As the boat stayed but a couple of hours at Cincinnati, we
had to land without delay. Being a stranger in a strange land, I
inquired for the Congregational minister, and was told that his name
was Boynton. In perambulating the streets in search of his house, I was
pleased to see but one shop open. It was a tailor's, and, as I
afterwards learned, belonged to a Jew, who closed it on Saturdays, the
law of the State compelling all to close their shops one day in the
week. In every street, we were struck with the glorious liberty enjoyed
by the pigs. On all hands, the swinish multitude were seen luxuriating
in unrestricted freedom. Mr. Boynton, who received us kindly, did not
know of any place where we could be accommodated with private board and
lodging, but promised to make inquiry that evening. He was a man of
about forty years of age, wearing on the Sabbath, and even in the
pulpit (as most American ministers do), a black neckerchief, and
shirt-collar turned down over it. That night we had to go to an hotel,
and were recommended to the Denison House, which we found pretty cheap
and comfortable. But the American hotels are not, in point of comfort,
to be compared for a moment to those of Old England.
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