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?”

“Yes, by all means,” I replied.

“It is just outside the city. You go to the upper end of the city, and—however, I was just thinking of taking a walk myself, and I will accompany you, if you desire.”

“I shall be pleased with your company,” said I, “and I thank you.”

We were friends from that moment. Charlie arose, and we left the hotel and walked up the street. Emerging from the upper end of the city we followed a pike for a few hundred yards, which led us to a considerable elevation, where I found laid before me about as grand a scene as I ever beheld.

“Here,” said Charlie, “is where McCulloch rode down.” We were standing with our faces toward the east; behind us, deep among the tall hills, flowed the Ohio river, and before us was a valley of great depth, through which Wheeling creek wound its way. This stream flowed directly toward the Ohio river, till it reached the base of the declivity immediately beneath us; then turning about, guarded away from the river, as it were, by the long, steep, intervening ridge, it flowed clear around Wheeling, and emptied into the river below. That portion of the creek which we could see, hemmed in by a semicircular range of hills on its right side, formed a path similar in shape to a horse-shoe; only its principal curve was more abrupt.

It was at this abrupt curve that the daring McCulloch plunged down the declivity. He had been pursued from a northerly direction, by the Indians, and intended to gallop along the verge of the descent, and turn toward the east, as the creek turned far below. But just here he found himself intercepted by another band of savages, and retreat in that direction cut off. Behind him lay the Ohio river, three hundred feet below, on either hand was a horde of howling bloodthirsty savages, and before him was a steep descent of several hundred feet, whose face was interrupted by several perpendicular ledges of rock; and, in this terrible exigence, he clutched his reins tightly, and spurred his horse quickly over the brink and down the fearful declivity. It is not really so steep as some who have read the account suppose, for a line drawn from the summit to the base, where the creek flows, would form an angle with the horizon of only between forty and forty-five degrees; but at intervals there are precipitous ledges of rock, quite perpendicular, of from ten to twenty feet in height. That the horse and rider plunged down over them in safety, seems little less than a miracle.

This range of hills, or rather this ridge, is higher and even steeper in some places than at the point where McCulloch plunged down. Charlie and I walked along the verge of the precipice, ascending gradually, till we came to a point over four hundred feet above the high-water mark of the river. From this point, we could see over many miles of Ohio landscape beyond the river.

It was at this highest point that, a few years ago, a man named Wheat, a citizen of Wheeling, actually drove over the precipice in a two-horse sleigh. Two other persons were in the sleigh with him, riding along the summit of the ridge, and on his declaring that he was going to eclipse McCulloch, they jumped out, and the fool actually touched up his horses and drove down the precipice. His name was Wheat, as I stated; but Charlie told me that rye had more to do with it than any one else.

Down tumbled Wheat, the sleigh and two horses; and only that good luck that ever seems to attend an intoxicated man could have saved him from a violent and speedy death. While the sleigh was dashed to splinters, and both the horses precipitated into Wheeling creek and killed, Mr. Wheat lodged among some stunted trees, about half-way down—badly bruised and “stove up,” it is true, but still alive and in moderate spirits. He is still living, but has been a cripple ever since his mad and daring sleigh-ride.

Charlie and I returned from our pleasant walk, feeling as though we had been acquainted for years. We had considerable conversation, on various topics, and I will never forget a remark I heard him make. We were speaking of religion, and I found that he, like myself, was a dissenter from the orthodox faith. Speaking of the doubts and perplexities that always arose, when he thought on the subject, he said:

“If I possessed the wealth of the whole world; if the lands, the houses, the gold, the gems, the kingdoms, and the thrones were mine; I would gladly give them all to know the TRUTH!”

The reader has, no doubt, heard or read of a certain cave among the rocks on Wheeling creek, in which an Indian once concealed himself with a rifle, and, by imitating the voice of a turkey, decoyed several men from the fort in succession, and shot them. His stratagem was at last detected, however, and a pioneer who was as shrewd as he, went in the night, concealed himself in the neighborhood, and in the morning saw the dusky savage go and ensconce himself in his usual hiding-place, and begin the song of the turkey. The pioneer, who could see his dark visage among the rocks, took aim with his rifle, and with one shot silenced him forever.

