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 them 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. CHAPTER XIV. THIRD NIGHT ON THE RIVER. Night was once more approaching, and we were, as yet, some sixty-five or seventy miles from Pittsburg. The last place we saw, by daylight, was Steubenville, on the Ohio side, a large and flourishing village. We were anxious to see Wellsville, Ohio, and Beaver and Economy in Pennsylvania; but it was late at night when we passed the latter two, and too dark to see much when we passed the former. Economy is a neat little place, first settled by the celebrated German named Rapp. It still bears the marks he made on it, in the appearance of neatness and thrift which are everywhere visible. We were much annoyed during the last two days and nights, especially the very last, by the cattle on board. Had there been a cow-yard with contiguous stables that were seldom if ever cleansed, the air from the lower deck could hardly have been more offensive.