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Nathaniel Hawthorne - "The Blithedale Romance"

Unknown - "The Bible, Douay Rheims, Book 4: Numbers"

Will Irwin - "The City That Was"

Charles Babbage - "On the Economy of Machinery and Manufactures"

From Boyhood to Manhood

W >> William M. Thayer >> From Boyhood to Manhood




"I am at your service now, Ben, as ever before; only I would like to
understand just what I can do."

"That is what I want to talk with you about. I am not yet clear as to
my best way of escape. If I go by land, on foot, they may send
officers after me, and overtake me before I get half way there."

"Of course it would be poor policy for you to go by land, if you can
possibly go by water. There is a New York sloop in the harbor, and no
doubt it will return soon."

"But how can I get aboard? The captain will want to know who I am, and
if he knows that I am a runaway apprentice, he will refuse me a
passage."

"I can manage that," said John. "I know the captain, and I think I can
arrange with him to take you."

"Yes, but he will want large pay for it. Of course he will not take me
to New York without some money arrangement, and I have precious little
money to give him."

"You can sell some of your books," suggested John. "You will not take
them to New York with you, and you can sell them readily."

"That is a good idea, John; I will reduce it to practice at once. I
shall not want much money anyway. But suppose the captain is very
inquisitive about me, how will you get along with the case? He must be
somewhat suspicious when a Boston boy wants to be taken to New York on
the sly."

"You leave that to me; I have no doubt that I can smuggle you through.
He shall not know even that your name is Franklin."

"Well, then, I will commit myself to your care. See that you manage
adroitly, even if you have to make a package of me for transportation.
I am going to New York if I am obliged to walk there."

"I will go to see the captain at once, Ben; and I will be back with my
report in two hours. Be on hand, and see if I do not make a good
bargain for your passage. You always have succeeded, and I think you
will succeed now."

"Be off, then, in a jiffy, and I will run out to see where I can
dispose of my books. I will be back in two hours, and meet you here."

They parted, and John hurried away to see the captain. He found him on
board his sloop.

"Can you take a friend of mine to New York?" he asked.

"That depends on circumstances," replied the captain. "Who is your
friend? Can't take a pauper or a criminal, you know."

"He is neither one nor the other. He is a young man about my age, a
printer by trade, and he is going to New York to find work."

"Why doesn't he find work in Boston? There are more printers in Boston
than there are in New York."

"That may be; but he prefers to work in New York. He's tired of
Boston."

"Perhaps Boston is tired of him--is that so? I want to accommodate,
but I don't want to get anybody into trouble, nor get there myself."

John saw that there was no evading the captain's questions, and so he
resolved to tell the false story he had thought of on his way to the
sloop.

"Well," said John, "if I must tell you the whole story, the case is
this: He is a young fellow who has been flirting with a girl, who
wants to marry him, and now her parents are determined that he shall
marry her, and he is as determined that he will not; and he proposes
to remove secretly to New York. He would have come to see you himself,
but his coming might awaken suspicion on the part of some one
acquainted with the affair, who might see him and know him. So I came
to do the business for him."

"He is in a fix, sure," answered the captain; "if there is any man in
the world I would help, it is the man who is trying to escape from the
girl he don't want to marry. How much will he pay for his passage?"

"He will pay your price if it is reasonable. He is not a pauper,
though he has not much of a money surplus. He will satisfy you as to
that."

"Send him along, then; this sloop will sail on Saturday at two
o'clock, P.M. He better not come aboard until just before we sail, or
somebody may upset his plans, and the girl get him, after all."

"All right; he will be here on the mark, and I shall be with him to
see him off," answered John, as he turned upon his heels to report his
success to Benjamin.

A youth who can fabricate a falsehood so unblushingly as John did the
foregoing is already on the road to ruin. The reader will not be
surprised to learn, before the whole story is told, that he became a
miserable, reckless sort of a man. This lie proved that he was
destitute of moral principle and would do almost any thing to carry
his point.

That the captain should have been taken in by such a ruse is
inexplicable. But, no doubt, the thought of receiving good pay for his
passage led him to receive the passenger. It was so much gain to
receive a few dollars from an unexpected source.

"The bargain is made, and your passage to New York is assured,"
exclaimed John to Benjamin, when they met, at the end of two hours.

