44 
We halted at noon, in a shady place, near a clear brook, and 
dispatched a part of our provisions, seated on a dry green turf. 
For the first time in my life, a shade in January was a desirable 
object. The night overtook us before we reached our lodgings 
for the night, which we intended to take up at a place called 
Belle Fontaine. The road was hardly discernible, for it was 
so little travelled, that grass grew in the tracks, and the 
stumps of trees were as difficult to avoid, as they were frequent. 
We risked oversetting more than once. To avoid such an acci¬ 
dent, we determined to proceed on foot. We took in this way, 
a walk of at least six miles, in an unbroken pine forest, inhabited 
by bears, wolves, and even panthers. At first we had the light 
of the moon ; about nine o’clock it went down, and we had con¬ 
siderable difficulty to keep the road. As the dwellings were 
scattering from each other, we imitated the barking of dogs, to 
give them an opportunity to answer in the same language. 
This succeeded; we heard dogs bark, moved in the direction 
whence the sound came, and reached about ten o’clock, the de¬ 
sired Belle Fontaine, a log house with two rooms, or cabins, and 
a cleared opening before it. A man of rather unpromising ap¬ 
pearance, the landlord, Mr. Pollard, admitted us, and took charge 
of our horses. His wife, a pale, sickly looking being, who 
hardly returned an answer to our questions, was obliged to rise 
from her bed, to prepare us a supper and sleeping-room. 
The whole establishment had at first, the look of a harbour for 
robbers, but there was well roasted venison prepared for us, on 
a neat table, and tolerable coffee, for which we had, luckily, 
brought sugar along with us. It was really comfortable, though 
our chamber remained open the whole night, as there was no 
door, and only two beds were furnished. 
The 12th of January we left our quarters at seven in the 
morning, and travelled thirty-two miles to Pensacola. Twelve 
miles from Belle Fontaine brought us to a stand at the Perdido, 
where we breakfasted at a plantation, situated on the right 
bank of the river. This stream forms the boundary between 
Alabama and the territory of Florida, which does not yet con¬ 
tain inhabitants sufficient to entitle it to a reception among the 
states of the Union. The river is small, its banks sandy, and 
we crossed it in a poor ferry-boat. On the banks, as generally 
through the whole of that district, I saw many bushy palms, 
here called palmattoes. The soil on the whole, was as bad as 
that we saw yesterday, the growth was pine; there is fresh 
vegetation only about the springs. The air grew still warmer, 
we saw a few butterflies. As we approached Pensacola, the pines 
ceased, and we moved through dwarf oaks. The soil was a deep 
sand ; we passed by a marsh full of water oaks. 
