CHAPTER XXVI

EXPLORATIONS IN FLORIDA AND THE SOUTH ATLANTIC

Obituary published in London on day of his arrival in New York—Assistance from the Government—John Bachman becomes his friend—Winter in Charleston—His folios as gifts—To Florida with two assistants—Letters to Featherstonhaugh—St. Augustine—Misadventures in the mud of East Florida—Audubon on Florida's future—At the sources of the St. John's—Aboard the _Marion_—Return from Key West—A merchant of Savannah—Disbanding of party at Charleston.

In the summer of 1831 Audubon felt that he must again return to America and extend his researches to the north, south and west, as well as begin a campaign for subscribers in the United States. His large folio was now running into its second volume, and the first installment of his text had been published; the time was favorable to his plans, and he hoped to remain in the country two or three years.

For the second time the publication of his plates was entrusted to friend Children, and with Mrs. Audubon he set sail for New York on August 2, 1831. From the American metropolis he wrote to Joseph B. Kidd on September 7 as follows:[1]

We landed on the 3d ... [of September] after a remarkably fine passage of 33 days. In two days more I proceed to the woods, and away from white man's tracks and manners. I hope you are going on well with your work.... I have a new subscriber here. The papers and scientific journals (we have not many,) are singing the praises of my work, and, God willing, I may yet come out at the broad end of the horn; at all events, I will either _break it or make a spoon_! I shot sixteen birds on the passage, which I got through the kind attention of our commander. I killed fifty more, when the "Columbia" was going too fast to stop for the purpose of picking them up. My young man is now busily engaged in skinning, and killed a bag-full of warblers yesterday ... prices of peaches, first quality, 75 cents per bushel,—apples, half that price;—water melons are dull of sale, as also cantelopes and nutmeg melons. Fish alive in the markets, and, _vive la joie_, no taxes on shooting or fishing."

What Audubon actually did was to proceed to Philadelphia, where Mrs. Audubon left him to visit her sons in Louisville, and where he laid his plans for exploring the Southern States, especially the islands and eastern coast of the Florida peninsula. For this expedition he engaged two assistants, one of whom was Henry Ward, the "young man" mentioned above, an Englishman who had come with him to America as taxidermist, while the other was George Lehman, a Swiss landscape painter whom he seems to have found at Philadelphia. With them he soon started for Washington to obtain assistance from the Government.

On the very day that Audubon landed in New York, there appeared in the _London Literary Gazette_ a serio-comic notice under the title of "Wilson the Ornithologist," who, it may be remembered, had died in Philadelphia eighteen years before. Said the editor of the _Gazette_:

We observe with sorrow an account of the death and burial of poor Wilson, somewhere in the state of Philadelphia, even while the Edinburgh journals are anticipating his return, laden with scientific treasures. We have now before us No. 1 of his Illustrations of American Ornithology, on a reduced scale, to sort with Professor Jameson's edition—a pretty and attractive publication. The coloured prints are extremely correct and well done.

When on September 8 the Edinburgh _Caledonian Mercury_ had called attention to this egregious blunder regarding Wilson, the _Gazette_ explained that his name had been confused with that of Audubon, whose obituary presently appeared in its issue of October 29, the editor remarking that this naturalist's death was equally, if not more, to be deplored than that of Wilson. Captain Brown then sent to the _Caledonian Mercury_ Audubon's letter to Kidd, quoted above, which was written from New York four days after the naturalist's death was announced in England. "What is the editor of the Literary Gazette about," exclaimed a writer in the Edinburgh paper; "he first resuscitates a man who has been dead 18 years, only to kill him again, and then, by way of correcting his error, kills another, who is now clearly proved to have been alive and well several days after the date of his obituary in London."

