LEVEE LIFE

HAUNTS AND PASTIMES OF THE ROUSTABOUTS.

Their Original Songs and Peculiar Dances.

ALONG the river-banks on ­either side of the levee slope, where the brown ­water year ­after year climbs up to the ruined sidewalks, and pours into the warehouse cellars, and paints their grimy walls with streaks of ­water-weed green, may be studied a most curious and interesting phase of life—the life of a community within a community,—a society of wanderers who have haunts but not homes, and who are only connected with the static society surrounding them by the common bond of State and municipal law. It is a very primitive kind of life; its lights and shadows are alike characterized by a half savage simplicity; its happiness or misery is ­almost purely ­animal; its plea­sures are wholly of the hour, n­either enhanced nor lessened by anticipations of the morrow. It is ­always pitiful rather than shocking; and it is not without some ­little charm of its own—the charm of a thoughtless existence, whose virtues are all original, and whose vices are for the most part foreign to it. A great portion of this levee-life haunts also the subterranean hovels and ancient frame buildings of the district lying east of Broadway to Culvert street, ­between Sixth and Seventh streets. But, on a cool spring evening, when the levee is bathed in moonlight, and the torch-basket lights dance redly upon the ­water, and the clear air vibrates to the sonorous music of the deep-toned steam-whistle, and the sound of wild banjo-thrumming floats out through the open doors of the levee dance-houses, then it is perhaps that one can best observe the peculiarities of this gro­tesquely-picturesque rousta­bout life.

Probably less than one-third of the stevedores and ’longshoremen employed in our river traffic are white; but the calling now ­really belongs by right to the ­­negroes, who are by far the best roustabouts and are unrivaled as firemen. The white stevedores are generally tramps, willing to work only through the fear of the Work-house; or, some times laborers unable to obtain ­other employment, and glad to earn money for the time ­being at any employment. On board the boats, the whites and blacks mess separately and work ­under different mates, there ­being on an average about twenty-five roustabouts to every boat which unloads at the Cincinnati levee. Cotton boats running on the Lower Mississippi, will ­often carry sixty or seventy deck-hands, who can some seasons earn from forty-five dollars to sixty dollars per month. On the Ohio boats, the average wages paid to roustabouts will not exceed $30 per month. ’Long­shoremen earn fifteen and twenty cents per hour, ac­cording to the season. These are frequently hired by Irish contractors, who ­undertake to unload a boat at so much per pack­age; but the first-class boats generally contract with the ’longshoremen ­directly through the mate, and sometimes pay twenty-five cents per hour for such labor. “­Before Freedom,” as the ­colored folks say, white laborers performed most of the roustabout labor on the steamboats; the ­­negroes are now gradually monopolizing the calling, chiefly by reason of their peculiar fitness for it. Generally speaking they are the best porters in the world; and in the cotton States, it is not uncommon, we are told, to see ­negro levee hands for a wager, carry five-hundred-pound cotton-bales on their backs to the wharfboat. River men, to-day, are recognizing the superior value of ­negro labor in steamboat traffic, and the ­colored roustabouts are now ­better treated, prob­ably, than they have been since the war. ­Under the pres­ent laws, too, they are ­better protected. It used at one time to be a common thing for some ruffianly mate to ship sixty or seventy stevedores, and, ­after the boat had taken in all her freight, to hand the poor fellows their money and land them at some small town, or even in the woods, hundreds of miles from their home. This can be done no longer with legal impunity.

