From Boyhood to Manhood

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"Good luck to you, wherever you go," added the landlord in a friendly
tone.

Benjamin was wet through before he had traveled a mile, and he began
to wish that he had never left Boston; still he hastened on until he
reached a "poor inn" about noon. His own description of that day is as
follows:

"It rained very hard all the day; I was thoroughly soaked, and by noon
a good deal tired; so I stopped at a poor inn, where I staid all
night, _beginning now to wish I had never left home_. I made so
miserable a figure, too, that I found, by the questions asked me, I
was suspected to be some runaway indentured servant, and in danger of
being taken up on that suspicion."

"Where are you from, young man?"

"From Boston, sir."

"Ah! you are a long way from home for such a youngster. What is your
name?"

"My name is Benjamin Franklin, and I am going to Philadelphia after
work."

"No work in Boston, I s'pose, hey? How long since you left?"

"About a week. I did not expect to come further this way than New
York, but I could find no work there."

"No work in New York, hey? What sort of work do you do, that you find
it so scarce?"

"I am a printer by trade, and I hope to get into a printing office in
Philadelphia."

"Wall, you are a pretty young one to take such a trip; I should hardly
be willing my son should go so far from home, printer or no printer."

"I can afford to make such a trip, and even a longer one, if I can
find steady work," suggested Benjamin.

"Your father and mother living?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did they feel about your going so far from home?"

"A father who loves to work as well as my father does always wants his
sons to have enough to do," Benjamin replied, shrewdly evading the
close question. "Nothing my father hates so much as idleness."

"We all ought to hate it; but many men do not. In these times, can't
keep above water without work." The landlord's last words indicated
that his suspicions were somewhat allayed.

Benjamin managed to answer all the questions of the innkeeper without
increasing his suspicions. He ate and slept there, and on the
following morning proceeded on his journey, and by night was within
eight or ten miles of Burlington. Here he stopped at an inn kept by
one Doctor Brown, "an ambulating quack-doctor" and a very social man.

"How much further you going?" he inquired of Benjamin.

"I am going to Philadelphia."

"Where are you from?"

"Boston."

"Ah! I would like to see Boston; I never did. I have been in South
America, England, and some other countries, but I was never in
Boston."

"It is a good town, and has many educated, intelligent citizens; it is
a thriving place," said Benjamin. "I should like to see as much of the
world as you have."

"I enjoyed it, though my knocking about subjected me to many
hardships," replied the doctor. "You would like to see London, and
Paris, and Rome; I have seen them all. They are marvellous cities."

"I suppose so. My father came from England to Boston less than forty
years ago," continued Benjamin. "He enjoys this country more than he
did his own."

Benjamin had a good time at Doctor Brown's. The latter soon discovered
that his youthful guest was very intelligent, so he entered into an
account of his travels abroad somewhat in detail to interest him.
Benjamin enjoyed the interview very much, and forgot, for the time
being, that he was a runaway encountering many hardships. He was sorry
to leave him on the next day.

"I have enjoyed every minute of my stay here," he said, "and I shall
not forget it soon. Perhaps we shall meet again sometime."

"I hope we shall. I am glad to make your acquaintance, and I wish you
great success. I hope you will become the most successful printer in
America. Good-bye."

They parted the best of friends, and Benjamin pushed on to Burlington,
where he expected to find a boat. In the suburbs of the town he bought
some gingerbread of an old woman who kept a shop, and walked on,
eating it as he went. To his great disappointment, on reaching the
wharf, he found the boat had gone, and there would not be another
until Tuesday. It was Saturday, and his money would not hold out if he
should get boarded at a hotel till then. What should he do? He was in
great trouble about it for a short time, but finally concluded that he
would return to the old lady of whom he bought the gingerbread, as he
liked her appearance very well, and ask her advice. So back he went.

"Ah! back again?" she said, as he entered her shop. "Want more
gingerbread?"

"No. I was going to take the boat to Philadelphia, but it has gone,
and there is not another to go until Tuesday."

"Lor', me!" exclaimed the kind-hearted woman; "if that ain't too bad!
What kin ye du?"

"That is what I want to ask you. Is there any other conveyance to
Philadelphia?"

"Lor', no; and all ye has to du is to make the best on 't."

"And what is that? That is just what I want to know. How can I make
the best on 't?"

