural History 49 (2006): 257.

143 scientific achievements.26 The private and provincial Tring Museum was less ornate and was comparable to the museums of fellow private collectors such as Major Percy

Powell-Cotton and James John Joicey (1871-1932). Both Powell-Cotton’s museum at

Quex Park, Birchington, Kent and Joicey’s Hill Museum in Witley, Surrey (Figure 6), were built as extensions to their residences and were architecturally in keeping with the designs of their homes.

Figure 6. The Hill Museum Exterior, Witley, Surrey. From The Bulletin of the Hill Museum

(1921). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Smithsonian

Libraries.

Nonetheless, while the architectural design of Tring Museum reflected its

‘private’ origin, the scale, coverage and purpose of the museum and its collections were more comparable to national collections than to private ones – the scientific output and number of specimens in Rothschild’s collection rivalling those

26 Yanni, ‘Development and Display: Progressive Evolution in British Victorian Architecture and Architectural Theory’, 248–50; Berkowitz and Lightman, Science Museums in Transition, 3–4; Macdonald, The Politics of Display, 9.

144 accumulated by the BMNH and dwarfing the likes of Powell-Cotton.27 Moreover,

Rothschild’s museum shared a ‘public’ outlook with national and local museums.

With origins as a private collection there was no expectation that Rothschild would develop a public side to his enterprise. That he did so has important consequences for the ways in which the public galleries at Tring Museum can be read.

While a museum like the BMNH used public collections as displays of national and imperial significance, for instance, Rothschild’s decision to include public galleries was interpreted as ‘public spirited’, as a philanthropic endeavour by a private individual and a gift to the local and scientific communities.28 In fact he drew a distinct line between his public galleries – which became ‘a vehicle of entertainment and instruction to the general public’ – and his research collection, to which only naturalists had access.29 This was the normal practice for public zoological museums in this period – to have both a ‘scientific storehouse’ which contained a collection for enquiry by naturalists, and a public section, ‘the object being […] to set out in the most clear and striking way what the scientific naturalist has discovered’ for the general public.30

In this regard, Rothschild’s museum therefore fulfilled a similar philanthropic role to public museums founded in this period, albeit that development was attributable to the philanthropic ethos of the Rothschild family rather than a state or local-authority led initiative. The Rothschilds regularly invested in philanthropic activities. Lord Rothschild, for example, spent large sums of money improving the

27 Jones, ‘The Rhinoceros and the Chatham Railway’, 712–13. Powell-Cotton had over 6,400 specimens spread across three galleries by the time of his death. 28 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, Country Life Illustrated, 25 June 1898, 798. 29 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, 3 September 1895. 30 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, 25 June 1898, 798. See also Lynn K. Nyhart, ‘Publics and Practices’, in Worlds of Natural History, ed. Helen Anne Curry et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 342.

145 living and working conditions of Tring residents, while his wife gave generously to local charitable endeavours.31 These actions provide evidence of what David Kessler has described as ‘squirearchy’ – the social responsibility of landlords to make an impression on the communities in which they lived – but is also reflective of the noblesse oblige attitude of the peerage in this period.32

I argue that Tring Museum can be viewed in the same regard and that

Rothschild’s parents instigated its construction as a way of channelling their son’s interest into a forum which benefited the wider community. The museum may have originated as a private collection, but once opened to the public, it became an important part of the local community, where visitors were given the opportunity to learn about the natural world. Moreover, at Rothschild’s own suggestion a donation box was placed in the museum to raise funds for the Tring Nursing Association.33

Thus, while it was at once a personal and familial enterprise quite different from other public zoological museums, it fulfilled a civic role somewhat similar to those museums, albeit the interplay between the private and public interests made that civic role slightly different in nature. Evidently the public agenda was as important to

Rothschild as his scientific one, and his museum therefore blurred the boundary between the public and private.

31 These types of activities were not just restricted to Tring and the local area. N.M. Rothschild & Sons made substantial annual charitable donations and, as a result, Nathaniel Rothschild was looked upon as a public figure as ‘he served the public in a very direct way’. See Virginia Cowles, The Rothschilds: A Family of Fortune (London: Wiedenfeld and Nicolson, 1973), 169; Tim Amsden, The Rothschilds and Tring (London: Ludo Press, 2017), 4–5. 32 David Kessler, ‘The Rothschild and Disraeli in Buckinghamshire’, Jewish Historical Studies 29 (1982- 1986): 241–42. 33 ‘Lord Rothschild Wishes to Thank...’, Bucks Herald, 13 December 1935; ‘At the Suggestion of Lord Rothschild’, Western Times, 28 December 1935. Over a four-year period £10 3s 4d was raised and given to the Association which oversaw the running of Tring Nursing Home. This had been established after Lady Rothschild had gifted the Association land for the construction of a hospital in 1891. For a subscription of £1 a year, residents of Tring were offered the same benefits as the employees of the Tring Park estate, including free medical attendance, nursing and medicine. The Association depended on subscriptions and donations and Lady Rothschild regularly provided an annual contribution.

146

The museum formally opened to the public on 1st September 1892 and thereafter was open for two to three hours a day on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays, with some seasonal variation. There were also late opening hours on a Wednesday, when, as the Leeds Mercury reported, the museum was open 4-7pm ‘for the express benefit of the working classes’ – the electric lighting ‘ingeniously contrived to show off the exhibits to best advantage’.34 The ‘Wednesday evening seances’, as they were called, were especially popular among the people of Tring.35 In 1893 Woodward and

Sherborn recalled how ‘as many as 300 persons frequently pass the door’ on

Wednesday evenings and that since the formal opening ‘no less than 16,000 visitors

[had] been admitted to the museum’.36 In this regard Rothschild’s museum was more accessible than most museums owned by private collectors, where admission might only be obtained via special application, and those of local societies which were usually open to the public on a few afternoons a week.37 However, it was not as accessible as the state and municipal run museums. The BMNH, for example, was open every day except Sunday, while the British Association reported that ‘rate- supported museums’ were generally open to the public five or six days a week from

10am until dusk.38

By December 1893, newspapers reported that visitor numbers to the museum had reached 30,000.39 It is difficult to establish who they were, what their reactions to it might have been and how many may have been repeat visitors. Historians have

34 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, 3 September 1895. 35 Ibid. 36 A. Smith Woodward and C. Davies Sherborn, ‘The Rothschild Museum, Tring’, Natural Science: A Monthly Review of Scientific Progress 2 (June 1893): 61. 37 British Association for the Advancement of Science, Report of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, 57th Meeting (1887) (London, 1888), 119. 38 British Museum (Natural History), General Guide to the British Museum (Natural History), 5th ed. (London, 1891); British Association for the Advancement of Science, Report of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, 57th Meeting (1887), 119. 39 ‘A Rothschild Museum’, The Daily Inter Ocean, 10 December 1893; ‘The Foreign Members of the Zoological Congress...’, Science 8 (30 September 1898): 444.

147 recognised that recovering visitor experience is notoriously difficult, often complicated by a lack of surviving evidence and the fact that responses were probably complex and multi-layered.40 It is likely that most visitors were residents of Tring and the local area, for the museum offered a nearby alternative to the relatively inaccessible London museums.41 That said, the late-nineteenth century witnessed a change in museum audiences. Earlier in the century access was restricted to the

‘respectable’ classes of society, but by the end, ‘most museums had been opened up, from the country houses, which welcomed hordes of day-trippers, to the national and municipal museums, which were proudly open to all at no cost’.42 Many visitors were members of the leisured middle-classes who sought to educate themselves and improve their social standing.43 Residents of provincial towns took advantage of cheap railway tickets to visit the big city museums, while city residents ventured to provincial museums.44 That reports about Tring Museum reached national newspapers may well have extended the museum’s visitor catchment area. Indeed, German entomologist Fritz Wichgraf (1853-19??) commented on the large number of visitors the museum received ‘despite the several hours long train ride from London.’45 The museum was also a popular destination for local organisations who arranged group visits. They included a party from the Assembly Hall in Aylesbury, Northampton and

40 Claire Wintle, ‘Visiting the Empire at the Provincial Museum, 1900-50’, in Curating Empire: Museums and the British Imperial Experience, ed. Sarah Longair and John McAleer (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), 39; Yanni, Nature’s Museums, 24; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Objects and the Museum’, Isis 96 (2005): 570–71. 41 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, 3 September 1895; ‘The Tring Museum.’, Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art 77 (26 May 1894): 550. 42 Aileen Fyfe and Bernard V. Lightman, eds., Science in the Market Place: Nineteenth Century Sites and Experiences (London: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 6–7. 43 Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Placing Nature: Natural History Collections and Their Owners in Nineteenth-Century Provincial England’, BJHS 35 (2002): 310. 44 Aileen Fyfe, ‘Reading Natural History at the British Museum and the Pictorial Museum’, in Science in the Market Place: Nineteenth Century Sites and Experiences, ed. Aileen Fyfe and Bernard V. Lightman (London: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 196. 45 F Wichgraf, ‘Das Zoologische Museum Der Herren v. Rothschild in Tring’, trans. Johanna Frei, Vossische Zeitung, 2 May 1914, Rothschild-Sammlung 1914 - 1926, Universitaetsbibliothek Johann Christian Senckenberg (Frankfurt am Main).

148

District Grocers, Tea Dealers and Provision Merchants Association, the St. Alban’s

Women’s Co-operative Guild and children from the Royal Caledonian Asylum.46

These groups not only included middle-class professionals (some with an interest in natural history), but others drawn from across the social strata, including women and children. In addition, individual naturalists who, as explored in chapter two, visited the museum to consult the research collection, would have toured the public galleries, often with Rothschild as their guide. The museum, and Rothschild, had become the subject of curiosity and many people wanted to see for themselves just what was on display.

A Zoological Museum

In 1892, just prior to the museum’s grand opening, Hartert had joined the staff as the museum’s director. A year later, Jordan arrived as curator of entomology. However, both were tasked with managing the research collections. Rothschild took charge of the curation of the public galleries himself. His identity as a naturalist was therefore derived not only from the research he conducted and from the collections he purchased, but from the curation of his collection and of the buildings which housed it. Miriam Rothschild concluded that Rothschild ‘always had the feeling that only he himself could display these fabulous creatures to their full advantage’ and quoted a letter in which Rothschild instructed Hartert not to touch anything for ‘I want to arrange that case entirely myself’.47 In this he behaved like the owner of a private collection who acquired, paid for, and curated the objects on display in a highly

46 ‘S. Ailward to Tring Museum’, 7 July 1903, TR1/1/24/4, NHM, London; ‘Arthur Marpetts to Ernst Hartert’, July 1903, TR1/1/26/410, NHM, London; ‘P.D. Graham to Karl Jordan’, 8 July 1905, TR1/1/26/476, NHM, London; ‘Women Co-Operators’, Bucks Herald, 4 July 1908. 47 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 104 & 108; See also ‘Walter Rothschild to Ernst Hartert’, 30 March 1896, TM3/12, NHM, London in which he instructed Hartert to simply ‘put everything in a corner together and do not touch them till I come down’.

149 personalised way. The situation in public museums was quite different, for donors of specimens typically handed over the curation to the museum’s curators.

The fact that Rothschild curated the public galleries means that by examining their contents, and comparing them to those of other private and public zoological museums of the period (the latter previously subjected to historical analysis), it is possible to determine his motivations in assembling them. The key source for revealing these contents is the Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild's Zoological

Museum at Tring, written by Hartert and published in 1898.48 As Alberti has observed, together with museum architecture, ‘guidebooks served to shape the visit, [and] to construct how the visitor moved and behaved’, and are valuable sources for interpreting a curator’s intentions.49 The guide to Rothschild’s museum was comparable in layout and overall content to those produced by other natural history museums of the period and listed species one after the other, in the order it was anticipated they would be encountered. Hartert used both common and Latin names and pointed out particularly interesting species, offering additional observations.50

Thus, using the Guide, together with surviving illustrations and photographs, as well as descriptions in books, periodicals and newspapers, it has been possible to visually recreate the original layout of the museum, as presented in Figures 7, 8 and 9.

48 Ernst Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring (Tring: Hazell, Watson & Viney Ltd., 1898). 49 Alberti, Nature and Culture, 159. 50 While Hartert was the author of the Guide it highly likely that Rothschild oversaw its production and influenced its contents.

150

Figure 7. The ground floor as per the 1898 museum guide.

151

Figure 8. The first floor as per the 1898 museum guide.

152

Figure 9. Plans of the zebra and antelope rooms as per the 1898 museum guide.

If they followed the instructions given to them in the guidebook, visitors to the museum in 1898 would have begun their visit in the central gallery, where they would have encountered a range of mammals, including apes, big cats, rodents and marsupials. They would then have moved onto the birds, before heading to the upper gallery and displays of reptiles, amphibians and insects, the last of which were contained in small glazed boxes affixed to the railing which encased the gallery.

Visitors were then directed to the room at the far end of the museum to see the display of zebra, before they would have ascended the spiral staircase to the antelope room on the second floor. They would then have returned to the other side of the central gallery to see fish, and finally coral, shell and sponges.

Retracing the path visitors were encouraged to take through the museum reveals how, within displays, animals were grouped into orders, based on common anatomical and physiological traits. The sequence broadly followed Linnaean classification with its six orders – mammals, birds, amphibians, fish, insects and

153 vermes – with each order grouped into families. However, the displays also reflected evolutionary principles and classified organisms based on the principle of common descent – the hallmark of evolutionary taxonomic thinking – rather than just structural similarities. They began with ‘higher’ animals and proceeded down the evolutionary tree to less evolved forms. Presumably, Rothschild believed this organisation to be the most instructive way for visitors to learn about the development of the natural world and the principles of evolution.51 But it was also more visually stimulating for visitors to start with large mammals as opposed to sponges, and suited the spatial constraints of the museum.

Figure 10. ‘Some Big Game’. Racing Illustrated, vol. III, no. 78, 2 July 1898. Image from Gale Primary Sources, Nineteenth Century UK Periodicals, https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/DX1901412721/NCUK?u=kings&sid=NCUK&xid=2f2ca49. Accessed 4 Dec. 2017.

51 This was a common feature of natural history museums during this period. See Asma, Stuffed Animals & Pickled Heads, 43–44.

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The sequence deviated in places owing to space restrictions. The zebra and antelope came between amphibians and fish and assorted large mammals were visible from the first-floor gallery, having been placed on top of the central cases of the ground floor (Figure 10). In general, however, the layout of Tring Museum was similar to other national museums and even zoological gardens, whose displays tended to mirror one another.52 They similarly tended to group related animals such as birds or ungulates. An 1882 map of the Zoological Gardens of London, for example, illustrates how the hippopotamus, giraffe and eland were positioned in close proximity to one another, reflecting their inclusion in Order IX Ungulata, as described by the Society’s

Secretary Philip Lutley Sclater.53 However, other private collectors did not usually adopt this approach. Frederick Selous’s hunting trophies (mainly heads) were displayed in a sportsman’s gallery in his museum in Worplesdon; Edward Booth’s birds were mounted in singular diorama boxes and Powell-Cotton had large habitat dioramas prepared by Rowland Ward.54 Rothschild’s displays, in contrast, were arranged along systematic and evolutionary lines.

This arrangement reflected the search for ‘order’, which was prominent in the nineteenth century as both naturalists and wider society attempted to understand the natural world. As Rachel Poliquin has argued, the spatial separation, or indeed proximity, of species in museums was a way of showing ‘relationships between animals’ – the grouping of specific animals offering clues as to what made that group

52 Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Maharajah the Elephant’s Journey: From Nature to Culture’, in Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie, ed. Samuel J.M.M. Alberti (Virginia: University of Virginia Press, 2012), 42. 53 Adam Black and Charles Black, Black’s Guide to London and Its Environs, 8th ed. (Edinburgh: Adam and Charles Black, 1882), 179–80; Philip Lutley Sclater, List of the Vertebrated Animals Now or Lately Living in the Gardens of the Zoological Society of London., 9th ed. (London, 1896), x. 54 John M. MacKenzie, The Empire of Nature: Hunting, Conservation, and British Imperialism (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1988), 39; Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1987), 252.

155 distinct from others.55 An arrangement which provoked comparison was thought by curators to be instructive and help visitors to visualise patterns and relationships between animals which might not otherwise have been apparent to them. By inviting visitors to make such comparisons between species within his museum, Rothschild’s displays encouraged visitors to think about how species were identified, the methods by which ‘new’ species were designated, and how those species interrelated.

Rothschild not only displayed the accepted classifications of animal species to his museum visitors, but dramatised the ways in which those classifications had been made. In doing so, he made the galleries into a performance of an unfolding evolutionary drama, in which species were constantly liable to change and variation, and in which the scientific work of species detection and classification was an enormous task.

The prevalence of this evolutionary narrative was reinforced by the display of extinct species. Smith and Sherborn recalled how, as with many other scientists in the post-evolutionary period, Rothschild ‘[did] not regard extinct animals as belonging to a totally distinct domain from those now living; and he thus place[d], for comparison with the sloths and armadillos, models of the skeletons of Megatherium and

Glyptodon’.56 This was an increasingly common form of display adopted by public natural history museums in the late-nineteenth century, and reflected a general trend in the field which had been prompted by the work of Charles Darwin. Darwin viewed extinction as one of the fundamental laws of the evolutionary process – an inevitable consequence of ‘natural selection’: ‘the extinction of species and of whole groups of species […] almost inevitably follows on the principle of natural selection; for old

55 Poliquin, The Breathless Zoo, 126. 56 Smith Woodward and Davies Sherborn, ‘Natural Science’, 61.

156 forms will be supplanted by new and improved forms’.57 Looking to demonstrate this principle in their museum displays, curators thus placed fossilised organisms within

‘taxonomic systems and evolutionary lineages’, in order to convey anatomical and behavioural comparisons between living and fossil animals, and therefore provide evidence of ‘notions of consistency across geological eras’.58 In putting together a

Megatherium and a Sloth, for example, Rothschild’s displays recreated extinct species for museum audiences, but also clearly demonstrated progressive lines of evolution.

The presentation of extinction narratives was not just limited to prehistoric extinction. Rothschild’s displays engaged with the issue of contemporary extinction, which was a growing concern among some sections of the zoological community.59

Rothschild displayed specimens of the Quagga and Great Auk which served as permanent reminders of species which had become extinct in modern times, largely due to man’s activities. The Guide, meanwhile, highlighted several species which were in danger of extinction. The Great Bustard, on display in Case III (see Figure 7), was described as having been ‘extirpated in Great Britain’.60 Hartert attributed the decline to human population expansion and agricultural and technological advancement, and yet, while he demonstrated an awareness over the doubtful future of the species,

Hartert refrained from suggesting what, if anything, should be done to counteract this development. This is likely to have been a reflection of Hartert’s belief in the survival- of-the-fittest narrative, in which extinction was figured as an inevitable part of life and of evolutionary development. Extinction was of critical importance for understanding

57 Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species, 5th ed. (New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1871), 425. 58 Chris Manias, ‘Reconstructing an Incomparable Organism: The Chalicothere in Nineteenth and Early-Twentieth Century Palaeontology’, History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 40 (2018): 1–2, 5 & 8. 59 Rothschild was particularly interested in extinction and conducted research in this area. See Lionel Walter Rothschild, Extinct Birds (London: Hutchinson & Co., 1907). 60 Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 43.

157 the development of the natural world. In conveying those messages through his displays, Rothschild was presenting the commonly accepted scientific arguments about evolution to his museum’s visitors, in a manner comparable to professional curators in their public zoological museums.

Rothschild’s Personal Museum

While in the ways discussed above Rothschild’s displays conformed to the common methods of display used in mainstream public zoological museums, there were also key differences. These arose partly because, as described in chapter two, Rothschild pursued a scientific agenda somewhat distinct from that of curators of public museums. While he shared their concern for evolution, Rothschild privileged geographical variation as the prime cause of morphological differences between species and used the subspecies concept to denote this variation.61 This led him to classify specimens not simply according to their physical variation, but in accordance with the geographical location in which such variations could be found, and to illustrate these features using long series of specimens acquired from locations around the world. In addition, Rothschild was intent on his museum not only being instructive and educational but entertaining and inspiring for museum visitors. Reflecting on the purpose of museums in 1892, Rothschild had described how ‘It was very well to make

[a] museum instructive, but it must be amusing also’, especially for the working classes whom he saw as an important audience for museums.62 Finally, like other private collectors of the period, Rothschild curated the museum in ways that were designed to showcase his personal achievements as a collector of natural historical specimens.

61 Rothschild was also very interested in individual variation – both albino/leucistic and melanistic individuals – and collected specimens which allowed him to investigate this. 62 ‘Proposed County Museum for Bucks’, The Bucks Herald, 30 July 1892.

158

These various motives are evident in the profusion of material on display. The interior of the museum was designed to maximise display capacity, with windows fitted in the ceiling in order to create uninterrupted wall space. As one journalist concluded, ‘it would be difficult to name a bird or beast which has no representative in this wonderful collection’.63 In line with Rothschild’s scientific commitment, a number of the different species and subspecies of hare were exhibited, while the display of zebras was described as having ‘mounted examples of most species and races’.64 This enabled more finely grained comparisons than in mainstream zoological museums, and specimens were prepared in ways which accentuated the characteristics which made them particularly unique, or which distinguished them from other species or subspecies. The birds of paradise, for example, were mounted so that the ‘elongated side-plumes and singular elongated tail-feathers’, for which the species were

‘celebrated’, were clearly visible.65

The Guide was also used to reinforce this idea. Visitors were not issued with explicit instructions to compare the specimens on display but were provided with the

‘tools’ to do so. The hummingbird case, which was located at the top of the staircase between the ground floor and first floor of the museum, provides a particularly good example (Figure 11).

63 J.T. Newman, ‘Tring Museum’, The Graphic, 25 January 1908, 111. 64 Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 15 & 54. 65 Ibid., 25.

159

Figure 11. Hummingbird Case Postcard. Natural History Museum, Tring, Library

Photographic Collections.

The octagonal cabinet housed dozens of species of hummingbirds which had been shot and preserved by O.T. Baron and acquired by Rothschild in 1893 for the enormous sum of £600/12-.66 They were considered ‘real works of art’ on account of them having been mounted in the positions in which they were seen by the observer just prior to their death. However, it was not just the beauty of the hummingbirds which was admired and commented on in the Guide. The reader’s attention was drawn to the ‘…variety in the shape of bill, tail and wings’ and how:

‘the bill differs much, varying from the enormous straight sword, equalling or exceeding the whole body in length, in Docimastes ensifer, to the short little needle in Rhamphomicron or Schistes, and from the semi- circular curved beak of Eutoxeres to the longer curved one in Phaethornis’.67 The Guide instructed the visitor about how these birds should be compared and what features should be examined. This was only explicit in the Guide, which it was

66 ‘Agreement between Walter Rothschild and O.T. Baron’, 22 September 1893, TM1/1/3, NHM, London. 67 Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 49–50.

160 unlikely that every visitor would obtain, but the arrangement, which saw them placed in close proximity to one another, was a way of passively encouraging visitors to make such comparisons and of highlighting the variation between species.

Further, the example of the hummingbirds demonstrates how comparison was not just about science, but about beauty. Prompting visitors to stop and admire these

‘works of art’ encouraged them to ‘wonder’ at nature and all the differences and varieties it contained. In this regard Rothschild’s museum was comparable to public museums where objects were expected to evoke ‘excitement’ and ‘wonder’.68

However, the resources he had available to him meant that the sense of spectacle on display was far more pronounced. The hummingbirds represented a scientific argument for species and subspecies, but also represented an aesthetic argument which further supported the scientific, by highlighting the variation in appearance between them. The display of hummingbirds ‘performed evolution’ and was designed to enable visitors to engage with nature and with Rothschild’s scientific approach.

The profusion of material also reflected Rothschild’s intention to ‘amuse’ and inspire museum visitors. According to Miriam Rothschild: ‘Walter found the animal kingdom the most exciting happening of the day and he wanted to share it not only with his fellow zoologists but with Tom, Dick and Harry […] Walter knew the man in the street wanted to see the biggest sea elephant and the largest bath sponge in the world – looking as life-like as possible. He did too.’69 Thus, many of the specimens on display tended to be: those which were rare, both in number and in museum

68 Yanni, Nature’s Museums, 16; Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 199; Sophie Forgan, ‘Building the Museum: Knowledge, Conflict, and the Power of Place’, Isis 96 (2005): 581– 82; Murray, ‘From Birds of Paradise to Drosophila’, 113–14 & 128; Janet Browne, ‘Do Collections Make the Collector? Charles Darwin in Context’, in From Private to Public: Natural Collections and Museums, ed. Marco Beretta (Sagamore Beach, Mass: Science History Publications, 2005), 74. 69 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 102.

161 collections; those which were particularly notable for their size; or those which had a remarkable physical characteristic or behaviour.70 Hartert’s description of the

Hornbills in the Guide serves as an interesting example:

‘On the top are the large Hornbills (Bucerotidae), a family inhabiting only the tropical forests of Africa and the oriental region as far as New Guinea and adjacent islands. A good selection of species is here exhibited. These birds have a peculiar habit: the female lays white eggs in a hollow tree, and the male with her aid plasters up the entrance with mud, leaving only a small hole through which she receives the food brought to her by her mate, and she is not released until the young are hatched’.71

This description informed visitors of the remarkable behaviour exhibited by a hornbill in the wild, a behaviour they would be unlikely ever to observe first-hand. It was part of an attempt to reanimate the specimen, to offer a more holistic understanding of the species beyond where it sat in the classificatory system, and to inspire visitors to wonder at nature and all the unfamiliar and unusual species it contained. In doing so, these displays, and the accompanying descriptions within the museum’s guide, highlighted to visitors the resourcefulness and inventiveness of nature – showcasing the incredible variety of ways in which evolution occurred. Similarly, the museum’s specimen of a male gorilla was particularly noted for its size and was reported to be the largest specimen of its kind in any museum. The Bucks Herald described how the gorilla measured ‘no less than nine feet across the outstretched arms, and stands nearly six feet in height’.72 The display of a particularly large specimen within a systematic arrangement was useful to curators – its size accentuating the particular characteristics that made the species unique – but it was also supposed to evoke a feeling of awe in

70 We can assume Rothschild would have thought the same or had instructed Hartert to write about those specific specimens, for he exerted control over all aspects of the museum and it is likely that the Guide was no different. 71 Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 36–37. 72 ‘The Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Museum’, Bucks Herald, 7 April 1906.

162 museum visitors and help Rothschild to fulfil his aim of entertaining and amusing visitors in an instructive way.

In fact, visitors’ reactions to this style of display were mixed. Whereas

Rothschild was said to have felt the animal kingdom should be ‘displayed in a relatively small space, so that the visitor left feeling excited and stimulated, not mentally and physically exhausted’, this was not to every visitor’s liking.73 One reviewer remarked that the cases were ‘inconveniently crowded with specimens’ and were ‘by far too full’, meaning that the visitor went forth ‘feeling sure he must have missed many of the best and rarest features of the collection’.74 Rothschild’s curator

Jordan made similar remarks: ‘Whoever advised him in the making of the plans for this public Museum forgot that all the specimens exhibited should be plainly visible’.75

On the other hand, some visitor reactions reinforce the impression of the museum as a site of amusement and spectacle. One reporter commented that specimens were ‘crowded on the shelves, but it [was] a crowd of beautiful objects closely set together, delighting both the eye by their symmetry, colour, and form, and the intelligence by these varied images of the infinite variety of Nature’.76 Meanwhile, artist Louis Wain (1860-1939) believed that the ‘unity of arrangement’ in the museum was ‘magnificent’, with many of the collections ‘absolutely unique in their completeness’.77 And finally, entomologist Margaret Fountaine (1862-1940), wrote in her diary of her visit to the museum in 1925:

‘As to the Tring Museum, it was infinitely more wonderful than anything I had ever imagined […] It was not only the insects that were so amazing, every branch of natural science was represented with practically every

73 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 102. 74 ‘The Tring Museum.’, 551. 75 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 5. 76 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, Country Life Illustrated, 2 July 1898. 77 Louis Wain, ‘The Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Pets: A Visit to the Tring Museum’, The Windsor Magazine 2 (1895): 7.

