University of Virginia Library

ORNITHOLOGICAL CLASSIFICATION
OF QUAIL.
CORRECTOR CORRIGENDUS;
OR ERRORS OF OTHERS THAN “CYPRESS” CONCERNING QUAIL.

With no slight interest, dear Editor, have I, at various
times, and through the medium of most incongruous and oddly
chosen pages, perused the various lucubrations, on sundry
sporting matters, of our friend Cypress. Nor has it not been
most apparent to me, that our said friend doth entertain strange
fancies, most heretical, unauthorized, and wild, concerning
the nomenclature, whether in the vernacular or in the learned
tongues, of the winged game of the United States; nor heretofore

has this opinion been concealed from the delinquent.
It is not, therefore, to uphold J. Cypress, Jr., that I address
you now, but rather—while admitting all his errors, as pointed
out in your December number, under the head of Corrigenda,
—to add my mite of information on the subject, and to show
that in some cases his corrector is perhaps scarcely less erroneous.

The errors of Cypress are for the most part contained in a
note, wherein he erroneously and somewhat flippantly attacks
the Latin nomenclatures of the birds, which we usually designate
game, of the gallinaceous order. His attack, though
somewhat desultory, is directed principally to two points—in
both of which we humbly think he errs. First, he objects to
the statement of Audubon and Wilson that the quail is migratory,
and to the use of the word “flocks,” in speaking of this
migratory habit. Secondly, he insinuates an objection to the
use of the word “partridge,” as applied to the American quail.
And thirdly, he charges all these faults to the score of the
whole race of ornithologists, who, he says, have given the
name Tetrao, “which means a bustard or wild turkey,” to the
partridge, and who have called the American quail perdix virginiana,
whereas they would have found, under certain contingencies,
that the true appellation is coturnix.

Now in all this, except in his condemning the southern application
of the word “partridge” to the American quail, he is
clearly wrong.

For as to the word “Flocks,” it is correctly used—and the
word “bevies,” which he would substitute, would in the sense
of the context be manifestly incorrect. A bevy of quail is,
so many as are hatched of one pair in the course of one season,
remaining under the guardianship of the old birds, and
unmixed with any other bevy. When two or three bevies join

together—as is not uncommonly the case late in the season,
particularly in wild and windy weather—the united bevies constitute
a “flock!” The same habit is observed in the English
partidge, Tetrao Scoticus; and in the Red Grouse of the British
isles Tetrao Scoticus; and in both of these the habit of so joining
covies or broods is properly termed packing; and the united
covies designated as packs. The man who would call three
hundred brace of moorfowl on the wing together, which glorious
sight I have seen both in Cumberland and Fifeshire, a
covey, would be voted a tailor on a very large scale, indeed—
and I think the wight who should apply the term bevy to a
similar or larger company of quail—and they do migrate unquestionably
in larger bodies than that—would have some difficulty
in avoiding the same inculpatory title.

With regard to his Latinity, Cypress is yet more widely
out—“Tetrao” does not mean, nor ever did, either bustard or
wild turkey—the ornithological and classical name for the
bustard being “otis,” as your correspondent H. has justly remarked—while
that for the wild turkey would by analogy, be
“meleagris fera,” or “sylvestris,”—the word meleagris being
the term adapted to the turkey from some unknown bird—probably
the guinea fowl—mentioned by classical writers.

To what bird the word Tetrao in Latin, in Greek,
was originally applied, it is not easy now to discover; it was,
however, of the gallinaceous order, and obtained its name
from four wattles, which it is described as having possessed,
bare of feathers. This word Tetrao has been applied—and,
as it seems to me, very judiciously—to gallinaceous game in
general, from the great Capercali of Northern, down to the
minute quail of Southern Europe, by Linnæus. The generic
differences are expressed by the second noun attached, as
Tetrao perdix—the English partridge—Tetrao Rufus, the red

legged partridge—Tetrao coturnix, the quail, &c., &c., ad infinitum.
So that Cypress is, in fact, entirely in error with regard
to the alleged misapplication of both terms; and is clearly
wrong in his Latinity. If, moreover, there be an error in the
name perdix virginiana, it is attributable, not to the whole race
of naturalists, but merely to those naturalists who have created
a new name for a new bird.

