He was not a native of New Orleans or Louisiana. Any one could have told at a glance that the blue eyes, fair hair, and extreme whiteness of skin did not belong to the Gulf coast. His build was that of the Anglo-Saxon. The height, the breadth of shoulder and chest, and the whole figure, muscled very powerfully for one so young, indicated birth in a clime farther North--Kentucky or Virginia, perhaps. His dress, neat and clean, showed that he was one who respected himself. Phil Bedford passed out of the Place d’Armes, and presently came to the levee which ran far along the great river, and which was seething with life. New Orleans was then approaching the zenith of its glory. Many, not foreseeing the power of the railroad, thought that the city, seated near the mouth of the longest river of the world, into which scores of other navigable streams drained, was destined to become the first city of America. The whole valley of the Mississippi, unequalled in extent and richness, must find its market here, and beyond lay the vast domain, once Spain’s, for which New Orleans would be the port of entry. Romance, too, had seized the place. The Alamo and San Jacinto lay but a few years behind. All the states resounded with the great story of the Texan struggle for liberty. Everybody talked of Houston and Crockett and Bowie and the others, and from this city most of the expeditions had gone. New Orleans was the chief fountain from which flowed fresh streams of men who steadily pushed the great Southwestern frontier farther and farther into the Spanish lands. It seemed to Phil, looking through his own fresh, young eyes, that it was a happy crowd along the levee. The basis of the city was France and Spain, with an American superstructure, but all the materials had been bound into a solid fabric by their great and united defense against the British in 1815. Now other people came, too, called by the spirit of trade or adventure. Every nation of Europe was there, and the states, also, sent their share. They came fast on the steamers which trailed their black smoke down the yellow river. The strong youth had been sad, when he came that morning from the dingy little room in which he slept, and he had been sad when he was walking across the Place d’Armes, but the scene was too bright and animated to leave one so young in such a state of mind. He bought a cup of hot coffee from one of the colored women who was selling it from immense cans, drank it, exchanged a cheerful word or two of badinage, and, as he turned away, he ran into a round man, short, rosy, and portly. Phil sprang back, exclaiming: "Your pardon, sir! It was an accident! All my fault!"