163

known species, and all in such perfect order as to be almost life-like. As to the Lepidoptera, Lord Rothschild (who was most kindly doing me the great honour of showing me himself all his most treasured possessions) told me that the number of specimens he had now of butterflies and moths alone was more than 1 ¾ million and I thought to myself how my poor, little collection of some 16,000 butterflies would indeed be a mere drop in the ocean’. 78 In this extract, Fountaine did not draw attention to a particular specimen as a highlight of the collection, but to the wonder she felt at the whole experience. This is itself multi-layered. Fountaine was taken around the museum personally by Rothschild and as such was likely to have had a different experience to those visitors who only had the museum guide. She may also have been more convinced of Rothschild’s aims as a result of having been persuaded by him directly. Her reaction can therefore be viewed as a response to being in awe of the wonder of nature, of the museum as a representation of nature, of the collection as an achievement which had brought together so many specimens, and finally, at being in proximity to Rothschild as the orchestrator behind it all. Crucially, this quotation illustrates how the elements of spectacle that featured in the museum’s displays, and which amused and entertained visitors, were complementary to their other functions – educating visitors about the natural world and of Rothschild’s particular vision of it.

Rothschild’s curation of the collection was further evident in his personal preferences for displaying certain types of species, such as marsupials, cassowaries and giant tortoises, in a manner ‘approaching completeness’.79 This style of display was not only part of a larger evolutionary narrative conveyed in the museum, but was an expression of his interest in those species. Similarly, while the display of hybrids,

78 ‘Margaret Elizabeth Fountaine’s Diaries 1878-1939. 10th Diary’, 1925, 2641–42, MSSID 378, Castle Museum, Norwich. I am grateful to Joanne Green for sharing these excerpts with me, which she uncovered while researching Fountaine. The diaries were edited and published in two books, Love Among the Butterflies and Butterflies and Late Loves, by newspaper editor W.F. Carter in the 1980s. 79 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 12–13; Wichgraf, ‘Das Zoologische Museum Der Herren v. Rothschild in Tring’.

164 aberrations and albinos reflected Rothschild’s scientific interest in individual variation they were also, as one reporter remarked: ‘Rothschild's hobby of hobbies’.80

The prevalence of personal interest within the displays of Rothschild’s museum made it comparable to other private museums, which tended to be places where private collectors indulged their interests and showcased their possessions. The natural history and ethnographic displays at the Horniman Museum, for example, reflected the tastes and foibles of its creator, Frederick John Horniman (1835-1906).81

These displays proved to be a popular draw for visitors owing to their ‘origins as an idiosyncratic personal collection of curios’ which were ‘displayed in such a way as to emphasise spectacle, trophies, and an emotional reaction to exhibits’.82 Historian Kate

Hill has described how this posed a challenge when management of the Horniman passed to London County Council in 1901, and the Council deemed it necessary to reorganise the galleries and ensure there was a ‘sufficient guiding principle’ running through the museum.83 Thus, while similar to the Horniman in that it reflected the personal interests of its creator, Rothschild’s museum was different in that it had what might be termed a ‘sufficient guiding principle’ from the outset. Rothschild’s personal tastes and interests were displayed within an evolutionary narrative and used to inspire museum visitors about the natural world.

For visitors this sense of personalism was reinforced by the overt connections made between specific specimens and Rothschild. For example, on display for visitors

80 ‘A Rich Man’s Hobby’, Dundee Evening Telegraph, 28 April 1898. 81 The Horniman Museum was established as the private museum of MP Frederick John Horniman (1835-1906) but in 1901 became a free public rate-supported museum, owned by London County Council, after he gifted it to the people of London. See Hill, Culture and Class in English Public Museums, 1850-1914, 137; Nicky Levell, ‘Illustrating Evolution: Alfred Cort Haddon and the Horniman Museum, 1901-1915’, in Collectors: Individuals and Institutions, ed. Anthony Shelton (London: Horniman Museum and Gardens, 2001), 253. 82 Hill, Culture and Class in English Public Museums, 1850-1914, 137. 83 Levell, ‘Illustrating Evolution: Alfred Cort Haddon and the Horniman Museum, 1901-1915’, 253– 54; Tony Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums Colonialism (London: Routledge, 2004), 76.

165 was a specimen of lemur, Propithecus majori, which Rothschild had described as a new species in his journal Novitates Zoologicae in 1894.84 Its inclusion in the collection imparted an implicit scientific message that this species had been discovered, had been called X and came from Y. However, the corresponding description in Hartert’s Guide directly credited Rothschild with its identification and showcased the taxonomic work he had personally carried out: ‘The Lemurs are remarkable in the Tring Museum for the great number of species exhibited, among them the Propithecus majori, described by Mr. Rothschild, and other rarities’.85 This is markedly different to the approach taken within public museums, where the history of a specimen was usually effaced in favour of presenting ideological arguments and classificatory systems. Rothschild’s displays in contrast became a platform for the dissemination of his own discoveries and specimens became direct symbols of his own personal scientific accomplishments.

It was not only Rothschild who featured in the narratives of personal achievement which surrounded the museum’s displays. Rothschild’s curators and collectors featured in the acquisition stories and personal encounters articulated within the museum. Again, the Guide was used to impart this information, and personal experiences and observations were recounted in the text. When discussing the

Cheiromeles torquatus, a hairless bat from South Asia, for example, Hartert recalled how he had personally ‘shot one in the dark in Sumatra, and though unable to see it in the long grass, found it very soon on account of its intense musky smell’.86 In adopting such a format, the Guide to Rothschild’s museum was notably different to those of public museums which tended to be more formulaic. The 1891 General Guide to the

84 Wain, ‘The Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Pets’, 668; Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 9. 85 Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 9. 86 Ibid., 10–11.

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British Museum (Natural History), for example, offered descriptions such as: ‘Typical forms of the Bats (such as the Flying Fox), of the small Insect-feeders and Gnawing

Animals, and of the Edentata (Sloths, Anteaters and Armadillos) follow. The remainder of the cases on this side […] are devoted to the Ungulata or Hoofed

Animals’.87 In contrast, Hartert reflected on his personal field experiences, which added another dimension to the animal on display. Visitors were encouraged to use their imaginations and senses, in addition to sight, to engage with the specimen at hand and its unusual characteristics – what might that have smelt like? Hartert reanimated the specimen, which, as will be discussed in chapter five, was part of an attempt by

Rothschild and his curators to showcase nature and promote understanding of species, their behaviours and environments. But, as with the lemur, these descriptions also placed emphasis on Hartert’s personal triumph in obtaining that specimen.

Similar accounts can be found in the pamphlet produced by Powell-Cotton to accompany his museum at Quex Park in 1900. His description of a snow bear draws directly on his experience of hunting it: ‘This animal was tracked up through the snow to his cave, awakened by stones thrown into it from a ledge above, and shot as he charged out growling’.88 Just as with the bat, a visitor confronted with this bear may have been provoked into thinking about the specimen in a multi-sensory capacity – what did that sound like? But significantly it also made a visitor aware of the people and of the entire process that was involved in capturing, identifying and displaying these specimens – processes often obscured in public museums, where, as Alberti has argued, curators would rather not emphasise acquisition stories ‘seeing them as

87 British Museum (Natural History), A General Guide to the British Museum (Natural History), 45. 88 P. H. G. Powell-Cotton, The Museum, Quex Park. Collection of Sporting Trophies in the Museum (Quex Park, 1900).

167 somehow “tainting” the scientific data’.89 In Rothschild’s museum those stories were told directly. Private collectors differed from many museum curators in that they might have been directly involved in the capture of the animal on display. This meant that specimens within their collections may not just have had a zoological or scientific significance but a personal one. In his displays, Rothschild therefore not only dramatised the classification of species and the ways in which those classifications were arrived at, but also the processes that were involved in capturing, identifying and displaying those species. The museum was in effect telling the story of the power of men like Rothschild to collect, assimilate, classify and understand the infinite variety of nature, for it took a man with near infinite resources to begin to lay out the sheer diversity of the inexhaustible natural world and to make it visible and comprehensible.

The museum’s narrative was as much a story of Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan as it was of evolution and nature, and provides a compelling example of the way in which wealthy private collectors could tell stories that other kinds of collections and museums could not tell in the same way.

Overcrowding in the public galleries was somewhat alleviated by their expansion in 1912 (Figures 12 and 13), but the subsequent reorganisation of the gallery space disrupted the original evolutionary narrative. For instance, the seals were moved from the ground floor next to the Carnivora to the new gallery extension, where all the species from the same related groups were displayed alongside one another.

89 Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie (Virginia: University of Virginia Press, 2012), 4–5.

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Figures 12 and 13. Displays in the 1909-1912 extension (No date). Natural History Museum, Tring, Library Photographic Collections.

Elsewhere, ongoing space restrictions forced Rothschild to use a different style of display for some animal groups. For example, many of the antelope and deer were presented in the style typical of a hunting gallery, with only their heads mounted

(Figure 14). These heads resembled the hunting trophies found on the walls of stately

169 homes nationwide – gained from both blood sports and big game hunting, which had become ‘fashionable’ by the end of the nineteenth-century. As Harriet Ritvo has argued, ‘the hunter emerged as both the ideal and the definitive type of empire builder’ and hunting trophies became desirable adornments for society homes as symbols of wealth, status and leisure.90

Figure 14. A Corner of the Antelope Room. Racing Illustrated, vol. III, no. 78, 2 July 1898. Image from Gale Primary Sources, Nineteenth Century UK Periodicals, https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/DX1901412721/NCUK?u=kings&sid=NCUK&xid=2f2ca49. Accessed 4 Dec. 2017.

This style of display was comparable to the private museums of big-game hunters such as Captain Frederick Courteney Selous (1851-1917). Like Rothschild,

Selous built his own museum, Alpine Lodge, close to his house in Worplesdon, Surrey,

90 Ritvo, The Animal Estate, 254; see also Edward I. Steinhart, ‘The Imperial Hunt in Colonial Kenya, c.1880-1909’, in Animals in Human Histories: The Mirror of Nature and Culture, ed. Mary J. Henninger-Voss (New York: University of Rochester Press, 2009), 144–81; MacKenzie, The Empire of Nature, 29; P. A. Morris, A History of Taxidermy: Art, Science and Bad Taste (Ascot: MPM, 2010), 234.

170 in which he housed his growing collection of big game.91 The collection contained only animals Selous himself had hunted and most were only mounted heads.92 A comparative aspect was invoked by this style of arrangement – having lots of mounts in close proximity encouraged visitors to make comparisons and attempt to understand relationships by examining the similarities and differences in skull shape, antlers and horns – but the display also had a striking resemblance to a trophy cabinet. This is not surprising given that hunting was fundamental to the creation of natural history museums – but it was often an unspoken truth, and not generally reflected in the labels and narratives of public zoological museums. At Rothschild’s museum and owing to space restrictions, the connection between hunting and museum collections was made more explicit.

In fact, some specimens within Rothschild’s museum could be directly identified as the hunting trophies of Rothschild, his curators and of the community that emerged around Tring Museum. Garry Marvin has argued that a key characteristic of hunting trophies is that ‘they become the sites of memory and the focus for stories and reminiscences of hunting’; an attribute he claims is lost when the specimen is put on display within a museum: ‘the trophy ceases to be a personal trophy […] Rather it becomes an impersonal representative of a species.’93 In Rothschild’s museum this was only partially true. The trophies might not have all been Rothschild’s but the museum can be considered the trophy cabinet of Tring Museum’s community, with visitors informed of the stories behind the specimens through the Guide and press

91 E. Heawood, H. Wilson Fox, and C.E Fagan, ‘Captain Frederick Courteney Selous, D.S.O.’, The Geographical Journal 49 (March 1917): 224; J.G Millais, Life of Frederick Courtenay Selous (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1919), 205–6. 92 Charles T. Bateman, ‘Art and Letters in a Surrey Town’, The Windsor Magazine, 1900, 580; Similarly, Powell-Cotton only displayed animals shot by himself or by his family. See Jones, ‘The Rhinoceros and the Chatham Railway’, 728. 93 Garry Marvin, ‘Enlivened through Memory: Hunters and Hunting Trophies’, in Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie, ed. Samuel J.M.M. Alberti (Virginia: University of Virginia Press, 2012), 210 & 215–16.

171 coverage that surrounded the museum. A visitor standing in front of the siamang gibbon, for instance, was informed how the specimen had been shot by Hartert and was ‘the finest of its kind in any museum’.94 Some of the game birds may well have been killed by Rothschild. He was part of the aristocratic elite who were accustomed to hunting, shooting and fishing, and therefore what was on display in the game bird cases could be considered both a systematic display and potentially, the trophy cabinet of a private collector.

Rothschild’s specimen of white rhinoceros, which was shot by Robert

Coryndon (1870-1925) in Salisbury, Mashonaland, in the summer of 1893, best exemplifies this convergence.95 Coryndon had been hired specifically to procure specimens of white rhinoceros for Rothschild and had succeeded in procuring two skins, reported to be the only ones seen in Europe and amongst the last of their subspecies. Coryndon was paid £500 for his work, and on their arrival back in Britain both skins were prepared by Rowland Ward – one for display in Rothschild’s collection (Figure 15) and the second gifted to the BMNH. The unveiling of the white rhinoceros in 1894 was reported enthusiastically and commentators emphasised the scientific significance of the discovery.96

94 Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 9. 95 ‘Robert T. Coryndon to Walter Rothschild’, 3 September 1893, TM1/1/12, NHM, London. 96 ‘Re-Opening of the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Museum’, Bucks Herald, 8 September 1894. These specimens were of the Southern White Rhinoceros which at the beginning of the twentieth century were on the verge of extinction. The species later staged a recovery but is now under major threat again.

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Figure 15. ‘The White Rhinoceros’ in Tring Museum. Racing Illustrated, vol. III, no. 77, 25 June 1898, p. [773]. Image from Gale Primary Sources, Nineteenth Century UK Periodicals, https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/DX1901412689/NCUK?u=kings&sid=NCUK&xid=3457608 1. Accessed 4 Dec. 2017.

But in the years that followed it was the rhinoceros’s association with

Coryndon’s hunting efforts that dominated discussion. The description in the Guide drew a visitor’s attention to the fact that ‘No specimen was preserved in any museum in England before this one was shot for Mr. Rothschild by Mr. Coryndon’.97 Similarly, the reporter for Country Life Illustrated deemed the white rhinoceros a ‘notable specimen’ for it was ‘among the very last survivors of the white rhinoceros, and the only perfect specimen in England’.98 It was reported with a degree of triumph that

Coryndon had secured this specimen for Rothschild’s collection, thus echoing the hunting philosophy of the period. The size and strength of the animal killed was taken

97 Hartert, Guide to the Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Zoological Museum at Tring, 65. 98 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, 25 June 1898, 799.

173 as a sign of the hunting prowess of the marksman who had killed it; the idea being that the most attractive and valuable specimens were those that were hardest to kill. The display of that specimen then cemented that reputation, particularly if it was well preserved, for as Karen Jones has argued, ‘a trophy was material evidence’ of game captured and the basis on which a hunter could build their reputation.99 Hunting trophies were therefore not commissioned from grief but from ‘triumph’: they were a

‘celebratory’ act of display.100

In this example the same principle was evident. Securing the white rhinoceros was a hunting ‘triumph’ which illustrated Coryndon’s prowess as a hunter, but also a triumph for science. It enabled Rothschild to make a valuable contribution to scientific knowledge and to display that ‘new’ and rare specimen to his museum visitors. He was proud of that accomplishment and prepared to relay the acquisition story in order to convey that pride, to reinforce the significance of the specimen he possessed and which was on display in his museum, and to entertain his museum visitors. Within

Rothschild’s museum, science, spectacle and personality therefore all enmeshed simultaneously within the displays. The hummingbirds, gorilla and white rhinoceros each represented their species in a broader ideological narrative, while simultaneously highlighting the success of the collector responsible for their acquisition (and ultimately their display within the galleries), and captivating the interest of museum visitors on account of their aesthetic appearance or unusual characteristics. That this convergence was found not just in the museum displays, but within single specimens, made it even more powerful.

99 Jones, ‘The Rhinoceros and the Chatham Railway’, 719. 100 Poliquin, The Breathless Zoo, 151.

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Conclusion

Examination of Rothschild’s museum and public galleries has revealed several of the motivations which drove this aspect of his zoological enterprise. Looking at the origins of the museum and its institutional history has revealed how Tring Museum conformed to the key characteristics of a late-nineteenth century public zoological museum. As explored in chapter two, it had a research collection for use by naturalists but it also had public galleries, which offered free public access to displays that imparted entertaining educational information about the natural world. Rothschild clearly intended the public to be the audience for his museum and prioritised displays which were both instructive and entertaining. Moreover, using the museum’s guide, newspaper reports and surviving images, it has been possible to retrace the layout of the museum and to work out just what was on display. These displays reflected

Rothschild the private collector and his interests in certain species, such as marsupials and cassowaries, but also his fascination with the diversity of nature. On display were the biggest and the best, the rarest, the last, the first, the strangest, the most famous and the most exceptional specimens that he could find. The origins of the museum’s specimens were confronted and retold, with the result that those histories became a part of the narratives which surrounded the museum. It was a display of the tastes, foibles, habits and aesthetic preferences of the man who assembled those individual specimens within a collective display, and of the personal achievements of the naturalists, curators, collectors and hunters who had produced those specimens.

Crucially, however, the personalism evoked by the museum’s displays did not conflict with its scientific ambitions and claim to be a public zoological museum: both narratives were made possible through the manner of specimen display. The museum’s displays were rooted in zoological principles and Rothschild conveyed a clear

175 evolutionary narrative in a manner akin to professional curators in public museums.

They followed a sequence which progressed from advanced to more simple forms, with animals grouped into families and orders, largely following Linnean classification, and extinct and extant species were displayed side by side to show progressive lines of evolution. Rothschild was in effect ‘performing’ evolution for museum visitors. The key differences were the extent to which personal accomplishment was apparent in Rothschild’s museum and the profusion of material that featured in his displays. This projected an image of species diversity, made a case of subspecies identification and evoked a sense of spectacle.

This disparity highlights how Tring Museum sat between the public and the private. John Pickstone argued that two juxtaposing operative questions differentiated the priorities of state-managed museums and private collectors – the professional, professor-curators asked ‘what is there?’, while private collectors and their staff asked

‘what have I got?’.101 At Tring Museum the operative question was an amalgamation of the two. The ‘What is there?’ question drove the scientific agenda, collecting, and therefore what was on display within the zoological arrangement – a profusion of nature. But the private origins of the collection meant that the ‘What have I got?’ question was also evident in Rothschild’s displays and once again points to the ambiguity around Rothschild and his crossing of the boundaries between amateur and professional.

This chapter has therefore built on the analysis from chapter two, to show how the displays of Rothschild’s museum were influenced by his particular scientific approach and vision of nature – that which viewed nature as infinitely broad and

101 John V. Pickstone, ‘Museological Science? The Place of the Analytical/Comparative in Nineteenth-Century Science, Technology and Medicine’, History of Science 32 (1994): 119.

176 placed value on the recognition of subspecies. These were the messages imparted to the thousands of visitors who passed through the museum doors every year looking to be educated and entertained. They may have been attracted by the prospect of seeing a collection of curios gathered by a private collector famed for his zebra-drawn carriage, but what they found when they arrived were well curated displays which conveyed clear messages about taxonomic classification and evolution. It was at once both public and private and that made it a powerfully compelling museum to visit.

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Chapter IV

Acquisition

“How museums are fed”.1

The zoological collections which filled Rothschild’s museum were extensive and contained specimens from across the animal kingdom. At its peak, the research collection included some 2.5 million set Lepidoptera, 300,000 bird skins, 300 dried reptiles and over 1400 mammal skins and skulls. The general collection for public display included some further 2,000 mounted mammals, 2400 mounted birds, 680 mounted reptiles and amphibians, 914 fishes and a representative collection of invertebrates.2 The collections of comparable private collectors were often equally expansive but generally more diverse: Frederick Horniman (1835-1906), Augustus

Pitt Rivers (1827-1900) and Henry Wellcome (1853-1936), for example, collected material of an archaeological, ethnological and anthropological nature, while those with an interest in animals, such as Major Percy Powell-Cotton (1866-1940) and

Captain Frederick Selous (1851-1917), included collections of guns and hunting trophies. By contrast, Rothschild’s collection was ‘entirely zoological’.3 It aimed to illuminate geographical variation on the one hand, and to showcase nature to museum visitors on the other. The purpose of this chapter is to demonstrate how Rothschild built this collection, and to use his activities as a lens for exploring the wider processes and practices of acquiring natural history specimens in late-nineteenth and early- twentieth century Britain.

1 W.P Pycraft, ‘The World of Science. How Museums Are “Fed”’, Illustrated London News, 14 July 1928. 2 Miriam Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild: Birds, Butterflies, and History (London: Hutchinson, 1983), xxii–xxiii. 3 ‘A Rothschild Museum’, The Daily Inter Ocean, 10 December 1893.

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The subject of specimen acquisition has received significant attention from historians. In recent years they have begun to challenge an earlier tendency to see collections as ready-formed entities and to explore collection-building as an activity seminal to the development of late-Victorian museums.4 However, existing scholarship has tended to examine the different aspects of the collection-building process in isolation. Historians such as Jane Camerini and Janet Browne have examined the history of field collecting, highlighting the large networks of people involved and the agency that field collectors possessed, which in turn helped them to shape the creation of scientific knowledge.5 Others, such as Mark Barrow and Anne

Coote, have examined the businesses of natural history dealers, particularly in

America and Australia, where dealerships were important in expanding understandings of the territories and species that inhabited them.6 While authors have

4 Arthur MacGregor, ed., Naturalists in the Field: Collecting, Recording and Preserving the Natural World from the Fifteenth to the Twenty-First Century (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 1; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, ‘Museum Nature’, in Worlds of Natural History, ed. Helen Anne Curry et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 348–62; Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, Nature and Culture: Objects, Disciplines, and the Manchester Museum (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 91–92. 5 Jane R. Camerini, ‘Wallace in the Field’, Osiris 11 (1996): 44–65; Anne Larsen, ‘Equipment for the Field’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 358–77; Janet Browne, ‘Natural History Collecting and the Biogeographical Tradition’, História, Ciências, Saúde-Manguinhos 8 (2001): 959– 67; Fa-ti Fan, ‘Science in a Chinese Entrepot: British Naturalists and Their Chinese Associates in Old Canton’, Osiris 18 (2003): 60–78; Helen Cowie, ‘A Creole in Paris and a Spaniard in Paraguay: Geographies of Natural History in the Hispanic World (1750-1808)’, Journal of Latin American Geography 10 (2011): 175–97; Kees Rookmaaker and John van Wyhe, ‘In Alfred Russel Wallace’s Shadow: His Forgotten Assistant, Charles Allen (1839-1892)’, JMBRAS 85 (2012): 17–54; Helen Anne Curry et al., eds., Worlds of Natural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018); Robert E. Kohler, All Creatures: Naturalists, Collectors, and Biodiversity, 1850 - 1950 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006); Jim Endersby, Imperial Nature: Joseph Hooker and the Practices of Victorian Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008); Narisara Murray, ‘From Birds of Paradise to Drosophila: The Changing Role of Scientific Specimens to 1920’, in A Cultural History of Animals in the Age of Empire, ed. Kathleen Kete (Oxford: Bloomsbury 3PL, 2009), 113–34. 6 Mark V. Barrow Jr., ‘The Specimen Dealer: Entrepreneurial Natural History in America’s Gilded Age’, Journal of the History of Biology 33 (2000): 493–534; Anne Coote, ‘Science, Fashion, Knowledge and Imagination: Shopfront Natural History in 19th-Century Sydney’, Sydney Journal 4 (2013): 1–18; Anne Coote, ‘“Pray Write Me a List of Species ... That Will Pay Me Best”: The Business and Culture of Natural History Collecting in Mid-Nineteenth Century New South Wales’, History Australia 11 (2014): 80–100.

179 recognised the overlap between these activities, as collectors supplied the dealers, they have not explored these connections in depth.

In contrast, this chapter takes a more holistic view. Moving from the field, to the collector, to the supplier, to the museum, it examines the range of different actors involved at each stage of the collection-building process and their varying contributions to Rothschild’s zoological enterprise. The nature of this network is outlined in the opening section. The remainder of the chapter explores how Rothschild used, sustained and enhanced the network in the course of his scientific and public- facing work. It focuses initially on the field collectors that directly supplied his needs, before moving on to consider a range of suppliers of dead, stuffed and living specimens. This analysis demonstrates how each aspect of the collecting enterprise was developed as a consequence of Rothschild’s scientific commitment to studying animals in their entirety. His desire to illuminate the influence of geography on species variation (see chapter two) and to present a profusion of nature to museum visitors

(see chapter three), drove him to deploy a wide range of acquisition methods in order to obtain the diverse specimens he needed to fulfil these goals. The unusually varied, expensive and extensive lengths that he was prepared to go to means that he also presents an excellent case study for exploring the means by which natural history collections were built in this period, and the individuals involved in this process.

Acquisition networks

Late-nineteenth century museums and collectors of natural history could obtain animals from a wide array of sources. The growth of empire and the development of new technologies and infrastructure, which facilitated the global movement of both collectors and animals, resulted in many more living and dead animals reaching British shores. These were traded in the thriving animal market place, where they were

180 purchased by a range of individuals and organisations for their own collections and pursuits. Collecting was therefore a complex activity involving an extensive network of individuals and organisations by the end of the century.

Rothschild offers a valuable example for studying this network as he utilised it in its entirety. His scientific endeavours involved building three kinds of collections which supported different but overlapping avenues of his zoological enterprise. The first were the extensive study collections, the second were taxidermied specimens for display in the museum’s public galleries and the third were an assortment of living animals. The differing requirements of these collections required Rothschild to engage with an array of different suppliers. As demonstrated in chapter one, they included collectors, dealers of natural history specimens, taxidermists, societies and museums, amongst others. Figure 1 reconstructs his acquisition networks and the various interactions between its participants.

181

Figure 1. The network of specimen acquisition as it centred around Rothschild and Tring Museum. The arrow head indicates the direction of travel for the specimens.

182

As Figure 1 demonstrates, this network included people with a range of experience, from the professional collectors sourcing exotic specimens to individual citizens providing specimens of local British fauna. It shows how specimens were not just purchased but exchanged between institutions in return for other specimens, and that Rothschild relied on certain suppliers to act as intermediaries. He would, for example, send natural history dealers to auctions as his representatives in order to avoid prices being driven up unnecessarily. It also reveals how specimens could be sourced from non-specialist dealers, such as fur and feather merchants, whose primary business would have been the garment industry. It thus demonstrates Rothschild’s commitment to collection-building – he was prepared to engage with anyone who offered desirable specimens and was alert to those opportunities.

These various modes of specimen acquisition varied in importance throughout the history of Tring Museum. Early on, Rothschild secured most of his specimens from a handful of natural history dealers based in London, who supplied both research specimens and specimens for display in the future public galleries. By 1900, it was the extensive network of collectors who were responsible for sourcing most specimens, with dealers providing a supportive role. In 1908, the situation changed yet again when, as explored in chapter one, the museum was established as a separate entity from the Tring Park Estate. Collectors and suppliers were issued with instructions to cancel expeditions, to submit all outstanding accounts and to sell any items which belonged to Rothschild.7 Taxidermist Rowland Ward, for example, was instructed to dispose of all mounted and unmounted specimens and was given permission to sell ‘at a lower price than paid for, if necessary’.8 Thereafter, the acquisition of specimens

7 ‘Richardson Carr to Ernst Hartert’, 14 January 1908, TR1/1/29/113, NHM, London; ‘J. Arthur Dawes to Ernst Hartert’, 9 January 1908, TR1/1/29/160, NHM, London. 8 ‘Charles Rothschild to Rowland Ward’, 10 January 1908, TR1/1/29/652, NHM, London.

183 slowed in pace and by 1930, estimated expenditure on the acquisition of specimens totalled less than 10% of what it had been in 1895.9 This was also because by 1930 the museum was well-established and needed fewer specimens to populate the public galleries. Specimens for the research collection were a different matter, and the museum continued to fund expeditions.10 This chapter will focus predominantly on the 1890s and the years before 1908, as this was the period in which the collection was built and grew substantially. Tracing Rothschild’s activities during this period, when financial constraints were less of a hinderance, illuminates the motivations for his museum. Moreover, it offers valuable insights into how Rothschild built his collection, of the value he placed on certain types of specimens and of the range of different individuals who supplied his needs.

