We shake the dust from our garments and wash our travel-stained faces, and by the time we descend to the dining-room we find that the regular table-d’hÔte dinner is over, but the tables are still laid for the accommodation of late comers. Some of the lights are out, the rest are turned low, and scores of dusky shadows seem to be hiding in the distant corners of the big room. The tables are laid with snow-white cloths, and furnished with shining silver and glass and flowers, but the long saloon is so empty and still it looks like a dead banquet lying in state rather than the preparations for a social meal. However, as we enter with a few others, the lights flash up and everything is lively enough, the ever-attentive black waiters bustle briskly about, and by the time we are comfortably seated the first instalment of our meal is before us. Judging from the first ladle of soup, you may generally tell what your dinner will be, they say. So from our first dainty dish of roast oysters we augured well for our general entertainment. They are evidently accustomed to cater for epicures and invalids; every dish is delicately served; even if you were not hungry you would be tempted to eat. We had scarcely commenced when our waiter inquired, in an insinuating whisper, “Would we like a little ‘blue cat?’”

We know that in some countries rats and mice are considered rare dainties, and even in the more civilised quarters of the globe snails and frogs are regarded as luxurious tit-bits. We desired the blue cat to be served, and half expected to see the feline animal served up—claws, tail, and all smothered in sauce piquante! And why not? I believe that French art could dress up the sole of an old shoe, or even a rusty door-nail so as to tempt the appetite and sit easy on the digestion. However, our blue cat turned out to be a familiar fish of most delicious flavour; we had made acquaintance with it before, but had not been introduced to it by its proper name; we had eaten “blue cat,” but knew it not.

It is growing late in the month of March, and Jacksonville is not itself, they tell us. A month ago, and the hotels were all crowded, and so great was the influx of people they could not be comfortably housed; fair ladies and fastidious gentlemen were forced into strange quarters, taking their places, like aristocratic stowaways, in garrets, in lumber rooms, or in any hole or corner where humanity can stretch itself and sleep. Such scores of invalids and pleasure-seekers come hither in search of health or amusement during the winter months, that although there are many first-class hotels, and over a hundred and fifty—counting those of a second-class and boarding-houses together—yet even then the accommodation is scarcely enough for the visitors. Everybody flocks to the large hotels; they like the elegantly upholstered drawing-rooms, with their gorgeous decorations and gilded mirrors, the lofty corridors, and, above all, the well-appointed cuisine. There are some people who would rather sleep on a shelf with their feet out of the window, like Alice in Wonderland, and enjoy these luxuries, than occupy a large airy room with commonplace comforts.

During the season Jacksonville is the gayest of gay cities; its hotels are brilliantly lighted, and the sounds of mirth and music float from its open windows; there are concerts, private theatricals, picnics and water-parties, no end of them. The flagging spirits of the invalids are stirred and stimulated by the general gaieties round them; they are driven to forget themselves, and have no time to dwell upon their own ailments, as they are apt to do in their own domestic circle, with anxious sympathising friends around them. Perhaps in the early stages this is well, but in the later phases of disease the necessity of dressing, and dining, and living in public is the heavy penalty paid for such enjoyment. Some, however, seem to think that it is cheap at the price.

In the morning we sally forth on a tour of inspection through the streets of Jacksonville. The roads are so heavy with deep sand, that driving is attended with much dust and discomfort. A lumbering vehicle passes us on the road and we are enveloped in a cloud of fine white sand, and grope our way with closed eyes until it has had time to settle itself. No one, unless disposed to self-martyrdom, will think of entering a vehicle except under direst necessity; but there are delightful little street cars, running on an iron tramway, which take you the entire round of the city, past all the hotels, the stores and principal thoroughfares, and bring you back to the starting-place for five cents. Walking is here a most delightful exercise; the side-walks everywhere are laid with light springy planks on which it is a pleasure to tread. We stroll on in a kind of go-as-you-please, walking-made-easy fashion, as though we never wanted to stop. The streets are all wide, and beautifully shaded with vigorous young water-oaks, whose luxuriant green foliage is a contrast to the pines and palmettoes we have lately been passing through. So rich and so dense is their wealth of leaves, so extensive their branches, that in places they reach above our heads across a roadway seventy-two feet wide, and we walk on under an arching roof of green; so rapid is their growth in these latitudes that some were pointed out to me which had attained to ten feet circumference in forty-two years. Some grow strong and lusty in the clinging clasp of the mistletoe, and are only saved from being smothered in its tender embraces by the pruning-knife, which cuts down and strews the ground with all such pleasant parasites as would otherwise sap the strength and destroy the life of the strong young oaks. Whichever way we turn we look through long vistas of green.

