In the morning we wake early, and find ourselves on the vast expanse of the St. John’s river, which curves and circles round and about the level land, stretching away before and behind us till it sheathes itself like a silver lance in the horizon. It is a glorious day, with the bluest of blue skies, and the sun pouring down a flood of silver light. No other craft is in sight, we have the river all to ourselves; but a score or two of beautiful, long-billed, white herons rise up from the marshy land, and majestically wheel in slow graceful curves in the air above our heads, and then take their flight southward.

We have not long enjoyed our stroll upon the empty deck when the bell rings and we are summoned to breakfast; there are scarcely a dozen passengers aboard this boat, where there is comfortable accommodation for several hundreds, but our numbers increase as the day goes on.

A capital breakfast is prepared for us—broiled chickens, mushrooms, and fresh fish just taken from the river; these boats pride themselves on the good living they afford their passengers. Our captain, a big, burly man, sits at the head of the table and motions for us to take our seats beside him. He glances at us from under his brows, and bestows on us a beaming smile and brief “Good morning;” then applies himself vigorously to the knife and fork business, and eats and smiles persistently throughout the meal. But he does not talk; conversation evidently is not his strong point, but navigation is. He once opens his mouth professionally. A much bewhiskered young fellow, who speaks without thinking, ventures to suggest that on this smooth river the vessel might be commanded by a “sleeping partner.” The captain wheels round and answers sternly,

“Sir, I have passed my life on the St. John’s river, and I assure you the navigation of the high seas is child’s play compared to the navigation of the St. John’s river.” Silence follows this stern rebuke.

It is evident that sociability will form no part of our day’s diversion. Although humankind is so sparsely represented, we carry a few score of pigs below, and they keep up a grunting chorus among themselves. Among the passengers grouped round the breakfast table is one fierce-looking individual with ginger-coloured hair, and fat, clean-shaven face, who evidently likes to hear himself talk; he invades the general silence, and speaks like an oracle, flings down his opinion as though it were a challenging gauntlet, and defies any one to take it up. We have most of us some friend with similar characteristics, with whom conversation is simply impossible, though they are always armed and ready for a game of contradiction. Advance an argument, or venture on a ripple of pleasant small talk, as modestly as you may, your arguments are knocked down one after the other, like ninepins, as fast as you set them up, and your rippling talk is swamped in a wave of fine phrases. I ventured on three observations, mere commonplaces, which were politely waived aside. I was a woman and a stranger, and so escaped flat contradiction. As one after the other we drifted from the table somebody said, in a grumbling undertone,

“That fellow ought to be flung overboard; he’s no fit company for travelling Christians.”

“Before the day’s over he’ll get a lick the rough side of my tongue, you bet,” said somebody else.

I am happy to say that performance was not carried out, as the obnoxious person, in company with a score of fat hogs, got off at the first landing-stage, and a woman with a large family of small children came on. These kept things lively the whole day long. She lived in the constant fear that one or other of her progeny would fall overboard; they did not have a moment’s peace of their lives; she was always at their heels, diving after them, fishing them out of odd nooks and corners whither childish curiosity led them. We settled ourselves down in the bow of the boat to take general observations of the scenery we were passing through.

The St. John’s is a magnificent river, winding, widening, and wandering, now through low-lying marshy lands, now through fine forests of live oaks, festooned with Spanish moss, or decorated with graceful vines, twisting and curling fantastically round them, alternated with tangles of cypress, sweet gums, and stately palm; through wild savannahs, and groves of shining orange-trees, and here and there past pretty villages and beautiful homes with blooming gardens reaching down and drooping their rich blossoms over the water. From each of these there generally runs out a tiny pier—for everybody likes to have a landing stage in his own possession—with a fleet of small boats, with gay flags and striped awning, anchored thereto. But these are rare features in the passing landscape; it is only now and then, at rare intervals, we are refreshed with these sweet home views.

