On arriving at New York, Benjamin applied to a well known printer, Mr.
William Bradford, for work.

“Where are you from?” he inquired.

“From Boston,” was Benjamin’s reply.

“Used to the printing business?”

“Yes, that is my trade. I have worked at it several years.”

“I am sorry I cannot employ you. Just now my business is small, and I have all the help I need.”

“What do you think of the prospect of getting work at some other office in the town?” inquired Benjamin.

“Not very flattering, I am sorry to say. Dull times, my son, very dull indeed. But I can tell you where you can find employment, I think. My son carries on the printing business in Philadelphia, and one of his men died the other day. I think he would be glad to employ you.”

“How far is it to Philadelphia?”

“It is a hundred miles,” replied Mr. Bradford, “a much shorter distance than you have already travelled.”

Benjamin looked somewhat disappointed when he found that Philadelphia was a hundred miles farther; still, he was after work, and he was determined to find it; so he made inquiries about the mode of conveyance, and left Mr. Bradford, thanking him for his kindness. Immediately he engaged a passage in a boat to Amboy, and made arrangements for his chest to be carried round by sea. He was less disheartened, probably, on account of the assurance of Mr. Bradford that his son would employ him. If he could procure work by travelling a hundred miles more, he would cheerfully do it, although a journey of a hundred miles then was about equal to one thousand now.

At the appointed time Benjamin went aboard, and the boat started. She had not proceeded far when a squall struck her, tore her rotten sails to pieces, and drove her upon Long Island. Before this, however, a drunken Dutchman, who was also a passenger, fell overboard, and would have lost his life but for the timely assistance of our printer-boy. Springing to the side of the boat, Benjamin reached over and seized him by the hair of his head as he rose, and drew him on board.

“He may thank you for saving his life,” exclaimed one of the boatmen.

“He is too drunk for that,” answered Benjamin. “It will sober him a little, however, I think. Halloo, here, you Dutchman!” (turning to the drunken man) “how do you like diving?”

The Dutchman mumbled over something, and pulling a book out of his pocket, asked Benjamin to dry it for him, which he promised to do. Soon the poor, miserable fellow was fast asleep, in spite of the wet and danger, and Benjamin examined the drenched volume, which proved to be Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, in Dutch, a favourite book of his a few years before. It was a very good companion for even a drunken Dutchman to have; but Benjamin could not but think that its contents were not so familiar to the unfortunate possessor as the bottle.

On approaching Long Island they found that there was no place to land, and the beach was very stony; so “they dropped anchor, and swung out their cable towards the shore.” Some men came down to the shore and hallooed to them, and they returned the shout. Seeing some small boats lying along the shore, they cried out as loudly as possible, “A boat! a boat!” and made signs to them to come to their assistance; but the wind was so boisterous that neither party could understand the other.

After several fruitless attempts on both sides to be heard, and night coming on, the men on the shore went home, and left Benjamin and the boatmen to their perils.

“There is only one thing to be done,” said the captain, “when we get into such a predicament.”

“What is that?” asked Benjamin.

“To do nothing but wait patiently till the wind abates,” answered the captain, rather coolly.

“Then let us turn in with the Dutchman to sleep,” said one of the boatmen. “It isn’t best for him to have all the good things.”

All agreed to this, and soon they were crowded into the hatches, Benjamin among the number. But the spray broke over the head of the boat so much that the water leaked through upon them, until they were about as wet as the Dutchman. This was hard fare for Benjamin, who had been accustomed to a comfortable bed and regular sleep. It was impossible for him to rest in such a plight, and he had all the more time to think. He thought of home, and the friends he had left behind, of the comfortable quarters he had exchanged for his present wet and perilous berth, and he began to feel that he had paid too dear for his whistle. Runaways usually 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 roar, until after the dawn of the following morning. Benjamin was never more rejoiced to see daylight appear 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 place of destination. As soon as the tumult of the wind 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, which perhaps saved him a fit of sickness. Availing himself of this knowledge, he drank freely of water before he retired, and the consequence was, that he sweat most of the night, and arose the next morning comparatively well. So much advantage from loving books!

Boys never have occasion to deplore the habit of reading, provided their books are well chosen. They usually find that they are thrice paid for all the time spent in this way. Sooner or later they begin to reap the benefits of so wise a course. A few years since, a young man was travelling in the State of Maine, procuring subscribers to a newspaper. On passing a certain farm, he observed some bricks of a peculiar colour, 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 three hundred pounds, and, on his return to Boston, sold one half of it for eight hundred pounds. 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 gleaned therefrom enabled him to discover the nature of the clay on the farm. Thus, even a little knowledge gleaned from a book in a single leisure half-hour, will sometimes prove the key to a valuable treasure; much more valuable than the farm which the young man purchased. For 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 good it bestows. A little reading, also, 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 Wiltshire, that opened before him the historic path to distinction.

