Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 List of Illustrations
 The Town
 The Country

Title: Florida Days
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/AM00000053/00001
 Material Information
Title: Florida Days
Physical Description: Book
Language: English
Creator: Deland, Margaret
Harlow, Louis K. ( Illustrator )
Publisher: Little, Brown, and Company
Publication Date: 1889
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: AM00000053
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: Florida A&M University (FAMU)
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: notis - AAA0467

Table of Contents
    Half Title
        Page i
        Page ii
    Title Page
        Page iii
        Page iv
        Page v
        Page vi
        Page vii
        Page viii
        Page ix
        Page x
        Page xi
        Page xii
    Table of Contents
        Page xiii
        Page xiv
    List of Illustrations
        Page xv
        Page xvi
        Page xvii
        Page xviii
    The Town
        Page xix
        Page xx
            Page 21
            Page 22
            Page 23
            Page 24
            Page 25
            Page 26
            Page 27
            Page 28
            Page 29
            Page 30
            Page 31
            Page 32
            Page 33
            Page 34
            Page 35
            Page 36
            Page 37
            Page 38
            Page 39
            Page 40
            Page 40-a
            Page 41
            Page 42
            Page 43
            Page 44
            Page 45
            Page 46
            Page 47
            Page 48
            Page 49
            Page 50
            Page 51
            Page 52
            Page 53
            Page 54
            Page 55
            Page 56
            Page 57
            Page 58
            Page 59
            Page 60
            Page 61
            Page 62
            Page 63
            Page 64
            Page 65
            Page 66
            Page 67
            Page 68
            Page 69
            Page 70
            Page 71
            Page 72
            Page 73
            Page 74
            Page 75
            Page 76
            Page 77
            Page 78
            Page 79
            Page 80
            Page 81
            Page 82
            Page 83
            Page 84
            Page 85
            Page 86
            Page 87
            Page 88
            Page 88-a
            Page 89
            Page 90
            Page 91
            Page 92
            Page 93
            Page 94
            Page 95
            Page 96
            Page 97
            Page 98
            Page 99
            Page 100
            Page 101
            Page 102
            Page 103
            Page 104
            Page 105
            Page 106
            Page 107
            Page 108
            Page 109
            Page 110
            Page 111
            Page 112
    The Country
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 114-a
        The river
            Page 115
            Page 116
            Page 117
            Page 118
            Page 119
            Page 120
            Page 121
            Page 122
            Page 123
            Page 124
            Page 125
            Page 126
            Page 127
            Page 128
            Page 129
            Page 130
            Page 131
            Page 132
            Page 133
            Page 134
            Page 135
            Page 136
            Page 137
            Page 138
            Page 139
            Page 140
            Page 141
        The woods and swamps
            Page 142
            Page 143
            Page 144
            Page 145
            Page 146
            Page 147
            Page 148
            Page 149
            Page 150
            Page 151
            Page 152
            Page 153
            Page 154
            Page 155
            Page 156
            Page 157
            Page 158
            Page 159
            Page 160
            Page 161
            Page 162
            Page 163
            Page 164
            Page 165
            Page 166
            Page 167
            Page 168
            Page 169
            Page 170
            Page 171
        The men
            Page 172
            Page 173
            Page 174
            Page 175
            Page 176
            Page 177
            Page 178
            Page 179
            Page 180
            Page 181
            Page 182
            Page 183
            Page 184
            Page 185
            Page 186
            Page 187
            Page 188
            Page 189
            Page 190
            Page 191
            Page 192
            Page 193
            Page 194
            Page 195
            Page 196
            Page 197
            Page 198
            Page 199
            Page 200
Full Text




'' ri: .

v -~q;~ "r













Copyright, 1889

Snibtrsitp 9rtss:



MAY 12, 1889


O NCE upon a time, very long ago, the
Traveller about the world was care-
ful to carry with him a Journal, leather-
covered, and with brass tips upon the
corners; not infrequently it was closed
by a stout hasp and padlock, for the
thought that by any chance a stranger
might gaze upon his pages filled the
modest Traveller with dismay. With this
Diary open upon his knee, with careful
quill, and with most delicate and precise
penmanship, it was the habit of this
Person (who was apt to refer to him-
self as the Private Individual) to note


his emotions as he gazed upon a mountain
flushed with dawn, or the gray stretch of
the breathing sea, or into the faces of men
so unhappy as to have been born in other
countries than his own. To this he added
- scrupulous about an inch, and credit-
ing with careful courtesy his information
to the Verger the height of the nave
of a cathedral, or the genealogy of a
Royal House, or any of those rumors
which commend themselves under the
name of History. The Journal and a
mended pen gave ample opportunity for
graceful sentences, for moral reflections,
for intense self-consciousness, called by
some the "Love of Approbation; "- for
was not each carefully written word to be
read by the tender eyes of those whom the
Traveller had left at home ?
We have seen such Diaries, all of us,
although very probably the writers jour-


need into an Unknown Country before
we opened our eyes upon our well-known
World. For the most, part these dingy
volumes lie in long untravelled trunks,-
hair-covered, and studded with brass nail-
heads,-which have been pushed under
Sthe dusty rafters of the garret. The
Journals are preserved by force of habit,
and with a decent regard for the Past;
but no one ever reads them. All the
world admits that the Journal is as ob-
Ssolete as the Private Individual himself.
Besides, the ink has faded, and the details
,,and the platitudes are alike wearying. In
Sfact, the Diaries belong to that Once upon
I Time which was the age of the spinet
'and tambour-frame, the days of modest
'youth and travelling by stage-coach,-in
,a word, to Leisure and Good Manners.
And more than this, they were written
only for those who were left behind.


But to-day, no one is left behind;
every one has been everywhere and
seen everything, so that information is
as unnecessary as it is tiresome. Indeed,
the Author who under any amiable dis-
guise might venture to instruct, would be
instantly detected as an encumbrance,--
named occasionally in a less dignified
manner, and when not received with
compassionate amusement (or ignored)
would find his well-meaning volume
labelled "Guide-book," and thrust upon
the dusty upper shelf of a book-shop.
Instruction, like an unused garment, has
become old-fashioned, and fallen into
wrinkles and decay. All is said, and
there is nothing new under the sun!
This admitted, what has the preface of
a book upon Florida to say? Only that
Artist and Author have no such threadbare
motive as information to excuse or to


commend their book. Instead, there has
been but the desire to bring the remem-
brance of emotions which were the Read-
er's own; to spread the yellow sunshine
before his dreaming eyes; to steep his
overwise insistent consciousness in a fog
of content; to gather a misty memory of
beautiful days, to strike the key-note of
a harmony which each soul may fulfil.
So modest an object will not deserve the
ruffled protest of the Learned Reader.
His own remembrance is all that Florida
Days will .venture to suggest.

- AUGUST 12,' 1889.


UCbe Cobnn.

