We have no great prospects here,
as the hotel, excepting the one at Jefferson City, is the worst we have
found in America. We had hardly set foot in it, when General Leslie
Combe called upon us, having been on the look-out for our arrival. He
claimed cousin-ship, having married a Miss T----, but we must leave it
to Uncle Harry to determine to which branch of the T---- family she can
claim kindred.
_November 15th._--The weather has been unpropitious, and instead of
starting to explore the Upper Kentucky, which we had meant to do, we are
returning this afternoon to Cincinnati. We have, however, been able to
see all the sights here that are worth seeing, besides having been
edified yesterday by a nigger sermon, remarkable, even among nigger
sermons, for the wonderful stentorian powers of the preacher. The great
object of interest here is Ashland, so called from the ash timber with
which the place abounds. This was the residence of Henry Clay, the great
American statesman. General Combe gave us a letter of introduction to
Mr. James B. Clay, his eldest son, who is the present proprietor of the
"location." The house is very prettily "fixed up," to use another
American phrase; but we were disappointed with the 200 acres of park,
which Lord Morpeth, who passed a week at Ashland, is said to extol as
being like an English one.
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