If the wind continued to blow from the same quarter, the canoe could not cross Buttermilk Sound that night; so I went ashore to inquire if there were any hammocks in the marshes by the river-banks between the plantation and the sound.
The bachelor proprietor of Broughton Island, Captain Richard A. Akin, posted me as to the route to St. Simon’s Island, but insisted that the canoe traveller should share his comfortable quarters until the next day; and when the next day came round, and the warm sun and smooth current of the wide Altamaha invited me to continue the voyage, the hospitable rice-planter thought the weather not settled enough for me to venture down to the sound. In fact, he held me a rather willing captive for several days, and then let me off on the condition that I should return at some future time, and spend a month with him in examining the sea islands and game resources of the vicinity.
Captain Akin was a successful rice-planter on the new system of employing freedmen on wages, but while he protected the ignorant blacks in all their newly-found rights, he was a thorough disciplinarian. The negroes seemed to like their employer, and stuck to him with greater tenacity than they did to those planters who allowed them to do as they pleased. The result of lax treatment with these people is always a failure of crops. The rivers and swamps near Broughton Island abound in fine fishes and terrapin, while the marshes and flats of the sea islands afford excellent opportunities for the sportsman to try his skill upon the feathered tribe.
On Monday, March 9th, the Maria Theresa left Broughton Island well provisioned with the stores the generous captain had pressed upon my acceptance. The atmosphere was softened by balmy breezes, and the bright sunlight played with the shadows of the clouds upon the wide marshes, which were now growing green with the warmth of returning spring. The fish sprang from the water as I touched it with my light oars.
St. Simon’s Island, — where Mr. Pierce Butler once cultivated sea-island cotton, and to which he took his English bride, Miss Kemble, — with its almost abandoned plantation, was reached before ten o’clock. Frederica River carried me along the whole length of the island to St. Simon’s Sound. When midway the island, I paused to survey what remains of the old town of Frederica, of which but few vestiges can be discovered. History informs us that Frederica was the first town built by the English in Georgia, and was founded by General
Oglethorpe, who began and established the colony.
The fortress was regular and beautiful, and was the largest, most regular, and perhaps most costly of any in North America of British construction. Pursuing my journey southward, the canoe entered the exposed area of St. Simon’s Sound, which, with its ocean inlet, was easily crossed to the wild and picturesque Jekyl Island, upon which the two bachelor brothers Dubignon live and hunt the deer, enjoying the free life of lords of the forest. Their old family mansion, once a haven of hospitality, where the northern tourist and shipwrecked sailor shared alike the good things of this life with the kind host, was used for a target by a gunboat during the late war, and is now in ruins.
Here, twenty years ago, at midnight, the slave-yacht “Wanderer” landed her cargo of African negroes, the capital for the enterprise being supplied by three southern gentlemen, and the execution of the work being intrusted, under carefully drawn contracts, to Boston parties.
The calm weather greatly facilitated my progress, and had I not missed Jekyl Creek, which is the steamboat thoroughfare through the marshes to Jekyl and St. Andrew’s Sound, that whole day’s experience would have been a most happy one. The mouth of Jekyl Creek was a narrow entrance, and being off in the sound, I passed it as I approached the lowlands, which were skirted until a passage at Cedar Hammock through the marsh was found, some distance from the one I was seeking. Into this I entered, and winding about for some time over its tortuous course, at a late hour in the afternoon the canoe emerged into a broad watercourse, down which I could look across Jekyl Sound to the sea.
This broad stream was Jointer Creek, and I ascended it to find a spot of high ground upon which to camp. It was now low water, and the surface of the marshes was three or four feet above my head. After much anxious searching, and a great deal of rowing against the last of the ebb, a forest of pines and palmetto-trees was reached on Colonel’s Island, at a point about four miles — across the marshes and Brunswick River — from the interesting old town of Brunswick, Georgia.
Home of the Alligator (101K)
The soft, muddy shores of the hammock were in one place enveloped in a thicket of reeds, and here I rested upon my oars to select a
convenient landing-place. The rustling of the reeds suddenly attracted my attention. Some animal was crawling through the thicket in the direction of the boat. My eyes became fixed upon the mysterious shaking and waving of the tops of the reeds, and my hearing was strained to detect the cause of the crackling of the dry rushes over which this unseen creature was moving. A moment later my curiosity was satisfied, for there emerged slowly from the covert an alligator nearly as large as my canoe. The brute’s head was as long as a barrel; his rough coat of mail was besmeared with mud, and his dull eyes were fixed steadily upon me. I was so surprised and fascinated by the appearance of this huge reptile that I remained immovable in my boat, while he in a deliberate manner entered the water within a few feet of me. The hammock suddenly lost all its inviting aspect, and I pulled away from it faster than I had approached. In the gloom I observed two little hammocks, between Colonel’s Island and the Brunswick River, which seemed to be near Jointer’s Creek, so I followed the tortuous thoroughfares until I was within a quarter of a mile of one of them.
Pulling my canoe up a narrow creek towards the largest hammock, until the creek ended in the lowland, I was cheered by the sight of a small house in a grove of live-oaks, to reach which I was obliged to abandon my canoe and attempt to cross the soft marsh. The tide was now rising rapidly, and it might be necessary for me to swim some inland creek before I could arrive at the upland.
An oar was driven into the soft mud of the marsh and the canoe tied to it, for I knew that the whole country, with the exception of the hammock near by, would be under water at flood-tide. Floundering through mud and pressing aside the tall, wire-like grass of the lowland, which entangled my feet, frequently leaping natural ditches, and going down with a thud in the mud on the other side, I finally struck the firm ground of the largest Jointer Hammock, when the voice of its owner, Mr. R. F. Williams, sounded most cheerfully in my ears as he exclaimed: “Where did you come from? How did you get across the marsh?”
The unfortunate position of my boat was explained while the family gathered round me, after which we sat down to supper. Mr.
Wilhams felt anxious about the cargo of my boat. The coons, he said, “will scent your
provisions, and tear everything to pieces in the boat. We must go look after it immediately.” To go to the canoe we were obliged to follow a creek which swept past the side of the hammock, opposite to my landing-place, and row two or three miles on Jointer Creek. At nine o’clock we reached the locality where I had abandoned the paper canoe. Everything had changed in appearance; the land was under water; not a landmark remained except the top of the oar, which rose out of the lake-like expanse of water, while near it gracefully floated my little companion. We towed her to the hammock;
and after the tedious labor of divesting myself of the marsh mud, which clung to my clothes, had been crowned with success, the comfortable bed furnished by my host gave rest to limbs and nerves which had been severely overtaxed since sun set.
