Finding that to live with James in the pleasant relations of a brother
and a freeman was a lost hope, Ben made up his mind to quit him and go
on journey-work with some of the Boston printers. But James suspecting
Ben's intentions, went around town to the printers, and made such a
report of him, that not a man of them all would have any thing to say
to him. The door of employment thus shut against him, and all New
England furnishing no other printing office, Ben determined, in quest
of one, to push off to New-York. He was farther confirmed in this
resolution by a consciousness that his newspaper squibs in behalf of
his brother, had made the governing party his mortal enemies. And he
was also afraid that his bold and indiscreet argumentation against the
gloomy puritans, had led those crabbed people to look on him as no
better than a young atheist, whom it would be doing God service to
worry as they would a wild cat. He felt indeed that it was high time to
be off.
To keep his intended flight from the knowledge of his father, his
friend Collins engaged his passage with the captain of a New-York
sloop, to whom he represented Ben as an amorous young blade, who wished
to get away privately in consequence of an intrigue with a worthless
hussy, whom her relations wanted to force upon him. Ben had no money.
But he had money's worth. Having, for four years past, been carefully
turning into books every penny he could spare, he had by this time made
up a pretty little library. It went prodigiously against him to break
in upon his books. But there was no help for it. So turning a parcel of
them back again into money, he slipped privately on board of a sloop,
which on the third day landed him safely in New-York, three hundred
miles from home, only seventeen years old, without a single friend in
the place, and but little money in his pocket.
He immediately offered his services to a Mr. Bradford, the only printer
in New-York. The old gentleman expressed his regret that he could give
him no employment; but in a very encouraging manner advised him to go
on to Philadelphia, where he had a son, a printer, who would probably
do something for him. Philadelphia was a good hundred miles farther
off; but Ben, nothing disheartened by that, instantly ran down to the
wharf, and took his passage in an open boat for Amboy, leaving his
trunk to follow him by sea. In crossing the bay, they were overtaken by
a dreadful squall, during which a drunken Dutchman, a passenger, fell
headlong into the raging waves. Being hissing hot and swollen with rum,
he popped up like a dead catfish; but just as he was going down the
second time, never to rise again, by a miracle of mercy, Ben caught him
by the fore-top, and lugged him in, where he lay tumbled over on the
bottom of the boat, fast asleep, and senseless as a corpse of the
frightful storm which threatened every moment to bury them all in a
watery grave. The violence of the wind presently drove them on the
rocky coasts of Long Island; where, to prevent being dashed to pieces
among the furious breakers, they cast anchor, and there during the rest
of the day, and all night long, lay riding out the gale. Their little
boat pitching bows under at every surge, while the water constantly
flying over them in drenching showers, kept them as wet as drowned
rats; and not only unable to get a wink of sleep, but also obliged to
stir their stumps, baling the boat to keep her from sinking.
The wind falling the next day, they reached Amboy about dark, after
having passed thirty hours without a morsel of victuals, and with no
other drink than a bottle of bad rum; the water upon which they had
rowed, being as salt as brine. Ben went to bed with a high fever.
Having somewhere read that cold water, plentifully drank, was good in
such cases; he followed the prescription, which threw him into a
profuse sweat, and the fever left him. The next day, feeble and alone,
he set out, with fifty wearisome miles to walk before he could reach
Burlington, whence he was told that a passage boat would take him to
Philadelphia. To increase his depression, soon as he left the tavern,
it set in to rain hard. But though wet to the skin, he pressed on by
himself through the gloomy woods till noon, when feeling much fatigued,
and the rain still pouring down, he stopped at a paltry tavern, where
he passed the rest of the day and night. In this gloomy situation he
began seriously to repent that he had ever left home; and the more, as
from the wretched figure he made, every body was casting a suspicious
eye upon him as a runaway servant. Indeed, from the many insulting
questions put to him, he felt himself every moment in danger of being
taken up as such, and then what would his father think on hearing that
he was in jail as a runaway servant, four hundred miles from home! And
what a triumph to his brother. After a very uneasy night, however, he
rose and continued his journey till the evening, when he stopped about
ten miles from Burlington, at a little tavern, kept by one Dr. Brown.
While he was taking some refreshment, Brown came in, and being of a
facetious turn, put a number of droll questions to him; to which Ben
retorted in a style so superior to his youthful looks and shabby dress,
that the Doctor became quite enamoured of him. He kept him up
conversing until midnight; and next morning would not touch a penny of
his money. This was a very seasonable liberality to poor Ben, for he
had now very little more than a dollar in his pocket.
