A chat by the way.—A steam bicycle.—Rough times.—At Ocala.
A chat by the way.—A steam bicycle.—Rough times.—At Ocala.
Theboat is waiting, bobbing up and down at the little rustic pier at Tocoi. The sun is laughing down upon us, with a face of shining gold, and the sweet east wind is fanning our cheeks with its breath of balm; a sweep of sunny water lies before us, sea-gulls and strange birds are wheeling over our heads as we step on board, and are soon on our way to Palatka.
We pass by pretty little hamlets and endless groves of orange and lemon trees, stretching inland from the low-lying shore; most of them are already stripped of their golden fruit, but some have their branches still heavily laden.
In about two hours we land at Palatka, a pretty bright little town, one of the scores of places which we are obliged to pass through with only a passing glance. Those who are tired of wandering and wish to rest, cannot do better than spend a few pleasant tranquil days here on the banks of the quiet river. There is an excellent hotel, “The Palatka House,”where they will find comfortable accommodation and an excellent cuisine. We desire to reach Silver Springs and thence take the boat down the Ocklawaha river, of whose wonders we have heard so much that we prepare ourselves for disappointment. We don’t quite know how to get there or whether we are to sleep on the land or on the river, but we are content to drift, being strong in the faith that things will come right somehow.
We have not been long seated when our conductor comes along; he punches our ticket, and smilingly adds a conjecture “Ladies from England, I think?”
We modestly admit the fact. He claims nationality with us, and forthwith friendly relations are established between us. He sits down and enters into conversation.
“You live in London, perhaps,” he hazards as a preliminary observation. That fact ascertained, he adds excitedly, “Ah! then you must know my father, Mr. Augustus Brown; he lives at Rose Villa, Lower Norwood, near by the Crystal Palace.” I pleaded ignorance of Mr. Augustus Brown, representing that these delightful suburbs were about ten miles from London’s self, and that a pilgrimage to the Crystal Palace was not a thing of everyday occurrence.
“Ten miles!” he repeated incredulously, “why here we know everybody within a radius of a hundred miles! Think again, you must know him, youmusthave met him somewhere! He is a fine old gentleman, tall, thin, with grey hair, and a long beard—you’ll surely remember him?”
He looked so earnest that I was quite sorry to disappoint him by repeating my former statement, at the same time softening the blow by explaining the immense population of London and its suburbs, and how often people lived for years without even knowing their next door neighbours. That was all very well, but not to know my father, “Mr. Augustus Brown,” was quite another thing! I’m afraid by my ignorance of the inhabitants of Lower Norwood I lost caste considerably in his eyes. He went about his business with rather a perplexed face and presently came back to us with the information:
“You’ll have to change cars soon at Perry’s Junction for Ocala; it isn’t much of a place, but you’ll have to sleep there, and in the morning take the cars for Silver Springs, about half an hour’s ride.” He then emerged from his official character and added, “Perhaps you’ll be going back to England soon? Yes? Well, I should like to give you my father’s address.” He fumbled through a tattered pocket-book, and extracted therefrom a crumpled piece of paper. “There, if you should ever be in that neighbourhood I hope you’ll just give a call on my folks; they’ll make you right welcome, and please tell ’em I’m all right, and I hope to be home next fall.”
I took the paper, but knowing that my chance of making the acquaintance of his esteemed parents was small I ventured to suggest that he would most likely forward that information himself.
“No,” he answered, “I’m not much of a hand with a pen; somehow we get out of the way of it in these parts. I haven’t written to the old folk for years, though I think of them often enough—God bless ’em! I often picture to myself how they’ll look when I first walk in upon ’em.”
“Take you for a tramp, most likely, and shut the door in your face,” I suggest, somewhat flippantly, perhaps; but he answered gravely:
“Father might, but mother ’ll know me, sure enough, though I left home at fourteen years old and I’m now thirty. Butshe’dknow me, ay, even if I was in my coffin. And I should know her dear old face, even if we don’t meet till we meet in heaven.”
We were constantly beset by similar inquiries from perfect strangers; the fact of our nationality once ascertained, somebody would accost us—on the cars, the platform, the hotel corridors, no matter where.
“Excuse me, but do you know my cousin, the Rev. Jonah Smith, a clergyman, curate of St. Jeremiah’s, somewhere down in Cumberland, the place where my grandfather came from?”
Everybody seemed to think wemustknow theirrelations—sometimes we found it very difficult to convince them to the contrary. Once I received a long letter, filling several sheets of foolscap, as long as a lawyer’s long brief, setting forth a whole family history up to a certain period, marriages and intermarriages, beseeching me to set inquiries on foot and transmit to them any information I could gather concerning their English relations, with whom they, the American branch, had held no communication for the last generation.
To me there is something touching in this desire to claim kinship with the old family tree, whose branches are flourishing in all quarters of the habitable globe. It is so everywhere in the conservative South. In the more cosmopolitan north it is different; as a rule nobody cares to claim kinship with anybody or anything, except perhaps Wall Street and the money market.
At Perry’s Point we changed cars, and took a “narrow gauge” line to Ocala. It was the first time we had been on the genuine “narrow” gauge, and I fervently hope our last. Nothing could well be narrower, the rails being less than three feet apart; the cars running thereon are almost the usual width, seating four passengers in a row, divided in the centre by a passage two or three feet wide. It was like travelling on a see-saw or a bicycle; the cars oscillated fearfully from side to side, we had to hold on to thestraps for dear life; even when it came to a stand it was not still, but slowly rocked from side to side.