The following day opened cloudy and windy. The ocean inlet of Jekyl and St. Andrew’s sounds is three miles wide. From the mouth of Jointer Creek, across these unprotected sounds, to High Point of Cumberland Island, is eight miles. The route from the creek to Cumberland Island was a risky one for so small a boat as the paper canoe while the weather continued unpropitious. After entering the sounds there was but one spot of upland, near the mouth of the Satilla River, that could be used for camping purposes on the vast area of marshes.
During the month of March rainy and windy weather prevail on this coast. I could ill afford to lose any time shut up in Jointer’s Hammock by bad weather, as the low regions of
Okefenokee Swamp were to be penetrated before the warm season could make the task a disagreeable one. After holding a consultation with Mr. Williams, he contracted to take the canoe and its captain across St. Andrew’s Sound to High Point of Cumberland Island that day. His little sloop was soon under way, and though the short, breaking waves of the sound, and the furious blasts of wind, made the navigation of the shoals disagreeable, we landed quietly at Mr. Chubbs’ Oriental Hotel, at High Point, soon after noon.
Mr. Martin, the surveyor of the island, welcomed me to Cumberland, and gave me much information pertaining to local matters. The next morning the canoe left the high bluffs of this beautiful sea island so filled with historic associations, and threaded the marshy
thoroughfare of Cumberland and Brickhill River to Cumberland Sound. As I approached the mouth of the St. Mary’s River, the picturesque ruins of Dungeness towered above the live-oak forest of the southern end of Cumberland Island. It was with regret I turned my back upon that sea, the sounds of which had so long struck upon my ear with their sweet melody. It
seemed almost a moan that was borne to me now as the soft waves laved the sides of my graceful craft, as though to give her a last, loving farewell.
CHAPTER XIV. ST, MARY’S RIVER AND THE SUWANEE WILDERNESS.
A PORTAGE TO DUTTON. — DESCENT OF THE ST. MARY’S RIVER. — FETE GIVEN BY THE CITIZENS TO THE PAPER CANOE. — THE PROPOSED CANAL ROUTE ACROSS FLORIDA. — A PORTAGE TO THE SUWANEE RIVER. — A NEGRO SPEAKS ON ELECTRICITY AND THE TELEGRAPH. — A FREEDMAN’S SERMON.
I now ascended the beautiful St. Mary’s River, which flows from the great Okefenokee
Swamp. The state of Georgia was on my right hand, and Florida on my left. Pretty hammocks dotted the marshes, while the country presented peculiar and interesting characteristics. When four miles from Cumberland Sound, the little city of St. Mary’s, situated on the Georgia side of the river, was before me; and I went ashore to make inquiries concerning the route to
Okefenokee Swamp.
My object was to get information about the upper St. Mary’s River, from which I proposed to make a portage of thirty-five or forty miles in a westerly direction to the Suwanee River, upon arriving at which I would descend to the Gulf of Mexico. My efforts, both at St. Mary’s and Fernandina, on the Florida side of
Cumberland Sound, to obtain any reliable information upon this matter, were unsuccessful. A
settlement at Trader’s Hill, about seventy-five miles up the St. Mary’s River, was the geographical limit of local knowledge, while I wished to ascend the river at least one hundred miles beyond that point.
Believing that if I explored the uninhabited sources of the St. Mary’s, I should be compelled to return without finding any settler upon its banks at the proper point of departure for a portage to the Suwanee, it became necessary to abandon all idea of ascending this river. I could not, however, give up the exploration of the route. In this dilemma, a kindly written letter seemed to solve the difficulties. Messrs. Dutton & Rixford, northern gentlemen, who possessed large facilities for the manufacture of resin and turpentine at their new settlements of Dutton, six miles from the St. Mary’s River, and at Rixford, near the Suwanee, kindly proposed that I should take my canoe by railroad from
Cumberland Sound to Dutton. From that station Mr. Dutton offered to transport the boat through the wilderness to the St. Mary’s River, which could be from that point easily descended to the sea. The Suwanee River, at Rixford, could be
reached by rail, and the voyage would end at its debouchure on the marshy coast of the Gulf of Mexico.
Hon. David Yulee, president and one-third owner of the A. G. & W. I. T. C. Railroad, which connects the Atlantic coast at Fernandina with the Gulf coast at Cedar Keys, offered me the free use of his long railroad, for any purpose of exploration, &c., while his son, Mr. C. Wickliffe Yulee, exerted himself to remove all impediments to delay.
These gentlemen, being native Floridians, have done much towards encouraging all
legitimate exploration of the peninsula, and have also done something towards putting a check on the outrageous impositions practised on northern agricultural emigrants to Florida, by encouraging the organization of a railroad land-company, which offers a forty-acre homestead for fifty dollars, to be selected out of nearly six hundred thousand acres of land along their highway across the state. A man of comparatively small means can now try the experiment of making a home in the mild climate of Florida, and if he afterwards abandons the enterprise there will have been but a small investment of capital, and consequently little loss.
The turpentine distillery of Dutton was situated in a heavy forest of lofty pines. Major C. K. Dutton furnished a team of mules to haul the Maria Theresa to the St. Mary’s River, the morning after my arrival by rail at Dutton Station. The warm sunshine shot aslant the tall pines as the teamster followed a faintly developed trail towards the swamps. Before noon the flashing waters of the stream were discernible, and a little later, with paddle in hand, I was urging the canoe towards the Atlantic coast. A luxurious growth of trees and shrubs fringed the low, and in some places submerged, river shores. Back, on the higher, sandy soils, the yellow pine forests, in almost primeval grandeur, arose, shutting out all view of the horizon. Low bluffs, with white, sandy beaches of a few rods in extent, offered excellent camping-grounds.
When the Cracker of Okefenokee Swamp is asked why he lives in so desolate a region, with only a few Cattle and hogs for companions, with mosquitoes, fleas, and vermin about him, with alligators, catamounts, and owls on all sides, making night hideous, he usually replies, “Wal, stranger, wood and water is so powerful handy. Sich privileges ain’t met with everywhar.”
[ FROM ST. SIMON’S SOUND, GEORGIA, TO CEDAR KEYS, FLORIDA ]
As I glided swiftly down the dark current I peered into the dense woods, hoping to be cheered by the sight of a settler’s cabin; but in all that day’s search not a clearing could be found, nor could I discern rising from the treetops of the solitary forest a little cloud of smoke issuing from the chimney of civilized man. I was alone in the vast wilds through which the beautiful river flowed noiselessly but swiftly to the sea. Thoreau loved a swamp, and so do all lovers of nature, for nowhere else does she so bountifully show her vigorous powers of growth, her varied wealth of botanical wonders. Here the birds resort in flocks when weary of the hot, sandy uplands, for here they find pure water, cool shade, and many a curious glossy berry for their dainty appetites.