"Have any trouble to accomplish it? You did not awaken his suspicion,
did you?" replied Benjamin, evidently relieved of considerable anxiety
by the announcement.

"No trouble, of course; I did not mean to have any, if lying would
prevent it."

"Then you had to resort to falsehood to carry your point, did you? How
was that, John?"

"Well, you see, he questioned me pretty closely, and seemed to be
suspicious that you might be a pauper or criminal. He wouldn't want to
carry you if you were a pauper, for he would get no pay for it; and he
would not carry a criminal, for fear of getting into trouble with the
authorities. So I had to originate a little love story, in which you
are represented as fleeing from a girl and her parents, who are
determined that you shall marry her."

"You are more original than I thought you were, John. You might write
a novel out of the affair."

"Yes; and it would be no worse than half the novels that are written,"
rejoined John. "I had a plot to get you to New York, and the novel
writer often has a plot that is not half so important, nor half so
much truth in it."

"How soon will the sloop sail?"

"Next Saturday, at two o'clock in the afternoon, so you will not have
to wait long. You must not go aboard until just before the sloop
sails; for the girl might get wind of it, and be after you. The
captain will be on the lookout for her; he evidently don't want you to
fall into her hands."

Benjamin laughed at this way of putting the matter; and, in the
circumstances, was not disposed to criticise John's method. But he
inquired:

"How about the price to be paid for the passage?"

"That is left for you and him to adjust," replied John. "I told him
that you was not over-burdened with money, but had enough to pay him
for your passage. How about your books--can you sell them?"

"Yes, and quite as favorably as I had supposed. I see nothing why I
shall not be all ready for the sloop on Saturday. I will send my chest
of clothes down just before I go myself."

"I will be on hand to go to the sloop with you," said John, as they
parted, each with a clear understanding as to the future.

The plan was carried out to the letter, and Benjamin and John were on
their way to the sloop in due time.

"Tell no tales out of school," remarked Benjamin. "I prefer that no
one should know my whereabouts at present."

"They will find out nothing from me; I shall be profoundly ignorant of
your movements," answered John. "Perhaps I shall be the most
astonished person in Boston over your sudden departure; there's no
telling. But I shall want to hear from you, Ben,--can't you write?"

"Sha'n't make any pledges. I shall want to hear from you as much as
you will from me, and a little more, I guess. For I shall want to hear
what is said and done about my unauthorized departure. I suppose that
a _runaway_ can not expect many favorable remarks."

"Perhaps the _Gazette_ will say that the editor of the _Courant_ has
run away," suggested John, in a vein of pleasantry. "There will be
considerable more truth in that than I told the captain. It is rather
of a singular occurrence, however, Ben, that so popular an editor as
you have been should be running away from the editorial chair."

By this time the sloop was boarded, and the captain was almost ready
to sail.

"My friend," said John to the captain, presenting Benjamin. "You will
find him good company; he is no fool or knave."

"He might be a goner if that girl should be after him before we get
under way," suggested the captain. "However, we'll soon be off."

"Good luck to you, old friend," said John, as he shook hands with
Benjamin. "We shall be nigh each other, though three hundred miles
apart."

"Good-bye, John; a thousand thanks for what you have done for me,"
replied Benjamin, with a heavy heart, just beginning to feel that he
was going away from home. "Good-bye."

Thus they parted, and the sloop sailed for New York. Benjamin avoided
conversation with the captain as much as was possible, lest he might
ask questions it would be embarrassing to answer. The captain, too,
refrained from too much freedom with his youthful passenger, lest he
might make it painful for him, now that he was running away from a
girl.

The sloop was becalmed off Block Island for several hours, when the
sailors resorted to catching cod for a pastime, and slapping them down
one after another on the deck.

"Cruel! Inhumanity!" cried Benjamin, who entertained the singular idea
that it was murder to take the life of any harmless creature; and for
this reason he would not touch animal food.

"What is cruel?" inquired one of the crew.

"Taking the life of codfish that never did you any harm."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed the captain; "how you goin' to eat 'em before you
catch 'em?"

"Don't eat them, and then there will be no need of catching them,"
responded Benjamin. "They are in their native element now; let them
stay there, and you keep in yours. They are in as great misery on this
deck as you would be down there in the water."