The Field Collectors

As shown in Figure 1, Rothschild relied heavily on the procurement of specimens from collectors. They supplied him both directly and indirectly via sales to dealers and taxidermists from whom he purchased specimens. According to the estimate deduced by Miriam Rothschild from invoices and receipts, during what she described as his most active period (1890 to 1900), Rothschild engaged directly with over 400 collectors worldwide (Figure 2).11 This was an extensive undertaking which, as Jenni

Thomas has argued, made Rothschild ‘a key figure [in] the global collecting market’.12

9 ‘Museum Trial Balance’, December 1930, TM3-3 Miscellaneous Papers, NHM, London. 10 Collector Wilfred Frost (1875-1958) for example, received £500 for a five-month expedition to the Weyland Mountains, Indonesia in December 1930. See ‘Agreement between Walter Rothschild and Wilfred J.C. Frost’, 29 December 1930, MSS Frost, NHM, Tring. 11 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 155. This figure is likely to be an underestimation for, as Miriam Rothschild has shown, records of collectors in Novitates Zoologicae reveal that 26 of those contributing to entomological collections were not included in the 400. 12 Jenni Thomas, ‘Konkurrien. Walter Rothschild Als Naturalienunternehmer Translated Competing: Walter Rothschild and the Business of Natural History’, in Sammlungsökonomien, ed. Nils Güttler and Ina Heumann (Berlin: Kulturverlag Kadmos, 2016), 48–49.

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Having a network of collectors associated with a museum was unusual.

Museums were seldom able to raise the money needed to staff, kit-out and insure expeditions.13 Instead, they usually acquired their collections via ‘gift, purchase or duplicate exchange. Collecting was the work of professional (that is, freelance) collectors, amateur naturalists, and commercial supply houses’.14 That Rothschild was sponsoring fieldwork points to actions divergent from what was expected of a public museum, although not of a wealthy patron seeking to build his private collection, and as in chapter three, again shows Rothschild to have been straddling the boundary between the public and private museum and the amateur and professional zoologist.

Rothschild’s activities were made possible by his wealth and aided by the language skills that he and his curators possessed, particularly German which was the leading scientific language of the period.

13 See for example, James Sutherland Cotton, ed., ‘The Zoological Collections of the British Museum’, The Academy, 31 August 1895, 167–68 which lists various donations made to the BMNH, including specimens from St. George Littledale’s Central Asia and China expedition, a collection made by H.B.M. Commissioner of Nyasaland H.H. Johnston, and a donation by Godman and Salvin of 1482 birds from various parts of America. 14 Kohler, All Creatures, 107.

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Figure 2. World map showing the areas in which Rothschild’s collectors operated between 1893 and 1908.15

15 This map has been made using information from Dear Lord Rothschild.

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While the majority of collecting was done by the museum’s network of collectors, Rothschild and his curators also personally collected specimens for the museum’s collections, as highlighted in chapter three. They included the South Asian hairless bat and siamang gibbon on display within the museum, which the Guide informed visitors had been shot by Hartert, presumably on his 1887 trip to Indonesia.

Hartert had extensive field experience and, once in post, travelled frequently to parts of Europe and North Africa, while one of Jordan’s expeditions took him as far as

South-West Africa.16 Rothschild, meanwhile, had started collecting during childhood and continued to do so for much of his adult life, making his final expedition in 1920.17

Of particular note were the expeditions he made to Algeria, which he conducted on an almost annual basis between 1908 and 1914, where he was accompanied by Jordan or, more commonly, Hartert. The purpose of these expeditions was to collect material which would enable Rothschild and Hartert to write the proposed ‘Avifauna of

Algeria’, and in 1914 Rothschild wrote of having ‘cleaned up the desert’ in his search for specimens.18

Rothschild employed his first collector in 1889, sending Henry C. Palmer

(1866-1920) to the Chatham Islands, off the coast of New Zealand, before later redirecting him to Hawaii, where Palmer conducted a three-year long expedition to acquire specimens for Rothschild to study inter-island variation. As discussed in chapter two, Rothschild had been inspired to pursue this expedition after seeing the

‘wonderful species’ of birds Professor Alfred Newton had obtained from the region.19

16 H.F. Witherby and F.C.R. Jourdain, ‘Obituary: Ernst Johann Otto Hartert. 1859-1933’, British Birds 27 (1934): 226; Karl Jordan, ‘Dr Karl Jordan’s Expedition to South-West Africa and Angola’, Novitates Zoologicae 40 (1937): 17. 17 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 57; Karl Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, Novitates Zoologicae 41 (1938): 10. 18 ‘Walter Rothschild to William Ogilvie-Grant’, 15 May 1914, DF ZOO/230/26, NHM, London. 19 Lionel Walter Rothschild et al., The Avifauna of Laysan and the Neighbouring Islands (London: R.H. Porter, 1893), Preface.

187

Palmer collected continuously for Rothschild throughout the early 1890s, during which time he was paid a quarterly salary of £62.10.0.20 This is the only instance of a collector having been paid a salary by Rothschild, as after the arrival of his curators in

1892 and 1893 respectively, a more regimented system was introduced which characterised Rothschild’s future relationships with collectors.

As explored in chapter two, upon their arrival Hartert and Jordan helped to channel Rothschild’s scientific interests but they also rationalised his acquisition practices. Prior to 1893, Rothschild was rather haphazard in his approach to collection- building, as is shown by his remark to Hartert that ‘the finding [of] the condor is indeed wonderful. I only wonder where on earth I got it from’.21 This chaotic impression is reinforced by Jordan, who remarked that ‘[t]he collections were already of great size and considerable scientific value in 1893. However, there was much material of inferior quality, and some of it of little use because the data necessary for research were not preserved’.22

Working together, as described in chapter two, the three men crystallised their scientific agendas around the study of geographical variation and identification of subspecies. This required the acquisition of long series of specimens of species, each labelled with accurate locality information, and created a more systematic rationale for what was collected. Rothschild and his curators realised that to achieve these long series of specimens they required an extensive network of field collectors. As such, offering each collector a regular salary was unsustainable, even for a man of

Rothschild’s wealth. Consequently, the curators introduced a ‘contract’ based system

20 ‘Expense Account H.C. Palmer’, 1893, TM1/4/7, NHM, London. 21 ‘Walter Rothschild to Ernst Hartert’, 2 August 1897, TM3/12, NHM, London. 22 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 6.

188 that they saw as ‘advantageous to both contracting parties’.23 It permitted a coordinated approach and clearly outlined the terms of collecting.

By 1893 the museum had:

‘entered into direct relations with many explorers, professional collectors, and residents in tropical countries so as to obtain material from places as yet little known. In most cases the collectors engaged by the Museum went abroad at their own risk and expense, often a small sum being advanced for the payment of the initial costs, the Museum being bound by contract to take a certain number of specimens of each species of bird and Lepidoptera at an agreed fair price and having the right to the first offer of specimens of other orders and classes which might be required’.24

This arrangement was tied to what I have called ‘serendipitous’ collecting, where short-term contractual arrangements were made with individuals who planned to undertake an expedition themselves, or with those who were presented with an opportunity to travel and collect specimens, such as individuals on a government posting, military officers or missionaries. It operated differently to ‘commissioned’ collecting which is discussed below, whereby Rothschild and his curators both selected where the collector should go and what they should collect.

In most cases these individuals made themselves known to Rothschild and secured his support on the basis that Rothschild sought specimens from the regions they proposed or had arranged to visit. They were then contracted to deliver a certain number of specimens at a pre-arranged price, which left them free to find markets for the remaining collection. An example of an agreement entered by Rothschild and his curators with a collector is given below. In this example H.C. Robinson agreed to collect for Rothschild in Papua New Guinea in 1896.

23 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’. 24 Ibid., 9.

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The Hon. Walter Rothschild agrees to take a “set”, i.e. four specimens of every species of Birds, Lepidoptera and Coleoptera to be collected on the mountains at the head of the Fly-River and the ranges near it (towards the Dutch Parks, etc.) as well as from the Fly-River itself. He is willing to pay for 1) Birds: Small birds 6 shillings each Large Birds 10 shillings each Birds of Paradise, except Cicinnurus Regius from 30 shillings upwards. An extra premium will be paid for good new species of Birds of Paradise. 2) Lepidoptera (Butterflies and Moths) For the first 100 species 8d for every specimen For the second 100 species 1/ for every specimen For the third 100 species 1/6 for every specimen For the fourth 100 species (and following) 2/ for every specimen 3) For Coleoptera For the first 100 species 4d each specimen For the second 100 species 8d each specimen For the third 100 and following 10d each specimen

All these prices are understood for specimens: 1) In fair condition 2) With exact localities and dates (insects month sufficient) only Mammals are also desired, prices to be arranged.

Herbert C. Robinson agrees to send his birdskins, lepidoptera, coleoptera and mammals to the Tring Museum for a first selection and for studying purposes. Besides the above stipulated 4 specimens he will let Mr Rothschild take as many more as he likes to complete his series, in cases he wishes to do so, and the prices for these may be arranged afterwards. Mr E. Hartert to whom everything is to be addressed, will receive instructions from Mr Robinson where the surplus specimens are to be forwarded, unless other directions are given they will be sent to Mr. Edw. Gerrard, Camden Town, London. [signed by both parties] Walter Rothschild Herbert C. Robinson. May 14th 1896.25

25 ‘Collecting Agreement between Walter Rothschild and H.C. Robinson’, 14 May 1896, TM3/12, NHM, London.

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The stipulation that Rothschild agreed to take ‘four specimens’ of every species and would pay more for each additional 100 species Robinson obtained is clear indication of Rothschild and his curators seeking to secure the long series and variety of species they needed to pursue their scientific goals. It was also advantageous for the collectors, for they were guaranteed a buyer for at least part of their collection immediately upon their return. That said, the inclusion of the line ‘Besides the above stipulated 4 specimens he will let Mr Rothschild take as many more as he likes to complete his series’ was likely to result in situations where, rather predictably, the museum selected large numbers of anything particularly desirable, making the remaining collection harder for the collector to dispose of. Evidently there was a power dynamic played out within these contracts and Tring Museum ensured it was the main beneficiary. This example also demonstrates that birds, Lepidoptera and Coleoptera were prioritised and that, while Rothschild provided the financial backing and signed the agreements, it was his curators who dealt with practical arrangements. Hartert took receipt of the specimens and forwarded the ‘surplus’ to a dealer, which begins to highlight the interwoven nature of acquisition. In this case the dealer was Edward Gerrard, a well- known ‘naturalist’ and ‘taxidermist’ based in Camden Town. Natural history dealers

W.F.H. Rosenberg and Watkins & Doncaster fulfilled similar roles.

These contracts allowed Rothschild’s curators to answer enquiries regarding collecting with clarity and to say firmly that: ‘Mr. Rothschild does not send out collectors, i.e. he does not pay their expenses and give a salary. Our collectors travel for their own account’ whilst explaining that the museum would take a certain number of specimens at a ‘previously fixed average price’.26 This approach continued through the decades and was praised by Alfred Russel Wallace, who earned his living and

26 ‘Heinrich Ernst Karl Jordan to Alfred Russel Wallace’, 30 July 1903, WCP690.862, NHM, London.

191 funded his expeditions via the sale of specimens he collected in the field.27 He wrote:

‘I think Mr. Rothschild's arrangements are by far the best & most satisfactory for both parties’, on the basis that being outside the employment of a patron gave collectors some autonomy over what they collected: ‘it leaves the collector free to collect other groups as well as birds and butterflies’.28

To ensure the success of these ‘serendipitous’ collecting opportunities,

Rothschild sometimes gave advances to collectors with whom he had a contract. It was not uncommon for a ‘collector’ to have planned an expedition but lack the funds to make it happen. In 1907, for example, a bird collector outlined to Hartert his proposal for an expedition to British East Africa, which he suspected might be of interest to Rothschild, with the caveat that ‘the difficulty now is the eternal money question’.29 The collector sought Rothschild’s financial support, having understood that he was in want of birds from the area, and thus hoped they could reach a mutually beneficial arrangement. Similar examples can be found throughout surviving correspondence. In September 1894, for instance, Rothschild ‘advanced £60’ to Paul

Möwis of Darjeeling to fit him out in ‘Gun and Tackle’ ahead of his expedition to

Tibet.30 In advancing Möwis, Rothschild offered support to someone who might otherwise have been prevented from undertaking an expedition, but he also used this to his benefit by ensuring that he received the specimens he wanted for his collection before the rest were sold on.

Advances were not always tied to formalised agreements nor just given to collectors at the beginning of their expeditions. Rothschild occasionally offered

27 See for example ‘Agreement between Walter Rothschild and Wilfred J.C. Frost’. 28 ‘Alfred Russel Wallace to John M. Dickey’, 31 July 1903, WCP4187.4209, NHM, London. 29 ‘W.F.H. Rosenberg to Ernst Hartert’, 19 January 1907, TR1/1/28/497, NHM, London. Rosenberg acted as the intermediary for the collector, D’Dea. 30 ‘An Agreement between Walter Rothschild and Paul Möwis’, 28 September 1894, TM1/8/20, NHM, London.

192 financial assistance to expeditions already underway, especially when the location of that expedition was particularly desirable. When Hungarian collector Kálmán

Kittenberger (1881-1958) ran into financial difficulties in Eritrea in 1907, for example, he sent a shipment of specimens to Tring Museum asking Rothschild to send payment if they were desired for the collection. In their assessment of this example, Prŷs-Jones et al. note how Rothschild bought all twenty-one specimens for £4 10 shillings, specimens which they have described as ‘relatively common’.31 This is an interesting observation. That Rothschild paid for these common species I argue suggests an underlying motive – that it was hoped that Kittenberger would reach a difficult location (the inner parts of the Danakil territory) and it was the promise of what he could find that encouraged Rothschild to support his expedition and offer funds at a critical moment. This transaction was about creating a relationship with a collector, whose future activities promised to enrich the collection with specimens from new and hard to reach places, even if it meant adding more common species to his collection at that particular moment.32

In addition to short-term contractual agreements with ‘serendipitous’ collectors, there were several professional collectors with whom the museum developed ongoing relationships. These resulted in what I have called ‘commissioned’ collecting – which in some cases reached beyond the professional to become personal relationships. Unlike the short-term serendipitous arrangements which were often simple business transitions, these commissioned collectors had made collecting their profession and had delivered on previous contracts which had impressed Rothschild

31 Robert Prŷs-Jones, Tibor Fuisz, and David Willard, ‘An Unfortunate and Neglected Collector of African Birds’, ed. Fáczányi, Commemoration for Kálmán Kittenberger. Memorial Meeting in the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 2008, 76. 32 Kittenberger did deliver further specimens to the Tring Museum and continued to collect for them until the outbreak of the First World War. See ibid., 79.

193 and his curators, who subsequently engaged them on a recurring basis. How these relationships were instigated varied. Some approached the museum directly to offer their services; some were recommended via trusted sources or mutual friends; while others, Rothschild’s curators had encountered themselves when in the field, striking up friendships which they continued to cultivate throughout their lives. This included

William Doherty (1857-1901), whom Hartert had first met in the Malay Peninsula in

1888 and with whom he had travelled in Assam and the Naga Hills.33

As with the serendipitous collectors, commissioned collectors were predominately expected to collect species of birds and Lepidoptera. Many received advances, such as A.S. Meek (1871-1943) and Alan Owston (1853-1915), the latter receiving an advance of £90 to support an expedition to Hainan in 1901 – some

£10,000 today.34 However, Rothschild’s arrangement with commissioned collectors meant that everything they obtained was sent back to Tring Museum for ‘first pick’, with no limits on how many or how few were retained there. The surplus specimens were then passed onto a dealer and any profits sent back to the collectors.35 These types of arrangements were made with Doherty, Owston and Meek, to name but a few.

It is these individuals to whom examples will predominantly refer, as the enduring nature of their relationships with Rothschild has resulted in a substantial amount of surviving correspondence.

One of the main advantages to engaging commissioned collectors was that

Rothschild and his curators could instruct them where to go. Whereas serendipitous

33 Ernst Hartert, ‘William Doherty Obituary’, Novitates Zoologicae 8 (1901): 494. 34 M. LeCroy and W.S. Peckover, ‘Misima’s Missing Birds’, Bulletin of the British Ornithologists’ Club 118 (1998): 227; ‘Alan Owston to Ernst Hartert’, 4 June 1901, TM1/121, NHM, London; This conversion was calculated using ‘UK Inflation Calculator | Bank of England’, www.bankofengland.co.uk, accessed 25 July 2019, https://www.bankofengland.co.uk/monetary- policy/inflation/inflation-calculator. 35 See as an example ‘William Doherty to Ernst Hartert’, 31 December 1896, TM1/12/13, NHM, London.

194 collecting tended to follow the flow of manpower within the empire – government medical officer Dr William Ansorge (1850-1913) for example, given new collecting opportunities when he received orders to proceed from Angola to Ungoro (in Uganda)

– Rothschild could specify the destinations of commissioned collectors and therefore ensure that any specimens obtained would benefit the museum’s scientific research.36

In 1894, for example, Owston listed a series of regions and asked which ‘remain to be tackled’, to which Hartert responded: ‘Carolines & Mariannes (Ladrones) […] Must try and go right in interior’.37 As this example suggests, a particular emphasis was placed on the exploration of islands and inland regions. As Mearns and Mearns have described, by the 1880s it had become apparent to naturalists, particularly ornithologists, that ‘most of the more obvious pelagic species and those of the easily accessible littoral regions had already been found’.38 Thus in reaction, collectors were encouraged to venture inland and to regions which were harder to reach in search of new and rare species. Rothschild and his curators were motivated by similar reasoning, and this is illustrated by the locations in which Doherty collected. Figure 3 shows just a sample of the south-east Asian and northern Australasian localities Doherty visited

(sites which spanned the Wallace line and reflect Rothschild’s formative interests, discussed in chapter two). His later East Africa expedition (1900-1901) was a response to the opening up of the area as a result of the construction of the Ugandan railway.

36 ‘William Ansorge to Ernst Hartert Mar 1897’, 19 March 1897, TM1/115, NHM, London. 37 ‘Alan Owston to Ernst Hartert’, 30 January 1894, TM1/21, NHM, London. Hartert’s reply is annotated on the original letter. 38 Barbara Mearns and Richard Mearns, The Bird Collectors (San Diego: Academic Press, 1998), 111.

195

Figure 3. A sample of the locations William Doherty is recorded as having collected in while exploring South Asia and North Australasia.

Rothschild and his curators were not always successful in directing collectors where to go. In 1908, for instance, Tring Museum suggested Meek make an expedition to Rennell Island, to which Meek was hesitant, explaining that: ‘To go to such a place, that has no anchorage, with a big chance of losing one's life either by sea or on land, is rather a steep venture’; he sought a guarantee of £400 before making the commitment.39 Rothschild and his curators pursued other ventures instead and thereafter ‘nothing more was said about an expedition’.40 Ultimately, it was collectors who were putting themselves at risk to get the specimens. Since museums and individuals like Rothschild were completely dependent upon these individuals (except when willing to go into the field themselves), they were able to exert some control over the arrangements. Negotiations were often more successful when both parties

39 A. S. Meek, A Naturalist in Cannibal Land, ed. Frank Fox and Lionel Walter Rothschild (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1913), 197–98. 40 Ibid., 197.

196 perceived a clear benefit – the commissioner, specimens from their desired locations and the collector, a guaranteed market and profit for those specimens.

Collecting Practices

Rothschild and his curators not only decided who should collect specimens for them, and from which parts of the world. They also exerted a powerful influence over what was collected and the methods used to capture and transport that material. While they did not go so far as the British Museum (Natural History) (BMNH), which produced

A Handbook of Instructions for Collectors with guidance on how to catch, prepare, preserve and transport various types of animals, Rothschild and his curators did issue specific instructions to their collectors through correspondence.41 Jordan, for example, provided Powell-Cotton with detailed directions about how to kill and package moths ahead of his expedition to Portuguese Guinea in 1911:

‘If you cannot turn the wings upwards, the specimens could be placed side by side between smooth layers of cotton-wool in this way: place a smooth layer of cotton-wool at the bottom of the box, cover it with a piece of tissue paper and put on this strips of cotton-wool across the box, dividing the surface into transverse compartments according to the size of the moths; small bits of cotton-wool should be placed on and between the moths in order to prevent them from sliding about and injuring each other. When one layer is full, secure it by placing a piece of cotton-wool right over the top and then proceed as before’.42

The level of detail offered by Jordan highlights the intricate process involved in turning an animal into a well-preserved specimen which would reach its destination in good condition and be of commercial and/or scientific value. It also reveals the priority that Jordan and his colleagues awarded to obtaining specimens that could be used for their scientific research.

41 British Museum (Natural History), Handbook of Instructions for Collectors (London: British Museum (Natural History), 1902), Preface. 42 ‘Karl Jordan to Percy Powell-Cotton’, 22 February 1911, TR1/1/32/103, NHM, London.

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A second stipulation was that all specimens should have the ‘exact localities and dates’, recorded accurately upon a label and attached to the specimen.43 Hartert emphasised that ‘One thing is most important, that is proper labelling of the specimens.

Every specimen must have a label with the exact locality and date if possible sex’.44

In the case of birds, they requested that collectors record the colour of the eyes, feet and beak (those parts which lose colour after death). They also sent out specimen labels to collectors and advised them as to where they could be purchased, so as to guarantee the recording of this information.45 As discussed in chapter two, the provision of this information was fundamental to Rothschild’s and his curators’ desire to study geographical variation, and its importance cannot be overstated. As the

BMNH stated in their Handbook, without ‘proper labelling’ specimens lost ‘much of their scientific value’.46

Figure 4. Illustration from the Handbook of Instructions for Collectors (1902) showing how to complete a specimen label. Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London.

Cabinet collectors did not commonly make such requests. As Ansorge once commented: ‘One man expressed to me that it was rather a “nuisance” than otherwise that each specimen of mine has date & locality marked on it; though I remember

43 ‘Collecting Agreement between Walter Rothschild and H.C. Robinson’. 44 ‘Ernst Hartert to Alan Owston’, 28 March 1894, TM1/164 Outgoing Letter Book 2, NHM, London. 45 ‘Zensaku Katsumata to Ernst Hartert’, 22 December 1907, TR1/1/28/323, NHM, London. Katsumata acknowledges receipt of labels and remarks that he would ‘avail myself of adopting this [label pattern] for my collection in future.’ 46 British Museum (Natural History), Handbook of Instructions for Collectors.

198

Rothschild & you particularly commended this’.47 The use of effective labelling became one way of distinguishing scientific collectors (those collecting for scientific purposes) from hobbyists and demonstrates Rothschild and his curators marking out themselves, and the collection, as a professional outfit. The value that Rothschild and his curators placed on labelling determined whether they engaged a collector again.

For instance, when A. Noakes, a British Lepidopterist, sent a batch of specimens with unsatisfactory labels, Hartert warned him to rectify this in future or else ‘you will not receive any more work’.48

The type of specimens to be collected was also determined by Rothschild and his curators. In 1893, they convinced Doherty – who had spent much of his early career collecting Lepidoptera and beetles – that there would be ‘great opportunities’ for collecting birds on partially or entirely unexplored islands.49 The outcome, to quote

Hartert, were ‘remarkable’ bird collections.50 Other collectors were commissioned expressly to bring back a particular species outside of their usual remits. In 1931, for example, Frost was charged with ‘procur[ing] as many specimens as possible of

Proechidna and any other specially interesting mammals’ from the Weyland

Mountains, which extended beyond his usual remit, birds.51

The fact that species ‘new’ to science were highly prized by the museum saw

Rothschild’s curators steer collectors towards these. Writing to Frederick Cotton in

1894, for example, Hartert complimented him for the collection of butterflies and moths he had supplied which contained ‘some novelties’, but also reprimanded him for the fact that the bird collection did ‘not contain anything new to our museum and

47 ‘William Ansorge to Karl Jordan’, 22 September 1909, TM3/15, NHM, London. 48 ‘Ernst Hartert to A. Noakes’, 12 December 1893, TM1/164 Outgoing Letter Book 1, NHM, London. 49 Hartert, ‘William Doherty Obituary’, 502. 50 Ibid., 501. 51 ‘Agreement between Walter Rothschild and Wilfred J.C. Frost’.

199 nothing new to science’. He attributed this to the fact that Cotton only collected ‘the big and beautiful birds’ – it being the ‘small and sombre coloured birds, which are easy to get and fly about anywhere’ amongst which he would more likely have found

‘new species’.52

Rothschild’s criteria influenced collection practices in more subtle ways. For instance, in response to Rothschild and his curators asserting their intention to make the ‘research collections of birds and Lepidoptera […] as complete as possible’, professional collectors became less selective when choosing what specimens they sent to the museum.53 As Doherty explained: ‘I did not dare to tell my men not to take it [a bird] for fear of losing something valuable’.54 This attitude was reaffirmed by Owston, who posed the question to Hartert: ‘Is it not better that you who know what is good and what is valueless should do the “throwing out” instead of my doing it, or leaving it to my collector and to run the risk of throwing out good as well as bad?’55 There was a fine balance between sourcing the specimens desired and identifying those which were not wanted, and those doing the collecting preferred to receive and pass on too much material, which could then be sold as duplicates, rather than miss out on something valuable. There were significant ecological consequences as a result of this method of collecting. At the heart of this enterprise lay the death and destruction of living things and the depletion of the very nature that naturalists were supposed to be documenting. Rothschild and his curators were clearly driven by a scientific agenda, but in these examples it becomes evident that natural history collecting was as much

52 ‘Ernst Hartert to Frederick Cotton’, 1894, TM1/6/12, NHM, London. 53 Karl Jordan, ‘Obituary: Lord Rothschild, F.R.S. (1868-1937)’, British Birds 31 (1 October 1937): 146–47. 54 ‘William Doherty to Ernst Hartert’, 12 March 1896, TM1/12/13, NHM, London. 55 ‘Alan Owston to Ernst Hartert’, 30 September 1896, TM1/121, NHM, London.

200 about possession, ownership and the completeness of the collection, as it was about the reverence for the wonders of nature.

The requirement for collectors to deliver certain types of material to Rothschild and his curators significantly impacted on their experiences of collecting. Doherty once proclaimed that ‘This Bali trip has been my Waterloo’; sickness, a lack of food, local hostility, trouble with tigers and bad weather all resulting in a situation which had meant that he ‘could not get one purely decent butterfly in a day’s work’.56 Such adversity could be demoralising for collectors; however Doherty persevered and continued to collect, leading Hartert to describe him as ‘one of the most energetic ornithological collectors of the end of the century’.57 Given how many collectors

Tring Museum was in contact with, this was high praise indeed.

Figure 5. A Photograph from William Doherty’s 1900/01 expedition to East Africa of trying to get down to a bird’s nest. TM/3/4 Archives of the Natural History Museum, London.

To fulfil their employers’ demands, collectors could develop knowledge of local languages and customs, and engage with local people to uncover their relations

56 ‘William Doherty to Ernst Hartert’, 13 April 1896, TM1/12/13, NHM, London. 57 Ernst Hartert, ‘An Account of the Collections of Birds Made by Mr. William Doherty in the Eastern Archipelago’, Novitates Zoologicae 3 (1896): 537.

201 to animals and their environments, and what particular species meant to them. Hartert for example, recalled how besides Doherty’s entomological knowledge, he was ‘most wonderfully acquainted with the people of the East […] with their languages, history, religions, manners and customs’.58 Some collectors learned effective local hunting techniques which enriched their collections with a greater variety of specimens than they may otherwise have procured. When recalling his 1905 expedition, Meek described how he had obtained a good number of birds of paradise and other species owing to his use of the techniques of the New Guineans, who were ‘very clever at snaring birds, adopting many different methods for different kinds’, including baiting, weighted traps, snares and nets.59

Figure 6. Image reproduced in Meek’s A Naturalist in Cannibal Land. Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by University of California Libraries.