As was often the case, Audubon's ambitious hopes for exploring the continent far outran his means and powers of accomplishment. Colonel John James Abert, whose counsel he sought in Washington at this time; said:[2] "His plan is first to examine the peninsula of Florida; then the regions west of the Mississippi, Mexico, and if possible penetrate into California. He also contemplates crossing the Rocky Mountains and pursuing the Columbia River to its mouth, and thinks that he will be absent from us about two years." In November G. W. Featherstonhaugh, the geologist, also made this announcement in his _Monthly American Journal of Geology and Natural Science_:

We are authorized to state that information of the progress of Mr. Audubon will be given, from time to time, to the scientific world, in the pages of this journal.

We are gratified in being able to state, that he was received in the most cordial manner, at Washington, and that the distinguished gentlemen in authority there, have given him such letters to the military posts on the frontiers, as will assure him the aid and protection his personal safety may require. We anticipate the most interesting reconnaisances, both geological and zoölogical, from this enterprising naturalist, who is accompanied by Mr. Lehman, as an assistant draftsman, and by an assistant collector who came with him from Europe.

The "distinguished gentlemen" at Washington who particularly aided Audubon at this time, besides Colonel Abert, were Edward Everett, Levi Woodbury, Secretary of the Navy, and Lewis McLane, Secretary of the Treasury. He was particularly anxious to obtain accommodation for his party aboard a government vessel, but it was some time before a suitable one was available. They left Washington about October 15, 1831, and went by steamer to Norfolk and Richmond, Virginia, where the Governor, John Floyd, whom Audubon had known in his Kentucky days, gave him numerous letters of introduction. At Charleston, their next stopping-place, he had hardly begun work in the field when he was sought out by the Rev. John Bachman, by inclination a naturalist of the old school and by profession a Lutheran minister, who at once took the whole party under his hospitable roof, where they remained a month. Thus began a life-long and almost ideal friendship between these two men, so unlike in character, in temperament and in training, which was quite as important to the modest German-American divine as to the impulsive Franco-American painter and student of birds. It was Audubon's infectious enthusiasm which kindled to an ardent flame that love of nature which was innate in Bachman, and which eventually brought his name and work to the attention of the scientific world.

Audubon remained at Charleston with the Bachmans until November 15, when the opportunity which they had awaited came suddenly, and they sailed for St. Augustine, Florida, on the government schooner _Agnes_. On that day Bachman wrote to Mrs. Audubon, in compliance "with a request of your kind and worthy husband, who laid an injunction on me this morning":[3]

The last has been one of the happiest months of my life. I was an enthusiastic admirer of nature from my boyhood, and fond of every branch of Natural History. Ornithology is, as a science, pursued by very few persons—and by none in this city. How gratifying was it, then, to become acquainted with a man, who knew more about birds than any man now living—and who, at the same time, was communicative, intelligent, and amiable, to an extent seldom found associated in the same individual. He has convinced me that I was but a novice in the study; and besides receiving many lessons from him in Ornithology, he has taught me how much can be accomplished by a single individual, who will unite enthusiasm with industry. For the short month he remained with my family, we were inseparable. We were engaged in talking about Ornithology—in collecting birds—in seeing them prepared, and in laying plans for the accomplishment of that great work which he has undertaken. Time passed rapidly away, and it seems but as yesterday since we met, and now, alas! he is already separated from me—and in all human probability we shall never meet again.... I need not inform you that Mr. Audubon was a general favorite in our city. His gentlemanly deportment, his travels and experience, his information and general talents, caused him to be sought after by all. But your husband knew that the great objects before him required his unremitted attention, and he was obliged to deny himself to his friends, on many occasions, and devoted to them only his evenings.

There seems quite a blank, in my house, since he has gone, for we looked on him as one of our family. He taught my sister, Maria, to draw birds; and she has now such a passion for it, that whilst I am writing, she is drawing a Bittern, put up for her at daylight by Mr. Audubon.

