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 gentleman.  There was no mistaking the gentleman.  He was cool, which Eliphalet was not.  And the fact is the more remarkable because the gentleman was attired according to the fashion of the day for men of his age, in a black coat with a teal of ruffled shirt showing, and a heavy black stock around his collar.  He had a white mustache, and a goatee, and white hair under his black felt hat.  His face was long, his nose straight, and the sweetness of its smile had a strange effect upon Eliphalet, who stood on one foot.

“Well, sonny, scared of mules, are you?” The speech is a stately drawl very different from the nasal twang of Eliphalet’s bringing up.  “Reckon you don’t come from anywhere round here?”

“No, sir,” said Eliphalet.  “From Willesden, Massachusetts.”