58 Hartert, ‘William Doherty Obituary’, 497. 59 Meek, A Naturalist in Cannibal Land, 149–50.

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Through sharing their specimens and the observations they had made in the field with Rothschild and his curators, collectors exerted a powerful influence over the scientific work carried out at the museum. As Endersby has argued, collectors were not ‘passive providers of specimens or inert recipients of metropolitan knowledge’ but active participants in the making of scientific knowledge.60 Feeding back information became an important part of the rhetoric that surrounded collecting and was emphasised in the advice manuals produced for collectors. American zoologist

William T. Hornaday (1854-1937) advised collectors:

‘[O]f rare and interesting objects you will want to record all the information you can gather regarding their life history […] Learn how to observe, and then put down in black and white, between substantial leather covers, all that you do observe, and all that is told to you by the natives about species with which they are familiar […] One thing is certain; when you come to write about your collection, you will wish you had taken more notes in the field’.61 There are many examples of this happening at Tring Museum. Hartert and

Rothschild both wrote articles based on collections made by Meek and Doherty that included their comments and observations.62 Spending long periods of time in field locations, and gaining knowledge of the animals that they pursued, led collectors to develop a degree of expertise which could then be drawn on, and they were encouraged to offer their observations and opinions. In 1927, for example, Hartert sought Frost’s opinion on some questions regarding the ‘ornamental plumage’ of birds of paradise:

‘I suppose it is a fact that the birds of paradise only have their ornamental plumage for some months of the year? Can you say if this supposition is correct or not and how long they wear their full dress? Also if there is any special time when they do so or

60 Endersby, Imperial Nature, 17. 61 William T. Hornaday, Taxidermy and Zoological Collecting (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co, Ltd., 1891), 22. 62 See for example Hartert, ‘An Account of the Collections of Birds Made by Mr. William Doherty in the Eastern Archipelago’.

203 does the time vary according to climatic conditions in the various countries?’63 Hartert sought Frost’s insight into the behaviours and breeding rituals of birds of paradise in order to inform his own work.64 Elsewhere, and as will be shown in chapter five, excerpts from the travelogues and diaries kept by collectors during expeditions were printed in Novitates, where they were used to bring to life the expeditions, in much the same way that descriptions in the Guide attempted to bring to life the specimens on display in the public galleries (chapter three). Evidently, Rothschild was not just motivated by research and studying particular features of animals but by a desire to look at animals holistically and acquire everything about an animal – what it looked like, felt like, smelt like, how it moved etc. The first-hand observations of collectors helped Rothschild and his curators to achieve that and to construct zoological knowledge.

Purchasing

The second mechanism Rothschild used to acquire specimens was through direct purchase. Capitalising on the commercial market which had grown around animals,

Rothschild and his curators engaged with a vast array of suppliers, including natural history dealers, taxidermists, live animal dealers, fur, feather and curio merchants, and even Billingsgate Fish Market (Figure 1). These routes supplemented the material acquired directly from field collectors and ensured that the museum secured all the material necessary to study geographical variation and for Rothschild to display nature, in all its variety, in his public galleries. The following analysis focuses on the three types of supplier Rothschild most commonly dealt with – natural history dealers, taxidermists and live animal dealers.

63 ‘Ernst Hartert to Wilfred Frost’, 6 December 1927, MSS Frost, NHM, Tring. 64 ‘Ernst Hartert to Wilfred Frost’, 23 December 1927, MSS Frost, NHM, Tring.

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Natural History Dealers

Excluding the specimens obtained from field-collectors, most of Rothschild’s specimens came from natural history dealers. They included E.G. Meek (father of A.S.

Meek), Pratt & Sons and W.F.H Rosenberg, all of whom were based in the UK, as well as continental suppliers such as Herman Rolle and Henri Donckier. These individuals were part of the thriving commercialised industry which emerged to support metropolitan demand for natural history specimens during the nineteenth century. Drawing on the 1891 census, Pat Morris has indicated that there were over

350 people employed as bird and animal preservers in London, with another 500+ employed elsewhere.65 These individuals obtained their specimens from field collectors, auctions, and cabinet collectors, who used the sale of unwanted skins to fund their collecting and/or future hunting expeditions. These businessmen are referred to here as natural history dealers; however, as Anne Coote has discussed, this is a term which has been retrospectively imposed on this particular set of tradespeople by historians, when in fact they styled themselves under a variety of terms including

‘naturalist’, ‘plummassier’, ‘furrier’, ‘bird stuffer’ and ‘natural history agent’.66

Many of the specimens that Rothschild acquired c.1890, before his curators were in post and his own network of collectors was established, were sourced from natural history dealers. He spent large sums of money in their establishments. In

November 1890, he spent £296.18.0 with ‘naturalists’ Pratt & Sons of Brighton, while receipts for London-based ‘naturalist and plumassier’ E.G. Meek record spending of between £2.10.0 and £184.14.6 on a fortnightly basis between 1889 and 1891.67

65 P. A. Morris, A History of Taxidermy: Art, Science and Bad Taste (Ascot: MPM, 2010), 156. 66 Coote, ‘“Pray Write Me a List of Species’’”’, 80–81. 67 ‘Account of Hon. Walter Rothschild with Pratt & Sons’, November 1889, TM3/3, NHM, London; ‘Accounts of Hon. Walter Rothschild with E.G. Meek’, 1891 1889, TM3/3, NHM, London.

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Natural history dealers offered Rothschild an effective way of rapidly growing the collections of his fledgling museum. However, as the museum’s network of collectors became more important, the role of dealers changed from providing the bulk of the collection to enhancing the network of supply and making up deficiencies in field collecting. Dealers were particularly important in helping Rothschild to add to species that were deficient in the museum’s collection, whether in terms of representation, number or with regard to the location from which they came. As one example, Hartert purchased forty-two Costa Rican bird skins from a much larger collection being sold by O.E Janson, to add to the museum’s existing series in 1903.68 Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan recognised the importance of being attuned to all opportunities to add to the collections, and natural history dealers offered an invaluable source of supply and contacts.

Specimens purchased via the dealer for the research collections had to meet the same criteria as those received from collectors. As discussed above, information on the lineage and locality of a specimen was important if it were to have scientific value, but some dealers were unreliable in supplying it: ‘commercial interests were often so much to the fore that accuracy over the provenance of material was neglected.’69 This made it a ‘make or break’ condition when deciding whether to conduct business with a dealer. In 1894 for example, Hartert criticised H.W. Marsden:

‘we mind it very much that the look of the labels is so shamefully spoiled by scratching off Mr. Tancre’s name & that Mr Rothschild is not willing to take specimens from you any more, if you are given to […] destroying the history of specimens by making the name of the collection or person whence the specimens came [unknown]. Mr Rothschild’s collection is now so large, that

68 ‘O.E. Janson to Ernst Hartert’, 27 February 1903, TR1/24/513, NHM, London. 69 Pamela C. Rasmussen and Robert P. Prŷs-Jones, ‘History vs Mystery: The Reliability of Museum Specimen Data’, Bulletin of The British Ornithologists’ Club 123A (2003): 73–75.

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only specimens with a history, original labels and dates have any value for him’.70

Similarly, just as collectors sought the advice of Rothschild’s curators about the best locations to visit, so did dealers. In 1904 Rosenberg informed Jordan how he had secured a collector to travel to South America, explaining that: ‘the financial responsibility he and I are willing to undertake between us, but what I should like you to assist me in is the selection of the localities of where he is to go’.71 This example demonstrates how Rosenberg orchestrated his business dealings around the needs of

Tring Museum. He approached Rothschild and his curators for information to ensure he acquired a collection that Jordan might be interested to acquire for the museum.

Rosenberg was financially motivated but this situation presented Jordan and

Rothschild with an opportunity to acquire specimens from a region they might not otherwise have done, without fronting the initial costs, and provides another example of a relationship being nurtured for the sake of what specimens might be returned at a future point, just as in the case of Kittenberger.

Conversations of this nature could lead dealers to set higher prices, knowing that Rothschild was interested in a collection from a particular area, but this was often to their detriment as their desire to make a large profit conflicted with the curators’ aim to get material at a ‘fair’ price.72 Rothschild on one occasion declared – ‘you can tell Rosenberg from me that if he does not put more reasonable prices on things, I not only will not deal with him but I shall warn everyone not to go to him as his charges were outrageous’.73 In addition to demonstrating the temperamental nature of these

70 ‘Letter 165 Ernst Hartert to H.W. Marsden’, 7 April 1894, TM1/164 Outgoing Letter Book, NHM, London. 71 ‘W.F.H Rosenberg to Karl Jordan’, 30 July 1904, TR1/1/25/390, NHM, London. 72 See for example ‘T.E. Cooke & Sons to Ernst Hartert’, 18 November 1893, TM1/1/11, NHM, London. 73 ‘Walter Rothschild to Ernst Hartert’, 10 September 1897, TM3/12, NHM, London.

207 negotiations, this example highlights the extent to which reputation and recommendation mattered within this community, and that one person’s dissatisfaction could have wide reaching effects on an individual’s business– especially if that person was someone of Rothschild’s status.

Taxidermists

In addition to seeking to illuminate the influence of geography on species variation,

Rothschild’s acquisition practices were driven by his desire to display as much of nature as possible to visitors through the display of taxidermied mounts in his public galleries. These were obtained from taxidermists. Preparing vertebrates for public display was a specialised business: the process involved removing an animal’s skin, which was then cleaned, preserved and either stuffed or mounted over a frame, in a life-like posture to give the impression that the animal was still alive. Taxidermists were often given the skins to prepare by their customers, but also obtained them from other suppliers, collectors and zoological gardens. Notably, some of Rothschild’s taxidermied mounts were not only displayed in the public galleries but first used in research. The skin used to make the Propithecus majori, for example, had first been used by Rothschild in his taxonomic work, and, as discussed in chapter three, visitors were informed that Rothschild had described it as a new species, with the results published in the 1894 edition of Novitates.

To secure specimens for his public galleries, Rothschild had plenty of choice of taxidermists. As Morris has shown, the number of taxidermy businesses in Britain gradually increased throughout the nineteenth century, with London having more than

150 different taxidermists listed in local directories between 1840 and 1960.74

Rothschild developed long standing relationships with a mere handful of these,

74 Morris, A History of Taxidermy, 176.

208 including Edward Gerrard, Rowland Ward and Brazenor Bros – some of the most famous names in British taxidermy. He favoured particular taxidermists for different types of animals and was prepared to go as far as Brighton and Durham to secure their services.

By the end of the nineteenth century the reputation of taxidermists was built not just upon their artistic and modelling capabilities, but also on their ability to capture more life-like manipulations which was enhanced by training in the observation of animal morphology. Taxidermy manuals, such as Montagu Browne’s

Artistic and Scientific Taxidermy and Modelling, reflect this development, with

Browne stating: ‘the future and hope of taxidermy will be the welding of the educated artist, designer, modeller, sculptor, biologist, and naturalist’.75 This attitude was endorsed by Rowland Ward, who mused that the recent success in taxidermy had ‘not been achieved by mere skill, but by extended and more accurate observation of nature in its living forms – of the behaviour and habits of animals, not simply examination of their carcases, or what remained of them’.76 The ability of the taxidermist to recreate what Karen Jones has termed as ‘biotic realism’, a faithful reproduction of the forms, attitudes and expressions of living animals, enhanced their reputations as practitioners and ensured that the final mount ‘performed’ as it should when on display.77

Several taxidermists built their reputations on the preparation of particular species and Rothschild selected his taxidermists accordingly. Joseph Cullingford was a renowned bird taxidermist employed by Durham University, who was described as possessing an ‘unsurpassed skill in the art of taxidermy’, attributable to his

75 Montagu Browne, Artistic and Scientific Taxidermy and Modelling (London: Adam and Charles Black, 1896), 17. 76 Rowland Ward, The Sportsman’s Handbook to Collecting, Preserving, and Setting Up Trophies and Specimens, 10th ed. (London: Rowland Ward Limited, 1911), xviii. 77 Karen Jones, ‘The Rhinoceros and the Chatham Railway: Taxidermy and the Production of Animal Presence in the “Great Indoors”’, History 101 (2016): 714–15.

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‘knowledge of the habits of the animal in life, [and] of its attitudes and characteristics’.

Cullingford studied birds in the wild and developed a skill which made him a favoured taxidermist of the BMNH, of Rothschild and of Lord Lilford, who all entrusted rare and unique specimens into his care for arranging and mounting.78 Other taxidermists possessed similar levels of expertise in other groups and were selected by Rothschild on that basis. Brazenor Bros in Brighton were commissioned to prepare Rothschild’s reptiles; many mammals were sent to Edward Gerrard in Camden Town; the cassowaries to Frederick Doggett in Cambridge; while the birds of paradise were sent as far as Ireland to the Sheals Brothers of Belfast.79 Rothschild clearly had intimate knowledge of the profession and of the reputations of these individuals.

Rowland Ward was another important taxidermist who mounted specimens for

Rothschild, especially big game and full mounted mammals. It is interesting, however, given that Ward was considered the best taxidermist of the time, that Rothschild did not use him as his primary taxidermist. I suggest that this is because Ward had cornered the market in large scale taxidermy, and that because Rothschild was limited on space, he had relatively few full large specimens on display. As shown in chapter three, Rothschild had a good species representation of antelopes but only a selection of full-mounts: most were mounted heads. Rothschild’s museum was populated by many more birds and smaller mammals in which smaller taxidermist businesses had specialised. That Rothschild did value the skill of Ward is shown by the fact that he entrusted the mounting of his specimen of okapi to him, when procured in 1903 – the okapi being a recent and extraordinary new discovery and specimens were incredibly difficult to obtain.80

78 ‘Durham University Museum Resignation of Mr. Joseph Cullingford’, Durham County Advertiser, 16 June 1905. 79 Morris, A History of Taxidermy, 178. 80 ‘Tring - The Museum’, Bucks Herald, 18 July 1903.

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The cultivation of relationships with specialist taxidermists demonstrates

Rothschild’s motivations for his public galleries. Building on analysis from chapter three and discussion of the public agenda Rothschild had for his museum, it becomes evident that Rothschild had not just looked to present ‘nature’ but nature at its ‘best’.

He sought to display a highly idealised view of nature in which every specimen was the biggest, the finest, the brightest example of a particular species, mounted in as life- like a manner as possible. As the publication Country Life reported in 1898: ‘the art of taxidermy is applied in a way not equalled in any public or private museum in this country’ and ‘every bird and animal wears its fur and feathers as nearly as possible as it did in life’.81 Rothschild was even prepared to ‘upgrade’ his specimens to ensure that this was the case, as he did with his Giraffe in 1902, whose predecessor he described as ‘a ghastly production’.82 This reinforces the message from chapter three that Rothschild was fully committed to the public agenda for his museum and was prepared to invest considerable time and resources in its displays.

Rothschild’s interactions with taxidermists also bring into focus the multiple roles they fulfilled within the acquisition network. In addition to mounting specimens, they enabled Rothschild and his curators to secure specimens for the research collection and to dispose of surplus specimens. On one occasion Ward informed

Rothschild of a client he had in the Belgian Congo who was making collections of butterflies and insects, and asked if Rothschild was interested in such specimens – an offer Jordan gladly accepted.83 Rothschild and his curators also received requests from

Ward to supply specimens, such as in 1905 when Ward was looking to source birds of

81 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, Country Life Illustrated, 25 June 1898, 799. 82 ‘Walter Rothschild to Albert Günther’, 6 April 1902, Box 23. A. Günther Collection 1795-1980, NHM, London. 83 ‘Rowland Ward to Walter Rothschild’, 26 February 1912, TR1/1/33/587, NHM, London; ‘Karl Jordan to Rowland Ward’, 27 February 1912, TR1/1/33/587, NHM, London.

211 paradise skins for a client who required “showy” birds’.84 When the museum underwent its restructuring in 1908, the dynamic of that relationship changed again as taxidermists began to buy specimens from Rothschild. Hartert, for example, offered

Ward a ‘large black variety of Orangutan for which we cannot find any room’.85

Relationships with taxidermists also facilitated the acquisition of particularly hard-to-come-by specimens like the okapi, which lived in dense tropical rainforest and had an elusive nature, resulting in intense global competition for them. While it is not entirely clear how Rothschild obtained his specimen of okapi in 1903, it may have resulted from his relationship with taxidermist Frederick Doggett (1843-1921), whose son, Walter Grimwood Doggett (1876-1904), had gone to Uganda and the border of the Congo Free State as collecting assistant to Sir Harry Johnston, who first discovered the okapi in the Congo in 1900.86 For his museum to be zoologically ‘complete’

Rothschild needed to acquire a specimen of this newly discovered mammal and the network of acquisition he had developed around his museum ensured he achieved that goal.

Live Animal Dealers

Discussion so far in this thesis has focused on Rothschild’s research and public collections but live animals were another central part of Rothschild’s zoological enterprise. In the 1880s he owned a dingo, a flock of kiwis and an Australian opossum, a collection which later expanded to include zebra, kangaroos, cassowaries, great

84 ‘Rowland Ward to Ernst Hartert’, 23 February 1905, TR1/1/26/579, NHM, London. 85 ‘Tring Museum to Rowland Ward’, 8 September 1908, TR1/1/29/652, NHM, London. 86 H.H Johnston, ‘Obituary W.G. Doggett’, Ibis, 1904, 312; ‘We Regret to See Announced the Death...’, Nature, 28 January 1904, 302; ‘A Fine Sample of the Okapi...’, Nature, 16 July 1903, 254; Susan Lyndaker Lindsey, Mary Neel Green, and Cynthia L. Bennet, The Okapi (Texas: University of Texas Press, 1999), 39–40.

212 bustards, sacred cattle, pelicans, barbary sheep and giant tortoises to name but a few.87

The acquisition of live animals was a different undertaking to the collection of research specimens and taxidermied mounts, for it required the animal to be caught and transported alive. Rothschild looked to obtain healthy living animals, and to do so, he engaged the services of men like A.E. Jamrach, the London east-end naturalist and animal importer, and Carl Hagenbeck, the famous animal dealer and zoo proprietor of

Hamburg, both of whom had established reputations for successfully transporting animals to Britain alive.

Figure 7. Some of Rothschild’s animals with their keeper Mr Marcham c. 1890 © Trustees of the Natural History Museum

Once purchased, some of these animals were kept at Tring Park where

Rothschild could easily observe them, but the majority were deposited in the gardens of the Zoological Society of London (ZSL), of which Rothschild had been a Fellow since 1888.88 ZSL annual reports regularly listed Rothschild making ‘noticeable’ additions to the menagerie, and in 1902 this included a Cuvier’s gazelle, three elephant

87 See for example Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 102–4; W. Percival Westell, A Year with Nature (London: Henry J. Drane, 1900), 13; ‘Morning Calls’, The English Illustrated Magazine, June 1896, 210–16. 88 ‘Animals’ Paradise’, Daily Mail, 16 June 1905.

213 tortoises and a chimpanzee.89 However, these animals were only deposited in the zoological gardens on a temporary basis and Rothschild retained the rights to them.

As the Daily Mail reported, when they died Rothschild claimed the bodies ‘to enrich his museum at Tring’.90 Evidence of this is provided by ZSL’s Register of Deaths in the Menagerie, which gives the method of disposal for a large number of specimens as either ‘Hon. Walter Rothschild’, ‘Ret to depositor W.R.’ or , ‘Mr Gerrard for Hon.

W. Rothschild’, an example of which can be seen in Figure 8.91

Figure 8. Register of Deaths in the Menagerie Vol 6. 1900-1904.

This latter example highlights the arrangement Rothschild had with ZSL to ensure his animals were sent to specific taxidermists after they had died, and is formally outlined in instructions issued to R.I. Pocock (1863-1947), Superintendent of

London Zoo, in 1904: ‘I also wish, […] to make final arrangements as to disposal of my dead specimens of which I also should like postcard advice of death. All birds

89 Annual Report of the Council of the Zoological Society of London, 1903, 42. 90 ‘Baby Snakes’, Daily Mail, 7 November 1900. 91 Zoological Society of London, Register of Deaths in the Menagerie, vol. 4, 1887; Zoological Society of London, Register of Deaths in the Menagerie, vol. 5, 1894; Zoological Society of London, Register of Deaths in the Menagerie, vol. 6, 1900.

214 except cassowaries to be sent to Cullingford […] Cassowaries to be sent to F. Doggett

[…] Lizards and snakes to be sent to Brazenor Bros […] [and] Mammals, tortoises, frogs & newts, to be sent to Gerrard’.92 In addition to demonstrating the arrangement between Rothschild and ZSL, this further illustrates Rothschild’s extensive knowledge of the strengths and weakness of particular taxidermists.93

These arrangements gave Rothschild somewhere to house his animals but they were reciprocal relationships, for the zoological gardens also benefited from these new exhibits. Throughout the nineteenth and into the early twentieth century, zoological gardens experienced a large turnover of animals owing to high mortality rates.94 As a result, ZSL sought to obtain animals in a number of other ways besides purchase, including presentation, breeding, deposit and exchange.95 The arrangement ZSL had with Rothschild can therefore be seen as important in spreading costs and keeping both the museum and zoological gardens well stocked with animals. What is more,

Rothschild did not just deposit his animals and expect ZSL to meet the expense of feeding and housing them, but he contributed financially towards their upkeep. In 1898 for instance, he made the first of two payments towards the construction of the tortoise house, built in part to house several Galapagos tortoises he had procured.96 These findings are important, for while previous scholarship on London Zoo has explored its

92 ‘Walter Rothschild to R.I. Pocock’, 18 March 1904, GB 0814 BADR, Zoological Society of London. 93 Rothschild had a similar arrangement with Belle Vue Zoological Gardens and its proprietor, George Jennison. See ‘The Belle Vue Zoological Collection: A New Phase of the "Open-Air " Treatment Valuable Loans from Mr. Walter Rothschild’, The Manchester Guardian, 18 October 1902; ‘Series of Letters between Ernst Hartert and George Jennison’, 1908, TR1/1/29/342, NHM, London; ‘George Jennison to Ernst Hartert’, 27 February 1909, TR1/1/30/272, NHM, London. 94 Abigail Woods, ‘Doctors in the Zoo: Connecting Human and Animal Health in British Zoological Gardens, 1828–1890’, in Animals and the Shaping of Modern Medicine, by Abigail Woods et al., Medicine and Biomedical Sciences in Modern History (Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 27–69; Jonathan Burt, ‘Violent Health and the Moving Image: The London Zoo and Monkey Hill’, in Animals in Human Histories: The Mirror of Nature and Culture, ed. Mary J. Henninger-Voss (New York: University of Rochester Press, 2009), 258–92. 95 Annual Report of the Council of the Zoological Society of London, 1900, 40–41. 96 ‘Walter Rothschild to P.L. Sclater’, 25 April 1898, GB 0814 BADR, Zoological Society of London; ‘Zoological Society of London’, Science 7, no. 178 (1898): 741.

215 role as a public attraction, a site of display, a microcosm of empire, and source of specimens for the taxidermist, its role as a ‘holding pen’ for naturalists and private collectors has not previously been identified and deserves further investigation.97

This role was not confined to ZSL. Rather unexpectedly, there is evidence of taxidermist Doggett holding live animals for Rothschild. The two had met while

Rothschild was studying at university, and bills from the 1890s show Doggett being paid a daily rate for the ‘keep’ of live bird species, such as Fiji Lories and various species of kiwi. They were clearly living, because Doggett recorded on the bill when one had died and therefore no longer charged for ‘keep’.98 There were several reasons that Doggett kept live birds for Rothschild. In some cases, this was to ensure that the best skin could be made – both in the sense of the skin being made quickly and therefore not going ‘bad’ but also ensuring a good quality skin. As an example,

Doggett informed Hartert how: ‘… I have not been able to kill Mitratus yet, as her feathers are not sufficiently grown on her back neither are the spines in the wings of proper length, but I will do so if you wish…’ to which Hartert responded: ‘… you must wait until it has moulted out’.99 (Mitratus (Latin for ‘wearing a mitre’) appears to have been the name given to an individual cassowary which Doggett was under instructions to kill for Rothschild’s collection once its plumage had reached a certain

97 See for example Sophia Akerberg, Knowledge and Pleasure at Regent’s Park: The Garden of the Zoological Society of London during the 19th Century (Sweden: Umeå universitets tryckeri, 2001); Helen Cowie, ‘“An Attractive and Improving Place of Resort”’, Cultural and Social History 12 (2015): 365–84; Eric Baratay and Elisabeth Hardouin-Fugier, Zoo: A History of Zoological Gardens in the West (London: Reaktion Books, 2003); Takashi Ito, London Zoo and the Victorians, 1828-1859 (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer Ltd, 2014); Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1987); Nigel Rothfels, Savages and Beasts: The Birth of the Modern Zoo (London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002); Pat A. Morris, Edward Gerrard & Sons: A Taxidermy Memoir (Ascot: MPM, 2004). 98 ‘Hon Walter Rothschild Account with F. Doggett of Cambridge’, April 1895, TM1/12/12, NHM, London. 99 ‘Frederick Doggett to Ernst Hartert’, 15 October 1908, TR1/1/29/168, NHM, London; ‘Ernst Hartert to Frederick Doggett’, 19 October 1908, TR1/1/29/168, NHM, London.

216 stage of development). This again indicates the importance placed on the quality of specimens for conducting scientific research and gallery display.

Having taxidermists ‘keep’ live animals seems also to have been part of a conscious decision to enlist their help in obtaining zoological knowledge. Doggett, for example, was recruited to help breed kiwis and recorded his efforts in correspondence with Rothschild, where he provided extensive details of the behaviour he witnessed during that time.100 This demonstrates how taxidermists contributed to the construction of knowledge and highlights that Rothschild’s research interests were not confined to dead specimens but extended to healthy, living ones. He studied their habits and behaviours, not just their anatomy and taxonomy.

Although ethology (the study of animal behaviour) was not an officially recognised discipline until the mid-twentieth century, by the end of the nineteenth century the scientific community had begun to place increasing emphasis on the observation of living animals and the study of their habits and behaviours. 101 As Oliver

Hochadel has described, the shift towards looking at animals through long and repeated observation had first occurred in Germany as part of a ‘reform movement’ in natural history. This movement had emphasised the need to investigate the living animal and approach the study of nature holistically, thus challenging ‘the predominate way in which animals were studied at universities and academies of science [which focused] virtually exclusively on taxonomy and anatomy’.102 Lyn

Nyhart has described how zookeepers in particular ‘[paid] increasing attention to

100 ‘Frederick Doggett to Ernst Hartert’, 7 April 1896, TM1/19/12, NHM, London; ‘Frederick Doggett to Ernst Hartert’, 14 April 1896, TM1/19/12, NHM, London; ‘Frederick Doggett to Ernst Hartert’, 24 April 1896, TM1/19/12, NHM, London. 101 Richard W. Burkhardt, ‘Ethology, Natural History, the Life Sciences, and the Problem of Place’, Journal of the History of Biology 32 (1999): 490. 102 Oliver Hochadel, ‘Watching Exotic Animals Next Door: “Scientific” Observations at the Zoo (ca. 1870–1910)’, Science in Context 24 (2011): 184–85 & 209–10.

217 animals’ needs in the way of food and shelter, their breeding seasons and habits, and their requirements for space and activity – all issues that contributed to expanding natural history in the direction of functional knowledge of the living animal.’103

Rothschild can be understood as a part of this emerging movement, his participation enabled by his possession of both living and dead specimens. The Times, for example, when commenting on the presence of a collection of pangolins within the public galleries, reported that: ‘it was not until the animals were studied in life here at Tring that some of these attitudes, and many of the habits, of the strange beast [sic] were known’.104

Rothschild rarely published these observations but did periodically draw on them when presenting his research.105 In 1892 he presented a paper in which he described two new mammals from New Guinea, one of which was the Proechidna nigro-aculeata sp.nov. Rothschild stated: ‘From having had the specimen here described alive I was able to make a much more careful examination of it than if it had been a dried skin’. He concluded that the species varied from allied species

Proechidna bruijni in that it was larger, had more ‘robust limbs’, a ‘stouter tail’ and

‘much shorter claws’, which he observed were broader and ‘considerably hollowed out on the under surface’.106 Rothschild had previously kept a live Proechidna brujini so was familiar with both the species he compared.107 Such observations counteracted

103 Lynn K. Nyhart, Modern Nature: The Rise of the Biological Perspective in Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 81 & 108. 104 ‘Rare Animals’, The Times, 15 July 1914. 105 One notable exception was Rothschild’s work on cassowaries. He acquired a large collection of both living and dead specimens, the latter of which were made into museum specimens when they died. Using this collection, and drawing extensively on the living specimens, Rothschild worked with W.P, Pycraft to write a monograph on the taxonomy of cassowaries. See Lionel Walter Rothschild and W. P. Pycraft, A Monograph of the Genus Casuarius (London: Zoological Society of London, 1900). 106 Lionel Walter Rothschild, ‘Descriptions of Two New Mammals from New Guinea’, PZSL, 1892, 545–46. 107 ‘Walter Rothschild to Albert Günther’, 17 November 1890, Box 25. A. Günther Collection 1795- 1980, NHM, London.