St. Augustine.
DAYBREAK. . ... 21
NOON . .. .......... 64
NIGHT .. ... .. ... 89

~be ountrp.

Along the St. Johns.

THE RIVER.... . 115
THE MEN . . .. 172


THE OLD GATES. (Colored Plate)
















. Title

2 f






. 35

. 37



THE SEA-WALL. . .. . 39



DRAWING .. . ... 43






DONKEY-CART . . .... 58

A MULE'S HEAD . .. . ... 60





TH'E KING'S FORGE . . .. 74




FORT MARION. (Colored Plate) . .. 89


'HIE OLD MOAT .......... 89


;XNTRY-BOX. ............ 95


,HE SERGEANT. . . .. ... 103

1tE WATCH-TOWER . . o6

SOLD CANNON .. .. .. 108



(IE-OAK. (Colored Plate) ...... 115

E RIVER . . ... 115

5ANCH OF LIVE-OAK . .... 119

*nE PINES . . . 123

t6 BUZZARDS. . . . 126


ETTOS ON THE ST. JOHN'S. (Colored Plate) 142



DRAGON-FLIES . . .. 147








AN OLD HOUSE. (Etching) .









. . 158

. . 160

. . 166

. . 169

. . 17

. . 172

. . 173

. . 179

. . 187

. . 191

. . 195

. . 197





Morn, in the white wake of the morning star,
Came furrowing all the Orient into gold."
'HE strip of water which lies between the
island and the shore, is as gray at dawn
he sky behind the orange-trees in the west.
ises and falls with quick and heavy heaving,
Sthe bosom of a dreamer who is beginning,
ptantly, to shake off the night in which he
'been steeped. Beyond, toward the East, is


the unbroken stretch of sea; and then, Europe
and Africa in the flood of day. Here, lumi-
nous darkness, and expectation. It lies so low,
this narrow heap of sand and shells, that from
a distance it seems but a higher ridge of the
gray water, except where the column of the light-
house rises like a cloudy pillar touched with
fire, and where a line of glistening white shows
that waves break along the level shore.
The island, set like a jewel in the murmuring
and waiting sea, is touched by the first gleam of
light; and the waves, lapping and folding upon
its shores, lift themselves up out of silence,
with the rising exhilaration of the dawn. The
tower of the light-house catches the earliest
hint of day; and the lamps, which have burned
with steady, cheerful blaze all night, grow pale,
and melt and flicker; one hardly notices when
they go out altogether in the growing bright-
ness, which holds a promise of violet and rose.
The shadows separate, and stretch themselves,
and loosen their grasp upon the low-growing
palmettos and Spanish bayonets, so that each
wet, shining leaf has a strange distinctness in


,ray air. The Hush that l-preads across
horizon, glimmers even on the bank of
s in the west; the darkness and miit

e the petals of a mi.ghttv Ho'\er, re-
ch instant, deeper and deeper secret;
Ien heart. Dawn sucks the flame of
g star into itself.-a flake of light,
.white and serene, then lost fo-r \ ery


brightness I It is as though the star were itself
the dawn, for no one sees it die. Then, from
behind the curve of the world a rim of gold
lifts and widens, and a quivering column of fire
shoots up and down, into the air, and into the
water, which is as luminous as a green crystal.
That leap up of the sun is as glad as a
child's laugh; it is as a renewal of the world's
youth. The waves crowd and shout to wel-
come him as he comes stepping gloriously from
crest to crest, across the sea. A spark, flashing
through each curving hollow that beckons him
along, lengthens and widens, until a golden
path quivers from the horizon to the shore.
The moment of distinctness in the gray of
dawn is lost; the island melts into a shining
haze, it is full day in an instant. Shafts of
light wheel and sink into the waves; the world
of sky and sea and far-off, low-lying shore is
swallowed up in light; the round sun is no
longer a distinct and golden ball, but has be-
come the sky itself. And the spreading sea is
one boundless flash and gleam, smiling and
swinging, shining with a light which does not


seem to come from the sun, but from the
bosom of the air itself. The wonderful ex-
panse of breathing, shimmering blue is broken
by lines of far-off waves, so far off that one

hears a murmur of that tumbling crash
ray, which marks with changing curves
Circles, their gay advance upon the reefs

'e low white reefs have grown with the
- Perhaps each moment has its monument


in a shell so small and exquisitely frail that
the faintest pressure would grind it to dust;
yet, washed up in these ledges, and pounded
by the waves, and smothered by sand grinding
down into every crevice, the shells have been
cemented together until they have hardened
into a composite that is cut and quarried like
rock. For miles along the island these ledges
run, crumbling beneath the fierce white fingers
of the waves, and then renewed again and again.
Coquina this shell-stone is called, and blocks
of it were hewed here once by convicts brought
from Spain. One wonders if these fierce, un-
happy men, working in chain-gangs, and ferry-
ing the sparkling heaps over to the
shore to grow into walls and
gateways and the great bas-

1. y~4 r


tons of the fort, ever saw that a vast and beau-
'tiful meaning might lie in broken human lives?
How blank to the little creature in its tiny shell,
which lived its short life with myriads like itself,
were the purposes of those great currents in the
depths of the sea that plucked its life away from
it; yet, perhaps, no more meaningless than were
his own sin and pain to the wicked man, toiling
in blazing heat above the shell-banks on the
'island, with a ring and chain around his ankle
and with a bitter heart. How could he tell the
Wprpose of his broken life, or know that it might
needed in the path of that

Far-off divine event
To which the whole creation moves "

The island, lying so low that from the oppo-
e beach one can look across it to the reefs
breakers, was the safeguard of the town,
ping tranquilly among its palms and oranges
en it had need of protection. For the ledges
sand-bars extend far into the sea, like the
rs of an unseen hand waiting to clutch and
i the ships of any foe.


And how many foes there were! Indeed, that
narrow edge of flowers and trees, where the
shell-stone houses had been built, was contin-
ually importuned by men and elements. The
winds and waves assailed it from about the

northern end of the island, and it seemed a
hundred times as though it must yield to the
embrace of the entreating sea. Men, steering
triumphantly across the treacherous reefs, rav-
aged it with fire and sword again and again;
its beauty and its promise tempted every buc-


cancer who swept his glass across the low-lying
barrier of the island, where, to be sure, there was
a little watch-tower, on which a flag was to be
raised, to indicate the approach of pirates, and
allow the townspeople huddled on the shore
time enough to run away. Yet the island is
so flat that doubtless it was often the watch-
tower which first caught the keen eyes of the
outlook on those high pooped vessels with
swelling sails and straining masts. One can
hear the order of Sir Francis Drake to put
about" that he might discover what this little
group of buildings could be, and so the Golden
Hinde" was turned from her course for yet
heavier ladings of gold and spoil. No eye was
keener than Sir Francis's. Perhaps he prided
himself upon it, remembering how, on the
Isthmus, he had "climbed the goodlie and great
high tree,". and gazed upon the Pacific, into
which he besought God that he "might sail
an English ship."
There is a curious charm about this dead
man, who was as free and brave and cruel as
his own ocean. His worn, brown face, as keen


and kind as the sun and wind together, showed
as little certainty of fair weather; but men
loved him. A man of no justice, perhaps,

but of great generosity. Indeed, there was a
certain frank cordiality about him even when
engaged in murder. He was so full of joy-
ousness so free from anything like the mean-
ness of spite that he would have taken it ill


bad his victims felt a personal affront while his
knife was at their throats. He seems to have
grown drunk with glory and with blood: so did
the passion for murder and for gain increase !
One falls to thinking how such a soul could
occupy itself after a certain "sharp distemper"
had brought him to that last day, when his one
possession was a sail-cloth, weighted, and the
only noise he could make in the world the
splash into the swinging water at the ship's
bows, a bubble on the surface, and then the
smooth and shining blue again. Surely he
must have found it a weary thing to wake and
find himself a naked soul in the gray silence
of eternity!

