CHAPTER XI.
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.