Such hastily uttered opinions are no doubt attributable to a bilious temperament or bad digestion. Every season brings a fresh influx of visitors, some in search of health, some in search of pleasure; there is a plentiful supply of both, and each may choose his own fashion of taking it. Some love to lounge on the wide verandahs looking over the perfumed garden of fruits and flowers, enjoying in January the soft balmy breath of June; or they may wander through miles of orange groves, or row upon the quiet moonlit lakes or rivers, or indulge in fishing expeditions up the wonderful “St. John’s,” varying that gentle pastime by shooting wild ducks or alligators.
Those who are inclined to enjoy a pure pleasure trip, a ramble through the ancient Spanish cities and modern towns, to take a trip up the Royal St. John’s, or the weird wild Ocklawaha—the most wonderful water-way in the world—may let loose their imagination and go with me, for I am en route for Jacksonville.
CHAPTER IX.
Pine forests.—Arcadian scenes.—Strange companionship.—We reach Jacksonville.
Our road still lies through cities of silent pines, stirred only by the voice of the moaning wind; whole armies of them are drawn up on either side, stretching away as far as the eye can reach. They look as though they have just come out of a great battle: some are crippled and stand tottering on their roots, others hang their lank limbs as though they have not strength to upbear their weight of leaves, and some are standing with huge gashes in their sides, and punctured wounds all over their bodies; their bark is stripped off, and their naked trunks are scarified all over, they are cut and stabbed till their poor veins are drained of their life’s blood. Here and there stands the rough, tumble-down shanty of the turpentine distillers—a hard-working and intelligent set of labourers, who are largely employed in these lonely forest regions, gathering the wealth of these gigantic uncomplaining pines. And how great is the wealth that is gathered therefrom—tar and rosin, phosphate of lime, of soda, of magnesia, potash, and many other important chemicals are wrung from their generous limbs. They give, give, give, till their strength is exhausted; then the distiller moves on and carries the war into another part of the country, while his victims are left to recuperate. But no sooner are they grown strong and vigorous again with renewed healthy life—the sap rising and refilling their empty veins—scarcely have their old wounds had time to heal, when they are again attacked by the ruthless requirements of man. Their sides are cut and stabbed, and once more their veins are emptied, and thus, like dropsical human kind, they are tapped again and again till they are dried up, and have nothing more to give. Their green crowns fall, their arms wither, and they are left to a lonely, though picturesque old age, and are perhaps more admired in the naked grandeur of their decline than in their youthful prime; for are not the ruined castles of old days more impressive and attractive than the gorgeous palaces of the new? for there nature in the long run beats art even at her own work. As fast as art builds up time begins to break down, and does his work by imperceptible degrees: then nature with decorative ingenuity comes to the fore and clothes the dilapidations with soft moss and a graceful combination of ivy, ferns, and flowers, till the ugly skeleton with its empty sockets and crumbling limbs is all aglow with a beautiful new life—a picturesqueness that is only born of decay.
Here and there, creeping out from some watery waste within their midst, are wide shining pools, overspread with soft green lily pads, with fair white blossoms cushioned thereon, looking as pure and innocent as baby fairies asleep on a bed of green leaves.
As we jog solemnly along on our iron road the scene undergoes a gradual change, and we are soon in a new world of green; the change has been so gradual indeed that we hardly know when we took our last look of the dark sombre pines of the north. Their brethren of the South, with whom we are now making acquaintance, are of a lighter colour, and seem of a more airy frivolous nature than the northern forest kings whom we have left a few hundred miles behind us. Here they are tall, slim, and straight, with bare smooth trunks, and a chaplet of pale feathery green leaves waving like warriors’ plumes above their lofty heads. We have soon outrun the romantic cypress swamps, the salt marshes, and forest lands; the shining pools with their lovely water lilies give place to banks of fine white sand, but still among the yellow pines the white blossom of the dogwood streams out like a hidden banner half unfurled.
The form and character of the trees here are very different from the eastern or northern branches of their family, just as an oriental beauty differs from a Belgravian belle. We are no longer rushing through luxuriant “hammocks,” and tangles of a leafy wonderland; the ground is rough and uneven, and has but a scanty growth of green. Now and then we come upon a solitary date-palm, majestic in its stately loneliness; the surrounding trees seem to have fallen away from it and group themselves in the distance, as though in honour to its royalty. Here, too, is the tall palmetto, the parent of a large family of dwarf palmettoes which are gathered around it, with their sheaves of lance-like leaves lifted in the sunlight.
We thoroughly enjoy the novelty of the scenery, so different from that we have already passed through. We feel we are on the threshold of a tropical land, and wait eagerly for its wonder to unfold itself; the change is so subtle and silent we cannot tell where it began; we feel it in the very air we breathe, even the sunshine seems to fall from a different part of the heavens, and to bring with it a kind of perfumed warmth with its glorious light. Then we cross wide tracts of barren sand dunes—rich red sand—with here and there a stunted growth of green; these poor tracts of country are occasionally varied by rich hammocks or clearings, interspersed with a tangle of wild orange trees or stately palmettoes, half smothered in the embrace of luxuriant vines.
Presently we stop at a kind of wayside hotel (the veriest hovel that sells a jug of lager or slab of corncake is dignified by the name of hotel); it is quite in the wilderness, a sort of travellers’ rest, with not a shanty nor even a pig-stye in sight, for the wild hogs (and their name is legion) run free—poor homeless tramps of the wilderness; and long legged, ragged-looking Cochin-Chinas are strutting about crowing their loudest, as though the whole world belonged to them. This is no house of entertainment for us; we have been merely signalled to stop to take up passengers. For in a moment a fierce-looking portly gentleman, warranted fresh from his tailor, comes out of the low cranky door, and an attendant darkie hauls his portmanteau after him; an abundance of chains and seals dangle from his waistcoat pocket, and with much puffing and blowing, like a human grampus, he gets into the train, and glares defiantly round him. He is loud—loud in his dress, loud in his talk, louder still in his actions; he bangs into his seat, slams down the window, and bawls out some last instructions, then sinks into his seat, gives sundry wrathful snorts, and sits swelling like a frog who is like to burst. Two poor half-Indian women come down the narrow winding pathway from the wilderness; they have evidently tramped many miles, and slink into a seat at the very end of the train, as though they had no business there; they have a timid, frightened look upon their dusky faces, and glance anxiously round at everything and everybody. We gather from their whispered confidences that they have come from some small settlement in the interior of the country, and had never been in a train before—possibly had never seen one; all their worldly goods seem to be contained in the baskets and bundles which they deposit beside them, and guard with jealous care. There is something pathetic in the care and attention these lonely women show to each other. They are evidently stricken by some great sorrow, for as they sit together side by side, staring out upon the landscape with lustreless eyes, a large tear that had been long gathering rolls slowly down the cheek of one of them; they speak no word, but huddle closer together with a dumb sympathy that is more eloquent than words.