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ble enemy

of

oppression. Ilis apprenticeship became insupportable, and he sighed continually far an nasrtunity of shortening it, which at length unexpectedly offered.

An article in his paper, or sme political subject, giving great oftence to the assembly, James was taken up; and because he would not discover the author, was ordered juto contiennent for a month. Ben also was har! ap and examined before he council, who after reprimanding dismissed him, probably because deeming him crets.

Notwithstanding their private quarrels, this imprisonment of his brother excited Ben's indignation against the assembly; and having now, during James' continement, the sole direction of the paper, he boldly came out every week with some severe pasquinase agaiast The little tyrants of Boston." But though this served to gratify his own angry feelings, and to tickle James, as also to gain himself the character of a wonderful young man for satire; yet it answered no good end, but far contrariwise, proved a fatal blow to their newspaper, for at the expiration of the month, James' enlargement was accompanied with an order from the assembly, that “James FRANKLIN SHOULD NO LONGER PRINT THE NEWSPAPER ENTITLED THE NEW ENGLAND Courant "

This was a terrible thunder clap on poor James and his whole scribbling squad; and Ben could find no lightning rod to parry the bolt. A caucus, however, of all the friends was convoked at the printing office, to devise ways and means of redress. Une proposed this measure and another that; but the ineasure proposed by James himself was at length adopte. This was to carry on the newspaper under Ben's name. But, said some, will not the assembly haul you over the coals for thus attempting to whip the dround the stump?

No, replied Jamnes.
Aye, how will you prevent it?
Why, I'll give up Ben's indentures.
So then you'll let Ben run free!
No, nor that neither, for he shall sign a new contract.

This was to be sure a very sha:lon arrangement. It was however carried into immediate execution. And

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the paper continued in.consequence to make its appearance for some months in Ben's name. At length a new différence arising between the brothers, and Ben knowing that James would not dare to talk of his new con tract, boldly asserted his freedom!

His numerous admirers will here blush for poor Ben, and hide their reddening cheeks. But let them redden as they may, they will hardly ever equal that honest erimson which głows in the following lines from his own pen:

“It was, no doubt, very dishonorable to avail myself of this advantage, and I reckon this as the first error of my life. But I was little capable of seeing it in its true light, embittered as my mind had been by the blows I had received. Exclusively of his passionate treatment of me, my brother was by no means an ill tempered

And even here, perhaps, my manners had too much of impertinence not to afford it a very natual pretext."

Go thy way, honest Ben. Such a confession of error will plead thy excuse with all who know their own infirmities, and remember what the greatest saints have done. Yes, when we remember what young Jacob did to his brother Esau, and how he came over him with his mess of pottage, robbing him of his birthright; and also what David did to Uriah, whom he robbed not only of his wife but his life also, we surely shall pity not only Ben, but every man his brother for their follies, and heartily rejoice that there is mercy with Christ to for> give all, on their repentance and amendment.

man.

CHAPTER XIII.

FINDING that to live with James in the pleasant relations of a brother and a freeman was a lost hope, Ben made up his mind to quit him and go on journey work with some of the Boston printers. But James suspecting Ben's intentious, went around town to the printers, and made such a report of him, that not a man of thein all would have any thing to say to him.

upon him.

The door of employment thus shut against him, and all New England furnishing, no other printing office, Ben determined in quest of one to push off to News York. He was farther confirmed in this resolution by a consciousness that his newspaper squibs in behalf of his brother, had made the governing party his mortal enemies, And he was also afraid that his bold and indiscreet argumentation against the gloomy puritans, had led those crabbed people to look on him as no better than a young atheist, whom it would be doing God service to worry as they would a wild cat. He felt indeed that it was high time to be off.

To keep his intended flight from the knowledge of his father, his friend Collins engaged his passage with the captain of a New York stoop, to whom he represented Ben as an amorous young blade, who wished to get away privately in consequence of an intrigue with a worthless hussey, whom lier relations wanted to force Ben had no money.

But he had money's worth. Having, for four years past, been carefully turning into books every penny he could spare, he had by this time made up a pretty little library. It went prodigiously against him to break in upon his books. But there was no help for it. So turning a parcel of them back again into money, he slipped privately on board of a sloop, which on the third day lanıled him safely in New-York, three hundred miles from home, only seventeen years old, without a single friend in the place, and but lítile money in his pocket.