During this short journey we twice broke down, and were detained some hours while the injury was repaired. We complained of the danger and discomfort of this mode of travelling, at the risk of life and limb. I believe I was regarded by the whole car as a British malcontent; nobody grumbled nor even lifted a disapproving voice. One lady seemed much surprised at our discomposure, and said, raising her placid brows and smiling sweetly:
“I dare say we shall get to Ocala all right; there is no use in fretting. It is true the carsdidtopple over an embankment a few weeks ago—such things will happen sometimes; a few limbs were broken, but nobody was killed! Besides, we must all die some time, andIdon’t think it matters how or when. I really wouldn’t be uneasy,” she added consolingly, with a slightly contemptuous look upon her face. “I dare say it will be all right; and if not,” she shrugged her shoulders, “well, you know, as we say in our prayers, God’s will be done.”
Alas! I could not view the situation in this spirit of philosophical resignation; but I resolved to sink myself no lower in the eyes of my self-possessed fellow-travellers, and sat through the rest of the journey with outward calm, but inward tribulation of spirit. It was long past midnight when wereached our destination. It was a dark, moonless night, the rain was pouring in torrents, the thunder rolled and reverberated through the stormy air; now and again the heavens opened and let a flood of lightning through, then closed and left us in utter darkness. The train stopped; peering from the car windows we saw a light twinkling here and there, but no other sign of life. There were no omnibuses, no carriages plying for hire. We gathered our light hand-baggage together and followed the dreary procession to the end of the cars; they all seemed to know where they were going, and one by one our fellow-passengers were swallowed up in the darkness. We stood on the car platform for a moment and peered out into the black night; the deluge of rain was still falling.
“There are no conveyances! How are we to get to the hotel?” we exclaimed, looking round in helpless bewilderment and addressing nobody in particular.
“Take care, madam, take care—you’ll be in two feet of water that way,” cried a friendly voice arresting my progress; then taking possession of my parcels and of me, added, “It is awkward there being no conveyances on such a night as this; in fine weather it does not signify. The hotel is close by; pray take my arm. I live here, and know every step of the way.”
The train conductor volunteered his assistance to my companion, and swinging his lamp low to guide our faltering feet walked on before us.
“I am the clergyman here,” said my escort in a kind gentle voice, as he pioneered me through a morass and across a pool of mud. My thanks be to him, although I never beheld his face, for, having deposited us at our hotel, he vanished into the night and was seen no more.
We passed first through a kind of rough sitting-room, where some few of our fellow-passengers were already seated in placid contentment, waiting the hotel clerk’s leisure. We were wet through, and not disposed to wait his leisure, so claimed his attention at once, and got it too, as a “lone female” in the South does generally manage to get her will and way.
We were put in charge of a small boy with a big voice, who led us across a sort of courtyard towards a large building—the hotel proper. It seemed to be only a rough temporary erection, doomed to be speedily swept away to make room for some more commodious and imposing structure. A flight of rough wooden steps from the outside led to the interior, whither we slowly ascended, the wind and the rain beating on us as we went. We were shown to our room by a slovenly young woman with a strong Hibernian accent, evidently a late importation from the Emerald isle. It was much morecomfortably furnished than we had expected from general appearances. Having relieved ourselves of our wet clothes, we went in search of supper, and, after groping our way through the empty ill-lighted passages, found a long low room illuminated by rows of tiny oil-lamps—the dingiest of dingy apartments, with tables spread, and surrounded by hungry troops of travellers.
There was not much to eat, indeed nothing but leathery slabs of ham, fried eggs, and flabby omelettes; the thunder had turned the milk sour, so the coffee and tea was served plain, while soda and seltzer water popped and sputtered on all sides of us.
The beds were fairly comfortable, and we arose the next morning to find a smiling sky promising a fair day for the trip down the Ocklawaha river.
A little train (not a “narrow-gauge,” we were thankful to find) bore us from Ocala to Silver Springs.
The “Okeehumkee.”—The Silver Springs.—The weird wonders of the Ocklawaha.
The “Okeehumkee.”—The Silver Springs.—The weird wonders of the Ocklawaha.
A queer-lookingstumpy boat yclept the “Okeehumkee” was waiting for us at the head of the “Silver Springs.” The vessel was short and broad, like a monstrous beetle with its legs cut off; it was made to fit and float on the “Ocklawaha” river and nowhere else. We stepped first on to a lower deck—crowded with coils of ropes and poles, and the miscellaneous belongings of the queer little craft—which was occupied by the engineers, stokers, and other stray hands, who helped to work the vessel; there was a big boiler, and a little engine, and a tiny cupboard of a kitchen, where operations for our mid-day meal were being vigorously carried on.
Ascending a narrow flight of steps we are on the bow of the vessel—a wide balcony which occupies the entire front; behind this, and entered by two glass doors from the balcony is the saloon, bayfronted with windows all round, comfortably furnishedwith sofas and easy chairs, and two round tables. Opening from this again is a narrow passage running through to the end of the boat, on each side of which is a row of tiny cabins—about twelve in all, narrowing towards the stern. There is what is called “accommodation” for a score or so of tourists. Foolish people think they are fortunate if they can secure a “berth;” they don’t know how much may be left of them in the morning. Mosquitoes are a hungry race, and make a meal of the sleeper. He goes to bed fair and well to look at; when he gets up in the morning he can scarcely recognise his own face! Wise people sit up all night, and when they are tired of the wonderful scenery (which is illuminated at night by huge flaming pine logs which blaze from a great iron cauldron just above the balcony) they doze in easy chairs, or roll themselves up like mummies and sleep on the sofas. Some sit up on the balcony all night smoking, and at intervals singing snatches of old songs, which fall pleasantly on the drowsy ears of the sleepers.
