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I rose at the dawn, and without asking or
bestowing a blessing, sallied forth into the high road to the
city which passed near the house. I left nothing behind, the
lofs of which I regretted. I had purchased most of my
own books with the product of my own separate industry, and
their number being, of course, small, I had, by incessant
application, gotten the whole of them by rote. They had
ceased, therefore, to be of any further use. I left them,
without reluctance, to the fate for which I knew them to
be reserved, that of affording food and habitation to mice.

I trod this unwonted path with all the fearlessness of youth.
In spite of the motives to despondency and apprehension,
incident to my state, my heels were light and my heart
joyous. “Now,” said I, “I am mounted into man. I
must build a name and a fortune for myself. Strange if this
intellect and these hands will not supply me with an honest
livelihood. I will try the city in the first place; but if that
should fail, resources are still left to me. I will resume my
post in the corn-field and threshing-floor, to which I shall
always have access, and where I shall always be happy.”

I had proceeded some miles on my journey, when I began
to feel the inroads of hunger. I might have stopped at any
farm-house, and have breakfasted for nothing. It was prudent
to husband, with the utmost care, my slender stock;
but I felt reluctance to beg as long as I had the means of

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buying, and I imagined, that coarse bread and a little milk
would cost little even at a tavern, when any farmer was willing
to bestow them for nothing. My resolution was farther
influenced by the appearance of a sign-post. What excuse
could I make for begging a breakfast with an inn at hand and
silver in my pocket?

I stopped, accordingly, and breakfasted. The landlord was
remarkably attentive and obliging, but his bread was stale,
his milk sour, and his cheese the greenest imaginable. I
disdained to animadvert on these defects, naturally supposing
that his house could furnish no better.

Having finished my meal, I put, without speaking, one
of my pieces into his hand. This deportment I conceived to
be highly becoming, and to indicate a liberal and manly
spirit. I always regarded with contempt a scrupulous maker
of bargains. He received the money with a complaisant
obeisance. “Right,” said he. “Just the money, Sir. You
are on foot, Sir. A pleasant way of travelling, Sir. I wish
you a good day, Sir.”—So saying he walked away.

This proceeding was wholly unexpected. I conceived myself
intitled to at least three-fourths of it in change. The
first impulse was to call him back, and contest the equity of
his demand, but a moment's reflection shewed me the absurdity
of such conduct. I resumed my journey with spirits
somewhat depressed. I have heard of voyagers and wanderers
in deserts, who were willing to give a casket of gems for a
cup of cold water. I had not supposed my own condition to
be, in any respect, similar; yet I had just given one third of
my estate for a breakfast.

I stopped at noon at another him. I counted on purchasing
a dinner for the same price, since I meant to content myself
with the same fare. A large company was just sitting
down to a smoking banquet. The landlord invited me to
join them. I took my place at the table, but was furnished
with bread and milk. Being prepared to depart, I took him
aside. “What is to pay?” said I.—“Did you drink

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anything, Sir?”—“Certanily. I drank the milk which was furnished.”—
“But any liquors, Sir?”—“No.”

He deliberated a moment and then assuming an air of disinterestedness,
“ 'Tis our custom to charge dinner and club,
but as you drank nothing, we'll let the club go. A mere
dinner is half-a-dollar, Sir.”

He had no leisure to attend to my fluctuations. After debating
with myself on what was to be done, I concluded that
compliance was best, and leaving the money at the bar
resumed my way.

I had not performed more than half my journey, yet my
purse was entirely exhausted. This was a specimen of the
cost incurred by living at an inn. If I entered the city, a
tavern must, at least for some time, be my abode, but I
had not a farthing remaining to defray my charges. My
father had formerly entertained a boarder for a dollar per
week, and, in a case of need, I was willing to subsist upon
coarser fare, and lie on an harder bed than those with which
our guest had been supplied. These facts had been the
foundation of my negligence on this occasion.

