A queer-looking stumpy boat yclept the “Okeehumkee” was waiting for us at the head of the “Silver Springs.” The vessel was short and broad, like a monstrous beetle with its legs cut off; it was made to fit and float on the “Ocklawaha” river and nowhere else. We stepped first on to a lower deck—crowded with coils of ropes and poles, and the miscellaneous belongings of the queer little craft—which was occupied by the engineers, stokers, and other stray hands, who helped to work the vessel; there was a big boiler, and a little engine, and a tiny cupboard of a kitchen, where operations for our mid-day meal were being vigorously carried on.

Ascending a narrow flight of steps we are on the bow of the vessel—a wide balcony which occupies the entire front; behind this, and entered by two glass doors from the balcony is the saloon, bayfronted with windows all round, comfortably furnished with sofas and easy chairs, and two round tables. Opening from this again is a narrow passage running through to the end of the boat, on each side of which is a row of tiny cabins—about twelve in all, narrowing towards the stern. There is what is called “accommodation” for a score or so of tourists. Foolish people think they are fortunate if they can secure a “berth;” they don’t know how much may be left of them in the morning. Mosquitoes are a hungry race, and make a meal of the sleeper. He goes to bed fair and well to look at; when he gets up in the morning he can scarcely recognise his own face! Wise people sit up all night, and when they are tired of the wonderful scenery (which is illuminated at night by huge flaming pine logs which blaze from a great iron cauldron just above the balcony) they doze in easy chairs, or roll themselves up like mummies and sleep on the sofas. Some sit up on the balcony all night smoking, and at intervals singing snatches of old songs, which fall pleasantly on the drowsy ears of the sleepers.

I wonder if I can convey to any one an idea of the Ocklawaha river! It can be compared with no other river that I have ever seen, heard, or read of, and its fairest wonders are at our starting point, Silver Springs. Looking forward I see nothing but a wide expanse of pale green water. Our steamer gives a series of short asthmatic puffs, and we are moving slowly over the surface of the Silver Springs—so slowly we are scarcely conscious of any movement at all. We lean over the side of the vessel, and look down upon a world of wonders; we can hardly believe that it is really water we are passing through. It seems as though all the jewels from all quarters of the globe had been gathered together and melted down, and poured into the great earth hollow we are gliding over. The spring is eighty feet deep, the water so clear that the sweet fairy flowers at the bottom of it seem to lie close at hand; you feel as though you could lean over and pluck one from the bed, which seems to be formed of holes, arches, and deep crevasses of many-coloured rocks; variegated blues and greens and greys, all amalgamating together, beneath the soft rippling water, give it the many brilliant, ever-changing hues, till we feel as though we were sailing through a stream of liquid gems—opals and emeralds, amethysts and sapphires—enough to make gorgeous the purple robes of all the kings of all the earth. Submerged trees are standing tall and strong in this watery world; long ribbon grasses are gracefully waving as though stirred by the breath of some fair floating Undine, and starry white flowers open their blue eyes dreamily as we glide slowly over their silent home. Silver scaled fish dart in and out from among the tall reeds and rocky islets, and infant turtles with their ugly awkward little bodies propel themselves along; while thin, long-bladed fish flash hither and thither like sharp swords wielded by invisible hands, crossing and recrossing, parrying, and thrusting—coming within a hairsbreadth, but never smiting.

Our wee craft is only too brief a time crossing this “pool of wonders;” then we seem to be running straight into a wilderness—a veritable bit of the forest primeval—where a tangle of dense “hammock” seems to stop our watery way, but by a sudden turn our little vessel strikes an opening and takes us out of the Silver Springs, and on to the river.

Thenceforth all the day long we are gliding through the sweetest, loveliest water lane in all the world; winding in and out through mysterious wooded wilds—crooked and full of sudden turns and odd angles. We wonder how our queer little “Okeehumkee” finds her way along; we fancy she must be jointed like an eel, or she could never wriggle her way through this leafy labyrinth. Sometimes, indeed often, she runs her snout against the shore, and the services of a huge black Titan, “Joe,” are called into action; he jumps off the boat, and prods and pushes with a long pole till we are off again. Sometimes the river ties itself into a knot, but the little craft somehow threads her way through the loops and bows, and comes out at the other end of it.