I wonder if I can convey to any one an idea of the Ocklawaha river! It can be compared with no other river that I have ever seen, heard, or read of, and its fairest wonders are at our starting point, Silver Springs. Looking forward I see nothing but a wide expanse of pale green water. Our steamer gives a series of short asthmatic puffs, and we are moving slowly over thesurface of the Silver Springs—so slowly we are scarcely conscious of any movement at all. We lean over the side of the vessel, and look down upon a world of wonders; we can hardly believe that it is really water we are passing through. It seems as though all the jewels from all quarters of the globe had been gathered together and melted down, and poured into the great earth hollow we are gliding over. The spring is eighty feet deep, the water so clear that the sweet fairy flowers at the bottom of it seem to lie close at hand; you feel as though you could lean over and pluck one from the bed, which seems to be formed of holes, arches, and deep crevasses of many-coloured rocks; variegated blues and greens and greys, all amalgamating together, beneath the soft rippling water, give it the many brilliant, ever-changing hues, till we feel as though we were sailing through a stream of liquid gems—opals and emeralds, amethysts and sapphires—enough to make gorgeous the purple robes of all the kings of all the earth. Submerged trees are standing tall and strong in this watery world; long ribbon grasses are gracefully waving as though stirred by the breath of some fair floating Undine, and starry white flowers open their blue eyes dreamily as we glide slowly over their silent home. Silver scaled fish dart in and out from among the tall reeds and rocky islets, and infant turtles with their ugly awkward little bodies propel themselves along; whilethin, long-bladed fish flash hither and thither like sharp swords wielded by invisible hands, crossing and recrossing, parrying, and thrusting—coming within a hairsbreadth, but never smiting.
Our wee craft is only too brief a time crossing this “pool of wonders;” then we seem to be running straight into a wilderness—a veritable bit of the forest primeval—where a tangle of dense “hammock” seems to stop our watery way, but by a sudden turn our little vessel strikes an opening and takes us out of the Silver Springs, and on to the river.
Thenceforth all the day long we are gliding through the sweetest, loveliest water lane in all the world; winding in and out through mysterious wooded wilds—crooked and full of sudden turns and odd angles. We wonder how our queer little “Okeehumkee” finds her way along; we fancy she must be jointed like an eel, or she could never wriggle her way through this leafy labyrinth. Sometimes, indeed often, she runs her snout against the shore, and the services of a huge black Titan, “Joe,” are called into action; he jumps off the boat, and prods and pushes with a long pole till we are off again. Sometimes the river ties itself into a knot, but the little craft somehow threads her way through the loops and bows, and comes out at the other end of it.
There are no banks on either side of this marvellous Ocklawaha river; the water runs on a level with theshore. Dense masses of jungle and wild forest lands sweep down and close it on either side with their leafy embrace; so closely they clasp it, that often we cannot see a foot of water on either side of us, and the branches of the fine old trees reach their long arms across and interlock one with the other forming a grand overarching avenue above our heads. It is so narrow here and there that it seems as though by some strange magical process the green earth had been liquefied purely for our accommodation in passing through, and anon the stream spreads out like a shining silver mirror in the heart of a jungle of overhanging trees.
Never was there such variety of scenery on a single river; it seems as though Nature had gathered all her forces here just to show how much she could do with her few favourite allies—the forest, rock, and stream. The trees are marching with us side by side, executing strange manœuvres as we pass along, nodding their proud heads, and waving their blessing arms above us; now it is a regiment of tall pines, the bright lances of sunlight glinting and flashing between their boughs; then there is an awkward squad of scrub oaks, magnolias, and gums, lofty palms and dwarf palmettoes, with long grasses and all kinds of brilliant vegetation crowding about their roots, and luxuriant vines and shining mistletoe clinging and climbing round their naked trunks, clothing them with richverdure, and lost at last in their leafy coronals. All the glowing growth of the forest seems locked and interlocked together, as though the sons of the wilderness were engaged in a wrestling match, trying which could first uproot the other from the ancient soil. Now we face a phalanx of veteran oaks, clothed utterly, and their green boughs hidden, beneath mantles of beautiful Spanish moss; generally it is of deep mourning grey, and hangs like a nun’s veil gently swayed by the passing wind, then it is of a more silvery hue, but always down drooping, as though the iron grey beards of millions of men had been shorn off and flung thither in sport by some wandering wind. Occasionally we come upon masses of strange and wonderful moss; it is long, fibrous, and shining, and hangs in wavy tresses like the golden hair of a woman, as though some sweet Ophelia had been floating down the river, and the envious branches, determined thatallshould not be lost, stooped downwards, caught and tangled her glistening tresses, while the tide bore the fair form slowly on and the soft breeze still murmurs mournfully “drowned, drowned, drowned.”
Here and there the scene widens, and half-a-dozen little fussy tributary streams hurry out from their mysterious depths to join the quiet Ocklawaha in its dreamy flow, and we push our way for a while through an extensive watery plain, where reeds and grasses,and fair white lilies, twine their delicate fibres together and try to stop our progress; but we break through the pretty network as though it were a spider’s web, and puff our ruthless way out of it. Now there are a flight of small, bright-plumaged birds, with the heron in pursuit, or a volley of long-necked cranes shoot with their discordant cry across our path, and an elderly stork, judging from the length of his legs, stands at a safe distance and watches us from the shore.
We glance up half-a-dozen narrow water lanes, take a sudden turn, and plunge again into the wilderness. A great ugly alligator, who has been sunning himself on a fallen tree trunk, lifts his horny eyelids stupidly, and lazily slips under the water as we come puffing along. We are constantly coming upon these revolting creatures in the most unexpected places. Sometimes their leaden eyes simply stare, or they open their spiky mouths, as though they would like to swallow us, and don’t stir. Familiarity breeds contempt. I suppose they have got so used to having their privacy invaded by our odd little steamer that they conclude it is only a friendly monster like themselves, and won’t do them any harm. Time was when the “bang, bang” of the sportsman’s gun went echoing through these solitudes; but now tourists are forbidden to shoot alligators or any other thing from the decks of the Ocklawaha boats.
