**Please excuse any out-of-date or derogatory terms that are used. This is a true, uncorrected transcription of the original newspaper article. ** This account is signed by John R. Spears:
"Old Randle Mason kept the first hotel on the island. The house, which faced the bay, did not differ in size or appearance from the other dwellings, but in 1855 Randle hung up a sign and made people who came from the main land welcome for a consideration. His place speedily became popular, far and near, because of the frolics held there under the name of oyster roasts. There are features about an oyster roast that are exceedingly attractive to the wilder sorts of the Virginia peninsula even to this day.
Old Randle would announce a roast some weeks in advance, generally naming some such holiday as Washington's birthday, for in this climate the weather can ordinarily be depended on save in January. When the day and the people came many bushels more of oysters than could be eaten were to be found beside the Mason house, and a huge stack of pine chunks as well, in the old-fashioned fireplace within, and over a broad hearth made of stones without, big fires were made with the chunks, and then the roasting began. Oysters fresh from the sea water cooked in the corner of a big fireplace, or on red-hot rocks out of doors have a flavor found nowhere else, but the oysters were not the chief attraction for old Randle's family consisted entirely of girls, and it was a large, good-looking, harum-scarum family. Moreover there were the choicest products of Virginia and West India stills, the latter smuggled in by the sloops that then traded to Jamaica and other ports down that way.
As the oysters began to sizzle and sputter under the heat the old man brought out the jugs and stood them on a table with tin cups and tea cups in bountiful array. With every oyster a drink was the hilarious custom, and here was no exclusion of the gentler sex from the ring about the liquor table.
Finally, inspired by the flavor of the oysters, the fiddlers drew their instruments from blue cotton bags, screwed and scraped at keys and strings for a while in discordant notes, and then, with a musical twang and a thump of cowhide boots, called for he opening dance! Oh, the reel and the quadrilles. Oh, the jigs and breakdowns! Such grace when bowing "Honors to yer pardners." Such vigor and enthusiasm when told to "Balance all." Such hearty embracing at the call of "Swing." And when each dance ended the young man always led out his palpitating partner, first of all to the jug-burdened table and then to a seat. Everywhere present, to smooth rustled tempers and keep the fun going, was old Randle. Every where present, to see that no young man sulked for lack of a sweetheart, were Randle's buxom daughters. Without let, break, or hindrance, the afternoon and the night wore away until even Chincoteague muscles and brains could stand up no longer under the influences of fatigue and liquor, and then down the young folks dropped wherever the end of the last dance left them, indoors or on the dooryard green, and went fast to sleep.
Life on Chincoteague, Part 1
Spears
John R.
Sun
New York
May 11, 1890
Life on Chincoteague, Part 1
Spears
John R.
Sun
New York
May 11, 1890
Life on Chincoteague, Part 2
It is scarce necessary to say that the Chincoteaguer of the present day would not smuggle -- at least nothing worse than a few sloop and schooner loads of seed oysters from North Carolina water, contrary to the law in such case made and provided. Besides, he couldn't if he wanted to,for the reason that there is a Custom House on the island, and the Collector would seize the smuggling craft if he knew anything about it. But in the old days long ago the Custom House was over on the Chesapeake side of the peninsula, and things were different. The Chincoteaguer was not rich enough to own a whole sloop, but he had an interest in one now and then, and commanded her. He knew every inch of water along this much indented coast,and in handling sloops he had no superior. Besides, no sharper, swifter sloops were ever built for merchant service than those launched on the Chesapeake Bay. Loading his craft with hoop poles, staves and shingles, the Chincoteague skipper sailed away for Matansas, or Santiago, or Jamaica, and after a while came back, and running into some inlet, tarried there for a night or two or three, and then came up in the bay here, and anchoring near the mainland went off to the Custom House and reported his return "in ballast." The collector always came over and examined the sloop, poked his cane into the sand ballast, which to any other eyes might have looked suspiciously fresh, drank freely from a bottle of superior rum, smoked excellent cigars, and went away. Then the Chincoteague skipper went back to his inlet for a night or two or three after which he loaded oysters in bulk for New York or Philadelphia. Oysters in those days covered a multitude of rum barrels and the old Chincoteaguer chuckles to this day as he tells of outwitted customs officials.
When the stranger comes to Chincoteague and makes the acquaintance of such typical old natives as J. A. M. Whealton, Martin G Connor, and Uncle Ken Jester, the first thing they will say to hime is that their ancestors lived on the island before the independence of the United States, and fought in the war of the Revolution for American freedom. J A M Whealton's father, Joshua, and his Uncle Daniel were wounded in battle then; Connor's father was taken from his sloop by a British press gang, served three years on a British man-o-war, and then escaped to fight for Washington. Uncle Ken's father, John, was in a Virginia regiment. In all a dozen or in battle then more men, about half the voting population of the island at the time, were in the American service. The traditions of their deeds, told over and over, made the Chincoteaguers revere the old flag as few others in the South did. Then, too, the Chincoteaguers were oystermen and coasting sailors rather than farmers, and traded to New York and Philadelphia for their merchandise, which they bought with oysters. Their only business interest with the State of which they were a part was through the sale of ponies, while of sentimental interest there was little or none.
When the ordinance of secession passed at Richmond, was sent to the people for ratification, Chincoteague turned out to the man to vote, and every man save one, Joseph Hill by name, voted against the ordinance. J A M Whealton, as Justice of the Peace, kept the registry of the votes, and was right glad he had preserved them before three months had passed.
