From the sweet-smelling Maryland meadows it crawled,
Through the forest primeval, o’er hills granite-walled;
On and up, up and on, till it conquered the crest
Of the mountains and wound away into the West.
’Twas the Highway of Hope! And the pilgrims who trod
It were Lords of the Woodland and Sons of the Sod;
And the hope of their hearts was to win an abode
At the end the far end of the National Road.

Brownsville.

Do you not know where it is located? Do not ask any human being who ever lived in Brownsville as to its location on the map that is, if you value his friendship. Your ignorance of geography will be exposed and you will be plainly informed: “We do not want anything to do with a person who does not know where Brownsville is located.”

Strange as it may seem, though many excellent histories have been written, there is none extant that has given any full and adequate description of Brownsville’s early days and people quaint, curious, serious, humorous, wise and otherwise good people all.

Brownsville was the most important town on that “Modern Appian Way,” the National Road, or pike, extending from Baltimore, Maryland, to the Ohio River, and lengthened beyond, in after years, to Cincinnati and Richmond, Indiana.

Brownsville was founded soon after this country gained its independence, although it had been an established frontier post long before known as Red Stone Old Fort. It was the center of the Whiskey Insurrection, during which George Washington gained his first military experience in the West, experience that would have saved Braddock’s defeat and death, had he taken Washington’s advice, and might have changed the entire history of this nation. But that England should control the American colonies is but repeating history.

England is the only country in the world that has successfully colonized her foreign possessions. Therefore, Brownsville was founded, and mostly settled, by the English, and to this day her foremost citizens are Englishmen. This statement of facts does not detract from the estimable qualities of the Low Dutch who have drifted in from Bedford and Somerset Counties.

Brownsville outputs “Monongahela Rye Whiskey” and Chattland’s crackers are world-famous food essentials.

Brownsville was at the head of navigation on the Monongahela River in the palmy days of the old “pike.”

Unlike the Appian Way, of which there is no connected history but only glimpses of it in the Bible, the old “pike” is embalmed in history, in poem and prose. It commemorates an epoch in history as fascinating as any recorded. A highway so important, so largely instrumental in the country’s early greatness and development that it strengthened the ties between the states and their peoples. Its legends so numerous, its incidents so exciting that their chronicles read like fiction.

Brownsville grew and prospered while the old “pike” was at the height of its greatness. It was here the travellers from the East or the West either embarked or disembarked from the river steamers or the overland stage coach.

In the year 1868 the writer spent four days and parts of as many nights in a stage coach journey from Wheeling, West Virginia, to Baltimore, Maryland, over the National Road. In August, 1910, the same distance was covered in an automobile in a little over a day and a night, with many stops and visits to historical spots marked by recollections of the old days and nights of this King’s Highway.

Brownsville, in the halcyon days of the National Pike, was of greater commercial importance than Pittsburg, her banks ranking higher and her manufactories more numerous. This supremacy was maintained from 1818 to 1852.

When the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad was opened to the West, the glories of the old “pike” began to fade. The mechanical establishments, especially the boat-building and marine engine shops, among the biggest interests of Brownsville, kept in the lead until well into the days of the Civil War.

Now, reader, will you not be a bit abashed to ask: “Where is Brownsville?”

To Henry Clay belongs the credit of first urging Congress to appropriate funds to build the National Road, but to Albert Gallatin, who was from the Brownsville section and achieved great distinction while Treasurer of the United States, belongs the honor of its conception. He was the first to advocate the great benefits that would accrue to the country if such a road were constructed.

Washington, when a mere youth, sent to England a report urging the advisability of a military road from the coast to the Ohio River. He suggested the Indian trail across the Allegheny Mountains. This trail was afterwards named Braddock’s Road. It should have been called Washington’s Road, as he, at the head of a detachment of Virginia troops, traversed it one year before Braddock’s disastrous invasion of the West.

All roads led to Brownsville in those days.

Did you ever hear of Workman’s Hotel in Brownsville? It stands today as it did one hundred years ago, at the head of Market Street. It has housed Jackson, Harrison, Clay, Sam Houston, Davy Crockett, James K. Polk, Shelly, Lafayette, Winfield Scott, Pickens, John C. Calhoun, and hundreds of others of less note.

James Workman, the landlord of this old house of entertainment, was noted for his hospitality and punctuality. When “Old Hickory” Jackson, on his way to Washington to be inaugurated President for be it remembered the old “pike” was the only highway between the East and West was Workman’s guest, the citizens of Brownsville tendered the newly elected President a public reception. The Presbyterian Church was crowded, the exercises long drawn out. During their progress, Jimmy Workman stalked down the middle aisle. Facing about, after passing the pew in which General Jackson sat, he said, in a voice plainly heard all over the church:

“General Jackson, dinner is ready and if you do not come soon it won’t be fit to eat.”

So great was Workman’s devotion to his guests that he imagined the dinner was more essential than speeches or prayers, and such was the respect for the famous landlord that the services were curtailed.

Brownsville and Bridgeport were boroughs separated by Dunlap’s Creek, spanned by the first iron bridge built in America. It is standing today as solid as the reputation of the old burgs it joins together. Brownsville had the first bridge that spanned the Monongahela River. In fact Brownsville had a bridge long before Pittsburgh. While Bill Brown and his progenitors were ferrying Pittsburgh inhabitants across the river in a skiff, Brownsville folks were crossing on a “kivered” bridge. And were it not for further humiliating Bill Brown, the discoverer of Pittsburgh, still greater glories could be recalled for Brownsville.

James G. Blaine was born on the west bank of the Monongahela River. The land on which the Blaine house stood was the property of an Indian, Peter by name. He sold the land to Blaine’s grandfather, Neil Gellispie, the price agreed upon being forty shillings an acre, payable in installments of money, iron and one negro man, a slave. Ye gods! How did the “Plumed Knight’s” detractors in the “Rum-Romanism-and-Rebellion” campaign overlook the fact that the Blaines once bought and sold slaves?

Philander C. Knox was born on the hill on the east side of the river.
Professor John Brashear was born on the western edge of the town.

Elisha Gray, the original inventor of the telephone, was from Brownsville; as were John Herbertson, builder of the first iron bridge in the United States; John Snowden, builder of two iron gunboats for the Civil War, and Bishop Arnett, of Ohio.

Brownsville first promulgated a word of slang that has greatly beautified the English language.

But let it be recorded to the old town’s credit, the evil was propagated without malice aforethought. Brownsville’s borough limits show its shape to be somewhat like that of a hot-air balloon a big body with a neck; and the narrow strip of land between the river and Dunlap’s Creek stretching toward Bridgeport from time out of mind has been designated by the inhabitants of either side of the creek as the “neck.”

Brownsville had a temperance revival. Strict observance of the liquor laws was being enforced. Jack Beckley was haled to court on a dray, too oblivious of everything to answer any charge. The burgess, before committing him to the lock-up, questioned the watchman, Jim Bench, as to where Jack got his liquor.

“Did he get it on the hill?”

The officer truthfully answered:

“No, he got it in the neck.”

The town took up the phrase and thereafter any person who met with any sort of mishap “got it in the neck.”