ABOUT eleven o’clock, A. M., the train arrived at the little village of Bridgeport, opposite Wheeling, where an omnibus was in waiting to carry over the river all passengers destined for the city. Between Bridgeport and Wheeling is an island, whose name I forget, and there are two bridges required for communication between the two places. That on the Wheeling side is a very excellent suspension bridge, ninety or a hundred feet above the water, with a span of one thousand feet. That on the Bridgeport side is a substantial wooden bridge with five or six piers. The steamboat channel is, as may naturally be supposed, on the Wheeling side of the island. I and my trunk took passage on the omnibus, and I had reason to be pleased with the gentlemanly demeanor of the conductor, and with his moderate charges. The first object of interest near Wheeling that I desired to visit, was the steep declivity down which the pioneer McCulloch made his fearful plunge on horseback, when pursued by the Indians. This, if my memory serves me correctly, happened in 1790. It was on a beautiful day, late in March, that I arrived in Wheeling; and, having taken dinner at a comfortable and tidy hotel, I walked into the sitting-room where several gentlemen were seated poring over the newspapers. I looked around me before venturing to speak to any one, and was not long in making up my mind as to which to address my inquiries to. This was a man of forty-five or fifty years, who was in the act of folding up a paper he had been reading and whom I judged to be a resident of Wheeling. Besides, his countenance was clearly the index of a good mind, and a noble and congenial heart. As I afterward learned, his name was Charles Cracraft—he was familiarly styled Charlie—an intelligent, well-known and much respected citizen of Wheeling. He and I became the warmest friends during the brief week that I remained in Wheeling, and his society delighted me. He was one of those “gems” of which Gray speaks in his “Elegy in a Country Churchyard.” A man better versed in history and general literature I have seldom met. Few notable events ever happened in the world that Charlie could not tell all about. Why he had never made his mark in the world, I could not tell; but I felt sure he might have done so. In addition to his love of reading, and a good memory, I found him possessed of most excellent judgment, strong reasoning powers, an impressive address, liberality of views and an admirable knowledge of language and composition. With all his gifts—gifts that would enable a man to shine anywhere—he was not known beyond his native city; and that is why I regard him as one of those “gems” which Gray says are “born to blush unseen.” Well, it was to Charlie Cracraft that I addressed my inquiries regarding the place where McCulloch, under pressing circumstances, executed his celebrated equestrian feat. “It is barely half a-mile distant,” said Charlie. “Are you going to see it?”