The only ornithological specimens he possessed were the skeleton head and a wing bone of an albatross. He had not learned the art of preserving the skins of birds, and I promised to give him a little instruction if I had time and opportunity. I told him how I had been thwarted in my intention to make a collection in my voyage round Cape Horn by the captain of the ship, and he seemed to struggle for words to express his scorn and contempt for such an ignorant and superstitious ship-master.
His principal collection was in Philadelphia. He had been offered a high price for it, but no amount of money would induce him to sell it.
After a visit of more than two hours, which I engaged to repeat soon, we shook hands and parted. I have seldom seen a man display so much enthusiasm in an occupation which he followed solely for his amusement.
I took occasion some weeks after this, while making another visit at San Francisco, to renew my acquaintance with my Norwegian friend. He had recently received a very fine snake, with which he was highly pleased. I admired his enthusiasm. "O," said he in the course of our conversation, "there is nothing in nature so beautiful as a snake." I remarked that this new specimen was certainly a very handsome one. "O it is splendid, it is most magnificent." We passed an hour very pleasantly together, and parted with much reluctance. I have never seen him since.
September 12, 1854. My account of the Norwegian snake-collector, naturally recalls a little experience of my own in the same line. A fellow in the Redwoods, near which I was then tarrying, brought me at different times, two splendid rattlesnakes, which I bought and placed in a long box with a glass front, through which I could observe all their motions. It may, perhaps, excite a smile, when I state that by constant familiarity with these reptiles, I had acquired a sort of affection for them, that would have prompted me to defend them from harm, though I never saw one of the species at large, but I made no war upon him, except in one instance in which the snake began the battle, and I fought in self-defense, and happily won the victory. An Indian enriches himself with the scalp of his defeated enemy, and I know not but I might have followed his example in this instance had it been possible, but in the absence of a scalp-lock I was obliged to content myself with such a trophy, as his other extremity afforded, his rattle.
These two reptiles became my pets, and afforded me much amusement. I do not think that I was "charmed" by that wonderful power which is often attributed to the serpent family. There was no "fascination in their eyes," though we often sat and gazed at each other during several minutes. But I liked to watch their motions, and study their habits; to see them thrust out their long, dark, forked tongues as I approached their prison, or erect their tails and shake their rattles when disturbed. I liked to behold their spotted bodies, flattened as they lay quietly stretched on the floor of their cage, but swollen and distended when aroused by a sense of danger; or to see their fangs as they sometimes opened their mouths, as if in the act of gaping. I was amused with a habit they had of slowly stretching themselves at full length along the box, and then suddenly drawing themselves back again. And most of all, I was amused to see them on a cold morning folded together into a coil, from the center of which their flattened heads protruded, and rested side by side upon their bodies, looking, despite their venomous natures, the very picture of affection and of innocence, and affording a lesson, which many a rational biped might study with profit.
These reptiles never quarreled. Place two foxes in a cage, and they will fight from day to day, until one or the other is killed. Even two birds of many species will destroy each other, when confined together. But here was an instance of perfect harmony. In truth they had nothing to quarrel about. They seemed to have no wants except that of liberty, the love of which they probably possessed in common with every other animal. They could fast without hunger or thirst. I placed fresh meat and water in their cage, but they never tasted of either. I threw several lizards in to them, but they allowed them to run over the cage, and even over their bodies unmolested. Still they do eat, though individuals have been known to live many months and even years without tasting food. White in his Natural History of Selbourne, says: "The serpent-kind eat, I believe, but once a year, or, rather, but only just at one season of the year."