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."
CHAPTER XIV
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