THE upper St. John’s commences after we pass Welaka, opposite the mouth of the Ocklawaha. Steamers leave the wharf at Jacksonville daily for this attractive portion of the country. An early traveler thus speaks of the wild animals he saw in this portion of the State, also the birds:

“The buffalo, the deer, the puma, and the wild cat; the bear, the wolf, the fox, the wandering otter, the beaver, the raccoon, the opossum, and many smaller animals; large flocks of water-fowl, the white and great blue herons, and their allied species, in large numbers standing along the shores; the wary turkey with his brilliant plumage; the roseate spoon-bill, sometimes seen, and the flamingo, once a rare visitor, but now no longer found; the wood ibis, the whooping crane, whose resonant notes are heard far and wide; the stupid and unwary courlan, disturbing sleep with its night-long cry; the loathsome buzzard, circling, at times, gracefully among nobler birds, or, oftener and truer to its nature, quarreling with its kind as it gluts itself over disgusting food; also the snake-bird, of peculiar make and habit; the fish-hawk, whose massive nests of sticks and moss crown many a dead and shattered cypress; the bald eagle, soaring in the upper atmosphere, or robbing, in mid-air, the fish-hawk of its prize; the migratory birds, collecting in thousands for their journey northward; the alligator, drifting lazily with the current, or lying in his muddy wallow, basking in the sun.”

All of these were seen during the visit of Bartram the elder, which must have made the St. John’s one of the most beautiful and remarkable rivers in America.

It is now February, and a soft, blue mist frequently fringes the distant landscape, diffusing itself through the atmosphere, subduing the dazzling sunlight, when the sky and water appear to blend in one grand archway, like a half-veiled beauty whose charms are then most lovely.

A very happy family is on board to-day, and the lady has just remarked, “O we have a house on the steamer, taking it up to Mellonville for us all to live in!” She was a genuine Florida settler, who could look at the sand and say, If it can grow such immense trees and big weeds, it can produce food for us all to eat.

On our way we pass Lake George, eighteen miles long and ten miles wide, which the Indians called “Little Ocean,” on account of the high, swift waves that are frequently seen here, attributable to the open country by which it is surrounded.

Many other interesting places, where new settlers are constantly making improvements, are seen before we arrive at Enterprise, the terminus of navigation proper on the river, two hundred and thirty miles from St. John’s Bar. A good hotel is kept here, while sportsmen find the vicinity attractive on account of the game and good fishing. Mellonville, on the right bank of Lake Monroe, was named for the brave Captain Mellon, who was killed here while at his post of duty during the Seminole war. He was buried with the only tribute he could then receive: “A soldier’s tears and a soldier’s grave.”

Sulphur springs are numerous on the upper St. John’s; one in the vicinity of Lake Monroe, several hundred yards in length, while at its source the water bubbles up like a fountain—a strong sulphurous odor being perceptible for some distance. The frightened alligators that retire here from their pursuers make terrible dives to hide, while in the transparent waters fish are seen distinctly as though going through the air. All of these upper lakes contain clear water, but none of it very deep.

The next waters are Lake Harney and Salt Lake. These are not the head-waters of the St. John’s, but its source is farther on, down deep in some unexplored marsh or subterranean fountain. It requires a little patience to reach Indian River, either by rowing or overland, but hundreds of people are going there every year. During the Florida war the vicinity of Cypress Swamp and this river were some of the lurking-places in which the savages intrenched themselves, and from this point kept making incursions on the white settlements, which filled them with constant terror for their safety. In 1839 the citizens living in Florida prayed for peace, looked and hoped for it. They wanted rest, that favorite position of the Grecian sculptor’s statuary, and when they thought it nearest then it receded again, flitting on the margin of their expectations like the ignis-fatuus which glimmered through the marsh. The Everglades furnished a natural fortress for the Indians, who were said to have been left there by General Jessup, as though one general was more to blame than another for their presence and murderous conduct. No confidence could be placed in the Indian promises; no security that the settlers could sow and harvest; all pledges given by them had been violated, and where should the line of their banishment be drawn, which would not be crossed by the murderous Seminoles, thirsting for human gore? Every person was indignant at the farce enacted by General Macomb, swallowing it as a sickening dose, or an amnesty with a cage of tigers. All projects for terminating the Indian war had failed, and the wail of woe went through the land, while the blood of murdered fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters, cried for vengeance. As a supposed last resort, the bloodhounds, which had terminated the Jamaica war, were now sent for to Cuba by order of General Call. The Indians waged a warfare accompanied with so many irregularities that no tactician could designate or describe its method of attacks or retreats. To be always in danger of falling, but not on the field, and then being devoured by vultures, was not sought for by those who had dreamed of gory battle-fields, as there was glory in that. Affairs with the settlers had assumed so formidable an appearance that they did not think it necessary to be very scrupulous about the mode by which the warfare should be carried on against the Seminoles. Great horror was expressed in different portions of the States on account of the bloodhounds, which were going to “eat the papooses and squaws—then taking the ‘breechless knaves,’ whose tougher fibers would only be a last resort.”

