The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (Updated Translation)

Book Summary

Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography, written in four parts between 1771 and 1790, stands as one of America's first and most influential memoirs, chronicling the remarkable life of a printer, scientist, diplomat, and founding father. The work begins with Franklin's early life in Boston, where he apprenticed to his brother James as a printer, demonstrating early on his determination to improve himself through reading and writing.

Franklin's narrative emphasizes his path to success through what he calls "industry and frugality." He details his arrival in Philadelphia as a young man with only a few coins in his pocket, famously walking down Market Street with three puffy rolls. Through hard work, shrewd business sense, and careful cultivation of his public image, he builds a successful printing business and becomes a respected civic leader.

A significant portion of the work focuses on Franklin's systematic approach to self-improvement. He describes his famous "thirteen virtues" and his methodical plan to cultivate them, keeping a daily ledger to track his progress. This section has particularly influenced the American self-help tradition, establishing Franklin as a pioneer of systematic personal development.

The autobiography details Franklin's numerous civic innovations in Philadelphia, including establishing the first lending library in America, organizing a volunteer fire department, and helping to found what would become the University of Pennsylvania. He presents these achievements as examples of how private initiative can serve the public good.

Franklin's scientific pursuits receive considerable attention, though he modestly presents his groundbreaking experiments with electricity and other innovations. He emphasizes the practical applications of scientific knowledge, demonstrating his lifelong commitment to useful learning rather than pure theory.

The work provides valuable insights into colonial America's social and political life. Franklin describes his role in local politics, his service as a diplomat, and his growing understanding of the relationship between the colonies and Britain. However, the autobiography ends before the Revolutionary War, leaving out his crucial role in American independence.

Benjamin Franklin Autobiography (Modern, Updated Translation)

Support more translations by picking up a copy of this book on Amazon.

Buy Book on Amazon

Free Book Preview (In Modern English)

Chapter 1: Family Background and Early Years in Boston

Twyford, at the home of the Bishop of St. Asaph, 1771.

Dear Son, I've always enjoyed learning little stories about our ancestors. You might remember the questions I asked our relatives when we were in England together, and the trip I took to gather more information. I thought you might also like to know about my life, especially the parts you're not familiar with yet. Since I'm currently enjoying a week of uninterrupted downtime in the countryside, I decided to write it all down for you. I have a few reasons for doing this. I've managed to rise from the poverty and obscurity I was born into, reaching a comfortable and somewhat respected position in the world. I've had a pretty happy life so far, and I think it might be useful for you and future generations to know the strategies I used to get here. With God's blessing, these strategies worked well for me, and you might find some of them helpful in your own lives, maybe even worth copying.

Thinking about how fortunate I've been, I've often said that if I had the chance, I'd gladly live my life over again from the start. I'd just want the opportunity to fix some mistakes, like authors do in a second edition of their work. Besides correcting those mistakes, I'd also swap out some unfortunate events for more favorable ones. But even if I couldn't make those changes, I'd still take the offer. Since reliving my life isn't possible, the closest thing to it seems to be reflecting on my life and making those memories last by writing them down.

I'm going to take this opportunity to do what older folks naturally love to do: talk about themselves and their past experiences. But don't worry, I won't bore anyone who feels they have to listen out of respect for my age, because you can choose to read this or not. And, to be honest (since denying it would be pointless), I'm probably going to enjoy boosting my own ego a bit. I've rarely seen the phrase "without vanity I may say," without something vain following it. Most people don't like vanity in others, even if they have plenty of it themselves. But I don't mind it when I see it, because I believe it can often bring good to the person and those around them. So, in many cases, it wouldn't be completely ridiculous for someone to thank God for their vanity, along with other comforts in life.

Gibbon and Hume, the renowned British historians who lived at the same time as Franklin, share in their autobiographies the same sentiment about the appropriateness of modest self-praise.

Speaking of gratitude, I want to humbly acknowledge that I owe the happiness I've experienced in my life to God's kind guidance. He led me to the opportunities I took and made them successful. This belief gives me hope, though I shouldn't assume, that the same kindness will continue to bring me happiness or help me handle any tough times that might come my way, just like others have faced. Only he knows what my future holds, and he has the power to turn even our challenges into blessings.

One of my uncles, who shared my interest in collecting family stories, once gave me some notes that provided details about our ancestors. From these notes, I discovered that our family had lived in the village of Ecton in Northamptonshire for three hundred years, and possibly even longer. They might have taken the surname Franklin when people across the kingdom started adopting surnames. Our family owned about thirty acres of land and ran a blacksmith business, which was passed down to the eldest son in each generation. This tradition continued with my uncle and my father. When I checked the Ecton records, I found birth, marriage, and burial entries starting from 1555, as there were no earlier records. I realized I was the youngest son of the youngest son for five generations. My grandfather Thomas, born in 1598, lived in Ecton until he was too old to work, then moved in with his son John, a dyer in Banbury, Oxfordshire, where my father apprenticed. My grandfather died there and is buried in Banbury; we saw his gravestone in 1758. His eldest son Thomas inherited the Ecton house and land, which he left to his only child, a daughter. She and her husband, Fisher from Wellingborough, sold it to Mr. Isted, the current lord of the manor. My grandfather had four sons who grew up: Thomas, John, Benjamin, and Josiah. I'll share what I know about them, and if my papers aren't lost while I'm away, you'll find more details among them.

