Lockley, Fred.  "History of the Columbia River Valley, From The Dalles to the
Sea." Vol. 2.  S. J. Clarke Publishing Co., 1928.  p. 295.

SAMUEL F. BLYTHE

In the Oregon Daily Journal of February 22, 1927, the experiences and activities
of an honored Union veteran and old-time newspaper man of the state are
described as follows by Fred Lockley:

"Samuel F. Blythe is one of the pioneer residents of Hood River. When I
interviewed Mr. Blythe recently, he said: ÔNext August I will celebrate the
fiftieth anniversary of my arrival at Hood River. When I came here in 1877 the
only house built in what is now Hood River was that of Dr. W. L. Adams, whose
home was used as a sanitarium and health resort. I bought twenty-two acres of
land a mile west of Hood River, paying eight dollars an acre for it. Later I
bought a tract of twenty-one acres adjoining it. My first piece of land was
purchased from William Penn Watson, who sold it to me for eight dollars an acre,
and after considerable delay I received the deed. I found out later that he had
not bought the land when he sold it to me. After selling the tract to me he
purchased it from the state for a dollar and a quarter an acre. At that time he
owned, or had under option, most of the land along the water front at Hood
River. I came here for my health, and the fact that I am still hale and hearty
at the age of eighty-five goes to prove that Hood River has a healthy climate.

"ÔI was born in Fairfield, Adams county, Pennsylvania, on St. Valentine's day,
1842, and was named for Dr. Samuel Finley, who was a pioneer president of
Princeton College. Our place was seven miles from Gettysburg. My father, David
Blythe, was a tanner. My grandfather, whose name was also David, came from
Scotland to America not long before the Revolutionary war and served with
Washington at Valley Forge, Trenton and in other engagements of the war. My
mother, whose maiden name was Julia Ann Hoover, was of Holland Dutch ancestry. I
am the fourth of their seven children and the only one now living.

"ÔIn 1856, when I was fourteen years old, I went to work as a printer's devil on
the Franklin Repository at Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. The Messenger, a
religious publication, had a power press and I used to take the forms over to
the Messenger to be printed on their press. I will never forget my introduction
to what was to prove my life work. On June 3, 1856, I took the stage for
Chambersburg. My father died in 1849, when I was seven years old. Washington
Crooks, the publisher of the Franklin Repository, was a politician of
considerable influence. He and my father were friends. My mother, knowing this,
asked Mr. Crooks to give me a position on the paper. The stage stopped in front
of the Repository office and the driver took my trunk and carried it into the
printing office. Mr. Crooks was away, so the editor took me upstairs to the job
office and introduced me to the foreman. The latter greeted me kindly and said,
"You can start learning the printer's trade by taking that pitcher and going
down to the town pump and bringing up a pitcher of fresh water." I ran down
stairs, crossed the square to the courthouse, filled the pitcher and was back in
no time. After he had taken a satisfying drink from the pitcher the foreman took
me over to the case, told me where each letter was, showed me the P box and the
Q box, and said, "A printer must learn to mind his P's and Q's." He told me I
must apply myself, work hard and try to earn the twenty dollars a year I was to
receive. The second year I was paid thirty dollars. In those days the printer's
devil also served as carrier boy. Each New Year's they issued a carriers'
address. When this address was given to the patrons of the paper they usually
gave the carrier a dime, a quarter or even half a dollar. I can remember the
thrill I had when I collected thirty dollars when I delivered the New Year's
address to my customers.

