Tourists wishing to visit Ocala can be accommodated with a conveyance on reasonable terms. Ocala is a nice little town, six miles distant, nestled among the hummocks, embowered in a growth of grand water-oaks, orange-trees, and ornamental shrubbery. It is the capital of Marion county. A good hotel is kept here by Mr. E. J. Harris, where about forty boarders can be accommodated. In the center of the park stands a very creditable court-house, while churches of various creeds are located in the suburbs. It is a central business resort for the country people many miles around.
This locality is described by De Soto as being “a fertile region of country where maize is abundant, also acorns, grapes, and plums.” Near here the Spaniards entered upon the territory of a chief called Vitachuco, who received them with demonstrations of hostility; “where a bloody battle was fought between two lakes on a level plain, when two hundred warriors plunged into the water, and there remained without touching land for twenty-four hours.” Ocala has a population of several hundred inhabitants, which have more the appearance of enjoyment than those of any other town in the State. The climate being so mild, no arrangements are made in the stores and offices for warming; consequently when a cool morning comes, little camp-fires are built around the public square, before which are gathered many happy, contented-looking faces, of all professions, accepting things as they find them, taking a cool breeze with the firmness of a Stoic, knowing it is only of short duration—a kind of Northern aggression, which the warm sunshine will soon waft away. As the fragments of lost fortunes float by them, they do not settle into apathy and despair over the wreck, but all seem resigned to their fate, trying to be as happy as the force of circumstances will permit. They are mostly persons of fine mental culture, besides being the best, most hospitable people in existence; indeed, their society seems like an oasis in the desert of this cold, selfish world.
The lands around are gently undulating, with an abundance of rolling hummock and first-class pine. It was formerly considered the most productive county in the State, containing the best orange groves, and before the war raising the largest amount of sea-island cotton, besides oranges, sugar, and sirup in abundance. Many planters became discouraged during the late war on account of inability to work their large plantations, and abandoned them. These fertile tracts are for sale now in lots to suit colonists, or accommodate single settlers. An average of two thousand pounds of sugar to the acre can be produced here. The soil is dark, alluvial, and porous, containing phosphate of lime and other fertilizers, which possess the power of recuperation when not being cultivated. Lime-rock abounds, covering the earth in the form of bowlders and drifts, indicating a clay soil. Good lands can be purchased at from five to ten dollars per acre.
Marion county is called the back-bone of the State—it being the center from which the waters recede on each side, until what was the ocean’s bed is now cultivated land. This theory is confirmed from the fact of numerous fossil remains to be seen on the surface, consisting of fish, birds, alligators’-shells, oysters, together with the bones of an animal unknown to the present generation; but if his voice was proportionate to his body, he must have made the earth tremble with sound. The following amusing story is related in reference to this mammoth animal during the pioneer movements of boats which first navigated the Ocklawaha River:
One morning early, as the gray dawn was stealing through the shades of night, the inhabitants were aroused from their slumbers by an unusual noise. An old hunter named Matt. Driggers, whose ear was ever on the alert for the scream of the wild cat, the howl of the wolf, the yell of the panther, or the growl of the bear, rushed out, exclaiming, “What on airth is that?” The sound was repeated, when Matt. convulsively grasped his hunting-horn, and blew a blast from his stentorian lungs which echoed through a vast extent of country. His faithful hounds came whining about him, anxious for the hunt. Taking down his rifle “Dead Shot” from the hooks, he mounted his lank steed, and rode with haste to the nearest neighbor, Pat Kennedy. “Hellow, Pat! you in thar asleep, and the devil unchained in the swamp! Hark! now don’t you hear him?” “O Matt., that’s nothin’ but one of those old masterdons! You know we dun seed his bones where he was drowned in the Wakulla Spring.” “I dunno, may be so; one thing sartain, he’s a mighty big varmint, an’ his voice is curoser than any thing I ever hearn afore in my time.” “But,” says Pat, “one thing sure: there is nothing ranges these parts but what my dogs and ‘Kill Quick’ can bring down.” Summoning all his dogs, he was soon on his way with Matt. Driggers to the house of the next frontiersman. Attracted by the baying of hounds and the blowing of horns, the excitement ran like wild-fire throughout the entire neighborhood, until all the settlers were collected.
After reviewing his comrades and counting his dogs, Matt. Driggers, confident that the full force of the country was mustered, then rode bravely through bushes and swamps, fording creeks and swimming lagoons, in pursuit of the great “varmint.” When he imagined they were sufficiently near, he ordered the dogs to be put on the trail. Simultaneous with this movement came another shrill echo from the supposed huge monster, which sent the dogs cowering to their masters, at the same time unnerving the courage of the bravest hunter. A look of superstitious awe was depicted upon every countenance, and none dared advance a step farther except Matt. Driggers, who, bolder than the rest, led the way, saying, “Come, boys; if the dogs are scared, we will follow by the sound!”
Winding their course cautiously through the valley, they followed in the direction of the strange sound, until they reached the basin of Silver Springs, where they found a curious-looking craft discharging cargo. The hunters commenced making inquiries if they had heard that great monster while passing through the valley, at the same time describing, and trying to imitate, its voice to the best of their ability. The Captain, to their great satisfaction, then told and illustrated to them that the great noise about which they were so much excited was only a steam-boat whistle!
Sometimes, the water being too low for steamers above Silver Springs, visitors are deprived of a great pleasure in not seeing this portion of the country, barges and slow coaches being the only medium of communication. However, this inconvenience will soon be overcome by a contemplated railroad. Large portions of the country in this locality are yet open to homestead settlers, where all good people will receive a hearty welcome.
As we leave the river and springs, the scenery changes from trees and foliage to fertile prairies and long marsh-grass, which sways in the breeze like troubled waves. Here the huge alligators luxuriate and crawl about in peaceful security, swallowing their light-wood knots before commencing to hibernate in winter, which precaution is said to be necessary, that their diaphragms may not contract during this torpid state.
In these wilds the palmetto rears its crowned head in solitude, and the wild orange matures its golden fruit, kissed by an eternal spring-time. This is the home of the curlew, plume-crane, blue heron, fish-hawk, royal king-fisher, mocking-bird, paroquet, red-bird, blue-peter, water-turkey, limkin, and duck—all of them God’s free birds.