CHAPTER XXIV.

Soft the shadows slowly creepingThrough thy dim and spectral pines;Pure thy lakelets, calmly sleeping,Save a few light rippling lines,When the water-lilies move,And fairies chant their early love.

AFTER leaving the St. John’s River and traveling westward, we approach what is called Middle Florida, fanned by the gulf breezes, and protected from the northern blasts with heavily-timbered lands. The first town of importance through which we pass is Lake City, fifty-four miles from Jacksonville, this being the county-site of Columbia. This city was named from the beautiful sheets of water by which it is surrounded, where naiads and fairies could come to dwell, and lovers do resort to whisper. These lakes are distinguished by the names of De Soto, Isabella, Hamburg, and Indian. The waters abound in fish, while alligators are daily seen, plunging about in them, as happy persons are rowing in light canoes upon their smooth surfaces. The population numbers about two thousand. It has eight churches of various denominations, a creditable court-house, and three hotels—the Thrasher House being the most agreeable and roomy in every respect.A weekly paper is published here. It is also the terminus of the submarine telegraph, and contains an “old probability” office. The citizens are refined, intelligent, and friendly toward strangers.

The architectural style of dwellings in Lake City are more truly Southern summer-residences than any other city in the State. They are built up from the ground, with a wide passage separating the two apartments—the floors being made of pine plank, which the combined efforts of woolly artisans with shucks and sand manage to keep invitingly clean. This style of structure, to an artistic taste accustomed to the modern cottages, dormer-windows, and pigeon-like apartments, covered with slate-roofing, thus converting the upper story into a fiery furnace after a hot day, suggests a kind of rudeness, characteristic of the locality, which is quite the reverse: like the whispering gallery, they are made to catch the slightest agitation in the atmosphere, it being duplicated, within this long receptacle, into a most grateful breeze. However, here, as in other tropical climes, it is observable at noon, each day, that the softest winds are lulled to rest, when a general stagnation steals over every thing, from the house-dog to the tallest pine, with its green plumes kissing the midday sunbeams; but after the day commences to decline, a breeze springs up, which enables us to appreciate its presence and survive better during its absence. The soil in the vicinity is fertile—thus enabling the inhabitants to engage largely in the culture of early vegetables and strawberries, which are shipped North. Oranges weighinga pound are not uncommon. Many invalids find the atmosphere of Middle Florida exceedingly conducive to their comfort, as the temperature is less variable than many other points in the State, and for this reason fine for asthmatics, who say they can sleep all night here, while in most other places day dawns with no perceptible transition into a somnambulic state. The strong scent of resin from the pineries, after we leave Lake City, is quite perceptible, it being a fine lotion for weak lungs. Malaria visits some portions of Middle Florida, where, anterior to the recent immigration, it was almost unknown. This has been the history of all newly-settled countries—the decomposition of much vegetable matter producing chills and fever.

West of the Suwanee is usually designated as Middle Florida, it formerly being more densely populated than now, evidence of which is furnished us from the ruins of buildings. For many years a jealousy existed between the settlers of East and Middle Florida, in regard to their landed estates. The commissioners in East Florida were more interested in selling than settling the country—the lands in Middle Florida being considered superior for agricultural purposes, and the titles good, which is more than can be said of all the East Florida lands even now.

Some have looked upon this portion of the State as a kind of lottery, the value of which would be realized after the drawing had occurred, while there are those who come to stay, and when they find the visionary ideal dream in which they have indulgedis not realized to its fullest extent, then they are ready to say, “We have been inveigled here.” These should remember, “There is no spot which combines every desirable characteristic, with the absence of all that is undesirable. It not unfrequently occurs in life, when unhappy spirits, chained in diseased bodies, which cause them to settle into a sullen melancholy, whose presence would discolor the face of all nature, and tinge with a sickly hue the flowers of paradise, or the glories of the eternal throne.”

After leaving Lake City, the next town of note before Tallahassee is Monticello, one hundred and thirty-eight miles from Jacksonville, situated at the terminus of the Monticello Branch Road, four miles distant from the main line. It is the county-site of Jefferson, surrounded by fertile farming-lands, this being the head-center of traffic for a large extent of country. A population of not quite two thousand inhabitants reside here, with every appearance of content. Good churches of various creeds are well attended when open for service. The former wealth of this county cannot fail to impress visitors who happen here on Saturday, when great numbers of freedmen, formerly owned in this locality, from habit leave their work and come to town for a holiday. They go marching about the streets orderly as a procession, or file into the stores until there is scarcely standing-room, getting on very quietly until late in the day, when some of them, while under the influence of badly-adulterated whisky, become noisy and obstreperous—thus ending their day’s frolic in the lock-up. A good hotel is kept here, where bountiful tables, well patronized by appreciative guests, daily attest its merits.

MIDDLE FLORIDA MUSICIANS!MIDDLE FLORIDA MUSICIANS!

After sunset the frogs will be found the most demonstrative inhabitants, at times, on the route to Tallahassee, which, strange as it may seem, almost drown the car-whistle with their croakings—thus reminding us that happiness, with some creatures, is not yet extinct in the world. Probably no place can furnish a greater variety of frogs belonging to the same genera, among which we find the bell-frog, speckled frog, green frog, some of them being nine inches in length, measuring from the tip of the nose to the terminus of the hind-foot toe, which amphibious quadruped, when full grown, will weigh over a pound. The bell-frog is supposed to have been named from the voice, which is fancied to be exactly like a loud cow-bell. The following statementfrom a naturalist on frogs will give us an idea of his impressions: “The bell-frogs being very numerous, and uttering their voices in companies, or by large districts, when one begins another answers—thus the sound is caught and repeated from one to another a great distance, causing a surprising noise for a few minutes, rising and sinking with the winds, then nearly dying away, or is softly kept up by distant districts—thus the noise is repeated continually, and as one becomes familiarized to it, the sound is not unmusical, though at first, to strangers, it seems clamorous and disgusting.” Englishmen sent them home, more than a century since, as Florida curiosities. The following is taken from the record of one’s arrival: “The pretty frog came safe and well, being now very brisk. Some more of these innocent creatures would not be amiss. But pray send no more mud-turtles—one is enough. The water-turtle is a pretty species—came very well.” Here is what Bartram wrote about our dirt-daubers, which build their nests in the crevices and corners of every neglected tenement: “I have sent you a variety of the clay cells which the singing wasps built last summer, that I consider very curious.” All tourists have made Florida a point of scientific research, in various ways, for many years.

Far in ether, stars above theeEver beam with purest light;Birds of richest music love thee,Flowers than Eden’s hues more bright;And love, young love, so fresh and fair,Fills with his breath thy gentle air.

Tallahassee cannot be pointed out as the place where great literary works first saw the light—such as the Commentaries of Cæsar, or where Cicero rounded his periods, or Horace gave the last polish to his Odes, or Milton conceived the grand idea of his Paradise Lost; but from its choice shrubbery the golden oriole trills its melody, and the mocking-bird warbles in the sky and on the house-tops, or fills the air with song from neighboring trees at night.

De Soto, after discovering Espiritu Santo Bay in 1539, came through the country to an Indian village called Auhayca, now the site of Tallahassee—the name signifying “old field “—where, with his army, he spent the winter. While here he secured the services of an Indian guide, who proved to be “a most elaborate liar on various occasions,” in regard to gold-mines which only existed in his imagination. The Spanish soldiers accompanying De Soto were encased with armor, which creates a wonder in the minds of all who have seen it, how they were able to march through a country offering so many obstacles, with such an immense weight on their bodies. One winter’s sojourn in this locality was sufficient to satisfy De Soto that no treasures could be discovered hidden away in the hills around Tallahassee; consequently, the following spring he left.

