October 9. After going again
to the express office and post office, and wandering about the streets, I
found a road which led me to the Bonaventure graveyard. If that
burying-ground across the Sea of Galilee, mentioned in Scripture, was half
as beautiful as Bonaventure, I do not wonder that a man should dwell among
the tombs. It is only three or four miles from Savannah, and is reached by a
smooth white-shell road.
There is but little to be
seen on the way in land, water, or sky, that would lead one to hope for the
glories of Bonaventure. The ragged desolate fields, on both sides of the
road, are overrun with coarse rank weeds, and show scarce a trace of
cultivation. But soon all is changed. Rickety log huts, broken fences, and
the last patch of weedy rice-stubble are left behind. You come to beds of
purple liatris and living wild-wood trees. You hear the song of birds, cross
a small stream, and are with Nature in the grand old forest graveyard, so
beautiful that almost any sensible person would choose to dwell here with
the dead, rather than with the lazy, disorderly living.
Part of the grounds was cultivated and planted
with live-oak, about a hundred years ago, by a wealthy gentleman who had his
country residence here. But much the greater part is undisturbed. Even those
spots which are disordered by art, Nature is ever at work to reclaim, and to
make them look as if the foot of man had never known them. Only a small plot
of ground is occupied with graves and the old mansion is in ruins.
The most conspicuous glory of Bonaventure is its
noble avenue of live-oaks. They are the most magnificent planted trees I
have ever seen, about fifty feet high and perhaps three or four feet in
diameter, with broad spreading leafy heads. The main branches reach out
horizontally until they come together over the driveway, embowering it
throughout its entire length, while each branch is adorned like a garden
with ferns, flowers, grasses, and dwarf palmettoes.
But of all the plants of these curious
tree-gardens the most striking and characteristic is the so-called Long Moss
[Tillandsia usneoides]. It drapes all the branches from top to bottom,
hanging in long silvery-gray skeins, reaching a length of not less than
eight or ten feet, and when slowly waving in the wind they produce a solemn
funereal effect singularly impressive.
There are also thousands of smaller trees and
clustered bushes, covered almost from sight in the glorious brightness of
their own light. The place is half surrounded by the salt marshes and
islands of the river, their reeds and sedges making a delightful fringe.
Many bald eagles roost among the trees along the side of the marsh. Their
screams are heard every morning, joined with the noise of crows, and the
songs of countless warblers, hidden deep in their dwellings of leafy bowers.
Large flocks of butterflies, all kinds of happy insects, seem to be in a
perfect fever of joy and sportive gladness. The whole place seems like a
center of life. The dead do not reign there alone.
Bonaventure to me is one of the most impressive
assemblages of animal and plant creatures I ever met. I was fresh from the
Western prairies, the garden-like openings of Wisconsin, the beech and maple
and oak woods of Indiana and Kentucky, the dark mysterious Savannah cypress
forests; but never since I was allowed to walk the woods have I found so
impressive a company of trees as the tillandsia-draped oaks of Bonaventure.
I gazed awe-stricken as one new-arrived from
another world. Bonaventure is called a graveyard, a town of the dead, but
the few graves are powerless in such a depth of life. The rippling of living
waters, the song of birds, the joyous confidence of flowers, the calm,
undisturbable grandeur of the oaks, mark this place of graves as one of the
Lord's most favored abodes of life and light.
On no subject are our ideas more warped and
pitiable than on death. Instead of the sympathy, the friendly union, of life
and death so apparent in Nature, we are taught that death is an accident, a
deplorable punishment for the oldest sin, the arch-enemy of life, etc. Town
children, especially, are steeped in this death orthodoxy, for the natural
beauties of death are seldom seen or taught in towns.
Of death among our own species, to say nothing
of the thousand styles and modes of murder, our best memories, even among
happy deaths, yield groans and tears, mingled with morbid exultation; burial
companies, black in cloth and countenance; and, last of all, a black box
burial in an ill-omened place, haunted by imaginary glooms and ghosts of
every degree. Thus death becomes fearful, and the most notable and
incredible thing heard around a death-bed is, "I fear not to die."
But let children walk with Nature, let them see
the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous
inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and
streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless
indeed, and as beautiful as life, and that the grave has no victory, for it
never fights. All is divine harmony.
Most of the few graves of Bonaventure are
planted with flowers. There is generally a magnolia at the head, near the
strictly erect marble, a rose-bush or two at the foot, and some violets and
showy exotics along the sides or on the tops. All is enclosed by a black
iron railing, composed of rigid bars that might have been spears or
bludgeons from a battlefield in Pandemonium.
