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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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