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 ammoniæ,' 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 Zoölogical 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 Zoölogist," and other volumes, and lectured frequently, to large audiences, on his favorite subjects.