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.