better and for the worse, will change even the tone of the blue-grass
country, and perhaps take away something of that charm about which so
much has been written. So thoroughly has this region been set forth by
the pen and the pencil and the lens that I am relieved of the necessity
of describing it. But I must confess that all I had read of it, all
the pictures I had seen, gave me an inadequate idea of its beauty and
richness. So far as I know, there is nothing like it in the world.
Comparison of it with England is often made in the use of the words
“garden” and “park.” The landscape is as unlike the finer parts of Old
England as it is unlike the most carefully tended parts of New England.
It has neither the intense green, the subdivisions in hedges, the bosky
lanes, the picturesque cottages, the niceness of minute garden-culture,
of England, nor the broken, mixed lawn gardening and neglected pastures
and highways, with the sweet wild hills, of the Berkshire region. It
is an open, elevated, rolling land, giving the traveller often the most
extended views over wheat and clover, hemp and tobacco fields, forests
and blue-grass pastures. One may drive for a hundred miles north and
south over the splendid macadam turnpikes, behind blooded roadsters,
at an easy ten-mile gait, and see always the same sight—a smiling
agricultural paradise, with scarcely a foot, in fence corners, by the
road-side, or in low grounds, of uncultivated, uncared-for land. The
open country is more pleasing than the small villages, which have not
the tidiness of the New England small villages; the houses are for the
most part plain; here and there is a negro cabin, or a cluster of them,
apt to be unsightly, but always in view somewhere is a plantation-house,
more or less pretentious, generally old-fashioned and with the colonial
charm. These are frequently off the main thoroughfare, approached by a
private road winding through oaks and ash-trees, seated on some gentle
knoll or slope, maybe with a small flower-garden, but probably with the
old sentimental blooms that smell good and have reminiscences, in the
midst of waving fields of grain, blue-grass pastures, and open forest
glades watered by a dear stream. There seems to be infinite peace in
a house so surrounded. The house may have pillars, probably a colonial
porch and door-way with earving in bass-relief, a wide hall, large
square rooms, low studded, and a general air of comfort. What is new in
it in the way of art, furniture, or bric-à-brac may not be in the best
taste, and may “swear” at the old furniture and the delightful old
portraits. For almost always will be found some portraits of the
post-Revolutionary period, having a traditional and family interest, by
Copley or Jouett, perhaps a Stuart, maybe by some artist who evidently
did not paint for fame, which carry the observer back to the colonial
society in Virginia, Philadelphia, and New York. In a country house and
in Lexington I saw portraits, life-size and miniature, of Rebecca Gratz,
whose loveliness of person and character is still a tender recollection
of persons living. She was a great beauty and toast in her day. It
was at her house in Philadelphia, a centre of wit and gayety, that
Washington Irving and Henry Brevoort and Gulian C. Verplanck often
visited. She shone not less in New York society, and was the most
intimate friend of Matilda Hoffman, who was betrothed to Irving; indeed,
it was in her arms that Matilda died, fadeless always to us as she was
to Irving, in the loveliness of her eighteenth year. The well-founded
tradition is that Irving, on his first visit to Abbotsford, told Scott
of his own loss, and made him acquainted with the beauty and grace of
Rebecca Gratz, and that Scott, wanting at the moment to vindicate a race
that was aspersed, used her as a model for Rebecca in “Ivanhoe.”
One distinction of the blue-grass region is the forests, largely of
gigantic oaks, free of all undergrowth, carpeted with the close-set,
luscious, nutritive blue-grass, which remains green all the season when
it is cropped by feeding. The blue-grass thrives elsewhere, notably in
the upper Shenandoah Valley, where somewhat similar limestone conditions
prevail; but this is its natural habitat. On all this elevated rolling
plateau the limestone is near the surface. This grass blooms towards the
middle of June in a bluish, almost a peacock blue, blossom, which gives
to the fields an exquisite hue. By the end of the month the seed ripens
into a yellowish color, and while the grass is still green and lush
underneath, the surface presents much the appearance of a high New
England pasture in August. When it is ripe, the top is cut for the seed.
The limestone and the blue-grass together determine the agricultural
pre-eminence of the region, and account for the fine breeding of the
horses, the excellence of the cattle, the stature of the men, and the
beauty of the women; but they have social and moral influence also. It
could not well be otherwise, considering the relation of the physical
condition to disposition and character. We should be surprised if a
rich agricultural region, healthful at the same time, where there is
abundance of food, and wholesome cooking is the rule, did not affect the
tone of social life. And I am almost prepared to go further, and
think that blue-grass is a specific for physical beauty and a certain
graciousness of life. I have been told that there is a natural relation
between Presbyterianism and blue-grass, and am pointed to the Shenandoah
and to Kentucky as evidence of it. Perhaps Presbyterians naturally seek
a limestone country. But the relation, if it exists, is too subtle and
the facts are too few to build a theory on. Still, I have no doubt there
is a distinct variety of woman known as the blue-grass girl. A geologist
told me that once when he was footing it over the State with a geologist
from another State, as they approached the blue-grass region from the
southward they were carefully examining the rock formation and studying
the surface indications, which are usually marked on the border line,
to determine exactly where the peculiar limestone formation began.
