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"Ben Franklin"
Benjamin Franklin, Autobiography: Page 44
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happy, and soon parted from him, refusing to cohabit with him or bear his name,
it being now said that he bad another wife. He was a worthless fellow, tho' an
excellent workman, which was the temptation to her friends. He got into debt,
ran away in 1727 or 1728, went to the West Indies, and died there. Keimer had
got a better house, a shop well supply'd with stationery, plenty of new types, a
number of hands, tho' none good, and seem'd to have a great deal of business.
Mr. Denham took a store in Water-street, where we open'd our goods; I attended
the business diligently, studied accounts, and grew, in a little time, expert at
selling. We lodg'd and, boarded together; he counsell'd me as a father, having a
sincere regard for me. I respected and lov'd him, and we might have gone on
together very happy; but, in the beginning of February, 1726-7, when I had just
pass'd my twenty-first year, we both were taken ill. My distemper was a
pleurisy, which very nearly carried me off. I suffered a good deal, gave up the
point in my own mind, and was rather disappointed when I found myself
recovering, regretting, in some degree, that I must now, some time or other,
have all that disagreeable work to do over again. I forget what his distemper
was; it held him a long time, and at length carried him off. He left me a small
legacy in a nuncupative will, as a token of his kindness for me, and he left me
once more to the wide world; for the store was taken into the care of his
executors, and my employment under him ended.
My brother-in-law, Holmes, being now at Philadelphia, advised my return to my
business; and Keimer tempted me, with an offer of large wages by the year, to
come and take the management of his printing-house, that he might better attend
his stationer's shop. I had heard a bad character of him in London from his wife
and her friends, and was not fond of having any more to do with him. I tri'd for
farther employment as a merchant's clerk; but, not readily meeting with any, I
clos'd again with Keimer. I found in his house these hands: Hugh Meredith, a
Welsh Pensilvanian, thirty years of age, bred to country work; honest, sensible,
had a great deal of solid observation, was something of a reader, but given to
drink. Stephen Potts, a young countryman of full age, bred to the same, of
uncommon natural parts, and great wit and humor, but a little idle. These he had
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