I have said I worked in Mr. G.’s shoe shop; yes, and learned to make cheap shoes, but always despised the business, and never more than half learned the trade. My aspiration was to be a _merchant_. Oh, if I could only be a merchant how happy I would be! I dreamed, and planned, and built air-castles--would weep over my “lapstone,” for being doomed to work at that hateful trade. When I was about sixteen years old, the Boston _Trumpet_, a Universalist paper, published by Thomas Whittemore, led me to look into Universalism, for up to that time I knew nothing of its principles or history. Mr. George’s family, and all my associates, attended the Congregational church in the neighborhood, and no body seemed to call in question the infallibility of the sermons we heard every Sunday. But the _Trumpet_ opened a new world to my view, changed all my aspirations, and I was really born again. I thought no more of being a merchant--that seemed a contemptible calling,--but must be a _preacher_. I devoured the paper, read the Bible, and had many hard fought battles with my comrades. I loved them, loved the world, and was sure, if I could get the ears of mankind, I could convert all nations and people. The world seemed to be a musical instrument, tuning the praises of its almighty Author. Thomas Farnsworth was then preaching in Haverhill, four miles from where I resided, and I called on him several times, and he urged me to prepare for the ministry, but I never intimated to him that I had such an intention. I kept that to myself. I was always fond of reading, and my new faith quickened my love for it. I perused religious books, romance, history, but poetry was especially my delight. I remember with what enthusiasm I read portions of Dr. Young’s “Night Thoughts.” His grand and solemn thoughts and diction stirred my soul to its lowest depths. I even wrote what I called “poetry,” but I am thankful that none of it survives. I have never attempted the “divine art” since those early days, although phrenologists tell me I _ought_ to be something of a poet, as my “ideality” is large. When in Haverhill, I came near losing my life. I never could swim, but with a plank three feet long, one end pressing against my body, I could paddle far from shore into deep water, without any fear. On one occasion, when indulging in one of my aqueous excursions, while in deep water, a comrade, who was ignorant of my helpless condition when off the plank, took it from me, when down I went, but by the aid of other boys I reached the shore, and I never went into deep water again on my frail craft. In my boyhood, I was subject to violent attacks of colic and sick headache, but otherwise my health was good. My physical frame was small and of fine texture, and consequently I was not very strong, and could not cope with boys generally of my age in athletic exercises.