"What put such a queer notion as that into your head?" said the
captain, who was surprised that a sane man should hold such an
opinion. "Don't _you_ eat fish?"

"No, nor any other kind of meat; I have not touched a particle for
more than two years."

"Because you think it is wicked to kill harmless animals of any kind?"
remarked another sailor, who had been listening in utter astonishment.

"Yes, that is the principal reason, though I do not think that man
needs flesh for a diet."

"You think that God made beasts, birds, and fish to look at, and not
to eat," suggested the captain. "In my opinion, the world would be
overrun with dumb animals in time if none were killed for food."

"And I think the human family would perish for want of food, if flesh
were denied them," added one of the crew.

While this conversation was going on, the cook was frying fresh cod,
and the sailors were enjoying the odor therefrom.

"Don't they smell good?" said one, addressing Benjamin; "I shouldn't
want to risk you with one of those fellows if there was no more than I
wanted."

"I once ate fish, and had a special liking for them, and they smell
well enough now in the frying-pan," replied Benjamin. "But I have my
own opinions about killing such animals."

"I should think you had," responded one of the sailors, laughing; "no
one else would ever think of such a thing."

Soon the whole crew were eating cod, and in the jolliest manner making
remarks at Benjamin's expense.

"Look here, my friend," said the cook; "when these fish were opened, I
found smaller ones in their stomachs; now, if they can eat one
another, I don't see why we can't eat them; do you?"

"You must be joking, young man," continued the captain; "better send
all such notions adrift and sit down with us to dine on fish; they are
splendid."

One and another remarked, keeping up a continual fire at Benjamin,
with jokes and arguments and ridicule, until he sat down and went to
devouring a cod with the rest of them. That was the end of his queer
notion about killing fish; it was buried there in the sea; and
Benjamin never again resurrected it, but ate what other people did.
But the episode furnished sport for the sailors all the way from Block
Island to New York, where they arrived in about three days from the
time the sloop left Boston.

Benjamin did not know a person in the city of New York, nor had he a
single letter of recommendation to any one, and the money in his
pocket but a trifle. It was in October, 1723, that he arrived in New
York, a youth of seventeen years, a runaway in a city, without a
solitary acquaintance, and scarcely money enough to pay a week's
board! Perhaps, with all the rest, he carried an upbraiding conscience
under his jacket, more discomforting than to be a stranger in a
strange land.

At this crisis of Benjamin's life, he appeared to be on the highway to
ruin. There is scarcely one similar case in ten, where the runaway
escapes the vortex of degradation. Benjamin would have been no
exception, but for his early religious training and his love of books.

The case of William Hutton, who was the son of very poor parents, is
very similar to that of Benjamin Franklin. He was bound to his uncle
for a series of years, but he was treated so harshly that he ran away,
at seventeen years of age. The record is, that "on the 12th day of
July, 1741, the ill-treatment he received from his uncle in the shape
of a brutal flogging, with a birch-broom handle of white hazel, which
almost killed him, caused him to run away." A dark prospect was before
him, since "he had only twopence in his pocket, a spacious world
before him, and no plan of operation." Yet he became an author of much
celebrity, and a most exemplary and influential man. He lived to the
age of ninety, his last days being gladdened by the reflection of
having lived a useful life, and the consciousness of sharing the
confidence of his fellow-men.

This description of Hutton would apply almost equally well to
Franklin.




XIX.


TRIALS OF A RUNAWAY.

On arriving at New York, Benjamin's first thought was of work. His
pocket was too near empty to remain idle long; so he called upon Mr.
William Bradford, an old printer, who removed from Philadelphia to New
York some months before.

"Can I find employment in your printing office?" he inquired.

"I am not in need of extra help, I am sorry to say," answered Mr.
Bradford. "My business is light, and will continue to be so for the
present, I think. Are you a printer?"

"Yes, sir. I have worked at the business over three years."

"Where?"

"In Boston."

"You ought to understand it well by this time. I wish I had work for
you, or for any other young man who is enterprising enough to go from
Boston to New York for work."

"Do you think I should be likely to find work at some other printing
office in town?"

"I am sorry to say that I hardly think you can. Very dull times,
indeed, my son. But I think you can get work in Philadelphia. My son
runs a printing house in that city, and one of his men on whom he
relied much recently died. I think he would be glad to employ you."

"How far is it to Philadelphia?"

