which I read, and have since often regretted that, at a time when I
had such a thirst for knowledge, more proper books had not fallen
in my way since it was now resolved I should not be a clergyman.
Plutarch's Lives there was in which I read abundantly, and I still
think that time spent to great advantage. There was also a book of De
Foe's, called an Essay on Projects, and another of Dr. Mather's,
called Essays to do Good, which perhaps gave me a turn of thinking
that had an influence on some of the principal future events of my life.
This bookish inclination at length determined my father to make me
a printer, though he had already one son (James) of that profession.
In 1717 my brother James returned from England with a press and
letters to set up his business in Boston. 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 indentures when I was yet
but twelve years old. I was to serve as an apprentice till I was
twenty-one years of age, only I was to be allowed journeyman's wages
during the last year. In a little time I made great proficiency
in the business, and became a useful hand to my brother. 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 wanted.
And after some time an ingenious tradesman, Mr. Matthew Adams, who had
a pretty collection of books, and who frequented our printing-house,
took notice of me, invited me to his library, and very kindly lent
me such books as I chose to read. I now took a fancy to poetry,
and made some little pieces; my brother, thinking it might turn
to account, encouraged me, and put me on composing occasional ballads.
One was called The Lighthouse Tragedy, and contained an account
of the drowning of Captain Worthilake, with his two daughters:
the other was a sailor's song, on the taking of Teach (or Blackbeard)
the pirate. They were wretched stuff, in the Grub-street-ballad style;
and when they were printed he sent me about the town to sell them.
The first sold wonderfully, the event being recent, having made
a great noise. This flattered my vanity; but my father discouraged
me by ridiculing my performances, and telling me verse-makers
were generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most probably
a very bad one; but as prose writing bad been of great use to me
in the course of my life, and was a principal means of my advancement,
I shall tell you how, in such a situation, I acquired what little
ability I have in that way.
There was another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by name,
with whom I was intimately acquainted. We sometimes disputed,