Three Days on the Ohio River

by William A. Alcott

  But ten o'clock came, the hour when we were expected to retire to our berths, and it was not long before silence and darkness reigned, except where it was needful for men to watch and labor to see that the boat pursued her onward, ascending course.

  Some of us, before retiring, took a short walk upon deck. The moon had not yet risen, but it was starlight. The surface of the river, and the waving outline of the adjacent shores and hills, with here and there a house, and one or two small villages, were all that we could see. After taking proper care of my little state-room, to see that the ventilators were so arranged as to give on the one hand a free circulation, and on the other to prevent a current of damp night air from falling directly upon me, and after remembering, too, that there was a God in the heavens in whom, as the supreme director on the water as well as on the land, I could trust, I resigned myself to sleep, and did not rise till the day had dawned, and the moon had reached the middle of the heavens.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE COAL COUNTRY.

  During the night we had passed by several important villages, Manchester, Rome, Rockville, Portsmouth, Wheelersburg, Hanging Rock, Burlington, and Proctorsville, in Ohio; and Concord, Vanceburg, Greenupsburg, and Catlettsburg, in Kentucky.

  The face of the country was still interesting, but that of the Kentucky and Virginia side had become less so than the other. We had lost the opportunity of seeing the mouths of the Scioto and Big Sandy Rivers, as well as many other curious and interesting objects.

  But what we regretted most was the loss of Portsmouth. This fine place at the mouth of the Scioto River we had hoped to pass by daylight. However, we could not expect to see every place we passed.

  We were now approaching the coal country; and this morning we had a fine opportunity of observing the method by which these huge steamboats provide themselves with this important article. Some of them, I believe, use wood for fuel; but not all, by any means.

  They do not go to the wharves of the villages they pass and wait to have some twenty, or thirty, or fifty tons of coal shoveled into the boat. They have another and much simpler way, and one which does not hinder them a moment.

  Long flats or scows, deeply laden with this necessary article, proceeding from the shore meet the steamer in the middle of the river, and by means of chains or ropes are immediately lashed to her sides—usually two of them—one on each side. The men on board the flats, aided perhaps by the crew of the steamer, immediately fall to work with their shovels and throw the coal on board when it is wanted.

  When the flats are emptied, the ropes are loosened, and they are set free to return to their place, now several miles down the river. The steamer is thus supplied for twelve, eighteen, or it may be twenty-four hours.

  But what most struck me was the facilities which the miners possess for procuring this coal from the hills: for the reader should know that the hills between which we were now passing, all contain this useful mineral.

  This coal is in a layer, somewhat different in thickness in different places, but varying from four to five feet. In the hills which the Pittsburg was now passing, the layer, as I was informed, is about four feet thick.

  This layer, in countries west of the Alleghany, is horizontal, or nearly so, and this without reference to the shape of the hill that covers it. At the base of the hills it is usually found pretty near the surface; but as you proceed inward its distance from the surface increases with the ascent of the hill.

  In Tallmadge, Ohio, last winter, I penetrated one of these coal mines, accompanied by the workmen, nearly one thousand feet. I found the stratum of coal at that place not far from four feet thick.

  This coal is split out, by means of drilling and blasting, as in the case of removing any other rock. They usually proceed in a narrow way at first, perhaps eight or ten feet broad and as many high. As they go on, they place props under the incumbent hill; or, what is more common, they place at suitable distances a framework around the sides to prevent its falling in.

  When they have penetrated several hundred feet into these coal hills, and the air does not circulate freely enough, and especially does not carry away the smoke of their powder far enough, they sometimes dig a well or hole from the top of the hill directly over the line of the excavation till it meets it. This serves as a chimney and ventilator, and is of great and lasting service.

  To carry the coal, they have in general small cars drawn by one horse each. For this purpose a railroad is made, as far as the excavation extends.

  When the coal is brought out of the excavation, there are many curious ways of unloading it; but I have not time to describe them all. In some instances the coal is slid down an inclined plane a long distance, by means of ropes and pulleys, and the emptied cars brought back by the same means.

  I found the bases of the hills on the banks of the Ohio, especially on the northern side, full of these excavations. The amount of coal which is dug here yearly must be immense.

  For myself, I can never think of this wonderful provision of God for human wants without feelings of gratitude. In a few years only, the native wood in many of these regions would in a natural course be used up in houses, factories, steamboats, &c.; and what would the people do then for fuel, had not the great Eternal filled the hills with this never-failing substitute?

  One region in particular attracted my attention. The villages of Pomeroy, Coalport, and Sheffield, were so near each other as to seem to form one continuous village, about three miles in length. And here, a stranger would be apt to think, the people do little else but dig coal and burn it. The houses were almost as black with soot as the hill-sides themselves.

  POMEROY COAL-MINES.

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE VARIETY OF FACES.

  I was much interested, while on board the Pittsburg, as I have often been before, in noticing the vast variety in human faces and features.

