My New Kentucky Home

For many decades I have wandered up and down the world and lived in or served in—or at least ordered a drink in—most of its countries, but never did I find a land so heart-holding as Kentucky. A traveler viewing it before the War of the Revolution wrote: "It is an earthly paradise"—but surely that footloose fellow was guilty of understatement. Though it may be presumptuous of a Johnny-come-more-or-less-lately to thump the tub in praise of Kentucky, I cannot restrain my ardor for the place and its people.

Since the War between the States a widening trickle of pilgrims, drawn by the lure of the Bluegrass, has been infiltrating my favorite state from the north. I arrived in Lexington only five years ago, a carpetbagger with airplane luggage, and I doubt if any reconstructed Yankee ever dwelt so peacefully in a Confederate civilization. Geographically Kentucky may not be considered a southern state by some, yet spiritually and phonetically it is very southern indeed. The people have the embattled independence of the deeper South, and the same courtesy and hospitality. I have found them to be stout friends and formidable cup companions.

The phantom flag of the Confederacy still flies over Lexington, and seldom do you meet a citizen who will not reveal that the menfolk of his family fought in the southern army. This allegiance to the Lost Cause, however, flourishes somewhat in reverse retrospect: history hints that during the war the town was quick to haul down the Stars and Bars and hoist the Stars and Stripes. Though modern Lexingtonians tardily put up a statue of General John Hunt Morgan, their great-grandfathers, when the gallant Rebel cavalryman "came through" in '64, denounced him as a rascal, a bank robber and a damned horse thief. But time mellows, as our distillers say. At the close of the war Lexington, Ky. was just as Yankee as Lexington, Mass.; today it is firmly and flamboyantly southern.

The Kentucky I cherish is a vast green roll of farmland, slashed by streams and branches, with Herefords, Black Angus, sheep and—of course—horses grazing in the pastures. Under high trees which are remnants of the great primeval forest, farms are set off by white fences, black fences or stone walls that were built by slaves. Here and there are little towns, unchanged in a hundred years and giving out a quiet charm which the larger towns have lost by being too busy. (Still, I do not hold with those prejudiced Hardboots who maintain that Louisville is in Ohio!) Of the small towns Frankfort, the capital, has some of the grace of old Kentucky; Danville, too, Harrodsburg, Richmond, Bardstown (isn't there a horse by that name?). I confess a fondness for Cynthiana and Georgetown for what they were in the Civil War, when the intrepid General Morgan used to ride through to smack the Yankees or to outwit them and escape.

The best parts of Kentucky are agricultural. In summer the hills and valleys "stand so thick with corn," and fields of hay and grain stretch away to every horizon. Apart from the Thoroughbred horse, tobacco is Kentucky's special blessing; there is a blind tobacco barn on every farm. While some grangers raise only an acre of the precious weed, others, such as Colonel Gus Gay, raise a sizable crop. The Government, however, grimly sees to it that nobody grows as much as he wants.

Domiciled at Calumet Farm, I naturally spend a good share of my days and evenings among people who breed and race Thoroughbreds, and 99 99/100% of these are as agreeable company as ever I sat with at table. Traditional Kentucky hospitality has never diminished; the names of Bluegrass farms hark back to the days of gracious living (though I will don my harking jacket to report that living is mighty gracious even today). I am always delighted to dine at Scarlet Gate, Spendthrift, Lanark, Claiborne, La Belle, Greentree, Ray-burn, Manchester, Harkaway, Walmac, Dixiana, Normandy, Walnut Hall, Marchmont, Stoner Creek, Duntreath House, Clifton or West-over. Hoedown nights are best of all—when the rugs are rolled back and the dancers are rolled in. (Summertimes, listening to music in Paris, France, I can still hear the rattlety-bang of old Smith's orchestra playing Shake It an' Break It in Paris, Kentucky.)

Duels have been fought over the relative merits of Kentucky and Virginia hams, but it must be conceded that a Kentucky ham, cured by loving hands and baked by ritual, is superlative fare. Several items on Bluegrass menus are indigenous: that esoteric delicacy, rooster fries; a mysterious dish called burgoo; beaten biscuit, paper-thin, as invented by the Burt sisters in their debutante days. Now, I admire Kentucky ladies and I can vouch that they "set a good table," but I am shocked at one vestige of savagery practised by the males: 76% of them drink Scotch whisky. This in a region renowned for its ambrosial bourbon! By the breath of Bacchus! Only a poor wight with paralyzed tonsils could deny that our bourbon is the finest grog ever barreled.

Everybody knows that Kentucky is the "home" of the American Thoroughbred. In early times, as soon as a settler could afford two pairs of moccasins he bought himself a race horse. During the 19th century all but a few of the legendary turf heroes were bred in the Bluegrass—and this supremacy still continues.

A galaxy of giants in Kentucky breeding-cum-racing since 1900 have gone: James R. Keene, James Ben Ali Haggin, Payne and Harry Payne Whitney, Major Foxhall Daingerfield, John Madden, Samuel Riddle, Warren Wright, Arthur Hancock Sr., Joseph Widener, William R. Coe, Charles Shaffer, Colonel Bradley; but the big breeders and owners carrying on today are valiant sportsmen, and racing owes much to them. I do not know them all (to my regret, I am probably the only fellow in these pages who has never met Colonel Phil Chinn) but to the ones I do know I lift my fox-skin cap. You can see their names on the race programs at any track: John Hertz, Henry Knight, Leslie Combs II, George Widener, Hal Price Headley, Charlton Clay, Dan Rice, C.V. Whitney, John Hanes, Charles Fisher, Ira Drymon, Dr. Eslie Asbury, John Marr, Howard Reineman, John Galbreath, Wallace McIlvain, Ed Thomas, George M. Humphrey. Then the younger men: A.B. Hancock Jr., Louis Lee Haggin, Duval Headley, E. Barry Ryan, Robert Alexander, the Nuckols brothers, Lou Doherty, John Bell III, Tom Bennett. And the ladies: Mrs. Charles Payson, Mrs. John Galbreath, Miss Mary Fisher, Mrs. Ada Rice, Mrs. Elizabeth Graham, Miss Mildred Woolwine, Mrs. Edward Moore, Mrs. Parker Poe, Mrs. Burnett Robinson.

Just as a reminder that the Blue-grass is represented in Affairs of State, John Hay Whitney (Master of Greentree) is U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James's, and Maxwell Gluck (Master of Elmendorf) Ambassador to Ceylon.