But I saw cause for thankfulness, more than once, that I was not a Government cotton agent. On the road between Selma and Meridian, near Demopolis, it was necessary to embark, for a short trip, on a steamboat on the Tombigbee River. In the cabin, I entered, a violent altercation was raging. A short, portly old planter, florid-faced and white-bearded—the impersonation of the fine old Southern gentleman, who could finish half-a-dozen bottles of claret at a sitting, and had been doing it, any time, for the last dozen years—was berating a black-bearded, trim-built and very resolute Yankee. The oaths were fearfully blasphemous, but the substance of the old man’s complaint was that he had delivered up to the agent a quantity of cotton which he had originally subscribed to the Rebel cotton loan, and that, as he had subsequently learned, he was entitled, by such voluntary surrender, to one-fourth of the value of the cotton; which sum he accused the agent of unjustly withholding. “But I’ll follow you, sah,” he vociferated, shaking his fist in the very face of the agent. “I’ll follow you to General Wood’s, aye, and to Andy Johnson! I’ll follow you, sah, to hell and Illinois, but you shan’t swindle _me_, sah.” “You’ll follow me to Mobile, sir, if you want to; that’s where I live, and you’ll never have any trouble in finding me.” The agent stood, trim, compact, cool as an icicle, evidently ready for anything, and watching the fiery planter, as a pugilist might watch for the instant to strike. The stout old man, tremulous and hoarse with passion, blustered up and shook his fist in angry gesticulation, but the agent never moved a muscle. One grew proud of him, and even the Southern crowd, forming a ring about, evidently respected his bearing. Two or three friends bustled up to the old planter, twined their arms about his neck, and finally coaxed him out of the throng. The agent then turned on his heel and walked away. “Is he a gentleman, or is he a Yankee?” I heard one of the passengers inquire. “He is a scoundrel, of course,” said another, “for he’s a Government cotton agent, and I wish the old man had shot him, as his fellow was shot, the other day, at Montgomery.” I subsequently learned that, only a few weeks ago, a son of the white-bearded old planter had shot a Northern soldier in some brawl at the polls. Life is cheap here, and the Northern papers report that the demand for pistols from the South is brisk!