Tallahassee is situated in the center of the State. The first house erected after the cession of Florida to the United States was in 1824, the Legislature convening there the following winter. In 1825 it became an incorporated town. In January, 1826, the corner-stone of the State-house was laid, and onewing of the building erected during the year. The growth of this town, after its incorporation, equaled any in America. It was situated on an eminence which commanded a fine view of the surrounding country, with picturesque scenery, and on a stream of water fed by bold springs. The State Governor speaks of its early American settlement as a place “where the emigrants crowded, the rising walls of the capitol being the attraction”—“the woods yielding their shade to the saw, and their silence to the hammer”—the vicinity rapidly changing from native forest-land to well-cultured fields.

On account of being situated twenty miles from the Gulf, the prospect of its ever becoming an important commercial point for business was not anticipated. The surface of the country around Tallahassee changes from the flat lands of Florida to an elevated and undulating country, and from sand to red clay. A gentleman-passenger who had retired to sleep during the night where the land was level, on awaking in the morning, and noticing the change in the surface of the country, called out to the conductor, “Look here, boss! haven’t you got this machine turned around, and taking us back into Georgia?”

Persons perusing the following will be enabled to see the material of which Governors’ messages were made, in the Executive Department, during the Indian war in Florida:

“Tallahassee, February, 1840.—Since you have been in session a number of our people—among them a woman and children—have literally beenbutchered by the Indians, many of whom occupy the swamps and other fastnesses of Florida, from the Appalachicola to the Suwanee, while in East Florida the murder of the mail-carriers within a few miles of St. Augustine, proves how unavailing has been every effort to restrain the enemy in that quarter. Indeed, it would seem that the cruelties of these wild beasts—for so they deserve to be regarded, and their thirst for blood places them beyond the pale of humanity—are becoming more and more audacious, their deeds of horror rather accumulating than diminishing. They venture to assail houses, and appear in our public roads in the open day; they press beyond military posts to perpetrate their murderous purposes, starting up like evil spirits when least expected to appear, destroying the brave, virtuous, and innocent. Their numbers can only be conjectured: it is not doubted that some sent to the West have returned; but be the number great or small, every thicket and deep forest is liable to be occupied by them; they elude pursuit; driving them from one place to another is impracticable, as within the past year they have planted near military posts. Our situation is desperate; men sleep with arms under their pillows; a sense of insecurity accompanies the traveler in his journey on the highway; every neighborhood has its tale of blood, and those in authority look around them in pain and distress, because they are powerless to afford an adequate remedy for the evils thronging around them in every direction. This is no exaggerated picture of our present condition.Romance lags for behind the realities we daily witness, and it becomes our duty to consider what shall be done for the relief of the country. No occasion has yet occurred for testing the usefulness of the dogs brought from Cuba. It is still believed, however, that they may be used with effect; and why should they not be used? If robbers and assassins assail us, may we not defend our property and our lives, even with bloodhounds? Shall we look upon our ruined dwellings—upon the murdered and mangled remains of men, women, and children—then meekly say, ‘The poor Indians have done this; we must be merciful and humane to them; we will not set our dogs upon them. O no! that would be more horrible than these butcheries.’ Those who are safe from Indian alarms, in distant cities and peaceful lands, may indulge in gentle strains of humanity and brotherly love—were they dwellers in the log-cabins of Florida, they would attune their notes to harsher measures. Let these men, in whose hearts there is such a gush of the milk of human kindness, consider attentively a scene recently exhibited upon the Appalachicola. Mr. Harlan’s dwelling was burned, and his family murdered, in the afternoon of the 20th of last January. Mr. H. was absent, and the following is from an eye-witness: ‘On arriving at the spot, we found every house reduced to ashes—at the kitchen-door the bones of a human being, nearly consumed. Upon examination, we saw the track of the moccasin. On the trail, not far off, we saw articles of clothing, potatoes, and papers, dropped. Soon afterward about twenty-one armedpersons arrived from Iola, among them Mr. Harlan, who in a wretched state of feeling proceeded to examine the burnt bones, believing them to be the remains of his wife and son, whose knife he found amongst them. One of the men, in searching behind a tree about one hundred yards distant, called out, “Come here, Harlan! here is your wife.” Joy sprang to my bosom as I ran to see the dead come to life; but there was Mrs. H., with her throat cut, a ball shot through her arm, one in her back, and a fatal shot through her head. Her youngest son, eight years of age, lay near her side, with his skull fractured by a pine-knot. He exhibited signs of life, and I had him carried to a shelter, water given him, and his feet, which were cold, bathed in warm water; slight hopes are entertained of his recovery. Had you witnessed the heart-rending sight—the father embracing and calling his son, “Buddie! Buddie!” with the solemn sound of parental affection, sunk to the lowest ebb of dejection, and then running to his wife, with his arms around her, shrieking, “My wife! my wife!”—I know your feelings would have given way, as mine did. I had heretofore felt a sympathy for these savages, but my mind then assumed a stern fortitude foreign to its nature, and I felt not like leaving an Indian foot to make a track in the desolation they had caused.’ Who can witness such atrocities without admitting it to be lawful to use blood-hounds against such hell-hounds? It is my solemn conviction that the only mode of conquering the Indians is to hunt and pursue them, in every direction, with a competent force of brave andhardy men devoted to the service, and generously rewarded by their country for the perils and privations they endure.

R. R. Reed,Governor.”

“Genuine Blood-hounds.—Tallahassee, January, 1840. The blood-hounds, with their twenty leash-men, have arrived from Cuba, and are landed in Tallahassee. They have been tried, and follow a trail with accuracy twenty-four hours old.”

“November, 1840.—On last Monday one more of these animals arrived from Cuba. He is mouse-colored, strong-limbed, and with a nose that could scent the trail of a butterfly. He was whelped and raised in the mountains on one of the sugar-estates, and is known to be of the best pedigree. His propensities for blood are of the highest order, having slain and eaten two negroes entire, besides one-third of his own tail—a mistake which has somewhat marred the beauty of the graceful appendage. Two Indians were caught in the neighborhood of Tallahassee with the blood-hounds. They, no doubt, have not had a fair trial.”

The poor blood-hounds were ridiculed on every side—read the following: “Seven peace-hounds left Black Creek for the Ocklawaha on Thursday.”

The whole country at this time was in a state of trepidation; the feelings of the people could not be described; but an order was republished which had been issued during a similar exigence, in the year 1764, by. William Penn:

“Bounties on Heads.—Whereas the Six Nations of Indians have been at amity with Great Britain, but now, having broken their most solemn treaties,” etc., “for the scalps of every male Indian, above the age of ten years, produced as evidence of their having been killed, one hundred and thirty-four pieces of eight, or Spanish dollars. God save the king!”

Some amusing incidents are related in connection with the Florida war, as well as those not so very ludicrous. In Tallahassee they were subjected to frequent scares from the Indians. The approach of the foe was to be announced by the ringing of the Planter’s Hotel bell, the only one then in the town. This bell was the tocsin for an instant assembling in the market-house of the Home Guards, let the hour be midnight or noonday. These Guards held a convocation every night at 8 o’clock, to receive orders and be detailed for duty—each sentry to stand guard four hours, being at his post by 9 o’clock, and a corporal appointed to go on a tour of inspection, to see if the men on duty were not asleep. Each object that moved or breathed was magnified into a wily Indian. A gentle William-goat could not graze in peace after nightfall without being in danger of receiving a bullet for his temerity. The following incident is the most stupendous scare of the war: Mr. T. Barnard, being on duty one night, saw a dark object approaching, which, from its cautious tread, he was certain could be nothing but the long-looked-for and much-dreaded savage. According to a previous arrangement, the enemy’s approach was to be announced by the firing of a gun. He fired, then followed a terrible tramping, which he considered unmistakable evidence of a retreating foe. When day dawned the citizens were in a state of greatfear, which was much increased after a moccasin track had been seen marked with blood. Armed men patroled the streets, while women, children, and servants, were rushing, in the wildest confusion, to the State-house, as the only place of safety. When the truth became known, and the facts explained, everybody had a good laugh over their fright. The sentinel, having lost his shoe the night before in his encounter with a goat, returned to search for it, when he saw the track made by himself in the soft sand while in his sock-feet, the impress resembling an Indian moccasin, the ground having been stained by a lame mule in cropping the herbage.

