CHAPTER XII.

Fernandina.—Romance or history?—Dungeness.—To Tocor.—On board the boat.—Oddities.—A lovely water drive.

A pleasant, slow, jog-trotting, line of railway connects Jacksonville with Fernandina, about fifty miles distant. It is a delightful old city situated on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, first founded by the Spaniards in 1632, and has a most romantic history, on which, in my glimpse of these sunny lands, I have no time to dwell; but then every city throughout these regions has an interesting history, and the history of one is the history of all—savage warfare with the Indians, internal struggles with the adventurous Spaniards, as one after another their flying expeditions came, each one firing the other with wonderful stories of the enchanted land, telling of “great stores of crystal and gold, rubies and diamonds” which were to be found therein. Again and again their vessels came and fought and plundered, and went or were driven away. Again and again the waves of humanity broke upon these shores; some were wrecked and ruined,some drifted and married and intermarried with the natives, and settled and flourished.

The history of the land is full of romance, from its early discovery by Ponce de Leon, who came hither in search of the Fountain of Youth—that fountain which plays so sweet a tune, and sparkles and flashes a glorious baptism once in every life, and then is seen or heard no more. Men seek for it as a kind of holy grail, but find it not. Ponce de Leon shared the fate of the rest of the world, and instead of finding the Fountain of Youth drank of the bitter waters of death. He was driven back from these sunlands with great disaster, and retired to Cuba, where he died of his wounds, aggravated by disappointment.

Deeds of crime, of cruelty, and of treachery, brightened here and there by the noblest heroism of which humanity is capable, mark the annals of Florida. The whole land is aglow with unwritten poetry, romance, and passionate combinations, which, gathered together, would supply the place of fiction for ages to come; but through her many tribulations, quarrels, and martyrdom, she has come out the peaceful, sweet land we see, teeming with the richest fruits and flowers of the earth. But here, even as in the paradise of old, there lurks a whole hydra-headed brood of serpents among the flowers. However, for the present, I must confine my attention to Fernandina.

No trace remains of the original city. The housesof the Spaniards and the huts of the natives are all swept away; it is fresh, new, and bright. It has many of the characteristics of Jacksonville, but is much quieter, and there is an appearance of quaint old-world dignified repose about it, which lively, bustling Jacksonville does not possess—the one, in festive dress, is always on the alert for pleasure or amusement, the other is sweetly suggestive of home and peace.

The streets are wide and well shaded with fine oaks and magnolias; the pretty houses are generally hidden away out of sight by the luxuriant growth of tropical flowering shrubs, and are surrounded by smooth lawns and gardens. There are no iron rails laid down, no cars running through the Arcadian streets, no traffic, indeed, except the hotel omnibuses, plying leisurely to and from the railway station. The resident population is between two and three thousand, the number of course being largely increased during the winter months. Every arrangement is made for the reception and luxurious accommodation of travellers. The “Egmont” is the finest hotel; it is beautifully situated, palatial in its appointments, and with a fine view of the town and surrounding country, in front of it a pretty little grove of palmettoes.

Many people prefer Fernandina to Jacksonville as being quieter, cooler, and the climate more bracing, and less of a resort for fashionable invalidism. Thesurroundings are lovely, full of romantic strolls and pleasant wandering ways, where you may ramble without fear of getting into a swamp or plunging into a quagmire. One favourite drive, of which people never seem to tire, is through a lovely winding way, something like a Devonshire lane, with stretches of flowering shrubs and tangles of palmetto scrub lifting their shining leaves on either side. This leads to the sea-shore, about two miles distant from the town, where there is a wonderful beach of hard white sand as smooth and level as a ball-room floor. Here you may enjoy an uninterrupted drive for twenty or thirty miles, with the wild woodland country stretching away on the one hand, and the white foam lips of the Atlantic lapping the shore on the other, while the briny breeze comes, laden with a thousand miles of iodine, fanning your cheek and expanding your lungs with its healing, health-giving breath; and, under the exhilarating spell of this invigorating air and glorious sunshine, you feel that “life is indeed worth living,” and have no desire to debate upon the question.

This drive, within such easy access of the town, brings many visitors to Fernandina. Some enjoy the pleasant stroll through the woodland way to the beach; those who are not sufficiently strong or energetic enough to enjoy the luxury of walking, drive there, for, during the season, there are plenty ofcomfortable carriages on hire, and this remarkable sea-shore presents quite a gay and animated appearance.

There are many other attractions in the immediate vicinity of Fernandina, and among them is a pleasant ride to a romantic old fortification, now a picturesque ruin—Fort Clinch, which lies at the northernmost point nearest the Georgia line, and with which many quaint histories are connected; on these I have no time to dwell. No one should leave Fernandina without paying a visit to Dungeness, which is situated on Cumberland Island. A tiny steamer sailing from Fernandina takes you there in about an hour.

