CHAPTER XV
As Keimer is to make a considerable figure in the early part of Ben's life, it may gratify the reader to be made acquainted with him. From the account given of him by Ben, who had the best opportunity to know, it appears that he possessed but little either of the amiable or estimable in his composition. A man he was of but slender talents—quite ignorant of the world—a wretched workman—and worse than all yet, utterly destitute of religion, and therefore very uneven and unhappy in his temper, and abundantly capable of playing the knave whenever he thought it for his interest. Among other evidences of his folly, he miserably envied his brother printer, Bradford, as if the Almighty was not rich enough to maintain them both. He could not endure, that while working with him, Ben should stay at Bradford's; so he took him away, and having no house of his own, he put him to board with Mr. Read, father of the young lady who of late had laughed so heartily at him for eating his rolls along the street. But Miss Deborah did not long continue in this wind. For on seeing the favourable change in his dress, and marking also the wittiness of his conversation, and above all, his close application to business, and the great respect paid him on that account by her father, she felt a wonderful change in his favour, and in place of her former sneers, conceived those tender sentiments for him, which, as we shall see hereafter, accompanied her through life.
Ben now began to contract acquaintance with all such young persons in Philadelphia as were fond of reading, and spent his evenings with them very agreeably: at the same time he picked up money by his industry, and being quite frugal, lived so happy, that except for his parents, he seldom ever thought of Boston nor felt any wish to see it. An affair, however, turned up, which sent him home much sooner than he expected.
His brother-in-law, a captain Holmes, of a trading sloop from Boston to Delaware, happening at Newcastle to hear that Ben was in Philadelphia, wrote to him that his father was all but distracted on account of his sudden elopement from home, and assured him that if he would but return, which he earnestly pressed him to do, every thing should be settled to his satisfaction. Ben immediately answered his letter, thanked him for his advice, and stated his reasons for quitting Boston, with a force and clearness that so highly delighted captain Holmes, that he showed it to all his acquaintance at Newcastle, and among the rest to sir William Keith, governor of the province, with whom he happened to dine. The governor read it, and appeared surprised when he learnt his age. "Why, this must be a young man of extraordinary talents, captain Holmes," said the governor, "very extraordinary talents indeed, and ought to be encouraged; we have no printer in Philadelphia now worth a fig, and if this young man will but set up, there is no doubt of his success. For my part, I will give him all the public business, and render him every other service in my power."
One day as Keimer and Ben were at work near the window, they saw the governor and colonel French cross the street, and make directly for the printing-office. Keimer not doubting it was a visit to himself, hurried down stairs to meet them. The Governor taking no notice of Keimer, but eagerly inquiring for young Mr. Franklin, came up stairs, and with a condescension to which Ben had not been accustomed, introduced himself to him—desired to become acquainted with him—and after obligingly reproaching him for not having made himself known when he first came to town, invited him to the tavern where he and colonel French were going to break a bottle of old Madeira.
If Ben was surprised, old Keimer was thunderstruck. Ben went, however, with the governor and the colonel to the tavern, where, while the Madeira was circulating in cheerful bumpers, the governor proposed to him to set up a printing-office, stating at the same time the great chances of success, and promising that both himself and colonel French would use their influence in procuring for him the public printing of both governments. As Ben appeared to doubt whether his father would assist him in this enterprize, sir William said that he would give the old gentleman a letter, in which he would represent the advantages of the scheme in a light that would, he'd be bound, determine him in his favour. It was thus concluded that Ben should return to Boston by the first vessel, with the governor's letter to good old Josias: in the mean time Ben was to continue with Keimer, from whom this project was to be kept a secret.
The governor sent every now and then to invite Ben to dine with him, which he considered as a very great honour, especially as his excellency always received and conversed with him in the most familiar manner.
In April, 1724, Ben embarked for Boston, where, after a fortnight passage, he arrived in safety. Having been absent seven months from his relatives, who had never heard a syllable of him all that time, his sudden appearance threw the family into a scream of joy, and excepting his sour-faced brother James, the whole squad gave him a most hearty welcome. After much embracing and kissing, and some tears shed on both sides, as is usual at such meetings, Ben kindly inquired after his brother James, and went to see him at his printing-office, not without hopes of making a favourable impression on him by his dress, which was handsome far beyond what he had ever worn in his brother's service; a complete suit of broad cloth, branding new—an elegant silver watch and chain—and his purse crammed with nearly five pound sterling—all in silver dollars. But it would not all do to win over James. Nor indeed is it to be wondered at; for in losing Ben he had lost a most cheerful, obliging lad, whose rare genius and industry in writing, printing, and selling his pamphlets and papers, had brought a noble grist to his mill.
