We knew not whence they had come nor whither they were going; they were two lonely women, and by their talk alone in the world, mere waifs and strays of humanity—drifting, drifting on the tide of life, till they are cast upon that silent shore where the tide neither ebbs nor flows. If the engine gave an extra shriek or whistle they cast silent, inquiring glances round like frightened animals, but never spoke a word. At meal time they turned aside and ate surreptitiously from their baskets, nibbling slyly like mice at a cheese.
The fierce-looking gentleman who had first attracted our attention was evidently in a hurry to get on; he pelted the guard with questions whenever he caught sight of him: “How far were we from this place?” “When should we get to that?” “How slowly we were going. I could race the engine and win,” he adds contemptuously; then he fidgeted in his seat, and fretted and fumed; he scowled at everybody, and seemed absolutely to swell with his own importance. He pulled out a big watch as noisy and fussy as himself; it looked so brazen and ticked so loud as though nothing in this world was going but itself—as though indeed it had nothing at all to do with time, but was rather in a hurry to get ahead of it, when it should have been minding its own business, done its duty, and ticked the solemn flight of the passing hours. We turn our backs upon this pompous individual, and our interest becomes absorbed in these two poor women, from whom we gather an outline of their history. It is a simple one: a story of trials and struggles, of tangles, of failures, and want and sorrow, of life and death; such as may be written of so many of the human family who reap only thorns and thistles in this world; but in the next who knows what roses may for them be blooming! Luckily for all such labourers, hope, like a will-o’-the-wisp, lights the distant shadows and dances before them, now here, now there, till they reach their journey’s end and drop unnoticed into nameless graves.
Presently we cross a narrow stream or river, and learn that we have left the rolling lands of Georgia behind and are now in Florida. We look round as though we expected a sudden transformation scene, but there is no violent change. Nature is full of surprises, but here in these latitudes she moves with a slow, subtle grace, in accordance with the soft sunshine, and warm, soft air of these semi-tropical regions, where nothing is in a hurry, and even the streams and rivers flow in a tender, languid ripple. She is still changing the expression of her countenance, but slowly; her white, gleaming sands flash more and more frequently in our eyes. We are on the rough, ragged edge of Florida; it is flat and sandy with a scanty growth of straggling yellow pines and stunted palmettoes, which seem cowering down trying to hide themselves from the sight of the sun.
Within an hour we are in Jacksonville, the first city in Florida, whence the tourist takes his first impression of the climate and the people. The train stops at a busy, bustling wharf, and as we step out we face the grand expanse of the noble St. John’s river, stretching away in gracefully curving lines to the right and the left of us; a few fishing boats with brown patched sails are gliding to and fro, and one or two pretty miniature steamers are puffing lazily along its surface; the curving banks on the opposite shore are fringed with green to the water’s edge. We turn round and face the town: there is a wide stretch of land cut up in plots of garden ground, then a long, unbroken line of shops and houses, varied by the lofty and elegant façades of the Everett and Carlton Hotels which face the river front, the view however being slightly marred by the wharf and the railway station, which is a mere rough, wooden structure and has been hastily run up regardless of architectural appearance; a few rough, wooden benches under cover are all the waiting-rooms the passengers are likely to find. Adjoining the station, and indeed forming a part of it, are long wharves and packing-houses, where hives of busy bees are always working, especially during the months of January and February, packing and shipping strawberries and other delicate fruits to New York and other eastern and northern cities. At this point there is an immense amount of railway traffic, the iron roads running like the arms of an octopus in every direction; trains are constantly passing to and fro, but they are too far away for either the sight or the sounds to cause any actual inconvenience beyond slightly obstructing the view of the Bay Street hotels. If these ugly but useful structures were swept away, or stationed a little farther down the river away from the town, the land and water view from the whole line of Bay Street would be lovely in the extreme.
Lying farther back, as we afterwards find, are numerous other hotels, all erected in choice positions, some embowered in trees and gardens of blooming flowers; all are beautifully shaded and luxuriously appointed in every particular.
There are plenty of omnibuses waiting; we drive at once to the Everett, attracted by its handsome appearance and position, and knowing that there we should have the advantage of every breeze that blew from the river.
CHAPTER X.
Jacksonville.—Our hotel.—Greenleaf’s museum.—Floridian curiosities.—East winds and tropical breezes.—Strawberry packing.
We shake the dust from our garments and wash our travel-stained faces, and by the time we descend to the dining-room we find that the regular table-d’hôte dinner is over, but the tables are still laid for the accommodation of late comers. Some of the lights are out, the rest are turned low, and scores of dusky shadows seem to be hiding in the distant corners of the big room. The tables are laid with snow-white cloths, and furnished with shining silver and glass and flowers, but the long saloon is so empty and still it looks like a dead banquet lying in state rather than the preparations for a social meal. However, as we enter with a few others, the lights flash up and everything is lively enough, the ever-attentive black waiters bustle briskly about, and by the time we are comfortably seated the first instalment of our meal is before us. Judging from the first ladle of soup, you may generally tell what your dinner will be, they say. So from our first dainty dish of roast oysters we augured well for our general entertainment. They are evidently accustomed to cater for epicures and invalids; every dish is delicately served; even if you were not hungry you would be tempted to eat. We had scarcely commenced when our waiter inquired, in an insinuating whisper, “Would we like a little ‘blue cat?’”
We know that in some countries rats and mice are considered rare dainties, and even in the more civilised quarters of the globe snails and frogs are regarded as luxurious tit-bits. We desired the blue cat to be served, and half expected to see the feline animal served up—claws, tail, and all smothered in sauce piquante! And why not? I believe that French art could dress up the sole of an old shoe, or even a rusty door-nail so as to tempt the appetite and sit easy on the digestion. However, our blue cat turned out to be a familiar fish of most delicious flavour; we had made acquaintance with it before, but had not been introduced to it by its proper name; we had eaten “blue cat,” but knew it not.