If the coming up this river，slowly making head against the stream，be an irksome journey，the shooting down in with the turbid currentis almost worse；for then the boat，proceedings at the rate of twelve orfifteen miles an．hour，has to force its passage through a labyrinth offloating logs，which，in the dark，it is often impossible to see beforehandor avoid．All that night，the bell was never silent for five minutes at atime；and after every ring the vessel reeled again，sometimes beneath asingle blow，sometimes beneath a dozen dealt in quick succession，thelightest of which seemed more than enough tO beat in her flail keel，asthough it had been pie—crust．Looking down upon the filthy river afterdark，it seemed to be alive with monsters．as these black masses rolledupon the surface，or came starting up again，head first，when the boat，in ploughing her way among a shoal of such obstructions，drove a fewamong them for the moment under water．Sometimes the engine stoppedduring a long interval，and then before her and behind，and gatheringclose about her on all sides，were SO many of these ill-favoured obstaclesthat she was fairly hemmed in the centre of a floating island and wasconstrained to pause until they parted，somewhere，as dark clouds will dobefore the wind，and opened，by degrees，a channel out． In good time next morning，however，we came again in sight of thedetestable morass called Cairo；and stopping there to take in wood，layalongside a barge，whose starting timbers scarcely held together．It wasmoored tO the bank．and on its side was painted“Coffee House”：thatbeing，I suppose，the floating paradise tO which the people fly for shelterwhen they lose their houses for a month or two beneath the hideouswaters of the Mississippi．But looking southward from this point，we hadthe satisfaction of seeing that intolerable river dragging its slimy lengthand ugly freight abruptly off towards New Orleans；and passing a yellowline which stretched across the current，were again upon the clear Ohio，never，I trust，to see the Mississippi more，saving in troubled dreams and nightmares．Leaving it for the company of its sparkling neighbour was Iike the transition from pain to ease，or the awakening from a horrible vision to cheerful realities．
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We arrived at Louisville on the fourth night，and gladly availed ourselves of its excellent hotel．Next day we went on in the Ben Franklin，a beautiful mail steamboat，and reached Cincinnati shortly after midnight．Being by this time nearly tired of sleeping upon shelves，we had remained awake to go ashore straightway；and groping a passage across the dark decks of other boats，and among labyrinths of engine—machinery and leaking casks of molasses，we reached the streets，knocked up the porter at the hotel where we had stayed before，and were，to our greatjoy，safely housed soon afterwards．
We rested but one day at Cincinnati，and then resumed our journey to Sandusky．As it comprised two varieties of stage-coach travelling，which，with those I have already glanced at，comprehend the main characteristics of this mode of transit in America．1 will take the reader as our fellOw—passenger；and pledge myself to perform the distance with all possible dispatch．
Our place of destination in the first instance is Columbus．It is distant about a hundred and twenty miles from Cincinnati，but there is a macadamized mad(rare blessing!)the whole way，and the rate of travelling upon it is six miles an hour．
We start at eight O’clock in the morning，in a great mail-coach， whose huge cheeks are so very ruddy and plethoric，that it appears to be troubled with a tendency of blood to the head．Dropsical it certainly is． for it will hold a dozen passengers inside．But，wonderful to add，it is very clean and bright，being nearly new；and rattles through the streets of Cincinnati gaily．
Our way lies through a beautiful country，richly cultivated，and luxuriant in its promise of an abundant harvest．Sometimes we pass afield where the sVong bristling stalks of Indian corn look like a crop ofwalking—sticks，and sometimes an inclosure where the green wheat is springing up among a labyrinth of stumps．The primitive worm-fence isuniversal，and an ugly thing it is；but the farms are neatly kept，and，savefor these differences，one might be travelling just nOW in Kent． We often stop to water at a roadside inn，which is always dull and silent．The coachman dismounts and fills his bucket，and holds it to thehorses’heads．There is scarcely ever anyone to help him；there are seldom any loungers standing round；and never any stable-company withjokes tO crack．Sometimes，when we have changed our team，there is a difficulty in starting again，arising out of the prevalent mode of breakinga young horse；which is to catch him，harness him against his will，andput him in a stage-coach without further notices：but we get on somehow or other，after a great many kicks and a violent struggle；and jog on as before again． Occasionally，when we stop to change，some two or three half．drunken loafers will come loitering out with their hands in their pockets，or will be seen kicking their heels in rocking—chairs，or lounging on the window-sill，or sitting on a rail within the colonnade：they have not often anything tO say though either to US or to each other，but sit there idly staring at the coach and horses．The landlord of the inn is usually amongthem，and seems，of all the party，tO be the least connected with the business of the house．Indeed he iS，with reference to the tavern，what the driver is in relation tO the coach and passengers：whatever happens in his sphere of action，he is quite indifferent，and perfectly easy in his mind．