Lady Duffus Hardy

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 houses of 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. The surroundings 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 of comfortable 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. This property 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 forbidden land. 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 seem to 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 travelling all 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 (for it is 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 tongue as 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 portion of 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 come to 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 narrow line 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,

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.