Ben now sat himself down to stay with this good old woman till the
following Tuesday; but still Philadelphia was constantly before him,
and happening, in the impatience of his mind, to take a stroll along
the river side, he saw a boat approaching with a number of passengers
in it. _Where are you bound?_ said he.
To PHILADELPHIA, was the reply.
His heart leaped for joy. Can't you take a passenger aboard? I'll help
you to row. O yes, answered they, and bore up to receive him. With all
his heart he would have run back to his good old hostess to bid her
farewell, and to thank her for her kindness to him, but the boat could
not wait; and carrying, tortoise-like, his all upon his back, in he
stepped and went on with them to Philadelphia, where, after a whole
night of hard rowing, they arrived about eight o'clock next morning,
which happened to be Sunday.
Soon as the boat struck the place of landing, which was Market-street
wharf, Ben put his hand into his pocket, and asked, what was the
damage. The boatmen shook their heads, and said, _oh no; he had
nothing to pay. They could never take pay from a young fellow of his
spirit, who had so cheerfully assisted them to row all the way._ As
his own stock now consisted of but one Dutch dollar, and about a
shilling's worth in coppers, he would have been well content to accept
his passage on their own friendly terms; but seeing one of their crew
who appeared to be old, and rather poorly dressed, he hauled out his
coppers and gave them all to him. Having shaken hands with these
honest-hearted fellows, he leaped ashore and walked up Market-street in
search of something to appease his appetite, which was now abundantly
keen from twenty miles' rowing and a cold night's air. He had gone but
a short distance before he met a child bearing in his arms that most
welcome of all sights to a hungry man, a fine loaf of bread. Ben
eagerly asked him where he had got it. The child, turning around,
lifted his little arm and pointing up the street, with great simplicity
and sweetness said, _don't you see that little house--that little
white house, way up yonder?_
Ben said, yes.
_Well then_, continued the child, _that's the baker's house;
there's where my mammy sends me every morning to get bread for all we
children._
Ben blessed his sweet lips of innocence, and hastening to the house,
boldly called for _three pence_ worth of bread. The baker threw
him down three large rolls.
What, all this for three pence! asked Ben with surprise.
Yes, all that for three pence, replied the baker with a fine yankee
snap of the eye, all that for _only_ three pence! Then measuring
Ben from head to foot, he said with a sly quizzing sort of air, and
pray now my little man where may you have come from?
Here Ben felt his old panic, on the runaway servant score, returning
strong upon him again. However, putting on a bold face, he promptly
answered that he was from Boston.
Plague on it replied the man of dough, and why did'nt you tell me that
at first; I might so easily have cabbaged you out of one whole penny;
for you know you could not have got all that bread in YANKEE-TOWN for
less than a good four-pence? Very cheap, said Ben, three large rolls
for three-pence: _quite dog cheap!_ So taking them up, began to stow
them away in his pockets; but soon found it impossible for lack of
room--so placing a roll under each arm, and breaking the third, he
began to eat as he walked along up Market-street. On the way he passed
the house of that beautiful girl, Miss Deborah Read, who happening to
be at the door, was so diverted at the droll figure he made, that she
could not help laughing outright. And indeed no wonder. A stout fleshy
boy, in his dirty working dress, and pockets all puckered out, with
foul linen and stockings, and a loaf of bread under each arm, eating
and gazing around him as he walked--no wonder she could not help
laughing aloud at him as one of the greatest gawkies she had ever seen.
Very little idea had she at that time that she was presently to be up
to her eyes in love with this young gawky; and after many a deep sigh
and heart-ache, was to marry him and to be made a great woman by him.
And yet all this actually came to pass, as we shall presently see, and
we hope greatly to the comfort of all virtuous young men, who though
they may sometimes be laughed at for their oddities; yet if, like
Franklin, they will but stick to the _main chance_, _i.e._ BUSINESS and
EDUCATION, they will assuredly, like him, overcome at the last, and
render themselves the admiration of those who once despised them.
But our youthful hero is in too interesting a part of the play for us
to lose a moment's sight of him; so after this short moral we turn our
eyes on him again, as there, loaded with his bundles and his bread, and
eating and gazing and turning the corners of the streets, he goes on
without indeed knowing where he is going. At length, however, just as
he had finished his first roll, his reverie was broken up by finding
himself on Market-street wharf, and close to the very boat in which he
had come from Burlington. The sight of the silver stream, as it whirled
in dimpling eddies around the wharf, awakened his thirst; so stepping
into the boat he took a hearty draught, which, to his unvitiated
palate, tasted sweeter than ever did mint-sling to any young drunkard.
Close by him in the boat sat a poor woman with a little ragged girl
leaning on her lap. He asked her if she had breakfasted. With a sallow
smile of hunger hoping relief, she replied _no_, for that she had
nothing to eat. Upon this he gave her both his other loaves. At sight
of this welcome supply of food, the poor woman and her child gave him a
look which he never afterwards forgot.
