A FLORIDA SHRINE. 199 
shared by my hopeful young widower before 
mentioned, who expressed himself quite as 
emphatically. He was brought up among 
white people (“I’s been taughted a heap,” 
he said), and believed that the salvation of 
the blacks lay in their recognition of white 
supremacy. But he was less perspicacious 
than the older man. He was one of the 
very few persons whom I met at the South 
who did not recognize me at sight as a Yan- 
kee. “Are you a_legislator-man?” he 
asked, at the end of our talk. The legisla- 
ture was in session on the hill. But per- 
haps, after all, he only meant to flatter me. 
If I am long on the way, it is because, as 
I love always to have it, the going and com- 
ing were the better part of the pilgrimage. 
The estate itself is beautifully situated, with 
far-away horizons; but it has fallen into 
great neglect, while the house, almost in 
ruins, and oceupied by colored people, is to 
Northern eyes hardly more than a larger 
cabin. It put me in mind of the question 
of a Western gentleman whom I met at St. 
Augustine. He had come to Florida against 
his will, the weather and the doctor having 
combined against him, and was looking at 