On December 23 Bachman wrote to Audubon: "Your visit to me gave me new life, induced me to go carefully over my favorite study, and made me and my family happy." His sister-in-law, Miss Maria Martin, who possessed considerable artistic talent, became one of Audubon's enthusiastic helpers, and not only drew birds for him but painted many of the flowers and insects which were later used for the embellishment of his plates. John Bachman's serious contributions to natural history also date from this visit. To repay him and his family for their hospitality, Audubon presented them with the first volume of _The Birds of America_, but the folio was not received until some time later; he was referring to this when he wrote to Bachman, just before sailing from New York, on April 5, 1834, and asked him to accept "the superbly bound book" from "your old Friend, in part atonement for the troubles I have given you, and the leatherings you may yet receive at my hands at chess." In a letter to Miss Martin, written also from New York on the following day, he said: "The Great Volume which Maj. Glassel did fortunately return into your hands, I give with all my heart to my valued friends, the Bachmans, and shall try to furnish them the sequel in like binding."[4]

Audubon scattered detached plates and numbers of his large work freely among his friends, and sometimes spoke of a gift of the whole. The costly nature of such a present in most cases, no doubt, led to a change of mind if not of heart, but not in all, for a number of his presentation copies still exist. One was given to David Eckley[5] of Boston, a noted sportsman who had aided Audubon in collecting materials for his work. In a letter written at Charleston, January 1, 1837, to young Thomas M. Brewer, Audubon said: "Please to call on my good friend David Eckley, Esq., present to him and to his family my very best regards, and ask of him whether he has collected any hawks or owls for me. If so, take them from him, and place them in the general receptacle of 'pale-faced rum.'" Another copy is said to be in possession of the Public Library of Manchester, England, and to have been bequeathed to that institution by the Earl of Crawford. A complete set of the _Birds_ was also presented to his friends, the Rathbones of Liverpool, and is still in possession of the family.

We shall now return to our narrative and fulfill our promise of reproducing Audubon's own account of his journey from Richmond to Florida:[6]

_Audubon to G. W. Featherstonhaugh_

I am now seated in earnest to give you an unceremonious summary of my proceedings up to this time, since we left Richmond, in Virginia. As a geologist, I venture to suppose you would have been but indifferently amused, if you had been with us in our journey from this latter place to Charleston, in South Carolina; and as an ornithologist, I cannot boast of the enjoyment I found; poor coaches, dragged through immense, deserted pine forests, miserable fare, and neither birds nor quadrupeds to be seen. We at length approached Charleston, and the view of that city from across the bay was hailed by our party with unfeigned delight. Charmed, as we were, with having terminated our dreary journey, it did not occur to us to anticipate the extraordinary hospitality which awaited us there, and which led to a residence of a few of the happiest weeks I ever passed.

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.

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON.

Ther., this day, at 2 p. m., 78° Fahr.

On the following day, December 8, 1831, Audubon sent the following request to Dr. Harlan of Philadelphia: "I wish you also to send me—to Key West—, 20 more pounds of powdered arsenic from Friend Wetherell's shop,[10] and also a double barelled gun of usual length, as good as you can procure for 30 dollars; probably a second hand one may be procured; it must be _percussion_ and, if possible, _back action_." Dr. Richard Harlan, who often transmitted to Mrs. Audubon any news which came direct from her husband, wrote to her on December 10, 1831, as follows:[11]

I have just recd a letter from Mr Aud—dated St. Augustine Nov. 24th they enjoy health amidst their fatiguing avocations—has obtained another subscriber, living on St. Simons island named Tho. Butler King—to whom I am to send the work as soon as the Copies exported arrive from London—he has good expectations of adding some new birds to his list—have you seen the Sonnet addressed to Mr Aud. in the "Wreath" a London annual for 1832?—under the signature of J. E. R?—our newspapers announce the arrival, departure & progress of Mr Audubon, as if he was an _Embassador_—and so he is, one of Natures——

The winter season at St. Augustine proved unfavorable for the naturalist's work, and he anxiously awaited the coming of the government vessel, the _Spark_, to the commander of which he bore letters from Washington. After spending about three weeks in the neighborhood of the city, the party proceeded through the inlet which divides Anastasia Island from the mainland, to the plantation of General Hernandez, thirty-five miles distant, where they were entertained for ten days. On Christmas morning they set out afoot for the plantation of John Bulow, of Bulowville, fifteen miles away. To follow the naturalist's account:

A wagon was sent for our baggage and horses for ourselves were offered at the same time, but it was not my desire to give unnecessary trouble, and above all upon an occasion when I was glad to see the country in as much detail as possible, and anxious to avail myself of every occasion to get new birds.

