Mr. Lorillard has a beautiful villa here--a touch of to-day in the land of the yesterdays. It is of quaint though modern architecture, and is full of gabled ends and corners. The smooth-shaven lawn and flower gardens are simply railed in and in full view of the passer by. Whichever way you turn you catch a breath of poetry and romance; a scent of the days gone by clings round the ancient homes and pervades the air, having a subtle effect upon our spirits. We fancy we hear the clang of arms, and the long-silent voices ringing in the air, and shadowy forms are gliding beside us, haunting the old scenes where they walked and talked so many centuries ago. At the top of St. George Street stands the ancient city gate, which once formed part of the old stone wall which, running from shore to shore, protected the city from hostile incursions. The greater part of the wall has long since disappeared, but a rude, rugged, moss-covered mass clings around, as though it helped to support, the tall ornamental towers which once rose up on each side of the city gate, and which still stand massive and strong, like sentinels who will not be beaten from their post, though a great gap yawns where the gate has fallen from its rusty hinges. Coming through St. George Street we look straight through to the wide stretches of country beyond. The sentry boxes scooped out of the solid wall are there still, exactly as when the last guard stepped from them in obedience to the bugle call, when the sun had set and the sentry was relieved. This is, perhaps, the most ancient and certainly the most picturesque ruin in this portion of the country. Passing between the still stately towers we come in full view of Fort Marion, one of the most attractive features of St. Augustine. It was commenced in the year 1592, but was not completed till the year 1756. It is a remarkable, fine, and imposing structure--grand, grey, and massive, standing on a gently rising hill outside the town, and lifting its gloomy front towards the sea. No ruin is Fort Marion, but perfect in all its parts, stamped only with the desolation and dreariness which must brood over any place that is deserted and unused for a certain number of years.