, we stopped for supplies. There are six
thousand inhabitants here, with some good buildings and a fine, broad,
stone wharf, but it is rather a dingy place. The steamer "Bonanza" had
just landed. On the double row of flaggings leading up to the summit
of the bank, were two ant-like processions of Kentucky folk--one,
leisurely climbing townward with their bags and bundles, the other
hurrying down with theirs to the boat, which was ringing its bell,
blowing off steam, and in other ways creating an uproar which seemed
to turn the heads of the negro roustabouts and draymen, who bustled
around with a great chatter and much false motion. The railway may be
doing the bulk of the business, but it does it unostentatiously; the
steamboat makes far more disturbance in the world, and is a finer
spectacle. Dozens of boys are lounging at the wharf foot, watching the
lively scene with fascinated eyes, probably every one of them stoutly
possessed of an ambition akin to that of my young friend in the
Cheshire Bottom.

A rain-storm broke the fog--a cold, raw, miserable rain. No clothing
we could don appeared to suffice against the chill; and so at last we
pitched camp upon the Ohio shore, three miles above the Ironton wharf
(325 miles). It is a muddy, dreary nest up here, among the dripping
willows. Just behind us on the slope, is the inclined track of the
Norfolk & Western railway-transfer, down which trains are slid to
a huge slip, and thence ferried over the river into Kentucky; above
that, on a narrow terrace, is an ordinary railway line; and still
higher, up a slippery clay bank, lies the cottage-strewn bottom which
stretches on into Ironton (13,000 inhabitants).

We were a sorry-looking party, at lunch this noon, hovering over the
smoking stove which was set in the tent door, with a wind-screen in
front, and moist bedding hung all about in the vain hope of drying it
in the feeble heat. And sorrier still, through the long afternoon, as,
each encased in a sleeping-bag, we sat upon our cots circling around
the stove, W---- reading to us between chattering teeth from Barrie's
_When a Man's Single_. 'Tis good Scottish weather we're having; but
somehow our thoughts could not rest on Thrums, and we were, for the
nonce, a wee bit miserable.

Dinner degenerated into a smoky bite, and then at dusk there was a
council of war. The air hangs thick with moisture, our possessions are
in various stages from damp to sopping wet, and efforts at d