Merry’s Adventures.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Although I did not know what was before me, and had no scheme even for providing myself with bread for a single day, I felt an indescribable degree of delight at my release from prison. To be shut up by our fellow-men, as if unworthy of enjoying light and liberty, is very hard to bear: to know that one is innocent of crime—and yet to be cast into a dungeon, and made the companion of the wicked and the degraded—is calculated to beget a deep sense of injustice. Such, indeed, was my feeling while in prison; and even when I was free, it still mingled with my joy, impressing me with a sad consciousness that even in society, and surrounded by laws designed to protect us from wrong, we are not wholly secure, and may be called upon, through the weakness or wickedness of our fellow-men, to suffer the most bitter pangs.
I, however, resisted these feelings and poured out my gratitude to Bill Keeler—my deliverer. On inquiry, I learned of him, that while at Salem, he had accidentally heard of my imprisonment; and though he supposed me guilty of some misdemeanor, he still gathered all the money he could, and pushed off on foot to New York, to obtain my release. The success of his endeavors has already been detailed.
Having talked over the events already laid before the reader, Bill asked me what I intended to do. I told him that I had formed no plan. He then urged me to go back with him to Salem; but as I seemed very reluctant to do so, his mind appeared to be turned to some other project. We walked along the street for a considerable distance in silence, and with an uncertain and sauntering gait—my companion evidently in great perplexity. At last his countenance brightened, and turning round on his heel, he led me on, with a decided step, in a direction opposite to that which we had pursued.
“Well, well,” said Bill, cheerfully, “when one door shuts, another opens: if the mountain doesn’t come to you, you must go to the mountain. How would you like to become a traveller, Bob?”
“I should like it of all things.”
“So I thought—and I’ll get it all fixed.”
“But how am I to pay the expenses?”
“I brought a couple of friends with me, who’ll do that for you: they’r queer chaps, but you’ll learn to like ’em. You remember old Sarah’s cave? well, as I was climbing among the rocks just below it, a few days ago, in search of a woodchuk that had just duv into his burrow, a large stone gave way under my feet, and down the ledge I went, for more than three rod. A great mass of rubbish came down with me, and it’s a kind of miracle I wan’t smashed. I was a little stunned, but by-and-by I came to myself. There I lay, half covered with stones, leaves and gravel. Thinks I, what’s this all about? Just then I put out my hand to get up, and I felt something mighty cold. Well, what do you think it was? Why, ’twas a rattle-snake, and just by his side lay seven others! It was cold weather, and they were as straight and stiff as bean poles. Well, says I, there’s nothin made in vain—so I took tew on ’em, and doubled ’em up and put ’em into one of my stockins, and carried ’em home.
“When I got there, I took ’em out and laid ’em on the harth, and when they got warm they began to squirm. Well—my wife—Hepsey—(you remember Hepsey?—by the way—she sent her love to you, Bob—though I’d forgot that)—she made a dreadful screechin about it, and little Bob, he set up his pipes, and the cat stuck up her back, and Jehu barked as if there’d been an attack of the Indians!
“Well, pretty soon the two critters began to stick out their tongues and their eyes grew as bright as a couple of lightnin-bugs in a foggy night. They then put their tails this way and that, and finally rolled themselves into a heap, and set up such a rattlein as I never heard afore. It was as much as to say—let every man look out for his own shins! Everybody cleared—wife, baby, cat and dog—except myself. Takin’ the varmin in the tongs, one by one, I threw ’em out the winder, into a snow-bank, just to keep ’em cool and civil. I then made a box, and put ’em in, and fitted a pane of glass in the top, so you could look in and see ’em. Well, I brought the box and the two sarpints along with me, thinkin that when you got out of prison, they might be of sarvice.”
“What do you mean?” said I, in the greatest wonder.
“Mean? why, that you should take this box under your arm, and travel over the world, as independent as a lord. The sarpints will be meat and drink and clothin and lodgin, and a welcome to boot. I thought it likely, when I set out, from what I heerd, that you’d got into some scrape, and that it might be necessary for you to be scarce in these parts; so I thought the snakes would suit your case exactly. You needn’t look so sour, fir I don’t expect you to eat ’em. But hear my story. I was three days in going from Salem to York, and when I got there, I had tew dollars more in my pocket than when I set out, and I lived like a prince all the time! And how do you think ’twas done? Why, by the sarpints, to be sure! When I put up at the tavern at night, I set the box down by my side in the bar-room, and took my fife, and began to play Yankee Doodle.
“Pretty soon everybody got round me, and then I teld ’em about the sarpints, and how they might see ’em fer sixpence apiece. Well, I got sixpences as thick as nuts in November. Now, Bob, you’ve had a good eddication, and can tell all about sarpints, and make up a good story, and you can travel all over the world, and come home as rich as a Jew. So you may have ’em, and I shall be happy to think that you’re travelling like a gentleman, while I go home to pound my lapstone and take care of my family.”
“I thank you a thousand times, my dear Bill,” said I; “but I fear this will not do for me. You can turn your hand to anything, but I am a helpless creature, compared with yourself!”
“No, no,” said my friend earnestly. “You’ll do well enough when you get your hand in. You must try, at least. Here, take my penknife, if you haint got one. A penknife’s a mighty good thing—no man need to feel low-sperited with a penknife in his pocket. When I’m away and feel kind o’ humsick, I take out my penknife, and get a stick and go to cuttin on’t, and it turns out a whistle, or a walkin-stick, or somethin else, and all the time I am as contented as a cow a stealin corn-stalks. A penknife’s a friend in need, and no man should ever be without one. You must take my fife, too, Bob, for you can play it well. It will make you welcome everywhere—as we catch flies with molasses, you can catch customers with music.”
To all this, I still replied that I doubted my success, and feared to undertake the scheme. “Faint heart never won fair lady,” said Bill. “Nothing venture, nothing have. You won’t succeed if you don’t try: a man never fails, when success is matter o’ life and death. If you set out, you won’t starve. You’ll be like Seth Follet’s eel—you must go ahead.”
“Well, tell me the story of the eel.”
“Why, didn’t you never bear of Seth Follet’s eel? Seth had a long aqueduct, made of logs, with an auger-hole bored thro’ ’em, to carry the water from a spring on a hill, to his house. After a while the water wouldn’t run, because the hole in the logs had got filled up with mud. Well, Seth was a queer genius; so he got an eel and put into the hole in the logs at one end. The critter went along pretty well for a time, but by-and-by he came to the mud. He then thought he’d turn about, but he couldn’t do that, for he just fitted the hole, you know! Then he thought he’d back out, but he couldn’t do that nother, for an eel’s a thing that can’t work both ways. Well now, what should he do? Why, there was only one thing to be done—to go ahead; and ahead he went—and cleared out the aqueduct!”
I could not help laughing heartily at this anecdote, and I confess that the reasoning of Bill seemed to be fraught with good sense. We spent the night together at the little tavern where he had left his box, and in the morning I concluded to adopt his scheme. Bill departed, the tears standing in his eyes—and taking the serpents, strapped across my shoulders, I set out on my adventures.
I am not going to give a detail of my travels, at present. I am afraid my readers are weary of my long story; and beside, I have promised to bring my narrative to a close in my next number. I must, therefore, pass lightly over my adventures as a showman; I must say little of my experiences as a travelling merchant, and come down to a period several years subsequent to my parting with Bill Keeler, as just related. The war with England, declared by the United States in 1812, was then raging, and circumstances led me to take a part in it. The events to which I allude, will be given in the next chapter.