During the whole long stay with Mr. Bulow, there was no abatement of his kindness, or his unremitted efforts to make me comfortable, and to promote my researches. I shall ever feel grateful to one of the most deserving and generous of men.

On December 28 their host proposed that they should descend the Halifax River in search of new and valuable birds to a point about forty miles from that place and eighty miles from St. Augustine.[12]

Accordingly, the boat, six hands, and "_three white men_," with some provisions, put off with a fair wind, and a pure sky.... We meandered down a creek for about eleven miles—the water torpid yet clear—the shore lined with thousands of acres covered by fall grapes, marshes, and high palm trees, rendering the shore quite novel to my anxious eye. Some birds were shot, and secured so as to be brought back, in order to undergo the _skinning operation_. Before long we entered the Halifax river, an inland arm of the sea, measuring in breadth from a quarter to nearly a mile.

They reached a spot, called "Live Oak Landing," where a schooner from New York was then anchored, and there passed the night.

At sunrise the next morning, I and four negro servants proceeded in search of birds and adventures. The fact is, that I was anxious to kill some 25 brown Pelicans ... to enable me to make a new drawing of an adult male bird, and to procure the dresses of the others. I proceeded along a narrow, shallow bay, where the fish were truly abundant. Would you believe it, if I were to say, that the fish nearly obstructed our head-way? Believe it, or not, so it was; the waters were filled with them, large and small. I shot some rare birds, and putting along the shore, passed a point, when lo, I came in sight of several hundred pelicans, perched on the branches of mangrove trees, seated in comfortable harmony, as near each other as the strength of the boughs would allow. I ordered to back water gently; the hands backed water. I waded to the shore under cover of the rushes along it, saw the pelecans fast asleep, examined their countenances and deportment well and leisurely, and after all, levelled, fired my piece, and dropped two of the finest specimens I ever saw. I really believe I would have shot one hundred of these reverend sirs, had not a mistake taken place in the reloading of my gun. A mistake, however, did take place, and to my utmost disappointment, I saw each pelecan, old and young, leave his perch, and take to wing, soaring off, well pleased, I dare say, at making so good an escape from so dangerous a foe.

After shooting more birds, and pushing or pulling their boat "over oyster banks sharp as razors," they made the schooner at the landing again. "The birds, generally speaking," he continues, "appeared wild and few—you must be aware that I call birds few, when I shoot less than one hundred per day."

Such remarks as we have just quoted might convey the impression that the American woodsman, with whose name the cause of bird protection is now associated in this country, was a reckless destroyer of all bird life, but this was far from the case. It must be remembered that this was over eighty years ago, when the unrivaled abundance of our birds was such that the necessity of their conservation had hardly entered the dreams of the most discerning. Audubon no doubt had gradually yielded to the prevalent mania for describing and figuring new species, and to make out all the minute specific differences a large series of specimens was necessary; still more were needed for the detection of individual variation, which did not escape him, and much less his assistant, William MacGillivray, who demanded large numbers for his anatomical studies. Furthermore, Audubon counted upon defraying a part of his expenses by collections of skins of American birds, which were then desiderata among the museums of Europe.[13]

