Occasionally the winter boarders at some Jacksonville hotel suddenly catch the excursion-fever, — a disease little known among native Southerners. They wish to go somewhere. Usually this ends in a steamboat-ride up the St. John's to Palatka, or down the St. John's to Fernandina Beach. Such a thing as an excursion to Tallahassee had not been mentioned at the most fashionable Jacksonville hotel for years, when one day in March, during the progress of the events of our story, Mr. Lucius Hatch boldly sprung the question. Before the hotel proprietor was aware of its existence, a conspiracy had been completed, and about thirty of his liveliest boarders were off for a week at the capital. Alarmed and chagrined he followed them to the railway-station, eloquently expostulating with Hatch upon his foolhardy undertaking.
"Why, sir, there's no hotel; the people are all poor and seedy; there's nothing to eat, there's nothing to see, there's nothing to do; no water, no boats, no any thing," he insisted; but Hatch and his followers were enthusiastic.
"The green hills of Piedmont-Florida," they cried: "we are dying to see a hill, if it's only an ant-hill or a mole-hill. We are tired of the dull flats about Jacksonville."
Their host groaned, and reiterated his expostulations. It availed him nothing. The gentlemen said, —
"Oh, it's Hatch's notion!" and the ladies cried, "It's so romantic! We can camp on a sheep-farm, or take possession of a deserted village."
"The fleas, the fleas!" muttered the host.
"We'll chance 'em," said Hatch: "he can well afford to brave all the insects of the tropics, who has stemmed the tide of Jacksonville mosquitoes and sand-flies."
This was an unkind cut. It weakened the adversary's nerve. The hotel man turned sadly away. If you wish to exasperate a Jacksonville person beyond all endurance, suggest to him that, of all places in the land of flowers, Jacksonville probably has fewest attractions and most mosquitoes. If you would like to see a poor urchin mobbed, bribe a boot-black to go down a Jacksonville street whistling the air of "The Tallahassee Girl."
Hatch had chanced to read a communication of Cauthorne's to his paper, relative to the physical beauties of the Tallahassee region; and this it was which had caused him to organize the excursion thither. He knew Cauthorne, had met him often at the Union Club, and was inclined to believe that whatever he would print over his own name would be rather underdrawn than overdrawn.
Hatch was a railroad man of considerable note, and could control every facility for moving his party. Parlor cars were provided, loaded with ample luncheon-baskets, champagne, ice, tea, coffee, colored waiting boys, and every thing else, even to cigars, seltzer, and brandy, which could conduce to the comfort or convenience of gentlemen and ladies, or either.
And so, after a merry ride, they came into Tallahassee late in the afternoon. Telegraphic despatches had preceded them, asking for means of conveyance to the hotel; and consequently a cloud of negroes, with all manner of carriages, stood ready to assault them when they arrived. Carriages were there drawn by one horse, two horses, and four horses. Negroes were there in tatters, and negroes were there in natty suits of black cloth. All sorts of gesticulation met the eye, all kinds of importunate vocalization struck the ear.
No. i. —"Right dis way, boss, wid de ladies. My carridge is de fines'. Take you to de hotel in style, boss."
No. 2. — "Git outen de way, niggah, let de gentlem come; doan you see he know where he gwine to? Bring on de ladies, boss."
No. 3. — "Bet if I h'ist ye one in de year, Dave, you'll not be gittin' in de way of my passengers ag'in. Right straight along to de carridge, boss."
No. 4. — "How many ladies, boss? Take ye up in de four-boss carryall, fines' carridge in de city. Right yar, boss."
No. 5. — "Hayr's de ominybus fur de City Hotel! Bes' 'commodations in de city. Here you are, boss, git right in; any baggage?"
No. 6. — "Git 'long wid yer one-hoss b'rouche! Hayr's de quality carridge; it's got de lates' style. Doan listen to dem niggahs, boss, dey's got nuffin but a borrerd wagon: dey doan own no carridge."
No. 7. — "Dey's jis' room fo' foa' moa' in de golden rockaway boun' fo' any part ob de city. Step in wid de ladies, boss."
