New Switzerland--An old-time river pilot--Houseboat life,
on the lower reaches--A philosopher in rags--Wooded
solitudes--Arrival at Louisville.
Near Madison, Ind., Sunday, May 27th.--At supper last night, a
houseboat fisherman, going by in his skiff, parted the willows
fringing our beach, and offered to sell us some of his wares. We
bought from him a two-pound catfish, which he tethered to a bush
overhanging the water, until we were ready to dress it; giving
us warning, that meanwhile it would be best to have an eye on our
purchase, or the turtles would devour it. Hungry thieves, these
turtles, the fisherman said; you could leave nothing edible in water
or on land, unprotected, without constant fear of the reptiles--which
reminds me that yesterday the Doctor and the Boy found on the beach a
beautiful box tortoise.
Our fish was swimming around finely, at the end of his cord, when the
executioner arrived, and when finally hung up in a tree was safe from
the marauders. This morning the fisherman was around again, hoping
to obtain another dime from the commissariat; but though we had
breakfasted creditably from the little "cat," we had no thought of
stocking our larder with his kind. So the grizzly man of nets took a
fresh chew of tobacco, and sat a while in his boat, "pass'n' th' time
o' day" with us, punctuating his remarks with frequent expectorations.
The new Kentucky houseboat law taxes each craft of this sort
seven-and-a-half dollars, he said: five dollars going to the State,
and the remainder to the collector. There was to be a patrol boat, "to
see that th' fellers done step to th' cap'n's office an' settle."
But the houseboaters were going to combine and fight the law on
constitutional grounds, for they had been told that it was clearly
an interference with commerce on a national highway. As for the
houseboaters voting--well, some of them did, but the most of them
didn't. The Indiana registry law requires a six months' residence, and
in Kentucky it is a full year, so that a houseboat man who moves about
any, "jes' isn't in it, sir, thet's all." However, our visitor was not
much disturbed over the practical disfranchisement of his class--it
seemed, rather, to amuse him; he was much more concerned in the new
tax, which he thought an outrageous imposition. In bidding us a
cheery good-bye, he noticed my kodak. "Yees be one o' them photygraph
parties, hey?" and laughed knowingly, as though he had caught me in a
familiar trick. No child of nature so simple, in these days, as not to
recognize a kodak.
Warsaw, Ky. (524 miles), just below, has some bankside evidences of
manufacturing, but on the whole is rather down at the heel. A contrast
this, to Vevay (533 miles), on the Indiana shore, which, though a
small town on a low-lying bottom, is neat and apparently prosperous.
Vevay was settled in 1803, by John James Dufour and several
associates, from the District of Vevay, in Switzerland, who purchased
from Congress four square miles hereabout, and, christening it New
Switzerland, sought to establish extensive vineyards in the heart of
this middle West. The Swiss prospered. The colony has had sufficient
vitality to preserve many of its original characteristics unto the
present day. Much of the land in the neighborhood is still owned by
the descendants of Dufour and his fellows, but the vineyards are not
much in evidence. In fact, the grape-growing industry on the banks of
the Ohio, although commenced at different points with great promise,
by French, Swiss, Germans, and Americans alike, has not realized
their expectations. The Ohio has proved to be unlike the Rhine in this
respect. In the long run, the vine in America appears to fare better
in a more northern latitude.
Three miles above Vevay, near Plum Creek, I was interested in the
Indiana farm upon which Heathcoat Picket settled in 1795--some say in
1790. In his day, Picket was a notable flatboat pilot. He was credited
with having conducted more craft down the river to New Orleans, than
any other man of his time--going down on the boat, and returning on
foot. It is said that he made over twenty trips of this character,
which is certainly a marvelous record at a time when there were only
Indian trails through the more than a thousand miles of dense forest
between Vevay and New Orleans, and when a savage enemy might be
expected to lurk behind any tree, ready to slay the rash pale-face.