Indications, however, were wanting. Suddenly my geologist looked up the
road and exclaimed:
“We are in the blue-grass region now.”
“How do you know?” asked the other.
“Why, there is a blue-grass girl.”
There was no mistaking the neat dress, the style, the rounded contours,
the gracious personage. A few steps farther on the geologists found the
outcropping of the blue limestone.
Perhaps the people of this region are trying to live up to the
thorough-bred. A pedigree is a necessity. The horse is of the first
consideration, and either has or gives a sort of social distinction;
first, the running horse, the thorough-bred, and now the trotting horse,
which is beginning to have a recognizable descent, and is on the way to
be a thorough-bred. Many of the finest plantations are horse farms;
one might call them the feature of the country. Horse-raising is here
a science, and as we drive from one estate to another, and note the
careful tillage, the trim fences, the neat stables, the pretty paddocks,
and the houses of the favorites, we see how everything is intended
to contribute to the perfection in refinement of fibre, speed, and
endurance of the noble animal. Even persons who are usually indifferent
to horses cannot but admire these beautiful high-bred creatures, either
the famous ones displayed at the stables, or the colts and fillies,
which have yet their reputations to make, at play in the blue-grass
pastures; and the pleasure one experiences is a refined one in harmony
with the landscape. Usually horse-dealing carries with it a lowering of
the moral tone, which we quite understand when we say of a man that he
is “horsy.” I suppose the truth is that man has degraded the idea of the
horse by his own evil passions, using him to gamble and cheat with.
Now, the visitor will find little of these degrading associations in the
blue-grass region. It is an orthodox and a moral region. The best
and most successful horse-breeders have nothing to do with racing or
betting. The yearly product of their farms is sold at auction, without
reserve or favor. The sole business is the production of the best
animals that science and care can breed. Undeniably where the horse is
of such importance he is much in the thought, and the use of “horsy”
phrases in ordinary conversation shows his effect upon the vocabulary.
The recital of pedigree at the stables, as horse after horse is led out,
sounds a little like a chapter from the Book of Genesis, and naturally
this Biblical formula gets into a conversation about people.
And after the horses there is whiskey. There are many distilleries in
this part of the country, and a great deal of whiskey is made. I am not
defending whiskey, at least any that is less than thirty years old and
has attained a medicinal quality. But I want to express my opinion that
this is as temperate as any region in the United States. There is a
wide-spread strict temperance sentiment, and even prohibition prevails
to a considerable degree. Whiskey is made and stored, and mostly shipped
away; rightly or wrongly, it is regarded as a legitimate business, like
wheatraising, and is conducted by honorable men. I believe this to be
the truth, and that drunkenness does not prevail in the neighborhood of
the distilleries, nor did I see anywhere in the country evidence of a
habit of dram drinking, of the traditional matter-of-course offering of
whiskey as a hospitality. It is true that mint grows in Kentucky,
and that there are persons who would win the respect of a tide-water
Virginian in the concoction of a julep. And no doubt in the mind of
the born Kentuckian there is a rooted belief that if a person needed
a stimulant, the best he can take is old hand-made whiskey. Where the
manufacture of whiskey is the source of so much revenue, and is carried
on with decorum, of course the public sentiment about it differs from
that of a community that makes its money in raising potatoes for starch.
Where the horse is so beautiful, fleet, and profitable, of course
there is intense interest in him, and the general public take a
lively pleasure in the races; but if the reader has been accustomed
to associate this part of Kentucky with horse-racing and drinking as
prominent characteristics, he must revise his opinion.
Perhaps certain colonial habits lingered longer in Kentucky than
elsewhere. Travellers have spoken about the habit of profanity and
gambling, especially the game of poker. In the West generally profane
swearing is not as bad form as it is in the East. But whatever
distinction central Kentucky had in profanity or poker, it has evidently
lost it. The duel lingered long, and prompt revenge for insults,
especially to women. The blue-grass region has “histories”—beauty has
been fought about; women have had careers; families have run out through
dissipation. One may hear stories of this sort even in the Berkshire
Hills, in any place where there have been long settlement, wealth, and
time for the development of family and personal eccentricities. And
there is still a flavor left in Kentucky; there is still a subtle
difference in its social tone; the intelligent women are attractive in
another way from the intelligent New England women—they have a charm
of their own. May Heaven long postpone the day when, by the commercial
spirit and trade and education, we shall all be alike in all parts
of the Union! Yet it would be no disadvantage to anybody if the
graciousness, the simplicity of manner, the refined hospitality, of the
blue-grass region should spread beyond the blue limestone of the Lower
Silurian.