The wooden watch-tower on the island went
to pieces a hundred years ago, and a coquina
light-house took its place; but not very long
since, it, too, fell with an awful crash, in a great
hurricane. It could no longer deny the entreat-
ing sea, which had plucked at its foundations
for many a year, as though jealous that its own
shells should resist it.


The Spanish bayonet grows thick among
the fallen walls; indeed, those glittering green
spears are brave enough to grow anywhere;
their tough roots tie them like twine to ledges

that overhang the water, or knot under the sand
until no spot is too shallow or too exposed
for them. Even the white roads which wander
across the island are so encroached upon by
their sharp thorns that walking is not always



And that reminds one of the pleasure of ima-
gination, as exemplified by the pages of a novel.
For it is recorded that a man came from his hut
"through a thicket of Spanish bayonets "! The
possible and the im-
possible are not, appar-
ently', the things with
\lhich a no\'vlist need
be concerned.
Over -on the
S hoire these
fierce and glis-
tenilg leaves
havn been ban-
i-hcd, and kind-
Slier \reeds have
taken their

". 1 -'*." "


places along the roadsides, although, indeed,
there is nothing more stately than the spring
into the sparkling air of the bayonet's flower-
shaft, hung with white bells of blossom.


-V. -

In the morning light the town stands clear
and distinct; later, the golden gauze of noon
folds it like a veil; but now the houses, crowd-
ing sociably along the narrow streets, with bal-
conies that lean towards one another like the
wrinkled foreheads of gossiping dames, are all
clear and individual. With the young day
there is an alertness of life, a keen joyousness,


E that fades, as
the hours press
Iupon one another,
into the calmest
Everything is white
and sparkling; the white
sand shines, the white
coqiuina walls gleam and
faintly glitter, the white
galleries with scarlet gerani-
ums and verbenas pushing out into the sun-
shine, have a look of absolute cleanliness and


sharpness of detail; but it is all a mood of the
hour, and softens as the day grows.
Perhaps it lasts longer about the barracks
than anywhere else: the uniform of the sentinel
pacing up and down his beat beside the sea-
wall, is so fresh and new; there is such a keen,
clean smell of lime, for each possible stone and
stump has its coat of whitewash; and every-
thing about the place is in exact and cheerful
prder. There is an air of modern life here, of
hurry and importance, which does not belong
to the old town, and was surely never known
inside these gray walls while the building was
still a convent. But that time is very long
past; it was given up to the garrison a little
more than a hundred years ago.
One stops in the shadow of the doorway, to
think of the prayers that were said here once,
and of the consuming desire that once burned
beneath the white silence of convent living.
The desire was for salvation, truly, but it took
the place of a thirst for gold or glory or love,
and made. Life; for one must desire something,
to be alive: perhaps absolute satisfaction is only


another name for Death. Here at least, in the
sunshine by the sea-wall, there is an ebb of the
soul's vitality, as the sleepy hours drift into
noon, for one is content with mere existence.


The Missionary and the Adventurer had set
foot on this golden soil together. Indeed, the
Missionary would not have come had not the
Adventurer proclaimed the way. It would be
interesting to know whether the souls of those


saints in the convent were ever perplexed to
account for the necessity of the Adventurer,
with his love of gold and his cruel ambition, -
if they ever thought of that mysterious rooting
of good in evil which continually confuses the
mind and even drives it into contented sinning.
Sometimes, indeed, the Adventurer was so
good as to bring the' Missionary with him. It
was as chaplain to the Illustrious Captain-Gen-
eral Pedro Menendes de Aviles" that Francisco
Lopez de Mendoza Grajales appeared in the
New World to cure men's souls. Yet one can
easily see, in the sincere simplicity of his letters,
how truly he could sympathize with the real
object of the expedition. He speaks of having
been offered a chaplaincy at Porto Rico, where
they had stopped for a time, and," says he, I
should have received a peso for every Mass said,
and I should have had plenty to do all the year
round. But I feared to accept, lest I should be
talked about as the others were; and then, it is
not a city where one is likely to receive promo-
tion; and besides, I wanted to see if, by refus-
ing a personal benefit for the love of Jesus, He


would grant me a greater, since it is my desire
to serve our Lord and His blessed Mother."

There have been many alterations in the
convent building during these years of soldier

life, but the spell of the past is on it still. The
echo of a chant, the hint of incense, the mur-
mur of a prayer for that bitter world of which
the petitioners knew so little, have a reality
of their own, although the outer ear catches
only the clatter of firearms and the careless
laughter of jolly fellows in the guard-room.
How those white souls who prayed in the


cells overlooking the sea would have shud-
dered, could they have guessed that instead of
the convent-bell at dawn there would be the
gay rattle of the reveille, and the tread of mar-
tial feet across the worn flags in the courtyard !
Very likely the world does not know whether
it is the better or the worse for the change;
the difference between a saint in the doorway,
reading a breviary, with placid down-dropped
0fyes, and a sleepy boy, with a musket across
his shoulder, pacing up and down beside the
sea-wall, is not great enough for choice. Yet
who will measure the force of that thin, high
spirituality which once filled these walls, or
say that the boy himself is not the better for
prayers he never said? His rollicking song
when off duty has surely an unheard refrain !
We are shut in by mystery when we would
follow the flight of wonder from the safety of
our ark of commonplace. They were wiser,
those saints. They amused themselves with
'dreams of heaven which, having always a like-
ness to the well-known and familiar face of
earth, brought no confusion and perplexity with



them. Yet even such simple dreams have some
disadvantages; with continual looking forward
life must have become merely expectation, and
a spurning of the present, although that is
the lot of most, whether heaven is the name
of the future or not!
The past and the present and the desired fu-
ture must have been very much alike to these
long-dead saints. Few of them could have had
anything but aspirations upon which to medi-
tate; for what lapse from virtue was possible
within these sacred walls, except, perhaps, re-
flection upon some sin committed when in the
world, for which penance has been done long
since, with great humiliation and fear?
It is curious, however, how much pleasure
comes sometimes with such a reflection! Indeed,
in a wicked way, it is an incentive to good living
to observe the spice of enjoyment there is to a
godly soul in a very little sin. Some small and
selfish pleasure, perhaps; a worldly book read,
breathless, with frowning brows or disapproving
murmur; -a criticism, maybe, of a holy thing;
what excitement in such proximity to the


