xt7vdn3zt134 https://nyx.uky.edu/dips/xt7vdn3zt134/data/mets.xml https://nyx.uky.edu/dips/xt7vdn3zt134/data/2002av2.dao.xml Art Photogravure Co., 1898 1898 .3 cu. ft. (12 bound volumes): 114 images images English University of Kentucky This digital resource may be freely searched and displayed.  Permission must be received for subsequent distribution in print or electronically.  Physical rights are retained by the owning repository.  Copyright is retained in accordance with U. S. copyright laws.  For information about permissions to reproduce or publish, contact the Special Collections Research Center. Art Work of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky,1898 Kentucky--Description and travel Kentucky--History Smith, J. Soule Art Work of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky,1898 image Art Work of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky,1898 1898 2011 true xt7vdn3zt134 collection true 2002av2 
 Guide to the Art Work of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky,  1898 
 Processed by: Staff, Jason Flahardy; machine-readable finding aid created by:Jason Flahardy 
 Special Collections 
 Audio-Visual Archives 
 Special Collections 
 University of Kentucky 
 Margaret I. King Library 
 Lexington, KY 40506-0039 
 Phone: (859) 257-8611 
 Fax: (859) 257-6311 
 Email: sclref@lsv.uky.edu 
 URL: http://www.uky.edu/Libraries/libpage.php?lweb_id=391&llib_id=13 
   Copyright 1998  University of Kentucky Libraries. All Rights Reserved. 
 Machine-readable finding aid derived from typescript by rekeying.Date of source:  2002 
Digital archival objects created:  2003-09-16 . 
 Description is in  English. 
 Guide to the  Art Work of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky ,  1898 
 Collection number: 2002AV2 
 Contact Information 
 Audio-Visual Archives 
 Special Collections 
 University of Kentucky 
 Margaret I. King Library 
 Lexington, KY 40506-0039 
 Phone: (859) 257-2654 
 Fax: (859) 257-6311 
 Email:  sclref@lsv.uky.edu 
 URL:   http://www.uky.edu/Libraries/libpage.php?lweb_id=391&llib_id=13 
 Processed by: Staff, Jason Flahardy 
 Date Completed: 2002 
 Encoded by: Jason Flahardy 
   Copyright 1999 University of Kentucky. All Rights Reserved. 
 114 online images 
 Art Work of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky, 1898 
 Art Photogravure Co., 1898 
 Smith, J. Soule, 1848-1904 
 .3 cu. ft. (12 bound volumes): 114 images 
 The materials are in  English. 
 University of Kentucky Special Collections 
 Lexington, Kentucky 40506 
 The collection is open to researchers by appointment. 
 Copyright is in public domain. 
 [Identification of item],  Art Work of the Blue Grass Region of Kentucky , 2002AV2,Special Collections, University of Kentucky. 
 Kentucky--Description and travel 
 Smith, J. Soule 
 Joshua Soule Smith wrote the text that accompanies the photographs. Smith graduated from the University of Kentucky Law School in 1871 and was accepted to the bar the same year. He served as both the City Attorney for Lexington, Kentucky and as County Attorney for Fayette County, Kentucky. In 1875 he became a professor of Common Law at the University of Kentucky.  Smith also held positions at  The Lexington Observer and Reporter ,  Lexington Press , and  The Louisville Times . At  The Louisville Times  he served as a columnist and wrote under the pen name "Falcon." 
 The following is the text written by J. Soule Smith that accompanies the photogravures 
 Bluegrass Region of Kentucky 
 by J. Soule Smith 
 The "Bluegrass Region Of Kentucky" is a land famous in song and story, and loved by its people with a proud affection beyond what the stranger can conceive.  It is a remarkable land, inhabited by a people who are as unique in their individuality as the land itself is unlike any other.  It is a poem in itself, and its men and women have the distinct outlines of  figures in a Shakespearian drama.  It is unlike any other land; its people are unlike any other people.  No matter how deeply the snow lies upon the landscape, the Bluegrass is green beneath it; and no matter how crisp and brown it may become in the parching drought of summer, it responds at once to the falling rain, and, in a day's time the emerald verdue smiles its gracious greeting to the passing breeze.  One who has not seen its purple waves ripple on wind swept pastures, in the late spring, has missed a more gorgeous spectacle than the Bay of Naples, painted by the setting sun, or the Great Sound of Bermuda.  
