Greenup Poet

At the extreme northeast corner of Kentucky, on the south bank of the Ohio, lies Greenup County--a stretch of shaggy, greenbriered hill country, twelve miles wide and 20 miles long. Among the hill people of Greenup--great hunters, fighters, Baptists and Democrats from way back-- young Jesse Stuart grew up. He lived at the head of W-Hollow, fished in Little Sandy, began to write poetry before he was out of school. "Them Stuart youngins is plum fools." said Neighbor John Hackless. "If them was youngins of mine, I'd whip their tails with a hickory."

But Jesse kept on writing. Amazingly prolific, ingenuous, enthusiastic, he broke on the U. S. literary scene as an authentic voice from the hills, turned out a book of 703 sonnets in eleven months, wrote a book of extraordinary stories about the hill people, an autobiography. He taught school in Greenup (pop. 1,125), became county school superintendent at $100 a month, went to Europe last year on a Guggenheim Fellowship, returned to teach school, sell stories to Collier's, Esquire, and write editorials for a Greenup County paper.

Jesse Stuart's first editorial got him in mighty serious trouble. Up for re-election this week is Congressman Joe Bates, Democrat and political boss of Greenup County. Last month, in the Russell Times, Republican Jesse Stuart launched a violent attack on Congressman Bates, comparing him to Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin and declaring: "In person, he is slow-going and physically lazy -- but Brother, when he cracks the whip . . . he means business!"

Next morning, Stuart was having a milk shake in Leslie's Drugstore. In walked Constable Amos Allen, berated him for his editorial. Stuart said he would write as he saw fit, turned away. Then, according to Stuart, he was slugged three times with a blackjack. He locked his arms around Allen's neck and grappled with him on the drugstore floor. Spectators pulled them apart, sent Stuart to a hospital across the Ohio in Ironton.

In his next editorial, Poet Stuart was madder than ever. "I couldn't write an editorial about Dictator Joe Bates with out getting slugged in the head," he explained, "in one of the most unfair method ever used on a man. . . . Without boasting, by using fists and skull and without weapons of any sort, I can whip Amos Allen on less street-space in Greenup than the length of his body. . . . The blood I shed from the three wounds was more than a quart. . . . For every drop of blood I shed -- yes, for every red, sticky drop -- I shall write 10,000 words in ink exposing this 'gang' work in Greenup County."

No strangers to trouble are the menfolk of the Stuart family. They are built for it. Jesse is over six feet, weighs 202 lb. His brother James, also a writer and schoolteacher, is 6 ft. 4 in., an expert marksman reputed to be able to fire a shot, toss up the empty cartridge and split it in midair. His grandpa Mitch Stuart was involved in a lifelong feud with the Houndshells, in which both Houndshells and Stuarts were killed.

When Jesse appeared at a city judge's office for a hearing on the assault case he was accompanied by his father, Brother James, two brothers-in-law, several friends. Presently, 25 more men filed silently into court. Said an onlooker: "There would have been a little excitement if a firecracker had gone off." The judge took one look at the two groups, postponed the case. Thus Constable Allen has not had his day in court.

Back teaching school in an Ohio town across the river, emotional, romantic, enthusiastic Jesse Stuart refused to give up, though friends told him to stay out of Greenup. One of the most prolific writers going, he dislikes teaching school because it cuts his output from 30,000 to 10,000 words a day, hates to get "messed up" in politics, but says: "I am a citizen of Greenup County. I was born here; my people live here; my farm is here. I love Greenup County and its citizens."

Worried well-wishers heard that one member of the Stuart clan was at a country dance when rivals appeared, got his gun and danced the rest of the night without turning his back on the crowd. They believed Jesse to be in imminent danger. But they principally feared the pugnacious Stuart inheritance, which may wreck the career of one of the most promising young U. S. poets.

Last week 86-year-old Uncle Marion Stuart, who lives at Twelve Pole, W. Va., heard of Jesse's troubles. Uncle Marion, celebrated by Jesse because he killed his last man at 81, dug a well at 83, and built a house to retire in at 85, wrote to Jesse: "Have they caught the fellow who jumped you? If they haven't, I'll be along presently and help you bring him to justice."

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