Having given, as we have seen, a tythe of his money in gratitude to the
poor boatman, and two thirds of his bread in charity to this poor woman
and her child, Ben skipped again upon the wharf, and with a heart light
and gay with conscious duty, a second time took up Market-street, which
was now getting to be full of well-dressed people all going the same
way. He cut in, and following the line of march, was thus insensibly
led to a large Quaker meeting-house. Sans ceremonie, he pushed in and
sat down with the rest, and looking around him soon felt the
_motions_, if not of a devout, yet of a pleasantly thoughtful
spirit. It came to his recollection to have heard that people must go
abroad to see strange things. And here it seemed to be verified.
_What, no pulpit! Whoever saw a meeting-house before without a
pulpit?_ He could not for his life conceive where the preacher was
to stand. But his attention was quickly turned from the meeting-house
to the congregation, whose appearance, particularly that of the young
females, delighted him exceedingly. Such simplicity of dress with such
an air of purity and neatness! He had never seen any thing like it
before, and yet all admirably suited to the gentle harmony of their
looks. And then their eyes! for meekness and sweetness of expression,
they looked like dove's eyes. With a deep sigh he wished that his
brother James and many others in Boston were but gentle and good as
these people appeared to be. Young as he was, he thought the world
would be a great deal the happier for it. As leaning back he indulged
these soothing sentiments, without any sound of singing or preaching to
disturb him, and tired nature's soft languors stealing over him too, he
sunk insensibly into sleep. We are not informed that he was visited
during his slumber, by any of those benevolent spirits who once
descended in the dreams of the youthful patriarch, as he slept in the
pleasant plains of Bethel. But he tells us himself, that he was visited
by one of that benevolent sect in whose place of worship he had been
overtaken by sleep. Waked by some hand on his shoulder that gently
shook him, he opened his eyes, and lo! a female countenance about
middle age and of enchanting sweetness, was smiling on him. Roused to a
recollection of the impropriety he had been guilty of, he was too much
confused to speak; but his reddened cheeks told her what he felt. But
he had nothing to fear. Gently shaking her head, though without a
frown, and with a voice of music, she said to him "_My son, thee
ought not to sleep in meeting._" Then giving him the look of a
mother as she went out, she bade him farewell. He followed her as well
as he could, and left the meeting-house much mortified at having been
caught asleep in it; but deriving at the same time great pleasure from
this circumstance, because it had furnished opportunity to the good
Quaker lady to give him that _motherly look_. He felt it sweetly
melting along his soul as he walked. _O how different, thought he,
that look from the looks which my brother and the council men of Boston
gave me, though I was younger then and more an object of sympathy!_
As he walked along the street, looking attentively in the face of every
one he met, he saw a young Quaker with a fine countenance, whom he
begged to tell him where a stranger might find a lodging. With a look
and voice of great sweetness, the young Quaker said, they receive
travellers _here_, but it is not a house that bears a good
character; if thee will go with me, I will show thee a better one.
This was the _Crooked Billet_, in Water-street. Directly after
dinner, his drowsiness returning, he went to bed and slept, without
waking till next morning.
Having put himself in as decent a trim as he could, he waited on Mr.
Bradford, the printer, who received him with great civility, and
invited him to breakfast, but told him he was sorry he had no occasion
for a journeyman. There is, however, continued he in a cheering manner,
there is another printer here, of the name of Keimer, to whom if you
wish it, I will introduce you. Perhaps he may want your services.
Ben gratefully accepting the offer, away they went to Mr Keimer's. But
alas, poor man! both he and his office put together, made no more than
a miserable burlesque on printing. Only one press, and that old and
damaged! only one font of types, and that nearly worn out! and only one
set of letter cases, and that occupied by himself! and consequently no
room for a journeyman.
Here was a sad prospect for poor Ben--four hundred miles from home--not
a dollar in his pocket--and no appearance of any employment to get
one.--But having, from his childhood, been accustomed to grapple with
difficulties and to overcome them, Ben saw nothing here but another
trial of his courage, and another opportunity for victory and triumph.
As to Keimer, suspecting from his youthful appearance, that Ben could
hardly understand any thing of the printing art, he slyly put a
COMPOSING STICK into his hand. Ben saw his drift, and stepping
to the letter cases, filled the stick with such celerity and taste as
struck Keimer with surprise, not without shame, that one so inferior in
years should be so far his superior in professional skill. To complete
this favourable impression, Ben modestly proposed to repair his old
press.--This offer being accepted, Ben instantly fell to work, and
presently accomplished his undertaking in such a workman-like style,
that Keimer could no longer restrain his feelings, but relaxing his
rigid features into a smile of admiration, paid him several flattering
compliments, and concluded with promising him, that though, for the
present, he had no work on hand, yet he expected an abundance shortly,
and then would _be sure_ to send for him.
In a few days Keimer was as good as his word; for having procured
another set of letter cases, with a small pamphlet to print, he sent in
all haste for Ben, and set him to work.