Pine forests.--Arcadian scenes.--Strange companionship.--We reach
Jacksonville.
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.