FERNANDINA, FLORIDA, Dec. 29, 1879. - As I sit writing today in my room at the Egmont, with the thermometer at 70°, the doors and windows open to the breezes as they come fresh from the waves of the Atlantic, a sapphire sky above, and the emerald foliage is all around me, while the atmosphere is laden with the fragrance of a thousand flowers, and odors of orange and lemon, pomegranate and fig, date and banana, and the myriad growth of a tropical climate are drawn in with every breath, I am thinking of and commiserating the poor, shivering humanity which is hurrying to and fro through the streets of Chicago, wrapped in furs and beaver to ward off the chilling winds of Lake Michigan and to escape the keen frosts of your northern latitudes.

It is only December in name down here in Florida, in all else it is bright, glorious, blooming June; the roses are blushing profusely, the sweet violets shade off the grass into purple, the stately camellia glitters in its cold beauty, Spanish bayonet flashes out its gaudy colors, the lily bursts into a thousand variegated hues, while the waving plumes of the date, palm and the banana are responsive to the breeze whose waves are like the zephyrs of Arabia.

In fact, one cannot breathe the air of this delightful spot and not exult in the mere fact of existence; and further, if he or she be but a wandering pilgrim from the country of snows and frosts, of ice and sleety storms, sympathy rises swift and strong for those who remain in the higher latitudes and undergo the rigors of a six months' winter.

To the invalid whose failing health and shattered nerves are not proof against the robust attacks of a northern climate in winter, Fernandina and its charms of the sky, and earth, and sea in all their varied beauty are a perfect heaven.

If I have said enough to awaken inquiry and provoke a desire to visit Fernandina, the queen of the Sea Islands, and partake of the hospitalities of the Egmont, I am more than repaid.