Part 45

"He was certainly one of the most popular men in Christ Church; when he was in the schools, to be examined viva voce, almost the whole undergraduate world of Christ Church was there.... He always struck me, in respect of the most serious matters, as combining strength and simplicity very remarkably; it was impossible to talk to him and not to be sure that God, life, death, and judgment were to him solid and constantly present realities."

Another college friend says: "One evening when I was devoting an hour to coaching him up for his 'little go,' I took care to tuck up my legs, in Turkish fashion, on the sofa, for fear of a casual bite from the jackal which was wandering about the room. After a time I heard the animal munching up something under the sofa, and was relieved that he should have found something to occupy him. When our work was finished, I told Buckland that the jackal had found something to eat under the sofa. 'My poor guinea-pigs!' he exclaimed; and, sure enough, four or five of them had fallen victims."

Tiglath Pileser, the bear, had to be sent away from Christ Church. The dean said, "I hear you keep a bear in college; well, either you or your bear must go." So Tig was sent to Islip, seven miles from Oxford, a living held by Dean Buckland, who had now become Dean of Westminster. The bear did so much mischief at Islip, in grocer's shops and houses, that he was sent to the zooelogical gardens, where he died in cutting his teeth.

Jacko, the monkey, was a source of great amusement, and greatly prized by young Buckland. "Once, when carrying him on a railway train, in a lawyer's blue bag," says Mr. Buckland, in his "Curiosities of Natural History," published some years afterwards, "Jacko, who must needs see everything that was going on, suddenly poked his head out of the bag, and gave a malicious grin at the ticket-giver. This much frightened the poor man, but, with great presence of mind, quite astonishing under the circumstances, he retaliated the insult, 'Sir, that's a dog; you must pay for it accordingly.' In vain was the monkey made to come out of the bag and exhibit his whole person; in vain were arguments in full accordance with the views of Cuvier and Owen urged eagerly, vehemently, and without hesitation (for the train was on the point of starting), to prove that the animal in question was not a dog, but a monkey. A dog it was in the peculiar views of the official, and three-and-sixpence was paid.

"Thinking to carry the joke further (there were just a few minutes to spare), I took out from my pocket a live tortoise I happened to have with me, and, showing it, said, 'What must I pay for this, as you charge for all animals?' The employe adjusted his specs, withdrew from the desk to consult with his superior; then returning, gave the verdict with a grave but determined manner, 'No charge for them, sir; them be insects.'" Whenever Jacko got loose, he found mischief. One day he covered a shoe, sole and all, with blacking, and poured what was left in the bottle inside the shoe. He also rubbed the white kitchen table all over with black-lead and water.

Young Buckland spent his vacations at the University of Giessen, under the famous teacher and chemist, Professor Liebig, to whom he became greatly attached. "Returning in October, 1845, I brought with me," he says, "about a dozen green tree-frogs, which I had caught in the woods near the town.... I started at night on my homeward journey by the diligence, and I put the bottle containing the frogs into the pocket inside the diligence. My fellow-passengers were sleepy old smoke-dried Germans. Very little conversation took place, and, after the first mile, every one settled himself to sleep, and soon all were snoring. I suddenly awoke with a start, and found all the sleepers had been roused at the same moment. On their sleepy faces were depicted fear and anger. What had woke us all up so suddenly?

"The morning was just breaking, and my frogs, though in the dark pocket of the coach, had found it out, and, with one accord, all twelve of them had begun their morning song. As if at a given signal, they one and all of them began to croak as hard as ever they could. The noise their united concert made seemed, in the closed compartment of the coach, quite deafening: well might the Germans look angry; they wanted to throw the frogs, bottle and all, out of the window, but I gave the bottle a good shaking, and made the frogs keep quiet. The Germans all went to sleep again, but I was obliged to remain awake, to shake the frogs when they began to croak. It was lucky that I did so, for they tried to begin their concert again two or three times.

"These frogs came safely to Oxford, and, the day after their arrival, a stupid housemaid took off the top of the bottle, to see what was inside; one of the frogs croaked at that instant, and so frightened her that she dared not put the cover on again. They all got loose in the garden, when, I believe, the ducks ate them, for I never heard or saw them again."