"At the close of the second year I went to Ohio to visit my mother. The
proprietor of the Eaton Democrat offered me three dollars a week. By this time
I had become fairly proficient and could set each day two galleys of brevier
and throw in my case. The columns were very wide, being sixteen-em measure. If
they were expert workmen the compositors were paid six dollars a week. In the
spring of 1859 the Eaton Democrat was sold to a man at Madison, Indiana. He
moved the plant there and I went with him. There I worked on a morning daily and
was paid twenty-five cents a thousand, the type being lang primer. I went out on
a strike, with the rest of the force, for higher wages. We didn't get our jobs
back, so I went to Cincinnati to see if I could get work. I decided to travel
throughout the country and learn the methods used in other offices. At Covington
I met a tramp printer who was an expert. Next day I fell in with this same man,
who asked me where I was going. I told him I was bound for Lexington, Kentucky,
and he said, "I am headed the same way." He told me his name was Dave Hubbard
and that he was a Mexican war veteran. After some further talk he urged me to go
home. He said, "I hate to see a bright young chap become a tramp printer. How
much money have you?" I told him that I had seventy-five cents. He said, "I have
been working more or less steadily ever since I was discharged from the army
after the Mexican war. How much money do you suppose I have?" I replied, "I
don't know. How much have you?" He dug down in his jeans and produced his entire
wealth, which was two copper pennies. He said, "I sold my necktie to a nigger
for five cents and it cost me three cents to pay the toll across the Ohio river.
Don't you think, in view of what I have told you, that you should go home?" I
said, "No, I am going to see something of the world." He then said, "Very well;
if you must tramp, we will go along together; I can show you the ropes. I am
just winding up a big drunk. I can't travel without whiskey. Go to a grocery
store and buy me a quart of whiskey. It will cost you a dime." A better grade of
whiskey cost twelve and a half cents a quart, but he liked the more fiery liquor
that retailed at ten cents a quart. I bought him a quart of whiskey and we
started down the pike. This was in August and the weather was extremely warm.
After walking two or three miles we stopped under a shade tree. Hubbard took out
his big red bandanna, wiped the sweat off his face and opened his carpet bag to
get a drink of whiskey. He let out a yell and began jumping up and down,
swearing horribly, meanwhile tearing his hair. I thought he had gone crazy. "The
cork has come out," he said "and all the whiskey is gone. I can't go on without
another drink." We had to walk a mile and a half before we came to a crossroads
store where I could invest another dime in a quart of whiskey for him. During
the next week we lived on blackberries, which we found climbing over the rail
fences beside the road, and on an occasional handout of cornbread from some
farmer's wife.

"ÔFinally we decided to strike out for the Ohio river, get a boat and go down
the stream to New Orleans. When we reached the banks of the river we found a man
who had a skiff which didn't look any too good, but it had two good oars. As we
had no money to buy it, I traded my silver watch for the skiff. The river was
low and there was no current. We paddled down the river for three days. I took
off my shoes, and between the water and the leaking skiff and the hot sun my
feet became so badly swollen and blistered that I couldn't get my shoes on.

"ÔAfter going for three or four days on rations which consisted largely of river
water and cornbread, we drew up at dusk one evening at Vevay, Indiana. My
partner hailed a group of men near the river bank and asked them if they wanted
to buy a skiff. One of the men sized up the boat and said he wouldn't give a
cent for it, but added that he would give four bits for the oars if we would
throw the skiff in. We were starved out, so we accepted his offer. I stayed on
the river bank while my partner went up town to buy some crackers and cheese. We
slept on the bank of the river that night and the next morning Dave went up town
and landed a job that would last three days at one dollar a day. Dave was a good
scout. He said, "I don't want you to be a tramp printer. I am going to turn this
job over to you and I'll drift on. Maybe you can land a regular job here."

"ÔI couldn't get my shoes on, so, carrying my shoes and socks in my hand, I
walked up to the printing office and reported for duty. The force consisted of
the editor and a compositor who was eighty-five years old and very frail. The
old man told me that when he had learned his trade seventy-five years before,
and that took him back to 1785, he had inked the forms for the old hand press
with a ball covered with buckskin. I set up the paper during the next three days
and editor and proprietor was so delighted that he offered me a permanent job
at four dollars and a half a week and board. The eighty-five-year-old tramp
printer decided to drift on to Cincinnati, so I stayed there all of that fall
and winter. That was during 1859-60.

"ÔThe next spring I went to Wabash, Indiana, to visit relatives and landed a job
on the Wabash Plain Dealer, working ten hours a day at a salary of four and a
half dollars per week. I was working at the case on the Plain Dealer when
Abraham Lincoln was nominated in Chicago. The Plain Dealer was a democratic
paper. The editor was in a quandary as to whether he should support Douglas, the
candidate of the northern democrats, or Breckenridge and Lane, who had been put
up by the southern wing of the party. After taking a few drinks,, he finally
decided that Breckenridge and Lane had the best of it, so he wrote a red-hot
editorial endorsing their candidacy, handing it to me to set up. He went out to
take a few more drinks and when he came back wrote an editorial urging the
election of Douglas, which he put on the hook for me to set up. I set up both
editorials and I wondered how it was going to come out. An hour or so later he
came back once more two sheets in the wind and wrote an eloquent tribute to
Abraham Lincoln, urging his election. He showed that the safety of the country
depended upon the election of Lincoln and Hamlin. This editorial I also set up.
I knew that if the paper appeared with editorials endorsing all three of the
presidential candidates the public would never survive the shock, so I ran the
Lincoln and Hamlin editorial and killed the other two, and from that day to this
-- for the paper is still running -- the Plain Dealer has been a strong
republican sheet, and is now a great daily newspaper.