Now in my humble opinion, Corrector is no less in error—
as I shall endeavor to show—in his corrigenda. “Thus”—
he says—“he—Cypress—is writing about the perdix Virginiana,
Virginian partridge, and not about the Perdix Coturnix,
European quail. The first is a true partridge, belonging to
the same subgenus with the European, viz. ortyx; whilst the
quail belongs to the subgenus coturnix. In Pennsylvania and
southward, and in English books, our bird is called—and correctly—partridge.”

Now the gist of all this amounts to a simple assertion that
the American bird belongs to a different genus from the English
quail, and is a partridge. Now this I am satisfied is an
error. From what book your correspondent H. draws his
nomenclature I have not been able to discover; but from
whatsoever, it is not a distinct, or, in my opinion, correct
one. In no book that I have or can refer to, is the European
partridge—English partridge?—classed as ortyx—nor the
quail as Perdix—but both are generally classed as Tetrao, with
the definitions perdix and coturnix. Such is the nomenclature
of Linnæus, Buffon, and Bewick—the last decidedly the
best British ornithologist. The subgeneric nomenclatures alluded
to by your correspondent H. have no foundation in classical
propriety, ortyx being merely the Greek——and coturnix
the Latin for Quail. So that as an appellation intended
to convey a distinction, the new term ortyx, as opposed to co

turnix, is absurdly ill chosen—being a distinction without a
difference!—With regard to habits, the American bird is infinitely
more similar to the quail than to the partridge; whether
English or red-legged. The partridge is a bolder bird,
stronger, and freer of wing, less apt to skulk, or run before
dogs—and never perching, even on rails, much less on trees
or bushes—and rarely flying to any woody covert. The European
quail skulks, and runs, almost precisely as its American
congener, flies, immediately on its being roused, to the
nearest brake or thicket, and is with great difficulty flushed a
second time; it likewise occasionally, though not often
perches on low shrubs. It is, moreover, migratory, which
the partridge is not, and which the American quail most certainly
is, as I can testify from my own observation; while in
size, general appearance, character of plumage, and cry, it is
much more nearly connected with the English quail, than with
any partridge existing.

In my opinion, therefore—and I am satisfied that facts will
bear out my opinion—the Perdix Virginiana is not a true
partridge—and is not correctly termed a partridge in Pennsylvania
and southward—any more than the ruffed grouse—Tetrao
umbellus—is correctly termed a pheasant in the same regions.
The English books, to which your correspondent refers,
are probably books of travels, using the term in describing
the bird which the authors have heard applied to it here
—for we are aware of no English ornithological work of authority
describing the birds of America. As to whether the
nomenclature Perdix virginiana be correctly deduced or not,
is a different question; and bears nothing on the point at issue.
I should rather prefer myself to designate it as Tetrao
coturnix; varietas Virginiana; or more simply Tetrao Virginianus;
but so that it is made evident what bird is meant,

and to what genus, and species, and order, it belongs, the mere
name matters little.

Of the Partridge there are but two varieties in Europe—or,
as far as known, in Africa—the grey, or English, and the red-legged;
and both these are by Linnæus styled Tetrao—the
one perdix, the other rufus. The term ortyx is not used by
him, and is—as I have shown above—an absurd term to use
in opposition to coturnix, as distinguishing partridge from
quail.

The truth is, that in the common phraseology of this country
the nomenclature of game has been sadly confused; by
the fact that the original settlers named the birds they found
here, after fancied similitudes to the birds they remembered
at home; and that their errors have been handed down from
age to age, till they are now almost ineradicable. Hence the
quail is called a partridge in the South—while no less erroneously
the ruffed grouse is termed a partridge in the Eastern
and Middle, and a pheasant in the Southern States; and will
so be termed till the world's end by all but book-read ornithologists,
students of Buffon and Linnæus, at whom J. Cypress,
Jr.—commend me to him when you meet—sneers so unmercifully
and, me judice, unwisely.

My Dear Turf: I perceive that some, doubtless, very
clever gentleman has been doing the amiable for me, in the
Irish fashion, in the sod you have just cut out and registered.

