The devotion of all nations, in all ages of the world, to tutelar divinities and patron saints, is a remarkable characteristic of the intuition of religious inspiration. The prosperity and destiny of communities and empires were, at an early period of history, thought to depend upon their guardianship and presence. Not only has mankind been deified, and exalted to superior excellence, and even veneration, but most every creature of the animal kingdom has also been enshrined in heathen sanctity. The sole difference in the degree of their exaltation, appears to have been in the greater universality, the greater nationality, of the worship and reverence paid to the higher and nobler attributes of god-like man. The religious regard for the lower animals was local, and less intense. Feelings of sacred respect, rather than sentiments of divine worship, were called up at the shrine of these inferior deities. Cities and towns were guarded and protected by beasts and birds; worlds and empires by men alone. In a primitive age, the untutored mind and unsophisticated reason, lost in the sublimity of primordial poetry, and bewildred by the mysticism of tradition, always tended to lend a fabulous and superstitious character to objects of their admiration, wonder or worship.

Birds had no small claim upon their affections, and were more particularly of the secondary class of divinities. Though the Phoenix of the Egyptians—the Roc of the Arabian romancers—and the Eagle of the Romans, far from being local, were renowned and revered throughout the known world. All of these objects of worship, human or brute, universal or local, had an intimate connection with the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, the religion and poetry of every nation of antiquity. The mystic power of religious superstition, mingled with the rich imagery of Oriental poetry, has lent a charm to these creatures of the imagination, that even the illumined intellectuality and the prosaical gravity of modern times has failed to eradicate. Whatever is noble and good in them warms the heart, whatever is rich and gorgeous dazzles the mind, and whatever is grand and terrific awes the soul, no less in an age of truth and reason than in an age of fable and fiction. Nor were nations and cities alone objects of care and solicitude; but villages, hamlets, and cottages were sheltered under the spread wings of the tutelar bird. Every grove and every wood, every nook and every home became an object of regard, as it became the haunt and retreat of the favorite deity. These mythic influences have not yet died away. They still dwell among us, mellowing our pleasures and lightening our sorrows, like the twilight of the dark past, lingering on the horizon of the glorious present. But the power with which these fantasies still enchain us is not so much due to our superstition, as to our love for the marvellous and our reverence for the past.

The above exordium to our history of this notable bird may be thought by most of our readers to be out of place. They may be surprised that a character so well known, should be spoken of in connection with what is unreal and fabulous. They may also think that we are transcending our rights and duties as legitimate Ornithologists in devoting our labor, and wearying their patience, in a long investigation and description of an inanity. As we propose, however, to enter upon a philosophical inquiry into the origin and history of this bird, we hope no apology is necessary, believing our motives discoverable from what we shall say regarding it.

The “Florence Humming Bird,” is by many supposed to be the trusty custodian of our pleasures. Very true, it dwells among us, an object of esteem and love. Very true it is, too, that none of its actions are associated with majesty or sublimity, nor with war or pestilence. Yet it is with peace and contentment, charity and justice, and all the moral excellencies of an age of progress and refinement. It does not defy the voracity of the devouring flames, and miraculously resucitate. Neither does it perch aloft on the battle-standard midst blood and carnage, but sits gently on the humble “olive branch of peace.”

The spirit of the world, and incentives to human actions, are changing. Ambition seeks not eminence in tyranny and conquest, but in the quiet walks of mercy and benevolence. Fancy, too, is changing. It no longer broods over darkness, creates “Hydras, gorgons, and chimeras dire,” and mystifies the better sense of the human family. With the same poetry, and the same noble aim, it pleases and frightens, by the sweetness or terror of its creations, measured by the sense, and adapted to the intelligence of the age. So it is with the pleasing phantasms of our bird’s eventful story. Quiet pleasure, like the incubation of the halcyon, attends its welcome visits, and simple retreats. Moral effects result from moral causes. Reason and imagination have emerged from a halo of heathen glory, and dwell on the altar of Christian morality.

The few ephemeral antiquarians and wiseacres of the present day have twisted and corkscrewed from their minds singular notions and vagaries in regard to the origin and pedigree of this bird. Ever bound and ever ready to combat their erroneous opinions, we enter upon the task with no ordinary feelings of gratification. In the midst of his socialistic enjoyment, and his unbounded popularity, our bird has become so effectually incorporated with the minds and actions of our citizens, that he has quite lost his individuality. We do not wonder, then, that so little is known of his personal history, and that there is no inquisitive desire among the mass of the community to know it more particularly. Nor do we wonder that there are those, whose affection for antiquity, so far exceeds their love of utility, as to lead their philosophic minds to an investigation of obsolete and antiquated objects, invaluable in themselves. The great discoverer of the System of Tittlebats could not have displayed more assiduity and profound inquiry. As is generally the case, the fruit of their immense labor and application, has proved to be a net-work of fiction. We shall occupy the attention of our readers by presenting them with some of their surmises, and by showing their futility. They would wrap this bird in mystery, were it not ever present and appreciable. Even now they proclaim it an anomaly in Ornithological annals. Pretending to know what is above their comprehension, each grasps at a favorable illusion, and clings to it with a tenacity worthier of a better cause. Each having had his own favorite theory will adopt none other. They could never agree, nor never will. They have quarrelled and wrangled about the time of its creation. Is it antediluvian or post-diluvian? Is it of remote or recent existence? Of course, they all agree as to its antiquity, and produce innumerable proofs to establish their position.