Thomas was trained as a blacksmith by his father. But he was clever and, like all my brothers, was encouraged to learn by Esquire Palmer, the leading gentleman in the parish. He eventually became a skilled scrivener, gained significant influence in the county, and was a driving force behind many community projects in Northampton and his own village. Many stories about his contributions were shared, and he was well-regarded and supported by Lord Halifax at the time. Thomas passed away on January 6, 1702, which was exactly four years before I was born. I remember hearing from some elderly folks in Ecton about his life and character, and it struck me as remarkable because it reminded me of my own life. You even said, "If he had died on the same day, one might think it was a case of reincarnation."

John was trained as a dyer, probably working with wool, while Benjamin learned to dye silk during his apprenticeship in London. He was a clever guy. I remember him well because when I was a kid, he came to stay with my father in Boston and lived with us for a few years. He lived to a ripe old age. His grandson, Samuel Franklin, still lives in Boston. Benjamin left behind two handwritten books of his own poetry, filled with little pieces he wrote for friends and family. Here's an example he sent me. He even created his own shorthand, which he taught me, but since I never used it, I've forgotten it now. I was named after this uncle because he and my father were particularly close. He was very religious and loved attending sermons by the best preachers, jotting them down in his shorthand, and had many volumes of them. He was also quite into politics—maybe too much for his position. Recently, I came across a collection he made of all the major pamphlets about public affairs from 1641 to 1717. Some volumes are missing, as you can tell from the numbering, but there are still eight large volumes and twenty-four smaller ones. A book dealer who knows me from buying from him sometimes found them and brought them to me. It seems my uncle must have left them here when he moved to America about fifty years ago. There are many of his notes in the margins.

Our family was involved in the Reformation early on and stayed Protestant during Queen Mary's reign, even though their strong opposition to Catholicism sometimes put them at risk. They had an English Bible, which they cleverly hid by fastening it open with tapes under the cover of a joint-stool. When my great-great-grandfather read it to the family, he would place the stool on his knees and turn the pages under the tapes. One of the kids would stand by the door to watch for the apparitor, an officer from the spiritual court. If the apparitor was spotted, they'd quickly flip the stool back onto its feet, hiding the Bible underneath. My uncle Benjamin shared this story with me. The family stayed with the Church of England until the end of Charles II's reign. At that time, some ministers who had been removed for non-conformity started holding secret meetings in Northamptonshire. Benjamin and Josiah joined them and remained with them for the rest of their lives, while the rest of the family stuck with the Episcopal Church.

My father, Josiah, got married young and moved with his wife and three kids to New England around 1682. Back then, religious gatherings were banned by law and often disrupted, which led some of his influential friends to relocate there. They convinced him to join them, hoping to practice their religion freely. With his first wife, he had four more kids in New England, and with his second wife, he had ten more, making a total of seventeen children. I remember thirteen of us sitting at the table at one time, all of whom grew up, got married, and became adults. I was the youngest son and the third youngest child, born in Boston, New England. My mother, his second wife, was Abiah Folger, daughter of Peter Folger, one of the early settlers of New England. Cotton Mather mentions him honorably in his church history of the area, "Magnalia Christi Americana," calling him "a godly, learned Englishman," if I recall correctly. I've heard he wrote several small pieces, but only one was ever printed, which I saw many years ago. It was written in 1675 in the simple verse style of that era and was directed at those involved in the government. It supported freedom of conscience and defended the Baptists, Quakers, and other persecuted groups, blaming the Indian wars and other troubles on that persecution as divine punishment. It urged the repeal of those harsh laws. The whole piece struck me as being written with straightforward honesty and boldness. I remember the last six lines, though I've forgotten the first two of the stanza; they basically said that his criticisms came from goodwill, and he wanted to be known as the author.

"Because being a libeler," he says,

I absolutely hate it with all my heart.

From the town of Sherburne, where I now live

I'm writing my name here.

Your true friend, with no offense intended.

It's Peter Folger.

All my older brothers were apprenticed to different trades. When I was eight, I was sent to grammar school because my dad planned to dedicate me, as a sort of "tithe" of his sons, to the Church. I learned to read really early (so early that I can't even remember not being able to read), and everyone thought I'd make a great scholar, which encouraged my dad's plan. My Uncle Benjamin also supported the idea and even offered me his shorthand sermon books, probably to help me get started, if I learned his shorthand. However, I only stayed at the grammar school for less than a year. During that time, I moved up from the middle of my class to the top and was even promoted to the next class up, with plans to move to the third class by the end of the year. But my dad reconsidered because college was expensive and he had a big family to support. He also noticed that many college graduates didn't earn much. He explained these reasons to his friends while I was around. So, he changed his mind, took me out of grammar school, and sent me to a school focused on writing and arithmetic, run by a well-known teacher, Mr. George Brownell. Mr. Brownell was successful because he used gentle and encouraging methods. I quickly learned to write neatly, but I struggled with arithmetic and didn't make much progress. When I was ten, I was brought home to help my dad with his business, which was making candles and soap. He hadn't originally trained for this, but he started it when he arrived in New England and realized his dyeing trade wouldn't support the family. So, I helped by cutting wicks for candles, filling the dipping molds and the molds for cast candles, working in the shop, running errands, and so on.