Having voted to stay in the Union, the Chincoteaguers hoisted the American flag to a pole 110 feet high that had been erected in honor of Bell and Everett. The peninsula was overwhelmingly rebel, the flag was seen from the mainland, and a committee came over and warned the Chincoteaguers that the "Yankee flag" must come down or the terrors of war would burst over the island. Justice of the Peace Whealton, as the leading citizen, heard the spokesman of the committee with gravity, and then, stroking his long beard, said: "Gentlemen, Jinkatig did not secede. We hoisted that flag and it don't come down 'less we go with it, but so long as we have a dram of powder and an ounce of lead and are able to use them that flag stays." And there it did stay, and there was never an hour when the American flag could not be seen there until after Lee surrendered.
Meantime forty-eight men from the island fought for Uncle Sam - a larger proportion of the male population than any other Northern state sent to the war. The islanders had a deal of trouble about supplies at first for they were beset by the rebels on shore and the Federal cruisers at sea, but Justice of the Peace Whealton, as the capitalist of the island, sent George W P Smith with the registry of votes on the secession ordinance to Washington, and he brought back permits signed by A. Lincoln for fourteen Chincoteague vessels to trade to New York and Philadelphia. Then the steamer Louisiana came and anchored in the bay to keep off the rebels, and Gen. Lockwood came down and occupied the peninsula with Union forces,and thereafter peace reigned, high prices for oysters prevailed, and the Chincoteaguers drank whiskey and danced with a vigor and frequency unknown before.
It should not be supposed that because the Chincoteaguer got hilarious at the oyster roasts he was irreligious. From time out of mind the Methodists and Baptists have counted many Chincoteaguers among their numbers, and every year the presiding elder of the Methodist district came over with two or three evangelists and a host of mainland citizens and held a camp meeting. No better place for a camp meeting than a pine-covered ridge on Chincoteague could be asked for. The sand, carpeted with pine needles, made a perfect woodland floor. The boughs of the trees interlacing over head made such domes and archways as no cathedral ever boasted, and shut out the sun and softened its rays till twilight prevailed at noonday. The wind sighed through the forest in dirges, At night the dark vaults were lighted up by huge fires of pitchy pine.
Standing there while the lurid flames dared up till the ghostly limbs above appeared and then died away till all was dim and uncertain, only to blaze again, the evangelist in solemn voice, portrayed the terrors of hell until, wrought up by their superstitions, the audience swayed to and fro and wept and shrieked in a wild delirium. Then, when the excitement rose to a dangerous point, the skillful preacher, to change the mood, started some old chorus like "No man shall hindah me,for I love Jesus," or "We are goin' home to die no moah," and thereupon with shouts of "Glory" the whole throng rose and sang til the arches rang to their voices. There was no doubting the Chincoteaguer's religious enthusiasm while it lasted.
Three years ago the influx of mainland church people had become so great that the natives were far out-numbered, and then a wave of prohibition sentiment swept from the shore out across the bay. The church people united, speakers were brought over from the mainland, meetings were held by night in the churches, and parades by day n the streets. Numbers of oystermen who had squandered their money in liquor repented, and told over and over again how mean and wicked they had been and how good they had become since they stopped drinking, and thanked God amid a chorus of amens that they were not as bad as some other folks. Then an election was held under the local option law of the State and Chincoteague cast 38 votes in favor of licensing liquor dealers to about 300 against it.
A most interesting old native is Kendal Jester. For no one knows how many years Uncle Ken has met the stranger who visits the island with one set of expressions. He introduced himself to me as he has done to every other visitor: "My name's Kennaljester."
"Glad to meet you, sir."
"I drinks a little whiskey, sometimes."
"Indeed! Will you have some now?"
"Reckon. Doctor says gots drink quart'er days keep away bilious - drink quarter in pint - never have bilious."
And he does it. He has no trouble getting it. He came down the other day to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday. By noon he had taken his daily allowance and concluded to carry a bottle home to his wife so she could help celebrate. But he was driving a half-wit pony, and in his exuberance of youthful spirits Uncle Ken dropped the reins as he started away, that he might drink the health of a friend who happened along. There upon the pony ran away up the street, with Uncle Ken sitting bolt upright, whooping like a boy at a baseball match, and having almost as much fun as he did at oyster roasts in his youth. People expected to see him tipped out and killed, but when the pony had kicked the thills and dashboard to pieces it got away, was captured again, and Uncle Ken mounted and rode home bareback in triumph. If there is any place where prohibition does not prohibit it is on Chincoteague, the overwhelming vote in its favor to the contrary notwithstanding.
In many rural communities the dead are buried in sequestered spots on the farms on which they have died. In Chincoteague a public cemetery was provided. Winding along between two spacious glades is the backbone of the island, known to the natives as Rattlesnake Ridge. It terminates at the lower end in a sandy bluff that is perhaps the highest land of either Assateague or Chincoteague. Barren of trees and covered only with sparse wiry grass, it is about as desolate a spot as ever overlooked the sea. Here for 200 years the dead of Chincoteague were buried. Figureheads and other carved timbers from the wreckage that sometimes washed ashore often served in place of tombstones, but at other times plain boards or uncarved stones were used. A more appropriate burial place for the rude and uncouth old native of Chincoteague could scarcely be found. But the wind and the ceaseless roll of the sea have well nigh obliterated the old graveyard, laying bare many an old skeleton as they tore the sand away, while the influx of new peoples, who have brought new ideas and new wealth, will soon,with time's aid, obliterate the native Chincoteaguer."
** Again, this is a word for word transcript of a newspaper report written and printed in 1890. Please do not hold the use of the common word for African-Americans at that time against me, personally. **
This is the third of four parts of the article. I hope you enjoy reading it.
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