As the little Maria Theresa sped onward through the open forest and tangled wild-wood, through wet morass and piny upland, my
thoughts dwelt upon the humble life of the Concord naturalist and philosopher. How he would have enjoyed the descent of this wild river from the swamp to the sea! He had left us for purer delights; but I could enjoy his “Walden” as though he still lived, and read of his studies of nature with ever-increasing interest.
Swamps have their peculiar features. Those of the Waccamaw were indeed desolate, while the swamps of the St. Mary’s were full of sunshine for the traveller. Soon after the canoe had commenced her river journey, a sharp sound, like that produced by a man striking the water with a broad, flat stick, reached my ears. As this sound was frequently repeated, and always in advance of my boat, it roused my curiosity. It proved to come from alligators. One after another slipped off the banks, striking the water with their tails as they took refuge in the river from the disturber of their peace. To observe the movements of these reptiles I ran the canoe within two rods of the left shore, and by rapid paddling was enabled to arrive opposite a creature as he entered the water. When thus confronted, the alligator would depress his ugly head, lash the water once with his tail, and dive under the canoe, a most thoroughly alarmed animal. All these alligators were mere babies, very few being over four feet long. Had they been as large as the one which greeted me at Colonel’s Island, I should not have investigated their dispositions, but would have considered discretion the better part of valor, and left them undisturbed in their sun-baths on the banks.
In all my experience with the hundreds of alligators I have seen in the southern rivers and swamps of North America, every one, both large and small, fled at the approach of man. The experience of some of my friends in their acquaintance with American alligators has been of a more serious nature. It is well to exercise care about camping at night close to the water infested with large saurians, as one of these strong fellows could easily seize a sleeping man by the leg and draw him into the river. They do not seem to fear a recumbent or bowed figure, but, like most wild animals, flee before the upright form of man.
Late in the afternoon I passed an island, made by a “cut-off” through a bend of the river, and, according to previous directions, counted fourteen bends or reaches in the river which was to guide me to Stewart’s Ferry, the owner of which lived back in the woods, his cabin not being discernible from the river. Near this spot, which is occasionally visited by lumbermen and pinywoods settlers, I drew my canoe on to a sandy beach one rod in length. A little bluff, five or six feet above the water, furnished me with the broad leaves of the saw-palmetto, a dwarfish sort of palm, which I arranged for a bed. The provision-basket was placed at my head. A little fire of light-wood cheered me for a while, but its bright flame soon attracted winged insects in large numbers. Having made a cup of
chocolate, and eaten some of Captain Akin’s chipped beef and crackers, I continued my preparations for the night. Feeling somewhat nervous about large alligators, I covered myself with a piece of painted canvas, which was stiff and strong, and placed the little revolver, my only weapon, under my blanket.
As I fully realized the novelty of my strange position in this desolate region, it was some time before I could compose myself and sleep. It was a night of dreams. Sounds indistinct but numerous troubled my brain, until I was fully roused to wakefulness by horrible visions and doleful cries. The chuck-will’s-widow, which in the south supplies the place of our
whippoorwill, repeated his oft-told tale of ” chuckwill’s-widow, chuck-will’s-widow,” with untiring earnestness. The owls hooted wildly, with a chorus of cries from animals and reptiles not recognizable by me, excepting the snarling voices of the coons fighting in the forest. These last were old acquaintances, however, as they frequently gathered round my camp at night to pick up the remains of supper.
While I listened, there rose a cry so hideous in its character and so belligerent in its tone, that I trembled with fear upon my palm-leaf mattress. It resembled the bellowing of an infuriated bull, but was louder and more penetrating in its effect. The proximity of this animal was indeed unpleasant, for he had planted himself on the river’s edge, near the little bluff upon which my camp had been constructed. The loud roar was answered by a similar bellow from the other side of the river, and for a long time did these two male alligators keep up their challenging cries, without coming to combat. Numerous
wood-mice attacked my provision-basket, and even worked their way through the leaves of my palmetto mattress.
Thus with an endless variety of annoyances the night wore wearily away, but the light of the rising sun did not penetrate the thick fog which enveloped the river until after eight o’clock, when I embarked for a second day’s journey upon the stream, which had now attained a width of five or six rods. Rafts of logs blocked the river as I approached the settlement of Trader’s Hill, and upon a most insecure footing the canoe was dragged over a quarter of a mile of logs, and put into the water on the lower side of the “jam.” Crossing several of these log “jams,” which covered the entire width of the St. Mary’s, I became weary of the task, and, after the last was reached, determined to go into camp until the next day, when suddenly the voices of men in the woods were heard.
Soon a gentleman, with two raftsmen, appeared and kindly greeted me. They had been notified of my approach at Trader’s Hill by a courier sent from Dutton across the woods, and these men, whose knowledge of wood-craft is wonderful, had timed my movements so
correctly that they had arrived just in time to meet me at this point. The two raftsmen rubbed the canoe all over with their hands, and expressed delight at its beautiful finish in their own peculiar vernacular.
“She’s the dog-gonedest thing I ever seed, and jist as putty as a new coffin!” exclaimed one.
“Indeed, she’s the handsomest trick I ever did blink on,” said the second.
The two stalwart lumbermen lifted the boat as though she were but a feather, and carried her, jumping from log to log, the whole length of the raft. They then put her gently in the water, and added to their farewell the cheering intelligence that “there’s no more jams nor rafts ‘twixt here and the sea, and you can go clar on to New York if you like.”
Trader’s Hill, on a very high bluff on the left bank, was soon passed, when the current seemed suddenly to cease, and I felt the first tidal effect of the sea, though many miles from the coast. The tide was flooding. I now laid aside the paddle, and putting the light steel outriggers in their sockets, rapidly rowed down the now broad river until the shadows of night fell upon forest and stream, when the comfortable residence of Mr. Lewis Davis, with his steam saw-mill, came into sight upon Orange Bluff, on the Florida side of the river. Here a kind welcome greeted me from host and hostess, who had dwelt twenty years in this romantic but secluded spot. There were orange-trees forty years old on this property, and all in fine bearing order. There was also a fine sulphur spring near the house.
Mr. Davis stated that, during a residence of twenty years in this charming locality, he had experienced but one attack of chills. He considered the St. Mary’s River, on account of the purity of its waters, one of the healthiest of southern streams. The descent of this beautiful river now became a holiday pastime. Though there were but few signs of the existence of man, the scenery was of a cheering character. A brick-kiln, a few saw-mills, and an abandoned rice-plantation were passed, while the low saltmarshes, extending into the river from the forest-covered upland, gave evidence of the proximity
to the sea. Large alligators were frequently seen sunning themselves upon the edges of the banks.