Cumberland Island is about eighteen miles long, and averaging a mile in width. The magnificent domain of Dungeness, situated at the southernmost end of the island, occupies about one-third of its total area. It was presented to General Nathaniel Green by the State of Georgia, in acknowledgment of his services to the South.

The original mansion was burnt and totally destroyed during the early part of the civil war, but the grand old ruin still stands firm as a rock with its battlemented walls and tumbling towers; while, instead of crumbling away, the coquina walls seem absolutely to have been so hardened by the action of the fire as to be almost time-defying. Thisproperty has passed from the hands of the Green family, and I am told that the present owner talks of pulling down the ruin and building a modern mansion on the site thereof. Social opinion lifts its voice loudly against such an act of vandalism, but a man has a right to do as he likes with his own; and reverence for the past and love of the picturesque must be inborn, it cannot be ingrafted on a commonplace mind, even though its owner be a millionaire.

The visit of a single day to Dungeness is nothing, you will want to go again and again, and you could occupy your time in no better way. The sail thither across the smooth waters of the Sound, with the green land lying around it, is delightful, and once ashore you feel as though you would never tire of wandering through this enchanted land, which is teeming with unwritten poetry and romance. There are quaint gardens aglow with brilliant flowers, fruit trees and apple orchards, labyrinthine walks through glorious avenues and groves of live oaks and magnolias—a luxuriant growth of tropical green is everywhere. Now with entranced eyes you gaze on some magnificent view of land and water; passing onward through tangled vines and scenes of Arcadian loveliness you come upon a glorious beach, with the sea waves softly rolling to and fro as though they longed to leap up and meander over the forbiddenland. There is plenty of work here for the fishing-rod and gun, but I fancy that the most inveterate lover of either would be disposed to lay aside fishing-rod and gun and lounge in dreamy idleness through this sweet, romantic land, and at the day’s end would be loth to leave it.

At present there are no hotels in Dungeness; people take their luncheon baskets and pic-nic on the ground, but no doubt when the spirit of improvement has swept the ruin away and smoothed the picturesque wrinkles from the face of the dear old island, “accommodation for tourists” will be speedily prepared; the demand creates the supply. Although there is but one strip of railway leading to Jacksonville, and that runs through low-lying swampy land, yet one of the most important lines in Florida, the “Atlantic Gulf and West India Transit Railway,” starts from Fernandina and runs directly across the south-west part of the state to Cedar Keys. The Mallory line of steamers also call at Fernandina on their way to and from Charlestown and Savannah.

Our next point of interest is St. Augustine; in order to get there we have to return to Jacksonville, sleep one night at the hotel, and take the boat the next day for Tocoi, which is twenty-five, perhaps thirty miles, up the St. John’s river; thence we go by train to St. Augustine in about an hour.

It is a lovely morning; earth, air, and sky seemto have joined in a glorious combination to make one perfect day. We take our last ramble through the sweet shady streets of Jacksonville; there is not a creature abroad, only the song birds hold a jubilee as they flit to and fro among the tree tops overhead, and the leaves are rustling gently as though whispering a last “Good-bye” as we pass beneath their cool green shadows.

The steamer is waiting for us at the wharf, and, our luggage having been sent on before, we stroll quietly on board, ascend the wide staircase, and pass through the luxurious saloon, which is as elegantly fitted up as a London drawing-room, with handsome mirrors, painted panels, velvet hangings, sofas, lounges, and light cane rocking-chairs that can easily be carried from one part of the vessel to another. There is one table tastefully laid out for the sale of Indian work; some of it is very beautiful, and well worthy of inspection. The art committee of ladies’ needlework might pick up many a valuable idea therefrom. There is also a stall for the sale of newspapers, magazines, and books. Everything is arranged to make our temporary sojourn pleasant. Some of our fellow-passengers-to-be have deposited themselves in the cosiest nooks—some curled up in easy chairs, some stretched on sofas before the windows where they can enjoy the passing prospect “at ease.” One pretty pale girl, who has evidently been travellingall night, lies covered up fast asleep; another is training a youthful alligator to recognise her voice and follow her about. Some curious specimens of Eastern and Western humanity, and some few of our own countrymen, who seem manufactured expressly for foreign travel—and foreign travel only—are also “on view.” One has already taken possession of the piano, which appears to be suffering from internal dilapidations; he meanders over the keys in an aimless, objectless way, and gets nothing out of them except an occasional squeak or series of scaley groans, as though the torture is more than they can bear. A young fellow comes along, followed by a poodle dog walking decorously on its hind legs, and carrying a valise in its mouth with a solemnity suited to the occasion. However, as soon as it is released from its responsibilities its natural spirit comes out; it runs round and round after its own tail, and finding it can’t catch it leaves off like a sensible human being (when human beings are sensible and leave off hunting the impossible); but as he (foritis a he) “has got no work to do,” he resolves to enjoy himself to the best of his canine fashion. He makes short runs after everybody’s skirts or pantaloons, trots away with an old lady’s basket, drops it, springs up and tumbles down, yelping and barking with delight. When he is tired he leaves off, lies down, lolling out his tongueas though he wanted it to be examined by a doctor, and pants as though his heart was trying to break through his ribs. One crusty old gentleman with weak nerves starts a theory that the dog is mad. Some take the alarm, and the poor brute is cuffed and hunted from under tables and chairs and sofas and at last is inveigled out upon the deck under false pretences—deluded by the idea of “rats”—and is tied to a rail, where he remains a prisoner till our journey’s end. We carry out a couple of rocking-chairs and keep him company, cheering him with a kind word and occasional pat, which he perfectly understands, and in his mute, pathetic way shows us that he quite appreciates our sympathy. Meanwhile the bell has rung, and we are cast off from the shore and started on our brief water trip. The river stretches its slow length lazily before and behind us in a state of dreamy calm, as though it wanted to lie still and enjoy one brief, undisturbed holiday; it has no freight ships to bear on its breast to-day, and resents the intrusion of our pleasure steamer; it turns its tide away and will give us no help whatever, but runs after us now and then in light, foamy flashes as our paddle-wheel irritates it into action.