Devil! A good woman once said that Jacob
- her voice was lowered a little -Jacob was
mean! This hanging upon the edge of Biblical
criticism, this venturing an opinion of her own,
had the flavor of atheism; but it was delightful.
They visited the sick and dying, the good
nuns, and they had their embroidery, and the
excitement of confession; often searching the
soul, no doubt, for some possible sin,- for any
sharp temptation or tearing grief cannot be im-
agined within these placid walls. One wonders
if there was any slightest difference between
confession to the mother superior and the good
priest who said Mass in the chapel.
There are two passions of the soul which
are so much alike that they shade impercep-
tibly into each other; it must have been hard
for the sincerest Penitent to know her own
motives in choosing who should absolve her.
Spenser says: -
"Sweet saint, it is no sin or blame
To love a man of virtuous name "
A little sophistry like that would make it all
seem right, surely.



i fi

,'~~s 1 i
'Ir( c~ .


Placid living brought length of days. The
'dates of the coming and the going upon some
of the wooden crosses in the burial-ground are
very far apart. Sceur Marie: Requiescat in
pace. Joseph: Marie: Jesu; and then, per-
haps, seventy years or longer.
How many years of vacancy that must mean
for Soeur Marie, if she became religieuse"
at twenty! One falls to speculating upon the
crisis ot those twenty years, the possible
catastrophe which made life seem worthless,
or, perhaps it were .truer to say, made the
preparation for that other life seem better. If
the end these fifty years was Religion,
surely the beginning was Love! It is safe to
infer as much as that; and how often in these
fifty empty, tranquil, waiting years may not
Sister Marie have lived over again the pleasure
and the pain that drove her for relief into
silence, silence which had no sorrow and no
disappointment; only the precious memory of
a disappointment, which for all its pain she
would not lose even though she did penance
with every prayer!


The memory, perhaps, of a look from be-
hind jalousies; a fan held sideways across a
hot cheek; a kiss, maybe, in the fragrant dusk
beneath a blossoming orange-tree;-fifty years
of repentance will atone for a kiss beyond a
doubt, but one cannot be so sure of the fan;
that is a far deeper evil than anything so nat-
ural as a kiss! Between that very human and
simple impulse, and the flutter of a fan, the
difference is the difference between a sin of
the heart and a sin of the head; the former is
hardly a sin at all, the latter is deliberate and
intentional. There is the look across the white
feathers, the fingers trembling on the ivory
sticks; there is the politic weighing of the
observer's heart, the calculating with greatest
nicety upon his emotions. Steele said that the
fan wounded more men than Cupid's bow;
and Steele's opportunities for observation can-
not be questioned. And there is another ac-
knowledgment of its power which makes one
think of his Spectator," although its source
is a far lower one. A Spanish lady with her
fan might shame the tactics of a troop of horse,"


it declares. "Now
she unfurls it with
the skli pride and
S co'nscicus i Ic-anice


of the bird of Juno; now
she flutters it with all the
languor of a listless beauty, now with all the
liveliness of a vivacious one. Now in the midst
of a very tornado she closes it with a whir


which makes you start. Gallantry requires
no other mode to express its most subtle con-
ceits or its most unreasonable demands than
this delicate machine."
So it would appear, then, that Sceur Marie
may have had need of repentance; but fifty
years is a long time!

The old Cathedral on the Plaza, where very
likely the breath of a fan has blown the sermon
from a man's memory a hundred times, was
burned not long ago, but the new one has re-
produced it with a tender fidelity to the past.
It, too, faces the Plaza and the old market, and
the monument that the Spaniards raised just
before they took their departure from the town.
The morning light strikes it fresh and clear
from across the live-oak trees in the square, and
through the palmetto leaves in the garden op-
posite it. The old bell which the flames spared,
hangs in the new belfry. Sancte," its inscrip-
tion runs, -" Sancte Joseph, ora pro nobis.
D. 1682." It was brought from some Spanish
city nearly a century ago, when the old Cathe-


dral was built, and had doubtless traditions and
memories of its own, before it began to ring in
the joys and sorrows of
these hundred years to the
sleepy town. One fancies
it marking, in its gray
i Li I shal the c-n-
Itra t I.li,;ti, ii ,f I in dl lile
/ i P ,lhlih h:,i,, -an,: bur-t like bubble-

-t '-c tl,- i un-i

hand upon the bell-rope, and it
has clanged joyously for the vic-
tory of an invader, and again as gayly
for his defeat. It has pealed for a king's life,


which meant another king's death; it has rung
for birth and burial, for famine and plenty.
And then, the rope dropping into a careless
coil from the ringer's hand, it has thrilled and
sung with wonderful unseen vibration, telling
over to itself, perhaps, its own thoughts. There
is something about this sibilant whisper of a
bell, after it has done man's bidding and he
has left it, which is as though it spoke its
own mind in silent laughter at his little joys
or griefs.
The Plaza and the market-place beyond have
often answered its call for this thing or for that.
No doubt it summoned the loyal subjects of
King George to burn Hancock and Jefferson in
effigy just as loudly as it has called for flags
and music each fourth morning in July ever
since. It has watched the people coming out
from early Mass to their day's work in the
Market, to chatter and cheat, the more com-
fortably, perhaps, because prayers have been
duly said; and from its perch beneath the
golden cross, it has seen the soldiers manceu-
vring in the Plaza, sometimes with all the re-


ality of war, and again with light-hearted
imitation of earnestness. It has rung, too, for
that strange gayety of Good Friday night, -
the reaction from the forty days of darkness,
which wore the guise of devotion.

- --

For to shoot at straw figures decked with
feathers and tinsel was a spiritual exercise,
when one called the effigies 7ews. So, with
light-hearted laughter, as night fell, the Jews
were hung here and there in the Plaza, under
the live-oak trees or upon the lamp-posts, so
that when morning dawned there might be no




time lost in proving who was the best marks-
man and the most devoted Christian. For very
many years this was the custom upon that Sat-
urday which lies between a dark day and a
shining day, that pause between death and life,
while the dead Christ waited in the Cathedral.
On Easter eve the joyousness began again,
and young men went about the city singing
the story of Jesus and the Resurrection. The
musical Spanish and the starlight were wor-
ship in themselves. The singers knew the
words by heart; so who stopped to wonder,
or to search for deeper meaning in them?

"Let us leave off mourning," -

so the English runs, -

Let us sing with joy,
Let us go and give
Our salutation to Mary,
0 Mary !