Besides the constant state of alarm in which the citizens lived, there were tragic occurrences happening in their midst too true for jesting, and too shocking for sensitive nerves to hear related, without shuddering for their own safety. We find this one, among others, bearing date January 22, 1842:

“On Sabbath a band of Indians, supposed to number thirty-five or forty, attacked two wagons loaded with salt, whisky, etc. They stripped the negroes of their clothes, except their shirts, taking every thing from the wagons. Whilst engaged in their work of plunder, Mr. Solomon Mather rode up, when the Indians pursued him, firing five or six times, wounding him slightly in the shoulder. In the meanwhile the negroes put whip to their mules and escaped. This affair took place at the Flat Branch, on the Magnolia Road, about fourteenmiles from Tallahassee, near the residence of Mr. J. H. Byrd.”

The lands lying around Tallahassee evince marks of taste, having been inclosed by the Cherokee rose, which forms a fine hedge, whose evergreen foliage lives all the year, while its snow-white blooms crown it with beauty in their season. The magnolia grandiflora, queen of the forest, with its smooth, glossy, green leaves and immense flowers, grows without culture; while the sickly, dwarfed oleander and cape jasmine, of Northern culture, is used here to shade the avenues of pleasure-grounds. The fine brick residences, of extensive proportions, add testimony in confirmation of its past prosperity. Churches of different denominations, substantially built, speak for the morals of the community, while the kind-hearted people can speak for themselves. The installation of the first Presbyterian minister in Florida took place on the 28th of March, 1841, in Tallahassee. Although many persons have lived here who were, no doubt, celebrated, in their own estimation, yet none of royal blood has ever been traced with certainty but Colonel Napoleon Achilles Murat, whose last residence was about one and a quarter miles from town—the place now being owned by ex-Governor Bloxham. He was a son of Joachin Murat, King of Naples, who was shot in Castle Pizzo for insurrection. When required to meet his doom, a chair was offered him, and a bandage for his eyes, to which he replied, “I have braved death long enough now to face it with my eyes open andstanding.” Achilles Murat, with his mother, came to America in 1821, settling near Monticello, Florida, naming his plantation Liponia, but afterward retired to Bellevue, near Tallahassee, where he lived several years, with his wife, who was a relative of General Washington. Having witnessed the vanity of pomp and display in his youth, he assumed very little style during the last days of his life. A short time previous to his death, the bishop from Mobile made a visit to Tallahassee, he being apprised of the fact that upon a certain day Colonel Murat would make him a visit, dressed in his robes of State, to receive princely blood, as officers of both Church and State are entitled to a certain amount of consideration, from each other, in keeping with the dignity of their position. The morning advanced until nearly midday, with no appearance of Colonel Murat, when finally a thin, bony old horse, with a thinner, more shadowy old man on his back, was seen approaching the avenue to Dr. Barnard’s residence, accompanied by his body-guard, a very black negro named William, who was walking. The colonel was attired in country home-spun, known as brown jean, in Southern vernacular. His hat and shoes both indicated marks of wear, while age had robbed him of all desire for pageant, as the day had dawned when priests and princes were alike, in his estimation. After a long interview with the bishop, Colonel Murat retired to his rural home. Mrs. Murat was much annoyed with the irregularities and eccentricities of his conduct during the last years of his life, which, in common people, wouldhave been termed craziness, but in royalty, or genius, it is relieved with a border, and termed peculiarities, or idiosyncrasies. Many amusing anecdotes are related in regard to the common people who lived near Colonel Murat. Having been informed that a king’s son lived not for from them, they often went purposely to see him, relating the object of their mission as soon as they arrived. When they found the colonel dressed in country clothes and cowhide boots, his rustic visitors were unable to discover any apparent marks of royalty, and invariably, after entering his domains, asked to see Prince Murat. On being told that he was the man, they would respond, “Why, you don’t look like a king.” Colonel Murat died suddenly, April 15, 1847, on his plantation, and was buried near Tallahassee, in the cemetery, without ceremony. His wife survived him several years, living in town.

In Leon county, sixteen miles from Tallahassee, Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, one of our best Southern writers, was born. She was the daughter of Major John D. Edwards, one of Florida’s first and most honored members of the Legislature. Her father, being a man of wealth, wished every thing in keeping with his position; for this reason he reared a mansion, known as “Castle Folly,” on account of its immense size and costly material, the woodwork inside being of solid mahogany, its location almost isolated from all other residences even of humbler pretensions. Her early life was not spent in a wicked city, where the morning papers teemed with sad tales from the depths of depravity, fishedup from the slums of vice, which keep high carnival under cover of darkness, hiding their foul forms in the glare of sunlight, and holding their fetid breaths when the dewy freshness of morn wafts its odors on the new-born day; but where the gay pomegranate glistened, with its pendant flaming bells, and the snowy tribute of cape jasmine, loaded with its perfume of overpowering sweetness; while, like a shower of heavenly blessings upon every zephyr, was borne the fragrant treasures from the orange-blooms, gentle as a pure spirit in a holy trance, which leaves our minds in a blissful, dreamy state, as though we were floating in mid-air. Her home was one around which childhood loves to linger, environed by primeval forests, where the placid waters of the land-locked lakes reflected the fitful shadows of the towering pine, or wide-spreading live-oak, where the graceful vine hung in festoons, or the gray, swaying moss hung from its drooping limbs, and danced to the music of the soft-sighing winds, as they swept through the evergreen foliage and died away in the dense thickets. It was when, from one of those crystal lakes, she saw the evening star, as it stole through the gleam of the dying day, reflecting its pale, trembling light alone, that she felt the throbbings of unrest stirring the depths of her soul. In these placid waters the virgin lilies bathed their beautiful heads, while the golden gates of day were closed, and the voices of night whispered themselves to rest on the balmy breezes. Many of her happy girlhood-days were spent in “Salubrity,” the homeof her aunt, Mrs. Julia McBride, whose many Christian virtues and philanthropic acts still live in the memory of those who knew her. However, the longings of her thirsty soul were never satisfied until she had held communion with the spirits of those whose grand thoughts she found recorded in the volumes of her uncle’s library. It was while reading from the pages of classic lore, or the more enchanting strains of poetic rhythm, during the absence of Colonel R. B. Houghton, her mother’s brother, that a happiness unknown to coarser clay was realized, and her spirit found repose. Mrs. Bryan is one of those flexible, trusting spirits, equal to any emergency in the struggles of life, which sorrows, however deep, may bend for a time, but, like the flower too much freighted with rain-drops, only bows its head until the sunshine comes with its welcome beams to kiss away the moisture, when its bright petals open, and again it looks heavenward. A presence diffuses itself in all her writings sweet as the perfume by which she was surrounded in her own lovely home, pure as the heavenly-lustered orbs that overshadowed her pathway. At twilight, when

Venus, robed in clouds of rosy hue,Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew,

she rises on the wings of fancy, and the rich, mellow streams of thought flow freely, buoyed up by visions which shadow no tumultuous cares, or sounds of woe, the fires of genius burning brightly on the altar of thought, as the blazing meteor which, atGod’s command, guided the wandering Israelites to their promised rest. The versatility of talent she exemplifies so remarkably is really wonderful, while she may be classed among that gifted number who, in spite of prejudice or criticism, fastens the minds of her readers, taking them captive at will. She is now the star of theSunny South, published in Atlanta, Georgia, from whose columns her pure thoughts are sparkling every week, to illumine the home circles of many Southern families. All her writings are characterized by that chaste freshness of originality, that earnestness of feeling, emanating from a truly pure heart, which have been poetically and truthfully described in the following lines:

Bryan! hers the words that glisten,Opal gems of sunlit rain!So much the woman, you may listen,Heart-beats pulsing in her brain!

