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HISTORICAL SERIES No. 14

THE LIFE OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

BY
M. L. WEEMS

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK




THE LIFE OF

Benjamin Franklin

WITH MANY

CHOICE ANECDOTES AND ADMIRABLE SAYINGS OF THIS GREAT MAN

NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED BY ANY OF HIS BIOGRAPHERS



BY

M. L. WEEMS

AUTHOR OF "THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON"



"Sage Franklin next arose in cheerful mien, And smil'd, unruffled, o'er
the solemn scene; High on his locks of age a wreath was brac'd, Palm of
all arts that e'er a mortal grac'd; Beneath him lay the sceptre kings
had borne, And crowns and laurels from their temples torn."



NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS

238 WILLIAM STREET




_To the Reader_


We trust that you will be thoroughly satisfied with this book. During
the long period of time that the publications of Street & Smith have
been familiar to the reading classes (somewhat more than half a
century) it has always been our aim to give to the public the very best
literary products, regardless of the expenditure involved. Our books
and periodicals are today read and re-read in a majority of the homes
of America, while but few of our original competitors are even known by
name to the present generation. No special credit is due for antiquity,
but we hold it to be a self-evident fact that long experience, coupled
with enterprise and the ability to maintain the front rank for so many
years, proves our right to the title of leaders. We solicit your
further valued patronage.

STREET & SMITH.




LIFE OF FRANKLIN.




CHAPTER I.


DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN PHILOSOPHICAL
SOCIETY; FELLOW OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH, LONDON AND PARIS;
GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA; AND MINISTER PLENIPOTENTIARY
FROM THE UNITED STATES TO THE COURT OF FRANCE, was the son of an
obscure tallow-chandler and soap-boiler, of Boston, where he was born
on the 17th day of January, 1706.

Some men carry letters of recommendation in their looks, and some in
their names. 'Tis the lot but of few to inherit both of these
advantages. The hero of this work was one of that favoured number. As
to his physiognomy, there was in it such an air of wisdom and
philanthropy, and consequently such an expression of majesty and
sweetness, as charms, even in the commonest pictures of him. And for
his name, every one acquainted with the old English history, must
know, that Franklin stands for what we now mean by "Gentleman," or
"CLEVER FELLOW."

In the days of AULD LANG SYNE, their neighbours from the continent
made a descent "_on the fast anchored isle_," and compelled the hardy,
red-ochred natives to buckle to their yoke. Among the victors were
some regiments of Franks, who distinguished themselves by their valor,
and still more by their politeness to the vanquished, and especially
to the females. By this amiable gallantry the Franks acquired such
glory among the brave islanders, that whenever any of their own people
achieved any thing uncommonly handsome, he was called, by way of
compliment, FRANKLIN, _i.e._ a little Frank. As the living flame does
not more naturally tend upwards than does every virtue to exalt its
possessors, these little Franks were soon promoted to be great men,
such as justices of the peace, knights of the shire, and other such
names of high renown. Hence those pretty lines of the old poet
Chaucer--

    "This worthy Franklin wore a purse of silk
    Fix'd to his girdle, pure as morning milk;
    Knight of the shire; first justice of th' assize,
    To help the poor, the doubtful to advise.
    In all employments, gen'rous just he prov'd;
    Renown'd for courtesy; by all belov'd."

But though, according to Dr. Franklin's own account of his family,
whose pedigree he looked into with great diligence while he was in
England, it appears that they were all of the "_well born_," or
gentlemen in the best sense of the word; yet they did not deem it
beneath them to continue the same useful courses which had at first
conferred their titles. On the contrary, the doctor owns, and indeed
glories in it, that for three hundred years the eldest son, or heir
apparent in this family of old British gentlemen, was invariably
brought up a blacksmith. Moreover, it appears from the same
indubitable authority, that the blacksmith succession was most
religiously continued in the family down to the days of the doctor's
father. How it has gone on since that time I have never heard; but
considering the salutary effects of such a fashion on the prosperity
of a young republic, it were most devoutly to be wished that it is
kept up: and that the family of one of the greatest men who ever lived
in this or any other country, still display in their coat of arms, not
the barren _gules_ and _garters_ of European folly, but those better
ensigns of American wisdom--the SLEDGE-HAMMER and ANVIL.




CHAPTER II.

    "Were I so tall to reach the pole,
      And grasp the ocean in my span,
    I must be measur'd by my soul;
      For 'tis the MIND that makes the man."


From the best accounts which I have been able to pick up, it would
appear that a passion for learning had a long run in the family of the
Franklins. Of the doctor's three uncles, the elder, whose name was
Thomas, though conscientiously brought up a blacksmith, and subsisting
his family by the din and sweat of his anvil, was still a great
reader. Instead of wasting his leisure hours, as too many of the trade
do, in tippling and tobacco, he acquired enough of the law to render
himself a very useful and leading man among the people of Northampton,
where his forefathers had lived in great comfort for three hundred
years, on thirty acres of land.

His uncle Benjamin, too, another old _English gentleman_ of the right
stamp, though a very hard-working man at the silk-dying trade, was
equally devoted to the pleasures of the mind. He made it a rule
whenever he lighted on a copy of verses that pleased him, to
transcribe them into a large blank book which he kept for the purpose.
In this way he collected two quarto volumes of poems, written in short
hand of his own inventing. And, being a man of great piety, and fond
of attending the best preachers, whose sermons he always took down, he
collected in the course of his life, _eight_ volumes of sermons in
_folio_, besides near _thirty_ in quarto and octavo, and all in the
aforesaid short hand! Astonishing proof, what a banquet of elegant
pleasures even a poor mechanic may enjoy, who begins early to read and
think! 'Tis true, he was a long time about it. His piety afforded him
a constant cheerfulness. And deriving from the same source a regular
temperance, he attained to a great age. In his seventy-third year,
still fresh and strong, he left his native country, and came over to
America, to see his younger brother Josias, between whom and himself
there had always subsisted a more than ordinary friendship. On his
arrival in Boston, he was received with unbounded joy by Josias, who
pressed him to spend the residue of his days in his family. To this
proposition the old gentleman readily consented; and the more so as he
was then a widower, and his children, all married off, had left him.
He had the honor to give his name, and to stand godfather to our
little hero, for whom, on account of his vivacity and fondness for
learning, he conceived an extraordinary affection. And Ben always took
a great delight in talking of this uncle. Nor was it to be wondered
at; for he was an old man who wore his religion very much to win young
people--a pleasant countenance--a sweet speech--and a fund of
anecdotes always entertaining, and generally carrying some good moral
in the tail of them. His grandfather before him must have been a man
of rare humour, as appears from a world of droll stories which uncle
Benjamin used to tell after him, and which his New England descendants
to this day are wont to repeat with great glee. I must let the reader
hear one or two of them. They will amuse him, by showing what strange
things were done in days of yore by kings and priests in the land of
our venerable forefathers.

It was his grandfather's fortune to live in the reign of Queen Mary,
whom her _friends_ called _holy_ Mary, but her enemies _bloody_ Mary.
In the grand struggle for power between those humble followers of the
cross, the catholics and the protestants, the former gained the
victory, for which 'Te Deums' in abundance were sung throughout the
land. And having been sadly rib-roasted by the protestants when in
power, they determined, like good christians, now that the tables were
turned, to try on them the virtues of fire and faggot. The Franklin
family having ever been sturdy protestants, began now to be in great
tribulation. "What shall we do to save our Bible?" was the question.
After serious consultation in a family caucus, it was resolved to hide
it in the close-stool; which was accordingly done, by fastening it,
open, on the under side of the lid by twine threads drawn strongly
across the leaves. When the grandfather read to the family, he turned
up the aforesaid lid on his knees, passing the leaves of his Bible, as
he read, from one side to the other. One of the children was carefully
stationed at the door, to give notice if he saw the priest, or any of
his frowning tribe, draw near. In that event, the lid with the Bible
lashed beneath it, was instantly clapped down again on its old place.

These things may appear strange to us, who live under a wise republic,
which will not suffer the black gowns of one church to persecute those
of another. But they were common in those dark and dismal days, when
the clergy thought more of creeds than of Christ, and of learning
Latin than of learning love. Queen Mary was one of this gnostic
generation, (who place their religion in the _head_, though Christ
places it in the HEART,) and finding it much easier to her _unloving_
spirit, to burn human beings called heretics, than to mortify her own
lust of popularity, she suffered her catholic to fly upon and worry
her protestant subjects at a shameful rate. Good old uncle Benjamin
used to divert his friends with another story, which happened in the
family of his own aunt, who kept an inn at Eaton, Northamptonshire.

A most violent priest, of the name of Asquith, who thought, like Saul,
that he should be doing "_God service_" by killing the heretics, had
obtained letters patent from queen Mary against those people in the
county of Warwick. On his way he called to dine at Eaton, where he was
quickly waited on by the mayor, a strong catholic, to ask how the
_good work went on_. Asquith, leaping to his saddle-bags, drew forth a
little box, that contained his commission, which he flourished before
the mayor, exclaiming with high glee, "_Aye! there's that that will
scorch the rogues!_" Old Mrs. Franklin, under the rose a sturdy
protestant, overhearing this, was exceedingly troubled; and watching
her opportunity when the priest had stepped out with the mayor,
slipped the commission out of the box, and put in its place a pack of
cards, wrapped in the same paper. The priest returning in haste, and
suspecting no trick, huddled up his box, and posted off for Coventry.
A grand council of the saints was speedily convoked to meet him. He
arose, and having with great vehemence delivered a set speech against
the heretics, threw his commission on the table for the secretary to
read aloud. With the eyes of the whole council on him, the eager
secretary opened the package, when in place of the flaming commission,
behold a pack of cards with the knave of clubs turned uppermost! A
sudden stupefaction seized the spectators. In silence they stared at
the priest and stared at one another. Some looking as though they
suspected treachery: others as dreading a judgment in the case. Soon
as the dumb-founded priest could recover speech, he swore by the HOLY
MARY, that he once had a commission; that he had received it from the
queen's own hand. And he also swore that he would get another
commission. Accordingly he hurried back to London, and having procured
another, set off again for Coventry. But alas! before he got down,
poor queen Mary had turned the corner, and the protestants under
Elizabeth got the rule again. Having nothing now to dread, our
quizzing old hostess, Mrs. Franklin, came out with the knavish trick
she had played the priest, which so pleased the protestants of
Coventry that they presented her a piece of plate, that cost fifty
pounds sterling, equal, as money now goes, to a thousand dollars.

From an affair which soon after this took place there, it appears that
Coventry, however famous for saints, had no great cause to brag of her
poets.--When queen Elizabeth, to gratify her subjects, made the tour
of her island, she passed through Coventry. The mayor, aldermen, and
company hearing of her approach, went out in great state to meet her.
The queen being notified that they wished to address her, made a full
stop right opposite to a stage erected for the purpose, and covered
with embroidered cloth, from which a ready orator, after much bowing
and arms full extended, made this wondrous speech--"We men of Coventry
are glad to see your royal highness--Lord how _fair_ you be!"

To this the maiden queen, equal famed for fat and fun, rising in her
carriage, and waving her lily white hand, made this prompt reply--"Our
royal highness is glad to see you men of Coventry--Lord what FOOLS you
be!"




CHAPTER III.

_Our hero, little Ben, coming on the carpet--Put to school very
young--Learns prodigiously--Taken home and set to candle-making--
Curious capers, all proclaiming "the Achilles in petticoats."_


Dr. Franklin's father married early in his own country, and would
probably have lived and died there, but for the persecutions against
his friends the Presbyterians, which so disgusted him, that he came
over to New England, and settled in Boston about the year 1682. He
brought with him his English wife and three children. By the same wife
he had four children more in America; and ten others afterwards by an
American wife. The doctor speaks with pleasure of having seen thirteen
sitting together very lovingly at his father's table, and all married.
Our little hero, who was the fifteenth child, and last of the sons,
was born at Boston the 17th day of January, 1706, old style.

That famous Italian proverb, "_The Devil tempts every man, but the
Idler tempts the Devil_," was a favourite canto with wise old Josias;
for which reason, soon as their little lips could well lisp letters
and syllables, he had them all to school.

Nor was this the only instance with regard to them, wherein good
Josias "_sham'd the Devil_;" for as soon as their education was
finished, they were put to useful trades. Thus no leisure was allowed
for bad company and habits. Little Ben, neatly clad and comb'd, was
pack'd off to school with the rest; and as would seem, at a very early
age, for he says himself that, "_he could not recollect any time in
his life when he did not know how to read_," whence we may infer that
he hardly ever knew any thing more of childhood than its innocency and
playfulness. At the age of eight he was sent to a grammar school,
where he made such a figure in learning, that his good old father set
him down at once for the church, and used constantly to call him his
"_little chaplain_." He was confirmed in this design, not only by the
extraordinary readiness with which he learned, but also by the praises
of his friends, who all agreed that he would certainly one day or
other become a mighty scholar. His uncle Benjamin too, greatly
approved the idea of making a preacher of him; and by way of
encouragement, promised to him all his volumes of sermons, written, as
before said, in his own short hand.

This his rapid progress in learning he ascribed very much to an
amiable teacher who used gentle means only, to encourage his scholars,
and make them fond of their books.

But in the midst of this gay career in his learning, when in the
course of the first year only, he had risen from the middle of his
class to the head of it; thence to the class immediately above it; and
was rapidly overtaking the third class, he was taken from school! His
father, having a large family, with but a small income, and thinking
himself unable consistently with what he owed the rest of his
children, to give him a collegiate education, took Ben home to assist
him in his own humble occupation, which was that of a SOAP-BOILER and
TALLOW-CHANDLER; a trade he had taken up of his own head after
settling in Boston; his original one of a DYER being in too little
request to maintain his family.

I have never heard how Ben took this sudden reverse in his prospects.
No doubt it put his little stock of philosophy to the stretch. To have
seen himself, one day, on the high road to literary fame, flying from
class to class, the admiration and envy of a numerous school; and the
next day, to have found himself in a filthy soap-shop; clad in a
greasy apron, twisting cotton wicks!--and in place of snuffing the
sacred lamps of the Muses, to be bending over pots of fetid tallow,
dipping and moulding candles for the dirty cook wenches! Oh, it must
have seem'd a sad falling off! Indeed, it appears from his own account
that he was so disgusted with it that he had serious thoughts of going
to sea. But his father objecting to it, and Ben having virtue enough
to be dutiful, the notion was given up for that time. But the ambition
which had made him the first at his school, and which now would have
hurried him to sea, was not to be extinguished. Though diverted from
its favourite course, it still burned for distinction, and rendered
him the leader of the juvenile band in every enterprize where danger
was to be confronted, or glory to be won. In the neighbouring
mill-pond, he was the foremost to lead the boys to plunge and swim;
thus teaching them an early mastery over that dangerous element. And
when the ticklish mill-boat was launching from the shore laden with
his timid playmates, the paddle that served as rudder, was always put
into his hands, as the fittest to steer her course over the dark
waters of the pond. This ascendancy which nature had given him over
the companions of his youth, was not always so well used as it might
have been. He honestly confesses that, once at least, he made such an
unlucky use of it as drew them into a scrape that cost them dear.
Their favourite fishing shore on that pond was, it seems, very miry.
To remedy so great an inconvenience he proposed to the boys to make a
wharf. Their assent was quickly obtained: but what shall we make it
of? was the question. Ben pointed their attention to a heap of stones,
hard by, of which certain honest masons were building a house. The
proposition was hailed by the boys, as a grand discovery; and soon as
night had spread her dark curtains around them, they fell to work with
the activity of young beavers, and by midnight had completed their
wharf. The next morning the masons came to work, but, behold! not a
stone was to be found! The young rogues, however, detected by the
track of their feet in the mud, were quickly summoned before their
parents, who not being so partial to Ben as they had been, chastised
their folly with a severe flogging. Good old Josias pursued a
different course with his son. To deter him from such an act in
future, he endeavoured to reason him into a sense of its immorality.
Ben, on the other hand, just fresh and confident from his school, took
the field of argument against his father, and smartly attempted to
defend what he had done, on the principle of its _utility_. But the
old gentleman, who was a great adept in moral philosophy, calmly
observed to him, that if one boy were to make use of this plea to take
away his fellow's goods, another might; and thus contests would arise,
filling the world with blood and murder without end. Convinced, in
this simple way, of the fatal consequences of "_doing evil that good
may come_," Ben let drop the weapons of his rebellion, and candidly
agreed with his father that what was not _strictly honest_ could never
be _truly useful_. This discovery he made at the tender age of _nine_.
Some never make it in the course of their lives. The grand angler,
Satan, throws out his bait of _immediate gain_; and they, like silly
Jacks, snap at it at once; and in the moment of running off, fancy
they have got a delicious morsel. But alas! the fatal hook soon
convinces them of their mistake, though sometimes too late. And then
the lamentation of the prophet serves as the epilogue of their
tragedy--"_'Twas honey in the mouth, but gall in the bowels._"




CHAPTER IV.

_Picture of a wise father--To which is added a famous receipt for
health and long life._


The reader must already have discovered that Ben was uncommonly blest
in a father. Indeed from the portrait of him drawn by this grateful
son, full fifty years afterwards, he must have been an enviable old
man.

As to his person, though that is but of minor consideration in a
rational creature--I say, as to his person, it was of the right
standard, _i.e._ medium size and finely formed--his complexion fair
and ruddy--black, intelligent eyes--and an air uncommonly graceful and
spirited. In respect of _mind_, which is the true jewel of our nature,
he was a man of the purest piety and morals, and consequently cheerful
and amiable in a high degree. Added to this, he possessed a
considerable taste for the fine arts, particularly drawing and music;
and having a voice remarkably sonorous and sweet, whenever he sung a
hymn accompanied with his violin, which he usually did at the close of
his day's labours, it was delightful to hear him. He possessed also an
extraordinary sagacity in things relating both to public and private
life, insomuch that not only individuals were constantly consulting
him about their affairs, and calling him in as an arbiter in their
disputes; but even the leading men of Boston would often come and ask
his advice in their most important concerns, as well of the town as of
the church.

For his slender means he was a man of extraordinary hospitality, which
caused his friends to wonder how he made out to entertain so many. But
whenever this was mentioned to him, he used to laugh and say, that the
world was good natured and gave him credit for much more than he
deserved; for that, in fact, others entertained ten times as many as
he did. By this, 'tis thought he alluded to the ostentatious practice
common with some, of pointing their hungry visitant to their grand
buildings, and boasting how many thousands this or that bauble cost;
as if their ridiculous vanity would pass with them for a good dinner.
For his part, he said, he preferred setting before his visitors a
plenty of wholesome fare, with a hearty welcome. Though to do this he
was fain to work hard, and content himself with a small house and
plain furniture. But it was always his opinion that a little laid out
in this way, went farther both with God and man too, than great
treasures lavished on pride and ostentation.

But though he delighted in hospitality as a great virtue, yet he
always made choice of such friends at his table as were fond of
rational conversation. And he took great care to introduce such topics
as would, in a pleasant manner, lead to ideas useful to his family,
both in temporal and eternal things. As to the dishes that were served
up, he never talked of them; never discussed whether they were well or
ill dressed; of a good or bad flavour, high seasoned or otherwise.

For this manly kind of education at his table, Dr. Franklin always
spoke as under great obligations to his father's judgment and taste.
Thus accustomed, from infancy, to a generous inattention to the
palate, he became so perfectly indifferent about what was set before
him, that he hardly ever remembered, ten minutes after dinner, what he
had dined on. In travelling, particularly, he found his account in
this. For while those who had been more nice in their diet could enjoy
nothing they met with; this one growling over the daintiest breakfast
of new laid eggs and toast floated in butter, because his _coffee was
not half strong enough!_--that wondering what people can mean by
serving up a round of beef when they have _no mustard!_--and a third
cursing like a trooper, though the finest rock-fish or sheep's-head be
smoking on the table--because there is no _walnut pickle or ketchup!_
He for his part, happily engaged in a pleasant train of thinking or
conversation, never attended to such trifles, but dined heartily on
whatever was set before him. In short, there is no greater kindness
that a young man can do himself than to learn the art of feasting on
fish, flesh, or fowl as they come, without ever troubling his head
about any other sauce than what the rich hand of nature has given; let
him but bring to these dishes that good appetite which always springs
from exercise and cheerfulness, and he will be an epicure indeed.

He would often repeat in the company of young people, the following
anecdote which he had picked up some where or other in his extensive
reading. "A wealthy citizen of Athens, who had nearly ruined his
constitution by gluttony and sloth, was advised by Hippocrates to
visit a certain medicinal spring in Sparta; not that Hippocrates
believed that spring to be better than some nearer home; but exercise
was the object--" "_Visit the springs of Sparta_," said the great
physician. As the young debauchee, pale and bloated, travelled among
the simple and hardy Spartans, he called one day at the house of a
countryman on the road to get something to eat. A young woman was just
serving up dinner--a nice barn-door fowl boiled with a piece of fat
bacon. "You have got rather a plain dinner there madam," growled the
Athenian. "_Yes, sir_," replied the young woman blushing, "_but my
husband will be here directly, and he always brings the sauce with
him_." Presently the young husband stepped in, and after welcoming his
guest, invited him to dinner. "I can't dream of dining, sir, _without
sauce_," said the Athenian, "and your wife promised you would bring
it." "_O, sir, my wife is a wit_," cried the Spartan; "_she only meant
the good appetite which I always bring with me from the barn, where I
have been threshing_."

And here I beg leave to wind up this chapter with the following
beautiful lines from Dryden, which I trust my young reader will commit
to memory. They may save him many a sick stomach and headache, besides
many a good dollar in doctor's fees.

    "The first physicians by debauch were made;
    Excess began and sloth sustains the trade.
    By chace, our long liv'd fathers earn'd their bread;
    Toil strung their nerves and purified their blood:
    But we, their sons, a pamper'd race of men,
    Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.
    Better hunt in fields for health unbought,
    Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
    The wise for health on exercise depend;
    God never made his works for man to mend."




CHAPTER V.


Ben continued with his father, assisting him in his humble toils, till
his twelfth year; and had he possessed a mind less active might have
remained a candle-maker all the days of his life. But born to diffuse
a light beyond that of tallow or spermaceti, he could never reconcile
himself to this inferior employment, and in spite of his wishes to
conceal it from his father, discontent would still lower on his brow,
and the half-suppressed sigh steal in secret from his bosom.

With equal grief his father beheld the deep-seated disquietude of his
son. He loved all his children; but he loved this young one above all
the rest. Ben was the child of his old age. The smile that dimpled his
tender cheeks reminded him of his mother when he first saw her, lovely
in the rosy freshness of youth. And then his intellect was so far
beyond his years; his questions so shrewd; so strong in reasoning; so
witty in remark, that his father would often forget his violin of
nights for the higher pleasure of holding an argument with him. This
was a great trial to his sisters, who would often intreat their mother
to make Ben hold his tongue, that their father might take down his
fiddle, and play and sing hymns with them: for they took after him in
his passion for music, and sung divinely. No wonder that such a child
should be dear to such a father. Indeed old Josias' affection for Ben
was so intimately interwoven with every fibre of his heart, that he
could not bear the idea of separation from him; and various were the
stratagems which he employed to keep this dear child at home. One
while, to frighten his youthful fancy from the sea, for that was the
old man's dread, he would paint the horrors of the watery world, where
the maddening billows, lashed into mountains by the storm, would lift
the trembling ship to the skies; then hurl her down, headlong plunging
into the yawning gulphs, never to rise again. At another time he would
describe the wearisomeness of beating the gloomy wave for joyless
months, pent up in a small ship, with no prospects but barren sea and
skies--no smells but tar and bilge water--no society but men of
uncultivated minds, and their constant conversation nothing but
ribaldry and oaths. And then again he would take him to visit the
masons, coopers, joiners, and other mechanics, at work: in hopes that
his genius might be caught, and a stop put to his passion for
wandering. But greatly to his sorrow, none of these things held out
the attractions that his son seemed to want. His visits among these
tradesmen were not, however, without their advantage. He caught from
them, as he somewhere says, such an insight into mechanic arts and the
use of tools, as enabled him afterwards when there was no artist at
hand, to make for himself suitable machines for the illustration of
his philosophical experiments.

But it was not long before this obstinate dislike of Ben's to all
ordinary pursuits was found out; it was found out by his mother.
"Bless me," said she one night to her husband, as he lay sleepless and
sighing on his son's account, "why do we make ourselves so unhappy
about Ben for fear he should go to _sea!_ let him but go to _school_,
and I'll engage we hear no more about his running to sea. Don't you
see the child is never happy but when he has a book in his hand? Other
boys when they get a little money never think of any thing better to
lay it out on than their backs or their bellies; but he, poor fellow,
the moment that he gets a shilling, runs and gives it for a book; and
then, you know, there is no getting him to his meals until he has read
it through, and told us all about it."

Good old Josias listened very devoutly to his wife, while she uttered
this oration on his youngest son. Then with looks as of a heart
suddenly relieved from a heavy burden, and his eyes lifted to heaven,
he fervently exclaimed--"O that my son, even my little son Benjamin,
may live before God, and that the days of his usefulness and glory may
be many!"

How far the effectual fervent prayer of this righteous father found
acceptance in heaven, the reader will find perhaps by the time he has
gone through our little book.




CHAPTER VI.

_Ben taken from school, turns his own teacher--History of the books
which he first read--Is bound to the printing trade._


At a learned table in Paris, where Dr. Franklin happened to dine, it
was asked by the abbé Raynal, _What description of men most deserves
pity?_

Some mentioned one character, and some another. When it came to
Franklin's turn, he replied, _A lonesome man in a rainy day, who does
not know how to read._

As every thing is interesting that relates to one who made such a
figure in the world, it may gratify our readers to be told what were
the books that first regaled the youthful appetite of the great Dr.
Franklin. The state of literature in Boston at that time, being like
himself, only in its infancy, it is not to be supposed that Ben had
any very great choice of books. Books, however, there always were in
Boston.[1] Among these was Bunyan's Voyages, which appears to have
been the first he ever read, and of which he speaks with great
pleasure. But there is reason to fear that Bunyan did no good: for, as
it was the reading of the life of Alexander the Great that first set
Charles the Twelfth in such a fever to be running over the world
killing every body he met; so, in all probability, it was Bunyan's
Voyages that fired Ben's fancy with that passion for travelling, which
gave his father so much uneasiness. Having read over old Bunyan so
often as to have him almost by heart, Ben added a little boot, and
made a _swap_ of him for _Burton's Historical Miscellanies_. This,
consisting of forty or fifty volumes, held him a good long tug: for he
had no time to read but on Sundays, and early in the morning or late
at night. After this he fell upon his father's library. This being
made up principally of old puritanical divinity, would to most boys
have appeared like the pillars of Hercules to travellers of old--a
bound not to be passed. But so keen was Ben's appetite for any thing
in the shape of a book, that he fell upon it with his usual voracity,
and soon devoured every thing in it, especially of the lighter sort.
Seeing a little bundle of something crammed away very snugly upon an
upper shelf, his curiosity led him to take it down: and lo! what
should it be but "_Plutarch's Lives_." Ben was a stranger to the work;
but the title alone was enough for him; he instantly gave it one
reading; and then a second, and a third, and so on until he had almost
committed it to memory; and to his dying day he never mentioned the
name of Plutarch without acknowledging how much pleasure and profit he
had derived from that divine old writer. And there was another book,
by Defoe, a small affair, entitled "_An Essay on Projects_," to which
he pays the very high compliment of saying, that "_from it he received
impressions which influenced some of the principal events of his
life_."

          [1] You never find presbyterians without books.

Happy now to find that books had the charm to keep his darling boy at
home, and thinking that if he were put into a printing office he would
be sure to get books enough, his father determined to make a printer
of him, though he already had a son in that business. Exactly to his
wishes, that son, whose name was James, had just returned from London
with a new press and types. Accordingly, without loss of time, Ben,
now in his twelfth year, was bound apprentice to him. By the
indentures Ben was to serve his brother till twenty-one, _i.e._ _nine_
full years, without receiving one penny of wages save for the last
twelve months! How a man pretending to religion could reconcile it to
himself to make so hard a bargain with a younger brother, is strange.
But perhaps it was permitted of God, that Ben should learn his ideas
of oppression, not from reading but from suffering. The deliverers of
mankind have all been made perfect through suffering. And to the
galling sense of this villanous oppression, which never ceased to
rankle on the mind of Franklin, the American people owe much of that
spirited resistance to British injustice, which eventuated in their
liberties. But Master James had no great cause to boast of this
selfish treatment of his younger brother Benjamin; for the old adage
"foul play never thrives," was hardly ever more remarkably illustrated
than in this affair, as the reader will in due season be brought to
understand.




CHAPTER VII.

_Ben in clover--Turns a Rhymer--Makes a prodigious noise in Boston
--Bit by the Poetic Tarantula--Luckily cured by his father._


Ben is now happy. He is placed by the side of the press, the very mint
and coining place of his beloved _books_; and animated by that delight
which he takes in his business, he makes a proficiency equally
surprising and profitable to his brother. The field of his reading too
is now greatly enlarged. From the booksellers' boys he makes shift,
every now and then, to borrow a book, which he _never fails to return_
at the promised time: though to accomplish this he was often obliged
to sit up till midnight, reading by his bed side, that he might be as
good as his word.

Such an extraordinary passion for learning soon commended him to the
notice of his neighbours, among whom was an ingenious young man, a
tradesman, named Matthew Adams, who invited him to his house, showed
him all his books, and offered to lend him any that he wished to read.

About this time, which was somewhere in his thirteenth year, Ben took
it into his head that he could write poetry: and actually composed
several little pieces. These, after some hesitation, he showed to his
brother, who pronounced them _excellent_; and thinking that money
might be made by Ben's poetry, pressed him to cultivate his _wonderful
talent_, as he called it; and even gave him a couple of subjects to
write on. The one, which was to be called the LIGHT-HOUSE TRAGEDY, was
to narrate the late shipwreck of a sea captain and his two daughters:
and the other was to be a sailor's song on the noted pirate
Blackbeard, who had been recently killed on the coast of North
Carolina, by Captain Maynard, of a British sloop of war.

Ben accordingly fell to work, and after burning out several candles,
for his brother could not afford to let him write poetry by daylight,
he produced his two poems. His brother extolled them to the skies, and
in all haste had them put to the type and struck off; to expedite
matters, fast as the sheets could be snatched from the press, all
hands were set to work, folding and stitching them ready for market;
while nothing was to be heard throughout the office but constant calls
on the boys at press--"_more sheets ho! more Light-house tragedy! more
Blackbeard!_" But who can tell what Ben felt when he saw his brother
and all his journeymen in such a bustle on his account--and when he
saw, wherever he cast his eyes, the splendid trophies of his genius
scattered on the floor and tables; some in common paper for the
multitude; and others in snow-white foolscap, for presents to the
GREAT PEOPLE, such as "HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR."--"The HON. THE
SECRETARY OF STATE."--"The WORSHIPFUL THE MAYOR."--"The ALDERMEN, and
GENTLEMEN OF THE COUNCIL."--"The reverend the _clergy_, &c." Ben could
never tire of gazing at them; and as he gazed, his heart would leap
for joy--"_O you precious little verses_," he would say to himself,
"_Ye first warblings of my youthful harp! I'll soon have you abroad,
delighting every company, and filling all mouths with my name!_"
Accordingly, his _two poems_ being ready, Ben, who had been both poet
and printer, with a basket full of each on his arm, set out in high
spirits to sell them through the town, which he did by singing out as
he went, after, the manner of the London cries--

    "Choice Poetry! Choice Po-e-try!
    Come BUY my choice Po-e-try!"

The people of Boston having never heard any such cry as that before,
were prodigiously at a loss to know what he was selling. But still Ben
went on singing out as before,

    "Choice Poetry! Choice Poetry!
    Come, buy my choice Poetry!"

I wonder now, said one with a stare, if it is not _poultry_ that that
little boy is singing out so stoutly yonder.

O no, I guess not, said a second.

Well then, cried a third, I vow but it must be _pastry_.

At length Ben was called up and interrogated.

"_Pray, my little man, and what's that that you are crying there so
bravely?_"

Ben told them it was poetry.

"_O!--aye! poetry!_" said they; "_poetry! that's a sort of something
or other in metre--like the old version, isn't it?_"

"_O yes, to be sure_," said they all, "_it must be like the old
version, if it is poetry_;" and thereupon they stared at him,
marvelling hugely that a "_little curly headed boy like him should be
selling such a wonderful thing_!" This made Ben hug himself still more
on account of his poetry.

I have never been able to get a sight of the ballad of the Light-house
Tragedy, which must no doubt have been a great curiosity: but the
sailor's song on Blackbeard runs thus--

    "Come all you jolly Sailors,
      You all so stout and brave;
    Come hearken and I'll tell you
      What happen'd on the wave.
    Oh! 'tis of that bloody Blackbeard
      I'm going now for to tell;
    And as how by gallant Maynard
      He soon was sent to hell--
                        With a down, down, down derry down."

The reader will, I suppose, agree with Ben in his criticism, many
years afterwards, on this poetry, that it was "wretched stuff; mere
blind men's ditties." But fortunately for Ben, the poor people of
Boston were at that time no judges of poetry. The silver-tongued Watts
had not, as yet, snatched the harp of Zion, and poured his divine
songs over New-England. And having never been accustomed to any thing
better than an old version of David's Psalms, running in this way--

    "Ye monsters of the bubbling deep,
      Your Maker's praises spout!
    Up from your sands ye codlings peep,
      And wag your tails about."--

The people of Boston pronounced Ben's poetry _mighty fine_, and bought
them up at a prodigious rate; especially the LIGHT-HOUSE TRAGEDY.

A flood of success so sudden and unexpected, would in all probability
have turned Ben's brain and run him stark mad with vanity, had not his
wise old father timely stepped in and checked the rising fever. But
highly as Ben honoured his father, and respected his judgment, he
could hardly brook to hear him attack his beloved poetry, as he did,
calling it "_mere Grub-street_." And he even held a stiff argument in
defence of it. But on reading a volume of Pope, which his father, who
well knew the force of contrast, put into his hand for that purpose,
he never again opened his mouth in behalf of his "_blind men's
ditties_." He used to laugh and say, that after reading Pope, he was
so mortified with his _Light-house Tragedy, and Sailor's Song_, which
he had once thought so fine, that he could not bear the sight of them,
but constantly threw into the fire every copy that fell in his way.
Thus was he timely saved, as he ingenuously confesses, from the very
great misfortune of being, perhaps, a miserable jingler for life.

But I cannot let fall the curtain on this curious chapter, without
once more feasting my eyes on Ben, as, with a little basket on his
arm, he trudged along the streets of Boston crying his poetry.

Who that saw the youthful David coming up fresh from his father's
sheep cots, with his locks wet with the dews of the morning, and his
cheeks ruddy as the opening rose-buds, would have dreamed that this
was he who should one day, single handed, meet the giant Goliah, in
the war-darkened valley of Elah, and wipe off reproach from Israel. In
like manner, who that saw this "_curly headed child_," at the tender
age of thirteen, selling his "_blind men's ditties_," among the
wonder-struck Jonathans and Jemimas of Boston, would have thought that
this was he, who, single handed, was to meet the British ministry at
the bar of their own house of Commons, and by the solar blaze of his
wisdom, utterly disperse all their dark designs against their
countrymen, thus gaining for himself a name lasting as time, and dear
to liberty as the name of Washington.

O you time-wasting, brain-starving young men, who can never be at ease
unless you have a cigar or a plug of tobacco in your mouths, go on
with your puffing and champing--go on with your filthy smoking, and
your still more filthy spitting, keeping the cleanly house-wives in
constant terror for their nicely waxed floors, and their shining
carpets--go on I say; but remember it was not in this way that our
little Ben became the GREAT DR. FRANKLIN.




CHAPTER VIII.


'Tis the character of a great mind never to despair. Though glory may
not be gained in one way, it may in another. As a river, if it meet a
mountain in its course, does not halt and poison all the country by
stagnation, but rolls its gathering forces around the obstacle, urging
its precious tides and treasures through distant lands. So it was with
the restless genius of young Franklin. Finding that nature had never
cut him out for a poet, he determined to take revenge on her by making
himself a good prose writer. As it is in this way that his pen has
conferred great obligations on the world, it must be gratifying to
learn by what means, humbly circumstanced as he was, he acquired that
perspicuity and ease so remarkable in his writings. This information
must be peculiarly acceptable to such youth as are apt to despair of
becoming good writers, because they have never been taught the
languages. Ben's example will soon convince them that Latin and Greek
are not necessary to make English scholars. Let them but commence with
_his_ passion for knowledge; with _his_ firm persuasion, that wisdom
is the glory and happiness of man, and the work is more than half
done.

Honest Ben never courted a young man because he was rich, or the son
of the rich--No. His favourites were of the youth fond of reading and
of rational conversation, no matter how poor they were. "_Birds of a
feather do not more naturally flock together_," than do young men of
this high character. This was what first attracted to him that
ingenious young carpenter, Matthew Adams: as also John Collins, the
tanner's boy. These three spirited youth, after finding each other
out, became as fond as brothers. And often as possible, when the
labours of the day were ended, they would meet at a little
school-house in the neighbourhood, and argue on some given subject
till midnight. The advantages of this as a grand mean of exercising
memory, strengthening the reasoning faculty, disciplining the
thoughts, and improving a correct and graceful elocution, became daily
more obvious and important in their view, and consequently increased
their mutual attachment. But from his own observation of what passed
in this curious little society, Ben cautions young men against that
_war of words_, which the vain are too apt to fall into, and which
tends not only to make them insupportably disagreeable through a
disputatious spirit, but is apt also to betray into a fondness for
_quizzing_, _i.e._ for asserting and supporting opinions which they do
not themselves believe. He gives the following as a case in point.

One night, Adams being absent, and only himself and Collins together
in the old school-house, Ben observed that he thought it a great pity
that the young ladies were not more attended to, as to the improvement
of their minds by education. He said, that with their advantages of
sweet voices and beautiful faces, they could give tenfold charms to
wit and sensible conversation, making heavenly truths to appear, as he
had somewhere read in his father's old Bible, "like apples of gold set
in pictures of silver."

Collins blowed upon the idea. He said, it was all _stuff_, and no pity
at all, that the girls were so neglected in their education, as they
were naturally incapable of it. And here he repeated, laughing, that
infamous slur on the ladies,

    "Substance too soft a lasting mind to bear,
    And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair."

At this, Ben, who was already getting to be a great admirer of the
ladies, reddened up against Collins; and to it they fell, at once, in
a stiff argument on the education of women--as whether they were
capable of studying the sciences or not. Collins, as we have seen, led
off against the ladies. Being much of an infidel, he took the Turkish
ground altogether, and argued like one just soured and sullen from the
seraglio. _Women study the sciences indeed!_ said he, with a sneer; _a
pretty story truly! no sir, they have nothing to do with the sciences.
They were not born for any such thing._

Ben wanted to know what they _were_ born for?

Born for! retorted Collins, why to _dress_ and _dance_; to _sing_ and
_play_; and, like pretty triflers, to divert the lords of the
creation, after their toils and studies. This is all they were born
for, or ever intended of nature, who has given them capacities for
nothing higher. Sometimes, indeed, they look grave, and fall into such
brown studies as would lead one to suppose they meant to go deep; but
it is all _fudge_. They are only trying in this new character to play
themselves off to a better effect on their lovers. And if you could
but penetrate the bosoms of these fair Penserosoes; you would find
that under all this affectation of study they were only fatiguing
their childish brains about what dress they should wear to the next
ball: or what coloured ribands would best suit their new lutestrings.

To this Ben replied with warmth, that it was extremely unphilosophical
in Mr. Collins to argue in that way against the MIND--that in fixing
their destination he had by no means given them that high ground to
which they were entitled. You say, sir, continued Ben, that the ladies
were created to amuse the men by the charm of their vivacity and
accomplishments. This to be sure was saying something. But you might,
I think, have said a great deal more; at least the Bible says a great
deal more for them. The Bible, sir, tells us that God created woman to
be the helpmate of man. Now if man were devoid of reason he might be
well enough matched by such a monkey-like helpmate as you have
described woman. But, sir, since man is a noble God-like creature,
endued with the sublime capacities of _reason_, how could woman ever
make a helpmate to him, unless she were rational like himself, and
thus capable of being the companion of his thoughts and conversation
through all the pleasant fields of knowledge?

Here Collins interrupted him, asking very sarcastically, if in this
fine flourish in favour of the ladies he was really _in earnest_.

Never more so in all my life, replied Ben, rather nettled.

What, that the women are as capable of studying the sciences as the
men?

Yes, that the women are as capable of studying the sciences as the
men.

And pray, sir, continued Collins, tauntingly, do you know of any
_young woman_ of your acquaintance that would make a Newton?

And pray, sir, answered Ben, do you know any young man of your
acquaintance that would? But these are no arguments, sir,--because it
is not every young man or woman that can carry the science of
astronomy so high as Newton, it does not follow that they are
incapable of the science altogether. God sees fit in every age to
appoint certain persons to kindle new lights among men.--And Newton
was appointed greatly to enlarge our views of celestial objects. But
we are not thence to infer that he was in all respects superior to
other men, for we are told that in some instances he was far inferior
to other men. Collins denied that Newton had ever shown himself, in
any point of wit inferior to other men.

No, indeed, replied Ben; well what do you think of that anecdote of
him, lately published in the New England Courant from a London paper?

And pray what is the anecdote? asked Collins.

Why it is to this effect, said Ben.--Newton, mounted on the wings of
astronomy, and gazing at the mighty orbs of fire above, had entirely
forgotten the poor little fire that slumbered on his own hearth below,
which presently forgot him, that is in plain English, went out. The
frost piercing his nerves, called his thoughts home, when lo! in place
of the spacious skies, the gorgeous antichamber of the Almighty, he
found himself in his own little nut-shell apartment, cold and dark,
comparatively, as the dwelling of the winter screech-owl. He rung the
bell for his servant, who after making a rousing fire, went out again.
But scarcely had the servant recovered his warm corner in the kitchen,
before the vile bell, with a most furious ring, summoned him the
second time. The servant flew into his master's presence. _Monster!_
cried Newton with a face inflamed as if it had been toasting at the
tail of one of his comets, _did you mean to burn me alive? push back
the fire! for God's sake push back the fire, or I shall be a cinder in
an instant!_

Push back the fire! replied the servant with a growl, zounds, sir, I
thought you might have had sense enough to push back your chair!

Collins swore that it was only a libel against Sir Isaac.

Ben contended that he had seen it in so many different publications,
that he had no sort of doubt of its truth; especially as Sir Hans
Sloan had backed it with another anecdote of Newton, in the same
style; and to which he avers he was both eye and ear witness.

And pray what has that butterfly philosopher to say against the
immortal Newton? asked Collins, quite angrily.

Why, replied Ben, it is this: Sloan, stepping in one day, to see Sir
Isaac, was told by his servant that he was up in his study, but would
be down immediately; _for there, sir, you see is his dinner, which I
have just set on the table_.--It was a pheasant so neatly browned in
the roasting, and withal so plump and inviting to the eye, that Sloan
could not resist the temptation; but venturing on his great intimacy
with the knight, sat down and picked the delicious bird to the bone;
having desired the cook in all haste to clap another to the spit.
Presently down came Sir Isaac--was very glad to see his friend
Sloan--how had he been all this time? and how did he leave his good
lady and family? you have not dined?

No.

Very glad of it indeed; very glad. Well then, come dine with
me.--Turning to the table, he sees the dish empty, and his plate
strewed with the bones of his favourite pheasant.--_Lord bless me!_ he
exclaimed, clasping his forehead, and looking betwixt laughing and
blushing, at Sloan--_what am I good for? I have dined, as you see, my
dear friend, and yet I had entirely forgot it!_

I don't believe a syllable of it, said Collins; not one syllable of
it, sir.

No, replied Ben; nor one syllable, I suppose, of his famous courtship,
when sitting by an elegant young lady, whom his friends wished him to
make love to, he seized her lily white hand. But instead of pressing
it with rapture to his bosom, he thrust it into the bowl of his pipe
that he was smoking; thus making a tobacco stopper of one of the
loveliest fingers in England; to the inexpressible mortification of
the company, and to the most dismal scolding and screaming of the dear
creature!

'Tis all a lie, sir, said Collins, getting quite mad, all a confounded
lie. The immortal Newton, sir, was never capable of acting so much
like a blockhead. But supposing all this slang to be true, what would
you infer from it, against that prince of philosophy?--Why I would
infer from it, replied Ben, that though a great man, he was but a man.
And I would also infer from it in favour of my fair clients, that
though they did not make Sir Isaac's discoveries in astronomy, they
are yet very capable of comprehending them. And besides, I am
astonished, Mr. Collins, how any gentleman that loves himself, as I
know you do, can thus traduce the ladies. Don't you consider, sir,
that in proportion as you lessen the dignity of the ladies, you lessen
the dignity of your affections for them, and consequently, your own
happiness in them, which must for ever keep pace with your ideas of
their excellence.--This was certainly a home thrust; and most readers
would suppose, that Ben was in a fair way to crow over his antagonist;
but, Collins was a young man of too much pride and talents to give up
so easily. A spirited retort, of course, was made; a rejoinder
followed, and thus the controversy was kept up until the watchman
bawling twelve o'clock, reminded our stripling orators that it was
time for them to quit the old school-house; which with great
reluctance they did, but without being any nearer the end of their
argument than when they began.




CHAPTER IX.


The shades of midnight had parted our young combatants, and silent and
alone, Ben had trotted home to his printing-office; but still in his
restless thoughts the combat raged in all its fury: still burning for
victory, where truth and the ladies were at stake, he fell to
mustering his arguments again, which now at the drum-beat of
recollection came crowding on him so thick and strong that he felt
equally ashamed and astonished that he had not utterly crushed his
antagonist at once. He could see no reason on earth why Collins had
made a drawn battle of it, but by his vastly superior eloquence. To
deprive him of this advantage, Ben determined to attack him with his
pen. And to this he felt the greater inclination, as they were not to
meet again for several nights. So, committing his thoughts to paper,
and taking a fair copy, he sent it to him. Collins, who, "was not born
in the woods to be scared by an owl," quickly answered, and Ben
rejoined. In this way several vollies had passed on both sides, when
good old Josias chanced to light upon them all; both the copies of
Ben's letters to Collins, and the answers. He read them with a deep
interest, and that very night sent for Ben that he might talk with him
on their contents. "_So Ben!_" said he to him as he pressed his
beloved hand, "_you have got into a paper war already, have you?_"

Ben blushed.

I don't mean to blame you, my son, continued the old gentleman. I
don't blame you; on the contrary I am delighted to see you taking such
pains to improve your mind. Go on, my dear boy, go on; for your mind
is the only part that is worth your care: and the more you accustom
yourself to find your happiness in _that_, the better. The body, as I
have a thousand times told you, is but nicely organized earth, that in
spite of the daintiest meats and clothes, will soon grow old and
withered, and then die and rot back to earth again. But the MIND, Ben,
is the HEAVENLY part, the IMMORTAL inhabitant, who, if early nursed
with proper thoughts and affections, is capable of a feast that will
endure for ever.

This your little controversy with your friend Collins is praiseworthy,
because it has a bearing on that grand point, the improvement of your
mind.

But let me suggest a hint or two, my son, for your better conduct of
it. You have greatly the advantage of Mr. Collins in correctness of
spelling and pointing; which you owe entirely to your profession as a
printer; but then he is as far superior to you in other respects. He
certainly has not so good a cause as you have, but, he manages it
better. He clothes his ideas with such elegance of expression, and
arranges his arguments with so much perspicuity and art, as will
captivate all readers in his favour, and snatch the victory from you,
notwithstanding your better cause. In confirmation of these remarks,
the old gentleman drew from his pocket the letters of their
correspondence, and read to him several passages, as strong cases in
point.

Ben sensibly felt the justice of these criticisms, and after thanking
his father for his goodness in making them, assured him, that as he
delighted above all things in reading books of a beautiful style, so
he was resolved to spare no pains to acquire so divine an art.

The next day, going into a fresh part of the town, with a paper to a
new subscriber, he saw, on the side of the street, a little table
spread out and covered with a parcel of toys, among which lay an odd
volume, with a neat old woman sitting by. As he approached the table
to look at the book, the old lady lifting on him a most pleasant
countenance, said, "_well my little man do you ever dream dreams?_"

Ben rather startled at so strange a salutation, replied, that he had
_dream't_ in his time.--_Well_, continued the old woman, _and what do
you think of dreams; do you put any faith in 'em?_

Why, no, madam, answered Ben; as I have seldom had dreams except after
taking too hearty a supper, I have always looked on 'em as a mere
matter of indigestion, and so have never troubled my head much about
'em.

_Well now_, replied the old lady, laughing, _there's just the
difference between you and me. I, for my part, always takes great
notice of dreams, they generally turn out so true._ And now can you
tell what a droll dream I had last night?

Ben answered that he was no Daniel to interpret dreams.

Well, said the old lady, I dreamed last night, that a little man just
like you, came along here and bought that old book of me.

Aye! why that's a droll dream sure enough, replied Ben; and pray,
Madam, what do you ask for your old book?

_Only four pence halfpenny_, said the old lady.

Well, Madam, continued Ben, as your dreaming has generally, as you
say, turned out true, it shall not be otherwise now; _there's your
money_--so now as you have another reason for putting faith in dreams,
you can dream again.

As Ben took up his book to go away, the old lady said, stop a minute,
my son, stop a minute. I have not told you the whole of my dream yet.
Then looking very gravely at him, she said, But though my dream showed
that the book was to be bought by a _little_ man, it did not say he
was always to be little. No; for I saw, in my dream, that he grew up
to be a GREAT man; the lightnings of heaven played around his head,
and the shape of a kingly crown was beneath his feet. I heard his name
as a pleasant sound from distant lands, and I saw it through clouds of
smoke and flame, among the tall victor ships that strove in the last
battle for the freedom of the seas. She uttered this with a raised
voice and glowing cheek, as though the years to come, with all their
mighty deeds, were passing before her.

Ben was too young yet to suspect who this old woman was, though he
felt as he had read the youthful Telemachus did, when the fire-eyed
Minerva, in the shape of Mentor, roused his soul to virtue.

Farewell, Madam, said Ben with a deep sigh, as he went away; you might
have spared that part of your dream, for I am sure there is very
little chance of its ever coming to pass.

But though Ben went away to attend to his brother's business, yet the
old woman's looks made such an impression on his mind, that he could
not help going the next day to see her again; but she was not there
any more.

On leaving the old woman, he opened his book, when, behold, what
should it be but an odd volume of the Spectator, a book which he had
not seen before. The number which he chanced to open was the vision of
Mirzah; which so caught his attention that he could not take it off
until he had got through. What the people thought of him for reading
in that manner as he walked along the street, he knew not; nor did he
once think, he was so taken up with his book. He felt as though he
would give the world to write in so enchanting a style; and to that
end he carried his old volume constantly in his pocket, that by
committing, as it were, to memory, those sweetly flowing lines, he
might stand a chance to fall into the imitation of them. He took
another curious method to catch Addison's charming style; he would
select some favourite chapter out of the Spectator, make short
summaries of the sense of each period, and put them for a few days
aside; then without looking at the book, he would endeavour to restore
the chapter to its first form, by expressing each thought at full
length.

These exercises soon convinced him that he greatly lacked a fund of
words, and a facility of employing them; both of which he thought
would have been abundantly supplied, had he but continued his old
trade of _making verses_. The continual need of words of the same
_meaning_, but of different _lengths_, for the _measure_; or of
different sounds, for the _rhyme_, would have obliged him to seek a
variety of _synonymes_. From this belief he took some of the papers
and turned them into verse; and after he had sufficiently forgotten
them, he again converted them into prose.

On comparing _his_ Spectator with the original, he discovered many
faults; but panting, as he did, for perfection in this noble art,
nothing could discourage him. He bravely persevered in his
experiments, and though he lamented that in most instances he still
fell short of the charming original, yet in some he thought he had
clearly improved the order and style. And when this happened, it gave
him unspeakable satisfaction, as it sprung the dear hope that in time
he should succeed in writing the English language in the same
enchanting manner.




CHAPTER X.


About this time, which was somewhere in his sixteenth year, Ben
lighted on a very curious work, by one _Tryon_, recommending vegetable
diet altogether, and condemning "_animal food as a great crime_." He
read it with all the avidity of a young and honest mind that wished to
renounce error and embrace truth. "_From start to pole_," as the
racers say, his conscience was under the lash, pointing at him as the
dreadful SARCOPHAGIST, or MEAT-EATER alluded to by this severe writer.
He could not, without horror reflect, that, young as he was, his
stomach had yet been the grave of hundreds of lambs, pigs, birds, and
other little animals, "_who had never injured him_." And when he
extended the dismal idea over the vast surface of the globe, and saw
the whole human race pursuing and butchering the poor brute creation,
filling the sea and land with cries and blood and slaughter, he felt a
depression of spirits with an anguish of mind that strongly tempted
him, not only to detest man, but even to charge God himself with
cruelty. But this distress did not continue long. Impatient of such
wretchedness, he set all the powers of his mind to work, to discover
designs in all this, worthy of the Creator. To his unspeakable
satisfaction he soon made these important discoveries. 'Tis true, said
he, man is constantly butchering the inferior creatures. And it is
also true that they are constantly devouring one another. But after
all, shocking as this may seem, it is but _dying_: it is but giving up
life, or returning a something which was not their own; which for the
honour of his goodness in their enjoyment, was only lent them for a
season; and which, therefore, they ought not to think hard to return.

Now certainly, continued Ben, all this is very clear and easy to be
understood. Well then, since all life, whether of man or beast, or
vegetables, is a kind loan of God, and to be taken back again, the
question is whether the way in which we see it is taken back is not
the _best way_. It is true, life being the season of enjoyment, is so
dear to us that there is no way of giving it up which is not shocking.
And this horror which we feel at the thought of having our own lives
taken from us we extend to the brutes. We cannot help feeling shocked
at the butcher killing a lamb, or one animal killing another. Nay,
tell even a child who is looking with smiles on a good old family
horse that has just brought a bag of flour from the mill, or a load of
wood from the forest, that this his beloved horse will by and by be
eaten up of the buzzards, and instantly his looks will manifest
extreme distress. And if his mother, to whom he turns for
contradiction of this horrid prophecy, should confirm it, he is struck
dumb with horror, or bursts into strong cries as if his little heart
would break at thought of the dismal end to which his horse is coming.
These, though very amiable, are yet the amiable weaknesses of the
child, which, it is the duty of man to overcome. This animal was
created of his God for the double purpose of doing service to man, and
of enjoying comfort himself. And when these are accomplished, and that
life which was only lent him is recalled, is it not better that
nature's scavengers, the buzzards, should take up his flesh and keep
the elements sweet, than that it should lie on the fields to shock the
sight and smell of all who pass by? The fact is, continued Ben, I see
that all creatures that live, whether men or beasts, or vegetables,
are doomed to die. Now were it not a greater happiness that this
universal calamity, as it appears, should be converted into an
universal blessing, and this _dying_ of all be made the _living_ of
all? Well, through the admirable wisdom and goodness of the Creator,
this is exactly the case. The vegetables all die to sustain animals;
and animals, whether birds, beasts, or fishes, all die to sustain man,
or one another. Now, is it not far better for them that they should be
thus continually changing into each other's substance, and existing in
the wholesome shapes of life and vigour, than to be scattered about
dying and dead, shocking all eyes with their ghastly forms, and
poisoning both sea and air with the stench of their corruption?

This scrutiny into the economy of nature in this matter, gave him such
an exalted sense of nature's Great Author, that in a letter to his
father, to whom he made a point of writing every week for the benefit
of his corrections, he says, though I was at first greatly angered
with Tryon, yet afterwards I felt myself much obliged to him for
giving me such a hard nut to crack, for I have picked out of it one of
the sweetest kernels I ever tasted. In truth, father, continues he,
although I do not make much noise or show about religion, yet I
entertain a most adoring sense of the GREAT FIRST CAUSE; insomuch that
I had rather cease to exist than cease to believe him ALL WISE AND
BENEVOLENT.

