At Fredrick, Md., we took stages, drawn by four horses, over one of the finest turnpike roads, for Wheeling, Virginia, driving night and day, up and down the Allegheny Mountains, overtaking hundreds of white covered wagons, loaded with all kinds of merchandise.

How well I remember the fire flies, the mountain laurel, azaleas, rhododendrons, ferns, trees, shrubbery, etc., all of which were comparatively new to a boy ten years’ old from a large city. I also remember how we were served hard boiled eggs, pickled eggs, and delicacies and many dishes new to me, at the various taverns where we stopped for rest and refreshments.
At Wheeling, we took a boat, “The West Wind” for St. Louis. We were more than two weeks going from Baltimore to St. Louis. The usual time then was nine to fourteen days. The boat grounding a number of times on sand bars, we boys would roll up our pants, and wade around in the shallows. But to compensate for the long trip, we had good food – at least, I thought so. One hoosier sitting at the table, stuck his fork into a small, toothsome roast pig, drawing it on his plate. When he had devoured it – he called out – “I say, waiter; have you any more of them little hogs?”

There were a number of Presbyterian ministers and elders on the boat going to a general assembly to be held at St. Louis. A Rev. Dr. Cox related a story of an old woman on her dying bed, repeating Hebrew passages which astonished her hearers. On investigation it was found she had been housemaid in a celebrated Hebraist’s home. He was in the habit of walking up and down the floor, repeating the same passages this woman repeated. This is a lesson in psychology, as she never knew any Hebrew except that which she heard from her employer.

On our arrival in St. Louis, there were many Indians at the boat landing to meet and greet us, as there were also at Alexandria. They were the worst kind of beggars and dependents. There were so many boats at the landings that we had to cross over two of them before reaching the levee.

At this time, (1838) Iowa was a territory, and the land north of the Des Moines River was known as the “Half Breed Tract.” This trip was a great experience for a boy ten years’ old, and no doubt had its effect in forming my character. It may explain why I have given my children all the advantages of travel I have been able to provide. In my early brokerage business I had frequently to go from home to see properties on which loans were wanted, or to examine the feasibility of building water, or gas works, Matthews and Whitaker, Bankers & Brokers, frequently promoting such enterprises, notably at Hannibal, Keokuk, Atchison, Little Rock, Denver, Leadville, Joplin and other places. Whenever I could do so, I would take some one of my children and it proved very beneficial. On several occasions I sent one, or another, when about seven to ten years old, alone to Cincinnati, Chicago, Kansas City or elsewhere. These trips threw them on their own resources and proved great “eye-openers.”
It is perhaps a matter of literary taste whether anecdotes should be interpolated in my story, but I have decided to sandwich in a few of the innumerable things that cling to my memory from my early boyhood. At worst they only retard the movement of the main narrative. By way of compensation they serve to make more plain the vast contrast between the simplicity of the forties and the complexity of life now. Again these “asides” may have historic bearings, serving as links between the present and the glorious beginnings of the nation. For example: Aaron R. Levering, a cousin of yours, commanded the Baltimore Independent Blues, a volunteer Company during the war of 1812. As a boy I heard him tell of going with his men to North Point, about seven miles from Baltimore, and waylaying the British who were expected to march to Baltimore. The British Chief, General Ross, boasted that he intended to eat his breakfast in Baltimore, or in hell. Well, he ate it in the latter hostelry, for all I know, as the Baltimore Blues waylaid and killed him. The next day some wag wrote the following piece, and posted it on a tree near the spot:

“Along the road that leads to town
Ross fell, and as he fell
He went to hell,
And damned was his renown.”