About sixteen miles from Tallahassee has been discovered another of those remarkable springs found in Florida. In order to reach it, we take the St. Mark’s train, sending a carriage in advance to meet us at Oil Station, six miles from Wakulla Spring. Few objects of interest are seen on the way; but here, where the woodman’s ax and the turpentine still are not silencing the sounds that have echoed through the airy forms of these forest-trees, which have stood as sentinels for centuries, we can listen to the music among the pines—a strange, unearthly moaning, vibrating movement of lanceolate leaves, the sound produced being attributableto the loose manner in which they are attached to the bark of their stems.

You may as well forbid the mountain-pinesTo wag their high tops, and to make no noiseWhen they are fretted with the gusts of heaven.

The spring is reached at last, where we can feast our eyes with its pearly hues and changing, shimmering waters, dancing in the sunlight. It is about seventy-five yards wide and sixty in length, its greatest depth being one hundred and twenty-five feet. The water is blue limestone, but looks green from reflection, and very cold, said to produce a numbing effect upon those who try bathing in its transparent depths. It is the head-waters of Wakulla River, forming a bold stream at a single bound from its subterranean home. The following description of this spring, by a writer who visited it over a hundred years since, will give the reader a more correct idea than any recently-published articles, although many who visit it now think they have the keys of all knowledge in delineation, and a vast amount of wisdom will cease to illumine the world when their existence is extinguished:

“This charming nympheum is the product of primitive nature, not to be imitated, much less equaled, by the united effort of human power and ingenuity. As we approach it by water the mind of the inquiring traveler is previously entertained, and gradually led on to a greater discovery—first, by a view of the sublime dark grove, lifted up on shore by a range or curved chain of hills at a shortdistance from the lively green verge of the river on the east banks, as we gently descend floating fields of the nymphea in lumbo, with vistas of the live-oak, which cover a bay or cove of the river opposite the circular woodland hills. It is amazing and almost incredible what troops and bands of fish and other watery inhabitants are now in sight, all peaceable, and in what a variety of gay colors and forms, constantly ascending and descending, roving and figuring among one another, yet every tribe associating separately. We now ascended the crystal stream, the current swift; we entered the grand fountain, the expansive circular basin, the source of which rises from under the base of the high woodland hills, near half encircling it, the ebullition being astonishing and continual, though its greatest force or fury intermits regularly for the space of thirty seconds of time—the ebullition is perpendicular, upward, from a vast rugged orifice, through a bed of rocks a great depth below the common surface of the basin, throwing up small particles or pieces of white shells, which subside with the waters at the moment of intermission, gently settling down about the orifice, forming a vast funnel. After those moments when the waters rush upward the surface of the basin is greatly swollen, and then it is impossible to keep the boat, or any other floating vessel, over the fountain; but the ebullition quickly subsides—yet, before the surface becomes quite even, the waters rise again, and so on perpetually. The basin is mostly circular, sending out a constant stream into the river fifteen yards wide, andten or twelve in depth. The basin and stream are both peopled with prodigious numbers and variety of fish and other animals, as the alligator, manatee, or sea-cow, in the winter season: part of the skeleton of one, which the Indians had killed last winter, lay upon the banks of the spring; the grinding teeth were about an inch in diameter, the ribs eighteen inches in length, and two inches and a half in thickness, bending with a gentle curve—these bones being esteemed equal to ivory. The flesh of this creature is considered wholesome and pleasant food. The hills and groves environing this admirable fountain afford amusing subjects of inquiry.”

At this time it was called by the Indians Manatee Spring.

Twenty miles west from Tallahassee on the railroad we arrive at the town of Quincy, situated on a hill commanding a fine view of the surrounding country. The population numbers about twelve hundred; the houses are built of wood, painted very white, which gives them a refreshingly-neat appearance. The citizens have a welcome for visitors which is home-like. On account of the undulating surface of the lands a diversity of scenery is found here not seen in other portions of the State—numerous streams, which flow with a musical cadence from their homes under the hillsides, running far away to swell the streams that are soon lost in the great gulf below them. During the early settlement of this portion of the State cotton-planters were not attracted to it, as the broken lands were not asfavorable for its culture as the more level—for this reason: we find an independent class of settlers who raised what they consumed, never buying meat or bread from abroad. Those who have tried growing cotton were successful, the long staple producing very well. Before the war Cuban tobacco was cultivated with a rich reward, as they supplied dealers from New York, also a foreign commerce. The scuppernong grape is commencing to receive attention, for which enterprise the adaptability of the soil is favorable—wine having been produced here equal to the famous California product.

Twenty miles west from Quincy, situated on a river of the same name, is the town of Chattahoochee, this being the terminus of the Mobile & Pensacola Railroad. The State Penitentiary is located here, but the convicts are farmed out. The rough condition of the railroad has been a barrier to travelers going there much since the war; but a prospective change, when effected, will make it more agreeable for all parties concerned. The region of country below contains some fine orange groves. Those shipping oranges say they prefer Columbus or Atlanta to New York, on account of more rapid transit and less expense.

The route through Eufaula and Montgomery, North, taking a steamer at Chattahoochee, is becoming more popular every year, as tourists are fond of variety. A line of stages connecting Quincy with Bainbridge, a short day’s ride, enables those desirous of locating to see the country to better advantage. The overland passage appears robbed of itsmonotony by the long hedges of Cherokee rosebushes, crowned with their pink and white petals, which lend a brilliancy to the country through which we pass, not soon forgotten. Yards, gardens, and avenues, dressed in floral robes, are frequent; but miles of roses who can describe! The lands on our route are diversified, also the timber, but the yellow pine predominates.

Bainbridge is at last reached, when a wonder fills our minds. What made this town so big? It was once the center of trade for a large, fertile country around the Appalachicola River, this place being the medium of communication where fine steamers could be seen loading the wealth of a prosperous people. The war came and robbed them of their labor—the railroads then turned the tide of communication in another direction, leaving them above high-water mark. However, the trade is now reviving, as proof of which it is a favorite resort for commercial tourists of all kinds.