I wasn't a fan of the trade and really wanted to go to sea, but my dad was totally against it. Still, living near the water meant I spent a lot of time around it. I learned to swim well early on and got pretty good at handling boats. Whenever I was in a boat or canoe with other kids, I was usually the one in charge, especially when things got tricky. In general, I was often the leader among the boys and sometimes got us into trouble. I'll share one example because it shows my early interest in public projects, even if it wasn't handled the right way back then.

There was a salt marsh next to part of the mill pond where we liked to stand and fish for minnows when the tide was high. We had trampled it so much that it turned into a muddy mess. I suggested we build a small dock there so we could stand on it, and I pointed out a big pile of stones meant for a new house nearby that would be perfect for our project. So, one evening after the workers had left, I gathered a bunch of my friends, and we worked hard like ants, sometimes with two or three of us carrying a single stone, and we moved them all to build our little dock. The next morning, the workers were surprised to find the stones missing, and they discovered them in our dock. They looked into who had moved them, found out it was us, and complained. Several of us got in trouble with our parents. Even though I argued that what we did was useful, my dad made me understand that nothing is truly useful if it isn't honest.

I think you might be interested in knowing a bit about his personality and character. He was in great physical shape, of average height, but well-built and very strong. He was creative, could draw nicely, knew a bit about music, and had a clear, pleasant voice. When he played psalm tunes on his violin and sang along, which he sometimes did in the evenings after work, it was really enjoyable to listen to. He also had a knack for mechanics and was quite handy with tools from other trades. However, his real strength was his sound understanding and solid judgment in practical matters, both personal and public. Although he was never involved in public affairs due to the large family he had to support and his limited financial means, I remember many important people visiting him to seek his opinion on town or church matters. They respected his judgment and advice. He was also often consulted by individuals facing personal challenges and was frequently chosen as a mediator in disputes. At his table, he liked to have a sensible friend or neighbor to chat with whenever possible. He always made sure to bring up interesting or useful topics for discussion, which helped to improve the minds of his children. This way, he directed our attention to what was good, just, and wise in life. We rarely paid attention to the food on the table, whether it was well or poorly prepared, in or out of season, tasty or not, or better or worse than something else. Because of this, I grew up not caring much about what kind of food was served to me, and I was so unobservant of it that even today, if someone asks me a few hours after dinner, I can hardly remember what I ate. This has been convenient for me while traveling, as my companions have sometimes been quite unhappy when they couldn't satisfy their more refined tastes and appetites.

My mother was also really healthy: she nursed all ten of her children. I never knew either my father or mother to be sick, except for the illnesses that eventually led to their passing—he lived to 89, and she lived to 85. They are buried together in Boston, where a few years ago, I placed a marble marker over their grave with this inscription:

Josiah Franklin,

and

His wife, Abiah

Are buried here.

They lived happily together in marriage.

Fifty-five years.

Without any property or a steady job,

Through consistent hard work and dedication,

With God's blessing,

They had a big family.

comfortably,

and raised thirteen kids

and seven grandkids

reputably.

From this example, dear reader,

Stay motivated and work hard in your job.

And don't lose faith in Providence.

He was a devout and wise man;

She was a wise and virtuous woman.

Their youngest son,

Out of respect for their memory,

Place this stone.

J. F. was born in 1655 and passed away in 1744 at the age of 89.

A.F. was born in 1667 and passed away in 1752, living to the age of 85.

I can tell I'm getting older by how much I tend to go off on tangents. I used to write in a more organized way. But you don't dress the same for a casual get-together as you do for a big public event. Maybe I'm just being a bit careless.

To get back to my story: I worked in my father's business for two years, until I was twelve. My brother John, who was trained for this work, had left to start his own business in Rhode Island after getting married. It seemed like I was next in line to take his place and become a tallow-chandler. But I really didn't like the trade, and my father worried that if he didn't find something I enjoyed more, I might run off to sea like my brother Josiah did, which had upset him a lot. So, he sometimes took me on walks to watch joiners, bricklayers, turners, braziers, and others at work, hoping to see what I might be interested in and steer me toward a trade on land. I've always enjoyed watching skilled workers use their tools, and it’s been helpful for me. I've learned enough to do small repairs around the house when I couldn't find a workman, and to build little machines for my experiments when the ideas were fresh in my mind. Eventually, my father decided on the cutler's trade for me. My cousin Samuel, who had trained in London, had just set up shop in Boston, so I was sent to work with him for a while. However, when Samuel expected a fee for taking me on, my father wasn't happy about it, so I was brought back home.