Roustabout life in the truest sense is, then, the life of the ­colored population of the Rows, and, partly, of Bucktown—blacks and mulattoes from all parts of the States, but chiefly from Kentucky and Eastern Virginia, where most of them appear to have toiled on the plantations ­before Freedom; and echoes of the old plantation life still live in their songs and their pastimes. You may hear old Kentucky slave songs chanted nightly on the steamboats, in that wild, half-melancholy key peculiar to the natural music of the African race; and you may see the old slave dances nightly performed to the air of some ancient Virginia-reel in the dance-houses of Sausage Row, or the “ball-rooms” of Bucktown. There is an intense uniqueness about all this pariah existence; its boundaries are most definitely fixed; its enjoyments are wholly sensual, and many of them are marked by peculiarities of a strictly ­local character. Many of their songs, which have never appeared in print, treat of levee life in Cincinnati, of all the popular steamboats running on the “Muddy Water,” and of the favorite roustabout haunts on the river bank and in Bucktown. To collect these curious songs, or even all the most popular of them, would be a labor of months, and even then a difficult one, for the ­colored roustabouts are in the highest degree suspicious of a man who approaches them with a note-book and pencil. Occasionally, however, one can induce an intelligent steamboatman to sing a few river songs by an innocent bribe in the shape of a cigar or a drink, and this we attempted to do with considerable success during a few spare evenings last week, first, in a popular roust­about haunt on Broadway, near Sixth, and ­afterward in a dingy frame cottage near the corner of Sixth and Culvert streets. Unfortunately some of the most curious of these songs are not of a character to admit of publication in the columns of a daily news­paper; but ­­others which we can pres­ent to our readers may prove interesting. Of these the following song, “Number Ninety-Nine,” was at one time immensely popular with the steamboatmen. The original resort referred to was situated on Sixth and Culvert street, where Kirk’s building now stands. We pres­ent the song with some necessary emendations:

“You may talk about yer railroads,

Yer steamboats and can-el

If ’t ­hadn’t been for Liza Jane

There ­wouldn’t a bin no hell.

Chorus—Oh, ain’t I gone, gone, gone,

 Oh, ain’t I gone, gone, gone,

 Oh, ain’t I gone, gone, gone,

 Way down de ribber road.

“Whar do you get yer whisky?

Whar do you get yer rum?

I got it down in Bucktown,

At Number Ninety-nine.

Chorus—Oh, ain’t I gone, gone, gone, &c.

“I went down to Bucktown,

Nebber was dar ­before,

Great big niggah knocked me down,

But Katy barred the door.

Chorus—Oh, ain’t I gone, gone, gone, &c.

“She hugged me, she kissed me,

She tole me not to cry;

She said I wus de sweetest thing

Dat ebber libbed or died.

Chorus—Oh, ain’t I gone, gone, gone, &c.

*  *  *  *  *  *

“Yonder goes the Wildwood,

She’s loaded to the guards,

But yonder comes the Fleetwood,

An’ she’s the boat for me.

Chorus—Oh, ain’t I gone, gone, gone, &c.”

The words, “’Way down to Rockingham,” are sometimes substituted in the chorus, for “’way down de ribber road.”

One of the most popular roustabout songs now sung on the Ohio is the following. The air is low, and melancholy, and when sung in unison by the ­colored crew of a vessel leaving or approaching port, has a strange, sad sweetness about it which is very pleasing. The two-fold character of poor Molly, at once good and bad, is somewhat typical of the stevedore’s sweetheart:

Molly was a good gal and a bad gal, too.

Oh Molly, row, gal.

Molly was a good gal and a bad gal, too,

Oh Molly, row, gal.

I’ll row dis boat and I’ll row no more,

Row, Molly, row, gal.

I’ll row dis boat, and I’ll go on shore,

Row, Molly, row, gal.

Captain on the biler deck a-heaving of the lead,

Oh Molly, row, gal.

Calling to the pilot to give her, “Turn ahead,”

Row, Molly, row, gal.

Here is ­an­other to a slow and sweet air. The chorus, when well sung, is extremely pretty:

Shawneetown is burnin’ down,

Who tole you so?

Shawneetown is burnin’ down,

Who tole you so?

Cythie, my darlin’ gal,

Who tole you so?

Cythie, my darlin’ gal,

How do you know?

Chorus—Shawneetown is burnin’, &c.

How the h——l d’ye ’spect me to hold her,

Way down below?

I’ve got no skin on ­either shoulder,

Who tole you so?