Ben's parade therefore of his fine clothes, and watch, and silver dollars, only made things worse with James, serving but to make him the more sensible of his loss; so after eyeing him from head to foot with a dark side-long look, he turned again to his work without saying a syllable to him. The behaviour of his own journeymen contributed still the more to anger poor James: for instead of taking part with him in his prejudices against Ben, they all appeared quite delighted with him; and breaking off from their work and gathering around him, with looks full of curiosity, they asked him a world of questions.
Philadelphia! said they, O dear! have you been all the way there to Philadelphia!
Ben said, yes.
Why Philadelphia must be a tarnal nation way off!
Four hundred miles, said Ben.
At this they stared on him in silent wonder, for having been four hundred miles from Boston!
And so they have got a printing-office in Philadelphia!
Two or three of them, said Ben.
O la! why that will starve us all here in Boston.
Not at all, said Ben: their advertising "lost pocket books"—"runaway servants" and "stray cows" in Philadelphia, can no more starve you here in Boston, than the catfish of Delaware, by picking up a few soft-crabs there, can starve our catfish here in Boston harbour. The world's big enough for us all.
Well, I wonder now if they have any such thing as money in Philadelphia?
Ben thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought up a whole fist full of dollars!
The dazzling silver struck them all speechless—gaping and gazing at him and each other. Poor fellows, they had never, at once, seen so much of that precious metal in Boston, the money there being nothing but a poor paper proc.
To keep up their stare, Ben drew his silver watch, which soon had to take the rounds among them, every one insisting to have a look at it. Then, to crown all, he gave them a shilling to drink his health; and after telling them what great things lay before them if they would but continue industrious and prudent, and make themselves masters of their trade, he went back to the house.
This visit to the office stung poor James to the quick; for when his mother spoke to him of a reconciliation with Ben, and said how happy she should be to see them like brothers again before she died, he flew into a passion and told her such a thing would never be, for that Ben had so insulted him before his men that he would never forgive nor forget it as long as he lived. But Ben had the satisfaction to live to see that James was no prophet. For when James, many years after this, fell behind hand and got quite low in the world, Ben lent him money, and was a steady friend to him and his family all the days of his life.
CHAPTER XVI
But we have said nothing yet about the main object of Ben's sudden return to Boston, i.e. governor Keith's letter to his father, on the grand project of setting him up as a printer in Philadelphia. The reader has been told that all the family, his brother James excepted, were greatly rejoiced to see Ben again. But among them all there was none whose heart felt half such joy as did that of his father. He had always doted on this young son, as one whose rare genius and unconquerable industry, if but conducted by prudence, would assuredly, one day, lead him to greatness. His sudden elopement, as we have seen, had greatly distressed the old man, especially as he was under the impression that he was gone to sea. And when he remembered how few that go out at his young and inexperienced age, ever return better than blackguards and vagabonds, his heart sickened within him, and he was almost ready to wish he had never lived to feel the pangs of such bitter disappointment in a child so beloved. He counted the days of Ben's absence; by night his sleep departed from his eyes for thinking of his son; and all day long whenever he heard a rapping at the door, his heart would leap with expectation: "who knows," he would say to himself, "but this may be my child?" And although he would feel disappointed when he saw it was not Ben who rapped, yet he was afraid, at times, to see him lest he should see him covered with the marks of dishonour. Who can tell what this anxious father felt when he saw his son return as he did? Not in the mean apparel and sneaking looks of a drunkard, but in a dress far more genteel than he himself had ever been able to put on him; while his beloved cheeks were fresh with temperance, and his eyes bright with innocence and conscious well doing. Imagination dwells with pleasure on the tender scene that marked that meeting, where the withered cheeks of seventy and the florid bloom of seventeen met together in the eager embrace of parental affection and filial gratitude:
"God bless my son!" the sobbing sire he sigh'd.
"God bless my sire!" that pious son replied.
Soon as the happy father could recover his articulation, with great tenderness he said, "but how, my beloved boy could you give me the pain to leave me as you did?"
"Why you know, my dear father," replied Ben, "that I could not live with my brother; nor would he let me live with the other printers; and as I could not bear the thought of living on an aged father now that I was able to work for myself, I determined to leave Boston and seek my fortune abroad. And knowing that if I but hinted my intentions you would prevent me, I thought I would leave you as I did."
"But why, my son, did you keep me so long unhappy about your fate, and not write to me sooner?"