The scenery on either side of the river is picturesque, and rarely romantic throughout; and yet in no single feature does it bear any resemblance to the weird wildness of the Ocklawaha. In many places it is six miles wide, and is seldom less than one; the current is slow, and it moves with feeble pulsations on its course; it is never flustered or stirred to headlong rashness, it creeps quietly, with a grand placidity, round anything that lies in its way, never dashes or tumbles over it; no wind can lash it into fury, no storms disturb its sweet tranquillity; it is more like a long chain of lakes and lagoons, fed from a thousand springs, than a restless river. Perhaps it owes some of its placidity to the fact that it flows the wrong way, and by no human agency can it ever be set right. Unlike the rest of the American rivers, it flows due north; the why and the wherefore is one of Nature’s mysteries. It is always spacious and majestic: here a tiny island with a crown of green foliage studs its surface; there tall reeds and rushes and wide-leaved grasses sway in the slow-flowing current, as though they have wandered from the land, and are trying to save themselves from drowning. Not unfrequently the river rises out of its natural bed and overflows the low-lying banks on either side till the land seems covered with tiny lakelets. All sorts of queer birds, long necked, long legged, long billed, some with snowy plumage, some grey, some with red bills and golden green wings, flamingoes and curlews fly overhead, and solemn-looking storks stand meditating on the watery shore. If we approach too near some of the conglomeration of odd-looking birds throw out their long necks, elongate their unwieldy-looking bodies, rise gracefully and wheel in slow gyrations over our head till they are lost in the distance.

So far as the eye can reach there are rolling lands covered everywhere with a dense growth of vegetation, large tracks covered with marshy grasses, and maiden cane, which is a spurious kind of sugar cane, grows to the height of twelve or fifteen feet, and resembles a waving field of ripening corn. Here and there are clumps of dwarf palmettoes, tall pines, dog-wood, and sweet gums, stretching away till they are lost in the distant horizon. Looking back we see the zig-zag of the stream curling and curving in watery hieroglyphics behind us. The whole journey through this long river of many hundred miles is most picturesque and interesting—a constant panorama of tropical scenery and strange animal life. The alligators we see on the shores of this river are much larger than those on the Ocklawaha; they are more shy, too, and don’t let us get near them. We have no chance of studying their physiognomies here, for, as we approach, we see a black mass like an animated tree trunk skurrying and splashing head-foremost into the water. In watching the animate and inanimate life along these shores it is impossible to find a moment’s monotony anywhere.

The skies are intensely blue, the sunshine glorious; a golden haze, born of the sun’s intensity and the green earth’s responsive gladness, falls like a shining veil everywhere. Surrounded by such scenes at such a season, one is apt to fall into a contemplative mood. I was roused from a state of this drowsy kind of day dreaming by having a bottle of some medicated salts thrust under my nose, and a voice at my elbow inquiring with tender solicitude:

“You’re looking pale; sickening for the fever, ma’am?”

I devoutly hoped not.

“Just recovering from it, then?” added my interlocutor.

This I could emphatically deny. I inquired, with a touch of irritation, did a visit to Florida necessitate an attack of malarial fever; and was answered—

“Well, ma’am, most people du hev it ef they stay long enough.”

We were growing accustomed to this inquiry, “Have you had the fever?” Everybody asked it; at the same time everybody informed us there was no malaria there in their own immediate surroundings, it existed in the place we had left, and in the place we were going to; it was never present with us; it had been yesterday, or would be to-morrow, but it was never to-day. It reminded us of the jam in Through the Looking-glass: “Jam yesterday, and jam to-morrow, but never, never any jam to-day.”

People who ought to know have stated that malaria is unknown at any season in any part of Florida, and have written volumes in support of this assertion. Perhaps it may be called by another name; certainly no one can travel through the low-lying districts of the St. John’s River, or, indeed, through any portion of semi-tropical Florida, without realising the fact that, amid all the rich luxuriance, the brilliant sunshine, and soft sweet airs, the fever fiend lies concealed, like the serpent hidden beneath the joys of paradise, biding its time, waiting till the hot summer days are swooning among the flowers.