The great Slocum Buffum, the inventor of the beautiful theory of the Hystrykes, verifies, fortifies, and corroborates his hypothesis, by a resort to his deep and profound knowledge of the classic writers. He believes Horace to have been inspired with a spirit of prophecy, when he wrote that far-famed passage,—“Rara avis, in terris incognita.” From the peculiarity of the Humming Bird to the American forest, and from the fact of America being an unknown and undiscovered country, he argues that the existence of this rare bird, with its rare merits and qualities, was predicted by that rare genius and poet. Others again in their pride of intellect have advanced plausible theories, placing this bird in a similar category with the Phoenix. Like that fabulous bird, it is single and bachelor. It appears never to have had a mate, but, existing solitarily and alone, then, now, and hence enjoying an immortality of life and fame. Though not an object of worship or reverence, they maintain that the influence of Christianity, and moral and mental refinement of the times, have only prevented it. They argue that the love and respect for it is but another form of worship suitable to the spirit of the age.

Another remarkable circumstance confirmatory of their theory is its constant habit of hovering around “fires,” and its devotion to the extinguishers of the devouring element. And then, its habits of perseverance, of energy, and great pertinacity of resolution, rising always “Phoenix-like from its ashes,” please their vanity and flatter their pride. Now, however plausible their positions may be, they are neither solid nor true. We happen to know a little about this bird, through long observation and acquaintance. We have no speculative hypothesis, by which to torment our readers. We also happen to remember that every one, Naturalist or Antiquarian, or neither, can familiarize himself with its biography by a little observation. We can see none of those mysteries that have lost those subtle geniuses in a labyrinth of moon-struck speculations, and decoyed them into a snare of fine-spun metaphysics. Who, among us, except these pseudophilosophers, will not tell you that this bird, apparently peculiar and isolated, is but a species of the great genus “Omitho Vox-populi,” which that eminent and eloquent Ornithologist, Naturalist, and Cosmogonist, the great Estaphanus, has so exquisitely drawn, and so lucidly described to the astonished and astonishing multitude. Who is there that does not ridicule these notions? And who is there that wouldn’t? Indeed, so intimately is it associated with all of us, that to give the minutiæ of detail, the how, the why, and the wherefore of this bird, would neither enlighten the reader, or repay the writer for the trouble. As to the possibility or even probability of confuting or convincing those black-letter, ornithological heretics, it were as easy as to convert a millstone into a miller. Not desiring to satisfy them, and our readers having no occasion to be satisfied, we will let the object of our history speak for itself as it has always spoken. We shall rest content with having been the exponent of popular opinion, so strong a refutation of those erratic and heretic investigators.

The habits of this bird are equally well-known with its history. They are, at once, uniform and multiform. It has been found in business habits, military habits, masonic habits, and divers other habits. What may seem a paradox, it has been seen in black habits, though its character is good; for no one has yet questioned its gentlemanly bearing, and high-toned morality. Its habits are neither regular or irregular. In fact, like the bird itself, they are peculiarly “Florence.” They are of the ordinary style with him, and of the extraordinary with others.

Its disposition is of the best kind. It is cheerful, vivacious, gay, sociable, and benevolent. The “sweet little courtesies of life” are personified in its nature. Wherever it may be perched, or wherever it may fly, that Platonic smile, and that familiar nod, tells of its presence. It has been universally remarked, even by the least inquisitive observers, that this bird’s favorite delicacy is a “bough.” The lovers of rural enjoyment, too, have often, with emotions of rustic delight, watched, by the hour, this little bird flitting jocundly and happily, humming an amorous strain, from flower to flower, in the exuberant “Chesterfields,” now burying deep its bill in the heart of the “polite pink,” and now concealed within the bosom of the "chaste lily."

Another delectably fond retreat of this bird is the “stump.” Who has not experienced lively feelings of pleasure, commingled with sadness, at the sight and continued observation of the truncated vestige of some lofty tree, proud, perhaps, in its day, but now sunk in deep humiliation? Have you never heard the sad and anon cheerful notes of some little bird on the remains of a decayed oak, mourning the loss of departed worth, and consoling and cherishing the tender shoots in their infancy and orphanage? Who knows? It may have been our pretty little “sympathy,” a fit synonym for such a bird. Its compassion is with the living and the dead. Its pity is with the conqueror and the conquered. The stump of all other stumps for it is the “hickory stump,” a curious inoculation of the cypress and the laurel. It often sings there the Pæans of victory; and if it mourns defeat, still it rejoices at the promising hopes of the future. Many a pleasant moment have we experienced in watching, with eager and glistening eye, its innocent love-pranks, while perched high on the myrtle bough, wooing with its sweet hum the “gay, sparkling loories,” votaries of Venus, borne to her arboriferous shrine on the bosom of gentle zephyrs. Often have we laid our hand gently upon our throbbing heart, and with uplifted eyes to the blue empyrean, unconsciously exclaimed, in the gentleness of our spirit, “What a sweet little fellow, it is, indeed!”