What was now to be done? To return to my paternal mansion
was impossible. To relinquish my design of entering
the city and to seek a temporary asylum, if not permanent
employment, at some one of the plantations, within view,
was the most obvious expedient. These deliberations did
not slacken my pace. I was almost unmindful of my way,
when I found I had passed Schuylkill at the upper bridge.
I was now within the precincts of the city and night was
hastening. It behoved me to come to a speedy decision.

Suddenly I recollected that I had not paid the customary
toll at the bridge: neither had I money wherewith to pay it.
A demand of payment would have suddenly arrested my progress;
and so slight an incident would have precluded that
wonderful destiny to which I was reserved, The obstacle
that would have hindered my advance, now prevented my return.
Scrupulous honesty did not require me to turn back

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and awaken the vigilance of the toll gatherer. I had nothing
to pay, and by returning I should only double my debt. “Let
it stand,” said I, “where it does. All that honour enjoins is
to pay when I am able.”

I adhered to the cross ways, till I reached Market-street.
Night had fallen, and a triple row of lamps presented a spectacle
enchanting and new. My personal cares were, for a
time, lost in the tumultuous sensations with which I was now
engrossed. I had never visited the city at this hour. When
my last visit was paid I was a mere child. The novelty which
environed every object was, therefore, nearly absolute. I
proceeded with more cautious steps, but was still absorbed
in attention to passing objects. I reached the market-house,
and, entering it, indulged myself in new delight and new
wonder.

I need not remark that our ideas of magnificence and splendour
are merely comparative; yet you may be prompted to
smile when I tell you that, in walking through this avenue,
I, for a moment, conceived myself transported to the hall
“pendent with many a row of starry lamps and blazing crescents
fed by naptha and asphaltos.” That this transition
from my homely and quiet retreat, had been affected in so
few hours, wore the aspect of miracle or magic.

I proceeded from one of these buildings to another, till I
reached their termination in Front-street. Here my progress
was checked, and I sought repose to my weary limbs by
seating myself on a stall. No wonder some fatigue was felt
by me, accustomed as I was to strenuous exertions, since,
exclusive of the minutes spent at breakfast and dinner, I had
travelled fifteen hours and forty-five miles.

I began now to reflect, with some earnestness, on my condition.
I was a stranger, friendless, and moneyless. I was
unable to purchase food and shelter, and was wholly unused to
the business of begging. Hunger was the only serious inconvenience
to which I was immediately exposed. I had no
objection to spend the night in the spot where I then sat.

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I had no fear that my visions would be troubled by the officers
of police. It was no crime to be without a home; but how
should I supply my present cravings and the cravings of tomorrow?

At length it occurred to me that one of our country neighbours
was probably at this time in the city. He kept a store
as well as cultivated a farm. He was a plain and well meaning
man, and should I be so fortunate as to meet him, his
superior knowledge of the city might be of essential benefit
to me in my present forlorn circumstances. His generosity
might likewise induce him to lend me so much as would purchase
one meal. I had formed the resolution to leave the
city next day and was astonished at the folly that had led me
into it; but, meanwhile, my physical wants must be supplied.

Where should I look for this man? In the course of conversation
I recollected him to have referred to the place of
his temporary abode. It was an inn, but the sign, or the
name of the keeper, for some time withstood all my efforts
to recall them.

At length I lighted on the last. It was Lesher's tavern.
I immediately set out in search of it. After many inquiries
I at last arrived at the door. I was preparing to enter the
house when I perceived that my bundle was gone. I had left
it on the stall where I had been sitting. People were perpetually
passing to and fro. It was scarcely possible not to have
been noticed. No one that observed it would fail to make it
his prey. Yet it was of too much value to me, to allow me
to be governed by a bare probability. I resolved to lose not
a moment in returning.

