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.
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.