Let the reader consider these things. Never say, as hundred’s of boys do, “I hate books, and wish that I was not obliged to go to school. There is no use in reading and studying so much; we shall get along just as well without it.” This class of boys usually will have to regret, under mortifying circumstances, in later life, that they wasted their early opportunities to acquire knowledge. Sir Walter Scott, in his boyhood, joined in the tirade of idlers against books; but in manhood he said: “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 at 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 passed the night in a cold-water sweat, ready for another 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. It was raining hard, and yet he started upon the journey, and trudged on through the storm and the mud, eager to see Burlington. He was thoroughly drenched before he had travelled five miles, and, in this condition, he walked on rapidly till noon, when he came to a “poor inn,” and stopped. Being wet and tired, he resolved to remain there until the next day. The innkeeper’s suspicions were awakened by Benjamin’s appearance, and he questioned him rather closely.

“Where are you from, my lad?”

“From Boston, sir.”

“Hey! and away off here so far? quite a youngster for such a trip. What’s your name?”

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

“No work in Boston I ’spose, hey? How long since you left home?”

“About a week. I did not expect to go farther than New York when I started, but I could get no work there.”

“No work, hey? what sort of work are you after 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 go so far; I would hardly be willing that a son of mine should make such a trip alone, printer or no printer.”

Benjamin saw that he was suspected of being a runaway, and he felt very uncomfortable. He managed, however, to answer all questions without satisfying the curiosity of the family. 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 Dr. Brown, “an ambulating quack doctor.” He was a very social and observing man, and soon discovered that Benjamin was a youth of unusual intelligence for one of his age. He conversed with him freely about Boston and other places, and gave a particular account of some foreign countries which he had visited. In this way he made Benjamin’s brief stay with him very pleasant, and they became friends for life, meeting many times thereafter on friendly terms.

The next morning he reluctantly bade the doctor good bye, and proceeded 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 now Saturday, and his money would not hold out if he should get boarded at a public-house till then. What should he do? After some reflection, he determined to go back to the old lady of whom he bought his gingerbread, as he liked her appearance very well, and ask her advice. So back he went.

“Ah! back again?” said she, as he entered her shop. “Want more gingerbread I ’spose?”

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

“Dear 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?”

“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, the best thing for me to do in such a case.”

“What ye goin’ to Philadelphy for?” inquired the old lady.

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

“A printer,” exclaimed the woman, who had probably never seen one before. “Dear me, yer fortin is made to set up business in this ere town. There is nothing of the like here.”

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

The woman did not know what was necessary in setting up a printing establishment. 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.

“Well, 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 host 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 round 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.”

“As well as not,” a voice replied; and the boat was turned to receive its additional passenger. There was no wind, so that they were obliged to depend on rowing for progress. Benjamin now found a rare opportunity to exercise the skill at rowing which he cultivated in Boston. He was so elated with the prospect of proceeding on his way 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 her his compliments. Whether she ever learned what became of him, or that he grew up to be Dr. Franklin, the great philosopher, we have no means of knowing. Doubtless she concluded that she had not entertained an “angel unawares,” but had rather aided an undeserving fellow in pursuing a vicious course, which was not true.

The boat went on. Benjamin rowed with strong resolution, taking his turn with others, 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,” said another. “We must have seen it, if we had passed it.”

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

“Let us put for the shore,” said a third person, “and find out where we are, if possible.”

“Agreed,” replied several voices; and so saying they rowed toward the shore, and entered a small creek, where they landed near an old fence, the rails of which furnished them with 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 the “City of Brotherly Love.” 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 boatmen for his passage.

“Not a cent, my good fellow,” said one of them, “you worked your passage, and did it well, too.”

“But you must take it,” responded 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 shilling into their hands. This manifested a spirit of generosity, for which Benjamin was always distinguished. He was no mean, niggardly fellow, not he. Although he was in a stranger city, and had but a single dollar left on which to live until he could earn something by daily toil, yet he cheerfully gave the change for his passage. He felt grateful to them for taking him in, and he gave expression to his gratitude in this generous way. It was noble, too, in the boatman to refuse to take the shilling. It was only on his insisting upon their receiving it, that they consented to take it. A kind-hearted, generous set of fellows were in that boat, and Benjamin was not inferior to one of them in that respect. Bidding them good morning, he walked up Market Street, where he met a boy eating some bread.

“Where did you get your bread, boy?” he inquired.

“Over to the baker’s, there,” he replied, pointing to a shop that was near by.