At dusk the town of St. Mary’s, in its wealth of foliage, opened to my view from across the lowlands, and soon after the paper canoe was carefully stored in a building belonging to one of its hospitable citizens, while local authority asserted that I had traversed one hundred and seventy-five miles of the river.
One evening, while enjoying the hospitality of Mr. Silas Fordam, at his beautiful winter home, “Orange Hall,” situated in the heart of St. Mary’s, a note, signed by the Hon. J. M. Arnow, mayor of the city, was handed me. Mr. Arnow, in the name of the city government, invited my presence at the Spencer House. Upon arriving at the hotel, a surprise awaited me. The citizens of the place had gathered to welcome the paper canoe and its owner, and to express the kindly feelings they, as southern citizens, held towards their northern friends. The hotel was decorated with flags and floral emblems, one of which expressed, in its ingeniously constructed words, wrought in flowers, “One hundred thousand Welcomes.”
The mayor and his friends received me upon the veranda of the hotel with kind words of welcome. Bright lights glimmered at this moment through the long avenue of trees, and music arose upon the night air. It was a torchlight procession coming from the river, bearing upon a framework structure, from which hung Chinese lanterns and wreaths of laurel, the little paper canoe. The Base-ball Club of the city, dressed in their handsome uniform, carried the “Maria Theresa,” while the sailors from the lumber fleet in the river, with the flags of several nationalities, brought up the rear.
When the procession arrived in front of the hotel, three hearty cheers were given by the people, and the mayor read the city’s address of welcome to me; to which I made reply, not only in behalf of myself, but of all those of my countrymen who desired the establishment of a pure and good government in every portion of our dear land.
Mayor Arnow presented me with an engrossed copy of his speech of welcome, in which he invited all industrious northerners to come to his native city, promising that city ordinances should be passed to encourage the erection of
manufactories, &c., by northern capital and northern labor. After the address, the wife of the mayor presented me with two memorial banners, in the name of the ladies of the city. These were made for the occasion, and being the handiwork of the ladies themselves, were highly appreciated by the recipient. When these graceful tributes had been received, each lady and child present deposited a bouquet of flowers, grown in the gardens of St. Mary’s, in my little craft, till it contained about four hundred of these refined expressions of the good-will of these kind people. Not only did the native population of the town vie with each other to accord the lonely voyager a true southern welcome, but Mr. A. Curtis, an English gentleman, who, becoming fascinated with the fine climate of this part of Georgia, had settled here, did all he could to show his appreciation of canoe-travelling, and superintended the marine display and flag corps of the procession.
I left St. Mary’s with a strange longing to return to its interesting environs, and to study here the climatology of southern Georgia, for, strange to say, cases of local “fever and chills” have never originated in the city. It is reached from Savannah by the inside steamboat route, or by rail, to Fernandina, with which it is connected by a steamboat ferry eight miles in length. Speculation not having yet affected the low valuation placed upon property around St. Mary’s, northern men can obtain winter homes in this attractive town at a very low cost. This city is a port of entry. Mr. Joseph Shepard, a most faithful government officer, has filled the position of collector of customs for several years.
As vessels of considerable tonnage can ascend the St. Mary’s River from the sea on a full tide to the wharves of the city, its citizens prophesy a future growth and development for the place when a river and canal route across the peninsula between the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico shall have been completed. For many years Colonel Raiford has been elaborating his plan “for elongating the western and southern inland system of navigation to harbors of the Atlantic Ocean.” He proposes to unite the natural watercourses of the coast of the Gulf of Mexico by short canals, so that barges drawing seven feet of water, and freighted with the produce of the Mississippi River and its tributaries, may pass from New Orleans eastward to the southern ports of the Atlantic States. The great peninsula of Florida would be crossed by these vessels from the Suwanee to the St. Mary’s River by means of a canal cut through the Okefenokee Swamp, and this route would save several hundred miles of navigation upon open ocean waters. The dangerous coral reefs of the Florida and Bahama shores would be avoided, and a land-locked channel of thirty thousand miles of navigable watercourses would be united in one system.
Lieutenant-Colonel Q. A. Gilmore’s report on “Water Line for Transportation from the Mouth of the St. Mary’s River, on the Atlantic Coast, through Okefenokee Swamp and the State of Florida to the Gulf of Mexico,” in which the able inquirer discusses this water route, has recently been published. I traversed a portion of this route in 1875-6, from the head of the Ohio River to New Orleans, and along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico to Cedar Keys, in a cedar duck-boat; and as the results of my observations may some day be made public, I will at this time refer the reader, if he be interested in the important enterprise, to the Congressional reports which describe the feasibility of the plan.
Another portage by rail was made in order to complete my journey to the Gulf of Mexico, and Rixford, near the Suwanee River, was reached via the A. G. & W. I. T. C. Railroad to Baldwin, thence over the J. P. & M. Railroad to Live Oak, where another railroad from the north connects, and along which, a few miles from Live Oak, Messrs. Dutton & Rixford had recently established their turpentine and resin works.
At Rixford I found myself near the summit, or backbone of Florida, from which the tributaries of the water-shed flow on one side to the Atlantic Ocean, and on the other to the Gulf of Mexico. It was a high region of rolling country, heavily wooded with magnificent pine forests, rich in terebinthine resources. The residence of the proprietor, the store and the distillery, with a few log cabins inhabited by negroes and white employees, made up the establishment of Rixford.
The Crackers and negroes came from long distances to see the paper boat. One afternoon, when a number of people had gathered at Rixford to behold the little craft, I placed it on one of those curious sheets of water of crystal purity called in that region a sink; and though this nameless, mirror-like lakelet did not cover over an acre in extent, the movements of the little craft, when propelled by the double paddle, excited an enthusiasm which is seldom exhibited by the piny-woods people.
As the boat was carefully lifted from the silvery tarn, one woman called out in a loud voice, “Lake Theresa!” and thus, by mutual consent of every one present, did this lakelet of crystal waters receive its name.
The blacks crowded around the canoe, and while feeling its firm texture, and wondering at the long distance it had traversed, expressed themselves in their peculiar and original way. One of their number, known as a “tonguey nigger,” volunteered to explain the wonder to the somewhat confused intellects of his companions. To a question from one negro as to “How did dis yere Yankee-man cum all dis fur way in de paper canoe, all hissef lone?” the “educated” negro replied: “It’s all de Lord. No man ken cum so fur in paper boat ef de Lord didn’t help him. De Lord does eberyting. He puts de tings in de Yankee-man’s heads to du um, an’ dey duz um. Dar was de big Franklin up norf, dat made de telegraf. Did ye eber bar tell ob him?”
“Neber, neber!” responded all the negroes.