"ÔThat October I went home and while there I landed a job on the Eaton Register
at five dollars a week. I worked for the paper until the early summer of 1861,
when I enlisted in an independent company. We were to serve as cavalry under
Fremont; at least, that was the promise made to us. I was nineteen years old at
the time. When we arrived in St. Louis we were assigned to the Thirteenth
Missouri Infantry, which consisted of six companies from Ohio, one from Illinois
and three from Missouri. In 1862 our regiment was rechristened, becoming known
as the Twenty-second Ohio Volunteer Infantry, though we continued to carry the
flag of the Thirteenth Missouri clear through the war. Our colonel, at one time
the editor and owner of the Cincinnati Gazette, was a West Pointer and a very
capable officer, though rather old. I was a member of Company E. I served as a
private in this company for three years and then re-enlisted, joining Hancock's
veteran corps, which comprised twenty thousand men, all of whom had served for
three years in the Civil war. The first battle I was in was at Fort Donelson.
Then came Pittsburg Landing, the siege of Corinth, the battle of Corinth and
various skirmishes. In the spring of 1863 we went to Vicksburg. I served for
four years and three months, not being mustered out until February, 1866. Our
company was stationed just outside the arsenal during the execution of the
Lincoln conspirators.

"ÔFour years and three months of service in the army had made me restless, so I
could not settle down to a prosaic job. I decided to cross the plains and see
the Rockies. A month after I was mustered out I started for the west in company
with Daniel Ridenour, a war-time comrade. We headed for St. Joseph, Missouri, to
get a job driving an ox team across the plains. We were inexperienced and when
we watched the bullwhackers handling six and twelve yoke of oxen, Dan said, "We
can never learn to drive oxen. I'm going back to Ohio to marry the girl I'm
engaged to." We parted and I never saw him again. I had not set type for five
years, so I was a little dubious as to whether I could land a job at the case or
not. However, I had to eat, so I went to the office of the St. Joseph Daily
Gazette and asked for a job. The foreman said, "Do you belong to the union?" I
answered, "No, but I will be glad to join." He showed me where to hang my coat
and told me to go to work, informing me that they would take me into the union
next Sunday. I threw in my case and found that in spite of being away from the
work for five years I hadn't lost my skill. I had a good boarding house with the
family of one of the compositors on the paper. The wife was a good cook. She
boarded others of the corps of compositors.

"ÔAfter I had worked for a few weeks Captain Lockwood, the commander of my
company, and three others of my former campmates, came to St. Joseph and told me
they were going to buy an outfit and go west. Every day or two they would drop
in and urge me to go along. I was getting forty-five cents a thousand and was
saving my money. I had accumulated seventy-five dollars. One evening, just after
I was paid off, my four comrades dropped in and Captain Lockwood said, "Sam, you
better come with us. We're going to pull out in the morning. Won't you come
along?" I said, "All right; you can count me in." He asked me how much money I
had and I told him, handing it over to him to pay my share of the expenses. I
found the reason they were so anxious for me to come in was that they had bought
an outfit, but had not enough money to complete the payments; a wagon and two
yoke of oxen was purchased for the trip, so my seventy-five dollars was a life
saver. Captain Lockwood bought a supply of bacon, beans, coffee and flour, which
used up all of our money, so he was unable to purchase any sugar or tobacco.

"ÔCaptain Lockwood was a good infantry officer, but he didn't know any more
about driving oxen than the rest of us, which was nothing at all. All five of us
walked beside the oxen and herded them along. That night we left their yokes on
and tied them to a tree. I never remember spending a more miserable night. It
stormed all night and we were soaking wet. We were afraid to turn the cattle
loose to graze and the next morning we started out. During the day we made five
miles. I said to Kline, who had put up most of the money for the outfit, "How do
you like it?" He replied, "Every cent I saved is in that outfit, but I have a
good notion to quit right now. If we are going to put in six months like we have
the past two days, I'm through." A long storm started in and continued for three
days. We had to stay out with the cattle while they grazed. When the storm was
over we herded the cattle to a farm a mile or so distant, carried the neckyokes
along, drove the cattle into a corral and got the farmer to yoke the oxen up for
us.