And at midnight
She gave birth to a child,
The infinite God,
In a stable.
At mid-day


The angels go singing
Peace and abundance,
And glory to God alone,
0 Mary!"

And so on, through that Story which belongs
to all the ages: of Birth and Death, and of
that inevitable morning, which came to the
dead Christ, even as it comes always, upon
the heels of Death, with a meaning which Eter-
nity can only blur, and toward which all Time
has travelled. That solemn "day after he has
died," when a man's life stands naked, with-
out hope or illusion to make it beautiful; -
the empty days have not come yet to stand,
pitifully, between Truth and Love; even
those fisher-folk in Galilee saw that morning!
Perhaps the necessity of the world found
its expression because of their misery that
And it is because of that necessity that
the young men, with flowers in their hands,
went about through the streets and in the Plaza,
singing in the starlight of the glory of the
Resurrection !


The singers could buy their flowers in the
market, which is but a little way from the
Cathedral. Whitewashed pillars uphold its
ancient roof, and its brick floor is so old that
it is worn into hollows; it used to be filled
with stalls, where great heaps of vegetables
and yellow oranges were displayed for sale, or
where the wet sides of fish sparkled on every
scale with wonderful color. There were sun-
bonneted women gossiping in the sunshine
across their wares; men smoking under the
streamers of moss from the live-oak trees, or
chaffering over their mules and horses; a
crowding, good-natured, quick-tempered peo-
ple, bringing color and laughter into the little
square; they came for the most part from the
country beyond, along the shining shell-road
and through the city gates.

As long ago as the beginning of this century
the towers of the gateway in the wall about the
town were crumbling and broken with age, so
that they must have witnessed many things
unknown to the tranquil life which comes and

* 4-



goes under their gray shadows to-day. They
see nothing more startling now than lovers
whispering in the twilight, perhaps; or the


gay tramp of marching feet which have never
known the hurry and terror of war; ot a sob
beside a funeral bier.
True, Love and Death, there could have
been nothing more ultimate than they; but
the expression changes; and these square


pillars crumbling slowly in the white, hot sun-
shine, have seen quick and nervous lives and
cruel deaths. The iron gates which used to
hang between the two coquina towers were
always closed at night, and fastened with pon-
derous bolts, so that the little town might
sleep peacefully within them. How many

enemies- of the King of Spain they have re-
pulsed when the town was garrisoned by his
soldiers, and how often they have received
and sheltered terror-stricken wretches flying
from the outlaws of the plains beyond!
A darky goes jolting through now, in a little
two-wheeled cart, full of yellow oranges. He
sings, perhaps, in a full sweet voice, but with a


certain wild note in it, which it will take many
generations yet to tame. Oh, my Lawd," he
says, leaning forward, his elbows resting on
his ragged knees, and the reins slipping care-
lessly between his fingers,-

"Oh, my Lawd, don't you forgit me,
Oh, my Lawd, don't you forgit me,
Oh, my Lawd, don't you forgit me,
Down by Bab'lon's stream "

With this morning freshness in the sparkling
air, he sings because he cannot help it; -long
ago the Lord remembered the captivity in
Babylon,-but thf' song has found no deeper
meaning in his soul; it is only a simple re-
joicing in the sunshine. It is hard to realize,
in the comfortable content among the negroes,
living tranquil, sleepy lives in the old town,
that these words were ever sung with tears
and prayers; such pain meant alertness and
eager life, for which one looks now, for the
most part, in vain. These people would surely
never rouse themselves to contradict the man
who asserted, with grim disdain of all intense
life, that the happiest moment each day, to the


happiest person, was the moment when con-
sciousness began to melt into sleep.
A woman, sitting in the sun with half-shut
eyes, her pipe gone out perhaps, her head
resting against the door-post, is quite satisfied
and happy. She would be the first to say that
these days of peace and sleep were better than
the old desire and the quicker
thought. It has seemed to be
either one extreme or the other
with them, the goad of pain,
and activity; or the down of
comfort, and dreams.
The boy in the jolting car,
even though he sings, is half
asleep. He apostrophizes his mule, or the
oranges which tumble about his feet, with
violence of words, but with a face full of lazy
good-nature; indeed, he and his beast have
the same placid way of taking life. The mule
does not mark his abusive entreaties to proceed,
any more than the boy notices or objects when
his gray friend comes to a halt, and, turning
slowly in the broken, rope-mended harness,



bites at a fly upon his shaggy side. But who
shall dogmatize on such an attitude of the mind?
Indifference, after all, may be height instead of
depth. Does not A. B." (his modesty has
given us no more than his initials) write as
long ago as 1595, in "The Noblenesse of the
Asse; a work rare, learned, and excellent," of
that characteristic and admirable calm?- He
[the asse] refuseth no burden; he goeth whither
he is sent without any contradiction; he lifts
not his foot against any one; he bytes not; if
strokes be given him, he careth not for them."
A. B.'s honest appreciation of this patient and
respectable animal leads him yet a little fur-
ther. Their goodly, sweet, and continual bray-
ing," he says; and adds that such brayings
" forme a melodious and proportionate kinde of
musicke." Still, all this is but the small adorn-
ment of an estimable character; the great thing
is his beast's tranquil calm."


" In the afternoon they came into a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream."

leaning across a
fence that is gray
\fith -lchin, l..ks down
int:' thli silent -trect, which


seems in the blaze of sunshine to be sunk in
'sleep. The flood of light laps and ripples
against crumbling walls. A man with a lean
dog at his heels passes with noiseless foot-
steps, like a shape in a dream. A woman,
leaning from the upper window of a house
beside the sea-wall, laughs, and a spark of
sunshine flashes from the gold cross swinging
at her brown, warm throat, and then dims and
fades in the overpowering brightness; her voice,
which seems to have dropped through golden
distances, melts into the flowering silence of
the hot noon. The heavy sweetness of distant
orange orchards has, without a breath of wind,
invaded the old town; it makes the air, which
is the very light itself, a subtle caress; and it
brings a deeper dreaming, and a greater content
with Life and Love and Death: they seem
all one in this flood of ineffable shining.
The point at which each experience touches
the current of Life and claims personality, is
strangely blurred and smoothed. The individual
sinks into the mighty stream, and his conscious-
ness is only the sunshine itself, and the air, and


light, with, perhaps, the same rejoicing in them
all that the date-palm has, or the gray fence,
crumbling under the tufts of lichen.
To lean back against the coquina wall, which
glitters here and there, as the sun strikes the
edge of an iridescent wonder, which meant life
in the green stillness of the sea a thousand
years ago; to feel, and to desire to feel, of no
more importance in the universe than a block
in the broken wall, or the motionless shadow
of the date-palm, lying like a gray feather upon
the dust of the dreaming street, is good
for the soul. Experiences begin to show their
values relatively, and the proportions of life
reveal themselves. But it needs the coquina
wall gleaming faintly in the sunshine, and the
breath of the drowsy air, and the shadow of the
palm, to set the jarring atom of consciousness
back into the tranquil and enfolding purpose of
Eternity. Such an hour is the man's Bo-tree.
In it, truly, he gains the whole world, if he can
lose his own soul.
It is extraordinary what a shame (not a pas-
sionate and tumultuous shame, that were not


worth while, but what a slow and placid
shame) fills the dreamer against the wall, that
there should ever have been any anxiety or
wonder or grief in life. What arrogance to
wonder! What folly to grieve! It is all as it
should be, somehow and somewhere. It is not
worth while to question how and where. A
leaf from the vine hanging over the wall drifts
down through the still heat: as well that it
should set itself to question the currents of the
ocean, lying in a blue and shimmering curve
against a sky which is pale with light. No,
it is not worth while; nothing is worth while,
and yet all things are.