In August, 1839, a battle was fought on the Caloosahatchee River, between Colonel Harney and the Indians. All of the troops were killed but the colonel and fourteen men. Seventeen days afterward a detachment was sent out by General Taylor to bury the dead, when two of the missing troops were found alive. After the fight they remained concealed during the day in a mangrove thicket, and at night crawled to the margin of the river and ate sea-fiddlers. They died soon after being discovered. An Irish greyhound was also found, barely alive, which belonged to Colonel Harney. He had stayed to watch over the remains of Major Dallam, whose body was untouched, although the rest were much mutilated.

The following statement in regard to the Big Cypress Swamp and its occupants in 1841 will, no doubt, be an item of unsurpassed interest to those wishing to penetrate the Everglades, whether in imagination or reality:

The commencement of this swamp is thirty or forty miles south of the Caloosahatchee, extending within twenty miles of Lake Okachobee to the Gulf. On approaching the lake it terminates in thick mangrove bushes, uninhabitable for Indians. Between the Caloosahatchee the country is wet pine barren, with occasionally dry islands. On the south it is bounded by the Everglades, through which the Indians pass in canoes to the great cooutie-grounds on the Atlantic, south of the Miami River. This is a belt from five to eight miles in width and twenty miles long. To travel directly through the swamp to the Everglades from Fort Keas, which is upon the north margin, the distance is about thirty miles. Directly south of the fort, in the heart of the swamp, is the council-ground. South-east and south-west from this are the towns of the principal chiefs, Sam Jones living twenty-five miles and the Prophet within two miles of him. Trails communicate with their towns, but none with Fort Keas, the Indians knowing that would be the first point to which the whites would come. The entrance from the pine barrens to the swamp is twenty miles farther south-east. Within the swamps are many high pine islands, upon which the villages are located, being susceptible of cultivation. Between them is a cypress swamp, with water two or three feet deep. Many have cultivated outside toward Lake Thompson, as the fertility of soil and sun-exposure insured better crops.

The first reliance of the Indians is on their crop—peas, pumpkins, corn, and beans; next, roots, cooutie, and berries. They are now, in a measure, deprived of game, the powder being retained in the hands of their chiefs for defensive movements.

When troops are in the vicinity, they reveal their hiding-place by firing guns, which, in a country so marshy, can be heard a great distance. Their babies never cry when the whites are near, but, as if by instinct, crawl away and hide in the long grass like partridges. Fish, when the streams on the coast can be reached, afford them subsistence, but the movements of the troops deprive them of this luxury. Among them are a large number of horses, ponies, some hogs, and a few cattle.

The dry goods obtained from the massacre of Colonel Harney’s men, and bartered by others who obtained a large quantity, clothe them richly as they desire. The specie has been sold, and manufactured into head-bands, breast-plates, or gorgets and bracelets. Among those Indians I have seen more rich ornaments than among any other Indians in Florida. Even in this murderous and lamentable massacre, when they all stood by each other, shoulder to shoulder, the same avarice and selfishness governed their actions. No feeling of friendship binds them to each other but the feudatory of Sam Jones and the necromancy of the Prophet.

There is, no doubt, much cause of dissatisfaction among them, from which they cannot escape. Their imperious laws, if violated, is followed by instant death, without the benefit of judge or jury. If one of their number evinces kindness toward the whites, the Prophet visits him or her, and, by various tricks with roots, a blow-pipe, and water, proclaims the designs of the individual. In some cases instant death has followed.