Then, with a look of supreme contempt for the ignorance of his audience, the orator proceeded: “Dis great Franklin, Cap’n Franklin, he tort he’d kotch de litening and make de telegraf, so he flies a big kite way up to de heabens, an’ he puts de string in de bottle dat hab nufing in it. Den he holds de bottle in one hand, an’ he holds de cork in de udder hand. Down cums de litening and fills de bottle full up, and Cap’n Franklin he dun cork him up mighty quick, and kotched de litening an’ made de telegraf. But it was de Lord — de Lord, not Cap’n
Franklin dat did all dis.”
It was amusing to watch the varied expression of the negroes, as they listened to this description of the discovery of electricity, and the origin of the telegraph. Their eyes dilated with wonder, and their thick lips parted till the mouth, growing wider and wider, seemed to cover more than its share of the face. The momentary silence was soon broken by a deep gurgle proceeding from a stolid-looking negro, as he exclaimed: “Did he kotch de bottle full ob litening, and cork him up. Golly! I tort he wud hab busted hissef!”
“So he wud! so he wud!” roared the orator, “but ye see ’twas all de Lord — de Lord’s a-doing it.”
While in Florida I paid some attention to the negro method of conducting praise meetings, which they very appropriately call “de
shoutings.” If I give some verbatim reports of the negro’s curious and undignified clerical efforts, it is not done for the purpose of caricaturing him, nor with a desire to make him appear destitute of mental calibre; but rather with the hope that the picture given may draw some sympathy from the liberal churches of the north, which do not forget the African in his native jungle, nor the barbarous islanders of the South Seas. A well-informed Roman Catholic priest told me that he had been disappointed with the progress his powerfully organized church had made in converting the freedmen. Before going among them I had supposed that the simple-minded black, now no longer a slave, would be easily attracted to the impressive ceremonies of the Church of Rome; but after witnessing the activity of their devotions, and observing how anxious they are to take a conspicuous and a leading part in all religious services, it seemed to me that the free black of the south would take more naturally to Methodism than to any other form of
Christianity.
The appointment of local preachers would be especially acceptable to the negro, as he would then be permitted to have ministers of his own color, and of his own neighborhood, to lead the meetings; while the Roman Catholic priest would probably treat him more like a child, and would therefore exercise a strong discipline over him.
In one of their places of worship, at my request, a New York lady, well skilled in rapid writing and familiar with the negro vernacular, reported verbatim the negro preacher’s sermon. The text was the parable of the ten virgins; and as the preacher went on, he said: “Five ob dem war wise an’ five of dem war foolish. De wise jes gone an’ dun git dar lamps full up ob oil and git rite in and see de bridegoom; an’ de foolish dey sot dem rite down on de stool ob do-noting, an’ dar dey sot till de call cum; den dey run, pick up der ole lamps and try to push door in, but de Lord say to dem, Git out dar! you jes git out dar!’ an’ shut door rite in dar face.
“My brudders and my sisters, yer must fill de lamps wid de gospel an’ de edication ob Moses, fur Moses war a larned man, an’ edication is de mos estaminable blessin’ a pusson kin hab in dis world.
“Hole-on to de gospel! Ef you see dat de flag am tore, get hole somewhar, keep a grabblin until ye git hole ob de stick, an’ nebah gib up de stick, but grabble, grabble till ye die; for dough yer sins be as black as scarlet, dey shall be whit as snow.”
The sermon over, the assembled negroes then sung in slow measure:
“Lit-tell chil-ern, you’d bet-tar be-a-lieve – Lit-tell chil-ern, you’d bet-tar be-a-lieve – Lit-tell chil-ern, you’d bet-tar be-a-lieve – I’ll git home to heav-en when I die.
Sweet heav-en am-a-my-am,
Sweet heav-en am-a-my-am,
Sweet heav-en am-a-my-am,
I’ll git home to heav-en when I die.
Lord wish-ed I was in heav-en, Fur to see my mudder when she enter, Fur to see her tri-als an’ long white robes: She’ll shine like cristul in de sun.
Sweet heav-en am-a-my-am,
Sweet heav-en am-a-my-am,
Sweet heav-en am-a-my-am,
I’ll git home to heav-en when I die,”
While visiting a town in Georgia, where the negroes had made some effort to improve their condition, I made a few notes relating to the freedman’s debating society of the place. Affecting high-sounding words, they called their organization, “De Lycenum,” and its doings were directed by a committee of two persons, called respectively, “de disputaceous visitor,” and “de lachrymal visitor.” What particular duties devolved upon the “lachrymal visitor,” I could
never clearly ascertain. One evening these negroes debated upon the following theme, “Which is de best — when ye are out ob a ting, or when ye hab got it?” which was another form of expressing the old question, “Is there more pleasure in possession than in anticipation?” Another night the colored orators became intensely excited over the query, “Which is de best, Spring Water or Matches?”
The freedmen, for so unfortunate a class, seem to be remarkably well behaved. During several journeys through the southern states I found them usually temperate, and very civil in their intercourse with the whites, though it must be confessed that but few of them can apply themselves steadily and persistently to manual labor, either for themselves or their employers.
CHAPTER XV. DOWN UPON THE SUWANEE RIVER.
THE RICH FOLIAGE OF THE RIVER. — COLUMBUS. — ROLINS’ BLUFF. OLD TOWN HAMMOCK. — A HUNTER KILLED BY A PANTHER, DANGEROUS SERPENTS. — CLAY LANDING. THE MARSHES OP THE COAST, — BRADFORD’S ISLAND. — MY LAST CAMP. — THE VOYAGE ENDED.
Some friends, among whom were Colonel George W. Nason, Jr., of Massachusetts,
and Major John Purviance, Commissioner of Suwanee County, offered to escort the paper canoe down “the river of song” to the Gulf of Mexico, a distance, according to local authority, of two hundred and thirty-five miles. While the members of the party were preparing for the journey, Colonel Nason accompanied me to the river, which was less than three miles from Rixford, the proprietors of which sent the canoe after us on a wagon drawn by mules. The point of embarkation was the Lower Mineral Springs, the property of Judge Bryson.
The Suwanee, which was swollen by some recent rains in Okefenokee Swamp, was a wild, dark, turbulent current, which went coursing through the woods on its tortuous route with great rapidity. The luxurious foliage of the river-banks was remarkable. Maples were in blossom, beech-trees in bloom, while the buckeye was covered with its heavy festoons of red flowers. Pines, willows, cotton-wood, two kinds of hickory, water-oak, live-oak, sweet-gum, magnolia, the red and white bay-tree, a few red cedars, and haw-bushes, with many species not known to me, made up a rich wall of verdure on either side, as I sped along with a light heart to Columbus, where my compagnons de voyage
were to meet me. Wood-ducks and egrets, in small flocks, inhabited the forest. The limestone banks of the river were not visible, as the water was eighteen feet above its low summer level.
