Smithland

I loved it.

We were talking about our trip to Smithland, Kentucky last fall.

And the reason is because I changed the background that no one else can see but us of our studio here to a picture of Matthew Byrd and myself and a gentleman that we met there.

And what a great trip, huh?

It was.

Not much for a festival, but as much as you would expect from a town the size of Smithwood.

For the size of Smithland to have what they had and to have the gathering they had, though.

It was

As it now is, I am not sorry, for coming down on my way to St. Louis, as far as Paducah, there I learned from a colored man at the wharf that, that same day, in the morning, the master and the family of fugitives arrived off the boat and had then gone on their journey to Tuscumbia, but that the white man, Mr. Conklin, had got away from them about twelve miles upriver.

It seems he got off the boat some way, near or at Smithland, Kentucky, a town at the mouth of the Cumberland River.

I presume the report is true, and hope he will finally escape, though I was also told they were in pursuit of him.

Would that the others had also escaped.