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,
“Lets not one sunshaft shoot between!”
After a delightful drive of about an hour and a half our little toy
train rings a tinkling bell, and we slacken our already slack pace into
the shed dignified by the name of the St. Augustine depot.