Mr. Blennerhasset was afterwards arrested for treason, but no evidence could be found against him, and he was never brought to trial.  He invested the little means left him in a cotton plantation near Natchez, where, with his devoted wife, he tried to retrieve his fallen fortunes.  The second war with England rendered his plantation worthless, and returning by way of Montreal to his native land, he died a broken-hearted man, leaving his wife in destitute circumstances.  An attempt was made by her friends to obtain some return for the destruction of their property from the United States government, but all proved of no avail, and she who had always been surrounded by wealth and luxury, was, during her last hours, dependent upon the charity of a society of Irish ladies in New York city, who with tenderness nursed her unto the end, and then took upon themselves the expenses of her interment.

Such is the sad story of Blennerhasset and his wife; and I thought, as I quietly moored my boat in a little creek that mingled its current with the great river, near the lower end of the island which was once such a happy home, of the uncertainty of all earthly prosperity, and the necessity there was for making the most of the present,—­which last idea sent a sleepy sailor hastily under his hatch.

[Indian mound, at Moundsville, West Virginia.]

CHAPTER IV.

FROM BLENNERHASSET’S ISLAND TO CINCINNATI

River Camps.—­ The shanty-boats and river migrants.—­ Various experiences.—­ Arrival at Cincinnati.—­ The sneak-box frozen up in pleasant run.—­ A tailor’s family.—­ A night under A German coverlet.

About this time the selection of resting places for the night became an important feature of the voyage.  It was easy to draw the little craft out of the water on to a smooth, shelving beach, but such places did not always appear at the proper time for ending the day’s rowing.  The banks were frequently precipitous, and, destitute of beaches, frowned down upon the lonely voyager in anything but a hospitable manner.  There were also present two elements antagonistic to my peace of mind.  One was the night steamer, which, as it struggled up stream, coursing along shore to avoid the strong current, sent swashy waves to disturb my dreams by pitching my little craft about in the roughest manner.  A light canoe could easily have been carried further inland, out of reach of the unwelcome waves, and would, so far as that went, have made a more quiet resting-place than the heavy duck-boat; but then, on the other hand, a sleeping-apartment in a canoe would have lacked the roominess and security of the sneak-box.

After the first few nights’ camping on the Ohio, I naturally took to the channelless side of one of the numerous islands which dot the river’s surface, or, what was still better, penetrated into the wild-looking creeks and rivers, more than one hundred of which enter the parent stream along the thousand miles of its course.  Here, in these secluded nooks, I found security from the steamer’s swash.