Chapter 2: Starting Out as a Printer

Ever since I was a kid, I loved reading, and I spent all the little money I got on books. I really enjoyed "Pilgrim's Progress," so my first collection was John Bunyan's works in separate little volumes. Later, I sold them to buy R. Burton's "Historical Collections," which were small, affordable books—about 40 or 50 in total. My dad's small library was mostly filled with books on religious debates, and I read most of them. Looking back, I often wish that, during a time when I was so eager to learn, I had access to more suitable books, especially since it was decided I wouldn't become a clergyman. I read a lot of "Plutarch's Lives," and I still think that was time well spent. There was also a book by Defoe called "An Essay on Projects" and another by Dr. Mather called "Essays to Do Good." These books probably shaped my thinking and influenced some of the major events in my life.

Eventually, my dad decided I should become a printer, even though my brother James was already in that line of work. In 1717, James came back from England with a printing press and supplies to start his business in Boston. I liked this idea much more than working with my dad, but I still had a strong desire to go to sea. To keep me from following that urge, my dad was eager to have me apprentice with my brother. I resisted for a while, but eventually, I agreed and signed the apprenticeship papers when I was just twelve. I was supposed to work as an apprentice until I turned twenty-one, but I would get paid like a regular worker in the last year. Before long, I got really good at the job and became a valuable helper to my brother. I also got access to better books. By getting to know the apprentices at bookstores, I could sometimes borrow a small book, which I always made sure to return quickly and in good condition. Often, I'd stay up most of the night reading if I borrowed a book in the evening and had to return it early the next morning, so it wouldn't be missed or needed by someone else.

After a while, I got to know a clever tradesman named Mr. Matthew Adams. He had a nice collection of books and often visited our print shop. He noticed me and invited me to check out his library, kindly lending me any books I wanted to read. I developed an interest in poetry and started writing some small pieces. My brother thought there might be some money in it, so he encouraged me and got me to write occasional ballads. One was called "The Lighthouse Tragedy," about Captain Worthilake and his two daughters drowning. The other was a sailor's song about capturing the pirate Teach, or Blackbeard. They were pretty terrible, written in the style of cheap Grub-street ballads. When they were printed, my brother sent me around town to sell them. The first one sold really well because the event was recent and had caused a lot of buzz. This boosted my ego, but my father brought me back down to earth by mocking my work and saying that poets often ended up poor. So, I avoided becoming a poet, which was probably for the best since I wouldn't have been a good one. However, writing prose turned out to be really useful for me throughout my life and was a key factor in my success. So, let me tell you how I managed to develop my modest skills in that area.

There was another bookish guy in town named John Collins, and we were really close friends. We often got into debates because we loved arguing and trying to prove each other wrong. This habit of arguing can actually become pretty annoying, making people unpleasant to be around because they always feel the need to contradict others. It can ruin conversations and lead to disagreements or even conflicts with people you might need as friends. I picked up this habit from reading my dad's books on religious debates. I've noticed that sensible people usually avoid this, except for lawyers, university folks, and pretty much anyone who studied in Edinburgh.

One day, Collins and I got into a debate about whether it was appropriate to educate women and whether they were capable of learning. Collins believed it wasn't right and thought women were naturally not suited for it. I took the opposite stance, maybe just to argue. Collins was naturally more eloquent, had a lot of words at his disposal, and sometimes, I felt, overwhelmed me more with his fluency than with the strength of his arguments. We parted ways without resolving the issue and weren't going to see each other for a while, so I decided to write down my arguments. I made a neat copy and sent it to him. He replied, and I responded back. We exchanged three or four letters each when my father stumbled upon my papers and read them. Without getting into the debate itself, he talked to me about my writing style. He pointed out that although I had better spelling and punctuation (thanks to my time at the print shop), I lacked elegance, organization, and clarity in my writing. He showed me several examples to prove his point. I realized he was right, so I started paying more attention to how I wrote and decided to work on improving it.

Around this time, I stumbled upon a random volume of the Spectator. It was the third one, and I had never seen any of them before. I bought it, read it repeatedly, and really enjoyed it. I thought the writing was excellent and wanted to try and imitate it. So, I took some of the essays, made brief notes on the ideas in each sentence, set them aside for a few days, and then tried to rewrite the essays from memory, expressing each idea as fully as it was originally, using whatever words came to mind. Then I compared my version with the original, found some mistakes, and corrected them. I realized I needed a better vocabulary or quicker recall of words, which I thought I would have developed if I had continued writing poetry. Writing poems requires finding words with similar meanings but different lengths to fit the rhythm, or different sounds to rhyme, which would have forced me to search for variety and helped me remember it better. So, I took some stories and turned them into verse, and after some time, when I had mostly forgotten the prose, I turned them back into prose. I also sometimes mixed up my notes and, after a few weeks, tried to organize them before forming full sentences and completing the essay. This was to teach me how to organize my thoughts. By comparing my work with the original, I found many mistakes and fixed them. Occasionally, I even felt that, in some small ways, I had improved the language, which encouraged me to think I might eventually become a decent English writer, something I was very eager to achieve. I did these exercises and my reading at night after work or before it started in the morning, or on Sundays when I managed to be alone in the printing house, avoiding as much as possible the usual attendance at public worship that my father insisted on when I was under his care. I still considered it a duty, but felt I couldn't afford the time to practice it.

