{"id":242,"date":"2019-01-21T18:43:19","date_gmt":"2019-01-21T18:43:19","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.douglasboyes.co.uk\/blog\/?p=242"},"modified":"2021-09-16T16:08:56","modified_gmt":"2021-09-16T15:08:56","slug":"moth-names","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.douglasboyes.co.uk\/blog\/2019\/01\/21\/moth-names\/","title":{"rendered":"Common names can be marvellous but do all species need them?"},"content":{"rendered":"\r\n

Chimney Sweeper, Maiden\u2019s Blush, Peach Blossom. British moths have some fantastic English names. There\u2019s also the Drinker, the Conformist, the Sprawler, the Phoenix, and the Saxon.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Such enchanting names are at the root of the ever-growing popularity of moth trapping. They capture our imagination and stick in our minds. Who wouldn\u2019t be fascinated by creatures with names like Brindled Beauty, Plumed Prominent, Feathered Footman, or Marbled Minor?<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

But not all are blessed with a common name. The majority of British Lepidoptera are known only by their scientific denomination. Many of these don\u2019t exactly roll off the tongue (try Schrekensteinia festaliella<\/em> or Ptycholomoides aeriferanus<\/em>). Some are even longer than the insect itself. So why do so many species lack an English name? Is this something we should rush to rectify?<\/p>\r\n\r\n

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Captivating common names add to the magic of moths.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\r\n\r\n

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It\u2019s usually easy to see how our moths got their names. Many conjure up colourful imagery. Others are wonderfully descriptive. The wing markings of the Heart & Dart, Silver Y, and Figure of Eight are exactly as it says on the tin.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Sometimes the resemblance is more fanciful. In its sombre markings, you may be able to make out the shawl that gave the Old Lady<\/a> its name (squinting helps). Whitish scales give the impression that the Miller\u2019s wings are dusted in flour. The Mouse Moth? Well, not only is it small and brown, but it also has a habit of scurrying to safety when disturbed (despite perfectly functional wings).<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

In some species, the caterpillar was deemed most remarkable. For instance, the crustacean-like larva<\/a> of the Lobster Moth. Or the Goat Moth, named after its pungent odour.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Life histories are frequently embodied in common names, perhaps revealing the foodplant (Oak Hook-tip, the Campion) or its favoured habitat (Sandhill Rustic, Marsh Dagger).<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

But the best names are the most whimsical. The Uncertain, the Confused, and the Suspected \u2013 each tricky to identify, the names of these moths never fail to raise a smile.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Centuries in the making<\/strong><\/h6>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The names of British moths are drawn from an unfamiliar vocabulary. Brocades, daggers, wainscots, lutestrings, footmen \u2013 curious remnants of a bygone era.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

It\u2019s easy to picture the lavish rooms that inspired these names. Delicately-patterned fabrics featured heavily, no doubt. It\u2019s a fascinating insight into the grandeur of early entomologists, waited on by their footmen and lackeys.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

I had assumed it was eccentric Victorian entomologists who had dreamt up this menagerie of moth names. In fact, many were christened much earlier. In a fascinating article (British Wildlife, October 1998), Peter Marren revealed that most of the names were first used in Georgian times.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Some of the earliest ones he uncovered include Ragwort Moth (now the Cinnabar), London Royal Leopard (Scarlet Tiger) and my absolute favourite, Tilman Bobart\u2019s Straw Moth (Brimstone Moth). All coined by James Petiver in the late 1600s and early 1700s.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

By 1767, a rather familiar lexicon had emerged. In \u2018The Aurelian\u2019, Moses Harris speaks of Large Yellow Underwing, Mottled Umber, Burnished Brass, Angle Shades, Spring Usher and Scarlet Tigers. Interestingly, Petiver\u2019s Ragwort Moth had now become the Pink Underwing. Other quirks include The Snout, known then by the somewhat less catchy The Snout-Egger Likeness. And \u2013 wait for it \u2013 what we call a Convolvulus Hawk-moth was simply the Unicorn (on account of its horned caterpillar<\/a>, of course).<\/p>\r\n\r\n

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The clue is in the name: the English names of most macro-moths were coined centuries ago.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\r\n\r\n

Some continued to evolve. But by the end of the 18th<\/sup> century, British moth names had largely stabilised. Most were exactly as we use them today.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

A parallel nomenclature<\/strong><\/h6>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Just as the rich vocabulary of English names was developing, a more formal naming system emerged.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

During the 18th<\/sup> century, Carl Linnaeus attempted to describe the known natural world, assigning an informative two-part name to thousands of species (including hundreds of European moths).<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

His system was widely adopted as it helped remove ambiguity: the scientific name is both specific and unique. It is also hierarchical (each species is within a genus, which is within a family, and so on) \u2013 useful for efficient taxonomic classification.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

At the time, Latin and Greek were used by scholars across the world. These ancient languages continue to represent a neutral ground, free from the political issues that would arise from using a modern language as a basis for universal communication.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

It\u2019s a great system. But one that\u2019s maybe not that relevant for ordinary folk. Most of us have little need to converse with people from other countries about a certain species.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The descriptions contained within scientific names are also inaccessible to many of us. Appreciating these requires knowledge of dead languages \u2013 something few people still have. (My \u2018C\u2019 in GCSE Welsh is about the closest I come\u2026)<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Thankfully, there\u2019s a handy cheat sheet for British Lepidoptera. Maitland Emmet\u2019s 1991 book<\/a> is invaluable for explaining the meaning of their scientific names.<\/p>\r\n\r\n

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Once translated, scientific names can be just evocative as common names.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\r\n\r\n

But there are more fundamental problems than the need to translate the meanings of scientific names.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Long. Impenetrable. Intimidating. Unpronounceable. Impossible to remember.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

These are the typical complaints made by beginners about ‘Latin names’ when they first peer into the realm of Britain\u2019s smaller moths (been there, got the t-shirt).<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Such reactions are understandable. Some names are just a convoluted orgy of consonants. Roeslerstammia erxlebella, Diloba caeruleocephala, Oegoconia deauratella<\/em>: just a few that I still haven\u2019t quite got my head around saying out loud.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

However, with those few exceptions aside, I\u2019ve actually found myself becoming quite fond of scientific names.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

They were a struggle at first, sure. Took some getting used to. But I think most of the barrier is psychological.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Get past it and they\u2019re usually not too bad. Some are rather charming, dare I say. Hofmannophila pseudospretella<\/em> sounds vastly more interesting than Brown House-moth. Said aloud, the specific epithet of Elachista<\/em> apicipunctella <\/em>has a delightful bounce. Calliteara pudibunda<\/em> is another of my favourites (aka Pale Tussock).<\/p>\r\n\r\n

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When the name is twice the length of the moth itself: Pseudoswammerdamia combinella. #moths<\/a> #teammoth<\/a> pic.twitter.com\/UIJWbdXIIH<\/a><\/p>\r\n\u2014 Douglas Boyes (@diarsia) April 15, 2017<\/a><\/blockquote>\r\n