 It is indeed a unique land; perhaps nowhere else on earth can be found the same conditions of soil, of climate, of people, and location.  Geographically it is the oldest, and the highest, formation of the Western Continent.  Its old Silurian rocks rise from the very foundations of the earth's crust, forced up like the peak of a volcano, round the edges of whose crater other strata are piled up to form a level surface.  And the underlying stone-a soft limestone, full of minute sea shells, and easily disintegrating-seems as if it had been formed of heat and water; at the bottom of the sea, and lifted bodily up to the surface by the expansive gases of the underworld.  The grass roots draw their nourishment from this natural phosphate, and the tendrills of red clover pierce down to the solid rock itself, and carry with them the solvent of the falling rain.  So the fruits of the soil-the grass, the clover and the corn are rich with nourishment from bone, and brawn, and brain.  It is a land where great men and good women draw strong bodies and active brains from the earth beneath them, and fine inspiration in the balmy air, and poetry in the bending sky.  It is near to Heaven and most blest of all the earth.  
 Almost exactly in the centre of Kentucky lies this land of dream and sunshine.  Fayette County is the central point, and from its Court House the bluegrass region stretches in a circle.  Jessamine County, Woodford, Scott, Bourbon and Clark surround it.  Parts of Madison, Garrard, Boyle, Mercer, Anderson, Franklin, Harrison and Montgomery share in it glories; through the best part of it winds the Kentucky River, which has cut its deep bed into the soft rocks three hundred feet below the surface, and presents its picturesque cliffs in many featured crags as sentinels over the wimpling waves below.  Crowned with scanty growth of cedar, scarred here and there by the lightning's stroke, and wreathed with reminiscent legend, these battlements of ancient days are glorious in their majesty.  The mists of morning wreathe them with subtle suggestiveness, the noon day sun crowns them with glory, and the soft moonlight loves to play hide and seek with flitting shadows in their crevices.  The whole land is an epic poem-hill and valley, crag and plain, sombre forest and clover scented meadow, all furnish their separate beauties to the harmonious whole.  
 On this side bends then yellow corn,  
 On that, the blowing clover;  
 And, here, the hunter winds his horn,  
 To run the fox to cover.  
 On every cliff the bluegrass waves,  
 On every rock the heather;  
 And, here, and there, are sacred graves,  
 Where heroes sleep together.  
 It is indeed a land where "heroes sleep together." From times long before the American Indians roamed the cane-brakes, and infested the whispering forests of old "Kain-tuck-eee," heroes lived here, and died here, and were placed here, in their Druidical sepulchres.  Serpent worship and the adoration of the sun, were perpetrated by mounds, and winding earth-works on the banks of the Elkhorn Creek, which still remain, a mystery to the populace, and a study to the scientist.  With the inroad of  Tartars who overwhelmed their civilization they vanished.  A peaceful race, a highly civilized race, they must have been, but with all their kindly, gentle, instincts they knew how to die on the old soil, in the old land, and were buried where they fell.  The American Indians who followed them aptly named this "the dark and bloody ground."  No tribe of American Indians ever claimed it as their own.  It was the oldest land on earth, and the most fertile.  So they, in their superstitious fear, gave its possession, and its title, to the ghosts of great men who had occupied before them; and used it only as a common battleground, on which hostile tribes could meet.  The dark forests, the inpenetrable cane-brakes, the consecrated spots where the blood of their ancestors had been shed, made them fearful of the land, and no red man ever founded his home, no chieftain ever established his village, in the "Dark and Bloody Ground."  When the white man came, tradition said that he came only to his own.  Those whom the Indians had driven out were white; they bowed to the rising sun; the ghosts of their ancestors owned and occupied the land; the Indian felt that his warfare against the "Pale face" and the "Long Knife" was hopeless.  But he fought for the honor of his fathers, he died like the heroic savage that he was, and the echo of his death song mingled with the cries of exultation from the ghosts of those whom he had dispossessed.  
