226 



A lexander Wilson. 



almost every night, I persevered from Feb- 

 ruary 24th to Sunday evening March 17th, 

 when I moored my skiff safely in Bear Grass 

 Creek at the rapids of the Ohio after a 

 voyage of seven hundred and twenty miles. 

 My hands suffered the most and it will be 

 some weeks yet before they recover their 

 former feeling and flexibility. It would be 

 the task of a month to detail all the parti- 

 culars of my numerous excursions in every 

 direction from the river. In Steubenville, 

 Charlestown and Wheeling I found some 

 friends. At Marietta I visited the cele- 

 brated remains of Indian fortifications, as 

 they are improperly called, which cover a 

 large space of ground on the banks of the 

 Muskingum. Seventy miles above this at 

 a place called Big Grave Creek I examined 

 some extraordinary remains of the same 

 kind there. The Big Grave is three hun- 

 dred paces round at the base, seventy feet 

 perpendicular, and the top, which is about 

 fifty feet over, has sunk in, forming a regu- 

 lar concavity three or four feet deep. This 

 tumulus is in the form of a cone, and the 

 whole as well as its immediate neighbor- 

 hood is covered with a venerable growth 

 of forest four or five hundred years old, 

 which gives it a most singular appearance. 

 In clambering around its steep sides I 

 found a place where a large white oak had 

 been lately blown down, and had torn up 

 the earth to the depth of five or six feet. 

 In this place I commenced digging, and 

 continued to labor for about an hour exam- 

 ining every handful of earth with great 

 care; but except some shreds of earthen- 

 ware, made of a coarse kind of clay, and 

 considerable pieces of charcoal I found 

 nothing else; but a person of the neigh- 

 borhood presented me with some beads 

 fashioned out of a kind of white stone 

 which were found by digging on the oppo- 

 site side of this gigantic mound, where I 

 found the hole still remaining. The whole 

 of an extensive plain a short distance from 

 this, is marked out with squares, oblongs 



and circles, one of which comprehends sev- 

 eral acres. The embankments by which 

 they are distinguished are still two or three 

 feet above the common level of the field. 

 The Big Grave is the property of a Mr. 

 Tomlinson or Tumblestone who lives near, 

 and who would not expend three cents to 

 see the whole sifted before his face. I en- 

 deavored to work on his avarice, by repre- 

 senting the probability that it might con- 

 tain valuable matters, and suggested to 

 him a mode by which a passage might be 

 cut into it level with the bottom, and by 

 excavation and arching, a most noble cel- 

 lar might be formed for keeping his turnips 

 and potatoes. 'AH the turnips and pota- 

 toes I should raise this dozen years,' said 

 he. 'would not pay the expense!' This 

 man is no antiquary or theoretical farmer, 

 nor much of a practical one either I fear; 

 he has about two thousand acres of the 

 best land and just makes out to live. * * * 

 " On Monday, March 5th, about ten 

 miles below the mouth of the Great Scotin, 

 where I saw the first flock of parroquets, I 

 encountered a violent storm of wind and 

 rain, which changed to hail and snow, 

 blowing down trees and limbs in all direc- 

 tions, so that, for immediate preservation, I 

 was obliged to steer out into the river 

 which rolled and foamed like a sea, and 

 filled my boat nearly half full of water, and 

 it was with the greatest difficulty I could 

 make the least headway. It continued to 

 snow violently until dusk, when I at length 

 made good my landing, at a place on 'the 

 Kentucky shore, where I had perceived a 

 cabin, and here I spent an evening in learn- 

 ing the art and mystery of bear-treeing, 

 wolf-trapping and wildcat-hunting from an 

 old professor. But notwithstanding the 

 skill of this great master, the country here 

 is swarming with wolves, and wildcats, black 

 and brown. According to this hunter's own 

 confession, he had lost sixty pigs from 

 Christmas last, and all night long the dis- 

 tant howling of the wolves kept the dogs 