Gardens sleep behind these high walls, which
shut them in so closely from the silent street,
that it seems as though the air never stirs under
the shadows of the oranges and oleanders. The
only movement is the thread of water, trickling
from the mossy basin of the fountain in the
centre, and then losing itself in the deep grass;
though if a sunbeam through the roof of leaves
strikes it, it has one sparkling instant of jewelled


light before it fades into green dusk again.
The grass is thick in the wet darkness along
the walls under the tangle of jessamine; and
springing superbly out of the shadows at its
feet, a great palm will lift its stately head into
the dazzling sky.

Such a garden is very still; the jessamine on
the wall holds the brimming light unspilled in its
gold chalice; a petal from a rose's open bosom
floats rather than falls in the stagnant air, al-
though, up above, the palm-branches swing and
whisper, rustling faintly in a wind which is not felt
below. Heavy-headed roses make the air faint
with sweetness, and orange-trees, thick with blos-


soms, drop white petals on the worn, wet bricks
of the path; all is very silent, drunk with sun and
air and perfume. There is no thought, no ten-
sion, no meaning, anywhere. A wooden bench,
painted green very long ago, has crumbled and
rotted, and breaking in the middle fallen down
into the deep grass. A single shaft of sunshine
threading the shadows, strikes hot upon a line
of rusted nail-heads that hold it to the support-
ing post beneath; and there a lizard, bright-
eyed, alert, lies like a scarlet thread. A cloud
of midges circle above the fallen blossoms of the
orange-tree, which are floating in the clear, dark
water in the stone basin. The years have left
no more permanent life here than the dancing
midge, or the white cup of a fallen flower!
There is an empty wicker cage under the
hanging balcony of one of the deserted houses
about which such gardens lie; but the bird
must have flown away a score of years ago, and
not even a hint of its grief and its captivity
remains, for a scarlet tanager balances gayly
upon the swinging door before it darts like a
winged flame up into the blue.


Nature knows no sentiment. Her weeds and
grasses come boldly up between the broken
planks of the porch, with a joyousness which is
almost insolent. A Cherokee rose lifts its silver
shield in the doorway, and a tangle of blossom-
ing briers chokes one narrow window and pushes
between the fallen weather-boards. Indeed, so
many weather-boards have loosened and fallen,
that there is an entrance at more than one
place; and the door, too, stands open. Strange-
ly enough, a rusted key hangs still beneath the
lintel, as though to guard a threshold over which
the lizard glides, and shadows come and go.
The wall upon the street is of coquina. The
windows in it have been boarded up, for sill
and sash have long since vanished, so readily
does wood crumble in the hot, wet shadows;
but even these shutters have warped and bro-
ken, so that the passer-by can peer into the
dusky room within. Its hard earthen floor is
spotted with a dim, white mould; there is no
furniture except some empty shelves upon the
wall, and a crucifix over the narrow mantel,
which is only a projecting ledge of the shell-

- ; .~.

" Ilk....... .. .

.r~ (


stone chimney-piece that encloses the wide,
black fireplace. But beyond, through the sag-
ging doorway, is the green light of the garden,
and the palm-tree swinging against the low blue
of the dazzling sky. Deserted and given up to
Nature's careless triumph, the house has still
the mystery which makes a dead body sacred:
it has sheltered Love and Hope,-although the
tiny shell in the wall has had more immortality
than they.
Some of these deserted houses in the old
town, set back in neglected gardens, behind
smart new buildings, are still homes in some
sort, in that they can offer a slight shelter from
the kindly sky to any forlorn and homeless wan-
derers who, like themselves, have lost the mean-
ing of living, but who still exist. Almost all
hold a bed, and a bit of looking-glass stuck
edgewise into a chink in the wall, thus provid-
ing for the two parts of life, consciousness of
self, and a safe forgetting.
The King's Forge," near the sea-wall, has
these two things, and a chair or two beside,
and a tin cup and platter on a shelf. The walls


within were
blackened very"
long ago by the forge
fire; it is quenched
now, although the
forge still stands
grim and black in the centre of the room, and
answers the purpose of table or shelf. The roof
is heavy with years, and has bent and broken,
so that a finger of light, thrusting itself between
the warped gray shingles, points down into
the dusk of the room, and moves, as the day
moves, across the earthen floor and up the op-
posite wall. It is so distinct, this bar of sun-
shine, that a mote can be seen, coming into it
from one side of the clear darkness through
which it falls, dancing across it, and vanishing


again into the dark. The moving spot of gold
touches perhaps a hammer, dropping from its
broken handle, a ring in the wall where a horse
has been fastened, or a blacksmith's apron
hanging high upon the chimney breast. That
plummet-line of Noon gives the darkened room
mysterious possibilities; it sounds the Past. It
is easy to remember, or at least to imagine,
in this silence, clamorous with dead sounds.
One hears the hoarse wheeze of the bellows,
or the champ of bits and pounding hoofs, and
the blow of a brawny hand upon a steaming

"Dey do say," there is a hut .beside the
forge, and in the open doorway a wrinkled, griz-
zled negro is sitting in a broken chair, with a
corn-cob pipe between his lips (it is he who plays
the host with neighborly kindness for the absent
owner), dey do say dat dey all comes back
ag'in; do' I ain't seen 'em, dat's a fac'. But an
ol' lady, an ol' cullud lady, dat lib in dere all by
herself, she say she seen 'em many and many a
time. Say she seen de horses prancin', and


soldiers swearin' and singin' songs, and de black-
smif orderin' 'em roun', -' Sho Git over dar!
Whoa, now! Dat's what she say. She's gone
now herse'f- somewhat, so prob'ly she knows
how dey gits back. She '11 be right glad to
know dat, she was allus so cur'ous. And she '11
fin' out all dere is to fin' out! She used to say
she like to know how dey do's lasted, -her
do's did n't last, for sho'. She was disgraceful
The man observed his own tattered sleeve
with complacency.
Well, fur me, I don't say nuffin' 'bout ghosts,
one way or de oder. I don' know nuffin', -
dat's a fac',- dat dere is any, or dat dere ain't
any. If I said dere is, I'd be scar't; and if I
said dere is n't, den dey might be 'fended. So
I don't say nuffin'. Well, yes, to look roun' and
see how it's over wif 'em whedder dey comes
back or not, do make life seem mighty singular
short. Yes, it do. But dere's a pow'ful lot o'
trouble in it, fur its size! Dere was a time when
I was n't right sho' in my mind whedder it was
all wuf while,- all de trouble, just for de sake