Chorus—Shawneetown is burnin’, &c.

De houses dey is all on fire,

Way down below.

De houses dey is all on fire,

Who tole you so?

Chorus—Shawneetown is burnin’, &c.

My old missus tole me so,

Way down below.

An’ I b’lieve what ole missus says,

Way down below.

Chorus—Shawneetown is burnin’, &c.

The most melancholy of all these plaintive airs is that to which the song “Let her go by” is commonly sung. It is generally sung on leaving port, and sometimes with an affecting pathos inspired of the hour, while the sweethearts of the singers watch the vessel gliding down stream.

I’m ­going away to New ­Orleans!

Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!

I’m ­going away to New ­Orleans!

Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!

Oh, let her go by!

She’s on her way to New ­Orleans!

Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!

She bound to pass the Robert E. Lee,

Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!

Oh, let her go by!

I’ll make dis trip and I’ll make no more!

Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!

I’ll roll dese barrels, I’ll roll no more!

Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!

Oh, let her go by!

An’ if you are not true to me,

Farewell, my lover, farewell!

An’ if you are not true to me,

Farwell, my lover, farewell!

Oh, let her go by!

The next we give is of a somewhat livelier description. It has, we ­believe, been printed in a somewhat different form in certain song books. We give it as it was sung to us in a Broadway saloon:

I come down the mountain,

An’ she come down the lane,

An’ all that I could say to her

Was, “Good bye, ’Liza Jane.”

Chorus—Farewell, ’Liza Jane!

Farewell, ’Liza Jane!

­Don’t throw yourself away, for I

Am coming back again.

I got up on a house-top,

An’ give my horn a blow;

Thought I heerd Miss Dinah say,

“Yonder comes your beau.”

[Chorus.]

Ef I’d a few more boards,

To build my chimney higher,

I’d keep aroun’ the country gals,

Chunkin’ up the fire.

[Chorus.]

The following are fragments of rather lengthy chants, the words ­being ­almost similar in both, but the choruses and airs ­being very different. The air of the first is sonorous and regularly slow, like a sailor’s chant when heaving anchor; the air of the next is quick and lively.

“Belle-a-Lee’s got no time,

Oh, Belle! oh, Belle!

Robert E. Lee’s got railroad time,

Oh, Belle! oh, Belle!

“Wish I was in Mobile Bay,

Oh, Belle! oh, Belle!

Rollin’ cotton by de day,

Oh, Belle! oh, Belle!

*  *  *  *  *  *

“I wish I was in Mobile Bay,

Rollin’ cotton by de day,

Stow’n’ sugar in de hull below,

Below, belo-ow,

Stow’n’ sugar in de hull below!

“De Natchez is a new boat; she’s just in her prime,

Beats any oder boat on de New ­Orleans line.

Stow’n’ sugar in de hull below, &c.

“Engineer, t’rough de trumpet, given de firemen news,

Couldn’t make steam for de fire in de flues.

Stow’n’ sugar in de hull below, &c.

“Cap’n on de biler deck, a scratchin’ of his head,

Hollers to de deck hand to heave de larbo’rd lead.

Stow’n’ sugar in de hull below, &c.

Perhaps the prettiest of all these songs is “The Wandering Steam­boatman,” which, like many ­other roustabout songs, rather frankly illustrates the somewhat loose morality of the calling:

I am a wandering steamboatman,

And far away from home;

I fell in love with a pretty gal,

And she in love with me.

She took me to her parlor

And cooled me with her fan;

She whispered in her ­m­other’s ear:

“I love the steamboatman.”

The ­m­other entreats her daughter not to ­become engaged to the stevedore. “You know,” she says, “that he is a steamboatman, and has a wife at New ­Orleans.” But the steamboatman replies, with great nonchalance:

If I’ve a wife at New ­Orleans

I’m n­either tied nor bound;

And I’ll forsake my New ­Orleans wife

If you’ll be truly mine.