"What ye goin' to Philadelphy for?" she replied, instead of answering
his question.

"I am going after work. I am a printer, and want to find work in a
printing office."

"A printer, lor'! Dear me, yer fortin is made to set up business in
this 'ere town. There's nothin' of the like here."

"I have nothing to set up the business with," said Benjamin. "I would
as lief work here as in Philadelphia, if the way was open."

The woman did not know what was necessary in establishing a printing
house. That types and a press were indispensable articles in such
business she did not dream. She thought, doubtless, that he carried
all necessary fixtures with him in his pockets.

"Lor', then, I'll lodge ye till Tuesday for ----," naming the sum.

"I will stay with you, then, and make the best of it," he replied.

He found himself in very good quarters, and his hostess proved herself
to be very kind and hospitable. He took dinner with her, and remained
about the shop until towards night, when he walked forth to view the
place. In his walk he came around to the river, and, as he approached
it, he discovered a boat with several people in it, and he hailed
them:

"Whither bound?"

"To Philadelphia."

"Can you take me in? I was too late for the boat to-day."

"Just as well as not," and the boat was turned at once to receive the
additional passenger.

There was no wind, so that they had to depend upon their oars for
progress. Benjamin now had an opportunity to show his skill in rowing
which he acquired in his boyhood, in Boston. He was so elated with
proceeding on his journey to Philadelphia that he thought neither of
the fatigue of rowing nor of the wonder of the old lady in the shop at
the unexpected disappearance of her boarder. He did not mean to treat
her disrespectfully, for he considered her a very clever woman; but
the boat could not wait for him to return and pay the old lady his
compliments. Whether she ever learned what became of him, or that he
grew up to be Doctor Franklin, the philosopher and statesman, we have
no means of knowing. Doubtless she concluded that she had not
"entertained an angel unawares," but rather had aided an undeserving
fellow in pursuing a vicious course, which was not true.

The boat moved on. Benjamin rowed with strong resolution, taking his
turn with others, and impressing them by his tact and skill, until
midnight, when one of the company said:

"We must have passed the city. It can't be that we have been so long
getting to it."

"That is impossible," answered one of the men; "we must have seen it
if we had passed it."

"Well, I shall row no more," said the first speaker. "I know that
Philadelphia is not so far off as this."

"Then, let us put for the shore," said a third, "and find out where we
are, if possible."

All agreed to the last proposition, and at once rowed towards the
shore, entering a small creek, where they landed near an old fence,
the rails of which furnished them fuel for a fire. They were very
chilly, it being a frosty night of October, and they found the fire
very grateful. They remained there till daylight, when one of the
company knew that the place was "Cooper's Creek," a few miles above
Philadelphia. Immediately they made preparations to continue their
journey, which had not been altogether unpleasant, and they were soon
in full view of the city, where they arrived between eight and nine
o'clock on Sunday morning. They landed at Market-street Wharf. Taking
out his money, which consisted of one unbroken dollar and a shilling
in copper coin, he offered the latter to the boatman for his passage.

"Not a cent, my good fellow! You worked your passage, and did it well,
too. You row as if you were an old hand at it. Put your money back in
your pocket."

"But you _must_ take it," insisted Benjamin. "You are quite welcome to
all the rowing I have done. I am glad enough to get here by rowing and
paying my passage, too. But for your coming along to take me in, I
should have been obliged to stay in Burlington until next Tuesday,"
and he fairly forced the money upon the boatman.

Bidding them good morning, he walked up Market Street.

XX.

THE WALKING COMEDY.

Benjamin was very hungry, and he was considering how he could appease
his hunger, when he met a boy who was eating a piece of bread.

"That is what I want," he said to the boy; "where did you get that?"

"Over there, at the bake-shop," the boy replied, pointing to it.

"Thank you," and Benjamin hurried on.

He had eaten nothing since he dined with the shop-woman in Burlington,
on the day before. Besides, bread was a staple article with him. He
had made many a meal of plain bread in his brother's printing office
in Boston. Although he knew well which side his bread was buttered,
his appetite for unbuttered bread never failed him. Entering the
bake-shop, he inquired:

"Have you biscuit?" He was thinking of what he had in Boston.

"We make nothing of the kind."

"Give me a three-penny loaf, then."

"We have none."