"About a hundred miles."

"A long distance," was Benjamin's reply, evidently disappointed to
find that he was still a hundred miles from work.

"It is only one-third as far as you have already traveled for work. If
you can find employment by traveling a hundred miles further, in these
dull times, you will be fortunate."

"Well, I suppose that is so," replied Benjamin, musing on his
situation. "What is the conveyance there?"

"You can take a boat to Amboy, and there you will find another boat to
Philadelphia. A pleasant trip, on the whole." And Mr. Bradford added,
for Benjamin's encouragement, "Philadelphia is a better place for a
printer than New York, in some respects."

Benjamin thanked him for his kindness, expressing much pleasure in
making his acquaintance, and bade him good-bye. He took the first boat
to Amboy, sending his chest by sea around to Philadelphia. The more he
reflected upon his situation, in connection with Mr. Bradford's
encouraging words, the more cheerful and hopeful he grew. If he could
get work "by going a hundred miles further" he ought to be well
satisfied, he said to himself. So he cheered up his almost desponding
heart, in Franklin fashion, as he proceeded upon the next hundred
miles.

But more trials awaited him, however, somewhat different from those
already experienced. The boat had been under way but a short time
before it was struck by a sudden squall, tearing the rotten sails to
pieces, and driving the craft pell-mell upon Long Island. It was the
first squall of that sort Benjamin had ever experienced. Other squalls
had struck him, and he was fleeing from one at that time, but this
squall of wind and rain was altogether a new experience, and he wilted
under it. The condition was made more tragic by a drunken Dutchman
falling overboard.

"Seize him! seize him!" cried the captain; and that was what Benjamin
was waiting to do when the miserable fellow should rise to the
surface. As soon as he came up from the depths into which he had sunk,
Benjamin seized him by the hair of his head and pulled him on board.

"There, you fool," exclaimed Benjamin. "I hope that ducking will sober
you. You came within sight of eternity that time."

"He may thank you for saving his life," remarked one of the boatmen.

"He is too drunk for that," replied Benjamin. "He will never know how
near he came to his own place. Strange that any man will be so foolish
as to drink stuff that will steal away his brains."

"Don't you ever drink it?" asked the captain in reply.

"Not one drop," his young passenger replied with emphasis, as he
rolled over the Dutchman to get the water out of him. "There, are you
all right now?"

The Dutchman mumbled over something, no one could tell what. It was
probably about a book in his jacket; for he took one therefrom, and
signified to Benjamin that he wanted it dried; and then he dropped
into a sound sleep.

"I declare, if it is not my old friend, The Pilgrim's Progress,"
exclaimed Benjamin; "in Dutch, too! A queer companion for a drunken
man to have, though a good one."

"Knows more about the bottle than he does about that, I bet," said the
captain. "I don't suppose that it makes much difference to him whether
he is under the water or on top."

"Not just now," replied Benjamin; "but what chance is there for
landing on such a rocky shore?"

"Not much; we'll drop anchor, and swing out the cable towards the
shore," said the captain.

"I see men on the shore, and there are boats there; perhaps they can
come to our rescue, though the wind is blowing a little too hard for
them."

The captain hallooed to them, and they returned an answer, but the
wind howled so that they could not be understood.

"A boat! A boat!" shouted the captain. Others of the crew joined in
the call for aid, and made various signs indicating their need of
assistance. But neither party could understand the other.

"What now?" inquired Benjamin, when he saw the men on shore turning
their steps homeward. "A pretty dark night before us."

"Yes, dark and perilous, though I have seen a worse one," answered the
captain. "When we find ourselves in such a predicament, there is only
one thing to be done."

"What is that?" asked Benjamin, who was quite nervous and anxious.

"Do nothing but wait patiently for the wind to abate." The captain was
cool and self-reliant when he spoke.

"Then let us turn in with the Dutchman," said one of the boatmen. "I
don't want he should have all the sleep there is. He is not in
condition to appreciate it as I am."

"As you please," said the captain; "might as well improve the time by
getting a little rest. We shall be all right in the morning."

So all crowded into the hatches, including Benjamin. But the spray
broke over the head of the boat so much that the water leaked through
upon them.

"A wet berth for you, friend," said one of the boatmen to Benjamin.
"You are not accustomed to sleeping in such wet blankets. You may get
as wet as the Dutchman before morning."