The homes of the settled population of Jacksonville are very beautiful, and are built in pretty fanciful styles—no sameness nor dull uniformity anywhere. Some are surrounded by blooming gardens, for here the gardens bloom all the year round; as one flower fades and falls another takes its place, so the floral army is always “in position.” Some are covered with creeping plants and vines, others buried in orange-groves or embowered in shrubs, oleanders, and magnolia trees. There is no unsightly or incongruous feature anywhere in this lovely city; it is literally composed of handsome hotels, elegant dwellings, and smiling gardens. The shops are congregated on one spot, instead of being scattered in odd corners throughout the city, and are situated in a long line on Bay Street, where you may enjoy a pleasant promenade and transact your business at the same time. In these shops you will find every possible commodity of merchandise, from the baby’s teething coral to the grandfather’s gravestone, for such articles de luxe are sometimes wanted even in Florida. A brisk trade is carried on in all kinds of Floridian curiosities in this beautiful semi-tropical city. You may buy bracelets and earrings of delicately-tinted sea beans, set in silver or gold. Some say that these beans are the fruit of a leguminous plant, which drops from the pod into the sea; others suggest that they are washed over from the vines which grow along the shores of the West Indies; but wherever they come from they are here in abundance and in great variety of colours and shapes—some are opaque, some red, some a rich brown, and some (the choicest specimens) are smoothly polished and speckled like a leopard’s skin. Here also may be found some beautiful specimens of Indian shell-work, and graceful plumes of dried grasses, either natural or dyed in all the colours of the rainbow. The ladies wear palmetto hats trimmed with leaves or feathery flowers made from these grasses—quite a new and extremely elegant style of millinery. But alligators’ teeth are mostly in demand; gentlemen wear them on their watch-chains, as studs, as buttons, even as ornaments to their umbrellas and walking-sticks; the ladies wear them set in all kinds of fanciful ornaments. A lovely molar set in gold drops from her pretty ear, or a row of sharp incisors coil round her wrist and grin from their gold setting, as though they have just come from the dentist; or they twine, half smothered in coral tongues or trellis-work of gold, about her neck. Situated on this street, too, are the principal banks and wholesale mercantile houses, the proprietors of which are so energetic and enterprising they bid fair to make this the chief commercial city in the state. The Aston Buildings, where every possible information concerning anything or everything may be obtained—a collection of legal, shipping, and insurance offices—are situated on the corner of Bay and Hogan Streets. Close by, Mr. Greenleaf has quite a museum of rare specimens of Floridian curiosities, connected with a well-stocked bazaar, which is filled with all kinds of quaint things either for use or ornament. This is well worth a visit, as, in addition to other attractions, there is a kind of menagerie in the back part of the premises, where wild cats, owls, snakes, alligators, and many other monstrosities are on view. There is a large tank of infant alligators, varying from six inches to a foot long. These are for sale, and are greatly in request. I have seen them bought, packed in thick cardboard boxes with perforated tops, and sent as presents to friends in distant parts of the country, travelling by mail post-paid. I am told that they rarely meet with an accident by the way, but arrive safely at their journey’s end, hungry, but in good condition—a rather unique kind of present, and decidedly embarrassing token of friendly remembrance.

For nearly a mile this busy business thoroughfare is lined on either side with shops of every possible description—houses of entertainment and variegated open stores, wine merchants, barbers’ shops, millinery stores, fancy goods; the windows gaily dressed, all aglow with bright colours and glittering ornaments. Elegantly dressed women and gentlemen, the jeunesse dorÉe of the eastern cities, saunter to and fro. It seems as though a bit of Regent Street had been cut out and plumped down on the skirts of this semi-tropical city.