In the midst, however, of these pleasing speculations, another
disquieting idea was suggested.--Is it not cruel, after giving life to
take it away again so soon? The tender grass has hardly risen above
the earth, in all its spring-tide green and sweetness, before its
beauty is all cropped by the lamb; and the playful lamb, full dressed
in his snow-white fleece, has scarcely tasted the sweets of existence,
before he is caught up by the cruel wolf or more cruel man. And so
with every bird and fish: this has scarcely learned to sing his song
to the listening grove, or that to leap with transport from the limpid
wave, before he is called to resign his life to man or some larger
animal.

This was a horrid thought, which, like a cloud, spread a deep gloom
over Ben's mind. But his reflections, like the sunbeams, quickly
pierced and dispersed them.

These cavillers, said he, in another letter, are entirely wrong. They
wish, it seems, _long life_ to the creatures; the Creator wishes them
a _pleasant_ one. They would have but a few to exist in a _long_ time;
_he_ a great many in a _short_ time. Now as youth is the season of
gaiety and enjoyment, and all after is comparatively insipid, is it
not better, before that pleasant state is ended in sorrow, the
creature should pass away by a quick and generally easy fate, and
appear again in some other shape? Surely if the grass could reason, it
would prefer, while fresh and beautiful, to be cropped by the lamb and
converted into his substance, than, by staying a little longer, to
disfigure the fields with its faded foliage. And the lamb too, if he
could but think and choose, would ask for _a short life and a merry
one_, rather than, by staying a little longer, degenerate into a
ragged old sheep, snorting with the rattles, and dying of the rot, or
murrain.

But though Ben, at the tender age of sixteen, and with no other aid
than his own strong mind, could so easily quell this host of
atheistical doubts, which Tryon had conjured up; yet he hesitated not
to become his disciple in another tenet. Tryon asserted of animal
food, that though it gave great strength to the body, yet it
contributed sadly to grossness of blood and heaviness of mind; and
hence he reasoned, that all who wish for cool heads and clear thoughts
should make their diet principally of vegetables. Ben was struck with
this as the perfection of reason, and entered so heartily into it as a
rare help for acquiring knowledge, that he instantly resolved, fond as
he was of flesh and fish, to give both up from that day, and never
taste them again as long as he lived. This steady refusal of his to
eat meat, was looked on as a very inconvenient singularity by his
brother, who scolded him for it, and insisted he should give it up.
Ben made no words with his brother on this account.--Knowing that
avarice was his ruling passion, he threw out a bait to James which
instantly caught, and without any disturbance produced the
accommodation he wished. "Brother," said he to him one day as he
scolded; "you give three shillings and six pence a week for my diet at
this boarding-house; give me but _half_ that money and I'll diet
myself without any farther trouble or expense to you." James
immediately took him at his word and gave him in hand his week's
ration, one shilling and nine pence, which after the Boston exchange,
six shillings to the dollar, makes exactly thirty-seven and a half
cents. Those who often give one dollar for a single dinner, and five
dollars for a fourth of July dinner, would look very blue at an
allowance of thirty-seven and a half cents for a whole week. But Ben
so husbanded this little sum, that after defraying all the expenses of
his table, he found himself at the end of the week, near twenty cents
in pocket--thus expending not quite three cents a day! This was a
joyful discovery to Ben--twenty cents a week, said he, and fifty-two
weeks in the year; why, that is upwards of ten dollars in the twelve
months! what a noble fund for books! Nor was this the only benefit he
derived from it; for, while his brother and the journeymen were gone
to the boarding-house to devour their pork and beef, which, with
lounging and picking their teeth, generally took them an hour, he
stayed at the printing-office; and after dispatching his frugal meal,
of boiled potatoe, or rice; or a slice of bread with an apple; or
bunch of raisins and a glass of water, he had the rest of the time for
study. The pure fluids and bright spirits secreted from such simple
diet, proved exceedingly favourable to that clearness and vigour of
mind, and rapid growth in knowledge which his youthful soul delighted
in.

I cannot conclude this chapter without making a remark which the
reader has perhaps anticipated--that it was by this simple regimen,
vegetables and water, that the Jewish seer, the holy Daniel, while a
youth, was of PROVIDENCE made fit for all the learning of the East;
hence arose his bright visions into futurity, and his clear pointings
to the far distant days of the Messiah, when the four great brass and
iron monarchies of Media, Persia, Grecia, and Rome, being overthrown,
Christ should set up his last golden monarchy of LOVE, which, though
faint in the beginning as the first beam of the uncertain dawn, shall
yet at length brighten all the skies, and chase the accursed clouds of
sin and suffering from the abodes of man and beast.

In like manner, it was on the simple regimen of vegetables and water,
the easy purchase of three cents a day, that the same PROVIDENCE
raised up our young countryman to guard the last spark of perfect
liberty in the British colonies of North America. Yes, it was on three
cents' worth of daily bread and water, that young Ben Franklin
commenced his collection of that blaze of light, which early as 1754,
showed the infant and unsuspecting colonies their RIGHTS and their
DANGERS--and which afterwards, in 1764, blasted the treasonable stamp
act--and finally, in '73 and '74, served as the famed star of the
East, to guide Washington and his wise men of the revolution, to the
cradle of liberty, struggling in the gripe of the British Herod, lord
North. There rose the battle of God for an injured people; there
spread the star-spangled banner of freedom; and there poured the blood
of the brave, fighting for the rights of man under the last republic.
O that God may long preserve this precious vine of his own right hand
planting, for his own glory and the happiness of unborn millions!

But the reader must not conclude that Ben, through life, tied himself
up to a vegetable diet. No. Nature will have her way. And having
designed man partly carnivorous, as his canine teeth, his lengthened
bowels, and his flesh-pot appetites all evince, she will bring him
back to the healthy mixture of animal food with vegetable, or punish
his obstinacy with diarrhoea and debility. But she had no great
difficulty in bringing Ben back to the use of animal food. According
to his own account, no nosegay was ever more fragrant to his
olfactories than was the smell of fresh fish in the frying pan. And as
to his objection to such a savory diet on account of its stupifying
effects on the brain, he easily got the better of that, when he
reflected that the witty queen Elizabeth breakfasted on beef-stake;
that sir Isaac Newton dined on pheasants; that Horace supped on fat
bacon; and that Pope both breakfasted, dined, and supped on shrimps
and oysters. And for the objection taken from the cruelty of killing
innocent animals, for their flesh, he got over that by the following
curious accident:--On his first voyage to New-York, the vessel halting
on the coast for lack of breeze, the sailors all fell to fishing for
cod, of which they presently took great numbers and very fine. Instead
of being delighted at this sight, Ben appeared much hurt, and began to
preach to the crew on their "injustice," as he called it, in thus
taking away the lives of those poor little fish, who, "_had never
injured them, nor ever could_." The sailors were utterly dum-founded
at such queer logic as this. Taking their silence for conviction, Ben
rose in his argument, and began to play the orator quite outrageously
on the main deck. At length an old wag of a boatswain, who had at
first been struck somewhat aback by the strangeness of this attack,
took courage, and luffing up again, with a fine breeze of humour in
his weather-beaten sail, called out to Ben, "_Well, but my young
Master preacher, may not we deal by these same cod here, as they deal
by their neighbours._"

"To be sure," said Ben.

"Well then, sir, see here," replied the boatswain, holding up a stout
fish, "see here what a whaler I took just now out o' the belly of that
cod!" Ben looking as if he had his doubts, the boatswain went on, "O
sir, if you come to that, you shall have _proof_;" whereupon he laid
hold of a large big-bellied cod that was just then flouncing on the
deck, and ripping him open, in the presence of Ben and the crew,
turned out several young cod from his maw.

Here, Ben, well pleased with this discovery, cried out, Oho! villains!
is that the game you play with one another under the water! Unnatural
wretches! What! eat one another! Well then, if a cod can eat his own
brother, I see no reason in nature why man may not eat him. With that
he seized a stout young fish just fresh from his native brine, and
frying him in all haste, made a very hearty meal. Ben never after
this, made any more scruples about animal food, but ate fish, flesh,
or fowl, as they came in his way, without asking any questions for
conscience sake.




CHAPTER XI.


Except the ADMIRABLE CRICHTON, I have never heard of a genius that was
fitted to shine in every art and science. Even Newton was dull in
languages; and Pope used to say of himself, that "he had as leave hear
the squeal of pigs in a gate, as hear the organ of Handel!" Neither
was our Ben the "_omnis homo_" or "_Jack of all trades_." He never
could bear the mathematics! and even arithmetic presented to him no
attractions at all. Not that he was not capable of it; for, happening
about this time, still in his sixteenth year, to be laughed at for his
ignorance in the art of calculation, he went and got himself a copy of
old Cocker's Arithmetic, one of the toughest in those days, and went
through it by himself with great ease. The truth is, his mind was at
this time entirely absorbed in the ambition to be a finished writer of
the English language; such a one, if possible, as the SPECTATOR, whom
he admired above all others.

While labouring, as we have seen, to improve his style, he laid his
hands on all the English Grammars he could hear of. Among the number
was a treatise of that sort, an old shabby looking thing, which the
owner, marking his curiosity in those matters, made him a present of.
Ben hardly returned him a thankee, as doubting at first whether it was
worth carrying home. But how great was his surprise, when coming
towards the close of it, he found, crammed into a small chapter, a
treatise on the art of disputation, after the manner of SOCRATES. The
treatise was very short, but it was enough for Ben; it gave an
outline, and that was all he wanted. As the little whortle-berry boy,
on the sands of Cape May, grabbling for his breakfast in a turtle's
nest, if he but reaches with his little hand but one egg, instantly
laughs with joy, as well knowing that all the rest will follow, like
beads on a string. So it was with the eager mind of Ben, when he first
struck on this plan of Socratic disputation. In an instant his
thoughts ran through all the threads and meshes of the wondrous net;
and he could not help laughing in his sleeve, to think what a fine
puzzling cap he should soon weave for the frightened heads of Collins,
Adams, and all others who should pretend to dispute with him. But the
use which he principally had in view to make of it, and which tickled
his fancy most, was how completely he should now confound those
ignorant and hypocritical ones in Boston, who were continually boring
him about religion. Not that Ben ever took pleasure in confounding
those who were honestly desirous of _showing their religion by their
good works_; for such were always his ESTEEM and DELIGHT. But he could
never away with those who neglected JUSTICE, MERCY, and TRUTH, and yet
affected great familiarities with the Deity, from certain conceited
wonders that Christ had wrought _in_ them. As no youth ever more
heartily desired the happiness of man and beast than Ben did, so none
ever more seriously resented that the religion of love and good works
tending to this, should be usurped by a _harsh, barren puritanism,
with her disfigured faces, whine and cant_. This appeared to him like
Dagon overturning the Ark of God with a vengeance. Burning with zeal
against such detestable phariseeism he rejoiced in his Socratic logic
as a new kind of weapon, which he hoped to employ with good effect
against it. He studied his Socrates day and night, and particularly
his admirable argumentations given by Xenophon, in his book, entitled
"MEMORABLE THINGS OF SOCRATES;" and in a little time came to wield his
new artillery with great dexterity and success.

But in all his rencontres with the _false_ christians, he adhered
strictly to the spirit of Socrates, as being perfectly congenial to
his own. Instead of blunt contradictions and positive assertions, he
would put modest questions; and after obtaining of them concessions of
which they did not foresee the _consequences_, he would involve them
in difficulties and embarrassments, from which they could never
extricate themselves. Had he possessed a vanity capable of being
satisfied with the triumph of wit over dulness, he might long have
crowed the master cock of this Socratic pit. But finding that his
victories seldom produced any practical good; that they were acquired
at a considerable expense of time, neglect of business, and injury of
his temper, which was never formed for altercation with bigots, he
abandoned it by degrees, retaining only the habit of expressing
himself with a modest diffidence. And not only at that time, but ever
afterwards through life, it was remarked of him, that in argument he
rarely used the words _certainly_, _undoubtedly_, or any others that
might convey the idea of being obstinately conceited of his own
opinion. His ordinary phrases were--_I imagine_--_I suppose-_-or, _it
appears to me, that such a thing is so and so_--or, _it is so, if I am
not mistaken_. By such soothing arts he gradually conciliated the good
will of his opponents, and almost always succeeded in bringing them
over to his wishes. Hence he used to say, it was great pity that
sensible and well-meaning persons should lessen their own usefulness
by a positive and presumptuous way of talking, which only serves to
provoke opposition from the passionate, and shyness from the prudent,
who rather than get into a dispute with such self-conceited
characters, will hold their peace, and let them go on in their errors.
In short, if you wish to answer one of the noblest ends for which
tongues were given to rational beings, which is to _inform_ or to be
_informed_, to _please_ and to _persuade_ them, for heaven's sake,
treat their opinions, even though erroneous, with great politeness.

    "Men must be taught as though you taught them not,
    And things unknown propos'd as things forgot,"

says Mr. Pope; and again

    "To speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence;
    For want of modesty is want of sense."




CHAPTER XII.


So late as 1720, there was but one newspaper in all North America, and
even this by some was thought one too many so little reading was there
among the people in those days. But believing that the reading
appetite, weak as it was, ran more on newspapers than any thing else,
James Franklin took it into his head to _start_ another paper. His
friends all _vowed_ it would be the ruin of him; but James
persevered, and a second newspaper, entitled "THE NEW ENGLAND
COURANT," was published. What was the number of subscribers, after
so long a lapse of time, is now unknown; but it was Ben's humble lot to
furnish their papers after having assisted to compose and work them
off.

Among his friends, James had a number of literary characters, who, by
way of amusement, used to write for his paper. These gentlemen
frequently visited him at his office, merely for a little chat, and to
tell how highly the public thought of their pieces Ben attended
closely to their conversation, and happening to think they were no
great wits, he determined to cut in and try his hand among them. But
how to get his little adventures into the paper was the question, and a
serious one too; for he knew very well that his brother, looking on him
as hardly more than a child, would not dream of printing any thing that
he knew had come from his pen. Stratagem of course must be resorted to.
He took his time, and having written his piece pretty much to his mind,
he copied it in a disguised hand, and when they were all gone to bed,
slyly shoved it under the door of the office; where it was found next
morning. In the course of the day, his friends dropping in as usual,
James showed them the stranger paper; a caucus was held, and with
aching heart Ben heard his piece read for their criticism. It was
highly applauded: and to his greater joy still, among their various
conjectures as to the author, not one was mentioned who did not hold a
distinguished reputation for talents! Encouraged by such good success
of this his first adventure, he wrote on, and sent to the press, in the
same sly way, several other pieces, which were equally approved,
keeping the secret till his slender stock of information was pretty
completely exhausted, when he came out with the real author.

His brother, on this discovery, began to entertain a little more
respect for him, but still looked on and treated him as a common
apprentice. Ben, on the other hand, thought that, as a brother, he had
a right to greater indulgence, and sometimes complained of James as
rather too rigorous. This difference in opinion rose to disputes, which
were often brought before their father, who either from partiality to
Ben, or his _better_ cause, generally gave it in his favour. James
could not bear these awards of his father in favour of a younger
brother, but would fly into a passion and treat him with abuse even to
blows. Ben took this tyrannical behaviour of his brother in extremely
ill part; and he somewhere says that it imprinted on his mind that
deep-rooted aversion to arbitrary power, which he never lost, and which
rendered him through life such a firm and unconquerable enemy of
oppression. His apprenticeship became insupportable, and he sighed
continually for an opportunity of shortening it, which at length
unexpectedly offered.

An article in his paper, on some political subject, giving great
offence to the assembly, James was taken up; and because he would not
discover the author, was ordered into confinement for a month. Ben also
was had up and examined before the council, who, after reprimanding,
dismissed him, probably because deeming him bound, as an apprentice, to
keep his master's secrets.

Notwithstanding their private quarrels, this imprisonment of his
brother excited Ben's indignation against the assembly; and having now,
during James' confinement, the sole direction of the paper, he boldly
came out every week with some severe pasquinade against "_The little
tyrants of Boston_." But though this served to gratify his own angry
feelings, and to tickle James, as also to gain himself the character of
a wonderful young man for satire; yet it answered no good end, but far
contrariwise, proved a fatal blow to their newspaper; for at the
expiration of the month, James's enlargement was accompanied with an
order from the assembly, that "JAMES FRANKLIN SHOULD NO LONGER
PRINT THE NEWSPAPER ENTITLED THE NEW ENGLAND COURANT."

This was a terrible thunder-clap on poor James and his whole scribbling
squad; and Ben could find no lightning rod to parry the bolt. A caucus,
however, of all the friends was convoked at the printing-office, to
devise ways and means of redress. One proposed this measure and another
that; but the measure proposed by James himself was at length adopted.
This was to carry on the newspaper under Ben's name. _But_, said
some, _will not the assembly haul you over the coals for thus
attempting to whip the d----l round the stump?_

No, replied James.

Aye, how will you prevent it?

Why, I'll give up Ben's indentures.

So then you'll let Ben run free?

No, nor that neither; for he shall sign a new contract.

This was to be sure a very shallow arrangement. It was however carried
into immediate execution, and the paper continued in consequence to
make its appearance for some months in Ben's name. At length a new
difference arising between the brothers, and Ben knowing that James
would not dare to talk of his new _contract_, boldly asserted his
freedom!

His numerous admirers will here blush for poor Ben, and hide their
reddening cheeks. But let them redden as they may, they will hardly
ever equal that honest crimson which glows in the following lines from
his _own pen_:

"It was, no doubt, very dishonourable to avail myself of this
advantage, and I reckon this as the _first_ error of my life. But,
I was little capable of seeing it in its true light, embittered as my
mind had been by the blows I had received. Exclusively of his
passionate _treatment_ of me, my brother was by no means an ill
tempered man. And even here, perhaps, my _manners_ had too much of
impertinence not to afford it a very natural pretext."

Go thy way, honest Ben. Such a confession of error will plead thy
excuse with all who know their own infirmities, and remember what the
greatest saints have done. Yes, when we remember what young Jacob did
to his brother Esau, and how he came over him with his mess of pottage,
robbing him of his birthright; and also what David did to Uriah, whom
he robbed not only of his wife, but of his life also, we surely shall
pity not only Ben, but every man his brother for their follies, and
heartily rejoice that there is mercy with Christ to forgive _all_,
on their repentance and amendment.




CHAPTER XIII.


Finding that to live with James in the pleasant relations of a brother
and a freeman was a lost hope, Ben made up his mind to quit him and go
on journey-work with some of the Boston printers. But James suspecting
Ben's intentions, went around town to the printers, and made such a
report of him, that not a man of them all would have any thing to say
to him. The door of employment thus shut against him, and all New
England furnishing no other printing office, Ben determined, in quest
of one, to push off to New-York. He was farther confirmed in this
resolution by a consciousness that his newspaper squibs in behalf of
his brother, had made the governing party his mortal enemies. And he
was also afraid that his bold and indiscreet argumentation against the
gloomy puritans, had led those crabbed people to look on him as no
better than a young atheist, whom it would be doing God service to
worry as they would a wild cat. He felt indeed that it was high time to
be off.

To keep his intended flight from the knowledge of his father, his
friend Collins engaged his passage with the captain of a New-York
sloop, to whom he represented Ben as an amorous young blade, who wished
to get away privately in consequence of an intrigue with a worthless
hussy, whom her relations wanted to force upon him. Ben had no money.
But he had money's worth. Having, for four years past, been carefully
turning into books every penny he could spare, he had by this time made
up a pretty little library. It went prodigiously against him to break
in upon his books. But there was no help for it. So turning a parcel of
them back again into money, he slipped privately on board of a sloop,
which on the third day landed him safely in New-York, three hundred
miles from home, only seventeen years old, without a single friend in
the place, and but little money in his pocket.

He immediately offered his services to a Mr. Bradford, the only printer
in New-York. The old gentleman expressed his regret that he could give
him no employment; but in a very encouraging manner advised him to go
on to Philadelphia, where he had a son, a printer, who would probably
do something for him. Philadelphia was a good hundred miles farther
off; but Ben, nothing disheartened by that, instantly ran down to the
wharf, and took his passage in an open boat for Amboy, leaving his
trunk to follow him by sea. In crossing the bay, they were overtaken by
a dreadful squall, during which a drunken Dutchman, a passenger, fell
headlong into the raging waves. Being hissing hot and swollen with rum,
he popped up like a dead catfish; but just as he was going down the
second time, never to rise again, by a miracle of mercy, Ben caught him
by the fore-top, and lugged him in, where he lay tumbled over on the
bottom of the boat, fast asleep, and senseless as a corpse of the
frightful storm which threatened every moment to bury them all in a
watery grave. The violence of the wind presently drove them on the
rocky coasts of Long Island; where, to prevent being dashed to pieces
among the furious breakers, they cast anchor, and there during the rest
of the day, and all night long, lay riding out the gale. Their little
boat pitching bows under at every surge, while the water constantly
flying over them in drenching showers, kept them as wet as drowned
rats; and not only unable to get a wink of sleep, but also obliged to
stir their stumps, baling the boat to keep her from sinking.

The wind falling the next day, they reached Amboy about dark, after
having passed thirty hours without a morsel of victuals, and with no
other drink than a bottle of bad rum; the water upon which they had
rowed, being as salt as brine. Ben went to bed with a high fever.
Having somewhere read that cold water, plentifully drank, was good in
such cases; he followed the prescription, which threw him into a
profuse sweat, and the fever left him. The next day, feeble and alone,
he set out, with fifty wearisome miles to walk before he could reach
Burlington, whence he was told that a passage boat would take him to
Philadelphia. To increase his depression, soon as he left the tavern,
it set in to rain hard. But though wet to the skin, he pressed on by
himself through the gloomy woods till noon, when feeling much fatigued,
and the rain still pouring down, he stopped at a paltry tavern, where
he passed the rest of the day and night. In this gloomy situation he
began seriously to repent that he had ever left home; and the more, as
from the wretched figure he made, every body was casting a suspicious
eye upon him as a runaway servant. Indeed, from the many insulting
questions put to him, he felt himself every moment in danger of being
taken up as such, and then what would his father think on hearing that
he was in jail as a runaway servant, four hundred miles from home! And
what a triumph to his brother. After a very uneasy night, however, he
rose and continued his journey till the evening, when he stopped about
ten miles from Burlington, at a little tavern, kept by one Dr. Brown.
While he was taking some refreshment, Brown came in, and being of a
facetious turn, put a number of droll questions to him; to which Ben
retorted in a style so superior to his youthful looks and shabby dress,
that the Doctor became quite enamoured of him. He kept him up
conversing until midnight; and next morning would not touch a penny of
his money. This was a very seasonable liberality to poor Ben, for he
had now very little more than a dollar in his pocket.

On reaching Burlington, and buying some gingerbread for his passage, he
hastened to the wharf. But alas! the boat had just sailed! This was on
Saturday; and there would be no other boat until Tuesday. Having been
much struck with the looks of the old woman, of whom he had just bought
his cargo of gingerbread, he went back and asked her advice. Her
behaviour proved that he had some skill in physiognomy. For the moment
he told her of his sad disappointment and his doubts how he should act,
she gave him the tender look of a mother, and told him he must stay
with her till the next boat sailed. Pshaw! Don't mind these little
disappointments, child, said she, seeing him uneasy; they are not worth
your being troubled about. When I was young, I used to be troubled
about them too. But now I see that it is all but vanity. So stay with
me till the boat goes again; and rest yourself, for I am sure you must
be mighty tired after such a terrible walk. The good old lady was very
right; for what with his late loss of sleep, as also his fever and long
walk in the rains, he was tired indeed; so he gladly consented to stay
with her and rest himself. Having shown him a small room with a bed in
it, for him to take a _nap, for she saw clear enough_, she said,
that _he was a dying for sleep_, she turned with a mother's
alacrity to get him something to eat. By and by she came again, and
from a short but refreshing doze, waked him up to a dinner of hot
beef-steaks, of which she pressed him to eat _heartily_, telling
him that _gingerbread was fit only for children_. While he was
eating, she chatted with him in the affectionate spirit of an aged
relative; she asked him a world of questions, such as _how old_ he
was--and what was his _name_--and whether his mother was
alive--and how far he lived from Burlington? Ben told her every thing
she asked him. He told her his name and age. He also told her that his
mother was alive, and that he had left her only seven days ago in
Boston, where she lived. The old lady could hardly believe him that he
ever came from Boston. She lifted up her hands, and stared at him as
though he had told her he had just dropped from the North Star. From
BOSTON! said she with a scream, _now only to think of that!
O dear, only to think of that!_ And then, O how she pitied his
mother. _Poor dear soul!_ She, all the way yonder in Boston, and
such a sweet looking, innocent child, wandering here at such a distance
by himself: how could she stand it?

Ben told her that it was a great affliction to be sure; but could not
be helped. That his mother was a poor woman, with sixteen children, and
that he the youngest boy of all, was obliged to leave her to seek his
livelihood, which he hoped he should find in Philadelphia, at his
trade, which was that of a printer.

On hearing that he was a printer, she was quite delighted and pressed
him to come and set up in Burlington, for that she would be
_bound_ for it he would do mighty well there. Ben told her that it
was a costly thing to set up printing; that it would take two hundred
pounds, and he had not two hundred pence.

Well then, said she, now that you have got no money, it will give me
more pleasure to have you stay with me till you can get a good
opportunity to go to Philadelphia. I feel for your poor mother, and I
know it would give her such a pleasure if she knew you were here with
me.

Soon as Ben had enjoyed his beef-steaks, which he did in high style,
having the double sauce of his own good appetite and her motherly
welcome, he drew out his last dollar to pay the good old lady. But she
told him to _put it up, put it up, for she would not take a penny of
it_. Ben told her that he was young and able to work, and hoped to
do well when he got into business, and therefore could not bear that
she who was getting old and weak should entertain him for nothing.

_Well_, said she, _never mind that, child, never mind that. I
shall never miss what little I lay out in entertaining you while you
stay with me. So put up your money._ However, while she was busied
in putting away the dishes, he slipped out and got a pint of ale for
her: and it was all that he could prevail on her to accept.

From the pleasure with which Ben ever afterwards spoke of this good old
woman, and her kindness to him, a poor strange boy, I am persuaded as
indeed I have always been, that there is nothing on which men reflect
with so much complacency as on doing or receiving offices of love from
one another.

Ben has not left us the name of this good old woman, nor the sect of
christians to which she belonged. But it is probable she was a Quaker.
Most of the people about Burlington in those days were Quakers. And
besides such kindness as her's seems to be more after the spirit of
that wise people, who instead of wrangling about _faith_, which
even devils possess, give their chief care to that which is the
_end_ of all faith, and which the poor devils know nothing about,
viz, "_love_ and _good works_."




CHAPTER XIV.


Ben now sat himself down to stay with this good old woman till the
following Tuesday; but still Philadelphia was constantly before him,
and happening, in the impatience of his mind, to take a stroll along
the river side, he saw a boat approaching with a number of passengers
in it. _Where are you bound?_ said he.

To PHILADELPHIA, was the reply.

His heart leaped for joy. Can't you take a passenger aboard? I'll help
you to row. O yes, answered they, and bore up to receive him. With all
his heart he would have run back to his good old hostess to bid her
farewell, and to thank her for her kindness to him, but the boat could
not wait; and carrying, tortoise-like, his all upon his back, in he
stepped and went on with them to Philadelphia, where, after a whole
night of hard rowing, they arrived about eight o'clock next morning,
which happened to be Sunday.

Soon as the boat struck the place of landing, which was Market-street
wharf, Ben put his hand into his pocket, and asked, what was the
damage. The boatmen shook their heads, and said, _oh no; he had
nothing to pay. They could never take pay from a young fellow of his
spirit, who had so cheerfully assisted them to row all the way._ As
his own stock now consisted of but one Dutch dollar, and about a
shilling's worth in coppers, he would have been well content to accept
his passage on their own friendly terms; but seeing one of their crew
who appeared to be old, and rather poorly dressed, he hauled out his
coppers and gave them all to him. Having shaken hands with these
honest-hearted fellows, he leaped ashore and walked up Market-street in
search of something to appease his appetite, which was now abundantly
keen from twenty miles' rowing and a cold night's air. He had gone but
a short distance before he met a child bearing in his arms that most
welcome of all sights to a hungry man, a fine loaf of bread. Ben
eagerly asked him where he had got it. The child, turning around,
lifted his little arm and pointing up the street, with great simplicity
and sweetness said, _don't you see that little house--that little
white house, way up yonder?_

Ben said, yes.

_Well then_, continued the child, _that's the baker's house;
there's where my mammy sends me every morning to get bread for all we
children._

Ben blessed his sweet lips of innocence, and hastening to the house,
boldly called for _three pence_ worth of bread. The baker threw
him down three large rolls.

What, all this for three pence! asked Ben with surprise.

Yes, all that for three pence, replied the baker with a fine yankee
snap of the eye, all that for _only_ three pence! Then measuring
Ben from head to foot, he said with a sly quizzing sort of air, and
pray now my little man where may you have come from?

Here Ben felt his old panic, on the runaway servant score, returning
strong upon him again. However, putting on a bold face, he promptly
answered that he was from Boston.

Plague on it replied the man of dough, and why did'nt you tell me that
at first; I might so easily have cabbaged you out of one whole penny;
for you know you could not have got all that bread in YANKEE-TOWN for
less than a good four-pence? Very cheap, said Ben, three large rolls
for three-pence: _quite dog cheap!_ So taking them up, began to stow
them away in his pockets; but soon found it impossible for lack of
room--so placing a roll under each arm, and breaking the third, he
began to eat as he walked along up Market-street. On the way he passed
the house of that beautiful girl, Miss Deborah Read, who happening to
be at the door, was so diverted at the droll figure he made, that she
could not help laughing outright. And indeed no wonder. A stout fleshy
boy, in his dirty working dress, and pockets all puckered out, with
foul linen and stockings, and a loaf of bread under each arm, eating
and gazing around him as he walked--no wonder she could not help
laughing aloud at him as one of the greatest gawkies she had ever seen.
Very little idea had she at that time that she was presently to be up
to her eyes in love with this young gawky; and after many a deep sigh
and heart-ache, was to marry him and to be made a great woman by him.
And yet all this actually came to pass, as we shall presently see, and
we hope greatly to the comfort of all virtuous young men, who though
they may sometimes be laughed at for their oddities; yet if, like
Franklin, they will but stick to the _main chance_, _i.e._ BUSINESS and
EDUCATION, they will assuredly, like him, overcome at the last, and
render themselves the admiration of those who once despised them.

But our youthful hero is in too interesting a part of the play for us
to lose a moment's sight of him; so after this short moral we turn our
eyes on him again, as there, loaded with his bundles and his bread, and
eating and gazing and turning the corners of the streets, he goes on
without indeed knowing where he is going. At length, however, just as
he had finished his first roll, his reverie was broken up by finding
himself on Market-street wharf, and close to the very boat in which he
had come from Burlington. The sight of the silver stream, as it whirled
in dimpling eddies around the wharf, awakened his thirst; so stepping
into the boat he took a hearty draught, which, to his unvitiated
palate, tasted sweeter than ever did mint-sling to any young drunkard.
Close by him in the boat sat a poor woman with a little ragged girl
leaning on her lap. He asked her if she had breakfasted. With a sallow
smile of hunger hoping relief, she replied _no_, for that she had
nothing to eat. Upon this he gave her both his other loaves. At sight
of this welcome supply of food, the poor woman and her child gave him a
look which he never afterwards forgot.

Having given, as we have seen, a tythe of his money in gratitude to the
poor boatman, and two thirds of his bread in charity to this poor woman
and her child, Ben skipped again upon the wharf, and with a heart light
and gay with conscious duty, a second time took up Market-street, which
was now getting to be full of well-dressed people all going the same
way. He cut in, and following the line of march, was thus insensibly
led to a large Quaker meeting-house. Sans ceremonie, he pushed in and
sat down with the rest, and looking around him soon felt the
_motions_, if not of a devout, yet of a pleasantly thoughtful
spirit. It came to his recollection to have heard that people must go
abroad to see strange things. And here it seemed to be verified.
_What, no pulpit! Whoever saw a meeting-house before without a
pulpit?_ He could not for his life conceive where the preacher was
to stand. But his attention was quickly turned from the meeting-house
to the congregation, whose appearance, particularly that of the young
females, delighted him exceedingly. Such simplicity of dress with such
an air of purity and neatness! He had never seen any thing like it
before, and yet all admirably suited to the gentle harmony of their
looks. And then their eyes! for meekness and sweetness of expression,
they looked like dove's eyes. With a deep sigh he wished that his
brother James and many others in Boston were but gentle and good as
these people appeared to be. Young as he was, he thought the world
would be a great deal the happier for it. As leaning back he indulged
these soothing sentiments, without any sound of singing or preaching to
disturb him, and tired nature's soft languors stealing over him too, he
sunk insensibly into sleep. We are not informed that he was visited
during his slumber, by any of those benevolent spirits who once
descended in the dreams of the youthful patriarch, as he slept in the
pleasant plains of Bethel. But he tells us himself, that he was visited
by one of that benevolent sect in whose place of worship he had been
overtaken by sleep. Waked by some hand on his shoulder that gently
shook him, he opened his eyes, and lo! a female countenance about
middle age and of enchanting sweetness, was smiling on him. Roused to a
recollection of the impropriety he had been guilty of, he was too much
confused to speak; but his reddened cheeks told her what he felt. But
he had nothing to fear. Gently shaking her head, though without a
frown, and with a voice of music, she said to him "_My son, thee
ought not to sleep in meeting._" Then giving him the look of a
mother as she went out, she bade him farewell. He followed her as well
as he could, and left the meeting-house much mortified at having been
caught asleep in it; but deriving at the same time great pleasure from
this circumstance, because it had furnished opportunity to the good
Quaker lady to give him that _motherly look_. He felt it sweetly
melting along his soul as he walked. _O how different, thought he,
that look from the looks which my brother and the council men of Boston
gave me, though I was younger then and more an object of sympathy!_

As he walked along the street, looking attentively in the face of every
one he met, he saw a young Quaker with a fine countenance, whom he
begged to tell him where a stranger might find a lodging. With a look
and voice of great sweetness, the young Quaker said, they receive
travellers _here_, but it is not a house that bears a good
character; if thee will go with me, I will show thee a better one.

This was the _Crooked Billet_, in Water-street. Directly after
dinner, his drowsiness returning, he went to bed and slept, without
waking till next morning.

Having put himself in as decent a trim as he could, he waited on Mr.
Bradford, the printer, who received him with great civility, and
invited him to breakfast, but told him he was sorry he had no occasion
for a journeyman. There is, however, continued he in a cheering manner,
there is another printer here, of the name of Keimer, to whom if you
wish it, I will introduce you. Perhaps he may want your services.

Ben gratefully accepting the offer, away they went to Mr Keimer's. But
alas, poor man! both he and his office put together, made no more than
a miserable burlesque on printing. Only one press, and that old and
damaged! only one font of types, and that nearly worn out! and only one
set of letter cases, and that occupied by himself! and consequently no
room for a journeyman.

Here was a sad prospect for poor Ben--four hundred miles from home--not
a dollar in his pocket--and no appearance of any employment to get
one.--But having, from his childhood, been accustomed to grapple with
difficulties and to overcome them, Ben saw nothing here but another
trial of his courage, and another opportunity for victory and triumph.

As to Keimer, suspecting from his youthful appearance, that Ben could
hardly understand any thing of the printing art, he slyly put a
COMPOSING STICK into his hand. Ben saw his drift, and stepping
to the letter cases, filled the stick with such celerity and taste as
struck Keimer with surprise, not without shame, that one so inferior in
years should be so far his superior in professional skill. To complete
this favourable impression, Ben modestly proposed to repair his old
press.--This offer being accepted, Ben instantly fell to work, and
presently accomplished his undertaking in such a workman-like style,
that Keimer could no longer restrain his feelings, but relaxing his
rigid features into a smile of admiration, paid him several flattering
compliments, and concluded with promising him, that though, for the
present, he had no work on hand, yet he expected an abundance shortly,
and then would _be sure_ to send for him.

In a few days Keimer was as good as his word; for having procured
another set of letter cases, with a small pamphlet to print, he sent in
all haste for Ben, and set him to work.




CHAPTER XV.


As Keimer is to make a considerable figure in the early part of Ben's
life, it may gratify the reader to be made acquainted with him. From
the account given of him by Ben, who had the best opportunity to know,
it appears that he possessed but little either of the amiable or
estimable in his composition. A man he was of but slender
talents--quite ignorant of the world--a wretched workman--and worse
than all yet, utterly destitute of religion, and therefore very uneven
and unhappy in his temper, and abundantly capable of playing the knave
whenever he thought it for his interest. Among other evidences of his
folly, he miserably envied his brother printer, Bradford, as if the
Almighty was not rich enough to maintain them both. He could not
endure, that while working with him, Ben should stay at Bradford's; so
he took him away, and having no house of his own, he put him to board
with Mr. Read, father of the young lady who of late had laughed so
heartily at him for eating his rolls along the street. But Miss Deborah
did not long continue in this wind. For on seeing the favourable change
in his dress, and marking also the wittiness of his conversation, and
above all, his close application to business, and the great respect
paid him on that account by her father, she felt a wonderful change in
his favour, and in place of her former sneers, conceived those tender
sentiments for him, which, as we shall see hereafter, accompanied her
through life.

Ben now began to contract acquaintance with all such young persons in
Philadelphia as were fond of reading, and spent his evenings with them
very agreeably: at the same time he picked up money by his industry,
and being quite frugal, lived so happy, that except for his parents, he
seldom ever thought of Boston nor felt any wish to see it. An affair,
however, turned up, which sent him home much sooner than he expected.

His brother-in-law, a captain Holmes, of a trading sloop from Boston to
Delaware, happening at Newcastle to hear that Ben was in Philadelphia,
wrote to him that his father was all but distracted on account of his
sudden elopement from home, and assured him that if he would but
return, which he earnestly pressed him to do, every thing should be
settled to his satisfaction. Ben immediately answered his letter,
thanked him for his advice, and stated his reasons for quitting Boston,
with a force and clearness that so highly delighted captain Holmes,
that he showed it to all his acquaintance at Newcastle, and among the
rest to sir William Keith, governor of the province, with whom he
happened to dine. The governor read it, and appeared surprised when he
learnt his age. "_Why, this must be a young man of extraordinary
talents, captain Holmes_," said the governor, "_very extraordinary
talents indeed, and ought to be encouraged; we have no printer in
Philadelphia now worth a fig, and if this young man will but set up,
there is no doubt of his success. For my part, I will give him all the
public business, and render him every other service in my power._"

One day as Keimer and Ben were at work near the window, they saw the
governor and colonel French cross the street, and make directly for the
printing-office. Keimer not doubting it was a visit to himself, hurried
down stairs to meet them. The Governor taking no notice of Keimer, but
eagerly inquiring for young Mr. FRANKLIN, came up stairs, and with a
condescension to which Ben had not been accustomed, introduced himself
to him--desired to become acquainted with him--and after obligingly
reproaching him for not having made himself known when he first came to
town, invited him to the tavern where he and colonel French were going
to break a bottle of old Madeira.

If Ben was surprised, old Keimer was thunderstruck. Ben went, however,
with the governor and the colonel to the tavern, where, while the
Madeira was circulating in cheerful bumpers, the governor proposed to
him to set up a printing-office, stating at the same time the great
chances of success, and promising that both himself and colonel French
would use their influence in procuring for him the public printing of
both governments. As Ben appeared to doubt whether his father would
assist him in this enterprize, sir William said that he would give the
old gentleman a letter, in which he would represent the advantages of
the scheme in a light that would, he'd be bound, determine him in his
favour. It was thus concluded that Ben should return to Boston by the
first vessel, with the governor's letter to good old Josias: in the
mean time Ben was to continue with Keimer, from whom this project was
to be kept a secret.

The governor sent every now and then to invite Ben to dine with him,
which he considered as a very great honour, especially as his
excellency always received and conversed with him in the most familiar
manner.

In April, 1724, Ben embarked for Boston, where, after a fortnight
passage, he arrived in safety. Having been absent seven months from his
relatives, who had never heard a syllable of him all that time, his
sudden appearance threw the family into a scream of joy, and excepting
his sour-faced brother James, the whole squad gave him a most hearty
welcome. After much embracing and kissing, and some tears shed on both
sides, as is usual at such meetings, Ben kindly inquired after his
_brother James_, and went to see him at his printing-office, not
without hopes of making a favourable impression on him by his dress,
which was handsome far beyond what he had ever worn in his brother's
service; a complete suit of broad cloth, branding new--an elegant
silver watch and chain--and his purse crammed with nearly five pound
sterling--all in silver dollars. But it would not all do to win over
James. Nor indeed is it to be wondered at; for in losing Ben he had
lost a most cheerful, obliging lad, whose rare genius and industry in
writing, printing, and selling his pamphlets and papers, had brought a
noble grist to his mill.

Ben's parade therefore of his fine clothes, and watch, and silver
dollars, only made things worse with James, serving but to make him the
more sensible of his loss; so after eyeing him from head to foot with a
dark side-long look, he turned again to his work without saying a
syllable to him. The behaviour of his own journeymen contributed still
the more to anger poor James: for instead of taking part with him in
his prejudices against Ben, they all appeared quite delighted with him;
and breaking off from their work and gathering around him, with looks
full of curiosity, they asked him a world of questions.

PHILADELPHIA! said they, O dear! have you been all the way
there to Philadelphia!

Ben said, yes.

Why Philadelphia must be a _tarnal nation way off_!

Four hundred miles, said Ben.

At this they stared on him in silent wonder, for having been four
hundred miles from Boston!

And so they have got a printing-office in Philadelphia!

Two or three of them, said Ben.

O la! why that will starve us all here in Boston.

Not at all, said Ben: their advertising "_lost pocket
books_"--"_runaway servants_" and "_stray cows_" in
Philadelphia, can no more starve you here in Boston, than the catfish
of Delaware, by picking up a few soft-crabs there, can starve our
catfish here in Boston harbour. The world's big enough for us all.

Well, I wonder now if they have any such thing as _money_ in
Philadelphia?

Ben thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought up a whole fist full
of dollars!

The dazzling silver struck them all speechless--gaping and gazing at
him and each other. Poor fellows, they had never, at once, seen so much
of that precious metal in Boston, the money there being nothing but a
poor paper proc.

To keep up their stare, Ben drew his silver watch, which soon had to
take the rounds among them, every one insisting to have _a look at
it_. Then, to crown all, he gave them a shilling to drink his
health; and after telling them what great things lay before them if
they would but continue _industrious_ and _prudent_, and make
themselves _masters of their trade_, he went back to the house.

This visit to the office stung poor James to the quick; for when his
mother spoke to him of a reconciliation with Ben, and said how happy
she should be to see them like brothers again before she died, he flew
into a passion and told her such a thing would never be, for that Ben
had so insulted him before his men that he would never forgive nor
forget it as long as he lived. But Ben had the satisfaction to live to
see that James was no prophet. For when James, many years after this,
fell behind hand and got quite low in the world, Ben lent him money,
and was a steady friend to him and his family all the days of his life.




CHAPTER XVI.


But we have said nothing yet about the main object of Ben's sudden
return to Boston, _i.e._ governor Keith's letter to his father, on the
grand project of setting him up as a printer in Philadelphia. The
reader has been told that all the family, his brother James excepted,
were greatly rejoiced to see Ben again. But among them all there was
none whose heart felt half such joy as did that of his father. He had
always doted on this young son, as one whose rare genius and
unconquerable industry, if but conducted by prudence, would assuredly,
one day, lead him to greatness. His sudden elopement, as we have seen,
had greatly distressed the old man, especially as he was under the
impression that he was gone to sea. And when he remembered how few that
go out at his young and inexperienced age, ever return better than
blackguards and vagabonds, his heart sickened within him, and he was
almost ready to wish he had never lived to feel the pangs of such
bitter disappointment in a child so beloved. He counted the days of
Ben's absence; by night his sleep departed from his eyes for thinking
of his son; and all day long whenever he heard a rapping at the door,
his heart would leap with expectation: "who knows," he would say to
himself, "but this may be my child?" And although he would feel
disappointed when he saw it was not Ben who rapped, yet he was afraid,
at times, to see him lest he should see him covered with the marks of
dishonour. Who can tell what this anxious father felt when he saw his
son return as he did? Not in the mean apparel and sneaking looks of a
drunkard, but in a dress far more genteel than he himself had ever been
able to put on him; while his beloved cheeks were fresh with
temperance, and his eyes bright with innocence and conscious well
doing. Imagination dwells with pleasure on the tender scene that marked
that meeting, where the withered cheeks of seventy and the florid bloom
of seventeen met together in the eager embrace of parental affection
and filial gratitude:

"_God bless my son!_" the sobbing sire he sigh'd.

"_God bless my sire!_" that pious son replied.

Soon as the happy father could recover his articulation, with great
tenderness he said, "but how, my beloved boy could you give me the pain
to leave me as you did?"

"Why you know, my dear father," replied Ben, "that I could not live
with my brother; nor would he let me live with the other printers; and
as I could not bear the thought of living on an aged father now that I
was able to work for myself, I determined to leave Boston and seek my
fortune abroad. And knowing that if I but hinted my intentions you
would prevent me, I thought I would leave you as I did."

"But why, my son, did you keep me so long unhappy about your fate, and
not write to me sooner?"

"I knew, father, what a deep interest you took in my welfare, and
therefore I resolved never to write to you until by my own industry and
economy I had got myself into such a state, that I could write to you
with pleasure. This state I did not attain till lately. And just as I
was a going to write to you, a strange affair took place that decided
me to come and see you, rather than write to you."

"Strange affair! what can that mean, my son?"

"Why, sir, the governor of Pennsylvania, sir William Keith--I dare say,
father, you have often heard of governor Keith?"

"I may have heard of him, child--I'm not positive--but what of governor
Keith?"

"Why he has taken a wonderful liking to me, father!"

"Aye! has he so?" said the old man, with joy sparkling in his eyes.
"Well I pray God you may be grateful for such favours, my son, and make
a good use of them!"

"Yes, father, he has taken a great liking to me sure enough; he says I
am the only one in Philadelphia who knows any thing about printing; and
he says too, that if I will only come and set up in Philadelphia, he
will make my fortune for me in a trice!!"

Old Josias here shook his head; "No, no, Ben!" said he, "that will
never do: that will never do: you are too young yet, child, for all
that, a great deal too young."

"So I told him, father, that I was too young. And I told him too that I
was certain you would never give your consent to it."

"You were right there, Ben; no indeed, I could never give my consent to
it, that's certain."

"So I told the governor, father; but still he would have it there was a
fine opening in Philadelphia, and that I would fill it so exactly, that
nothing could be wanting to insure your approbation but a clear
understanding of it. And to that end he has written you a letter."

"A letter, child! a letter from governor Keith to me!"

"Yes, father, here it is."

With great eagerness the old gentleman took it from Ben; and drawing
his spectacles, read it over and over again with much eagerness. When
he was done he lifted his eyes to heaven, while in the motion of his
lips and change of countenance, Ben could clearly see that the soul of
his father was breathing an ejaculation of praise to God on his
account. Soon as his _Te Deum_ was finished, he turned to Ben with
a countenance bright with holy joy, and said, "Ben, I've cause to be
happy; my son, I've cause to be happy indeed. O how differently have
things turned out with you! God's blessed name be praised for it, how
differently have they turned out to what I dreaded! I was afraid you
were gone a poor vagabond, on the seas; but instead of that you had
fixed yourself in one of the finest cities in the country. I was afraid
to see you; yes, my dear child, I was afraid to see you, lest I should
see you clad in the mean garb of a poor sailor boy; but here I behold
you clad in the dress of a gentleman! I trembled lest you had been
degrading yourself into the low company of the profane and worthless;
and lo! you have been all the time exalting yourself into the high
society of great men and governors. And all this in so short a time,
and in a way most honourable to yourself, and therefore most delightful
to me, I mean by your virtues and your close attention to the duties of
a most useful profession. Go on, my son, go on! and may God Almighty,
who has given you wisdom to begin so glorious a course, grant you
fortitude to persevere in it!"

Ben thanked his father for the continuance of his love and solicitude
for him; and he told him moreover, that one principal thing that had
stirred him up to act as he had done, was the joy which he knew he
should be giving him thereby; as also the great trouble which he knew a
contrary conduct would have brought upon him. Here his father tenderly
embraced him, and said, "Blessed be God for giving me such a son! I
have always, Ben, fed myself with hopes of great things from you. And
now I have the joy to say my hopes were not in vain. Yes, glory to God,
I trust my precious hopes of you were not in vain." Then, after making
a short pause, as from fullness of joy, he went on, "but as to this
letter, my son; this same letter here from governor Keith; though
nothing was ever more flattering to you, yet depend upon it, Ben, it
will never do; at least not yet awhile.--The duties of the place are
too numerous, child, and difficult for any but one who has had many
more years of experience than you have had."

"Well then, father, what's to be done, for I know that the governor is
so very anxious to get me into this place, that he will hardly be said
nay?"

"Why, my dear boy, we must still decline it, for all that: not only
because from your very unripe age and inexperience, it may involve you
in ruin; but also because it actually is not in your power. It is true
the governor, from his letter, appears to have the greatest friendship
in the world for you; but yet, it is not to be expected that he would
advance funds to set you up. O no, my dear boy, that's entirely out of
the question. The governor, though perhaps rich, has no doubt too many
poor friends and relations hanging on him, for you to expect any thing
from that quarter. And as to myself, Ben, with all my love for you, it
is not in my power to assist you in such an affair. My family you know,
is very large, and the profits of my trade but small, insomuch that at
the end of the year there is nothing left. And indeed I never can be
sufficiently thankful to God for that health and blessing which enables
me to feed and clothe them every year so plentifully."

Seeing Ben look rather serious, the old gentleman, in a livelier tone,
resumed his speech, "Yes, Ben, all this is very true; but yet let us
not be disheartened. Although we have no funds now, yet a noble supply
is at hand."

"Where, father," said Ben, roused up, "where?"

"Why, in your own virtues, Ben, in your own virtues, my boy--There are
the noblest funds that God can bestow on a young man. All other funds
may easily be drained by our vices and leave us poor indeed. But the
virtues are fountains that never fail: they are indeed the true riches
and honours, only by other names. Only persevere, my son, in the
virtues, as you have already so bravely begun, and the grand object is
gained. By the time you reach twenty-one, for every friend that you now
have, you will have ten; and for every dollar an hundred; and with
these you will make thousands more. Thus, under God, you will have the
glory to be the artificer of your own fame and fortune: and that will
bring ten thousand times more honour and happiness, to you, Ben, than
all the money that governors and fathers could ever give you."

Ben's countenance brightened as his father uttered this; then heaving a
deep sigh, as of strong hope that such great things might one day be
realized, he said, "Well father, God only knows what I am to come to;
but this I know, that I feel in myself a determination to do my best."

"I believe you do, my son, and I thank God most heartily that I have
such good reason to believe you do. And when I consider, on the one
hand, what a fine field for fame and fortune this new country presents
to young men of talents and enterprise: and on the other hand, what
wonders you, a poor unknown and unfriended boy have done in
Philadelphia, in only six months, I feel transported at the thought of
what you may yet attain before my gray hairs descend to the grave. Who
knows, Ben, for God is good, my son, who knows but that a fate like
that of young Joseph, whom his brethren drove into Egypt, may be in
reserve for you? And who knows but that old Jacob's joys may be mine?
that like him, after all my anxieties on your account, I may yet hear
the name of my youngest son, my beloved Benjamin, coming up from the
South, perfumed with praise for his great virtues and services to his
country? Then when I hear the sound of his fame rising from that
distant land, like the pleasant thunders of summer before refreshing
showers, and remember how he used to stand a little prattling boy by my
side, in his rosy cheeks and flaxen locks filling the candle moulds, or
twisting the snow white cotton wicks with his tender fingers, O how
will such remembrance lighten up the dark evening of my days, and cause
my setting sun to go down in joy!"

He spoke this in tones so melting, that Ben, who was sitting by his
father's side, fell with his face on his bosom, without saying a word.
The fond parent, hearing him sob, tenderly embraced him, and with a
voice broken with sighs, went on, "Yes, my son, the measure of my joys
will then be full. I shall have nothing to detain me any longer in this
vale of troubles, but shall gladly breathe out my life in praise to God
for this his last, his crowning act of goodness--for this his blessing
me in my son."

After a moment's pause, the feelings of both being too deliciously
affected for speech, Ben gently raised his face from his father's
bosom, and with his eyes yet red and wet with tears, tenderly looking
at him, said, "I would to God, father, you would go and live in
Philadelphia."

"Why so, my son?"

"Because, I don't want ever to part with you, father, and I am, you
know, obliged to go back to Philadelphia immediately."

"Not immediately, my son, I cannot let you go from me immediately."

"Father, I would never go from you, if I could help it; but I must be
doing something to make good your fond hopes of me; and I can't stay
here."

"Why not, my son?"

"Father, I can't stay with those who hate me; and you know that brother
James hates me very much."

"O! he does not hate you, I hope, my son."

"Yes, he does, father, indeed he does; because I only differed from him
in opinion and ventured to reason with him, he kindled into passion and
abused me even to _blows_, though I was in the right, as you told
him afterwards. And because I told him I did not think he acted the
part of a brother by me in wishing to make me a slave so many years, he
went about town and set all the printers against me, and thus drove me
away from home, and from you, my father, whom I so much love. And just
now, when I went to his office to see him, instead of running to meet
me and rejoicing to see me returned safe and sound and so well dressed
and a plenty of money in my pocket, he would not even speak to me, but
looked as dark and angry as though he would have torn me to pieces. And
yet he can turn up his eyes, and make long prayers and graces, and talk
a great deal about JESUS CHRIST!"

The old man here shook his head with a deep groan, while Ben thus went
on, "No, father, I can't stay here; I must be going back to
Philadelphia and to my good friend governor Keith; for I long to be
realizing all the great hopes that you have been forming of me. And
should God but give me a good settlement in Philadelphia, then you will
come and live with me. O say, my father, wont you come and live with
me?"

Ben spoke this, looking up to his father with that joy of filial love
sparkling in his youthful eyes which made him look like all that we
fancy of angels.

The old man embraced him and said, "I will, my son, I will; but stay
with me a little while, at the least three days, and then you may
depart." Ben consenting to this, the old gentleman wrote a polite
letter to governor Keith, thanking him very heartily for that he, so
great a man, should have paid such attentions to his poor boy: but at
the same time begged his pardon for declining to do any thing for him,
not only because he had very little in his power to do; but also
because he thought him too young to be intrusted with the conduct of an
enterprise that required much more experience than he possessed.




CHAPTER XVII.


Of the three days which Ben, as we have seen above, had consented to
stay at home, he spent the chiefest part with his father, in his old
candle manufactory. 'Tis true, this happy sire, whose _natural_
affection for Ben as a _son_, was now exalted into the highest
respect for him as a youth of _talents_ and _virtues_; and
_perhaps_ too, looking up to him as a young mountain oak, whose
towering arms would soon protect the parent tree, insisted that Ben
should not stay in _that dirty place_, as he called it. But
knowing that his father could not be spared from his daily labour, Ben
insisted to be with him in the old shop, and to assist in his labours,
reminding his father how sweetly the time passes away when at work and
conversing with those we love. His father at length consented: and
those three days, now spent with Ben, were the happiest days he had
spent for a long time. His aged bosom was now relieved from his six
months' load of fears and anxieties about this beloved child; nor only
so, but this beloved child, shining in a light of his own virtues, was
now with him, and as a volunteer of filial love was mingling in his
toils--eagerly lending his youthful strength to assist him in packing
and boxing his candles and soap; while his sensible conversation,
heightened all the time by the charm of that voice and those eyes that
had ever been so dear to him, touched his heart with a sweetness
inexpressible, and made the happy hours fly away as on angels' wings.

On the afternoon of the third day, as they were returning from dinner,
walking down the garden, at the foot of which the factory stood, the
old gentleman lifting his eyes to the sun, suddenly heaved a deep sigh
and put on a melancholy look.

"High, father!" said Ben, "I see no cloud over the sun that we should
fear a change of weather."