Thomasville, about twenty-five miles west of Bainbridge, is a pleasantly-located town, where visitors can be accommodated with most of the modern improvements in hotel-keeping; also palatable, toothsome dishes, which finely-pampered appetites require. The Mitchell House makes Florida tourists a specialty, this being a point where they can come to inhale the healing, balsamic odors from the surrounding pines, and refresh their perishing natures with the good things raised from the best of lands by a most excellent people. The Gulf House has an old and honored reputation for fine fare, also a kind-heartedhost, who anticipates the wishes of his guests. The town is substantially built—laid out tastefully and elegantly—the dwellings being models of neatness and culture, embowered in emerald retreats of perennial foliage, which, seen from the cleanly sidewalks, cause many strangers to sigh for a welcome which they could not expect while far from home. The yards teem with flowers in mid-winter, blooming from rockeries, mounds, and twining vines, where occasionally an artificial fountain, with its sparkling silver veil, echoes its cooling voice as it falls into the reservoir below. Trade is brisk here—large stores, well filled with costly goods, find ready purchasers from a well-to-do people living in the town and country. The town can boast two newspapers and one periodical—indeed, we have heard it whispered that some of these writers think they have the keys of knowledge on certain facts pertaining to agriculture, etc. A female college has been established in this vicinity for many years, which has sent from its halls of learning many creditable scholars, who are now filling important stations in the spheres allotted them. Several tall-spired churches of various denominations have been erected in this community, where gifted heralds of the cross proclaim the glad tidings of salvation to large, attentive audiences, which is a good key-note to their spiritual condition. Thomas county made an exhibit of its former wealth immediately after the war, in a representation entirely of colored members—the white population being so greatly in the minority they could not elect one of their own color.But the ambition of colored politicians in this section is visibly on the decline, most of them having such thick lips, and, like Moses, “slow of speech,” they now prefer speaking by proxy in the legislative halls. Thomasville has no facilities for water communication with the outside world, but, being located on the Atlantic and Gulf Road, should therewith be content, as a few hours’ ride will furnish them an opportunity of taking a steamship for England or any part of the world.

As we leave Thomasville going east, we pass through the wire-grass country of South Georgia, containing towns, if not of great importance in external appearance, contain the best of citizens with the kindest of hearts. Quitman comes first, with its plank walks, shaded by live-oaks, its home-like hotels, and hospitable, law-abiding people. A paper is published here which would do credit to a place of more note. A cotton factory is in operation; indeed, every thing in the town moves around with the vivacity of college-students out taking their first holiday. Valadosta is the last town of any size before Savannah. The soil looks so sandy, the grass so wiry, the pine-trees so tall, with such mournful music sighing through their airy forms, awakened by the slightest zephyr that passes, which produces a kind of melancholy in our minds as to whether we should have any thing to eat or not if we stopped. All fear of starving can be dispelled, as the country in the vicinity produces well, which can be proven by the immense sweet potatoes on which we are fed, and the well-grown sugar-cane forsale, from which sirup and sugar are made. A very newsy weekly is published in Valadosta, the editor being the author of the Okafinokee Swamp Expedition, which trip has furnished him with material to fill out many an interesting column in his inimitable paper. On public days such a crowd comes to town, the mystery is, Where do they all stay? In pleasant homes scattered through the country, where happy hearts beat with much less struggling than those in higher life, boasting greater attainments.

A trip on this road at night is not unpleasant, as so many light-wood fires are burning bright near the track, kept up by the lumbermen and signals for the switch-tenders. Collisions from sudden curves never occur on this road, it being built so much on the air-line that the head-light can be seen in many places over twenty miles distant. Frequent repetition with familiar surroundings blunts the accuracy of the perceptive powers; but the first time I traveled this route it appeared like a kind of unreal scene, as the moon shone with an apparently unwonted brilliancy that changed all external objects into an epitome of the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainment.”

MANY other places may possess their varied amusements, but Pensacola can be reckoned among the cities having attractions sufficient to render a sojourn very agreeable. It is here the sun gently declines, leaving a train of glory behind. The clouds then loom up lazily in serried ranks, and the breakers from Fort Pickens roar in the distance, like unhappy spirits of strife, when a swift breeze comes from the surrounding forest, and warns the sails to come to their moorings for safety. While we are impressed with the thought that this has been a spot around which many historic records have clustered—that the days of its departed grandeur are forever gone—still an invisible presence encircles it, which appears sacred, while a solemn echo comes from the remembrance of past pomp, that reminds us of the perishable nature of all earthly pageant.

Pensacola was first explored, and a settlement commenced, by De Luna, in 1561, who landed on the bay as it now appears, naming it Santa Maria. This feeble colony, on account of hardships, became discouraged and returned home. The first permanent settlement was made by the French in 1691.

The present city of Pensacola stands on a bay of the same name, which contains a safe and capaciousharbor, where vessels drawing twenty-one feet of water can enter at low-tide, and find shelter and fine facilities for anchorage. It was formerly named Ochusa, from a tribe of Indians who lived here. Where the city is now built it is fine siliceous sand, supported by an understratum of clay, which is of varied colors. This clay is manufactured into brick, from which some of the houses are built, also pottery, and the monkey-jug, or water-cooler, so much used among the Spaniards in Cuba and Key West. The present plan of the city was laid out by the English in 1763, after they took possession of it. The streets cross each other at right angles, making squares of two hundred and fifty by four hundred feet, with a bay front of nearly a thousand feet. Many fine buildings were erected at that time—among which might be mentioned Casa Blanca, the residence of the Governor. The gardens attached to the city lots, the strong fortifications, and the edifices of different designs which graced the streets and squares, were the pride of Florida. The Governor rode in his chariot, making pleasure-trips to his landed estates, six miles from town, escorted by his postilions, and surrounded by his companions in authority, thus deporting himself like a genuine scion of royalty. During these days of prosperity Pensacola was attacked and conquered by the Spaniards under Count Galvez, in 1781. The place was defended by General Campbell; but the magazine at Fort St. Michael being blown up, resistance was useless, and the town surrendered. This event marked the commencement of its decline; the work oftwenty years was blighted, and the prosperity of the city waned. When Florida was ceded by Spain to the United States, St. Augustine in East Florida, and Pensacola in West Florida, were the only towns of any importance in the State. The country about the city was poor, the good lands of the interior being occupied by the Indians; besides, the original settlers were not as enterprising a class of people as those in East Florida. The above considerations, together with disease, fierce contests with foes of other nations, its inaccessibility, and no large water-course connecting it with the interior fertile cotton-lands, are the combined reasons why Pensacola is not equal in size to any town on the Gulf.

Fort Don Carlos de Barrancas—the word Barrancas signifyingbroken ground—was so named on account of the rugged appearance of the site on which the fort stands. The first fortification is supposed to have been built by a commander named Auriola, in 1687, as a defense against the French. It was a square, with bastions, situated near the site of the present Fort Barrancas. What remains of the ancient fort was built by the Spaniards—it being a tetragon, with salient angles at each corner, and formerly had a tower one story higher than the curtains, which served as a point for reconnoisance. It has an outer scarp, or glacis, surrounded by a barbette twenty-two feet wide. It contains an embrasure, the firing being done from the loop-holes and parapets with flank defenses. The barbette is overgrown with weeds and cactus, all armed with projectiles more to be dreaded than any other weapons of warfarein position here now. A deep dry-well is visible near one corner of this barbette, supposed to contain the buried treasure of the Spanish Governor, and for which it is said he ordered three of his men to be killed to prevent their divulging the secret. No guns are mounted on the parapet but two Rodmans of one hundred pounds caliber. The entrance to the old fort is through a scarp gallery several hundred feet in length. At the terminus are three arched rooms, the arches constructed without nails, from native pine boards, the grooves being fitted to each other. Here was the Governor’s chamber for council, the ordnance department, and barracks. The materials employed for the walls were only brick and mortar, both in the old part built by the Spaniards, and the new constructed by the Americans. From the form and thickness of one part of the fort, it is supposed to contain a dungeon, but no efforts have yet been made at excavation, to explore its hidden secrets. The entire fortress, both ancient and modern, is surrounded by a dry moat, the main entrance having a portcullis.

