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.
Pages:
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668