 The spirit of the Aborigines, and the death defiance of the Indians, mingle in the air of old Kain-tuck-ee yet, and, with the holy memories of an Anglo-Saxon ancestry, furnish inspiration to the sons of the Bluegrass land to emulate their sires in heroism, while the daughters of the old soil furnish a chaste motherhood to  heroic posterity.  As the Indians had come to chase  away the children of the Sun, so the white man came from the East to occupy the land.  Boone, and Kenton, and Bryan, and Calloway, crossed the mountains, and found the war-like red man skulking in the cane-brake.  No Indian claimed the Bluegrass land as his; but every Indian sought to baptize it in a white man's blood.  The first stroke of the ax was answered by the crack of a rifle and the whirr of a tomahawk; and every acre made blessed by the tassels of Nodding corn was first watered with the heart-drops from fallen foes.  All along the Kentucky River, in the cliffs, are caves where the pioneer sought refuge from his savage foe; in the level lands he made rude furnaces to smelt lead from the rocks; and at the springs, which break from the earth's crust on the border lands, he cooked salt from the sparkling waters.  He found here the gentleness of nature and its strength; the fertile soil, the smiling sky, the bubbling spring, but also the panther, the buffalo, and the Indians.  But strange to say, there were few, if any venomous serpents in the Bluegrass Land.   The ghosts of great nations perhaps brooded still upon the old sod, and made it, like that of Ireland, too sacred for a serpent brood.  It has, yet, no atmosphere fitted to brood reptiles, or treacherous men-it is but little changed.  
 So the people of this land are warlike when aroused, but gentle and hospitable in deed and word, and thought.  The spirit of their ancestors has not departed, the blood of a heroic ancestry is in their veins, but the sweet influence of Nature is about them, always inclining to peace, and charity, and gentle ministration to the stranger.  In war, Kentucky has not been laggard nor her sons known as cowards-and the Bluegrass Region is the heart of Kentucky.  As I write this a Breckinridge is borne to his rest in the cemetery at Lexington, who gave his young life to his country's cause in sight of Moro Castle, under whose grim walls a Crittenden died, like a Crittenden, with these death words on his lips "a Kentuckian kneels only to his God, and never turns his back on an enemy.  Near by young Breckinridge, sleeps Hugh McKee who first planted the stars and stripes upon a Corean fort, and died planting that grand Oriflamme of liberty upon a hostile soil.  Near by sleeps Roger Hanson, grave and grim-a Stonewall with his infantry; near by, sleeps Morgan, the flashing meteor of Kentucky cavalry; near by, sleeps John C. Breckinridge, the courteous gentleman, the peerless orator, the unspotted statesman, the soldier brave as Ajax, wise as Ulysses, and gentle as the knightly Bayard.  And, in every part of this hallowed place, white monuments and grassy mounds, show where repose the forms of others who represent, as well as these, the noble qualities of Bluegrass men.  Long circles of white headstones show where thousands of Federal dead are buried; in enduring stone a Confederate soldier keeps watch before a broken flagstaff; and a conquered banner, round which sleep a valiant few who fell beneath the Stars and Bars; above them all, the monument of Henry Clay stands, piercing heaven with its shaft, and throwing the kindly smile of the Great Commoner from its summit down upon the land which holds so softly to its breast the forms of all who loved it, and who fought for it, on either side.  
 At Paris, and Georgetown; at Versailles, and Midway, and Nicholasville; at Richmond, and Danville, and Mount Sterling, and Winchester,--wherever the blue grass bends its beauteous waves, or dashed its purple billows against the rock-ribbed boundaries of this sacred land-there are other cemeteries in which heroes sleep; and, on the hill at Frankfort, Kentucky's illustrious dead await the trumpet call.  At Camp Nelson in Jessamine County, on a rolling table-land round which the Kentucky River sweeps, more than three hundred feet below, there are the graves of many thousand veterans who fell in the Union cause beneath the stars and stripes, and found a home beneath Kentucky sward until the Resurrection morn.  I speak of these dead ones, because heroic death is always picturesque, and any ground is consecrated which enfolds a soldier's form.  
