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.”