This delightful water drive from Jacksonville to Tocoi is not perhaps the most picturesque portionof the St. John’s river, yet is full of interest and has many points of attraction for strangers. We glide between low-lying shores fringed with branching reeds and waving grasses, closed in the distance by serried ranks of fine old forest trees and stretches of evergreen shrubs; it is full of primitive simplicity, peace, and delicious quietude. We feel at peace with ourselves and all the world as we glide along this placid river, its tranquil surface only broken by the reflection of the floating clouds above it, which are mirrored therein as in a looking-glass; here and there we pass a tiny vessel with white sails set and the stars and stripes fluttering from its masthead. Presently we come to Orange Park, a neat little village wreathed with beautiful gardens and sentinelled by fine old forest trees, which stand in rank and file along the water’s edge. There is a fine hotel here standing a short distance from, but in full view of, the river, for the accommodation of winter visitors, to whom it furnishes most comfortable quarters.

There are lovely spots to delight the eye and stir the imagination of the passing summer tourist all along these low-lying lands, but there is not one wherein, if he is wise, he will linger beyond the passing day, unless he is prepared to order his funeral beforehand. During the winter there are no more delightful residences than here by this river side;we pass by one that looks like a bit of paradise cut out and laid down upon these smiling shores, with its tangle of trees and vines, and wild fruits and flowers, and birds of bright plumage flitting to and fro. But woe be to him who in summer is tempted to linger here; it is as the beauty of the fair frail charmer, blooming and dimpling with smiles in the sunlight, but when the night comes breathing disease and death. Most of these attractive places are deserted as the hot weather sweeps on, except by those whom necessity compels to face the evils from which they cannot fly; some get acclimatised, but all suffer more or less from the damp dews and fevers. But the time for these malarial fiends to walk abroad has not come yet; we are still in the full swing of the healthful weather—of bright sunshine and sweet, fresh breezes.

Presently our attention is directed to Mandarin, a village made up of orange groves and fruit orchards. Some distance off, on the elevated land of the east shore, and plainly visible through its luxuriant leafy surroundings, stands the beautiful home of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe; it is built like a Swiss chalet, with wide verandahs covered with climbing plants running round it. Some few miles farther up we pass Magnolia, another settlement of much the same description. Next we cometo Green Cove Springs, a winter resort of some importance, which is largely patronised by healthy-minded invalids.

There are two fine, well-appointed hotels there, wide shady lanes leading straight up from the river wherein some pretty cottage homes are nestling, though these, like the rest, are left to run to seed when the earth is at its loveliest, and the June roses begin to bloom.

The springs from which this place takes its name are situated in the centre of the town and in close proximity to the hotel. The water is clear and sparkling, and is used for bathing as well as for drinking purposes; it is classed among the healthiest of the sulphur springs. We pass more orange groves, the trees partly stripped of their golden fruit, for the gatherers are hard at work, and the oranges are lying in heaps upon the ground like mounds of yellow cannon balls. One or two scattered villages and we reach Tocoi, when we take the cars for St. Augustine.

Tocoi is nothing but a rough wooden shed dignified by the name of a railway station, where tourists, when they have landed from the boat, may find temporary shelter from the sun’s burning rays while they wait—and they always have to wait—for the train to carry them on; as there is only one narrowline of rail and one train passing to and fro this waiting process is sometimes trying to the patience. There are not more than half-a-dozen of us landed from the steamer, and having seen us safely off her deck she gives a little shriek of delight, as though glad to be rid of us, and puffs on her way again. We glance round upon our somewhat dingy, dirty surroundings, then along the line for our train. There are no signs of it; there is nothing in sight but a miserable shanty in the last stages of dilapidation. Outside, in the tumble-down porch, a coloured woman with a gaudy handkerchief tied round her head is busy at the washtub, while her dusky brood are tumbling about with a colony of fat pigs and long-legged Cochin-Chinas. We seat ourselves on a hamper under the eaves of the shed—it is close and fusty inside—and wait.

