from  the Carrollton Democrat
 March 1, 1901
 
The History of Ghent, Kentucky

[ I’m still looking for Chapter 1! ]
CHAPTER 2: From the Earliest Settlers to the Granting of a Town Charter in 1814

 

In 1795, John Sanders, great grandfather of Mrs. N. C. Brown, Mrs. B. D. Parker and John Sanders, removed to the locality known as McCools Bottom, on the banks of the Ohio River. Mr. Sanders owned the tract of land on which the town of Ghent now stands. This land he bequeathed to his son, Sam Sanders. John Sanders grave is on a small enclosure just back of Dudley Griffith’s house. In 1809 a number of families came over from Virginia. Mr. Sanders laid off the place and sold in lots this plot of land and a charter was at once applied for from the Legislature, which granted in 1914, and Henry Clay named the new town Ghent in honor of the old town Ghent in Belgium; from the date it will be seen that it was just about the time the treaty was signed at old Ghent.

 
 [Note: the actual Treaty of Ghent is at here, a few words on the Treaty of Ghent ending the War of 1812 is here and a page about the Belgian city of Ghent today is here. ]

 

In 1817, Lewis Sanders, son of Sam Sanders, who at that time owned the place known as Gruss Hill, now owned by Curtis Montgomery, imported from England, the first herd of full-blooded Durham cattle ever brought to Kentucky. No 1, Garcia, No. 2, Lucilla, No. 3, Flora, No. 4, Sultan, No. 5, Tecumsah, and No. 6, Henry Clay, together with 4 head of long horn cattle.

 
To Ghent belongs a very interesting piece of history. In 1844, George N. Sanders got up a mass meeting at Ghent held in a tailor shop, with perhaps a baker’s dozen of persons, including himself, present. Resolutions were passed in favor of annexing Texas and a committee was appointed to correspond with each of the candidates for President. Mr. Clay was a prominent Whig candidate. Mr. Polk, Democratic candidate, Cass, and Van Buren; Mr. Sanders who took care to be the committee addressed letters to each one. Mr. Polk responded emphatically in favor of annexation; Mr. Clay responded that although he personally favored the plan yet felt bound as a statesman and a patriot to oppose it. The other two candidates evaded the answer. The United States immediately declared in favor of Texas, which brought on war with that state. It is said that Mr. Polk’s answer turned the balance in his favor and was the primal cause of his election. Ghent in the early day furnished two members of the legislature, Sam Sanders in 1841 and John P. Tandy, 1846.

 

Chapter 3: The Log Cabin Town in 1826

from the March 8, 1901 edition of the Carrollton Democrat

In 1826, the greatest attraction in the little log cabin town was the preaching once a month at McCools Bottom Baptist Church, the old brick Church which stands just across the road from the cemetery. A lane ran the road up to the Church building and horses would be fastened to the fences as close as they could stand together and beautiful horses they were, too; everyone rode horseback in those days, for there were no vehicles. There was at this time one gig. A sort of two-wheeled carriage in the country, It was owned by Mr. Scanlon and was the wonder of everyone in the community. The prettiest sight in the country were the women riding horseback. Most of them were fine riders. The women then were all good looking for they had little to do, as they had slaves, except to care for their persons and to go to different kinds of amusements. The old church had three doors. The front door for the white people at the lower end of the building, and hust inside was a stairway leading to the gallery. At the upper end of the Church was the door for the colored people and inside, another stairway to the gallery. The pulpit about four feet high stood on the side of the Church next to the river and on the opposite side of the house was another door looking toward the hill. On regular Church meeting days wherever the preacher went to dinner the whiskey bottle was set on the table. At this time there was no school house in the town, but Mr. McClaren taught at home some few scholars. There were three wells in the town. One on the hillside above Dr. N. C. Brown’s house, one above Mr. E. S. Scott’s house and the other back of Mr. E. P. Caamberlain’s house where his blacksmith shop now stands. They were so far apart tht of course most of the water was carried from the river. The right of water way was claimed by Mr. Sam Sanders, who owned a ferry. This ferry was a long, flat bottomed boat with a steering oar at one end and was rowed with oars at either side. Mr. Jerry Craig was ferryman for Mr. Sanders. Mr. William McCoy also owned a canoe, and when he could make a little money by taking passengers he did so. Of course, this called out the comments of others, and the village poet wrote these lines on the subject:

 

Billy McCoy, that beautiful boy,
who lived in the town of Ghent,
He would keep ferry
In spite of old Jerry
and wouldn’t pay Sammy a cent.

 

Football was the Sunday game, cock fighting was a common occurrence, and always a signal for the country to gather to witness the fights. For a short while there was a rope walk above town, near where Tyson’s Mill now stands, and down near the river, across from Acra’s house, was a small swivel where men gathered to practice shooting. There were two grave yards; one on the side of the hill above the horseshoe bend, but the main one was in a field on the Walton Craig farm. This grave yard was planted in apple trees, and afterward when the orchard died out it was plowed up. All that remains of this old grave yard is three graves in amall enclosure, with one cedar tree to wave above them. They are the graves of Mrs. Jane Keene’s great grandmother, brother, and little cousin. There was one hotel in town, the American House, two or three groceries, a brick yard on the pike across from where Dr. Brown’s house now stands, and one mill.

 

Chapter IV: Smittson’s Mill and Witch Hill

from the March 15, 1901 edition of the Carrolton Democrat

In 1828 the Ghent and Warsaw Road ran along the river front, and would now be just in front of Mr. Stucy's and Mr. Scott's houses. The bridge crossed the creek just above Mr. Scott's and beyond the bridge was a long, low flat, here stood Smittson's Mill. It was a neat three story brick building built on a stone foundation. It was first a saw mill and grist mill and afterwards the first power machinery in this country was put in this mill to make flour and do weaving; this old mill was a busy scene on Saturday; people came from all over the country to bring their corn and wheat to be ground; it was also a woolen mill, wool was carded made into rolls, spun, and wove into blankets; they wove rag carpets and coverlets. The miller, old Mr. Smittson, who was also the presiding genius of the place was a "little, fat, pudgy man" and knew how to make very penny count. Just inside the lower door, on the wall was placed this motto: "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush;" which was no doubt put there by Mr. Smittson, who meant that it was better to get his money at once than to wait for it. He doubtless knew how to push a trade. This was the busiest section of the town, and on Saturdays must have been something like election days here now; this mill was afterwards torn down and a frame building put up for a saw mill, the road was changed to its present position and this low flat has long since crumbled with the washing of the waves of the mahy over-flows into the Ohio.

Just beyond this flat was Witch Hill, a dreary, lonesome spot, that ghosts and witches haunted after night fall, and any belated traveler was apt to see very strange lights and hear sounds unaccountable in such a place after night.

One crisp, frosty night, in late fall, Jeff Littrell was on his way to Louis Craig's above town; it was just 10 o'clock as he was passing through the woods on Witch Hill; he did not believe in ghosts and so made his way leisurely as boys will do. The moon shone bright and clear; the dry, dead leaves crackled under foot; the wind moaned and whistled through the bare trees with a weird mournful cadence; an owl hooted over head; suddenly he heard another sound, it was a long, low moan that was distinctly human. But how could there be any one up in that lonesome spot? Jeff's hair stood on end, his teeth chattered and cold chills raced over him; he stood still and listened, surely he must be mistaken, he could not see anyone, but no-there it was again. This time it sounded a little nearer. Just the other side of a big log; he ventured near determined if possible to unearth the ghost. He looked over the lgo and there flat on his back, drunk, lay a man. He looked up with a meaningless leer and said "Hello thonny," so that was the end of at least one ghost story.