Sometimes we catch sight of a huge black snake wriggling its way up from the water and through the long grass till it vanishes from our sight; for it is here in these luxuriant and mysterious wilds that Nature hides the most hideous of her progeny. Creeping things and poisonous reptiles, that we shudder to think of, have their homes in these brilliant and luxuriant solitudes—the secret haunts of all-bountiful Nature, where man will not dare to penetrate. Or if he does he is seized by the foul fever-fiend, malaria, and faints and falls in the slimy swamps, with a creation of loathsome nameless things for his death companions.
We make our way through a coil of green and are again in the narrow mazes of the mazy stream. Here and there at long intervals we pass a solitary landing-place, which leads by mule-tracks to some sort of civilisation far in the interior. Nobody gets off the vessel, nobody comes aboard. I don’t believe anybody ever does. Why should they, unless they wanted to establish relations with the friendly alligators, study their lives and write their biographies, or be lost in the wilderness? Now we come to a tall pine with a tiny red box impaled upon its trunk, bearing the inscriptionU. S. A. Mail; this is the post office for the convenience of people passing up and down the river. We are the mail, but there are no letters for us to-day.
Presently we pass a dilapidated log-hut; its owner, a long-limbed stalwart-looking negro, lounges in the doorway smoking his pipe. He comes down to the boat and receives a hamper of provisions and a bundle of tobacco. He gives us in exchange a bundle of the “vanilla plant”—a weedy growth on the low-lying grounds of the Ocklawaha, and it is largely used to adulterate the cheap chewing tobacco. It is gathered in great quantities by the natives, who derive a very good revenue from the business. Soon there is a general stir, a buzz goes round, everybody crowds to the bow of the boat on the look out for the wonderful “Cypress Gate,” through which we shall soon be passing. Two tall straight cypress trees loom upon our sight; they stand one on each side of the river like lofty Grecian columns supporting a leafy dome above our heads, and framing the earth and sky beyond. So narrow is this natural gateway, that as our little boat glides through it is within an inch of the land on either side.
At one o’clock precisely the dinner is served. The cosy little saloon is transformed into a commodious dining-room; the small round tables are drawn out and covered with a snowy cloth and shining glass and silver, while a goodly array of appetising things are set thereon. There are fowls and cutlets, pure and simple, crisp salads, a variety of vegetables, and such a dessert! Such delicious puddings and pies, tarts andcompotes, quite anembarras de richessesindeed! One wonders how so many gastronomic delights can be conjured out of our very limited surroundings. There are no wines to be obtained on board; those who wish to indulge in those luxuries must supply themselves. Our comforts are well looked after; at six o’clock the tables are again spread with cold meats, ham and eggs, and tea and coffee.
As soon as possible we are out on the balcony again; and for all the long day we glide through this tropical wonderland, some new fantastic beauty flashing upon us at every turn. Now the foliage is so dense that the gleams of sunlight lose themselves in the luxuriant mass, and try in vain to reach us; looking upwards we see a narrow strip of sky, like a band of ribbon, intensely blue, lacing the tall tree tops together overhead. Then the shores widen out, and the marshy land is covered with broad-bladed grass; the wild savannahs and forests are driven back, and a lofty pine stands solitary in a lonely place like an advance-guard thrown out from an army of green. Again we are plunged in a tangled wilderness where cypress, pine, and palm, swarm down upon us and again line the banks of the river, and multitudes of strange forms dazzle our eyes and bewilder our imagination. It is growing dusky, and wild weird shapes float out of the depths and fill our minds with strange fancies. The whole forest seems marching to some wild tunewhich the wind is playing; the long, vine-wreathed branches twine and sway and circle and swing in the twilight, like a troop of dancing girls, new born from their silent depths, their white arms flashing and curving, while the soft silver moss falls like a veil, hiding their laughing faces. They come out from the gloom like a phantasmagoria of living beauty down to the water’s edge; then they fade, mingle with earth, air, and sky, and we are in the wilderness again.
The night is closing in; there is no moon, but the small bright stars are trembling like heavenly fruit scattered over the dusky skies, and earth and river and forest blend together in one black mystery. There is nothing left of our most perfect day but its memory; it has quite faded away—lost, swallowed up in the dark wilderness behind us.
Some of our fellow passengers retire to the saloon as soon as the daylight fades, and stand with their noses flattened against the saloon window to see what follows. A scanty few of us, wrapped in shawls and cloaks (for it has grown chilly, even cold), gather upon the balcony, and watch for the illumination that is to come; and now a general exchange of civilities begins. One brings out a supply of quinine and administers small doses all round; another luxuriates in a constant shower of toilet vinegar; one walks up and down like a polar bear, diving now and then into the depths of his coat pockets, andproduces lozenges, or sticky somethings that are a “sure antidote for malaria”—for we are in the very heart of its dominions, there is no doubt about that. The sunlight keeps the foul fiend down, hidden away beneath the rich, rank luxuriance that delights the eye with its tangled brilliance; but so soon as the sun goes down it rises, an invisible ghost, and mingles subtly with the air we breathe, and attacks us from our weakest points. Therefore we arm ourselves against it, and drench ourselves with antidotes, inside and out. One gentleman, whose sole object in life seems to be the nursing of his own infirmities, appears like a wild Indian clothed in his cabin blankets, with his nose buried in a huge bottle of camphorated spirits. I believe it is tied on like a horse-bag.
Soon the huge pine knots are lighted on the top of the pilot house above our heads, and a brilliant flame flares out upon the night and, for a moment, every tree, every leaf, is clearly defined, like a bas-relief flung out from a world of darkness. The blaze flickers and flashes and fades, and, for a moment, we glide through leafy obscurity, which seems to have grown darker from the light that has departed. In silent majesty the grand old forest is gliding past us with muffled steps and hidden features—a shrouded army, marching through the silent night. Then, again, our pine fire lights up the skies, and illuminatesthe surrounding scenery with flashes of red and green and blue and yellow; then all commingling fade into one white glare; frightened birds are scared from their secret nests, and flutter, with melancholy cries, for a second above our heads, and then are swallowed up in the darkness. Now the blue flame flashes up to the great tree tops, then darts downward like a fiery serpent, and up some narrow winding water lane, and, for a second, a thousand weird forms float before our eyes, and change and fade and melt into nothingness. The negroes passing to and fro upon the lower deck, their black faces and shining eyes illumined by the red glare, look like gnomes or demons labouring in their enchanted fires.