Benjamin began to think he should have to go hungry still, for,
evidently, he did not know the names used to designate the different
sorts of bread in Philadelphia. But, soon recovering himself, he said:

"Then give me three-penny worth of any kind." To his surprise, the
baker passed three great puffy rolls to him, enough for three men to
eat at one meal. At first, he was puzzled to know what to do with
them, whether to take all three or not.

"What! All that?" he said, scarcely knowing what he did say.

"Yes, there's three-penny worth; that is what you said, was it not?"

"It was," and Benjamin paid the money and took the loaves, trying to
conceal his surprise, without exposing his ignorance of methods in the
Quaker City. He was a boy of remarkable tact, as we have seen, so that
he was never put to his wits long without finding a way out. It was so
in this case. He put a roll under each arm, and taking the third one
in his hand, he proceeded up the street, eating as he went.

Recollect that it was Sunday morning, and people were already swarming
in the streets, arrayed in their best clothes. Benjamin was clad in
his poorest clothes, and they were very shabby. His best suit was in
his chest, and that was sent from New York by water. He was a sight to
behold as he trudged up Market Street with his three loaves of bread,
and his large pockets stuffed with shirts and stockings. He preferred
pockets to the usual "bandanna bundle"; they were more convenient for
storing away his wardrobe, but contributed largely to his comical
appearance. He was a walking comedy. People gazed at him inquiringly
and smiled. No doubt, many of them wondered where he came from and
where he was going. He was seedy enough, but no one saw the seed of a
philosopher or statesman about him. There was no promise in that
direction. He was an embryo "Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of
France"; but his appearance was that of a shack, or modern tramp, to
whom Sunday is like all other days, and whose self-respect is at a
large discount.

On he went, however, regardless of opinions concerning the figure he
cut, stowing away in his stomach the baker's loaf in his hand. He
passed by the residence of one Mr. Read, whose daughter, in her teens,
Miss Deborah Read, was standing at the door. She gazed in wonder at
the singular specimen of humanity passing before her; thought he was
the most awkward and comical creature in the form of a man she had
ever seen; and turned away with a laugh to tell her people in the
house of the queer spectacle. She little thought that she was taking a
bird's eye view of her future husband, as the young man with the rolls
under his arms turned out to be. But just then he cared more for bread
than he did for her; some years thereafter, the case was reversed, and
he cared more for her than he did for bread.

He turned down Chestnut Street, and walked on until he came round to
the wharf where he landed. Being thirsty, he went to the boat for
water, where he found the woman and child, who came down the river
with them on the previous night, waiting to go further.

"Are you hungry?" he said to the little one, who looked wistfully at
the bread.

"We are both very hungry," replied the mother quickly for herself and
child.

"Well, I have satisfied my hunger with one loaf, and you may have the
other two if you want them"; and Benjamin passed the two rolls under
his arms to her. "It appears that, in Philadelphia, three-penny worth
of bread is three times as much as a man can eat. If other things can
be had in the same proportion, the last dollar I have left will go a
great way."

"I thank you a thousand times; you are very kind indeed," responded
the woman, with a heart overflowing with gratitude, which was as good
pay for the bread as Benjamin wanted. "May you never want for bread."

"No one would want for bread if they who have it will divide with
those who have none, as they should."

In the last reply was incorporated a leading virtue of Benjamin's
character--a trait that manifested itself, as we shall see, all
through his life. His generosity was equal to his wisdom. An American
statesman said of him, in a eulogy delivered in Boston:

"No form of personal suffering or social evil escaped his attention,
or appealed in vain for such relief or remedy as his prudence could
suggest, or his purse supply. From that day of his early youth, when,
a wanderer from his home and friends in a strange place, he was seen
sharing the rolls with a poor woman and child, to the last act of his
public life, when he signed that well-known memorial to Congress, a
spirit of earnest and practical benevolence runs like a golden thread
along his whole career."

"I must be after finding a boarding place," said Benjamin to the owner
of the boat, as he was about leaving. "I do not know where to go any
more than the man in the moon. Are you acquainted here?"

"Scarcely at all; could not be of any service to you any way on that
line," the owner answered. "Goin' to stop some time in Philadelphy?"

"I am going to live here if I can find work, as I expect to, and
become a citizen of this town."

"Wall, you'll make a good one, I know. May you never have reason to
repent of your choice. Goodbye."