No. 8. — "Shet up yo' trap, Sam, you an' John's done 'bout 'miff hollerin' fo' one day. Dese gentlem know whar' to fine de bes' 'commodations. Come 'long, boss, I take ye whar' ye wanter go."
No. 9. —"Hayer's de Tallahassee palace coach wid kwishened seats an' glass winders. Carry ye up for a quawtah, boss, come right 'long."
The excursionists, perfectly able to take excellent care of themselves, hurried into the proffered vehicles, and were drawn up the steep red hill to the old hotel.
Cauthorne, who had not seen any Northerners for so long a time, felt that these rustling, bustling, chattering folk were all in some degree his guests. He was immediately introduced by Hatch to the gentlemen of the party, and, later in the evening, to the ladies.
The moon was near the full; and it was arranged that carriages should be procured, and that the city should be done by moonlight.
A very noticeable thing was the fact that, of the eighteen ladies in the party, fifteen were decided blondes, the remaining three scarcely brunettes; of the fourteen gentlemen only four were dark-haired. It was Col. Brevard who gave them the name of the Blonde Raiders.
To the more staid citizens of quiet, drowsy old Tallahassee, the manners of the excursionists appeared of doubtful propriety. Their loud, though well-modulated, voices rang along the streets in talk and laughter as they called to each other, flinging gay remarks and sparkling replies back and forth from carriage to carriage.
Cauthorne and Hatch, with three ladies, — Hatch's aunt, and two young women by the name of Barnes, — occupied an open landau, which was driven slowly along all the streets of the city, Cauthorne pointing out every thing of interest as they passed it.
Whoever has been in the South has noticed with what splendor the full moon shines there; but in the high region of Tallahassee, where the night air is free from impurities and mists, the effect of its light is glorious beyond description. Every object is so clearly visible in it that one fancies that outlines are, in a way, accentuated by it.
In this strong, mellow light the excursionists saw Tallahassee, and were seen by the Tallahasseeans. The effect was unique in both directions. To the Southerners this rippling and humming stream of fair faces, plump forms, and blue travelling-dresses; these shining heads of yellow hair, braided and frizzed and banged; these clear blue, alert eyes; these loud, merry voices; this chattering and laughter; this appearance of careless ease and luxury, — suggested the old golden days when splendor and wealth and prodigal hospitality brought all these into their homes, and made them ring with gayety. To the excursionists Tallahassee was, what it is to every one who sees it, the very loveliest, drowsiest, dreamiest old town they had ever seen. To the most careless observer among them, the place showed, in ways very difficult to make plain with words, its oasis-like isolation, and its tangled luxuriance of semi-tropical vegetation. Along with this it also suggested a social isolation of long standing, and a slowly advancing dissolution of that common bond which holds a community together.
"Here is the only place that I know of where the old South is still dominant," said Cauthorne, addressing his companions collectively. "I find the Tallahassee people a delightful study."
"The place is a great and very agreeable surprise to me," said Hatch's aunt. "I had made up my mind, from what I was told in Jacksonville, to see a wretched old village with scarcely a pretence of decency in its appearance."
Hatch was delighted, and the young ladies declared that Tallahassee was perfectly charming.
"I have been here several months," said Cauthorne, "and I grow more attached to my surroundings every day. There is a last-century stateliness and uprightness; a conservatism, a scrupulousness, a seclusion, about the people, which makes me feel that they are a genuine, unadulterated remnant of the antebellum South."
"How interesting!" cried one of the young ladies. "Do the ladies dip snuff, as they do in North Carolina?"
"That accomplishment never reached this far South," replied Cauthorne. "In all seriousness, there is refinement of a unique and most superior order here, and especially among the ladies."
"Oh, I dare say there is!" said the other Miss Barnes; "but what do they manage to do with themselves? No amusements ever reach here, I suppose, — no opera, no play, no art-exhibition, or any thing."