With some difficulty I retraced my steps, but the bundle
had disappeared. The clothes were, in themselves, of small
value, but they constituted the whole of my wardrobe; and
I now reflected that they were capable of being transmnted,
by the pawn or sale of them, into food. There were other
wretches as indigent as I was, and I consoled myself by

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thinking that my shirts and stockings might furnish a seasonable
covering to their nakedness; but there was a relique concealed
within this bundle, the loss of which could scarcely be
endured by me. It was the portrait of a young man who died
three years ago at my father's house, drawn by his own hand.

He was discovered one morning in the orchard with many
marks of insanity upon him. His air and dress bespoke some
elevation of rank and fortune. My mother's compassion was
excited, and, as his singularities were harmless, an asylum
was afforded him, though he was unable to pay for it. He
was constantly declaiming, in an incoherent manner, about
some mistress who had proved faithless. His speeches seemed,
however, like the rantings of an actor, to be rehearsed
by rote or for the sake of exercise. He was totally careless
of his person and health, and by repeated negligences of this
kind, at last contracted a fever of which he speedily died.
The name which he assumed was Clavering.

He gave no distinct account of his family, but stated in
loose terms that they were residents in England, high born
and wealthy. That they had denied him the woman whom
he loved and banished him to America, under penalty of death
if he should dare to return, and that they had refused him all
means of subsistence in a foreign land. He predicted, in
his wild and declamatory way, his own death. He was very
skilful at the pencil, and drew this portrait a short time before
his dissolution, presented it to me, and charged me to preserve
it in remembrance of him. My mother loved the youth
because he was amiable and unfortunate, and chiefly, because
she fancied a very powerful resemblance between his countenance
and mine. I was too young to build affection on any
rational foundation. I loved him, for whatever reason, with
an ardour unusual at my age, and which this portrait had
contributed to prolong and to cherish.

In thus finally leaving my home, I was careful not to leave
this picture behind. I wrapt it in paper in which a few
elegiac stanzas were inscribed in my own hand and with

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my utmost elegance of penmanship. I then placed it in a
leathern case, which, for greater security, was deposited in
the centre of my bundle. It will occur to you, perhaps, that
it would be safer in some fold or pocket of the clothes which
I wore. I was of a different opinion and was now to endure
the penalty of my error.

It was in vain to heap execrations on my negligence, or to
consume the little strength left to me in regrets. I returned
once more to the tavern and made inquiries for Mr. Capper,
the person whom I have just mentioned as my father's neighbour.
I was informed that Capper was now in town; that
he had lodged, on the last-night, at this house; that he had
expected to do the same to-night, but a gentleman had called
ten minutes ago, whose invitation to lodge with him to-night
had been accepted. They had just gone out together. Who,
I asked, was the gentleman? The landlord had no knowledge
of him: he knew neither his place of abode nor his name...
Was Mr. Capper expected to return hither in the morning?—
No, he had heard the stranger propose to Mr. Capper to
go with him into the country to-morrow, and Mr. Capper, he
believed, had assented.

This disappointment was peculiarly severe. I had lost,
by my own negligence, the only opportunity that would offer
of meeting my friend. Had even the recollection of my
loss been postponed for three minutes, I should have entered
the house, and a meeting would have been secured. I could
discover no other expedient to obviate the present evil. My
heart began now, for the first time, to droop. I looked
back, with nameless emotions, on the days of my infancy.
I called up the image of my mother. I reflected on the infatuation
of my surviving parent, and the usurpation of the
detestable Betty with horror. I viewed myself as the most
calamitous and desolate of human beings.

At this time I was sitting in the common room. There
were others in the same apartment, lounging, or whistling,
or singing. I noticed them not, but leaning my head upon

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my hand, I delivered myself up to painful and intense meditation.
From this I was roused by some one placing himself
on the bench near me and addressing me thus: “Pray Sir,
if you will excuse me, who was the person whom you were
looking for just now? Perhaps I can give you the information
you want. If I can, you will be very welcome to it.”—I
fixed my eyes with some eagerness on the person that spoke.
He was a young man, expensively and fashionably dressed,
whose mien was considerably prepossessing, and whose countenance
bespoke some portion of discernment. I described
to him the man whom I sought. “I am in search of the
same man myself,” said he, “but I expect to meet him
here. He may lodge elsewhere, but he promised to meet
me here at half after nine. I have no doubt he will fulfil
his promise, so that you will meet the gentleman.”