"ÔWe started out and. overtook a freight outfit. One of the big wagons was stuck
in a mudhole and the owner of the freight outfit asked us for the use of our two
yoke of oxen. He hitched them in front of his and the Georgia negro driver, who
was an expert, soon yanked the wagon out of the mudhole. The wagon boss said to
us, "We have more freight than we can pull. If you will let us load some of our
freight in your wagon we'll furnish you an extra yoke of cattle and this Georgia
nigger to drive the outfit, and we'll pay you twenty cents a pound when you
unload it at Bozeman, Montana." That was our salvation. Right then and there all
of our troubles ceased. That negro driver was not only cheerful but one of the
best bullwhackers I ever saw. Captain Lockwood volunteered to do the cooking
for our outfit and my job was to provide the firewood. One of the other boys
did the dish-washing and we got along fine. Within a few days our outfit joined
a train of thirty wagons, about half of which were bound for Denver, while the
others were going on to Bozeman.

"ÔJust beyond Fort Laramie our wagon train split into two sections, so there
would be more chance to graze the cattle. The section just ahead of us was
attacked by the Sioux Indians. They killed two of the drivers and drove the
cattle off. One of the emigrants hurried back to our train and every available
man of us started out to overtake the Indians and get the cattle. We overtook
the redskins, recovered most of the cattle and our trains joined. The Indians
secured reinforcements and attacked our train. There were about one hundred and
fifty of the Indians. Most of our drivers were ex-soldiers, some having served
in the Union army and some in the Confederate army. We were all pretty good
shots, so we gave the Indians more than they bargained for and stood them off. A
little later we joined a train of three hundred wagons and during the remainder
of the journey to Bozeman we traveled under military discipline.

"ÔOn arriving at Bozeman we were paid twenty cents a pound for the freight we
carried, and three of us took up homestead in that locality. We paid
seventy-five dollars for a plow, and decided to grow up with the country. Not
having money enough to pay five dollars a bushel for wheat, we had to look for
work. That winter some men from Oregon stayed with us and hunted elks most of
the time. They jerked the meat. I have seen as many as five hundred elks come
down on the flat. Farming struck me as a pretty prosaic job, so next spring I
pulled out, going to Virginia City. I guess I must have looked pretty tough. I
was twenty-five years old. I hadn't had a shave or a haircut for more than a
year. My beard covered my whole chest and my hair hung to my shoulders. I
decided that if I was going to find a job on a newspaper I would have to indulge
in a shave and a haircut. I have always been sorry I didn't have a picture of
myself taken.

"ÔThere were two newspapers in Virginia City, the Montana Post, a tri-weekly,
and the Democrat, which was issued once a week. Neither paper had work for me,
so I went to the hotel, and to my delight, I found the clerk, Pliny Crume, was
an old-time friend of mine from Eaton. We had served in the same company during
the war, so he said, "You can sleep in the corral -- I see you have your own
blankets -- and I'll stake you to the eats. You can stay here until you land a
job. General James Francis Meagher was governor of Montana at that time and
Martin Beem was secretary of the territory. I had gone out to one of the
gulches to see if I could get work shoveling dirt into a sluice box. Martin Beem
and I had served in the same regiment during the Civil war. When the color
bearer was shot and killed Martin picked up the flag and went forward. The
colonel made him a lieutenant for his gallantry. He, like myself, was a printer.
We were delighted to see each other and he said, "What are you doing, Sam?" I
replied, "I am looking for a job but both newspapers turned me down." He said,
"I'll get you a job. It may be two or three weeks until I can land it, but you
stay right here and I'll divide my salary with you."

"ÔI refused to take his money and landed a job hauling quartz ore on a sled with
oxen. The man for whom I worked told me to go on up in the mountains, cut a load
of wood and bring it in, and we could start hauling ore next day. I worked half
a day, cut about a half load of wood and came in about half dead, for cutting
timber was something I had never tackled before. When I got in I found a message
from Martin Beem offering me a job on the Post of Virginia City, setting type
at one dollar a thousand. I lost no time in reporting for duty. While the
Legislature was in session we were employed on State work and I could make from
ten to fifteen dollars a day setting type. In one week of six days I made one
hundred and forty-four dollars. The foreman said to us, "Make all the phat you
can." During the meeting of the territorial legislature we set up the bills and
every time we lifted a head it meant two dollars and a half on our string. I
could really set ten thousand ems a day, but with the phat we had we were making
from fifteen to thirty dollars a day. I worked on the Post a year.