Through these mysterious lights and shadows, ever changing, ever varying, now suggesting veiled apparitions from another world, now bathed in the glory of this, we pass till long after midnight, when we are out of the labyrinth of the Ocklawaha, and back in the broad stream of the St. John’s river. Several of us are sitting up on deck with our baggage, ready to be transferred to the St. John’s river boat, which we expect every moment to meet. Presently, out of the dense black, a silver glare of light looms slowly on our sight. It is the electric lamp of the expected steamer. Nearer and nearer looms the dim giant hulk of the big vessel. We signal three shrill shrieks, “Will you stop and take passengersaboard?” They signal back three demoniacal yells, “Yes.”
She comes alongside and stops. We speedily transfer ourselves from the “Okeehumkee” to one of the splendid “De Bary” line of steamers which ply up and down the St. John’s river. Many people make their arrangements so as to sleep at Palatka, and take the St. John’s river boat from that, its starting place early in the morning; but to us it was a great saving of time to meet it on its way. There are two ways of enjoying the Ocklawaha river excursion: one is to take the boat at Palatka, which starts at eight o’clock in the morning, and reaches Silver Springs about seven o’clock on the next. It remains there about two hours, in order that its passengers may, if they please, take a row boat—there are plenty there for hire—and row about the spring, making a closer inspection of its wonders than they could possibly do from the deck of the steamer. It starts again on its return journey about nine o’clock, and reaches Palatka in the small hours of the following morning; but the sleeping passengers are not disturbed, except by their own desire, till the usual hour of rising. The return down the river, as the tide is with them, takes some hours less time than the upward journey. Some people prefer spending the two days and nights on the boat, as, by this means, they have a daylight view of everyfeature of the river. The other way is to follow our example: sleep at Ocala, and take the return journey only. Ocala has every possibility of developing into an important place; as yet it is new, but it is improving day by day. A large hotel is building close to the railway station, which promises well for future tourists.
As we exchange parting civilities with our travelling companions on leaving the Ocklawaha boat, they lean over the rails, waving their handkerchiefs, and wishing us “Good night,” and “Bon voyage.” They puff on their way, illuminating the widening waters as they go. We watch the dear little “Okeehumkee” puff itself out of sight; then enter the large luxurious saloon, which is empty now and dimly lighted. Everybody has retired to rest, not a sound is stirring any where, and the thick carpet smothers our footsteps as we follow our dusky guide to our cabins, which are really charming little rooms with large, comfortable beds. Worn out with the excitements of our long, delightful day, we are soon wrapped in a dreamless sleep.
Picturesque scenery on St. John’s river.—“Sickening for the fever, ma’am?”—The inland lakes.—A pair of elderly turtle doves.—Sport on the Indian river.
Picturesque scenery on St. John’s river.—“Sickening for the fever, ma’am?”—The inland lakes.—A pair of elderly turtle doves.—Sport on the Indian river.
Inthe morning we wake early, and find ourselves on the vast expanse of the St. John’s river, which curves and circles round and about the level land, stretching away before and behind us till it sheathes itself like a silver lance in the horizon. It is a glorious day, with the bluest of blue skies, and the sun pouring down a flood of silver light. No other craft is in sight, we have the river all to ourselves; but a score or two of beautiful, long-billed, white herons rise up from the marshy land, and majestically wheel in slow graceful curves in the air above our heads, and then take their flight southward.
We have not long enjoyed our stroll upon the empty deck when the bell rings and we are summoned to breakfast; there are scarcely a dozen passengers aboard this boat, where there is comfortable accommodation for several hundreds, but our numbers increase as the day goes on.
A capital breakfast is prepared for us—broiled chickens, mushrooms, and fresh fish just taken from the river; these boats pride themselves on the good living they afford their passengers. Our captain, a big, burly man, sits at the head of the table and motions for us to take our seats beside him. He glances at us from under his brows, and bestows on us a beaming smile and brief “Good morning;” then applies himself vigorously to the knife and fork business, and eats and smiles persistently throughout the meal. But he does not talk; conversation evidently is not his strong point, but navigation is. He once opens his mouth professionally. A much bewhiskered young fellow, who speaks without thinking, ventures to suggest that on this smooth river the vessel might be commanded by a “sleeping partner.” The captain wheels round and answers sternly,
“Sir, I have passed my life on the St. John’s river, and I assure you the navigation of the high seas is child’s play compared to the navigation of the St. John’s river.” Silence follows this stern rebuke.
It is evident that sociability will form no part of our day’s diversion. Although humankind is so sparsely represented, we carry a few score of pigs below, and they keep up a grunting chorus among themselves. Among the passengers grouped round the breakfast table is one fierce-looking individual with ginger-coloured hair, and fat, clean-shaven face,who evidently likes to hear himself talk; he invades the general silence, and speaks like an oracle, flings down his opinion as though it were a challenging gauntlet, and defies any one to take it up. We have most of us some friend with similar characteristics, with whom conversation is simply impossible, though they are always armed and ready for a game of contradiction. Advance an argument, or venture on a ripple of pleasant small talk, as modestly as you may, your arguments are knocked down one after the other, like ninepins, as fast as you set them up, and your rippling talk is swamped in a wave of fine phrases. I ventured on three observations, mere commonplaces, which were politely waived aside. I was a woman and a stranger, and so escaped flat contradiction. As one after the other we drifted from the table somebody said, in a grumbling undertone,
“That fellow ought to be flung overboard; he’s no fit company for travelling Christians.”