When it was proposed that they should return,

preparations were accordingly made, and we left the schooner, with tide and wind in our teeth, and with the prospect of a severe, cold night. Our hands pulled well, and our bark was as light as our hearts. All went on merrily until dark night came on. The wind freshening, the cold augmenting, the provisions diminishing, the waters lowering, all—all depreciating except our enterprising dispositions. We found ourselves fast in the mud about 300 yards from a marshy shore, without the least hope of being able to raise a fire, for no trees except palm trees were near, and the _grand diable_ himself could not burn one of them. Our minds were soon made up to do—what? Why, to roll ourselves in our cloaks, and lay down, the best way we could, at the bottom of our light and beautiful barque. Good God, what a night! To sleep was impossible; the cold increased with the breeze, and every moment seemed an hour, from the time we stretched ourselves down until the first glimpse of the morn; but the morn came, clear as ever morn was, and the north-easter as cold as ever wind blew in this latitude. All hands half dead, and masters as nearly exhausted as the hands—stiffened with cold, light-clothed, and but slight hope of our nearing any shore; our only resort was, to leap into the mire, waste-deep, and to push the barque to a point, some five hundred or six hundred yards, where a few scrubby trees seem to have grown to save our lives on this occasion. "Push, boys, push! Push for your lives!", cry the generous Bulow, and the poor Audubon.—"All hands push!" Aye and well might we push: the mire was up to our breasts, our limbs becoming stiffened at every step we took. Our progress was slowly performed as if we had been clogged with heavy chains. It took us two and a half hours to reach the point, where the few trees of which I have spoken were; but, thank God, we did get there.

_We landed_ ... and well it was that we did; for on reaching the margin of the marsh, two of the negroes fell down in the marsh, as senseless as torpidity ever rendered an alligator, or a snake; and had we, _the white men_, not been there, they certainly would have died. We had carried them into the little grove, to which, I believe, all of us owe our lives. I struck a fire in a crack; and, in five minutes, I saw, with indescribable pleasure, the bright, warming blaze in a log pile in the center of our shivering party. We wrapped the negroes in their blankets—boiled some water, and soon had some tea—made them swallow it, and with care revived them into animation. May God preserve you from being ever in the condition of our party at this juncture; scarcely a man able to stand, and the cold wind blowing as keenly as ever. Our men, however, gradually revived—the trees, one after another, fell under the hatchet, and increased our fire—and in two hours I had the pleasure of seeing cheerful faces again.

Their predicament, however, was still serious, for, to continue the narrative, they were

confined in a large salt marsh, with rushes head high, and miry; no provisions left, and fifteen miles from the house of their host.

Not a moment was to be lost, for I foresaw that the next night would prove much colder still. The boat was manned once more, and off through the mud we moved to double the point, and enter the creek, of which I have spoken, with the hope that in it we should find water enough to float her. It did happen so, thank God! As we once more saw our barque afloat, our spirits rose,—and rose to such a pitch that we in fun set fire to the whole marsh: crack, crack, crack! went the reeds, with a rapid blaze. We saw the marsh rabbits, scampering from the fire by the thousands, as we pulled our oars.

Their pleasure in being afloat was short-lived, for "the northeaster had well nigh emptied the creek of its usual quantum of water," and they were again obliged to wade to effect a landing, their object being to gain the east Florida coast and thus make their escape. This was finally attained after abandoning their boat, when began a long tramp on the beach, in the teeth of the wind,

through sand that sent our feet back six inches at every step of two feet that we made. Well, through this sand we all _waded_, for many a long mile, picking up here and there a shell that is nowhere else to be found, until we reached the landing place of J. J. Bulow. Now, my heart, cheer up once more, for the sake of my most kind host.... I assure you, I was glad to see him nearing his own comfortable roof; and as we saw the large house opening to view, across his immense plantation, I anticipated a good dinner with as much pleasure as I ever experienced.

All hands returned alive; refreshments and good care have made us all well again, unless it be the stiffness occasioned in my left leg, by nearly six weeks of daily wading through swamps and salt marshes, or scrambling through the vilest thickets of scrubly live oaks and palmitoes that appear to have been created for no other purpose but to punish us for our sins.