There are no banks on either side of this marvellous Ocklawaha river; the water runs on a level with the shore. Dense masses of jungle and wild forest lands sweep down and close it on either side with their leafy embrace; so closely they clasp it, that often we cannot see a foot of water on either side of us, and the branches of the fine old trees reach their long arms across and interlock one with the other forming a grand overarching avenue above our heads. It is so narrow here and there that it seems as though by some strange magical process the green earth had been liquefied purely for our accommodation in passing through, and anon the stream spreads out like a shining silver mirror in the heart of a jungle of overhanging trees.

Never was there such variety of scenery on a single river; it seems as though Nature had gathered all her forces here just to show how much she could do with her few favourite allies—the forest, rock, and stream. The trees are marching with us side by side, executing strange manoeuvres as we pass along, nodding their proud heads, and waving their blessing arms above us; now it is a regiment of tall pines, the bright lances of sunlight glinting and flashing between their boughs; then there is an awkward squad of scrub oaks, magnolias, and gums, lofty palms and dwarf palmettoes, with long grasses and all kinds of brilliant vegetation crowding about their roots, and luxuriant vines and shining mistletoe clinging and climbing round their naked trunks, clothing them with rich verdure, and lost at last in their leafy coronals. All the glowing growth of the forest seems locked and interlocked together, as though the sons of the wilderness were engaged in a wrestling match, trying which could first uproot the other from the ancient soil. Now we face a phalanx of veteran oaks, clothed utterly, and their green boughs hidden, beneath mantles of beautiful Spanish moss; generally it is of deep mourning grey, and hangs like a nun’s veil gently swayed by the passing wind, then it is of a more silvery hue, but always down drooping, as though the iron grey beards of millions of men had been shorn off and flung thither in sport by some wandering wind. Occasionally we come upon masses of strange and wonderful moss; it is long, fibrous, and shining, and hangs in wavy tresses like the golden hair of a woman, as though some sweet Ophelia had been floating down the river, and the envious branches, determined that all should not be lost, stooped downwards, caught and tangled her glistening tresses, while the tide bore the fair form slowly on and the soft breeze still murmurs mournfully “drowned, drowned, drowned.”

Here and there the scene widens, and half-a-dozen little fussy tributary streams hurry out from their mysterious depths to join the quiet Ocklawaha in its dreamy flow, and we push our way for a while through an extensive watery plain, where reeds and grasses, and fair white lilies, twine their delicate fibres together and try to stop our progress; but we break through the pretty network as though it were a spider’s web, and puff our ruthless way out of it. Now there are a flight of small, bright-plumaged birds, with the heron in pursuit, or a volley of long-necked cranes shoot with their discordant cry across our path, and an elderly stork, judging from the length of his legs, stands at a safe distance and watches us from the shore.

We glance up half-a-dozen narrow water lanes, take a sudden turn, and plunge again into the wilderness. A great ugly alligator, who has been sunning himself on a fallen tree trunk, lifts his horny eyelids stupidly, and lazily slips under the water as we come puffing along. We are constantly coming upon these revolting creatures in the most unexpected places. Sometimes their leaden eyes simply stare, or they open their spiky mouths, as though they would like to swallow us, and don’t stir. Familiarity breeds contempt. I suppose they have got so used to having their privacy invaded by our odd little steamer that they conclude it is only a friendly monster like themselves, and won’t do them any harm. Time was when the “bang, bang” of the sportsman’s gun went echoing through these solitudes; but now tourists are forbidden to shoot alligators or any other thing from the decks of the Ocklawaha boats.

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.

As we exchange parting civilities with our travelling companions on leaving the Ocklawaha boat, they lean over the rails, waving their handkerchiefs, and wishing us “Good night,” and “Bon voyage.” They puff on their way, illuminating the widening waters as they go. We watch the dear little “Okeehumkee” puff itself out of sight; then enter the large luxurious saloon, which is empty now and dimly lighted. Everybody has retired to rest, not a sound is stirring any where, and the thick carpet smothers our footsteps as we follow our dusky guide to our cabins, which are really charming little rooms with large, comfortable beds. Worn out with the excitements of our long, delightful day, we are soon wrapped in a dreamless sleep.