Of course there are some places which at all seasons are more free from malarial disturbances than others. Fernandina may especially be mentioned, and St. Augustine. Jacksonville, and the regions of the Tallahassee country, though certainly liable to invasion, yet usually present a clean bill of health all the year round. But we will indulge in a retrospective view of Florida hereafter; at present we are on the St. John’s River, enjoying the most perfect dolce far niente, with no thought beyond the hour, and don’t care to be interrupted even for the very necessary operation of eating. The sound of the dinner bell is a disturbing element, but we must perforce obey its summons; though the mind can be fed on fair sunshine and fine scenery, the body requires more substantial support. On board this boat, and I believe on all that line of river steamers, there is uncommonly good feeding; the meals are excellently well and abundantly served. We “get through” as quickly as possible, and station ourselves again on deck.

We stop at all the landing stages to take in freight; sometimes it is man, sometimes it is mutton, the fruits of the earth, or the fruits of human kind. From some unexplained reason we make quite a long stop at “Saratoga,” a pretty little settlement lying along the east shore of the river. It is a striking contrast to that fashionable Saratoga, far away in the eastern province, with its gigantic hotels, its luxuries, its trim promenades, its music, its whirl of gaiety, and rush and roar of animated life—a seething cauldron of perfumed humanity, highly decorated and ready for daily sacrifice on the altar of fashion. There it is art, or nature clipped and twisted and trained, so far from its original simplicity, that you cannot recognise a single feature—in fact, Nature in masquerade; in brilliant, gorgeous masquerade, it is true, but hiding the naked loveliness of Nature’s self. Who could recognise the chaste beauty of a “Venus di Medici” beneath Worth’s latest costume, with decorations of Tiffany’s brightest jewels? Here is Nature’s purest self in her own Arcadian simplicity, clothed with golden orange groves and blooming gardens, aglow with brilliant-hued flowers running all along the river side, nodding at their own shadows in the stream. No belles nor beaux stroll through these lovely solitudes; not a petticoat is in sight; only a few coloured folk are working in the gardens, as our father Adam worked in our lost inheritance, “the Garden of Eden.” The bees are gathering honey, and the invisible insect world seems all astir, filling the air with a dreamy drowsy hum, just stirring the waves of silence to a soft, low-uttered harmony. Some few of our fellow passengers go ashore and ramble among the groves for half an hour, when they return loaded with the luscious fruit, which they seem to enjoy all the more having been allowed to gather all they desired for themselves.

We steam on for a few miles, when we come to Welaka, one of the healthiest localities of the state. It stands on a high bluff, fringed with a magnificent growth of live oaks, clothed in their own beautiful robes of green, undecorated by the grey Spanish moss, which, while adding to the graceful appearance of the trees, tells plainly that the malarial fiend is lurking somewhere near. In this locality is grown some of the finest oranges in the state, as the soil is rich and dry, and all the conditions are favourable to their successful cultivation. Directly opposite the landing stage is the mouth of the wonderful Ocklawaha, whose weird depths we have so lately penetrated. Three miles farther on we reach Norwalk, a primitive landing place, where there seems nothing to land for, and nowhere to go to when you have landed. But the settlement, it seems, is laid more than a mile back from the river, and is rather an important little town, the neighbourhood producing a large amount of garden vegetables and fruits. Very few orange growers settle in that location; very few tourists visit it; it is a simple city of homes; it has the regulation number of schools (indeed the simplest hamlet is well off on that score, the means for education are freely scattered throughout the length and breadth of the land; the poorest tillers of the land or toilers of the sea have no excuse for ignorance), churches, banks, etc., and a thriving population of busy workers. It is at this point the lower St. John’s river ends, and we pass into a narrow crooked channel, varying from forty to several hundred feet wide. Here the water loses its clear opaline blue, and reflects the clouds in dark murky shadows. This dingy colour of the water, they say, is owing to the rich, rank vegetation of this tropical region of the St. John’s river. Everywhere the shores are covered with dense forests of oak, cypress, willow, etc., interlaced with gigantic vines, some barren, some bearing a rich fruitage of sweet wild grapes. The grey Spanish moss hangs from the green branches, and reeds, rushes, and all kinds of long tropical grasses form an impenetrable jungle down to the water’s edge—nay, encroach upon the water’s self and sway gently on its surface; and flowers of immense size and brilliant colours are abundant everywhere; they spread over the surface of the water, and flourish on the vines, on the trees, on everything or on nothing, for we catch an occasional glimpse of the mysterious golden-hued air plant among the luxuriant green foliage. Here, too, the alligators and other hideous river reptiles abound, but you must have sharp eyes to get a glimpse of them, for as the steamer approaches they hurry back, and dive under the water, or hide upon the land. This dense jungle scenery is apt to give one an idea that we are going through some of Nature’s primeval solitudes, her secret haunts, impenetrable and uninhabitable for the human race. But that is a wrong idea; this is the low-lying valley region; the ground slopes upwards from the water’s edge, and within a mile or two—nay, sometimes much nearer, only a few hundred yards away from the waterside—are wide clearings where some adventurous pioneer has squatted and made his home, and cultivates the land, his own not by right of purchase, but possession. Only a few hundred yards from the malarial region you may breathe pure, healthful air.