He is pleased to assure you that the unpretending author of a
few observations concerning quail, copied by your Magazine
from a publication made some years since, “proves himself
entirely ignorant of ornithology, by his bluuders in nomenclature.”
He sneers at “all his Latin acquirements,” and charges
that “he has not even consulted his dictionary honestly.”
But, worse and worse, he insists that although Mr. C. alludes
to Audubon, yet that he—the aforesaid clever gentleman—is
certain that Mr. C. “has never consulted his works, nor Bonaparte's
nor those of any modern author since the time of Wilson,
or he would not have made the unwhiskered! assertion that the
whole race of ornithologists call the partridge `TETRAO.' ” Then
follows some fun about the New-York Mirror, which I do not
understand. General Morris can take care of himself. Perhaps
he had better order out one of his regiments, and plant
a park of artillery before his office, for his better defence.
Though, on second thought, the admission made in the last
paragraph of the “Corrigenda” we are referring to, that the
“article is written in sport,” may induce composure and confidence
among the office imps, and there will be no necessity
for extra Cannon.

But as to myself. Permit me to defend variously. I desire
to take issue on part of the charges against me. I want
to confess in part, and let part go by default; or give a cognovit
for the amount of damages. I admit that my assertion
was “unwhiskered.” I admit it with grief. I ask leave to
amend—as the lawyers say—“on payment of costs;” and I
will presently re-present the assertion full “whiskered,” if
my learned commentator will have it so, with the mature hair
of judgment of ornithologists who, now, have no more books
to sell.

Next as to my “utter ignorance of ornithology,” and my

“blunders in nomenclature,” I plead not guilty. I, at the
same time, admit that I am no professed bird-philosopher, nor
herald of the honors, orders, distinctions, and relationships of
the feathered race, But I have long known many of them, intimately,
and loved them with the love of a sportsman, and a
lover of nature; and have read the history of them and their
kin in many books, and have talked to them, and heard them
talk, and I know what names to call them, and if I “blunder,”
I know where to go to get corrected; and if I hear some
other devotee—even though he be a master—miscall them,
I have assurance enough, when I can prove it, to point out
his kakology. I am no carpenter, yet I live in a house. I
have written no book, yet I have read some, and consulted
many. Shall I be enjoined from the expression of my opinion
as to the construction of either, because I have not builded
nor written? I shall insist, on this head, under my forthcoming
proofs, that I am not “utterly ignorant,” &c., but, at
the very furthest, only very considerably “ignorant.”

Next, as to the insinuation about my “Latin acquirements,”
which, I suppose, of course is intended to signify want of
them; if it will do Mr. H. any good, he may take judgment
against me by default.

Touching the last grave charge, that I have not “consulted”
either Audubon or Bonaparte, I am bound to take
issue; for this accusation, if true, involves me in the crime of
a falsehood—a falsehood that could have been concocted only
by the most barefaced affectation of knowledge, and the most
extraordinary good luck of a rambling fancy. I will consider
this matter further, presently; when I will also endeavor to
prove that I have consulted my “dictionary honestly.” Mean
time, I will persist in declaring that although the hard necessities
of impecuniosity have denied to me the delight of enshrining

Audubon among my household divinities—he being
a dear God,—yet I have “consulted” him, where I have consulted
Pliny, Linnæus, Buffon, and other gentlemen, whose
company Mr. “H.” need not stick up his nose at, in a place
which it is not necessary Mr. H. should know. Nevertheless,
my good Turf, if your etymological-fact-hunting correspondent,
who delicately intimates to you, that you “of course
know the importance of truth—although you are an Editor,”—
has the control of any extra copies of Mr. Audubon, not immediately
called for, and will leave a set for me at your office, I
will promise to study as well as “consult” him, and will give
up, or lease, grant, bargain, sell, assign, transfer, and set over
to him, all my right and title to call Quail “Coturnix,” to
have and to hold to him and his heirs forever.

But let us look into the case, and the evidence of my alleged
guilt. In the spirit of a modest sportsman, who does
not pretend to talk to Princes of bird craft, I wrote some time
since, some humble, melancholy, “Observations Concerning
Quail,” not to exalt my reputation as a naturalist, but to plead
to the sympathies of the true sportsman, and to notify the
poachers of the terrors of the new law most mercifully passed
by our Legislature, for the protection and salvation of my
sweetheart's favorite bird. I was indiscreet enough to add
to my discourse a note in the following words, to wit:

Hinc illœ lachrymœ! Hence the ululation of Mr. H., and
his “Corrigenda.”

Now let us dissect the note.

I. Cypress.—“I am not unaware that Audubon describes
the quail as migratory at the West, and that he says that the
shores of the Ohio, in the Fall, are covered with FLOCKS.
Flocks!

Mr. H.—commenting.—Mr. C. alludes to Audubon, but I
am certain he has never consulted his works.