“Before the day’s over he’ll get a lick the rough side of my tongue, you bet,” said somebody else.
I am happy to say that performance was not carried out, as the obnoxious person, in company with a score of fat hogs, got off at the first landing-stage, and a woman with a large family of small children came on. These kept things lively the whole day long. She lived in the constant fear that one orother of her progeny would fall overboard; they did not have a moment’s peace of their lives; she was always at their heels, diving after them, fishing them out of odd nooks and corners whither childish curiosity led them. We settled ourselves down in the bow of the boat to take general observations of the scenery we were passing through.
The St. John’s is a magnificent river, winding, widening, and wandering, now through low-lying marshy lands, now through fine forests of live oaks, festooned with Spanish moss, or decorated with graceful vines, twisting and curling fantastically round them, alternated with tangles of cypress, sweet gums, and stately palm; through wild savannahs, and groves of shining orange-trees, and here and there past pretty villages and beautiful homes with blooming gardens reaching down and drooping their rich blossoms over the water. From each of these there generally runs out a tiny pier—for everybody likes to have a landing stage in his own possession—with a fleet of small boats, with gay flags and striped awning, anchored thereto. But these are rare features in the passing landscape; it is only now and then, at rare intervals, we are refreshed with these sweet home views.
The scenery on either side of the river is picturesque, and rarely romantic throughout; and yet in no single feature does it bear any resemblance tothe weird wildness of the Ocklawaha. In many places it is six miles wide, and is seldom less than one; the current is slow, and it moves with feeble pulsations on its course; it is never flustered or stirred to headlong rashness, it creeps quietly, with a grand placidity, round anything that lies in its way, never dashes or tumbles over it; no wind can lash it into fury, no storms disturb its sweet tranquillity; it is more like a long chain of lakes and lagoons, fed from a thousand springs, than a restless river. Perhaps it owes some of its placidity to the fact that it flows the wrong way, and by no human agency can it ever be set right. Unlike the rest of the American rivers, it flows due north; the why and the wherefore is one of Nature’s mysteries. It is always spacious and majestic: here a tiny island with a crown of green foliage studs its surface; there tall reeds and rushes and wide-leaved grasses sway in the slow-flowing current, as though they have wandered from the land, and are trying to save themselves from drowning. Not unfrequently the river rises out of its natural bed and overflows the low-lying banks on either side till the land seems covered with tiny lakelets. All sorts of queer birds, long necked, long legged, long billed, some with snowy plumage, some grey, some with red bills and golden green wings, flamingoes and curlews fly overhead, and solemn-looking storks stand meditating on the watery shore. If we approach toonear some of the conglomeration of odd-looking birds throw out their long necks, elongate their unwieldy-looking bodies, rise gracefully and wheel in slow gyrations over our head till they are lost in the distance.
So far as the eye can reach there are rolling lands covered everywhere with a dense growth of vegetation, large tracks covered with marshy grasses, and maiden cane, which is a spurious kind of sugar cane, grows to the height of twelve or fifteen feet, and resembles a waving field of ripening corn. Here and there are clumps of dwarf palmettoes, tall pines, dog-wood, and sweet gums, stretching away till they are lost in the distant horizon. Looking back we see the zig-zag of the stream curling and curving in watery hieroglyphics behind us. The whole journey through this long river of many hundred miles is most picturesque and interesting—a constant panorama of tropical scenery and strange animal life. The alligators we see on the shores of this river are much larger than those on the Ocklawaha; they are more shy, too, and don’t let us get near them. We have no chance of studying their physiognomies here, for, as we approach, we see a black mass like an animated tree trunk skurrying and splashing head-foremost into the water. In watching the animate and inanimate life along these shores it is impossible to find a moment’s monotony anywhere.
The skies are intensely blue, the sunshine glorious;a golden haze, born of the sun’s intensity and the green earth’s responsive gladness, falls like a shining veil everywhere. Surrounded by such scenes at such a season, one is apt to fall into a contemplative mood. I was roused from a state of this drowsy kind of day dreaming by having a bottle of some medicated salts thrust under my nose, and a voice at my elbow inquiring with tender solicitude:
“You’re looking pale; sickening for the fever, ma’am?”
I devoutly hoped not.
“Just recovering from it, then?” added my interlocutor.
This I could emphatically deny. I inquired, with a touch of irritation, did a visit to Florida necessitate an attack of malarial fever; and was answered—
“Well, ma’am, most people du hev it ef they stay long enough.”
We were growing accustomed to this inquiry, “Have you had the fever?” Everybody asked it; at the same time everybody informed us there was no malaria there in their own immediate surroundings, it existed in the place we had left, and in the place we were going to; it was never present with us; it had been yesterday, or would be to-morrow, but it was never to-day. It reminded us of the jam inThrough the Looking-glass: “Jam yesterday, and jam to-morrow, but never, never any jam to-day.”
People who ought to know have stated that malaria is unknown at any season in any part of Florida, and have written volumes in support of this assertion. Perhaps it may be called by another name; certainly no one can travel through the low-lying districts of the St. John’s River, or, indeed, through any portion of semi-tropical Florida, without realising the fact that, amid all the rich luxuriance, the brilliant sunshine, and soft sweet airs, the fever fiend lies concealed, like the serpent hidden beneath the joys of paradise, biding its time, waiting till the hot summer days are swooning among the flowers.
