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 river to Baltimore, from whence it finds its way to Europe, destined to assist in feeding those countries, which gave birth to the ancestors of the cultivators of this.

After crossing the Juniata, we pursued our road through a broken country, very hilly, with the river almost always in sight, sometimes on one hand and sometimes on the other, as its bends approached or receded from the road, and sometimes directly under us at the foot of terrifick precipices, down one of which, about twenty years ago, a wagon was carried by the horses, falling 3 or 400 feet perpendicular—The wagonner and horses were killed, and the wagon was dashed to pieces.

At three miles and a half from the ford, we stopped to feed our horses at a small log tavern, where was a large family, with three or four very pretty girls, who forfeited the admiration they would otherwise have commanded, by being covered with the itch, which made me cautious how I ordered any thing to eat or drink, although I could have done justice to a good breakfast.

The same kind of country continues to Bedford, {45} the road leading through two remarkable defiles between the mountains, which as well as the river sometimes approach and sometimes recede, the country gradually improving both in population and quality of soil as we advanced.

At three miles from where we fed our horses, we passed through a village of a dozen houses, called Bloody run, in memory of a massacre by the Indians of about 250 militia, while escorting a convoy of provisions to the western frontier, soon after Braddock's defeat near Pittsburgh.[18]