  Go where you will, on board steamboats, into railroad-cars, public meetings, &c., where are found assemblages of from one hundred to one thousand—or even several thousand—persons, and survey narrowly every face; and will you find any two alike?

  Examine, if you please, the faces of nearest relatives—brothers, sisters, parents, children, and even twins themselves—and though you may and sometimes will find a very striking similarity, yet you will, after all, find a difference in some one or more particulars. No two, in any assembly or company, look exactly alike.

  Nay, more than all this. If you were to travel the world as much as I have done, and to see, in the course of half a century, several millions of people, you would find no two, anywhere, with features exactly alike. In the eight hundred millions which now inhabit our globe there is a shade of difference, such as would enable a careful eye to distinguish every one from all others.

  And how is it with the mind that shines out in these varied faces? Is that as distinguishable on a close acquaintance as the exterior—the features? Is there any reason why it should not be? I am not quite certain it is so; but did not the great Creator intend it should be?

  I do not mean to say, of course, that there are not some things alike in every face. So there are some things which must be expected to be alike in our mental formation.

  Every one on board this steamboat—every one in the world—resembles his fellows in the general structure and aspect of his features. Every one looks forward and upward, and not downward like the beasts that perish. Every one has the projecting brow, with the well-defended eye under it, the more prominent nose and chin, &c.

  So every one thinks highly of himself, his friends, possessions, home, &c. Every one, unless by divine grace made a true Christian, is more or less selfish. Every one loves, and, in his way, seeks happiness, and hates misery. "Who will show us any good?" is the almost universal cry. If people do not say it, in so many words, they do so by their actions.

  It is an old maxim that actions speak louder than words; and it is of high, very high authority, that out of the abundance of the heart (or mind
) the mouth speaketh.

  It is not very difficult, therefore, to guess how the various minds on board this steamer are occupied. No one is talking about the wants, the ignorance, or the means of improving the condition of his neighbor. No one is talking, unless the thought is suggested by another, about the welfare of the great Jehovah's kingdom.

  But I mean not quite so much. There are a few blessed exceptions to the apparent severity of this remark. For here, just by my side, sits a woman some fifty years of age or more, who has, for more than thirty years, cared for and thought of other people as well as herself.

  She is the wife of Mr. Byington, a famous missionary to the Choctaw Indians. It is, I believe, nearly thirty years since she and her husband devoted themselves to the great work of trying to instruct and improve those poor people, and make Christians of them. Such a person will care for the good of others, and the honor of God, even on board a steamboat. Those who have been philanthropists and Christians as long as Mr. and Mrs. Byington, will not soon or easily forget their former habits and become selfish like the rest of the world.

  I am greatly afraid that most persons who seem to be religious at home, forget their religion when they go abroad. Indeed, I have known many who were given to prayer, watchful over their tongues, mindful of the Sabbath, and self-denying at home, who were none of these when a thousand miles from home, or even half that distance.

  True, we cannot always know whether people pray or not, when they are abroad, because most of what deserves the name of prayer is offered where no eye can reach but that of God. There is an opportunity for closet prayer everywhere; and it is quite possible that they who break the Sabbath, indulge their appetites, and do not bridle their tongues, sometimes pray. Still I must say that, judging as well as I can, the fear already expressed is but too well grounded.

  CHAPTER X.

  BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND.

  Nearly every person who knows anything at all about the history of the United States has heard of Blennerhassett's Island.

  This island is one hundred and ninety miles from Pittsburg, and two hundred and eighty-seven from Cincinnati. It is a beautiful island; but has at present an appearance of desolation, that forcibly reminds the traveler what it once was.

  Blennerhassett, the owner, was a man of great taste, and, till his connection with Burr, quite an inoffensive man, and a good citizen. But no one could be long in peace and quiet who had anything to do with the seditious, ambitious, and treasonable Aaron Burr. It is true he was not legally convicted of treason, but he was finally ruined in character and property, as a cause of his evident wrong doing.

  Instead of a beautiful mansion fifty-four feet square, two stories high, and well proportioned, with two wings, and a charming little garden, with every delicacy of fruit, vegetables, and flowers which could be made to grow in that climate, with the most beautiful walks, and shrubbery—nothing now is seen but a heap of ruins.

  All day long, this second of our days on the river, we were hoping the boat would reach Blennerhassett's Island before night, or at least before bedtime. But we were doomed to disappointment. At the latest hour which it was proper for us to be awake, the boat was some thirty to fifty miles below.

  We passed the next day the mouths of two beautiful rivers on the Virginia side, the Big Sandy and the Great Kanawha. It was curious to see the line formed by the junction or union of the two rivers—the one with its blue clear waters, the other with its turbid, milky current. They seemed as if made of entirely different materials. We also passed, besides the coaling places I have named, several considerable villages, among which were Point Pleasant, Murraysville, and Belleville, Virginia; and Gallipolis and Millersburg in Ohio.

  We also lost sight, during the night, of Marietta, at the mouth of the Muskingum River, now quite a large and pleasant village, near which are several very remarkable ancient fortifications and mounds of earth, supposed to have been the depositories of the dead, by some now unknown people.

