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From Boyhood to Manhood
Trials of a Runaway
by Thayer, William M.

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."


"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."

"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?"


"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.


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