I now passed under the railroad bridge which connects Live Oak with Savannah. After a steady row of some hours, my progress was checked by a great boom, stretched across the river to catch the logs which floated down from the upper country. I was obliged to disembark and haul the canoe around this obstacle, when, after passing a few clearings, the long bridge of the J. P. & M. Railroad came into view, stretching across the now wide river from one wilderness to the other. On the left bank was all that remained of the once flourishing town of Columbus, consisting now of a store, kept by Mr. Allen, and a few buildings. Before the railroad was built, Columbus possessed a population of five hundred souls, and it was reached, during favorable stages of water, by light-draught steamboats from Cedar Keys, on the Gulf of Mexico. The building of railroads in the south has diverted trade from one locality to another, and many towns, once prosperous, have gone to decay.
The steam saw-mills and village of Ellaville were located on the river-bank opposite Columbus, and this lumber establishment is the only place of importance between it and Cedar Keys. This far-famed river, to which the heart of the minstrel’s darky “is turning eber,” is, in fact, almost without the “one little hut among de bushes,” for it is a wild and lonely stream. Even in the most prosperous times there were but few plantations upon its shores. Wild animals roam its great forests, and vile reptiles infest the dense swamps. It is a country well fitted for the hunter and lumberman, for the naturalist or canoeist; but the majority of people would, I am sure, rather hear of it poured forth in song from the sweet lips of Christina Nilsson, than to be themselves “way down upon the Suwanee Ribber.”
On Monday, March 22d, Messrs. Nason, Purviance, and Henderson joined me. The party had obtained a northern-built shad-boat, which had been brought by rail from Savannah. It was sloop-rigged, and was decked forward, so that the enthusiastic tourists possessed a weatherproof covering for their provisions and blankets. With the strong current of the river, a pair of long oars, and a sail to be used when favorable winds blew, the party in the shad-boat could make easy and rapid progress towards the Gulf, while my lightly dancing craft needed scarcely a touch of the oar to send her forward.
On Tuesday, the 23d, we left Columbus, while a crowd of people assembled to see us off; many of them seeming to consider this simple and delightful way of travelling too dangerous to be attempted. The smooth but swift current rolled on its course like a sea of molten glass, as the soft sunlight trembled through the foliage and shimmered over its broad surface.
Our boats glided safely over the rapids, which for a mile and a half impede the navigation of the river during the summer months, but which were now made safe by the great depth of water caused by the freshet. The weather was
charming, and our little party, fully alive to all the beautiful surroundings, woke many an echo with sounds meant to be sweet. Of course the good old song was not forgotten. Our best voice sang:
“Way down up-on de Suwanee Rib-ber, Far, far away,
Dere’s whar my heart is turn-ing eb-ber, Dere’s whar de old folks stay.
All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam,
Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home.
“All round de little farm I wander’d When I was young;
Den many happy days I squan-der’d – Many de songs I sung.
When I was playing wid my brud-der, Hap-py was I.
O! take me to my kind old mud-der, Dere let me live and die!
“One little hut among de bushes, – One dat I love, –
Still sadly to my mem’ry rushes, No matter where I rove.
When will I see de bees a-hum-ming All round de comb?
When will I hear de ban-jo tum-ming Down in my good old home?”
We all joined in the chorus at the end of each verse:
“All de world am sad and dreary Eb-ry-whar I roam.
O, darkies, how my heart grows weary, Far from do old folks at home.”
We soon entered forests primeval which were quiet, save for the sound of the axe of the log-thief; for timber-stealing is a profession which reaches its greatest perfection on the Florida state lands and United States naval reserves. Uncle Sam’s territory is being constantly plundered to supply the steam saw-mills of private individuals in Florida. Several of the party told interesting stories of the way in which log-thieves managed to steal from the government legally.
“There,” said one, “is X, who runs his mill on the largest tract of pine timber Uncle Sam has got. He once bought a few acres’ claim adjacent to a fine naval reserve. He was not, of course, able to discover the boundary line which separated his little tract from the rich government reserve, so he kept a large force of men cutting down Uncle Sam’s immense
pines, and, hauling them to the Suwanee, floated them to his mill. This thing went on for some time, till the government agent made his appearance and demanded a settlement.
“The wholesale timber-thief now showed a fair face, and very frankly explained that he supposed he had been cutting logs from his own territory, but quite recently he had discovered that he had really been trespassing on the property of his much-loved country, and as he was truly a loyal citizen, he desired to make restitution, and was now ready to settle.
“The government agent was astonished at the seeming candor of the man, who so worked upon his sympathy that he promised to be as easy upon him as the law allowed. The agent
settled upon a valuation of fifty cents an acre for all the territory that had been cut over. ‘And now,’ said he, ‘how many acres of land have you “logged” since you put your lumbermen into the forest?’
“Mr. X declared himself unable to answer this question, but generously offered to permit the agent to put down any number of acres he thought would represent a fair thing between a kind government and one of its unfortunate citizens. Intending to do his duty faithfully, the officer settled upon two thousand acres as having been trespassed upon; but to his astonishment the incomprehensible offender stoutly affirmed that he had logged fully five thousand acres, and at once settled the matter in full by paying twenty-five hundred dollars, taking a receipt for the same.
“When this enterprising business-man visited Jacksonville, his friends rallied him upon confessing judgment to government for three thousand acres of timber more than had been claimed by the agent. This true patriot winked as he replied:
“‘It is true I hold a receipt from the government for the timber on five thousand acres at the very low rate of fifty cents an acre. As I have not yet cut logs from more than one-fifth of the tract, I intend to work off the timber on the other four thousand acres at my leisure, and no power can stop me now I have the
government receipt to show it’s paid for.'”
The sloop and the canoe had left Columbus a little before noon, and at six P. M. we passed Charles’ Ferry, where the old St. Augustine and Tallahassee forest road crosses the river. At this lonely place an old man, now dead, owned a subterranean spring, which he called “Mediterranean passage.” This spring is powerful enough to run a rickety, “up-and-down” saw-mill. The great height of the water allowed me to paddle into the mill with my canoe.
At half past seven o’clock a deserted log cabin at Barrington’s Ferry offered us shelter for the night. The whole of the next day we rowed through the same immense forests, finding no more cultivated land than during our first day’s voyage. We landed at a log cabin in a small clearing to purchase eggs of a poor woman, whose husband had shot her brother a few days before. As the wife’s brother had visited the cabin with the intention of killing the husband, the woman seemed to think the murdered man had “got his desarts,” and, as a coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of “justifiable homicide,” the affair was considered settled.