 The cemetery at Frankfort is worthy the tribute of any poet, the pen of any historian.  In its small compass can be found memorials of heroic deeds, of transcendent statesmanship, of rugged worth, and delicate scholarship, not often so combined in one close neighborhood of death.  It is best to visit it in spring, and then afoot.  The footpath winds up from the Arsenal along the rugged cliff, below which laps the waters of Kentucky river, along whose bank the steel track of the railroad finds a friendly footing.  The young leaves are pale green, knowing not yet the withering sun or grimy dust. And the tree boughs arcb above the path, changing the golden sunbeams to a shimmer of faint pea-green, like the sky's reflection on a pine-embordered bay in tropic lands, where winds but dally with the wave.  The wood is glorious with the dogwood and the redbud's bloom; the honeysuckle loads the air with balm, and violets carpet all the earth.   All kinds of mountain flowers bloom here in the bosom of the Bluegrass Land, and from the cliff-side, here and there, sweet, sparkling waters gush through verdant moss, and gurgle on their way among the stones.  The spirit of sweet spring is in the air, and the heart leaps with all the strong, exultant, power of youth, although the head be gray.  At last,  climb up rude steps in the rock, and then you stand upon the highest summit of the bluff.   Below, the river winds far to the South and West with the wooded hills embracing it; the little city sleeps in peace beyond tide-"South Frankfort," they call it, the chosen home of the tuberose, that flower sacred to all lovers in the Bluegrass Land.  
 The path ends at the monument of Daniel Boone and the faithful wife who shared his dangers and sweetened his wanderings with wifely love and gentle ministrations.  It is much defaced by vandal hands, but still more picturesque by the defacement.  Not far away are other monuments almost as deserving of the stranger's contemplation.  The founders of the Commonwealth lie here, and distinquished names from Monterey and Buena Vista are carved upon a marble shaft.  The slayer of Tecumsah has his monument, whereupon is wrought the sculptured history of that eventful day.  Everywhere memorials of valor, of learning, of hospitality known only to the olden time, are seen.  The ascent to the place lies among the wild flowers and the crags.  The place itself is soft with bluegrass sward, and sweet with roses blooming on its rolling slopes.  Imperishable fame makes glorious the memory of the dead who sleep beneath this soil, and gentleness and love belong to those who walk the winding paths and dress their father's graves.  
 Frankfort is not entirely in the Bluegrass Land, but at heart it is a Bluegrass city.  Not a commercial center; not pushing or adventurous in its business enterprise; it sits serenely in its valley home the gentlest, sweetest, most complacent relic of Kentucky's past that can be found.  The seat of government for a century, it has known and loved, and made its own, the best of all Kentucky's ancient chivalry, and grace, and elegance, and beauty.  In its assembly halls the greatest and most courtly of the Western men have bowed before the splendid womanhood of olden days.  Mothers of statesmen, and poets, and philosophers, and soldiers have here felt their maiden hearts beat proudly as they paced with mincing steps the well-waxed floor.  In the old State House are stored the flags of 1812, of Mexico, and the banners of Union and Confederate regiments who fought from '61 to '65.  A loving mother to all of Kentucky's children, Frankfort preserves their ashes in her urn among the hills, and drops her sympathetic tears upon their graves with loving kindness unto all.  A gentle, precious, loving relic of the olden time is she, most admirably picturesque.  
 But South Frankfort is to Frankfort, what the Bluegrass Land is to other regions of the world; the tuberose, that flower which is to other flowers, what spirit is to matter, knows no perfection anywhere except in this most favored spot.  