Readers of the following account who have visited eastern Florida may conclude that Audubon was not a good prophet, but probably at that early day no one could have made a better forecast of the future:

The land, if land it can be called, is generally so very sandy that nothing can be raised upon it. The swamps are the only spots that afford a fair chance for cultivation; the swamps, then, are positively the only places where plantations are to be found. These plantations are even few in number; along the coast from St. Augustine to Cape Carnaveral, there are about a dozen. These, with the exception of two or three, are yet young plantations. General Hernandez's, J. J. Bulow's, and Mr. Durham's are the strongest, and perhaps the best. Sugar cane will prosper, and doubtless do well; but the labour necessary to produce a good crop, is great! great!! great!!! Between the swamps of which I now speak, and which are found along the margin laying west of the sea inlet, that divides _the main land_ from the Atlantic, to the river St. John of the interior of the peninsula, nothing exists but barren pine lands of poor timber, and immense savannas, mostly overflowed, and all unfit for cultivation. That growth, which in any other country is called underwood, scarcely exists; the land being covered with low palmitoes, or very low, thickly branched dwarf oaks, almost impenetrable to man. The climate is of a most unsettled nature, at least at this season. The thermometer has made leaps from 30 to 89 degrees in 24 hours, cold, warm, sandy, muddy, watery,—all these varieties may be seen in one day's travelling.... Game and fish, it is true, are abundant; but the body of valuable tillable land is too small to enable the peninsula ever to become a rich state.

On January 6, 1832, the party started to visit a famous spring near the sources of the St. John's River, which was described in his third letter to Featherstonhaugh as well as in a later "Episode."[14] There his host, Colonel Rees, who utilized the abundant flow from this curious spring for grinding the whole of his sugar cane, took them down the Spring Garden Creek to a series of muddy lakes which emptied into the St. John's. The mud on this occasion was the cause of great disappointment to the naturalist, for it made it impossible for him to recover what he believed to represent a new species of Ibis, which was shot in one of those bottomless pits. "Being only a few yards distant from us," to quote from Audubon's third letter,[15] "and quite near enough to ascertain the extent of my loss, I submitted to lose a fine pair of a new species, the which if I ever fall in with it again, I shall call _Tantalus fuscus_."

When they had reached the borders of Woodruff's Lake, after noon, fatigued and hungry, he continued:

We landed on a small island of a few acres, covered with a grove of sour orange trees, intermixed with not a few live oaks. The oranges were in great profusion on the trees—everything about us was calm and beautiful and motionless, as if it had just come from the hand of the Creator. It would have been a perfect Paradise for a poet, but I was not fit to be in Paradise; the loss of my ibis made me as sour as the oranges that hung about me. I felt unquiet, too, in this singular scene, as if I were almost upon the verge of creation, where realities were tapering off into nothing. The general wildness the eternal labyrinths of waters and marshes, interlocked, and apparently never ending; the whole surrounded by interminable swamps—all these things had a tendency to depress my spirits, notwithstanding some beautiful flowers, rich looking fruits, a pure sky, and ample sheets of water at my feet. Here I am in the Floridas, thought I, a country that received its name from the odours wafted from the orange groves, to the boats of the first discoverers, and which from my childhood I have consecrated in my imagination as the garden of the United States. A garden, where all that is not mud, mud, mud, is sand, sand, sand; where the fruit is so sour that it is not eatable, and where in place of singing birds and golden fishes, you have a species of ibis that you cannot get when you have shot it, and alligators, snakes, and scorpions.

Mr. Bartram was the first to call this a garden, but he is to be forgiven; he was an enthusiastic botanist, and rare plants, in the eyes of such a man, convert a wilderness at once into a garden.

When we had eaten our humble repast at the sweet little Orange Grove Island, we left it "alone with its glory," but not without a name. It was determined, nolens volens, that it should be called Audubon's Island, on the St. John's river. Lat. 29° 42´.