We soon emerge from these luxuriant picturesque regions, and are on the wide river again. Rarely has one river so many phases as this world-famous St. John’s; the scenery is always changing—a series of panoramic views, land and water, combining to make one whole of picturesque loveliness. We stop at two or three more unimportant landing-places, pass some neat, solitary homes and thriving orange groves, and then reach Georgetown, the entrance to Lake St. George. Here a party of gentlemen with dogs and guns come on board. They are going on a sporting expedition up the Indian river into wilder regions than we dare to penetrate; for although the Indian river region is well known and thoroughly appreciated, it is visited by very few tourists or strangers, it being difficult of access, necessitating several days’ water travelling, and the accommodation for travellers being of the roughest description, and even then only to be obtained at rare intervals. To make amends, however, for the scarcity of places of public entertainment, the inhabitants are most hospitable, and a guest chamber is generally reserved in even the humblest farmhouse, where the stranger is always made welcome to the best the house affords. This kind of primitive casual entertainment is often far preferable to the gilded glories of the stereotyped hotel. These Indian river regions are more sparsely populated than those of St. John’s; this too is owing to its general inaccessibility, for nowhere in all the state is there a richer or more fertile soil calculated for the growth of cereals of all kinds, fruits, vegetables, and sugar-cane attaining sometimes to sixteen feet high—a single stalk yielding more than a gallon of juice; and cacao, date, cocoanut, ginger, cassava, and yams may be cultivated with equal profit. The river affords rare sport for the fishermen, for it abounds with a great variety of fish, and is remarkable for its superb mullet, weighing from three to nine pounds, and measuring from fifteen to twenty inches in length. Turtling is also largely carried on, and is a most lucrative business. The splendid hammock lands all along the Indian river have a magnificent growth of hickory, mulberry, red elm, iron wood, and crab wood; both the latter are finely grained, and capable of receiving a fine polish. The surrounding woods abound with small game and deer, and occasionally a small black bear shows himself, while wild cats and such-like creatures may be found without much difficulty by those who seek them, and sometimes they make themselves more free than welcome to those who do not. Not infrequently a panther appears upon the scene, and is seldom allowed to retire unmolested to his den. It is hardly necessary to state that the whole of this fertile Indian river region is far below the frost line—the general temperature all the year round being about 75°, though it has been known on rare occasions to rise to 90° or fall to 55°. But we must draw our thoughts from the Indian river and continue on our way; we are now upon Lake St. George. Slowly we steam across this magnificent sheet of water, one of the loveliest and most interesting of all the lakes in Florida; it is six miles wide by fourteen miles long. These lovely lakes, of all shapes and sizes, are scattered throughout the central region of Florida; they vary from smooth, pleasant-looking pools of about an acre, hidden away in the heart of the pine woods, to the spacious lakes of fifty miles. They all lie far away from the large rivers and the sea-shore, and have always pleasant if not especially attractive surroundings; their shores are generally slightly rolling, and covered with palmetto or pine, or sometimes the grassy slopes are outlined by a thick tangle of jungle in the distance. Orange Lake County is one of the famous inland lake districts. In the neighbourhood of Interlaken and Oceola the lakes are most numerous; looking in any direction a dozen or more pretty lakelets may be seen, and from one special spot in Maitland no less than nine large lakes are visible. Farther South, still in the centre of the peninsula, and surrounded by fine hammock lands (which always indicate the richest soil), are several other beautiful lakes—Conway, Cypress, Kissimmee, and Tohopekalaga and many more, large and small. The country is prairie-like, and the vegetation throughout this extensive region purely tropical, though as yet it is very sparsely populated. Civilisation has not had time to develop the means of transport, and the lands are lying waste, only waiting till the spirit of cultivation sweeps that way.