Charlie pointed this cave out to me, and I went the next day and visited it. He would have accompanied me, but he was subject to rheumatism, and was suffering considerably that day; so I went alone. The cave is about a mile from Wheeling. I had to climb up the rocks fifteen or twenty feet, in order to get into it, and I sat there awhile, aiming my crutch at a stump beyond Wheeling creek, and imagining myself the cunning but unfortunate Indian who personated a turkey and got shot for it. The cave is not large—in fact, one cannot stand erect; but half-a-dozen persons could be stowed in it in a reclining position, provided none of them were ladies in capacious crinoline.

Returning from the cave, via McCulloch’s Leap, it was my lot to encounter one of the greatest bores I ever met. He was one of those persons who, it is said, can “talk a man to death.” He made me think of the celebrated lines of Pope:

He lived in a solitary house, by the creek at the base of the declivity, and he happened to come out just as I was about to make the ascent. He was a fast talker, said a great many words in a few seconds, and often spoke a good many seconds at a time.

“How do you do, sir? How do you do?” he said familiarly. “Fine day.”

“Very,” I said. “Quite pleasant.”

I wanted to get back to my hotel, for my stomach admonished me that it was fully dinner-time; and so, I made an attempt to pass on and begin to climb the hill. It was no use, though. He commenced by asking me if I lost my leg in the army, then went on asking one question after another—in such rapid succession that I only got each one about half answered—till he had asked three times the number usually proposed. He asked questions such as I had never thought of before, and kept on so fast that I fancied he asked them merely for the pleasure of it, and not for the sake of hearing them answered. He not only asked me if I was born in this country, where I was brought up, what kind of saw-mills we had there, and what barbers charged for cutting hair; but also desired to know if I had ever looked at the moon through a telescope, and if I thought corn as good a diet for horses as oats. Every question that any mortal man could think of in so short a time, he asked me, till I finally felt that I must either move on, or die. I moved on, in the midst of the conversation, and looked back over my shoulder now and then to answer questions, which he continued to ask.

“Are you going to walk up the hill?”

“Yes.”

“Can you do it?”

“O, yes.”

“Aint you afraid you’ll fall?”

“No.”

I began to ascend the acclivity, and he talked on.

“Did you ever go up such a steep place before?”

“Yes, steeper,” I yelled back, thinking of Bunker Hill Monument.

“And didn’t fall?” he continued, as I took another labored stride onward and upward.

“No.”

“Wasn’t you afraid of falling?”

“No.”

“You must be plucky.”

As this did not strictly demand any answer, I took advantage of a momentary pause to say,

“Good day.”

“Good——But say? What regiment did you say you were in?”

“Eighth Pennsyl——”

“Did you know a man in that regiment by the name of—”

I had now ascended to the height of seventy-five or eighty feet, when I stopped on a sort of shelf, to rest a moment, turned about and said:

“What was his name?”

“I forget—I was just trying to think—O, yes, it was—let me see—was it—no—was it—Harbertson?”

“I knew none of that name in my regiment.” I yelled back; for the conversation now had to be carried on in a loud voice.

“I don’t think that was the name,” said he. “Now that I come to think of it, he was in a New Jersey regiment. I used to work with him, in——”

“Well,” said I, facing the hill again to continue the ascent, “I’ll move on. Good——”

“Wait a minute,” he interrupted, coming up ten or fifteen feet to where it began to grow pretty steep, and there stopping. “What did you say your name was.”

“Smith,” I yelled. “Good——”

“I have relations of that name in Pennsyl——”

“Ah, well, good-day,” and I continued up the ascent.

“When will you leave Wheeling?”

“I have to leave on the two o’clock train,” I sinfully replied, without pausing in the ascent.

“Where going?”

“To Pitt——, Cleve——, Cincinnati!” I replied, scarcely knowing what lie to tell.

“You’ll have plenty of time,” he yelled. “It isn’t more’n twelve now.” And thus he went on till he talked me clear to the top of the rugged height.

“Good——”

“I was going to ask you——”

“—— Day,” I madly yelled, as I reached the summit, and disappeared, half-fainting, from his view.

Of all the bores I ever met, this man was incomparably the greatest. If I ever visit McCulloch’s Leap again, I will remain at the summit, and not go near enough the verge for that dread man, who lives in the lone cottage far below, to catch a glimpse of me!