Permit me to ask, then—if Mr. H. be correct,—how I
found out that Audubon called bevies of quail “flocks of
partridge.” Yet he does do so, and commits a high and
heavy sin. Even admitting that he may be right in calling
them “partridges,” he had no authority to speak of their
“greges,” but as “covies.” It is unpardonable in a naturalist
to talk of “flocks of partridges.” He does also say that the
quail is migratory at the West. Did I dream these two distinct
facts? Is this the way “Mr. H.” writes “in sport?”
Or must I, by silence submit to an imputation of pedantry
and falsehood? Or is it because I casually alluded to the
fault of Audubon—which he copied from Wilson—that his
friend writes so fiercely “in sport.”

II. My next sentence refers to the fact that Wilson said he
had heard the “Partridge or Quail,” as he calls it, was migratory
in Nova Scotia. Wilson is not to be blamed, for he
refers only to hearsay as to the travelling story; and for aught
I know, he is correct. Quails have different habits in different
countries. But Mr. H., doubtless, thinks him in error
because he calls the bird quail or partridge. Hence he gives
a fling at him, for “many errors,” all of which, he assures us,

were long since corrected by Bonaparte, &c.—For Bonaparte,
read Audubon. Bonaparte was more distinguished for his
addenda than for his “Corrigenda” of his master's works.—
As to the attempt to make Wilson, of whom Audubon is evidently
a liberal borrower, responsible for all the errors of
previous nomenclators, I can but smile. I cannot be guilty
of assuming to defend that eloquent pioneer poet of the woods,
swamps, bays and fields, from a pirate shot. I would sooner
deliver a lecture to prove that the sun gave light and warmed
animal creation into existence and maturity.

III. Cypress.—“Nevertheless, I do not care to believe
every thing which the students of Linnæus and Buffon say,
who talk of `flocks of partridges' and mean `bevies of quail.' ”

Mr. H.—Though Mr. C. does not care to believe all that
the students of Linnæus and Buffon say, I think,” &c.

Mr. H.! Mr. H.! is that fair, “in sport,” or in earnest, to
tear my sentence apart, and smother my distinction between
those students of Linnæus and Buffon who do talk of “flocks
of partridges,” and those who do not? Nimrod, and all the
Dii Minores forbid! that I should be convicted of disrepect
to the true students of good masters. I only spoke of the
boys who forgot some part of their lesson, and, with confident
ability, trusted to their own manufacture, or to doubtful authority.
Need I answer a charge of “scandalum magnatum”
before it is proved?

IV. Cypress.—“By-the-by, what is the reason that the
whole race of ornithologists call the partridge “tetrao,” which
is Latin for a bustard and a wild turkey?”

Mr. H.—“Unwhiskered assertion.”—Again; “Mr. C.,
however, has not even consulted his dictionary, honestly, or
mine is a different edition, and contains the following definitions;
Tetrao, Grouse; Perdix, Partridge; Coturnix, Quail;

and Otis, Bustard;” and “naturalists do not use any of them
in a different sense”

In answer to all this, I shall simply quote authorities. My
dictionaries certainly ARE of a different edition from those of
“Mr. H.” as he suggests.

There was, in old times, a man named Pliny, who, on account
of his knowing all the wonders and varieties of nature,
was called “the Naturalist.” He was almost next to Solomon,
the beginner of bird biographies.

This author, not unknown to fame, distinctly used the word
“tetrao” for a “bustard,” or bistard.[6] See him for the fact,
and Ainsworth, also, who, in the Dictionary line, has always
been considered a very respectable person. If the two last
named people don't know what is Latin for a “bustard,” I am
at a loss to know who does.

Ainsworth, moreover, calls “Otis” a sort of owl, quoting in
illustration the remarkable phrase “Quas Hispania aves tardos
appellat,” from Pliny aforesaid—“aves tardos”—slow
birds! Now we very well know that the owl is a slow bird,
and that the Bustard is a brisk one. In proof of the latter
fact read from any author who lives where the Bustard runs,
how difficult a bird he is to get a shot at.—It is no more than
fair to admit, however, that Ainsworth also calls the Bustard
“Buteo.” That, nevertheless, is only a synonyme.—

Again; Kenrick, in his substantial well-reputed dictionary
of 1783, defines Bustard—F. bistardo—Wild Turkey.