"There is only one thing to do in these circumstances," said Benjamin
in reply, "take things as they come, and make the best of it."

"If you can," added the boatman in a suggestive way. "If _you_ can, I
oughter. I've been in this business longer than you have lived."

The crew slept soundly; but Benjamin found no rest in such an unusual
plight. Sleep was out of the question, and he had all the more time to
_think_, and his active mind improved the opportunity, so that Boston,
home, the printing office, and his parents were dwelt upon until he
began to think he was _paying too dear for the whistle_ again. It is
not strange that runaways feel thus, sooner or later, since few of
them ever realize their anticipations.

The cold, dreary night wore away slowly, and the wind continued to
howl, and the breakers to dash and rear, until after the dawn of
morning. Benjamin was never more rejoiced to see daylight than he was
after that dismal and perilous night. It was the more pleasant to him,
because the wind began to abate, and there was a fairer prospect of
reaching their destination. As soon as the tumult of the winds and
waves had subsided, they weighed anchor, and steered for Amboy, where
they arrived just before night, "having been thirty hours on the water
without victuals, or any drink but a bottle of filthy rum."

In the evening Benjamin found himself feverish, having taken a severe
cold by the exposure of the previous night. With a hot head and a
heavy heart he retired to rest, first, however, drinking largely of
cold water, because he had somewhere read that cold water was good for
fever. This was one of the advantages he derived from his early habit
of reading. But for his taste for reading, which led him to spend his
leisure moments in poring over books, he might never have known this
important fact, that, perhaps, saved him a fit of sickness. Availing
himself of this knowledge, he drank freely of water before he retired,
and the result was a thorough sweating; and he arose in the morning
fully restored, so as to continue his journey.

A few years ago, a young man was traveling in the state of Maine,
soliciting subscribers for a newspaper. On passing a certain farm, he
observed some bricks of a peculiar color, and he traced them to their
clay-bed, and satisfied himself that the material could be applied to
a more valuable purpose than that of making bricks. He at once
purchased the farm for fifteen hundred dollars, and, on his return to
Boston, sold one-half of it for four thousand dollars. The secret of
his success lay in a bit of knowledge he acquired at school. He had
given some attention to geology and chemistry, and the little
knowledge he had gained therefrom enabled him to discover the nature
of the clay on the said farm. Thus even a little knowledge that may be
gleaned from a book in a simple leisure half-hour, will sometimes
prove the way to a valuable treasure; much more valuable than the farm
which the young man purchased. This pecuniary benefit is, after all,
the least important advantage derived from reading. The discipline of
the mind and heart, and the refined and elevated pleasure which it
secures, are far more desirable than any pecuniary advantage gained. A
little reading, also, as we have seen, sometimes gives an impulse to
the mind in the direction of learning and renown. It was the reading
of Echard's Roman History, which Gibbon met with while on a visit to
Miltshire, that opened before him the historic path to distinction.

Sir Walter Scott warned the young against under valuing the knowledge
to be acquired at odd moments by reading and study. He wrote:

"If it should ever fall to the lot of youth to peruse these pages, let
such readers remember that it is with the deepest regret that I
recollect, in my manhood, the opportunities of learning which I
neglected in my youth; that through every part of my literary career I
have felt pinched and hampered by my own ignorance; and I would this
moment give half the reputation I have had the good fortune to
acquire, if by so doing I could rest the remaining part upon a sound
foundation of learning and science."

But we have lost sight of Benjamin. We left him at the "tavern" in
Amboy, after having spent the night in a cold-water sweat, about ready
to start on his journey. Burlington was fifty miles from Amboy, and
there was no public conveyance, so that he was obliged to go on foot,
expecting to find a boat there bound for Philadelphia.

"Rather a tough day for walking," remarked the landlord, as Benjamin
was leaving his house. "Better stay unless your business is driving."

"Rain or shine, I must push on," responded Benjamin cheerfully. "I
want to be in Philadelphia as soon as possible. Can't melt, as I am
neither sugar nor salt."

"Well, that is a very encouraging view to take of the situation, and
it is a sensible one, too," said the landlord. "There's nothing like
taking things as they come."

"I have lived long enough to find that out, young as I am," replied
Benjamin; "and I expect to find constant use of that spirit in future.
Good-bye, sir."

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