It is interesting to observe how assiduously
Nature seeks to remedy these labored art blunders. She corrodes the iron and
marble, and gradually levels the hill which is always heaped up, as if a
sufficiently heavy quantity of clods could not be laid on the dead. Arching
grasses come one by one; seeds come flying on downy wings, silent as fate,
to give life's dearest beauty for the ashes of art; and strong evergreen
arms laden with ferns and tillandsia drapery are spread over all -- Life at
work everywhere, obliterating all memory of the confusion of man.
In Georgia many graves are covered with a common
shingle roof, supported on four posts as the cover of a well, as if rain and
sunshine were not regarded as blessings. Perhaps, in this hot and
insalubrious climate, moisture and sun-heat are considered necessary evils
to which they do not wish to expose their dead.
The money package that I was expecting did not
arrive until the following week. After stopping the first night at the
cheap, disreputable-looking hotel, I had only about a dollar and a half left
in my purse, and so was compelled to camp out to make it last in buying only
bread. I went out of the noisy town to seek a sleeping place that was not
marshy. After gaining the outskirts of the town toward the sea, I found some
low sand dunes, yellow with flowering solidagoes.
I wandered wearily from dune to dune sinking
ankle-deep in the sand, searching for a place to sleep beneath the tall
flowers, free from insects and snakes, and above all from my fellow man. But
idle negroes were prowling about everywhere, and I was afraid. The wind had
strange sounds, waving the heavy panicles over my head, and I feared
sickness from malaria so prevalent here, when I suddenly thought of the
thought I, "is an ideal place for a penniless wanderer. There no
superstitious prowling mischief-maker dares venture for fear of haunting
ghosts, while for me there will be God's rest and peace. And then, if I am
to be exposed to unhealthy vapors, I shall have capital compensation in
seeing those grand oaks in the moonlight, with all the impressive and
nameless influences of this lonely beautiful place."
By this time it was near sunset, and I hastened
across the common to the road and set off for Bonaventure, delighted with my
choice, and almost glad to find that necessity had furnished me with so good
an excuse for doing what I knew my mother would censure; for she made me
promise I would not lie out-of-doors if I could possibly avoid it. The sun
was set ere I was past the negroes' huts and rice fields, and I arrived near
the graves in the silent hour of the gloaming.
I was very thirsty after walking so long in the
muggy heat, a distance of three or four miles from the city, to get to this
graveyard. A dull, sluggish, coffee-colored stream flows under the road just
outside the graveyard garden park, from which I managed to get a drink after
breaking a way down to the water through a dense fringe of bushes, daring
the snakes and alligators in the dark. Thus refreshed I entered the weird
and beautiful abode of the dead.
All the avenue where I walked was in shadow, but
an exposed tombstone frequently shone out in startling whiteness on either
hand, and thickets of sparkleberry bushes gleamed like heaps of crystals.
Not a breath of air moved the gray moss, and the great black arms of the
trees met overhead and covered the avenue. But the canopy was fissured by
many a netted seam and leafy-edged opening, through which the moonlight
sifted in auroral rays, broidering the blackness in silvery light. Though
tired I sauntered awhile enchanted, then lay down under one of the great
oaks. I found a little mound that served for a pillow, placed my plant press
and bag beside me and rested fairly well, though somewhat disturbed by large
prickly-footed beetles creeping across my hands and face, and by a lot of
hungry stinging mosquitoes.
When I awoke, the sun was up and all Nature was
rejoicing. Some birds had discovered me as an intruder, and were making a
great ado in interesting language and gestures. I heard the screaming of the
bald eagles, and of some strange waders in the rushes. I heard the hum of
Savannah with the long jarring hallos of negroes far away. On rising I found
that my head had been resting on a grave, and though my sleep had not been
quite so sound as that of the person below, I arose refreshed, and looking
about me, the morning sunbeams pouring through the oaks and gardens dripping
with dew, the beauty displayed was so glorious and exhilarating that hunger
and care seemed only a dream.
Eating a breakfast cracker or two and watching
for a few hours the beautiful light, birds, squirrels, and insects, I
returned to Savannah, to find that my money package had not yet arrived. I
then decided to go early to the graveyard and make a nest with a roof to
keep off the dew, as there was no way of finding out how long I might have
to stay. I chose a hidden spot in a dense thicket of sparkleberry bushes,
near the right bank of the Savannah River, where the bald eagles and a
multitude of singing birds roosted. It was so well hidden that I had to
carefully fix its compass bearing in my mind from a mark I made on the side
of the main avenue, that I might be able to find it at bedtime.
