Poor whites--First library in the West--An hour at
Hockingport--A hermit fisher.
Long Bottom, Monday, May 14th.--Pushing up stream for two miles this
morning, the commissary department replenished the day's stores at
Parkersburg. Forepaugh's circus was in town, and crowds of rustics
were coming in by wagon road, railway trains, and steamers and ferries
on both rivers. The streets of the quaint, dingy Southern town were
teeming with humanity, mainly negroes and poor whites. Among the
latter, flat, pallid faces, either flabby or too lean, were under
the swarms of blue, white, and yellow sunbonnets--sad faces, with
lack-luster eyes, coarse hair of undecided hue, and coarser
speech. These Audreys of Dixie-land are the product of centuries of
ill-treatment on our soil; indented white servants to the early coast
colonists were in the main their ancestors; with slave competition,
the white laborer in the South lost caste until even the negro
despised him; and ill-nurture has done the rest. Then, too, in these
bottoms, malaria has wrought its work, especially among the underfed;
you see it in the yellow skin and nerveless tone of these lanky
rustics, who are in town to enjoy the one bright holiday of their
weary year.
Across the river, in Ohio, is Belpre (short for Belle Prairie, and now
locally pronounced Bel'pry), settled by Revolutionary soldiers, on
the Marietta grant, in 1789-90. I always think well of Belpre, because
here was established the first circulating library in the Northwest.
Old Israel Putnam, he of the wolf-den and Bunker Hill, amassed
many books. His son Israel, on moving to Belpre in 1796, carried a
considerable part of the collection with him--no small undertaking
this, at a time when goods had to be carted all the way from
Connecticut, over rivers and mountains to the Ohio, and then floated
down river by flatboat, with a high tariff for every pound of freight.
Young Israel was public-spirited, and, having been at so great cost
and trouble to get this library out to the wilderness, desired his
fellow-colonists to enjoy it with him. It would have been unfair not
to distribute the expense, so a stock company was formed, and shares
were sold at ten dollars each. Of the blessings wrought in this rude
frontier community by the books which the elder Israel had collected
for his Connecticut fireside, there can be no more eloquent testimony
than that borne by an old settler, who, in 1802, writes to an Eastern
friend: "In order to make the long winter evenings pass more smoothly,
by great exertion I purchased a share in the Belpre library, six
miles distant. Many a night have I passed (using pine knots instead
of candles) reading to my wife while she sat hatcheling, carding or
spinning." The association was dissolved in 1815 or 1816, and the
books distributed among the shareholders; many of these volumes are
still extant in this vicinity, and several are in the college museum
at Marietta.
There are few descendants hereabout of the original New England
settlers, and they live miles apart on the Ohio shore. We went up
to visit one, living opposite Blennerhassett's Island. Notice of our
coming had preceded us, and we were warmly welcomed at a substantial
farmhouse in the outskirts of Belpre, with every evidence about of
abundant prosperity. The maternal great-grandfather of our host for
an hour was Rufus Putnam, an ancestor to be proud of. Five acres
of gooseberries are grown on the place, and other small-fruits in
proportion--all for the Parkersburg market, whence much is shipped
north to Cleveland. Our host confessed to a little malaria, even on
this upper terrace--or "second bottom," as they style it--but "the
land is good, though with many stones--natural conditions, you know,
for New Englanders." It was pleasant for a New England man, not long
removed from his native soil, to find these people, who are a century
away from home, still claiming kinship.
At the Big Hockhocking River (197 miles), on a high, semicircular
bottom, is Hockingport, a hamlet with a population of three hundred.
Here, on a still higher bench, a quarter of a mile back from the
river, Lord Dunmore built Fort Gower, one of a chain of posts along
his march against the Northwest Indians (1774). It was from here that
he marched to the Pickaway Plains, on the Scioto (near Circleville,
O.), and concluded that treaty of peace to which Chief Logan refused
his consent. There are some remains yet left of this palisaded
earthwork of a century and a quarter ago, but the greater part has
been obliterated by plowing, and a dwelling occupies a portion of the
site.
It had been very warm, and we had needed an awning as far down as
Hockingport, where we cooled off by lying on the grass in the shade
of the village blacksmith's shop, which is, as well, the ferry-house,
with the bell hung between two tall posts at the top of the bank, its
rope dangling down for public use. The smith-ferryman came out with
his wife--a burly, good-natured couple--and joined us in our lounging,
for it is not every day that river travelers put in at this dreamy,
far-away port. The wife had camped with her husband, when he was boss
of a railway construction gang, and both of them frankly envied us our
trip. So did a neighboring storekeeper, a tall, lean, grave young man,
clean-shaven, coatless and vestless, with a blue-glass stud on his
collarless white shirt. Apparently there was no danger of customers
walking away with his goods, for he left his store-door open to all
comers, not once glancing thitherward in the half-hour he sat with us
on a stick of timber, in which he pensively carved his name.