When I was about 16, I came across a book by someone named Tryon that recommended a vegetarian diet. I decided to give it a try. Since my brother wasn't married yet, he didn't have his own place and instead arranged for meals with another family for himself and his apprentices. My choice to stop eating meat caused some inconvenience, and I often got scolded for being different. I learned how to make some of Tryon's dishes, like boiling potatoes or rice and making quick puddings, and then suggested to my brother that if he gave me half the money he spent on my meals each week, I would handle my own food. He agreed right away, and I quickly realized I could save half of what he gave me. This extra money went towards buying books. There was another benefit too. While my brother and the others left the print shop for meals, I stayed behind. I would quickly eat a light meal—sometimes just a biscuit or a slice of bread, a handful of raisins, or a pastry and a glass of water—and then use the remaining time before they returned to study. I made great progress in my studies, thanks to the mental clarity and quick thinking that often come with eating and drinking moderately.

Around this time, I felt embarrassed about not knowing much about math, especially since I had failed to learn it twice in school. So, I picked up Cocker's book on arithmetic and went through it on my own without much trouble. I also read Seller's and Shermy's books on navigation and learned a bit of geometry from them, although I didn't go very deep into that subject. During this period, I also read Locke's "On Human Understanding" and "The Art of Thinking" by the authors from Port Royal.

While I was focused on improving my language skills, I came across an English grammar book (I think it was Greenwood's). At the end, it had two small sections on the arts of rhetoric and logic. The logic section ended with an example of a debate using the Socratic method. Shortly after, I got my hands on Xenophon's "Memorable Things of Socrates," which had many examples of this method. I was really taken by it and decided to adopt it. I stopped abruptly contradicting people and arguing forcefully. Instead, I became a humble questioner and doubter. At that time, I was already questioning many aspects of our religious beliefs, thanks to reading Shaftesbury and Collins. I found this method to be the safest for me and quite challenging for those I used it against. I enjoyed it, practiced it all the time, and got really good at leading people, even those more knowledgeable than me, into making concessions they didn't anticipate. This often left them in tricky situations they couldn't easily get out of, allowing me to win arguments that neither I nor my cause always deserved. I kept using this method for a few years but gradually moved away from it. I kept the habit of speaking with modest uncertainty, avoiding words like "certainly" or "undoubtedly" when stating something that could be disputed. Instead, I would say things like, "I believe," "it seems to me," or "I imagine it to be so." I think this habit has been very beneficial when I've needed to share my opinions and persuade others to support the initiatives I've been involved in. Since the main goals of conversation are to inform, be informed, please, or persuade, I wish well-meaning, sensible people wouldn't weaken their ability to do good by being overly assertive, which often annoys others and leads to opposition. If you want to inform, a dogmatic approach can provoke disagreement and prevent open-minded listening. If you're seeking knowledge and improvement from others, but come across as firmly set in your views, modest, sensible people who dislike arguments will likely leave you alone in your error. With such an approach, you can rarely hope to please your listeners or persuade those whose agreement you seek. As Pope wisely says:

"Teach people as if you're not really teaching them,

And things that were never known are suggested as things we simply forgot;

Further recommending to us

"To speak confidently, but with an appearance of humility."

And he could have paired this line with another one, which I believe would have been a better fit than the one he actually chose.

"Lacking modesty means lacking good judgment."

If you're wondering why it's less proper, let me explain with these lines:

"Arrogant words can't be defended,

lack of modesty is a lack of good judgment."

Now, isn't a lack of sense (when someone is unlucky enough to lack it) some excuse for their lack of modesty? And wouldn't the lines be more accurate like this?

"Arrogant words have only this excuse,

A lack of modesty shows a lack of common sense."

However, I'll leave that decision to those with better judgment.

Back in 1720 or 1721, my brother started printing a newspaper. It was the second one to come out in America and was called the New England Courant. The only other paper before it was the Boston News-Letter. I remember some of his friends trying to talk him out of it, thinking one newspaper was enough for America. But now, in 1771, there are at least twenty-five. Despite their doubts, he went ahead with it, and after helping with setting the type and printing the pages, I was the one who delivered the papers to customers around town.

First page of The New England Courant from December 4-11, 1721.

First page of The New England Courant from December 4-11, 1721. This version is about one-third smaller. It's based on a copy from the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

He had some clever friends who liked to write little pieces for this paper, which boosted its reputation and made it more popular. These guys often visited us. Listening to their conversations and hearing how well their pieces were received made me want to give it a shot too. But since I was still a kid, I figured my brother wouldn't want to print anything of mine if he knew it was from me. So, I decided to disguise my handwriting and wrote an anonymous piece, slipping it under the door of the printing house at night. It was found in the morning and shared with his writing friends when they came by as usual. They read it, discussed it while I was listening, and I was thrilled to hear that they liked it. They even tried to guess who the author was, and only mentioned people known for their learning and creativity. Looking back, I guess I was pretty lucky with my audience, and maybe they weren't as great judges as I thought they were back then.