The next autumn, after a short tour in Switzerland, he returned to Oxford, this time bringing a jar full of red slugs. "They at least were noiseless and would not croak like frogs. In the opposite corner of the diligence placidly slumbered a traveller with ample bald head; Frank also slept, but, waking at midnight, he saw, with horror, that two of his red slugs had escaped and were crawling over the traveller's bald pate. What was to be done? To remove them might waken the sleeper. Frank sat, as it were, on tenter-hooks, until the diligence stopped at the next stage, when, firmly covering up the jar and what remained of the slugs, he slipped quietly out of the diligence, resolved to proceed on his journey by another conveyance next morning, rather than face that man's awakening."

Young Buckland took his degree in 1848, and entered St. George's Hospital. "My object," he said, "in studying medicine (and may God prosper it!) is not to gain a name, money, and high practice, but to do good to my fellow-creatures and assist them in the hour of need.... My object in life to be a great high-priest of nature, and a great benefactor of mankind." Wealthy, and of the highest social position, he had determined not to live for himself, but for the good of others.

He was now twenty-two; genial, full of kindness, democratic in his feelings, one of "nature's noblemen." At his father's house, the Deanery, he met Lyell, Davy, Faraday, Sir John Herschel, Guizot, Liebig, Agassiz, Ruskin, Rogers, Lord Brougham, Sir Robert Peel, Lord John Russell, Lady Franklin, Lady Shelley, and scores of other distinguished persons.

Here his menagerie was larger than ever. The stuffed forms of Tiglath Pileser and Billy the hyaena were in the hall. Jenny, a monkey from Gibraltar, had come to join Jacko, bringing a pet chicken with her, which lived in her cage, and which she fondled as a nurse does a child. Here were tailless Manx cats, lizards, snakes, and fifty or sixty rats, usually kept in the cellar. Young Buckland would often take snakes out of his pockets to show his friends. "Don't be afraid," he said to a young lady at a party, as he showed her some snakes; "they won't hurt you, I've taken out their fangs. Now, do be a good girl, and don't make a fuss;" and he wreathed one snake around her neck, and one round each arm. "His sisters were so often bedecked with similar reptilian necklaces and armlets that they became used to the somewhat clammy, crawling sensation which is a drawback to such ornaments."

About this time, Buckland wrote an article on the muscles of the arm, and took it to several periodicals, but none would accept it. Urged by Mr. White Cooper, the queen's oculist, he wrote an article upon his rats, which the friend carried to "Bentley's Miscellany." It was accepted, and thus began his successful authorship. This was subsequently published in his first book, "Curiosities of Natural History," in 1857.

He tells of one of his rat families: "One day a poor mother had moved her young about into several parts of the cage, but could not fix on one point. I saw what was wanting, she could not obtain cover for them. I put my hand into the cage, full of tow and cotton wool; she came instantly and took it out of my hand, and covered up her young. But, notwithstanding all this care, and although evidently most anxious for their welfare, this kind mother, obeying, I suppose, some wise law of nature, devoured during the following night every one of the little ones of which she had been so careful the preceding day."

After being house-surgeon at St. George's Hospital for some time, Buckland became assistant surgeon to the Second Life Guards in 1854. He had already given his first lecture, "The House We Live in," delivered at a Working Men's Coffee House and Institute established by his mother, in Westminster, London.

About this time he was nearly fatally poisoned by a cobra. He says, "I had not walked a hundred yards before, all of a sudden, I felt just as if somebody had come behind me and struck me a severe blow on the head and neck, and at the same time I experienced a most acute pain and sense of oppression at the chest, as though a hot iron had been run in and a hundred-weight put on the top of it. I knew instantly, from what I had read, that I was poisoned. I said as much to my friend, a most intelligent gentleman, who happened to be with me, and told him, if I fell, to give me brandy and eau-de-luce, words which he kept repeating in case he might forget them. At the same time I enjoined him to keep me going, and not on any account to allow me to lie down. I then forgot everything for several minutes, and my friend tells me I rolled about as if very faint and weak. He also informs me that the first thing I did was to fall against him, asking him if I looked seedy. He most wisely answered, 'No, you look very well.' I don't think he thought so, for his own face was as white as a ghost; I recollect this much. He tells me my face was of a greenish yellow color.