Life goes easily in Hockingport. Years ago there was some business up
the Big Hocking (short for Big Hockhocking), a stream of a half-dozen
rods' width, but now no steamer ventures up--the railroads do it all;
as for the Ohio--well, the steamers now and then put off a box or bale
for the four shop-keepers, and once in a while a passenger patronizes
the landing. There is still a little country traffic, and formerly
a sawmill was in operation here; you see its ruins down there below.
Hockingport is a type of several rustic hamlets we have seen
to-day; they are often in pairs, one either side of the river, for
companionship's sake.
We are idling, despite the knowledge that on turning every big bend we
are getting farther and farther south, and mid-June on the Lower Ohio
is apt to be sub-tropical. But the sinking sun gives us a
shadowy right bank, and that is most welcome. The current is only
spasmodically good. Every night the river falls from three to six
inches, and there are long stretches of slack-water. The steamers pick
their way carefully; we do not give them as wide a berth as formerly,
for the wakes they turn are no longer savage--but wakes, even when
sent out by stern-wheelers at full speed, now give us little trouble;
it did not take long to learn the knack of "taking" them. Whether
you meet them at right angles, or in the trough, there is the same
delicious sensation of rising and falling on the long swells--there
is no danger, so long as you are outside the line of foaming breakers;
within those, you may ship water, which is not desirable when there
is a cargo. But the boys at the towns sometimes put out in their rude
punts into the very vortex of disturbance, being dashed about in the
white roar at the base of the ponderous paddle wheels, like a Fiji
Islander in his surf-boat. We heard, the other day, of a boatload of
daring youngsters being caught by the wheel, their craft smashed into
kindling-wood, and they themselves all drowned but one.
The hills, to-day, sometimes break sharply off, leaving an eroded,
often vine-festooned palisade some fifty feet in height, at the base
of which is a long, tree-clad slope of debris; then, a narrow, level
terrace from fifty to a hundred yards in width, which drops suddenly
to a rocky beach; this in turn is often lined along the water's edge
with irregularly-shaped boulders, from the size of Pilgrim to fifteen
or twenty feet in height, and worn smooth with the grinding action
of the river. The effect is highly picturesque. We shall have much of
this below.
At the foot of one of these palisades lay a shanty-boat, with nets
sprawled over the roof to dry, and a live-box anchored hard by.
"Hello, the boat!" brought to the window the head of the lone
fisherman, who dreamily peered at us as we announced our wish to
become his customers. A sort of poor-white Neptune, this tall, lean,
lantern-jawed old fellow, with great round, iron-rimmed spectacles
over his fishy eyes, his hair and beard in long, snaky locks, and
clothing in dirty tatters. As he put out in his skiff to reach the
live-box, he continuously spewed tobacco juice about him, and in an
undertone growled garrulously, as though used to soliloquize in his
hermitage, where he lay at outs with the world. He had been in this
spot for two years, he said, and sold fish to the daily Parkersburg
steamer--when there were any fish. But, for six months past, he
"hadn't made enough to keep him in grub," and had now and then to go
up to the city and earn something. For forty years had he followed the
apostles' calling on "this yere Ohio," and the fishing was never so
poor as now--yes, sir! hard times had struck his business, just like
other folks'. He thought the oil wells were tainting the water, and
the fish wouldn't breed--and the iron slag, too, was spoiling the
river, and he knew it. He finally produced for us, out of his box, a
three-pound fish,--white perch, calico bass, and catfish formed his
stock in trade,--but, before handing it over, demanded the requisite
fifteen cents. Evidently he had had dealings with a dishonest world,
this hermit fisher, and had learned a thing or two.
Perfect camping places are not to be found every day. There are so
many things to think of--a good landing place; good height above the
water level, in case of a sudden rise; a dry, shady, level spot for
the tent; plenty of wood, and, if possible, a spring; and not too
close proximity to a house. Occasionally we meet with what we want,
when we want it; but quite as often, ideal camping places, while
abundant half the day, are not to be found at five o'clock, our usual
hour for homeseeking. The Doctor is our agent for this task, for,
being bow oar, he can clamber out most easily. This evening, he ranged
both shores for a considerable distance, with ill success, so that
we are settled on a narrow Ohio sand-beach, in the midst of a sparse
willow copse, only two feet above the river. Dinner was had at the
very water's edge. After a time, a wind-storm arose and flapped the
tent right vigorously, causing us to pin down tightly and weight the
sod-cloth; while, amid distant thundering, every preparation was made
for a speedy embarkation in the event of flood. The bellow of the
frogs all about us, the scream of toads, and the heavy swash of
passing steamers dangerously near our door, will be a sufficient
lullaby to-night.