business; but his "bookish inclination at length determined his father to make him a printer" though he had already one son (James) of that profession.
I liked it much better than that of my father, but still had a hankering for the sea. To prevent the apprehended effect of such an inclination, my father was impatient to have me bound to my brother. I stood out some time, but at last was persuaded, and signed the indenture, when I was but twelve years old. His father's little library consisted chiefly of books in polemic divinity, most of which I read. * * * Plutarch' s Lives there was, in which I read abundantly, and I still think that time spent to great advantage. I now had access to better books. An acquaintance with the apprentices of booksellers enabled me sometimes to borrow a small one, which I was careful to return soon, and clean. Often I sat up in my room reading the greatest part of the night, when the book was borrowed in the evening and to be returned early in the morning, lest it should be missed or wanting. [He became intimately acquainted with] another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by name, with whom I was intimately acquainted. * * * About this time I met with an odd volume of the Spectator. It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing[1] excellent, and wished if possible to imitate it.
But his apprenticeship to his brother, notwithstanding all these waysides of literary pleasure and self education was made irksome to him; either his brother's tyranny or jealousy, perhaps both, oppressed his ingenious energy, and he sought means to leave him and he says:
I was sensible that if I attempted to go openly, means would be used to prevent me. My friend Collins therefore undertook to manage a little for me. He agreed with the Captain of a New York sloop for my passage * * * So I sold some of my books to raise a little money, was taken on board privately, and as we had a fair wind, in three days I found myself in New York, near 300 miles from home, a boy of but 17, without the least recommendation to or knowledge of, any person in[2] the place, and with very little money in my pocket. Here, [he says,] I offered my service to the printer in that place old Mr. William Bradford, who had been the first printer in Pennsylvania, removed from thence upon the quarrel of George Keith. He could give me no employment, having little to do, and help enough already, but says he: My son at Philadelphia has lately lost his principal hand, Aquila Rose, by death; if you go thither I believe he may employ you.[3]