The present fortification of Fort Pickens was built in 1830. It is situated on a strip of land fifty miles in length, and only one-half mile in width, called Santa Rosa Island. This ground has been the scene of various conflicts during its early settlement, of which we have a record for nearly two centuries. The contests between the Spanish and French were always severe, the victor destroying the forts and devastating every thing within reach—which accounts for the disappearance of the ancient landmarks.

Fort St. Michael and Fort St. Bernard were other works of defense built in the rear of Pensacola, but designed originally to protect the town and harbor, and also to serve as a safeguard against the Indians. The principal fort, St. Michael, was attacked in 1781 by Don Galvez, when a bomb-shell struck the eastern glacis of Fort St. Bernard, and, in rebounding, blew up the magazine, destroying the principal redoubt, which compelled the garrison to surrender by capitulation.

It is but little more than half a century since Colonel Nichols, a British officer, came to Pensacola, and issued his proclamation, offering a reward of ten dollars each for the scalps of colonists. However, the career of this bold usurper and ambitious adventurer was soon terminated by General Andrew Jackson and his brave men, who marched into the town, then defended by a fleet of seven armed vessels, three forts, block-houses, and batteries of cannon defending the streets. The center column of Jackson’s army was composed of regulars, and presented as formidable a front in appearance and strength as the ancient Grecian phalanx. The battery was stormed by Captain Laval, who, although severely wounded in the engagement, afterward recovered from his injuries. The Spanish Governor, Marinquez, met the American forces, and begged that quarter might be shown the citizens. To this proposition General Jackson acceded, protecting individual property as far as possible. At this time Fort Barrancas was blown up, all the guns being spiked but two. This enabled Colonel Nichols toescape with his fleet. All the fortifications being now destroyed, General Jackson left, after holding the place two days. The Spaniards then commenced building Fort Barrancas, when Colonel Nichols proffered his aid; but the Governor refused, telling him his friend General Jackson would do better.

In 1818 Jackson received information that the Spanish would not permit supplies for his troops to ascend the Escambia Bay, while the Indians were supplied from Spanish stores. The Governor warned General Jackson against making an attack, saying he would be opposed by all their forces; but, with his usual go-ahead zeal, he marched in and took possession of the town without opposition. The Governor had taken refuge in Fort Barrancas, whither Jackson proceeded during the night, and commenced erecting breastworks. The Spaniards fired upon them, which was returned with good effect by a howitzer. In a few hours the fortress surrendered, and, by the terms of capitulation, the garrison was sent to Havana. Soon after Jackson came into possession of Pensacola, he was told that the Spanish Governor, Callavea, was in the act of sending papers relating to land-titles away to Cuba, in direct violation of the treaty. General Jackson demanded these documents, and, upon being refused, he ordered Callavea into the calaboose, but released him on the papers and boxes being returned. Afterward several of the Spanish officers, suffering from outraged feelings, sent a remonstrance to General Jackson on account of this unheard of indignity toward the Spanish Governor. For this movementtwelve of them were banished, thus establishing the authority of Old Hickory beyond a doubt. The old camping-ground of General Jackson is still pointed out as historic ground. It was situated on what was known as the Blakely Road, which passes the old sites of St. Bernard and St. Michael.

Pensacola once contained a plaza, which was an ornament to the city and the admiration of all visitors. The grounds were in a high state of cultivation where flourished the orange, lemon, olive, banana, guava, and Japan plum-trees, ornamented with pleasure-walks, where the gay cavaliers promenaded and made love to the beautiful señoritas, where the delicate nonpareil displayed her painted plumage, the gay mocking-bird sang her songs of joy, and the humming-bird sipped honey from nectarine flowers, whose petals perfumed the air with fragrance. But stern want, whose decrees are as unyielding as the Medean and Persian edicts, was staring the Spanish garrison in the face at this time, and the commissary stores being exhausted, the largest portion of these beautiful grounds were sold to furnish the army with supplies. All that remain vacant are the extremities of the old plaza, which form two squares, known as Ferdinand and Seville, that are as barren of ornament as the municipality of means to appropriate for its embellishment.

It is singular that a country whose original settlers were celebrated for their chivalric daring and romance should preserve no vestige of their former characteristics or peculiar nationalities. It is thus with the present appearance of Pensacola. Oneportion indicates the march of improvement, while the other, near the bay, has a faded appearance of weather-beaten plank, except out on the wharves, where may be seen many new buildings used for various purposes connected with shipping operations. There are no fine blocks of elegant stores among the number, but many one-story houses, some containing two, and a few three.

The old houses now standing are decidedly of Spanish architecture, with the long verandas in front, accessible only at the ends by steps, the jail-like double doors being made of wood, riveted with iron bolts, not designed to look beautiful, but to be very substantial, or resist a siege of small arms. The dormer-windows are frequent, while a few old roofs are covered with tiles. A wide, substantial walk is built through a portion of the town, stopping at no place in particular, but a favorite promenade for ungallant sailors, where they reel like drunken elephants, seven abreast, sometimes elbowing other pedestrians into the marsh. A few brick pavements have been made, but the bricks present their edges and ends uppermost as often as the flat sides, while sand-wading, in many places, is the only alternative, street-crossings being an unknown luxury. Pensacola is almost the only town in Florida where no fabled fount is supposed or represented to exist, whose waters heal all infirmities and rejuvenate declining years—where no tales are told of elysian elegance to fascinate visitors into their houses of entertainment, or invitations given to take strolls on the beach, and breathe the sea-air with its breezyfreshness, always warranted more beneficial to the invalid than all other atmospheres that ever fanned a hectic cheek, or had been inhaled by consumptives, that will enable them to recover sooner than any other influence by which they could be surrounded. The principal employment of persons here is maritime, from the fisherman, who spreads his tiny sail and dances on the waves, fearless as a sea-gull, in his bateau that looks only a speck on the waters deep and wide, to the full-rigged ship which plows the angry waves, and “thrills the wanderers of that trackless way.” The prosperity of this place is dependent upon the adventitious condition of the changing and fluctuating trade in other places, together with a demand for their only commodity—lumber. No appearance of pomp in fine turnouts is seen—no matched spans or grand phaetons. Those who ride go in one-horse vehicles, which move noiseless as the midnight assassin, through sandy streets of an uncertain depth. A majority of the people are both plain and practical in all their movements. Their misfortunes seem to have soured them, embittered their lives and saddened their hearts, making them sullen, while others converse as though they had settled into an apathetic despair, mingled with clouds of darkness, and peopled by phantoms of pinching want. This season business is terribly dull. Stevedores without employment are as abundant as plank without purchasers, and uneasy as a mullet out of water. The profession of gambling is well filled, which can be seen by the glare of diamonds and watch-chains on suspicious-looking men, with no vocation but to come here and prey on the hard earnings of poor, unsuspecting sailors. A ship coming in the bay creates as much commotion as a big wreck in Key West. Unoccupied boarding-houses for workingmen are numerous. What is lacking in accommodations can be supplied in charges. There are one or two boarding-houses, called hotels, designed for the better class, charging three dollarsper diem. Visitors, or persons of leisure, do not often come here to remain long, consequently no grand hotels for their entertainment. But there is one attractive feature in Pensacola even now, and that is the bountiful supply of rich pine. “What a beautiful fire!” we hear every one exclaim, as the boarders take their seats in the recently-illumined parlor after supper, when all without is dark and drear. Then they give us wood in our rooms, where any one can make a fire in a minute, when sickness drives away sleep. How it lights up the pale faces of our friends, as though the glow of health had suddenly wafted her magic touch over them, dispelling the pallor of disease and marks of suffering! How it softens the gloom of night and diverts our minds with its cheerful blaze, as it permeates every thing like the visit of a bright messenger, when the winds howl as if they were demons from the realms of Erebus! What a cheerful greeting it gives us from the old fire-place, with its burnished massive fender and brass andirons! Then it flashes and faints on the wall, or in the corners, hides in the curtains, to be replaced with another flash, followed by a reportlike the distant roar of artillery. The Indians loved to dance around its bright light in celebrating their fiendish orgies, or howl their rude songs of welcome for the return of harvest, as the well-filled ears of maize roasted before their camp-fires of resinous wood. With what lingering looks of sadness did they see the last spark waft its tiny ray into the heavens, as the morning dawned and the night-shades fled away, on which they were to bid farewell to the happy home of their birth they loved so well, and relinquished with such reluctance, when they thought of the grand oldlightwoodfires which had glistened away the gloom of dense forests, or rendered powerless the malaria of swamps, and kept the approach of wild beasts at bay!