I used four of the bushes as corner posts for my
little hut, which was about four or five feet long by about three or four in
width, tied little branches across from forks in the bushes to support a
roof of rushes, and spread a thick mattress of Long Moss over the floor for
a bed. My whole establishment was on so small a scale that I could have
taken up not only my bed, but my whole house, and walked. There I lay that
night, eating a few crackers.
Next day I returned to the town and was
disappointed as usual in obtaining money. So after spending the day looking
at the plants in the gardens of the fine residences and town squares, I
returned to my graveyard home. That I might not be observed and suspected of
hiding, as if I had committed a crime, I always went home after dark, and
one night as I lay down in my moss nest I felt some cold-blooded creature in
it; whether a snake or simply a frog or toad I do not know, but
instinctively, instead of drawing back my hand, I grasped the poor creature
and threw it over the tops of the bushes. That was the only significant
disturbance or fright that I got.
In the morning everything seemed divine. Only
squirrels, sunbeams, and birds came about me. I was awakened every morning
by these little singers after they discovered my nest. Instead of serenely
singing their morning songs they at first came within two or three feet of
the hut, and, looking in at me through the leaves, chattered and scolded in
half-angry, half-wondering tones. The crowd constantly increased, attracted
by the disturbance. Thus I began to get acquainted with my bird neighbors in
this blessed wilderness, and after they learned that I meant them no ill
they scolded less and sang more.
After five days of this graveyard life I saw
that even with living on three or four cents a day my last twenty-five cents
would soon be spent, and after trying again and again unsuccessfully to find
some employment, began to think that I must strike farther out into the
country, but still within reach of town, until I came to some grain or rice
field that had not yet been harvested, trusting that I could live
indefinitely on toasted or raw corn, or rice.
By this time I was becoming faint, and in making
the journey to the town was alarmed to find myself growing staggery and
giddy. The ground ahead seemed to be rising up in front of me, and the
little streams in the ditches on the sides of the road seemed to be flowing
up hill. Then I realized that I was becoming dangerously hungry and became
more than ever anxious to receive that money package.
To my delight this fifth or sixth morning when I
inquired if the money package had come the clerk replied that it had, but
that he could not deliver it without my -being identified. I said, "Well,
here! read my brother's letter," handing it to him. "It states the amount in
the package, where it came from, the day it was put into the office at
Portage City, and I should think that would be enough." He said, "No, that
is not enough. How do I know that this letter is yours? You may have stolen
it. How do I know that you are John Muir? "
I said, "Well, don't you see that this letter
indicates that I am a botanist? For in it my brother says, `I hope you are
having a good time and finding many new plants.' Now, you say that I might
have stolen this letter from John Muir, and in that way have become aware of
there being a money package to arrive from Portage for him. But the letter
proves that John Muir must be a botanist, and though, as you say, his letter
might have been stolen, it would hardly be likely that the robber would be
able to steal John Muir's knowledge of botany. Now I suppose, of course,
that you have been to school and know something of botany. Examine me and
see if I know anything about it."
At this he laughed good-naturedly, evidently
feeling the force of my argument, and, perhaps, pitying me on account of
looking pale and hungry, he turned and rapped at the door of a private
office, — probably the Manager's, called him out and said, "Mr. So and So,
here is a man who has inquired every day for the last week or so for a money
package from Portage, Wisconsin. He is a stranger in the city with no one to
identify him. He states correctly the amount and the name of the sender. He
has shown me a letter which indicates that Mr. Muir is a botanist, and that
although a traveling companion may have stolen Mr. Muir's letter, he could
not have stolen his botany, and requests us to examine him."
The head official smiled, took a good stare at
my face, waved his hand, and said, "Let him have it." Gladly I pocketed my
money, and had not gone along the street more than a few rods before I met a
very large negro woman with a tray of gingerbread, in which I immediately
invested some of my new wealth, and walked rejoicingly, munching along the
street, making no attempt to conceal the pleasure I had in eating. Then,
still hunting for more food, I found a sort of eating-place in a market and
had a large regular meal on top of the gingerbread! Thus my "marching
through Georgia" terminated handsomely in a jubilee of bread.