"I knew, father, what a deep interest you took in my welfare, and therefore I resolved never to write to you until by my own industry and economy I had got myself into such a state, that I could write to you with pleasure. This state I did not attain till lately. And just as I was a going to write to you, a strange affair took place that decided me to come and see you, rather than write to you."
"Strange affair! what can that mean, my son?"
"Why, sir, the governor of Pennsylvania, sir William Keith—I dare say, father, you have often heard of governor Keith?"
"I may have heard of him, child—I'm not positive—but what of governor Keith?"
"Why he has taken a wonderful liking to me, father!"
"Aye! has he so?" said the old man, with joy sparkling in his eyes. "Well I pray God you may be grateful for such favours, my son, and make a good use of them!"
"Yes, father, he has taken a great liking to me sure enough; he says I am the only one in Philadelphia who knows any thing about printing; and he says too, that if I will only come and set up in Philadelphia, he will make my fortune for me in a trice!!"
Old Josias here shook his head; "No, no, Ben!" said he, "that will never do: that will never do: you are too young yet, child, for all that, a great deal too young."
"So I told him, father, that I was too young. And I told him too that I was certain you would never give your consent to it."
"You were right there, Ben; no indeed, I could never give my consent to it, that's certain."
"So I told the governor, father; but still he would have it there was a fine opening in Philadelphia, and that I would fill it so exactly, that nothing could be wanting to insure your approbation but a clear understanding of it. And to that end he has written you a letter."
"A letter, child! a letter from governor Keith to me!"
"Yes, father, here it is."
With great eagerness the old gentleman took it from Ben; and drawing his spectacles, read it over and over again with much eagerness. When he was done he lifted his eyes to heaven, while in the motion of his lips and change of countenance, Ben could clearly see that the soul of his father was breathing an ejaculation of praise to God on his account. Soon as his Te Deum was finished, he turned to Ben with a countenance bright with holy joy, and said, "Ben, I've cause to be happy; my son, I've cause to be happy indeed. O how differently have things turned out with you! God's blessed name be praised for it, how differently have they turned out to what I dreaded! I was afraid you were gone a poor vagabond, on the seas; but instead of that you had fixed yourself in one of the finest cities in the country. I was afraid to see you; yes, my dear child, I was afraid to see you, lest I should see you clad in the mean garb of a poor sailor boy; but here I behold you clad in the dress of a gentleman! I trembled lest you had been degrading yourself into the low company of the profane and worthless; and lo! you have been all the time exalting yourself into the high society of great men and governors. And all this in so short a time, and in a way most honourable to yourself, and therefore most delightful to me, I mean by your virtues and your close attention to the duties of a most useful profession. Go on, my son, go on! and may God Almighty, who has given you wisdom to begin so glorious a course, grant you fortitude to persevere in it!"
Ben thanked his father for the continuance of his love and solicitude for him; and he told him moreover, that one principal thing that had stirred him up to act as he had done, was the joy which he knew he should be giving him thereby; as also the great trouble which he knew a contrary conduct would have brought upon him. Here his father tenderly embraced him, and said, "Blessed be God for giving me such a son! I have always, Ben, fed myself with hopes of great things from you. And now I have the joy to say my hopes were not in vain. Yes, glory to God, I trust my precious hopes of you were not in vain." Then, after making a short pause, as from fullness of joy, he went on, "but as to this letter, my son; this same letter here from governor Keith; though nothing was ever more flattering to you, yet depend upon it, Ben, it will never do; at least not yet awhile.—The duties of the place are too numerous, child, and difficult for any but one who has had many more years of experience than you have had."
"Well then, father, what's to be done, for I know that the governor is so very anxious to get me into this place, that he will hardly be said nay?"
"Why, my dear boy, we must still decline it, for all that: not only because from your very unripe age and inexperience, it may involve you in ruin; but also because it actually is not in your power. It is true the governor, from his letter, appears to have the greatest friendship in the world for you; but yet, it is not to be expected that he would advance funds to set you up. O no, my dear boy, that's entirely out of the question. The governor, though perhaps rich, has no doubt too many poor friends and relations hanging on him, for you to expect any thing from that quarter. And as to myself, Ben, with all my love for you, it is not in my power to assist you in such an affair. My family you know, is very large, and the profits of my trade but small, insomuch that at the end of the year there is nothing left. And indeed I never can be sufficiently thankful to God for that health and blessing which enables me to feed and clothe them every year so plentifully."
Seeing Ben look rather serious, the old gentleman, in a livelier tone, resumed his speech, "Yes, Ben, all this is very true; but yet let us not be disheartened. Although we have no funds now, yet a noble supply is at hand."
"Where, father," said Ben, roused up, "where?"