On reaching Burlington, and buying some gingerbread for his passage, he
hastened to the wharf. But alas! the boat had just sailed! This was on
Saturday; and there would be no other boat until Tuesday. Having been
much struck with the looks of the old woman, of whom he had just bought
his cargo of gingerbread, he went back and asked her advice. Her
behaviour proved that he had some skill in physiognomy. For the moment
he told her of his sad disappointment and his doubts how he should act,
she gave him the tender look of a mother, and told him he must stay
with her till the next boat sailed. Pshaw! Don't mind these little
disappointments, child, said she, seeing him uneasy; they are not worth
your being troubled about. When I was young, I used to be troubled
about them too. But now I see that it is all but vanity. So stay with
me till the boat goes again; and rest yourself, for I am sure you must
be mighty tired after such a terrible walk. The good old lady was very
right; for what with his late loss of sleep, as also his fever and long
walk in the rains, he was tired indeed; so he gladly consented to stay
with her and rest himself. Having shown him a small room with a bed in
it, for him to take a _nap, for she saw clear enough_, she said,
that _he was a dying for sleep_, she turned with a mother's
alacrity to get him something to eat. By and by she came again, and
from a short but refreshing doze, waked him up to a dinner of hot
beef-steaks, of which she pressed him to eat _heartily_, telling
him that _gingerbread was fit only for children_. While he was
eating, she chatted with him in the affectionate spirit of an aged
relative; she asked him a world of questions, such as _how old_ he
was--and what was his _name_--and whether his mother was
alive--and how far he lived from Burlington? Ben told her every thing
she asked him. He told her his name and age. He also told her that his
mother was alive, and that he had left her only seven days ago in
Boston, where she lived. The old lady could hardly believe him that he
ever came from Boston. She lifted up her hands, and stared at him as
though he had told her he had just dropped from the North Star. From
BOSTON! said she with a scream, _now only to think of that!
O dear, only to think of that!_ And then, O how she pitied his
mother. _Poor dear soul!_ She, all the way yonder in Boston, and
such a sweet looking, innocent child, wandering here at such a distance
by himself: how could she stand it?
Ben told her that it was a great affliction to be sure; but could not
be helped. That his mother was a poor woman, with sixteen children, and
that he the youngest boy of all, was obliged to leave her to seek his
livelihood, which he hoped he should find in Philadelphia, at his
trade, which was that of a printer.
On hearing that he was a printer, she was quite delighted and pressed
him to come and set up in Burlington, for that she would be
_bound_ for it he would do mighty well there. Ben told her that it
was a costly thing to set up printing; that it would take two hundred
pounds, and he had not two hundred pence.
Well then, said she, now that you have got no money, it will give me
more pleasure to have you stay with me till you can get a good
opportunity to go to Philadelphia. I feel for your poor mother, and I
know it would give her such a pleasure if she knew you were here with
me.
Soon as Ben had enjoyed his beef-steaks, which he did in high style,
having the double sauce of his own good appetite and her motherly
welcome, he drew out his last dollar to pay the good old lady. But she
told him to _put it up, put it up, for she would not take a penny of
it_. Ben told her that he was young and able to work, and hoped to
do well when he got into business, and therefore could not bear that
she who was getting old and weak should entertain him for nothing.
_Well_, said she, _never mind that, child, never mind that. I
shall never miss what little I lay out in entertaining you while you
stay with me. So put up your money._ However, while she was busied
in putting away the dishes, he slipped out and got a pint of ale for
her: and it was all that he could prevail on her to accept.
From the pleasure with which Ben ever afterwards spoke of this good old
woman, and her kindness to him, a poor strange boy, I am persuaded as
indeed I have always been, that there is nothing on which men reflect
with so much complacency as on doing or receiving offices of love from
one another.
Ben has not left us the name of this good old woman, nor the sect of
christians to which she belonged. But it is probable she was a Quaker.
Most of the people about Burlington in those days were Quakers. And
besides such kindness as her's seems to be more after the spirit of
that wise people, who instead of wrangling about _faith_, which
even devils possess, give their chief care to that which is the
_end_ of all faith, and which the poor devils know nothing about,
viz, "_love_ and _good works_."