The Prophet is a runaway Creek, not fifty years of age. He escaped from the Creek country six years ago, and relates a long story of bad treatment from the whites. He has great influence over those around him, caused by his making known the approach of troops, healing the sick, finding game, and controlling the seasons. It is doubtful whether he has ever been in battle. In a garrison so well regulated as the one over which he presides, he must be of vast service, not only on account of his pretended ability to commune with the Great Spirit who controls their destinies, but for his happy talent as staff-officer, frequently feeding his followers on faith in his necromancy, when other troops, under similar circumstances, might demand “a more substantial article of diet.” He has sufficient tact, as a Medicine Man, to convince his followers that he is, of necessity, a non-combatant.

Sam Jones is a distinguished Medicine Man, belonging to the Mikasukie tribe. He has numbered four-score years, and, for his age, is strong and active. He has great influence over his adherents, who respect his acts and obey his mandates with a religious sense of duty. His venerable appearance and bitter hostility to the whites have a tendency to elevate him in the estimation of his tribe. He plans attacks, fires the first gun, and retires to attend the wounded, leaving the head-warrior to fight the battle. He instigated the attack on Fort Mellon, performed his duty as head-man, and retired to execute the kind offices of his profession. The command devolved upon Wild Cat, who continued to fight until obliged to retire for want of ammunition.

Sam Jones says he is advanced in years; that his hair is white; that Florida belongs to his kindred; beneath its sands lie the bones of his people. The earth to him is consecrated; he has hallowed it with the best blood of his braves, and while his heart beats he will maintain his present position. His people were once numerous as the trees of the forest; they received and welcomed the white man, who, in return for kindness, have, it is true, extended the apparent hand of friendship, but within its grasp the glittering blade is clutched; dark stains are upon it, dyed by the blood of his children, who are now roaming abroad in the land of the Great Spirit, calling upon him to avenge them. “I am now old; in a few more moons I shall set out on the long journey; but I will not desert the land of my fathers. Here I was born, and here I will die!”

The hanging of Chekika and other Indians by Colonel Harney aroused the anger of the chiefs, who have declared hostility and savage brutality to any white man that came within their reach. Chekika was captured after being pursued through the grass-water until exhausted. He was six feet high, and weighed over two hundred pounds; considered the strongest man of his tribe. “We,” said Sam Jones, “give them a decent death. We shoot them, or quietly beat out their brains with a pine-knot; never hanging them like dogs.” The Indians which Colonel Harney’s men left suspended were taken down by Sam Jones’s men and buried.

The Cypress band is composed of the reckless, unbending spirits of the Seminoles, Mikasukie, and Creek tribes. The Mikasukie are the most numerous. They now mingle more harmoniously than at any previous period of their history, and willingly accept all others who will subscribe to their laws, and believe in Sam Jones as a wise man, doctor, and prophet—one who holds communion with invisible things, and controls their destinies. He is a skillful navigator of the Everglades; goes from the Cypress to the Atlantic in four days; knows all the great passages, and cultivates in their vicinity. He bestows blessings similar to the patriarchs. He has about one hundred and fifty warriors.

Persons prowling through the Big Cypress Swamp in search of pleasure will have some conception of the perils through which soldiers in search of Indians had to pass.

“Dec. 23, 1841.—The command under Major Belknap has just returned from a scout of seven days’ duration in the swamps of the Big Cypress. The column was attacked by the foe on the 20th, who ambuscaded the trail on which it was advancing, in a cypress swamp two feet deep with water, when two men of the advance-guard were instantly killed. The Indians, as usual, fled immediately beyond our reach. The camps of the hostiles were near, and still smoking with their fires. They would, no doubt, have been surprised and captured, but for the stupidity of a flanker, who, being lost a few hours before, discharged his musket repeatedly—thus alarming the enemy, only two or three miles distant. The result of this scout has been, however, most important, in pointing out the hitherto mysterious position of the Prophet and his party, which enables us to entertain hopes that our forces may yet scour that country, so as to render their submission certain, even if they should fail in any attempt to surprise them. They have been trailed to their most favorite and secret fastnesses, and should now be soon harassed into submission. It is the belief of all, including some who have seen the most arduous service in Florida, that no march in this Territory has been attended with equal, or, at least, greater, severity than this. All pack-mules being left behind, officers as well as men carried their rations on their backs. The movements of the troops were amphibious rather than otherwise—marching in mud and water more than knee-deep from morning till night. The character given to this marvelous region of country has not been exaggerated, so far as the condition of its swamps is concerned. It is difficult to conceive of a region more admirably calculated for concealment than such a mass of dense hummocks and seemingly impenetrable swamps. Some of these waters have a perceptible current, thus being the heads of streams rather than swamps. The ax of the pioneer would never be attracted to this wet and mud-encircled region, and it may be fairly presumed that, so far as a knowledge of its topography is concerned, war has done more to expose it to our gaze than civilization would have accomplished in a century.”

