Among others came the never-tiring fisherman, with reel and fancy bait, who appeared much delighted with an opportunity of having sea-room for the exhibition of his skill. He did not have to follow the old rule of “fishing inch by inch,” with an indefinite idea of when he would have a nibble. Here is an illustration of his first bite, which caused him to retire, dragging his prize to shore, thinking, perhaps, he might have captured some Pythagorean metamorphosis, as it resembled neither fish nor flesh. Upon summoning those present to his relief, the following decision was rendered: A ray-fish, or skate, having a cartilaginous body, of nearly a white color, with pectoral fins largely developed, the caudal extremity being elongated into a whip-like form, armed with spine, which makes it an ugly customer for collision. The female, being oviparous, is provided with parchment-like cases, forming an extension, called by seamen “sailor’s purses.”
The moon rose that night and looked down upon a joyous crowd seated on the Mayflower, with a fine band from the St. Augustine Hotel. Music on the water—who can describe its enchanting influences! It was high tide when we arrived on the North Beach, when planks were put out for the party to walk on, while the gentlemen and steamer-crew assisted them to the shore. One lady remarked, in crossing, “Sometimes I take a black hand, and then a white one.” We were not particular about color then; it was strong hands we wanted to keep us from falling in the water, as the waves were washing over our feet. The band played sweetly, the dancing was graceful, the refreshments abundant. When returning, the last trip, the steamer grounded on a sand-bar, as it was ebb-tide, when the Captain of the Bache Survey steamer kindly sent his long-boat and brought us all to the wharf.
St. Augustine, March, 1877.—The work of enlivening the old town, for the delectation of visitors and excursionists from other points, was undertaken here to-day. Everybody was merry, and it was almost incredible to see the number of dignified persons, on other occasions, so completely carried along with the tide of simple sight. All, apparently, had their laugh set on trigger, ready to go off with the slightest vibration in the air. The streets and sea-wall of St. Augustine, together with the balconies, windows, and doors, in the vicinity, were the scene of preparation for a grand gala-day of sight-seeing. The vessels in the harbor were dressed in flags of every nationality, and waved free as the winds that tossed them to and fro. The post-band played stirring strains, containing more sound than sweetness, to quicken the impulses of the occasion. At a given signal, cannons were fired, when a fleet of snowy sails shot out from the wharf, resembling a flock of sea-gulls. The yacht-racing opened the day’s sport. They all sailed swiftly when first under way, but one after another kept falling off and dropping behind, until the Wanderer and Seminole were left alone to decide the contest. They moved like something possessed with life, more than canvas spread to the breeze for power to propel them. Finally the Wanderer won, amid the wildest shouts of joy from every side, and many congratulations for the owner. The cannons fired with as much demonstration as though a great battle had just been decided. A horse-race was announced as the next excitement. Eight jockey-dressed men and boys of different hues, mounted on bare-backed horses of undistinguishable pedigree, but marsh tackey predominant, were ready for the curriculum. They darted off with the speed of a Grecian hippodrome, when they imitated the gait of almost every untrained quadruped. On the home-stretch two of the riders rolled off easily, as though it was a portion of the programme for which they were prepared. Then came the hurdle-race, with the hurdles woven from cedar and scantling. The running was sport, but the jumping was without comparison. One of the horses caught his feet and plunged over, rider and horse together, but, neither being hurt, everybody shouted with glee. Another of the Arabian steeds carried the hurdles off victorious with his hind feet, but did not fall. A foot-race by the Indians was then declared with as much gravity as though a Grecian contestant, after all the abstinence and training of an ancient athlete, proposed to try his strength and speed for a victor’s crown. Three or four big Indians, dressed with fancy caps and moccasins, walked to the pedestrian race-grounds, after which one started to run, but fell. The crowd was too big for them, and the reward too small. Two of the natives took their places, and made very good time, but not quite equal to a professional walker. Then came the hand-barrow race, with that unhistoric vehicle about which poets never sing. Ten black boys, with ten bright bandages over their eyes, started to run a race across the east side of the plaza. They all commenced at the word three, the band played, the people shouted, while the boys ran; the wheel-barrows were running a race, and so was everybody else. One boy went into the river-basin before he could be stopped; another rushed against a carriage, and set the horses to kicking and the ladies to screaming; a man was knocked down and run over—he was a prim, particular bachelor, with fine estates, whose birthday is best known to himself—it required the combined efforts of two servants to brush the sand from his clothes and place him in presentable trim again. Everybody in the vicinity was liable to be under moving orders without a moment’s warning. Finally the race ended, and the victor crowned with greenbacks, which he could appreciate more highly than the laureate wreath of a conqueror, fresh from the goal with his coronet of fading glories.