An­other very curious and decidedly immoral song is popular with the loose women of the “Rows.” We can only give one stanza:

I hev a roustabout for my man—

Livin’ with a white man for a sham,

Oh, leave me alone,

Leave me alone,

I’d like you much ­better if you’d leave me alone.

But the most famous songs in vogue among the roustabouts is “Limber Jim,” or “Shiloh.” Very few know it all by heart, which is not wonderful when we consider that it requires some­thing like twenty minutes to sing “Limber Jim” from ­begin­ning to end, and that the whole song, if printed in full, would fill two columns of the Commercial. The only person in the city who can sing the song through, we ­believe, is a ­colored laborer living near Sixth and Culvert streets, who “run on the river” for years, and acquired so much of a reputation by singing “Limber Jim,” that he has been nicknamed ­after the mythical individual aforesaid, and is now known by no ­other name. He keeps a ­little resort in Bucktown, which is known as “Limber Jim’s,” and has a fair reputation for one dwelling in that ­locality. Jim very good-naturedly sang the song for us a few nights ago, and we took down some of the most striking verses for the benefit of our readers. The air is wonderfully quick and lively, and the chorus is quite exciting. The leading singer sings the whole song, excepting the chorus, “Shiloh,” which dissyllable is generally chanted by twenty or thirty voices of abysmal depth at the same time with a sound like the roar of twenty Chinese gongs struck with tremendous force and precision. A great part of “Limber Jim” is very profane, and some of it not quite fit to print. We can give only about one-tenth part of it. The chorus is frequently accompanied with that wonderfully rapid slapping of thighs and hips known as “patting Juba.”

Nigger an’ a white man playing seven-up,

White man played an ace; an’ nigger feared to take it up,

White man played ace an’ nigger played a nine,

White man died, an’ nigger went blind.

Limber Jim,

[All.] Shiloh!

Talk it agin,

[All.] Shiloh!

Walk back in love,

[All.] Shiloh!

You turtle-dove,

[All.] Shiloh!

Went down the ribber, ­couldn’t get across;

Hopped on a rebel louse; thought ’twas a hoss,

Oh lor’, gals, ’t ain’t no lie,

Lice in Camp Chase big enough to cry.—

Limber Jim, &c.

Bridle up a rat, sir; saddle up a cat.

Please han’ me down my Leghorn hat,

Went to see widow; widow warn’t home;

Saw to her daughter,—she gave me honeycomb.

Limber Jim, &c.

Jay-bird sittin’ on a swinging limb,

Winked at me an’ I winked at him,

Up with a rock an’ struck him on the shin,

G—d d—n yer soul, ­don’t wink again.

Limber Jim, &c.

Some folks says that a rebel can’t steal,

I found twenty in my corn-fiel’,

Sich pullin’ of shucks an’ tearin of corn!—

Nebber saw the like since I was born.

Limber Jim, &c.

John Morgan come to Danville and cut a mighty dash,

Las’ time I saw him, he was ­under whip an’ lash;

’Long come a rebel at a sweepin’ pace,

Whar ’re ye goin’, Mr. Rebel? “I’m goin’ to Camp Chase.”

Limber Jim, &c.

Way ­beyond de sun and de moon,

White gal tole me I were too soon.

White gal tole me I come too soon,

An’ nigger gal called me an ole d—d fool.

Limber Jim, &c.

Eighteen pennies hidden in a fence,

Cynthiana gals ain’t got no sense;

Every time they go from home

Comb thar heads wid an ole jaw bone.

Limber Jim, &c.

Had a ­little wife an’ didn’ inten’ to keep her;

Showed her a flatboat an’ sent her down de ribber;

Head like a fodder-shock, mouf like a shovel,

Put yerself wid yaller gal, put yerself in trouble.

Limber Jim, &c.

I went down to Dinah’s house, Dinah was in bed,

Hoisted de ­window an’ poked out her head;

T’rowed, an’ I hit her in de eyeball,—bim;

“Walk back, Mr. Nigger; ­don’t do dat agin.”