Indian River.—The following letter, dated Indian River, July 3, 1843, will give an idea of the impressions received by tourists from this river over thirty years since—coming to this place then being an enterprise of too much magnitude for any one to undertake but well-armed soldiers:

“This noble sheet of water is now constantly whitened by the sail of the emigrant in pursuit of land, and the stillness of its solitude broken by the splash of the oar, echoed by the merry songs of boatmen. At night the camp-fires of the adventurers are kindled on its banks, after which preparation is made for the evening repast, when, amid conversation and laughing, the toils of the day are lost in sleep. Refreshment ensues, and the morning finds them on their way, vigorous in frame and sanguine in spirit. Game abounds on its banks—the deer break through the thick growth on the margin of the river, and gaze with wonder at the visitors; the curlews give their short whistle and wing their way from the near approach of the intruders; the wild ducks, quietly feasting on the grass, take note of your approach, perhaps, to a place of greater security. Splash, splash goes the water. That’s a mullet jumping at the prospect of being caught by us, or perhaps exerting its utmost activity to escape a hungry bass. If you are furnished with a harpoon or barbed piece of iron, you can have a fine supply of fresh fish every day during your voyage. Oysters are the staple of the stream, the banks being as numerous as though an improvident Legislature had created them, although they never suspend payment or protest a draft for want of funds. The lands north and south of Fort Pierce are rapidly filling up, and thus far, with the exposure of boating, felling timber, planting, and the thousand troubles of an emigrant’s life, the best of health is enjoyed by all. Doctors are at a discount, and among the least useful things on the river.”

Among other local peculiarities found near the Indian River is a kind of shell-sand, which hardens by exposure. The following is an interesting statement, made by a member of the engineer corps, who visited there in 1858: “While we were surveying a point between the St. John’s, near Lake Harney, and Indian River, when watching the excavation of one of these pits, I carefully rolled a ball together from what appeared to be sand taken from the pit, and then threw it on the grass. Upon examination a few hours afterward, it was found to be extremely hard, and the surface covered with those minute shells, which is the principal component of the coquina-rock. Between Musquito Lagoon and Indian River there is a small artificial canal cut through the coquina, the portion exposed being very hard, while the submerged part is crumbling into sand.”

It is an established fact that certain localities on the coast of Florida contain sand which concretes when exposed to the atmosphere. What the component parts of this cement contain no one has satisfactorily determined. It is certain all localities do not possess the same kinds of sand.

The lands in the vicinity of Indian River will produce bananas, pine-apples, oranges, sugar-cane, lemons, limes, strawberries, blackberries, grass, corn, indigo, sweet potatoes, garden vegetables, and tomato-vines that bear for three years, and bird pepper-plants which will grow into little trees, bearing all the time.

Hunters live well here on the wild game, while those in the first stages of consumption almost invariably fatten and recover on the diet and atmosphere combined. The following is a favorite dish: Take a fresh fish, without dressing; wrap in a damp paper; then place in the hot ashes; when cooked, pull off the skin while warm; season and eat. It is better than cod-liver oil, and can be swallowed without any winding up of the courage whatever, previous to making the attack.

Is it not pleasant for those who can, whether invalids or not, to spend a part of their winters, at least, in this portion of the State, where we are surrounded by trees clothed in perpetual verdure, loaded with native fruits, to refresh us when wearied with sight-seeing, and sated with tales of the marvelous, with which this country abounds? It is from association with scenes like these that a new impulse is given to our thoughts, which confinement within brick walls, with the smoke and changing temperature of coal-fires, cannot furnish. There is nothing like the soothing influences connected with letting our thoughts wander away with our eyes among the light, vapory clouds, that flit across the sky like floating islands, while we are inhaling an atmosphere soft as the dream of childhood’s innocence, that can warm and stimulate vegetation into maturity at all seasons.