In the excellent State Museum at Frankfort, under the charge of Prof.
John R. Procter, * who is State Geologist and also Director of the
Bureau of Immigration, in addition to the admirable exhibit of the
natural resources of Kentucky, are photographs, statistics, and products
showing the condition of the Swiss and other foreign farming colonics
recently established in the State, which were so interesting and
offered so many instructive points that I determined to see some of the
colonies.
* Whatever value this paper has is so largely due to Professor Procter
that I desire to make to him the most explicit acknowledgments. One of
the very best results of the war was keeping him in the Union.
This museum and the geological department, the intelligent management of
which has been of immense service to the commonwealth, is in one of the
detached buildings which make up the present Capitol. The Capitol is
altogether antiquated, and not a credit to the State. The room in which
the Lower House meets is shabby and mean, yet I noticed that it is
fairly well lighted by side windows, and debate can be heard in it
conducted in an ordinary tone of voice. Kentucky will before many years
be accommodated with new State buildings more suited to her wealth and
dignity. But I should like to repeat what was said in relation to the
Capitol of Arkansas. Why cannot our architects devise a capitol suited
to the wants of those who occupy it? Why must we go on making these
huge inconvenient structures, mainly for external display, in which the
legislative Chambers are vast air-tight and water-tight compartments,
commonly completely surrounded by other rooms and lobbies, and lighted
only from the roof, or at best by high windows in one or two sides that
permit no outlook—rooms difficult to speak or hear in, impossible to
ventilate, needing always artificial light? Why should the Senators of
the United States be compelled to occupy a gilded dungeon, unlighted
ever by the sun, unvisited ever by the free wind of heaven, in which the
air is so foul that the Senators sicken? What sort of legislation ought
we to expect from such Chambers? It is perfectly feasible to build a
legislative room cheerful and light, open freely to sun and air on
three sides. In order to do this it may be necessary to build a group
of connected buildings, instead of the parallelogram or square, which is
mostly domed, with gigantic halls and stair-ways, and, considering the
purpose for which it is intended, is a libel on our ingenuity and a
burlesque on our civilization.
Kentucky has gone to work in a very sensible way to induce immigration
and to attract settlers of the right sort. The Bureau of Immigration
was established in 1880. It began to publish facts about the State, in
regard to the geologic formation, the soils, the price of lands, both
the uncleared and the lands injured by slovenly culture, the kind and
amount of products that might be expected by thrifty farming, and the
climate; not exaggerated general proclamations promising sudden wealth
with little labor, but facts such as would attract the attention of men
willing to work in order to obtain for themselves and their children
comfortable homes and modest independence. Invitations were made for
a thorough examination of lands—of the different sorts of soils in
different counties—before purchase and settlement. The leading idea was
to induce industrious farmers who were poor, or had not money enough
to purchase high-priced improved lands, to settle upon lands that the
majority of Kentuckians considered scarcely worth cultivating, and the
belief was that good farming would show that these neglected lands were
capable of becoming very productive. Eight years’ experience has fully
justified all these expectations. Colonies of Swiss, Germans, Austrians,
have come, and Swedes also, and these have attracted many from the
North and North-west. In this period I suppose as many as ten thousand
immigrants of this class, thrifty cultivators of the soil, have come
into the State, many of whom are scattered about the State, unconnected
with the so-called colonies. These colonies are not organized
communities in any way separated from the general inhabitants of the
State. They have merely settled together for companionship and social
reasons, where a sufficiently large tract of cheap land was found
to accommodate them. Each family owns its own farm, and is perfectly
independent. An indiscriminate immigration has not been desired
or encouraged, but the better class of laboring agriculturists,
grape-growers, and stock-raisers. There are several settlements of
these, chiefly Swiss, dairy-farmers, cheese-makers, and vine-growers, in
Laurel County; others in Lincoln County, composed of Swiss, Germans, and
Austrians; a mixed colony in Rock Castle County; a thriving settlement
of Austrians in Boyle County; a temperance colony of Scandinavians in
Edmonson County; another Scandinavian colony in Grayson County; and
scattered settlements of Germans and Scandinavians in Christian County.