Its nest, like every thing connected with it, is peculiar, and a little curious. We have seen the hanging nests of the “Oriole,” and have thought them very odd. But the ingenuity of our bird exceeds in novelty and taste all other manifestations of inventive genius ever on record.

What is peculiar to the “humming bird” is its disposition of its home, and the strange tendencies of his highly developed organ of inhabitiveness. Unlike other ornithological specimens, it never sleeps at home, that is in its nest; but if it goes out to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the freshness of the fields, it always takes its nest along. The configuration and texture of which, is “wery pecooliar.” It is of a hat-like shape, and made of the finest silk. Nothing can be more humorous and mirth-provoking than to see this sweet bird, gamboling with its wonted hilarity, and bearing aloft, crest-like, on its organ of individuality, its symetrically beautiful residence, so serenely and fraternally supported by its long, elegant, and endearing bill, So remarkably popular has this hat-like home become, from its exquisite jauntiness, and winningly polished gracefulness, that the whole community at large, with accord and concord, have bestowed upon it the euphonious and altisonant cognomen of the “Florence Hat.” But this is not all. Our warm-hearted and admiring citizens are not satisfied with empty laudations. To show their high appreciation of its character, merits, peculiarities, and eccentricities, they have with great unanimity adopted a practice of wearing Florence hats on their heads, too.

This circumstance is an eureka to an idiomatic enigma that has disgusted the uninitiated foreigner with the supposed excessive simplicity of our language. We ourselves have often wondered why it was, and why it is, that in the placidity of good spirits and moderate mirth, while taking a connoisseur-glance at the sports and deviltries of some merry wight, we should, with incontinent rapture, exclaim: “He’s a a bird, he is!” thus tending ultimately to convey our unmistakable impression of that individual being one of the ornithological tribe.

Another peculiarity of this bird is worthy of a passing notice. It is a well ascertained fact, that all animals of the canine, feline, lupine, and porcine subdivisions of natural history, have hairy, whisker-like appendages, adorning their nasal protuberances, tending, in a greater or less degree, much to their ferocious appearance. We have seldom seen birds with these ornaments, except, perhaps, a little top-knot, adding much to their coxcombical attire. Our bird has been excepted from the general rule. It sports, with cavalier dignity, a luxurious exuberance of hirsute functionaries. We are as proud of them as it is, or as you are, dear reader.

It is neither dormant nor migratory. It has, indeed, acquired a “local name and habitation.” It never hibernates, but dwells among us through summer and winter. However, there appear to have been of late, strong indications of a restless spirit, tending from its symptoms to emigration. For these last six annual cycles, it has made divers flutterings and flappings of its wings, and fruitless attempts to fly, but until now, in vain. Gifted with a vast deal of perseverance, it has at last, conquered its inability. It will remain with us during this summer; but during next December and the winter months following, it will hibernate on the Banks of the Potomac, and delight the neighborhood with its melodious hum. Unlike migratory birds, it does not leave us for its own good; but for our good. It goes away to hum the music of peace, and sing the lullaby of agitation in the great choral grove of the nation.

It has been said, “Birds of a feather flock together.” This bird having no “fellow of a feather,” is never isolated from company, but is peculiarly sociable, and is ever welcome in all social circles. “Alone, but never lonely,” is the burden of its remarkable hum.

Though we have spoken of its song, our bird is not one of those “Little birds
That warble on the flowery thorn.” Perhaps, then, we have gone too far, for it has no voice, but a kind of a hum, produced by his rapid motions, yet attuned to music by the graceful curvatures of its perigrinatory movements. The hum very nearly resembles the “hum of industry,” of which we have heard so much.

As a whole we admire this bird, as does every one. We love to see it flitting about, like a moth in a sunbeam, now here, now there, upon gossamer wings, dallying with the coquettish honey-suckle; anon, poised lightly and buoyantly upon the balmy air, and then, with lightning speed, dart out of sight, into the warm embraces of the inviting violet.

How long this bird will live, what will become of it when it dies, we will not pretend to say. Our hopes are, that if it do not inherit immortality, that its shadow at least may never grow less. It is yet in the inception of its fame and name. Its embryonic name will, in time, mature to a greater and riper prestige. Under its soft and downy pinions, while skimming on the buxom air, are reposed “love, honor, obedience, and troops of friends,” circling around it in the expected hey-day of its triumphs and glories.

C. F. E.