VII. MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND.[8]

VII. MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND.^[8]

In the fall of the year 1829, I took it into my head I’d go to Portland. I had heard a good deal about Portland, what a fine place it was, and how the folks got rich there proper fast; and that fall there was a couple of new papers come up to our place from there, called the “Portland Courier,” and “Family Reader,” and they told a good many queer kind of things, about Portland and one thing another; and all at once it popped into my head, and I up and told father, and sais:

“I am going to Portland whether or no; and I’ll see what this world is made of yet.”

Father stared a little at first, and said he was afraid I would get lost; but when he see I was bent upon it, he give it up, and he stepped to his chist, and opened the till, and took out a dollar, and gave to me; and says he:

“Jack, this is all I can do for you; but go and lead an honest life, and I believe I shall hear good of you yet.”

He turned and walked across the room, but I could see the tears start into his eyes. And mother sat down, and had a hearty crying spell.

This made me feel rather bad for a minit or two, and I almost had a mind to give it up; and then again father’s dream came into my mind, and I mustered up courage, and declared I’d go. So I tackeled up the old horse, and packed in a load of axe-handles, and a few notions; and mother fried me some doughnuts, and put ’em into a box, along with some cheese and sassages, and ropped me up another shirt, for I told her I didn’t know how long I should be gone. And after I got all rigged out, I went round, and bid all the neighbors good-bye, and jumped in, and drove off for Portland.

Aunt Sally had been married two or three years before, and moved to Portland; and I inquired round till I found out where she lived, and went there, and put the old horse up, and eat some supper, and went to bed.

And the next morning I got up, and straightened right off to see the editor of the “Portland Courier,” for I knew, by what I had seen in his paper, that he was just the man to tell me which way to steer. And when I come to see him, I knew I was right; for soon as I told him my name, and what I wanted, he took me by the hand as kind as if he had been a brother, and says he:

“Mister,” says he, “I’ll do anything I can to assist you. You have come to a good town; Portland is a healthy, thriving place, and any man with a proper degree of enterprise may do well here. But,” says he, “stranger,” and he looked mighty kind of knowing, says he, “if you want to make out to your mind, you must do as the steam-boats do.”

“Well,” says I, “how do they do?” for I didn’t know what a steam-boat was any more than the man in the moon.

“Why,” says he, “they go ahead. And you must drive about among the folks here, just as tho’ you were at home, on the farm among the cattle. Don’t be afraid of any of them, but figure away; and, I dare say, you’ll get into good business in a very little while. But,” says he, “there’s one thing you must be careful of; and that is, not to get into the hands of them are folks that trades up round Hucklers’ Row, for there’s some sharpers up there, if they get hold of you, would twist your eye-teeth out in five minits.”

Well, arter he had gin me all the good advice he could, I went back to Aunt Sally’s agin, and got some breakfast; and then I walked all over the town, to see what chance I could find to sell my axe-handles, and things, and to get into business.

After I had walked about three or four hours, I come along towards the upper end of the town, where I found there were stores and shops of all sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I:

“What place is this?”

“Why this,” says he, “is Hucklers’ Row.”

“What,” says I, “are these the stores where the traders in Hucklers’ Row keep?”

And says he: “Yes.”

Well then, says I to myself, I have a pesky good mind to go in and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye-teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do what there ain’t a man in our place can do; and I should just like to know what sort of stuff these ere Portland chaps are made of. So in I goes into the best-looking store among ’em. And I see some biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I:

“Mister, how much do you ax a piece for them are biscuits?”

“A cent a piece,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “shan’t give you that, but if you’ve a mind to I’ll give you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as tho’ I would like to take a bite.”

“Well,” says he, “I wouldn’t sell ’em to anybody else so, but seeing it’s you, I don’t care if you take ’em.”

I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he handed down the biscuits, and I took ’em, and walked round the store a while, to see what else he had to sell. At last, says I:

“Mister, have you got any good cider?”

Says he “Yes, as good as ever ye see.”

“Well,” says I, “what do you ax a glass for it?”

“Two cents,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Ain’t you a mind to take these ere biscuits again and give me a glass of cider?” and says he:

“I don’t care if I do.”

So he took and laid ’em on the shelf again, and poured out a glass of cider. I took the cider and drinkt it down, and to tell the truth, it was capital good cider. Then says I:

“I guess it’s time for me to be a-going,” and I stept along towards the door; but says he:

“Stop, Mister, I believe you haven’t paid me for the cider.”

“Not paid you for the cider!” says I; “what do you mean by that? didn’t the biscuits that I give you just come to the cider?”

“Oh, ah, right!” says he.

So I started to go again, and says he:

“But stop, Mister, you didn’t pay me for the biscuit.”

“What?” says I, “do you mean to impose upon me? do you think I am going to pay you for the biscuits and let you keep them too? Ain’t they there now on your shelf? What more do you want? I guess, Sir, you don’t whittle me in that way.”

So I turned about and marched off, and left the feller staring and scratching his head as tho’ he was struck with a dunderment.

Howsomever, I didn’t want to cheat him, only jest to show ’em it wan’t so easy a matter to pull my eye-teeth out; so I called in next day, and paid him two cents. Well, I stayed at Aunt Sally’s a week or two, and I went about town every day to see what chance I could find to trade off my axe-handles, or hire out, or find some way or other to begin to seek my fortune.

And I must confess the editor of the “Courier” was about right in calling Portland a pretty good thriving sort of a place; everybody seemed to be as busy as so many bees, and the masts of the vessels stuck up round the wharves as thick as pine-trees in Uncle Joshua’s pasture, and the stores and the shops were so thick, it seemed as if there was no end to them. In short, altho’ I have been round the world considerable, from that time to this, all the way from Madawaska to Washington, I’ve never seen any place yet, that I think has any business to grin at Portland.