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE ANCIENT MOUNDS.

  The morning of the third day found us passing Sisterville, in Virginia. Soon afterward we passed New-Martinsville. We saw several mounds. One was very small. Another was large, but somewhat disfigured by having been excavated.

  We were now approaching a village on the Virginia side called Elizabethtown, near which a small stream joins the Ohio, known by the name of Big Grave Creek. In this village of Elizabethtown is one of the largest, most perfect, and most beautiful mounds to be found in the whole Ohio country.

  We were told of this curiosity before we reached the place; so that we were not taken by surprise. Besides, the boat stopped a few moments at the wharf, in full sight of it, not a quarter of a mile distant.

  This mound is about one hundred and eighty feet in diameter at its base, and some seventy or seventy-five feet high. On its top is an old tower or observatory, around which are several trees, some of them of considerable age. One, a venerable oak, is four feet in diameter.

  The center of its top is a kind of crater or basin, four feet deep and eight or ten across it. Elsewhere the top of the mound is perfectly flat.

  One puzzler to the traveler is, where the earth was obtained for building such a huge pile; for it is situated almost in the middle of a large plain, on and near which is no appearance of any former excavation for this purpose. There are, however, several smaller mounds a little east of it.

  The country near the Ohio abounds with these mounds. What they were, and by whom they were formed, is quite uncertain. The general opinion that they are the graves of some ancient people is sustained by the fact that they contain human bones, sometimes in considerable numbers.

  A gentleman on board the boat, a man of intelligence, informed me, that he had seen, in Eastern Tennessee or Western North Carolina, a species of mounds of a very different description. They were composed essentially of small stones, between which were layers of bones. And what made the case very remarkable indeed, there are no stones, of the kind found in these mounds within many miles of them, and there is no appearance of there ever having been any.

  CHAPTER XII.

  A SUSPENSION BRIDGE.

  About noon the third day, we came in sight of Wheeling, in Virginia. This is a considerable place. It contains about ten thousand inhabitants.

  The boat stopped at Wheeling an hour or more to unload a part of her freight. This gave us a fine opportunity to go on shore and view the town. It is well built, but, like most of the places all the way from Cincinnati to Pittsburg, has quite a sooty appearance, caused by the dust of the coal, which they burn here in large quantities. Wheeling is, moreover, a place of considerable manufacture.

  But the greatest curiosity at this place, and one of the greatest I have ever seen, is the suspension bridge thrown over the Ohio. It must be something like one thousand feet in length, as broad as most bridges are, and not far from ninety feet above the surface of the river when the water is low; though much less, of course, at times when the river rises.

  This bridge is much more remarkable than the suspension bridge first built over Niagara River; for while that is much higher above the water than this, it is, in comparison, very narrow indeed. The suspension bridge at Wheeling is broad enough for several carriages to go side by side on it; but that below Niagara Falls is only just broad enough for one.

  I would have visited it; but I was afraid the boat in which I was traveling would leave the wharf by some means sooner than was expected, and it would be a sad thing to be left in port, with our trunks all on board. Many of the company did venture, however, and they returned, too, in good time.

  Bridgeport, a small but flourishing village, is on the Ohio side of the river, just opposite Wheeling. This whole region is noted for burnings and massacres, during the wars of our country with the Indians little more than fifty years ago.

  One anecdote I will relate very briefly. In March, 1793, about fifty-nine years ago, as two brothers by the name of Johnson, one of t
hem twelve, the other nine years of age, were playing by the side of the river some ten or twelve miles above Wheeling, they were suddenly seized by two Indians and carried about six miles into the woods. Here the savages built a fire and halted for the night. When they lay down to rest, each Indian took a boy on his arm. As may easily be conjectured, however, the boys did not sleep. Finding the Indians to be very sound asleep, they concerted a plan, young as they were, for destroying them and effecting their escape. The plan succeeded. One of the Indians was shot with his own rifle; the other was killed with a tomahawk. The boys returned to their own homes the next day in safety.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  LOGAN, THE MINGO CHIEF.

  On board our steamboat was one man, a citizen of Cincinnati, whose extensive and intimate acquaintance with the country through which we were traveling made his society both interesting and valuable.

  As we were passing between some very abrupt hills, he took occasion to remark that all this was once the hunting ground of Logan, the celebrated Mingo chief, whose sad story is familiar, as I suppose, to nearly every school-boy in the country.

  Logan was a savage; but he was, at the same time, a man, and had a man's heart. Indians are men, and have the feelings of men; and one cannot help pitying them. How greatly to be regretted that they were not treated, by everybody, as William Penn treated them, in and about Pennsylvania!

  The books we had on board, purporting to be travelers' guides—most of which were doubtless correct—pointed out to us, as did also our Cincinnati friend, the plain on which Logan resided, as well as the place where his family was so wickedly murdered. We would have lingered at the last-mentioned spot, but had only time to drop a tear and hasten on.