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.

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.