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.