Yet he insisted on the plan, not seeing clearly what other disposal to make of me.
In the midst of our discussions a letter came from my Uncle Snow, a merchant in New York, generously offering me a place in his counting-house.

The case resolved itself into this: If I went to college, I should have to be dependent on Captain Nutter for several years, and at the end of the collegiate course would have no settled profession.

If I accepted my uncle's offer, I might hope to work my way to independence without loss of time.

It was hard to give up the long-cherished dream of being a Harvard boy; but I gave it up.
The decision once made, it was Uncle Snow's wish that I should enter his counting-house immediately.

The cause of my good uncle's haste was this--he was afraid that I would turn out to be a poet before he could make a merchant of me.