fort, St. Michael's, is a wilderness of sand and pine, with a knee-high growth of heather, and several most unpoetic-looking groves of scrub-oak, varied by clumps of fan-shaped palmettos, and scraggy cypress, some of the poorest specimens which Florida counts among her luxuriant sylva. Before you is the limitless sweep of water beyond the bay, the deep blue sea, and the deep blue sky, divided by the sandy slopes of Santa Rosa, the whole shimmering in the noonday sun. The old town and its surroundings seemed a strange mosaic of American, Spanish, and Indian peculiarities, an irregular mass of lights and shadows. But when the moon effaced the stars it became an enchanted city, seated on an ocean of molten silver. Narvaez, who discovered the bay over three centuries ago, called it St. Mary's Bay, but it has long since retaken the name by which it was known to the Indians. The resident population of Pensacola, about 6,000, is doubled for a great part of the year by winter residents, invalids, tourists, lumber-dealers, and stevedores. The number of square-rigged vessels in the harbour has sometimes exceeded 200. The ancient inhabitants are chiefly of Spanish descent, as the names Moreno, Castillo, Gonzales, Sierra, Yniestra, &c., show. But the old place has grown cosmopolitan. Few European nations and few States of the Union are now unrepresented there. The coloured population throughout Florida equals or exceeds the whites in number. It will interest readers of the IRISH MONTHLY to know that the lumber trade, a large factor in the prosperity of Pensacola, has been developed chiefly by two Irishmen, Sullivan Brothers. The fishing trade has also received a great impetus. All kinds of fish are daily shipped on ice to New Orleans and other places. Every morning fresh fish can be bought in the streets. The tooting of a horn, by a big burly negro, gives notice to the thrifty housekeeper to replenish her stock. And gourmands enthusiastically affirm that they never knew the genuine delights of fish-eating till they had dined on a pompano in Pensacola. After looking over this quaint town, and conversing with its sweetvoiced, placid inhabitants of ante-bellum times, one may readily understand the sorrow with which an old Floridian, obliged to leave so fair a spot, sang the once popular song : : "Sweet Florida, good-bye to thee, Thou land of song and flowers!" * Santa Rosa Island, the breakwater of Pensacola Harbour, is a sand key of the gulf, about forty miles long, varying in breadth from a quarter of a mile to a mile. It is seven miles from Pensacola. Fort Pickens, a grand old edifice, is the only building on the island. Its keeper, Captain O'Brien, with his wife, daughter, and a little boy, who had been washed ashore from a wreck, were the only inhabitants of the island when we visited Mrs. O'Brien, then supposed to be in a dying state, several years ago. Sharks come within a few yards of land on both sides of the narrow strip of sand dignified with the name of Santa Rosa Island. Tourists visit it for shells, sea-beans, turtle eggs, &c. III. The pretty antique church of Pensacola, dedicated, like the old fort, to St. Michael, was burned during the yellow fever epidemic, in October, '82. For some months the Catholics, the most numerous religious body in the place, assembled for Sunday's Mass in the chapel and in the galleries of the Convent of Mercy (Las Mercedes). Now they hear Mass in a public hall, the new St. Michael's being in course of erection. Many Irish have settled in Pensacola, and on the Naval Reservation in its vicinity. They are employed in the works of the Navy Yard, and, to a great extent, they man the vessels, and form the rank and file of every company stationed in the splendid barracks at Barrancas. They people the villages of Wolsey and Warrington, which are supplied with work by "the Yard." A fine church and a handsome Convent of Mercy and schools were swept away by the fire-fiend that laid Warrington in ashes a year ago, while the Sisters were nursing the fever-stricken in Pensacola. It is doubtful if these will ever be rebuilt, certainly not on the former scale, for the United States Government propose to close the Navy Yard upon which these villages depend, and, as a preparatory step, have dismissed most of the workmen. Some years ago, the population of these villages was nearly 4,000, now it is not much over 1,000, so many have gone elsewhere in search of work. Recent advances in the science of war have rendered "the Yard" valueless as a station; it must be fortified according to the present state of military and naval science, which would cost many millions, or relinquished altogether. This is sad news for any persons having relations with these people, so pleasant to deal with, so industrious, and such edifying Catholics. Anxious, indeed, were they to have a convent for the education of their bright, clever children, and never had nuns more docile and promising pupils. The sick, too, sighed for the visits of nuns "like those at home;" and one old soul, who had exceeded by a decade the limits allotted to man, begged them to come in of an evening, and sing a little ditto for his delectation. When they had consoled and prayed for him, there was certainly one happy man in the village. Being asked whether he was satisfied, now that the Sisters would visit him regularly, he said: " Ah, sure I am, ma'am dear. Don't I love their track in the sand?" Which was much more prettily expressed than the "Ain't the nuns sweet ?" "Ain't they awful nice?" of his "educated" grandchildren. Our first visit to Western Florida ended on a bright Sunday morning in July. The captain kindly waited till we had heard Mass. The bay was clear as crystal, and swarmed with fishes, which we could see disporting themselves in its depths. Towards the shore in several places were acres of the wonderful green waters which looked so picturesque among the isles of the Carribean Sea. Farther out were sharks, and gars, and porpoises with big dorsal fins, blowing and spouting like whales. Gulls, and frigate-birds, and buzzards, enlivened the air; and whenever we neared the land we could hear the clear whistling of the cardinal-bird, like a spark of fire in the tree, and the wealth of melody that pours from the throat of the gray mockingbird. Now and then the strains of the banjo or guitar, accompanying sweet songs, fell pleasantly on our ears. A long pause at Perdido wharf, a still longer one at "the Yard "-the moon was gently rising before we lost sight of the silvery coast of Florida, with its crown of dark-green trees. And, gazing on this scene, we could understand somewhat of the passion with which the old Floridians cling to the land that bore them. Yea, even the stranger who comes hither must come again, for the saying in these parts is, that people who "get Florida sand in their shoes" will surely come back to the Flowery Land. Pensacola may boast, like Ronsard's friend: "When I was young, a poet sung of me." As we moved between Santa Rosa Island and the mainland, we thought of the concluding lines of the nameless poet's song: "Now Santa Rosa's snow-white sands Are fading from my sight; THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. BY F. PENTRILL. I. THE bells are tolling for the year, The year that lies a-dying, And we who listen shed a tear To think of Time's quick flying. How many withered hopes he'll bear And good intents that faded, ere They had begun to bloom. We look into each other's faces, And find we're getting old; And some we loved are lying low In narrow beds of earth, While we, too late, have learned to know Their beauty and their worth. The bells are tolling for the year, II. High in the air the bells are ringing The New Year, which we hope is bringing His baby-hands are full of gifts, Perchance for thee the crown he bears, But come what will, we are content, To help us on our way to heaven. High in the air the bells are ringing Then let us join them in their singing, NOTES OF HOME RAMBLES. III. OUR EXCURSION TO NEW GRANGE AND MONASTERBOICE. THIS morning, 26th September, 1883, we sallied out, at an early hour, to accomplish a long-projected trip to New Grange and Monasterboice. Our starting-point was the seaside of Clontarf, near Dollymount, and the long range of mountains that so magnificently fringe the south side of the bay never seemed more near, more clear, or more beautiful. This is not a very good sign, but it is not conclusive of bad weather; but there were other symptoms which ought to have made us doubtful. The sea looked cold and glassy, just surging a little here and there; and over its surface long, straight lines of spray rose and raced, white as snow, light as air, and ending in nothing. Along the sea-wall small waves of solid green were leaping backwards from the resistance, in groups, like dolphins at play. And, at intervals, as we drove into the station, heavy seas, breaking on the roof of the tramcar, gave indications full of meaning. What was the logical conclusion to deduce from all this? Of course, to turn back, because a hurricane was brewing? That would have been the conclusion of a wise man, but it was not ours. To us hope told a flattering tale, and the reasoning came thus: the night had been blustry, a gale had been blowing, and we were just enjoying the residuum of it. After the storm would come a calm, and we were going to have a fine day, &c.; so on we went. Yes, on we went, past Howth, and its attendant satellite, Ireland's Eye, past Malahide, looking bright and cheerful, with its shore of silver sand; past Balbriggan, famous throughout the civilised universe, wherever stockings are worn, and on through many a deep cutting. Already the fierce wind had played sad havoc all through this district. What a sight it was: to see in the stubble-fields, where the corn had been gathered in stacks and stooks-those stacks and stooks all prostrate, as if some avenging angel had trodden upon them. And the meadows, where the hay had stood tramped over-night, were now a chaos of scattered herbage, the poor husbandman's work all undone. Presently Drogheda is reached, and, after sundry mishaps to our hats and muffling, we find ourselves safely esconced in the refreshmentroom, firmly resolved to return by the next train (for now we were satisfied that a hurricane had been brewing), but, at least, as firmly determined to have a good breakfast, and thus was a little time beguiled most usefully. Meantime the rain commenced falling in torrents,* and the tele Those torrents saved the West of Ireland, in the backward districts where the corn was still standing. The storm swept over them, but with it came the blessed rain the corn was beaten down flat and saved. |