[I]
Upon the northern border of Mr. James Lane Allen's "Arcady" there rises with picturesque distinctness against a range of green hills the pleasant old Kentucky town of Maysville, which, unlike the typical town of the South, is neither "sleepy" nor "quaint," but in a notable degree animated, bustling, ambitious, advancing, and up-to-date. It must be confessed, however, that here and there, in certain secluded localities, it is architecturally antique. Constructed almost wholly of brick, and planted solidly upon the lower slopes of the wooded hills, the site is indescribably charming, and, looked at from a distant elevation in front or from the elevated plateau of the environing hills, presents a pleasing completeness and finish in the coup d'œil. At one glance the eye takes in the compact little city, set gem-like in the crescentic sweep of the river that flows placidly past the willow-fringed shore and the walled and graded front. The scene is likewise suggestive, since it marks the northern limit of the "phosphatic limestone" formation which assures the permanent productiveness of the overlying soil—a natural fertilizer which by gradual disintegration perpetually renews the soil exhausted by prolonged or injudicious cultivation.
The town is of Virginian origin. At one time, indeed, it was a Virginian town. The rich country to the south of it was peopled chiefly by tobacco planters from "Piedmont" Virginia, slaveholding Virginians of a superior class.
In the infancy of this early Virginian settlement it was vigilantly guarded by the famous Occidental hunters, Kenton and Boone; the former a commissioner of roads for the primitive Virginian county, then ill-cultivated and forest clad: the latter, a leading "trustee" of the embryonic Eighteenth Century town. As we pass through the streets near the center of the place to-day we note the handsome proportions of a public edifice which has come down to us from the early mid-century days—an imposing "colonial" structure with a lofty, well-proportioned cupola and a nobly columned front. It is that significant symbol of Southern civilization—the Courthouse. To the artistic and antiquarian eye the building is the glory of the old "Virginian" town, since it appeals at once to civic pride and superior critical taste.
It was here—in the capacious auditorium of the Courthouse, and in the closing quarter of the last century—that a large and enthusiastic gathering of really typical Kentuckians, familiar from childhood with tales of wild adventure, greeted with rapturous applause the renowned hunter and explorer, Paul Du Chaillu, a native of Paris, France. A common taste for woodcraft had brought the alien elements in touch. The Frenchman was a swell hunter of big game, and had come hither to repeat his graphic recital of experiences in the equatorial haunts of that formidable anthropoid—the Gorilla. Du Chaillu's discovery of the gorilla and the Obonga dwarfs was so astounding to modern civilization that strenuous efforts were made to discredit it, notably by Gray and Barth. But later explorations amply vindicated the Frenchman's claims.
He had a like experience later. The adventurous explorer had come to Kentucky in prompt response to an invitation from a local club, a social and literary organization which owed its popularity and success chiefly to the circumstance that the genial members, though sometimes intemperately "social," were never obtrusively "literary." The social feature was particularly pleasing to the accomplished Frenchman, who was a man of the world in every sense, and who dropped easily into congenial relations with gentlemen who had an hereditary and highly cultivated taste for le sport in all its phases. Take them when or where you might, the spirit of camaraderie was in them strong. They told a good story in racy English and with excellent taste. They had studied with discrimination the composition of a Bourbon "cocktail." They had a distinctly connoisseurish appreciation of the flavor, fragrance, and tints of an Havana cigar. They had a traditional preference for Bourbon in their domestic and social drinking, but they always kept ample supplies of imported wines for their guests.
The genial Frenchman was very indulgent to the generous tipple of his hosts. He drank their Bourbon without apparent distaste; he praised their imported Mumm and Clicquot. He did better still; he drank the imported champagne with appreciation—a high compliment from such a source.
PAUL B. DuCHAILLU.
Clearly enough the harmony between the guest and his environment was complete. These courteous and loquacious Kentuckians were not only brilliant and audacious raconteurs, but with their varied experiences as sportsmen had a variety of marvelous stories to tell. When their stock of pioneer exploits fell short, they would listen with polite interest to their guest's weird stories of the African jungle, and cleverly cap them with reminiscences of a miraculous outing on Reelfoot Lake or Kinniconick. They were themselves experts with the rifle and the long bow, and were loaded to the muzzle with authentic traditions of the rod and gun.