of eatin' and drinking An' I 've had my share
d' trouble, so I tell you. I loss my fust wife,
and I loss my second wife (cos', dey bof died
happy); den I loss my modder, she died shout-
in'! But a modder's not de same as a wife, -
you can't git anodder. Well, an' money come
hard, an' it seem like as if you was always want-
in' just a leetle more o' suthin'. Always wantin';
- dat's my sper'ence. De only peace o' my
mind, when I come to think it over, was when I
was asleep, or setting' in de sun, wif my eyes
shut. Well, I thought it all over, and den I
electedd. I electedd dat ef you had de Lawd, it
was wuf while; and ef you did n't have de
Lawd, den it wasn't wuf while."
A clean, high soul, too wide to dare to limit
Infinity by a word, said something strangely
like this, once. I see," he said, -" I see that
when souls reach a certain clearness of percep-
tion, they accept a knowledge and motive above
selfishness. A breath of will blows eternally
through the universe of souls in the direction
of the Right and Necessary. It is the air which
all intellects inhale and exhale, and it is the


wind which blows the worlds into order and
Here is the conclusion of the old negro, sit-
ting with vacant face in the sunshine, in the
crumbling doorway of the "King's Forge." He
might not recognize his own thought in the
broader words; yet it is there. But if it is
worth while, it is a pity to bear it in a mist of
dreams; and this flood of noon blurs a man's
thought, as the opiate fragrance of incense dims
the aisles of a cathedral. Although, indeed, the
soul is often too content with sleep even to
desire a dream simply not to know, and, there-
fore, not to care, or to suffer,-that seems to
be the wisest thing in life.
A white pigeon circles slowly through the
placid blue depths above, round and round,
until the eye ceases to follow it, and only sees,
vaguely, a flash of silver coming and going, that
soothes like the murmur of a song above a
cradle. The rippling coo from milky-white
throats of pigeons, swaying and balancing on
the shelf of the cote, the soft gray of their wings
touched with iridescent gleams; the slow swing




Ii -





of great banana leaves against the sky; the lazy
splash of an oar beyond the hot sea-wall, are
all parts of a stupor from which one would not
be aroused. Perhaps, if it were not so still in
the blaze of light, if there were any sound ex-
cept that distant splash and the murmur of the
pigeons, it would be easier to awake, and once
more wonder and desire and feel them both
worth while.

In the Spanish burying-ground, steeped in
the white glare, one only finds a deeper and
more lasting sleep; and for the dreams, the
flood and silence of light will suffice.
In this neglected spot, even memory seems
dead. The gate, opening on the dusty road, is
fastened by a twist of rusted wire, which leaves
a dull red mark upon the lichen of the crum-
bling post. The wooden crosses above the
sleepers are flaked and gray in the blaze of
sunshine; some of the cross-pieces have fallen,
and the white I. H. S." has faded into the
weather-stained wood. A dried and withered
bunch of flowers placed very long ago on the


wiry brown grass at the foot of such a cross
shows Love's compromise with Death. Mine
yet! Love cries, and will not hear the answer,
"Mine; and thou art mine."
There is an old tomb here, covered with a
square coquina slab, which marks the grave of
" Catalina." It is well that the inscription was
cut deeply into the crowding shells, for the grave
lies under the shadow of a yew heavy with hang-
ing moss, and in a little enclosure of broken
palings, which so shuts out the sun that the
lichen has grown thick across her name. The
side slabs are broken; some flowers stand
straight and sweet beside them; so tall that the
bell-like clusters rest as gracious hands upon
the top of the tomb; and all about through the
thin dry grass there is a little creeping plant
with a white star for a blossom. Perhaps they
were sown when "this marble covered the grave
of Catalina," and have grown from summer to
summer into joyous forgetfulness of the grief
that planted them, and the "surpassing worth"
that called it forth,- worth which was to make
grief eternal. She was called thus early into


X. ~ rii


the silent land, leaving in the heart" -the
Slichen is very thick here "a record of sur-
passing worth, which neither time can efface nor
the changes of life obscure." How this assertion,
this throwing the gauntlet into the face of Time,
betrays its own hopelessness! One hears, again,
her stately name, as though sweet between the
lips in one last cry for her, which has echoed
even into the silent land,- Catalina! "Set me
as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine
arm, for Love is as strong as Death." As
strong as Death! Alas, Catalina, canst thou
see this forgotten tomb?
There is a path from the broken gate, running
straight between the graves, to a small chapel at
the other end of the enclosure, where Mass has
been said for the departed. Doubtless "Antonia
Yose Terriande de Muir, a native of Cadiz," who
was "lamented by a respectable circle of friends,"
was borne up this green pathway for that last
moment of earthly pomp and honor, the brief
rest before the altar steps; then, out again into
the blaze of sunshine, and the breathless hush
of stifled tears and human wonder.


The rim of laughing sea mocks with its un-
changed expanse the promises on the coquina
slabs of endless memory and regret, and con-
duces to trite reflections upon the vanity of

4a ,..

Life. In this forsaken burying-ground, overrun
by hens and dogs, and full of blossoming weeds,
with broken and neglected tombs, the readiest
thought, and for the moment altogether sincere,
thought, an for the moent atgtersnee


is that Love, with its hopes and promises, is only
* a tiresome bit of cruel humor, and that Life is
nothing better. "It is not worth while!" for-
getting what was to make it so, forgetting the
wind which blows the worlds into order and
These headstones mean nothing more than
the beginning and ending of Vanity, one thinks,
with the indifference of a dream. "Most of
them recorded," says Addison of the inscrip-
tions in Westminster Abbey, most of them
recorded of the buried person that he was born
'upon one day and died upon another; the whole
history of his life being comprehended in those
two circumstances." And for the moment, so it
One needs to leave this flooding stillness
of noon, and brush the haze of golden light
aside, to see again all the dear and daily things
which lie between these two dates, "common to
all mankind." If some fresh wind would but
come up out of the violet silence of the sea,
and touch his drowsy eyes and listless hands, a
man might awake to see, serene and calm as a


great mountain which lies unchanged behind
its clouds, the familiar face of Life, still smiling
beneath the veil of dreams, and with her all
the happy train of simple duties which she


1 \ --

* -.' *


"The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale
Sowed all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars."

