Perhaps the most critical incident in the life of Lincoln was this second visit to New Orleans. Hitherto, with a single exception, his life was simple and close to nature and the human heart. Young as he was, the solemnity of the forest, the expanse of the prairie, the nearness to the heart of things, the problems of life and their seriousness already cut their lines in his sensitive organism. Knowing little of the mercantile world, in the realm of thought he was already master of those around him. There was something of Hamlet in this gaunt youth. The varied amusements of the southern city that fascinated his companions did not move or detain him. One sight alone riveted his attention. A mulatto girl was on sale. She was trotted up and down like an animal. Others saw the scene without flinching. It was nothing to them; no lash on their backs. According to Herndon, the whole thing was so revolting that Lincoln moved away from the scene with a deep feeling of hate, saying to his companions, "By God, boys, let's get away from this. If I ever get a chance to hit that thing (meaning slavery), I'll hit it hard."[46] [46] Herndon, 1, 67. From that time Lincoln hated slavery with all his soul. The slave dynasty was an organized evil of national power. It dominated the actions and even the opinions of men; its whisper silenced the voice of conscience; its power dictated legislative policies, and was even known to intrude into the sanctuary of judicial tribunals. It was not a stranger in distinguished pulpits. Lincoln was weak, helpless, unregarded. A blow from his hand would then fall impotent and unnoticed. Three courses of conduct confronted him. He might, with the majority have become an apologist of slavery, as this was the popular highway. Thus he might have gained the fame of Stephen A. Douglas, but he would not have saved the nation. He might have become an aggressive assailant of slavery. Such conduct would have made him a political outcast in New Salem. In this way, he might have won the renown of a Wendell Phillips but he would not have become the national helmsman. He was neither abolitionist nor apologist. One other way was open. He knew his weakness. The day to strike a blow had not yet come. He held his anger and bided his hour. He would not rush, but await the time when a blow from his hand would long leave its traces on the evil. He turned back to his work and to his associates. Objectively, he was the same as ever, but a soul had been awakened to the crime of the ages that would not rest until the auction block should be shattered and the American soil rendered uneasy at the presence of the human auctioneer. He knew that sooner or later the occasion for action would rejoice his soul. This faith reconciled him to the sluggard march of events.