phrase, and even tone of voice and accent in pronunciation, all please and seem to refresh and revive me." The newspapers of those days were full of advertisements for runaway apprentices, and Benjamin was one to get his freedom in the same way. He sold his books for a little cash, took secret passage in a sloop for New York, and in three days (some time in October, 1723) found himself in that strange city "without the least recommendation or knowledge of anybody in the place." The voyage had been uneventful save for an incident which happened while they were becalmed off Block Island. The crew here employed themselves in catching cod, and to Franklin, at this time a devout vegetarian, the taking of every fish seemed a kind of unprovoked murder, since none of them had done or could do their catchers any injury. But he had been formerly a great lover of fish, and the smell of the frying-pan was most tempting. He balanced some time between principle and inclination, till, recollecting that when the fish were opened he had seen smaller fish taken out of their stomachs, he bethought himself: "If you eat one another I don't see why we may not eat you;" so he dined upon cod very heartily, and continued through life, except at rare intervals, to eat as other people. "So convenient a thing it is," he adds, "to be a reasonable creature, since it enables one to find or make a reason for everything one has a mind to do."

II

BEGINNINGS IN PHILADELPHIA AND FIRST VOYAGE TO ENGLAND

The only printer then in New York was old William Bradford, formerly of Philadelphia, whose monument may still be seen in Trinity Churchyard. To Mr. William Bradford accordingly young Franklin applied for work; but there was little printing done in the town and Bradford had no need of another hand at the press. He told Franklin, however, that his son at Philadelphia had lately lost his principal assistant by death, and advised Franklin to go thither.

Without delay Franklin set out for that place, and after a somewhat adventurous journey arrived at the Market Street wharf about eight or nine o'clock of a Sunday morning.

Philadelphia at that time was a comfortable town of some ten thousand inhabitants, extending a mile or more along the Delaware and reaching only a few blocks back into the country. It was a shady easy-going place, with pleasant gardens about the houses, and something of Quaker repose and substantial thrift lent a charm to its busy life. Men were still living who could remember when unbroken forests held the place of Penn's city:—

Franklin was fond of contrasting his humble entrance into his adopted home with the honorable station he afterwards acquired there. He was, as he says, in his working dress, his best clothes coming round by sea. He was dirty from being so long in the boat. His pockets were stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and he knew no one nor where to look for lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and the want of sleep, he was very hungry; and his whole stock of cash consisted in a single dollar and about a shilling in copper coin, which he gave to the boatmen for his passage. At first they refused it on account of his having rowed, but he insisted on their taking it. "Man is sometimes," he adds, "more generous when he has little money than when he has plenty; perhaps to prevent his being thought to have but little."

It was indeed a strange entrance for the future statesman and scientist. As he walked up to Market Street he met a boy with bread, which reminded him forcibly of his hunger, and asking the boy where he had got his loaf he went straight to the same baker's. Here, after some difficulty due to difference of names in Boston and Philadelphia, he provided himself with three "great puffy rolls" for threepence, and with these he started up Market Street, eating one and carrying one under each arm, as his pockets were already full. On the way he passed the door of Mr. Read's house, where his future wife saw him and thought he made an awkward, ridiculous appearance. At Fourth Street he turned across to Chestnut and walked down Chestnut and Walnut, munching his roll all the way. Coming again to the river he took a drink of water, gave away the two remaining rolls to a poor woman, and started up Market Street again. He found a number of clean-dressed people all going in one direction, and by following them was led into the great meeting-house of the Quakers. There he sat down and looked about him. It was apparently a silent meeting, for not a word was spoken, and the boy, being now utterly exhausted, fell into a sleep from which he was roused only at the close of the service.

That night he lodged at the Crooked Billet, which despite its ominous name seems to have been a comfortable inn, and the next morning, having dressed as neatly as he could, set out to find employment. Andrew Bradford had no place for him; but another printer named Keimer, who had recently set up in business, was willing to give him work. It was a queer house and a queer printer. There was an old damaged press, on which Franklin exercised his skill in repairing, and a small worn-out font of type. Keimer himself, who seems to have been a grotesque compound of knave and crank, was engaged at once in composing and setting up in type an elegy on the death of a prominent young man. He is the only poet to my knowledge who ever used the composition-stick instead of a pen for the vehicle of inspiration. The elegy may still be read in Duyckinck's Cyclopædia, and on perusing it we may well repeat the first line:—

Now began a period of growing prosperity for our philosopher. The two printers of Philadelphia were poorly qualified for their business, and Franklin by his industry and intelligence soon rendered himself indispensable to Keimer. He was making money, had discovered a few agreeable persons to pass his evenings with, and was contented. He took lodging with Mr. Read, and now, as he says, "made rather a more respectable appearance in the eyes of Miss Read."

He was even in a fair way to forget Boston when an incident occurred of some importance in his life. Robert Holmes, who had married his sister, being at Newcastle, forty miles below Philadelphia, heard of him and wrote entreating him to return home. To this appeal Franklin replied giving his reasons for leaving Boston. Now Sir William Keith, governor of Pennsylvania, chanced at this time to be at Newcastle, and, being shown the letter by Holmes, was so much impressed with it that he determined to offer encouragement to the writer. Great, then, was the surprise of Benjamin and his master when one day the governor and another gentleman in their fine clothes called at the printing-house and inquired for the young man. They took him to a tavern at the corner of Third Street, and there over the Madeira the governor proposed that Benjamin should start an independent shop, promising in this case to give him the government printing. Benjamin was skeptical, but at last it was decided that he should go to Boston and seek help of his father; and in April, 1724, with a flattering letter from the governor, he set out for his old home. Benjamin's father, however, though pleased by the governor's approval, thought the boy too young to assume so much responsibility, and sent him back to Philadelphia with no money, but with his blessing and abundant good counsel, advising him to restrain his natural tendency to lampoon, and telling him that by steady industry and prudent parsimony he might save enough by the time he was twenty-one to set himself up, and withal promising help if he came near the matter.

The return voyage was unimportant save for an amusing incident which showed Franklin's