218 the manipulations and distortions of animal bodies by collectors – who may have only sent a skin – and taxidermists – who may have mounted the specimen without having seen one before. It removed the middle-man and enabled metropolitan naturalists like

Rothschild to, in a sense, become field naturalists, who could use their own observations to inform both their research and the display of animals within their museum collections. As Rothschild once remarked: ‘From this [living] animal it is quite clear that there is no specimen of either the Australian or New Guinea Echidnas in any museum that is even decently stuffed’.108

Historians have often used his collection of live animals to amplify

Rothschild’s eccentric image, but, as this evidence shows, his interactions with live animal dealers, zoological gardens and taxidermists actually facilitated his zoological enterprise. By using living and dead collections side by side, he was able to gain a holistic understanding of species, with animals in the former often passing into the latter at death. Those who helped Rothschild to secure and maintain a collection of live animals, such as ZSL and Doggett, were an intrinsic part of the community that grew to surround Tring Museum, and supported Rothschild’s multiple scientific endeavours by supplying the animals and information from which his conclusions were drawn.

Conclusion

The supply of natural-historical material depended upon a wide variety of people and tracing Rothschild’s network of acquisition has revealed the varied and interwoven acquisition processes available to natural history collectors during this period.

Specimens could be purchased from specialised traders such as natural history dealers, lepidopterists and taxidermists, from field collectors and even Billingsgate Fish

108 Ibid.

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Market. But these specimens rarely made a single journey. They were bought, exchanged and deposited between the many collectors, traders and organisations involved in late-nineteenth early-twentieth century natural history.

In the case of Rothschild’s museum, this vast network of individuals ensured that Rothschild was able to capitalise on every opportunity to acquire new specimens, and maximise the breadth and depth of species represented within his collections. In particular, Rothschild combined serendipitous and commissioned collecting to ensure the geographical coverage of his research collections and thus enable the study of geographical variation. Specimens for the public galleries meanwhile had to be the finest examples of taxidermy, which conveyed nature faithfully in all its variety to museum visitors.

A stringent set of criteria determined whether specimens were purchased for the collections and the importance of these terms and conditions indicates just how important this material was to the goals of Tring Museum. Research specimens, for example, had to be labelled with accurate locality information. Suppliers provided the irrefutable evidence Rothschild, Hartert and Jordan needed to advance and defend their scientific approach and, as discussed in chapter two, to gain authority among the mainstream scientific community. But the network also helped Rothschild and his curators to create a community around Tring Museum, which, by subscribing to their collecting practices, further advanced the museum’s scientific agenda. Rothschild wielded powerful influence over these suppliers, as shown by the examples where collectors and dealers orchestrated their business dealings around his requirements, and as a result, Rothschild established himself, and by association his collection, curators and museum, as significant entities in the field of natural history.

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What is more, suppliers did not just supply crucial research material. They exerted considerable influence over the scientific work carried out at the museum.

Both collectors and taxidermists charged with the ‘keep’ of live animals, shared crucial insights and observations which informed the work of Rothschild and his curators, who sought to gain a holistic understanding of the species they acquired. As such, while it may be tempting to consider Rothschild’s collections of dead study specimens

(extinct and extant), taxidermied animal mounts and living animals as separate entities, to do so conceals the ways in which modes of acquisition and the purpose behind each of Rothschild’s collections overlapped. They were each part of a single integrated enterprise that became an effective instrument used by Rothschild to convey his particular vision of the natural world – that which highlighted species diversity and promoted a holistic understanding of animals – and to make the scientific arguments that Rothschild and his curators prioritised.

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Chapter V

Novitates Zoologicae: A Journal of Zoology

‘For logical outcome of the whole work, perhaps not the least important is the issue, for public circulation, of an extensively illustrated magazine titled Novitates Zoologicae: A Journal of Zoology. Such a magazine must be invaluable to the scientist when it is considered that the ground it covers is absolutely untouched and new.’1

January 30th 1894 marked an important milestone for Walter Rothschild and Tring

Museum for it witnessed the publication of the first issue of their new in-house journal,

Novitates Zoologicae: A Journal of Zoology. The journal name Novitates – derived from the Latin to mean newness or novelty – strongly reflected the overall character of the journal which was entirely devoted to questions of natural history and embodied

Rothschild’s aim to discover, map and classify the world’s fauna. Rothschild and his curators, Ernst Hartert and Karl Jordan, assumed positions as its co-editors and oversaw the production of what was to become a major publishing achievement.

Novitates was imperial octavo in size, the third largest book format behind the folio and the quarto, and was published in parts on average between three and four times a year. Together, these parts were bound into an annual volume, with occasional additional supplements. These annual volumes were formed of around 400-600 pages and most articles were written in English, but ones in French, German and Latin were also admitted.2 Published by the Aylesbury based Hazell, Watson and Viney, Ltd.,

Novitates ran for 42 volumes between 1894 and 1942, consisted of 157 individual

1 Louis Wain, ‘The Hon. Walter Rothschild’s Pets: A Visit to the Tring Museum’, The Windsor Magazine 2 (1895): 669. 2 Walter Rothschild, Ernst Hartert, and Karl Jordan, eds., Novitates Zoologicae, vol. 4 (Aylesbury: Hazell, Watson & Viney Ltd., 1897).

222 parts, 1156 articles and was illustrated by over 700 original hand-coloured plates and photographs.

This chapter seeks to examine the factors that led Rothschild to establish a journal, and to consider its implications for Rothschild’s zoological enterprise. It considers the journal’s role in advancing the museum’s scientific agenda which focused on the study of geographical variation (chapter two), in shaping Rothschild’s collecting practices (chapter four), and in mediating his relationships with the wider zoological community. It also aims to develop wider insights into how journals of this type contributed to the construction of natural-historical knowledge in the period.

Existing scholarship on scientific writing has seen historians focus their attention on the various purposes of scientific journals. This has included examination of the role of journals in the creation of scientific facts and in the popularisation of science.3

Historians have also examined how periodicals provided a suitable medium for disseminating, debating and exchanging scientific ideas.4 Geoffrey Cantor and Sally

Shuttleworth, for example, have concluded that periodicals became ‘active ingredients

3 On the creation of scientific fact see Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air- Pump: Hobbes, Boyle, and the Experimental Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985); Charles Bazerman, Shaping Written Knowledge: The Genre and Activity of the Experimental Article in Science (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988); Greg Myers, Writing Biology: Texts in the Social Construction of Scientific Knowledge, Science and Literature (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1990); Alan G. Gross, Joseph E. Harmon, and Michael S. Reidy, Communicating Science: The Scientific Article from the 17th Century to the Present (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). On popularisation see G. N. Cantor and Sally Shuttleworth, eds., Science Serialized: Representation of the Sciences in Nineteenth-Century Periodicals (Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 2004); Ruth Barton, ‘Just before Nature: The Purposes of Science and the Purposes of Popularization in Some English Popular Science Journals of the 1860s’, Annals of Science 55 (1998): 1–33; Bernard V. Lightman, ‘“The Voices of Nature”: Popularizing Victorian Science’, in Victorian Science in Context, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chicago University Press, 1997), 187–211; Susan Sheets-Pyenson, ‘Popular Science Periodicals in Paris and London: The Emergence of a Low Scientific Culture, 1820– 1875’, Annals of Science 42 (1985): 549–72; Aileen Fyfe, Science and Salvation: Evangelical Popular Science Publishing in Victorian Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004). 4 Geoffrey. N. Cantor et al., ‘Introduction’, in Culture and Science in the Nineteenth-Century Media, ed. Louise Henson et al. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), xvii–xxv; Gowan Dawson and Jonathan R. Topham, ‘Science in the Nineteenth-Century Periodical’, Literature Compass 1 (2004); James A. Secord, ‘How Scientific Conversation Became Shop Talk’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 17 (2007): 154.

223 in the ferment of science’.5 In addition, historians such as Melinda Baldwin and Alex

Csiszar have considered how scientific periodicals created, shaped and policed communities of ‘scientists’, both within their pages but also through interactions with the physical object.6 These prior studies have tended to focus on popular periodicals or those journals devoted to experimental work, leaving open questions about the organisation and functions of specialist journals devoted to natural-historical ways of knowing.7 This chapter aims to address these questions by using Novitates as a case study.

The chapter is divided into three sections. It begins by offering a biography of the journal which looks to situate it within the wider context of scientific publishing in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. It reveals that the publication of a scientific journal was a highly unusual undertaking for a private collector and that, as with his public galleries, Rothschild’s actions resembled (while not quite mirroring) those of mainstream scientific organisations, such as the Zoological Society of London

(ZSL). The second section examines the scientific content of the journal, specifically the ways in which it presented the museum’s scientific work, with a view to advancing

Rothschild’s scientific aspirations to map and understand species diversity. It reveals how the journal was firmly connected to the museum’s collections, which were drawn on as a source of scientific authority, and advertised on the pages of the journal to try and tempt zoologists into investigating them. In addition, it shows how Rothschild

5 Cantor and Shuttleworth, Science Serialized, 13. 6 Melinda Baldwin, Making Nature: The History of a Scientific Journal (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015); Aileen Fyfe, Julie McDougall-Waters, and Noah Moxham, ‘350 Years of Scientific Periodicals’, Notes and Records 69 (2015): 227; Alex Csiszar, The Scientific Journal: Authorship and the Politics of Knowledge in the Nineteenth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018); Geoffrey Belknap, ‘Illustrating Natural History: Images, Periodicals, and the Making of Nineteenth-Century Scientific Communities’, BJHS 51 (2018): 395–422; Matthew Wale, ‘Editing Entomology: Natural-History Periodicals and the Shaping of Scientific Communities in Nineteenth- Century Britain’, BJHS, 2019, 1–2. 7 One exception I am aware of is Kristin Johnson, ‘“The Ibis”: Transformations in a Twentieth Century British Natural History Journal’, Journal of the History of Biology 37 (2004): 515–55.

224 used the journal in a similar manner to his public galleries, as a way of emphasising the ‘novelty’ of nature and to make the case for species diversity. The third section explores how, through these and other means, the journal created a community around the museum, and develops insights into that community by exploring its membership and social positioning within the world of natural history.

It might be tempting to consider that writing about the specimens in a journal came after the scientific work had been done. However, this chapter shows that the role of Novitates was not only to enable discussion, dialogue and the continual updating of knowledge, and to communicate and defend the scientific business of the museum. It also enabled Rothschild to acquire more specimens, and to enlist the kinds of help, expertise and knowledge that would make the interpretation of those specimens possible. It was therefore integral to the overall success of Rothschild’s zoological enterprise.

The Journal

As discussed in chapter two, the ‘ultimate aim’ of Tring Museum was ‘the study of the problems of evolution’. Early on Rothschild and his curators recognised that such work would require vast quantities of material collected from many regions around the world.8 Novitates – which was advertised as ‘a new illustrated journal of scientific character’ – showcased the outcome of investigations that they, their collectors, and members of their social network performed on that material.9 Rothschild, Hartert and

Jordan specialised in ornithology and entomology, believing that within these taxa the problems of evolution could best be studied. However, the collection grew rapidly and included acquisitions outside of these remits, which subsequently led them to take the

8 Karl Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, Novitates Zoologicae 41 (1938): 1. 9 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’, The Leeds Mercury, 3 September 1895.

225 decision around 1893 to ‘encourage outside help as much as possible’ to aid with the identification, classification and ordering of specimens.10 This is reflected in the contents of Novitates. In total there were 161 different contributors to the journal between 1894 and 1942.

Figure 1. Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London. In 1897, the editors stated that Novitates would mostly contain ‘Descriptions of new species… almost entirely confined to those of which the types belong to the

Tring Museum’ while ‘Articles on general subjects, are for the most part, founded on work connected with the Tring collection’.11 Issues contained descriptions of new species, accounts of expeditions and discussion pieces. The taxonomic coverage of the

10 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 8. 11 Rothschild, Hartert, and Jordan, Novitates Zoologicae, 1897.

226 articles was extensive, reflecting the broad nature of the collection. Insects and birds featured most frequently, reflecting the specialisms of the Tring curators and the extensive ornithological and entomological collections Rothschild possessed.12

Articles by external contributors addressed other areas such as mammals, reptiles and palaeontology. Their writing provided detailed taxonomic information about species, and their distribution and habitats, which was easily updated as new information became available or existing information was reviewed.

Producing journals in which new discoveries, reports on newly acquired specimens and sponsored activities could be published had become the custom of most scientific institutions and organisations by the end of the nineteenth century. However, it was highly unusual for a private collector and owner of a private museum to embark on such an endeavour.13 Other private collectors did publish their work, but most submitted articles to existing journals or authored monographs rather than commit to the regular production of an entire journal. For instance, Major Percy Powell-Cotton

(1866-1940), whose museum at Quex Park was built in 1896, published his experiences and observations in publications such as The Journal of the Royal African

Society and The Geographical Journal.14 He also wrote monographs, including A

Sporting Trip Through Abyssinia and In Unknown Africa, a copy of which Rothschild held in his library.15 These were more travel narratives than scientific articles, and placed emphasis on exploration, hunting and collecting, rather than showcasing

12 Ibid. 13 ‘Rothschild’s Novitates Zoologicae’, Nature 64 (11 July 1901): 249. 14 ‘Obituaries Percy Powell-Cotton’, The Times, 29 June 1940. 15 Ibid.; P. H. G. Powell-Cotton, A Sporting Trip Through Abyssinia: A Narrative of a Nine Months’ Journey from the Plains of the Hawash to the Snows of Simien, with a Description of the Game, from Elephant to Ibex, and Notes on the Manners and Customs of the Natives (London: Rowland Ward, 1902); P. H. G. Powell-Cotton, In Unknown Africa: A Narrative of Twenty Months’ Travel and Sport in Unknown Lands and among New Tribes (London: Hurst and Blackett, 1904).

227 species diversity and the interconnectedness of species. They offer an example of a very different way in which a private collector could engage with publications.

Other independent gentleman collectors, meanwhile, such as Edward Booth

(1833-1893), did showcase and explore species diversity, although to a lesser extent than Rothschild.16 Booth had coveted a specimen of every species of British bird and amassed a large collection which he displayed in a museum, later bequeathed to the

Brighton Corporation. His publications were based upon his collection, but took the form of catalogues, one of which was published in three illustrated volumes entitled

Rough Notes on the Birds Observed during Twenty-five years' Shooting and Collecting in the British Islands.17 These catalogues allowed Booth to document and briefly describe his collection and its growth over time. They recorded the existence of species, documented ownership and added some comments on natural history, but they did not facilitate the same level of engagement as specialist journals, where authors were able to go further and add to the scientific understanding of species. Rothschild’s approach was therefore unusual in comparison to most private collectors and that he was able to take this approach can be directly attributed to the resources he had at his disposal. Rothschild’s wealth enabled him to embark on a much more ambitious enterprise than these other collectors, and therefore to stake much bigger claims for the significance of his collection.

This becomes even more evident when it is considered that, to my knowledge, only two other zoological collectors produced their own journals in this period. The first was the civil servant, ornithologist and botanist Allan Octavian Hume (1829-

16 See also Henry A. McGhie, Henry Dresser and Victorian Ornithology: Birds, Books and Business (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2017), 100. Dresser built his collection of birds to support his monograph A History of the Birds of Europe, which was intended to provide a comprehensive account of ‘European’ species. 17 Edward Thomas Booth and E. Neale, Rough Notes on the Birds Observed during Twenty-Five Years Shooting and Collecting in the British Islands (London, 1881).

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1912).18 Based in India during the nineteenth century, Hume acquired an extensive collection of Indian bird skins which was looked after by a curator, who was sent on expeditions to other parts of India in order to expand the collection. By 1884 Hume’s collection totalled over 80,000 specimens, while his bibliography included monographs such as My Scrapbook: Or Rough Notes on Indian Oology and

Ornithology (1869) and Game Birds of India, Burmah and Ceylon (1879-1881).19 In

1872 Hume had founded his own journal entitled Stray Feathers, which was published between 1873 and 1899.20 Consisting of 11 volumes, far fewer than Novitates, it contained articles on birds from across India, reviews of ornithological literary works, as well as a ‘Letters to the Editor’ section, with contributions written by a range of contributors and correspondents interested in the field of ornithology.

18 See Edward C. Moulton, ‘Hume, Allan Octavian (1829-1912)’, in The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, ed. David Cannadine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/34049; N.J. Collar and R.P Prŷs-Jones, ‘Pioneer of Asian Ornithology: Allan Octavian Hume’, Birding ASIA 17 (2012): 17–43. 19 F.C.R. Jourdain, ‘Obituary: The Late A.O. Hume, C.B.’, British Birds 6 (1 November 1912): 195. 20 Ibid.

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Figure 2. Opening Page of Stray Feathers (1879). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage

Library. Contributed by Smithsonian Libraries.

Stray Feathers is significantly different to Novitates in design and content. The title is dissimilar and the presence of reviews and letters introduces dialogue in a way that is not seen within Novitates. The opening cover is more aesthetically pleasing; however, there are significantly fewer illustrations overall, and, those that there are predominantly take the form of foldout maps. This is likely due to Hume not being an affluent man of independent means like Rothschild, but a civil servant who needed to earn his living. Another crucial difference is that its content focuses exclusively on ornithology, rather than having the breadth and diversity of animal species represented

230 within Novitates. This, I argue, is the result of the differing purposes of the two journals. Novitates was the product of the work Tring Museum was doing on species distribution, while Stray Feathers was intended as a means of communication between

‘professed ornithologists’ and ‘innumerable “bird-fanciers”’ working ‘on the spot [in

India] amongst living birds’.21 Hume was therefore looking for his journal to fulfil a very different purpose to Rothschild’s and the overall character of Stray Feathers is indicative of this. There is a further crucial difference. Whereas the editors of Novitates had explicitly stated that articles were to be ‘founded on work connected with the

Tring collection’, Hume did not make the same declaration or suggest that work contained within Stray Feathers should be tied to his collection.22 Hume’s journal was an instrument of communication between a select group of people, while Rothschild’s was an all-encompassing statement of the methods, aims, purposes and contents of an increasingly vast collection.

In contrast, and like Rothschild and his curators, the editor of the second example did establish a firm connection between his journal and collection. Wealthy businessman and lepidopterist James John Joicey (1871-1932) built the Hill Museum in Witley, Surrey, in 1913 to house his increasing collection of exotic and British

Lepidoptera, which by 1930 consisted of some 380,000 specimens.23 In 1921 the museum began to publish The Bulletin of the Hill Museum: A Magazine of

Lepidopterology, with Joicey and the museum’s curator, George Talbot (1882-1952), as its editors. The Bulletin consisted of four volumes made up of three parts, issued at irregular intervals between 1921 and 1932, with most articles written by Joicey and

21 Allan Octavian Hume, Stray Feathers. Journal of Ornithology for India and Its Dependencies, vol. 1 (Calcutta: A. Action, Calcutta Central Press, 1872). 22 Rothschild, Hartert, and Jordan, Novitates Zoologicae, 1897. The description is given on a back page. 23 James John Joicey and George Talbot, The Bulletin of the Hill Museum: A Magazine of Lepidopterology, vol. 1 (London: John Bale & Sons, 1921), 4.

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Talbot, but with contributions from other notable entomologists, including L.B Prout,

Sir George F. Hampson and Professor E.B. Poulton. Most parts cost either 15 or 30 shillings and contained several illustrative plates.

Relative to Stray Feathers, The Bulletin shared many more similarities with

Novitates, namely that it was established with the same intention, of publishing the

Hill Museum’s research, and shared a co-dependence with Joicey’s collection. As

Talbot described: ‘The primary object of Mr. Joicey in making this collection of

Lepidoptera is to advance in some way our scientific knowledge’. This included obtaining and naming new species, exploring distribution and relationships and investigating the ‘many doubtful questions affecting species distinctions’.24 The

Bulletin would:

‘[give] to the entomological world the results of studies carried out at the Hill Museum […] The collections at the Hill Museum have increased so largely, and the work on them is assuming such proportions that it is felt we should have our own publication to deal with the results […] It is proposed that this journal be issued half-yearly, but more frequent publication may be possible should there be a sufficient number of subscribers.’25 The similarities between Joicey and Rothschild’s journals are striking, and it seems likely that Joicey modelled his approach on that of Rothschild, with whom he had shared a rivalry since the turn of the century when they had competed over orchids.26

The two institutions were also in correspondence, and Jordan visited the Hill Museum on several occasions.27 If this was an act of imitation then it is evidence of how

24 Ibid., 1:5. 25 Ibid., 1:3. 26 The Joicey manuscript collection is held by the NHM, London. The collection is accompanied by an information sheet on James John Joicey produced by the Godalming Museum (2015) from which this information is taken. Rothschild was not only interested in zoology but also in botany. Prior to 1908 he had a considerable collection of live orchids and was given several awards for his horticultural achievements. See Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 14. 27 ‘Visitors’ Book: The Hill Museum, Witley, Surrey. 1914-1932’, n.d., Entomology Manuscripts MSS JOI A 1:1, NHM, London.

232 successful Rothschild and his curators had been in their publishing efforts, although there were some critical differences. Like Stray Feathers, The Bulletin focused on a single taxon – Lepidoptera – and unlike Novitates, was reliant on subscribers. As explored in chapter one, Novitates was not a commercial success, but Rothschild continued to publish unabated. In contrast, The Bulletin appeared at irregular intervals and was shorter-lived. Hume and Joicey were clearly aware of the prestige and the scientific and networking benefits that came with producing a journal, but it was a hugely costly undertaking, and while the benefits did outweigh the cost for Rothschild, for others those costs were prohibitively high and made it much more difficult for them to connect those discoveries and theories in a single, endlessly-updated body of work, such as a journal.

In fact, Novitates has many more similarities with the journals of learned societies such as Proceedings of the Zoological Society (PZSL) and the Proceedings of the Linnean Society (PLS). In the first instance, a subscription to Novitates cost £1

1s, a price comparable to that of other natural history journals in production at the time.28 In 1894 the annual subscription to Ibis was also £1 1s, the Transactions of the

Entomological Society of London was sold to Fellows for £1 2s 11d, while the subscription fee for the Transactions of the Zoological Society of London was again

£1 1s for Fellows.29 Similar to Society journals, Novitates drew on a network of individuals associated with an institution who in turn published their findings in it, together with illustrative plates. It is interesting that the Transactions of the Zoological

Society was produced in the larger folio format compared to the more common octavo

28 ‘The Rothschild Museum at Tring’. 29 British Ornithologists’ Union., Ibis, vol. 6 (London, 1894); Royal Entomological Society of London, Transactions of the Entomological Society of London. (London, 1894); Zoological Society of London, Transactions of the Zoological Society of London (London, 1895).

233 form the others took, a decision the Society attributed to ‘the nature of the plates required to illustrate them’.30

Novitates was not only similar to society publications in regard to price, format and the presence of illustrations, but in the way in which authors drew on the collections belonging to or affiliated with their organisations for source material, which they then used to derive authority and seek validation for their work. Rothschild made explicit references to the specimens he worked on and upon which he based his conclusions, both in Novitates and in other publications. In his article ‘Note on a new

Antelope’ published in the Annals and Magazine of Natural History (1897), for instance, he commented how his description was based on the ‘two skulls with horns, of a male and of a female, and parts of the skin of the body’ that he had ‘before’ him.31

Similar references are made in articles within PZSL, which highlight how its contributors also drew conclusions based on material within the collection of ZSL’s zoological gardens, as well as collections owned by other members of the Society, such as the Earl of Derby and his collection at Knowsley. In his article ‘On Two new

Tree-Frogs from Sierra Leone, recently living in the Society’s Gardens’, for example,

Edward Boulenger explained how he had based his descriptions of two new frogs in a collection of reptiles and batrachians from Sierra Leone presented to the Society by

Mr. Guy Aylmer.32

Rothschild was able to present his museum as a comparable enterprise to national collections by organising the journal around it. This was a crucial rhetorical strategy, for it established his collection as an object of public and

30 Royal Entomological Society of London, Transactions of the Entomological Society of London.; Zoological Society of London, Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London (London, 1900). 31 Lionel Walter Rothschild, ‘Note on a New Antelope’, Annals and Magazine of Natural History 20 (1897): 376–77. 32 Edward G. Boulenger, ‘On Two New Tree-Frogs from Sierra Leone, Recently Living in the Society’s Gardens’, in PZSL (London, 1915), 243–45.

234 national/international importance and distanced it from the image of a ‘private collection’ at a gentleman’s home. Once again, and reinforcing findings from chapters two and three, the publication of Novitates highlights the ambiguity that surrounds

Tring Museum and where it sits in the spectrum of public and private museums, but also of Rothschild’s status as an ‘amateur’, because what he strove for and achieved, equated to professional zoologists in national institutions. Rothschild was neither

‘professional’ nor ‘amateur’ in the way he approached publication and thereby serves as a critical example for demonstrating the problematic nature of these categories.

The critical difference between Novitates and other comparable society journals was that there no society associated with it and no membership from which its subscribers could benefit. In contrast to Novitates, those receiving the Transactions of the Zoological Society, for example, benefited from formal inclusion within the community of naturalists that had grown around that institution. Members were given the title of Fellow and were eligible for personal admittance to the zoological gardens.

They could offer access to guests, receive Society publications and could attend regular Society meetings to hear and even present papers on current research.33

Rothschild may therefore have modelled his own journal on those produced by the learned societies, in order to build a similar community around his own collection, but he does not appear to have tried to emulate the entire arrangement adopted by the likes of ZSL. There were no Fellows of Tring Museum and Rothschild did not convene regular meetings. In fact, subscribers were offered a more comparable arrangement to those members of societies that were remote from London, whose only interaction with the institution would have been through the journal. The resultant community that gathered around Tring Museum was therefore a virtual one, individuals crossing

33 Zoological Society of London, Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London (London, 1894).

235 paths occasionally within the museum’s collections but usually those relationships having been constructed through correspondence, at other society meetings and through the lending of specimens, interactions which often translated onto the pages of Novitates through the acts of contribution and subscription.34

Emulating a society journal best allowed Rothschild to take forward his scientific agenda. Rothschild needed a lavishly-produced, heavily-illustrated journal on the size and scale of the journals of learned societies in order to make a powerful and persuasive case not only for species diversity, but also for its significance as an explanatory tool for biologists and natural historians. A catalogue could not hope to capture the complexity and open-endedness of this species diversity – which, by its very nature, would require constant updating, extending and further explanation. A travel narrative, meanwhile, would shift focus from the multiplicity and interconnectedness of the natural world onto the exploits of the travellers and collectors who attempted to reveal it. And a more specific journal, like Stray Feathers or The Bulletin, could only hope to communicate knowledge between a taxonomically- specialised set of contributors and readers, rather than to embrace the diversity in the wider animal kingdom that Novitates sought to illustrate. The next two sections will explore how Rothschild used Novitates not only to disseminate research findings, but also to enlist the manpower, knowledge and expertise for classifying and displaying his extensive collection of specimens.

Novitates and Tring Museum’s Scientific Agenda

As discussed in chapter two, Rothschild was a polarising figure in the zoological community. Firstly, people objected to his participation on sociological grounds – he

34 ‘Ernst Hartert to Gregory M. Mathews’, 13 October 1913, TR1/34/355, NHM, London. An example where Hartert is seeking the return of some specimens which Mathews had ‘had out’ since July.

236 did not have the training it was considered necessary to be a zoologist and was regarded in some quarters as a mere wealthy private collector. Secondly, Tring

Museum was in conflict with the British zoological establishment, who, as discussed in chapter two, conceived of species narrowly, concluded that minor variation justified classification as a species in its own right, and were resistant to the use of trinomial nomenclature. The establishment of Novitiates, then, was a bold statement of dissent from that community, set up by Rothschild and his curators to rival, counter and challenge the British zoological community and to stand as an alternative platform for zoological research. The scientific content of Novitates reveals three interwoven key features Rothschild and his curators used to achieve these goals. Firstly, and most importantly, Novitates foregrounded their scientific agenda and day-to-day work, emphasising species diversity throughout. Secondly, Novitates was used to advertise the collection, both to attract a network of zoologists who would help with its interpretation, but also to justify the need for a collection on the size and scale of

Rothschild’s that pushed at the boundaries of existing classifications. Finally, articles by Rothschild employed ‘novelty’ and ‘wonder’ in a manner reminiscent of the public galleries, in order to ‘showcase’ his collection and inspire and enthuse readers. These may seem three disparate features but all were engaged to make a powerful case for the study and importance of species diversity.

