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.