Limber Jim, &c.

Gambling man in de railroad line,

Saved my ace an’ played my nine;

If you want to know my name,

My name’s High-low-jack-in-the-game.

Limber Jim,

Shiloh!

Talk it agin,

Shiloh!

You dancing girl,

Shiloh!

Sure’s you’re born,

Shiloh!

Grease my heel with butter in the fat,

I can talk to Limber Jim ­better’n dat.

Limber Jim,

Shiloh!

Limber Jim,

Shiloh!

Walk back in love,

Shiloh!

My turtle dove,

Shiloh!

[Patting Juba]—And you can’t go yonder,

Limber Jim!

And you can’t go yonder,

Limber Jim!

And you can’t go-oo-o!

One fact worth mentioning about these ­negro singers is, that they can mimic the Irish accent to a degree of perfection which an American, En­glishman or German could not hope to acquire. At the request of Patrolman Tighe and his partner, the same evening that we interviewed Limber Jim, a very dark mulatto, named Jim Delaney, sang for us in capital style that famous Irish ditty known as “The hat me fahther wor-re.” Yet Jim, notwithstanding his name, has ­little or no Irish blood in his veins; nor has his companion, Jim Harris, who joined in the rollicking chorus:

“’Tis the raylics of ould dacency,

The hat me fahther wor-r-re.”

Jim Delaney would certainly make a reputation for Irish specialties in a minstrel troupe; his mimicry of Irish character is absolutely perfect, and he possesses a voice of great flexibility, depth and volume. He “runs” on the river.

On the southeast corner of Culvert and Sixth streets, opposite to the house in which we were thus entertained by Limber Jim and his friends, stands Kirk’s building, now occupied jointly by Kirk and Ryan. Two stories beneath this building is now the most popular dance-house of the ­colored steam­boatmen and their “girls.” The building and lot belong to Kirk; but Ryan holds a lease on the basement and half of the ­upper building. Recently the landlord and the leaseholder had a falling out, and are at bitter enmity; but Ryan seems to have the upper hand in the matter, and is making considerable money from the roustabouts. He has closed up the old side entrance, admission to the ball-room ­being now obtainable only through the bar-room, and the payment of ten cents. A special ­police­man has been wisely hired by the proprietor to preserve ­order below, and the establishment is, generally speaking, well conducted for an establishment of the kind. The amount of patronage it receives depends ­almost wholly upon the condition of the river traffic; during the greater part of the week the attendance is somewhat slim, but when the New ­Orleans boats come in the place is crowded to overflowing. Beside the admittance fee of ten cents, an additional dime is charged to all the men for every set danced—the said dime to be expended in “treating partners.” When the times are hard and money scarce, the girls ­often pay the fees for their men in ­order to make up sets.

With its unplastered and ­windowless limestone walls; sanded floor; ruined ceiling, half plank, half cracked plaster; a dingy black counter in one corner, and rude benches ranged along the walls, this dancing-room pres­ented rather an outlandish aspect when we visited it. At the corner of the room opposite “the bar,” a long bench was placed, with its face to the wall; and upon the back of this bench, with their feet inwardly reclining upon the seat, sat the musicians. A well-dressed, neatly-built mulatto picked the banjo, and a somewhat lighter ­colored musician led the music with a fiddle, which he played remarkably well and with great spirit. A short, stout negress, illy dressed, with a rather good-natured face and a bed shawl tied about her head, palyed the bass viol, and that with no inexperienced band. This woman is known to the ­police as Anna Nun.