In this brief allusion to the lake regions, which constitute so special a feature in the peninsula of Florida, I have made no mention of the numerous springs of sparkling waters which dot the whole surface of the land; in some cases they are like little lakelets, in some cases they are springs of pure water, in others the water is medicated.

Most of the lake shores in Orange County are dotted with pretty homes embowered in green trees, their smooth lawns and flower gardens running down to the water’s edge. Lake Okechobee covers an area of nearly seven hundred square miles, and is the largest in the state; it is at the very farthest point South, and penetrates into the region of the Everglades.

Here, on Lake St. George, wild ducks and all kinds of water fowl seem as numerous as butterflies on a warm summer’s day. Some of our fellow travellers amuse themselves by shooting the wild ducks, and a hybrid young darkie, who seems as much at home in the water as out of it, dives down head foremost, and fishes them out, and seems to enjoy the fun of it.

There was one couple on board who attracted general attention by their frank and unreserved appreciation of each others’ charms. They were not young, they were not beautiful; they were a kind of attenuated edition of the renowned Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Wardle. He wore glasses, and the tender passion filtered through a pair of green spectacles loses somewhat of its romance. They were evidently veterans in the art of amorous warfare; he sat with his arm round her waist, and carried on his wooing through the medium of a bottle of champagne; they drank out of one glass, and worked slowly to the bottom of it, and then called for more. Some kinds of clay will bear a great deal of soaking.

While we are still steaming along this beautiful river, past widening valleys, through thickets of dense shrubberies interlaced with gigantic vines, night closes in and shuts the wild picturesque scenery from our view. All wise people retire to the saloon, where somebody makes a feeble attempt to get up a concert; but as there are no singers and no audience to speak of the idea is abandoned and everybody goes to bed.

To make an entire exploration of the St. John’s river involves about eight hundred miles of travel, which, however, is never wearisome, as the scenery shifts and changes at every turn, and the boat is a most comfortable floating home; any one who is not well satisfied with the arrangement and accommodation must be very hard to please. As we are nearing our journey’s end we meet another party of sportsmen returning from an excursion up the Indian river. On board their boat they have about one hundred gigantic turtles, the weight of each one being legibly marked on its back; they were conveying them to Jacksonville, to be shipped thence to the northern markets.

We had intended to leave the boat at Enterprise and spend a few days there rambling about the country and familiarising ourselves with the scenery of the surrounding neighbourhood. However, we were doomed to disappointment, for on arriving there we find the place deserted, the hotel closed, and no prospect of entertainment until October, when it will reopen for the season.

Our captain suggests that there are some fruit-growers or small farmers in the neighbourhood who would make us welcome and put us up comfortably for a few days; but although we know that hospitality is boundless in these regions, we do not feel disposed to take advantage of it. Some of our fellow-passengers go ashore, intending to camp out and make their way across to the Indian river settlement. We spend a delightful three days and nights upon the river, and return to Jacksonville. It is late in the evening when we arrive; we sleep once more at our delightful hotel, and take the early morning train for New Orleans, where we hope to arrive in about two days.