Novitates and species diversity

The contents of Novitates covered a broad spectrum of taxonomic groups, reflecting the breadth and diversity of animal species, and in this regard draws yet further parallels to general zoological journals such as those of the Linnean Society, rather than the more specialist journals produced by the likes of the British Ornithologists’

Union or Royal Entomological Society. Novitates most frequently included articles on

237

Lepidoptera and Aves, which reflected the specialisms of Rothschild and his curators and their interest in geographical distribution and problems of evolution. There are also substantial numbers of articles on Coleoptera, Siphonaptera and Mammalia, whereas other taxonomic groups feature less prominently, as shown in Figure 3.

Figure 3.35

Adhering to what would be expected of a specialist scientific journal, Novitates projected outwards the work of the museum, a factor which scholars have argued was important for establishing scientific knowledge. Charles Bazerman, for instance, has argued that in order to persuade other scientists to believe a finding, a scientist would have to have shown their colleagues what they had found, and only by making that fact ‘communal’ could they ‘claim discovery of that fact for oneself and reap the rewards of it’.36 By extending the witnessing experience in order to secure the acceptance and validation of a discovery, natural history journals are therefore similar to the experimental articles Bazerman examines. However, while Bazerman, Shapin

35 I produced these data by going through the contents pages of each volume of Novitates Zoologicae and recording the total number of articles within each category. The categories shown above are those originally used by the journal’s Editors. 36 Bazerman, Shaping Written Knowledge, 140.

238 and Schaffer all emphasise the importance of the scientific article in enabling the real or otherwise imaginative replication of scientific findings in order to secure their status as 'facts', as much as Novitates facilitates replication of this kind, it also emphasises the sheer novelty of its specimens.37 This is a crucial difference. Species might be so rare as to be seen by one researcher, once – whose findings were therefore essentially impossible to replicate, and while the novelty of a species, subspecies or its

'witnessing' might render those findings subject to dispute or controversy, on the pages of Novitates, that novelty was cultivated and even prized rather than downplayed. The astonishing novelty and endless variety of the natural world made an eloquent case not only for species diversity, but for the inadequacy of existing binomial scientific nomenclature, in addition to a strong case for the need for a collection like

Rothschild's, which pushed endlessly at the boundaries of existing classifications.

The journal therefore became a bastion of the museum’s distinct scientific approach and was used alongside the collection to advance the case for the use of trinomials in zoological nomenclature – the addition of a third name to indicate that a specimen was a subspecies. This form of nomenclature gave precedence to geographical variation and allowed evolutionary relationships to be signposted within the classificatory system. As discussed in chapter two, Rothschild and his curators were strong advocates of trinomial nomenclature and they made it a core tenet of

Novitates:

‘The term “variety,” especially among entomologists, has been indiscriminately used to denote an individual variation within a species as well as climatic or geographical races. We therefore, to avoid all possible errors, have determined to discard the term “variety” altogether. To denote individual variations we shall, in this periodical, employ the word

37 Ibid.; Shapin and Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air-Pump, 60–61.

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aberration, and for geographical forms, which cannot rank as full species, the term subspecies.’38 Rothschild and his curators were able to use the journal to help project a specific vision of classification and at the same time make a case for its wider adoption.

As Baldwin has argued, journals in this period were instrumental in helping scientific communities ‘to promote both their own work and their visions of what science and its practitioners should be like’.39 In the case of Novitates, readers and contributors were encouraged to become familiar with and to use trinomials, which were deployed extensively throughout its pages where new subspecies were described or existing subspecies were referred to. Over time this proved to be successful as contributors to Novitates opted to use trinomial nomenclature and it gradually became a more widely accepted practice. For instance, in his article ‘Further Notes on

Hummingbirds’, Hartert discussed a series of skins the museum had received from collector O.T. Baron. He began by categorising the birds into their genus Metallura and identified them as belonging to the species Metallura smaragdinicollis. However, he then went on to describe how these specimens from North Peru differed from the specimens of Metallura smaragdinicollis which came from more southern parts of

Peru and Bolivia, on account of their colouration, body size and wing span. He therefore concluded that these specimens were in fact a subspecies and designated them ‘Metallura smaragdinicollis septentrionalis subsp. nov.’.40 This article provides a clear example of how Tring Museum’s interest in geographical variation played out on the pages of Novitates and is typical of the identification and discussion of subspecies found throughout the journal.

38 Walter Rothschild, Ernst Hartert, and Karl Jordan, eds., Novitates Zoologicae, vol. 1 (Aylesbury: Hazell, Watson & Viney Ltd, 1894). 39 Baldwin, Making Nature, 5–6. 40 Ernst Hartert, ‘Further Notes on Hummingbirds’, Novitates Zoologicae 6 (1899): 73.

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In terms of style and content, articles within Novitates fall into five main categories: those which offer long accounts of species obtained from particular regions; accounts of expeditions; discussion pieces; descriptions of new species; and

‘revisions’ – articles where authors would attempt to reorder and classify specific taxa.41 Of these, it is those which directly claim to describe ‘new species’ which appear most frequently. Indeed, while the taxonomic coverage of the journal varies greatly,

34% of articles directly signal within their titles that they are describing a ‘new’ genus, species or subspecies. For Rothschild this percentage is even greater with 46% of his articles directly making such a claim.42

The emphasis placed on novelty was not unusual for late-nineteenth century natural history journals. Kristin Johnson has shown novelty to be a key feature of Ibis during this period, in her assessment of the publication’s history.43 Further examples are provided by the Proceedings of the Zoological Society (PZSL) and the Proceedings of the Linnean Society (PLS), both of which contained articles describing new species, documenting expeditions, and remarking on new observations. Csiszar has argued that publishing a paper formalised the discovery and description of a new species – ‘a discovery only counted once it had been published’ and periodical literature was subsequently ‘perceived not simply as an aid to discovery but also as an essential constituent of the act of discovery itself.’44

However, as in the case of both PZSL and PLS, this ‘newness’ was a feature of earlier incarnations of zoological journals and had begun to be replaced by articles

41 ‘The Congress of Zoology’, The Standard, 30 August 1898. 42 I obtained this data by surveying the titles of each article within Novitates and working out the total number that contained the word ‘new’ as a percentage of the overall whole. 43 Johnson, ‘“The Ibis”: Transformations in a Twentieth Century British Natural History Journal’, 522. 44 Alex Csiszar, ‘How Lives Became Lists and Scientific Papers Became Data: Cataloguing Authorship during the Nineteenth Century’, BJHS 50 (2017): 26.

241 which were based on topics that made direct reference to morphology, the functions of specific body parts, and animal behaviour by the time Rothschild began publishing

Novitates in 1894. Issues of the PLS from the 1890s-1900s, for example, include articles on topics such as thoracic glands, mesial fins and skeletons, rather than overall physical descriptions, and had developed into articles focused on chromosomes, feeding mechanisms and post-embryonic development by 1910-1930. The change in content reflects the growth of biology in the late-nineteenth century, which has been well documented by historians of science such as Lynn Nyhart and John Pickstone, who have also shown how zoologists had by this time adopted experimental approaches in order to test predictive hypotheses relating to the study of form and development, in addition to dissection and microscopy.45 With the rise of the laboratory there had been a shift away from traditional museum-based taxonomy, and while this had continued, as shown on the pages of Novitates, the areas of research that looked below the surface of a specimen had begun to dominate as reflected on the pages of PZSL and PLS. A simple reading and comparison of contents therefore reveals notable differences in the coverage of articles within Novitates, with it maintaining a tone much more reminiscent of the earlier incarnations of its rivals and heavily populated with descriptions of new species. These findings would appear to confirm historians’ claims that natural history and the traditional descriptive practices used to investigate nature had been supplanted by the more investigative and experimental methods practiced by professional zoologists at this time.46 Likewise,

45 John V. Pickstone, Ways of Knowing: A New History of Science, Technology and Medicine (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), See Chapter 3,5,6; Lynn K. Nyhart, ‘Natural History and the “new” Biology’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 426–43; Lynn K. Nyhart, Modern Nature: The Rise of the Biological Perspective in Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009). 46 D.E. Allen, ‘On Parallel Lines: Natural History and Biology from the Late Victorian Period’, Archives of Natural History 25 (1998): 361; David Elliston Allen, ‘Amateurs and Professionals’, in

242 they suggest that there may have been some truth to Rothschild’s critics’ claims that he was simply concerned with possessing and identifying new species. But as discussed in chapter two, the agenda adopted by Rothschild and his curators was built on evolutionary principles and that rationale is not reflected in article titles. Thus, the impression given by this comparison is misleading, as it omits to consider the broader evolutionary questions that drove the investigation of nature at Tring Museum.

The process of identification and classification that was undertaken at Tring

Museum played out on the pages of the journal. Each article offered its readers transparency as to how Rothschild and his curators had arrived at their conclusions.

Articles could span across a single page or hundreds, depending on the number of species that article set out to describe and what type of article it was, but there are many similarities in the structure of each article. The lengthier articles, those which offered accounts of species from particular regions, accounts of expeditions and revisions, tended to begin with a narrative introduction which provided background information. ‘On the Birds collected by Mr. Meek on Rossel Island in the Louisade

Archipelago’, for instance, begins with Hartert identifying and describing the geography of the location in which the birds were collected and reflecting on the little that was known about birds from that region, therefore suggesting to the reader the original motive for the museum in sending collectors there.47 This type of article would then usually give a description of the species, either over a single page, or in the case of the longer articles, as a long list of specimens, where each would be dealt with in turn by genus, species and subspecies. The first page of an example of this, for the case of Lepidoptera, can be seen in Figure 4.

The Cambridge History of Science, ed. Peter J. Bowler and John V. Pickstone (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 24. 47 Ernst Hartert, ‘On the Birds Collected by Mr. Meek on Rossel Island in the Louisade Archipelago’, Novitates Zoologicae 6 (1899): 76.

243

Figure 4. ‘Some New Eastern Lepidoptera,’ Novitates Zoologicae (1899). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London.48

A description began by giving the full Latin name of the species followed by a physical description of the specimen. This would include details of external morphological characteristics and measurements, which would be combined with

48 Rothschild was awarded an Honorary PhD by Giessen University in 1898.

244 information on habitat and the total number and sex (where possible) of specimens, on which conclusions were based. In the case of mammals, this could also include reference to the life-stage of the animal, e.g. Rothschild establishing in Figure 5 that the specimen he was examining was an ‘adult’. In the case of birds, remarks were often made on the condition of the plumage of a specimen. Hartert, for instance, noted how some had ‘good plumage’ compared to others which had ‘fair plumage’ and provides an example of how the terms and conditions issued to collectors and suppliers, discussed in chapter four, fed through into scientific knowledge and were translated onto the pages of the journal.49 Finally there would be information on where the specimens had been collected or to which collection it had previously belonged.

Figure 5. ‘Propithecus majori sp.nov.’, Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London.

49 Walter Rothschild, ‘Propithecus Majori Sp. Nov.’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1894): 666; Ernst Hartert and Clara Hartert, ‘On a Collection of Humming-Birds from Ecuador and Mexico’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1894): 43–65.

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An article expressly dedicated to the description of a new species is given in

Figure 5. Published in 1894, the article takes its title from the new species Rothschild was describing, Propithecus majori sp.nov., which is today known as Verreaux's sifaka, a lemur. It is a single page article and evidence of the features listed above can be observed. Readers are given a thorough description of the specimen’s physique before Rothschild concludes that this specimen is closest to P. verreauxi Grandid.,

‘but no doubt an entirely new species’.50 He then referenced the fact he had based this description of ‘a number of specimens, all perfectly alike in colour’, which were sent to him by a Mr. Last from the Antinosy country in south-west Madagascar.51

This example demonstrates two things. Firstly, it documents the comparative work zoologists within Novitates were conducting in order to determine the interconnected nature of ‘new’ discoveries and existing ones. In this example,

Rothschild compared the specimens retrieved by his collectors from specific locations to those specimens he already had within his collection or to those identified and described by others, which he may have read about in other publications or viewed in other collections. But it also demonstrates the precise ways in which the collection became tied to the work produced for the journal, for Rothschild and other authors drew directly on material from the Tring collection for supporting evidence, to give their conclusions authority.

Novitates and the collection

Similar tactics are seen elsewhere in the journal. As in the examples given above, most descriptions directly referred to the number and sex of specimens upon which the observation had been made, the name of the collector, and information on habitat.

50 Rothschild, ‘Propithecus Majori Sp. Nov.’ 51 Ibid.

246

These references are particularly prominent in cases where Rothschild disagreed with another zoologist and used his long series of specimens to support his position. In his article ‘Notes on Sphingidae’, for example, Rothschild responded to an article on the

Lepidoptera of the Khasia Hills by Colonel Swinhoe, which had been published in a recent edition of the Transactions of the Entomological Society.52 Disagreeing with some of Swinhoe’s classifications, Rothschild proceeded to challenge him by drawing on his own collection for supporting evidence and using retorts such as: ‘…though in my opinion (backed by a good series)…’, ‘…but I have a fine series, and am certain of my identification’ and finally, ‘I have had from the Khasia Hills hundreds of specimens, and among them every intermediate form between these so-called species’.53 Rothschild made bold statements when challenging Swinhoe, which illustrate how the collection was explicitly used in such cases as a source of scientific authority. Rothschild could draw evidence from his collection to either support or criticise the work of others – the more material, the greater the certainty with which his conclusions could be delivered and thus, this example demonstrates how

Rothschild’s collecting practices, described in chapter four, translated into the creation of scientific knowledge. Moreover, it suggests the power of the collection as an explanatory tool that Rothschild could be seen as advertising. Readers who had just read how useful Rothschild’s specimens were to him as he authoritatively took on other people’s classifications would be enticed to come and work on it.

The role of the journal in advertising the collection, both as a source of scientific authority and in an attempt to recruit assistance, can also be seen in the way in which illustrations were used with Novitates. Articles which described new species

52 Walter Rothschild, ‘Additional Notes on Sphingidae’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1894): 664. 53 Ibid.

247 would often be complemented by illustrative plates that offered a visual interpretation to accompany the descriptive one, and provide a further point for comparison between

Novitiates and society journals. The introduction to the PZSL stated how a ‘large number of coloured plates and engravings [were] attached to each annual volume of the “Proceedings,” to illustrate the new or otherwise remarkable species of animals described in them’.54 This approach is also evident within Novitates, the image by J.G.

Keulemans shown in Figure 6 that accompanied Rothschild’s article ‘Propithecus majori sp.nov’, being just one of the many plates depicting ‘new’ species that were included within Novitates throughout its run.

54 Zoological Society of London, Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London, 1900.

248

Figure 6. Plate XIV Propithecus majori, Rothsch. by J.G. Keulemans, Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London.

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As Brian Ford has argued, scientific illustration was intended to be both didactic and instructive, ‘an aid to recording and recognition’.55 By including illustrations within his journal, Rothschild was able to offer his readers an interpretation of what the living animal would have looked like, based on the specimens he owned and had used to draw his conclusions. The artists Rothschild employed to produce these plates would visit Tring Museum repeatedly to see and sketch the specimens which were to feature in the journal to ensure a high level of accuracy.56 These illustrations were therefore also a crucial means through which

Rothschild could display his collection, showcase some of his most prized objects, and support his scientific claims, especially to those readers who may have otherwise lacked access to the specimens. As with Figure 6, in the case of mammals and birds this often involved the reanimation of the specimen which would be shown in-situ, rather than a depiction of a scientific specimen, as seen more often in the entomological illustrations, where drawings for several articles would often be grouped together on the same plate, as shown by examples in Figures 7 and 8, which depict twenty-five figures pertaining to seven different articles.

55 Brian John Ford, Images of Science: A History of Scientific Illustration (London: British Library, 1992), 75; Charlotte Sleigh, The Paper Zoo: 500 Years of Animals in Art (London: The British Library, 2016), 18; Kärin Nickelsen, ‘Image and Nature’, in Worlds of Natural History, ed. Helen Anne Curry et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 222–23. 56 ‘John Gerrard Keulemans to Karl Jordan’, 30 June 1895, TM1/14/10, NHM, London.

250

Figure 7. Plates XII Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage

Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London.

251

Figure 8. Plate XIII Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage

Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London.

252

This reanimation reverted a specimen back to its original form and was part of a trend in zoological illustration which emerged over the course of the nineteenth century, beginning with the work of John James Audubon (1785-1851) in the 1820s.

As Jennifer L. Roberts has argued, in his Birds of America (1827-1838) Audubon had attempted to ‘enliven ornithological illustration by depicting birds in action, “alive and moving” in their habitual postures and behaviours’, and succeeded in inspiring successive generations of zoological artists to follow a similar technique.57 The use of reanimation in Novitates therefore suggests the interest of Rothschild and his curators not just in possessing specimens of new species, but in being able to showcase species diversity and an understanding of species in the environments which helped to define and categorise them. The journal’s opulent illustrations and commitment to describing new species therefore allow a reader to get a sense of the sheer diversity and interconnectedness of animal species, which were central to Rothschild’s arguments about evolution, but also of the specific significance of his collection and its geographical origins.

Further evidence of reanimation can be seen in the way in which specimen description within the journal progressed in line with the processes involved in their collection and accession into the museum collection. An account of an expedition would often be the first in a series of articles written on the specimens collected. The initial article provided the introduction and background to the expedition, often detailing the original incentive, participants involved and, in some cases, including a day-to-day journal of the expedition. Rothschild and Hartert’s 1899 article, ‘A Review of the Ornithology of the Galapagos Islands, with Notes on the Webster-Harris

57 Jennifer L. Roberts, Transporting Visions: The Movement of Images in Early America (University of California Press, 2014), 71. See also Valérie Chansigaud, ‘Scientific Illustrators’, in A Companion to the History of Science, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chichester, UK: John Wiley & Sons, 2016), 116.

253

Expedition’ includes a wonderful transcript of the journal kept by the expedition’s chief naturalist, Charles Miller Harris, which documented the expedition’s progress.

On July 25th, for instance, readers learn how Harris had observed thousands of birds

‘circling about the island; their cries […] literally deafening!’ while ‘The rocks are whitened and streaked with the excrements of the birds’.58 These inclusions bring to life the expeditions and individuals involved, complementing the lengthy descriptive articles with much more engaging narratives, in much the same way that Rothschild had looked to achieve in his public galleries with the assistance of his museum’s

Guide. In both the journal and his public galleries, Rothschild seemingly wanted to both instruct and entertain/inspire, whether that be members of the public or fellow naturalists, and bringing in personal observations and comments was a way of achieving that goal.

Articles which detailed expeditions would often then be followed by further articles, either in the same or subsequent parts, which documented the progress of the specimens once they had arrived at the museum and work had begun to identify and classify them. After Rothschild received a collection from the Natuna Islands in 1894 he published a two page article entitled ‘Introduction to ‘Glimpses of the Zoology of the Natuna Islands,’ which was followed by ‘List of the First Collection of Mammals from the Natuna Islands’ by Oldfield Thomas and Ernst Hartert, also published in

1894, and then a further contribution in 1900 by Oldfield Thomas on ‘The Red Flying

Squirrel of the Natuna Islands’.59 In this last article Oldfield Thomas sought to correct the classification he originally made in 1894, attributing his decision to the fact that

58 Walter Rothschild and Ernst Hartert, ‘A Review of the Ornithology of the Galapagos Islands with Notes on the Webster-Harris Expedition.’, Novitates Zoologicae 6 (1899): 89. 59 Walter Rothschild, ‘First Glimpses of the Zoology of the Natuna Islands’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1894): 467–68; Ernst Hartert and Oldfield Thomas, ‘List of the First Collection of Mammals from the Natuna Islands’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1894): 652–61; Oldfield Thomas, ‘The Red Flying Squirrel of the Natuna Islands’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1900): 592.

254 by 1900 he could make a ‘comparison with more material than was formerly available’.60 Articles did not stand alone but were part of the larger project undertaken by the museum to understand species distribution and the interconnectedness of species. Articles built up over time, to be referred back to and developed as more material became available. Efforts to understand evolution were themselves an evolving process, dependent on the discovery and identification of new material, a process which was translated onto the pages of Novitates through the production of sequences of articles such as these, as new specimens came into Rothschild’s collection.

Novitates and Rothschild

The scientific content of Novitates foregrounded the museum’s scientific agenda and the collections but, just as with the public galleries, these objectives sat alongside displays of Rothschild’s own personal authorship of the collection, and his articles within Novitates placed even greater emphasis on novelty as a means by which to highlight species diversity. This is most apparent in the articles I have termed

‘discussion pieces’, those where Rothschild indulged in his special interests such as albinism and giant tortoises. Again, the inclusion of articles on these subjects mirrors

Rothschild’s activities in his public galleries, where visitors similarly encountered numerous specimens with albinism and lots of examples of giant tortoises. These articles tended to be much shorter in length and appeared less frequently, but consisted of observations that Rothschild considered to be particularly interesting or unusual.

Introducing his 1894 article ‘On Albino Swallows and Wheatears’, Rothschild remarked how, owing to the fact that little was known about albinism, he anticipated that ‘any little contribution to its understanding is welcome’ and his belief that his

60 Thomas, ‘The Red Flying Squirrel of the Natuna Islands’.

255 remarks would be more interesting ‘than a list and descriptions of the many entirely and partly albinistic specimens of birds and mammals’ which he had in his collection.61 Images would often accompany these articles. ‘On Giant Land-

Tortoises’, for instance, was produced alongside a reproduction of the photograph he had been sent after making unsuccessful enquiries into the possibility of purchasing the tortoise depicted, from the Artillery Barracks at Port Louis, Mauritius (Figure 9).

Based on the photograph, Rothschild conducted an identification, deeming the tortoise

‘to be the only living or perfect extant of Dumeril’s Testudo indica’, and therefore worthy of being the subject of an article in which he recalled the events.62

Figure 9. ‘On Giant Land Tortoises,’ Novitates Zoologicae (1894). Image from the Biodiversity Heritage Library. Contributed by Natural History Museum Library, London.

These articles provide interesting examples of how Rothschild used the journal to tell the human stories involved in specimen collection and how a specimen could transition from an animal to a museum specimen, and directly reflect the curatorial

61 Walter Rothschild, ‘On Albino Swallows and Wheatears’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1894): 667. 62 Walter Rothschild, ‘On Giant Land Tortoises’, Novitates Zoologicae 1 (1894): 676.

256 practices he used to inform his public displays, as discussed in chapter three. There is a direct symmetry between how Rothschild looked to communicate with public audiences and with his fellow zoologists, and in both instances, he drew upon his passion and enthusiasm for all things natural history to captivate their interest and inspire wonder at the natural world.

These articles further highlight how Rothschild’s writing was typical of the traditional natural-historical style, which emphasised wonder and aesthetics, while at the same time conveying valuable insights into evolutionary science.63 Jordan was critical of Rothschild’s tendency towards a ‘frequent lack of detail’ and described his approach to be like that of ‘an artist’ who perceived ‘the animal as a whole and not the details which made up the picture’, and so, in describing a small insect, would ‘[paint] in words a picture that was vividly formed in his mind without the substructure of detail which would have been revealed by the cold lenses of a microscope’.64

Rothschild was not emotionally disconnected from his work. His use of expressions such as a ‘magnificent species’, ‘this very fine insect’ and ‘very handsome species’ make what are plain, standard descriptions that much livelier, and hark back to David

E. Allen’s argument that natural history periodicals were a domain in which Victorians felt they could express their unseriousness and fun, their charm being the ‘candour’ and ‘unselfconscious enthusiasm’ that comes across.65

The use of personal expression may not have been unusual for natural history texts in the nineteenth century, but by the turn of the century it had begun to depart from scientific discourse and was replaced by an increased use of technical language

63 David Elliston Allen, The Naturalist in Britain: A Social History (London: A. Lane, 1976), 394; Anne Larsen, ‘Equipment for the Field’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 360. 64 Jordan, ‘In Memory of Lord Rothschild’, 9. 65 Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 83.

257 and in-depth description.66 Rothschild’s writing, meanwhile, maintained the traditional natural-historical approach in which aesthetic appeal was considered a crucial explanatory feature of the animal’s behaviour, distribution and evolution.67

These topics were also addressed within Novitates, but the discussion type articles allowed Rothschild’s public persona to continue to infuse the journal in a way disappearing from other natural history journals of the period. This directly reflects

Rothschild’s personal curation of the museum’s public displays, discussed in chapter three, and reinforces the impression that Rothschild enjoyed describing and displaying new species, the novel circumstances that often surrounded their collection, and the unusual or eccentric elements of species (albinos or giants). The use of descriptors such as ‘fine’ and ‘magnificent’ also elevated the status of ‘subspecies’ or oddities, such as albinos, and endowed them with more importance than they would perhaps ordinarily be regarded. Rothschild appears to have considered every facet of nature important and of interest, no matter how seemingly trivial, insignificant or strange.

Thus, by continuing to use language which evoked wonder and beauty, he too made a strong argument for the study of species diversity.

Readers and Contributors

Novitates proved to be a popular and highly regarded scientific journal. W.J. Holland of the Carnegie Museum was so ‘delighted’ with his copy of the publication that he sent in a postal order to secure the following year’s subscription, extending his endorsement with the remark ‘I may also venture to submit to you at some future time a paper for publication’.68 In 1907 Richard Bowdler Sharpe of the BMNH requested that Hartert send him extra copies of Novitates, as the BMNH copies were ‘so often in

66 Gross, Harmon, and Reidy, Communicating Science, 166. 67 Allen, The Naturalist in Britain, 394; Larsen, ‘Equipment for the Field’, 360. 68 ‘W.J. Holland to Editors’, 24 November 1894, TM2/94, NHM, London.

258 use that we cannot always get them from other departments’.69 Mr Distant, an entomologist from Pretoria, expressed how ‘I could not resist seizing this opportunity to congratulate all concerned on the publication, the design, plates and zoological interest maintained, one alike excellent and the price is very moderate’.70 This suggests the way in which the journal could be regarded as a material object – its illustrations, design and aesthetic qualities making it a desirable item to purchase and possess, making natural history something that an individual could own and display regardless of whether they possessed a specimen collection of their own. Likewise, the Press responded positively to Novitates. Nature congratulated Rothschild in 1901, remarking how he had ‘wisely determined to establish an illustrated periodical’ and how Novitates quite deserved its ‘well-chosen name’.71 Individual articles were also well received and citations and references to the work of Tring Museum feature in journals such as The Transactions of the Royal Entomological Society, Transactions of the Zoological Society of London and Journal of Mammalogy, as well as The Auk and Journal für Ornithologie.

The circulation figures for Novitates have been difficult to determine owing to the fact that a large amount of Tring Museum archival material was reportedly destroyed and that much of the surviving material remains not fully catalogued.72

Complete circulation figures therefore require further investigation, but I have been able to compose a list of 154 subscribers to Novitates, from a file of subscription forms dating between 1893 and 1896.73 Of this total, 65 had subscribed before the first part had been published in 1894, suggesting that the initial appearance of Rothschild’s

69 ‘Richard Bowdler Sharpe to Ernst Hartert’, 19 October 1907, TM1/123, NHM, London. 70 ‘Mr L. Distant to Editors’, 13 October 1894, TM2/94, NHM, London. 71 ‘Rothschild’s Novitates Zoologicae’, 249. 72 Miriam Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild: Birds, Butterflies, and History (London: Hutchinson, 1983), 297–301. 73 ‘Subscribers to Novitates Zoologicae, with Correspondence’, n.d., TM2/94, NHM, London.

259 journal was an event able to pique wide interest among the natural-historical community.

Novitates counted amongst its subscribers a range of individuals from differing countries, occupations and backgrounds. It featured prominent zoologists such as

Albert Günther and Hans Berlepsch, zoo proprietor Carl Hagenbeck, taxidermists

Brazenor Bros. and Rowland Ward and one of Rothschild’s own collectors, Alan

Owston. Several booksellers such as H. Sotheran & Co. and Bernard Quaritch also feature, as well as a range of professionals such as Charles Woodford, a colonial administrator and Albert Lano, a pharmacist and amateur ornithologist from

Minnesota. Even though it has not been possible to get a complete picture of the circulation of Novitates, this small sample suggests the breadth and diversity of individuals to whom it appealed in the first few years of its production.

