The Crisis | Page 2

the profane
communications of the overseer who was showing Eliphalet the sights.
Then a fine-linened planter from down river had come in during the
conversation, and paying no attention to the overseer's salute cursed
them all into silence, and left.
Eliphalet had ambition, which is not a wholly undesirable quality. He
began to wonder how it would feel to own a few of these valuable
fellow- creatures. He reached out and touched lightly a young mulatto
woman who sat beside him with an infant in her arms. The peculiar
dumb expression on her face was lost on Eliphalet. The overseer had
laughed coarsely.
"What, skeered on 'em?" said he. And seizing the girl by the cheek,

gave it a cruel twinge that brought a cry out of her.
Eliphalet had reflected upon this incident after he had bid the overseer
good-by at Cairo, and had seen that pitiful coffle piled aboard a steamer
for New Orleans. And the result of his reflections was, that some day
he would like to own slaves.
A dome of smoke like a mushroom hung over the city, visible from far
down the river, motionless m the summer air. A long line of
steamboats-- white, patient animals--was tethered along the levee, and
the Louisiana presently swung in her bow toward a gap in this line,
where a mass of people was awaiting her arrival. Some invisible force
lifted Eliphalet's eyes to the upper deck, where they rested, as if by
appointment, on the trim figure of the young man in command of the
Louisiana. He was very young for the captain of a large New Orleans
packet. When his lips moved, something happened. Once he raised his
voice, and a negro stevedore rushed frantically aft, as if he had received
the end of a lightning-bolt. Admiration burst from the passengers, and
one man cried out Captain Brent's age--it was thirty-two.
Eliphalet snapped his teeth together. He was twenty-seven, and his
ambition actually hurt him at such times. After the boat was fast to the
landing stage he remained watching the captain, who was speaking a
few parting words to some passengers of fashion. The body-servants
were taking their luggage to the carriages. Mr. Hopper envied the
captain his free and vigorous speech, his ready jokes, and his hearty
laugh. All the rest he knew for his own--in times to come. The carriages,
the trained servants, the obsequiousness of the humbler passengers. For
of such is the Republic.
Then Eliphalet picked his way across the hot stones of the levee,
pushing hither and thither in the rough crowd of river men; dodging the
mules on the heavy drays, or making way for the carriages of the few
people of importance who arrived on the boat. If any recollections of a
cool, white farmhouse amongst barren New England hills disturbed his
thoughts, this is not recorded. He gained the mouth of a street between
the low houses which crowded on the broad river front. The black mud
was thick under his feet from an overnight shower, and already

steaming in the sun. The brick pavement was lumpy from much travel
and near as dirty as the street. Here, too, were drays blocking the way,
and sweaty negro teamsters swinging cowhides over the mules. The
smell of many wares poured through the open doors, mingling with the
perspiration of the porters. On every side of him were busy clerks, with
their suspenders much in evidence, and Eliphalet paused once or twice
to listen to their talk. It was tinged with that dialect he had heard, since
leaving Cincinnati.
Turning a corner, Eliphalet came abruptly upon a prophecy. A great
drove of mules was charging down the gorge of the street, and straight
at him. He dived into an entrance, and stood looking at the animals in
startled wonder as they thundered by, flinging the mud over the
pavements. A cursing lot of drovers on ragged horses made the rear
guard.
Eliphalet mopped his brow. The mules seemed to have aroused in him
some sense of his atomity, where the sight of the pillar of smoke and of
the black cattle had failed. the feeling of a stranger in a strange land
was upon him at last. A strange land, indeed! Could it be one with his
native New England? Did Congress assemble from the Antipodes?
Wasn't the great, ugly river and dirty city at the end of the earth, to be
written about in Boston journals?
Turning in the doorway, he saw to his astonishment a great store, with
high ceilings supported by columns. The door was stacked high with
bales of dry goods. Beside him was a sign in gold lettering, "Carvel and
Company, Wholesale Dry Goods." And lastly, looking down upon him
with a quizzical expression, was a