"Good-bye"; and Benjamin walked up the street again. The people were
on their way to meeting, so that he was reminded of divine worship,
which he had partially forsaken in Boston. Being very tired, in
consequence of a hard time on the boat and a wakeful night, he
concluded to follow the people to church. They entered a large
old-fashioned meeting-house, and he followed them and took a seat near
the door. His appearance attracted much attention, as his dress was
not exactly that of a Quaker, and otherwise he was not quite of the
Quaker type; and it was a Quaker church in which he was. But he wasted
no thoughts upon his apparel, and did not stop to think or care
whether he was arrayed in shoddy or fine linen.

Whether he did not know that he was in a Quaker congregation, or
knowing that fact, was ignorant of the Quaker worship, does not
appear; but he waited for something to be said. While waiting for
this, he dropped into a sound sleep, and slept through the entire
service, and would have slept on, and been fastened into the
meeting-house, had not the sexton discovered him.

"Hulloo, stranger! Meeting's over; going to shut up the house,"
shouted the sexton, shaking the sleeper thoroughly.

"I was very tired," responded Benjamin, trying to get his eyes open.
"I was on the boat last night and got no sleep."

"Where did you come from?"

"Boston; I came here for work."

"Well, Philadelphy is a great place for work; what sort of work do you
want?"

"I am a printer by trade, and hope to find work in a printing office."

"And I hope you will. Sorry to disturb your nap, but I have to lock up
the house."

Benjamin thanked the sexton for waking him instead of locking him in,
and went out into the street. He had not proceeded far before he met a
Quaker whose face indicated a man of amiable and generous heart, and
Benjamin ventured to speak to him.

"I am a stranger in this town; arrived here this morning; can you tell
me where I can get a night's lodging?"

"Certainly I can; I suppose thee wants a respectable place." The
gentleman spoke so kindly as to draw Benjamin to him at once.

"Yes, sir; but not an expensive one; my purse will not permit of any
extra expense."

"Thee going to remain here some time?"

"Permanently, if I can get work; I am a printer by trade."

"I wish thee success," added the Quaker. "But here we are close by the
'Three Mariners'; but it is not exactly a reputable house, and thee
wants a better one."

"Yes; I want one that has a good reputation if there is such a one,"
said Benjamin.

"Well, if thee will follow me, I will show thee a better one; it is
not far away."

Benjamin followed him into Water Street, where he pointed out a public
house.

"There's the 'Crooked Billet,'" said the Quaker, "a tavern that is
reputable, where thee can find board and lodgings for a day or a
year."

"Thank you, sir, for your kindness," said Benjamin; "I shall not
forget you. May every body be as friendly to you as you have been to
me."

At the same time, Benjamin thought it was a very queer name for a
public house. He did not like either part of it, and he said to
himself, "'Crooked Billet'!--crookedness and a cudgel to strike down
the turbulent with, are suggested." The name did not suggest any thing
pleasant to him. But he went in, and engaged lodging and board until
Monday.

"Where are you from?" asked the landlord, scanning him from head to
foot.

"I am from Boston."

"Boston, hey? How long have you been on the way?"

"Two weeks."

"Got friends in Philadelphia?"

"Not one; all strangers to me."

"What did you come here for?"

"I came to secure work in a printing office. I am a printer by trade."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"And came all the way from Boston alone?"

"Yes, sir."

Benjamin saw by this time that the landlord suspected him of being a
runaway apprentice. This class of characters was large at that day,
for apprentices were often subjected to cruelty that made them
runaways. So he closed the conversation as soon as possible and went
to his room, where he slept until six o'clock, when he was called to
supper. Not long after supper he went to bed and slept soundly until
morning.

He arose early, took special pains to make himself as presentable as
possible, paid his bill without waiting for breakfast, perhaps because
he was reducing his cash so nearly to the last cent, and sallied forth
in search of Mr. Bradford. He experienced no trouble in finding the
printing office; but was very much surprised to find Mr. Bradford of
New York there, father of the young printer Bradford of Philadelphia,
to whom the father sent him.

"Glad to see you, my young friend. I got here first, after all, as you
see," remarked Mr. Bradford, the father, as he welcomed Benjamin with
a hearty shake of the hand. "Had any ill-luck on your way?"

"Not exactly bad luck, for I considered myself quite lucky to get here
at all; but a slow, tedious trip, with delays and storms and
disappointments most of the time," was Benjamin's answer, and he
entered somewhat into details.

