Never was seen a prettier place than this as we beheld it by the morrow’s light.  The house stands on a high bluff, worthy the name of hill, which slopes steeply but greenly down to the South Prong of Black Creek, better deserving the name of river than many a stream which boasts the designation.  We crossed it upon a boom, pausing midway in sudden astonishment at the lovely view.  A long reach of exquisitely pure water, bordered by the dense overhanging foliage of its high banks, stretched away to where, a mile below us, a sudden bend hid its lower course from view, and on the high green bluff which closed the vista were seen the white house and venerable overarching trees of some old estate.  The morning air was crisp and pure; every leaf and twig stood out with clean-cut distinctness, to be mirrored with startling clearness in the stream; the sky was cloudless:  no greater contrast could be imagined from the tender sweetness of yesterday.  The birds, exhilarated by the sparkle in the air, sang with a rollicking abandonment quite contagious:  the very kids and goats on the crags above the road caught the infection and frisked about, tinkling their bells and joining most unmelodiously in the song; while Barney, crossing the creek upon a flatboat, lifted up a tuneful voice in the chorus.

We turned aside from our route to visit Whitesville, the beautiful old home of Judge B——.  It is a noble great mansion, with broad double doors opening from every side of a wide hall, and standing in the midst of a wild garden luxuriant with flowers and shrubs and vines, and with a magnificent ivy climbing to the top of a tall blasted tree at the gate.  “I came to this place from New Haven in ’29,” its owner told us—­“sailed from New York to Darien, Georgia, in a sloop, and from there in a sail-boat to this very spot.  I prospected all about:  bought a little pony, and rode him—­well, five thousand miles after I began to keep count.  Finally, I came back and settled here.”

“Were you never troubled by Indians?” we asked.

“Well, they put a fort here in the Indian war, the government did—­right here, where you see the china trees.”  It was a beautiful green slope beside the house, with five great pride-of-Indias in a row and a glimpse of the creek through the thickets at the foot.  “There never was any engagement here, though.  The Indians had a camp over there at K——­’s, where you came from, but they all went away to the Nation after a while.”

“Did you stay here through the civil war?”

“Oh yes.  I never took any part in the troubles, but the folks all suspected and watched me.  They knew I was a Union man.  One day a Federal regiment came along and wanted to buy corn and fodder.  The men drew up on the green, and the colonel rode up to the door.  ‘Colonel,’ says I, ’I can’t sell you anything, but I believe the keys are in the corn-barn and stable doors:  I can’t hinder your taking anything by force.’  He understood, and took pretty well what he wanted.  Afterward he came and urged me to take a voucher, but I wouldn’t do that.  By and by the Confederates came around and accused me of selling to the Federals, but they couldn’t prove anything against me.”