"No, Ben, there is no cloud over the sun, but still his beams throw a
cloud over my spirits. They put me in mind that I shall walk here
to-morrow, but with no son by my side!"

The idea was mournful: and more so by the tender look and plaintive
tones in which it was conveyed.--It wrung the heart of Ben, who in
silence glanced his eyes on his father. It was that tender glance of
sorrowing love which quickest reaches the heart and stirs up all its
yearnings. The old gentleman felt the meaning of his son's looks. They
seemed to say to him, "_O my father, must we part to-morrow?_"

"Yes, Ben, we part to-morrow, and perhaps never to meet again!"

After a short pause, with a sigh, he thus resumed his speech--"Then, O
my son, what a wretch were man without religion? Yes, Ben, without the
hopes of immortality, how much better he had never been born? Without
these, his noblest capacities were but the greater curses. The more
delightful his friendships the more dreadful the thought they may be
extinguished for ever; and the gayer his prospects the deeper his
gloom, that endless darkness may so quickly cover all. We were
yesterday feeding fond hopes, my son; we were yesterday painting bright
castles in the air: you were to be a great man and I a happy father.
But alas! this is the last day, my child, that we may ever see each
other again. And the sad reverse of all this may even now be at the
door; when I, instead of hearing of my son's glory in Philadelphia, may
hear that he is cold in his grave. And when you, returning--after years
of virtuous toils, returning laden with riches and honours for your
happy father to share in, may see nothing of that father but the tomb
that covers his dust."

Seeing the moisture in Ben's eyes, the old gentleman, with a voice
rising to exultation, thus went on. "Yes, Ben, this may soon be the
case with us, my child; the dark curtain of our separation soon may
_drop_, and your cheeks or mine be flooded with sorrows. But
thanks be to God, that curtain will rise again, and open to our view
those scenes of happiness, one glance at which is sufficient to start
the tear of transport into our eyes. Yes, Ben, religion assures us of
all this; religion assures us that this life is but the morning of our
existence--that there is a glorious eternity beyond--and that to the
penitent, death is but the passage to that happy life where they shall
soon meet again to part no more, but to congratulate their mutual
felicities for ever. Then, O my son, lay hold of religion, and secure
an interest in those blessed hopes that contribute so much to the
virtues and the joys of life."

"Father," said Ben with a sigh, "I know that many people here in Boston
think I never had any religion; or, that if I had I have apostatized
from it."

"God forbid! But whence, my son, could these prejudices have arisen?"

"Why, father, I have for some time past discovered that there is no
effect without a cause. These prejudices have been the effect of my
youthful _errors_. You remember father, the old story of the pork,
don't you?"

"No, child; what is it, for I have forgotten it?"

"I thought so, father, I thought you had been so good as to forget it.
But I have not, nor ever shall forget it."

"What is it, Ben?"

"Why, father, when our pork, one fall, lay salted and ready for the
barrel, I begged you to say grace over it all at once; adding that it
would _do as well_ and save _a great deal of time_."

"Pshaw, Ben, such a trifle as that, and in a child too, cannot be
remembered against you now."

"Yes, father, I am afraid it is. All are not so loving, and so
forgetful of my errors as you. It was at the time inserted in the
Boston NEWS LETTER, and is now recollected to the discredit of
my religion. And they have a prejudice against me on another account.
While I lived with you, father, you always took me to meeting with you;
but when I left you and went to live with my brother James, I often
neglected going to meeting; preferring to stay at home and read my
books."

"I am sorry to hear that, Ben; very sorry that you could neglect the
preachings of Christ."

"Father, I never neglected them. I look on the preaching of Christ as
the finest system of morality in the world; and his parables, such as
"The Prodigal Son"--"The Good Samaritan"--"The Lost Sheep," &c. as
models of divine goodness. And if I could only hear a preacher take
these for his texts, and paint them in those rich colours they are
capable of, I would never stay from meeting. But now, father, when I
go, instead of those benevolent preachings and parables which Christ so
delighted in, I hardly ever hear any thing but lean, chaffy discourses
about the TRINITY, and BAPTISMS, and ELECTIONS, and REPROBATIONS, and
FINAL PERSEVERANCES, and COVENANTS, and a thousand other such things
which do not strike my fancy as religion at all, because not in the
least calculated, as I think, to sweeten and ennoble men's natures, and
make them love and do good to one another."

"There is too much truth in your remark, Ben; and I have often been
sorry that our preachers lay such stress on these things, and do not
stick closer to the preachings of Christ."

"Stick closer to them, father! O no, to do them justice, sir, we must
not charge them with not _sticking to the text_, for they never take
Christ for their text, but some dark passage out of the prophets or
apostles, which will better suit their gloomy education. Or if they
should, by some lucky hit, honour Christ for a text, they quickly give
him the _go-by_ and lug in Calvin or some other angry doctor; and then
in place of the soft showers of Gospel pity on sinners, we have nothing
but the dreadful thunderings of eternal hate, with the unavailing
screams of little children in hell not a span long! Now, father, as I
do not look on such preaching as this to be any ways pleasing to the
Deity or profitable to man, I choose to stay at home and read my books;
and this is the reason, I suppose, why my brother James and the
council-men here of Boston think that I have no religion."

"Your strictures on some of our ministers, my son, are in rather a
strong style: but still there is too much truth in them to be denied.
However, as to what your brother James and the council think of you, it
is of little consequence, provided you but possess true religion."

"Aye, TRUE RELIGION, father, is another thing; and I should
like to possess it. But as to such religion as theirs, I must confess,
father, I never had and never wish to have it."

"But what do you mean by _their_ religion, my son?"

"Why, I mean, father, a religion of gloomy forms and notions, that have
no tendency to make men good and happy, either in themselves or to
others."

"So then, my son, you make _man's happiness_ the end of religion."

"Certainly I do, father."

"Our catechisms, Ben, make _God's glory_ the end of religion."

"That amounts to the same thing, father; as the framers of the
catechisms, I suppose, placed God's glory in the happiness of man."

"But why do you suppose that so readily, Ben?"

"Because, father, all wise workmen place their glory in the perfection
of their works. The gunsmith glories in his rifle, when she never
misses her aim; the clockmaker glories in his clock when she tells the
time exactly. They thus glory, because their works answer the ends for
which they were made. Now God, who is wiser than all workmen, had, no
doubt, his ends in making man. But certainly he could not have made him
with a view of getting any thing from him, seeing man has nothing to
give. And as God, from his own infinite riches, has a boundless power
to give; and from his infinite benevolence, must have an equal delight
in giving, I can see no end so likely for his making man as to make him
happy. I think, father, all this looks quite reasonable."

"Why, yes, to be sure, Ben, it does look very reasonable indeed."

"Well then, father, since all wise workmen glory in their works when
they answer the ends for which they designed them, God must glory in
the happiness of man, that being the end for which he made him."

"This seems, indeed, Ben, to be perfectly agreeable to reason."

"Yes, sir, not only to _reason_, but to _nature_ too: for
even nature, I think, father, in all her operations, clearly teaches
that God must take an exceeding glory in our happiness; for what else
could have led him to build for us such a noble world as this; adorned
with so much beauty; stored with such treasures; peopled with so many
fair creatures; and lighted up as it is with such gorgeous luminaries
by day and by night?"

"I am glad, my son, I touched on this subject of religion in the way I
did; your mode of thinking and reasoning on it pleases me greatly. But
now taking all this for granted, what is still your idea of the true
religion?"

"Why, father, if God thus places his glory in the happiness of man,
does it not follow that the most acceptable thing that man can do for
God, or in other words, that the true religion of man consists in his
so living, as to attain the highest possible perfection and happiness
of his nature, that being the chief end and glory of the Deity in
creating him?"

"Well, but how is this to be done?"

"Certainly, father, by imitating the Deity."

"By imitating him, child! but how are we to imitate him?"

"In his goodness, father."

"But why do you pitch on his GOODNESS rather than on any other
of his attributes?"

"Because, father, this seems, evidently, the prince of all his other
attributes, and greater than all."

"Take care child, that you do not blaspheme. How can one of God's
attributes be greater than another, when all are infinite?"

"Why, father, must not that which moves be greater than that which is
moved?"

"What am I to understand by that, Ben?"

"I mean, father, that the power and wisdom of the Deity, though both
unspeakably great, would probably stand still and do nothing for men,
were they not moved to it by his goodness. His goodness then, which
comes and puts his power and wisdom into motion, and thus fills heaven
and earth with happiness, must be the greatest of all his attributes."

"I don't know what to say to that, Ben; certainly his power and wisdom
must be very great too."

"Yes, father, they are very great indeed: but still they seem but
subject to his _greater benevolence_ which enlists them in its
service and constantly gives them its own delightful work to do. For
example, father, the wisdom and power of the Deity can do any thing,
but his benevolence takes care that they shall do nothing but for good.
The power and wisdom of the Deity could have made changes both in the
earth and heavens widely different from their present state. They
could, for instance, have placed the sun a great deal farther off or a
great deal nearer to us. But then in the first case we should have been
frozen to icicles, and in the second scorched to cinders. The power of
the Deity could have given a tenfold force to the winds, but then no
tree could have stood on the land, and no ship could have sailed on the
seas. The power of the Deity could also have made changes as great in
all other parts of nature; it could have made every fish as monstrous
as a whale, every bird dreadful as the condor, every beast as vast as
the elephant, and every tree as big as a mountain. But then it must
strike every one that these changes would all have been utterly for the
worse, rendering these noble parts of nature comparatively useless to
us.--I say the power of the Deity could have done all this, and might
have so done but for his benevolence, which would not allow such
discords, but has, on the contrary, established all things on a scale
of the exactest harmony with the convenience and happiness of man. Now,
for example, father, the sun, though placed at an enormous distance
from us, is placed at the very distance he should be for all the
important purposes of light and heat; so that the earth and waters,
neither frozen nor burnt, enjoy the temperature fittest for life and
vegetation. Now the meadows are covered with grass; the fields with
corn; the trees with leaves and fruits; presenting a spectacle of
universal beauty and plenty, feasting all senses and gladdening all
hearts; while man, the favoured lord of all, looking around him amidst
the mingled singing of birds and skipping of beasts and leaping of
fishes, is struck with wonder at the beauteous scenery, and gratefully
acknowledges that benevolence is the darling attribute of the Deity."

"I thank God, my son, for giving you wisdom to reason in this way. But
what is still your inference from all this, as to true religion?"

"Why, my dear father, my inference is still in confirmation of my first
answer to your question relative to the true religion, that it consists
in our imitating the Deity in his goodness. Every wise parent, wishing
to allure his children to any particular virtue, is careful to set them
the fairest examples of the same, as knowing that example is more
powerful than precept. Now since the Deity, throughout all his works,
so invariably employs his great power and wisdom as the ministers of
his benevolence to make his creatures happy, what can this be for but
an example to us; teaching that if we wish to please him--the true end
of all religion--we must imitate him in his moral goodness, which if we
would but all do as steadily as he does, we should recall the golden
age, and convert this world into Paradise.

"All this looks very fair, Ben; but yet after all what are we to do
without FAITH?"

"Why, father, as to Faith, I cannot say; not knowing much about it. But
this I can say, that I am afraid of any substitutes to the moral
character of the Deity. In short, sir, I don't love the fig-leaf."

"Fig-leaf! I don't understand you, child: what do you mean by the
fig-leaf?"

"Why, father, we read in the Bible that soon as Adam had lost that true
image of the Deity, his MORAL GOODNESS, instead of striving to
recover it again, he went and sewed fig-leaves together to cover
himself with."

"Stick to the point, child."

"I am to the point, father. I mean to say that as Adam sought a vain
fig-leaf covering, rather than the imitation of the Deity in moral
goodness, so his posterity have ever since been fond of running after
fig-leaf substitutes."

"Aye! well I should be glad to hear you explain a little on that head,
Ben."

"Father, I don't pretend to explain a subject I don't understand, but I
find in PLUTARCH'S LIVES and the HEATHEN ANTIQUITIES, which I read in
your old divinity library, and which no doubt give a true account of
religion among the ancients, that when they were troubled on account of
their crimes, they do not seem once to have thought of conciliating the
Deity by _reformation_, and by acts of benevolence and goodness to be
like him. No, they appear to have been too much enamoured of lust, and
pride, and revenge, to relish moral goodness; such lessons were too
much against the grain. But still something must be done to appease the
Deity. Well then, since they could not sum up courage enough to attempt
it by imitating his goodness, they would try it by coaxing his
vanity--they would build him grand temples; and make him mighty
sacrifices; and rich offerings. This I am told, father, was _their_
fig-leaf."

"Why this, I fear, Ben, is a true bill against the poor Heathens."

"Well, I am sure, father, the Jews were equally fond of the fig-leaf;
as their own countrymen, the Prophets, are constantly charging them.
JUSTICE, MERCY, and TRUTH had, it seems, no charms for them. They must
have fig-leaf substitutes, such as tythings of _mint_, _anise_, and
_cummmin_, and making '_long prayers in the streets_,' and deep
groanings with '_disfigured faces in the synagogues_.' If they but did
all this, then surely they must be Abraham's children even though they
devoured widows' houses."

Here good old Josias groaned.

"Yes, father," continued Ben, "and it were well if the rage for the
fig-leaf stopped with the Jews and Heathens; but the Christians are
just as fond of substitutes that may save them the labour of imitating
the Deity in his moral goodness. It is true, the old Jewish hobbies,
mint, anise, and cummin, are not the hobbies of Christians; but still,
father, you are not to suppose that they are to be disheartened for all
that. Oh no. They have got a hobby worth all of them put together--they
have got FAITH."

Here good old Josias began to darken; and looking at Ben with great
solemnity, said, "I am afraid, my son, you do not treat this great
article of our holy religion with sufficient reverence."

"My dear father," replied Ben eagerly, "I mean not the least reflection
on FAITH, but solely on those hypocrites who abuse it to
countenance their vices and crimes."

"O then, if that be your aim, go on, Ben, go on."

"Well, sir, as I was saying, not only the Jews and Heathens, but the
Christians also have their fig-leaf substitutes for _Moral Goodness_.
Because Christ has said that so great is the DIVINE CLEMENCY, that if
even the worst of men will but have faith in it so as to repent and
amend their lives by the golden law of '_love and good works_,' they
should be saved, many lazy Christians are fond of overlooking those
excellent conditions 'LOVE AND GOOD WORKS,' which constitute the moral
image of the Deity, and fix upon the word FAITH for their salvation."

"Well, but child, do you make no account of faith?"

"None, father, as a fig-leaf cloak of immorality."

"But is not faith a great virtue in itself, and a qualification for
heaven?"

"I think not, sir; I look on faith but as a _mean_ to beget that _moral
goodness_, which, to me, appears to be the only qualification for
Heaven."

"I am astonished, child, to hear you say that faith is not a virtue in
itself."

"Why, father, the Bible says for me in a thousand places. The Bible
says that _faith without good works is dead_."

"But does not the Bible, in a thousand places, say that without faith
no man can please God?"

"Yes, father, and for the best reason in the world; for who can ever
hope to please the Deity without his moral image? and who would ever
put himself to the trouble to cultivate the virtues which form that
image, unless he had a belief that they were indispensible to the
perfection and happiness of his nature?"

"So then, you look on faith as no virtue in itself, and good for
nothing unless it exalt men to the likeness of God?"

"Yes, sir, as good for nothing unless it exalt us to the likeness of
God--nay, as worse; as utterly vile and hypocritical."

"And perhaps you view in the same light the IMPUTED RIGHTEOUSNESS, and
the Sacraments of BAPTISM and the LORD'S SUPPER."

"Yes, father, faith, imputed righteousness, sacraments, prayers,
sermons; all, all I consider as mere barren fig-leaves which will yield
no good unless they ripen into the fruits of BENEVOLENCE and GOOD
WORKS."

"Well, Ben, 'tis well that you have taken a turn to the printing
business; for I don't think, child, that if you had studied divinity,
as your uncle Ben and myself once wished, you would ever have got a
_licence_ to preach."

"No, father, I know that well enough; I know that many who think
themselves mighty good Christians, are for getting to heaven on easier
terms than imitating the Deity in his moral goodness. To them, faith
and imputed righteousness, and sacraments, and sour looks, are very
convenient things. With a good stock of these they can easily manage
matters so as to make a little morality go a great way. But I am
thinking they will have to _back out_ of this error, otherwise
they will make as bad a hand of their barren faith, as the poor
Virginia negroes do of their boasted freedom."

"God's mercy, child, what do you mean by that?"

"Why, father, I am told that the Virginia negroes, like our
faith-mongers, fond of ease and glad of soft substitutes to hard
duties, are continually sighing for freedom; '_O if they had but
freedom! if they had but freedom! how happy should they be! They should
not then be obliged to work any more. Freedom would do every thing for
them. Freedom would spread soft beds for them, and heap their tables
with roast pigs, squealing out, 'come and eat me.' Freedom would give
them fine jackets, and rivers of grog, and mountains of segars and
tobacco, without their sweating for it_.' Well, by and by, they get
their freedom; perhaps by running away from their masters. And now see
what great things has freedom done for them. Why, as it is out of the
question to think of _work_ now they are _free_, they must give
themselves up like gentlemen, to visiting, sleeping, and pastime. In a
little time the curses of hunger and nakedness drive them to stealing
and house-breaking, for which their backs are ploughed up at
whipping-posts, or their necks snapped under the gallows! and all this
because they must needs live easier than by honest labour, which would
have crowned their days with character and comfort. So, father, it is,
most exactly so it is, with too many of our FAITH-MONGERS. They have
not courage to practise those exalted virtues that would give them the
moral likeness of the Deity. Oh no: they must get to heaven in some
easier way. They have heard great things of faith. Faith, they are
told, has done wonders for other people; why not for them? Accordingly
they fall to work and after many a hard throe of fanaticism, they
conceit they have got faith sure enough. And now they are happy. Like
the poor Virginia negroes, they are clear of all _moral working now_:
thank God they can get to heaven without it; yes, and may take some
indulgences, by the way, into the bargain. If, as jovial fellows, they
should waste their time and family substance in drinking rum and
smoking tobacco, where's the harm, _an't they sound believers_? If they
should, as _merchants_, sand their sugar, or water their molasses, what
great matter is that? Don't they keep up family prayer? If, as men of
HONOUR, they should accept a challenge, and receive a shot in a duel,
what of that? They have only to send for a priest, and take the
sacrament. Thus, father, as freedom has proved the ruin of many a lazy
Virginian negro, so I am afraid that such faith as this has made many
an hypocritical christian ten times more a child of the devil than he
was before."

Good old Josias, who, while Ben was speaking at this rate, had appeared
much agitated, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling, here replied,
with a deep sigh, "Yes, Ben, this is all too true to be denied: and a
sad thing it is that mankind should be so ready, as you observe, to go
to heaven _in any other way_ than by imitating God in his _moral
likeness_. But I rejoice in hope of you, my son, that painting this
lamentable depravity in such strong colours as you do, you will ever
act on wiser and more magnanimous principles."

"Father, I don't affect to be better than other young men, yet I think
I can safely say, that if I could get to heaven by playing the
hypocrite I would not, while I have it in my choice to go thither by
acquiring the virtues that would give me a resemblance to God. For to
say nothing of the exceeding honour of acquiring even the _faintest
resemblance_ of him, nor yet of the immense happiness which it must
afford hereafter, I find that even here, and young as I am, the least
step towards it, affords a greater pleasure than any thing else; indeed
I find that there is so much more pleasure in getting knowledge to
resemble the Creator, than in living in ignorance to resemble brutes;
so much more pleasure in BENEVOLENCE and DOING GOOD to resemble him,
than in _hate_ and _doing harm_ to resemble demons, that I hope I shall
always have wisdom and fortitude sufficient even for my own sake, to
spend my life in getting all the useful knowledge, and in doing all the
little good I possibly can."

"God Almighty confirm my son in the wise resolutions which his grace
has enabled him thus early to form!"

"Yes, father, and besides all this, when I look towards futurity; when
I consider the nature of that felicity which exists in heaven; that it
is a felicity flowing from the smiles of the Deity on those excellent
spirits whom his own admonitions have adorned with the virtues that
resemble himself; that the more perfect their virtues, the brighter
will be his smiles upon them, with correspondent emanations of bliss
that may, for aught we know, be for ever enlarged with their ever
enlarging understandings and affections; I say, father, when I have it
in my choice to attain to all this in a way so pleasant and honourable
as that of imitating the Deity in WISDOM and GOODNESS, should I not be
worse than mad to decline it on such terms, and prefer substitutes that
would tolerate me in _ignorance_ and _vice_?"

"Yes, child, I think you would be mad indeed."

"Yes, father, especially when it is recollected, that if the ignorant
and vicious could, with all their pains, find out substitutes that
would serve as passports to heaven, they could not rationally expect a
hearty welcome there. For as the Deity delights in the wise and good,
because they resemble him in those qualities which render him so
amiable and happy, and would render all his creatures so too; so he
must proportionably abhor the STUPID and VICIOUS, because deformed with
qualities diametrically opposite to his own, and tending to make both
themselves and others most vile and miserable."

"This is awfully true, Ben; for the Bible tells us, that the _wicked
are an abomination to the Lord; but that the righteous are his
delight_."

"Yes, father, and this is the language not only of the BIBLE, which is,
perhaps, the grand class book of the Deity, but it is also the language
of his first or _horn_ book, I mean REASON, which teaches, that if
'_there be a God, and that there is all nature cries aloud through all
her works, he must delight in virtue_,' because most clearly conducive
to the perfection of mankind; which must be the chief aim and glory of
the Deity in creating them. And for the same reason he must abhor vice,
because tending to the disgrace and destruction of his creatures.
Hence, father, I think it follows as clearly as a demonstration in
mathematics, that if it were possible for bad men, through _faith_,
_imputed righteousness_, or any other leaf-covering, to get to
Paradise, so far from meeting with any thing like cordiality from the
Deity, they would be struck speechless at sight of their horrible
dissimilarity to him. For while he delights above all things in giving
life, and the duellist glories in destroying it; while he delights in
heaping his creatures with good things, and the gambler triumphs in
stripping them; while he delights in seeing love and smiles among
brethren, and the slanderer in promoting strifes and hatreds; while he
delights in exalting the intellectual and moral faculties to the
highest degree of heavenly wisdom and virtue, and the drunkard delights
in polluting and degrading both below the brutes; what cordiality can
ever subsist between such opposite natures? Can infinite purity and
benevolence behold such monsters with complacency, or could they in his
presence otherwise than be filled with intolerable pain and anguish,
and fly away as weak-eyed owls from the blaze of the meridian sun?"

"Well, Ben, as I said before, I am richly rewarded for having drawn you
into this conversation about religion; your language indeed is not
always the language of the scriptures; neither do you rest your hopes,
as I could have wished, on the _Redeemer_; but still your idea in
placing our qualification for heaven in resembling God in _moral
goodness_, is truly evangelical, and I hope you _will one day become_ a
great christian."

"I thank you, father, for your good wishes; but I am afraid I shall
never be the christian you wish me to be."

"What, not a christian!"

"No, father, at least not in the _name_; but in the nature I hope to
become a christian. And now, father, as we part to-morrow, and there is
a strong presentiment on my mind that it may be a long time before we
meet again, I beg you to believe of me that I shall never lose sight of
my great obligations to an active pursuit of knowledge and usefulness.
This, if persevered in, will give me some humble resemblance of the
great Author of my being in loving and doing all the good I can to
mankind. And then, if I live, I hope, my dear father, I shall give you
the joy to see realized some of the fond expectations you have formed
of me. And if I should die, I shall die in hope of meeting you in some
better world, where you will no more be alarmed for my welfare, nor I
grieved to see you conflicting with age and labour and sorrow: but
where we may see in each other all that we can conceive of what we call
ANGELS, and in scenes of undeserved splendour, dwell with those
enlightened and benevolent spirits, whose conversation and perfect
virtues, will for ever delight us. And where, to crown all, we shall
perhaps, at times, be permitted to see that UNUTTERABLE BEING, whose
disinterested goodness was the spring of all these felicities."

Thus ended this curious dialogue, between one of the most amiable
parents, and one of the most acute and sagacious youths that our
country, or perhaps any other has ever produced.




CHAPTER XVIII.


The three days of Ben's promised stay with his father being expired,
the next morning he embraced his parents and embarked a second time for
Philadelphia, but with a much lighter heart than before, because he now
left home with his parents' blessing, which they gave him the more
willingly as from the dark _sanctified_ frown on poor James' brow
they saw in him no disposition towards reconciliation.

The vessel happening to touch at Newport, Ben gladly took that
opportunity to visit his favourite brother John, who received him with
great joy. John was always of the mind that Ben would one day or other
become a great man; "_he was so vastly fond_," he said, "_of his
book_."

And when he saw the elegant size that Ben's person had now attained,
and also his fine mind-illuminated face and manly wit, he was so proud
of him that he could not rest until he had introduced him to all his
friends. Among the rest was a gentleman of the name of Vernon, who was
so pleased with Ben during an evening's visit at his brother's, that he
gave him an order on a man in Pennsylvania for thirty pounds, which he
begged he would collect for him. Ben readily accepted the order, not
without being secretly pleased that nature had given him a face which
this stranger had so readily credited with thirty pounds.

Caressed by his brother John and by his brother John's friends, Ben
often thought that if he were called on to point out the time in his
whole life that had been spent more pleasantly than the rest, he would,
without hesitation, pitch on this his three days' visit to Newport.

But alas! he has soon brought to cry out with the poet,

    "The brightest things beneath the sky,
      Yield but a glimmering light;
    We should _suspect some danger nigh_,
      Where we possess _delight_."

His thirty pound order from Vernon, was at first ranked among his dear
honied delights enjoyed at Newport; but it soon presented, as we shall
see, a roughsting. This however, was but a flea bite in comparison of
that mortal wound he was within an ace of receiving from this same
Newport trip. The story is this: Among a considerable cargo of live
lumber which they took on board for Philadelphia, were three females,
a couple of gay young damsels, and a grave old Quaker lady. Following
the natural bent of his disposition, Ben paid great attention to the
old Quaker. Fortunate was it for him that he did; for in consequence
of it she took a motherly interest in his welfare that saved him from
a very ugly scrape. Perceiving that he was getting rather too fond of
the two young women above, she drew him aside one day, and with the
looks and speech of a mother, said, "Young man, I am in pain for thee:
thou hast no parent to watch over thy conduct, and thou seemest to be
quite ignorant of the world and the snares to which youth is exposed.
I pray thee rely upon what I tell thee.--These are women of bad
character; I perceive it in all their actions. If thou dost not take
care they will lead thee into danger!!"

As he appeared at first not to think so ill of them as she did, the
old lady related of them many things she had seen and heard, and which
had escaped his attention, but which convinced him she was in the
right. He thanked her for such good advice, and promised to follow it.

On their arrival at New-York the girls told him where they lived, and
invited him to come and see them. Their eyes kindled such a glow along
his youthful veins that he was on the point of melting into consent.
But the motherly advice of his old quaker friend happily coming to his
aid, revived his wavering virtue, and fixed him in the resolution,
though much against the grain, _not to go_. It was a most blessed
thing for him that he did not; for the captain missing a silver spoon
and some other things from the cabin, and knowing these women to be
prostitutes, procured a search warrant, and finding his goods in their
possession, had them brought to the whipping-post.

As God would have it, Ben happened to fall in with the constable and
crowd who were taking them to whip. He would fain have run off. But
there was a drawing of sympathy towards them which he could not
resist: so on he went with the rest. He said afterwards that it was
well he did: for when he beheld these poor devils tied up to the
stake, and also their sweet faces distorted with terror and pain, and
heard their piteous screams under the strokes of the cowhide on their
bleeding backs, he could not help melting into tears, at the same time
saying to himself--"now had I but _yielded to the allurements of these
poor creatures, and made myself an accessary to their crimes and
sufferings, what would now be my feelings_!"

From the happy escape which he had thus made through the seasonable
advice of the good old quaker lady he learned that acts of this sort
hold the first place on the list of charities: and entered it as a
resolution on his journal that he would imitate it and do all in his
power to open the eyes of all, but especially of the young, to a
timely sense of the follies and dangers that beset them. How well he
kept his promise, will, 'tis likely, gentle reader, be remembered by
thousands when you and I are forgotten.




CHAPTER XIX.


On the arrival of the vessel at New-York, Ben went up to a tavern, and
lo! who should he first cast his eyes on there, but his old friend
Collins, of Boston!

Collins had, it seems, been so charmed with Ben's account of
Philadelphia, that he came to the determination to try his fortune
there also; and learning that Ben was shortly to return by the way of
New-York, he had jumped into the first vessel, and was there before
him, waiting his arrival. Great was the joy of Ben at the sight of his
friend Collins, for it drew after it a train of the most pleasant
recollections.--But who can describe his feelings, when flying to
embrace that long esteemed youth, he beheld him now risen from his
chair equally eager for the embrace, but alas! only able to make a
staggering step or two before down he came sprawling on the floor,
drunk as a lord!

To see a young man of his wit--his eloquence--his education--his
hitherto unstained character and high promise, thus overwhelmed by a
worse than brutal vice, would have been a sad sight to Ben, even
though that young man had been an entire stranger. But oh! how tenfold
sad to see such marks of ruinous dishonour on one so dear, and from
whom he had expected so much.

Ben had just returned from assisting to put poor Collins to bed, when
the captain of the vessel which had brought him to New-York, stepped
up and in a very respectful manner put a note into his hand.--Ben
opened it, not without considerable agitation, and read as follows:--

"G. Burnet's compliments await young Mr. Franklin--and should be glad
of half an hour's chat with him over a glass of wine."

"G. Burnet!" said Ben, "who can that be?"

"Why, 'tis the governor," replied the captain with a smile. "I have
just been to see him, with some letters I brought for him from Boston.
And when I told him what a world of books you have, he expressed a
curiosity to see you, and begged I would return with you to his
palace."

Ben instantly set off with the captain, but not without a sigh as he
cast a look back on the door of poor Collins' bed-room, to think what
an honour that wretched young man had lost for the sake of two or
three vile gulps of filthy grog.

The governor's looks, at the approach of Ben, showed somewhat of
disappointment. He had, it seems, expected considerable entertainment
from Ben's conversation. But his fresh and ruddy countenance showed
him so much younger than he had counted on, that he gave up all his
promised entertainment as a lost hope. He received Ben, however, with
great politeness, and after pressing on him a glass of wine, took him
into an adjoining room, which was his library, consisting of a large
and well-chosen collection.

Seeing the pleasure which sparkled in Ben's eyes as he surveyed so
many elegant authors, and thought of the rich stores of knowledge
which they contained, the governor, with a smile of complacency, as on
a young pupil of science, said to him, "Well, Mr. Franklin, I am told
by the captain here, that you have a fine collection too."

"Only a trunk full, sir," said Ben.

"A trunk full!" replied the governor. "Why, what use can you have for
so many books? Young people at your age have seldom read beyond the
10th chapter of Nehemiah."

"I can't boast," replied Ben, "of having read any great deal beyond
that myself; but still, I should be sorry if I could not get a trunk
full of books to read every six months." At this, the governor
regarding him with a look of surprise, said, "You must then, though so
young, be a scholar; perhaps a teacher of the languages."

"No sir," answered Ben, "I know no language but my own."

"What, not Latin nor Greek!"

"No sir, not a word of either."

"Why, don't you think them necessary?"

"I don't set myself up as a judge. But I should not suppose them
necessary."

"Aye! well, I should like to hear your reasons."

"Why, sir, I am not competent to give reasons that may satisfy a
gentleman of your learning, but the following are the reasons with
which I satisfy myself. I look on languages, sir, merely as arbitrary
sounds of characters, whereby men communicate their ideas to each
other. Now, if I already possess a language which is capable of
conveying more ideas than I shall ever acquire, were it not wiser in
me to improve my time in getting _sense_ through that one language,
than waste it in getting mere _sounds_ through fifty languages, even
if I could learn as many?"

Here the governor paused a moment, though not without a little red on
his cheeks, for having only a minute before put Ben and the 10th
chapter of Nehemiah so close together. However, catching a new idea,
he took another start. "Well, but, my dear sir, you certainly differ
from the learned world, which is, you know, decidedly in favour of the
languages."

"I would not wish wantonly to differ from the learned world," said
Ben, "especially when they maintain opinions that seem to be founded
on truth. But when this is not the case, to differ from them I have
ever thought my duty; and especially since I studied Locke."

"Locke!" cried the governor with surprise, "_you studied Locke!_"

"Yes, sir, I studied Locke on the Understanding three years ago, when
I was thirteen."

"You amaze me, sir. You studied Locke on the Understanding at
thirteen!"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Well, and pray at what college did you study Locke at thirteen; for
at Cambridge college in Old England, where I got my education, they
never allowed the senior class to look at Locke till eighteen?"

"Why, sir, it was my misfortune never to be at a college, nor even at
a grammar school, except nine months when I was a child."

Here the governor sprung from his seat, and staring at Ben, cried out,
"the devil! well, and where--where did you get your education, pray?"

"At home, sir, in a tallow chandler's shop."

"In a tallow chandler's shop!" screamed the governor.

"Yes, sir; my father was a poor old tallow chandler, with sixteen
children, and I the youngest of all. At eight he put me to school, but
finding he could not spare the money from the rest of the children to
keep me there, he took me home into the shop, where I assisted him by
twisting the candle wicks and filling the moulds all day, and at night
I read by myself. At twelve, my father bound me to my brother, a
printer, in Boston, and with him I worked hard all day at the press
and cases, and again read by myself at night."

Here the governor, spanking his hands together, put up a loud whistle,
while his eye-balls, wild with surprise, rolled about in their sockets
as if in a mighty mind to hop out. "Impossible, young man!" he
exclaimed: "Impossible! you are only sounding my credulity. I can
never believe one half of all this." Then turning to the captain, he
said, "captain, you are an intelligent man, and from Boston; pray tell
me can this young man here, be aiming at any thing but to quiz me?"

"No, indeed, please your excellency," replied the captain, "Mr.
Franklin is not quizzing you. He is saying what is really true, for I
am acquainted with his father and family."

The governor then turning to Ben said, more moderately, "Well, my dear
wonderful boy, I ask your pardon for doubting your word; and now pray
tell me, for I feel a stronger desire than ever to hear your objection
to learning the dead languages."

"Why, sir, I object to it principally on account of the shortness of
human life. Taking them one with another, men do not live above forty
years. Plutarch, indeed, puts it only thirty-three. But say forty.
Well, of this full ten years are lost in childhood, before any boy
thinks of a Latin grammar. This brings the forty down to thirty. Now
of such a moment as this, to spend five or six years in learning the
dead languages, especially when all the best books in those languages
are translated into ours, and besides, we already have more books on
every subject than such short-lived creatures can ever acquire, seems
very preposterous."

"Well, but what are you to do with their great poets, Virgil and
Homer, for example; I suppose you would not think of translating Homer
out of his rich native Greek into our poor homespun English, would
you?"

"Why not, sir?"

"Why I should as soon think of transplanting a pine-apple from Jamaica
to Boston."

"Well, sir, a skilful gardener, with his hot-house, can give us nearly
as fine a pine-apple as any in Jamaica. And so Mr. Pope, with his fine
imagination, has given us Homer, in English, with more of his beauties
than ordinary scholars would find in him after forty years' study of
the Greek. And besides, sir, if Homer was not translated, I am far
from thinking it would be worth spending five or six years to learn to
read him in his own language."

"You differ from the critics, Mr. Franklin; for the critics all tell
us that his beauties are inimitable."

"Yes, sir, and the naturalists tell us that the beauties of the
basilisk are inimitable too."

"The basilisk, sir! Homer compared with the basilisk! I really don't
understand you, sir."

"Why, I mean, sir, that as the basilisk is the more to be dreaded for
the beautiful skin that covers his poison, so Homer for the bright
colourings he throws over bad characters and passions. Now, as I don't
think the beauties of poetry are comparable to those of philanthropy,
nor a thousandth part so important to human happiness, I must confess
I dread Homer, especially as the companion of youth. The humane and
gentle virtues are certainly the greatest charms and sweeteners of
life. And I suppose, sir, you would hardly think of sending your son
to Achilles to learn these."

"I agree he has too much revenge in his composition."

"Yes, sir, and when painted in the colours which Homer's glowing fancy
lends, what youth but must run the most imminent risk of catching a
spark of bad fire from such a blaze as he throws on his pictures?"

"Why this, though an uncommon view of the subject, is, I confess, an
ingenious one, Mr. Franklin; but surely 'tis overstrained."

"Not at all, sir; we are told from good authority, that it was the
reading of Homer that first put it into the head of Alexander the
great to become a HERO: and after him of Charles the 12th. What
millions of human beings have been slaughtered by these two great
butchers is not known; but still probably not a tythe of what have
perished in duels between individuals from the pride and revenge
nursed by reading Homer."

"Well, sir," replied the governor, "I never heard the prince of bards
treated in this way before. You must certainly be singular in your
charges against Homer."

"I ask your pardon, sir, I have the honour to think of Homer exactly
as did the greatest philosopher of antiquity; I mean Plato, who
strictly forbids the reading of Homer in his republic. And yet Plato
was a heathen. I don't boast myself as a christian; and yet I am
shocked at the inconsistency of our Latin and Greek teachers
(generally christians and DIVINES too,) who can one day put Homer into
the hands of their pupils, and in the midst of their recitations can
stop them short to point out the _divine beauties_ and _sublimities_
which the poet gives to his hero, in the bloody work of slaughtering
the poor Trojans; and the next day take them to church to hear a
discourse from Christ on the blessedness of meekness and forgiveness.
No wonder that hot-livered young men thus educated, should despise
meekness and forgiveness, as mere cowards' virtues, and deem nothing
so glorious as fighting duels, and blowing out brains."

Here the governor came to a pause, like a gamester at his last trump.
But perceiving Ben cast his eyes on a splendid copy of Pope's works,
he suddenly seized that as a _fine_ opportunity to turn the
conversation. So stepping up, he placed his hand on his shoulder, and
in a very familiar manner said, "Well, Mr. Franklin, there's an author
that I am sure you'll not quarrel with; an author that I think you'll
pronounce _faultless_."

"Why, sir," replied Ben, "I entertain a most exalted opinion of Pope;
but still, sir, I think he is not without his faults."

"It would puzzle you, I suspect, Mr. Franklin, as keen a critic as you
are, to point out _one_."

"Well, sir," answered Ben, hastily turning to the place, "what do you
think of this famous couplet of Mr. Pope's--

    "Immodest words admit of no defence,
    For want of decency is want of sense."

"I see no fault there."

"No, indeed!" replied Ben, "why now to my mind a man can ask no better
excuse for any thing wrong he does, than his _want of sense_."

"Well, sir," said the governor, sensibly staggered, "and how would you
alter it?"

"Why, sir, if I might presume to alter a line in this great Poet, I
would do it in this way:--

    "Immodest words admit but _this_ defence--
    That want of decency is want of sense."

Here the governor caught Ben in his arms as a delighted father would
his son, calling out at the same time to the captain, "How greatly am
I obliged to you, sir, for bringing me to an acquaintance with this
charming boy? O! what a delightful thing it would be for us old
fellows to converse with sprightful youth if they were but all like
him!--But the d----l of it is, most parents are as blind as bats to
the true glory and happiness of their children. Most parents never
look higher for their sons than to see them delving like muckworms for
money; or hopping about like jay-birds, in fine feathers. Hence their
conversation is generally no better than froth and nonsense."

After several other handsome compliments on Ben, and the captain
expressing a wish to be going, the governor shook hands with Ben,
begging at the same time that he would for ever consider him as one of
his fastest friends, and also never came to New-York without coming to
see him.




CHAPTER XX.


On returning to the tavern, he hastened into his chamber, where he
found his drunken comrade, poor Collins, in a fine perspiration, and
considerably sobered, owing to the refrigerating effects of a pint of
strong sage tea, with a tea-spoonful of saltpetre, which Ben, before
he set out to the governor's, had pressed on him as a remedy he had
somewhere read, much in vogue among the London topers, to _cool off_
after a rum fever. Collins appeared still to have enough of brandy in
him for a frolic; but when Ben came to tell him of the amiable
governor Burnet, in whose company, at his own palace, he had spent a
most delightful evening; and also to remind him of the golden
opportunity he had lost, of forming an acquaintance with that noble
gentleman, poor Collins wept bitterly.

Ben was exceedingly affected to see him in tears, and endeavoured to
comfort him. But he refused comfort. He said, "if this had been the
_first time_, he should not himself think much of it; but he candidly
confessed, that for a long time he had been guilty of it, though till
of late he had always kept it to himself, drinking in his chamber. But
now he felt at times," he said, "an awful apprehension that he was a
_lost man_. His cravings for liquor were so strong on the one hand,
and on the other his powers of resistance so feeble, that it put him
fearfully in mind of the dismal state of a poor wretch, within the
fatal attraction of a whirlpool, whose resistless suction, in spite of
all his feeble efforts, was hurrying him down to sure and speedy
destruction."

Collins, who was exceedingly eloquent on every subject, but especially
on one so nearly affecting himself, went on deploring his misfortune
in strains so tender and pathetic, that Ben, whose eyes were fountains
ever ready to flow at the voice of sorrow, could not refrain from
weeping, which he did most unfeignedly for a long esteemed friend now
going to ruin. He could bear, he said, to see the brightest plumed
bird, charmed by the rattle-snake, descending into the horrid
sepulchre of the monster's jaws. He could bear to see the richest
laden Indiaman, dismasted and rudderless, drifting ashore on the
merciless breakers; because made of dust, these things must at any
rate return to dust, again. But to see an immortal mind stopped in her
first soarings, entangled and limed in the filth of so brutal a vice
as drunkenness--that was a sight he could not bear. And as a mother
looking on her child that is filleted for the accursed Moloch, cannot
otherwise than shed tears, so Ben, when he looked on poor Collins,
could not but weep when he saw him the victim of destruction.

However, as a good wit turns every thing to advantage, this sudden and
distressing fall of poor Collins, set Ben to thinking: and the result
of his thoughts noted down in his journal of that day, deserves the
attention of all young men of this day; and even will as long as human
nature endures.

"Wit," says he, "in young men, is dangerous, because apt to breed
vanity, which, when disappointed, brings them down, and by depriving
them of _natural_ cheerfulness, drives them to the bottle for that
which is _artificial_.--And learning also is dangerous, when it is
aimed at as an _end_ and not a _mean_. A young man who aspires to be
learned merely for _fame_, is in danger; for, familiarity breeding
contempt, creates an uneasy void that drives him to the bottle. Hence
so many learned men with red noses. But when a man from a benevolent
heart, seeks learning for the sublime pleasure of imitating the Deity
in _doing good_, he is always made so happy in the spirit and pursuit
of this godlike object, that he needs not the stimulus of brandy."

This one hint, if duly reflected on by young men, would render the
name of Franklin dear to them for ever.




CHAPTER XXI.


The next day, when they came to settle with the tavern-keeper, and Ben
with his usual alacrity had paraded his dollars for payment, poor
Collins hung back, pale and dumb-founded, as a truant school-boy at
the call to recitation. The truth is, the fumes of his brandy having
driven all the wit out of his noddle, had puffed it up with such
infinite vanity, that he must needs turn in, red faced and silly as he
was, to gamble with the cool-headed water-drinking sharpers of
New-York. The reader hardly need be informed, that poor Collins'
pistareens, which he had scraped together for this expedition, were to
these light-fingered gentlemen as a fry of young herrings to the
hungry dog-fish.

Ben was now placed in a most awkward predicament. To pay off Collins'
scores at New-York, and also his expenses on the road to Philadelphia,
would drain him to the last farthing. But how could he leave in
distress a young friend with whom he had passed so many happy days and
nights in the elegant pleasure of literature, and for whom he had
contracted such an attachment! Ben could not bear the idea, especially
as his young friend, if left in this sad condition, might be driven to
despair; so drawing his purse he paid off Collins' bill, which, from
the quantity of liquor he had drank, was swelled to a serious amount;
and taking him by the arm, set out with a heart much heavier than his
purse, which indeed was now so empty that had it not been replenished
at Bristol by the thirty pounds for which, as we have seen, Vernon
gave him an order on a gentleman living there, who readily paid it,
would never have carried him and his drunken companion to
Philadelphia. On their arrival Collins endeavoured to procure
employment as a merchant's clerk, and paraded with great confidence
his letters of recommendation. But his breath betrayed him. And the
merchants would have nothing to say to him notwithstanding all his
letters; he continued, therefore, to lodge and board with Ben at his
expense. Nor was this all; for knowing that Ben had Vernon's money, he
was continually craving loans of it, promising to pay as soon as he
should get into business. By thus imposing on Ben's friendship,
getting a little of him at one time, and a little at another, he had
at last got so much of it, that when Ben, who had gone on _lending_
without taking note, came to count Vernon's money, he could hardly
find a dollar to count!

It is not easy to describe the agitation of Ben's mind on making this
discovery; nor the alternate chill and fever, that discoloured his
cheeks, as he reflected on his own egregious folly in this affair.
"What demon," said he to himself, as he bit his lip, "could have put
it into my head to tell Collins that I had Vernon's money! Didn't I
know that a drunkard has no more reason in him than a hog; and can no
better be satisfied, unless like him he is eternally pulling at his
filthy swill? And have I indeed been all this time throwing away
Vernon's money for brandy to addle the brain of this poor _self-made_
brute? Well then, I am served exactly as I deserve, for thus making
myself a pander to his vices. But now that the money is all gone, and
I without a shilling to replace it, what's to be done? Vernon will, no
doubt, soon learn that I have collected his money; and will of course
be daily expecting to hear from me. But what can I write? To tell him
that I have collected his money, but lent it to a poor, pennyless sot,
will sound like a pretty story, to a man of business! And if I don't
write to him, what will he think of me, and what will become of that
high opinion he had formed of me, on which it appeared he would have
trusted me with thousands? So you see, I have got myself into a pretty
hobble. And worse than all yet, how shall I ever again lift up my
booby face to my affectionate brother John, after having thus basely
stabbed him, through his friend, as also through the honour of our
family! O my dear, dear old father; now I see your wisdom and my own
folly! A thousand times did you tell me I was too young; too
inexperienced yet, to undertake by myself.--But no. It would not all
do. For the life of you, you could not lead or drive such divine
counsel into this conceited noddle of mine. I despised it as the
_weakness of old age_, and much too _slow_ for me. I wanted to save
time, and get three or four years ahead of other young men; and that
tempted me to disobedience. Well, I am justly punished for it! My
bubble is broke. And now I see I shall be thrown back as long as if I
had continued the apprentice of my brother James!!"

O young men! young men! you that with segars in your mouths, and faces
flushed with libations of whiskey, can fancy yourselves _clever
fellows_, and boast the long list of your _dear friends_, O think of
the curses that Ben bestowed on his dear friend Collins, for bringing
him in such a scrape; and learn that an idle, drinking rascal has no
friends. If you think otherwise, it is only a proof that you don't
even yet understand the meaning of the word. FRIENDS indeed! you talk
of friends! What, _you_, who instead of nobly pressing on for VIRTUE
and KNOWLEDGE and WEALTH, to make yourselves an honour and blessing to
your connexions, are constantly, by your drunken and gambling courses,
making yourselves a disgrace and curse to them. And when, like that
fool in the parable, your all is gone, then, instead of modestly going
with him into the fields, to feed the swine, you have the impudence to
quarter your rags and red noses on your _dear friends_, spunging and
borrowing of them as long as they'll lend. And if at last, they should
get wise enough to refuse such unconscionable leechers, as would suck
every drop of their blood, instantly you can turn tail and abuse your
_dear friends_ as though they were pick-pockets.--Witness now master
Collins.

Just as Ben was in the midst of his fever and pet, on discovering as
aforesaid, the great injury which Collins had done him, who but that
promising youth should come in, red faced and blowzy, and with extreme
confidence, demand of him a couple of dollars. Ben, rather tartly,
replied that he had no more to spare. "Pshaw," answered Collins, "'tis
only a brace of dollars I want, just to treat an old Boston
acquaintance I fell in with at the tavern, and you know Vernon tipt
you 'the shiners' t'other day to the tune of a round hundred." "Yes,"
replied Ben, "but what with two dollars at one time, and two at
another, you have taken nearly the whole." "Well, man, and what of
that," rejoined Collins, swaggeringly; "suppose I had taken the
_whole_; yes, and twice as much, sha'nt I get into fine business
presently, some head clerk's place, or governor's secretary? And then
you'll see how I'll tumble you in the _yellow boys_ hand over hand,
and pay you off these little beggarly items all at a dash."

"_Fair words, Mr. Collins_," answered Ben, "_butter no parsnips_. And
you have been so long talking at this rate, and yet doing nothing,
that I really am afraid----"

"Afraid, the d----l," interrupted Collins, insultingly, "afraid of
what? But see here, Mr. Franklin, I came to you, not to preach to me,
but to lend me a couple of dollars. And now all that you have to do is
just to tell me, at a word, whether you can lend them or not."

"Well then, at a word, I cannot," said Ben.

"Well then, you are an ungrateful fellow," retorted Collins.

"Ungrateful?" asked Ben, utterly astonished.

"Yes, an ungrateful fellow," replied Collins. "You dare not deny, sir,
that it was I who first took you out of the tallow pots and grease of
your old father's candle shop in Boston, and made a man of you. And
now after all, when I only ask you to lend me a couple of shabby
dollars to treat a friend, you can refuse me! Well, keep your dollars
to yourself and be d----d for an ungrateful fellow as you are!" then
wheeling on his heel he went off, blustering and swollen with passion,
as though he had been most outrageously ill-treated. Soon as Ben had
recovered himself a little from the stupefaction into which this
tornado of Collins had thrown him, he clapped his hands, and rolling
up his eyes like one devoutly given, exclaimed, "O Ulysses, well
called wise! You, though a heathen, could lash your sailors to the
mast to keep them from going ashore to be made hogs of at the _grog
shops of Circe_, while I, the son of an old presbyterian christian,
the son of his old age, and heir elect of all his wisdom, have been
here now for weeks together, lending money to brutalize my own friend!
Would to heaven, I had been but half as wise as you, I should not have
been so shamefully fleeced, and now so grossly insulted by this young
swine, Collins. But what brain of man could have suspected this of
him? After taking him out of the stye of a jug tavern in New-York,
where he was up to the back in dirt and debt--after paying all his
expenses to Philadelphia, and here supporting him cheerfully, out of
my hard and scanty earnings;--after submitting, for cheapness sake, to
sleep in the same bed with him every night, scorched with his
rum-fevered flesh, drenched in his nocturnal sweats, and poisoned with
his filthy breath; and still worse, after lending him nearly the whole
of Vernon's money, and thereby brought my own silly nose to the
grindstone, perhaps for many a doleful year, I should now at last be
requited with all this abuse: d--n--d for an _ungrateful fellow_!!
Well, I don't know where all this is to end; but I will still hope for
the best. I hope it will teach me this important lesson, never to have
any thing to do with a _sot_ again, as long as I live. But stop,
though I refused him money to get drunk with, I still feel a
friendship for this wretched young man, this Collins; and will still
work to support him, while he stays with me. It is likely that now,
that he can get no more money from me, he will take his departure; and
then, if my senses remain, I think I will for ever hereafter shun, as
I would a beast, the young man who drinks _drams and grog_."

From his going off in such a pet, Ben had supposed at first, that
Collins would not return again. But having no money nor friends in
Philadelphia, the poor fellow came back at night, to his old roosting
place with Ben, by whom he was received with the same good humour as
if nothing had happened. But though the injured may forgive, the
injurer seldom does. Collins never looked straight at Ben after this.
The recollection of the past kept him sore. And to be dependent on one
whom, in the pride of former days, he had thought his inferior,
rendered his condition so uneasy, that he longed for an opportunity to
get out of it. Fortunately an opportunity soon offered. The captain of
a trader to the West Indies, falling in with him one day at a tavern,
where he was spouting away at a most elegant rate, was so charmed with
his vivacity and wit, which most young fools, half shaved, are apt to
figure in, that he offered him the place of a private tutor in a rich
family in Jamaica. Dame fortune, in her best humour, with all her
cogged dice in the bargain, could not, as Collins himself thought,
have thrown him a luckier hit. Young black eyed creoles, with fourth
proof spirit, in all its delicious modifications, of _slings, bumbo
and punch_, dancing before his delighted fancy, in such mazes of
pleasurable promise, that 'tis likely he would hardly have exchanged
places with the grand Turk. With a countenance glowing with joy, he
hastened to Ben to tell him the glorious news, and to take leave.
After heartily congratulating him on his good fortune, Ben asked, if
he would not want a little money to _fit him out_. Collins thanked
him, but said that the captain, who had engaged him, was such a
noble-hearted fellow, that he had, of his own accord, advanced him
_three half joes_ to put him into what he called "_complete sailing
trim_." Though Ben had of late been so scurvily treated by Collins, as
to think it very desirable to be quit of him; yet, when the time came,
he found it no such easy matter for the heart to dissolve the ties of
a long and once pleasant friendship. He had passed with Collins many
of his happiest hours, and these too, in the sweetest season of life,
and amidst pleasures which best lift the soul from earth, and spring
those unutterable hopes she delights in. How then, without tears,
could he for the last time, feel the strong pressure of his hand, and
catch the parting glance? On the other side, through watery eyes and
broken accents, poor Collins sobbed out his last adieu, not without
hearty thanks, for the many favors which Ben had done him, and solemn
promises of speedily _writing to him, and remitting all his money_.
Charity would fain believe, that he fully so intended; but alas! nor
money, nor friend did Ben ever hear of afterwards. This elegant victim
of rum, was no doubt presented by the captain to the wealthy family in
Jamaica. And being introduced, under the genial influence perhaps of a
cheerful glass, 'tis likely that with his advantages of education and
eloquence, he made such a figure in the eyes of those wealthy and
hospitable islanders, that they were in raptures with him, and fondly
counted that they had got an elegant young schoolmaster who was to
make scholars and wits of the whole family. Perhaps too, their darling
hope, a blooming daughter, was seen to heave the tender sigh, as
blushing she darted the side-long glance upon him. But alas! the next
day sees the elegant young schoolmaster _dead drunk!_ and the amiable
family all in the dumps again. 'Tis more than probable, that after
having been alternately received and dismissed from a dozen wealthy
families, he sunk at length, into tattered garments, and a
grog-blossomed face; the mournful victim of intemperance. And now
perhaps, after all the fair prospects of his youth, and all the fond
hopes of his parents, poor Collins, untimely buried in a foreign
church-yard, only serves for the pious to point their children to his
early tomb and remind them how vain are talents and education without
the restraints of religion.




CHAPTER XXII.


Soon as Ben reached Philadelphia, as aforesaid, he waited on the
governor, who received him with joy, eagerly calling out, "_Well my
dear boy, what success? What success?_" Ben, with a smile, drew his
father's letter from his pocket. The governor snatched it, as if all
impatient to see its contents, which he ran through with a devouring
haste. When he was done, he shook his head and said, "it was to be
sure a sensible letter, a vastly sensible letter; _but_--_but_,--it
won't do," continued he to Ben, "no, it won't do; your father is too
cautious, entirely too cautious, sir." Hereupon he fell into a brown
study, with his eyes nailed to the ground, as in a profound reverie.
After a moment's pause, he suddenly looked up, and with a countenance
bright as with some happy thought, he cried out, "I've got it, my dear
young friend, I've got it exactly. Zounds! what signifies making two
bites at a cherry? _In for a penny, in for a pound_, is my way. Since
your father will do nothing for you, I'll do it all myself. A printer
I want, and a printer I'll have, that's a clear case: and I am sure
you are the lad that will suit me to a fraction. So give me a list of
the articles you want from England, and I will send for them by the
very next ship, and set you up at once: and all I shall expect of you,
is that you'll pay me when you are able!!" Seeing the tear swelling in
Ben's eye, the governor took him by the hand, and in a softened tone
said, "come, nothing of that my dear boy, nothing of that. A lad of
your talents and merit, must not languish in the back ground for lack
of a little money to bring you forward. So make me out, as I said, a
list of such articles as you may want, and I'll send for them at once
to London.--But stop! would it not be better for you to go to London,
and choose these things yourself? you could then, you know, be sure to
have them all of the best quality. And besides, you could form an
acquaintance with _some clever fellows_ in the book selling and
stationary line, whose friendship might be worth a Jew's eye to you,
in your business here."