The dancers were in sooth a motley crew: the neat dresses of the girls strongly contrasting with the rags of the poorer roustabouts, some of whom were clad only in shirt, pants and shocking hats. Several wickedly handsome women were smoking stogies. Bill Williams, a good-natured black giant, who keeps a Bucktown saloon, acted for a while as ­Master of Ceremonies. George Moore, the ­colored Dem­ocrat who killed, last election day, the leader of a party who attacked his house, figured to advantage in the dance, possessing wonderful activity in spite of his heavy bulk. The best performer on the floor was a stumpy ­little roustabout named Jem Scott, who is a marvelous jig-dancer, and can waltz with a tumbler full of ­water on his head without spilling a drop. One fourth of the women pres­ent were white, including two girls only about seventeen years old, but bearing physiognomical evidence of precocious vice. The best-­looking girl in the room was a tall, lithe quadroon named Mary Brown, with auburn hair, gray eyes, a very fair skin, and an air of ­quiet innocence wholly at variance with her reputation. A short, supple mulatto girl, with a blue ribbon in her hair, who attracted considerable admiration, and was famous for dancing “breakdowns,” had but recently served a term in the penitentiary for grand larceny. An­other woman pres­ent, a gigantic negress, wearing a red plaid shawl, and remarkable for an immense head of frizzly hair, was, we were informed, one of the most adroit thieves known to the ­police. It was a favorite trick of hers to pick a pocket while dancing, and hide the stolen money in her hair.

“How many of those pres­ent do you suppose carry knives?” we asked Patrolman Tighe.

“All of them,” was the reply. “All the men, and women, too, carry knives or razors; and many of them pistols as well. But they seldom quarrel, except about a girl. Their great vice is thieving; and the fights down here are generally brought about by white roughs who have no business in this part of town except crime.”

The musicians struck up that weird, wild, lively air, known perhaps to many of our readers as the “Devil’s Dream,” and in which “the musical ghost of a cat chasing the spectral ghost of a rat” is rep­res­ented by a succession of “miauls” and “squeaks” on the fiddle. The dancers danced a double quadrille, at first, silently and rapidly; but warming with the wild spirit of the music, leaped and shouted, swinging each ­other off the floor, and keeping time with a precision which shook the building in time to the music. The women, we noticed, ­almost invariably embraced the men about the neck in swinging, the men clasping them about the waist. Sometimes the men advancing leaped and crossed legs with a double shuffle, and with ­almost sightless rapidity. Then the music changed to an old Virginia reel, and the dancing changing likewise, pres­ented the most gro­tesque spectacle imaginable. The dancing became wild; men patted juba and shouted, the ­negro women danced with the most fantastic grace, their bodies describing ­almost incredible curves forward and backward; limbs intertwined rapidly in a wrestle with each ­other and with the music; the room pres­ented a tide of swaying bodies and tossing arms, and flying hair. The white female dancers seemed heavy, cumbersome, ungainly by contrast with their dark companions; the spirit of the music was not upon them; they were abnormal to the life about them. Once more the music changed—to some popular ­negro air, with the chorus—

“­Don’t get weary,

I’m goin’ home.”

The musicians ­began to sing; the dancers joined in; and the dance terminated with a roar of song, stamping of feet, “patting juba,” shouting, laughing, reeling. Even the curious spectators involuntarily kept time with their feet; it was the very drunkenness of music, the intoxication of the dance. Amid such scenes does the roustabout find his heaven; and this heaven is certainly not to be despised.

The great dancing resort for steamboatmen used to be Pickett’s, on Sausage Row; but year ­after year the river came up and flooded all the grimy saloons on the Rows, and, departing, left ­behind it alluvial deposits of yellow mud, and the Spirit of Rheumatic Dampness. So, about two months ago, Pickett rented out his old quarters, partly as a barber-shop, partly as a shooting-gallery, and moved into the building, No. 91 Front street, between Ludlow and Lawrence. He has had the whole building renovated throughout, and painted the front very hand­somely. The basement on the river side is now used for a dancing-room; but the room is very small, and will not accommodate half of the dancers who used to congregate in the old building. The ­upper part of the building the old man rents out to river men and their wives or mistresses, using the second floor for a restaurant and dining-rooms, which are very neatly ­fitted up. Whatever may have been the old man’s sins, Pickett has a heart full of unselfish charity sufficient to cover them all. Year ­after year, through good or ill-fortune, he has daily fed and maintained fifty or sixty homeless and needy steamboatmen. Sometimes when the river trade “looks up,” and all the boats are running on full time, some grateful levee hand repays his benefactor, but it is very seldom. And the old man never asks for it or expects it; he only says: “Boys, when you want to spend your money, spend it here.” Although now very old, and ­almost helpless from a rupture, Pickett has yet but to rap on the counter of his saloon to enforce instantaneous ­quiet. The roust­abouts will miss the old man when he is gone—the warm corner to sleep in, the simple but plentiful meal when out of a berth, and the rough kindness of his customary answer to a worthless, hungry, and shivering applicant for food and lodging, “G—d d—n you, you ­don’t deserve it; but come in and behave yourself.” The day is not far off when there will be great mourning along the levee.