Presently a train that does not seem much larger than a child’s plaything comes puffing slowly along as much as to say, “I’m coming! I’m coming! Don’t be in a hurry.”

We enter a miniature car, wherein we sit three abreast; our Liliputian engine gives a series of asthmatic gasps, as though it had hardly strength to carry itself along, and objected to its living freight, but it is presently lashed by its fire fiend into obedience, and sets off with a jerk.

Our road lies through the densest of dense jungles, a wild and seemingly impenetrable forest, whose tangle of palms, cypresses and oaks, all entwisted with heavy Spanish moss,

“Lets not one sunshaft shoot between!”

After a delightful drive of about an hour and a half our little toy train rings a tinkling bell, and we slacken our already slack pace into the shed dignified by the name of the St. Augustine depot.

St. Augustine.—A land of the long ago.—A chat with a Spanish antiquity.—Quaint streets.—City gate.—Fort Marion.—The old Slave Market.—The monuments.—The Plaza.—Cathedral and Convent.

Anothermorning breaks, a worthy successor to the last; it seems made up of some heavenly alchemy—a tissue of golden glory and shimmer of silver sheen.

Over the silent sea and yet more silent land a supreme stillness reigns, unbroken by the rustle of leaves or whirr of the invisible insect world. The great sun hangs like a ball of fire in the pale skies, and fills the land with dazzling light. The green earth, with all her wealth of fruit and flowers in her lap, seems wrapt in a sweet languor, as though she had fallen asleep and was smiling in her dreams; while her giant sons of the forest and straggling children of the plains lift their leafy fingers to their lips, and whisper to the wandering wind, “Hush! she is weary, let her rest,” and the red roses and white lilies nod their heads drowsily and sleep with her.The very dogs doze dreamily in the sun; they don’t seem to have a good honest bark, or vigorous wag of the tail, left in them. Life, the busy bustling nineteenth-century life we know of, exists not here. We feel as though we had gone to sleep in the world of to-day and been carried away in our dreams, and woke up in an ancient city of two hundred years ago.

This dear, romantic St. Augustine! It is not grim with age, nor grey and hoary with the rust of time. It is like an old-fashioned beauty who has been lying in state through these long years, pranked in all her finery of feathers, furbelows, paint, powder, and patches, and now wakes up and walks and talks with us in the quaint stilted phraseology of old days. Never was change of time and place so sudden, so strangely felt, as the transition from brilliant Jacksonville and pretty pleasant Fernandina to this quiet, quaint old-world city, wherein the dignity and simple grace of the Spanish cavaliers who first conquered, settled and peopled it, seems still to linger; we can almost fancy we see their shadowy forms stoop their plumed heads as they pass in and out of their ancient homes, with gilt spurs jangling and swords clanging at their heels. We are steeped to the lips in the spirit of the middle ages all round us, and everywhere we recognise the features and individualities of days dead and gone.

The hotels, built expressly for the service of the travelling world, are the only touches of modern life we find herein—no other thing of modern birth dares lift its head in St. Augustine. As a rule the inhabitants seem made to match the place—indeed, they are a part of it. Many are the descendants of the early settlers, and they and their fathers before them have lived there all their days, and still occupy the ancient dwellings of their race.

Passing by one of these old Coquina homes I saw an old Spaniard sitting in the porch smoking his pipe, while his granddaughter, a bright-eyed brunette, sat rocking her baby by his side, while an immense fuschia tree in full bloom shook out its crimson flowers above them. I stopped to inquire the way to the “city gate.” He rose up, tall, straight, erect to his full height, over six feet, doffed his cap, and with the stately courtesy of his race came down, leaned over the fence, and directed us on our way, adding:—

“You’re strangers, I think? A good many come here nowadays.”

We were in no hurry to go on; seeing he was conversationally inclined, we gratified him, and ourselves likewise; we lingered for a pleasant chat—one gains so much in these wayside gatherings. He volunteered some bits of interesting information about the place, about his family, and about himself.I made some touristical observation about the appearance of the city and its salubrious situation, and inquired how long he had lived there.

“I was born with the century,” he said, “and I was born here in this very house I live in.”

“Why, you don’t look like eighty years of age,” I remark.

“No, nor I don’t feel like it, lady,” he answered; “but I’m in my eighty-second year, and I feel hale and strong yet. I’ve lived through some troublous times, too; it hasn’t always been fair weather here in St. Augustine.”

