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 and
another; and all at once it popped into my head, and I up and told
father, and says:
"I'm 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 it 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 tackled up the
old horse, and packed in a load of ax-handles and a few notions; and
mother fried me some doughnuts and put 'em into a box, along with
some cheese and sausages and ropped me up another shirt, for I told
her I didn't know how long I should be gone. After I got rigged out,
I went round and bid all the neighbors good-by 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 ate 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 steamboats do."
"Well," says I, "how do they do?" for I didn't know what a steamboat
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 those 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 giv 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 ax-handles
and things and to git into business.
After I had walked about three or four hours, I come along toward 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?"