It seems to us a pity that the invalid population should take their flight so early; the weather is still perfect, and I am told it is likely to continue so for the next two months, when it will literally be emptied, even of its floating population. Some of its infatuated inhabitants live there all the year round; they tell me it is delightful even in the height of summer--“there has never been a case of sunstroke known, there is no malaria, no fever,” no anything that humanity needs to avoid. But these are interested folk; I shall have something to say on that subject presently.
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.