I had passed but one night in the city, when I was presented to the Rev. Mr. ——. This benevolent man, whom I am proud to call my friend would not suffer the "American Woodsman" to repose any where but under his roof; and not him alone—all his assistants too. When I tell you that he was an old friend of Alexander Wilson, that he shoots well, is an ornithologist, a philosophical naturalist, and that during the time we enjoyed his hospitality, he took us all over the country with his carriages and servants, in search of specimens, and that he was every thing a kind brother could be to me, you may suppose that it is with great sincerity I say, and ever shall say, God bless him! When I first saw this excellent man, he was on horseback, but upon my being named to him, he leaped from his saddle, suffered his horse to stand at liberty, and gave me his hand with a pressure of cordiality that electrified me. I saw in his eyes that all he said was good and true; and although he spoke of my labours in terms far exceeding what is due to them, I listened to him pretty well assured that he did not intend me to play the part of Gil Blas over again; for myself, my assistants, George Lehman and Henry Ward, were removed in a jiffy to his own mansion, introduced to the family, and at work the very next morning.
Although the weather was "shockingly hot," they prepared three hundred specimens, embracing about sixty land and water birds, and sent all the "pickled specimens to our mutual friend H——" [Dr. Harlan, of Philadelphia] for safe keeping until their return.
I jumped at once into my wood-hunting habits. All hands of us were up before day-break, and soon at work, either in the way of shooting, taking views, or drawing birds; after sunset—scribbling in our journals.... In the early part of November the alligators had gone into their winter quarters; the migratory birds were passing swiftly on towards the south, although we had had no frost. The planters considered the country as still unhealthy, and resorted to the city at night. If I had been governed by the practice and advice of many, I should not have put a foot in the mud, either salted or fresh; but difficulties of this character must be disregarded by the American woodsman, while success, or the hope of it, is before him.
It is impossible to do justice to the generous feelings of the Charlestonians, or to their extreme kindness towards me. Many of the gentlemen took the greatest interest in my pursuits; one, Dr. ——, presented me with an excellent New Foundland dog, and other valuable memorials of his regard. Another, Dr. ——, gave me a collection of shells, from the adjacent waters. The ladies presented me with a capital supply of snuff.[7] Desirous of going to Cole's Island, distant about 25 or 30 miles, to look after some marine birds, a boat, four hands and a pilot, were immediately offered to me, free of all expense, with the liberty to detain them as long as was agreeable to me. It is not possible for me to express properly the sense I feel of the kindness I received from that warm-hearted and intelligent people.
And now, as you have good naturedly listened to what I have felt bound to say on the score of gratitude, I will tell you what I know you are impatient to come to—something about my proceedings at Cole's Island. It lies south from Charleston about 25 or 30 miles; there we arrived and encamped for the night: certain beef-steaks we brought with us we roasted upon sticks, and the adjacent shore provided us with excellent oysters: gaiety, good appetites, and our hearts all right, made the time pass pleasantly, and it was with some reluctance we spread our blankets, and arranged the fire preparatory to going to rest. Nothing is more valuable to a naturalist, and particularly to an ornithologist, than the first hours of the day; therefore, long ere the sun had glowed over the broad sea that lay before our camp, we had reached another island where birds resort to roost by thousands; but, notwithstanding these multitudes, not a new species did we procure. We, however, had the pleasure of observing two noble "birds of Washington,"[8] sailing majestically over the broad watery face.
But it was necessary to bring my stay in Charleston to a close, and it was somewhat difficult too. My friends had increased in number; they were in the habit of accompanying me in my shooting excursions; I was becoming very much attached to them; invitations poured in from various parts of the country; and I really believe that had I been willing, we might have remained there and in the neighborhood, if not all our lives, at least as long as would have caused a rare scarcity of the feathered tribes, in that portion of the Carolinas. But my mind was among the birds farther south,—the Floridas, Red River, the Arkansas, that almost unknown country, California, and the Pacific ocean. I felt myself drawn to the untried scenes of those countries, and it was necessary to tear myself away from the kindest friends.