"Well, you are here, and I am glad to meet you; and, now, you want
work." Then, turning to his son, Mr. Bradford continued: "My son, let
me introduce this young man to you. He is a printer by trade, from
Boston, in search of work: Benjamin Franklin. He called upon me in New
York, and I advised him to come to you, knowing that your leading
printer had died."

The young printer and the runaway were soon acquainted,--young
Bradford being as genial and friendly as the senior.

"I regret that I have no work for you now. I have filled the place
made vacant by the death of Bolder."

"There is another printer here, is there not?" asked the senior
Bradford.

"Yes, Keimer; it is possible he may want a man. But it is breakfast
time now; let us all go to breakfast, and then we'll see what can be
done."

Benjamin was invited to breakfast with them, and there learned that
Mr. Bradford of New York came all the way on horseback, starting very
unexpectedly the next day after Benjamin left New York. He was
somewhat surprised, also, to learn that Philadelphia had only seven
thousand inhabitants at that time--five thousand less than Boston.

"I will go with you to see Mr. Keimer," said the senior Bradford,
after breakfast. "Perhaps I may be of service to you."

"I shall feel myself under great obligations to you if you will,"
answered Benjamin. "It is quite necessary that I should get work, as
my money is nearly gone."

"We can fix that, I think," said young Bradford. "I may be able to
give you a little something to do, if Keimer don't want you, so that
you won't starve. You can lodge at my house."

"Thanks," replied Benjamin. "I appreciate your kindness, and hope to
be able to make some return for it in the future. I am sorry not to
appear before you in more respectable apparel, but my chest of clothes
comes by water from New York, and I have not received it yet."

"Clothes don't make the man," responded the elder Bradford, who had
discovered a remarkably bright and intelligent youth in Benjamin.
"Brains take the precedence of clothes in New York and Philadelphia."

Benjamin found himself among good friends, so he cheerfully accepted
their counsel. The senior Bradford accompanied him to Keimer's.

"Neighbor," said Bradford, "I have brought to you a young man from
Boston, a printer by trade; he is after work. Perhaps you can employ
him."

"That depends on his qualifications," answered Mr. Keimer. "I want
some one who is acquainted with the business."

"You will find him all right, I think; he appears to know what he is
about."

"How long have you worked at the business?" inquired Keimer, turning
to Benjamin.

"Over three years."

"Do you understand all parts of it so that you can go on with it?"

"Yes, I think I do; you can ascertain by trying me."

"Take this composing-stick and try your hand; let me see what you can
do."

Benjamin proceeded to give an exhibition of his skill at type-setting,
which he did so rapidly and easily that Keimer was delighted.

"Very well done, indeed. I think you told the truth; you must have had
considerable experience. I will employ you as soon as I have
sufficient work. At present, I have nothing for you to do."

"It is not often, Mr. Keimer, that you have the opportunity to employ
a skilled hand like this young man," suggested Bradford. "If you could
give him enough to do to pay his board, until you are full of work, it
may be for your interest and his, too."

"That is true. I am at work now upon this Elegy on Aquila Rose, who
was clerk of the Pennsylvania Legislature; and I may want him to print
it. I shall have it ready in three or four days. I am expecting other
work soon, also."

"You can return to my son's house to eat and sleep," said Mr. Bradford
to Benjamin. "I think Mr. Keimer will want you before long. He expects
to have business."

"What do you think of my prospects here, sir?" inquired Keimer of Mr.
Bradford, supposing him to be a citizen of Philadelphia. "I have
hardly got under way yet; it is only a few weeks since I began."

"That will depend upon your own exertions and business talents.
Philadelphia is a growing town, where industry and perseverance will
do wonders."

"I shall do all in my power to draw the business of the town; and I
think I can do it by industry and giving first-class work."

"How can you expect to get all the business when there is another
printer here, who has been established some time?"

Keimer answered the last inquiry by disclosing his plans, as Bradford
artfully drew him out on every point, until he learned how he was
calculating to command all the business, and run his son out of it.
Nor did Keimer dream that he was conversing with the father of the
other printer, whom he designed to deprive of his livelihood. All the
while Benjamin stood and listened to their conversation, perceiving
that Bradford was shrewdly learning Keimer's plans for the benefit of
his son.

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