 Yes, there is but one place on earth where the tuberose revels in the boundless realization of its own imaginings.  Nowhere else does it ever attain the voluptuous perfection of it own dreams, and come forth full-budded into chaste beauty, white as the round boom of a vestal virgin, but with breath as deliciously seductive as the scented asphodel which Venus tended in Idalian meadows.  Beneath my window the mint bed grows green, and gives generous fragrance to the moonlit air; I can smell the clustering grapes about my porch a great-hearted rose, reared up by my own hands, flings its sweet, saucy greeting at me from my mantel; but I turn from my poor patch of tuberoses and bow my head three times-yes,  thrice.  There is but one perfect tuberose, and South Frankfort is its home. 
 It is a flower which I love much, and, next to mint, the flavor of its sweet breath reaches most deeply into the twilight of my heart.  A demure flower it is, and folds its leaves shyly, and half slyly together, like a Quaker maiden pinning her snowy kerchief about her snowy bosom.  But its heart is warm, and it breaths the very breath of love.  In its strange fragrance there is a shadow of grief, flitting about the strange delight of a present love, like the memory of a sorrow pouring out its balm for its own healing.  Every distinction of its sweetness is married to something unlike itself, yet of itself a part.  Just as young lovers, in the warm intoxication of their first passion, walk together among graves, and wonder which of them will die first, so this flower, somehow, mingles a tremulous and distinct fear with the rich outpourings of its sensuous heart.  It weds Memory to Hope, and flavors bliss with the recollection of pain.  It draws the heavy sweetness from the honey-hearted sunbeams, and passionately flings its soul upon the winds when the white moon silvers the night with glory, and gaudy blossoms have shut their hearts and folded their leaves in sleep.  The dewdrops slumber in its bosom while the stars are winking, but it never sleeps; and loads the air with fragrance through all the silent watches of the night.  Love and poetry and romance and mystery are in the breath of its lips, yet it folds its modest bloom together shrinkingly and stands as modestly aside from recognition as a white-souled nun waiting till the vesper bells shall ring.  I am sorry for the man unto whose heart the tuberose tells no sweet and sacred story.  
 But Frankfort is only on the border of the Bluegrass Land.  Across the river, to the West, the hills of Benson rise most beautifully when they are painted by the touch of the autumn sun, but not so typical of what the old land is.  It is the Capital of the Commonwealth; the repository of its sacred relics; but it is not the capital of the Bluegrass Land.  That honor is reserved for Lexington.  As the Old Land is the heart of the world, so is Lexington the core of that heart.  From the rim of rocks which encircle the old Silurian soil, every road leads to Lexington.  It is the Rome of this modern day; the Imperial City toward which all magnetic currents flow.  Upon the highest point in the earth's crust, in the very centre of that crater which was made by the upheaval of the first formed rock, it is quietly conscious of its eminence, and accepts the homage due to it like a queen upon her throne.  No other place has heard such eloquence, no other place has given birth to such statesmanship or bred so many orators, no other place has, in such short time, so helped to make the world a better, brighter, worthier dwelling place for man.  Lexington is the inland Naples of  America-he who has not seen it has lived in vain.  
 More than a hundred years ago, the manly hunters met on this common trysting ground. A courier had brought across the misty mountains, and through the dark gorges, and past the rushing rivers, news of a battle where patriot blood was shed, and the first birth heroes of a new nation felt in agony.  The men who listened as he told the tale were stern and silent.  In their veins ran the blood of Scotch Covenanters, of Cromwellian Roundheads, of Cavaliers and exiled Hugenots.  They had sought liberty in the panther's lair and found freedom where the Indian skulked.  They feared God but would not quail before man, or beast, or devil.  The sleet on Plymouth Rock was lie a cold reminder in their memories; the vine clad vales of France and the heather of the Highlands brought suggestions to their souls.  All were Americans, all were freemen, all were patriots.  "Let us name this town Lexington,: they said, and the blood of the minute men of New England became the seed which sprung this metropolis of the "Dark and Bloody Ground."  
