flesh, fowl and fruit, which is all these old walls look down upon to-day.

Beyond the Plaza we come upon the "sea-wall," which our little guide-book has led us to anticipate as a "promenade." When we behold it, however, our dreams of promenading vanish. It runs along the shore, from the modern barracks at one end of the town to the ancient fort at the other. It is simply a low, massive stone wall, the top of which, unprotected by any rail or parapet, is described as the favourite "Lover's Walk"; but, if it is so, St. Augustine lovers must be slender as well as affectionate. We find it quite enough to walk singly upon it with a steady head. The tourist is "promenading himself" there, of course, with his wife in her palmetto-hat; and we perceive, on observation of the various couples, that lovers, when young and slim, may walk double, though more frequently he walks behind her. A soft, fresh breeze blows up from the unseen Atlantic, which is shut from our view by the long slip of Anastasia Island, running parallel with the sea-wall, between the ocean, whose salt fragrance floats faintly to us, and the river lapping the base of the wall. The sea-wall walk leads us to the old Fort Marion, which is, perhaps the sight to be seen here.

The first stone was laid in 1592, the last, as the inscription over the gateway tells us, in 1756. The great fortress is in excellent preservation. Its massive "coquina walls stand almost untouched by time or siege, though the wild grass waves under our feet in the barbican and blue flowers blossom from the chinks in the "coquina" blocks. A

grim silence broods over the ancient walls, as we explore turret and drawbridge, casement and bastion. There is an old sergeant whose mission is to show visitors over the place, but he is apparently off duty, for we seek and find him not. A fellow-tourist, however, gives us all the information we require. We sit on damp blocks of stone on a mud floor under a vaulted roof, while he tells us of the "locked dungeon," into which admission can only be gained through the absent sergeant. He pioneers us into the "bakehouse," a huge, dimly-lit stone room, also with mud floor and vaulted roof, with a recess which served as oven, and one aperture which combined the offices of chimney and window. It was here that, during the siege of St. Augustine, all the townsfolk collected for shelter; and a wretched community they must have been! From this bakehouse a gloomy archway leads into a pitch-dark dungeon. Our escort lights matches, which only serve to make the darkness visible. By their feeble glimmer we can see neither roof nor walls, nothing but the thick blackness which closes round us like a pall. We are told, however, that the obscurity here is nothing to the inky darkness of the "locked dungeon," wherein, the story goes, skeletons were found in iron cages, but this is, by the best authorities, denied.

We next inspect a comparatively light and airy cell, with a narrow grating high up, to our eyes unattainable and impassable, but through which the Indian chief, "Wild Cat," is said to have effected his escape. The great Osceola, his companion in obscurity, nobly refused to avail himself of

the same means. It strikes me as possible that the "Cat" was the slenderer and more agile of the two. From the fort we cross a rough and pathless stretch of sand and turf to another relic of the past-to the old city gates. They are built of "coquina," of course. We inspect the barred and grated sentinel-boxes, the high towers flanking the gateway and dutifully resist the temptation to chip off a piece of "coquina" as a souvenir.

The next day is Easter Sunday; the quaint old streets are crowded with gaily-dressed people; the Plaza is swarming with happy pairs. This is truly the "Land of Flowers." As we saunter in the shade of the great trees that make King Street rather a forest-glade than a street, and linger to gaze into the groves and gardens which surround almost every residence, we drink in the fragrant breeze, heavy with perfumes of myriad blossoms, and revel in the luxuriance of tropical bloom and foliage all around us. Here is the lance-leaved palmetto, and here the beautiful feathery datepalm; here the oleanders droop their pink and pearl, starred and scented boughs high out of reach above our heads; here climbing roses straggle up to the housetops; here are great forest-like trees covered with the sweet yellow flowers of the apoppinac; here the giant magnolia, tall as a poplar and sturdy as an oak, is opening the great white petals of its mammoth flower. Now and then we come upon the bridal blossoms of the orange and again upon branches weighed down under their globes of ruddy gold.

We take a farewell stroll down St. George's Streetwhere the oldest inhabitant still sits smoking under his fig