Picket's must have been a life of continuous adventure, as thrilling
as the career of Daniel Boone himself; yet he is now known to but
a local antiquarian or two, and one stumbles across him only in
foot-notes. The border annals of the West abound with incidents as
romantic as any which have been applauded by men. Daniel Boone is not
the only hero of the frontier; he is not even the chief hero,--he is
but a type, whom an accident of literature has made conspicuous.
The Kentucky River (541 miles) enters at Carrollton, Ky.,--a
well-to-do town, with busy-looking wharves upon both streams,--through
a wide and rather uninteresting bottom. But, over beyond this, one
sees that it has come down through a deep-cut valley, rimmed with
dark, rolling hills, which speak eloquently of a diversified landscape
along its banks. The Indian Kentucky, a small stream but half-a-dozen
rods wide, enters from the north, five miles below--"Injun Kaintuck,"
it was called by a jovial junk-boat man stationed at the mouth of the
tributary. There are, on the Ohio, several examples of this peculiar
nomenclature: a river enters from the south, and another affluent
coming in from the north, nearly opposite, will have the same name
with the prefix "Indian." The reason is obvious; the land north of the
Ohio remained Indian territory many years after Kentucky and
Virginia were recognized as white man's country, hence the convenient
distinction--the river coming in from the north, near the Kentucky,
for instance, became "Indian Kentucky," and so on through the list.
Houseboats are less frequent, in these reaches of the river. The towns
are fewer and smaller than above; consequently there is less demand
for fish, or for desultory labor. Yet we seldom pass a day, in the
most rustic sections, without seeing from half-a-dozen to a dozen
of these craft. Sometimes they are a few rods up the mouths of
tributaries, half hidden by willows and overhanging sycamores; or, in
picturesque little openings of the willow fringe along the main shore;
or, boldly planted at the base of some rocky ledge. At the towns, they
are variously situated: in the water, up the beach a way, or high upon
the bottom, whither some great flood has carried them in years gone
by. Occasionally, when high and dry upon the land, they have a bit of
vegetable garden about them, rented for a time from the farmer; but,
even with the floaters, chickens are commonly kept, generally in a
coop on the roof, connected with the shore by a special gang-plank
for the fowls; and the other day, we saw a thrifty houseboater who had
several colonies of bees.
There was a rise of only two feet, last night; evidently the flood is
nearly at its greatest. We are now twenty feet above the level of ten
days ago, and are frequently swirling along over what were then sharp,
stony slopes, and brushing the topmost boughs of the lower lines
of willows and scrub sycamores. Thus we have a better view of the
country; and, approaching closely to the banks, can from our seats at
any time pluck blue lupine by the armful. It thrives mightily on these
gravelled shores, and so do the bignonia vine, the poison ivy, and the
Virginia creeper. The hills are steeper, now, especially in Indiana;
many of them, although stony, worked-out, and almost worthless, are
still, in patches, cultivated to the very top; but for the most part
they are clothed in restful green. Overhead, in the summer haze,
turkey-buzzards wheel gracefully, occasionally chased by audacious
hawks; and in the woods, we hear the warble of song-birds. Shadowy,
idle scenes, these rustic reaches of the lower Ohio, through which man
may dream in Nature's lap, all regardless of the workaday world.
It was early evening when we passed Madison, Ind. (553 miles), a
fairly-prosperous factory town of about twelve thousand souls. Scores
of the inhabitants were out in boats, collecting driftwood; and upon
the wharf was a great crowd of people, waiting for an excursion boat
which was to return them to Louisville, whence they had come for a
day's outing. It was a lifeless, melancholy party, as excursion folk
are apt to be at the close of a gala day, and they wearily stared at
us as we paddled past.
Just below, on the Kentucky shore, on my usual search for milk and
water, I landed at a cluster of rude cottages set in pleasant market
gardens. While the others drifted by with Pilgrim, I had a goodly
walk before finding milk, for a cow is considered a luxury among these
small riverside cultivators; the man who owns one sells milk to his
poorer neighbors. Such a nabob was at last found. The animal was
called down from the rocky hills, by her barefooted owner, who, lank
and malaria-skinned, leaned wearily against the well-curb, while his
wife, also guiltless of hose and shoes, milked into my pail direct
from the lean and hungry brindle.
