The language spoken by their progenitors is supposed to have been identical with that used in the Court of Spain before the days of Ferdinand and Isabella. It has the terseness of the French, without the grandiloquence of the Spanish, being derived directly from the Latin.
There is nothing now remaining of courtly splendors. A few only of the ancient tenements are left, some of them tumbling down by degrees; those having occupants are a class of persons struggling for an existence, with adverse circumstances surrounding them which cannot be overcome, but must be borne in silent submission. Our imagination before visiting declining architecture is always to conceive that they have an air of the picturesque—a softness reflected on them by moonlight, or a panorama with dulcet strains floating somewhere in our fanciful dreams. All visitors come with an object, well or ill defined—the student to look, the historian to gather dates and make records, while the restless spirit that roves everywhere is here in search of something new or wonderful for his eyes to rest on a brief period of time. At this place there is an unchanging serenity of sky, a clear and harmonious blending of two colors—white and blue—with a soft shading, and the line of distinction lightly drawn. Long level stretches of sandy country lie before us on the beach, covered by the canopy of heaven, and lighted by the luminary of day. The Matanzas River is ever in view, and, like other waters, has its moods, with its surface sometimes smooth as the downy cheek of infancy, then wrinkled as the brow of age, or stirred like the impulses of an enraged partisan in a political contest. Every morning the same sun rises over Anastasia Light-house, and beams across the waters like burnished steel; the curtain of nature rises on the same scene, the early dawn brings the same worshipers; the priests read the sacred service, and we find it an easy task to banish bad thoughts, and become purer and better, if only for the time being.
A procession of nuns from St. Joseph’s Academy, conducted by the Mother Superior, passes along daily, silently as the flight of a feather through the air. They have charge of two schools in St. Augustine for both white and colored pupils, which are well patronized, where much instruction, like the Jews of old, is given in the ceremonials of the ritualistic law. Their new coquina convent is pleasant, and the display of fine laces, made by their busy fingers, incomparable. The little chapel within the convent is very neat, containing a statue of their patron, St. Joseph, watching over it. They exhibited to us a shred of the Virgin Mary’s dress, also a piece of the cross on which the Saviour was hung; but it required a greater stretch of our imagination than we were able to command to perceive the resemblance, particularly as we had never seen the original, or had any description of it.
The religion here is that which sprang into existence during the Middle Ages, when the minds of the people were unable to comprehend a disembodied spirit, an intangible, ideal substance somewhere; for this reason images were introduced to address their supplications. It is now the pomp of pontifical splendor, and not the strength of persuasive eloquence, that overawes the assembled multitudes—a scenic display metamorphosed into a religious drama, where “monks and priests are only players.”
St. Augustine, unlike the European cities, bears no record of great prosperity or vanished splendors in the display of colossal buildings, or fine scientific skill, as the present period boasts of more fine houses than at any time anterior to this. What a host of past memories rise before us on every side as we walk its narrow streets, overshadowed by mid-air balconies! Here are the old palace-grounds, where the Dons from Spain paraded their troops, and exhibited them, with burnished armor and crimson sashes, before a queenly array of beauty seated on the verandas of the old Spanish governor’s head-quarters. It is here the fierce and warlike Seminoles made furious assaults, and were held in check until the women and children could take refuge in the castle.
The Seminole Indians lurked in the vicinity of St. Augustine during all the seven-years’ struggle, but never, except as prisoners or to make purchases, did they enter it, which was quite different from other settlements which they depopulated and then destroyed. It is for this reason we see so many older buildings here than in other Florida towns, among the most ancient of which is the Escribanio, now called St. Mary’s Convent, west of the cathedral. It was built for and occupied as El Escribanio, or business department of the governor. It was built of coquina and concrete, with a tile floor, much of the material used being brought from Cuba, and of the most durable quality. All business connected with the Government was transacted here. It was the annex building of the palace, but afterward occupied as a private residence until 1852, when it became church-property, being then purchased by Father Aubril. In 1858 Bishop Verot took charge of it, and then it was used only temporarily as a convent by the Sisters of Mercy, an order of French nuns.
The tale that is told of hard floors being for penance, where nuns had kneeled until the brick was worn away, is only a fabrication. The floor, like all those laid in Cuba, was the best burnt tiles. Also, that the groans of unhappy nuns who had died here from too much abstinence had been heard echoing through the arches at unseasonable hours, when spiritual visitants are supposed to be moving around, is another intangible story with which visitors are entertained who hanker after the mysterious. No nuns died in that convent, as the time they occupied it was too brief for any marked mortality.
This silent old town appears to sleep all summer, with an occasional lucid moment, when an excursion comes in for a day’s recreation, until winter, when every thing is brought into requisition, with which a dime or a dollar can be turned from a visitor’s pocket. It is then the dear old folks from a colder clime come to sit and sun themselves on the sea-wall, or balconies, while the young people walk, ride horseback, take moonlight strolls, and sail on the quiet bay or restless sea, talking, laughing, and singing as they go.
The hotel-keepers look cheerful again, the Spanish señoras smile sweetly as they exhibit their palmetto hats and grasses, while an orange stick and an alligator are the aspiration of the lads—the latter being a marvel to Northern visitors. When a genuine, live alligator cannot be obtained, a photograph has to suffice, taken after the animal has been captured and tied, to be made to sit for his picture.
It is true, many complain of the manner in which they are annoyed by all kinds of professions, from the boot-black—who screams in your ears, “Shine, sah!” until you feel like elevating him somewhere among the shining orbs, from which point he would not soon return—to the hotel bills. “Four dollars a day, sir; if no baggage, in advance.” Then the carriages—“Ride, sir? take a nice ride?” The pleasure-yachts come in for their share of attention—“Take an excursion over on the beach? I takes over pleasure-parties.”