Significantly, the list of subscribers included institutions such as the American

Museum of Natural History (AMNH), the Australian Museum and the Smithsonian

Institute, whose Librarian, Cyrus Adler, wrote to the editors in 1893 proposing the exchange of Novitates for copies of their annual reports and publications.74 This type of arrangement was also proposed by the AMNH, who sought to exchange copies of their Bulletin, and the Australian Ornithologists’ Union, who offered copies of Emu in

1901.75 These examples highlight how Novitates could act as a valuable means of currency, affording Rothschild and his museum a means of barter and exchange in addition to standard financial transactions.76 As Nature reported, journals supplied a

‘convenient medium for the exchange of publications with other similar institutions’

74 ‘Cyrus Adler to Editors’, 16 October 1893, TM2/94, NHM, London. 75 ‘Subscribers to Novitates Zoologicae, with Correspondence’. 76 This practice of exchanging publications originated in the eighteenth century, although became far more widely used during the nineteenth century. See Aileen Fyfe, ‘Journals, Learned Societies and Money: Philosophical Transactions, ca. 1750–1900’, Notes and Records 69 (2015): 288.

260 and evidence suggests that this form of trading played a key role in the development of Rothschild’s library, which became a hugely valuable resource containing some

30,000 volumes by the time of his death in 1937.77 Trading copies of texts gave

Rothschild and those who used Tring Museum and its library access to current knowledge which could inform their own work, an essential element in a field which was constantly evolving and was often vulnerable to individual interpretation and duplication, particularly in relation to classification and identification. However, it also shows Rothschild to have made a bid to be seen on an equal footing with these institutions by trading copies of texts with them – that these museums were willing to do so indicates the esteem in which Tring Museum came to be held among the international zoological community.

This form of exchange was used often at the museum, especially by Hartert, who in one example of correspondence with ornithologist William Ogilvie-Grant negotiated the exchange of fifteen volumes of Novitates for the equivalent value of specimens, some sixteen pounds worth.78 In this instance, Hartert used the fact that

Grant wanted to obtain Novitates to secure the acquisition of ‘a set’ of birds from the

Ruwenzori collection, which Rothschild was ‘anxious’ to acquire and Hartert had been trying to negotiate for over a year.79 Chapter four of this thesis has explored how

Rothschild and his curators liaised with many different forms of supplier to secure the specimens they wanted, but this example demonstrates how the journal acted as an additional weapon in their arsenal.

This process of exchange indicates the importance of journals in the construction of zoological knowledge not just in terms of the information they

77 ‘Rothschild’s Novitates Zoologicae’, 249; See ‘List of Periodicals in the Rothschild Library’, n.d., TM3/3, NHM, London. 78 ‘Ernst Hartert to William Ogilvie-Grant’, 25 January 1909, DF ZOO/230/26, NHM, London. 79 Ibid.

261 contained, but also as material objects, important for acquiring scientific knowledge by way of their exchange for other publications and specimens. Thus, in this light, we can begin to see texts as specimens – inaugurating and maintaining networks of exchange between collectors and institutions. As Alberti has argued, ‘print and material culture together constituted a system of obligation and patronage that locked institutions together.’80

Thus, while analysis in chapter one revealed how Novitates ran at a loss, it becomes clear that the non-financial benefits for Rothschild and Tring Museum far out-weighed that loss. Establishing Novitates had provided Rothschild with an important medium through which to publish his discoveries and those of his staff, while also affording him an opportunity to construct a reputation for the museum and invite the review, critique, and participation of his contemporaries. The importance of this final point becomes particularly apparent when the contents of Novitates are analysed more closely. As previously discussed, the assistance Rothschild and his fellow editors received from external zoologists with identifying, classifying and the ordering of species, with view to understanding relationship and evolution, became central to the journal’s production. In a letter dating from January 1894, for instance,

Rothschild expressed his ‘hope’ that Günther, Oldfield Thomas and George Boulenger would ‘assist’ him in writing an article based on the collections of mammals, reptiles and fresh water fish he had recently received from the Natuna Islands.81 Between them,

Thomas, Günther and Boulenger specialised in mammalogy, herpetology and ichthyology, areas in which Tring Museum did not directly specialise but for which it

80 Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, Nature and Culture: Objects, Disciplines, and the Manchester Museum (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 108. See also Aileen Fyfe, ‘Journals and Periodicals’, in A Companion to the History of Science, ed. Bernard V. Lightman (Chichester, UK: John Wiley & Sons, 2016), 396. 81 ‘Walter Rothschild to Albert Günther’, 26 January 1894, DF ZOO/200/45/348, NHM, London.

262 possessed specimens. Thus, the journal became part of a rewarding arrangement for both parties involved. Rothschild could offer an incentive that would ensure his collection was examined, classified and ordered, with the resulting research reaching publication. Meanwhile, external contributors would be given access to a hugely valuable and expanding collection, which contained long series of specimens from a great many regions of the world that they were unlikely to find elsewhere.

This approach resulted in 161 different authors, or combination of authors, contributing articles to Novitates, as shown in Table 1. The number of contributions each individual made varied greatly, ranging from over 200 to a single article, while the range of expertise, global coverage and backgrounds of contributors was just as broad. However, it has been possible to identify four main categories into which contributors can be divided, based on the number of articles written and the overall character of individuals within that group. These are 1) the Tring Triumvirate, 2) Tring

Museum Associates, 3) Museum Men and 4) Other Zoological Contributors.82

82 The term ‘Tring Triumvirate’ is first used in Kristin Johnson, Ordering Life: Karl Jordan and the Naturalist Tradition (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012), 36.

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Table 1. A breakdown of contributors to Novitates Zoologicae, 1894-1942.83

The first group, called here the ‘Tring Triumvirate’, consists of Jordan,

Rothschild and Hartert. Unsurprisingly they were the most frequent contributors to the journal, accounting for 53% of the total number of articles, as shown in Figure 10.

They also co-authored several articles with individuals from the other three groups.

The second group, Tring Museum Associates, consists of individuals who were either employed by Tring Museum or spent prolonged periods of time working on the museum’s collections. They included Rothschild’s brother Charles and niece Miriam, as well as Hartert’s assistant C.E. Hellmayr who worked at the museum between 1905 and 1908. The final members of this group were Henley Grose Smith, Louis B. Prout and William Warren, all of whom worked closely on Rothschild’s collections of

Lepidoptera, describing and classifying his specimens. Their contribution accounts for

23% of the total number of articles.

83 I obtained this data by going through the contents pages of every volume of Novitates and recording the total number of articles published by each contributor. This information was then sorted, analysed and placed in the summary table above.

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Percentage of articles by contributing group

10 14

53 23

The Tring Triumvirate Tring Museum Associates Museum Men Other Zoological Contributors

Figure 10.84

The third group, Museum Men, is populated by individuals who worked within natural history museum zoological departments in Britain and Europe, and accounts for 14% of the overall article production. They included Michael Oldfield Thomas,

Erwin Stresemann, Albert Günther, William Ogilvie-Grant, Richard Lydekker and

Anton Reichenow. Each of these men spent the majority of their careers working their way up through the museum system which had traditionally been hierarchical and, as in the case of the BMNH, involved promotion from attendant, to 1st and 2nd class assistant, followed by advancement to the senior rank of Assistant Keeper, Keeper and in some cases even Director.85 Some, especially those in European museums, secured senior posts having received a university education, while for others promotion was secured on the basis of the merits of their work, the BMNH, for example, preferring to train its own staff. This process contrasted with Rothschild’s own museum, where

84 This information was obtained by using the data I had previously collected to determine the number of contributors and articles they produced. I knew the total number of articles to be 1156 and so worked out the percentage for each group I had identified by working out the total number of articles they contributed as a percentage of the total. For example, the Tring Triumvirate wrote 612 of the 1156 articles, or 53%. 85 William T. Stearn, The Natural History Museum at South Kensington (London: Heinemann, 1981), 160.

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Hartert and Jordan occupied the main scientific positions and were supported by temporary assistants and visiting researchers, with little opportunity for career progression.

The final group of contributors authored the remaining 10% of articles and I have chosen to call it ‘Other Zoological Contributors’. These individuals also published in Novitates because their articles centred on or drew on material from Tring

Museum’s collections, as a result of either having been lent specimens, having consulted them at the museum or having sourced the specimens which were later bought by Rothschild, with the condition that any research on them was published in

Novitates. Rear-Admiral Hubert Lynes, for example, amassed a collection during a trip to Morocco which later he sold to Rothschild and Lynes’s research on the specimens was published in Novitates in 1924.86

Many of the individuals in this final group were prominent zoologists in their fields, individuals with intricate knowledge of particular species gained as a result of scientific enquiry, and were well-regarded by their colleagues as a consequence of publishing well-respected and authoritative zoological research. This included articles in other natural history journals, such as the Transactions of the Entomological Society and The Annals and Magazine of Natural History, as well as monographs. W.F. Kirby, for example, was an entomologist who published several books including British

Butterflies, moths and beetles (1885) and Evolution and Natural Theology (1883).

Individuals within this category have a much broader range of backgrounds, displaying the diversity of participation that continued in natural history into the twentieth century. There are for instance several individuals who had other

86 Rear-Admiral Hubert Lynes, ‘An Ornithological Visit to N.W. Marocco (Spanish Province of Yebala)’, Novitates Zoologicae 31 (1924): 51.

266 professional occupations and pursued natural history alongside these, establishing reputations as zoologists based on their scientific research into the behaviour, structure, classification or distribution of animals, together with their collections and publications. E.C. Stuart Baker (1864-1944) spent most of his career in the Indian

Police Force, but in his spare time acquired a comprehensive collection of nearly

50,000 Indian birds’ eggs, part of which he donated to the BMNH and continued to work on after his return to England. Further examples include Brigadier William

Evans, theologian and linguist Reverend F.D. Morice and civil servant Francis

Hemming. Wealthy individuals also feature within this group, those who through financial independence could afford to pursue natural history extensively, such as Dr

Roger Verity and Count Otto Graf Zedlitz. Finally, collectors and natural history dealers such as Oscar T. Baron and William Rosenberg are also evident within this group. Few of these individuals earned their primary source of income from natural history, but all demonstrated a strong commitment to it through the publication of natural history articles. Moreover, that they published in Novitates suggests their commitment to Rothschild’s scientific vision. All those who wrote articles for

Novitates did so having used Tring Museum’s collections; they must have seen the value in Rothschild’s style of collecting, and what is more, many implemented trinomial nomenclature in their work.

Building on analysis from chapter two, the range of contributors to Novitates demonstrates the value of Rothschild’s collection for other zoologists and how, as a result, that enabled him to establish an influential position in the zoological community. This directly challenges claims that he was on the scientific periphery for these findings show that he was engaging and collaborating with people from across

267 the zoological community.87 Furthermore, the individuals in this final group provide compelling evidence of the fact that ‘professionals’ did not dominate zoology in this period, contrary to the impression given by existing literature, which focuses on professionalisation and neglects to say what happened to the ‘amateurs’ and those who remained outside of the emerging professional institutions.88 The range of contributors to Novitates is evidence of a continuation of the broad and inclusionary character of natural history, that lasted well into the early-twentieth century.

One factor that united many of the contributors within this final group with individuals in each of the other categories, was their membership of one or more natural history societies. Of the 138 individuals who comprise these latter two groups, it has been possible to determine that at least 66% belonged to one society, while 47% belonged to two or more and 29% to 3 or more societies.89 This includes the Royal

Entomological Society, Zoological Society of London (ZSL), British Ornithologists’

Union and Club (B.O.U. and B.O.C.), as well as the British Entomological and Natural

History Society. Such involvement was an integral part of natural history during this period. Societies offered members opportunities to present their own research, to borrow and consult books and were forums through which they could display and observe specimens.90 They were social places and allowed all those with an interest in natural history to come together and exchange ideas, specimens and experiences, regardless of whether an individual was a professional zoologist with academic qualifications or a salaried position, or non-professional, pursuing natural history

87 G. N. Cantor, ‘Anglo-Jewish Responses to Evolution’, in Jewish Tradition and the Challenge of Darwinism, ed. G. N. Cantor and Marc Swetlitz (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 24. 88 J. F. M. Clark, Bugs and the Victorians (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). 89 These percentages are estimates based on the preliminary research I have been able to do using the lists of society members and fellows published in society journals, including those for the Proceedings of the Zoological Society, Royal Entomological Society and British Ornithologist’s Union. 90 Anne Secord, ‘Artisan Botany’, in Cultures of Natural History, ed. Nicholas Jardine, James Andrew Secord, and Emma C. Spary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 381.

268 alongside their everyday occupation. Zoologists forged relationships through these societies and this is what we can begin to see transferred onto the pages of Novitates.

Rothschild’s museum did not function in the same way as a society. He did not orchestrate meetings at the museum and instead, through his own memberships to societies such as ZSL and the B.O.U. and affiliation to the BMNH, of which he was a

Trustee from 1899-1937, Rothschild tapped into the existing social network that surrounded natural history in order to generate and foster a community around his museum. By attending and presenting at society meetings and publishing a journal, both of which promoted the work of Tring Museum, Rothschild and his curators were able to publicise the collection and entice other zoologists to work on it, either by issuing an invitation or through the individuals themselves requesting to consult it.

The community around Tring Museum was consequently much more disparate and less identifiable than those of the scientific societies. Associates of the museum did not become members or fellows and interactions occurred not in a central location but were displaced with discussions happening at other society meetings, through museum correspondence and through contributions to Novitates. It was also a rather generalised community that sought to bring together zoologists from across different sub- disciplines, such as mammalogy and entomology. Ultimately, however, it was a community that made the production of ‘A Journal of Zoology’ a possibility.

The range of expertise displayed on the pages of Novitates reveals the vibrant network that developed around Tring Museum. It also clearly demonstrates the value of the Tring collections for other zoologists and how, as a result, Rothschild and his curators were able to secure the expertise of a great many zoologists to work on and write about the museum’s collection. Both parties benefited from this arrangement, with contributors gaining access to a wealth of specimens, while Rothschild was able

269 to further advance his scientific agenda and establish himself as an important and influential figure within the community. The virtual community that came to surround

Tring Museum was however subservient to the needs of the collection, and the journal became a crucial means of advertising and displaying that collection. While the journal of the ZSL disseminated information and relayed the proceedings of Society meetings to those who had been absent, Novitates, in comparison, was instrumental in building the collection and in recruiting the people, specimens and information that would constitute it. Rather than priority being given to science communication, the business of scientific collection was pushed centre stage. Novitates therefore offers unique insight into the ways in which scientific journals could create scientific knowledge in dynamic and innovative ways during this period.

Conclusion

As an example of a natural history journal from this period, Novitates is unusual for having been the product of a private collector. Rothschild’s ongoing commitment to its production marked a departure from the way in which private collectors had tended to engage with publishing, the norm being to produce monographs and articles for established journals. Rothschild, in contrast, emulated the journals of the learned societies but with one crucial difference – Novitates placed much greater emphasis on the novelty of species. Novelty was cultivated on its pages and used by Rothschild and his curators to both make the case for species diversity, and to highlight the inadequacy of the existing zoological nomenclature used to express it. The journal was both an expression of, and means by which to advance their specific scientific agenda. It disseminated their research into geographical variation, promoted trinomial nomenclature and was a critical part of one of their key strategies for promoting their style of research and pushing for its wider acceptance (chapter two).

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However, Novitates was not just a means of communicating scientific knowledge. It became a powerful tool by which to enlist the help, expertise and knowledge that made the interpretation of the museum’s collections possible. The large number of external contributors who published in Novitates reveals the broad and inclusionary world of natural history in the early twentieth century and how analysis of a journal’s contributors and readership can be used as a methodology to gain insights into the world of natural history in this period. It also shows how the journal was used to create a community around the museum. Members of this community were attracted to the extensive material in Tring Museum’s collections which they used to construct natural-historical knowledge, while Rothschild and his curators used that appeal to ensure every aspect of their collection was researched and written about. What is more, the journal did not only make direct contributions to the study of animal species as a result of its articles and scientific content, but it did so also as a tradeable entity, which itself could be exchanged for other publications and specimens.

That Novitates was so successful can be attributed to its association with the collections of Tring Museum. Not only were the contributors to Novitates able to construct zoological knowledge by providing detailed taxonomic information about species, their distribution and habitats, and to update that material as new information became available or existing information was reviewed, but they were able to draw on the museum’s extensive collections to give their conclusions authority – the more material, the greater the certainty with which those conclusions could be asserted.

Novitates advertised the collection and showed a need for a collection like

Rothschild’s that pushed at boundaries of existing classifications.

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Conclusion

Through an examination of Rothschild’s zoological enterprise, this thesis has explored how and by whom natural-historical knowledge was generated in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. Each chapter has begun to unpack a different component of this enterprise, showing how it was a product of complex and broad social networks which coalesced around the Tring Museum, as it set about its investigations into species diversity. Contrary to what historians have claimed, Rothschild was certainly not on the scientific periphery, a mere ‘amateur’ and patron of science.1 The scientific agenda of Tring Museum placed Rothschild and his curators at the very heart of taxonomic debate and owing to the value of the collections they assembled in pursuit of that science, they wielded powerful influence over the zoological community.2

Several cross-cutting themes have emerged through the course of this analysis.

Firstly, this thesis has revealed the many synergies between different aspects of

Rothschild’s zoological enterprise. Rather than take different natural-historical practices in isolation, as many historians have tended to do, each chapter has pointed beyond itself, drawing connections between scientific research, public display, specimen collecting and scientific publishing, to reveal the ways in which they mutually shaped one another. Chapter one set the scene by using Rothschild’s financial records to draw out these connections, showing how money flowed through and between the different components. Chapter two offered insight into the ways in which the museum’s scientific agenda influenced its collecting practices and choice of

1 G. N. Cantor, ‘Anglo-Jewish Responses to Evolution’, in Jewish Tradition and the Challenge of Darwinism, ed. G. N. Cantor and Marc Swetlitz (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 24; Kristin Johnson, Ordering Life: Karl Jordan and the Naturalist Tradition (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012), 33. 2 See for example J. F. M. Clark, Bugs and the Victorians (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009).

272 publishing mode, analysis which was developed further in chapters four and five.

Chapter three showed how the museum’s scientific agenda influenced its display practices and how acquisition stories from chapter four, fed through into specimen display. Chapter four built on the analysis from the previous two chapters to show how

Rothschild built the collections which enabled him to carry out investigation into species diversity and to display that diversity in his museum. It also demonstrated how the museum’s scientific and public agendas influenced the relationships Rothschild and his curators had with the range of suppliers they engaged. Finally, chapter five revealed how the museum’s scientific journal was used not only to disseminate scientific research but to advance its conduct by building the museum’s collections and enlisting the help, expertise and knowledge needed to interpret them.

This method of analysis has revealed that these different natural-historical practices operated in tandem as part of a single integrated enterprise, that in the case of Tring Museum had the distinct purpose of illuminating species diversity. While other museums might have followed different purposes, historians have demonstrated that they also participated in the same underpinning natural-historical practices. This suggests that the types of synergies and connections that this thesis has identified for

Tring Museum existed there, too. It indicates that instead of siphoning off these different practices into discrete categories of analysis, which are typically studied in isolation from each other, historians need to develop more holistic perspectives in order to understand what constituted natural history in this period.

For example, while Csiszar and Baldwin have examined the ways in which journals were used to create scientific communities, this thesis suggests that we cannot properly understand those communities if journals are studied in isolation from the networks of collectors, the authors, the institutions, the research collections, or the

273 public displays with which they were associated.3 Likewise, in order to understand what museum practitioners did on a day-to-day basis, Alberti has examined the different museum practices to which objects were subjected to on their journey through the museum.4 But since these practices were influenced, for example, by a curator’s agenda for the museum’s displays, or how display narratives related to the research being undertaken, we cannot fully understand the workings of museums in this period without looking at the intersections between these activities. Adopting this interconnected approach and looking at the entire ‘zoological enterprise’ helps to answer the question posed by Pickstone: ‘What did zoologists and botanists do in the nineteenth century?’ – and by extension, in the early twentieth century?5

Underpinning every aspect of this enterprise was money, which is not only a cross-cutting theme in this thesis but implemented as a methodological tool. The vast sums spent by Rothschild reveal that money was fundamental in shaping his enterprise and the contributions that he and his curators made to zoology. Tracking his spending reveals connections between the seemingly diverse natural-historical practices that constituted Rothschild’s zoological enterprise, as evidenced in chapter one. Exploring what Rothschild was prepared to spend money on also indicates the motives and influences which informed his decisions and shaped his enterprise. For example, chapters three and four showed that he was prepared to pay more for the services of reputed taxidermists to guarantee a high-quality specimen that accurately portrayed the species in question, that offered visitors to his museum a ‘true’ representation of

3 Melinda Baldwin, Making Nature: The History of a Scientific Journal (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015); Alex Csiszar, The Scientific Journal: Authorship and the Politics of Knowledge in the Nineteenth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018). 4 Samuel J.M.M. Alberti, Nature and Culture: Objects, Disciplines, and the Manchester Museum (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), chap. 5. 5 John V. Pickstone, Ways of Knowing: A New History of Science, Technology and Medicine (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), 119.

274 nature, and that left them enraptured by its beauty. In chapter four, we saw specimens purchased not necessarily for their own sake, but for the sake of nurturing relationships and enabling acquisition of future material for the collections. Thus, whereas, scholars such as Rupke, Desmond and Parker have examined the lack of money as a reason behind the limit of an individual’s accomplishments, this thesis has shown exactly how money contributed to such accomplishments. It was not just important in shaping the careers of individuals, but in every aspect of the museum enterprise.6 Analysing financial transactions has offered a unique lens onto the work, motivations and scientific predilections of Rothschild and Tring Museum, showing how collecting was not just a social or scientific enterprise, but also a financial one, with money, specimens, books, equipment and networks of information all powerfully interconnected.

‘Following the money’ is a methodology which can be applied more widely to mainstream zoological institutions and to other individuals like Rothschild, for analysis of financial transactions offers multiple advantages for the historian. It allows spending to be mapped and quantified which reveals how much money was needed to undertake certain activities. It brings to the fore the materiality of scientific practice – the people, equipment and processes which highlight the sheer complexity and extent of the work involved in natural history and in turning a live animal into a museum specimen. It offers insight into the day-to-day running of the museum and illuminates value and investment in terms beyond the pecuniary to include scientific, emotional, intellectual and social values. Money therefore enhances our understanding of why

6 Nicolaas A. Rupke, Richard Owen: Biology Without Darwin, Rev. ed (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009); Adrian Desmond, ‘Robert E. Grant: The Social Predicament of a Pre- Darwinian Transmutationist’, Journal of the History of Biology 17 (1984): 189–223; Sarah E. Parker, Robert Edmond Grant (1793-1874) and His Museum of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy, ed. Helen Chatterjee (London: Grant Museum of Zoology, 2006).

275 collections, and enterprises like Rothschild’s, took the form and shape they did. This is particularly significant when considering the roles that individuals like Rothschild were able to take in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century science and how their investment in different forms of natural-historical practice enabled them to carve out positions in the scientific community.

Of course, there are limitations to this approach. Using money as a methodological tool relies on surviving financial records. Since many collections had multiple owners before arriving at their destination institution, there will be instances where these records no longer survive. Moreover, analysing them can be quite a laborious task which requires piecing together fragments of information from multiple sources, which may prove beyond the time constraints of some projects. As scholars we must also consider the shifting values of goods and commodities, and the different social distribution of money. Converting late-nineteenth century and early-twentieth century prices into contemporary ones is problematic and we should be wary of calculating relative worth. But offering comparisons with salaries and the prices of other goods and commodities is not without its merits. If historians can be encouraged to think about money and what it can offer as a tool of analysis beyond a sense of pecuniary value, it will open up important new ways of thinking and analysing natural history, its personnel, practices and the connections between them.

These connections are further revealed by examination of the social networks that formed around zoological enterprises. Chapters two and five have highlighted how different components of the enterprise, including the museum, the collection and the journal, helped to create and sustain networks which were vital to its success.

Chapter five examined the role of Novitiates in enlisting the expertise and help of fellow zoologists to classify and turn those specimens into knowledge, a theme also

276 evident in chapter two where the role of the collection in recruiting that assistance was considered. Tracing these networks reveals the highly collaborative nature of museum-based science in this period, and the ways in which different parts of a zoological enterprise forged and utilised networks of individuals who helped to carry out scientific work.

These networks also reveal new insights into the social world of natural history, demonstrating its broad and inclusionary character well into the early- twentieth century. As chapters one and four show, it was not only scientific experts who were involved in the construction of zoological knowledge in this period, but a broad range of individuals with different backgrounds, expertise and technical skills.

Through examining the processes involved in turning an animal into a museum specimen, chapter one highlighted the importance of the suppliers of equipment needed to prepare, transport, store and display those specimens, and of the various staff members needed to run the museum of a day-to-day basis. While these individuals could be regarded as unskilled or semi-skilled, they played an important role in the success of a zoological enterprise like Rothschild’s. Chapter four showed how serendipitous and commissioned collectors, dealers and taxidermists all contributed to the construction of natural-historical knowledge – their observations, experiences and conclusions feeding into both scientific publications and display narratives.

These findings indicate that while a recent trend has seen historians push against the ‘great men’ narrative in science, there remains more to be done in developing a truly inclusive history of its various participants and their collaborative

277 working practices.7 For instance, while in the history of collecting historians have shifted their focus away from metropolitan figures, to highlight the collective nature of field work and of collection-building, they have largely omitted to consider the role of individuals such as natural history dealers and taxidermists in this process, beyond acting as middlemen in the chain of supply.8 We need to look more closely at the relationships that were forged between these suppliers and ‘scientists’, and at the other individuals this thesis has identified as connected with the zoological enterprise, in order to understand how knowledge was constructed and communicated.

One of the ways to achieve this is by examining zoological enterprises as a whole, as has been done in this thesis. Not only does this approach reveal the synergies between the different parts of the enterprise and therefore what constitutes natural history in this period, it also exposes the significant and diverse contributions which continued to be made by the range of participants who were involved in the construction of zoological knowledge, despite increased professionalisation and institutionalisation. Examination of the whole zoological enterprise will help historians to recognise the diversity (of people and of contributions) which defined natural history in this period and to challenge the ongoing historical focus placed on professional scientists. By taking this approach we gain a more accurate picture of just who was involved in natural history – from taxidermists to illustrators, natural history dealers to zoo proprietors – and how they contributed to the construction of zoological knowledge.

7 Anna Maerker, ‘Hagiography and Biography: Narratives of “Great Men of Science”’, in History, Memory and Public Life: The Past in the Present, ed. Anna Maerker, Simon Sleight, and Adam Sutcliffe (London: Routledge, 2018), 174. 8 For example, see Jane R. Camerini, ‘Wallace in the Field’, Osiris 11 (1996): 44–65; Janet Browne, ‘Natural History Collecting and the Biogeographical Tradition’, História, Ciências, Saúde- Manguinhos 8 (2001): 959–67.

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In addition to this extended community, examination of Rothschild’s networks has revealed the range and diversity of scientific experts who participated in natural history during this period. Chapter five’s examination of the contributors to Novitates highlights the diversity of people who contributed to the journal, from professional museum men to reverends and rear-admirals, each of whom possessed expertise in certain species and continued to contribute to zoological knowledge well into the twentieth century. Rather than being displaced by formal experts such as museum men, these findings show that both groups continued to work and publish alongside one another and engage in beneficial exchanges. Chapters one and two highlighted the influence of the British Museum (Natural History)’s Keeper of Zoology, Albert

Günther, on the development of Rothschild’s scientific agenda and enterprise, while chapter five showed that a significant number of contributors to Novitates were employed in museums in Britain and Europe, and had used Rothschild’s collections in the course of their research. This suggests that the emerging boundaries between professional and amateur zoologists in this period were less rigid than historians have assumed, with each side recognising the other’s contributions.

One of the key goals of this thesis has been to understand Rothschild’s place as an amateur in the rapidly professionalising and institutionalising world of late- nineteenth early-twentieth century natural history. It has shown that Rothschild made a number of significant contributions to the study of nature during this period, but that those contributions differed in key ways from those of his professional contemporaries. For example, and as explored in chapter two, as with many contemporary professional zoologists, Rothschild focused his investigations on determining what defined a species, what made one different from another and how species interrelated. However, Rothschild deviated from mainstream museum

279 approaches for he and his curators privileged geographical variation as the prime cause of morphological differences between species, and therefore as an important driver in the process of evolution. As shown in chapter two, they developed this perspective partly on account of the resources they had to acquire the vast quantities of material needed to conduct research into geographical variation. They also benefited from their location in an institution that Rothschild had personally created, and which operated outside of the constraints of the mainstream zoological establishment. Their independence enabled them to challenge the zoological establishment’s prevailing notions of species limits and to advocate for the classification of subspecies and application of trinomial nomenclature to them.