Ben, hardly able now to speak, thanked the governor as well as he
could for so generous an offer.--"Well then," continued the governor,
"get yourself in readiness to go with the Annis." The reader will
please to be informed, that the Annis was, at that time, (1722) the
only regular trader between London and Philadelphia; and she made but
one voyage in the year! Finding that the Annis was not to sail for
several months yet, Ben prudently continued to do journey work for old
Keimer; but often haunted with the ghost of Vernon's money which he
had lent to Collins, and for fear of what would become of him if
Vernon should be strict _to mark his iniquities_ in that mad affair.
But happily for him, Vernon made no demand. It appeared afterwards
that this worthy man had not forgotten his money. But learning from a
variety of quarters, that Ben was a perfect non-descript of industry
and frugality, he concluded that as the money was not paid, Ben was
probably under the hatches. He therefore, generously, let the matter
lie over till a distant day, when Ben, as we shall by and by see, paid
him up fully, both principal and interest, and thus recovered the high
ground he formerly held in his friendship. Thanks be to God, who has
given to inflexible honesty and industry, such power over the "_heart
strings_," as well as "_purse strings_," of mankind.




CHAPTER XXIII.


Ben was naturally comic in a high degree, and this pleasant vein,
greatly improved by his present golden prospects, betrayed him into
many a frolic with Keimer, to whom he had prudently attached himself
as a journeyman, until the Annis should sail. The reader will excuse
Ben for these frolics when he comes to learn what were their aims; as
also what an insufferable old creature this Keimer was. Silly as a
BOOBY, yet vain as a JAY, and garrulous as a PIE, he could never rest
but when in a stiff argument, and acting the orator, at which he
looked on Cicero himself as but a boy to him. Here was a fine target
for Ben's SOCRATIC ARTILLERY, which he frequently played off on the
old pomposo with great effect. By questions artfully put, he would
obtain of him certain points, which Keimer readily granted, as seeing
in them no sort of connexion with the matter in debate. But yet these
points, when granted, like distant nets slyly hauling round a porpoise
or sturgeon, would, by degrees, so completely circumvent the silly
fish, that with all his flouncing and fury he could never extricate
himself, but rather got more deeply entangled. Often caught in this
way, he became at last so afraid of Ben's _questions_, that he would
turn as mad when one of them was "_poked at him_," as a bull at sight
of a scarlet cloak; and would not answer the simplest question without
first asking, "_well, and what would you make of that?_" He came at
length to form so exalted an opinion of Ben's talents for refutation,
that he seriously proposed to him one day that they should turn out
together and preach up a NEW RELIGION! Keimer was to preach and make
the converts, and Ben to answer and put to silence the gainsayers. He
said a _world of money_ might be made by it.

On hearing the outlines of this new religion, Ben found great fault
with it. This he did only that he might have another frolic with
Keimer; but his frolics were praiseworthy, for they all "leaned to
virtue's side." The truth is, he saw that Keimer was prodigiously a
hypocrite. At every whip-stitch he could play the knave, and then for
a pretence would read his Bible. But it was not the _moral part_ of
the Bible, the sweet precepts and parables of the Gospel that he read.
No verily. Food so angelic was not at all to the tooth of his childish
fancy, which delighted in nothing but the _novel_ and _curious_. Like
too many of the saints now-a-days, he would rather read about the
WITCH OF ENDOR, than the GOOD SAMARITAN, and hear a sermon on the
_brazen candlesticks_ than on the LOVE OF GOD. And then, O dear! who
was Melchizedeck? Or where was the land of Nod? Or, was it in the
shape of a _serpent or a monkey_ that the devil tempted Eve? As he was
one day poring over the pentateuch as busy after some nice game of
this sort as a terrier on the track of a weazle, he came to that
famous text where Moses says, "_thou shall not mar the corners of thy
beard_." Aye! this was the divinity for Keimer. It struck him like a
new light from the clouds: then rolling his eyes as from an
apparition, he exclaimed, "miserable man that I am! and was I indeed
forbidden to mar even the corners of my beard, and have I been all
this time shaving myself as smooth as an eunuch! Fire and brimstone,
how have you been boiling up for me, and I knew it not! Hell, deepest
hell is my portion, that's a clear case, unless I reform. And reform I
will if I live. Yes, my poor naked chin, if ever I but get another
crop upon thee and I suffer it to be touched by the ungodly steel,
then let my right hand forget her cunning."

From that day he became as shy of a razor as ever Samson was. His long
black whiskers "_whistled in the wind_." And then to see how he would
stand up before his glass and stroke them down, it would have reminded
you of some ancient Druid, adjusting the _sacred Mistletoe_.

Ben could not bear that sight. Such shameless neglect of angel
morality, and yet such fidgetting about a goatish beard! "Heavens,
sir," said he to Keimer, one day in the midst of a hot argument,

    "Who can think, with common sense,
    A smooth shaved face gives God offence?
    Or that a whisker hath a charm,
    Eternal justice to disarm?"

He even proposed to him to get _shaved_. Keimer swore outright that he
would never lose his beard. A stiff altercation ensued. But Keimer
getting angry, Ben agreed at last to give up the beard. He said that,
"as the beard at best was but an external, a mere excrescence, he
would not insist on that as so very essential. But certainly sir,"
continued he, "there is one thing that is."

Keimer wanted to know what that was.

"Why sir," added Ben, "this turning out and preaching up a NEW
RELIGION, is, without doubt, a very serious affair, and ought not to
be undertaken too hastily. Much time, sir, in my opinion at least,
should be spent in making preparation, in which, fasting should
certainly have a large share."

Keimer, who was a great glutton, said he could _never fast_.

Ben then insisted that if they were not to fast altogether, they
ought, at any rate, to abstain from animal food, and live as the
saints of old did, on _vegetables_ and _water_.

Keimer shook his head, and said that if he were to live on vegetables
and water, he should soon die.

Ben assured him that it was entirely a mistake. He had tried it often,
he said, and could testify from his own experience that he was never
more healthy and cheerful than when he lived on vegetables alone. "Die
from feeding on vegetables, indeed! Why, sir, it contradicts reason;
and contradicts all history, ancient and profane. There was Daniel,
and his three young friends, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who fed
on a vegetable diet, of choice; did they languish and die of it? or
rather did they not display a rouge of health and fire of genius, far
beyond those silly youths who crammed on all the luxuries of the royal
table? And that amiable Italian nobleman, Lewis Cornaro, who says of
bread, that it was such a dainty to his palate, that he was almost
afraid, at times, it was too good for him to eat; did he languish and
die of this simple fare? On the contrary, did he not out-live three
generations of gratified epicures; and after all, go off in his second
century, like a bird of Paradise, singing the praises of Temperance
and Virtue? And pray, sir," continued Ben, "where's the wonder of all
this? Must not the blood that is formed of vegetables be the purest in
nature? And then, as the spirits depend on the blood, must not the
spirits secreted from such blood be the purest too? And when this is
the case with the blood and spirits, which are the very life of the
man, must not that man enjoy the best chance for such healthy
secretions and circulations as are most conducive to long and happy
life?"

While Ben argued at this rate, Keimer regarded him with a look which
seemed to say, "Very true, sir; all this is very true; but still I
cannot _go it_."

Ben, still unwilling to give up his point, thought he would make one
more push at him. "What a pity it is," said he with a sigh, "that the
blessings of so sublime a religion should be all lost to the world,
merely for lack of a little fortitude on the part of its propagators."

This was touching him on the right string; for Keimer was a man of
such vanity, that a little flattery would put him up to any thing. So
after a few _hems_ and _ha's_, he said, he believed he would, at any
rate, make a trial of this new regimen.

Having thus carried his point, Ben immediately engaged a poor old
woman of the neighbourhood to become their cook; and gave her off
hand, written receipts for three and forty dishes; not one of which
contained a single atom of fish, flesh, or fowl. For their first day's
breakfast on the _new regimen_, the old woman treated them with a
terrene of oatmeal gruel. Keimer was particularly fond of his
breakfast, at which a nice beef-stake with onion sauce was a standing
dish. It was as good as a farce to Ben, to see with what an eye Keimer
regarded the terrene, when entering the room, in place of his stake,
hot, smoking, and savory, he beheld this pale, meagre-looking slop.

"What have you got there?" said he, with a visage grum, and scowling
eye.

"A dish of hasty pudding," replied Ben, with the smile of an innocent
youth who had a keen appetite, with something good to satisfy it--"a
dish of nice hasty pudding, sir, made of oats."

"Of OATS!" retorted Keimer, with a voice raised to a scream.

"Yes, sir, _oats_," rejoined Ben,--"_oats_, that precious grain which
gives such elegance and fire to our noblest of quadrupeds, the horse."

Keimer growled out, that he was no horse to eat oats.

"No matter for that," replied Ben, "'tis equally good for men."

Keimer denied that any human being ever eat oats.

"Aye!" said Ben, "and pray what's become of the Scotch? Don't they
live on oats; and yet, where will you find a people so 'bonny, blythe,
and gay;' a nation of such wits and warriors."

As there was no answering this, Keimer sat down to the terrene, and
swallowed a few spoonfuls, but not without making as many wry faces as
if it had been so much jalap; while Ben, all smile and chat,
breakfasted most deliciously.

At dinner, by Ben's order, the old woman paraded a trencher piled up
with potatoes. Keimer's grumbling fit came on him again. "He saw clear
enough," he said, "that he was to be poisoned."

"Poh, cheer up, man," replied Ben; "this is your right preacher's
bread."

"Bread the d----l!" replied Keimer, snarling.

"Yes, bread, sir," continued Ben, pleasantly; "the bread of _life_,
sir; for where do you find such health and spirits, such bloom and
beauty, as among the honest-hearted IRISH, and yet for their
breakfast, dinner, and supper, the potato is their tetotum; the
_first_, _second_, and _third_ course." In this way, Ben and his old
woman went on with Keimer; daily ringing the changes on oat-meal
gruel, roasted potatoes, boiled rice, and so on, through the whole
family of roots and grains in all their various genders, moods, and
tenses.

Sometimes, like a restive mule, Keimer would kick up and show strong
symptoms of flying the way. But then Ben would prick him up again with
a touch of his ruling passion, vanity; "only think, Mr. Keimer," he
would say, "only think what has been done by the founders of _new
religions_: how they have enlightened the ignorant, polished the rude,
civilized the savage, and made heroes of those who were little better
than brutes. Think, sir, what Moses did among the stiff-necked Jews;
what Mahomet did among the wild Arabs--and what you may do among these
gentle drab-coated Pennsylvanians." This, like a spur in the flank of
a jaded horse, gave Keimer a new start, and pushed him on afresh to
his gruel breakfasts and potato dinners. Ben strove hard to keep him
up to this gait. Often at table, and especially when he saw that
Keimer was in good humour and fed kindly, he would give a loose to
fancy, and paint the advantages of their new regimen in the most
glowing colours. "Aye, sir," he would say, letting drop at the same
time his spoon, as in an ecstasy of his subject, while his pudding on
the platter cooled--"aye, sir, now we are beginning to live like men
going a preaching indeed. Let your epicures gormandize their fowl,
fish, and flesh, with draughts of intoxicating liquors. Such gross,
inflammatory food may suit the brutal votaries of Mars and Venus. But
our views, sir, are different altogether; we are going to teach wisdom
and benevolence to mankind. This is a heavenly work, sir, and our
minds ought to be heavenly. Now, as the mind depends greatly on the
body, and the body on the food, we should certainly select that which
is of the most pure and refining quality. And this, sir, is exactly
the food to our purpose. This mild potato, or this gentle pudding, is
the thing to insure the light stomach, the cool liver, the clear head,
and, above all, those celestial passions which become a preacher that
would moralize the world. And these celestial passions, sir, let me
add, though I don't pretend to be a prophet, these celestial passions,
sir, were you but to stick to this diet, would soon shine out in your
countenance with such apostolic majesty and grace, as would strike all
beholders with reverence, and enable you to carry the world before
you."

Such was the style of Ben's rhetoric with old Keimer. But it could not
all do. For though these harangues would sometimes make him fancy
himself as big as Zoroaster or Confucius, and talk as if he should
soon have the whole country running after him, and worshipping him for
the GREAT LAMA of the west; yet this divinity fit was too much against
the grain to last long. Unfortunately for poor Keimer, the kitchen lay
between him and his bishobprick: and both nature and habit had so
wedded him to that swinish idol, that nothing could divorce him. So
after having been led by Ben a "_very d----l of a life_," as he called
it, "_for three months_," his flesh-pot appetites prevailed, and he
swore, "_by his whiskers, he would suffer it no longer_." Accordingly
he ordered a nice roast pig for dinner, and desired Ben to invite a
young friend to dine with them. Ben did so: but neither himself nor
his young friend were any thing the better for the pig. For before
they could arrive, the pig being done, and his appetite beyond all
restraint, Keimer had fallen on it and devoured the whole. And there
he sat panting and torpid as an ANACONDA who had just swallowed a
young buffaloe. But still his looks gave sign that the "_Ministers of
Grace_" had not entirely deserted him, for at sight of Ben and his
young friend, he blushed up to the eye lids, and in a glow of scarlet,
which showed that he paid dear for his _whistle_, (gluttony) he
apologized for disappointing them of their dinner. "Indeed, the smell
of the pig," he said, "was so sweet, and the nicely browned skin so
inviting, especially to him who had been _long starved_, that for the
soul of him he could not resist the temptation to _taste it_--and
then, O! if Lucifer himself had been at the door, he must have gone
on, let what would have been the consequences." He said too, "that for
his part he was glad it was a _pig_ and not a _hog_, for that he
verily believed he should have bursted himself."--Then leaning back in
his chair and pressing his swollen abdomen with his paws, he exclaimed
with an awkward laugh, "_Well_, I don't believe I was ever cut out for
a bishop!"--Here ended the farce: for Keimer never after this uttered
another word about his NEW RELIGION.

Ben used, laughing, to say that he drew Keimer into this scrape that
he might enjoy the satisfaction of _starving him out of his gluttony_.
And he did it also that he might save the more _for books and
candles:_ their vegetable regimen costing him, in all, rather less
than three cents a day! To those who can spend twenty times this sum
on tobacco and whiskey alone, _three_ cents per day must appear a
scurvy allowance, and of course poor Ben must be sadly pitied. But
such philosophers should remember that all depends on our loves, whose
property it is to make bitter things sweet, and heavy things light.

For example: to lie out in the darksome swamp with no other canopy but
the sky, and no bed but the cold ground, and his only music the
midnight owl or screaming alligator, seems terrible to servile minds;
but it was joy to Marion, whose "_whole soul_," as general Lee well
observes, "_was devoted to liberty and country_."

So, to shut himself up in a dirty printing-office, with no dinner but
a bit of bread, no supper but an apple, must appear to every epicure
as it did to Keimer, "_a mere d----l of a life_;" but it was joy to
Ben, whose whole soul was on his _books_, as the sacred lamps that
were to guide him to usefulness and glory.

Happy he who early strikes into the path of _wisdom_, and bravely
walks therein till habit sprinkles it with roses. He shall be led as a
lamb among the green pastures along the water courses of pleasure, nor
shall he ever experience the pang of those

    "Who see the right, and approve it too;
    Condemn the wrong--and yet the wrong pursue."




CHAPTER XXIV.


Ben, as we have seen, was never without a knot of choice spirits, like
satellites, constantly revolving around him, and both receiving and
reflecting light. By these satellites I mean young men of fine minds,
and fond of books. He had at this time a _trio_ of such. The first was
of the name of Osborne, the second Watson, and the third Ralph. As the
two first were a good deal of the nature of wandering stars, which,
though bright, soon disappear again, I shall let them pass away in
silence. But the last, that's to say, Ralph, shone so long in the same
sphere with Ben, both in America and Europe, that it will never do to
let him go without giving the reader somewhat at least of a telescopic
squint at him. James Ralph, then, was a young man of the first rate
talents, ingenious at argument, of flowery fancy, most fascinating in
his manners, and uncommonly eloquent. In short, he appears to have
been built and equipped to run the voyage of life with as splendid
success as any. But alas! as the seamen say of their ships, "_he took
the wrong sheer_." Hence, while many a DULL GENIUS, with only a few
plain-sailing virtues on board, such as honest industry, good humour,
and prudence, have made fine weather through life, and come into port
at last laden _up to the bends_ with riches and honours, this gallant
PROA, this stately GONDOLA, the moment he was put to sea, was caught
up in a Euroclydon of furious passions and appetites that shivered his
character and peace, and made a wreck of him at the very outset.

According to his own account, it appears that Ben was often haunted
with fears that he himself had some hand in Ralph's disasters. Dr.
Franklin was certainly one of the wisest of mankind. But with all his
wisdom he was still but a man, and therefore liable to err. Solomon,
we know, was fallible; what wonder then young Franklin?

But here lies the difference between these two wise men, as to their
errors. Solomon, according to scripture, was sometimes overcome of
Satan, even in the bone and sinew of his strength; but the devil was
too hard for Franklin only while he was in the _gristle_ of his youth.
The case was thus: among the myriads of books which came to his eager
tooth, there was a most unlucky one on deism, written, 'tis said, by
Shaftesbury, a man admirably calculated to pervert the truth; or, as
Milton says of one of his fallen spirits, to make "_the worse appear
the better reason_." Mark now this imposing writer--he does not utter
you a word against religion; not he indeed: no, not for the world.
Why, sirs, he's the best friend of religion. He praises it up to the
skies, as the sole glory of man, the strong pillar of his virtues, and
the inexhaustible fountain of all his hopes. But then he cannot away
with that false religion, that detestable superstition called
christianity. And here, to set his readers against it, he gives them a
most horrible catalogue of the cruelties and bloody persecutions it
has always occasioned in the world; nay, he goes so far as to assert
that christians are the _natural enemies of mankind_; "vainly
conceiting themselves," says he, "to be the favourites of heaven, they
look on the rest of the world but as 'heathen dogs' whom it is 'doing
God service to kill,' and whose goods it is right to seize on, as
spoil for the Lord's people! Who," he asks crowingly, "filled Asia
with fire and sword in the bloody wars of the Crusades? The
christians. Who depopulated the fine negro-coasts of Africa? The
christians. Who extirpated many of the once glorious Indian nations of
America? The christians; nay," continues he, "so keen are those
christians for blood, that when they can't get their 'heathen dogs' to
fall on, they fall on one another: witness the papist christians
destroying the protestants, and the protestant christians destroying
the papists. And still greater shame," says he, "to these sweet
followers of the Lamb, these papist and protestant christians, when
they can no longer worry each other, will worry those of their own
party, as in numberless and shameful cases of the calvinists and
arminians; nay, so prone are the christians to hate, that their
greatest doctors even in their _pulpits_, instead of exhorting to
piety and those godlike virtues, that make men honour and love one
another, will fix on the vainest speculations; which, though not
understood by one soul among them, yet serve abundantly to set them
all by the ears; yes, they can hate one another:

    "For believing that there are three persons in the Godhead; or only
    one person.

    "For believing that there are children in hell not a span long; or
    for not believing it.

    "For believing that every body will be saved; or for believing that
    scarcely any body will be saved.

    "For baptizing in mill ponds; or only out of china bowls.

    "For taking the sacrament in both elements; or only in the bread.

    "For praying in Latin; or for praying only in English.

    "For praying with a book; or for praying without a book.

    "For praying standing; or for praying kneeling.

    "For reading the Bible by themselves; or for reading it only with a
    priest.

    "For wearing long beards; or for shaving their beards.

    "For preaching up predestination; or for preaching up free will.

"Now," continues our writer, "barely to _hate_ one's neighbours for
such notions as these, were enough, one would think, to make any
common d----l blush; but these christians, as if to out-d----l Satan
himself, can not only hate, but actually murder one another for these
contradictory notions! yes; and oh, horrible to think! not only
murder, but even glory in it: at every shower of cruel bullets on
their flying victims; or at every plunge of the reeking spear into the
bodies of shrieking mothers and infants, they can cheer each other to
_the glorious spot_ with animating huzzas! and even when the infernal
tragedy is closed, they can write congratulatory letters, and sing _Te
Deums_, giving glory to God that the MONSTERS--the BEASTS--the
HERETICS, are rooted out."

Such was the prince of infidels. And it was the very argument to
stagger Ben, even the dangerous argument of example, which young as he
was, he had learned to consider as a short way of coming at men's real
principles.

    "Example is a living law, whose sway
    Men more than all the living laws obey."

Or as Hudibras has it,

    "Men oft prove it by their _practice_:
    No argument like matter of _fact_ is.
    And we are, best of all, led to
    Men's principles, by what they do."

'Tis true, that to tax the gospel with these accursed deeds of mad
papists and protestants, is just about as good logic as to accuse our
excellent civil code with all the crimes of gamblers and horse
thieves--the very rascals it aims to hang. Or like charging the sun as
the cause of _darkness_, which indeed it was given to dispel.

But Ben was too young yet, to know everything. And besides, led
altogether as he was by the strongest feelings of sympathy, it is not
much to be wondered at, that this popular argument, "_the barbarities
of christians_," should have excited so lasting prejudice against
christianity. As some men of delicate natures who have taken an
emetic, though in the best madeira, can never afterwards bear the
smell of that generous liquor; so christianity, steeped in tears and
blood, excited in Ben an aversion that stuck by him a long time. In
short, Ben became an unbeliever. And, like Paul of Tarsus, during the
reign of his unbelief, "_he thought verily he ought to do many things
contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth, which things he also did_,"
arguing powerfully for _natural_ religion.

How many converts he made to infidelity, I have never been able
exactly to learn. But certain it is, he made two, viz. John Collins
and James Ralph. As to Collins, we have seen already, that in
converting him to scepticism, he soon _drew down an old house over his
head_, his pupil quickly turning out a most impudent drunkard and
swindler. And though he expected better luck from Ralph, yet he
quickly discovered in him also certain very dismal symptoms of the
cloven foot.

Some short time before the sailing of the Annis, Ben, in the warmth of
his heart, told Ralph of the immense affair which Sir William Keith
had engaged him in, viz. to make him the KING'S PRINTER in
Philadelphia. And also that he was about to sail in a few days on that
very errand for London. Ralph suddenly turned serious; the next day he
came and told Ben that he had made up his mind to go with him. "How
can that be," said Ben, "seeing you have a young wife and child?" To
this Ralph replied, with an oath, that "that should be no obstacle."
"It was true," he said, "he had married the wench, but it was only for
her money. But since the old rascal, her father, would not give it to
him, he was determined to be revenged on him, by leaving his daughter
and grandchild on his hands for life."

Ben, though greatly shocked by this trait in his character, was yet so
blindly partial to Ralph that he could not find in his heart to spurn
him from his acquaintance. But for this, as he afterwards called it,
_great error in his life_, he received a chastisement, which, though
pretty severe, was not one stripe more than he richly deserved.




CHAPTER XXV.


The day at length arrives, the long wished day for the sailing of the
Annis; and Ben gladly hails it as the fairest he had ever seen.

    All in the stream the ship she lies,
      Her topsails loosen'd from above,
    When Ben to DEBBY fondly flies
      To bid farewell to his TRUE LOVE.

But brightly as shone the day, yet in this, as in all the past, he
found a canker. If the season served his ambition, it crossed his
love. The reader will please be reminded that the _Debby_,
immortalized in the lines above, was the beautiful Miss Deborah Read,
who had at first so heartily laughed at Ben for munching his roll
along the street; but afterwards had fallen very much in love with
him. And, on the other hand, living in her father's family, and daily
a spectator of her prudence and sweetness of spirit, he had become
equally partial to her; and had even asked her in marriage, before he
set out for London. The old gentleman, her father, was quite keen for
the match, it having always been his opinion, he said, that in
choosing a husband for his daughter, it was better to get _a man
without money, than money without a man_.

But old Mrs. Read flatly refused her consent; or, at any rate, until
his return, when, as she said, it would be full time enough for "_such
young people to marry_." The truth is, the printing trade, then in its
infancy in Pennsylvania, was of such little account that the old lady
had her fears that her daughter would _starve_ if she married Ben.

Having taken leave of his fair sweetheart, with many a vow of love and
swift return, Ben, accompanied by Ralph, hastened on board the ship,
which fell down the river for Newcastle. Immediately on his arrival at
this place, he went on shore to see his dear friend the governor, who
was come down to despatch the packet. The governor could not be seen!
This was a sad shock to Ben, and would have been much more so, but for
the attentions of the governor's secretary, Dr. Bar, who, with the
finest smile imaginable, presented the "GOVERNOR'S _compliments to his
young friend Mr. Franklin--was extremely sorry indeed he could not see
him, owing to a press of business, among which was that of writing
some letters for his own special service, which should be sent on
board to him--but though his_ EXCELLENCY _could not enjoy the pleasure
of seeing Mr. Franklin, yet he begged he would accept the assurances
of his eternal friendship, with the best wishes for his prosperous
voyage and speedy return; and above all, his earnest hopes that he
would continue to improve his extraordinary talents_."

Though this was to Ben somewhat like a sugar-plumb to a child after a
dose of wormwood, yet could it not so entirely take off the bitter,
but that he was at first prodigiously in a humour to break with the
governor. His characteristic prudence, however, came to his aid; and
fortunately recollecting that it was not a common man, but a GOVERNOR,
he was dealing with, and that such great men have their ways of doing
things quite different from little people, he smothered his
resentment, and went peaceably on board the ship--not even yet
suspecting any fraud on the part of the governor. When we consider how
dear to the young and virtuous bosom is the glow of gratitude to
benefactors, we cannot but mourn that governor Keith should so cruelly
have chilled those joys in the bosom of our young countryman. But,
though chilled for a moment, they were not extinct. The heavy heart
which he at first felt on being denied the pleasure of seeing the
governor, is already much relieved by his gracious message through the
secretary, and afterwards so completely cured by the sublime and
beautiful scenes around Newcastle, that he went back to the ship in
good spirits again. On the return of the last boat, bringing the mail,
he modestly asked the captain for the letters which the governor had
addressed to his care. To this the rough son of Neptune replied,
"_that they were all there_, he supposed, _higglety, pigglety,
together in the letter bag, and that as the ship with a fine breeze
was getting under weigh, he could not spare the time now to make a
search for them, but that before they got to London he might overhaul
the bag and take 'em out for himself_."

Ben was perfectly satisfied with this answer. And charmed at thought
of the great things awaiting him in London, he threw off his coat and
bravely joined the crew in all their haste and bustle to weigh the
anchor, and spread the sails before the freshening gale.

But while the sailors, many of them at least, poor fellows, for lack
of education, were straining at the clanking windlass, or creaking
halyards, as void of thought as the timber-heads of the ship, the
spirits of Ben were in a constant succession of pleasurable
reflections on the magnificent scenes around him--the grand floating
castle which bore him so high above the foaming billows--the rapid
flight of the ship, as flying before the stormy winds she left the
lessening shores behind her--the boundless fields of the blue rolling
ocean, with all her porpoises gathering round in blackening shoals,
bounding and blowing, as if to greet the monster vessel, and by their
furious romps, adding to the crash and foam of the tempest.

Though Ben was no poet, nor ever affected to be "_religious
overmuch_," yet could he not behold such magnificent scenes without
that adoring sense of eternal power and goodness which has been so
elegantly expressed by the sweet voice of Zion:--

    "Shout to the Lord, ye surging seas,
      In your eternal roar;
    Let wave to wave resound his praise,
      And shore reply to shore.

    "While monsters sporting on the flood
      In scaly silver shine,
    Speak terribly their Maker--God,
      And lash the foaming brine."




CHAPTER XXVI.

_Ben getting into trouble--finds out his old friend governor Keith to
be a black sheep--and learns that a good trade and virtuous habits are
the best wealth that a father can give his son._

    "Who dares think one thing and another tell,
    My soul abhors him like the gates of hell."


On the arrival of the ship in the Thames (or London river) the captain,
like an honest fellow of his word, ordered the letter-bag on deck, and
told Ben he was welcome now to overhaul it and pick out the governor's
letters to him. After eagerly turning them all over and over again, not
a single letter could he find that had his name on it, either directed
to himself, or to his care. He picked out however a few that seemed to
have some little squinting that way, one especially, that was directed
to a PRINTER, and another to a BOOKSELLER. These he immediately carried
to their respective owners. But in place of those smiles and prompt
offers of money and merchandize, which his illustrious patron, governor
Keith, had promised him, scarcely were his letters opened before they
were nearly thrown back into his face, as coming from a couple of
scoundrel debtors, who, instead of paying off their old scores, were
now impudently asking for new credits.

Here were strong symptoms of treachery on the part of the governor. And
in spite of all his credulity, Ben was brought to his doubtings. In
this dilemma he went back to a worthy Quaker of the name of Denham,
with whom he had contracted a great friendship on ship-board, and told
him the whole story from beginning to end. With all his professional
gravity, Denham could not help smiling, as Ben related the history of
his credulity: but when he came to tell of governor Keith's LETTERS of
_Credit_, and the vast supplies of TYPES, and PAPER, and PRESSES, which
they were instantly to procure him, he broke into a horse laugh. "He
give thee letters of credit, friend Benjamin! Governor Keith give thee
letters of credit! Why, man, he has not credit for himself, no not for
a brass farthing, from any one who ever heard of him."

Poor Ben was struck "all in a heap"--dumb as a codfish. He stood for
all the world like a shipwrecked sailor boy, who, after dreaming of
gold and diamond coasts, and black-eyed Polls, and whole seas of
grog, and mountains of segars, wakes up all at once, and finds
himself, like poor Robinson Crusoe, on a desolate island, with not
even a scape-goat of hope before him. In silence he rolled his eyes
in woeful cogitation--for three months he had been feasting on the
smiles and promises of his illustrious friend, governor Keith--for
three months had been anticipating his grand Printing Establishment,
in Philadelphia, and his complete triumph over old Keimer and
Bradford--for three months he had been drinking in streams of rapture
from the love-beaming eyes of the beauteous Miss Read, shortly as his
wife to rustle in silks and roll in her carriage--but dearer still
than all, for three months he had been looking forward to the time,
close at hand, when his infirm parents should come to enjoy with him,
in Philadelphia, the welcome repose of their age, in an elegant
retreat, purchased for them, by his own virtues. But lo! in a moment
the whole goodly structure is dissipated in smoke, leaving him
pennyless and friendless, in a strange country, three thousand miles
from home, and at a long, long distance from all these dear objects!

Denham saw in Ben's looks what was passing in his heart; but knowing
that it is good for virtuous and heroic minds to bear the cross in
their youth, he suffered him to go on, undisturbed, with his dismal
cogitations.

But a young man early trained in the school of wisdom is not long to
be depressed. After relieving his bosom with a deep sigh; he turned to
Denham and said, in a plaintive tone, "_but was it not cruel in
governor Keith to deceive me so?_"

"Yes, Benjamin," replied Denham, "'twas, to our view, very cruel in
the governor of Pennsylvania thus to deceive an inexperienced lad as
thou art."

Here Ben turning on him his fine blue eyes, softened by misfortune,
said again to Denham, "_well, and what would you advise me?_"

"Advise thee, Benjamin," replied Denham, in a cheerful tone, "why, I
would advise thee not to give thyself one moment's uneasiness about
this affair. Thee remembers the story of Joseph, does thee not? how he
was betrayed by his brethren into Egypt, not only a poor lad like thee,
but indeed a slave too? And yet this event, though at the time highly
disheartening, proved to him in the end, one of the happiest incidents
of his life. So, by good management, Benjamin, this may prove to thee.
Thou art young, very young yet, with a plenty of time before thee; and
this is a great city for thy business. Now if thou wilt but seek
employment with some printer of distinction, thou mayest make thyself
more completely master of thy trade, and also gain friends, that may
enable thee to settle so much more advantageously in Philadelphia, as
to make it good for thee that governor Keith ever betrayed thee here.
And this will be a triumph much to thine own honour, as also to the
benefit of other youth, who shall ever hear of thy story."

As when a sweet breeze of the ocean suddenly strikes a becalmed ship,
that with flapping sails lay tossing on the sluggish flood, instantly
the joy-wakened billows roll a brighter foam, and the hearts of the
sailors spring forward with transport to their native shores. Thus
exhilarating to Ben's soul was the counsel of his friend Denham.
Without a moment's loss of time he went, as his friend Denham had
advised, and sought business at the offices of two of the most eminent
book-printers in London, Palmer and Watts. With the latter he spent
most of his time during his stay in England.

This Palmer was an amiable man, and in Ben's countenance, now mellowed
more than ordinary, by his late disappointment, he saw a something that
interested him greatly in his favour. He asked Ben in what part of
London he had learned the art of printing. Ben told him he had never
set a type in London. "Aye! where then," said Palmer; "in Paris?" Ben
replied, that he was just from Pennsylvania, in North America; and that
what little he knew of printing he had picked up there. Palmer, though,
in other respects, amiable, was one of those thorough-gone COCKNEYS,
who can't believe that any thing can be learned out of the sound of
"_Bow-bell_." He stared at Ben on saying he had learned to print in
North America, as would a French petit maitre at one who said he had
learned to _dance among the Hottentots_. "I am afraid, sir," said he to
Ben, "that I cannot employ you, as I really felt a wish to do; for
though I now command fifty workmen, I want a _Gabber_, _i.e._ a man
uncommonly quick, and of a satirical turn. And in neither of these
characters, sir, will you, probably, suit me, sir--however, sir, as it
is late now, and I have business out, if you will call in the morning,
we will see about it." Next morning, before sunrise, Ben waited at
Palmer's office, where numbers of his journeymen, having heard of the
young North American printer, were assembled to see him work. Palmer
was not yet up. An apprentice went to inform him that the young printer
from North America, was come. Presently Mr. Palmer made his appearance,
looking somewhat confused.

"And so you are a buckskin, sir," said he, rather cavalierly.

"Yes sir," replied Ben, "I am a buckskin."

"Well sir, I am afraid you'll not make your fortune by that here in
London," said Palmer.

"No sir," answered Ben, "I find it is thought a misfortune here, to
have been born in America. But I hope it was the will of heaven, and
therefore must be right."

"Aye!" replied Palmer, a little tauntingly; "and so you have
_preaching_ there too!! But do the buckskins generally stir so early as
this?"

Ben replied, that the Pennsylvanians were getting to find out that it
was _cheap burning sun-light_. Here Palmer and his cockneys stared at
him, as country buckskins are wont to do at a monkey, or parrot, or any
such creature that pretends to mimic man.

"You talk of _sun-light_, sir," said the foreman to Ben: "can you tell
the cause of that wide difference between the light of the sun in
England and America?"

Ben replied that he had never discovered that difference.

"What! not that the sun shines brighter in London than in America--the
sky clearer--the air purer--and the light a thousand times more
vivid--and luminous--and cheering--and all that?"

Ben said that he could not understand how that could be, seeing it was
the same sun that gave light to both.

"The same sun, sir! the same sun!" replied the cockney, rather nettled,
"I am not positive of that sir. But admitting that it is the same sun,
it does not follow that it gives the same light in America as in
England. Every thing, you know, suffers by going to the _West_, as the
great French philosophers have proved; then why not the sun?"

Ben said he wondered the gentleman should talk of the sun going to the
west.

"What, the sun not go to the west!" retorted the cockney, quite angry,
"a pretty story, indeed. You have eyes, sir; and don't these show you
that the sun rises in the east and travels to the west?"

"I thought, sir," replied Ben, modestly, "that your own great
countryman, sir Isaac Newton, had satisfied every body that it is the
earth that is thus continually travelling, and not the sun, which is
stationary, and gives the same light to England and America."

Palmer, who had much of the honest Englishman about him, equally
surprised and pleased to see Ben thus chastise the pride and ignorance
of his foreman, put a stop to the conversation by placing a composing
stick in the hands of Ben, while the journeymen gathering around,
marvelled hugely to see the young North American take _a composing
stick in his hand_!

Having spent a moment or two in running his eyes over the letter cases,
to see if they were fixed as in the printing-offices in America, and
glancing at his watch, Ben fell to work, and in less than four minutes
finished the following--

"And Nathaniel said, can there any thing good come out of
Nazareth?--Philip said, come and see."

Palmer and his workmen were petrified. Near eighty letters set up in
less than four minutes, and without a blunder? And then such a delicate
stroke at their prejudice and nonsense! Ben was immediately employed.

This was a fine introduction of Ben to the printing office, every
person in which seemed to give him a hearty welcome; he wore his rare
talents so modestly.

It gave him also a noble opportunity to be useful, which he failed not
to improve.

Passing by one of the presses at which a small man, meagre and
hollow-eyed, was labouring with unequal force, as appeared by his
paleness and big-dropping sweat, Ben touched with pity, offered to give
him "_a spell_." As the pressman and compositor, like the parson and
the clerk, or the coffin-maker and the grave-digger are of entirely
distinct trades in London, the little pressman was surprised that Ben,
who was a compositor, should talk of giving him "_a spell_." However,
Ben insisting, the little pressman gave way, when Ben seized the press,
and possessing both a skill and spirit extraordinary, he handled it in
such a workman-like style, that the men all declared they should have
concluded he had done nothing but _press-work_ all his life. Palmer
also, coming by at the time, mingled his applauses with the rest,
saying that he had never seen a fairer impression; and, on Ben's
requesting it, for _exercise_ and _health sake_, he permitted him to
work some hours every day at press.

On his entrance into Palmer's printing-office, Ben paid the customary
_garnish_ or treat-money, for the journeymen to drink. This was on the
first floor, among the pressmen. Presently Palmer wanted him up stairs,
among the compositors. There also the journeymen called on him for
_garnish_. Ben refused, looking upon it as altogether an unfair demand,
and so Palmer himself, to whom it was referred, decided; insisting that
Ben should _not pay_ it. But neither justice nor patronage could bear
Ben out against the spite of the journeymen. For the moment his back
was turned they would play him an endless variety of mischievous
tricks, such as mixing his letters, transposing his pages, breaking
down his matter, &c. &c. It was in vain he remonstrated against such
injustice. They all with one accord excused themselves, laying all the
blame on RALPH, for so they called a certain evil spirit who, they
pretended, haunted the office and always tormented such as were not
_regularly admitted_. Upon this Ben paid his garnish--_being fully
convinced of the folly of not keeping up a good understanding with
those among whom we are destined to live_.

Ben had been at Palmer's office but a short time before he discovered
that all his workmen, to the number of fifty, were terrible drinkers of
porter, insomuch that they kept a stout boy all day long on the trot to
serve them alone. Every man among them must have, viz.

  1 A pint of porter before breakfast,--cost            _d._1-1/2
  1 A pint, with his bread and cheese, for breakfast,       1-1/2
  1 A pint betwixt his breakfast and dinner,                1-1/2
  1 A pint at his dinner,                                   1-1/2
  1 A pint betwixt his dinner and night,                    1-1/2
  1 A pint after his day's work was done,                   1-1/2
  --                                                        -----
  6  Total, three quarts!--equal to _nine pence
      sterling per day_!                                    9

A practice so fatal to the health and subsistence of those poor people
and their families, pained Ben to the soul, and he instantly set
himself to break it up. But they laughed him to scorn, boasting of
their beloved porter, that it was "_meat and drink too_," and the only
thing to give them _strength_ to work. Ben was not to be put out of
heart by such an argument as this. He offered to prove to them that
the strength they derived from the beer could only be in proportion to
the barley dissolved in the water of which the beer was made--that
there was a larger portion of flour in a penny loaf; and that if they
ate this loaf and drank a pint of water with it, they would get more
strength than from a pint of beer. But still they would not hearken to
any thing said against their darling beer. Beer, they said, was "_the
liquor of life_," and beer they must have, or _farewell strength_.

"Why, gentlemen," replied Ben, "don't you see me with great ease carry
up and down stairs, a large form of letters in each hand; while you,
with _both_ hands, have much ado to carry one? And don't you perceive
that these heavy weights which I bear produce no manner of change in
my breathing, while you, with only half the weight, cannot mount the
stairs without puffing and blowing most distressingly? Now is not this
sufficient to prove that water, though apparently the weakest, is yet
in reality the strongest liquor in nature, especially for the young
and healthy?"

But alas! on most of them, this excellent logic was all thrown away.

    "The ruling passion, be it what it will--
    The ruling passion governs reason still."

Though they could not deny a syllable of Ben's reasoning, being often
heard to say that, "THE AMERICAN AQUATIC (or _water drinker_) as they
called him, was much stronger than any of the beer drinkers," still
they would drink.

"But suppose," asked some of them, "we were to quit our beer with
bread and cheese for breakfast, what substitute should we have?"

"Why, use," said Ben, "the substitute that I do; which is a pint of
nice oat-meal gruel brought to me from your beer-house, with a little
butter, sugar and nutmeg, and a slice of dry toast. This, which is
more palatable and still less costly than a pint of beer, makes a much
better breakfast, and keeps the head clearer to boot. At dinner I take
a cup of cold water, which is the wholesomest of all beverages, and
requires nothing but a little use, to render it as pleasant. In this
way, gentlemen, I save _nine_ pence sterling every day, making in the
year nearly _three thousand pence_! an enormous sum, let me tell you,
my friends, to a small family; and which would not only save parents
the disgrace of being dunned for trifling debts, but also procure a
thousand comforts for the children."

Ben did not entirely lose his reward, several of his hearers affording
him the unspeakable satisfaction of following his counsel. But the
major part, "_poor devils_," as he emphatically styled them, "_went on
to drink--thus continuing all their lives in a state of voluntary
poverty and wretchedness!!_"

Many of them, for lack of punctuality to pay the publican, would often
have their porter stopped.--They would then apply to Ben to become
security for them, _their light_, as they called it, _being out_. I
never heard that he upbraided them with their folly; but readily gave
his word to the publican, though it cost him the trouble of attending
at the pay-table, every _Saturday night_, to take up the sums he had
made himself accountable for.

Thus, by virtue of the right education, _i.e._ a good trade, and early
fondness for labour and books, did Ben rise, like a young swan of
heaven, above the dark billows of adversity; and cover himself with
glory in the eyes of these young Englishmen, who had at first been so
prejudiced against him. And, better still, when night came, instead
of sauntering with them to the filthy yet costly ale-houses and
porter cellars, he hastened to his little chamber at his _frugal_
boarding-house, (only 1s. 6d. per week) there to enjoy the divine
society of his books, which he obtained on _hire_ from a neighbouring
book-store. And commanding, as he always did, through his steadiness
and rapidity at work, all the _quick off-hand jobs_, generally the
best paid, he might have made money and enjoyed great peace; but
alas! there was a moth in his purse which kept him constantly poor; a
canker in his peace which filled his life with vexation. That canker
and that moth was his young friend Ralph, whom, as we have seen, he
had made an infidel of in Philadelphia; and for which good office,
Ralph, as we shall presently see, requited him as might have been
expected.




CHAPTER XXVII.

    "Who reasons wisely, is not therefore _wise_;
    His pride in reasoning, not in acting, lies."


Some years ago a certain empiric whispered in the ear of a noble lord,
in the British parliament, that he had made a wonderful discovery.

"Aye," replied the nobleman, staring; "a wonderful discovery, say
you!"

"Yes, my lord, a wonderful discovery indeed! A discovery, my lord,
beyond Gallileo, Friar Bacon, or even the great sir Isaac Newton
himself."

"The d----l! what, beyond sir Isaac?"

"Yes, 'pon honour, my lord, beyond the great sir Isaac. 'Tis true his
ATTRACTIONS and GRAVITATIONS and all that, are well enough; very
clever things to be sure, my lord; but still nothing in comparison of
this."

"Zounds, man, what can it be?"

"Why, my lord--please come a little this way--now, in confidence, my
lord--I've been such a lucky dog as to discover the wondrous art of
raising a breed of sheep _without wool_!"

The nobleman, who, it is thought, was not very nearly related to
Solomon, had like to have gone into fits. "What sir," asked he, with a
countenance wild-staring with amazement, "a breed of sheep without
wool! impossible!"

"Pardon me, my lord, it is very possible, very true. I have indeed, my
lord, discovered the adorable art of raising a breed of sheep without
a lock of wool on their backs! not a lock, my lord, any more than
there is here on the back of my hand."

"Your fortune is made, sir," replied the nobleman, smacking his hands
and lifting both them and his eyes to heaven as in ecstasy--"Your
fortune is made for ever. Government, I am sure, sir, will not fail
suitably to reward a discovery that will immortalize the British
nation."

Accordingly, a motion to that purpose was made in the _House of
Lords_, and the empiric was within an ace of being created a peer of
the realm; when, most unfortunately, the duke of Devonshire, a
district famed for sheep, got up and begged a little patience of the
house until it could be fully understood what great benefit the nation
was to derive from a flock of sheep without wool. "Why, zounds! my
lords," said the noble duke, "I thought all along that wool was the
_main chance_ in a flock of sheep."

A most learned discussion ensued. And it being made apparent to the
noble lords, that wool is _actually_ the basis of broadcloths,
flannels, and most other of the best British manufactures--and it
being also made apparent to the noble lords, which was another great
point gained, that two good things are better than one, _i.e._ that
wool and mutton together, are better than mutton by itself, or wool by
itself, the motion for a TITLE was unanimously scouted: and in place
of a pension the rascal had like to have got a prison, for daring thus
to trump up a vile discovery that would have robbed the world of one
its greatest comforts.

Just so, to my mind at least, it fares with all the boasted
discoveries of our modern atheists. Admitting that these wonderful
wizards could raise a nation of men and women without religion, as
easily as this, their brother conjurer, could a breed of Merinos
without wool--still we must ask _cui bono_? that is, what _good_ would
it be to the world? Supposing they could away at a dash, with all
sense of so glorious a being as God, and all comfort of so mighty a
hope as heaven, what benefit would it bring to man or beast?

But, God be praised, this dismal question about the consequence of
discarding religion need not be asked at this time of day. These
gentlemen without religion, like bell-wethers without wool, do so
constantly betray their nakedness, I mean their want of morality, that
the world, bad as it is, is getting ashamed of them. Here, for
example, is master Ralph, who, for reasons abundantly convenient to
himself, had accompanied Ben to London--Ben, as he himself confesses,
had lent a liberal hand to make Ralph a sturdy infidel, that is, to
free him from the restraints of the gospel. Now mark the precious
fruits of this boasted freedom. Getting displeased with the parents of
a poor girl, whom he had married, he determines to quit her for ever,
as also a poor unoffending child he had by her, whom, by the ties of
nature, he was bound to comfort and protect! Ben, though secretly
abhorring this villany of Ralph, yet suffered himself to be so
enamoured of his vivacity and wit, as to make him an inmate. "We
were," says Ben, "_inseparable companions_." Very little cause had he,
poor lad! as he himself owns afterwards, to boast of this connexion.
But it was fine sport for Ralph; for having brought no money with him
from America but what just sufficed to pay his passage, and knowing
what a noble drudge Ben was, and also that he had with him fifteen
pistoles, the fruits of his hard labours and savings in Philadelphia,
he found it very convenient to hang upon him; not only boarding and
lodging at his expense, and at his expense going to plays and
concerts, but also frequently drawing on his dear yellow boys, the
pistoles, for purposes of private pleasure.

If the reader should ask, how Ralph, even as a man of honour, could
reconcile it to himself, thus to devour his friend, let me, in turn,
ask what business had Ben to furnish Ralph the very alphabet and
syntax of this abominable lesson against himself? And, if that should
not be thought quite to the point, let me ask again, where, taking the
fear of God out of the heart, is the difference between a man and a
beast? If man has reason, it is only to make him ten-fold more a
beast. Ralph, it is true, did no work; but what of that? He wrote such
charming poetry--and spouted such fine plays--and talked so eloquently
with Ben of nights!--and sure this was a good offset against Ben's
hard labours and pistoles. At any rate Ralph thought so. Nay, more; he
thought, in return for these sublime entertainments, Ben ought to
support not only him, but also his concubine. Accordingly he went and
scraped acquaintance with a handsome young widow, a milliner, in the
next street: and what with reading his fine poetry to her, and
spouting his plays, he got so completely into her good graces, that
she presently turned actress too; and in the "COMEDY OF ERRORS," or
"ALL FOR LOVE," played her part so unluckily, that she was hissed from
the stage, by all her virtuous acquaintance, and compelled to troop
off with a big belly to another neighbourhood, where Ralph continued
to visit her.

The reader will hardly wonder, when told that Ralph and his fair
milliner soon found the bottom of Ben's purse. He will rather wonder
what sort of love-powder it was that Ben took of this young man that
could, for such a length of time, so fatally have befooled him. But
Ben was _first in the transgression_. Like Alexander the coppersmith,
he had done Ralph "_much harm_," and "God, who is wiser than all, had
ordained that he should be "_rewarded according to his works_.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

    "Learn to be wise from others' ill,
    And you'll learn to do full well."


As nothing is so repellant of base minds as poverty, soon as Ralph
found that Ben's pistoles were all gone, and his finances reduced to
the beggarly ebb of living _from hand to mouth_, he "_cleared out_,"
and betook himself into the country to teach _school_, whence he was
continually writing fine poetical epistles to Ben, not forgetting in
every postscript, to put him in mind of his dear Dulcinea, the fair
milliner, and to commend her to his kindness. As to Ben, he still
persevered, after Ralph's departure, in his good old habits of
industry and economy--never indulging in tobacco or gin--never
sauntering to taverns or play houses, nor at any time laying out his
money but on books, which he always visited, as frugal lovers do their
sweethearts, at night. But still it would not all do. He could lay up
nothing. The daily postage of Ralph's long poetical epistles, with the
unceasing application of the poor milliner, kept his purse continually
in a galloping consumption. At length he obtained a release from this
unpleasant situation, though in a way that he himself never could
think of afterwards without a blush.

After very frequent loans of money to her, she came, it seems, one
night to his lodgings on the old errand--_to borrow half a guinea_!
when Ben, who had been getting too fond of her, took this opportunity
to offer freedoms which she highly resented.

This Ben tells himself, with a candour that will for ever do him
credit among those who know that the confession of folly is the first
step on the way to wisdom.

"Having, at that time," says he, "no ties of religion upon me, and
taking advantage of her necessitous situation, I attempted liberties
(_another great error of my life_,) which she repelled with _becoming
indignation_. She informed Ralph; and the affair occasioned a breach
between us. When he returned to London, he gave to understand that he
considered all the obligations he owed me as annihilated by this
proceeding; and that I was not to expect _one farthing of all the
monies I had lent him_."

Ben used to say, many years afterwards, that this conduct of his
friend Ralph put him in mind of an anecdote he had some where heard,
of good old Gilbert Tenant: the same that George Whitefield generally
called HELL-FIRE TENANT. This eminent divine, believing _fear_ to be a
much stronger motive with the multitude than _love_, constantly made a
great run upon that passion in all his discourses. And Boanerges
himself could hardly have held a candle to him in this way. Nature had
given him a countenance which he could, at will, clothe with all the
terrors of the tornado. And besides he had a talent for painting the
scenes of dread perdition in such colours, that when aided by the
lightning of his eyes, and the bursting thunders of his voice, it was
enough to start the soul of lion-hearted innocence; what then of
rabbit-livered guilt? The truth is, he wrought miracles in New-Jersey:
casting out devils--the devils of drunkenness, gambling, and lust, out
of many a wretch _possessed_.

Among the thousands whom he thus frightened for their good, was a tame
Indian of Woodbury, who generally went by the name of Indian-Dick.
This poor savage, on hearing Mr. Tenant preach, was so terrified, that
he fell down in the meeting house, and roared as if under the scalping
knife.

He lost his stomach: and even his beloved bottle was forgotten. Old
Mr. Tenant went to see Dick, and rejoiced over him as a son in the
gospel;--heartily thanking God for adding this INDIAN GEM to the crown
of his glory.

Not many days after this, the man of God took his journey through the
south counties of New-Jersey, calling the poor clam-catchers of Cape
May to repentance. As he returned and drew near to Woodbury, lo! a
great multitude! He rejoiced in spirit, as hoping that it was a
meeting of the people to hear the word of God: but the uproar bursting
upon his ear, put him in doubt.

"Surely," said he, "this is not the voice of praise; 'tis rather, I
fear, the noise of drunkenness." And so it was indeed; for it being a
day of election, the friends of the candidates had dealt out their
brandy so liberally that the street was filled with sots of every
degree, from the simple _stagger_ to the _dead drunk_. Among the rest,
he beheld his Indian convert, poor Dick, under full sail in the
street, reeling and hallooing, great as a sachem. Mr. Tenant strove
hard to avoid him; but Dick, whose quick eye had caught the old
pie-balled horse that Tenant rode on, instantly staggered towards him.
Tenant put forth all his horsemanship to avoid the interview. He
kicked old Pie-ball in one flank, and then in the other; pulled this
rein and then that; laid on _here_ with his staff, and laid on
_there_; but all would not do; unless he could at once ride down the
drunken beasts, there was no way of getting clear of them. So that
Dick, _half shaved_ as he was, soon got along side of old Pie-ball,
whom he grappled by the rein with one hand, and stretching forth the
other, bawled out, "_how do? how do, Mr. Tenant?_"

Tenant could not look at him.

Still, Dick, with his arm full extended, continued to bawl, "_how do,
Mr. Tenant, how do?_" Finding that there was no getting clear of him,
Mr. Tenant, red as crimson, lifted up his eyes on Dick, who still,
bold as brandy, stammered out, "_High, Mr. Tenant! d-d-d-don't you
know me, Mr. Tenant? Don't you know Indian Dick? Why, sure, Mr.
Tenant, you are the man that converted me?_"

_"I converted you!" replied Tenant, nearly fainting._

"_Yes_, roared Dick, _I'll be d-d-d-nd, Mr. Tenant, if you an't the
very man that converted me_."

"Poor fellow!" said Tenant, with a heavy sigh, "you look like one of
my _handiworks_. Had God Almighty converted you, you would have looked
like another guess sort of a creature."

From Ben's constantly relating this story of old Tenant and Indian
Dick, whenever he mentioned the aforesaid case of Ralph's baseness,
many of his acquaintance were of opinion, that Ben thereby as good as
acknowledged, that at the time he took Ralph in hand, he did not
altogether understand the art of converting; or, that at any rate, it
would have been much better for Ralph, if, as Mr, Tenant said of
Indian Dick, _God Almighty had converted him_. He would hardly, for
the sake of a harlot, have so basely treated his best friend and
benefactor.




CHAPTER XXIX.

_Ben resolves to return to America.--Anecdote of a rare character._

    "A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod,
    An _honest_ man's the noblest work of God."


Ben used, with singular pleasure, to relate the following story of his
Quaker friend Denham. This excellent man had formerly been in business
as a Bristol merchant; but failing, he compounded with his creditors
and departed for America, where, by his extraordinary diligence and
frugality, he acquired in a few years a considerable fortune.
Returning to England, in the same ship with Ben, he invited all his
old creditors to a dinner. After thanking them for their former
kindness and assuring them that they should soon be paid, he begged
them to take their seats at table. On turning up their plates, every
man found his due, principal and interest, under his plate, in shining
gold.

This was the man after Ben's own heart. Though he never found in
Denham any of those flashes of wit, or floods of eloquence, which used
so to dazzle him in Ralph, yet he contracted such a friendship for
him, on account of his honesty and Quaker-like meekness, that he would
often steal an hour from his books at night, to go and chat with him.
And on the other hand, Ben's steady and persevering industry, with his
passion for knowledge, had so exalted him in Denham's esteem, that he
was never better pleased than when his _young friend Franklin_, as he
always called him, came to see him. One night Denham asked Ben how he
would like a trip to America?

"Nothing on earth would so please me," replied Ben, "if I could do it
to advantage."

"Well, friend Benjamin," said Denham, "I am just a-going to make up a
large assortment of goods for a store in Philadelphia, and if fifty
pounds sterling a year, and bed and board with myself, will satisfy
thee, I shall be happy of thy services to go and live with me as my
clerk."