"After walking, or rather staggering, along for some minutes, I gradually recovered my senses, and steered for the nearest chemist's shop. Rushing in, I asked for eau-de-luce. Of course, he had none, but my eye caught the words, 'spiritus ammoniae,' or hartshorn, on a bottle. I reached it down myself, and, pouring a large quantity into a tumbler with a little water, both of which articles I found on a soda-water stand in the shop, drank it off, though it burnt my mouth and lips very much. Instantly I felt relief from the pain at the chest and head. The chemist stood aghast, and, on my telling him what was the matter, recommended a warm bath. If I had then followed his advice, these words would never have been placed on record. After a second draught at the hartshorn bottle, I proceeded on my way, feeling very stupid and confused."

In August, 1856, Dean Buckland died, and in November, 1857, Mrs. Buckland. On December 17, her son wrote in his journal: "Thirty-one years ago, at 6 A. M., I came into the world, at the old house in Christ Church, Quadrangle. I am now about half-way across the stage of life, and thank God I am just beginning to feel my feet. But, oh! what I have lost since last birthday, the best friend a man can have in the world,--his mother."

He did not know that he was very much more than "half-way across the stage of life already." It is well that we walk by faith rather than sight.

"Oh! blissful, peaceful ignorance, 'Tis blessed not to know; It keeps me quiet in those Arms Which will not let me go, And hushes all my soul to rest On the Bosom which loves me so.

"So I go on, not knowing-- I would not if I might-- I'd rather walk with God in the dark Than walk alone in the light; I'd rather walk with him by faith Than walk alone by sight."

In 1859, after a laborious search of some weeks in the vaults of St. Martin's in the Fields, Buckland found the body of John Hunter, the father of modern physiology, and the coffin was reinterred in Westminster Abbey. Though a most disagreeable task, he said, "I must not shrink from doing a thing at first sight disagreeable, or nothing will ever be accomplished. Nothing like determination and perseverance." The Leeds School of Medicine presented him a silver medal, as a mark of respect for his exertions.

In 1860, he helped to organize the Acclimatization Society, formed for the purpose of varying and increasing the food supply of Great Britain by introducing new animals and preserving the native fish. He also became voluntary consulting surgeon at the Zooelogical Gardens, doctoring the sick, and increasing by his example the tenderness shown to animals.

His life had now become a most active one. He wrote many valuable articles for the magazines, since issued in books, the "Log Book of a Fisherman and Zooelogist," and other volumes, and lectured frequently, to large audiences, on his favorite subjects.

In 1863, after eight years of service in the Life Guards, he resigned, and began to devote himself more than ever to fish culture. In January and February of each year he collected the eggs of trout and other fish from the Rhine, Switzerland, France, and elsewhere, distributing some throughout the country and artificially hatching others. Fish-hatching boxes were exhibited in the South Kensington Museum, and at the Crystal Palace. Trout ova in ice were sent to Australia, where, after incubation had been suspended for a hundred days, when placed in running water, the fish came into the world strong and healthy.

In 1864, Buckland made extended investigations in oyster culture; delivered lectures upon the subject before the British Association of Bath, the Society of Arts, the London Institution, indeed all through England and Ireland. He was appointed Scientific Referee to the South Kensington Museum, giving a course of lectures and of class demonstration. He sent about sixteen thousand young fish and eggs to the Horticultural Gardens, and with these he helped to illustrate his lectures and inform the public.

Through "Land and Water," a paper established by himself and a few friends, he reached and educated a large constituency.

In 1863, the year previous, he had married Miss Hannah Papes, and made his home at 37 Albany St., Regent's Park. Here he gathered all his pets, who found in Mrs. Buckland a person as kind and tender as their master. Here were brought his favorite monkeys, "Hag" and "Tiny." The latter came from the Zooelogical Gardens "as good as dead," but, through Mrs. Buckland's good nursing, she became well and strong.