The learned Dr. Adam Littleton, in his quarto Latin Dictionary
of 1723, defines a bustard Otis—tarda—TETRAO!—

bustardus—asio. In another place he distinctly translates
“Tetrao” a bustard, or bistardo.

Dr. Johnson also renders “Bustard” Turkey, quoting old
Hakewill.[7]

I trust, therefore, that I am not entirely without authority
for my intimation that “Tetrao” is one of the synonymical
words for “wild turkey or bustard.” I shall not pretend to
show that the old Romans ever knew the wild turkey, though
it is hard to tell what “Gallus Africanus—avis turcica vel
Afra” was—called, also, by Ainsworth, gallus Numidianus,
—which those splendid epicures used to send for to Africa.
It cost Pennant, in his British Zoology, some pains to prove
that the Romans knew not Turkey. It is enough for me to
know upon the authority of a shrewd writer in Rees, that
turkeys were brought into England by the way of Spain,
from Mexico and Yucatan, so early as the year 1524, since
which time the whole race of modern ornithologists have
written. They did not begin to publish their studies, and
proposed divisions, until about the middle of the eighteenth
century. The application of the Latin word Tetrao to Turkey
may have been made immediately upon the introduction
of the bird to the Eastorn Continent, and so have justified the
subsequent lexicographers whom I have quoted, in their
definitions. It does not amount to much to refer to the fact,
that the prevailing impression is, that the old Romans fed not
on turkey, for with the same sort of triumph I might refer to the

fact that there is no evidence of their knowledge of any sort
of grouse, unless, indeed, partridge, and quail are to be referred
to that genus, and for these they had distinct names,
viz. Perdix and Coturnix. Linnæus, in 1740 or thereabouts,
does so refer to them, and in the mention of the quail in what
he esteems its proper place, calls our quail Tetrao Virginianus.
He, however, finds another species in Maryland, adjoining,—which
is, nevertheless, precisely the same bird,—
and ushers it to the world under the title of Tetrao Marilandus.

But this reference to Quail again reminds me that I am
trespassing upon your pages, and that the subject is a dry
one. I come now to a conclusion.

V.—“It is not the less to be admired that they call the
quail Perdix Virginiana,” says Cypress, finally, in his
note.

And so they do. Latham begins the nomenclature, leaving
out the Tetrao of Linnæus, and substituting perdix. Yes, Mr.
Turf, that is the fact, according to those learned cognoscents.
We leap out with our dogs, and do some moderate work
among a few bevies, as we call them, of what we also call
Quail, but when we come home, we are told that the quail
does not live in this country—that we have only tumbled
Virginian partridges—Perdix Virginiana! So says Mr.
Audubon. What then? Have we no quail in this country?
Suppose we shoot in Maryland, is our game, then, the Virginian
Partridge! Latham says no; they are the Maryland
Partridge? What shall we call our bird in New York, Jersey,
and the New England States? Perdix Neo-Eboracensis?
Perdix Nova-Cæsariensis? Perdix Nova-Brittanicus!—
A fico for these affectations. Why do not ornithologists

agree upon standard names to put at the head of their genus?[8]
And what is more natural than that they should, in a case
like this, take the long, well-settled, and established word
Coturnix for the name of the genus of the tribe, and then let
the different species come in with their tributes of honor and
respect? Yet Latham, Audubon, and others, have utterly
stricken Coturnix from existence, so far as the country is concerned.

But enough. I forbear. I had not aspired to pull down,
or even to amend the system as established, but have merely
made a passing comment upon it, in one or two particulars.

The strictures of Mr. H. have compelled me to defend
myself from the charge of entire ignorance, want of honesty,
and constructive falsehood. Having thus the opportunity
before me, I will assure Mr. H. that there is no authority of
modern date, however potential, that will induce us sportsmen
and farmers of the North to give up the name of “quail.”
When our New England forefathers first arrived in this
country, some of them wrote back the most glowing accounts
of their new home, and among other game enumerated
“Quailes,” appearing to observe no difference between
those they found here and those they had left behind in England.[9]
Quails all over the world belong to the same genus.
The quail of Cuba, which I have seen on its native island, is a
bright various plumage-colored bird, painted as it were, with
almost all the colors of the rainbow. But this is only his
style of dress in the West Indian seas. The partridge—all

animals there are gorgeously apparrelled. Still he is Coturnix.
Such is his every day Spanish name. The same is
the case with Perdix. Permit me, then, to stand by the
universal coturnix.—Good morning.