Seeing we were interested in anything concerning St. Augustine, and anxious to glean any scraps of information, he opened the gate and invited us to “walk in” and rest. As we were scarcely a hundred yards from our hotel we did not want to “rest,” but we walked in nevertheless and sat down in the porch and prepared for a gossip; it was easy to lead him to talk of the old days, he seemed to enjoy fighting his battle of life over again.

“Yes, I’ve seen a good many changes,” he said, warming to his work. “Few men have lived a life out on one spot and seen so much—so many revolutions, things, thoughts, governments and people changing, but the place remaining just the same; there’s been no pulling down old landmarks in St. Augustine, and the wear and tear of time isn’t[Pg 163 much. You see the city is all built of coquina, and that is stronger than stone—the older it is the harder it becomes. Yes, I’ve seen the British flag flying from the old fort, the Spanish banner flying; now we are under the eagle’s wing, and the stars and stripes are fluttering over us.”

“I suppose you would as soon live under one rule as another?” I venture to say.

“Provided they rule well, yes; and we’ve nothing to complain of now; the laws are easy, and we are left to live and work in peace, though up to the last few years we’ve been liable to hostile incursions of the Indians. Why, I’ve seen them swarm over the bastions yonder, and come swooping and yelling through the streets, filling the air with their hideous war-cry—such scenes, dear ladies, as I dare not tell you of; now we are under the American flag, and, the Blessed Lord be thanked, we are at peace.”

He took us through his orchard at the back of the house, and on to a small orange grove of about an acre, which he proudly informed us he managed all himself. We gathered and ate some oranges—deliciously cool and refreshing they were; he apologised for their size and scarcity, as the trees had been stripped of their finest fruit some weeks ago.

As yet we had only caught a general view of St. Augustine, and we hurried on to make acquaintance with its special features. The streets arenarrow and crooked, varying from ten to twenty feet wide, the houses having verandahs or balconies jutting out overhead so close together that the ladies thereon can almost shake hands across from one side of the road to the other. There are no regular pavements or sidewalks, and the roads are laid with broken oyster or mussel shells. The houses are mostly built of a kind of compressed shell-stone called “coquina,” which is quarried from the island of Anastasia, that lies about a mile across the harbour and separates St. Augustine from the Atlantic Ocean. This is the oldest European settlement in America, and was so settled long before the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. The most picturesque and romantic of all the quaint old streets is George Street, with its curious houses and hanging balconies clinging along the fronts thereof, and are generally covered with climbing plants. The white coquina walls rise straight and bare direct from the roadway; the windows are small and closely curtained, as though the old Spanish dons still jealously guarded their hidden beauties from the sight of man. There is an air of great seclusion everywhere—we might be wandering through an oriental city; but we know that behind these bare walls there are blooming gardens of oleander, magnolia, orange and lemon trees; occasionally we get a glimpse of some rich striped lily or glowing passion-flower nodding over the wall.

Mr. Lorillard has a beautiful villa here—a touch of to-day in the land of the yesterdays. It is of quaint though modern architecture, and is full of gabled ends and corners. The smooth-shaven lawn and flower gardens are simply railed in and in full view of the passer by. Whichever way you turn you catch a breath of poetry and romance; a scent of the days gone by clings round the ancient homes and pervades the air, having a subtle effect upon our spirits. We fancy we hear the clang of arms, and the long-silent voices ringing in the air, and shadowy forms are gliding beside us, haunting the old scenes where they walked and talked so many centuries ago.

At the top of St. George Street stands the ancient city gate, which once formed part of the old stone wall which, running from shore to shore, protected the city from hostile incursions. The greater part of the wall has long since disappeared, but a rude, rugged, moss-covered mass clings around, as though it helped to support, the tall ornamental towers which once rose up on each side of the city gate, and which still stand massive and strong, like sentinels who will not be beaten from their post, though a great gap yawns where the gate has fallen from its rusty hinges. Coming through St. George Street we look straight through to the wide stretches of country beyond. The sentry boxes scooped out of the solidwall are there still, exactly as when the last guard stepped from them in obedience to the bugle call, when the sun had set and the sentry was relieved. This is, perhaps, the most ancient and certainly the most picturesque ruin in this portion of the country.

Passing between the still stately towers we come in full view of Fort Marion, one of the most attractive features of St. Augustine. It was commenced in the year 1592, but was not completed till the year 1756. It is a remarkable, fine, and imposing structure—grand, grey, and massive, standing on a gently rising hill outside the town, and lifting its gloomy front towards the sea. No ruin is Fort Marion, but perfect in all its parts, stamped only with the desolation and dreariness which must brood over any place that is deserted and unused for a certain number of years.