We turn a few steps out of this animated thoroughfare, and are in a perfect elysium; we feel as though we had turned our backs upon the world, and are already on our way to paradise—we forget all about the serpent. Although it is still spring-time, the thermometer reaches to 85°. They tell us that that is the maximum summer heat, and that such weather is most unusual at this early season. The heat that would be unendurable elsewhere is by no means oppressive here; we enjoy a stroll through the shady streets at midday. Though the sun is at its zenith, there is no hot glare of light anywhere, but a soft delicious breeze is blowing—an “east wind” they call it, but it bears no resemblance to the stormy virago who plays that rÔle in more northern latitudes, hurling down church steeples, playing bagatelle with the chimney-pots, and, worst of all, attacking with its biting breath poor helpless humanity. In vain mankind buttons its greatcoat, and clasps its warm furs round it, the east wind finds out its weakest place, and plays the devil’s own tune upon its naked nerves, racks its bones with rheumatic twinges, shooting neuralgic pains, making a target of the human body and hitting the bull’s eye every time. Driven out of the open streets, people creep in and cower down at their own fireside, but it follows them, it cannot be kept out by bolts and bars; as subtle and invisible as thought it steals down the throat, gives an evil touch to the bronchial tubes, wrings the liver with a cruel hand, and even spoils the temper, like a wicked old wretch as it is. One doesn’t so much mind facing the good honest blustering north wind, it is an open foe, and in some way you can defend yourself against it; but the east is a malicious insinuating enemy, it will attack you even in your bed before you have had time to put a woollen nightcap on. Here, however, it is soft and balmy, full of a spicy fragrance; it seems to come down new-born, straight from the gate of heaven, breathing the breath of angels, and laden with the soft airs of eternal spring. Who can tell? Perhaps as it grows older and travels onward it may gather evil by the way, absorb the miasmic exhalations from the earth and from the miseries and vices of mankind till its temper is spoilt, and it becomes as hard, cruel, and bitter as the east wind of our own land—which we must again meet presently. But here all is fresh and delightful. We don’t find in the face of the child the inborn sins of its manhood, so we revel in this balmy breeze, and give no thought to the east wind that may be afar off sweeping our native streets, holding our friends and our foes alike in its cruel grip.

Down on the wharf the air is scented with strawberry perfume, for, as I think I have said elsewhere, the great packing-houses are situated here, and trains and vessels fruit-laden come from all parts of the state and disgorge their treasures. An immense trade in fruit and vegetables is carried on—early peas, young potatoes, asparagus, pine-apples, and strawberries being largely exported to the eastern and northern states; business is brisk everywhere, but there is no confusion. Hundreds of hands are busy packing the rich luscious strawberries in the ice-boxes—ice above, ice below, ice everywhere; then they are hermetically sealed and sent to New York or elsewhere, arriving there in perfection, as though they were just fresh gathered. In front of the wharf, lying along the river, are several small pleasure boats and some large three-masted schooners, dipping and fretting and tossing their mastheads, as though they were in a hurry to get their lumber freight and be gone; the huge mill is whirring busily, its iron teeth tearing the king of the forest to pieces as fast as it can, perhaps cutting up and slicing some of that large family of pines we have been lately passing through. Who knows? perhaps they may return one day shaped into the tall strong masts of some noble ship, bearing her fluttering sails on high, creaking and swaying in the wind as though struggling to get to their silent brotherhood on the plains up yonder, and tell them how much of the world they have seen, and what strange peoples they have borne across the seas.

The busy wharves, the beautiful river, picturesque streets and Arcadian surroundings, make this first glimpse of Florida delightful. We have nothing to do but revel in the breeze and bask in the sunshine, and we do it.

Jacksonville has so many advantages that it is rapidly becoming the favourite resort of travelling multitudes. So rapid has been its growth during the short period of its existence that its population already numbers about 11,000; it is everywhere lighted with gas, has an excellent water supply (though I cannot say much for the water, it should be used as an outward application only). The postal and telegraphic system is as near perfection as such arrangements generally are; they have even the latest scientific improvement, the telephone. You may travel to and from anywhere and everywhere. There is a perfect system of river traffic, and trains are dashing in and out of the city all day long.

It seems to us a pity that the invalid population should take their flight so early; the weather is still perfect, and I am told it is likely to continue so for the next two months, when it will literally be emptied, even of its floating population. Some of its infatuated inhabitants live there all the year round; they tell me it is delightful even in the height of summer—“there has never been a case of sunstroke known, there is no malaria, no fever,” no anything that humanity needs to avoid. But these are interested folk; I shall have something to say on that subject presently.