My First Visit to Portland
by
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.”