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'oeil. 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.

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.

The jungle stories were all right, but the African hunter was never allowed to forget that he was in the land of the hunter Boone. The very ground upon which they commemoratively wassailed had been consecrated by the footsteps of the great explorer of the West. The beastly "anthropoids" that confronted him were armed with tomahawks and guns. A salient point of difference indeed. The clever and daring Frenchman listened with smiling interest to their characteristic spurts of "brag," and was silently remarking, no doubt, its curious affinity to the gasconade of France. He seemed to feel perfectly at home. And who of us that were present can ever forget the impression of that dark, resolute face, the illumining smile, the gleaming teeth, and the kindly, humorous glance of the piercing eye? His experiences at the clubroom only partially prepared him for the peculiar impressiveness of the audience that greeted him at the stately old Courthouse. There were the same men, to be sure, handsome, graceful, courteous, smiling, and soft of speech; but the women!—with their lovely faces, their handsome dresses, their enchanting manners, their distinction, ease and charm! The Frenchman was never more of a philosopher than when he gazed upon this scene.

He told his tale of the jungle simply, but with a vividness that was realistic and startling to a degree. The fascination of the audience was complete. He not only described that strange encounter in the African forest, but he re-enacted the part, a representation which gave a curiously thrilling quality to the tale not appreciable when told in print, admirably as it is told in the author's famous book.

When the voice of the speaker ceased, as it did all too soon, the silent, fascinated audience, aroused from its strange African dream, broke into round after round of hearty, appreciative applause. For several moments the lecturer stood in a grave, thoughtful attitude, gazing intently upon the moving throng, not as though idly observing the dispersion of a village gathering, but as some philosophic tourist from another sphere, studying the aspect, the attitude, characteristic manner and physiognomical traits of an alien race. He asked but one question. Turning eagerly to the gentleman who accompanied him, he inquired with an expression of intense interest, as his glance fell upon a graceful Kentuckienne near the center of the throng—a lovely blonde with exquisite complexion, hair and eyes—"Who is our beautiful Scandinavian?"[2] The answer seemed to please him, and he walked thoughtfully toward the door, an object of respectful attention from the slow-moving throng, lingering as if it longed to stay. Though of small stature, he would have attracted attention anywhere. His figure was compact, lithe, elastic, and perfectly erect, his cranial outline (typically French) denoted intellectual strength and physical vigor, his facial contour was bold, regular, and pleasing—a singularly virile countenance softened and dignified by the discipline of thought. The crowd of which he is now the central figure is composed largely of men wholly different from Du Chaillu in air, stature, carriage, countenance, complexion, and racial type. Yet Nature seldom evolves from any source a solider bit of man than this gallant Frenchman from the heart of France.

The distinguished guest took his departure on the following day, not with a cold adieu, but with an airy au revoir—as of one who, charmed with his welcome, was meditating an early return. But was he pleased? Apparently he was, and if not, he had the Frenchman's happy art of seeming to be. If here simply for observation, he certainly found no degeneracy, but rather, we should say, certain pleasing lines of variation in the Occidental evolution of the race. It seems impossible that he should not have had a pleasant impression of his hosts—these genial sons of "Arcady," forever piping their minty elixirs with oaten straws, whose drinks even when "straightest" were not stronger than their steady heads—so hospitable to strangers, so chivalrous to women, so courteous to men, so gracious in manner, so happy in speech, so loyal to kin, so proud of their Commonwealth, their ancestral traditions, and their indomitable race. They drank naught from the skulls of their enemies, but they were adepts in filling their own. Their potations were pottle deep, and the intervals between were not needlessly prolonged. And yet they rose refreshed from their heady cups, ordered their stud a drench, and sighed for work.

The adventurous Frenchman was no glutton in debauch, but in a modest symposium could always hold his own, and doubtless imagined in this festal reunion of Bourbon and Champagne that he had re-discovered the Nouvelle France of the royal days when Louis le Grand was King.[3]