With the exception of Ryan’s dance-house, and one or two Bucktown lodging-houses, the roustabouts generally haunt the Rows, principally Sausage Row, from Broadway to Ludlow street. Rat Row, from Walnut to Main, is more especially the home of the white tramps and roustabouts. Here is situated the celebrated “Blazing Stump,” ­otherwise called St. James Restau­rant, which is kept by a Hollander, named Venneman. Venneman accommodates only white men, and endeavors to keep an ­orderly house; but the “Blazing Stump” must ­always remain a resort for thieves, burglars, and criminals of every description. The “Stump” is No. 13 Rat Row. No. 16 is a lodging house for ­colored roustabouts, kept by James Madison. No. 12 is a policy shop, ­although it pretends to be a saloon; and the business is so cunningly conducted that the ­police can not, without special privilege, succeed in closing up the business. No. 10, which used to be known as Buckner’s, is ­an­other haunt for ­colored roustabouts. They have a pet crow attached to the establishment, which is very plucky, and can whip all the cats and dogs in the neighborhood. It waddles about on the sidewalk of sunny days, pecking fiercely at any stranger who meddles with it, but the moment it sees the patrolmen coming along the levee it runs into the house.

No. 7—Goodman’s clothing store—is said to be a “fence.” At the west end of the row is Captain Dilg’s celebrated hostelry, a popular and hospitable house, frequented by pilots and the most respectable class of river men. At the eastern terminus of the row is the well known Alhambra saloon, a great resort for ­colored steamboatmen, where large ­­profits are realized on cigars and whisky of the cheapest kind. The contractors who hire roustabouts frequently have a private ­under­standing with the proprietor of some levee coffee-house or saloon, and ­always go there to pay off their hands. Then the first one treats, then ­an­other, and so on ­until all the money just made by a day’s heavy labor is lying in the counter drawer, and the roustabouts are helplessly boozy.

Of the two rows Sausage Row is perhaps the most famous. No. 1 is kept by old Barney Hodke, who has made quite a reputation by keeping a perfectly ­orderly house in a very dis­orderly neighborhood. No. 2 is Cottonbrook’s clothing store, alias the “American Clothing Store,” whereof the proprietor is said to have made a fortune by selling cheap clothing to the ­negro stevedores. No. 3 is Mrs. Sweeney’s saloon and boarding-house, an ­orderly establishment for the entertainment of river men. No. 4 is an eating- and lodging-house for roustabouts, kept by Frank Fortner, a white man. No. 6 is a barber-shop for ­colored folks, with a clothing-store next to it. No. 7 is a house of ill-fame, kept by a white woman, Mary Pearl, who boards several unfortunate white girls. This is a great resort for ­colored men.

No. 8 is Maggie Sperlock’s. Maggie has ­an­other saloon in Bucktown. She is a very fat and kindhearted old mulatto woman, who is bringing up half a dozen illegitimate children, abandoned by their parents. One of these, a very pretty boy, is said to be the son of a white lady, who moves in good society, by a ­colored man.

No. 9 is now Chris. Meyer’s; it was known as “Schwabe Kate’s” when Meyer’s wife lived. This is the great resort for German tramps.