He immediately offered his services to a Mr. Bard. ford, the only printer in New York. . The old gentle. man expressed his regret that he could give him no einployment; but in a very encouraging manner advised him to go on to Philadelphia, where he had a son, a printer, who would probably do something for him, Philadelphia was a good hundred miles farther off; but Ben, nothing disheartened by that, instantly ran down to the wharf, and took his passage in an open boat for Amboy, leaving his trunk to follow him by sea. In crossing the bay, they were overtaken by a dreadful squall, during which a drunken Dutchman, a passenger, fell headlong into the raging waves. Being hissing hot and swollen with rum, he popped up like a dead catfish; but just as he was going down the second time, never to rise again, by a miracle of mercy, Ben caught him by the fore-top, and lugge:l him in, where he lay tumbled over on the bottom of the voạt, fast asleep, and senseless as a corpse of the frightful storin which threatened every moment to bury them all in a watery grave. The violence of the wind presently drove them on the rocky coasts of Long Island; where, to prevent being dashed to pieces among the furious breakers, they cast anchor, and there during the rest of the day, and all night long, lay riding out the gale. Their little boat pitching bows under at every surge, while the water constantly dying over them in drenching showers, kept them as wet as drowned rats; and not only unable to get a wink of sleep, but also obliged to stir their stumps, bailing the boat to keep her from siuking,

The wind falling the next day, they reached Ainboy about dark, after having passeri thirty hours without a morsel of victuals, and with no other drink than a botile of bad rum, the water upon which they had rowed, being as salt as brine. Ben went to bed with a high fever. Having somewhere read that old water, plentifully drank, was good in such cases; he followed the prescription, which threw him into a profuse sweat, and the fever left him. , The next day, feetle and alone, he set out, with fifty wearisome miles to walk before he could reach Burlington, whence he was told that a passage boat would take him to Philadelphia

To increase his depression, soon as he left the tavern, it set in to rain hard. ' But though wet to the skin, he pressed on by himself through the gloonry woods till noon, when feeling much fatigued, and the rain still pouring down, he stopped at a paltry tavern, where he passed the rest of the day and night. In this gloomy situation he began seriously to repent that he had ever left home; and the more, as from the wretched figure he made, every body was casting a suspicious eye upou hiin as a runaway servant. Indeed, from the inany insulting questions put to him, he felt himself every moment in danger of being taken up as such, and then what would his father think on hearing that he was in jail as a runaway servant, four hundred miles froin home!" and what a triumph to his brother! After a very uneasy night, however, he rose and continued his journey till the evening, when he stopped about ten miles from Burlington, at a little tavern, kept by one Dr. Brown. While he was taking some refreshment, Brown came in; and being of a facetious turn, put a number of droll questions to him; to which Ben retorted in a style so superior to his youth. ful looks and shabby dress, that the Doctor became quite enamoured of him. He kept him up, conversing until midnight; and next norning would not touch a penny of his money. This was a very seasonable liberality to poor Ben, for he had now very little more than a dollar in pocket.

On reaching Burlington, and buying some gingerbread for his passage, he hastened to the wharf. But alas! the buat had just sailed! This was on Saturday; and there would be no other boat until Tuesday. Having been much struck with the looks of the old woman, of whom he had just bought his cargo of gingerbread, he went back and asked her advice. Her behaviour proved that he had some skill in physiognomy. For the moment he told her of his sad disappointment, and his doubts how he should act, she gave him the tender look of a mother, and told him he must stay with her till the next boat sailed. Pshaw! Don't mind these little disappointments, child, said she, seeing him uneasy; they are not worth your being troubled about. When I was young, I used to be troubled about them too. But now I see that it is all but vanity. So stay with me till the boat goes again; and rest yourself, for I am sure you must be mighty tired, after such a terrible walk. The good old lady was very right; for what with his late loss of sleep, as also his fever and long walk in the rains, · he was tired indeed; so che gladly consented to stay with her and rest himself. Having shewn him a small room with a bed in it, for him to take a nap, for she saw clear enough, she said, that he was a-dying for sleep, she turned with a niother's alacrity to get him something to eat. By and by she came again, and from a short but refreshing doze, waked him up to a dinner of hot beef-steaks, of which she pressed him to eat heartily, telling him that gingerbread was fit only for children. While he was eating, she chatted with him in the affectionate spirit of an aged relative; she asked him a

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