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to time on the Indiana shore, made me lose half the morning in search of them. On the Kentucky shore I was also decoyed by the same temptations, but never could approach near enough to shoot one of them. These affairs detained me so that I was du. bious whether I should be able to reach Louisville that night. Night came on and I could hear nothing of the Falls; about eight I first heard the roaring of the Rapids, and as it increased I was in hopes of every moment seeing the lights of Louisville; but no lights appeared, and the noise seemed now within less than half a mile of me. Seriously alarmed lest I might be drama into the suction of the Falls, I cautiously coasted along shore, which was full of snage and sawyers, and at length with grek satisfaction opened Bear Grass Creek, where I secured my skiff to a Kentucky boat, and loading myself with my baggage, I gro. ped my way through a swamp up to the town. The next day 1 sold my skiff for exactly half what it cost me; and the man who bought it wondered why I gave it such a droll Indian name (The Ornithologist) “ some old chief or warrior I suppose," says he. This day I walked down along shore to Shipping port, to take a view of these celebrated Rapids, but they fell far short of my expectation. I should have no hesitation in going down them in a skiff. The Falls of Oswego, in the state of New York, though on a smaller scale, are far more dangerous and formi. dable in appearance. Though the river was not high, I observed two arks and a barge run them with great ease and rapidity. The Ohio here is something more than a mile wide, with several islands interspersed; the channel rocky, and the islands heaped with drift wood. The whole fall in two miles is less than twenty-four feet. The town of Louisville stands on a high secote bank, and is about as large as Frankfort, having a number of good brick buildings and valuable stores. The situation would be as healthy as any on the river, but for the numerous swamps and ponds that intersect the woods in its neighbourhood. These from their height above the river might all be drained ard turned into cultivation; but every man here is so intent on the immediate making of money that they have neither time ne disposition for improvements, even where the article health is at stake. A man here told me that last fall he had fourteen sick in his own family. On Friday the 24th, I left my baggage with a merchant of the place to be forwarded by the first wagon, and set out on foot for Lexington, seventy-two miles distant. I passed through Middletown and Shelbyville, both inconsiderable places. Nine-tenths of the country is in forest; the surface undulating into gentle eminences and declivities, between each of which generally runs a brook over loose flags of limestone.

The soil, by appearance, is of the richest sort, immense fields of Indian corn, high excellent fences, few grain fields, many log houses, and those of the meaner sort. I observed few apple orchards, but several very thriving peach ones. An appearance of slovenliness is but too general about their houses, barns, and barn-yards. Negroes are numerous; cattle and horses lean, particularly the former, who appear as if struggling with starvation for their existence. The woods are swarming with pigs, pigeons, squirrels and woodpeckers. The pigs are universally fat, owing to the great quantity of mast this year. Walking here in wet weather is most execrable, and is like travelling on soft soap; a few days of warm weather hardens this again almost into stone. Want of bridges is the greatest inconvenience to a foot traveller here. Between Shelbyville and Frankfort, having gone out of my way to see a pigeon roost (which by the by is the greatest curiosity I have seen since leaving home) I waded a deep creek called Benson, nine or ten times. I spent several days in Frankfort, and in rambling among the stupendous cliffs of Kentucky river. On Thursday evening I entered Lexington. But I cannot do justice to these subjects at the conclusion of a letter, which in spite of all my abridgments, has far exceeded in length what I first intended. My next will be from Nashville. I shall then have seen a large range of Kentucky, and be more able to give you a correct delineation of the country and its inhabitants. In descending the Ohio, I amused myself with a poetical narrative of my expedition, which I have called « The Pilgrim," an extract from which shall close this long and I am afraid tiresome letter.


Descriptive of a voyage and journey from Pittsburg to New Orleatha,

In the Spring of 1810.
« Adieu the social sweets of home!

The voice of friend! the kindred eye!
Condemn’d through distant lands to roam,

I bless you with my parting sigh!

“ Through western forests deep and drear

Far from the haunts of Science thrown,
My long laborious course I steer

Alone, unguided, and unknown.

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The flood his gliding bark that bore,

Whose stream a course majestic keeps;
Collects from various states its store,

And through a length of regions sweeps;

Its flat rich banks, few cities nigh

Its rough indented mountains steep;
Its smoking huts and headlands high,

Reflected downwards in the deep,

To him gavę raptures every morn;

And as he clear'd each opening bend,
He hail'd the boatman's mellow horn,

And saw the floating arks descend.

The ducks that swarm'd each opening run,

The eagles sailing high in pride,
Fell at the thunders of his gun,

And prostrate floated on the tide.

He gaz'd on each gigantic wood,

That tow'r-like from the margin rose;
He mark'd each tributary flood

That to this noble river flows.

And when the air was all serene,

He sought some smooth and pebbly shore; Thence rang’d the lofty woods between,

Their deep recesses to explore.

He stoop'd each rising plant to view,

He culi'd each rare and curious ore;
For all to him was great, was new,

A vast, and an exhaustless store.

He listened to each warbling throat,

That twitt’red from the budding spray,
And blest the red-bird's mellow note

At dawning and at setting day.

When dark tempestuous winds arose,

And driving snows obscur'd the air, VOL. III.

3 T

Or when the dashing surges froze

Upon his hands and clotted hair,

He scorn'd the shrinking soul of slaves,

He swept his oars aņd rais'u the song, And wrestled with the winds and waves

To bear his struggling bark along.

He saw the shaggy hills glide by,

He heard the snags and sawyers roar; And when the rolling waves rose high,

He trac'd the steep and shelter'd shore.

When Night descended grim and slow,

He sought the squatter's wretched shed, Where deaden'd round, in tou’ing show,

Vast pillar'à trunks their ruins spread.

There o'er the loose luxuriant soil,

That some few ragged rails inclose, Unhonour’d by the hand of Toil,

A growth of weeds enormous rose.

His hut of logs, untrimm'd, unbeam'd,

Where nail nor window hole were seen; Without, a cavern'd ruin seem'd,

But frown'd a fouler cave within,

One bed, where nightly kennei'd all,

Its foul and towz’ied rags display'd; A Broken chest, where kittens crawl

A pot that pigs a sheiter made.

The low, wet roof unseam'd and rude,

Receiv'd the rain in many a rill; The chimney sides all open stood

The loosen'd floor was rattling still.

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