Of course there are some places which at all seasons are more free from malarial disturbances than others. Fernandina may especially be mentioned, and St. Augustine. Jacksonville, and the regions of the Tallahassee country, though certainly liable to invasion, yet usually present a clean bill of health all the year round. But we will indulge in a retrospective view of Florida hereafter; at present we are on the St. John’s River, enjoying the most perfectdolce far niente, with no thought beyond the hour, and don’t care to be interrupted even for the very necessary operation of eating. The sound of the dinner bell is a disturbing element, but we must perforce obey its summons; though the mind can be fed on fair sunshine and fine scenery, the body requires more substantial support. On board this boat, and Ibelieve on all that line of river steamers, there is uncommonly good feeding; the meals are excellently well and abundantly served. We “get through” as quickly as possible, and station ourselves again on deck.
We stop at all the landing stages to take in freight; sometimes it is man, sometimes it is mutton, the fruits of the earth, or the fruits of human kind. From some unexplained reason we make quite a long stop at “Saratoga,” a pretty little settlement lying along the east shore of the river. It is a striking contrast to that fashionable Saratoga, far away in the eastern province, with its gigantic hotels, its luxuries, its trim promenades, its music, its whirl of gaiety, and rush and roar of animated life—a seething cauldron of perfumed humanity, highly decorated and ready for daily sacrifice on the altar of fashion. There it is art, or nature clipped and twisted and trained, so far from its original simplicity, that you cannot recognise a single feature—in fact, Nature in masquerade; in brilliant, gorgeous masquerade, it is true, but hiding the naked loveliness of Nature’s self. Who could recognise the chaste beauty of a “Venus di Medici” beneath Worth’s latest costume, with decorations of Tiffany’s brightest jewels? Here is Nature’s purest self in her own Arcadian simplicity, clothed with golden orange groves and blooming gardens, aglow with brilliant-hued flowers running all alongthe river side, nodding at their own shadows in the stream. No belles nor beaux stroll through these lovely solitudes; not a petticoat is in sight; only a few coloured folk are working in the gardens, as our father Adam worked in our lost inheritance, “the Garden of Eden.” The bees are gathering honey, and the invisible insect world seems all astir, filling the air with a dreamy drowsy hum, just stirring the waves of silence to a soft, low-uttered harmony. Some few of our fellow passengers go ashore and ramble among the groves for half an hour, when they return loaded with the luscious fruit, which they seem to enjoy all the more having been allowed to gather all they desired for themselves.
We steam on for a few miles, when we come to Welaka, one of the healthiest localities of the state. It stands on a high bluff, fringed with a magnificent growth of live oaks, clothed in their own beautiful robes of green, undecorated by the grey Spanish moss, which, while adding to the graceful appearance of the trees, tells plainly that the malarial fiend is lurking somewhere near. In this locality is grown some of the finest oranges in the state, as the soil is rich and dry, and all the conditions are favourable to their successful cultivation. Directly opposite the landing stage is the mouth of the wonderful Ocklawaha, whose weird depths we have so lately penetrated. Three miles farther on we reach Norwalk,a primitive landing place, where there seems nothing to land for, and nowhere to go to when you have landed. But the settlement, it seems, is laid more than a mile back from the river, and is rather an important little town, the neighbourhood producing a large amount of garden vegetables and fruits. Very few orange growers settle in that location; very few tourists visit it; it is a simple city of homes; it has the regulation number of schools (indeed the simplest hamlet is well off on that score, the means for education are freely scattered throughout the length and breadth of the land; the poorest tillers of the land or toilers of the sea have no excuse for ignorance), churches, banks, etc., and a thriving population of busy workers. It is at this point the lower St. John’s river ends, and we pass into a narrow crooked channel, varying from forty to several hundred feet wide. Here the water loses its clear opaline blue, and reflects the clouds in dark murky shadows. This dingy colour of the water, they say, is owing to the rich, rank vegetation of this tropical region of the St. John’s river. Everywhere the shores are covered with dense forests of oak, cypress, willow, etc., interlaced with gigantic vines, some barren, some bearing a rich fruitage of sweet wild grapes. The grey Spanish moss hangs from the green branches, and reeds, rushes, and all kinds of long tropical grasses form an impenetrable jungle down to the water’s edge—nay,encroach upon the water’s self and sway gently on its surface; and flowers of immense size and brilliant colours are abundant everywhere; they spread over the surface of the water, and flourish on the vines, on the trees, on everything or on nothing, for we catch an occasional glimpse of the mysterious golden-hued air plant among the luxuriant green foliage. Here, too, the alligators and other hideous river reptiles abound, but you must have sharp eyes to get a glimpse of them, for as the steamer approaches they hurry back, and dive under the water, or hide upon the land. This dense jungle scenery is apt to give one an idea that we are going through some of Nature’s primeval solitudes, her secret haunts, impenetrable and uninhabitable for the human race. But that is a wrong idea; this is the low-lying valley region; the ground slopes upwards from the water’s edge, and within a mile or two—nay, sometimes much nearer, only a few hundred yards away from the waterside—are wide clearings where some adventurous pioneer has squatted and made his home, and cultivates the land, his own not by right of purchase, but possession. Only a few hundred yards from the malarial region you may breathe pure, healthful air.