Encouraged by this, I wrote and submitted several more articles to the press in the same way, and they were equally well-received. I kept my secret until I had pretty much run out of ideas for such writings. When I finally revealed it, I started getting a bit more attention from my brother's friends, which didn't sit well with him. He probably thought, and maybe rightly so, that it was making me too full of myself. This might have been one of the reasons we started having disagreements around this time. Even though he was my brother, he saw himself as my boss and me as his apprentice. He expected the same work from me as he would from anyone else, while I felt he was asking too much of me, considering we were brothers and I expected a bit more leniency. Our arguments often ended up in front of our father, and I think I was either usually right or just better at arguing my case because the verdict often went my way. But my brother was hot-tempered and had hit me several times, which I really resented. I found my apprenticeship to be dragging on and was always hoping for a way to shorten it, which eventually came about in an unexpected way.

I was responsible for delivering the papers to customers throughout the streets.

"I was tasked with delivering the papers to customers throughout the streets."

One of the articles in our newspaper, about some political issue that I can't remember now, upset the assembly. He was arrested, criticized, and jailed for a month by the speaker's order, probably because he refused to reveal who wrote it. I was also brought in and questioned by the council. Even though I didn't give them any useful information, they let me off with a warning and sent me on my way, maybe because they saw me as an apprentice who had to keep his boss's secrets.

While my brother was locked up, which I was quite upset about despite our personal disagreements, I took charge of the newspaper. I didn't hold back in criticizing the authorities, which my brother appreciated, but others started seeing me as a young troublemaker with a knack for satire and libel. When my brother was released, it came with a strange order from the house stating that "James Franklin should no longer print the paper called the New England Courant."

We had a meeting at our print shop with some friends to figure out what my brother should do about the situation. Some suggested we could dodge the order by changing the paper's name, but my brother thought that might cause other problems. So, we decided it would be better to publish the paper under my name, Benjamin Franklin. To avoid any trouble with the Assembly, who might think he was still printing it through his apprentice, we came up with a plan: my old apprenticeship contract would be returned to me with a full release written on the back, to show if needed. But to make sure he still got the benefit of my work, I would secretly sign new contracts for the rest of the term. It was a pretty weak plan, but we went ahead with it, and the paper continued under my name for several months.

Eventually, another disagreement came up between my brother and me, and I decided to claim my freedom, assuming he wouldn't dare bring up the new contract. It wasn't fair of me to take advantage of the situation, and I consider this one of the first mistakes of my life. However, the unfairness didn't bother me much at the time because I was upset about the way he often hit me in anger, even though he wasn't a bad person otherwise. Maybe I was too cheeky and provoking.

When he realized I was planning to leave, he made sure I couldn't get a job at any other print shop in town by talking to every owner, who then refused to hire me. So, I thought about heading to New York, since it was the closest place with a printer. I was also leaning towards leaving Boston because I had already annoyed the people in charge a bit, and given how the Assembly treated my brother, I figured I might get into trouble if I stayed. Plus, my careless arguments about religion were starting to make people look at me like I was some kind of infidel or atheist. I made up my mind to go, but since my dad was now siding with my brother, I knew they'd try to stop me if I left openly. My friend Collins stepped in to help me out. He arranged for me to travel on a New York sloop, pretending I was just a young friend of his. I sold some of my books to get a bit of money, snuck on board, and with a good wind, I found myself in New York after three days. I was about 300 miles from home, just a 17-year-old kid with no connections or recommendations, and barely any money in my pocket.

Chapter 3: Arriving in Philadelphia

By this time, my desire to go to sea had faded, so I didn't pursue it. Since I had a trade and considered myself a decent worker, I offered my services to the local printer, Mr. William Bradford. He was the first printer in Pennsylvania but had moved because of a dispute with George Keith. Unfortunately, he couldn't hire me because he didn't have much work and already had enough help. However, he mentioned, "My son in Philadelphia recently lost his main worker, Aquilla Rose, who passed away. If you head over there, I think he might be able to hire you." Philadelphia was another hundred miles away, but I decided to go for it. I took a boat to Amboy, leaving my belongings to be shipped to me by sea.

While crossing the bay, we hit a sudden storm that shredded our old sails, stopping us from getting into the Kill and pushing us onto Long Island. During the chaos, a drunk Dutch guy, who was also a passenger, fell overboard. As he was going under, I managed to grab his hair and pull him back up, so we got him back on board. The dunk in the water sobered him up a bit, and he went to sleep after pulling a book out of his pocket and asking me to dry it for him. It turned out to be my old favorite, Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," but in Dutch. It was beautifully printed on nice paper with copper engravings, looking even better than I'd ever seen it in English. I've since learned it's been translated into most European languages and is probably one of the most widely read books, maybe only second to the Bible. Honest John Bunyan was the first writer I know of who mixed storytelling with dialogue, a style that's really engaging for readers. It makes them feel like they're right there in the conversation. Defoe used this style successfully in "Robinson Crusoe," "Moll Flanders," "Religious Courtship," "Family Instructor," and other works. Richardson did the same in "Pamela," and so on.