These settlements have from one hundred to over a thousand inhabitants
each. The lands in Laurel and Lincoln counties, which I travelled
through, are on a high plateau, with good air and temperate climate, but
with a somewhat thin, loamy, and sandy soil, needing manure, and called
generally in the State poor land—poor certainly compared with the
blue-grass region and other extraordinarily fertile sections. These
farms, which had been more or less run over by Kentucky farming, were
sold at from one to five dollars an acre. They are farms that a man
cannot live on in idleness. But they respond well to thrifty tillage,
and it is a sight worth a long journey to see the beautiful farms these
Swiss have made out of land that the average Kentuckian thought not
worth cultivating. It has not been done without hard work, and as most
of the immigrants were poor, many of them have had a hard struggle in
building comfortable houses, reducing the neglected land to order, and
obtaining stock. A great attraction to the Swiss was that this land
is adapted to vine culture, and a reasonable profit was expected
from selling grapes and making wine. The vineyards are still young;
experiment has not yet settled what kind of grapes flourish best, but
many vine-growers have realized handsome profits in the sale of fruit,
and the trial is sufficient to show that good wine can be produced. The
only interference thus far with the grapes has been the unprecedented
late freeze last spring.
At the recent exposition in Louisville the exhibit of these Swiss
colonies—the photographs showing the appearance of the unkempt land when
they bought it, and the fertile fields of grain and meadow and vineyards
afterwards, and the neat, plain farm cottages, the pretty Swiss chalet
with its attendants of intelligent comely girls in native costumes
offering articles illustrating the taste and the thrift of the
colonies, wood-carving, the products of the dairy, and the fruit of the
vine—attracted great attention.
I cannot better convey to the reader the impression I wish to in regard
to this colonization and its lesson for the country at large than
by speaking more in detail of one of the Swiss settlements in Laurel
County. This is Bernstadt, about six miles from Pittsburg, on the
Louisville and Nashville road, a coal-mining region, and offering a good
market for the produce of the Swiss farmers. We did not need to be told
when we entered the colony lands; neater houses, thrifty farming, and
better roads proclaimed it. It is not a garden-spot; in some respects it
is a poor-looking country; but it has abundant timber, good water, good
air, a soil of light sandy loam, which is productive under good
tillage. There are here, I suppose, some two hundred and fifty families,
scattered about over a large area, each on its farm. There is no
collection of houses; the church (Lutheran), the school-house, the
store, the post-office, the hotel, are widely separated; for the
hotel-keeper, the store-keeper, the postmaster, and, I believe, the
school-master and the parson, are all farmers to a greater or less
extent. It must be understood that it is a primitive settlement,
having as yet very little that is picturesque, a community of simple
working-people. Only one or two of the houses have any pretension to
taste in architecture, but this will come in time—the vine-clad porches,
the quaint gables, the home-likeness. The Kentuckian, however, will
notice the barns for the stock, and a general thriftiness about the
places. And the appearance of the farms is an object-lesson of the
highest value.
The chief interest to me, however, was the character of the settlers.
Most of them were poor, used to hard work and scant returns for it in
Switzerland. What they have accomplished, therefore, is the result of
industry, and not of capital. There are among the colonists
skilled laborers in other things than vine-growing and
cheese-making—watch-makers and wood-carvers and adepts in various
trades. The thrifty young farmer at whose pretty house we spent the
night, and who has saw-mills at Pittsburg, is of one of the best Swiss
families; his father was for many years President of the republic, and
he was a graduate of the university at Lucerne. There were others of
the best blood and breeding and schooling, and men of scientific
attainments. But they are all at work close to the soil. As a rule,
however, the colonists were men and women of small means at home. The
notable thing is that they bring with them a certain old civilization, a
unity of simplicity of life with real refinement, courtesy, politeness,
good-humor. The girls would not be above going out to service, and they
would not lose their self-respect in it. Many of them would be described
as “peasants,” but I saw some, not above the labors of the house and
farm, with real grace and dignity of manner and charm of conversation.
Few of them as yet speak any English, but in most houses are evidences
of some German culture. Uniformly there was courtesy and frank
hospitality. The community amuses itself rationally. It has a very good
brass band, a singing club, and in the evenings and holidays it is apt
to assemble at the hotel and take a little wine and sing the songs of
father-land. The hotel is indeed at present without accommodations for
lodgers—nothing but a Wirthshaus with a German garden where dancing may
take place now and then. With all the hard labor, they have an idea of
the simple comforts and enjoyments of life. And they live very well,
though plainly. At a house where we dined, in the colony Strasburg,
near Bernstadt, we had an excellent dinner, well served, and including
delicious soup. If the colony never did anything else than teach that
part of the State how to make soup, its existence would be justified.
Here, in short, is an element of homely thrift, civilization on a
rational basis, good-citizenship, very desirable in any State. May their
vineyards flourish! When we departed early in the morning—it was not
yet seven—a dozen Switzers, fresh from the dewy fields, in their working
dresses, had assembled at the hotel, where the young landlady also
smiled a welcome, to send us off with a song, which ended, as we drove
away, in a good-bye yodel.