We soon emerge from these luxuriant picturesque regions, and are on the wide river again. Rarely has one river so many phases as this world-famous St. John’s; the scenery is always changing—a seriesof panoramic views, land and water, combining to make one whole of picturesque loveliness. We stop at two or three more unimportant landing-places, pass some neat, solitary homes and thriving orange groves, and then reach Georgetown, the entrance to Lake St. George. Here a party of gentlemen with dogs and guns come on board. They are going on a sporting expedition up the Indian river into wilder regions than we dare to penetrate; for although the Indian river region is well known and thoroughly appreciated, it is visited by very few tourists or strangers, it being difficult of access, necessitating several days’ water travelling, and the accommodation for travellers being of the roughest description, and even then only to be obtained at rare intervals. To make amends, however, for the scarcity of places of public entertainment, the inhabitants are most hospitable, and a guest chamber is generally reserved in even the humblest farmhouse, where the stranger is always made welcome to the best the house affords. This kind of primitive casual entertainment is often far preferable to the gilded glories of the stereotyped hotel. These Indian river regions are more sparsely populated than those of St. John’s; this too is owing to its general inaccessibility, for nowhere in all the state is there a richer or more fertile soil calculated for the growth of cereals of all kinds, fruits, vegetables, and sugar-cane attainingsometimes to sixteen feet high—a single stalk yielding more than a gallon of juice; and cacao, date, cocoanut, ginger, cassava, and yams may be cultivated with equal profit. The river affords rare sport for the fishermen, for it abounds with a great variety of fish, and is remarkable for its superb mullet, weighing from three to nine pounds, and measuring from fifteen to twenty inches in length. Turtling is also largely carried on, and is a most lucrative business. The splendid hammock lands all along the Indian river have a magnificent growth of hickory, mulberry, red elm, iron wood, and crab wood; both the latter are finely grained, and capable of receiving a fine polish. The surrounding woods abound with small game and deer, and occasionally a small black bear shows himself, while wild cats and such-like creatures may be found without much difficulty by those who seek them, and sometimes they make themselves more free than welcome to those who do not. Not infrequently a panther appears upon the scene, and is seldom allowed to retire unmolested to his den. It is hardly necessary to state that the whole of this fertile Indian river region is far below the frost line—the general temperature all the year round being about 75°, though it has been known on rare occasions to rise to 90° or fall to 55°. But we must draw our thoughts from the Indian river and continue on our way; we are now upon Lake St.George. Slowly we steam across this magnificent sheet of water, one of the loveliest and most interesting of all the lakes in Florida; it is six miles wide by fourteen miles long. These lovely lakes, of all shapes and sizes, are scattered throughout the central region of Florida; they vary from smooth, pleasant-looking pools of about an acre, hidden away in the heart of the pine woods, to the spacious lakes of fifty miles. They all lie far away from the large rivers and the sea-shore, and have always pleasant if not especially attractive surroundings; their shores are generally slightly rolling, and covered with palmetto or pine, or sometimes the grassy slopes are outlined by a thick tangle of jungle in the distance. Orange Lake County is one of the famous inland lake districts. In the neighbourhood of Interlaken and Oceola the lakes are most numerous; looking in any direction a dozen or more pretty lakelets may be seen, and from one special spot in Maitland no less than nine large lakes are visible. Farther South, still in the centre of the peninsula, and surrounded by fine hammock lands (which always indicate the richest soil), are several other beautiful lakes—Conway, Cypress, Kissimmee, and Tohopekalaga and many more, large and small. The country is prairie-like, and the vegetation throughout this extensive region purely tropical, though as yet it is very sparsely populated.Civilisation has not had time to develop the means of transport, and the lands are lying waste, only waiting till the spirit of cultivation sweeps that way.
In this brief allusion to the lake regions, which constitute so special a feature in the peninsula of Florida, I have made no mention of the numerous springs of sparkling waters which dot the whole surface of the land; in some cases they are like little lakelets, in some cases they are springs of pure water, in others the water is medicated.
Most of the lake shores in Orange County are dotted with pretty homes embowered in green trees, their smooth lawns and flower gardens running down to the water’s edge. Lake Okechobee covers an area of nearly seven hundred square miles, and is the largest in the state; it is at the very farthest point South, and penetrates into the region of the Everglades.
Here, on Lake St. George, wild ducks and all kinds of water fowl seem as numerous as butterflies on a warm summer’s day. Some of our fellow travellers amuse themselves by shooting the wild ducks, and a hybrid young darkie, who seems as much at home in the water as out of it, dives down head foremost, and fishes them out, and seems to enjoy the fun of it.
There was one couple on board who attracted general attention by their frank and unreservedappreciation of each others’ charms. They were not young, they were not beautiful; they were a kind of attenuated edition of the renowned Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Wardle.Hewore glasses, and the tender passion filtered through a pair of green spectacles loses somewhat of its romance. They were evidently veterans in the art of amorous warfare; he sat with his arm round her waist, and carried on his wooing through the medium of a bottle of champagne; they drank out of one glass, and worked slowly to the bottom of it, and then called for more. Some kinds of clay will bear a great deal of soaking.
While we are still steaming along this beautiful river, past widening valleys, through thickets of dense shrubberies interlaced with gigantic vines, night closes in and shuts the wild picturesque scenery from our view. All wise people retire to the saloon, where somebody makes a feeble attempt to get up a concert; but as there are no singers and no audience to speak of the idea is abandoned and everybody goes to bed.
To make an entire exploration of the St. John’s river involves about eight hundred miles of travel, which, however, is never wearisome, as the scenery shifts and changes at every turn, and the boat is a most comfortable floating home; any one who is not well satisfied with the arrangement and accommodation must be very hard to please. As we are nearing our journey’s end we meet another party ofsportsmen returning from an excursion up the Indian river. On board their boat they have about one hundred gigantic turtles, the weight of each one being legibly marked on its back; they were conveying them to Jacksonville, to be shipped thence to the northern markets.
We had intended to leave the boat at Enterprise and spend a few days there rambling about the country and familiarising ourselves with the scenery of the surrounding neighbourhood. However, we were doomed to disappointment, for on arriving there we find the place deserted, the hotel closed, and no prospect of entertainment until October, when it will reopen for the season.
Our captain suggests that there are some fruit-growers or small farmers in the neighbourhood who would make us welcome and put us up comfortably for a few days; but although we know that hospitality is boundless in these regions, we do not feel disposed to take advantage of it. Some of our fellow-passengers go ashore, intending to camp out and make their way across to the Indian river settlement. We spend a delightful three days and nights upon the river, and return to Jacksonville. It is late in the evening when we arrive; we sleep once more at our delightful hotel, and take the early morning train for New Orleans, where we hope to arrive in about two days.