The last performance was the greasy pole, with a fat ham on the top of it, placed in the center of the plaza. What a climbing, scrambling, and tumbling down, amid exclamations from the boys: “Bob, what made you let go?” “Tom, go up, and I will hold you!” “Put on more sand, and then we can climb!” The plaza was crowded with spectators—scores of grandparents, all clapping their hands and laughing—large families, with all their children, were there. The scene before them required no explanation. Finally, after a struggle of two hours, the ham and money were won, when all retired from the varied and innocent sports of the day.
St. Augustine demonstrates the fact, beyond a doubt, that the cat is a musical animal. They sit under your windows, climb on the neighboring roofs, scream in any strain, from the lowest bass to the loudest soprano, and never tire until the stars pale in the sky; do not become dismayed because a few pieces of coquina are thrown at them, glass bottles, or old boots—that only causes a change of position, when the voice rises an octave higher, on account of the escape from a little adventure. Here they congregate in crowds; they rehearse their exploits in excited strains, with untiring assiduity, for the entertainment of visitors, to prevent their receiving the impression that St. Augustine is a dull old place. Then the digestive organs of the departed are manufactured, and made to imitate the same dulcet tones in the halls of mirth, where so many derive pleasure, by turning themselves into more shapes than a captured sea-eel. At the St. Augustine Hotel they swallow all kinds of condiments to the sounds coming from these membranous strings, stretched beyond all marks of their former identity. With a satisfied smile, and no fears from indigestion, the invalid or consumptive consumes every variety of food, whether from land or sea, compounded into the latest styles of the cuisine, to the music of “Il Bachio,” or “A place in thy memory, dearest!” while ice-cream vanishes like dew to the melody, “Thou art so near, and yet so far!” or “Some one to love me!”
CHAPTER XV.
THE longevity for which the inhabitants of St. Augustine have been remarkable is a proof of its healthfulness; indeed, the tenacity with which they cling to life, as well as the uncomplaining manner in which they endure every thing, is really wonderful. Several years since, an aged lady, who had been helpless for years before her death, remarked that Death seemed to have forgotten her—she remained here so long.
Some who have heretofore imagined that St. Augustine had no attractions but its antiquity must remember that new industries are constantly being developed, among the most recent of which is the manufacture of marmalade and wine from the native wild orange fruit. We had the pleasure of visiting both these enterprising establishments—first the marmalade factory, in charge of Señor S. B. Valls, a Cuban exile. His father, Señor Jose Valls, under the well-known brand of “El Pavo Real, Fabricada de Dulces,” or Sweetmeat and Guava Jelly-maker, in Havana, has won a world-wide reputation, having received the Paris Exposition medal, 1867. His method is original, and his sweetmeats better adapted to the American taste than those of Scotch make. The enterprise has met with great success, the demand always exceeding the supply, and the moderate charges being also an attractive feature. He preserves lemons, limes, and figs in such a manner that they will keep for years. He makes an orange-bloom cordial, which must be, without doubt, the original nectar of the gods; for certainly there is nothing like it, the flavor perfectly resembling the odor of the orange-blossom; the sensation produced in swallowing it is like sailing on a summer sea.