THE yellow light lingers upon the fort even
after the sun has dropped suddenly into
the sea; but a shadow creeps across the water,
and touches the sea-weed that fringes the base
of the wall, and then up and on, across the moat

j; r~e


and the portcullis. The coat-of-arms over the
doorway, and the worn pulleys of the drawbridge
on either side, fade into the warm dusk; all the
barbican is wrapped in shadows: yet still the
parapets and the towers for the sentry, hanging
airily upon the four angles of the fort, are
faintly flushed with rose, and the broad coping
is warm beneath the hand.
It is not so easy to dream here. There is a
detail in contemplation which robs it of its opi-
ate, a detail which never comes to him who,
in the flood of sunshine, leans against a garden-
wall, his eyes fixed on a glittering edge of shell.
In the fort, too much is suggested; one cannot
remember and dream at the same time. Besides,
crumpling the water until it has the sheen of"a
web of silk, or stroking it smooth as with an
invisible wing, which leaves a faint glisten in
its gray track, the fresh wind blows the haze
of sleep away.
The western sky throbs with an impalpable
dust of gold when the sun has set; and the
blue and cloudless day closes like the lid of a
casket of jewels upon the violet rim of sea, and


shuts out the light. The crystal dusk grows cool
and fresh before the stars come out. Every-
thing wakes; and the same alert distinctness
that touched the trees and bushes on Anastasia
Island at dawn, cuts the shadows out of the
twilight. Even the letters on the tablet beneath
the coat-of-arms over the entrance can be read,
although the years have blurred them until, in
some lights, they can scarcely be distinguished:
to thinking of the sentry who used to stand
upon the wall, just over the coat-of-arms; what
dreams and hopes have shaped themselves here,
above this assertion,- for it is only that now, -
that the fashion of this world passeth away! A
little oval depression in the block of cement
shows how long the end of a spear or the staff
of a banner has rested there; through hours of


sunshine, and dim starlit nights, and in the fury
of great storms. Always, there above the en-
trance, one sentry or another, living his own life
and thought, fancying both eternal, looking out
over the sea, and across the orange-groves to
the distant river, loving, hoping, fearing; and

now, the sum of it all, a little depression in a
crumbling slab.
There is no watch now; the fort has noth-
ing to fear. Visitors come and go, or down
in the grass-grown moat a thin white donkey
wanders about, cropping hungrily at the tufted
thistles that stand in the angles of the bar-
bican, or crowd like sentinels around a stone


which may have tumbled from the ramparts.
The offensive attitude of these thistles, brave
in green and silver, and with pink cockades,
is the only warlike thing about the peaceful
fort, unless, indeed, one should except the
ants; they use a crevice, or a widening seam
between the great shell-stone blocks, for a
fortress and arsenal and store-house. How
very wide awake they are, these little bus-
tling red and black soldiers, tugging and pull-
ing at a burly dead bumble-bee, which one
of their scouts has found lying in his bronze-
gold armor under a clover-blossom! There is
a spider who would dispute their right to for-
age so near his preserves; but the ants per-
sist. They bring the dead general (he is
surely that, with his gold epaulets and the big
pollen-laden top-boots) up to the crevice in
the wall, and in a moment they are safe from
their gray poison-swollen enemy. Doubtless
they think the fort was built for them, these
brave little soldiers. It answers their needs
so perfectly that such a thought would not be


There are men who think that the great earth,
which went spinning through space when all
the morning stars sang together, was made for
In the fading light, given up to thistles, and
with the whir of swallows' wings through the
dusk, the fort is so quiet it is hard to real-
ize that it was ever the scene of stormy hu-
man life; that there were men here once who
watched this darkening expanse of blue with
keen and anxious eyes. They must have crept
behind the worn ramparts, to the round sentry-
boxes which hang like cages over the walls, to
look out from the loop-holes in hope or fear,
as might be the fortunes of war. And there
were those who suffered agonies of apprehen-
sion in the dungeons hollowed out of the rocks
below, while within sound of their misery other
men plotted and planned, with high ambition
or magnificent pride. For there is something
magnificent in transcendent folly; and such it
seems, now that they are all dead and gone and
there remains only a rusted ring in the wall, or
a half-obliterated coat-of-arms over the port-


cullis, to show that they
,ever so much as
existed. 1.

"Oh, but the long,
long while the
world shall last,
Which of our com-
ing and depart-
ure heeds
As the sev'n seas
should heed a pebble
cast! "


* *-L i


But with the pebble's flying
instant, every law is as per-
fectly fulfilled as with the planet roaring
through empty and endless space; and so it
is, that pebbles are never done feeling their im-
portance, refusing to remember that with the
splash at the end they are forgotten, no matter
what sparks their swift passage strikes out of
the indifferent air.
Here, in the fort, where much tumultuous
living has been swept into the past, the blank
of silence is stifling, and a curious fatalism would


persuade a man to yield himself up to those
laws which bear men and worlds into eternity
as a torrent carries straws upon its breast, and
in so doing find much that is beautiful and gra-
cious, and nothing that is hard in his instant's
voyage. All this is in the air. It is inexpli-
cable, and leaves one with the query whether
Religions are not altogether a matter of climate,
- the wonder how many years it would take to
change a Norseman into Buddha himself.

The Sergeant, parrot-like and half asleep, has
many stories o0 this little greatness, or of that,
to tell of the fort. Very likely the stories have
grown with the years; but one does not look at
them too closely,- they belong to this luminous
dusk that blurs all the angles and arches of the
fort, and makes the line of sky and sea only an
advancing mist. The man's thread of memory
is strung with legends which go very far back.
He begins with Ponce de Leon,- a caballero,
already old, who has come to find the fountain
of perpetual youth. Already old, yet incapa-
ble of accepting age. What! had he not been*


the friend and comrade of Christopher Colum-
bus? Did he not even now feel the passion of
success, which stirs the soul as wine stirs the
blood? Was not the spur of wonder still in his


side? He could not be old. His body might
be feeble, truly; but that was merely an acci-
dent of the flesh, a small matter. He was
young. His soul was as strong and glad and
brave as it had been fifty years ago. Old? No,
no, not he! All that he wanted was strong


muscles and clear eyes, -to cease to be ham-
pered by this miserable body which had played
him false at the very height of life. So he
would go to search for that immortal water of
which every one had heard, but which, with all
the folly of a boy, he had scorned fifty years
One pictures to himself, here on the ramparts,
overlooking the level white beach, the pomp
and glory of that morning of Palm Sunday,
when Ponce de Leon set foot upon these Florida
shores. The glitter of arms, the blaze of gold
and scarlet, the cross flashing in the sunshine,
and the solemn hymn which declared that there
was yet a Better Country, even an heavenly,
which the soul desired and with which it would
be satisfied, so satisfied that it could forget
Youth and Life itself for entrance through its
gates of Death.
Yet there may have been a breath of relief
when the hymn was over, and the search might
begin for the fountain of earthly immortality.
Ponce de Leon's faded eyes may easily have left
the cross, and glanced towards the distant trees,

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