"ÔFrom there I went to Fort Benton and took passage on a steamer down the
Missouri. We went through a herd of buffaloes which were crossing the river.
There were thousands of them on a stampede. Every man on board had a gun and
practically all of them shot into the buffaloes which surrounded us. We killed
dozens of buffaloes. It took us eleven days to get to Sioux City, as we had to
tie up to the bank every night. After a short time at my home I went to Chicago
and worked at my trade. In September I started back to Montana, reaching there
the month of November when I secured employment with the Helena Tribune and
remained there one year.

"ÔIn 1869 I went to San Francisco and worked on the Alta Californian until 1870.
When the union struck Mr. O'Meara was in San Francisco buying a newspaper plant
for Ben Holladay to ship to Portland. He bought the San Francisco Times outfit
and hired some of the striking printers in San Francisco. I was one of the men
he employed. We arrived in Portland on July 5, 1870, aboard the steamship
California, and a week later the newsboys were calling out the first issue of
the Daily Bulletin. We were paid sixty cents a thousand for composition. I
worked on the Bulletin until it was discontinued. Holladay lost a lot of money
on it. When the Bulletin ceased publication six of us started the Daily Bee, of
which D. H. Stearns was the manager. I stayed with the Bee for eleven months and
had charge of the city routes, which I sold to Mr. Holman, whose son, Arthur
Holman, was for many years editor of the San Francisco Argonaut.'"

Mr. Blythe came to Hood River in 1877 and on March 3, 1878, removed to the ranch
on which be has since resided. In 1894 he purchased the Hood River Glacier, of
which John Cradlebaugh was the owner and editor, and controlled the paper for
ten years, on the expiration of which period he sold the business to A. D. Moe.
Mr. Blythe then devoted his attention to agricultural pursuits, utilizing the
most effective methods in the cultivation of the soil, and brought his land to a
high state of development. He still occupies the tine old home but leases his
place, which is known as the Twin Oaks Fruit Farm. It is situated near Hood
River and commands an uninterrupted view of the majestic Columbia.

In 1873 Mr. Blythe was married in Portland to Miss Emma Jane Nation, who was
born in Birmingham, England, of which country her parents, William Briar and
Mary Ann (Lakin) Nation, were also natives, and her brother, John Nation, was
connected with the Willamette Iron Works. William B. Nation was an expert carver
of bone and ivory and also engaged in merchandising in England. In 1830 he
sailed for the United States and spent about three years in New York city. Owing
to failing health he returned to his native land but recrossed the Atlantic in
1857 and settled on a farm in Pennsylvania. In 1871 he brought his family to
Oregon and three years later his wife passed away in Portland. Mr. Nation
attained the advanced age of ninety-one years and died at the home of Mr. and
Mrs. Blythe in 1889. To Mr. and Mrs. Blythe were born two children, both of whom
are natives of Hood River county. The son, Edward N., was graduated from the
school of journalism of the University of Oregon and in partnership with J. D.
Riordan owns the Clark County Sun, the leading weekly of Vancouver, Washington.
Mr. Blythe is married and has two children: Barbara, a capable newspaper woman,
who prepared for her profession in the University of Oregon and who is connected
with the Portland Journal; and Alice, a student at the University of Washington
in Seattle. The daughter, Clara Blythe, is now the wife of David T. Manor, of
Mission Beach, California. They have become the parents of a son, George Finley,
who is attending high school.

Samuel F. Blythe is a member of Canby Post, No. 16, G. A. R. In the affairs of
This organization he is deeply interested and is a past department commander, to
which office he was elected at Newberg, Oregon, in 1907. Despite his eighty-six
years and the many hardships he has endured, Mr. Blythe is well preserved and
keeps in close touch with the events of the world, possessing an alert mind and
a retentive memory. He has witnessed a notable transformation in the appearance
of this region and is deeply attached to the state of his adoption, which he
considers an ideal place of residence. His prosperity has resulted from hard
work, good management and honest dealing and he is known and honored throughout
the valley.


Submitted to the OR. Bios Project in September 2006 by Jeffrey L. Elmer

* * * * 

Notice: These biographies were transcribed for the Oregon Biographies Project. 
The submitter has no further information on the individual featured in the
biography.