"Only yesterday," said Cauthorne, "I was at a picnic, a most enjoyable and original affair, on the beach of Lake Bradford near here. We rode to the spot on horseback, had boats on the lake, and a superb luncheon. Then a few weeks ago I attended a splendid party at the mansion we are now about to pass: it is Judge La Rue's place. These large grounds were beautifully lighted up, and turned into a magnificent summer garden, and the old house was lined with flowers. There were two hundred guests."
As they slowly passed the gate, Cauthorne looked up the walk, and saw sitting on a favorite rustic seat Lucie and Willard. He could not be mistaken. The truant had returned. Judge La Rue, pipe in mouth, sat near them. It was, to Cauthorne at least, a very striking group.
Just at this point the whole party of excursionists, coming on behind Cauthorne's and Hatch's carriage, became suddenly quite noisy, a contagious mirth breaking out among them, and they made the welkin ring with their voices. And yet these were really refined persons making all this racket. It was the license of American tourists they were indulging in. An "excursion" without rudeness of some harmless sort would be a very novel and insipid affair; but the echoes of their mirthfulness did bound and clatter around in that quiet place in a way which Cauthorne tried not to realize. He felt guilty of being accessory to a great infringement of local custom, and that justice required a vicarious suffering on his part for the sins of the whole party. It was a long, solemn sabbath they were breaking, a sabbath which dawned with the Emancipation Proclamation, and which would end — when?
The excursionists interested Cauthorne no longer. His mind caught upon Willard and Lucie, and there hung. A strange sound was in his ears. A sense as of a heavy weight upon his bosom oppressed him. He tried to shake it off. It would not be moved. The lines of the moonlit landscape became hard and ugly. The old gray houses, set among the orange and fig trees, looked like stiff boxes in the midst of ragged thickets. The mockingbirds, sleepily singing their night songs in the heavy-limbed trees, made no impression upon his fancy. He looked at the strong, willowy blonde beside him, but he did not see her. In her place he contemplated a quiet, dark-faced girl, whose wealth of blue-black hair and whose soft gray eyes had power to control the very pulses of his heart. He was troubled on account of Willard's return. He was aware of what it meant, but he could not see how it was to end, — Vance, Willard, and himself all drawn toward Lucie La Rue, each dreading the others' influence, each feeling that more than life depended from the issue.
The carriages rolled on in the shadow flecked streets, and came back at last to the starting-place. The gay party, like a swarm of bright-winged bees, poured into the old hotel, and were conducted to their rooms.
In the apartments of the ladies there was much chattering and laughter; in those of the gentlemen, much clinking of glasses, and puffing of fragrant smoke.
Cauthorne sat by his window, and allowed the cool night-wind to ripple across his troubled face. These beautiful, careless, unrestrained, blonde raiders had served as a contrast to heighten the charms of Lucie La Rue, just at a time when she seemed about to slip away from him.
He was no visionary. He very sensibly tried to reason with himself; but it was not a case for reason. What part of being in love is a subject of logical treatment? He chafed in spite of himself. Why did not Willard stay away when once he had gone? What right had he to come back, and insist upon having his chances over again? It looked so boyish and silly to see a fellow so crazy about a girl! He never would have come back under such circumstances, — never in the world! Such petulance looks light on paper; but what man is so strong and so evenly balanced that he never has given room for it in his own breast?
The excursionists remained in Tallahassee some days, doing all the places of interest in the neighborhood. A young artist among them sketched every thing he saw which would admit of picturesque treatment, sending great express bundles of his work away to "Harper's Weekly" and other illustrated journals. A tall blonde lady who wore glasses, and who seemed rather independent of the rest of the party, called at the office of "The Floridian," and procured the insertion of the following personal: —
"Miss Emma L. Dozenbloomer, the charming correspondent of 'The Albany Letterpress,' and authoress of 'Amanda's Secret,' is in the city. She is collecting material for another book."
While she was in the office Capt. Dyke, the reserved and polite editor, showed her two enormous alligator-teeth brought from Big Cypress Swamp. He also gave her the pamphlet of "The Immigration Bureau," and a delightfully breezy "Report of the Agricultural Resources of Leon County."
The same issue of "The Floridian" contained the announcement of the death of ex-Gov. Vance at Hot Springs, Ark.