The memory of his dear Philadelphia, and the many happy days he had
spent there, instantly sprung a something at his heart that reddened
his cheeks with joy. But the saddening thought of his total
unacquaintedness with commerce, soon turned them pale again. "I
should be happy indeed to accompany you," replied he, with a deep
sigh, "if I were but qualified to do you justice."

"O! as to that, friend Benjamin, don't be uneasy," replied Denham: "If
thou art not qualified _now_, thou soon wilt be. And then as soon as
thou art fit; I'll send thee with a cargo of corn and flour to the
West Indies, and put thee in a way wherein, with such talents and
industry as thine, thee may soon make a fortune."

Ben was highly delighted with this proposal, for though fifty pounds a
year was not so much as he could earn at printing, yet the prospects
in other respects were so much greater. Added to this, he was getting
heartily tired of printing. He had tried it five years at Boston,
three at Philadelphia, and now nearly two in London. At all these
places he had worked without ceasing; had lived most sparingly; had
left no stone unturned; and after all was now, in his twenty-first
year, just as indigent as when he began! "Scurvy, starving business!"
thought he to himself, "'tis high time to quit you! and God be thanked
for this fair opportunity to do it; and now we will shake hands and
part for ever." Taking leave now of the printing business, and as he
believed and wished, _for ever_, he gave himself up entirely to his
new occupation, constantly going from house to house with Denham,
purchasing goods and packing them. When every thing was safe on board,
he took a little leisure to visit his friends, and amuse himself. This
was a rule which he observed through life--to do business first, and
then enjoy pleasure without a sting.




CHAPTER XXX.


On the 23d of July, 1726, Ben, with his friend Denham, took leave of
their London acquaintance, and embarked for America. As the ebbing
current gently bore the vessel along down the amber coloured flood,
Ben could not suppress his emotions, as he looked back on that mighty
city, whose restless din was now gradually dying on his ear, as were
its smoke-covered houses sinking from his view, perhaps for ever. And
as he looked back, the secret sigh would arise, for the many toils and
heart aches he had suffered there, and all to so little profit. But
virtue, like the sun, though it may be overcast with clouds, will soon
scatter those clouds, and spread a brighter ray after their transient
showers. 'Tis true, eighteen months had been spent there, but they had
not been _misspent_. He could look back upon them without shame or
remorse. He had broken no midnight lamps--had knocked down no poor
watchman--had contributed nothing to the idleness and misery of any
family. On the contrary, he had the exceeding satisfaction to know,
that he had left the largest printing-houses in London in mourning for
his departure--that he had shown them the blessings of temperance, and
had proselyted many of them from folly to wise and manly living. And
though, when he looked at those eighteen months, he could not behold
them, like eastern maidens, dowered with gold and diamonds, yet,
better still, he could behold them like the "Wise Virgins," whose
lamps he had diligently fed with the oil of wisdom, for some great
marriage supper--perhaps that between LIBERTY and his COUNTRY.

After a wearisome passage of near eleven weeks, the ship arrived at
Philadelphia, where Ben met the perfidious Keith, walking the street
alone, and shorn of all the short-lived splendours of his governorship.
Ben's honest face struck the culprit pale and dumb. The reader hardly
need be told, that Ben was too magnanimous to add to his confusion, by
reproaching or even speaking to him. But as if to keep Ben from pride,
Providence kindly threw into his way his old sweetheart, Miss Read.
Here his confusion would have been equal to Keith's, had not that fair
one furnished him with the sad charge against herself--of marrying
during his absence. Her friends, after reading his letter to her,
concluding that he would never return, had advised her to take a
husband. But she soon separated from him, and even refused to bear
his name; in consequence of learning that he had another wife.

Denham and Ben took a store-house, and displayed their goods; which,
having been well laid in, sold off very rapidly. This was in October,
1726. Early in the following February, when the utmost kindness on
Denham's part, and an equal fidelity on Ben's, had rendered them
mutually dear, as father and son; and when also, by their extraordinary
success in trade, they had a fair prospect of speedily making their
fortunes, behold! O, vanity of all worldly hopes! they were both taken
down dangerously ill. Denham, for his part, actually made a die of it.
And Ben was so far gone, at one time, that he concluded it was all over
with him; which afforded a melancholy kind of pleasure, especially when
he was told that his friend Denham, who lay in the next room, was dead.
And when he reflected that now, since his good patron had left him, he
should be turned out again upon the world, with the same hard struggles
to encounter, and no prospect of ever being able to do any thing for
his aged father, he felt a secret regret, that he was called back to
life again.




CHAPTER XXXI.


Some people there are who tell us that every man is born for a
particular walk in life, and that whether he will or not, in that walk
he must go; and can no more quit it than the sun can quit his course
through the skies.

This is a very pleasing part of faith; and really there seems much
ground for it. Certainly scripture, in many places, has a powerful
squinting that way. And in the lives of many of our greatest men, we
discover strong symptoms of it. The great Washington was, a dozen
times and more within an ace of getting out of the only track that
could have led him to the command of the American armies. But yet
there seems to have been always some invisible hand to meet him at the
threshold of his wanderings, and to push him back. Dr. Franklin also
appears, on several occasions, to have been at the very point of
breaking off from the printing business. But Heaven has decreed for
him that walk in life, and in it he must move. And though blind at
times, as Balaam's ass, he sought to turn out of the way, yet, crouch
as he would, he still found at every turn a good angel to bring him
back. First he was to have been a sailor out of Boston--then a
swimming-master in London--then a merchant in America. But it would
not all do. And though in this last brilliant affair, he seemed to
have effected his escape, losing the black-fingered printer in the
sprucely powdered merchant, yet, come back to the WORLD-ENLIGHTENING
TYPES he must--for Denham dies, and with him all the grand castles
which Ben had built in the air. Still averse to the printing business,
he tries hard for another place _behind the counter_, but nobody will
take him in. His money at length gone, and every avenue to honest
bread hedged up against him, he is constrained to take refuge in his
old trade.

Keimer, his former employer, who well knew his worth, waited on him,
and made liberal offers if he would take charge of his printing-office.
It must have been a sore trial to Ben to come under authority of a man
whose ignorance and hypocrisy he so heartily despised; and who, he well
knew, had nothing else in view, but just to get him to instruct his
numerous apprentices, and then pick a quarrel and pack him off. But
bad as he hated Keimer's vices, he still worse hated idleness and
dependence, and therefore he accepted his invitation. He found Keimer's
office in the old way, _i.e._ quite out of order, and miserably
destitute of letters. There being at that time no such thing in
America, as a type-foundry, this defect appeared at first utterly
incurable. But Ben soon found a remedy. Having once, while he lived in
London, glanced his eye on the practice of this art, he thought he
could imitate it. And, by casting in clay, he presently created a fine
parcel of letters in lead, which served at least, to keep the press
from stopping. He also, on occasion, engraved a variety of ornaments
for printing--made ink--gave an eye to the shop, and, in short, was in
all respects the factotum of the establishment. But useful as he made
himself, he had the mortification to find that his services became
every day of less importance to Keimer, in proportion as his
apprentices improved; and when Keimer paid Ben his second quarter's
wages, he did it very grumblingly, and gave him to understand, that
they were too heavy. By degrees he became less civil; was constantly
finding fault, and seemed always on the point of coming to an open
rupture.

Ben bore it all very patiently, conceiving that his ill humour was
owing to the embarrassment of his affairs.

At length, however, the old wretch insulted him so grossly, and that
under circumstances of all others the most provoking to a man of
honest pride, _i.e._ in the presence of neighbours, that Ben could
bear it no longer; but, after upbraiding him for his ingratitude, took
up his hat and left him, begging a young man of the office to take
care of his trunk, and bring it to him at night.

The name of this young man was Meredith, one of Keimer's apprentices.
He had taken a great liking to Ben, because that while Keimer,
ignorant and crabbed, taught him nothing, Ben was every day giving him
some useful lesson in his trade, or some excellent hint in morals,
conducive to the government and happiness of his life. In the evening
he came and entreated Ben not to think of quitting the printing office
while he continued in it. "My dear sir," said he to Ben, "I beg you
will take no notice of what this Keimer does. The poor man is always,
as you see, _half shaved_; and no wonder, for he is over head and ears
in debt--often selling his goods at prime cost, for the sake of
_cash_--constantly giving credit without taking any account; and
therefore cannot help shortly coming out of the little end of the
horn, which will leave a glorious opening for you to make your
fortune."

Ben replied that he had nothing to begin with. "O, as to that
difficulty," answered Meredith, "we can easily get over it. My father
has a very high opinion of you, and will, I am sure, readily advance
money to set us up, provided you will but go into partnership with me.
I am no workman, but you are. And so, if you like, I will find the
capital and you the skill, and let's go halves in the profits. By
spring we can have in from London, our press, types, and paper, and
then, as my time with Keimer will be out, we can fall to work at once,
and make our _jacks_."

As this was an offer not to be met with every day, Ben readily agreed
to it, as also did old Mr. Meredith.

But the old gentleman had a better motive in view than the pecuniary
profits. He had marked, with great pleasure, Ben's ascendancy over his
son, whom he had already wonderfully checked in his passion for
tobacco and brandy. And he fondly hoped, that by this connexion his
son would be perfectly cured.

With this hope, he desired Ben to make him out the list of a
_complete_ printing-office, which he immediately took to his merchant,
with orders to import it without loss of time. Keimer was to know
nothing of all this; and Ben, in the interim, was to get work with
Bradford.

On application, Bradford had no room. Ben, therefore, had to rest on
his oars. This, however, was but for a short season: for Keimer
getting a hint that he should be employed to print some New-Jersey
paper money, that would require engravings and types which he knew
nobody in Philadelphia but Ben could make; and fearful that Bradford,
by engaging Ben, might deprive him of the job, sent a very civil
message to Ben, telling him that "_old friends ought not to part on
account of a few hasty words dropt in a passion_," and concluding with
a pressing invitation to come back.

Ben went back; and Keimer met him with a most cordial welcome.
Although there was nothing in this poor old man to excite his esteem,
yet Ben could not help feeling happy to see smiles of joy brightening
over his withered face; and he then felt, though not for the first
time, that though learning is a pleasant thing, yet one touch of
"_kindred sentiment warm at the heart_," outweighs, in pure delight,
all the learning in the world.




CHAPTER XXXII.


Keimer presently obtained what he so ardently wished, the printing of
the New-Jersey paper-money, and flew into the office with the news to
Ben, who immediately set about constructing a copper-plate press, the
first that had ever been seen in Philadelphia. He also engraved various
ornaments and devices for the bills; and putting every thing in
readiness for their paper-money coinage, he set out with Keimer for
Burlington, where the New-Jersey legislature held their session.

At the first sight of Ben's paper-money, every eye was struck with its
beauty. "_Why this Keimer must be a very clever old fellow!_" was the
cry. But others who were deeper in the secret, replied, "not so; young
Franklin is the man." Hereupon great attention was paid to Ben. And he
was sensibly taught, that though he had been grievously tried and held
back in the world, yet he had much cause of gratitude. Presently
another affair arose, furnishing him fresh matter of congratulation,
that he had ever paid such attention to the improvement of his mind.

Fearing that our Philadelphia printers might strike off _more money
bills_ than they had been desired, the New-Jersey Assembly thought
proper to send two or three commissioners to superintend the press.
These gentlemen, all of the shrewd sort, and constantly with them while
at work, soon found out the difference between the master and his young
journeyman. Keimer, though a printer, had never been a reader. Ben had
devoted all his leisure hours to reading. The one had ever courted
pleasure in the furniture of his mind: the other, popularity in the
decorations of his body. The shape of his whiskers; the cock of his
hat; the cut of his coat, were great things with Keimer. Every trick at
easy outside show was caught up by him. Among other dashes at
popularity, he pretended to be a freemason, and was constantly grinning
and making his signs. But it would not all do. The New-Jersey
commissioners knew nothing of Jachin and Boaz. So that though, while
Ben, stripped to the buff, was heaving at the press, old Keimer would
stand by, stately as a prince at his levee, his attitude perpendicular
as the _plummet_, and his feet perfectly on the _square_, with his gilt
snuff-box nicely poised in his left hand, and his right, bespangled
with rings, tastily carrying the fragrant Maccabau to his nostrils,
courting the commissioners--yet, as before said, it would not all do.
The commissioners wanted new ideas, and Keimer had none to give them.
He had a pompous way of saying yes or no. And this was all they could
get from him in answer to their questions. Presently they turned to
Ben, whom by the by, they hardly thought it worth while to interrogate,
considering the character of his master, and his own young and raw
appearance. But in place of the old YES and NO of master Keimer, Ben
gave them such answers to their questions, as at once surprised and
delighted them. He was slow to speak, but when the commissioners,
curious to explore his intellect, which had so unexpectedly startled
them, purposely put a number of deep questions to him on the subject of
their paper-money, such as its effects on agriculture and commerce, and
the laws that should regulate its quantity, he answered all in his own
peculiar way of sagacious brevity, that made them declare he must have
studied nothing else all his life. The reports which these gentlemen
made in his favour, produced their natural effect. Ben was invited
every where, and treated with the most flattering attention; while
Keimer, though his employer, was entirely neglected, or invited only as
a compliment to Ben.

Among the many wealthy and great ones, his admirers, was the inspector
general, Isaac Deacon, a cunning old fox, and rich as a Jew. He could
never rest without Ben at his house. "_Young man_," said he one day, as
Ben was hard at work, "_I am mightily taken with you_, and let me tell
you, I never look at you without thinking of myself, as I was at your
time of life. Now, do you know what was my first employment, when I was
a boy?"

Ben replied that that was a question beyond his reach.

"Well then, I will tell you, sir, if you can but believe me. I'll tell
you. My first employment was to carry clay to the brick-makers!"

"Impossible!" said Ben.

"No, indeed, not impossible at all, but very certain. Yes, many a hot
day have I carried the clay, and so daubed with it all over, that my
own mother would hardly have told me from her house pig. Well, after
that I became an underling to a surveyor, and dragged his chain many a
day through the woods; and all the time did not know '_B from a bull's
foot_.' But the surveyor was a good man, sir, and taught me to read and
write. Ah! _them were dark times_, sir, _dark times_; all living here
like Indians in the woods. A young man, printing his books and pictures
like you, would have been looked on as a conjurer. And now let me tell
you one thing. Don't you be discouraged, but keep up a good heart. A
_little_, making every day, makes a great deal in a long life. And I am
mistaken if you don't make a fortune, and come out a great man yet some
of these days."




CHAPTER XXXIII.


Having finished printing the New-Jersey money, Ben, accompanied by
Keimer, set out for Philadelphia, where he had scarcely arrived before
in came Meredith, with a face of joy, and taking Ben aside, told him
that their press and types were all come. Immediately the two friends
went forth in search of a good house and stand, which they were so
lucky as to find near the market, at twenty-four pounds _a year_! The
fixing and putting all their things to rights, having consumed every
penny of their money, our young beginners were at their wit's end what
to be at. In this extremity, one of their acquaintance, a Mr. George
House, brought them a countryman who wanted some advertisements for a
cow he had lost. Ben soon had the old cow up for him in a "_staring_"
shape, which so pleased the honest rustic, that he instantly counted
them down their _five shillings_. Never did five shillings come more
acceptably. The gratitude which Ben felt towards George House for this
little kindness, fixed on him a determination from that day, "_never to
miss an opportunity to lend a helping hand to young beginners_."

His favourite young Hercules, the PRINTING-OFFICE, which had been so
long labouring in his brain, being now happily brought to birth, Ben
determined immediately to give it the countenance and support of
another noble bantling of his own. I allude to his famous club, called
the "Junto," a kind of Robinhood society, composed of young men
desirous of improving themselves in knowledge and elocution, and who
met one night every week, to discuss some interesting question in
morals, politics, or philosophy.

The members at first were but few; but Ben, now a complete master of
his pen, made such a dash with their speeches in his _newspaper_, that
the Junto soon got to be the talk of the town; and members were added
to it daily. Ben was unanimously appointed moderator of the club; and
in reward for the great pleasure and profit derived from this noble,
mind-improving institution, the members all agreed to support his
printing-office. This was of service; but its principal support was
derived from a still higher source; I mean his own astonishing
industry. No sooner was it known in town that Ben had set up a new
paper and press, under the very nose of two others, Keimer's and
Bradford's, than it became a matter of speculation whether it could
possibly stand. The generality gave into the negative. But Dr. Bard, a
shrewd old Scotchman, who well knew the effect of persevering industry
on young men's fortunes, laughed heartily at the doubters. "_Stand_,"
said he, "_gentlemen_! Yes, take my word it _will stand_. The industry
of that young Franklin will make any thing stand. I see him still at
work when I return from my patients at midnight, and he is at it again
in the morning before his neighbours are out of bed." Ben was fairly
entitled to his praise. He generally composed and corrected ten to
twelve thousand m's a day, though it constantly took him till near
midnight. But so intent was he on finishing this incredible task, that
when accident had deranged a good half of his hard day's work, he has
been known to fall to work and set it up again before he went to bed.

The reputation acquired by this industry, made such an impression in
his favour, that the merchants, many of them, made him liberal offers
of their stationary on _credit_. But, not wishing to have "_too many
irons in the fire_," he declined their offers, which added to his
reputation of an _industrious_ young man, that of an _upright_ and
_cautious_ one. This is mentioned, not so much for praise of the
_dead_, as for a _hint_ to the living.

Business began now to make a flood-tide movement in the new
printing-office, and Ben made such good use of it, and picked up money
so fast, that he was in hopes he had nearly thrown all his troubles
over the "_left shoulder_." But in this he was miserably mistaken; for
presently, as if there was to be no end to troubles, there leaped out
another, more alarming than all before. Old Meredith, finding that Ben
had not cured his son of his drunken fits, _took a miff_, and all at
once _backed out_ of his promise to pay for their press and printing
materials! and the merchant who imported these costly articles, and who
had for some time been expecting his money, commenced a suit, and
threatened immediate execution!

Poor Ben! Imagination sees him, at first, standing like a luckless
merchant, who, after two noble ventures swallowed up, now beholds the
breakers that are to swallow up his third, and _last_ hope--"Yes,"
thought he, "but a few short weeks and my press and type will be under
the hammer; all my delightful hopes annihilated; and myself turned
adrift on the wide world again!"

At this perilous moment, when nothing but infamy and ruin stared him in
the face, God was pleased to cause his OWN VIRTUES to leap forth like
an armed Minerva, with shield and buckler for his defence. His INDUSTRY
and PRUDENCE having, as aforesaid, been trumpeted through the town, the
public feelings were greatly excited by his misfortunes. "_Shame_,"
_said they_, "_that such a young man should fall. As to that drunken
fellow, that Meredith, no matter how soon he is stripped and sent to
jail. But this Franklin must not fall for want of a little help. It
were a disgrace to the town._" Accordingly several gentlemen, two at
least are recorded, Coleman and Grace, without each other's knowledge,
called on him, and tendered whatever sum he should want!--but hoping at
the same time he would, if possible, get quit of Meredith, who only
served to disgrace and injure him; being often seen at _taverns_ and
_gambling tables_.

A relief so unexpected, and in a manner too so flattering, produced on
the mind of Ben, a satisfaction beyond expression. After making the
best acknowledgments he could to such noble benefactors, he begged they
would allow him a day or two to effect, if possible, an honourable
separation from Meredith. Fortunately he found no difficulty in this:
for Meredith, heartily sick of the business, readily agreed, for a
small consideration, to give him up the printing-office to himself. Ben
then called on his two friends, accepted the proffered supply, taking
exactly one half from each for fear of offending either, and making
full settlement with the Merediths, took the whole business into his
own hands.

Ben's extreme alarm from the danger of having his printing-office
seized, and its fortunate rescue by the amiable Coleman and Grace, has
been very briefly narrated. But transient as this event may seem in our
narrative, it produced on his feelings a glow of gratitude which kings
might envy; and it led to an _act_ which Angels would glory in. The
reader shall hear all in good time.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Having now got the printing-office in his own hands, Ben began to find
the unspeakable advantage of his past labours to acquire ideas, and to
convey them handsomely by his pen. The town and country getting at this
time prodigiously excited about a PAPER CURRENCY, Ben came out with a
most luminous pamphlet, on "THE ADVANTAGES and DISADVANTAGES of a PAPER
CURRENCY." The pamphlet gave such satisfaction to the legislature, that
they rewarded him with the _printing_ of all their money bills. His
pamphlet producing the same effect on the legislature of Delaware, they
rewarded him in the same way--as also did both these legislatures by
throwing into his way several other jobs of public printing.

Money now coming in, he went at once, and paid his good friends Coleman
and Grace what they had so nobly lent him. With a light heart he then
wiped off that old score of VERNON'S, which had given him so much
uneasiness, but which now receipted in _full_, _principal_ and
_interest_, made him feel himself the freest, and therefore the
happiest man in Pennsylvania. Money still coming in, he fitted up a few
shelves in the front room of his printing-office, where he spread out
an assortment of Books, Blanks, Paper and Quills; but all in the small
way--for he always thought, that though

    "Vessels large may venture more,
    Yet little boats should keep near shore."

Like a ship that after long tacking against winds and tides, through
dangerous straits and shallows, has at last got safely out on the main
ocean flood, and at liberty to lay her own course; such was now the
condition of Ben; who hereupon felt it his duty immediately to take on
board those two grand guides and guardians of his voyage--RELIGION and
a GOOD WIFE.

As to religion--the grum looks and bitter sectarian animosities of the
christians in those wretched days, had early made a deist of him; and
he, in turn, had made deists of others, as Collins and Ralph. But on
coming to test the thing by its fruits, he found that this new religion
(deism) was not yet the religion he could admire. He found that poor
Collins, with all his deism, was but a drunkard--Ralph, an ungrateful
swindler--governor Keith, a great rascal--and even himself, though a
prime deist, yet in his treatment of Miss Read, as culpable as any of
them all. This led him to a train of thought which resulted in the
conclusion, that though he could not conceive that _bad actions are
bad, merely because revelation forbids them; nor good actions good,
because revelation enjoins them_: yet he doubted not but the former
were forbidden, because they are _hurtful_, and the latter enjoined
because they are _beneficial_ to us--all things considered. On this
grand principle then, the inseparable connexion between VICE and
MISERY, and VIRTUE and HAPPINESS, he determined from that day to shun
the one, and embrace the other; thus summing up his religion in those
beautiful lines:--

    "What CONSCIENCE dictates to be done,
      Or warns me not to do;
    This teach me more than HELL to shun,
      That more than HEAVEN pursue."

So much for his religion. As to his wife, his behaviour in this respect
seems to have shown that there was some substance in the religious
ground he had taken. Having, at the time of his sad disappointment in
London, and when he despaired of ever marrying her, neglected his old
sweetheart Miss Read, he resolved, now that he was getting into better
circumstances, to make her all the amends in his power. 'Tis true, her
mother, who had prevented the marriage before he set off for England,
and during his absence had prevailed on her to marry another lover, was
most in fault, and actually acquitted him, laying the blame altogether
at her own door.--But Ben never acquitted himself; he felt condemned,
and would therefore accept no _absolution_ while he could make
_reparation_. He renewed his visits to the family, who were rejoiced to
see him. He saw his old sweetheart, Miss Read; but O how altered from
her who, formerly bright with love and joy, used to fly to the door to
welcome his coming! How altered from her, whose rosy cheeks crimsoned
with blushes, he so fondly kissed at taking leave for England, with
sweetest promises of speedy return and blissful marriage. Pale and wan
were her looks, where she sat silent, and retired, and often deeply
sighing, like one much troubled in mind, or crossed in hopeless love.
She never reminded him of his "_troth and broken vows_." But such
patient suffering served but the more to harrow up his feelings. Each
stifled sigh sounded in his ear as a death bell; and each tender glance
carried a point keener than the lightning's fork. In a word, his heart
was completely torn, and he had wisdom to seek its only
cure--_reconciliation with the injured_. 'Tis true, pride whispered
that Miss Read, having treated him with great disrespect by marrying in
his absence, ought to be _punished_. But how could he think of revenge
on a poor girl, whom his own neglect had driven to that desperate act!
Avarice, too, remonstrated against marrying a woman, whose last husband
had left debts which he might be ruined to pay. But Ben felt resolved,
that as he had rendered this dear woman unhappy, he would restore her
peace, whatever might be the cost. As the coming forth of the sun after
clouds, such was the shining of conscious virtue on Ben's face, after
such noble resolving. As a flower after long mourning its absent sun,
rejoices again in his returning beams; so the soul of Miss Read
rejoiced in the smiles of her returning lover. The hearts of her aged
parents revived with the cheerful rose once more blooming on her pallid
cheek; and heaven itself shed choicest blessings on their happy union.

No debts of the former husband were ever exhibited against them. No foe
was permitted to triumph. And while old Keimer, after all his roguery,
was fain to run away from his creditors to the West Indies, where he
died in poverty--and while his successor, Harry, elated with a puff of
prosperity, and affecting the FINE GENTLEMAN, soon came out at the
little end of the horn, Ben and his lovely bride, going on in their
virtuous toils, prospered together like twin trees planted by the
rivers of water. Lured by her pleasant looks, the book-store, over
which she presided, was constantly thronged; and equally pleased with
the neatness and fidelity of his printing, Ben's press was always at
work. Happy in the tender wish to please, "each was to the other a
dearer self." And whether their duties called them to the kitchen, the
book-store, or the printing-office, they still found, in their mutual
love, that divine cordial which lightened every burden and sweetened
every care. Their table, though frugal, was delicious, because seasoned
with smiles of mutual fondness. And doubly welcome the return of night,
where Hymen, unreproved, had lighted up his sacred torch; and where
pressed to the soft bosom of his affectionate spouse, the happy husband
could take his fill of pure connubial bliss, without remorse or dread
of danger. Such were the benefits which Ben derived from his generous
dealings with the afflicted Miss Read; and as a farther reward, it was
in this self same year, that Ben was enabled to _incorporate_ his grand
library-company.

This first of social blessings, a PUBLIC LIBRARY, was set on foot by
Franklin, about the year 1731. Fifty persons subscribed forty shillings
each, and agreed to pay ten shillings annually. The number increased;
and in 1742, the company was incorporated, by the name of "The Library
Company of Philadelphia." It now contains eight thousand volumes on all
subjects, a philosophical apparatus, and a good beginning towards a
collection of natural and artificial curiosities. The company have
lately built an elegant house in Fifth street, on the front of which is
erected a marble statue of their founder, Benjamin Franklin.[2]

          [2] The gift of William Bingham, Esq.

The beneficial influence of this institution was soon evident. The
cheapness of terms rendered it accessible to every one. Hence a degree
of information was extended among all classes of people, which is very
unusual in other places. The example was soon followed. Libraries were
established in various places, and they are now become very numerous in
the United States, and particularly in Pennsylvania. It is to be hoped,
that they will be _still more widely extended_, and that information
will be every where increased. This will be the best security for our
liberties. _A nation who has been taught to know and prize the rights
which God has given them, cannot be enslaved. It is in the regions of
ignorance alone that tyranny reigns._

In 1732, Franklin began to publish POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC.

The eloquent Charles Fox used to say, that had Doctor Franklin written
nothing else, his "Poor Richard's Almanac" were alone sufficient to
immortalize him. Instead of being taken up, as too many Almanacs are,
with trifling stories and fool-born jests, it abounds with the finest
maxims on Industry, Temperance, and Frugality, thrown together with
astonishing conciseness, and written with that happy mixture _of
gravity_ and gaiety that captivates every body, and never tires. It
took a wonderful run. From 10 to 15,000 a year were generally sold in
Pennsylvania. And to this Almanac, in a considerable measure, may be
ascribed that wonderful start which Pennsylvania has taken of the
middle and southern states in all the REPUBLICAN VIRTUES, of INDUSTRY
and ECONOMY, which point the WAY to WEALTH.

Even the finest girls there, worth their thousands, don't think it
beneath them, to "_lay hold on the distaff_," like Solomon's
accomplished daughter, to swell the riches of the family _wardrobe_ and
to improve the _savoury dishes_ of their parents.

A foppish young fortune-hunter from the south, ventured sometime ago to
pay his respects to the beautiful Miss Dickenson, one of the first
fortunes in the state. Instead of finding her, as he had expected, idly
lolling in a room of state, and bedizened in ribbands and laces, like a
fairy queen, he found her attired in that simple dress of exquisite
neatness which best sets off the rosy freshness of youthful beauty; and
he found her, too, busied in some piece of domestic industry. He
blushed to find her "_at work_!" After a world of compliments, all
tending to make her out far too _divine a creature_ for such
disparaging employments, he gave her to understand that she should not
thus demean herself if she were in Carolina.

"_What!_" replied she, with sarcastic pleasantry, "_don't the young
ladies with you, read_ POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC?"

Thus was this little annual visitor of Doctor Franklin's, a general
blessing to the Pennsylvanians, making them all fond of industry. And
Jacob did not more naturally beget Joseph and his twelve brethren than
does industry beget INNOCENCE, and HEALTH, and WEALTH, and
CHEERFULNESS, and all that lovely train of virtues, which tend to make
men happy by driving away their vices. For who, for example, will ever
get drunk who has no _debts_ nor _duns_ nor vices of any sort to make
him _uneasy_? And who will ever _sell his birthright_ of an _honest
vote_ for an electioneering dinner and a drink of grog, when he has
fatted calves and wine of his own at home? This is Pennsylvania all
over.

In the Almanac for the last year that doctor Franklin ever published,
he compressed the choicest sentiments of all the preceding editions,
and entitled it "THE WAY TO WEALTH." It is not easy to do justice to
this little work. American writers need not eulogize it. The British,
and even the French into whose language it was quickly translated, have
paid it the most flattering attention. Doctor Knox gave it a place in
his "ELEGANT EXTRACTS;" and Lewis XV. on hearing it read, was so
charmed with the admirable sense and humour of Poor Richard, that he
gave orders for a new frigate, just launching, to be named, in honour
of this famous nosegay of Franklin's, LE BON HOMME RICHARD, or "POOR
RICHARD." I have heard nothing of this frigate or of any exploits of
her's, while she was a new ship, and in the French service. But this I
know, that in her latter days she was covered over with glory. This was
the ship on which that gallant Scot, Paul Jones, hoisted the American
flag in the great war of the revolution. Though the Poor Richard
mounted but 36 guns, and was old and crazy besides, yet her commander
had the audacity to carry her alongside of the SERAPIS, a British 44,
and a new ship. It is true, the Alliance, an American frigate of the
smallest class, was in company with the POOR RICHARD; but as Jones and
his officers all declare, rendered him no assistance whatever. But
though thus basely deserted by her consort in the hour of conflict with
a mightier foe, yet did not the POOR RICHARD despair, but bravely
grappled with her enemy at once, and after one of the bloodiest
contests recorded in history, gloriously succeeded in hauling down her
colours. The Poor Richard, however, but barely survived this dreadful
four hours' conflict with such a heavy adversary. For as if only
waiting to see the modest stars of liberty waving where the proud jack
of tyranny had waved before, she bowed her head beneath a mountainous
billow and went down--the glorious tomb of many of her gallant crew,
embalmed, for dear liberty's sake, in their own heart's blood.

As the reader might think it hard, after so much said about it to whet
his curiosity, if we did not give him a squint at this famous "POOR
RICHARD'S ALMANAC," we hasten now to do ourselves the pleasure to lay
it before him, in the last and best form wherein doctor Franklin gave
it to the public, and under the same title, viz. "THE WAY TO WEALTH,"
or "POOR RICHARD," _improved_--which runs thus:--

COURTEOUS READER,

I have heard that nothing gives an author so great pleasure as to find
his works respectfully quoted by others. Judge, then, how much I must
have been gratified by an incident I am going to relate to you. I
stopped my horse lately, where a great number of people were collected
at an auction of merchant's goods. The hour of the sale not being come,
they were conversing on the badness of the times; and one of the
company called to a plain, clean old man, with white locks, "Pray,
father Abraham, what think you of the times? Will not these _heavy
taxes_, quite ruin the country? How shall we be ever able to pay them?
What would you advise us to do?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied,
"If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short; 'for a word
to the wise is enough,' as poor Richard says." They joined in desiring
him to speak his mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as
follows:--

Friends, said he, the taxes are, indeed, very heavy; and, if those laid
on by the government, were the only ones we had to pay, we might more
easily discharge them; but we have many others, and much more grievous
to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our _idleness_, three
times as much by our _pride_, and four times as much by our _folly_;
and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease or deliver us, by
allowing an abatement. However let us hearken to good advice, and
something may be done for us; "God helps them that help themselves," as
poor Richard says.

  I. It will be thought a hard government that should tax its people
one tenth part of their time, to be employed in its service: but
idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by bringing on diseases,
absolutely shortens life. "Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than
labour wears, while the used key is always bright," as poor Richard
says. "But dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for that is
the stuff life is made of," as poor Richard says. How much more than is
necessary do we spend in sleep? forgetting that the sleeping fox
catches no poultry, and that "there will be sleeping enough in the
grave," as poor Richard says.

"If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be," as
poor Richard says, "the greatest prodigality;" since, as he elsewhere
tells us, "lost time is never found again; and what we call time
enough, always proves little enough;" let us then up and be doing, and
doing to the purpose; so by diligence shall we do more with less
perplexity. "Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy;
and he that riseth late, must trot all day, and shall scarce over take
his business at night; while laziness travels so slowly, that poverty
soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee; and
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,"
as poor Richard says.

So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? we may make
these times better, if we bestir ourselves. "Industry need not wish,
and he that lives upon hope will die fasting. There are no gains
without pains; then, help hands for I have no lands," or if I have they
are smartly taxed. "He that hath a trade, hath an estate; and he that
hath a calling, hath an office of profit and honour," as poor Richard
says; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling well
followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay
our taxes. If we are industrious, we will never starve; for at the
working man's house, "hunger looks in but dares not enter." Nor will
the bailiff or the constable enter, for "industry pays debts, while
despair increaseth them." What, though you have found no treasure, nor
has any rich relation left you a legacy, "diligence is the mother of
good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then plough deep while
sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep."

"Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be
hindered to-morrow. One to-day is worth two to-morrows," as poor
Richard says; and farther, "never leave that till to-morrow, which you
can do to-day." If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a
good master should catch you idle? Are you then your own master? be
ashamed to catch yourself idle when there is so much to be done for
yourself, your family, your relations, and your country. Handle your
tools without mittens: remember that "the cat in gloves catches no
mice," as poor Richard says. It is true, there is much to be done, and,
perhaps, you are weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and you will
see great effects; for "constant dropping wears away stones; and by
diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable; and little
strokes fell great oaks."

Methinks I hear some of you say, "must a man afford himself no
leisure?" I will tell thee, my friend, what poor Richard says; "employ
thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; and, since thou art not
sure of a minute, throw not away an hour. Leisure is time for doing
something useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the
lazy man never; for, a life of leisure and a life of laziness are two
things. Many, without labour would live by their wits only, but they
break for want of stock: whereas industry gives comfort, and plenty,
and respect. Fly pleasures, and they will follow you. The diligent
spinner has a large shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, every body
bids me good-morrow."

 II. But with our industry, we must likewise be steady, settled and
careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust
too much to others; for, as poor Richard says,

    "I never saw an oft removed tree, Nor yet an oft removed family,
    That throve so well as those that settled be."

And again, "three removes are as bad as a fire;" and again, "keep thy
shop, and thy shop will keep thee;" and again, "if you would have your
business done, go; if not, send." And again,

    "He that by the plough would thrive,
    Himself must either hold or drive."

And again, "the eye of a master will do more work than both his
hands;" and again, "want of care does us more damage than want of
knowledge:" and again, "not to oversee workmen is to leave them your
purse open." Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of many;
for, "in the affairs of this world, men are saved, not by faith, but
by the want of it; but a man's own care is profitable;" for, "if you
would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, serve yourself.
A little neglect may breed great mischief; for want of a nail the shoe
was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a
horse the rider was lost, being overtaken and slain by the enemy: all
for want of a little care about a horse-shoe nail."

III. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's own
business; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our
industry more certainly successful. A man may, if he knows not how to
save as he gets, "keep his nose all his life to the grindstone, and
die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a lean will;" and,

    "Many estates are spent in the getting,
    Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting,
    And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting."

If you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as of getting. The
Indies have not made Spain rich because her outgoes are greater than
her incomes.

Away then with your expensive follies, and you will not then have so
much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable
families; for,

    "Women and wine, game and deceit,
    Make the wealth small, and the want great."

And farther, "what maintains one vice will bring up two children." You
may think, perhaps, that a little tea, or a little punch now and then,
diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, and a little
entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but remember, "many
a little makes a mickle." Beware of little expenses; "a small leak will
sink a great ship," as poor Richard says; and again, "who dainties
love, shall beggars prove;" and moreover, "fools make feasts, and wise
men eat them." Here you are all got together to this sale of fineries
and nicknacks. You call them _goods_, but if you do not take care they
will prove _evils_ to some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap,
and, perhaps, they may, for less than they cost; but, if you have no
occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what poor Richard
says, "buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy
necessaries." And again, "at a great pennyworth pause awhile;" he means
that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not real or the
bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm
than good. For in another place he says, "many have been ruined by
buying great pennyworths." Again, "it is foolish to lay out money in a
purchase of repentance:" and yet this folly is practised every day at
auctions, for want of minding the Almanac. Many a one, for the sake of
finery on the back, have gone with a hungry belly, and half starved
their families; "silks and sattins, scarlet and velvets, put out the
kitchen fire," as poor Richard says. These are not the necessaries of
life, they can scarcely be called the conveniences: and yet only
because they look pretty, how many want to have them. By these, and
other extravagances, the genteel are reduced to poverty, and forced to
borrow of those whom they formerly despised, but who through industry
and frugality have maintained their standing; in which case it appears
plainly, that "a ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on
his knees," as poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a small estate
left them, which they knew not the getting of: they think "it is day,
and will never be night;" that a little to be spent out of so much is
not worth minding: but "always taking out of the meal-tub, and never
putting in, soon comes to the bottom," as poor Richard says; and then,
"when the well is dry, they know the worth of water." But this they
might have known before, if they had taken his advice. "If you would
know the value of money, go and try to borrow some; for he that goes a
borrowing goes a sorrowing," as poor Richard says; and, indeed, so does
he that lends to such people, when he goes to get it again. Poor Dick
farther advises, and says,

    "Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse,
    Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse."

And again, "pride is as loud a beggar as want, and a great deal more
saucy." When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy ten more,
that your appearance may be all of a piece; but poor Dick says, "it is
easier to suppress the first desire, than to satisfy all that follow
it." And it is as truly folly for the poor to ape the rich, as for the
frog to swell to equal the ox.

"Vessels large, may venture more, But little boats should keep near
shore."

It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as poor Richard says,
"pride breakfasted with plenty, dined with poverty, and supped with
infamy." And, after all, of what use is this pride of appearance, for
which so much is risked, so much is suffered? It cannot promote health,
nor ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person, it creates
envy, it hastens misfortune.

But what madness must it be to run in debt for these superfluities? We
are offered, by the terms of this sale, six months credit; and that,
perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot spare
the ready money, and hope now to be fine without it. But ah! think what
you do when you run in debt; you give to another power over your
liberty. If you cannot pay at the time, you will be _ashamed to see
your creditor_; you will _be in fear when you speak to him_; you will
make _poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses_, and by degrees, come to _lose
your veracity_, and sink into _base, downright lying_; for "the second
vice is lying, the first is running in debt," as poor Richard says; and
again, to the same purpose, "lying rides on debt's back;" whereas a
free American ought not to be ashamed, nor afraid to see or speak to
any man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and
virtue. "It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright." What would you
think of that nation, or of that government, who should issue an edict,
forbidding you to dress like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of
imprisonment or servitude? Would you not say that you were free; have a
right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a breach
of your privileges, and such a government tyrannical? And yet you are
about to put yourself under that tyranny when you run into debt for
such a dress! your creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive
you of your liberty, by confining you in jail for life, or by selling
you for a servant, if you should not be able to pay him: when you have
got your bargain, you may perhaps think little of payment; but as poor
Richard says, "creditors have better memories than debtors; creditors
are a superstitious set, great observers of set days and times." The
day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made before you
are prepared to satisfy it; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the
term, which, at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear
extremely short; time will seem to have added wings to his heels, as
well as his shoulders. "Those have a short Lent, who owe money at
Easter." At present, perhaps, you may think yourself in thriving
circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance without
injury; but,

    "For age and want save while you may,
    No morning suns last the whole day."

Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever while you live, expense
is constant and certain; and "it is easier to build two chimneys, than
to keep one in fuel," as poor Richard says: so "rather go to bed
supperless, than rise in debt."

"Get what you can, and what you get, hold, 'Tis the stones that will
turn lead into gold."

And when you have got the philosopher's stone, sure you will no longer
complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying taxes.

IV. This doctrine of my friend's is reason and wisdom; but after all,
do not depend too much upon your own industry and frugality, and
prudence, though excellent things; for they may all be blasted without
the blessing of heaven; and therefore ask that blessing humbly, and be
not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want it, but comfort
and help them. Remember Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.

And now to conclude, "experience keeps a dear school, but fools will
learn in no other," as poor Richard says, and scarce in that; for it is
true, "we may give advice, but we cannot give conduct;" however,
remember this, "they that will not be counselled cannot be helped;" and
farther, that "if you will not hear reason, she will surely wrap your
knuckles," as poor Richard says.

Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it and
approved the doctrine, and immediately practised the contrary, just as
if it had been a common sermon; for the auction opened, and they began
to buy extravagantly. I found the good man had thoroughly studied my
Almanacs, and digested all I had dropt on those topics during the
course of twenty-five years. The frequent mention he made of me must
have tired any one else; but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with
it, though I was conscious, that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my
own, which he ascribed to me; but rather the gleanings that I had made
of the sense of all ages and nations. However I resolved to be the
better for the echo of it; and though I had at first determined to buy
stuff for a new coat, I went away, resolved to wear my old one a little
longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as great
as mine. I am, as ever thine to serve thee.

RICHARD SAUNDERS.




CHAPTER XXXV.


"_When poverty comes in at the door_," said a shrewd observer, "_love
flies out at the window_." When foolish families, "_wasting their
substance in riotous living_," have fairly run their estates through
the girt, and brought a host of hungry sheriffs and constables to the
door, seizing on all their trumpery of fine carpets and curtains, and
side-boards, and looking-glasses for _auction_, oh what sudden
palpitations and blank looks ensue! what bitter upbraidings between
husbands and wives, parents and children! what lyings, and perjuries,
and secret transfers of property to _cheat creditors_! with universal
wreck of character, and conscience, and every thing else that can give
dignity or pleasure to life!

But while Franklin, by his famous Almanack "_poor Richard_," was
generously striving to prevent all these curses of _sloth_ and
_extravagance_, his wide spread newspapers were scattering thousands
of the finest lectures on that _honest industry_ and _prudence_,
which makes nations wealthy and glorious. And his lecturing, like one
born to be the moralist of nations, was in that style of brevity,
sprightliness, and nerve, that young and old, men, women, and
children were never tired of reading. And to give more value to these
beautiful little essays, they were always written under the smarting
recollection of what himself had suffered, from the follies which he
wished to guard others against. Witness first, his celebrated little
story, entitled


THE WHISTLE.

A TRUE STORY.

WRITTEN TO HIS NEPHEW.

When I was a child, about seven years old, my friends, on a holiday,
filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop, where they
sold toys for children, and being charmed with the sound of a
_whistle_, that I met by the way, in the hands of another boy, I
voluntarily offered him all my money for it. I then came home, and
went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my _whistle_, but
disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins,
understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times
as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind what good things I
might have bought with the rest of my money; and they laughed at me so
much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave
me more chagrin than the _whistle_ gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterwards of use to me. The impression continued
on my mind; so that, often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary
thing, I said to myself, _don't give too much for the whistle_; and so
I saved my money.

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I
thought I met with many, very many who _gave too much for the
whistle_.

When I saw any one too ambitious of court favours, sacrificing his
time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and
perhaps his friends, to attain it; I have said to myself, _this man
gives too much for his whistle_.

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in
political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by
that neglect; _he pays indeed_, says I, _too much for his whistle_.

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living; all
the pleasures of doing good to others, all the esteem of his
fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake
of accumulating wealth; _poor man_, says I, _you do, indeed, pay too
much for your whistle_.

When I meet a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement
of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations--_Mistaken
man_, says I, _you are providing pain for yourself, instead of
pleasure. You give too much for your whistle._

If I see one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equipages, all
above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career
in prison; _alas_, says I, _he has paid dear, very dear, for his
whistle_.

When I see a beautiful sweet-tempered girl, married to an ill-natured
brute of a husband; _what a pity it is_, says I, _that she has paid so
much for her whistle_.

In short, I conceived, that great part of the miseries of mankind were
brought upon them, by the false estimates they had made of the value
of things, and by their giving too much for their _whistle_.


The following admirable satire against _prejudice_, can never be too
often read by the ill-natured and hypochondrical.

THE HANDSOME AND UGLY LEG.

There are two sorts of people in the world, who, with equal advantages
of life, become, the one happy, and the other miserable. This arises,
very much, from the different views in which they consider things, and
the effect of those different views upon their own minds.

In every situation men can be placed, they may find conveniences and
inconveniences; in every company, persons and conversation more or
less pleasing; at every table, meats and drinks of better or worse
taste; dishes better and worse dressed; in every climate, good and bad
weather; and under every government, good and bad laws, and a good and
bad administration of those laws; in every poem, faults and beauties;
in almost every face, and every person, fine features and sad defects,
good and bad qualities.

Under these circumstances, the two classes above mentioned, fix their
attention--those who are disposed to be _happy_, on the _conveniences_
of things, the _pleasant parts_ of conversation, the _well dressed_
dishes, the _goodness_ of the wine, the _fine weather_, &c. and enjoy
all with _cheerfulness_. Those who are to be _unhappy_, think and
speak only of the contraries. Hence they are continually discontented
themselves, and, by their remarks, sour the pleasures of society, and
make themselves every where disagreeable.

Nobody loves this sort of people; no one shows them more than the
commonest civility, and scarcely that; and this frequently puts them
out of humour, and draws them into disputes. If they aim at obtaining
any advantage in rank or fortune, nobody wishes them success, or will
stir a step to favour their pretensions. If they incur public censure
or disgrace, no one will defend or excuse, and many join to aggravate
their misconduct, and render them completely odious. If these poor
gentlemen will not change this bad habit, condescend to be pleased
with what is pleasing, without fretting themselves and others about
the contraries, it is good to avoid an acquaintance with them, which
is always disagreeable, and sometimes very inconvenient, especially
when one finds one's self entangled in their quarrels.

An old philosophical friend of mine was grown, from experience, very
cautious in this particular, and carefully avoided any intimacy with
such people. He had, like other philosophers, a thermometer, to show
him the heat of the weather, and a barometer, to mark when it was
likely to prove good or bad; but there being no instrument invented to
discover, at first sight, this unpleasing disposition in a person, he,
for that purpose, made use of his legs, one of which was remarkably
handsome; the other, by some accident, crooked and deformed. If a
stranger, at the first interview, kept his eyes on his ugly leg more
than the handsome one, he doubted him; if he spoke of it, and took no
notice of the handsome leg, that was sufficient to determine my
philosopher to have no further acquaintance with him. Every body has
not this two-legged instrument; but every one, with a little
attention, may observe signs of that carping, fault-finding
disposition, and take the same resolution of avoiding the acquaintance
of those infected with it. I therefore advise those critical,
querulous, discontented, unhappy people, that if they wish to be
respected and beloved by others, and happy in themselves, they should
_leave off looking at the ugly leg_.


"_A good wit will turn every thing to advantage_," says Shakespeare;
and the following will show what a singular passion Dr. Franklin had
to turn every little cross incident of his own life into pleasure and
profit to others. He calls it

STOOP, AND GO SAFE.

    _To the late Dr. Mather, of Boston._

    REV. SIR,

    When I was a boy, I met with a book, entitled, "_Essays to do
    good_," which, I think, was written by your father. It had been so
    little regarded by a former possessor, that several leaves of it
    were torn out: but the remainder gave me such a turn for thinking,
    as to have an influence on my conduct through life; for I have
    always set a greater value on the character of a doer of good than
    any other kind of reputation; and if I have been, as you seem to
    think, a useful citizen, the public owes the advantage of it to
    that book.

    The last time I saw your father was in the beginning of 1724, when
    I visited him after my first trip to Pennsylvania. He received me
    in his library; and on my taking leave, showed me a shorter way
    out of the house, through a narrow passage, which was crossed by a
    beam over head. We were still talking, as I withdrew; he
    accompanying me behind, and I turning partly towards him, when he
    said hastily, "_stoop! stoop!_" I did not understand him, till I
    felt my head hit against the beam. He was a man, who never missed
    any occasion of giving instruction; and upon this he said to me,
    "_you are young, and have the world before you_. STOOP, _as you go
    through, and you will miss many hard thumps_." This advice, thus
    beat into my head, has frequently been of use to me; and I often
    think of it, when I see pride mortified, and misfortune brought
    upon people, by carrying their heads too high.

    I long much to see again my native place; and did hope to have
    been there in 1783; but could not obtain my dismission from
    employment here. And now I fear I shall never have that happiness.
    My best wishes, however, attend my dear country. It is now blessed
    with an excellent constitution. _May it last for ever!_

    This powerful monarchy continues its friendship for the United
    States. It is a friendship of the utmost importance to our
    security; and should be carefully cultivated. Britain has not yet
    digested the loss of its dominion over us, and has still, at
    times, some flattering hopes of recovering it. Accidents may
    increase those hopes, and encourage dangerous attempts. A breach
    between us and France would infallibly bring the English again
    upon our backs: and yet, we have some wild beasts among our
    countrymen, who are endeavouring to weaken that connexion.

    Let us preserve our reputation, by performing our engagements; our
    credit, by fulfilling our contracts; and our friends, by gratitude
    and kindness: for we know not how soon we may again have occasion
    for all of them.--With great and sincere esteem, I have the honour
    to be--Reverend sir,

    Your most obedient and most humble servant,

    B. FRANKLIN.

    _Passy, May 12, 1784._


The witty little essay that follows, will show how very closely Dr.
Franklin observed every thing around him, and what gross errors in
education yet remain to be corrected.

THE HUMOUROUS PETITION.

I address myself to all the friends of youth, and conjure them to
direct their compassionate regard to my unhappy fate, in order to
remove the prejudices of which I am the victim. There are twin sisters
of us, and the two eyes of man do not more resemble, nor are capable
of being upon better terms with each other, than my sister and myself,
were it not for the partiality of our parents, who make the most
injurious distinctions between us. From my infancy I have been led to
consider my sister as being of a more elevated rank. I was suffered to
grow up without the least instruction, while nothing was spared in her
education. She had masters to teach her writing, drawing, music, and
other accomplishments, but if, by chance, I touched a pencil, a pen,
or a needle, I was bitterly rebuked; and more than once, I have been
beaten for being awkward, and wanting a graceful manner. It is true,
my sister associated me with her upon some occasions; but she always
made a point of taking the lead, calling upon me only from necessity,
or to figure by her side.

But conceive not, sirs, that my complaints are instigated merely by
vanity--no, my uneasiness is occasioned by an object much more
serious. It is the practice in our family, that the whole business of
providing for its subsistence falls upon my sister and myself. If any
indisposition should attack my sister--and I mention it in confidence,
upon this occasion, that she is subject to the gout, the rheumatism,
and cramp, without making mention of other accidents--what would be
the fate of our poor family? Must not the regret of our parents be
excessive, at having placed so great a distance between sisters who
are so perfectly equal? Alas! we must perish from distress: for it
would not be in my power even to scrawl a suppliant petition for
relief, having been obliged to employ the hand of another in
transcribing the request which I have now the honour to prefer to you.

Condescend, sirs, to make my parents sensible of the injustice of an
_exclusive tenderness_, and of the necessity of distributing their
care and affection among all their children equally. I am, with
profound respect, Sirs,

Your obedient servant,

THE LEFT HAND.


The following essays strikingly illustrate the admirable wisdom and
philanthropy of Dr. Franklin; and, if read _practically_, would, no
doubt, greatly lessen the number both of PHYSICIANS and PATIENTS.

THE ART OF PROCURING PLEASANT DREAMS.

As a great part of our life is spent in sleep, during which we have
sometimes pleasing, and sometimes painful dreams, it becomes of some
consequence to obtain the one kind, and avoid the other; for whether
real or imaginary, pain is pain, and pleasure is pleasure. If we can
sleep without dreaming, it is well that painful dreams are avoided.
If, while we sleep, we can have pleasing dreams, it is so much clear
gain to the pleasures of life.

To this end, it is, in the first place, necessary to be careful in
preserving health--for, in sickness, the imagination is disturbed; and
disagreeable, sometimes terrible ideas are apt to present themselves.
But for health, our main dependence is on EXERCISE and TEMPERANCE.
These render the appetite sharp, the digestion easy, the body
lightsome, and the temper cheerful, with sweet sleep and pleasant
dreams. While indolence and full feeding never fail to bring on loaded
stomachs, with night-mares and horrors--we fall from precipices--are
stung by serpents--assaulted by wild beasts--murderers--devils--with
all the black train of unimaginable danger and wo. Temperance, then,
is all-important to sweet sleep and pleasant dreaming. But a main
point of temperance, is to _shun hearty suppers_, which are indeed not
safe, even when dinner has been missed; what then must be the
consequence of hearty suppers after full dinners? why only restless
nights and frightful dreams; and sometimes _a stroke of the apoplexy_,
after which they sleep till doomsday. The newspapers often relate
instances of persons, who, after eating hearty suppers, are found dead
in their beds next morning.

Another grand mean of preserving health, is to admit a constant supply
of _fresh air_ into your chamber. A more sad mistake was never
committed than that of sleeping in tight rooms, and beds closely
curtained. This has arisen from the dread of night air. But, after all
the clamour and abuse that have been heaped on _night air_, it is very
certain that no outward air, that may come in, is half so unwholesome
as the air often breathed in a close chamber. As boiling water does
not grow hotter by longer boiling, if the particles that receive
greater heat can escape; so living bodies do not putrify, if the
particles, as fast as they become putrid, can be thrown off. Nature
expels them by the pores of the skin and lungs, and in a free open air
they are carried off; but, in a _close room_, we receive them again
and again, though they become more and more corrupt. A number of
persons crowded into a small room, thus spoil the air in a few
minutes, and even render it mortal, as in the black hole at
Calcutta.[3] A single person is said to spoil a gallon of air per
minute, and therefore requires a longer time to spoil a chamber full;
but it is done, however, in proportion, and many putrid disorders
hence have their origin. It is recorded of Methusalem, who, being the
longest liver, may be supposed to have best preserved his health, that
he slept always in the open air; for when he had lived five hundred
years, an angel said to him, "_arise, Methusalem, and build thee an
house, for thou shalt live yet five hundred years longer_." But
Methusalem answered and said, "_If I am to live but five hundred years
longer, it is not worth while to build me an house--I will sleep in
the air, as I have been used to do._" Physicians, after having for
ages contended that the sick should not be indulged with fresh air,
have at length discovered that it may do them good. It is therefore to
be hoped that it is not hurtful to those who are in health, and that
we may be then cured of the _acrophobia_ that at present distresses
weak minds, and makes them choose to be stifled and poisoned, rather
than leave open the windows of a bed chamber, or put down the glass of
a coach.

          [3] In India, where out of 140 poor British prisoners shut
          up in a close small room 120 of them perished in one night.

Confined air, when saturated with perspirable matter,[4] will not
receive more; and that matter must remain in our bodies, and occasions
diseases; but it gives some previous notice of its being about to be
hurtful, by producing certain uneasinesses which are difficult to
describe, and few that feel know the cause. But we may recollect, that
sometimes, on waking in the night, we have, if warmly covered, found
it difficult to get asleep again. We turn often without finding repose
in any position. This _fidgetiness_, to use a vulgar expression for
the want of a better, is occasioned wholly by an uneasiness in the
skin, owing to the retention of the perspirable matter, the
bed-clothes having received their quantity, and, being saturated,
refusing to take any more.

