What’s in a name
Carol Klein reveals the meaning behind plant names, and why some of our favourites are changing
Finding taxonomy taxing? Carol sheds light on the meaning of plant names
failed Latin three times; each time I retook it I got five fewer marks. Perhaps I couldn’t see the relevance of translating stories about Trojan travellers or conjugating verbs that were no longer spoken. Before my resul ts became even more ignominious, I’d left school and entered into a world where nobody cared about my lack of ability in Classics. I didn’t know then that I’d be using Latin names every day at Glebe Cottage. Nowadays, I recognise what a privilege it was to become acquainted with that language. At first sight, giving plants Latin names and dividing them into families might seem an academic and rather dul l business. But both are essential in identifying our plants and a fascinating way of telling us gardeners what plants are like: their appearance, where they want to grow and who they are.
A system is born
“If you do not know the names of things, the knowledge of them is lost, too,” said Carl Linnaeus in 1751. He was responsible for the binomial system, which gives plants two names to identify them accurately. His work is the basis of the system we use now, even though it was completed over two and a half centuries ago. Before he stepped in, plant nomenclature had become a si l ly business with taxonomists, botanists, and everyone else inventing names and adding to others, sometimes resulting in names several lines long. They were impossible to remember and of no help to anyone – molto confusione. Linnaeus gave plants a first name (the genus), and a second name (the ‘specific epithet’), which helps distinguish a species from other plants in the same genus. The second name informs us about either the plant ’s use, its characteristics or where it grew, or who discovered/introduced it. Pulmonaria officinalis was named because the plant supposedly resembled lungs ( pulmonis is the Latin for lungs), and officinalis means it was used as a medicine, after opificina (a storeroom in a monastery, where medicines were distributed). Anything including sativum means it was grown for food, hence Pisum sativum – our garden pea. The foetidus of Helleborus foetidus tells us that the plant has a nasty smell (though I quite like it). After these first two names, plants also often have a variety name, a subspecies or a form. We need these when either plants evolve and differ from the species plant (subspecies), or have a different botanical makeup (variety) or a different foliage or flower colour (form) to the species. Then there are cultivars – new plants usually bred in cultivation. So, in the case of the evergreen climber Clematis armandii ‘Apple Blossom’, clematis is the genus, armandii tel ls you what species of clematis it is, and ‘Apple Blossom’ is the cultivar, bred for its pink-tinged flowers. Each genus also belongs to a family. A plant’s family name is shared by all the other members of the group. Aquilegias, buttercups, clematis, aconites and marsh marigolds all belong to the fami ly Ranunculaceae. Ranunculus aconitifolius ‘Flore Pleno’ is a buttercup with leaves like an aconite, and ‘Flore Pleno’ means it has double flowers. But it isn’t just a question of identifying a plant and knowing who its relations are – each family contains many diverse members. Even once you know which family a plant belongs to, you cannot
always generalise about how to grow it or what conditions it will need to thrive. It’s interesting to note where family members are alike and where they differ. A hellebore’s seed pods have very similar construction to those of aquilegias. When the seeds ripen, the capsule containing them splits apart and seed is spread simply by falling to the ground. Though they vary in size, the different plants’ seeds are black and shiny. However, clematis, also of the Ranunculaceae family, have tiny seeds with fluffy tails, as does the pulsatilla or pasque flower. Ranunculaceae comprises over 1,800 species – there are so many because each species has evolved to fit into a particular niche. Meadow buttercup, for example, has evolved to suit slightly damper pastures.
The common touch
So where do common names fit in? Well, these tell us where our plants come from. They celebrate the human love of plants and remind us how we’re linked to them. They’re also useful in the study of ethnobotany – the symbiosis between people and their local plants. Common names are so charming, you may question the need for all this complicated Latin, but they vary in different regions, which can confuse. One plant may have several common names or there may be a few different plants that all share the same common name. In the South East, for example, Lychnis flos-cuculi (ragged robin) is ‘ the flower of the cuckoo’ or cuckoo flower. In Lancashire, where I’m from, the cuckoo arrives later and we call Cardamine pratensis ‘the cuckoo f lower’, but we also call it ‘mayf lower’ and ‘ lady’s smock’ ( pratensis means ‘of the meadow’). Common names have huge value in telling us of the heritage, the history and the connection between these plants and humankind – but having a common agreement and a scientific system for naming plants is essential for accurate recognition. It means we can talk about plants with confidence, knowing that even if we’re on the other side of the world from another gardener or horticulturalist, we are all referring to the same plant. Botanical plant names are an essential way of understanding all these plants that we know and love – the more we learn about what they mean, the more interesting they become.