Notes on the Floridian Peninsula; its Literary History, Indian Tribes and Antiquities. Brinton Daniel Garrison
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the seat of government. While busied with this, he was struck with the marked deficiency of all the then published maps of the country, “and for my own satisfaction,” he adds, “I made a minute survey of the coast from St. Andrew’s Bay to the Suwannee, as well as the interior of the country in which Tallahassie is situated.” A letter from Judge Brackenridge, alcalde of St. Augustine, principally consisting of quotations from Roberts, is all that touches on antiquities. Except this, and some accounts of the early operations of the Americans in obtaining possession, and the statements concerning Land Titles, the book is taken up with discussions of proposed internal improvements of very local and ephemeral interest.
All the details of any value that it contains he subsequently incorporated in his Civil and Natural History of the Territory,105 published ten years later. Most of the intervening time he spent in arduous personal researches; to quote his own words, “I have traversed the country in various directions, and have coasted the whole peninsula from Pensacola to St. Mary’s, examining with minute attention the various Keys or Islets on the margin of the coast. I have ascended many of the rivers, explored the lagoons and bays, traced the ancient improvements, scattered ruins, and its natural productions by land and by water.” Hence the chief value of the work is as a gazetteer. The civil history is a mere compilation, collected without criticism, and arranged without judgment; an entire ignorance of other languages, and the paucity of materials in our own, incapacitated Williams from achieving anything more. Nor can he claim to be much of a naturalist, for the frequent typographical errors in the botanical names proclaim him largely debtor to others in this department. His style is eminently dry and difficult to labor through, and must ever confine the History to the shelf as a work of reference, and to the closet of the painful student. Yet with all its faults—and they are neither few nor slight—this is the most complete work ever published concerning the territory of Florida; it is the fruit of years of laborious investigation, of absorbing devotion to one object, often of keen mental and bodily suffering, and will ever remain a witness to the energy and zeal of its writer.
As little is recorded about this author pioneer, I may perhaps be excused for turning aside to recall a few personal recollections. It had long been my desire to visit and converse with him about the early days of the state, and with this object, on the 9th of November, 1856, I stopped at the little town of Picolati, near which he lived. A sad surprise awaited me; he had died on the 7th of the month and had been buried the day before my arrival. I walked through the woods to his house. It was a rotten, ruinous, frame tenement on the banks of the St. Johns, about half a mile below the town, fronted by a row of noble live oaks and surrounded by the forest. Here the old man—he was over eighty at the time of his death—had lived for twenty years almost entirely alone, and much of the time in abject poverty. A trader happened to be with him during his last illness, who told me some incidents of his history. His mind retained its vigor to the last, and within a week of his death he was actively employed in various literary avocations, among which was the preparation of an improved edition of his History, which he had very nearly completed. At the very moment the paralytic stroke, from which he died, seized him, he had the pen in his hand writing a novel, the scene of which was laid in China! His disposition was uncommonly aimable and engaging, and so much was he beloved by the Indians, that throughout the horrible atrocities of the Seminole war, when all the planters had fled or been butchered, when neither sex nor age was a protection, when Picolati was burned and St. Augustine threatened, he continued to live unharmed in his old house, though a companion was shot dead on the threshold. What the savage respected and loved, the civilized man thought weakness and despised; this very goodness of heart made him the object of innumerable petty impositions from the low whites, his neighbors. In the words of my informant, “he was too good for the people of these parts.” During his lonely old age he solaced himself with botany and horticulture, priding himself on keeping the best garden in the vicinity. “Come, and I will show you his grave,” said the trader, and added with a touch of feeling I hardly expected, “he left no directions about it, so I made it in the spot he used to love the best of all.” He took me to the south-eastern corner of the neat garden plot. A heap of fresh earth with rough, round, pine sticks at head and foot, marked the spot. It was a solemn and impressive moment. The lengthening shadows of the forest crept over us, the wind moaned in the pines and whistled drearily through the sere grass, and the ripples of the river broke monotonously on the shore. All trace of the grave will soon be obliterated, the very spot forgotten, and the garden lie a waste, but the results of his long and toilsome life “in books recorded” will live when the marbles and monumental brasses of many of his cotemporaries shall be no more.
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