Front matter (continued 4)

"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.

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

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:—

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]

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,

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,

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,

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,

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,

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,

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.

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.

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 diarrhœa and even of producing a constipation. With respect to those who do not know how to swim, or who are affected with a diarrhœa 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.