          [4] What physicians call the perspirable matter, is that
          vapour which passes off from our bodies, from the lungs, and
          through the pores of the skin. The quantity of this is said
          to be five-eighths of what we eat.

When you are awakened by this uneasiness, and find you cannot easily
sleep again, get out of bed, beat up and turn your pillow, shake the
bed-clothes well, with at least twenty shakes, then throw the bed
open, and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing undrest, walk
about your chamber, till your skin has had time to discharge its load,
which it will do sooner as the air may be drier and colder. When you
begin to feel the cool air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and
you will soon fall asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant.
All the scenes presented by your fancy, will be of the pleasing kind.
I am often as agreeably entertained with them, as by the scenery of an
opera. If you happen to be too indolent to get out of bed, you may
instead of it, lift up your bed-clothes so as to draw in a good deal
of fresh air, and, by letting them fall, force it out again. This,
repeated twenty times, will so clear them of the perspirable matter
they have imbibed, as to permit your sleeping well for some time
afterwards. But this latter method is not equal to the former.

Those who do not love trouble, and can afford to have two beds, will
find great luxury in rising, when they wake in a hot bed, and going
into the cool one. Such shifting of beds, would be of great service to
persons ill in a fever; as it refreshes and frequently procures sleep.
A very large bed, that will admit a removal so distant from the first
situation as to be cool and sweet, may in a degree answer the same
end.

These are the rules of the art. But though they will generally prove
effectual in producing the end intended, there is a case in which the
most punctual observance of them will be totally fruitless. This case
is, when the person who desires to have pleasant dreams has not taken
care to preserve, what is necessary above all things--A GOOD CONSCIENCE.


ON THE ART OF SWIMMING.

The exercise of swimming is one of the most healthy and agreeable in
the world. After having swam for an hour or two in the evening, one
sleeps coolly the whole night, even during the most ardent heat of
summer. Perhaps the pores being cleansed, the insensible perspiration
increases, and occasions this coolness. It is certain that much
swimming is the means of stopping a diarrhoea and even of producing a
constipation. With respect to those who do not know how to swim, or
who are affected with a diarrhoea at the season which does not permit
them to use that exercise, a warm bath, by cleansing and purifying the
skin, is found very salutary, and often effects a radical cure. I
speak from my own experience, frequently repeated, and that of others,
to whom I have recommended this.

You will not be displeased if I conclude these hasty remarks by
informing you, that as the ordinary method of swimming is reduced to
the act of rowing with the arms and legs, and is consequently a
laborious and fatiguing operation, when the space of water to be
crossed is considerable; there is a method in which a swimmer may pass
a great distance with much facility, by means of a sail. This
discovery I fortunately made by accident, and in the following manner.

When I was a boy, I amused myself one day with flying a paper kite;
and approaching the bank of a pond, which was near a mile broad, I
tied the string to a stake, and the kite ascended to a very
considerable height, above the pond, while I was swimming. In a little
time, being desirous of amusing myself with my kite, and enjoying at
the same time the pleasure of swimming, I returned, and loosing from
the stake the string, with the little stick fastened to it, went again
into the water, where I found, that, lying on my back, and holding the
stick in my hands, I was drawn along the surface of the water in a
very agreeable manner. Having then engaged another boy to carry my
clothes round the pond to the other side, I began to cross the pond
with my kite, which carried me quite over without the least fatigue,
and with the greatest pleasure imaginable. I was only obliged
occasionally to halt a little in my course, and resist its progress,
when it appeared that, by following too quick, I lowered the kite too
much, by doing which occasionally I made it rise again. I have never
since that time practised this singular mode of swimming, though I
think it not impossible to cross, in this manner, from Dover to
Calais. The packet boat, however, is still preferable.


NEW MODE OF BATHING.

The cold bath has long been in vogue as a tonic, but the shock of the
cold water has always appeared to me, generally speaking, as too
violent, and I have found it much more agreeable to my constitution to
bathe in another element--I mean cold air. With this view, I rise,
early every morning and sit in my chamber, without any clothes
whatever, half an hour or an hour, according to the season, either
reading or writing, This practice is not the least painful, but, on
the contrary, agreeable; and if I return to bed afterwards, before I
dress myself, as sometimes happens, I make a supplement to my night's
rest of one or two hours of the most pleasing sleep that can be
imagined. I find no ill consequences whatever resulting from it, and
that at least I do not injure my health, if it does not, in fact,
contribute much to its preservation. I shall, therefore, call it for
the future a _tonic air bath_.


The common saying, "_lazy people take the most pains_," was never more
clearly exemplified than in the following squib.

STRENUOUS IDLENESS.

Passing the Schuylkill, one day, he saw a man sitting on the bridge,
very earnestly looking on the cork of his fishing line. "_What luck?
What luck?_" cried the doctor. "_O none! none!_" answered our fishing
hawk; "_none yet; I have not been here over a couple of hours or so_."
The doctor pushed on. Near sun-down he returned. The man was still
sitting and staring at his cork, like a spaniel at a dead set. "Well,"
said the doctor, "I hope you have had a fine haul among the fish."
"Not a single one," replied the man. "_Not a single one!_" quoth the
doctor, amazed. "No, not one, sir," answered the fisher, "not one; but
I've had a most _glorious nibble_!"


The following is a fine hint to such as have learned useful trades,
but have not learned what is infinitely more valuable, I mean that
divine philanthropy which alone can make their trades their delight,
and thus strew life over with roses.

THE SILVER HOOK.

Doctor Franklin observing one day a hearty young fellow, whom he knew
to be an extraordinary blacksmith, sitting on the wharf, bobbing for
little mud-cats and eels, he called to him, "Ah Tom, what a pity 'tis
you don't fish with a _silver_ hook." The young man replied, "he was
not able to fish with a silver hook." Some days after this, the doctor
passing that way, saw Tom out at the end of the wharf again, with his
long pole bending over the flood. "What, Tom," cried the doctor, "have
you not got the silver hook yet?"

"God bless you, doctor," cried the blacksmith, "I'm hardly able to
fish with an iron hook."

"Poh! poh!" replied the doctor, "go home to your anvil; and you'll
make silver enough in one day to buy more and better fish than you
would catch here in a month."


But few have it so much in their power to do good or evil as the
PRINTERS. I know they all glory in Dr. Franklin as a FATHER, and are
wont to name his name with _veneration_; happy would it be for this
country if they would read the following with _imitation_.

TRUE INDEPENDENCE.

Soon after his establishment in Philadelphia, Franklin was offered a
piece for publication in his newspaper. Being very busy, he begged the
gentleman would leave it for consideration. The next day the author
called and asked his opinion of it. "Why, sir," replied Franklin, "I
am sorry to say that I think it highly scurrilous and defamatory. But
being at a loss on account of my poverty whether to reject it or not,
I thought I would put it to this issue--at night, when my work was
done, I bought a two-penny loaf, on which with a mug of cold water I
supped heartily, and then wrapping myself in my great coat, slept very
soundly on the floor till morning; when another loaf and a mug of
water afforded me a pleasant breakfast. Now, sir, since I can live
very comfortably in this manner, why should I prostitute my press to
personal hatred or party passion, for a more luxurious living?"

One cannot read this anecdote of our American sage without thinking of
Socrates' reply to King Archilaus, who had pressed him to give up
preaching in the dirty streets of Athens, and come and live with him
in his splendid courts--"_Meal, please your majesty, is a half penny a
peck at Athens, and water I can get for nothing._"


The letter ensuing was from Dr. Franklin to a friend of his, who
having displeased some of his relatives by marrying very early, wrote
to him for his opinion on that subject. Young bachelors would do well
to read it once a month.

ON EARLY MARRIAGES.

DEAR JACK,

From the marriages that have fallen under my observation, I am rather
inclined to think that _early_ ones stand the best chance for
happiness. The temper and habits of the young are not yet become so
stiff and uncomplying, as when more advanced in life; they form more
easily to each other, and hence, many occasions of disgust are
removed. And if youth has less of that prudence which is necessary to
manage a family, the parents and elder friends of young married
persons are generally at hand to afford their advice, which amply
supplies that defect. By early marriage youth is sooner formed to
regular and useful life; and possibly some of those accidents or
connexions that might have injured the constitution, or reputation, or
both, are thereby happily prevented. Particular circumstances of
particular persons, may sometimes make it prudent to delay entering
into that state; but in general, when nature has rendered our bodies
fit for it, the presumption is in nature's favour, that she has not
judged amiss in making us _desire_ it. Late marriages are often
attended too, with this inconvenience, that there is not the same
chance that the parents shall live to see their offspring educated.
"_Late children_," says the Spanish proverb, "_are early orphans_." A
melancholy reflection to those whose case it may be! With us in
America, marriages are generally in the morning of life; our children
are educated and settled in the world by noon; and thus, our business
done, we have an evening of cheerful leisure to ourselves.

By these early marriages we are blessed with more children; and from
the mode among us, founded in nature, of every mother suckling her
own child, more of them are raised. Thence the swift progress of
population among us, unparalleled in Europe. In fine, I am glad you
are married, and congratulate you most cordially upon it. You are now
in the way of becoming a useful citizen; and you have escaped the
unnatural state of celibacy for life--the fate of many who never
intended it, but who having too long postponed the change of their
condition, find, at length, that it is too late to think of it, and
so live all their lives in a situation that greatly lessens a man's
value. An odd volume of a set of books bears not the value of its
proportion to the set: what think you of the _half_ of a pair of
scissors? it can't well cut anything; it may possibly serve to scrape
a trencher.

Pray make my best wishes acceptable to your bride. I am old and
heavy, or I should ere this have presented them in person. I shall
make but small use of the old man's privilege, that of giving _advice
to younger friends_. Treat your wife always with respect; it will
procure respect to you, not only from her, but from all that observe
it. Never use a slighting expression to her even in _jest_; for
slights in _jest_, after frequent bandyings, are apt to end in angry
_earnest_. Be studious in your profession, and you will be learned.
Be industrious and frugal, and you will be rich. Be sober and
temperate, and you will be healthy. Be virtuous, and you will be
happy. At least, you will, by such conduct, stand the best chance for
such consequences. I pray God to bless you both!

Your affectionate friend,

B. FRANKLIN.


As next to a GOOD WIFE, there is but "ONE THING" to be compared to a
_handsome fortune_, we advise our young countrymen to read the
following. It needs but be read to be valued, and it can hardly be
read and valued enough by all who know the value of INDEPENDENCE.

ADVICE TO A YOUNG TRADESMAN.

Remember that time is money. He that can earn ten shillings a day, by
his labour, and goes abroad, or sits idle one half of that day, though
he spends but six-pence during his diversion or idleness, ought not to
reckon _that_ the only expense; he has really spent, or rather thrown
away five shillings besides.

Remember that _credit_ is money. If a man let his money lie in my
hands, after it is due, he gives me the interest, or so much as I can
make of it, during that time. This amounts to a considerable sum where
a man has good and large credit, and makes good use of it.

Remember that money is of a very breeding prolific nature. Money
begets money; and its offspring can beget more: and so on. Five
shillings turned is six. Turned again it is seven and three-pence; and
so on, till it becomes hundreds and thousands of pounds. The more
there is of it, the more it produces, every turning; so that the
profits rise quicker and quicker. He, who kills a breeding sow,
destroys all her offspring, to the thousandth generation. He, who
murders a crown, destroys all that it might have produced; even scores
of pounds.

Remember that six pounds a year is but a groat a day. For this little
sum, which may be daily wasted either in time or expense, unperceived,
a man of credit may, on his own security, have the constant possession
and use of an hundred pounds. So much in stock, briskly turned by an
industrious man, produces great advantages.

Remember this saying, "the good paymaster is lord of another man's
purse." He who is known to pay punctually and exactly to the time he
promises, may, at any time, and on any occasion, raise all the money
his friends can spare. This is sometimes of great use. After industry
and frugality, nothing contributes more to the raising of a young man
in the world, than punctuality and justice in all his dealings.
Therefore never keep borrowed money an hour beyond the time you
promised, lest a disappointment shut up your friend's purse for ever.

The most trifling actions, that affect a man's credit, are to be
regarded. The sound of your hammer at five in the morning, or nine at
night, heard by a creditor, makes him easy six months longer; but if
he see you at a billiard table, or hears your voice at a tavern, when
you should be at work, he sends for his money next day; and demands it
before he can receive it in a lump.

It shows, besides, that you are mindful of what you owe. It makes you
appear a careful as well as an honest man; and that still increases
your credit.

Beware of thinking all your own, that you possess; and of living
accordingly. It is a mistake that many people, who have credit, fall
into.

To prevent this, keep an exact account, for some time, both of your
expenses and your income. If you take the pains at first to mention
particulars, it will have this good effect:--you will discover how
wonderfully small, trifling expenses mount up to large sums; and will
soon discern, what might have been, and may for the future be saved,
without occasioning any great inconvenience.

Again: he, who sells upon credit, asks a price, for what he sells,
equivalent to the principal and interest of his money, for the time he
is to be kept out of it. Therefore, he who buys upon credit, pays
interest for what he buys; and, he who pays ready money, might let
that money out to use. So, that he who possesses any thing he has
bought, pays interest for the use of it.

Yet, in buying goods, it is best to pay ready money; because, he who
sells upon credit, expects to lose five per cent, by bad debts.
Therefore, he charges, on all he sells upon credit, an advance that
shall make up that deficiency.

Those who pay for what they buy upon credit, pay their share of this
advance.

He who pays ready money, escapes, or may escape that charge.

    A penny sav'd is two-pence clear,
    A pin a day's a groat a year.

In short, the way to wealth, if you desire it, is as plain as the way
to market. It depends chiefly on two words: _Industry_ and _Frugality_.
Waste neither _time_ nor _money_; but make the best use of both.
Without industry and frugality, nothing will do; but with them every
thing. He who gets all he can, honestly, and saves all he gets,
necessary expenses excepted, will certainly become _rich_; if that
Being who governs the world, to whom all should look for a blessing on
their honest endeavours, doth not, in his wise providence, otherwise
determine.

AN OLD TRADESMAN.


Every reader will be diverted with the following.

IDLE CURIOSITY CURED.

On his first trip, by land, to see his father in Boston, he was worried
almost to death by the abominable inquisitiveness of the New England
tavern-keepers.

Neither man nor beast could travel among them in comfort. No matter how
wet or weary, how hungry or thirsty, the poor traveller might be, he
was not to expect an atom of refreshment from these silly publicans
until their most pestiferous curiosity was first gratified. And then
Job himself could not stand such questions as they would goad him with;
such as, _where he came from--and where he might be a-going--and what
religion he might be of--and if he was a married man_--and so on. After
having been prodigiously teazed in this way for several days, until at
last the bare sight of a public house almost threw him into an ague, he
determined to try the following remedy at the very next tavern. Soon as
he alighted from his horse he desired the tavern keeper to collect his
whole family, wife, children, and servants, every soul of them; for
that he had something _vastly important_ to communicate. All being
assembled and wondering what he had to say, he thus addressed them. "My
name is Benjamin Franklin. I am a printer by trade. I live, when at
home, in Philadelphia. In Boston I have a father, a good old man who
taught me, when I was a little boy, to read my book and say my prayers.
I have, ever since, thought it my duty to visit and pay my respects to
such a father; and I am on that errand to Boston now. This is all that
I can at present recollect of myself that I think worth telling you.
But if you can think of any thing else that you wish to know about me,
I beg you to out with it at once, that I may answer, and so give you
opportunity to get me something to eat; for I long to be on my journey
that I may return as soon as possible to my family and business, where
I most of all delight to be."

Forty thousand sermons against IDLE CURIOSITY could hardly have driven
it so effectually out of New England as did this little squib of
ridicule.


The following jeu d'esprit is peculiarly in character with Dr.
Franklin. It proves that his wit and his benevolence were equal to
every emergence, and that if he carried the Old Testament language in
his head, he carried the New Testament spirit in his heart.

WIT AND PERSECUTION.

The conversation turning, one day, on _persecution_, a doctor of
divinity, distinguished for his wit, but, unfortunately, a little too
much infected with that acrimony which is caught by reading books of
religious controversy, took the part of persecution and contended that
it was _sometimes_ right to employ it. Franklin said, he could not
think of any case wherein _persecution_ was _admissible_ among rational
creatures. It might be very excusable in _error_ to persecute, whose
nature it was to see things wrong, and to get angry; but that for such
a "_divinity as_ TRUTH," to persecute, was, in his opinion, a sin
against the _Holy Ghost, never to be forgiven_. After using, in his
facetious manner, a variety of arguments honourable to wit and
philanthropy, and the clergyman still remaining unconvinced, Franklin
called out to him with an air of great surprise, "Why, my dear sir, I
am astonished that you plead thus for persecution when it is so
diametrically opposite to your _Bible_."

The clergyman replied, that he did not know what doctor Franklin meant.
He thought, he said, he knew something of his _Bible_, but he did not
recollect any chapter in point.

"_No, sir!_" answered Franklin, still with the look and voice of
surprise, "_not that memorable chapter concerning Abraham and the poor
man! Pray, sir, favour us with your Bible a minute or two._"

"With all my heart," replied the clergyman, "I should like to see that
_memorable chapter_."

The company manifested a solicitude for the issue of the pending
controversy--the family Bible was brought and laid on the table by the
side of doctor Franklin. "Well, reverend sir," said he, looking at the
preacher, as he took up the Bible, "shall I read this chapter?"

"Certainly," replied the divine, settling himself in his chair to
listen.--The eyes of all were fixed on Franklin; when, opening the
Bible and turning back the leaves as to find the place, he thus audibly
began:--

The twenty-seventh chapter of the first book of Moses, commonly called
the book of Genesis.

 1. And it came to pass, after these things, that Abraham sat in the
door of his tent, about the going down of the sun.

 2. And behold a man, bowed with age, coming from the way of the
wilderness, leaning on a staff.

 3. And Abraham arose, and met him, and said unto him, turn in, I pray
thee, and wash thy feet, and tarry all night, and thou shalt arise
early in the morning and go on thy way.

 4. But the man said, nay, for I will abide under this tree.

 5. And Abraham pressed him greatly; so he turned, and they went into
the tent; and Abraham baked unleavened bread, and they did eat.

 6. And when Abraham saw that the man blessed not God, he said unto
him, wherefore dost thou not worship the most high God, Creator of
heaven and earth.

 7. And the man answered and said, I do not worship thy God, neither do
I call upon his name; for I have made to myself a God, which abideth
always in mine house, and provideth me all things.

 8. And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man, and he arose and
fell upon him, and drove him forth with blows into the wilderness.

 9. And at midnight God called unto Abraham, saying, where is the
stranger?

10. And Abraham answered, and said, Lord, he would not worship thee,
neither would he call upon thy name, therefore have I driven him out
from before my face into the wilderness.

11. And God said, have I borne with him these hundred and ninety and
eight years, and nourished him and clothed him, notwithstanding his
rebellion against me; and couldest not thou, that art thyself a
sinner, bear with him one night?

12. And Abraham said, let not the anger of my Lord wax hot against his
servant; lo, I have sinned: forgive me, I pray thee.

13. And he arose, and went forth into the wilderness, and sought
diligently for the man and found him:

14. And returned with him to his tent; and when he had entreated him
kindly, he sent him away in the morning with gifts.

15. And God spake again unto Abraham, saying, for this thy sin, shall
thy seed be afflicted four hundred years in a strange land:

16. But for thy repentance, will I deliver them; and they shall come
forth with power, and with gladness of heart, and with much substance.


That witty but splenetic old bachelor, Dean Swift, used to say, that
"there was no dispute which a man of a tolerably good head and heart
might not easily avoid falling into, or honourably get out of; and,
therefore, as none but fools and rascals fought duels, the sooner
such beasts cut each other's throats, the better for the community."
This, no doubt, is very true, but still it is too much like striking
with a war club, or _tomahawk_, to be allowed among christians. The
following _impromptu_ on duelling, by Dr. Franklin, claims a far
higher admiration. It is an arrow pointed with the diamond of wit,
dipt in the oil of kindness, that wounds but to heal.

THE FOLLY OF DUELLING.

This most pusillanimous practice was one day made the theme of
conversation in a large party in London, where Doctor Franklin dined.
The philosophers and divines of the company joined unanimously to
execrate it; and so many sensible and severe things were said against
it, that everybody seemed willing to give it up to its father, the
devil, except a young officer, whose ugly distortions showed plainly
enough that he did not at all relish their strictures. Soon as they
were done, he called aloud, "well, gentlemen, you may preach as much as
you please against duelling, but I'll never pocket an insult for all
that. No, if any man affront me, I'll call him to an account, if I lose
my life for it."

The philosophers and divines looked at each other in silence, like
fools who had shot their last bolt.

Here Franklin took up the cudgels; and looking at the young officer
with a smile, said, "This, sir, puts me in mind of an affair that
lately happened in a Philadelphia coffee-house."

The young fellow, rather pertly, said he should like to hear what had
lately happened in a Philadelphia coffee-house.

"Why, sir," continued the doctor, "two gentlemen were sitting together
in the coffee-house, when one said to the other, for heaven's sake,
sir, sit further off, and don't poison me; you smell as bad as a
pole-cat."

"Sir," resorted the other, "what do you mean? Draw, and defend
yourself."

"O, sir," quoth the first, "I'll meet you in a moment, if you insist on
it; but let's see first how that's to _mend the matter_. If you kill
me, I shall smell as bad as a pole-cat too. And if I kill you, you will
_only smell ten times worse_."

In short, that divine motto,

    "Homo sum, nil humani a me alienum puto."

In English thus,

    _A man I am, in man I take a part,
    And good of man is ever next my heart._

has seldom been more justly applied than to Dr. Franklin. He seems to
have been all eye, all ear, all touch, to every thing that affected
human happiness. Did he, even at the early age of twenty-five, form an
acquaintance with young persons fond of reading, but unable to
purchase books? Instantly he suggested the plan for obviating that
great, great misfortune, by founding a PUBLIC LIBRARY; whereby, at a
_small expense_ in hand, and a much smaller paid annually, a
subscriber might have his choice of books, on all subjects, whether of
pleasure or profit. This Library, which was commenced in 1731, by
Franklin and only thirty-seven members, and no more than one hundred
volumes, consisting of much little parcels of books as each subscriber
possessed, is now, 1820, enlarged to six hundred members, and upwards
of twenty thousand volumes.

The great advantages arising from this library became so sensibly felt
that others were soon founded; and they have now kindled up their
salutary lights not only in several parts of the city, but in almost
every county in the state. From the choicest books on Religion,
Morals, History, Voyages, Travels, &c. thus brought home to their
fire-sides and constantly lying on their mantlepieces, the citizens
derive advantages incalculable. Their idle hours, formerly so
dangerous, were now innocently filled up; solitude was cheered with a
succession of new ideas; company enlivened by witty conversation, and
labour itself sweetened by the thought of a beloved book at night.

With their taste thus exalted to _better pleasures_, the youth of all
classes were saved from the brutalizing sensualities that destroy
character and health. Having their understandings enlightened, they
were led to greater virtues and usefulness. And being thus taught to
enjoy life, they felt the strongest inducements to preserve it. Hence
the astonishing prosperity of Philadelphia in industry and morals,
population and wealth.

The mother Library now displays its twenty thousand volumes, in an
elegant building, on the corner of Fifth and Chestnut. In a niche on
the wall above the door is a fine marble likeness of Dr. Franklin at
full length, presented by William Bingham, Esq.

Again:--Did Franklin catch a glimpse of those poor pusillanimous
creatures, who rather than live nobly independent in the pure aired
country, by cultivating their own sweet vegetables, and raising fat
poultry, will run into the sickly towns to sell whiskey and apples in
the summer, and take their chance to starve and freeze in the winter?
Did he, I say, catch a glimpse of these poor spiritless creatures with
their children, shivering over small fires kindled by a little
"_charity wood_?" Instantly his bowels of compassion were stirred
within him. Although he was no friend to such _lazy self-made
paupers_, nor to the miserable policy that winks at them, yet it was
impossible for him to remain unconcerned at their sufferings. In a
letter to one of his friends, he says, "since we can get no more wood
for the poor, we must try from that wood to get more warmth for them."
He set himself to examine the principles of the stoves generally in
use. His genius, as usual, discovered such room for amendment, that he
soon came out with a stove, which to this day, in honour of him, is
called "THE FRANKLIN STOVE," and wherein one cord of charity oak would
afford as much heat and comfort to those poor people, as two cords in
the old way!

Did he hear the shrill midnight cry of FIRE! and mark the deep
distress of the citizens, as with tearful eyes they beheld the flames
swallowing up their pleasant habitations and furniture? Instantly he
set himself to call up all the energies of the public against this
dire calamity, and to point them to the only adequate remedy, MUTUAL
INSURANCE COMPANIES.

"_Man_," said he, in his calls to the citizens through his popular
newspaper, "_Man separate_ from man, is but a feeble creature; and
like the filament of flax before the thread is formed, he is without
strength, because without connexion. But UNION will make us strong,
and _enable us to do all things essential to our safety. The houses
burnt every year are, compared with all the houses in the city, but
few. And were all the housekeepers in the city, joined for mutual
security, to pay a certain sum; and were that sum put to interest, it
would not only cover all the losses by fire, but would bring in every
year, clear profit on his money to each subscriber._"

Numbers of the citizens came into his scheme; and a large "_Mutual
Insurance Company_," was immediately formed. The great benefits,
foretold to flow from it, being soon realized, several others were
presently set on foot: and now (in 1820,) there are, in Philadelphia,
no fewer than forty engines, with eight thousand feet of hose, (strong
leather pipes,) to convey the water from the pumps or hydrants to the
engines; whereby in less than _two minutes_ they are in full play,
pouring their watery cataracts on the flames. Hence, while for lack of
one Franklin, one intelligent and public spirited philanthropist, many
of our promising young towns are suddenly turned to ashes, and their
hapless families, driven out naked into the weather; the favoured
citizens of Philadelphia, guarded by forty engines, and hundreds of
well trained young firemen, seldom suffer any thing beyond a momentary
pang from this most alarming element!




CHAPTER XXXVI.

"_To him who hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance._"


The life of Dr. Franklin appears to have been one continued
exemplification of this most animating promise; for scarcely had he
finished that noble work just mentioned, before he was called to
another which acquired him a still higher reputation, I mean his
wonderful discoveries in electricity, and his application of them to
the preservation of human life and property. The manner in which this
honour was conferred on Dr. Franklin, is enough to convince all honest
minds that there is a kind Providence over the ways of men, that often
turns their "_seeming evils into real good_."

Among the many benefits which he derived from the dangerous scenes of
London, where he was so severely tried, and where he so gloriously
triumphed, was his acquaintance with a Mr. Collinson, of that city.
This gentleman had a soul of uncommon sensibility to the charms of
virtue. His first interview with Franklin, was in Watts's
printing-office. The sight of a youthful stranger, not yet out of his
teens, exhibiting such practical lessons of virtue to the deluded
young PORTER DRINKERS of London, filled him with admiration of his
character. On getting acquainted with him, he was in pleasing doubt,
whether most to esteem his heart or admire his head.

When Franklin left England, the generous Collinson accompanied him on
board the ship, and at parting, the two friends exchanged _canes_,
with promises of everlasting friendship and constant correspondence by
letters. Soon as all London had become filled with the aforesaid rage
for electricity, and electrical experiments, Collinson wrote the whole
history of them to Franklin, with a compliment to his genius, and an
earnest request that he would turn it to that subject, and accompanied
all with the present of a small electrical instrument. Franklin's
curiosity was excited. He immediately set to work; and presently made
discoveries that far exceeded all that Collinson had promised himself.
He discovered the power of metallic points to draw off the electrical
matter--he discovered a _positive_ and a _negative_ state of
electricity--he explained on electrical principles, the phenomena of
the famous Leyden vial--he explained the phenomena of the aurora
borealis, and of thunder-gusts--he showed the striking resemblance in
many respects between electricity and lightning.

   1st. In giving light.
   2d.  In colour of the light.
   3d.  In crooked direction.
   4th. In swiftness of motion.
   5th. In being conducted by metals.
   6th. In cracking in exploding.
   7th. In subsisting in water or ice.
   8th. In rending the bodies it passeth through.
   9th. In killing animals.
  10th. In melting metals.
  11th. Firing inflammable substances.
  12th. Emitting a sulphurous smell.
  13th. In being attracted by iron points.

"We do not, indeed," says he, "know that this property is in
lightning, but since electricity and lightning agree in so many other
particulars, is it not probable that they agree also in this?"

He resolved at any rate to make the experiment. But foreseeing what a
blessing it would be to mankind, to disarm the lightnings of their
power to harm, he did not in the pitiful spirit of ordinary inventors,
cautiously conceal the dawnings of a discovery that promised so much
glory to his name. On the contrary, and with a philanthropy that
throws eternal loveliness over his character, he published his ideas,
inviting all the philosophers to make experiments on this important
subject, and even pointed the way, _i.e._ by insulated bars of iron
raised to considerable heights in the air.

Immediately, metallic bars, some of them forty feet high, were raised
towards the heavens, by sundry philosophers, both in France and
England. But God, as if pleased with such disinterested virtue,
determined to reserve to Franklin the honour of confirming the truth
of his own great theory. His plan to accomplish this, was in that
simplicity which characterizes all his inventions.

To a common kite, made of silk rather than paper, because of the rain,
he fixed a slender iron point. The string which he chose for his kite
was of silk, because of the fondness of lightning for silk; and for
the same reason, at the lower end of the string he tied a key. With
this simple preparation, he went out on the commons back of
Philadelphia, as a thundergust was coming on, and raised his kite
towards the clouds. The lightning soon found out his metallic rod, as
it soared aloft on the wings of the kite, and greeted its polished
point with a cordial kiss. With joy he beheld the loose fibres of his
string raised by the fond salute of the celestial visitant.

He hastened to clap his knuckle to the key, and behold, a smart spark!
having repeated a second, and a third time, he charged a phial with
this strange visitor from the clouds, and found that it exploded
gunpowder, set spirits of wine on fire, and performed in all respects
as the electrical fluid.

It is not easy to express the pleasure which this clear confirmation
of his theory must have given to our benevolent philosopher, who had
already counted up some of the great services which he should thereby
render to the world.

He lost no time in communicating these discoveries to his friend
Collinson in London, by whom they were read with unimaginable joy.
Collinson instantly laid them before the Royal Society, not doubting
but they would be printed among their papers, with the same enthusiasm
which he had felt. But to his great mortification they were utterly
rejected. Upon this, Collinson went in high dudgeon and printed them
himself, which was looked on as a very desperate kind of undertaking,
especially as he chose for his book, a title that seemed to carry a
death warrant on its face, _viz._ "NEW EXPERIMENTS ON ELECTRICITY,
MADE AT PHILADELPHIA, IN NORTH AMERICA." Some ventured however to read
the EXPERIMENTS ON ELECTRICITY MADE IN NORTH AMERICA, though with
pretty nearly such motives as usually lead people to see the learned
pig, or to hear a woman preach. But the scoffers were soon turned into
admirers. Discoveries so new and astonishing, presented in a manner so
simple, struck every reader with admiration and pleasure. The book
soon crossed the British channel, and was translated into most of the
languages of Europe. A copy of it, though miserably translated, had
the fortune to fall into the hands of the celebrated Buffon, who
immediately repeated the experiments and with the most complete
success. Lewis XV. hearing of these curious exhibitions, expressed a
wish to be a spectator of them. A course of experiments was made
before him and his court, to their exceeding surprise and diversion,
by Buffon and De Lor. The history of electricity has not recorded
those experiments. But it is probable, that they were not of so comic
a character as the following, wherewith Dr. Franklin would sometimes
astonish and delight his Philadelphia friends, during the intervals of
his severer studies.

I. In the presence of a large party at his house, he took up a pistol
which he had beforehand charged with inflammable air, well stopped
with a cork, and presented it to Miss Seaton, a celebrated belle in
those days. She took it from the doctor, but could not help turning
pale, as though some conjuration was brewing. "_Don't be afraid,
madam_," said he, "_for I give you my word that there is not a grain
of powder in it; and now turn it against any gentleman in the room
that you are angry with._" With a sudden blush, she turned it towards
a gentleman whom she soon after married. In the same instant, the
doctor drew a charged rod near the mouth of the pistol, the electric
spark rushed in, and set fire to the inflammable air; off went the
pistol; out flew the cork, and striking her lover a smart shock in the
face, fell down on the floor, to the exceeding terror at first, but
afterwards, to the equal diversion of the young lady and the whole
company. This he called THE MAGIC PISTOL.

II. At another time, in a large party at his house, all eager, as
usual, to see some of his ELECTRICAL CURIOSITIES, he took from the
drawer a number of little dogs, made of the pith of elder, with straw
for feet and tails, and set them on the table. All eyes were fixed on
him. "_Well, Miss Eliza_," said he, addressing the elegant Miss E.
Sitgreaves, "_can you set these little dogs a dancing?_" "_No indeed,
I can't_," replied she. "_Well_," replied he, "_if I had such a pair
of eyes as you have, I think I could do it._" She blushed. "_However,
let us see_," continued he, "_if we can't do something._" He then took
a large tumbler from the table, which he had previously charged with
the electric fluid, and clapped the tumbler over the dogs; whereupon
they instantly fell to skipping and jumping up the sides of the
tumbler, as if they were half mad to get out of it. This he called
"THE DANCING DOGS."

III. During something like a _levee_, at his house, one night, a
couple of ladies who had been at London and Paris, were speaking in
rapturous terms of the splendours of those royal courts, and of the
diamond stars which they had seen, glittering with more than solar
lustre on the breasts of the Prince of Wales and the Dauphin. At
length one of the fair orators, as if wrought up to a perfect
adoration of the wondrous stars which she had been so elegantly
depicting, turned to the doctor, and smartly asked him if he would not
like mightily to have such a star. "_To be sure, madam_," replied he
with his usual gallantry, "_and suppose we order one?_" She looked
surprised. "_Boy_," continued he, "_bring me down one of my electrical
jars, and put it on the sideboard._" While the servant was gone, the
doctor took a plate of tin, and cutting it into a dozen angles, like a
star, poised it on a wire projecting from his prime conductor. "_Well
now, ladies, put out the candles, and you shall see a star not
inferior to that of the prince of Wales._" The candles were put out,
and a turn or two of the jar being made, the lightning flew to the
plate of tin, and appeared at the extremities of its angles, in a
blaze of light beautiful as the morning star. This he called "THE
ELECTRIC STAR."

IV. On his sideboard was placed an electrical jar, concealed behind a
large picture of a man dressed in purple and fine linen. At a short
distance stood a little brass pillar, in front of which was the
picture of a poor man lying down ragged and wan as Lazarus. From the
ceiling, and reaching down to the sideboard, was suspended by a fine
thread, the picture of a boy, with a face benevolent and beautiful as
a youthful cherub. "_Well, now, gentlemen, do you know who these
are?--This is the proud, unfeeling Dives; that, the poor dying
Lazarus; and here is a beautiful boy, that for humanity's sake, we
will call the son of Dives. Now gentlemen, can any of you make this
lovely child the minister of Dives' bounty to poor Lazarus?"_

They all confessed their inability; regarding him at the same time
with an eye of expectation. Without being noticed by his company, he
charged the jar behind the picture of Dives with electric fluid from
his prime conductor. Instantly, the beauteous youth flew to it, and
getting charged flew to the brass pillar behind Lazarus, which
possessed no electricity, and imparted to it his whole load. He then
flew back to the jar of Dives, and receiving a second supply, hastened
to poor Lazarus and emptied himself again. And thus it went on to the
astonishment of the spectators, alternately receiving and imparting
until it had established a balance between them, and then, as if
satisfied, it came to a pause.

Seeing their surprise, the doctor thus went on. "Well, now, gentleman,
here is a fine lesson for us all. This electric fluid, which you saw
animating that youth, came down from heaven to teach us that men were
as assuredly designed to be helpmates to men, as were the two eyes,
the two feet, or the two hands, to assist one another. And if all who
are overcharged with this world's riches would but imitate this good
little electrical angel, and impart of their superabundance to the
empty and the poor, they would, no doubt, even in this world, find a
much higher pleasure than in hoarding it up for ungrateful heirs, or
spending it on vanity." This he called "DIVES AND LAZARUS."

But it were an endless task to enumerate all the rare and beautiful
phenomena, wherewith he would surprise and delight the vast circles of
friends and citizens, whose curiosity was so pressing, that, as he
says, _it almost wore him out_.

Sometimes, in order to show them the force of electricity he would
turn his wires against a pack of cards, or a quire of paper, and the
subtle fluid would instantly dart through, leaving a beautiful
perforation like the puncture of a large needle.

Sometimes, to show the wondrous qualities of electricity, he would let
them see it darting, like a diamond bead, through a long cylinder of
water, not hurt, like other fires, by that element.

Sometimes he would place a young lady, generally the handsomest of the
company, on his electrical stool; then by slily touching her dress
with his magic wand, he would so fill her lovely frame with the
electric fluid, that, on the approach of any young gentleman to kiss
her, a spark from her ruby lips would suddenly drive him frightened
and staggering back. This was called the "MAGIC KISS."

Sometimes he would fix figures of horses cut in paper, on wires nicely
poised, so as to move in circles round his prime conductor, then, from
his magic wand, he would dash on them a stream of mimic lightning,
which, potent as the whips and spurs of Newmarket, would set them all
in full speed, bending and buckling with glorious emulation in the
beautiful contest, to the great amusement of the spectators. The
public named this the "ELECTRICAL HORSE RACE."

Sometimes he would suspend, near the ceiling, a large flock of finely
picked cotton, or place on a distant table, a paper of gunpowder; then
from his wires, artfully directed, he would send a flash of lightning,
instantly exploding the powder, and wrapping the cotton into a blaze.

Sometimes he would take the model of a double-geared water mill,
turning two pair of stones, and placing it near his prime conductor,
direct a stream of electric fire against the large wheel, setting it
in motion, and with it the whole machinery of his mill, to the equal
surprise and pleasure of the beholders.

Sometimes he would take the figures of the sun, moon, and earth, cut
in papers, and fix them on wires, nicely balanced. Then, by the force
of the electric fluid, he would set them a-going in most harmonious
style--the earth revolving round her own axis; the moon round the
earth; and both round the sun; all exactly according to the course
which the hand of the Creator had prescribed to these mighty orbs.

For the sake of those who have never considered this wonderful
attraction of lightning to iron rods, I beg leave to relate the
following very extraordinary and daring experiments of Dr. Franklin.

In a large chamber, which he kept for his electrical apparatus and
experiments, he suspended a number of bells, all connected by wires,
and communicating, through the gable end of the house, with the large
lightning rods that descended along the chimney to the ground. His aim
in this contrivance was, that he might know whenever a lightning cloud
passed over his house in the night; and also what freight of
electrical fluid it carried about with it. For, as it seldom passes,
without paying a loving visit to his rod, so it always told, with
great honesty, the amount of its inflammable cargo, especially if it
was ample; in which case, it was always sure to set the bells a
ringing at a terrible rate.

And besides these, he had numbers of men and women of the Lilliputian
stature, cut in paper, and so artfully attached to the clappers, that
as soon as the bells began to ring, the men and women began to dance
also, and all of them more and more merrily, according as this
extraordinary kind of music played up more briskly. But though, for
the amusement of his friends, Franklin would sometimes set his bells
and dolls to ringing and dancing, by his electricity, yet his main
object was, to invite the lightnings to be the bell ringers, and
dancing masters to his puppets, that, as before observed, he might
become better acquainted with the nature of lightning, and thus extend
his electrical experiments and knowledge.

But it must be owned, that when the lightnings were drawn down for
this purpose among the bells and wires of his chamber, the
entertainment was almost too terrible to be agreeable to any but
philosophers.

The elegant J. Dickinson, Esq. informed me, that he was at Dr.
Franklin's one evening, with a large party, when a dreadful cloud
began to rise, with distant thunder and lightning. The ladies, panic
struck, as usual, were all in a prodigious bustle for their bonnets,
to get home. The doctor entreated them not to be frightened; for that
they were in the safest house in Philadelphia; and indeed, jokingly
offered to underwrite their lives at the low premium of a groat a
head.

When the storm was near its worst, he invited his company up into his
large chamber. A glimmering light faintly showed them his electrical
apparatus of globes, cylinders, bells, wires, and the Lord knows what,
conveying to those of the superstitious sort, a strong idea of a magic
cell, or a haunted castle, at least. Presently a dreadful clap of
thunder shook the house over their heads, the chamber was filled with
vivid lightnings, darting like fiery serpents, crackling and hissing
along the wire all around them, while the strong smell of sulphur,
together with the screams of the poor ladies, and the ringing of the
bells, completed the terribleness of the scene, inspiring a fearful
sense of the invisible world.

"_But all these things, gentlemen_," he would say, smiling all the
time on his crowding and gaping friends, as a parent on his children,
whom he saw surprised at small matters, "_all these things are mere
nothings; the childish sportings of an art but yet in its cradle_.
ELECTRICITY, gentlemen, is of the terrible family of lightning, that
most powerful of the works of God on this globe, and the chosen
instrument of most of his operations here below. It is the electric
fluid, (passing from a full cloud to an empty one,) that makes his
voice, and that, as the scripture says, _a terrible voice_, even the
THUNDER, to terrify the guilty, and to increase in the virtuous a
becoming reverence of the Creator. For if the electric fluid passing
from a small jar, cause so loud a crack, why should we wonder at the
dreadful peals of thunder that are occasioned, when thousands and
myriads of acres of clouds are throwing off their electric fluid in
rivers of living fires, sufficient to blow up the globe itself, if the
Almighty were but to let loose his hold on these furious agents. And
this electric fluid is that same lightning which, as David says,
_shines out from one end of Heaven to another_, and that so
instantaneously, that were all the men, women, and children, on earth,
joining hands, to form a ring round this great globe, an electric
shock given to the first person in that ring, would so suddenly reach
the last, that they themselves would probably be at a loss to
determine which of them received it first.

"Thus the electric fluid, in the form of lightning, serves also in the
hand of heaven as the _red rod_ to restrain the vicious. Does the
benevolent governor of the world seek to impress a salutary awe on the
gambler, the drunkard, and such immoral characters, whose lives are in
constant opposition to their own and the happiness of others? He but
speaks to his ready ministers, the lightnings. Quickly, from the
sultry cloud, coming up with muttering thunder, black and terrible as
nature's approaching pall, the frightening flash bursts forth, rending
the trees and houses over their heads; killing their flocks and herds;
and filling the air with smoking sulphur, a strong memento of that
dismal place to which their evil practices are leading them. And when,
to unthinking mortals, he sees fit to read instruction on a wider
scale, he only needs but beckon to the ELECTRIC FLUID. Straightway
this subtle servant of his power rushes forth, clad in various forms
of terror, sometimes as the roaring WHIRLWIND, unroofing the palaces
of kings, and desolating the forests in its course. Sometimes with
dreadful stride it rushes forth upon the 'howling wilderness of
waves,' in shape of the funnelled water-spout, with hideous roar and
foam, whirling the frightened billows to the clouds, or dashing them
back with thundering crash into their dismal gulphs; while the hearts
of the seamen, looking on, sink with terror at the sight, and even
sharks and sea-monsters fly for refuge to their oozy caverns.

"Sometimes, with the bolder aim of the earthquake, it strikes both sea
and land at once, sending the frightened globe bellowing and trembling
along her orbit, sadly pondering the coming day, when the measure of
sin being filled up, she shall be wrapt in these _same electric
fires_, perhaps, and lose her place for ever among the starry train."

But though the experiments above mentioned are highly curious; and
also Dr. Franklin's reflections on them abundantly philosophical and
correct, for what I know, yet the world should learn that the
gratification of public curiosity formed but a very small part of his
many and grand discoveries in electricity. For soon as he had
ascertained that lightning was the same thing with the electric fluid,
and like it, so passionately fond of iron that it would forsake every
thing else in its course, to run along upon that beloved metal, he
conceived the plan of putting this discovery to those beneficent uses
for which alone he thought the power of discovery was given to man,
and which alone can consecrate it to the divine Giver.

"_The_ GRAND _practical use_," says the learned Mr. Immison, who,
though a Scotch monarchist himself, had the extraordinary virtue to be
a profound admirer of our republican American,--"the grand practical
use which Dr. Franklin made of this discovery was to secure houses and
ships from being damaged by lightning; a thing of vast consequence in
all parts of the world, but more especially in North America, where
thunder gusts are more frequent and their effects, in that dry air,
more dreadful than they are ever known to be with us. This great end
he accomplished by the cheap, and seemingly trifling, apparatus of a
pointed metallic rod, fixed higher than any part of the building, and
communicating with the ground, or rather the nearest water. This rod
the lightning is sure to seize upon preferably to any other part of
the building, unless it be very large; in which case, rods may be
erected at each extremity; by which means this dangerous power is
safely conducted to the earth, and dissipated without doing any harm
to the edifice."

Had any thing more been necessary to convince the world of the value
of lightning rods to buildings, it was abundantly furnished by several
very terrible instances of destruction which took place about this
time in several parts of America, for no other reason upon earth, as
every one must admit who reads the account, but the want of lightning
rods.

There, for example, was the affair of the new church, in the town of
Newberry, New-England. This stately building was adorned on its north
end with an elegant steeple or tower of wood, running up in a fine
square, seventy feet from the ground to the bell, and thence went off
in a taper spire of wood, likewise seventy feet higher, to the
weathercock. Near the bell was fixed an iron hammer to strike the
hours; and from the tail of the hammer, a wire went down through a
small gimblet hole in the floor that the bell stood upon, and through
a second floor in like manner; then horizontally under the plaistered
ceiling of that floor to a plaistered wall, then down that wall to a
clock which stood about twenty feet below the bell.

Now come, gentlemen, _you_ who have no faith in lightning rods--you
who think it _blasphemy_ to talk of warding off GOD ALMIGHTY'S
LIGHTNING!--as if it were not just as pleasing to him to see you
warding off the lightning by steel rods, as warding off the ague and
fever by jesuit's bark; come, I say, and see how very visibly he
approbates our works of wisdom, which make us like himself. You have
read the structure of this steeple--the top, a _seventy feet spire
without any rod_--then a rod that went down zigzag, about thirty feet;
then a plaistered brick and stone wall without any rod, to the ground.
A dreadful cloud came over the steeple. At the first flash, away went
the whole of the seventy foot wooden spire, scattered all over the
church yard in splinters fit to boil the preacher's tea kettle. The
lightning then found the iron wire which it instantly seized on,
quitting all things else for that, and darting along with it in so
close an embrace, as barely to widen a little the gimblet holes
through which it passed. It then followed the wire in all its
meanders, whether perpendicular or horizontal--never turning either to
the right or to the left, to hurt the building, but passed through it
the whole length of the wire, which was about thirty feet, as
harmlessly as a lamb. But soon as its dear chain was ended, it assumed
the furious lion again; attacking the building with the most
destructive rage, dashing its foundation stones to a great distance,
and in other respects damaging it dreadfully.

Now what can be more reasonable than doctor Franklin's remarks on this
very remarkable occurrence?

  "I. That lightning, in its passage through a building, will leave
wood, brick, or stone, to pass as far as it can in metal; and not
enter those again, till the metal conductor ceases.

 "II. The quantity of lightning that passed through this steeple must
have been very great, by its effects on the lofty spire, &c., and yet
great as this quantity was, it was conducted by a small wire without
the least damage to the building as far as the wire extended.

"III. Hence it seems probable, that if even such a small wire had been
extended from the top of the steeple to the earth, before the storm,
no damage would have been done by that stroke of lightning."

A fate exactly similar to this attended the great Dutch church, of New
York, in 1750. As far as the wire was extended, which was from the top
of the steeple, to within a few feet of the earth, the lightning
closely accompanied it, passing with it through small holes in the
floors, without doing the least damage. But the instant it quitted the
wire, it commenced its ravages on the building.

The summer of 1760 was dreadfully hot in Pennsylvania; and the thunder
gusts frequent and terrible. Several ships at the wharves were struck
and greatly injured. One of them in particular, a very large ship, had
her mainmast torn to pieces, and her captain and three seamen killed.
Of houses, both in town and country, many were struck; and some of
them, as barns with large quantities of hay, and warehouses with hemp,
were set on fire and destroyed to the great detriment and terror, both
of the unfortunate sufferers and their neighbours.

These things, though melancholy in themselves, were not without their
good effects. They served to place in the strongest point of view, the
admirable efficacy of the newly invented lightening rods. For, while
buildings destitute of them, were often struck, and sometimes with
great loss of lives and property, those houses that had them, were
hardly ever known to be hurt, though the neighbours who saw the dismal
clouds when they bursted, with such hideous peals of thunder and
streams of lightning, were sickened with horrid apprehension that all
was lost. And even the house keepers themselves, when recovered from
their terrors and faintings, would fly shrieking from chamber to
chamber, amidst the clouds of sulphur to see who were _dead_. But
behold, to the delicious wonder of themselves and congratulating
friends, all were safe. But still the cry was, _certainly the house
was struck! the house was surely struck! let us examine the
conductors_.

The conductors were resorted to and examined, and behold! the wondrous
laws imposed of God on the most powerful of his creatures! The furious
lightnings had fallen on the houses in torrents of fire, threatening a
wide destruction. But the iron rods, faithful to their trust, had
arrested the impending bolts, and borne them in safety to the ground.

But it was found that the cataracts of lightning had proved too
powerful for the rods; in some instances melting them in two at their
slenderest parts, and in others entirely consuming them into smoke.
But though these GUARDIAN RODS had perished in their conflict with the
rude lightnings, yet they had succeeded in parrying the dreadful
stroke with perfect safety to the buildings and their terrified
inhabitants; thus impressing all men with joy and thankfulness, _that
God had given such complete victory over one of the most terrible of
all our natural enemies_.

In short, to use the handsome language of president Adams, "nothing
perhaps that ever occurred on earth, could have better tended to
confer universal celebrity on man, than did these lightning rods of
doctor Franklin's. The idea was certainly one of the most sublime ever
suggested to the human imagination. That mortal man should thus be
taught to disarm the clouds of heaven, and almost snatch from his hand
'_the sceptre and the rod_!'"

The ancients would, no doubt, have enrolled among their gods, the
author of so wonderful an invention. Indeed the reputation which
Franklin acquired by it, not only in America, but in Europe also, far
transcended all conception. His _lightning rods_, or as the French
called them, his "_paratonerres_," erected their heads, not only on
the temples of God and the palaces of kings, but also on the masts of
ships and the habitations of ordinary citizens. The sight of them
every where reminded the gazing world of the name and character of
their inventor, who was thought of by the multitude as some _great
magician_ dwelling in the _fairy lands_ of North America, and to whom
God had given controul over the elements of nature.

And equally wonderful was the change produced by them in the state of
general comfort. The millions, who had hitherto trembled at the cloud
rising in the heat of summer, could now look on it with pleasing awe
as it rose dark and solemn, with all its muttering thunders. And even
amidst the mingled flash and crash of the earth shaking tornado, the
very women and children, if they had but Franklin _paratonerres_ to
their chimnies, would sit perfectly composed, silently adoring God for
teaching such great salvation to men.

But the pleasure which doctor Franklin found in these plaudits of an
honest world was not without an alloy. Though the end of his labours
had been to do good; yet he soon discovered that there were some who
sickened at his success. Alas!

    "Among the sons of men, how few are known
    Who dare be just to merit, not their own."

Certain invidious scribblers, in London and Paris, began to decry his
well-earned glory, by pretending that it was all due to the Abbe
Nollet, to doctor Gilbert, or some other wonderful Frenchman or
Englishman, as the real father of electricity. Franklin took no notice
of all this impotent malice; nor indeed was it necessary; for soon as
it dared to present its brazen front in print, it was attacked by the
first-rate philosophers of Europe, who nobly taking the part of
Franklin, soon showed, to the general satisfaction, that whatever
others may have dreamed about the late wonderful discoveries in
electricity, they were all due, under God, to the great American
philosopher, who for these, and many other important discoveries, had
a good right to share with Newton in the following bold compliment.

    "Nature and nature's works lay hid in night,
    God said, let Franklin be, and all was light."




CHAPTER XXXVII.


A curious demonstration of Dr. Franklin's philosophy of lightning.
About thirty-four years after this date, when Doctor Franklin, by his
opposition to Lord North's measures, had become very unpopular, George
III. was persuaded to pull down the _sharp points_ of that "HOARY
REBEL," and set up the _blunts_ of an impudent quack, because,
forsooth, he was a _loyal subject_! Scarcely were the _sharps_ taken
down from the palace, to which, during thirty four years, they had
been an excellent safeguard, before a dismal cloud rose upon the city,
black as midnight, and when right over the palace discharged a
cataract of electric fluid, with horrid glare and thunder, stunning
all ears, blinding all eyes, and suffocating every sense with the
smell of sulphur. The famous _blunt conductors_ presented no point to
catch the bolt, which, dashing at the stately edifice, tore away all
its gable end, marring the best apartments, and killing several of the
king's servants.

Shortly arrived the packet from New York, with news of a far more
dreadful thunder-clap which had bursted on poor George in America--the
capture of his grand Canada army! which Lord North had promised him
should soon bring the rebels to their marrow bones. The next day the
following pasquinade made its appearance in the newspapers:

    "While you, great George, intent to hunt,
    Your sharp Conductors change to blunt,
            The nation's out of joint;
    Franklin a wiser course pursues,
    And all your thunder fearless views,
            By sticking to the POINT."

I cannot quit this subject without observing, that from Dr. Franklin's
experiments it appears, that death by lightning, must be the easiest
of all deaths.

"In September, 1752," says he, "six young Germans, apparently doubting
the truth of the reported force of electricity, came to me to see," as
they said, "if there was _any thing in it_. Having desired them to
stand up side by side, I laid one end of my discharging rod on the
head of the first; this laid his hand on the head of the second, that
on the head of the third, and so on to the last, who held in his hand
the chain that was attached to the lightning globe. On being asked if
they were ready, they answered _yes_, and boldly desired that I would
give them a _thumper_; I then gave them a shock; whereat they all
dropped down together. When they got up, they declared that they had
not felt any stroke; and wondered how they came to fall. Nor did any
of them _hear_ the crack, or _see_ the light of it."

He tells another story equally curious. "A young woman, afflicted with
symptoms of a palsy in the foot, came to receive an electrical shock.
Heedlessly stooping too near the prime conductor, she received a smart
stroke in the forehead, of which she fell like one perfectly lifeless
on the floor. Instantly she got up again complaining of nothing, and
wondering much why she fell, for that nothing of the sort had ever
happened to her before."

Nay, he also tells us of himself, that by accident, he received a
shock which in an instant brought him to the floor, without giving him
time to _see, hear, or feel any thing of the matter_! Hence he
concludes, and I think with good reason, that all who dread the idea
of pain in dying, would do well to pray, if it be God's will, to die
of _coelataction_, as the ancients called it, or a _touch from
heaven_.

It is worthy of remark, that persons thus knocked down, do not
_stagger_, or fall _lengthwise_, but as if deprived instantaneously
of strength and firmness, they sink down at once, doubled or folded
together, or as we say, "_all in a heap_."

Dr. Franklin seldom suffered any thing to escape him. From the power
of lightning to dissolve the hardest metals, he caught an idea
favourable to cooking and matrimony. First, an old dunghill cock
killed in the morning by a shock from his electrical jar, by dinner
was become so tender that both the doctor and several of his literary
friends pronounced it equal to a young pheasant. Second, an old
bachelor thought to be far gone in a consumption, had hardly received
more than a couple of dozen smart shocks of electricity, before he
turned into courting with great spirit, and presently got himself a
wife.

If electrical jars could be had cheap, this discovery concerning the
old dunghill cock might prove a good hint to those gentlemen in the
_tavern-keeping_ line, who are so very frugal that they will not keep
up a coop full of young poultry, fat and fine, and always ready for
the traveller, but prefer giving him the pain, long after his arrival
at their door, to hear the lean tenants of the dunghill flying and
squalling from the pursuit of the barking dogs and noisy servants.