Below this cabin we came to Island No. 1, where rapids trouble boatmen in the summer months. Now we glided gently but swiftly over the deep current. The few inhabitants we met along the banks of the Suwanee seemed to carry with them an air of repose while awake. To rouse them from mid-day slumbers we would call loudly as we passed a cabin in the woods, and after considerable delay a man would appear at the door, rubbing his eyes as though the genial sunlight was oppressive to his vision. It was indeed a quiet, restful region, this great wilderness of the Suwanee.
We passed Mrs. Goodman’s farm and log buildings on the left bank, just below Island No. 8, before noon, and about this time Major Purviance shot at a large wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo), knocking it off a bank into the water. The gobbler got back to land, and led us a fruitless chase into the thicket of saw-palmetto. He knew his ground better than we, for,
though wounded, he made good his escape. We stopped a few moments at Troy, which, though dignified in name, consists only of a store and some half dozen buildings.
A few miles below this place, on the left bank of the river, is an uninhabited elevation called Rolins’ Bluff, from which a line running north 220 east, twenty-three miles and a half in length, will strike Live Oak. A charter to connect Live Oak with this region of the Suwanee by means of a railroad had just passed the Florida legislature, but had been killed by the veto of the governor. After sunset the boats were secured in safe positions in front of a deserted cabin, round which a luxuriant growth of bitter-orange trees showed what nature could do for this neglected grove. The night air was balmy, and tremulous with insect life, while the alligators in the swamps kept up their bellowings till morning.
After breakfast we descended to the mouth of the Santa Fe River, which was on the left bank of the Suwanee. The piny-woods people called it the Santaffy. The wilderness below the Santa Fe is rich in associations of the Seminole Indian war. Many relics have been found, and, among others, on the site of an old Indian town, entombed in a hollow tree, the skeletons of an Indian adult and child, decked with beads, were discovered. Fort Fanning is on the left bank, and Old Town Hammock on the right bank of the Suwanee.
During the Seminole war, the hammock and the neighboring fastnesses became the
hiding-places of the persecuted Indians, and so wild and undisturbed is this region, even at this time, that the bear, lynx, and panther take refuge from man in its jungles.
Colonel J. L. F. Cottrell left his native Virginia in 1854, and commenced the cultivation of the virgin soil of Old Town Hammock. Each state has its peculiar mode of dividing its land, and here in Florida this old plantation was in township 10, section 24, range 13. The estate included about two thousand acres of land, of which nearly eleven hundred were under
cultivation. The slaves whom the colonel brought from Virginia were now his tenants, and he leased them portions of his arable acres. He considered this locality as healthy as any in the Suwanee country. The old planter’s home, with its hospitable doors ever open to the stranger, was embowered in live-oaks and other trees, from the branches of which the graceful festoons of Spanish moss waved in the soft air, telling of a warm, moist atmosphere.
A large screw cotton-press and corn-cribs, with smoke-house and other plantation buildings, were conveniently grouped under the spreading branches of the protecting oaks. The estate produced cotton, corn, sweet potatoes, cattle, hogs, and poultry. Deer sometimes approached the enclosed fields, while the early morning call of the wild turkey came from the thickets of the hammock. In this retired part of Florida, cheered by the society of a devoted wife and four lovely daughters, lived the kind-hearted gentleman who not only pressed on us the comforts of his well-ordered house, but also insisted upon accompanying the paper canoe from his forest home to the sea.
When gathered around the firesides of the backwoods people, the conversation generally runs into hunting stories, Indian reminiscences, and wild tales of what the pioneers suffered while establishing themselves in their forest homes. One event of startling interest had occurred in the Suwanee country a few weeks before the paper canoe entered its confines. Two hunters went by night to the woods to shoot deer by firelight. As they stalked about, with light-wood torches held above their heads, they came upon a herd of deer, which, being bewildered by the glare of the lights, made no attempt to escape. Sticking their torches in the ground, the hunters stretched themselves flat upon the grass, to hide their forms from the animals they hoped to kill at their leisure. One of the men was stationed beneath the branches of a large tree; the other was a few yards distant.
The Panther’s Leap (106K)
Before the preconcerted signal for discharging their rifles could be given, the sound of a heavy body falling to the ground, and an accompanying smothered shriek, startled the hunter who was farthest from the tree. Starting up in alarm, he flew to the assistance of his friend, whose prostrate form was covered by a large panther, which had pounced upon him from the overhanging limb of the great oak. It had been but the work of an instant for the powerful cougar to break with his strong jaws the neck of the poor backwoodsman.
In this rare case of a panther (Felis concolor) voluntarily attacking man, it will be noted by the student of natural history that the victim was lying upon the ground. Probably the animal would not have left his perch among the
branches of the oak, where he was evidently waiting for the approach of the deer, if the upright form of the man had been seen. Go to a southern bayou, which is rarely, if ever, visited by man, and where its saurian inhabitants have never been annoyed by him, — place your body in a recumbent position on the margin of the lagoon, and wait until some large alligator slowly rises to the surface of the water. He will eye you for a moment with evident curiosity, and will in some cases steadily approach you. When the monster reptile is within two or three rods of your position, rise slowly upon your feet to your full height, and the alligator of the southern states — the A. Mississippiensis – will, in nine cases out of ten, retire with precipitation.
There are but few wild animals that will attack man willingly when face to face with him; they quail before his erect form. In every case of the animals of North America showing fight to man, which has been investigated by me, the beasts have had no opportunity to escape, or have had their young to defend, or have been wounded by the hunter.
It was nearly ten o’clock A. M. on Friday, March 26th, when our merry party left Old Town hammock. This day was to see the end of the voyage of the paper canoe, for my tiny craft was to arrive at the waters of the great southern sea before midnight. The wife and daughters of our host, like true women of the forest, offered no forebodings at the departure of the head of their household, but wished him, with cheerful looks, a pleasant voyage to the Gulf. The gulf port of Cedar Keys is but a few miles from the mouth of the Suwanee River. The railroad which terminates at Cedar Keys would, with its connection with other routes, carry the members of our party to their several homes.
The bright day animated our spirits, as we swept swiftly down the river. The party in the shad-boat, now called “Adventurer,” rowed merrily on with song and laughter, while I made an attempt to examine more closely the character of the water-moccasin — the Trigono
cephaluspiscivorus of Lacepede, — which I had more cause to fear than the alligators of the river. The water-moccasin is about two feet in length, and has a circumference of five or six inches. The tail possesses a horny point about half an inch in length, which is harmless, though the Crackers and negroes stoutly affirm that when it strikes a tree the tree withers and dies, and when it enters the flesh of a man he is poisoned unto death. The color of the reptile is a dirty brown. Never found far from water, it is common in the swamps, and is the terror of the rice-field negroes. The bite of the water-moccasin is exceedingly venomous, and it is considered more poisonous than that of the rattlesnake, which warns man of his approach by sounding his rattle.
