in the clouds.  A pause is followed by the sharp sound of voices echoing through the hollow mist; then she rides like a thing of life reposing on the polished water, her masts half obscured in mist, looming high above, like a spectre in gauze shroud.  The sound dies away, and dimly we see the figure of a man pacing the deck from fore-shroud to taffrail.  Now and then he stops at the wheel, casts sundry glances about the horizon, as if to catch a recognition of some point of land near by, and walks again.  Now he places his body against the spokes, leans forward, and compares the “lay” of the land with points of compass.  He will reach his hand into the binnacle, to note the compass with his finger, and wait its traversing motion.  Apparently satisfied, he moves his slow way along again; now folding his arms, as if in deep study, then locking his hands behind him, and drooping his head.  He paces and paces for an hour, retires below, and all is still.

Early on the following morning, a man of middle stature, genteelly dressed, may be seen leaving the craft in a boat, which, rowed by two seamen, soon reaches a wharf, upon the landing slip of which he disembarks.  He looks pale, and his countenance wears a placidness indicating a mind absorbed in reflection.  With a carpet-bag in his right hand does he ascend the steps to the crown of the wharf, as the boat returns to the mysterious-looking craft.  Standing on the capsill for a few minutes, his blue eyes wander over the scene, as if to detect some familiar object.  The warehouses along the wharfs wear a dingy, neglected air; immense piles of cotton bales stand under slender sheds erected here and there along the line of buildings which form a curvature declining to the east and west.  Again, open spaces are strewn with bales of cotton waiting its turn through the press (a large building near by, from which steam is issuing in successive puffings and roarings); from which compressed bales emerge out of the lower story, followed by a dozen half-naked negroes, who, half-bent, trundle it onward into piles, or on board ships.  Far above these is spread out a semicircle of dwellings, having a gloomy and irregular appearance, devoid of that freshness and brightness which so distinguish every New England city.  The bustle of the day is just commencing, and the half-mantled ships, lying unmoved at the wharfs, give out signs of activity.  The new comer is about to move on up the wharf, when suddenly he is accosted by a negro, who, in ragged garb, touches his hat politely, and says, with a smile, “Yer sarvant, mas’r!”

“Your name, my boy?” returns the man, in a kind tone of voice.  The negro, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his old sack coat, seems contemplating an answer.  He has had several names, both surname and Christian; names are but of little value to a slave.  “Pompe they once called me, but da’ calls me Bill now,” he answers, eyeing the stranger, suspiciously.  “Pompe, Pompe!  I’ve heard that name:  how familiar it sounds!” the stranger says to himself.