Next in ­order comes a barber-shop and shooting-gallery—“Long Branch” and “Saratoga.” These used to be occupied by Pickett.

A few doors east of this is Chas. Redman’s saloon, kept by a crippled soldier. This is ­an­other great roustabout haunt, where robberies are occasionally committed. And a ­little further east is Pickett’s new ­hotel. On these two rows Officers Brazil and Knox have made no less than two hundred and fifty-six arrests during the past two years. The most troublesome ele­ment is, of course, among the white tramps.

A number of the ­colored river men are adroit thieves; these will work two or three months and then “lay off” ­until all their money has found its way to whisky-shops and brothels. The ­little clothing and shoe stores along the levee are ­almost daily robbed of some articles by such fellows, who excel in ingenious confidence dodges. A levee hand with extinct cigar will, for example, walk into a shoe shop with a “Say, bohss, giv a fellah a light.” While the “bohss” is giving a light to the visitor, who ­always takes care to stand ­between the proprietor and the doorway, a confederate sneaks off with a pair of shoes. A fellow called “China Robinson,” who hangs about Madison’s is said to be famous at such tricks. The ­police ­officers, however, will not allow any known sluggard or thief to loaf about the levee for more than thirty days without employment. There is ­always some­thing to do for those who wish to do it, and roustabouts who persist in idleness and dirt, ­after one or two friendly warnings, get sent to the Work-house.

Half of the ­colored ’longshoremen used at one time to wear only a coat and pants, winter and summer; but now they are a ­little more careful of themselves, and fearful of ­being sent to the Work-house to be cleaned up. Consequently, when Officer Brazil finds a very ragged and dirty specimen of levee life on the Row, he has seldom occasion to warn him more than once to buy himself a shirt and a change of garments.

Generally speaking, the women give very ­little trouble. Some of the white girls now living in Pickett’s barracks or in Bucktown brothels are of respectable parentage. Two of the most notorious are ­­sisters, who have a sad history. They are yet rather handsome. All these women are morphine eaters, and their greatest dread is to be sent to the Work-house, and ­being thus deprived of this stimulant. Some who were sent to the Work-house, we were told, had died there from want of it. The white girls of the Row soon die, however, ­under any circumstances; their lives are ­often fairly burnt out with poisonous whisky and reckless dissipation ­before they have haunted the levee more than two or three years. ­After a fashion, the roust­abouts treat their women kindly, with a rough good nature that is peculiar to them; many of the women are ­really married. But faithfulness to a roustabout husband is considered quite an impossible virtue on the levee. The stevedores are mostly too improvident and too lazy to support their “gals.” While the men are off on a trip, a girl will ­always talk about what she will be able to buy “when my man comes back—if he has any money.” When the lover does comes back, sometimes ­after a month’s absence, he will perhaps pres­ent his “gal” with fifty cents, or at most a dollar, and thinks he has done generously by her. We are speaking in general terms, of course, and alluding to the mass of the ­colored roustabouts who “run on the river” all their lives, and have no ­other calling. It is needless to say that there are thrifty and industrious stevedores who support their families well, and will ­finally leave the river for some more lucrative employment.

Such is a glimpse of roustabout life. They know of no ­other life; they can ­under­stand no ­other plea­sures. Their whole existence is one vision of anticipated ­animal plea­sure or of ­animal misery; of giant toil ­under the fervid summer sun; of toil ­under the icy glare of the winter moon; of fiery drinks and drunken dreams; of the madness of music and the intoxication of fantas­tic dances; of white and dark mistresses awaiting their coming at the levees, with waving of brightly ­colored garments; of the deep music of the great steam whistles; of the torch-basket fires redly dancing upon the purple ­water, the white stars sailing overhead, the passing lights of well known cabins along the dark river banks, and the mighty panting of the iron heart of the great vessel, bearing them day ­after day and night ­after night to fresh scenes of ­human frailty, and nearer to that Dim Levee slope, where weird boats ever discharge ghostly freight, and depart empty.

Cincinnati Commercial, March 17, 1876