At thirteen miles from Chambersburg is Loudon, a few houses only, two of them taverns, situated at the foot of the ridge just mentioned, which is called the Cove Mountain. A new road is formed over it. The ascent is winding and gradual, so that seven miles are occupied in surmounting the formidable barrier. The darkness of the night, and the great quantity of timber on both sides, rendered this part of our journey very gloomy. Not a sound was to be heard but that of the Catadid, a large green insect, whose note resembles its name, as nearly as it can any articulate sound. Near the top of the hill stands a miserable log tavern filled with _movers_, a name for settlers removing to the western country. At the summit, we were accosted in the Irish accent. The individual {47} told us that he was so much exhausted, that he could not proceed farther, and that he had laid himself down among the trees.[31] At Macconnel’s Town, we knocked at the door of a tavern, heard a noise within, which convinced us that the people were astir, but not willing to hear us. On making louder applications, the landlord saluted us, “_Who’s there?_” With some reluctance he let us in, grumbling at the lateness of our arrival, it being ten minutes past ten o’clock. He affected to be unwilling to let us have supper; but while he was refusing, a female commenced cooking for us. _September 23._ From beds which we last night saw on the floor of the bar-room, a numerous group of Swiss emigrants had arisen. One of them, an old man with a long beard, has a truly patriarchal appearance. The females wear hats, and are of a hardy and masculine form. About a mile from Macconnel’s Town, is the foot of another steep ridge; a new road over it is nearly finished. Here we met with a foot traveller, who told us that he had settled in Illinois, by the Wabash, about fifty miles above Vincennes. The ground, he said, “is as good as ever man set foot on.”[32] He had not heard of Mr. Birkbeck’s settlement: this, together with his appearance, convinced us that he is a hunter of the woods. He was on his way to remove his family from New York state, a journey of 1400 miles. Called at Noble’s tavern for breakfast. The hostess could not accommodate us with it. She was in great bustle, having thirty highway labourers {48} at board, had no bread baked, and politely expressed her regret at being so circumstanced, but assured us, that, by going half a mile forward to the next tavern, we would be attended to. Mr. Noble is a member of the Pennsylvania Senate; the frank and obliging disposition of his wife demands my acknowledgment. At the next tavern the prediction of a breakfast was verified: it was largely furnished, but not with the greatest dispatch. The forenoon was hot, something like the greatest heat I have felt in Scotland. The mornings and evenings were agreeably cool, the air usually still, and the sky highly serene.