Benjamin was very tired and hungry, having eaten nothing since he dined with the old shopwoman in Burlington, on the day before; and, for this reason, the boy’s bread was very tempting. Besides, he had made many a meal of dry bread when he boarded himself in Boston; and now it was not hard at all for him to breakfast on unbuttered bread, minus both tea and coffee. He hastened to the bakery, and found it open.

“Have you biscuit?” he inquired, meaning such as he was accustomed to eat in Boston.

“We make nothing of the kind,” answered the proprietor.

“You may give me a three-penny loaf, then.”

“We have none.”

Benjamin began to think that he should have to go hungry still, since he did not know the names or prices of the kinds of bread made in Philadelphia. But in a moment he recovered himself, and said: “Then give me three-pennyworth of any sort.”

To his surprise the baker gave him three great puffy rolls, enough to satisfy half a dozen hungry persons. He looked at it, scarcely knowing at first what he could do with so much, but, as “necessity is the mother of invention,” he soon discovered a way of disposing of it. He put a roll under each arm, and taking a third in his hand he proceeded to eat it, as he continued his way up Market Street.

Let the reader stop here, and take a view of Benjamin Franklin, the runaway youth, as he made his first appearance in the city of Philadelphia. See him trudging up Market Street with his worn, dirty clothes (his best suit having been sent round by sea), his pockets stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and a “puffy roll” under each arm, and a third in his hand of which he is eating! A comical appearance certainly! It is not very probable that this runaway Benjamin will ever become “Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of France,” or surprise the world by his philosophical discoveries! There is much more probability that he will live in some obscure printing-office, and die, “unknown, unhonoured, and unsung.” Who wonders that a young lady, Miss Read, who was standing in the door of her father’s residence as Benjamin passed, thought he made a very awkward and ridiculous appearance? She little thought she was taking a bird’s-eye view of her future husband, as the youth with the rolls of bread under his arm proved to be. But just then he cared more for bread than he did for her; some years after, the case was reversed, and he cared more for her than he did for bread.

Turning down Chestnut Street he continued to walk 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 inquired of the child, who looked wistfully at his bread.

“We are both very hungry,” answered the woman, speaking for herself and child.

“I have satisfied my hunger,” said Benjamin, “and you may have the rest of my bread if you would like it,” at the same time passing both rolls to her.

“You are very kind indeed,” responded the woman. “I thank you much for it;” all of which was as good pay for the bread as Benjamin wanted. This was another instance of the generosity for which he was distinguished throughout his whole life. 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 his 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.”

He then walked up the street again, and found well-dressed people going to church. Joining in the current, notwithstanding his appearance, he went with them into the large Quaker meeting-house that stood near the market. He took his seat, and waited for the services to begin, either not knowing what Quakers did at meeting, or else being ignorant that he was among this sect. As nothing was said, and he was weary and exhausted with the labours and watchings of the previous night, he became drowsy, and soon dropped into a sweet sleep. His nap might have proved a very unfortunate event for him, but for the kindness of a wide-awake Quaker. For he did not wake up when the meeting closed, and the congregation might have dispersed, and the sexton locked him in, without disturbing his slumbers. But the kind-hearted Quaker moved his spirit by giving him a gentle rap on the shoulder. He started up, somewhat surprised that the service was over, and passed out with the crowd. Soon after, meeting a fine-looking young Quaker, who carried his heart in his face, Benjamin inquired, “Can you tell me where a stranger can get a night’s lodging?”

“Here,” answered the Quaker, “is a house where they receive strangers” (pointing to the sign of the Three Mariners near which they stood), “but it is not a reputable one; if thee will walk with me I will show thee a better one.”

“I will be obliged to you for doing so,” answered Benjamin. “I was never in Philadelphia before, and am not acquainted with one person here.”

The Quaker conducted him to Water Street, and showed him the Crooked Billet, a house where he might be accommodated. Benjamin thanked him for his kindness, entered the house, and called for dinner and a room. While sitting at the dinner-table, his host asked, “Where are you from?”

“I am from Boston?”

“Boston!” exclaimed the host, with some surprise. “How long since you left home?”

This question being answered, he continued, “Have you friends in Philadelphia?”

“None at all. I do not know a single person here.”

“What did you come here for?”

“I came to get work in a printing-office. I am a printer by trade.”

“How old are you?”

“I am seventeen years old, sir,” replied Benjamin, just beginning to perceive that the man suspected him of being a runaway.

“And came all the way from Boston alone?”

“Yes, sir!”

Benjamin closed the conversation as soon as he could conveniently, after perceiving that his appearance had excited suspicions, and went to his room, where he lay down and slept till six o’clock in the evening, when he was called to supper. He went to bed again very early, and was soon locked in the embrace of “nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep.”