 With such birth, it is not surprising that a glorious growth awaited this new settlement.  In early days it was the Commercial Metropolis of the West-the Venice of the Mississippi Valley. Its merchant princes were known from New Orleans to Canada, and their integrity brought them both fame and fortune.  From Philadelphia, came a culture and a perfect refinement of conduct which found congenial soil in the chivalric society of Lexington.  Visitors from the East, from Ireland, England, and the Continental countries, were delighted to find a polished society where they looked for the "half horse half alligator" style of man.  Old Transylvania had in its faculty the best minds of America and Europe, and among its matriculates men who have made history and illustrated the highest type of manhood.  Mr. Clay, the peerless young prince of the West, was both professor and student in its halls.  Jefferson Davis came from far off Mississippi to sit at the feet of its Gamaliels.  Mr. Clay was professor in 1805, and trustee in 1818.  Though he was never a graduate of the institution, yet in special studies, in close association with the learned men who composed its faculty, and in the reading which his position of professor of law and politics required, he found stimulus for an active intellect and pabulum for a mind which could digest all formulas.  His early education had been defective-native intellect had made him great-but here he acquired that courtly finish to a strong and self-sufficing personality, which made him at once the greatest and the most forceful of all the great men of his day.  He owed much to Transylvania and possibly no other man ever did so much for it.  His great name drew students to it from many states; he was the legal adviser, and drew the will of James Madison who so bountifully endowed it; and, as the active trustee of that will he saw that every dollar did its duty.  Morrison Chapel stands today one of the most picturesque, one of the most romantic, one of the most noticeable sights in Lexington.  And it is not only a monument to the generous giver, James Morrison, but also to his faithful friend-the executor of wishes-Henry Clay.  
 Of course, Mr. Clay's monument towers above all graves, as it should, in the Lexington Cemetery; but a more durable, and a prouder monument in the hearts of the people is his remnant of Old Transylvania-Morrison College.  
 Ashland has now but a few mementos left of Mr. Clay.  The old house was torn down years ago to make room for an elegant modern residence.  The fences, whose posts he had planted with his own hands, have been reduced to ashes or wrought into relics.  But his favorite path remains-the old earth shows, in her wrinkles, mementos of her precious dead long after stones and bronze have crumbled into dust.  
 That winding path is there along whose sinuosities he walked, with bended head and hands clasped behind his back, conning the great thoughts that afterwards in burning words electrified the world.  The sun could only shimmer, in there, brokenly through interlacing boughs, for aspens quivered in the breeze above; and lilacs with their purple bloom were bordered on each side.  But when the morning dew was still all diamonds on the grass, and when the twilight of long summer days came with blessed breadth, he found a solitude in this delightful walk where only God and Nature spoke to him.  To walk there, gave his spirits rest and strength, and fitted him to meet the cares and conflicts of a busy world, and conquer all he met.  
 Another most picturesque feature of Lexington is the old Main Street Christian Church, still standing, but by a strange mutation of fate, with fresh paint on its hoary front, and new fresco on its walls, it becomes this day a Variety Theatre, and will open to burlesque before I finish the page on which I write.  The memories which make it sacred are shocked at such desecration.  In this church the early followers of Alexander Campbell preached the new doctrine of a primitive Christianity; in the church the great debate between Campbell and Rice took place-a battle of intellectual giants, with Henry Clay as moderator.  It was a battle between John the Baptist and the beloved John the Evangelist; between baptism for the remission of sins, and the sprinkling on the door-posts that the angel of the Lord might pass the first born by.  The enthusiasm of these battle cries has died; the old walls listen to the "tinkling cymbal and the sounding brass."  Peter and Paul give place to comedians and Coryphees.  
 But I have not space to mention the historic places in the Bluegrass Land.  Around Lexington there are hundreds of them.  Every town and village in this mystic circle is sacred and romantic.  I have named Frankfort because it is the Capital, and Lexington because it is the Metropolis.  Scant courtesy have I shown to both.  Danville, the oldest seat of learning next to Lexington, is picturesque in every way.  Harrodsburg, and Shakertown, and High Bridge, could only be touched upon in many more pages than I shall write.  Richmond and Georgetown, Paris and Millersburg, Winchester and Athens, and Clintonville and Ruddells Mills, deserve a mention that I cannot give.  The artist shall do his work, and pictures shall speak of the glories of those places that my words may fail to paint.     Of one more place in Fayette County I must speak.  On North Elkhorn, near the homes where Breckinridges bred, and Moores still live, there is a sacred temple of sunworshippers.  Perhaps the aroma of the old religion has given its piety to the neighborhood, for, from old Mount Horeb Church radiates a Calvinistic sanctity.  But the old mounds, the long trenches, the entrances and exits, show forth the last stand of a dying race, who left their bodies there upon the altars of their pristine faith.  The Indian never builded there; the ghosts of those who occupied before his time warned him away.  Those ghosts still occupy the land, but white men fear them not.  