And as to the experiment on the other kind of old CAPON, the grunting
wheezing old bachelor, it clearly points to the wish often expressed
by Dr. Franklin, viz. "_that the legislature would order an electrical
machine, large enough to kill a turkey cock at least, to be placed in
every parish, at the cost and for the benefit of all the old bachelors
of the same_."




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


I have been told that Dr. Franklin on his death bed often returned
thanks to God for having so kindly cast his lot of life in the very
time when of all others he would have chosen to live for the great
purposes of usefulness and pleasure. And so indeed it appears; for
scarcely had he matured, as above, his most useful discoveries in
electricity, before a new door was opened to him for another noble
charity to his country.

Some there are who for a good work begun by themselves will do every
thing; but for the same work begun by others will do nothing; and yet
will call themselves christians. Franklin lived to set the example of
a better christianity. A notable instance of this occurred about this
time, 1754.

A Dr. Thomas Bond, having noticed a number of families so extremely
poor, as to be in imminent danger not only of suffering grievously in
case of sickness, but of actually perishing for want of wholesome food
and medicine, generously undertook, by subscription, to build a
hospital for these sufferers. Meeting with but little encouragement,
and knowing Dr. Franklin's influence and public spirit, he applied to
him for assistance. Perfectly indifferent who got the praise, provided
he but shared the pleasure of founding so god-like an institution,
Franklin entered very heartily into the plan with Dr. Bond, and
inserted in his newspaper, a series of essays, "_on the great duty of
charity to the sick and miserable_," which made such an impression on
the public mind, that the noble sum of twelve thousand dollars was
quickly subscribed. With this the trustees bought a lot, and finished
one wing of their hospital, for immediate use. On the foundation stone
is to be seen the following inscription by Dr. Franklin:

    "In the year of Christ MDCCLV, George the Second, _happily
    reigning_, (For he sought the HAPPINESS OF HIS PEOPLE,)
    Philadelphia _flourishing_, (For its inhabitants were _public
    spirited_,) This Building By the bounty of the Government And of
    many private persons Was piously founded For the relief of the
    _sick_ and _miserable_. MAY THE GOD OF MERCIES BLESS THE
    UNDERTAKING!"

Never did benevolence put up an ejaculation more fervent. And never
was one more signally answered. Indeed the blessings of heaven have
been so signally showered on this excellent charity, that it now forms
one of brightest ornaments of the fairest city in America, presenting
to the delighted eye of humanity a noble front, of elevation and
extent far beyond that of Solomon's temple, even a royal range of
buildings, two and three stories high, two hundred and seventy-eight
feet long, and forty wide, containing about one hundred and thirty
spacious well-aired rooms, for the accommodation of the sick, wounded,
and lunatic of every description; affectionately waited on by skilful
physicians and active nurses; comforted by refreshing baths both hot
and cold; and abundantly supplied with the best loaf bread, nice
vegetables, fresh meats, soups, wines and medicines.

And while other parts of the city have been very sickly; and
especially in the summer of 1793, when no fewer than 4000 persons
perished of the yellow fever, not a single case of disease occurred in
this hospital. The destroying angel as he passed along, smelt the
odour of that precious grace (charity) which embalmed the building,
and let fall his avenging sword.

Gentlemen travellers falling sick in Philadelphia, will please be
informed of this famous hospital, that if they wish excellent
physicians, experienced nurses, pleasant chambers, pure air, and sweet
retirement, they may here have all those of the first quality at _half
price_; and _even_ THAT a _donation_ to the _Institution_.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


Dr. Franklin, about this time, 1756, commenced his political career.

When we see some peerless _Childers_, (whose figure almost proves the
divinity of matter, and who in matchless speed leaves the stormy winds
behind him,) bending under the weight of a miller's bag, or tugging at
the hames of some drunken carman, how can we otherwise than mourn such
a prostitution of excellences; so how can we but mourn, when we see
such a man as Franklin, born for those divine arts which widen our
empire over nature, and multiply a thousand-fold the comforts of life,
wasting his precious time in combatting the unreasonable claims of
selfish and wicked man?

This, for a portion of his eventful life, was the sad destiny of Dr.
Franklin. Scarcely had he passed his first forty years in his
favourite philosophical labours, equally useful to the world, and
delightful to himself, when he was at once stopped short--stopped by
the voice of public gratitude. The wise and virtuous people of
Pennsylvania, chiefly quakers, who estimate a man, not by the fineness
of his coat, but the _usefulness_ of his life, were not to overlook
such a man as Franklin. His astonishing industry, and his many
valuable inventions, had long made him the favourite theme of their
talk. But it was not for approbation so general and hearty, to be
satisfied with _mere talk._

_What shall be done for the man whom the people delighteth to honour?_
was the question in every circle. _God, they said, has lighted up this
candle for our use, it must not be hid under a bushel. Let it be
placed on the great candlestick of the nation, the_ LEGISLATURE. So
strong, indeed, was the public feeling in his favour, that from
several of the wards, deputations were appointed to wait upon him, to
beg he would serve the city as their representative in the house of
burgesses.

The sight of his name in the papers, as a candidate at the next
election, to serve the city of Philadelphia, gave a general joy. Among
his opponents were several of the wealthiest citizens, who had long
served as representatives, and whose numerous friends could not bear
the idea of their being turned out. Great exertions were made on both
sides; and the polls were uncommonly crowded. But when the contest
came to issue, it was found that the Philadelphia printer, and son of
the good old psalm-singing Boston tallow-chandler, carried the day
with great ease.

_O ye simple ones, how long will you love simplicity!_ you, I mean,
who can once a year look sweetly on your constituents, and once a year
invite them to barbacues, and make them drunk with whiskey, thus
ignobly begging those votes which you feel you have not the sense to
deserve, O learn from this your great countryman, wherein consists the
true art of electioneering; not in ignoble tricks like these, to court
the little, but in high qualifications, like Dr. Franklin's, to be
courted by the great.

The exalted expectations formed of him by the public were not
disappointed. Heartily a lover of man and the friend of equal rights,
he had scarcely taken his seat in the legislature before he had to
turn the torrent of his honest indignation against the _proprietaries_
and their creatures the _Governors_.

The reader will please here be reminded that in the year 1680, that
great GOOD man, William Penn, a quaker, was paid off a large claim
against Charles II. of England, by a grant of lands in North America.
To make the best of a bad bargain, honest William gathered together a
caravan of his poor persecuted brethren, and taking ship came over to
North America.

The good angel that guided the steps of pious Jacob as he sojourned
from Padan-aram to the land Uz, seeking a rest, guided Penn and his
gentle followers to the mouth of the Delaware bay. He followed the
stately flood in all its wanderings among the green marshes and
forests of the new found world, until he reached the pleasant spot
where now Philadelphia stands. The majestic grove that shaded the
extended level on the western bank, bordered on the back by the
beautiful serpentine river called by the natives, the SCHUYLKILL,
struck his eye as a fine site for his future city.

Abhorring the idea of killing his fellow men, the poor natives, and
taking away their lands, he sent around among them the Calumet, or
_pipe of peace_, inviting them to "A FRIENDLY TALK." Painted in red
ochre, and decked in all the savage pomp of wild skins and feathers,
the kings of the soil with all their simple tribes assembled
themselves together. The meeting was in the summer of 1681, under the
trees near the margin of the great river. The scene was lovely to the
eye of humanity. The red and white men from different continents were
seen to meet, not as enemies for mutual slaughter, but as brothers for
loving commerce. The shores were covered with British merchandize. The
eyes of the simple children of nature sparkled on those rich wares,
the like of which they had never seen before.

Penn gave them every thing. He gave them precious axes to master the
forests; and still more magic guns to master the wolves and panthers.
He gave them warm clothes for defence against the cold, and
plough-shares and hoes for plentiful harvests. In return they gave him
that large tract of land in their country, which, in honour of this
good man, has been called Pennsylvania. Instantly the aged forests
began to resound with the strokes of axes and the crash of falling
trees. And the corner stone was laid of the new city, which, with
great propriety, was named of Penn, PHILADELPHIA, or the city of
_brotherly love_.

Having thus laid, the foundation of this colony in JUSTICE to the poor
natives, and in generosity to his own followers in the great cheapness
of his lands, in perfect liberty of conscience, and in the exceeding
moderation of his government, this wise statesman then looked to God
for his blessings. Nor did he look in vain, The fame of "PENN COLONY"
resounded throughout Great Britain. An immense emigration were quickly
on their way to Pennsylvania. The young city grew apace, and farms and
fair buildings in the country, spread in every direction with a
rapidity unequalled in history.

But alas! when honest William fell asleep, there rose after him a race
of heirs "_who knew not Joseph_;" who not content, _like him_, with
modest drab, and simple dinners, and aspiring to the true happiness of
imitating God in godlike loves and deeds, basely prostituted their
hearts to carnal lusts and pride.

The worship of these gods, though contemptible, is costly; and to
these _wet-quaker_ successors of the good William Penn, nothing
promised such a swelling revenue as a bold rise in the price of their
lands. And in this pitiful kind of management they soon gave the
Pennsylvanians to understand that like Rehoboam of old, "_their little
fingers were heavier than their father's loins_." I have not been able
to procure any thing like certainty as to the sum that GOOD William
Penn gave to the natives for the vast tract of land he purchased of
them. But that he hardly gave at the rate of a _hatchet_ for what is
now a noble farm, may be very fairly inferred. In 1754, which was
seventy years later than the first purchase, the house of Penn bought
of the Indians seven millions of acres lying within the ROYAL GRANT.
And what do you suppose they gave for it? what do you suppose they
gave for seven millions of acres of rich, heavy timbered Pennsylvania
land? why not quite two thousand dollars! not _three cents_ the
hundred acres! And what do you suppose they immediately asked for it?
why _fifteen pounds ten shillings!_ near fifty thousand cents per
hundred acres! And yet with such a bank of millions in hand they were
not willing to bear their part of the taxes for public good!!

Like the starched Pharisees of old, they could throw heavy weights on
other men's shoulders, but not suffer a fly to light on theirs. They
could smile when they saw the officer going round with his ink horn
and pen, noting down the poor man's paddock, but if he but looked at
their princely manors and parks they would make the whole colony ring
with it.

Grown beyond calculation rich by the sales and rents of their lands in
America, they scorned the country of their illustrious predecessor,
and went over to London, where they mimicked the pride and pageantry
of princes.

Thinking they did the obscure Pennsylvanians honour enough to govern
them by _proxy_, they washed their hands of the poor colony
government, and sent them over deputies. These, hirelings, to augment
their salaries, soon commenced a course of oppressions on the people,
whom they treated with great insolence.

It were too great an honour to those wretches to set the people of the
present day to reading their insolent messages to the legislature.
They were always, however, very properly chastised by Dr. Franklin;
sometimes in the columns of his own popular newspaper, and sometimes
in the assembly. Not, indeed, by long and eloquent orations, for which
he either had no talent, or declined it, preferring the pithy and
pungent _anecdote_ or _story_, which was always so admirably
appropriate, and withal so keen in wit and truth, that like a flash
from his own lightning rods, it never failed to demolish the fairest
fabric of sophistry, and cause even its greatest admirers to blush
that they had been so fascinated by its false glare.

In 1756, he was appointed deputy post-master general for the British
colonies. It is asserted that in _his_ hands, the post-office in
America yielded annually thrice as much as did that of Ireland. An
extraordinary proof of our passion for reading and writing beyond the
Irish. Perhaps it was owing to this that we saved our liberties, while
they lost theirs.

Several of the middle colonies suffering much at this time from Indian
depredations on their frontiers, it was agreed among them to send
commissioners to Albany to devise means for mutual defence. Dr.
Franklin, commissioner on the part of Pennsylvania, had the honour to
draw up a plan, which was thought excellent. Knowing the colonists to
be the best marksmen in the world, and supposing it infinitely safer
that the defence of their own firesides should be entrusted to them
than to British hirelings, he had with his usual sagacity recommended
that muskets and powder should be put into their hands.

But when his plan was presented to the KING and COUNCIL for
ratification, it was indignantly rejected. It was thought by some that
hardly could Satan and his black janisaries have been more seriously
offended, had a cargo of Bibles and hymn books been recommended for
their pandemonium.

The truth is, the British ministry had for a long time depressed the
unfortunate Americans into mere _hewers of wood and drawers of water_,
by making them bring all their rich produce of tobaccos, furs, &c. to
English ports, and there give them the meanest prices; sometimes a
penny, and even half a penny a pound for their brightest tobacco,
which they would the next hour sell to the Dutch merchants for two
shillings a pound. To preserve such a trade as this, as Lord Howe
ingenuously confessed, from going into any other channel, was a grand
object to the ministry. But this they could not long count on, if the
Americans were furnished with muskets, cannon, and powder. They
therefore, very prudently, determined to leave Dr. Franklin's
_excellent marksmen_ out of the question, and confide to their own
creatures the protection of a country whose trade could so _well repay
them for it_.

But their folly in preferring such troops was soon made evident, as
Franklin had predicted. In the spring of 1755, two thousand veterans,
the elite of the British military, were sent over to drive the French
from the Ohio. One half that number of Virginia riflemen would have
done the business completely. But such was the ministerial jealousy of
the American riflemen, and so great their dread to embody and arm that
kind of troops, that they permitted no more than three companies to
join the army. And even these were so ludicrously scrimped up by
governor Dinwiddie, in jackets scarcely reaching to their waists, that
they became a mere laughing stock of the British army, who never
called them by any other name than the "VIRGINIA SHORT RUMPS." Many
believed that this was done purposely, that by being thus constantly
laughed at, they might be _cowed_ thereby, and be led to think meanly
of themselves, as quite an inferior sort of beings to the MIGHTY
ENGLISH. But blessed be God whose providence always takes part with
the oppressed. A few short weeks only elapsed when this motley army
was led, by an incautious commander, into a fatal ambuscade of the
French and Indians--general Braddock, at the head of his 2000 British
veterans, and young George Washington at the head of his two hundred
"_Virginia short rumps_." Then was displayed the soundness of Dr.
Franklin's judgment, in the wide difference, as to _self-possession
and hard fighting_, between these two kind of troops.

The conceited Englishmen behaved no better than WILD TURKIES; while
the despised "_Virginia short rumps_" fought like lions, and had the
glory of saving the wreck of the British army.

This sad defeat had like to have ruined doctor Franklin, by whose
credit with the Pennsylvanians, colonel Dunbar of the rear guard of
his army, had been furnished with fifty wagons, which were all burnt
on the retreat. His escape from this danger was owing to the
generosity of governor Shirley, who learning that Franklin had
incurred this debt on account of the British government, undertook to
discharge it.

Seeing no end to the vexation and expense brought on the colony by
those selfish beings, the PROPRIETARIES, the assembly came at length,
to the resolution to petition the king to abolish the proprietary
government, and take the colony under his own care. Doctor Franklin
was appointed to the honour of presenting this petition to his majesty
George II. and sailed for England, June, 1757.

Learning at last that by obstinately contending for _too much_, they
might possibly lose _all_, the proprietaries signified to doctor
Franklin a willingness that their land should be _taxed_.

After the completion of this important business, Franklin remained at
the court of Great Britain as agent for the province of Pennsylvania.
The extensive knowledge which he possessed of the situation of the
colonies and the regard which he always manifested for their
interests, occasioned his appointment to the same office by the
colonies of Massachusetts, Maryland and Georgia.

He had now an opportunity of visiting those illustrious Englishmen,
whom his useful writings and discoveries had strongly bound to him,
though they had never seen his face. The high opinion which they had
formed of him at a distance, was greatly increased by a personal
acquaintance.

Such vastness of mind with such sweetness of spirit and simplicity of
manners, formed a spectacle as rare as it was lovely. And as a proof
that SUPERIOR SENSE and superior benevolence will always prevail
against prejudice, he was now courted by those learned societies who
formerly affected to deride his discoveries in philosophy and
electricity. The Royal Society of London, which had at first refused
his performances admission into its transactions, now deemed it an
honour to class him among its fellows. The universities of St.
Andrews, of Edinburgh, and Oxford, conferred on him the degree of
doctor of laws; and the most distinguished philosophers of Europe
sought his correspondence. In reading his letters to those great men,
we are at a loss which most to admire, the majesty of his sense, or
the simplicity of his style. While in England, which was from July,
1757, to July, '62, he suggested to the British ministry the duty of
dispossessing the French of that great country on the north of our
colonies called Canada. To this end, he published his famous _Canada
pamphlet_, exhibiting in strong colours the many mischiefs and murders
committed on his countrymen, even in times of peace, by the Indians in
French pay. This little tract served to rouse the British nation to
the pitch he desired.

An army of English regulars and New-England militia were sent under
the command of general Wolfe, who presently succeeded in driving the
French out of a fine country, of which, by their cruelties, they had
rendered themselves utterly unworthy.

About this time the celebrated doctor Cullen, of Scotland, made some
curious discoveries in the art of producing cold by evaporation.
Hoping that the genius of Franklin might throw some lights on this
dawning science, a friend of doctor Cullen's wrote a statement of the
facts to Franklin. The American philosopher, though now immersed in
political pursuits, took a little leisure to repeat doctor Cullen's
experiments on cold, which he so improved as easily to produce ICE in
the _dog days_. But it was one of those discoveries, which, as he
says, he _never valued, because it was too expensive to be of general
utility_.

About the autumn of 1761, he rendered himself prodigiously popular
among the ladies in London, by completing that sweet toned little
instrument of music, the HARMONICA.

I have been told that his fame at court on this account, so awakened
the recollection of George III. that he caused it to be signified to
Dr. Franklin, that he felt a disposition to "_do something for him_."
Our philosopher replied, that he wanted nothing for himself,
but--that, _he had a son in America_. The king took the hint, and
immediately made out a commission of "_Governor of his colony of New
Jersey, for his beloved subject, Temple Franklin, Esq._" On such small
things are the fortunes of men sometimes founded!

Doctor Franklin was now become so great a favourite that the people of
all classes seemed to take a pride in talking of him, and his sayings,
insomuch that not a word of the brilliant sort could fall from his
lips but it was sure to be caught up instantly and re-echoed through
every circle, from proud St. James to humble St. Giles. The following
impromptu made a great noise in London about this time.

One evening in a large party at his friend Vaughan's he was,
laughingly, challenged by a very beautiful girl, a Miss Gun, to make
her a couplet of verses _extempore_. Well, madam, replied he, with
great gallantry, since every body is offering a tribute to your
graces, let me tender the following:

    "Cupid now to ensure his fun,
    Quits his _bow_ and takes to _gun_."

This handsome play on her name instantly suffused the cheeks of Miss
Gun with celestial roses, making her look much more like an angel than
before.

I mention this merely to show what an extraordinary mind that man must
have possessed, who with such equal ease, could play the _Newton_ or
the _Chesterfield_, and charm alike the lightnings and the ladies.

In the summer of 1762, he took leave of his friends in England to
return to his native country. On his voyage he discovered in oil or
grease thrown on the water, a property, which few people ever dreamt
of. When we learn of _gold_ that it may by beating, be expanded into a
leaf of such incredible fineness, that a guinea might in that way be
made to cover Solomon's temple, or deck Noah's ark, we are filled with
wonder of such a metal. Doctor Franklin tells us of equal wonders in
oil. He informs us, that a wine glass full of pure oil poured on a
mill pond, will presently spread over it, with a film inconceivably
thinner than a cobweb, and so adhesive that the winds shall not excite
it to mad-caps and breakers. Hence, he infers, that oil might be made
a mean of saving ships during a violent storm at sea.

In this voyage he made also another discovery, which ought to be known
to all going by sea, viz. that if persons perishing of thirst on a
voyage, would but bathe half a dozen times a day in the sea water,
which they easily might, by using their empty water casks as bathing
tubs, they would obtain great relief from their thirst, and live
several days longer; thence enjoying a better chance for their lives,
by getting into port, or falling in with some friendly sail.

On his arrival in Philadelphia doctor Franklin was welcomed with marks
of the most flattering respect by the citizens universally--handsome
addresses and dinners were given him by literary societies and
clubs--and the assembly, in the most public manner voted him their
thanks for "the great honour and services he had rendered the country
in general during his residence in England; and especially to the
province of Pennsylvania." And they accompanied their thanks with a
present of five thousand pounds.

Ye blind parents who can think hard of laying out a few dollars for
books and education of your children, O think of this, and learn a
course of conduct more to your own credit and to their temporal and
eternal welfare.

In a few weeks after his return to Philadelphia there occurred in that
neighbourhood an affair that serves to show the popularity of doctor
Franklin in a very strong light.

In consequence of a number of murders committed on the frontiers by
some villanous Indians, about a hundred and twenty young men of
Dauphin county, christians in _name_ but perfect savages in nature,
bound themselves by a horrid oath to exterminate a little tribe of
about twenty tame Indians, who lived very harmlessly among the whites
in York county. Mounted on horses, and with rifles and tomahawks in
their hands, they set off very deliberately on this hellish errand
towards the settlements of the poor Indians. The old men, women, and
children, in the cabins, soon fell weltering in their blood. The rest,
who were at work, getting notice, fled to Lancaster, and were lodged
in the jail as in a place of security. The blood thirsty whites broke
open the jail and butchered every soul. All smeared with innocent
blood, and furious as demons, they then pushed off for Philadelphia,
to massacre the feeble remains of a friendly tribe who had fled into
that city for protection. The governor issued his proclamation. The
rioters paid no regard to it, but moved on rapidly, well armed, and
determined to cut their way to the hated Indians over the bodies of
all who should oppose them. They are now on this side of Germantown,
only one hour's march from Philadelphia. The inhabitants are all in
terror. The governor quits his palace, and for safety flies to the
house of doctor Franklin. He, calm as he was wont to be amidst the
lightnings as they darted around him on his rods, went out to meet the
rioters. We sincerely regret that we cannot give the speech which he
made on this memorable occasion. It must have been impressive in a
most extraordinary degree; for on hearing it they instantly abandoned
their hellish design and returned peaceably to their homes!




CHAPTER XL.


Had the fatal sisters, even now, put forth their shears and clipped
his thread, yet would not the friend of man "_have fallen without
his fame_." Admiring posterity would still have written on his
tomb,

    _Here lies the GREAT FRANKLIN._

But though great now, he is destined to be much greater still. A
crisis is approaching that is to call forth all his talents, and to
convince even the most unthinking, that in the dark day of trouble the
"_wise shall shine forth like the firmament_." By the crisis here
mentioned, I mean the events leading to the American revolution.

The British cabinet, as if entire strangers to that divine philosophy
which commands its disciples to be "_no respecters of persons_,"
allowed themselves in the most fatal policy of sparing the British
subjects in _England_ at the expense of the British subjects in
_America_. After having drained much money from them in a variety of
unconstitutional ways, they came at length to the resolution of taxing
_the colonies without their consent_.

This dark design was hinted in 1754, by the minister, to governor
Shirley, of the Massachusetts-Bay colony. The governor, well knowing
his extraordinary penetration and judgment, broke this ministerial
plan to Dr. Franklin; requesting _his_ opinion of it. Dr. Franklin
answered this question of the governor, by urging an "_immediate union
of the colonies with great Britain, by allowing them representatives
in parliament_," as the only thing that could prevent those ceaseless
encroachments on the one side, and those bitter animosities on the
other, which, _he feared_, would one day prove the ruin of both
countries. As to the ministerial plan of taxing the colonies by act of
parliament, where they have no representation, he assured the governor
that it would prove utterly abominable. "His majesty, sir," said he to
the governor, "has no subjects in all his wide dominions, who more
heartily love him than do his American subjects. Nor do there exist on
earth, the Englishmen who hold more dear the glory of old England than
they do. But the same spirit of their gallant forefathers, which makes
them ready to lay down their lives and fortunes, in a constitutional
way, for their king and country, will for ever secure them from being
slaves. We exult, sir, in the recollection, that of all the
governments on earth, that of Great Britain has long been the
_freest_; and that more blood has been shed for freedom's sake in
England in one week, than on the whole continent for fifty years. Now,
on the bright face of that government, the first and fairest feature
is this: that no king can touch a penny belonging to the poorest
subject, without his own consent, by his representative in parliament.
For, if, say they, '_a king can at pleasure take our money, he can
take every thing else; since with that he can easily hire soldiers to
rob, and then murder us if we but open our lips against him_.' As
Americans glory in being Englishmen on the western side of the
Atlantic, they very naturally claim the common right of Englishmen,
not to be taxed without their own consent, by their representatives in
parliament. But the British ministry, though they obstinately refuse
to the Americans the sacred rights of representation, yet as wickedly
insist on the right of _taxation_; and accordingly have brought into
parliament the famous _stamp act bill_, whereby no business that
requires a record on paper, as _deeds_, _bonds_, _wills_, _marriages_,
_&c._ can be legally done but on paper that has received the _royal
stamp_. Now, sir, you well know that the same minister who proposes
this most iniquitous and unconstitutional act, would not dare propose
to any the most drunken tavern-keeper in England, a farthing tax on a
pot of his ale without the consent of his representative in
parliament; and yet, without being allowed a hearing in parliament,
_three millions_ of free-born Americans, sons of Englishmen, are to be
taxed at the pleasure of a distant minister! Not, honoured sir, that
the Americans care a fig for the _pence_ imposed on this bit of stamp
paper, but for the _principle_. For they well know that if parliament
claim a _right_ to take from us a penny in the pound, there is no line
drawn to bound that right; and what shall hinder their calling
whenever they please for the other _nineteen shillings and eleven
pence_? And besides, sir, where is the necessity for this _most
degrading_ measure? Have not the Americans ever shown themselves the
warmest friends of their king and country? Have they not, in all cases
of danger, most readily voted both their men and money to the full
extent of their means, and sometimes far beyond?

"And in addition to all this, are they not daily paying large monies
in secret taxes to Great Britain?

  "I. We are not _permitted to trade with foreign nations_! All the
difference in the price of what we could buy cheaper from them, but
must buy dearer from Britain, is a clear _tax_ to Britain.

 "II. We are obliged to _carry our produce to Britain_! All that
it sells for less _there_ than it would in any other market, is a
clear _tax_ to Britain.

"III. All the manufactures that we could make, but are
_forbidden_ and must buy of British merchants, is a clear
_tax_ to Britain.

"And what _freeborn_ Englishman can, without indignation, think of
being so daringly defrauded of his _birthright_, that if he wants a
pipe of good wine, he cannot go to the island of Madeira and get it on
easy exchange for his bread stuff, and return at once to his home and
business; but must go a thousand miles farther from his family, even
to Great Britain, and there run the gauntlet, through so many ruinous
charges, as to bring his wine up to almost double what it ought to
have cost? And all this most flagrant injustice done to the whole
people of the colonies, just to enrich half a dozen British merchants
engaged in the Portugal wine trade!

"A similar outrage on another of the dearest rights of Englishmen,
_i.e._ '_to make the most that they honestly can of their property_,'
is committed on the British subjects in America, for the sake of
favouring a few hatters and nail makers in England. No country on the
globe, furnishes better iron or better beaver than does North America.
But the Americans must not make a hob-nail or a felt hat for
themselves. No; they must send all their iron and fur to England for
the hatters and nail makers _there_; who may give them their own price
for the raw materials, and ask their own price for the manufactures.

"All that a wise government wishes, is, that the people should be
numerous and wealthy enough to _fight the battles_ of their country,
and to _pay the taxes_. But they care not so much whether the fighting
be done by John or Thomas, or the tax paid by William or Charles.

"What imports it to the government, whether a merchant, a smith, or a
hatter, grows rich in Old England or New England? And if, through
increase of the people, _two_ smiths are wanted for _one_ employed
before, why may not the _new_ smith be allowed to live and thrive in
the _new_ country, as well as the _old_ in the _old_? In short, why
should the countenance of a state be _partially_ afforded to its
people, unless it be most in favour of those who have most merit?"

The whig papers in London soon got this letter, and laid it before the
public.

Among a high-minded people like the British, who pride themselves in
their love of liberty and their perfect scorn of _foul play_, such
sentiments could not be read without the liveliest emotions. And
though some, the ministerial junto for example, with the merchants and
manufacturers, did not like such plain truths, yet the nation in
general gave him great credit both for his singular honesty and
abilities; and the name of Dr. Franklin became very dear to thousands
of the most enlightened and virtuous patriots of Britain.

But the pleasure of admiration was dashed with fear, that the minister
would suffer no good to be done to the nation by all this divine
counsel, merely because the giver was not an _Englishman_.

The lights, however, which Dr. Franklin had thrown on this great
subject, were pressed upon the minister with such courage by numbers
of honest English writers, that he prudently delayed ordering the
collection of the tax until he could get further information. It was
not long before an opportunity was offered him to obtain this
information in a way highly complimentary to Dr. Franklin, _i.e._ by
summoning him, then in London as colony agent from Pennsylvania,
February 2, 1766, _to appear before the Bar of the British House of
Commons, to answer certain questions, &c._

The next day, accompanied by Mr. Strahan, afterwards member of
parliament, with several illustrious Englishmen, his warm friends, he
went to the house. The concourse was immense. _To see Dr.
Franklin_--the American, whose philosophical discoveries and political
writings had filled the world with his name, excited universal
curiosity. The galleries were filled with ladies of the first
distinction, and every seat below was occupied by the members from the
house of lords. At ten o'clock he appeared at the bar before the eager
waiting crowd. The profoundest silence ensued. All eyes were fixed on
him; and, from their deep regard, it appeared, that though they beheld
no stars nor garters glittering on his breast, no burning velvets nor
flaming diamonds adorning his person, yet they were not disappointed.
They beheld a spectacle still more interesting and novel.--The
spectacle of a man whose simple dress evinced that he asked no aid of
the tailor and silkworm to recommend him, but stood solely on the
majesty of his mind. The hour for examination being come, and the
attendant officer beckoning him thereto, he arose--

"And in his rising seemed a pillar of state--deep on his brow engraven
deliberation sat and public care. His looks drew audience and
attention still as night, or summer's noontide air."

Who can paint the looks of the minister, as with darkly scowling
eye-balls, he beheld this terror of aristocracy! or who can paint the
NOBLE LORDLINGS, as lost in equal _stare_, they gazed and gazed at the
wondrous American, forgetting the while, "_to quiz_," as they were
wont, "_his homespun coat and simple shoe-strings_."

But never did the mind-illumined looks of man shine more divinely
bright than did those, that day, of the generous Barry, the godlike
Chatham, and the high-minded Dunning, when they beheld the noble form
of Franklin. Though born in North America, he shines before their eyes
as a true born son of Britain--the luminous and brave interpreter of
her SACRED CONSTITUTION, and the wise politician who seeks to exalt
her glory, lasting as the skies, on the broad base of impartial
justice to all her children. With eyes sparkling with esteem
unutterable, they hail him as a brother; and breathe the ardent wish
that in the impending examination he may succeed in diverting the
minister from that unconstitutional course which may involve the ruin
both of England and America.

The moment for trial being come, and the minister giving the signal to
begin, the speaker thus commenced:--

_Q._ What is your name and place of abode?

_A._ Franklin, of Philadelphia.

Here followed nearly _three hundred questions_ and _answers_, which
were once read with exceeding interest by men, women, and children in
America. But as they turn altogether on that great quarrel which the
British ministry formerly excited in this country; and which God, to
his endless glory, was pleased to put asleep in our favour near half a
century ago, then let all these questions and answers lie asleep with
it. However, it is but justice to Dr. Franklin to observe, that when
we consider these questions, what a wide range they take both of the
British and American _relations_ and _interests_--together with the
_luminous_, prompt, and decisive manner in which they were solved, we
are lost in astonishment at the extent of his information and the
powers of his mind, and are almost tempted to believe that the
_answers_, and not the _questions_ must have been studied with the
nicest discrimination of circumstances.

Charles Fox, an honest Englishman, and an excellent judge in these
matters, being asked his opinion of Dr. Franklin and the _ministers_
in the late examination, replied, in his strong way, "_Dwarfs_, sir,
mere _dwarfs in the hand of a giant_!"

Edmund Burke used to say, that this examination of Dr. Franklin before
the ministers, always put him in mind of a "_Master examined before a
parcel of school-boys_."

But though his abilities on this occasion excited the admiration of
generous enemies, while his more partial friends set no bounds to
their praise, yet it would appear from the following that all afforded
_him_ but little pleasure. In a letter to a friend in Philadelphia, he
has these remarkable words: "You have, no doubt, heard that I have
been examined before the HOUSE OF COMMONS in this country. And it is
probable you have also been told that I did not entirely disappoint
the expectations of my friends, nor betray the cause of truth. This,
to be sure, gives me some pleasure; and, indeed it is the only thing
that does; for, as to any good being done by my honest statement to
ministers, of what I firmly believe to be the best interests of the
two countries, 'tis all, I fear, _a lost hope_. The people of this
country are too proud, and too much despise the poor Americans, to
allow them _the common rights of Englishmen_, that is, _a
representation in parliament_. And until this be done, I apprehend
that no taxes laid by parliament, will ever be collected, but such as
must be stained with blood. How lamentable it is that two people,
sprung from the same origin, speaking the same language, governed by
the same laws, and worshipping at the same altar of God, and capable,
by a wise use of the extraordinary means he has now put into their
hands, of becoming the greatest nation on earth, should be stopped
short and perhaps reduced to insignificance by a civil war, kindled by
ministers obstinately contending for what they cannot but know to be
utterly unconstitutional and eternally inadmissible among the
_free-born sons of Englishmen_. But I suppose the repeal will not now
be agreed to, from what I think a mistaken opinion, that the honour
and dignity of government are better supported by persisting in a
wrong measure, once entered into, than by rectifying an error as soon
as it is discovered."

Differently, however, from the apprehensions of Franklin, the stamp
act was repealed, and even in the course of the same year!

But though so little expected by him, yet was this event ascribed, in
a great measure, to Dr. Franklin. His famous examination, printed in a
shilling pamphlet, had been distributed by myriads throughout Britain
and America. In America it served to brighten up the _old land marks_
of their rights as _free-born sons of Englishmen_, and to quicken
their sensibilities to ministerial frauds. In England, it served to
show the ignorance of the ministers; the impolicy of their measures
towards America; and the utter inexpediency of the stamp act. The
stamp act of course fell to the ground. The reader, if a good man,
exults, no doubt, in this as a most fortunate event, and already hails
this removal of strife, as a certain prelude to that return of love
between the mother country and her colonies, which will make them
both, glorious and happy. He may hope it, but alas! he is never to see
the accomplishment of that good hope. Death is whetting his scythe;
and civil wars and slaughters are now just as near at hand as though
the stamp act had never been repealed. For a pamphlet in some popular
style that should unrip the black budget of ministerial injustice and
lay naked to view the causes of the coming war; that unnatural war
that is to sever England and her colonies for ever! Brighter than a
thousand sermons it would illustrate to politicians that "_the Lord is
King_"--that the sole end of his government, is to _glorify himself in
the happiness of his creatures_--that thereunto he hath _established
his throne in justice_--the eternal justice of men "_doing unto others
as they would that others should do unto them_," and that none,
however great, shall ever violate this blessed order with impunity.
The British ministry are destined to illustrate this. They are fond of
power--to preserve this, they must continue in place--in order
thereunto they must please the merchants and manufacturers--to
accomplish this they must favour their trade and lighten their taxes.
And how is this to be done? why, by a little peccadillo of INJUSTICE.
They have only to sweat the "CONVICTS _on their American
plantations_,"--the rascals live a great way off, and have no
_representative_ in parliament to make a noise about it. Accordingly,
soon as the Americans were supposed to have gotten a little over their
fever about the stamp act, the minister, lord North, of famous memory,
determined to try them again. However it was but a small affair
now--only a _three penny excise_ on the pound of tea.

When Dr. Franklin, our ARGUS, then in London, discovered the designs
of minister North, he exerted himself to point that purblind gentleman
to the horrible gulf that was yawning at his feet. He wrote letters to
several members of parliament, his friends; and he published a number
of luminous pieces in the patriotic gazettes, all admirably calculated
to rouse the friends of the nation to a sense of the impending
dangers.

In three letters to the honourable Mr. W. Strahan, he has, in the
extract, these remarkable words:--

    "_London, November, 1768._

    "DEAR SIR,

    "With respect to the present dispute between Great Britain and the
    colonies, there is nothing I wish for more than to see it amicably
    settled. But _Providence_ brings about its own ends by its own
    means; and if it intends the downfall of a nation, that nation will
    be so blinded by its pride and other passions as not to see its
    danger, or how its fall may be prevented.

    "The friends of the ministry say that this tax is but a _trifle_;
    granted. But who does not see what will be the consequence of
    submitting to it? Is it not the more dangerous for being a trifle?
    Is it not in this way that the devil himself most effectually works
    our ruin? If he can but prevail on a poor thoughtless youth to
    shake hands with innocence, and to _steal_, he is abundantly
    satisfied. To get the boy's _hand in_, is all he wants. And he
    would as leave the simpleton should begin with stealing a halter as
    a horse. For he well knows that if he but begins with the one he is
    sure to end with the other. Just so the minister, angling for
    American liberty, artfully covers his hook with this delicate bait.
    But the truth is, I have talked and written so much and so long on
    the subject of this unhappy quarrel, that my acquaintance are weary
    of hearing, and the public of reading, any more of it; which begins
    to make me weary of talking and writing; especially as I do not
    find that I have gained any point in either country, except that of
    rendering myself suspected, by my impartiality, in England of being
    too much an _American_, and in America of being too much an
    _Englishman_. However, as in reply to your polite question, "_what
    is to be_ done _to settle this alarming dispute?_" I have often
    told you what I think the minister _ought_ to do: I now go a step
    farther, and tell you what I fear he will do.

    "I apprehend he will, ere long, attempt to enforce this obnoxious
    tax, whatever may be the consequences.--I apprehend that in the
    mean time, the colonies will continue to be treated with contempt,
    and the redress of their grievances be neglected--that, this will
    inflame matters still more in that country--that, further rash
    measures there, may create more resentments here--that, their
    assemblies will be attempted to be dissolved--that, more troops
    will be sent to oppress them--that, to justify these measures of
    government, your newspapers will revile them as _miscreants_,
    _rogues_, _dastards_, and _rebels_--that, this will alienate the
    minds of the people here from them, and theirs from you--that,
    possibly too, some of their warm patriots may be distracted enough
    to do some _mad_ act which will cause them to be sent for
    hither--and that government may be indiscreet enough to hang them
    for it--that mutual provocations will thus go on to complete the
    separation, and instead of that cordial affection which so long
    existed, and which is so necessary to the glory and happiness of
    both countries, an implacable malice, dishonourable and destructive
    to both, may take place. I hope, however, that this may all prove
    _false prophecy_, and that you and I may live to see as sincere a
    friendship established between our countries, as has so many years
    subsisted between W. Strahan, Esq. and his truly affectionate old
    friend,

    "B. FRANKLIN."

But notwithstanding his prayer to the contrary, every body recollects
how, exactly as Dr. Franklin had predicted, the minister continued to
blunder and blunder on with his face constantly towards war--how
nothing was trumpeted by the ministerial party, like the ingratitude
and baseness of the Americans--how _certain_ newspapers perpetually
vilified them as _miscreants_, _rascals_ and _rebels_--how the public
mind was so set against them that even the _shoe-blacks_, as Mr.
Wilkes said, talked of the colonies as _their plantations_, and of the
people there as if they had been their _overseers_ and _negroes_--how
the minister determined at last, to enforce the _tea-tax_--how, on
hearing the news of this, as of the stamp act, the yankees muffled
their drums, and played the _dead march_--how they took the sacrament
never to submit to it--how the minister, to test their valour, sent
three ships laden with this three-penny tea--how the yankees, dressed
like Mohawks, boarded their ships and destroyed their cargoes--how the
minister, waxing more in wrath, sent more soldiers to quell the
rebels--how the rebels insulted the soldiers--how the soldiers fired
on the rebels--how the port of Boston was shut by royal
proclamation--how, in spite of the royal proclamation, the colonies
would trade with her and send monies to her relief--how the LORDS and
COMMONS petitioned the king that, any rebel opposing the officers of
his sacred majesty, should be instantly hung up without judge or
jury--how the king _thanked_ his noble lords and commons, and was
graciously pleased to decree that all rebels thus offending should be
thus hung up without judge or jury--how that, notwithstanding this
gracious decree, when his majesty's troops attempted to destroy the
rebel stores at Concord, the rebels attacked and killed them, without
any regard to his majesty's decree.

This unpardonable sin against the "Lord's anointed," which happened on
the 19th of April 1775, served as the double bolting and barring of
the door against all hope of peace. Throughout America, it struck but
one deep and awful sentiment, "_the sword is drawn, and we must now
throw the scabbard away_." In May, the news got to England, where it
excited emotions that beggar all description. They somewhat, however,
resembled the effects of the trumpet of the great angel spoken of in
the _Revelations_, that sounded "_wo! wo! wo! to the inhabitants_" of
America, and proclaimed the pouring forth of _fire_ and sword. But,
reserving this tragedy for the next chapter, we will conclude the
present with the following anecdote. It will show at least, that
doctor Franklin left no stone unturned to carry his point; and that
where logic failed he had recourse to wit.


THE CAT AND EAGLE.

A FABLE, BY DOCTOR FRANKLIN.

Lord Spencer was a great admirer of Dr. Franklin, and never missed
sending him a card when he intended a quorum of learned ones at his
table. The last time that our philosopher enjoyed this honour, was in
1775, just before he was driven from England by lord North. The
conversation taking a turn on fables, lord Spencer observed, that it
had certainly been a very lucky thing, especially for the YOUNG, that
this mode of instruction had ever been hit on, as there was a
something in it wonderfully calculated to touch a favourite string
with them, _i.e._ novelty and surprise. They would listen, he said, to
a fox, when they would not to a father, and they would be more apt to
remember any thing good told them by an owl or a crow, than by an
uncle or an aunt. But I am afraid, continued his lordship, that the
age of fables is past. Æsop and Phædrus among the ancients, and
Fontaine and Gay among the moderns, have given us so many fine
speeches from the birds and beasts, that I suspect their budgets are
pretty nearly exhausted.

The company concluded with his lordship, except Franklin, who was
silent.

"Well, doctor," said lord Spencer, "what is your opinion on this
subject?"

"Why, my lord," replied Franklin, "I cannot say that I have the honour
to think with you in this affair. The birds and beasts have indeed
said a great many wise things; but it is likely they will say a great
many more yet before they are done. Nature, I am thinking, is not
quite so easily exhausted as your lordship seems to imagine."

Lord Spencer, evidently confused, but still with that countenance of
pleasure which characterizes great souls, when they meet superior
genius, exclaimed--"Well, doctor, suppose you give us a fable? I know
you are good at an impromptu." The company all seconded the motion.
Franklin thanked them for the compliment, but begged to be excused.
They would hear no excuses. They knew, they said, he could _go it_,
and insisted he should gratify them. Finding all resistance
ineffectual, he drew his pencil, and after scribbling a few minutes,
reached it to Spencer, saying--"Well, my lord, since, you will have it
so, here's a something fresh from the brain, but I'm afraid you'll not
find Æsop in it."

"Read it, doctor, read it!" was the cry of the noble lord and his
friends. In a mood, spriteful and pleasant, Franklin thus began--"Once
upon a time--hem!--as an Eagle in the full pride of his pinions,
soared over a humble farm-yard, darting his fiery eyes around in
search of a pig, a lamb, or some such pretty tit-bit, what should he
behold but a plump young rabbit, as he thought, squatted among the
weeds. Down at once upon him, he pounced like thunder, and bearing him
aloft in his talons, thus chuckled to himself with joy--Zounds, what a
lucky dog I am! such a nice rabbit here, this morning, for my
breakfast!

"His joy was but momentary; for the supposed rabbit happened to be a
stout cat, who, spitting and squalling with rage, instantly stuck his
teeth and nails, like any fury, into the eagle's thighs, making the
blood and feathers fly at a dreadful rate.

"HOLD! HOLD! _for mercy's sake, hold!_ cried the eagle, his wings
shivering in the air with very torment.

"Villain! retorted the cat, with a tiger-like growl, dare you talk of
_mercy_ after treating me thus, who never injured you?"

O, God bless you, Mr. CAT, is that you? rejoined the eagle, mighty
complaisant; 'pon honour, I did not intend, sir. I thought it was only
a rabbit I had got hold of--and you know we are all fond of rabbits.
Do you suppose, my dear sir, that if I had but dreamt it was you, I
would ever have touched the hair of your head? No, indeed: I am not
such a fool as all that comes to. And now, my dear Mr. CAT, come let's
be good friends again, and I'll let you go with all my heart.

"Yes, you'll let me go, scoundrel, will you--here from the clouds--to
break every bone in my skin!--No, villain, carry me back, and put me
down exactly where you found me, or I'll tear the throat out of you in
a moment.

"Without a word of reply, the eagle stooped at once from his giddy
height, and sailing humbly down, with great complaisance restored the
cat to his simple farm-yard, there to sleep, or hunt his rats and mice
at pleasure."

A solemn silence ensued. At length, with a deep prophetic sigh, lord
Spencer thus replied: "_Ah! Dr. Franklin I see the drift of your
fable; and my fears have already made the application. God grant_,
that Britain may not prove the eagle, and America the cat." This fable
paraphrased in the WHIG papers of that day, concludes in this way:

      "Thus Britain thought in seventy-six,
    Her talons in a hare to fix;
    But in the scuffle it was found,
    The bird received a dangerous wound,
    Which, though pretending oft to hide,
    Still rankles in his Royal side."




CHAPTER XLI.


Doctor Franklin now began to find his situation in London extremely
unpleasant. For twelve years, like heaven's own minister of peace, he
had pressed the olive-branch on the British ministry; and yet after
all, their war-hawks could hardly tolerate the sight of him. They even
went so far as to call him "_the hoary headed villain, who first
stirred up the Americans to rebellion_." As soon as he could obtain
his passports he left England.

His old friend, Strahan, advised him to continue in that country, for
that America would soon be filled with tumult and bloodshed. He
replied, "_No, sir, where liberty is, there is my country._"

Unbounded was the joy of the Americans on the return of so great a
patriot and statesman. The day following he was elected by the
legislature of Pennsylvania, a member of Congress. The following
letters, in extract, to his constant friend, and the friend of science
and liberty, the celebrated doctor Priestley, will show how full his
hands were

    "_Philadelphia, July 7, 1775._

    "DEAR FRIEND,

    "Britain has begun to burn our sea port towns; _secure_, I suppose,
    _that we shall never be able to return the outrage in kind_. She
    may doubtless destroy them all. But is this the way to recover our
    friendship and trade? She must certainly be distracted; for no
    tradesman out of Bedlam ever thought of increasing the number of
    his customers by knocking them on the head; or of enabling them to
    pay their debts, by burning their houses.

    "My time was never more fully employed. I breakfast before six. At
    six I hasten to the COMMITTEE of SAFETY for putting the province in
    a state of defence. At nine I go to Congress, which sits till after
    four. It will scarcely be credited in Britain, that men can be as
    diligent with us, from zeal for the public good, as with you, for
    _thousands_ per annum. Such is the difference between uncorrupted
    new states, and corrupted old ones.

    "Great frugality and great industry are now become fashionable
    here: gentlemen, who used to entertain with two or three courses,
    pride themselves now in treating with simple beef and pudding. By
    these means, and the stoppage of our consumptive trade with
    Britain, we shall be better able to pay our voluntary taxes for the
    support of our troops. Our savings in the article of trade, amount
    to near five millions of sterling per annum.--Yours, most
    affectionately,

    "B. FRANKLIN."

In another letter to the same, dated October 3d, he says:

    "Tell our dear good friend, doctor Price, who sometimes has his
    doubts and despondencies about our firmness, that America is
    determined and unanimous: a very few tories and placemen excepted,
    who will probably soon export themselves. Britain, at the expense
    of three millions has killed in this campaign, _one hundred and
    fifty yankees!_ which is 20,000 pounds sterling a head; and at
    Bunker's hill she gained half a mile of ground! During the same
    time she lost, at one place, near one thousand men, and we have had
    a good sixty thousand children born in America. From these data,
    with the help of his mathematical head, lord North will easily
    calculate the time and expense necessary to kill us all, and
    conquer our whole territory.--

    "I am yours, B. FRANKLIN."

In another letter to the same, and of the same date, he says:

    "Britain still goes on to goad and exasperate. She despises us too
    much; and seems to forget the Italian proverb, that '_there is no
    little enemy_.' I am persuaded the body of the British people are
    our friends; but your lying gazettes may soon make them our
    enemies--and I see clearly that we are on the high road to mutual
    enmity, hatred, and detestation. A _separation_ will of course be
    inevitable. It is a million of pities so fair a plan, as we have
    hitherto been engaged in for increasing _strength_ and _empire_
    with PUBLIC FELICITY, should be destroyed by the mangling hands of
    a few blundering ministers. It will not be destroyed: GOD WILL
    PROTECT AND PROSPER IT: you will only exclude yourselves from any
    share of it. We hear that more ships and troops are coming out. We
    know you may do us a great deal of mischief, but we are determined
    to bear it patiently; but if you flatter yourselves with beating us
    into submission, you know neither the people nor the country.

    "I am ever your's, most affectionately,

    "B. FRANKLIN."

This letter of Doctor Franklin's is the first thing I have seen that
utters a whisper about INDEPENDENCE. It was, however, a _prophetical_
whisper, and soon found its accomplishment in the source that Franklin
predicted--the BARBARITY OF BRITAIN. To see war waged against them by
a power whom they had always gloried in as their MOTHER COUNTRY--to
see it waged because as the _children of Englishmen_, they had only
asked for the _common rights of Englishmen_--to see it waged with a
savageness unknown among civilized nations, and all the powers of
earth and hell, as it were, stirred up against them--the Indians with
their bloody tomahawks and scalping knives--the negroes with their
midnight hoes and axes--the merciless flames let loose on their
midwinter towns--with prisons, chains, and starvation of their
worthiest citizens. "_Such miserable specimens_," as Franklin termed
them, "_of the British government_," produced every where in the
colonies a disposition to _detest and avoid it as a complication of
robbery, murder, famine, fire and pestilence_.

On the 7th of June, resolutions respecting independence, were moved
and seconded in Congress. Doctor Franklin threw all the weight of his
wisdom and character into the scale in favour of independence.

"INDEPENDENCE," said he, "_will cut the Gordian knot at once, and give
us freedom_.

  "I. _Freedom from the oppressive kings, and endless wars, and mad
politics, and forced religion of an unreasonable and cruel
government._

 "II. _Freedom to choose a fair, and cheap, and reasonable government
of our own._

"III. _Freedom to live in friendship with all nations; and_

 "IV. _Freedom to trade with all._"

On the 4th of July, the _Independence_ of the United States was
declared. Immediately on the finishing of this great work, doctor
Franklin, with a committee of the first talents in Congress, prepared
a number of very masterly addresses to the courts of Europe, informing
what the United States had done; assigning their reasons for so doing;
and tendering in the most affectionate terms, the friendship and trade
of the young nation. The potentates of Europe were, generally, well
pleased to hear that a new star had risen in the west, and talked
freely of opening their treasures and presenting their gifts of
friendship, &c.

But the European power that seemed most to rejoice in this event was
the French. In August, doctor Franklin was appointed by Congress to
visit the French court, for the purpose of forming an alliance with
that powerful people. It was his friend, Doctor B. Rush, who first
announced to him the choice which Congress had made, adding, at the
same time, his hearty congratulations on that account.

"Why, doctor," replied he with a smile, "I am now, like an old broom,
worn down to the stump in my country's service--near seventy years
old. But such as I am, she must, I suppose, have the last of me." Like
the brave Dutch republicans, each with his wallet of herrings on his
back, when they went forth to negotiate with the proud Dons, so did
doctor Franklin set out to court the great French nation, with no
provisions for his journey, but a few hogsheads of tobacco. He was
received in France, however, with a most hearty welcome, not only as
an envoy from a brave people fighting for their rights, but also as
the famed American philosopher, who by his _paratonerres_ (lightning
rods) had disarmed the clouds of their lightnings, and who, it was
hoped, would reduce the colossal power of Great Britain.

He had not been long in Paris, before the attention of all the courts
of Europe was attached to him, by a publication, wherein he
demonstrated, that, _the young, healthy, and sturdy republic of
America, with her simple manners, laborious habits, and millions of
fresh land and produce, would be a much safer borrower of money, than
the old, profligate, and debt-burthened government of Britain_. The
Dutch and French courts, in particular, read his arguments with such
attention, that they soon began to make him loans. To the French
cabinet he pointed out, "THE INEVITABLE DESTRUCTION OF THEIR FLEETS,
COLONIES, AND COMMERCE, IN CASE OF A RE-UNION OF BRITAIN AND AMERICA."
There wanted but a grain to turn the trembling balance in favour of
America.

But it was the will of Heaven to withhold that grain a good long
while. And Franklin had the mortification to find, that although the
French were an exceedingly polite people; constantly eulogizing
GENERAL WASHINGTON and THE BRAVE BOSTONIANS, on every little victory;
and also for their tobacco, very thriftily smuggling all the fire arms
and ammunition they could into the United States, yet they had no
notion of coming out manfully at once upon the British lion, until
they should first see the American Eagle lay the monster on his back.
Dr. Franklin, of course, was permitted to rest on his oars, at Passy,
in the neighbourhood of Paris, His characteristic philanthropy,
however, could not allow him to be idle at a court, whose pride and
extravagance were so horribly irreconcileable with his ideas of the
true use of riches, _i.e._ INDEPENDENCE for ourselves, and BENEFICENCE
to others. And he presently came out in the Paris Gazette with the
following master piece of WIT and ECONOMICS.


    _To the Editors of the Paris Journal._

    GENTLEMEN,

    I was the other evening in a grand company, where the new lamp of
    Messrs. Quinquet and Lange was introduced, and much admired for
    its splendour; but a general inquiry was made, whether the oil it
    consumed, was not in proportion to the light it afforded; in which
    case there would be no saving in the use of it. No one present
    could satisfy us on that point; which all agreed ought to be
    known, it being a very desirable thing to lessen, if possible, the
    expense of lighting our apartments, when every other article of
    family expense was so much augmented.

    I was pleased to see this general concern for economy; for I love
    economy exceedingly.

    I went home, and to bed, three or four hours after midnight, with
    my head full of the subject. An accidental sudden noise awaked me
    about six in the morning, when I was surprised to find my room
    filled with light; and I imagined, at first, that a number of
    these lamps had been brought into it; but rubbing my eyes, I
    perceived the light came in at my windows. I got up, and looked
    out to see what might be the occasion of it, when I saw the sun
    just rising above the horizon, whence he poured his rays
    plentifully into my chamber, my domestic having negligently
    omitted, the preceding evening, to close the shutters.

    I looked at my watch, which goes very well, and found that it was
    but six o'clock; and still thinking it something extraordinary
    that the sun should rise so early, I looked into the almanack;
    where I found it to be the hour given for its rising on that day.

    Your readers, who, with me, have never seen any signs of sunshine
    before noon, and seldom regard the astronomical part of the
    almanack, will be as much astonished as I was, when they hear of
    his rising so early; and especially when I assure them _that he
    gives light as soon as he rises_. I am certain of the fact. _I saw
    it with my own eyes._ And having repeated this observation the
    three following mornings, I found always precisely the same
    result.

    Yet so it happens, that when I speak of this discovery to others,
    I can easily perceive by their countenances, though they forbear
    expressing it in words, that they do not quite believe me. One,
    indeed, who is a learned natural philosopher, has assured me that
    I must certainly be mistaken as to the circumstance of the light
    coming into my room; for it being well known, as he says, that
    there could be no light abroad at that hour, it follows that none
    could enter from without; and that of consequence, my windows
    being accidentally left open, instead of _letting in the light_,
    had only served to _let out the darkness_.

    This event has given rise, in my mind, to several serious and
    important reflections. I considered that, if I had not been
    awakened so early in the morning, I should have slept six hours
    longer by the light of the sun, and in exchange have lived six
    hours the following night by candle-light; and the latter being a
    much more expensive light than the former, my love of economy
    induced me to muster up what little arithmetic I was master of,
    and to make some calculations, which I shall give you, after
    observing, that utility is, in my opinion, the test of value in
    matters of invention, and that a discovery which can be applied to
    no use, or is not good for something, is good for nothing.