All day constantly before our eyes is Ferdinand Park, which manifests visible signs of a decline. Four old Spanish pieces of artillery are planted in the center, and fastened with ropes, to balance the standard-bearer of a powerful nation, and place in position, high in mid-air, a pole, on which to unfurl the ensign of a great country. The park-inclosure is dropping down as quietly as a rose-leaf in May. Here stock ramble to graze with their bells on, presenting a rural landscape of rustic life, and tired, bony old horses stray for sustenance; hogs, with very thin sides and bristling backs, root about for herbage, or roam through the streets, gathering, with eager haste, any thing like a decayed apple or potato, of which some kind-hearted huckster has relieved his stall or cart; while the cows wander in front of dry-goods stores, trying toreplenish the well-springs of vitality with stray wisps of straw, bits of paper, or pasteboard, which have been swept out. The lacteals of the poor brutes receive a small amount of sustenance from such an uncertain source of nutritive matter—for that cause nearly everybody in this region uses condensed milk. The William-goats promenade with unrestrained freedom, giving concerts with their loud treble voices, while the refrain is echoed by the young ones, resembling the cries of a baby. If these sights and sounds, with variations, do not always give pleasure to visitors, they break the monotony and furnish a variety.

This town boasts a very substantially-built market-house, the material used being brick. Only a few of the stalls are occupied, as the produce is hauled about the streets in huckster-carts and sold, or kept in stores by provision-dealers. During the lenten season, fishermen go out soon in the morning, and, when they are successful, return singing, by which means those wishing supplies can come and buy; but when they have taken nothing, they row silently to shore, looking as though they had toiled in vain. Sometimes the fish are too large to be conveyed whole, when they are cut up and sold by the pound. Frequently two fishermen are seen carrying a fish suspended between them, a portion of it trailing on the ground. What a triumphal entry they make! What a proud look they have, as they find themselves “the observed of all observers!” They could not be induced to change places with the governor. Smaller fish are carried in tubs, swung on a pole suspendedbetween the shoulders of two very brawny-looking men. They announce their approach by blowing a large ox-horn, which is heard in the streets on Sabbath as other days. The minister, invoking a blessing on his worshiping congregation, is liable to have the interludes filled with the echo of trafficking trumpets. Common fish are cheap. The pompano and red snapper, being the choicest, are held at high prices. Beef and venison are plentiful, but the beef is of rather a sinuous texture. Most vegetables would flourish here during the winter, but, from a lack of enterprise, they are not much cultivated. The only dream of prosperity ever indulged by these people is ships coming in from foreign parts for lumber. One thousand feet from low-water mark in Pensacola Bay is found fresh water, which is obtained by boring or driving iron tubing through the salt water and several strata of earthy deposit. The upper stratum is composed of sediment, the second of quicksand, the third of blue clay, the fourth of coral, the fifth of gravel, in which is found pure freestone water, unadulterated with foreign matter, and clear as crystal. This water is obtained at a distance of seventy feet below the surface of the earth. These fresh-water fountains are of recent date, having made their appearance among other improvements which are constantly being discovered in this progressive age. These wells possess many advantages over the old custom of hauling water from the springs in barrels through the streets by hand, which furnished a means of support for those employed to deliver water on thewharves for sale to ships, it being their only vocation. The barrel was prepared by inserting a piece of wood outside the head, in which were placed iron pivots. Two iron rings were attached to the end of a rope that revolved upon these pivots. The water-hauler threw the rope over his head and shoulders, then marched along with the speed of an Andalusian pony—the barrel following like a cart. A few water-barrels are to be seen rolling about the streets now, but it constitutes only a precarious means of support to the “drawers of water,” when compared with the past.

Porpoises—belonging to the classPhocœena—abound in the vicinity of Pensacola. They range with other monsters of the deep, sporting in the shoals, and playing around vessels anchored near the wharf, at times approaching the shore gentle as cats. They are said to take their prey by strategy, darting under an unsuspecting school of fish, and with one stroke of their tail stunning enough to furnish them a fine repast. The astonished fish is soon swallowed by the porpoise, without perceiving the change that has taken place in his existence, when, instead of searching for nourishment himself, he has commenced to sustain another. Porpoise-oil contains the same properties as sperm, but porpoises are not killed here, they being very harmless, and are said to act as a protection against sharks to persons who bathe or fall in the bay.

The culture of tropical fruits has never been a success in Pensacola, since so much of the timber has been destroyed. The few orange-trees herehave a stinted appearance in comparison with those in other portions of the State. A constant strife is going on between the north-west and trade-winds, the former sweeping down from the Rocky Mountains, freighted with frost, which destroys the fruit and foliage of the orange-trees. However, a suitably-arranged grove, with only a southern exposure, would bear under ordinary treatment. Persons now owning bearing-trees say they have been killed down three or four times. The winds are too rude for the banana—it grows here only in summer, with winter sheltering.

A little stream, called the “Washing Bayou,” winds its way through the town, gurgling as it rushes among the bushes, and noiseless as the flight of an arrow when it glides over the snowy sands. Tiny fishes live here unmolested, sporting in its clear waters, until they leave the quiet home of their birth and go into the great sea, where many of them are eaten by the big fishes that are constantly on the alert. Besides the poetry in this musical stream, there is much practical utility connected with its presence, as it subserves the purpose of city laundry, where most of the soiled clothes are cleansed. More than a hundred barefooted women can be seen at one time here, with short dresses, standing in the water, their wide tables in front of them, battling with unclean linen. After the garments are washed in this water, which is said to possess peculiar cleansing properties, they are spread on the green grass and bleached. No ordinary agitation affects the stream, or makes the waters turbid, while it remainsclear and warm during the whole winter. Here Spanish, French, Creole, andL’Africane, all combine together, working in harmony. Patrons to this branch of industry can have their apparel manipulated in such language as they prefer, or whatever shade of color belonging to the human species they hold in the highest esteem. Hunters resort to this portion of the country, where they spend weeks in camping and killing game. Every one who comes to Florida imagines the supply of fish and flesh inexhaustible, notwithstanding the heavy drafts that are made every year. Complaint was made by the Indians of game becoming scarce within certain localities during 1835, and the wonder is now that any thing remains to be killed.