The labour of construction is said to have been wholly performed by negro slaves and prisoners of war. The moat is now dried up and overgrown with grass and rank weeds, but there are the drawbridges, the massive arched entrance, the barbican, the dark passages, frowning bastions, and mysterious dungeons. A whiskered sergeant—a remnant of military glory—has charge of the fort, and lives in a pretty, rose-covered cottage outside. In company with several other tourists we explored the curiosities of the old fort. One large dingy stone chamber, with vaulted roofand damp floor, like a gigantic cellar, was occupied by the townspeople, who came flocking to the fort for shelter some few years ago when the place was threatened by an irregular army of piratical marauders; the ashen embers where they baked their last loaf of bread still lie upon the iron plate, and the empty oven yawns hungrily open. This apartment, itself but dimly lightly, leads into a huge, dark dungeon, black as Erebus; butthe“dark dungeon”par excellencelies beyond, and to this treat-in-store we proceed. Chill, black, and dismal as the grave, is this partly-underground dungeon, where in 1835 two skeletons were found chained to the wall—victims, no doubt, to some cruel Spanish inquisition. We stand shivering in its chilly blackness while our guide gives us fragmentary sketches of the history of the fort. The last prisoners confined here were a number of refractory Indians, stirrers-up of trouble, horse-thieves, and general marauders, who were sent thither by the order of United States Government in 1874, but were released in 1878. In no cruel dungeon like this “dark cell,” however, were these “braves” confined. A large, casemented chamber was prepared for their reception, they were taken out in squads for exercise, and under proper surveillance were even allowed to bathe. They have left their sign-manual upon the walls—specimens of Indian art in the shape of sundrysprawly sketches of man and beast. For, as it is well known, the Indians are fond of drawing, and will draw on anything and with any kind of material that will make a mark. They will even exchange a surplus squaw for a few pencils or paint brushes. Crude and out of all proportions as their productions are, they illustrate the minds and peculiar proclivities of the people. An Indian never represents himself as standing, dancing, or walking; he is always on horseback, and always fighting against fabulous numbers, and always a conqueror, riding victorious over a score of prostrate foes. We pass through an antique chapel, whence the worshippers have fled “into the silent land” and left it deserted except for the ghostly echo which rises up and follows us as we pass through. We peep through dusky passages, ramble up and down crumbling stone stairs, cross the barbican, pass many worm-eaten oaken doors which, we are told, “lead nowhere in particular,” and presently emerge upon the grassy, battlemented slopes of the old fortification and look out across the bay, over the island of Anastasia, to the sea beyond. After wandering for a brief period through these gloomy precincts, and inhaling the damp, imprisoned air of the dungeons, it is pleasant to stand in the sunlight and breathe the fresh air of heaven again. We promenade the battlements and look down upon the lovely fort with barbicans and towers, esplanades,drawbridges, and grass-grown moat spread out before and around us. Lifting the eyes and gazing further off we have a magnificent land and sea view, with the quaint old city with its lovely gardens grouped at our feet.

We meet many other promenaders who, like ourselves, appreciate the glorious view, except in some cases when the view is bounded by a sun-bonnet on one side and a wide sombrero, shading a bearded masculine face, upon the other. There was Darby enjoying the evening air, with his fat wife Joan trudging by his side; and here was a tall young lady of Amazonian deportment solemnly parading side by side with her latest conquest—a small, meek young man, who had evidently no strength to resist capture and could not close his ears to the voice of the charmer. He wore spectacles and a blue necktie, reminding one somewhat of a pet sheep being led by a blue ribbon; one half expected to hear him reply with a soft “Baa—aa” to the tender tones of his ladylove. Now in turning a shady corner we come upon a pair of time-honoured flirts, who had left their youth a long way behind them, and are now shooting their blunt little arrows at one another, both well practised, and evidently little damage is done on either side.

Descending presently from our vantage ground, we turn our backs upon the romantic old fort, lookingso grey and lonesome in the sunlight; its glories have passed away, and its peaceful solitudes have become the haunt of tourists and travellers; the green lizards swarm in its sunny corners, and men and women linger through long summer evenings in its shady nooks, and make love beneath its frowning battlements. We pass along the sea wall, which is of coquina, like most of the buildings here, and is about a mile long, forming a magnificent promenade; it is elevated above the roadway, and being only two feet wide it gives no encouragement to the “gay and festive throng” or social gathering on moonlit evenings. People generally march in single file and take the air in a solemn business-like fashion, though occasionally a pair of young, slim creatures cling together and walk side by side, by no means inclined to carp at the narrowness of the wall, which compels one arm to slide round the other waist, and with a kind of forced pressure to “hold on” to save the other from falling. On one side is the water, still as a lake, yet indescribably seeming to breathe the “salt sweet fragrance” of the vast Atlantic beyond.