Tourists who go up the St. John’s River, on returning always bring back something in accordance with their varied tastes. Imagine yourself a passenger on the Hattie Barker, a steamer of somewhat smaller dimensions than the Great Eastern, which can do more traveling in the way of making a fuss than any boat on the river, her progress being never less than four miles an hour. All kinds of travelers are returning from the upper St. John’s—those who have trodden the wine-press of bitterness with suffering, and some who have sailed over the summer sea of life without a ripple. Prompted by the impulses which induce all tourists to bring something back when they return home, a quantity of curiosities sufficient to start a small museum has been obtained. No small steamer could ever have contained a larger number of tourists, with a greater diversity of tastes. Here is the sick man, with his nervous system, sensitive as the mimosa, who shrinks at the slightest harsh sound, and continues scolding about “such a crowd on the boat,” as though some of them should have remained that he might have more room to fret and scold at his patient wife. Then there come the father and mother, with four little boys and two girls, besides the tiny baby and two nurses. How they rush about their limited boundaries! What a restless family of children, with the ruddy glow of health, keeping the parents and nurses in a constant state of trepidation for fear they will fall into the water! This family has no curiosities. With a long journey to their home in Canada before them, their hearts are full without other incumbrances. Two ladies sitting near us have a chameleon in a pickle-jar; one of them is catching flies for its dinner. What a pleasure it appears to give them when, darting out its coral-colored tongue, and winking its bright eyes, it gobbles them up so quickly! There is a lad, with two young alligators, who persists in taking water from the ice-cooler, to pour on them for fear they might die. The stewardess is on the alert to thwart his movements, by telling him, “Dat cooler-water is for de folks, and not dem ole black ’gaitors.” The lad retorts by saying the water isn’t clean. The stewardess says, “Yes, ’tis only a few settlements in de bottom.” A sound comes from one of the staterooms, which is unmistakably made by young turkeys going North, in March. How the keen winds up there will pierce their downy coats! They had better save their voices for the cries they will have to utter then. The ornithologist is also represented, with his stuffed birds, having a flamingo, a plume-crane, an owl, eagle, and living red-bird. Another has paroquets, which he imagines, by some mysterious manipulations, can be made to talk like a South American parrot. One man, from Indian River, has an immense pelican, with an enormous flat bill, below which is a pouch attached, containing its rations. Some of the anxious mothers have heard it eats children. What terrible looks they give this poor fellow with the big bird, who appears so happy in the possession of his newly-found treasure, because to him it is so remarkably curious! Another has a blue crane, belonging to the order Grus cinerea, standing erect on its stilts, showing fight. How it snaps every thing which approaches it, like some crabbed people in the world! A young man has a slender, not grown, animal, which he informs us is a Cervus Virginius, or fawn, that he proposes taking to a friend. Among the number is an archÆologist, who has been exploring the mounds of Florida, and procured a trophy from the recesses of a long-since departed Indian’s grave. It is a stone hatchet, which was designed to hew trees and make boats, that the deceased might move not only with unrestrained freedom through the lands of the Great Spirit, but also across his pure streams. The most entertaining and original tourist of all is an unmistakable Dutchman, from Indiana, born on the River Rhine. He is a “bugologist,” or beetle-gatherer. Hard-backed bugs and fresh-water shells are his hobby. He has collected and sent a barrel of specimens home in advance of him, and now he is carrying a big box, strapped tightly with the same care as a returned miner would his nuggets of gold. For our amusement he opened his treasure-box. The toilet articles of no lady were ever arranged with more care. Shells odorous with the remains of their former tenants, wrapped in cotton and tissue-paper, bugs and beetles with alcohol on them, or fastened to a card with long, tiny pins made for that purpose, and, last of all, a quinine-bottle in his pocket, in readiness to capture any stray bug that might happen to be out on an excursion. Numerous cages, containing young mocking-birds and red-birds, are sitting around, while the tables are piled with palmetto, air-plants, and American pitcher-plants. Every available space is occupied—baskets stuffed with oranges, lemons, and grape-fruit, while gray moss fills the interstices.

Many of the best people in our country are found traveling over Florida during the winter—some looking for homes, and others only pleasure-seeking, a few for health.

The number of old people with whom we meet while traveling here is quite remarkable. Some have sweet, sunny faces; others look as though life had been a continued struggle with them until now, when their solicitude was on the qui vive for fear they should get in behind time, or some impending danger might befall them, they do not exactly know what.

The indefatigable sportsman in Florida is ubiquitous: With gun in hand, he is constantly watching for game. If many a bird at which he aims flies away unharmed, the excitement of shooting with unrestrained freedom appears to give satisfaction, if nothing is killed.