During the expedition, I saw many new things, and acquired a good deal of information. I also met with many curious adventures; but I cannot stop to tell them here. Having spent several weeks at New Orleans, I set my face northward; and proceeding along the banks of the Mississippi, one day, as I was approaching the town of Natchez, in descending a steep bank, I stumbled and fell, and my box was thrown violently to the foot of the hill. The glass at the top of the box was entirely broken out, and my travelling companions, seeing that they could secure their liberty if they chose, gradually slid out of their confinement, and brandishing their tongues, and rattling their tails, they glided away into a neighboring thicket. In vain did I coax and threaten: neither fear nor affection could stop their progress, and thus suddenly I took leave of them forever. It might seem that a couple of serpents were not the objects upon which the heart is likely to fix its affection—yet I felt a sort of desolation when they were gone, and calling to mind the friend who had bestowed them upon me, and my helpless condition, now that they were departed, I sat down by the road-side, and indulged myself in a hearty fit of tears.
In a short time, however, I recovered my spirits, and entered the town of Natchez. I here took passage on board a small sloop, and in five weeks reached St. Louis—a voyage which is now made, in steamboats, in four or five days. Here I found myself nearly out of money—and seeing that it was necessary to do something, I purchased a small stock of beads and other trinkets, and set off on foot to trade with the Indians, of which there were several tribes in that region. My business was to exchange the goods I carried, for furs. In the first trip, I succeeded so well as to try it again, and finally I became a regular fur dealer, and carried on a considerable trade.
In my excursions, I met with many incidents that might be worth telling; but I can only stop to relate one of them. On a certain occasion I had penetrated into the Indian territory, to a considerable distance from any white man’s settlement. Having learned something of the Indian manners and customs, and a few words of their language, I almost felt myself at home among them, particularly as some of the men spoke English. It was not, therefore, a cause of any anxiety, at the time to which I refer, that I was obliged to seek lodging in one of their villages.
It was a beautiful summer night, and I slept alone beneath a hut of skins. About midnight I was waked by a slight noise, and saw the dark figure of an Indian, about to enter the hut. I started in some alarm, but he put out his hand in token of peace, and begged that I would listen to a request which he had to make.
He sat down by my side, and stated that he loved a dark-eyed girl of the tribe, but that she would not return his affection. He was the bravest of the young chiefs in battle, as he said: the swiftest of foot in the race; the strongest in wrestling; the most successful in hunting—and yet the maiden, Zary, refused to become his wife. In this condition, he begged me to give him some charm by which he could conquer the heart of the girl, and persuade her to yield to his suit. I had, among my wares, a pair of ear-rings about three inches long, set with glass of various colors—green, red, and yellow. These I gave to the chief, and told him to present them to Zary. He thanked me after his Indian fashion, and went away. I did not know the result at the time, but I learned it at a subsequent period.
At last, the war with England broke out, and the Indians being incited to hostilities against us, there was no farther opportunity to venture among them. I therefore left St. Louis, and after a variety of incidents, reached New York. Here I spent a few days, and then set off for Salem, where I arrived without accident.
At first, the place seemed a good deal altered. Every house was in fact precisely as I left it, three years before—but still, all seemed on a smaller scale than I had fancied. The roads and lanes were narrower than they had once seemed; the old tavern of the Cock and Bull was not more than two thirds as large, and the meeting-house seemed to me to have shrunken to one half of its former dimensions. But my friends were still the same, at least so far as to be glad to see me. In some few cases, I could see the effect of habitual attendance upon the bar-room, which flourished much the same as ever. This was manifest, by an increased slovenliness of dress; a bloating of the face; a tottling step; an uncertain and staring look, as if the mind wandered; and, in short, a general aspect of degradation both of body and soul.
Raymond was perhaps a little thinner and paler than when I left him; Matt Olmsted seemed absolutely unchanged; but as to my best friend—Bill Keeler—alas! my heart bled to look at him. It was of an afternoon that I reached the village, in the stage-coach. Without making myself known at the tavern to a single individual, I walked to Bill’s house, which was at a short distance, and standing by itself. As I approached it, I remarked with pain, that it had a shabby, neglected, and desolate appearance. The garden by its side was overgrown with weeds—the fence was broken down in several places: the gate of the little door-yard was laying flat by the road-side. All had on the appearance of waste and neglect, as if the proprietor cared not for the place.
I was on the point of turning back, but seeing a child at the door, I went up and spoke to it. It looked me in the face, and I could see, even in the soft features of infancy, the semblance of my friend. I could not help smiling to note in a child, the features which were so associated in my own mind with the boyish tricks, youthful frolics, and Yankee shrewdness of the father. In a few moments, the mother came to the door, and asked me to walk in. I did so, but she did not recognise me for some time. When I left Salem, she was the picture of ruddy health, and light-hearted happiness; she was now thin and pale, and her countenance told of sorrow. Her house was ill furnished, and had a comfortless appearance.
We went on conversing for some time; at last I enquired for her husband, and thus she recognised me. Soon after, Bill came in. He knew me instantly—but I thought the meeting gave him pain, rather than pleasure. I noticed that he looked poor and shabby, and he seemed to be oppressed with the consciousness of it. However, he soon rallied, and went on talking in his usual way, putting a great many questions, and much faster than I could answer them. “Where’s the box and the two sucking doves, Bob?—Mr. Merry—I beg your pardon!—How you have altered! Why, you’re grown up complete. Where have you been all this time? Let me see—it’s better’n four years since you left us, aint it? I dare say you’ve been all over the world. Did you go to China, where they have houses made of crockery? Come, tell us all about it.”