As we got closer to the island, we realized there was no way to land because the waves were crashing hard against the rocky beach. So, we dropped anchor and turned towards the shore. Some people came down to the water's edge and shouted to us, and we shouted back, but the wind was so strong and the surf so loud that we couldn't understand each other. There were canoes on the shore, and we tried to signal and shout for them to come get us, but they either didn't understand or thought it was impossible, so they left. As night fell, we had no choice but to wait for the wind to calm down. In the meantime, the boatman and I decided to try to get some sleep, if possible. We squeezed into the small cabin with the Dutchman, who was still wet, and the spray from the waves kept splashing over the boat, leaking onto us, so we were soon almost as wet as he was. We spent the night like this, getting very little rest. But the next day, as the wind died down, we managed to make it to Amboy before nightfall. We had been on the water for thirty hours without food or any drink except for a bottle of terrible rum, and the water we were sailing on was salty.

That evening, I felt really feverish and went to bed. I remembered reading somewhere that drinking a lot of cold water could help with a fever, so I tried it. I ended up sweating a lot during the night, and by morning, my fever was gone. I crossed the ferry and continued my journey on foot, with fifty miles to go to Burlington. I was told I could find boats there to take me the rest of the way to Philadelphia.

It rained really hard all day.

It rained heavily all day, and I was completely soaked and quite tired by noon. So, I stopped at a shabby inn where I stayed the night, starting to regret leaving home. I looked so pitiful that the questions people asked made me realize they suspected I was a runaway servant, and I worried about being arrested for it. Despite this, I continued on the next day and by evening reached an inn about eight or ten miles from Burlington, run by a Dr. Brown. While I was having some refreshments, he struck up a conversation with me. Seeing that I had done some reading, he became very friendly and sociable. We stayed in touch for the rest of his life. I think he had been a traveling doctor because he could talk in detail about any town in England or country in Europe. He was well-read and clever, but quite skeptical, and a few years later, he wickedly attempted to rewrite the Bible in humorous verse, like Cotton did with Virgil. This made many of the stories seem ridiculous and could have misled impressionable people if it had been published, but it never was.

I stayed at his house that night, and the next morning I reached Burlington. Unfortunately, I found out that the regular boats had left just before I arrived, and there wouldn't be another one until Tuesday, and it was only Saturday. So, I went back to an old woman in town from whom I had bought gingerbread to snack on during the boat ride and asked for her advice. She kindly invited me to stay at her house until a boat was available. Since I was tired from walking, I accepted her offer. When she learned I was a printer, she suggested I stay in town and start my business there, not realizing how much money was needed to get started. She was very hospitable, offering me a meal of ox-cheek with great generosity, only asking for a pot of ale in return. I figured I was set until Tuesday. However, that evening, while walking by the river, a boat came by heading towards Philadelphia with several people on board. They let me join them, and since there was no wind, we rowed the whole way. Around midnight, we still hadn't seen the city, and some people on the boat were sure we must have passed it and refused to row any further. Others weren't sure where we were, so we headed to the shore, found a creek, and landed near an old fence. We used the fence rails to make a fire because it was cold that October night, and we stayed there until morning. At daylight, one of the group recognized the place as Cooper's Creek, just a little above Philadelphia. As soon as we left the creek, we saw the city and arrived there around eight or nine o'clock on Sunday morning, landing at the Market Street wharf.

I've gone into detail about my journey and my first arrival in the city so you can see how unlikely my beginnings were compared to what I've achieved since then. I was wearing my work clothes because my best clothes were being shipped by sea. I was dirty from traveling, my pockets were stuffed with shirts and socks, and I didn't know anyone or where to find a place to stay. I was exhausted from traveling, rowing, and lack of sleep, and I was really hungry. All the money I had was a Dutch dollar and about a shilling in copper. I gave the copper to the people on the boat for my passage. They initially refused it because I had helped row, but I insisted they take it. Sometimes, people are more generous when they have little money than when they have a lot, maybe because they don't want others to think they're poor.

I walked up the street, looking around until I came across a boy with some bread near the market-house. Having eaten bread many times before, I asked him where he got it and went straight to the baker he pointed out on Second Street. I asked for a biscuit, thinking of the kind we had in Boston, but apparently, they didn't make those in Philadelphia. So, I asked for a three-penny loaf, only to find out they didn't have that either. Not knowing the difference in money or the names of their bread, I just asked for three-penny worth of whatever they had. The baker gave me three big, fluffy rolls. I was surprised by how much I got, but I took them anyway. With no room in my pockets, I walked off with a roll under each arm, eating the third one. I strolled up Market Street to Fourth Street, passing by Mr. Read's door, who would later become my father-in-law. His daughter saw me from the door and thought I looked, as I surely did, quite awkward and ridiculous. Then I turned onto Chestnut Street and part of Walnut Street, munching on my roll the whole way. Eventually, I found myself back at Market Street Wharf, near the boat I arrived on. I went there for a drink of river water and, feeling full from one of my rolls, gave the other two to a woman and her child who had traveled with us on the boat and were waiting to continue their journey.