"Why, in your own virtues, Ben, in your own virtues, my boy—There are the noblest funds that God can bestow on a young man. All other funds may easily be drained by our vices and leave us poor indeed. But the virtues are fountains that never fail: they are indeed the true riches and honours, only by other names. Only persevere, my son, in the virtues, as you have already so bravely begun, and the grand object is gained. By the time you reach twenty-one, for every friend that you now have, you will have ten; and for every dollar an hundred; and with these you will make thousands more. Thus, under God, you will have the glory to be the artificer of your own fame and fortune: and that will bring ten thousand times more honour and happiness, to you, Ben, than all the money that governors and fathers could ever give you."
Ben's countenance brightened as his father uttered this; then heaving a deep sigh, as of strong hope that such great things might one day be realized, he said, "Well father, God only knows what I am to come to; but this I know, that I feel in myself a determination to do my best."
"I believe you do, my son, and I thank God most heartily that I have such good reason to believe you do. And when I consider, on the one hand, what a fine field for fame and fortune this new country presents to young men of talents and enterprise: and on the other hand, what wonders you, a poor unknown and unfriended boy have done in Philadelphia, in only six months, I feel transported at the thought of what you may yet attain before my gray hairs descend to the grave. Who knows, Ben, for God is good, my son, who knows but that a fate like that of young Joseph, whom his brethren drove into Egypt, may be in reserve for you? And who knows but that old Jacob's joys may be mine? that like him, after all my anxieties on your account, I may yet hear the name of my youngest son, my beloved Benjamin, coming up from the South, perfumed with praise for his great virtues and services to his country? Then when I hear the sound of his fame rising from that distant land, like the pleasant thunders of summer before refreshing showers, and remember how he used to stand a little prattling boy by my side, in his rosy cheeks and flaxen locks filling the candle moulds, or twisting the snow white cotton wicks with his tender fingers, O how will such remembrance lighten up the dark evening of my days, and cause my setting sun to go down in joy!"
He spoke this in tones so melting, that Ben, who was sitting by his father's side, fell with his face on his bosom, without saying a word. The fond parent, hearing him sob, tenderly embraced him, and with a voice broken with sighs, went on, "Yes, my son, the measure of my joys will then be full. I shall have nothing to detain me any longer in this vale of troubles, but shall gladly breathe out my life in praise to God for this his last, his crowning act of goodness—for this his blessing me in my son."
After a moment's pause, the feelings of both being too deliciously affected for speech, Ben gently raised his face from his father's bosom, and with his eyes yet red and wet with tears, tenderly looking at him, said, "I would to God, father, you would go and live in Philadelphia."
"Why so, my son?"
"Because, I don't want ever to part with you, father, and I am, you know, obliged to go back to Philadelphia immediately."
"Not immediately, my son, I cannot let you go from me immediately."
"Father, I would never go from you, if I could help it; but I must be doing something to make good your fond hopes of me; and I can't stay here."
"Why not, my son?"
"Father, I can't stay with those who hate me; and you know that brother James hates me very much."
"O! he does not hate you, I hope, my son."
"Yes, he does, father, indeed he does; because I only differed from him in opinion and ventured to reason with him, he kindled into passion and abused me even to blows, though I was in the right, as you told him afterwards. And because I told him I did not think he acted the part of a brother by me in wishing to make me a slave so many years, he went about town and set all the printers against me, and thus drove me away from home, and from you, my father, whom I so much love. And just now, when I went to his office to see him, instead of running to meet me and rejoicing to see me returned safe and sound and so well dressed and a plenty of money in my pocket, he would not even speak to me, but looked as dark and angry as though he would have torn me to pieces. And yet he can turn up his eyes, and make long prayers and graces, and talk a great deal about Jesus Christ!"
The old man here shook his head with a deep groan, while Ben thus went on, "No, father, I can't stay here; I must be going back to Philadelphia and to my good friend governor Keith; for I long to be realizing all the great hopes that you have been forming of me. And should God but give me a good settlement in Philadelphia, then you will come and live with me. O say, my father, wont you come and live with me?"
Ben spoke this, looking up to his father with that joy of filial love sparkling in his youthful eyes which made him look like all that we fancy of angels.
The old man embraced him and said, "I will, my son, I will; but stay with me a little while, at the least three days, and then you may depart." Ben consenting to this, the old gentleman wrote a polite letter to governor Keith, thanking him very heartily for that he, so great a man, should have paid such attentions to his poor boy: but at the same time begged his pardon for declining to do any thing for him, not only because he had very little in his power to do; but also because he thought him too young to be intrusted with the conduct of an enterprise that required much more experience than he possessed.