By the time the crew were reunited, storm-clouds, thick and black,
were fast rising in the west. Scudding down shore for a mile, with
oars and paddle aiding the swift current, we failed to find a
proper camping-place on the muddy bank of the far-stretching bottom.
Rain-drops were now pattering on our rubber spreads, and it was
evident that a blow was coming; but despite this, we bent to the
work with renewed vigor, and shot across to the lee shore of
Indiana--finally landing in the midst of a heavy shower, and hurriedly
pitching tent on a rocky slope at the base of a vertical bank of clay.
Above us, a government beacon shines brightly through the persistent
storm, with the keeper's neat little house and garden a hundred yards
away. In the tree-tops, up a heavily-forested hill beyond, the wind
moans right dismally. In this sheltered nook, we shall be but lulled
to sleep with the ceaseless pelting of the rain.
* * * * *
Louisville, Monday, May 28th.--At midnight, the heavens cleared, with
a cold north wind; the early morning atmosphere was nipping, and we
were glad of the shelter of the tent during breakfast. The river fell
eight inches during the night, and on either bank is a muddy strip,
which will rapidly widen as the water goes down.
Below us, twenty rods or so, moored to the boulder-strewn shore, was a
shanty-boat. In the bustle of landing, last night, we had not noticed
this neighbor, and it was pitch-dark before we had time to get our
bearings. I think it is the most dilapidated affair we have seen on
the river--the frame of the cabin is out of plumb, old clothes serve
for sides and flap loudly in the wind; while two little boys, who
peered at us through slits in the airy walls, looked fairly miserable
with cold.
The proprietor of the craft came up to visit us, while breakfast was
being prepared, and remained until we were ready to depart--a tall,
slouchy fellow, clothed in shreds and patches; he was in the prime of
life, with a depressed nose set in a battered, though not unpleasant
countenance. None of our party had ever before seen such garments on a
human being--old bits of flannel, frayed strips of bagging-stuff, and
other curious odds and ends of fabrics, in all the primitive
colors, the whole roughly basted together with sack-thread. He was
a philosopher, was this rag-tag-and-bob-tail of a man, a philosopher
with some mother-wit about him. For an hour, he sat on his haunches,
crouching over our little stove, and following with cat-like care
W----'s every movement in the culinary art; she felt she was under the
eye of a critic who, though not voicing his opinions, looked as if he
knew a thing or two.
As a conversationist, our visitor was fluent to a fault. It required
but slight urging to draw him out. His history, and that of his
fathers for three generations back, he recited in much detail. He
himself had, in his best days, been a sub-contractor in railway
construction; but fate had gone against him, and he had fallen to the
low estate of a shanty-boatman. His wife had "gone back on him," and
he was left with two little boys, whom he proposed to bring up as
gentlemen--"yaas, sir-r, gen'lem'n, yew hear me! ef I _is_ only a
shanty-boat feller!"
"I thote I'd come to visit uv ye," he had said by way of introduction;
"ye're frum a city, ain't yer? Yaas, I jist thote hit. City folks is a
more 'com'dat'n' 'n country folks. Why? Waal, yew fellers jist go
back 'ere in th' hills away, 'n them thar country folks they'd hardly
answer ye, they're thet selfish-like. Give me city folks, I say, fer
get'n' long with!"
And then, in a rambling monologue, while chewing a straw, he discussed
humanity in general, and the professions in particular. "I ain't got
no use fer lawyers--mighty hard show them fellers has, fer get'n' to
heaven. As fer doctors--waal, they'll hev hard sledd'n, too; but them
fellers has to do piles o' dis'gree'bl' work, they do; I'd jist
rather fish fer a liv'n', then be a doctor! Still, sir-r, give me an
eddicated man every time, says I. Waal, sir-r, 'n' ye hear me, one
o' th' richest fellers right here in Madison, wuz born 'n' riz on a
shanty-boat, 'n' no mistake. He jist done pick up his eddication from
folks pass'n' by, jes' as yew fellers is a passin', 'n' they might say
a few wuds o' information to him. He done git a fine eddication
jes' thet way, 'n' they ain't no flies on him, these days, when
money-gett'n' is 'roun'. Jes' noth'n' like it, sir-r! Eddication does
th' biz!"
