The Pope of Indian Ornithology: Allan Hume’s Journey from Birds to Botany

June 6, 1829

On this day was born Allan Octavian Hume, a British civil servant whose life story reads like a cautionary tale about putting all one's intellectual eggs in a single, poorly guarded basket.

After dedicating more than three decades to service in India, Hume had developed such an affinity for his adopted land that he boldly declared,

"I look upon myself as a Native of India."

How refreshing to find a colonial administrator who embraced his surroundings rather than merely tolerating them while longing for English weather and puddings!

Our Mr. Hume was not merely stamping papers and collecting taxes.

No, this gentleman found his true passion in ornithology, earning himself the rather grandiose title of 'Pope of Indian Ornithology.'

One must wonder if there were cardinals and bishops of Indian ornithology as well, or if Hume simply bestowed the papacy upon himself.

Imagine the scene at Rothney Castle, his Shimla residence, with enthusiastic assistants scattered across the subcontinent, dutifully collecting feathered specimens and reporting back to their ornithological pontiff. Notebooks filled with meticulous observations, journals brimming with decades of research, all culminating in what was to be his magnum opus on the birds of the Indian Empire.

But dear readers, prepare yourselves for a twist that even this chronicler finds difficult to report without a touch of schadenfreude.

At the mature age of 55, when most men are settling into their accomplishments, poor Hume returned to Rothney Castle after a winter away to discover absolute devastation. A disgruntled servant—clearly not impressed with Hume's ornithological obsessions—had ransacked the castle and destroyed every single written manuscript.

Just like that, a lifetime of work vanished!

One can almost picture the horror on Hume's face as he surveyed the wreckage of his intellectual legacy. The starch, as they say, was taken right out of him. There would be no masterwork on Indian birds bearing Hume's name.

Thankfully for science, if not for Hume's bruised ego, his collection of over 82,000 birds and eggs survived the servant's rampage. With his passion for feathered creatures as extinct as some of his specimens, a dejected Hume offered his entire collection to the Natural History Museum in South Kensington.

The Museum's curator, Richard Bowdler Sharpe, who traveled personally to collect this avian treasure trove, was positively effusive, writing:

"It did not take me many hours to find out that Mr. Hume was a naturalist of no ordinary calibre, and this great collection will remain a monument of the genius and energy of its founder long after he who formed it has passed away."

Like any good gardener who has lost a prized specimen, Hume did not wallow in his misfortune for long. He simply transplanted his obsessive tendencies to a new intellectual bed: botany.

Returning to England with his collecting spirit undiminished, he threw himself into the world of plants with the same fervor he had once reserved for feathers.

One must admire his dedication—annual expeditions, custom cabinets for his specimens, and a particular fascination with seeds and seedlings. The man was, by all accounts, a fanatical collector, though one hopes he employed more trustworthy servants in his later years.

Before his death in 1910, Hume ensured his botanical collection would not meet the same fate as his ornithological manuscripts by establishing the South London Botanical Institute. His herbarium and library found a permanent home there, a lasting legacy that continues to educate and inspire gardeners to this day.

For those who visit the Institute, do take a moment to admire the magnificent Ginkgo biloba standing sentinel at the entrance—a living monument to Hume's botanical passion that has outlasted both the man and his manuscripts. Unlike his bird notes, this legacy took root and flourished.