Most of the old houses of the plantations on the river have long since been destroyed.  That at Whitehall was burned by the negroes when Sherman’s army came by, but the old trees and gardens still endure, including a tall hedge of holly which is remarkable even in this florescent region.  The old plantation house at the Hermitage, approached by a handsome avenue of live-oaks, is, I believe, the only one of those ancient mansions which still stands, and it does not stand very strongly, for, beautiful though it is in its abandonment and decay, it is like some noble old gentleman dying alone in an attic, of age, poverty and starvation—­dying proudly as poor Charles Gayarre did in New Orleans.

The Hermitage has, I believe, no great history save what is written in its old chipped walls of stucco-covered brick, and the slave-cabins which still form a background for it.  It is a story of baronial decay, resulting, doubtless, from the termination of slavery.  Hordes of negroes of the “new issue” infest the old slave-cabins and on sight of visitors rush out with almost violent demands for money, in return for which they wish to sing.  Their singing is, however, the poorest negro singing I have ever heard.  All the spontaneity, all the relish, all the vividness which makes negro singing wonderful, has been removed, here, by the fixed idea that singing is not a form of expression but a mere noise to be given vent to for the purpose of extracting backsheesh.  It is saddening to witness the degradation, through what may be called professionalism, of any great racial quality.  These negroes, half mendicant, half traders on the reputation of their race, express professionalism in its lowest form.  They are more pitiful than the professional tarantella dancers who await the arrival of tourists, in certain parts of southern Italy, as spiders await flies.

CHAPTER LII

MISS “JAX” AND SOME FLORIDA GOSSIP

    “Or mebbe you ‘re intendin’ of
      Investments?  Orange-plantin’?  Pine? 
    Hotel? or Sanitarium?  What above
      This yea’th can be your line?...”

    SIDNEY LANIER ("A FLORIDA GHOST.”)

It is the boast of Jacksonville (known locally by the convenient abbreviation “Jax”) that it stands as the “Gate to Florida.”  But the fact that a gate is something through which people pass—­usually without stopping—­causes some anguish to an active Chamber of Commerce, which has been known to send bands to the railway station to serenade tourists in the hope of enticing them to alight.

If I were to personify Jacksonville, it would be, I think, as an amiable young woman, member of a domestic family, whose papa and mama had moved to Florida from somewhere else—­for it is as hard to find a native of Jacksonville in that city as to find a native New Yorker in New York.  Miss Jacksonville’s papa, as I conceive it, has prospered while daughter has been growing up, and has bought for her a fine large house on a main corner, where many people pass.  Having reached maturity Miss Jacksonville wishes to be in Florida society—­to give, as it were, house parties, like those of her neighbors, the other winter resorts.  She sees people passing her doors all winter long, and she says to herself:  “I must get some of these people to come in.”