The pretty vessels of the yachting club, with white sails fluttering, are curtseying to their own shadows on its surface. On the other side, about three feet below the sea wall, is a wide, smooth, shell road, where you may enjoy a delightful drive or promenadeau cheval; here and there are stone steps leadingup to the wall, so that you are not obliged to march along its whole length, or leap down at the risk of breaking your neck. Fronting the water on the other side of the road is Bay Street, the principal business thoroughfare of the city, where there are some excellent shops, and queer old houses which take boarders all the year round, for the winter cold, or summer heat, is never excessive in St. Augustine; it is one of the few Floridian resorts which is pleasant at all seasons. The temperature, calculated by a study of the thermometer for the last ten years, is for summer about 80 Fahrenheit; autumn, 70 to 75; winter, 58 to 60—a most delightful temperature, especially as there is generally a soft balmy east wind blowing, though occasionally in the winter time a wild north-easter, in its fiercest mood, sweeps over the Atlantic, and wreaks its vengeance on St. Augustine and the surrounding coast. People are inclined to smash the thermometer which dares to register only sixty when this cruel wind is biting them through!

At the other end of the sea wall, opposite the fort, are the United States Barracks, jutting out at the water side; there is generally a regiment stationed here, when the band plays every day at five o’clock during the season. Although this quaint dreamy old city is but a small place, there is much of interest to be seen here.

There is the “Plaza de la Constitution,” where thegood Christians burnt their brethren a century ago; it is a large square, laid out with grass plots, and flower beds, with paths cut through, leading from one side of the Plaza to the other. In the centre stands the curious old market-place, roofed in at the top, but open on all sides; this was the ancient slave mart, where “God’s image, carved in ebony,” was bought and sold in most ungodly fashion; there is the place where they stood, ranged in rows like cattle in a pen, so that their purchasers might walk to and fro examining them from all points to see that they had their money’s worth. They sit there now, these selfsame slaves of the old days, with bright kerchiefs round their heads, surrounded by fruits and flowers, buying and selling on their own account, laughing, chaffing, bargaining with one another with the easy air that freedom gives. Close by is the graceful monument erected by the ladies of St. Augustine to the Confederate dead, whose names are carved upon the shaft. No matter how impoverished the land may have been, how ruined the people, in every Southern city, small or great, they have found money enough to erect a monument,—some most costly, some poetic, and all more or less artistic, to those who—

“Fell while wearing the grey for them!”

There is another monument, somewhat weather-beaten, erected by the Spaniards to commemorate theadoption of the Spanish institutions in 1812. Then there is the grey old rookery of a convent, where the withered old sisters sit for ever making lace—wondrous fine lace it is, and produced in such large quantities we wonder who buys it all. Fronting on the Plaza, also, is the old cathedral, with its quaint Moorish belfry, and still more quaint and ancient peal of bells, one of which bears the stamp of 1682. It is not much regarded from an architectural point of view, its antiquity is everything. Partly facing the Plaza, and partly facing the sea breezes, stands the St. Augustine Hotel. We preferred the “Magnolia,” though its position is perhaps not so good; it stands in the centre of that queer crooked St. George Street, and is as pretty and picturesque as, considering its name, it ought to be, with odd turns and angles, verandahs clinging everywhere covered with blooming flowers, and beautiful magnolias and banana trees in the delicious straggly old garden. The magnolias are not yet in bloom, but from their nest of leafy buds we catch a glimpse of the creamy flower, and the long purplish crimson leaves of the banana still shields the golden fruit from too quick maturity. The oleander is already covered with its luxuriance of crimson, pearly pink, and waxen white bloom, and the Japan plum tree laden with juicy fruit.

Stepping out on the verandah in the early morning we find everybody sucking oranges in the mostsolemn business-like fashion. The gentlemen go at it with a will, and generally work through a whole basketful of the golden fruit; they make a hole at one end and suck with inflated cheeks, like a bevy of ancient cherubs blowing a trumpet, and suck in sweet silence, seemingly oblivious of all that is passing round them as they take their morning dose of this delicious nectar. Some of the ladies peel them with white slim fingers, and extract the juice as daintily as the bee extracts honey from the flower; some of the uncompromising feminine family, “who have no nonsense about them,” pull the orange to pieces, mangle its delicate tissues, and disembowel it with ruthless teeth. Some work as though they were sucking for a wager, and others go through their heap with slow solemn enjoyment. Those who have not eaten a fresh gathered orange in Florida don’t know what an orange is.

