if it were not for collectors england would be full, so to speak, of rare birds and wonderful butterflies, strange flowers and a thousand interesting things. but happily the collector prevents all that, either killing with his own hands or, by buying extravagantly, procuring people of the lower classes to kill such eccentricities as appear. it makes work for people, even though acts of parliament interfere. in this way, for instance, he is killing off the chough in cornwall, the bath white butterfly, the queen of spain fritillary; and can plume himself upon the extermination of the great auk, and a hundred other rare birds and plants and insects. all that is the work of the collector and his glory alone. in the name of science. and this is right and as it should be; eccentricity, in fact, is immorality—think over it again if you do not think so now—just as[pg 12] eccentricity in one's way of thinking is madness (i defy you to find another definition that will fit all the cases of either); and if a species is rare it follows that it is not fitted to survive. the collector is after all merely like the foot soldier in the days of heavy armour—he leaves the combatants alone and cuts the throats of those who are overthrown. so one may go through england from end to end in the summer time and see only eight or ten commonplace wild flowers, and the commoner butterflies, and a dozen or so common birds, and never be offended by any breach of the monotony, any splash of strange blossom or flutter of unknown wing. all the rest have been "collected" years ago. for which cause we should all love collectors, and bear in mind what we owe them when their little collections are displayed. these camphorated little drawers of theirs, their glass cases and blotting-paper books, are the graves of the rare and the beautiful, the symbols of the triumph of leisure (morally spent) over the delights of life. (all of which, as you very properly remark, has nothing whatever to do with the strange bird.)