An observant man was this philosopher, and had studied human nature to
some purpose. He described the condition of the poor farmers along the
river, as being pitiful; they had no money to hire help, and were an
odd lot, anyway--the farther back in the hills you get, the worse they
are.
He loved to talk about himself and his lowly condition, in contrast
with his former glory as a sub-contractor on the railway. When a man
was down, he said, he lost all his friends--and, to illustrate this
familiar phase of life, told two stories which he had often read in a
book that he owned. They were curious, old-fashioned tales of feudal
days, evidently written in a former century,--he did not know the
title of the volume,--and he related them in what evidently were the
actual words of the author: a curious recitation, in the pedantic
literary style of the ancient story-teller, but in the dialect of an
Ohio-river "cracker." His greatest ambition, he told us, was to own
a floating sawmill; although he carefully inquired about the laws
regulating peddlers in our State, and intimated that sometime he might
look us up in that capacity, in our Northern home.
As we approach Louisville to-day, the settlements somewhat increase
in number, although none of the villages are of great size; and,
especially in Kentucky, they are from ten to twenty miles apart.
The fine hills continue close upon our path until a few miles above
Louisville, when they recede, leaving on the Kentucky side a broad,
flat plain several miles square, for the city's growth. For the most
part, these stony slopes are well wooded with elm, buckeye, maple,
ash, oak, locust, hickory, sycamore, cotton-wood, a few cedars, and
here and there a catalpa and a pawpaw giving a touch of tropical
luxuriance to the hillside forest; while blackberry bushes, bignonia
vines, and poison ivy, are everywhere abundant; otherwise, there is
little of interest to the botanist. Redbirds, catbirds, bluebirds,
blackbirds, and crows are chattering noisily in the trees, and
turkey-buzzards everywhere swirl and swoop in mid-air.
The narrow little bottoms are sandy; and on lowland as well as
highland there is much poor, rock-bewitched soil. The little
whitewashed farmsteads look pretty enough in the morning haze, lying
half hid in forest clumps; but upon approach they invariably prove
unkempt and dirty, and swarming with shiftless, barefooted, unhealthy
folk, whom no imagination can invest with picturesque qualities. Their
ragged, unpainted tobacco-sheds are straggling about, over the
hills; and here and there a white patch in the corner of a gray field
indicates a nursery of tobacco plants, soon to be transplanted into
ampler soil.
It is not uncommon to find upon a hillside a freshly-built log-cabin,
set in the midst of a clearing, with bristling stumps all around,
reminding one of the homes of new settlers on the far-away
logging-streams of Northern Wisconsin or Minnesota; the resemblance
is the closer, for such notches cut in the edge of the Indiana and
Kentucky wilderness are often found after a row of many miles through
a winding forest solitude apparently but little changed from primeval
conditions. Now and then we come across quarries, where stone is slid
down great chutes to barges which lie moored by the rocky bank;
and frequently is the stream lined with great boulders, which stand
knee-deep in the flood that eddies and gurgles around them.
On the upper edge of the great Louisville plain, we pitched tent
in the middle of the afternoon; and, having brought our bag of
land-clothes with us in the skiff, from Cincinnati, took turns under
the canvas in effecting what transformation was desirable, preparatory
to a visit in the city. In the early twilight we were floating past
Towhead Island, with its almost solid flank of houseboats, threading
our way through a little fleet of pleasure yachts, and at last
shooting into the snug harbor of the Boat Club. The good-natured
captain of the U. S. Life Saving Station took Pilgrim and her cargo
in charge for the night, and by dusk we were bowling over metropolitan
pavements _en route_ to the house of our friend--strange contrast,
this lap of luxury, to the soldier-like simplicity of our canvas home.
We have been roughing it for so long,--less than a month, although
it seems a year,--that all these conveniences of civilization, these
social conventionalities, have to us a sort of foreign air. Thus
easily may man descend into the savage state.