 At but one spot in the Bluegrass land, have the modern Indians ever made a settlement; that is, at "Indian Old Fields," in Clark County, just where the broad, alluvial "bottoms" of some winding creeks break their dark waves of loam against the foothills of the mountains.  Red River, its water tinged with iron ore as they were once reddened with the blood of men, runs not far away.  Lullbegrud creek, made sacred by the saintly men who taught a pure religion on its bank so many years ago, runs through these fertile acres.  There are healing springs of sulphur and iron. And an oil spring whose scum was well known in the olden days as the sovereign remedy for pains and aches.  No doubt it was a health resort before the white man came.  As early as 1773 it had been long deserted; only the old corn ridges-wrinkles in the soil-showed that the hand of man had tended it.  It had become a land of ghosts before the pale face came to claim his own.  What tribe had claimed it, or what became of them tradition does not tell.  But it was bare of forest and the cane grew only sparsely by the edge of plashy brooks.  The ridges of old oil fields were left, and the ashes of council fires, but no memorial of those who once had occupied the soil.  It had been a settlement-the only, lonely settlement in all the Bluegrass Land, but there was no mound, no fortification, no serpent-like earthwork to indicate  that it had ever known the "Children of the Sun."  Silence brooded over it, and solitude claimed it for its own, long before the "long-knives" from the East came to raise their cabins by the streams.  Perhaps the ghost of an extinct race warned the red man from the spot; at any rate, it was a shadow-land where spirits loved to dwell.  
 Why it should have been chosen is easy enough to know.  It is a land of brooks and springs; on every side the hills rise to shut the keen winds off; in the spring the sun centers upon it its warmest glance-vegetation is quick to leap from its fertile soil; the ice melts soonest, and the violet blooms earliest, in this sacred and secluded spot; in Summer, the tobacco nods drowsily, and the corn whispers lovingly its tender confidences from stalk to stalk; over the broad-breasted lands the mist comes with autumn days, wreathing the distant hills in ghostly robes, and toning their scarlet, and crimson, and brown, and pale yellow, foliage into a purple gauze shot through with the rich, royal, tinges of magnificent death.  Shut in on every side by rolling lands, it is a bit of paradise, which only needs the cherubim to guard, with flaming swords, each avenue of access.  The soil is deep, the waters sparkle in their purity, the air is redolent of balm from pine and cedar on the hills, and, far away, the drumming of the pheasant, and the partridge call, are heard in mingled harmony to lull the soul to dreamy ecstacy.  No wild winds come in winter to this land-the hills protect it from the biting sarcasm of the North.  The yellow tassels of the corn, the dark green hemp, the russet wheat, bending its head beneath the sun; the apple with its rosy glow, shining amid the foliage of its parent tree; and the peach blushing through the down like some sweet maiden not yet ripe for motherhood; combine to make the summer like a world of vegetable wealth.  But, when the winter comes, the blazing fire is lighted on the hearth, the cider foams, the chestnut crackles on the coals, the walnut gives its oily meat to longing appetites, and shell bark hickory nuts are ready to the hand.  Outside, the snow lies still and deep; inside, the forest logs are slowly simmering with exuding sap, upon the hearth.  Peace and content are in these homes, and plenty in their barns.  The world may rave and madly dash itself against itself, as meeting waves rise wrestling in the foam, but, in this land of Beulah simple virtues have their birth and homely sports make glad a rustic life.  Blue is the sky above; stars beam serenely from the concave heart of Heaven; the winds are hushed. The sun is soft and shimmerin