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 inscription U. 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 and compotes, quite an embarras de richesses indeed! 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 tune which 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, and produces 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 illuminates the 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 passengers aboard?” 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 every feature 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.