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The Vault at PfaffsAn Archive of Art and Literature by the Bohemians of Antebellum New York
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Text for Page 125 [07-29-1862]

                         St. Augustine.
Entered the cathe-
dral, which contain-
ed some gaily-colored
prints of saints and
martyrs and a plain
white-washed interior.
Then we went to a
convent in the rear
but couldn�t go over
it as the �Holy Mother�
(whoever she might be)
was sick.  Then to
the old stone or (coquina)
house of the former
governors of the town,
a mere ruin, with
massive walls, and
an old well in the
rear.  Anon some tem-
perance �refreshment
at the little shop of
one Bravo, who might
have walked out of
Gil Blas, so Spanish was his aspect and
appearance.  Then hither and thither, to the
Courthouse in the rear of the plaza which
was used as barracks, and presently

[newspaper clipping continued]
   We read a good deal, write long letters to friends
(who wouldn�t get �em under other circumstances,)
smoke, loaf, intelligently or the reverse, and some-
times go out gunning and boating.  A few days
ago we went ashore on a melancholy occasion:
I will tell you about it.
   We have had two deaths on board, one that of
private Almos N. Woods, of the 7th New Hamp-
shire, of dysentery, of which he had been sick for
the past five months.  We brought him from the
Tortugas, with other invalid companions.  Our
second loss was that of a clergyman, the Rev.
Alfred A. Miller, on his way north with his family
from St. Augustine, where he had resided for some
years in hope of convalescence.  As his rela-
tives design removing his body subsequently, it
was temporarily interred in the deserted rebel fort
on Otter Island, most of us attending the funeral,
last Sunday afternoon.
   Like most unpremeditated solemnities, it was
touching and effective.  With Capt. Etting of the
Shepherd Knapp and some of his officers, we form-
ed a little procession, headed up by a dozen sailors
from the frigate, in their blue collars and trousers
and trim white shirts, half of their number bearing
the coffin, wrapped in the American flag.  Arri-
ved within the limits of the little stockade fort,
and ascending to its parapet, we grouped ourselves
round the grave, while Gen. Terry read the beau-
tiful Episcopal service for the burial of the dead.
That done, the sand was heaped over the body.
With the lonely landscape, the abandoned fort, its
banks all over-grown with rushes, the wide reach
of water and adjacent ocean, with the great wet-
looking clouds moving upwards from the west,
the scene was at once picturesque and solemn.
The rain descended heavily as we departed.
   The poor soldier rests in the little burial-ground
on the island, amid other victims of the war.  He
was but seventeen.  Both his grave and that of the
clergyman is decorated with a neatly-painted head-
board, the work of private Richard Schofield of the
47th New York.
     �They their earthly task have done
       Home are gone and ta�en their wages.�
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