Early in February, 1832, Lieutenant Piercy took Audubon and his assistants aboard the government schooner _Spark_ at St. Augustine, and sailed for the mouth of the St. John's River, which he had orders to ascend in the interests of the Revenue Service. On February 12, when they had reached a point one hundred miles from the mouth of the river, the vessel, being in need of repairs, was suddenly recalled. Audubon, with two men, thereupon engaged a boat and attempted to return to St. Augustine across country, by a short cut to the eastward. They were soon stranded and the party divided. Audubon with his dog and one companion then endeavored to make their way by land to the town, eighteen miles distant, but they were overtaken by a terrific gale and thunder-storm, and in order to keep to the trails were often obliged to grope their way on hands and knees.[16]

At about this time the publishers of the _Journal of Geology and Natural Science_, from which we have quoted, failed, and Featherstonhaugh, who assumed their debts to all subscribers, was obliged to bring it to a close with the completion of the first volume; Audubon's third and last letter appeared in the valedictory number for June, 1832.

Again the naturalist applied to the government officials at Washington for assistance, and, as the following letter shows, Edward Everett again came to his aid, as did also Levi Woodbury, Secretary of the Navy, to whom Audubon later received a personal introduction from Chief Justice Taney of the Supreme Court:

_Levi Woodbury to Louis McLane_

NAVY DEPARTMENT

_February 24 1832_

SIR,

The letter of the Honorable Mr. Everett of the 18th. inst. relating to Mr. Audubon &c and referred by you to this Department, has been received.

I regret that the impaired condition of the Spark made it necessary some weeks ago, to order that vessel to Norfolk to be refitted.

I have heretofore taken much pleasure in furnishing Mr. Audubon with credentials to the officers of the Navy, and requesting [them] to furnish every aid, in the prosecution of [his] scientific researches: and shall be happy to afford any further facilities within the power of the Department.

I am very respectfully &c &c

LEVI WOODBURY

HONORABLE. L. MC LANE Secy of the Treasury

Finally, on April 15, 1832, Audubon and his party were able to board the revenue cutter _Marion_, commanded by Robert Day, and the opportunity thus afforded for exploring the dangerous east Florida coast amply repaid them for their long and vexatious delays. They visited the islands from St. Augustine to Key West, and examined every part of the shore which it was the duty of the _Marion_ to approach. At Indian Key the deputy collector, Mr. Thurston, gave Audubon the services of his pilot, a veteran sailor and hunter, who accompanied him on the _Marion_ for a number of weeks and led many boat journeys to lonely islands, where vast colonies of sea fowl then dwelt in undisputed possession. The leisurely movements of the vessel also enabled the naturalist to produce many finished drawings, and to obtain materials for fresh "Episodes."[17] At Key West Audubon was hospitably received by Major Classel,[18] and by Dr. Strobel, who was of great assistance both to him and to Bachman in procuring new birds from that little known point.

The unexpected delays experienced in Florida, and the expense which the presence of his assistants necessarily entailed, in all probability, deterred the naturalist from the more hazardous and uncertain enterprise of attempting to reach the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Coast, which for years had been the great object of his ambition. At all events, after their work was finished at Key West, the party returned to St. Augustine, and on the fifth day of March again boarded the packet schooner _Agnes_, which was to bear them with their collections to Charleston. Audubon, however, left the vessel at Savannah, in order to deliver letters from the Rathbones of Liverpool to a number of their rich merchant friends in the former city. One of these, named William Gaston,[19] at first declined to subscribe to _The Birds of America_, on the ground of its great expense and the demands made upon his purse by charity, but his indifference was quickly overcome: not only did he write his name on Audubon's list, but he immediately went out and obtained three other subscribers; he even insisted on becoming Audubon's agent at Savannah, and saw to it that none of those subscriptions was ever allowed to lapse in after years. Savannah eventually gave him six subscribers, which was more than were credited to either Philadelphia or Baltimore.

At Charleston the party disbanded. Lehman returned to Philadelphia, whither Audubon later followed him, but Henry Ward obtained a position with the Museum of Natural History, in which Bachman was interested, and he appears to have been of much assistance both to Bachman and to his friend in procuring for them specimens of new or desirable birds and mammals; at a later day, however, he seems to have fallen into disesteem on account of unpaid debts.