    I took for the basis of my calculation, the supposition that there
    are 100,000 families in Paris; and that these families consume in
    the night half a pound of candles, per hour. I think this a
    moderate allowance, taking one family with another; for though I
    believe some consume less, I know that many consume a great deal
    more. Then, estimating seven hours per day, as the medium quantity
    between the time of the _sun's_ rising and _ours_, and there being
    seven hours, of course, per night, in which we burn candles, the
    account will stand thus:

    In 12 months there are nights 365; hours of each night in which we
    burn candles 7; multiplication gives for the total number of hours
    2555. These multiplied by 100,000, the number of families in
    Paris, give 255,000,000 hours spent at Paris by candle-light,
    which, at half a pound of wax and tallow per hour, give
    127,750,000 pounds, worth, at 3 livres the pound, 383,250,000
    livres; upwards of THIRTY MILLIONS OF DOLLARS!!!

    An immense sum! that the city of Paris might save every year, by
    the economy of using _sunshine_ instead of candles.--If it should
    be said, that the people are very apt to be obstinately attached
    to old customs, and that it will be difficult to induce them to
    rise before noon, consequently my discovery can be of little use,
    I answer, we must not despair. I believe all, who have common
    sense, as soon as they have learnt, from this paper, that it is
    daylight when the sun rises, will contrive to rise with him; and
    to compel the rest, I would propose the following regulations:

    First. Let a tax be laid of a louis, (a guinea,) per window, on
    every window that is provided with shutters to keep out the light
    of the sun.

    Second. Let guards be placed in the shops of the wax and
    tallow-chandlers; and no family be permitted to be supplied with
    more than one pound of candles per week.

    Third. Let guards be posted, to stop all the coaches, &c. that
    would pass the streets after sunset, except those of physicians,
    surgeons, and midwives.

    Fourth. Every morning, as soon as the sun rises, let all the bells
    in the city be set ringing; and if that be not sufficient let
    cannon be fired in every street, to awake the sluggards
    effectually, and make them open their eyes to see their true
    interest.

    All the difficulty will be in the first two or three days: after
    which the reformation will be as natural and easy as the present
    irregularity. Oblige a man to rise at four in the morning, and, it
    is more than probable, he shall go willingly to bed at eight in
    the evening; and having had eight hours sleep, he will rise more
    willingly at four, in the morning following.

    For the great benefit of this discovery, thus freely communicated
    and bestowed by me, on the good city of Paris, I demand neither
    place, pension, exclusive privilege, nor any other reward
    whatever. I expect only to have the _honour_ of it. And yet I know
    there are little envious minds, who will, as usual, deny me this,
    and say that my invention was known to the ancients. I will not
    dispute that the ancients knew that the sun would rise at certain
    hours. They possibly had almanacks that predicted it; but it does
    not follow, thence, that they knew _that he gave light an soon as
    he rose. This is what I claim as my discovery._ If the ancients
    knew it, it must long since have been forgotten; for it certainly
    was unknown to the moderns, at least to the Parisians; which to
    prove, I need use but one plain simple argument. They are as well
    instructed and prudent a people as exist, any where in the world;
    all professing, like myself, to be lovers of economy; and, from
    the many heavy taxes required from them by the necessities of the
    state, have surely reason to be economical. I say it is impossible
    that so sensible a people, under such circumstances, should have
    lived so long by the _smoky, unwholesome and enormously expensive
    light of candles, if they had really known that they might have as
    much pure light of the sun for nothing_. I am, &c.

    An ABONNE.

And now, as Dr. Franklin is permitted to breathe a little from his
herculean toils, let us, good reader, breathe a little too, and amuse
ourselves with the following anecdotes.

Nothing can better illustrate the spirit, which Dr. Franklin carried
with him to the court of Louis XVI., and the spirit he found there.

On Dr. Franklin's arrival at Paris, as plenipotentiary from the United
States, during the revolution, the king expressed a wish to see him
immediately. As there was no going to the court of France in those
days without permission of the wigmaker, a wigmaker of course was sent
for. In an instant a richly dressed Monsieur, his arms folded in a
prodigious muff of furs, and a long sword by his side, made his
appearance. It was the king's WIGMAKER, with his servant in livery, a
long sword by _his_ side too, and a load of sweet scented band-boxes,
full of "_de wig_," as he said, "_de superb wig for de great docteer
Franklin_." One of the wigs was tried on--a world _too small_!
Band-box after band-box was tried; but all with the same ill success!
The wigmaker fell into the most violent rage, to the extreme
mortification of Dr. Franklin, that a gentleman so bedecked with silks
and perfumes, should, notwithstanding, be such a child. Presently,
however, as in all the transports of a _grand discovery_, the wigmaker
cried out to Dr. Franklin, that he had just found out where the fault
lay--"_not in his wig as too small; O no, by gar! his wig no too
small; but de docteer's head too big; great deal too big._" Franklin,
smiling, replied, that the fault could hardly lie _there_; for that
his head was made of God Almighty himself, who was not subject to err.
Upon this the wigmaker took in a little; but still contended that
there must be something the matter with Dr. Franklin's head. It was at
any rate, he said, _out of the fashion_. He begged Dr. Franklin would
only please for remember, _dat his head had not de honeer_ to be made
in PARREE. No, by gar! for if it had been made in PARREE, it no bin
more dan _half such a head_. "_None of the French Noblesse_," he
swore, "_had a head any ting_ like his. Not de great duke d'Orleans,
nor de grand monarque himself had _half such a head as docteer
Franklin_. And _he did not see_," he said, "_what business any body
had wid a head more big dan de head of de grand monarque_."

Pleased to see the poor wigmaker recover his good humour, Dr. Franklin
could not find in his heart to put a check to his childish rant, but
related one of his _fine anecdotes_, which struck the wigmaker with
such an idea of his wit, that as he retired, which he did, bowing most
profoundly, he shrugged his shoulders, and with a look most
significantly arch, he said:

"_Ah, docteer Frankline! docteer Frankline!_ I no wonder your head too
big for my wig. By gar I 'fraid your head be too big for _all de
French nationg_."


THE BLUE YARN STOCKINGS.

When Dr. Franklin was received at the French court as American
minister, he felt some scruples of conscience in complying with their
_fashions as to dress_. "He hoped," he said to the minister, "that as
he was himself a very plain man, and represented a plain republican
people, the king would indulge his desire to appear at court in his
usual dress. Independent of this, the season of the year, he said,
rendered the change from warm yarn stockings to fine silk, somewhat
dangerous."

The French minister made him a bow, but said, that THE FASHION was too
sacred a thing for him to meddle with, but he would do himself the
honour to mention it to his MAJESTY.

The king smiled, and returned word that Dr. Franklin was welcome to
appear at court in _any dress he pleased_. In spite of that delicate
respect for strangers, for which the French are so remarkable, the
courtiers could not help staring, at first, at Dr. Franklin's
quaker-like dress, and especially his "BLUE YARN STOCKINGS." But it
soon appeared as though he had been introduced upon this splendid
theatre only to demonstrate that, great genius, like true beauty,
"needs not the foreign aid of ornament." The court were so dazzled
with the brilliancy of his mind that they never looked at his
stockings. And while many other ministers who figured in all the gaudy
fashions of the day are now forgotten, the name of Dr. Franklin is
still mentioned in Paris with all the ardour of the most affectionate
enthusiasm.




CHAPTER XLII.


Imagination can hardly conceive a succession of pleasures more elegant
and refined than those which Dr. Franklin, now on the shady side of
threescore and ten, continued daily to enjoy in the vicinity of
Paris--his mornings constantly devoted to his beloved studies, and his
evenings to the cheerful society of his friends--the greatest monarch
of Europe heaping him with honours unasked, and the brightest WITS and
BEAUTIES of his court vying with each other in their attentions to
him. And thus as the golden hours rolled along, they still found him
happy--gratefully contrasting his present glory with his humble
origin, and thence breathing nothing but benevolence to man--firmly
confiding in the care of Heaven--and fully persuaded that his smiles
would yet descend upon his countrymen, now fighting the good fight of
liberty and happiness.

While waiting in strong hope of this most desirable of all events, he
received, by express, December 1777, the welcome news that the battle
had been joined in America, and that God had delivered a noble wing of
the British army into the hands of the brave republicans at Saratoga.
O ye, who, rejecting the philosophy of all embracing love, know no
joys beyond what the miser feels when his own little heap increases,
how faintly can you conceive what this great apostle of liberty
enjoyed when he found that his countrymen still retained the fire of
their gallant fathers, and were resolved to live free or press a
glorious grave! He lost no time to improve this splendid victory to
the good of his country. In several audiences with the king and his
ministers, he clearly demonstrated that France in all her days of
ancient danger had never known so dark a cloud impending over her as
at this awful crisis. "If Great Britain," said he, "already so
powerful were to subdue the revolted colonies and add all North
America to her empire, she would in twenty years be strong enough to
crush the power of France and not leave her an island or a ship on the
ocean." As a sudden flash of lightning from the opening clouds before
the burst of thunder and rain, such was the shock produced by this
argument on the mind of every thinking man throughout France. The
courtiers with all their talents for dissembling could not conceal
their hostile feelings from the British minister resident among them.
He marked it, not without sentiments of answering hostility, which he
could no better conceal, and which, indeed, after the honest bluntness
of his national character, he did not care to conceal. The increased
attentions paid to Dr. Franklin, and the rejoicings in Paris on
account of the American victories, were but illy calculated to soothe
his displeasure. Bitter complaints were presently forwarded to his
court--angry remonstrances to the French cabinet followed--and in a
short time the embers of ancient hate were blown up to flames of fury
so diabolical that nothing but war, with all its rivers of human blood
could extinguish it. War, of course, was proclaimed--Paris was
illuminated--and the thunder of the Royal cannon soon announced to the
willing citizens that the die was cast, and that the Grand Monarque
was become the Ally of the United States.

"_While there is any thing to be done nothing is done_," said Cæsar.
Franklin thought so too. He had succeeded in his efforts to persuade
the warlike French to take part with his oppressed countrymen; but the
Spaniards and the Dutch were still neutral. To rouse their hostile
feelings against Great Britain, and to make them the hearty partisans
of Washington, was his next study. The event quickly showed that he
had studied human nature with success. He who had been the playmate of
lightnings for the _glory of God_, found no difficulty in stirring up
the _wrath of man to praise him_--by chastising the sons of violence.
The tall black ships of war were soon seen to rush forth from the
ports of Holland and Spain, laden with the implements of death, to
arrest the mad ambition of Great Britain, and maintain the balance of
power. How dearly ought the American people to prize their liberties,
for which such bloody contribution was laid on the human race!
Imagination glances with terror on that dismal war whose spread was
over half the solid and half the watery globe. Its devouring fires
burned from the dark wilds of North America to the distant isles of
India; and the blood of its victims was mingled with the brine of
every ocean. But, thanks to God, the conflict, though violent, was but
short. And much of the honour of bringing it to a close is to be
conceded to the instrumentality of Dr. Franklin.

We have seen that in 1763, he was sent (of Heaven no doubt, for it was
an act worthy of his all-benevolent character,) a preacher of
righteousness, to the proud court of Britain. His luminous preachings,
(through the press,) on the injustice and unconstitutionality of the
ministerial taxing measures on the colonies, shed such light, that
thousands of honest Englishmen set their faces against them, and also
against the war to which they saw it was tending. These converts to
justice, these doves of peace, were not sufficiently numerous to
defeat the war-hawks of their bloody purposes. But when they found
that the war into which they had plunged with such confidence, had
not, instantly, as they expected, reduced the colonies to slavish
submission; but that, instead thereof, one half Europe in favour of
America, was in arms against them with a horrible destruction of lives
and property which they had not counted on, and of which they saw no
end, they seriously deplored their folly in not pursuing the counsel
of doctor Franklin. The nation was still, however, dragged on in war,
plunging like a stalled animal, deeper and deeper in disaster and
distress, until the capture of lord Cornwallis and his army came like
a thunder-bolt, inflicting on the war party a death blow, from which
they never afterwards recovered.

Dr. Franklin received this most welcome piece of news, the surrender
of lord Cornwallis, by express from America. He had scarcely read the
letters with the tear of joy swelling in his patriot eye, when Mr.
Necker came in. Seeing the transport on his face, he eagerly asked
what _good news_. "_Thank God_," replied Franklin, "_the storm is
past. The paratonerres of divine justice have drawn off the lightning
of British violence, and here, sir, is the rainbow of peace_," holding
up the letter. What am I to understand by that, replied Necker. Why,
sir, quoth Franklin, my lord Cornwallis and his army are prisoners of
war to general Washington. Doctor Franklin's calculation, on the
surrender of Cornwallis, _that the storm was past_, was very correct;
for, although the thunders did not immediately cease, yet, after that
event, they hardly amounted to any thing beyond a harmless rumbling,
which presently subsided altogether, leaving a fine bright sky behind
them.




CHAPTER XLIII.


The rest of the acts of doctor Franklin while he resided in France,
and the many pleasures he enjoyed there, were first, the great
pleasure of announcing to the French court, in 1781, as we have seen,
the surrender of lord Cornwallis and his army to general Washington.
Second, the still greater pleasure of learning in 1782, that the
British ministry were strongly inclined to "A PEACE TALK." Third,
1783, the greatest pleasure of all, the pleasure of _burying the
tomahawk_, by general peace.

Thus after having lived to see completely verified all his awful
predictions to the blind and obstinate British cabinet about the
result of this disastrous war; with losses indeed, beyond his
prediction--the loss of two thousand ships!--the loss of one hundred
thousand lives!--the loss of seven hundred millions of dollars! and a
loss still greater than all, the loss of the immense continent of
North America, and the monopoly of its incalculable produce and trade,
shortly to fly on wings of canvass to all parts of the globe.

Having lived to see happily terminated, the grand struggle for
American liberty, which even Englishmen have pronounced "_the last
hope and probable refuge of mankind_," and having obtained leave from
congress to return, he took a last farewell of his generous Parisian
friends, and embarked for his native country.

On the night of the 4th of September, the ship made the light-house at
the mouth of the Delaware bay. On coming upon deck next morning, he
beheld all in full view and close at hand the lovely shores of
America, "_where his fathers had dwelt_." Who can paint the
joy-brightened looks of our veteran patriot, when, after an absence of
seven years, he beheld once more that beloved country for whose
liberties and morals he had so long contended? Formerly, with an
aching heart, he had beheld her as a dear mother, whose fame was
tarnished, and her liberties half ravished by foreign lords. But now
he greets her as free again, and freed, through heaven's blessing on
her _own heroic virtue and valour_. Crowned thus with tenfold glory,
he hails her with transport, as the grand nursery of civil and
religious freedom, whose fair example of republican wisdom and
moderation is, probably, destined of God to recommend the blessings of
free government to all mankind.

The next day in the afternoon he arrived at Philadelphia. It is not
for me to describe what he felt in sailing along up these lovely
shores, while the heaven within diffused a double brightness and
beauty over all the fair and magnificent scenes around. Neither is it
for me to delineate the numerous demonstrations of public joy,
wherewith the citizens of Philadelphia welcomed the man whom they all
delighted to honour. Suffice it to say, that he was landed amidst the
firing of cannon--that he was crowded with congratulatory
addresses--that he was invited to sumptuous banquets, &c. &c. &c. But
though it was highly gratifying to others to see transcendent worth so
duly noticed, yet to himself, who had been so long familiar with such
honours, they appeared but as baubles that had lost their tinsel.

But there were some pledges of respect offered him, which afforded a
heartfelt satisfaction; I mean those numbers of pressing invitations
to accept the presidencies of sundry noble institutions for public
good, as

  I. A society for diffusing a knowledge of the best politics for our
republic.

 II. A society for alleviating the miseries of public prisons.

III. A society for abolishing the slave trade--the relief of free
negroes unlawfully held in bondage--and for bettering the condition of
the poor blacks.

"It was because," said the trustees, "they well knew he had made it
the sole scope of his greatly useful life to promote institutions for
the happiness of mankind, that they now solicited the honour and
benefit of his special care and guardianship."

Though now almost worn out with the toils of fourscore years, and
oftentimes grievously afflicted with his old complaint, the gravel, he
yet accepted the proffered appointments with great pleasure, and
attended to the duties of them with all the ardour of youth. Thus
affording one more proof,

    "That, in the present as in all the past
    O SAVE MY COUNTRY, HEAVEN! was still his last."

"But though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak." His strength
was so sensibly diminished that it could scarcely second his mind,
which seemed as unimpaired as ever.

But there was still one more service that his country looked to him
for, before he went to rest; I mean that of aiding her councils in the
grand convention that was about to sit in Philadelphia for the purpose
of framing the present excellent constitution. He was called to this
duty in 1787. The speech which he made in that convention has a high
claim to our notice, not only because it was the last speech that Dr.
Franklin ever made in public; but because nothing ever yet placed in a
fairer light the charm of modesty in a great man; and also the force
of temperance, exercise and cheerfulness, which could preserve the
intellectual faculties in such vigour, to the astonishing age of
EIGHTY-TWO!!


_Final Speech of doctor Franklin in the Federal Convention.--George
Washington, President._

MR. PRESIDENT,

I do not entirely approve this constitution at present, but, sir, I am
not sure I shall never approve it; for, having lived long, I have
experienced many instances of being obliged, by better information, to
change opinions which I once thought right. It is, therefore, that the
older I grow, the more apt I am to doubt my own judgment, and to pay
more respect to the judgment of others. Most men, indeed, as well as
most sects of religion, think themselves in possession of _all truth_,
and that whenever others differ from them, it is so far error. Steele,
a protestant, tells the pope, that "the only difference between our
two churches, in their opinion of the certainty of their doctrines,
is, the Romish church is _infallible_, and the church of England
_never_ in the _wrong_."

But though many private persons think almost as highly of their own
infallibility, as of that of their sect, few express it so naturally
as a certain French lady, who, in a little dispute with her sister,
said, "_I don't know how it happens, sister, but I meet with nobody
but myself that is always in the right_." In these sentiments, sir, I
agree to this constitution, with all its faults, if they are such;
because I think a general government necessary for us, and there is no
form of government but what may be a blessing, if well administered;
and I believe farther, that this is likely to be well administered for
a course of years, and can only end in despotism, as other forms have
done before it, when the people shall become so corrupted, as to need
despotic government, being incapable of any other. I doubt too,
whether any other convention we can obtain, may be able to make a
better constitution. For when you assemble a number of men, to have
the advantage of their joint wisdom, you assemble with those men, all
their prejudices, their passions, their errors of opinion, their local
interests, and their selfish views. From such an assembly, can a
perfect production be expected? It therefore astonishes me, sir, to
find this system approaching so near to perfection as it does; and I
think it will confound our enemies, who are waiting with confidence,
to hear that our councils are confounded, like those of the builders
of Babel, and that our states are on the point of separation, only to
meet hereafter for the purpose of cutting each other's throats.

Thus I consent, sir, to this constitution, because I expect no better,
and because I am not _sure that this is not the best_. The opinions I
have had of its errors, I sacrifice to the public good. I have never
whispered a syllable of them abroad. Within these walls they were
born, and here they shall die. If every one of us, in returning to our
constituents, were to report the objections he has had to it, and
endeavour to gain partisans in support of them, we might prevent its
being generally received, and thereby lose all the great advantages
resulting naturally in our favour among foreign nations, as well as
among ourselves, from our real or apparent unanimity. Much of the
efficiency of any government, in procuring and securing happiness to
the people, depends on the general opinion of the goodness of that
government, as well as of the wisdom and integrity of its governors.

I hope, therefore, that for our _own sakes_, as a part of the people,
and for the sake of _our posterity_, we shall act heartily and
unanimously, in recommending this constitution, wherever our influence
may extend, and turn our future thoughts and endeavours to the means
of having it well administered.

On the whole, sir, I cannot help expressing a wish, that every member
of the convention, who may still have objections, would, with me, on
this occasion, doubt a little of his own infallibility, and making
manifest our unanimity, put his name to this instrument.




CHAPTER XLIV.

    "When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
      Religion may be blinded,
    Or if she give a random sting,
      'Tis oft but little minded.

    "But when on life we're tempest driv'n,
      A conscience's but a canker;
    A correspondence fix'd with heaven,
      Is sure a noble anchor."


The time is now at hand that Franklin must die. When that time
approaches, or when only the chilling thought of it strikes the heart,
how happy is he who in looking on the withered face or snowy locks of
a dear friend, can enjoy the exulting hope that he is prepared for the
awful change. This leads us to speak of doctor Franklin on a much
higher subject than has yet engaged our attention. I mean his
religion.

I have met with nothing in the life of any great man in our country
about which there has been such universal inquiry, as about the
RELIGION OF DR. FRANKLIN.

Some, who in despite of Christ and all his apostles, will "_judge
their brother_;" and judge him too by the _letter_ which _killeth_,
will not allow that Dr. Franklin had any religion at all, because,
forsooth, he did not _believe_ and "_confess Christ before men_," in
the manner they did. But others, construing the Gospel, as Christ
himself commands, by "_the spirit_;" which teaches that, "_with the
heart man believeth unto salvation, through love and good works_;" and
that the right way of "_confessing Christ before men_" is by a _good
life_.--These gentlemen tell us, that Dr. Franklin not only had
religion, but had it in an eminent degree.

Most people seem inclined to judge of Dr. Franklin by these latter
commentators, and wind up with the words of our great moral poet.

    "For modes of faith, let graceless zealots fight;
    His can't be wrong, whose Life is in the right."

For my part, after all that I have heard on this subject, and I have
heard a great deal, I do not know that I have met with any thing that
expresses my opinion of Dr. Franklin's religion more happily than the
following laconic remark by one of our most distinguished senators, I
mean the honourable Rufus King. Knowing that this gentleman was a
compatriot of Dr. Franklin during the revolution, and also sat by his
side, a member of the grand Convention in 1788, I took the greater
pleasure in asking his opinion of that great man in respect of his
RELIGION. "Why, sir," replied he, "my opinion of doctor Franklin has
always been, that, although he was not, perhaps, quite so orthodox in
some of his notions, he was _very much a Christian in his practice_.
Nor is it indeed to be wondered at," continued this able critic, "that
a man of doctor Franklin's extraordinary sagacity, born and brought up
under the light of the Gospel, should have imbibed its spirit, and got
his whole soul enriched, and as it were interlarded, with its
benevolent affections."

And I have since found from conversation with many of our most
enlightened and evangelical divines, that they all agree, with Mr.
King, that doctor Franklin's extraordinary benevolence and useful life
were imbibed, even _unconsciously_, from the Gospel. For whence but
from the luminous and sublime doctrines of that blessed book could he
have gained such pure and worthy ideas of God--his glorious unity, and
most adorable benevolence: always, himself, loving and doing good to
his creatures; and constantly seeking such to worship him? Whence, we
ask, could he have got all these exalted truths--truths, so honourable
to the Deity--so consolatory to man--so auxiliary of human virtue and
happiness--whence could he have got them, but from the light of the
Gospel? Certainly, you will not say that he might have got them from
the light of nature. For, look around you among all the mighty nations
of antiquity. Look among the Egyptians--the Greeks--the Romans, to
equal him? Two thousand years have rolled between them and us, and
yet the immortal monuments of their arts--their poetry--their
painting--their statuary--their architecture--their eloquence--all
triumphant over the wreck of time, have come down to our days, boldly
challenging the pride of modern genius to produce their parallels.
Evidently then, they had among them prodigies of mind equal to our
Franklin. And yet how has it yet come to pass, that, with all their
astonishing talents, and the light of nature besides, they were so
stupidly blind and ignorant of God, while he entertained such exalted
ideas of him? That while they, like the modern idolaters of
Juggernaut, were disgracing human reason by worshipping not only
_four-footed beasts and creeping things_, but even thieves,
murderers, &c. _deified_, doctor Franklin was elevating his devotions
to the one all-perfect God, MOST GLORIOUS IN ALL MORAL EXCELLENCE.

And how has it come to pass that while _they_, imitating their bloody
idols, could take pleasure in _sacrificing their prisoners of war!
beholding murderous fights of gladiators!_ and even giving up _their
own children to be burnt alive!_ Franklin, by imitating the moral
character of God, attained to all that gentle wisdom and affectionate
goodness that we fancy when we think of an angel? To what, I ask, can
we ascribe all this, but to the very rational cause assigned by Mr.
King, viz. his having been _born and brought up in a land of Gospel
light and love_? Indeed, who can read the life of doctor Franklin,
attentively, without tracing in it, throughout, that true Christian
charity which bound him, as by the heart-strings, to his fellow
men--on every occasion going out of self to take an interest in them.
"Rejoicing with them, when they acted wisely and attained to
honour."--"Weeping with them when they acted foolishly and came to
shame." Never meeting with any good fortune, through wise doings of
his own, but he made it known to them for their encouragement in
similar doings--never falling into misfortunes, by his own folly, but
he was sure to publish that too, to deter others from falling into the
like sufferings.

Now what was it but this amiable _oneness of heart_, with his fellow
men; this _sweet Christian sensibility_ to their interests and
consequent generous delight in doing them good, that filled his life
with such noble charities. "_Where love is_," said the great William
Penn, "_there is no labour; or if there be, the labour is sweet._" And
what was it but this, that bore him up so bravely under his many toils
and hardships for his selfish brother James?

What made him so liberal of his money and services to the base Collins
and Ralph?

What made him so patient and forgiving of the injuries done him by the
worthless Keimer and Keith?

What made him so importunate with his young acquaintance in London, to
divert them from their brutalizing and fatal intemperance?

What set him so vehemently against pride and extravagance, which
besides starving all justice and hospitality among neighbours, tend to
make them demons of fraud and cruelty to one another?

What made him, through life, such a powerful orator for industry,
frugality, and honesty, which multiplied riches and reciprocal esteem
and usefulness among men, and would make them all loving and happy as
brothers?

In short, all those labours which doctor Franklin took under the
sun--labours so various and unending, for public and private good,
such as his fire-engines; his lightning rods; his public libraries;
his free schools; his hospitals; his legacies for encouragement of
learning, and helping hundreds of indigent young mechanics with money
to carry on their trades after his death--whence originated all this,
but from that love which is stronger than death, subduing all
obstacles, and overleaping the narrow limits of this mortal life?

What but the ingenuity of love, eager to swell the _widow's_ mite of
charity into the _rich_ man's talent could have suggested the
following curious method of making a little do a great deal of good?


    "Received of Benjamin Franklin, ten guineas, which I hereby
    promise, soon as I get out of my present embarrassments, to lend
    to some other honest and industrious man, as near as I can guess,
    he giving his obligation to act in the same way by the next needy
    honest man; so that by thus going around it may in time, though a
    small sum, do much good, unless stopped by a thief.

    "JAMES HOPEWELL.

    "_Passy, Aug. 10, 1773._"


What but the noble spirit of that religion whose sole aim is to
"_overcome evil with good_" could have dictated the following
instructions to Paul Jones, and his squadron, who after scouring the
British channel, was about to make a descent on their coasts.

    "As many of your officers and people have lately escaped from
    English prisons, you are to be _particularly attentive_ to their
    conduct towards the prisoners you take, lest resentment of the
    _more than barbarous_ usage which they have received from the
    English, should occasion a retaliation, and an imitation of what
    ought rather to be _detested and avoided for the sake of humanity
    and the honour of our country_.

    "B. FRANKLIN.

    "_To Commodore P. Jones._

    "April 28, 1779."


What but the spirit of that benevolent religion which is the firm
patroness of all discoveries for human benefit, could have dictated
the ensuing letter "to the commanders of American ships of war," in
favour of captain Cook.

    "GENTLEMEN,

    "A ship having been fitted out from England, before the
    commencement of this war, to make discoveries of new countries in
    unknown seas, under the conduct of that celebrated navigator,
    captain Cook--an undertaking truly laudable in itself, as the
    increase of geographical knowledge facilitates the communication
    between distant nations, and the exchange of useful products and
    manufactures, and the extension of arts, whereby the common
    enjoyments of human life are multiplied and augmented, and
    science of other kinds increased, to the benefit of mankind in
    general.

    "This is, therefore, most earnestly to recommend to every one of
    you, that in case the said ship, which is now expected to be soon
    in the European seas, on her return, should happen to fall into
    your hands, you would not consider her as an enemy, but that you
    treat the said captain Cook and his people with all civility and
    kindness, affording them, as common friends to mankind, all the
    assistance in your power, which they may happen to stand in need
    of.

    "I have the honour to be, &c.

    "B. FRANKLIN,

    "Minister plenipotentiary from the United States to the court of
    France.

    "_Passy. near Paris, March 10, 1779._"

The truly christian spirit of doctor Franklin, which dictated this
passport for captain Cook, was so highly approved by the British
government, that, when Cook's voyages in three splendid quarto volumes
were printed, the lords of the admiralty sent doctor Franklin a copy
accompanied with the elegant plates, and also a _gold medal_ of
that illustrious navigator, with a polite letter from lord Howe,
informing him that this compliment was made to doctor Franklin with
the _king's express approbation_.

                 *       *       *       *       *

What but the religion that brings life and immortality to light "could
have sprung those high hopes and rich consolations," which shine in
the following letter from doctor Franklin to his niece, on the death
of her father, his favourite brother John Franklin.

    "DEAR NIECE,

    "I condole with you. We have lost a most dear and valuable
    relation. But it is the will of God that these mortal bodies be
    laid aside, when the soul is to enter into real life. This is
    rather an embryo state--a preparation for living. A man is not
    completely born until he be dead. Why then should we grieve that
    a new child is born among the immortals--a new member added to
    their society? We are spirits. That bodies should be lent us,
    while they can afford us pleasure, assist us in acquiring
    knowledge, or doing good to our fellow creatures, is a kind and
    benevolent act of God. When they become unfit for these purposes,
    and afford us pain instead of pleasure, and answer none of the
    intentions for which they were given, it is equally kind and
    benevolent that a way is provided by which we may get rid of
    them. Death is that way. We ourselves in some cases, prudently
    choose a partial death. A mangled painful limb, which cannot be
    restored, we willingly cut off. He who plucks out a tooth parts
    with it freely, since the pain goes with it; and he who quits the
    whole body, parts at once with all pains, and possibilities of
    pains, it was capable of making him suffer.

    "Our friend and we were invited abroad on a grand party of
    pleasure, which is to last for ever. His chair was ready first,
    and he is gone before us. We could not all conveniently start
    together; and why should you and I be grieved at this, since we
    are soon to follow, and know where to find him?

    "B. FRANKLIN."

                 *       *       *       *       *

What but that religion which teaches "the price of truth," could have
made him so penitent for having said any thing, in his youthful days
against revelation? And while the popular infidels of Europe, the
Voltaires, and Humes, and Bolingbrokes were so fond of filling the
world with their books against Christ, that they might, as one of them
said, "_crush the wretch_," what but a hearty esteem of him could
have led Franklin to write the following pious reproof of a gentleman,
who having written a pamphlet against christianity, sent it to him,
requesting his opinion of it.

DR. FRANKLIN'S ANSWER.

    "SIR,

    "I have read your manuscript with some attention. By the argument
    it contains against a particular _providence_, though you allow a
    general _providence_, you strike at the foundation of all
    religion. For, without the belief of a _providence_, that takes
    cognizance of, guards, and guides, and may favour particular
    persons, there is no motive to worship a DEITY, to fear his
    displeasure, or to pray for his protection. I will not enter into
    any discussion of your principles, though you seem to desire it.
    At present I shall only give you my opinion, that though your
    reasonings are subtile, and may prevail with some readers, you
    will not succeed so as to change the general sentiments of
    mankind on that subject; and the consequence of printing this
    piece will be, a great deal of odium drawn upon yourself,
    mischief to you, and no benefit to others. He that spits against
    the wind, spits in his own face. But were you to succeed, do you
    imagine any good would be done by it? You yourself may find it
    easy to live a virtuous life, without the assistance afforded by
    religion; you having a clear perception of the disadvantages of
    vice, and possessing a strength of resolution sufficient to
    enable you to resist common temptations. But think how great a
    portion of mankind consists of weak and ignorant men and women,
    and of inexperienced inconsiderate youth of both sexes, who have
    need of the motives of religion to restrain them from vice, to
    support their virtue, and retain them in the practice of it till
    it becomes habitual, which is the great points of its security.
    And, perhaps, you are indebted to her original, that is, to your
    religious education, for the habits of virtue upon which you now
    justly value yourself. You might easily display your excellent
    talents of reasoning upon less hazardous objects, and thereby
    obtain a rank with our most distinguished authors. For among us
    it is not necessary, as among the Hottentots, that a youth, to be
    raised into the company of men, should prove his manhood by
    beating his mother. I would advise you, therefore, not to attempt
    _unchaining the tiger_, but to burn this piece before it is seen
    by any other person--whereby you will save yourself a great deal
    of mortification from the enemies it may raise against you, and,
    perhaps a good deal of regret and repentance. If men are so
    wicked _with_ religion, what would they be _without_ it? I intend
    this letter itself as a proof of my friendship, and therefore add
    no professions to it, but subscribe myself simply yours.

    "B. FRANKLIN."


For the following, I owe many thanks to the honourable Mr. Rufus King.

After having answered my question on that subject, as before stated,
viz. that he considered Dr. Franklin "_very much a christian in
practice_," he added with a fine smile, as if happy that he possessed
an anecdote so honourable to the religious character of his illustrious
friend, and the friend of mankind--"_now, sir, I'll tell you an
anecdote of Dr. Franklin_." The CONVENTION of '88, of which Dr.
Franklin and myself were members, had been engaged several weeks in
framing the present CONSTITUTION, and had done nothing. Dr. Franklin
came in one morning, and rising in his place, called the attention of
the house.--"We have been here, Mr. Speaker," said he, (George
Washington was in the chair,) "a long time, trying to act on this
important subject, and have done nothing; and in place of a speedy and
successful close of our business, we see nothing but dark clouds of
difficulty and embarrassment gathering before us. It in high time for
us, Mr. Speaker, to call in the direction of a wisdom above our
own.--(The countenance of Washington caught a brightness at these
words, as he leaned forward in deepest gaze on Dr. Franklin.) Yes, sir,
it is high time for us to call in the direction of a wisdom above our
own. Our fathers before us, the wise and good men of ancient times,
acted in this way. Aware of the difficulties and perils that attend all
human enterprize, they never engaged in any thing of importance without
having implored the guidance and blessing of heaven. The scriptures are
full of encouragements to such practice. They every where assert a
_particular providence_ over all his works. They assure us that the
very hairs of our head are all numbered; and that not even a sparrow
but is continually under the eye of his parental care. This, Mr.
Speaker, is the language of the gospel, which I _most implicitly
believe_; and which promises the guidance of divine wisdom to _all who
ask it_. We have not asked it; and that may be the reason why we have
been so long in the dark. I therefore move, Mr. Speaker, that it be
made a rule to open the business of this house, every morning, _with
prayer_."


The following also will show Dr. Franklin's firm belief in that very
precious article of the religion of Christ--A PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE.

To WILLIAM STRAHAN, Esq. London

_France, August 19th, 1784._

DEAR OLD FRIEND,

You "fairly acknowledge that the date war terminated quite contrary to
your expectation." Your expectation was ill founded; for you would not
believe your old friend, who told you repeatedly, that, by those
measures, England would lose her colonies, as Epictetus warned in vain
his master, that he would break his leg. You believed rather the tales
you heard of our poltroonery, and impotence of body and mind. Don't you
remember the story you told me of the Scotch sergeant, who met with a
party of forty American soldiers, and, though alone, disarmed them all,
and brought them in prisoners! A story almost as improbable as that of
the Irishman, who pretended to have alone taken and brought in five of
the enemy, by _surrounding_ them. And yet, my friend, sensible and
judicious as you are, but partaking of the general infatuation, you
seem to believe it. The word _general_ puts me in mind of a general,
your general Clark, who had the folly to say, in my hearing, at sir
John Pringle's, that with a thousand British grenadiers, he would
undertake to go from one end of America to the other, and geld all the
males. It is plain, he took us for a species of animals very little
superior to brutes. The parliament, too, believed the stories of
another foolish general, I forget his name, that the Yankees never
_felt bold_. Yankee was understood to be a sort of Yahoo, and the
parliament did not think the petitions of such creatures were fit to be
received and read in so wise an assembly. What was the consequence of
this monstrous pride and insolence! You first sent small armies to
subdue us, believing them more than sufficient, but soon found
yourselves obliged to send greater; these, whenever they ventured out
of sight of their ships, were either obliged to scamper, or were beaten
and taken prisoners. An American planter, who had never seen Europe,
was chosen by us to command our troops, and continued during the whole
war. This man sent home to you, one after another, five of your best
generals, baffled, their heads bare of laurels, disgraced even in the
opinion of their employers. Your contempt of our understandings, in
comparison with your own, appeared to be not much better founded than
that of our courage, if we may judge by this circumstance, that in
whatever court of Europe a Yankee negotiator appeared, the wise British
minister was routed,--put in a passion,--picked a quarrel with your
friends,--and was sent home with a flea in his ear. But after all, my
dear friend, do not imagine that I am vain enough to ascribe our
success to any superiority in any of those points. I am too well
acquainted with all the springs and levers of our machine, not to see
that our human means were unequal to our undertaking, and that, if it
had not been for the justice of our cause, and the consequent
interposition of Providence, in which we had faith, we must have been
ruined. If I had ever before been an Atheist, I should now have been
convinced of the being and government of a Deity! It is HE who "abases
the proud, and exalts the humble." May we never forget his goodness to
us, and may our future conduct manifest our gratitude!

B. FRANKLIN.

Now, can any honest man, after this, entertain a doubt that Dr.
Franklin was indeed, "_in practice very much a christian_."

I am aware that some, good men have been offended, and I may add,
grieved too, that Dr. Franklin should ever have spoken slightingly of
_faith_, &c. But these gentlemen may rest assured, that Dr. Franklin
did this only to keep people from laying such stress on _faith_, &c. as
to neglect what is infinitely more important, even LOVE and GOOD WORKS.
And in this grand view, do not the holy apostles, and even Christ
himself treat these things in the same way? Every where speaking of
"_faith_ and _baptism_ and _long prayers_," when attempted to be put in
place of love and good works, as mere "_beggarly elements_," and even
"_damning hypocrisies_." However, let honest men read the following
letter on the subject, by Dr. Franklin himself. While it serves to
remove their doubts and prejudices, it may go to prove that if he had
errors in religion, they were not the errors of the heart, nor likely
to do any harm in the world; but contrariwise, to make us all much
better christians, and happier men, than we are.

The letter is in answer to one from an illustrious foreigner; who, on a
trip to Philadelphia, made Dr. Franklin a visit. The doctor, for some
malady, advised him to try electricity; and actually gave him several
shocks. He had not long been gone, before he wrote Dr. Franklin a most
flattering account of the effects of his electricity--begged him to be
assured he should never forget such KINDNESS--and concluded with
praying that they might both have grace to live a life of FAITH, that
if they were never to meet again in this world, they might at last meet
in heaven.

DR. FRANKLIN'S ANSWER.

_Philadelphia, June 6, 1753._

SIR,

I received your kind letter of the 2d instant, and am glad that you
increase in strength; I hope you will continue mending till you recover
your former health.

As to the _kindness_ you mention, the only thanks I desire is, that you
would always be equally ready to serve any other person that may need
your assistance, and so let good offices go round, _for_ MANKIND ARE
_all of a family_.

For my own part, when I am employed in serving others, I do not look
upon myself as conferring favours, but as paying debts. In my travels,
and since my settlement, I have received much kindness from men, to
whom I shall never have any opportunity of making the least direct
return--and numberless mercies from God, who is infinitely above being
benefitted by our services. The kindness from men, I can, therefore,
only return on their fellow men, and I can only show my gratitude for
those mercies from God, by a readiness to help his other children, and
my brethren. For I do not think that thanks and compliments, though
repeated weekly, can discharge our real obligations to each other, and
much less those to our Creator. You will see in this, my notion of good
works; that I am far from expecting, as you suppose, to _merit heaven_
by them. By heaven, we understand a state of happiness; infinite in
degree, and eternal in duration. I can do nothing to deserve such
REWARDS. He that, for giving a draught of water to a thirsty person,
should expect to be paid with a good plantation, would be modest in his
demands, compared with those who think they _deserve_ heaven for the
little good they do on earth. Even the mixed imperfect pleasures we
enjoy in this world, are rather from God's goodness, than our merit;
how much more such happiness as heaven. For my part, I have not the
vanity to think I deserve it, the folly to expect it, nor the ambition
to desire it; but content myself in submitting to the will and disposal
of that God who made me--who has hitherto preserved and blessed me--and
in whose FATHERLY GOODNESS I may well confide, that he will never make
me miserable--and that even the afflictions I may at any time suffer
shall tend to my benefit.

The faith you mention has, doubtless, its use in the world. I do not
desire to see it diminished. But I wish it were more productive of
_good works_ than I have generally seen it, I mean real good works;
works of kindness, charity, mercy, and public spirit; not holiday
keeping, sermon reading or hearing, performing church ceremonies, or
making long prayers, filled with flatteries and compliments, despised
even by wise men, and much less capable of pleasing the Deity. The
worship of God is a _duty_; the hearing and reading of sermons _may_ be
useful; but if men rest in _hearing_ and _praying_, as _too many do_,
it is as if a tree should value itself on being watered and putting
forth leaves, though it never produced any fruit. Your great master
thought much less of these outward appearances and professions than
many of his modern disciples. He preferred the _doers_ of the word to
the mere _hearers_; the son that _seemingly_ refused to obey his
father, and yet _performed_ his commands, to him that _professed_ his
readiness, but _neglected_ the work; the heretical but charitable
Samaritan, to the uncharitable though orthodox priest and sanctified
Levite: and those who gave food to the hungry, drink to the thirsty,
raiment to the naked, entertainment to the stranger, and relief to the
sick, though they never heard of his name, he declares they shall in
the last day be accepted, when those who cry Lord, Lord, who value
themselves on their faith, though great enough to perform miracles, but
have neglected good works, shall be rejected. He professed he came
"_not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance_," which implied
his modest opinion, that there were some in his time so _good_, that
they needed not to hear even _him_ for improvement; but now-a-days, we
have scarce a little parson that does not think it the duty of every
man within his reach, to think _exactly_ as he does, and that all
dissenters offend God. I wish to such more humility, and to you health
and happiness, being

Your friend and servant,

B. FRANKLIN.


What but the spirit of immortal love, which, not content with doing
much good in life, fondly looks beyond, and feasts on the happiness
that others are to derive from us long after we have ceased to live on
earth; what, I ask, but that love, could have dictated

    DR. FRANKLIN'S WILL.

    _"When thou makest a feast, call not thy rich neighbours: lest
    they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee._

    _"But when thou makest a feast, call the poor; and thou shalt be
    blessed. For they cannot recompense thee, for thou shall be
    recompensed at the resurrection of the just._

    "LUKE, xiv."

Sentiments divinely sublime!--Who, without emotions indescribable, can
read them! And yet if they were lost from the Bible, they might be
found again in the _Will_ of Benjamin Franklin.

While many others "_rise early, and late take rest, and eat the bread
of labour and care_," that they may "_die rich_"--leaving their massy
treasures, some scanty legacies excepted, to corrupt a few proud
relatives, doctor Franklin acted as though the above text, the _true
sublime of wisdom and benevolence_, was before him.

After having _bequeathed_ his books, a most voluminous and valuable
collection, partly to his family, and partly to the Boston and
Philadelphia philosophical societies; and, after having divided a
handsome competence among his children, and grand children, he goes on
as follows:

      "I. Having owed my first instructions in literature to the free
    grammar schools in Boston, I give one hundred pounds sterling to
    the free schools in that town, to be laid out in silver medals as
    honorary rewards for the encouragement of scholarship in those
    schools.

     "II. All the debts to my post-office establishment, which I held
    many years, I leave to the Philadelphia hospital.

    "III. Having always been of opinion, that in democratical
    governments, there ought to be no offices of _great_ profit, I
    have long determined to give a part of my public salary to public
    uses; and being chiefly indebted to Massachusetts, my _native_
    state, and Pennsylvania, my _adopted_ state, for lucrative
    employments, I feel it my duty to remember them; and having from
    long observation, and my own early experience, discovered that the
    best objects for assistance are indigent young persons, and the
    best modes of assistance, a plain education, a good trade, and a
    little money to set them up; and having been set up in business,
    while a poor boy, in Philadelphia, by kind loans of money from two
    friends there, which was the foundation of my fortune and all the
    usefulness that the world ascribed to me, I feel a wish to be
    useful, after my death, to others, in the loans of money; I
    therefore devote, from the savings of my salaries, the following
    sums, to the following persons and uses:

    "1. To the inhabitants of Boston and Philadelphia, one thousand
    pounds sterling to each city, to be let out by the oldest divines
    of different churches, on a _five per cent. interest_ and good
    _security_, to indigent young tradesmen, not _bachelors_, (as they
    have not deserved much from their country and the feebler sex,)
    but married men."

    "2. No borrower to have more than sixty pounds sterling, nor less
    than fifteen."

    "3. And in order to serve as many as possible in their turn, as
    well as to make the payment of the principal borrowed more easy,
    each borrower shall be obliged to pay, with the yearly interest,
    one tenth part of the principal; which sums of principal and
    interest, so paid, shall be again lent out to fresh borrowers.

    "B. FRANKLIN."

In a late Boston paper, the friends of humanity have read with much
pleasure that doctor Franklin's legacy to the indigent young married
tradesmen of that town, of $4444 44 cents, is now increased to $10,902
28 cents, after having been the means of setting up 206 poor young
men, besides 75 others, who are now in the use of the capital.




CHAPTER XLV.

_The Death of Doctor Franklin._


One cannot read the biography of this great man without being put in
mind of those sweet though simple strains of the bard of Zion.

    "Happy the man, whose tender care
      Relieves the poor distrest;
    When he's with troubles compass'd round,
      The Lord shall give him rest."

    "If, he in languishing estate,
      Oppress'd with sickness, lie,
    The Lord shall easy make his bed,
      And inward strength supply."

The latter end of doctor Franklin affords glorious proof that nothing
so softens the bed of sickness, and brightens the gloom of the grave,
as a life spent in works of love to mankind.

See George Washington, who by an active and disinterested benevolence,
was called "THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY." See Martha Washington, who by
domestic virtues, and extensive charities, obtained to herself the
high character of "THE MOTHER TO THE POOR."--Both of these found the
last bed spread as it were with roses; and the last enemy converted
into a friend. Such is the lot of all who love; "not in _word, but in
deed and in truth_."

The friends of doctor Franklin never entered his chamber without being
struck with this precious text, _"Mark the perfect man, and behold the
upright, for the end of that man is peace."_ Though laid on the bed
whence he is to rise no more, he shows no sign of dejection or defeat.
On the contrary, he appears like an aged warrior reposing himself
after glorious victory; while his looks beaming with benevolence,
express an air pure and serene as the Heaven to which he is going.
Death, which most sick people are so unwilling to mention, was to him
a favourite topic, and the sublime conversations of Socrates on that
great subject, were heard a second time, from the lips of our American
Franklin, pregnant with "_immortality and eternal life_." No wonder
then that with such views doctor Franklin should have been so cheerful
on his dying bed; so self-possessed and calm, even under the tortures
of the gravel, which was wearing him down to the grave. "_Don't go
away_," said he to the Rev. Dr. Colline, of the Swedes' church,
Philadelphia, who, as a friend, was much with him in his last illness,
and at sight of his agonies and cold sweats under the fits of the
gravel, would take up his hat to retire--"_O no! don't go away_," he
would say, "_don't go away_. These pains will soon be over. They are
for my good. And besides, what are the pains of a moment in comparison
of the pleasures of eternity."

Blest with an excellent constitution, well nursed by nature's three
great physicians, _temperance_, _exercise_, and _cheerfulness_, he was
hardly ever sick until after his seventy-sixth year. The gout and
gravel then attacked him with great severity. He bore their
excruciating tortures as became one who habitually felt that he was as
he said, in the hands of an infinitely wise and benevolent being, who
did all things right.

His physician, the celebrated Dr. Jones, published the following
account of his last illness.

"The stone, had for the last twelve months confined him chiefly to his
bed; and during the extreme painful paroxysms, he was obliged to take
large doses of laudanum to mitigate his tortures--still in the
intervals of pain, he not only amused himself with reading and
conversing with his family, and his friends who visited him, but was
often employed in doing business of a public as well as private
nature, with various persons who waited on him for that purpose, and
in every instance displayed, not only that readiness of doing good,
which was the distinguishing characteristic of his life, but the
fullest possession of his uncommon mental abilities; and not
unfrequently indulged himself in those flashes of wit and entertaining
anecdotes, which were the delight of all who heard him.

"About sixteen days before his death, he was seized with a pain in his
left breast, which increased till it became extremely acute, attended
with a cough and laborious breathing. During this state, when the
severity of his pains some times drew forth a groan, he would observe,
that, _he was afraid he did not bear them as he ought--acknowledged
his grateful sense of the many blessings he had received from the
Supreme Being, who had raised him from small and low beginnings to
such high rank and consideration among men--and made no doubt but his
present afflictions were kindly intended to wean him from a world, in
which he was no longer fit to act the part assigned him_. In this
frame of body and mind he continued till five days before his death,
when an imposthumation in his lungs, suddenly burst, and discharged a
great quantity of matter, which he continued to throw up while he had
strength, but, as that failed, the organs of respiration became
gradually oppressed--a calm lethargic state succeeded--and, on the 7th
of April, 1790, about eleven o'clock at night he quietly expired,
closing a long and useful life of _eighty-four years and three
months_."

Come holy calm of the soul! Expressive silence come! and meditating
the mighty talents of the dead, and their constant application to the
_glory of the giver_, let us ascend with him on the wings of that
blessed promise, "_Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord! even so
saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours and their works do
follow them._"

That Franklin is now enjoying that rest which "_remaineth_ _for the
people of God_"--and that while many a blood-stained monster who made
great noise in the world, is _followed_ by the cries of thousands of
widows and orphans, Franklin dying in the Lord, and followed by the
blessings of thousands, fed, clothed, educated, and enriched by his
charities, is in GLORY, may be fairly inferred from the following most
valuable anecdote of him.

Naturalists tell us, that so great is the paternal care of God, that
every climate affords the food and physic best suited to the
necessaries of its population. What gratitude is due to that goodness,
which foreseeing the dangers impending over this country from British
injustice, sent us two such protectors as Franklin and Washington? The
first, (the forerunner of the second,) like the lightning of Heaven,
to expose the approaching tempest; and the second, like the rock of
the ocean, to meet that tempest in all its fury, and dash it back on
its proud assailants? And how astonishing too, and almost unexampled
that goodness, which with talents of wisdom and fortitude to establish
our republic, combined the cardinal virtues of _justice_, _industry_,
and _economy_ that alone can render our republic immortal?

Hoping that our _youth_ may be persuaded to love and imitate the
virtues of the men whose great names they have been accustomed, from
the cradle, to lisp with veneration, I have long coveted to set these
virtues before them. The grey haired men of other days, have given me
their aid. The following I obtained from the Rev. Dr. Helmuth, of the
German church, Philadelphia. Hearing that this learned and pious
divine possessed a valuable anecdote of doctor Franklin, I immediately
waited on him. "Yes, sir," said he, "I have indeed a valuable anecdote
of doctor Franklin, which I would tell you with great pleasure; but as
I do not speak English very well, I wish you would call on David
Ritter, at the sign of the _Golden Lamb_, in Front street; he will
tell it to you better. I hastened to Mr Ritter, and told him my
errand. He seemed mightily pleased at it, and said, "Yes, I will tell
you all I know of it. You must understand then, sir, first of all,
that I always had a prodigious opinion of doctor Franklin, as the
_usefulest_ man we ever had among us, by a long way; and so hearing
that he was sick, I thought I would go and see him. As I rapped at the
door, who should come and open it but old Sarah Humphries. I was right
glad to see her, for I had known her a long time. She was of the
people called FRIENDS; and a mighty good sort of body she was too. The
great people set a heap of store by her, for she was famous throughout
the town for nursing and tending on the sick. Indeed, many of them, I
believe, hardly thought they could sicken, and die right if they had
not old Sarah Humphries with them. Soon as she saw me, she said, 'Well
David, how dost?'"

"'O, much after the old sort, Sarah,' said I; 'but that's neither here
nor there; I am come to see doctor Franklin.'

"'Well then,' said she, 'thou art too late, for he is _just dead_!'

"'Alack a day,' said I, 'then a great man is gone.'

"'Yes, indeed,' said she, 'and a _good_ one too; for it seemed as
though he never thought the day went away as it ought, if he had not
done somebody a service. However, David,' said she, 'he is not the
worse off for all that now, where he is gone to: but come, as thee
came to see Benjamin Franklin, thee shall see him yet.' And so she
took me into his room. As we entered, she pointed to him, where he lay
on his bed, and said, '_there_, did thee ever see any thing look so
natural?'

"And he did look natural indeed. His eyes were close--but that you saw
he did not breathe, you would have thought he was in a sweet sleep, he
looked so calm and happy. Observing that his face was fixed right
towards the chimney, I cast my eyes that way, and behold! just above
the mantle-piece was a noble picture! O it was a _noble picture_, sure
enough! It was the picture of our Saviour on the cross.

"I could not help calling out, 'Bless us all, Sarah!' said I, 'what's
all this?'

"'What dost mean, David,' said she, quite crusty.

"'Why, how came this picture here, Sarah?' said I, 'you know that many
people think he was not after this sort.'

"'Yes,' said she, 'I know that too. But thee knows that many who makes
a great fuss about religion have very little, while some who say but
little about it have a good deal.'

"'That's sometimes the case, I fear, Sarah,' said I.

"'Well, and that was the case,' said she, 'with Benjamin Franklin. But
be that as it may, David, since thee asks me about this great picture,
I'll tell thee how it came here. Many weeks ago, as he lay, he
beckoned me to him, and told me of this picture up stairs, and begged
I would bring it to him. I brought it to him. His face brightened up
as he looked at it; and he said, '_Aye, Sarah_,' said he, '_there's a
picture worth looking at! that's the picture of him who came into the
world to teach men to love one another!_' Then after looking wistfully
at it for some time, he said, '_Sarah_,' said he, '_set this picture
up over the mantlepiece, right before me as I lie; for I like to look
at it_,' and when I had fixed it up, he looked at it, and looked at it
very much; and indeed, as thee sees, he died with his eyes fixed on
it.'"

Happy Franklin! Thus doubly blest! Blest in life, by a diligent
co-working with "THE GREAT SHEPHERD," in his precepts of perfect
love.--Blest in death, with his closing eyes piously fixed upon him,
and meekly bowing to the last summons in joyful hope that through the
force of his divine precepts, the "wintry storms" of hate will one day
pass away, and one "eternal spring of love and peace encircle all."

Now Franklin in his lifetime had written for himself an _epitaph_, to
be put upon his grave, that honest posterity might see that he was no
_unbeliever_, as certain enemies had slandered him, but that he
_firmly believed_ "_that his Redeemer liveth; and that in the latter
day he shall stand upon the earth; and that though worms destroyed his
body, yet in his flesh he should see God_."


    FRANKLIN'S EPITAPH.

                      "THE BODY
                          OF
            _BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, PRINTER_,
            LIKE THE COVER OF AN OLD BOOK,
               _its contents torn out,
      and stripped of its lettering and gilding,
              lies here food for worms_.
        Yet the work itself shall not be lost;
    for it will, as he believed, appear once more
                      IN A NEW
             _and more beautiful edition,
                corrected and amended_
                          BY
                    _THE AUTHOR_."

This epitaph was never put upon his tomb. But the friend of man needs
no stone of the valley to perpetuate his memory. It lives among the
clouds of heaven. The lightnings, in their dreadful courses, bow to
the genius of Franklin. His magic rods, pointed to the skies, still
watch the irruptions of the FIERY METEORS. They seize them by
their hissing heads as they dart forth from the dark chambers of the
thunders; and cradled infants, half waked by the sudden glare, are
seen to curl the cherub smile hard by the spot where the dismal bolts
had fallen.


THE END.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Life of Benjamin Franklin, by Mason Locke Weems