. . .Cairo, and still on free soil, though in sight of slave territory, just across the river in old Kentucky, where the great Henry Clay lived, and whence radiated his greatness over the world,[32] the steamer standing at her wharf with a capacity of two thousand tons, her state-rooms taken by Southern-bound travelers, and having on board eighteen thousand bushels of corn from Egypt, we confess, as we stood there, at the hour of seven in the morning, ready with our company to take passage, and be borne away from all our free-soil associations, imagination stood on strained wing for a thousand miles down the river, essaying to divine the possible events of the next few days, and of that novel trip.

Already before committing us and ours to the atmosphere and destiny of the Southern clime, did the darkness of the future pass over us and compel imagination to fold her wings. And then again, faith in progress, faith in Christian America, faith in Providence, struck. . . Read More