All round in the neighbourhood of St. Augustine are lovely orange groves, and long avenues with cedar hedges, and grand old mulberry trees with gnarled and knotted trunks, and heavy branches, that look as antiquated as the city itself. Being desirous of entering into, and spending a little time in the inspection of some one of the many noted orange groves, we were directed to one owned by a prominent citizen, who would, we were assured, “make us right welcome;” and armed with cards of introductionwe took our way to his residence. Passing along a magnificent avenue of stately trees, which bordered his extensive grounds, and closed above our heads shutting the sunlight out, we came to the large iron entrance gate. There was a bell, and we rang it, but nobody answered it except a large white cat, who emerged from a shrubbery, and rubbed against the gate purring and arching her back ingratiatingly as if inviting us to enter. Finding no response except this feline welcome, we pushed open the gate and walked up to the house, the cat purring a congratulatory purr at our heels as if she was very glad indeed that we had come. We ascended the “stoop” (Anglicè, door steps), and rang the hall-door bell. No answer. We amused ourselves ringing at intervals; and when we were tired of tinkling the bell, which seemed to wake sepulchral echoes, we started on a tour of inspection around the house. It seemed as dead asleep as the Sleeping Beauty; its eyes were all shut, the sun-blinds all rigorously closed. There were seats on the piazza, and we rested for a while in the fragrant shadow of a great apoppinac tree, whose showers of dainty yellow blossoms fell like an odorous golden rain upon the grass, while the fairy flowers of the azalea, light as drifted snow-flakes, stirred as if breathing soft mysteries in the whispering balmy breeze. Meanwhile the cat jumped up on my lap and went to sleep, until we startedafresh on an exploration of the grounds; then our feline friend escorted us, her comfortable and contented purr allaying the apprehensions of ferocious mastiffs which invariably beset us in strange quarters, though our secondary dread of steel man-traps, set for more harmful intruders than ourselves, kept us cautiously within the boundaries of the gravel walks.

We found tool-sheds, arbours, bowers, stables, chicken-houses, dog-kennels and cottages, but not a sign of life except a portly hen and a brood of chickens, who fled to their coop at sight of our soft snowflake of an escort, whose emerald eyes dilated, and affectionate purring ceased at sight of them. Having explored the more domestic portion of the grounds, and still finding nobody to show us through the orange plantation, we proceeded to show ourselves through it. Is there a tree, I wonder, more beautiful than the orange, with its shining foliage of dark and glossy green, its scented snow of blossoms, its red-gold globes of fruit! Here in St. Augustine, although too late in the season for the fullest beauty of the groves—the gathering being almost over—we still found here and there the flower and the fruit growing amicably together on sister boughs. We came upon one glorious tree, its graceful branches bending under the rich burthen of its fruit of fiery gold, glowing in that southern sunshine. We reached down a laden bough, and trespassed on the taken-for-grantedhospitality of our unknown and unknowing host to the extent of an orange apiece.

Long had we yearned to taste an orange plucked fresh from the tree! Often had we anticipated the unrivalled freshness of the gushing juice of the fruit yet warm to the heart with sunshine, and exhaling still the fragrance of the dews of morning! Now we had got our oranges, “fresh from the tree—dew, sunshine, &c., &c.,” at last. We tasted the long-anticipated delicacy. Ugh! our dainty morsel turned out to be the bitter rind, the biting acrid juice, of that species known as the “sour orange”! What an excellent moral might have been deduced from this Dead Sea fruit of our desires! It was a sermon in a bite! But, unfortunately, there was nobody to whom to preach it, except the cat. We threw our oranges far, far away, sadder and wiser women. But the daughters of Eve are incorrigible, and, anon, we built our dreams again around a “fresh mango,” and were again disillusioned. Yet unconvinced by many disenchantments, we still go on through life seeking our mango or our orange, “fresh from the tree.”

But that afternoon’s peregrination is still one of our pleasantest memories of St. Augustine.

There are plenty of amusements and resorts in and around this quaint, mediæval-looking old place to entertain the tourist, when he has sufficiently takeninto himself the aspect of this bit of the middle ages dropped down in the modern day of the bright New World.

When you have seen all that St. Augustine itself has to show you, you may, with much profit and interest, extend your wandering, and cross over to inspect the coquina quarries and the fine lighthouse on St. Anastasia’s Island, when the solitary keepers will, perhaps, tell you some stirring incidents of their lonely lives; or you may sail down to the wonderful sulphur spring, which boils up from the ocean—its pale blue sulphurous water forcing its way through a hundred and forty feet of the salt sea waves. The current is at times so strong (for the spring is intermittent), that a short time ago one of the coast survey steamers was floated over the “boil” of it!

There is another delightful excursion passing through the city gate, over a smooth, pleasant road, till you turn off to San Sebastian Beach, which forms a pleasant drive for many miles, when you may see the ruins of some old palisades, which at one time connected Fort Monsa with a stockade at San Sebastian. The excursion need only occupy a few hours; unless you choose to linger by the way, you may return to St. Augustine in time for dinner.

There are plenty of occupations wherewith gentlemen may beguile the pleasant hours. They can indulge in shooting and fishing expeditions on thebanks of the Matanzas river, and shoot their own game, catch their own fish, and cook their own dinners. It is not an uncommon thing for ladies to join in these excursions. They enjoy playing at “being gipsies” for a season; they soon tire of it.

On one balmy morning early we turn our backs upon the sweet-scented old-world city, and take the little fussy, jog-trot train back to Tocoi, carrying with us a host of pleasant memories of this delicious, dreamy, romantic St. Augustine.

Back to Index Next