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.