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 On the 26th of September I left Cincinnati. My travelling equipment consisted of a light waggon, drawn by a Yankee mare. The animal was spirited, but at the same time docile, and obedient to the rein; and the roads, though rough in some parts, and covered with dust, were such as are in this country called good. The atmosphere was clear, without a single speck of cloud, and the temperature of the air agreeable. I got forward with a degree of ease and good spirit, that might well become a ride undertaken for pleasure.

Reading is a small town with a good tavern, twelve miles north-east of Cincinnati.[147]

I lodged for the night with a tavern-keeper, who has, within these four years past, cleared a good farm on which he lives. He is a penetrating and intelligent old man. Without being told, he was able to discover my native country, and attempted to make himself agreeable by dilating on the histories of Wallace and Bruce. His son, who is arrived at manhood, asked if Wallace was an American? The father is a native of the eastern country, and has had better opportunities of being educated than the son seems to have met with in this newly settled country. Closely adjoining to this place is Union or Shakertown,[148] the settlement of a remarkable society called Shakers, I suppose from dancing forming a principal part of their