I was highly gratified by this information, and thanked my
informant with some degree of warmth. My gratitude he did
not notice, but continued: “In order to baguile expectation,
I have ordered supper: Will you do me the favour to partake
with me, unless indeed you have supped already?” I was
obliged, somewhat awkwardly, to decline his invitation, conscious
as I was that the means of payment were not in my
power. He continued however to urge my compliance, till
at length it was, though reluctantly, yielded. My chief
motive was the certainty of seeing Capper.

My new acquaintance was exceedingly conversible, but
his conversation was chiefly characterized by frankness and
good humour. My reserves gradually diminished, and I
ventured to inform him, in general terms, of my former condition
and present views. He listened to my details with
seeming attention, and commented on them with some judiciousness.
His statements, however, tended to discourage
me from remaining in the city.

Meanwhile the hour passed and Capper did not appear. I
noticed this circumstance to him with no little solicitude.
He said that possibly he might have forgotten or neglected

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his engagement. His affair was not of the highest importance,
and might be readily postponed to a future opportunity.
He perceived that my vivacity was greatly damped by this
intelligence. He importuned me to disclose the cause. He
made himself very merry with my distress, when it was at
length discovered. As to the expence of supper, I had partaken
of it at his invitation, he therefore should of course be
charged with it. As to lodging, he had a chamber and a
bed which he would insist upon my sharing with him.

My faculties were thus kept upon the stretch of wonder.
Every new act of kindness in this man surpassed the fondest
expectation that I had formed. I saw no reason why I
should be treated with benevolence. I should have acted in
the same manner if placed in the same circumstances; yet it
appeared incongruous and inexplicable. I know whence my
ideas of human nature were derived. They certainly were
not the offspring of my own feelings. These would have
taught me that interest and duty were blended in every act
of generosity.

I did not come into the world without my scruples and suspicions.
I was more apt to impute kindnesses to sinister and
hidden than to obvious and laudable motives. I paused to
reflect upon the possible designs of this person. What end
could be served by this behaviour? I was no subject of violence
or fraud. I had neither trinket nor coin to stimulate
the treachery of others. What was offered was merely
lodging for the night. Was this an act of such transcendent
disinterestedness as to be incredible? My garb was meaner
than that of my companion, but my intellectual accomplishments
were at least upon a level with his. Why should he
be supoosed to be insensible to my claims upon his kindness.
I was a youth destitute of experience, money, and friends;
but I was not devoid of all mental and personal endowments.
That my merit should be discovered, even on such slender
intercourse, had surely nothing in it that shocked belief.

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While I was thus deliberating, my new friend was earnest
in his solicitations for my company. He remarked my hesitation,
but ascribed it to a wrong cause. “Come,” said he,
“I can guess your objections and can obviate them. You
are afraid of being ushered into company; and people who
have passed their lives like you have a wonderful antipathy
to strange faces; but this is bed-time with our family, so
that we can defer your introduction to them till to-morrow.
We may go to our chamber withour being seen by any but
servants.”

I had not been aware of this circumstance. My reluctance
flowed from a different cause, but now that the inconveniences
of ceremony were mentioned, they appeared to me
of considerable weight. I was well pleased that they should
thus be avoided, and consented to go along with him.

We passed several streets and turned several corners. At
last we turned into a kind of court which seemed to be chiefly
occupied by stables. “We will go,” said he, “by the back
way into the house. We shall thus save ourselves the necessity
of entering the parlour, where some of the family may
still be.”

My companion was as talkative as ever, but said nothing
from which I could gather any knowledge of the number,
character, and condition of his family.

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