The moccasin does not, like the rattlesnake, wait to be attacked, but assumes the offensive whenever opportunity offers, striking with its fangs at every animated object in its vicinity. All other species of snakes flee from its presence. It is found as far north as the Peedee River of South Carolina, and is abundant in all low districts of the southern states. As the Suwanee had overflowed its banks below Old Town Hammock, the snakes had taken to the low limbs of the trees and to the tops of bushes, where they seemed to be sleeping in the warmth of the bright sunlight; but as I glided along the shore a few feet from their aerial beds, they discovered my presence, and dropped sluggishly into the water. It would not be an exaggeration to say that we passed thousands of these dangerous reptiles while descending the Suwanee.
Raftsmen told me that when traversing lagoons in their log canoes, if a moccasin is met some distance from land he will frequently enter the canoe for refuge or for rest, and instances have been known where the occupant has been so alarmed as to jump overboard and swim ashore in order to escape from this malignant reptile.
The only place worthy of notice between Old Town Hammock and the gulf marshes is Clay Landing, on the left bank of the river, where Mrs. Tresper formerly lived in a very
comfortable house. Clay Landing was used during the Confederate war as a place of deposit for blockade goods. Archer, a railroad station, is but twenty miles distant, and to it over rough roads the contraband imports were hauled by mule teams, after having been landed from the fleet blockade-runner.
As the sun was sinking to rest, and the tree shadows grew long on the wide river’s bosom, we tasted the saltness in the air as the briny breezes were wafted to us over the forests from the Gulf of Mexico. After darkness had cast its sombre mantle upon us, we left the “East Pass” entrance to the left, and our boats hurried on the rapidly ebbing tide down the broad “West Pass” into the great marshes of the coast. An hour later we emerged from the dark forest into the smooth savannas. The freshness of the sea-air was exhilarating The stars were shining softly, and the ripple of the tide, the call of the heron, or the whirr of the frightened duck, and the leaping of fishes from the water, were the only sounds nature offered us. It was like entering another world. In these lowlands, near the mouth of the river, there seemed to be but one place above the high-tide level. It was a little hammock, covered by a few trees, called Bradford’s Island, and rose like an oasis in the desert. The swift tide hurried along its shores, and a little farther on mingled the waters of the great wilderness with that of the sea.
Our tired party landed on a shelly beach, and burned a grassy area to destroy sand-fleas. This done, some built a large camp-fire, while others spread blankets upon the ground. I drew the faithful sharer of my long voyage near a thicket of prickly-pears, and slept beside it for the last time, never thinking or dreaming that one year later I should approach the mouth of the Suwanee from the west, after a long voyage of twenty-five hundred miles from the bead of the Ohio River, and would again seek shelter on its banks. It was a night of sweet repose. The camp-fire dissipated the damps, and the long row made rest welcome.
A glorious morning broke upon our party as we breakfasted under the shady palms of the island. Behind us rose the compact wall of dark green of the heavy forests, and along the coast, from east to west, as far as the eye could reach, were the brownish-green savanna-like lowlands, against which beat, in soft murmurs, the waves of that sea I had so longed to reach. From out the broad marshes arose low
hammocks, green with pines and feathery with palmetto-trees. Clouds of mist were rising, and while I watched them melt away in the warm beams of the morning sun, I thought they were like the dark doubts which curled themselves about me so long ago in the cold St. Lawrence, now all melted by the joy of success. The snowclad north was now behind me. The Maria Theresa danced in the shimmering waters of the great southern sea, and my heart was light, for my voyage was over.
[ Etext Editor: The book includes an advertisement for Bishop’s previous book: A Thousand Miles’ Walk Across South America, N. H. Bishop ]
THE PAMPAS AND ANDES: A THOUSAND MILES’ WALK ACROSS SOUTH AMERICA. BY NATHANIEL H. BISHOP.
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price, $1.50 —-
Notices of the Work.
His Excellency Don Domingo F. Sarmiento, President of the Argentine Confederation, South America, in a letter written to the author during 1877. says: “Your book of travels possesses the merit of reality in the faithful descriptions of scenes and customs as they existed at that time.
“It has delighted me to follow you, step by step by the side of the ancient and picturesque carts that cross the vast plains which stretch between the Parana River and the base of the Andes. As I have written about the same region, your book of travels becomes a valuable reminder of those scenes; and I shall have to consult your work in the future when I again write about those countries.” —
“Nathaniel H. Bishop, a mere lad of seventeen; who, prompted by a love of nature, starts off from his New England home, reaches the La Plata River and coolly walks to Valparaiso, across Pampa and Cordillera, a distance of more than a thousand miles! It is not the mere fact of pedestrianism that will gain for Master Nathaniel Bishop a high place among travellers; nor yet the fact of its having been done in the face of dangers and difficulties, — but that, throughout the walk, he has gone with his eyes open, and gives us a book, written at seventeen, that will make him renowned at seventy. It is teeming with information, both on social and natural subjects, end will take rank among books of scientific travel — the only ones worth inquiring for. One chapter from the book of an educated traveller (we don’t mean the education of Oxford and Cambridge) is worth volumes of the stuff usually forming the staple of books of travels. And in this unpretending book of the Yankee boy — for its preface is signally of this sort – we have scores of such chapters. The title is not altogether appropriate. It is called ‘A Thousand Miles’ Walk across South America.’ It is more than a mere walk. It is an exploration into the kingdom of Nature.
“Sir Francis Head has gone over the same ground on horseback, end given us a good account of it. But this quiet ‘walk’ of the American boy is worth infinitely more than the ‘Rough Rides’ of the British baronet. The one is common talk and superficial observation. The other is a study that extends beneath the surface.” – Captain Mayne Reid.
—
“Regarded simply as a piece of adventure, this were interesting, especially when told of in a tone of delightful modesty. But the book has other recommendations. This boy has an admirable eye for manners, customs, costumes, &c., to say nothing of his attention to natural history. The reader seems to travel by his side, and concludes the book with a sense of having himself trodden the Pampas, and mingled with their barbarous inhabitants. So far as writing goes, this is the supreme merit of a book of travels. Let those explore who not only see for themselves, but have the rare ability to lend their eyes to others. Mr. Bishop is one of the few who can do this; the graphic simplicity of his narrative is above praise. Meanwhile, his personal impression is very charming. The quiet patience with which he accepted all the hardships of his position without the slightest parade of patience, however — is beyond measure attractive. But the brave youth goes on quietly enduring what was to be borne, and not ever allowing his observation to be dulled by the infelicities of his situation.” — Boston Commonwealth —
BOSTON: LEE & SHEPARD.
NEW YORK: CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.