Ribaut, while describing his travels in this State, mentions the waters of a great river as “boiling and roaring through the multitudes of all kinds of fishes.” Thoughtless persons having heretofore caused such a wanton destruction of deer, laws have now been passed for their protection. The method adopted mostly among hunters of running game with hounds until exhausted, has a tendency to terrify the poor scared animals, thus making them more shy, and retire farther into the fastnesses of a country to a place of greater security. Old hunters say they would just as soon eat a piece of dog-meat as deer killed when overheated. The Indians resorted usually to still-hunting, taking the stag-heads and hides to conceal themselves, and, with the use of their imitative powers, induced many a thoughtless animal to approach them, when the well-aimedarrow secured the victim as a prize to their skill. The murderous guns now in use will soon destroy all the wild game in Florida, as in other old-settled places, when stories of the nimble-footed fawn, that gamboled with the calves and cattle while feeding side by side, will be related as tales of the past history of this country. Several times since Pensacola has been in possession of the United States, that malignant form of disease known as yellow fever has made it some unwelcome visits. During 1822 it was terribly fatal, taking whole families and streets. It spread at this time like wild-fire, and was supposed to have originated from a cargo of spoiled cod-fish! In 1853, 1866, 1873, and 1874, it returned. Its last appearance—in 1874—took them all by surprise. It commenced in August, and continued until December. Different reasons have been assigned for its last calamitous visit in 1874. Some say it was brought from Cuba; others, that it was occasioned by the removal of a hospital from the navy-yard, where yellow-fever patients had been sick. It was no respecter of persons. The boatman in his bateau, the guard at his post of duty, the soldier on drill, the colonel commanding, or the commodore with his floating navy, all yielded to the fell destroyer. Three Sisters of Mercy died in one day, the highest number of deaths during the space of twenty-four hours in the city being ten. Persons who occupied houses that had been closed and vacant during the fever, sickened and died after the disease had subsided. The quarantine regulations now are inefficient, while filth from every street andalley lies undisturbed, thus inviting disease. The municipal authority is now thoroughly Africanized, consisting of mayor, aldermen, and police force, while a negro postmaster bears unblushingly the honors and emoluments connected with his position. Before the last war (1861) many orange and fig-trees were growing in private yards; but the Federal forces destroyed nearly all of them, together with many of the houses and fences. The squares—most of them—are now grown with opopanax, yapon, scrub, and live-oak, while the twining grape-vine, climbing above its evergreen foliage, produces a nearer resemblance to hummocks than the surroundings of civilization which characterize refined life.

Perdido, or Lost Bay (so called from the bar at its entrance being closed by quicksands), is thirty miles in length—the main tributary of this bay being a river of the same name, whose banks are covered with inexhaustible pine forests. This river furnishes excellent communication with Perdido Bay, upon which are built several fine lumber-mills. These mills are a recent enterprise, having been in operation only about four years, thus giving employment to many operatives, and furnishing an article of commerce to every part of the world. During the winter of 1873 one hundred and fifty square-rigged vessels could be counted loading with lumber, also spars over one hundred feet in length, to assist in floating ships from every part of the world. Wild game is abundant in the forests about Perdido River, such as panthers, deer, black bears, wild ducks, and turkeys.

Escambia Bay is another of the beautiful sheets of water by which Pensacola is surrounded. It is eleven miles in length, and four in width. It has a tributary of the same name, which courses through rich hummock-lands, until it reaches the clear waters of the bay. The lagoons and marshes that lie near this river abound in the remarkable amphibious animals called alligators. The roaring of these creatures in spring-time is deafening. They are of slow growth, but eventually attain an immense size—a full-grown one being fifteen or twenty feet in length, with an upper jaw, which moves, three feet long, the lower jaw remaining stationary. Their skin is impenetrable to a ball, the whole body being covered with a kind of horny plates, but the head and under the fore-legs is vulnerable, and not bullet-proof. They build nests in the form of a cone, three or four feet high, and five feet at the base. They commence these nests by making a floor upon which they deposit a layer of eggs, then a stratum of mortar, seven or eight inches in thickness, then another layer of eggs, until the whole, superstructure is completed. They are said to deposit over one hundred eggs in a nest. These are hatched by the heat of the sun, together with the fermentation of vegetable matter produced in the hillock. The mother-alligator watches near during the period of incubation, and has been known to attack persons who interrupted her embryo. When her young are hatched she marches them out like a hen with her brood, leading and protecting them, while they whine and bark around her like youngpuppies. Their mother belongs to the cannibal species, eating up her young in their babyhood, which precludes but few of them attaining their full size. They move rapidly in water, although clumsy on land, wallowing in mud-holes like a hog.

There are five churches in Pensacola for public worship—Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, Roman Catholic, and Protestant Episcopal. No other town in the State can produce so large a number of old members as the Catholics in Pensacola. During the early history of this country the devotees of this faith made pilgrimages to the Convent of St. Helena, a religious order established by the Franciscan Friars. They spent weeks in performing the journey to St. Helena, in St. Augustine. It was to them what Jerusalem was to the Jews, or Mecca to the Mohammedans—their holy city, their revered shrine for worship, where the “Ego te absolvo” gave solace to the troubled conscience, and comfort to the sin-burdened heart.

The demand for schools in the Pensacola market has hitherto been limited; consequently the quality is not always of a superior kind. The free schools are avoided by all who can do better. They are now under the supervision of George W. Lindsley, county superintendent. He belongs to the African class of humanity, and acquired his education while acting in the capacity of body-servant to Judge Plantz, of the First Judicial Circuit of the State of Florida. Four schools are supported here by the public fund—two for each sex and color. The one for white boys is taught by an old man who has evidentlylost his temper and outlived his days of usefulness as an instructor. His pupils looked spiritless and indifferent to any thing like mental effort. They recited badly, and appeared stupid. The female department is taught by a lady of youthful and humble appearance. The timid little girls came to recite with the admonition, “Now, if you don’t know this lesson, I will switch you.” Numerous rods were lying about the floor, as though warfare had been progressing, with weapons of very ancient date, recommended by Solomon. The rooms occupied for the schools are two apartments in an old private residence, the building in about as waning a condition as the popularity of the institutions. Fifty children, all told, comprise the number in this metamorphic condition. The citizens say they are taxed beyond endurance to support schools, but never know what becomes of the money. Perhaps they never try to ascertain in the right place, or at the proper time, what disposition is made of the funds. Two colored schools here are supported by the public funds. The building in which they are taught was erected for the purpose—light, airy, and roomy—more provision being made for the education of the colored race, all over the State of Florida, than for the white. The great difficulty now is to have the negroes brought up to the standard of appreciation. Only a few can be prevailed upon to attend the schools provided for them, and they belong mostly to a class of numskulls whose heads are so thick that an idea could not get into their brains unless it was shot there with bullet-force.Both the male and female schools have colored teachers. The copy-books were handed me for inspection. Here is a specimen of the copies: “Virtue is the persute,” etc.; “Do a good child tell stories?” The chirography was unmistakably original and inimitable, but the spelling was not from Webster, nor the grammar of Butler’s approval. The pupils were in tolerable order—the secret of which, no doubt, lay on the table, in the form of a huge leather strap—that relic of barbarism revived—and a piece of plank for the more incorrigible cases.

The Catholics have two separate schools for the education of males and females, besides a mixed school for colored children. The female school, containing about sixty pupils, is under the direction of the Dominican sisterhood. The children all arose and bowed politely when I visited them; but no opportunity was offered for ascertaining their method of teaching, or the proficiency of the young ladies, although I politely asked to hear them recite. These wimpled teachers veil their movements also. The Catholic school for boys is under the tutorage of an old gentleman of the Irish style, whose looks resemble the description given by Goldsmith of the “village school-master.” The children were talking aloud, caricaturing on slates, and exhibiting it to their companions, whistling, and shaking their fists behind the teacher’s back, these employments being the principal exercises during my visit. The teacher was energetic in his efforts to preserve order and hear the recitation. He placed one offender onhis knees for penance, and struck some more of them with an immense ferule which he carried in his hand. When the din and confusion drowned his voice, he resorted to jingling a bell and screaming “Silence!” He evidently had a bigger contract than he knew how to manage. The Pensacola boys are said to be very bad, whether from association or the original sin born in them, has not been decided—probably a combination of both.

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