We embarked on the schooner Agnes; the wind was fair, and we hoisted all sails for the Floridas. Our passage was not short; the wind changed, and we put back into St. Simon's Island Bay. This was one of the few put backs in life of a fortunate kind for me. I made for the shore, met a gentleman on the beach, presented him my card, and was immediately invited to dinner. I visited his gardens, got into such agreeable conversation and quarters, that I was fain to think that I had landed on some one of those fairy islands said to have existed in the golden age. But this was not all; the owner of this hospitable mansion pressed me to stay a month with him, and subscribed to my Birds of America in the most gentlemanly manner. This was T. B. K., Esq.[9] But the wind shifted; I was sent for, and our voyage to St. Augustine resumed.
St. Augustine, whatever it may have been, is far from being a flourishing place now. It lies at the bottom of a bay, extremely difficult of access, even for vessels of light draft, which seldom reach the "city" in less than a day. I cannot say much for the market, nor for the circumjacent country. Oranges and plenty of good fish seem to contribute the wealth of the place. Sands, poor pine forests, and impenetrable thickets of cactus and palmettos form the undergrowth. Birds are rare, and very shy; and with all our exertions, we have not collected one hundred skins in a fortnight that we have been here. I have received many kind attentions, and numerous invitations to visit plantations, on our way to the south, where I shall direct my steps in a few days. I have drawn seventeen species, among which one mongrel vulture, which I think will prove new. You will see it, I hope, very soon.
I will give you a sketch of our manner of passing the time. We are up before day, and our toilette is soon made. If the day is to be spent at drawing, Lehman and I take a walk, and Ward, his gun, dog, and basket, returning when hungry or fatigued, or both. We draw uninterruptedly till dusk, after which, another walk, then write up journals, and retire to rest early. When we have nothing on hand to draw, the guns are cleaned over night, a basket of bread and cheese, a bottle with old whiskey, and some water, is prepared. We get into a boat, and after an hour of hard rowing, we find ourselves in the middle of most extensive marshes, as far as the eye can reach. The boat is anchored, and we go wading through mud and water, amid myriads of sand-flies and mosquitoes, shooting here and there a bird, or squatting down on our hams for half an hour, to observe the ways of the beautiful beings we are in pursuit of. This is the way in which we spend the day. At the approach of evening, the cranes, herons, pelicans, curlews, and the trains of blackbirds are passing high over our heads, to their roosting places; then we also return to ours. If some species are to draw the next day, and the weather is warm, they are outlined that same evening, to save them from incipient putridity. I have ascertained that feathers lose their brilliancy almost as rapidly as flesh or skin itself, and am of opinion that a bird alive is 75 per cent more rich in colours than twenty-four hours after its death; we therefore skin those first which have been first killed, and the same evening. All this, added to our other avocations, brings us into the night pretty well fatigued. Such, my dear friend, is the life of an active naturalist; and such, in my opinion, it ought to be. It is nonsense ever to hope to see in the closet what is only to be perceived—as far as the laws, arrangements and beauties of ornithological nature is concerned,—by that devotion of time, opportunities, and action, to which I have consecrated my life, not without hope that science may benefit by my labours.
As to geology, my dear Friend, you know as well as myself, that I am not in the country for that. The instructions you gave me are very valuable, and I shall be vigilant. The aspect of the country will soon begin to change, and as I proceed, I will write to you about all we see and do.... Do not be afraid of my safety; I take a reasonable care of my health and life. I know how to guard against real difficulties, and I have no time to attend to that worst of all kinds of difficulties,—imaginary ones. Circumstances never within my control, threw me upon my own resources, at a very early period of my life. I have grown up in the school of adversity, and am not an unprofitable scholar there, having learnt to be satisfied with providing for my family and myself by my own exertions. The life I lead is my vocation, full of smooth and rough paths, like every vocation which men variously try. My physical constitution has always been good, and the fine flow of spirits I have, has often greatly assisted me in some of the most trying passages of my life. I know I am engaged in an arduous undertaking; but if I live to complete it, I will offer to my country a beautiful monument of the varied splendour of American nature, and of my devotion to American ornithology.