We had scarce opened our letters and put our press in order,
before George House, an acquaintance of mine, brought a countryman
to us, whom he had met in the street inquiring for a printer.
All our cash was now expended in the variety of particulars we
had been obliged to procure, and this countryman's five shillings,
being our first-fruits, and coming so seasonably, gave me more pleasure
than any crown I have since earned; and the gratitude I felt toward
House has made me often more ready than perhaps I should otherwise
have been to assist young beginners.
There are croakers in every country, always boding its ruin.
Such a one then lived in Philadelphia; a person of note, an elderly man,
with a wise look and a very grave manner of speaking; his name
was Samuel Mickle. This gentleman, a stranger to me, stopt one day
at my door, and asked me if I was the young man who had lately
opened a new printing-house. Being answered in the affirmative,
he said he was sorry for me, because it was an expensive undertaking,
and the expense would be lost; for Philadelphia was a sinking place,
the people already half-bankrupts, or near being so; all appearances
to the contrary, such as new buildings and the rise of rents,
being to his certain knowledge fallacious; for they were, in fact,
among the things that would soon ruin us.
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