When Eliphalet came to town, his son’s wife, Mrs:  Samuel D. (or S. Dwyer as she is beginning to call herself), was not born.  Gentlemen of Cavalier and Puritan descent had not yet begun to arrive at the Planters’ House, to buy hunting shirts and broad rims, belts and bowies, and depart quietly for Kansas, there to indulge in that; most pleasurable of Anglo-Saxon pastimes, a free fight.  Mr. Douglas had not thrown his bone of Local Sovereignty to the sleeping dogs of war.

To return to Eliphalet’s arrival,—­a picture which has much that is interesting in it.  Behold the friendless boy he stands in the prow of the great steamboat ‘Louisiana’ of a scorching summer morning, and looks with something of a nameless disquiet on the chocolate waters of the Mississippi.  There have been other sights, since passing Louisville, which might have disgusted a Massachusetts lad more.  A certain deck on the ‘Paducah’, which took him as far as Cairo, was devoted to cattle —­black cattle.  Eliphalet possessed a fortunate temperament.  The deck was dark, and the smell of the wretches confined there was worse than it should have been.  And the incessant weeping of some of the women was annoying, inasmuch as it drowned many of 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 in 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.