Similarly, chapter five explored how Novitates was established as a means to disseminate their research and to counter and challenge the British zoological community, by providing an alternative platform for zoological research, in which the museum’s distinct scientific approach was promoted and used to enlist further expertise to help with the interpretation of its collections. These findings show that

Rothschild straddled the boundary between categories that historians have described as ‘professional’ and ‘amateur’. On the one hand, he produced scientific work informed by wider developments in the fields of natural history and biology as conducted in a museum setting, but on the other, his status as a private collector enabled him to pursue a scientific agenda in defiance of opposition from the zoological establishment. There is no doubt that he was deeply embedded within that community of zoological experts, but his circumstances distinguished him from many of his professional colleagues.

Examination of Rothschild’s public galleries, as discussed in chapter three, further points to his ambiguous relations with the scientific community. Rothschild’s

280 displays conveyed an evolutionary narrative akin to public zoological museums. At the same time, they displayed elements of novelty which reflected Rothschild’s own personal authorship of the collection and intention to inspire wonder in nature among museum visitors. In this they bore more resemblance to the museums of private collectors and earlier displays of natural history, reminiscent of ‘cabinets of curiosities’. Chapters two and five indicate that these two agendas in fact overlapped:

Rothschild’s emphasis on novelty was not disassociated from the museum’s scientific agenda. Rather, Rothschild used novelty to illustrate species diversity and the interconnectedness of species, as well as the inadequacy of existing nomenclature.

These findings again show Rothschild having crossed boundaries, in this instance between the public curator and private collector and of the difficulty, therefore, in trying to place him into these dichotomous categories.

Complicating this further is the immense influence Rothschild wielded within the zoological community. Chapters two and five offered insight into the various roles

Rothschild fulfilled as a member of learned societies and an attendee at international zoological congresses. These chapters also demonstrated how his collection was utilised by hundreds of scientists, who used it to construct zoological knowledge, which in turn gave Rothschild a powerful and influential role in the zoological community. In tracing Rothschild’s activities and his positioning in this community, this thesis therefore poses a direct challenge to Cantor’s claim that Rothschild was on the scientific periphery. In fact, he adopted a highly collaborative approach to science which depended upon a wide range of individuals and ultimately, placed him at the centre of the zoological community – even while he was not fully accepted by it.9

Attending to Rothschild thus helps to broaden historical understandings of what it

9 Cantor, ‘Anglo-Jewish Responses to Evolution’, 24.

281 meant to do natural history in this period, and indicates that further studies of similar individuals, who made significant and varied contributions but who cannot be neatly categorised as ‘professional researchers’, are now required.

This thesis has introduced some other such private collectors and amateur zoologists who have been similarly neglected by scholars (with the exception of Karen

Jones and Henry McGhie’s work).10 For example, Joicey and Hume, both of whom played important roles in shaping the development of their branches of zoology, have not been subjected to sustained scholarly analysis. Similarly, Dr Roger Verity and E.C

Stuart Baker developed significant specimen collections and authored notable zoological works, and yet they get scant, if any, mention in existing histories.

Meanwhile, beyond the scope of this thesis, The Harrison Zoological Museum, established in 1930 by medical practitioner Dr James Harrison to investigate biodiversity, provides an example of a notable institution set up by a private collector which post-dates Rothschild.11 Additionally, there remains more to be done on both

Powell-Cotton and Rothschild. Nonetheless, while more investigations are needed into the contributions of these individuals and others like them, this thesis does indicate that there remained a significant role in science for private collectors, amateurs and a range of other participants, at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries. This finding conflicts with the impression given by existing literature where historians continue to devote their attention overwhelmingly to those who fall into the

10 Karen Jones, ‘The Rhinoceros and the Chatham Railway: Taxidermy and the Production of Animal Presence in the “Great Indoors”’, History 101 (2016): 710–35; Henry A. McGhie, Henry Dresser and Victorian Ornithology: Birds, Books and Business (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2017). 11 The Harrison Zoological Museum, Sevenoaks, was established in 1930 by Dr James Harrison, a medical practitioner and ornithologist, and focused on the study of Palaearctic birds. It was later taken over by his son, David (also a medical doctor) and shifted its focus to the study and conservation of mammals. Today, the museum contains over 61,000 scientific specimens, together with an extensive library, and is a world-renowned institute, dedicated to discovering, describing and conserving biodiversity.

282 category of ‘professional’ and should incentivise historians to strive even harder to challenge that tendency.12

So why is it historians have overlooked the contributions of men like

Rothschild? This thesis suggests that the reasons may lie, once more, in their tendency to compartmentalise the different aspects of natural history, which this thesis has revealed form part of an interconnected whole, for it is only by studying those interconnections that the scale and significance of Rothschild’s contributions becomes truly apparent. For instance, adopting a holistic view of Rothschild’s enterprise has revealed how his collection of live animals was not simply a part of his eccentricity but part of a concerted effort to understand an animal in its entirety. His own personal observations of animals kept at Tring Park and those of the taxidermists and collectors he had in his network, informed his scientific research, and many of those animals transitioned into the museum’s research collections upon death. This reveals how

Rothschild’s collections of living, study and stuffed specimens were all strongly interconnected in ways that would not be apparent without looking at that collection,

Rothschild’s scientific papers and the museum’s specimens side by side. Likewise,

Rothschild’s collection is impressive for its size, but it is not until we examine how it was used, not only by Rothschild and his curators but also the wider zoological community, and how those uses were supported by social networks that supplied both knowledge and material, that the true size and scale of Rothschild’s contribution becomes evident. Only by taking the zoological enterprise as a whole and studying

12 Helen Anne Curry et al., eds., Worlds of Natural History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 12; Ruth Barton, ‘“Men of Science”: Language, Identity and Professionalization in the Mid- Victorian Scientific Community’, History of Science 41 (2003): 73–119; James Mussell, ‘Private Practices and Public Knowledge: Science, Professionalization and Gender in the Late Nineteenth Century’, Nineteenth Century Gender Studies 5 (2009); Adrian Desmond, ‘Redefining the X Axis: “Professionals,” “Amateurs” and the Making of Mid-Victorian Biology – A Progress Report’, Journal of the History of Biology 34 (2001): 3–50; Clark, Bugs and the Victorians.

283 these interconnections, can we begin to illuminate the activities of those individuals like Rothschild, whose contributions cannot be defined by a practice, a scientific article, a collection, a discovery, or a theory, but rather by achievements that were more than the sum of all their parts.

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Epilogue

Rothschild’s Legacy

‘Although as ardent a collector as there ever was, straining his resources to the utmost in order to get what he wanted, and frequently carried away by his enthusiasm, he differed from the average private collector of 40 years ago in placing his collections in the most liberal way at the service of scientific workers of all countries, and these found at Tring much material to study, an extensive library, ample elbowroom and always a cordial welcome from the smiling owner of all these treasures.’1 By way of final reflections and to address the fate of Rothschild’s zoological enterprise, I return to where I began – the subject of money. As we saw in chapter one of this thesis, money was instrumental in shaping Rothschild’s enterprise. His access to significant financial resources between 1889 and 1900 had enabled him to build his scientific vision of a museum with research collections which revealed geographical variation and public galleries which instructed and entertained museum visitors. He was able to appoint the staff he wanted in order to classify and interpret those collections and to publish extensively on that material in his own specialist zoological journal. However, at several points Tring Museum was shaped as much by financial difficulty as by extreme wealth. As we saw earlier, 1908 was a significant turning point in the history of the museum, but this was not an isolated episode. The actions of Rothschild’s brother Charles in 1908 had secured a consistent stream of funding for the museum, which saw it operate relatively smoothly for most of its existence. But by the 1930s Rothschild’s recurring personal financial problems once again affected his zoological enterprise, and in 1931, he was forced to sell his bird collection to the

American Museum of Natural History (AMNH) in New York.

1 Karl Jordan, ‘Obituary: Lord Rothschild, F.R.S. (1868-1937)’, British Birds 31 (1 October 1937): 147–48.

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There were several factors which led Rothschild to make this legacy altering decision. A large contributing factor was the worldwide economic depression that followed the Wall Street Crash in 1929, and subsequent increasing taxation in the UK.

Secondly, Hartert had retired due to his declining ill health and, owing to his wife’s desire to return to Germany after the death of their son in WW1, had moved back to

Berlin in 1930.2 Rothschild had struggled to find a suitable replacement and under increasing financial pressure, had decided that he would curate the birds himself with the help of Arthur Goodson. Sadly, Goodson died soon after, which left the museum without a functioning ornithological department.3 The final significant factor was increasing financial pressure from the wealthy peeress who was again threatening to expose their affair.4 In 1908, when Rothschild had handed over the keys to the linen baskets, he had not disclosed the one containing the letters from the peeress to Charles, and this proved his undoing. We can assume that Rothschild had wanted to avoid another family scandal and embarrassing his mother (who was by this time eighty- eight years of age), and with Charles no longer alive to help, Rothschild sought a buyer for his bird collection, which he anticipated would fetch the highest price.5 The whole affair was conducted in the utmost secrecy.

Miriam Rothschild claimed that when Hartert had retired, he and Rothschild had not talked about the fate of the birds, for he had assumed that the collection would go to BMNH, as Rothschild had shared as much interest in the museum as his own.6

This belief was widely shared among the British zoological community, for Rothschild

2 Miriam Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild: Birds, Butterflies, and History (London: Hutchinson, 1983), 134–35. Due to their German nationality the Harterts experienced severe hostility from the people of Tring during the war, despite their son losing his life fighting for the British forces. 3 Ibid., 302. 4 David Armitage Bannerman, ‘Sale of the Rothschild Collection’, 9, MSS Bannerman, NHM, Tring; Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, vi & 92. 5 Charles Rothschild died on 12 October 1923. 6 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 303.

286 had been a trustee of the museum since 1899 and had shared a particularly close relationship with its Keeper of Zoology, Albert Günther. Moreover, the two institutions had, as British ornithologist D.A. Bannerman (1886-1979) described, reached an informal arrangement where the BMNH had ‘abstained from acquiring specimens from areas which were already well represented at Tring’, such as Algeria and New Guinea.7 This is itself telling of the contribution that amateur naturalists could make to natural history in this period, for here was an entire community of professional naturalists who relied on the resources compiled by an ‘amateur’, whose collection rivalled, even exceeded, that of their own national museum. There was, and remains, some disagreement about whether Rothschild first offered the collection to the BMNH. In his statement to the press, Jordan claimed that it had been offered but that the BMNH ‘had not got the money’. The BMNH responded swiftly to say that this was untrue, and that in extraordinary circumstances the funds could have been raised.8 Miriam Rothschild would later claim that Rothschild had approached the

Archbishop of Canterbury and several of his co-trustees before writing to America, but that they had offered no hope of purchase.9

Consequently, in October 1931 Rothschild offered his bird collection to the

AMNH for $225,000 – less than $1 a piece - ‘a third more than [he had] expected to get’.10 Yet, Leonard Cutler Sanford (1868-1950), an amateur ornithologist and Trustee of AMNH, to whom Rothschild had made the offer, remarked how he considered the price to be ‘nearly one-tenth of the real value’ and urged the AMNH President, Henry

7 Bannerman, ‘Sale of the Rothschild Collection’, 6. 8 Johnson, Ordering Life, 224–25; Jenni Thomas, ‘Konkurrien. Walter Rothschild Als Naturalienunternehmer Translated Competing: Walter Rothschild and the Business of Natural History’, in Sammlungsökonomien, ed. Nils Güttler and Ina Heumann (Berlin: Kulturverlag Kadmos, 2016), 65. 9 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 303. 10 Ibid., 302; Thomas, ‘Competing’, 64; ‘Walter Rothschild to Ernst Hartert’, 5 March 1932, DF ZOO/236/12, NHM, London.

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Fairfield Osborn (1857-1935), to immediately raise the funds.11 Gertrude Vanderbilt

Whitney (1875-1942) donated the money in memory of her husband – a regular patron of AMNH – and the sale was secured after Sanford had reassured Rothschild that the

AMNH would keep the collection intact, develop it according to his ideas, ensure that no labels would be removed and that no specimen be considered a “duplicate”.12 In total around 280,000 skins were sent to America, where they were reported to enrich the museum’s collection ‘in a remarkable way’.13

The sale of birds was a decision that Rothschild had not taken lightly:

Dear Mr Hartert,

It is with a very heavy heart & with most of my life torn up that I write these words. Owing to the world economic conditions & the failure of many stocks and bonds to pay interest, not to talk of increased & increasing taxation, I have been forced to retrench drastically. The 2 alternatives which faced me were either to dispose of one of my two scientific collections as a whole or else to see the museum broken up and sold piece meal by auction. I could not face the latter alternative as my life’s work would have been annihilated so I had to decide to dispose of that collection for which I could find a purchaser as a whole & that is the bird collection […] I know that you will feel as crushed by this blow as I do but the worlds collapse made it inevitable.

Yours sincerely and with a broken heart

Rothschild’.14 Rothschild was evidently distressed by the decision he had been forced to make and it had a profound effect on him for the remainder of his life. Miss Thomas, Tring

Museum librarian, recalled: ‘Frequently, at the end of the day [Rothschild] would

11 Walter Rothschild to L.C. Sanford, Sept 18, 1931, 1209 Rothschild, Folder Jan-Feb, 1932, AMNH. Quoted in Johnson, Ordering Life, 221. 12 L.C. Sanford to H. Fairfield Osborn, Nov 25 1931, 1209 Rothschild, Folder Jan-Feb 1921, AMNH. Quoted in ibid. 13 H.F. Witherby, ‘The Tring Collection of Birds’, British Birds 26 (1 June 1932): 17–18. The bird egg, nest, skeletal and spirit collections remained part of Rothschild’s research collection. As did around 300 skins, including the large flightless ratite collection and the mounted specimens from the public galleries. 14 ‘Walter Rothschild to Ernst Hartert’, 27 February 1932, DF ZOO/236/12, NHM, London.

288 come and sit in the empty Birdroom, head bowed, a very lonely man. At the end, the nurse (attending him during his final illness) heard him murmur “I wish I could buy it back” and asked Dr. Jordan what he had meant.’15

When the news was finally made public it shocked the British ornithological community, which had come to rely on Rothschild’s collection as a valuable resource.

Recalling the sale of the birds in his autobiography, Bannerman described the event as a ‘tragedy’ and how he had ‘believ[ed] as we all did, that Lord Rothschild had bequeathed both the birds and the entomological collection to the Nation’. He further explained how collectors such as Gregory Mathews and Colonel R.E. Bailey had:

‘given their collection to Lord Rothschild on that understanding’ (whether the collections were purchased or ‘given’ as Bannerman suggests is unclear).16 What

British ornithologists struggled with most was the secrecy which surrounded the sale and that had prevented them from trying to keep the collection in Britain. Percy Lowe

(1870-1948), curator of birds at the BMNH, expressed how: ‘no one could understand why Rothschild had not confided his desperate position to his fellow trustees and thus given the country a chance to acquire some of the material’.17 Ultimately, British ornithologists had assumed too much and it proved a mistake to think of Rothschild’s collection as a national collection, or as an extension of the BMNH.

This episode in the history of Tring Museum highlights the ambiguity of its position – wavering between the public and the private. It highlights how a collection acquired by a private collector retained a financial value. As Jenni Thomas has argued,

15 Bannerman, ‘Sale of the Rothschild Collection’, 7. On hearing the news, Hartert was similarly distraught at the thought of his life’s work being shipped across the Atlantic. See also Jordan, ‘Obituary: Lord Rothschild, F.R.S. (1868-1937)’, 148. 16 Ibid., 1–2; David Armitage Bannerman, ‘“Some Ornithologists and Explorers I Have Known” Top Copy Part II’, 114, MSS Bannerman, NHM, Tring. 17 Percy Lowe to Murphy, Mar 16 1932, 1204 Rothschild, Folder March 1932, AMNH. Quoted in Johnson, Ordering Life, 223.

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‘amassing a collection ostensibly for the good of science provided the collector with a saleable asset in times of financial strife’ and the presence of rare specimens only increased the intellectual capital, and therefore also the financial value, of a collection.18 But this was not just a financial asset and Lowe’s remarks are suggestive of why events took the path they did. Rothschild and his curators strove to develop world-class collections which embodied a particular scientific argument about evolution. Thus, giving ‘the country a chance to acquire some of the material’ would, as Rothschild himself recognised, have ‘annihilated’ his life’s work. Ultimately preserving that collection in its entirety, as a representation of their particular scientific argument, was just as important to Rothschild in that moment as securing a much- needed sale.

By 1936 Rothschild was working less on his remaining collections due to illness. Shortly after the death of his mother in 1935 he suffered a fall and injured his leg, which gradually succumbed to gout. Then, in the autumn of 1936 he was diagnosed with pelvic cancer and shortly after became bedridden. Aware that time was short, Jordan and Rothschild’s niece Miriam set about trying to secure the future of

Tring Museum in order to prevent any future sale of the museum and its collections.19

Eventually, and arguably traumatised by the fate that befell his bird collection,

Rothschild resolved to leave his enterprise to the nation, and in 1937 drafted a ‘Deed of Gift’ in which he gave his museum to the BMNH. He wished to prevent his collection suffering the fate of similar large collections which had been ‘dispersed instead of being preserved for the purposes’ of ‘studying variation and descent’.20 In a codicil to his will Rothschild stated:

18 Thomas, ‘Competing’, 49. 19 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, chap. 34; Johnson, Ordering Life, 243. 20 ‘Deaths’, The Times, 16 April 1938.

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‘Whereas in a former Will I left to various Museums and Institutions a number of specimens from my zoological collection in my Museum at Tring Park. I now revoke all these bequests and I give and bequeath to the Trustees of the British Museum my freehold property known as the Zoological Museum, Tring, inclusive of all the collections and all the objects it contains, as well as the garden in front of the Museum at the other side of Park Street and the house in Akeman Street now used as a laboratory, provided that the Trustees of the British Museum will accept this my legacy as an annexe of the British Museum and use this my Museum in a modified form for Zoological research. The “types” and other specimens necessary for the collections of the British Museum may be transferred to that Institute as the Trustees of the British Museum may decide.’21 It was intended that there would be a slow handover overseen by Rothschild but sadly time ran out.22 Rothschild died on 27th August 1937 and thereafter, the remainder of his ‘zoological enterprise’ passed into the care of the BMNH. The bequest included the museum (with a floor-space of nearly an acre and a half), the public gallery specimens (including 2,000 mammals, 2,400 birds, 140 giant tortoises), the library (comprising some 30,000 volumes), the remaining research collections

(1,400 mammals, nearly 5,000 birds, large egg-collection and over 2 million

Lepidoptera), and the whole of the freehold property.23 The BMNH accepted the bequest and the bill which enabled it to accept the gift of Tring Museum received

Royal Assent on 29th July 1938.24

The financial difficulties Rothschild experienced in his later years might mean that today his collections can be found on both sides of the Atlantic, but in both the

Natural History Museum and AMNH, Rothschild’s collections are part of a lasting

21 ‘British Museum (Natural History) Trustee Standing Committee Minute Book 14’, 23 October 1937, DF TRU/900/14, NHM, London. 22 Miriam Rothschild believed had this not been the case ‘some of the gravest errors since perpetrated at Tring would surely have been avoided’ i.e. the destruction of the museum’s archive and papers. See Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 310–11. 23 Jordan, ‘Obituary: Lord Rothschild, F.R.S. (1868-1937)’, 148. 24 ‘British Museum (Natural History) Trustee Standing Committee Minute Book 14’, 22 October 1938, DF TRU/900/14, NHM, London.

291 and significant legacy where they continue to be studied by present day zoologists. In zoology Rothschild’s contribution is preserved in zoological nomenclature with some

242 species and subspecies being named in his honour.25 But perhaps the most touching testament to Rothschild’s legacy is the joy and wonder the museum continues to spark in its visitors as an outpost of the Natural History Museum. Visitors continue to flock through its doors to view some of the 4,900 specimens on display, many of which have been there since the museum opened in 1892, and some are even said to remain in the positions Rothschild himself placed them all those years ago. The

Zoological Museum, Tring was and remains ‘a unique memorial to the untiring efforts of its founder’.26

25 Rothschild, Dear Lord Rothschild, 364. 26 Karl Jordan, ‘Lord Rothschild. 1868-1937’, Obituary Notices of Fellows of the Royal Society 2 (1 January 1938): 385–86.

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Appendix I – A full list of the specimen suppliers Rothschild conducted business with in 1895.

This list only reflects the names of individuals listed in the surviving financial documentation I have been able to consult. There may have been further suppliers which have not been identified here. Equally, there may have been more transactions made with the individuals listed below than those traced thus far.

Recipient Payment For… £ S/- d. Collector A. Hamilton (Rothschild £100 0 0 Supported) A S Meek £225 0 0 Captain Webster £250 0 0 G. Baur Bird skins from Galapagos £250 0 0 Owston via Mc Donald Seales & Co. Bird skins from A. Owston (inc. eggs) £140 2 0 Total £965 2 0

Field For Bird skins (Inc. Birds of Paradise and specimens Dr A. B. Meyer Collector/Naturalist from Celebes & Talaut) £80 5 0 A.E. Pratt For Pipa with young £3 0 0 Charles M. Woodford via Miss Mary J. Birds, Beetles & Lepidoptera Woodford £85 1 0 Col. C. T. Bingham Bird skins and Lepidoptera £52 0 0 D. Castor For collection of Lepidoptera from Borneo £15 0 0 E. Gounelle For Bird skins £38 15 0 H.C. Dresser £2 2 0

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H. Whitely For 2 Plaethornis (dead) [Hummingbird] £1 0 0 Henry Seebohm For Bird skins £52 19 6 Kubary Via Behn, Meyer & Co, Singapore For Bird skins from Kubary £7 10 0 O.T. Baron Specimens £55 0 0 Pt. Ernesto Schwitz Madeira for Bird skins from Madeira £1 3 0 Travers £50 0 0 W.R. Humphreys For specimens from Cooktown £1 8 9 Total £444 4 3

Museum/University A. Noakes Moths and Lepidoptera (Inc. collection of 1568) £30 18 7 Dr Adolf Lendl Birds Nest & Eggs £2 1 0 Prof. Collett £2 2 0 H. Grose Smith £18 0 0 R. Bowdler Sharpe For collection of Bird skins £28 2 6 Dr R. Gestro Bird skins inc. from Mentawai Islands £15 18 0 Lepidoptera (inc. Everett, Ansorge, Baron and Baxter Miss E. M. Sharpe Collections and specimens from S. Africa £91 17 8 Total £188 19 9

Society Entomological Society £15 15 0

Lepidopterist Ernst Swinhoe Lepidoptera £4 14 0 L.W. Newman Lepidoptera £7 6 6 Total £12 0 6

Licensed Dealer in P. Castang A/C to Mch 31/95 Game £92 0 8

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Ostrich and Fancy Specimens - including Coleoptera & Bird skins which G.K. Dunstall Feather Merchant inc. Hummingbirds, £126 4 6

Other S Dawnefaerd (Jeweller, lapidary and Bird skins curio merchant) £54 0 0 Theodor Mahr Söhne (Manufacturers of Specimens central heating stoves) £9 3 0 E A Zshau (Specialist Instrument Maker) Bird skins & Beetles £24 5 0 Total £87 8 0

Dealer in Natural Bird skins History Specimens A. Sondermann £4 17 0

C.W.R Van Renesse van Duivenbode Specimens £88 0 0 Bird skins £136 0 0 Lepidoptera £23 1 4 Total £247 1 4

Claude Beddington Bird skins £12 0 0 Lepidoptera £4 0 0 Coleoptera all from Transvaal £3 0 0 Total £19 0 0

Cooke & Son 2 Pheasants & ? £3 10 0

Dr O. Staudinger Lepidoptera and Coleoptera £378 18 0

E. Cooke Bird skins £1 0 0

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H Ribbe Lepidoptera and Coleoptera £62 1 0 Insects £96 10 0

Total £158 11 0

Henri Donckier For Coleoptera £32 4 1 Lepidoptera and Coleoptera £19 19 6 Total £52 3 7

Herman Rolle For Lepidoptera and Coleoptera £30 15 0

Jürgen Schröder Beetles £3 6 0

Messrs Mantou of Cie (Dealers in 'Plumes, Brutes & Oiseaux') £4 0 0

Miss E Cutter 78 Bird skins £19 10 0 Specimens (Non specified) £92 18 6 Total £112 8 6

R. F. Damon 3 Casts £5 13 0

S.J. Da Costa Esq. Birds Egg £0 15 0 Lepidoptera £73 3 0 Total £73 18 0

T. Cooke & Son For Lepidoptera £14 17 6

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W. Caspari Lepidoptera £35 0 0

W. Schlüter Specimens £50 5 0

Watkins & Doncaster Lepidoptera and Coleoptera £381 6 6

William Rosenberg Bird skins £5 8 0 Lepidoptera £12 7 6 Coleoptera £63 14 0 Total £81 9 6 Overall Total £1,657 19 11

Dealer Natural Ernst Heyne For Coleoptera and Lepidoptera History Specimens £51 13 0 & Bookseller H.W Marsden Specimens £7 10 6 J. Wheldon Co. Books £15 19 6 O.E. Janson Lepidoptera and Coleoptera £504 1 1 Total £578 4 1

Natural History O. Spanner & Co. 1 Bird Skin Dealer & £3 2 0 Taxidermist Pratt & Sons Squirrel & Skylarks A/C £1 8 6 Underwood 1 Albino Monkey & ? £17 10 0 Total £22 0 6

Dealer in Live and Dead Animals Alb. Edw. Jamrach Live Animals £253 10 0

Bird skins £7 10 0

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Specimens (inc 1 tortoise £5) £55 10 0 Total £316 10 0

Taxidermist Brazenor Bros. Specimens Stuffing & Mounting £32 9 6 Carriage of Dolphin Folkestone-Brighton £1 10 8 Account £63 20 9 Total £98 0 11

E. Gerrard & Son Specimens £224 42 8

Rowland Ward & Co. No description given £0 10 6 Spec Dead Purchases £182 18 6 Packing £1 3 8 Cab Fare £0 3 0 Books £4 2 0 Photo £0 3 6 Account £329 18 9 Total £518 19 11

F Doggett Purchase Dead Specimens £296 5 2 Keep of Live Animals £149 11 1 Sundries £0 4 9 Carriage £0 6 10 Undescribed £0 7 4 Total £446 15 2

T White & Son 1 Bull Finch & 1 Swallow £3 3 0

335

Total £1,293 1 8

Unclear Conrad Andeer Coleoptera £41 0 0 Cowley Brothers 1 Barrow £3, Reptile £0 17 0 £3 17 0 Cox & co for J.W Jones Beetles £1 4 0 Dr. W. Staudfuss Lepidoptera £7 14 0 E. Hintz African Beetles £3 10 0 F. Wichgraf For Lepidoptera £2 10 4 G. Brinkman For hornets’ nest £5 0 0 Graf Krusi Butterflies £0 5 9 Hauptmann, Friedrich Hauser Lepidoptera £50 0 0 Herr Ludwig Kuhlmann Butterflies £6 16 0 J. Cullingford J Cullingford 3 Pheasant Skins commission on order £0 15 1.5 J. Grose £54 10 6 J. Volcker For butterflies (dead) £5 0 0 Kurrick & Jefferson 1 Brx Penspurst? £0 4 0 Madame PiHauet, Paris For Coleoptera £4 0 9 P. de la Gurde Butterflies £0 15 0 P.W. H Shutz Antelopes £16 14 0 R.V Bell Skins from Borneo £3 0 0 Tshusi For Bird skins £5 10 0 V. Manual Duchon, Rakovitz Bohemia Coleoptera and Lepidoptera £9 18 0 W.H. Preng? Lizard from W.H. Preng? 0 10 0 W.J Cumming 4 skins & 1 egg of Itypocolins £1 15 0 For bats caught by man in woods, Nest of Young Unknown Individual Kingfisher and boy for white sparrow £0 7 0 Total £224 16 6

336