She was standing at the door, saw me, and thought I looked, as I definitely did, incredibly awkward and ridiculous.

"She was standing at the door, saw me, and thought I looked, as I definitely did, really awkward and ridiculous."

Feeling refreshed, I continued walking up the street, which was now filled with well-dressed people all heading in the same direction. I decided to join them and ended up at the large Quaker meeting house near the market. I sat down among them, and after looking around for a bit and hearing nothing, I started feeling very sleepy from all the work and lack of rest the night before. I fell asleep and stayed that way until the meeting ended, when someone kindly woke me up. So, this was the first place I entered or slept in while in Philadelphia.

As I walked back toward the river, I looked at the faces of the people around me and met a young Quaker man whose face I liked. I approached him and asked if he could tell me where a stranger might find a place to stay. We were near a place called the Three Mariners. "This place here takes in strangers," he said, "but it's not very reputable. If you walk with me, I'll show you a better one." He led me to the Crooked Billet on Water Street. I had lunch there, and while I was eating, they asked me a few sneaky questions. It seemed like they suspected, given my young age and appearance, that I might be a runaway.

After dinner, I got sleepy again. They showed me to a bed, and I lay down without bothering to undress. I slept until six in the evening, then got called for supper. I went back to bed really early and slept soundly until the next morning. I tidied myself up as best as I could and headed over to Andrew Bradford, the printer. In the shop, I found his father, the same man I had met in New York. He had traveled on horseback and managed to reach Philadelphia before me. He introduced me to his son, who greeted me politely and offered me breakfast. He mentioned that he didn't need any help at the moment since he had just hired someone. However, he suggested another printer in town named Keimer, who might have work for me. If not, he said I was welcome to stay at his place, and he would give me some small tasks to do until more work came along.

The old gentleman offered to come with me to meet the new printer. When we found him, Bradford said, "Hey there, I've brought along a young guy who's in your line of work. Maybe you could use someone like him." The printer asked me a few questions, handed me a composing stick to see how I worked, and then said he'd hire me soon, even though he didn't have anything for me to do right at that moment. He started chatting with old Bradford, thinking he was just a local who was friendly towards him. They talked about his current projects and future plans. Bradford, without revealing that he was actually the other printer's father, encouraged him to share more by asking clever questions and expressing some doubts. This led the printer to explain all his strategies, who he was counting on for support, and how he planned to move forward. I stood there listening and quickly realized that one of them was a sly old fox, and the other was just a beginner. Bradford left me with the printer, who was really surprised when I told him who the old man actually was.

When I checked out Keimer's print shop, it was basically just an old, beat-up press and a small, worn-out set of English type. He was using it himself to put together an elegy for Aquilla Rose, a talented young guy with a great reputation in town. Rose was the clerk of the Assembly and a decent poet. Keimer also tried his hand at poetry, but not very well. He didn't really write them down; instead, he would just arrange the letters directly from his head. Since there was no written copy and only one set of type cases, and the elegy needed all the letters, nobody could help him. I tried to get his press, which he hadn't used yet and didn't know how to operate, into working order. I promised to come back and print his elegy once he had it ready. Then I went back to Bradford's place, where he gave me a small job to do for the time being, and I stayed and ate there. A few days later, Keimer called me over to print the elegy. By then, he had gotten another set of type cases and had a pamphlet to reprint, which he put me to work on.

These two printers I met were not very good at their jobs. Bradford hadn't been trained in printing and was quite uneducated, while Keimer, although somewhat knowledgeable, was just a typesetter and knew nothing about operating a press. He had been involved with the French prophets and could mimic their passionate displays. At this point, he didn't follow any specific religion but dabbled in a bit of everything when it suited him. He was clueless about the world and, as I later discovered, had a bit of a dishonest streak. He didn't like that I was staying at Bradford's while working for him. Although he had a house, it was unfurnished, so he couldn't accommodate me. Instead, he arranged for me to stay at Mr. Read's place, who owned his house. By then, my chest and clothes had arrived, so I looked a bit more presentable to Miss Read than when she first saw me eating my roll in the street.

I started making friends with some of the young people in town who loved reading, and I spent my evenings with them, having a great time. By working hard and saving money, I was living quite comfortably and tried to forget about Boston as much as possible. I didn't want anyone there to know where I was, except for my friend Collins, who was in on my secret and kept it when I wrote to him. Eventually, something happened that made me go back sooner than I planned. My brother-in-law, Robert Holmes, was the captain of a sloop that sailed between Boston and Delaware. While he was in Newcastle, about forty miles from Philadelphia, he heard about me and wrote a letter saying my friends in Boston were worried about my sudden departure. He assured me they still cared about me and promised that everything would be sorted out if I returned. He strongly encouraged me to come back. I replied to his letter, thanked him for his advice, but explained my reasons for leaving Boston in a way that convinced him I wasn't as wrong as he thought.