Thus ended this curious dialogue, between one of the most amiable parents, and one of the most acute and sagacious youths that our country, or perhaps any other has ever produced.
CHAPTER XVIII
The three days of Ben's promised stay with his father being expired, the next morning he embraced his parents and embarked a second time for Philadelphia, but with a much lighter heart than before, because he now left home with his parents' blessing, which they gave him the more willingly as from the dark sanctified frown on poor James' brow they saw in him no disposition towards reconciliation.
The vessel happening to touch at Newport, Ben gladly took that opportunity to visit his favourite brother John, who received him with great joy. John was always of the mind that Ben would one day or other become a great man; "he was so vastly fond," he said, "of his book."
And when he saw the elegant size that Ben's person had now attained, and also his fine mind-illuminated face and manly wit, he was so proud of him that he could not rest until he had introduced him to all his friends. Among the rest was a gentleman of the name of Vernon, who was so pleased with Ben during an evening's visit at his brother's, that he gave him an order on a man in Pennsylvania for thirty pounds, which he begged he would collect for him. Ben readily accepted the order, not without being secretly pleased that nature had given him a face which this stranger had so readily credited with thirty pounds.
Caressed by his brother John and by his brother John's friends, Ben often thought that if he were called on to point out the time in his whole life that had been spent more pleasantly than the rest, he would, without hesitation, pitch on this his three days' visit to Newport.
But alas! he has soon brought to cry out with the poet,
"The brightest things beneath the sky,
Yield but a glimmering light;
We should suspect some danger nigh,
Where we possess delight."
His thirty pound order from Vernon, was at first ranked among his dear honied delights enjoyed at Newport; but it soon presented, as we shall see, a roughsting. This however, was but a flea bite in comparison of that mortal wound he was within an ace of receiving from this same Newport trip. The story is this: Among a considerable cargo of live lumber which they took on board for Philadelphia, were three females, a couple of gay young damsels, and a grave old Quaker lady. Following the natural bent of his disposition, Ben paid great attention to the old Quaker. Fortunate was it for him that he did; for in consequence of it she took a motherly interest in his welfare that saved him from a very ugly scrape. Perceiving that he was getting rather too fond of the two young women above, she drew him aside one day, and with the looks and speech of a mother, said, "Young man, I am in pain for thee: thou hast no parent to watch over thy conduct, and thou seemest to be quite ignorant of the world and the snares to which youth is exposed. I pray thee rely upon what I tell thee.—These are women of bad character; I perceive it in all their actions. If thou dost not take care they will lead thee into danger!!"
As he appeared at first not to think so ill of them as she did, the old lady related of them many things she had seen and heard, and which had escaped his attention, but which convinced him she was in the right. He thanked her for such good advice, and promised to follow it.
On their arrival at New-York the girls told him where they lived, and invited him to come and see them. Their eyes kindled such a glow along his youthful veins that he was on the point of melting into consent. But the motherly advice of his old quaker friend happily coming to his aid, revived his wavering virtue, and fixed him in the resolution, though much against the grain, not to go. It was a most blessed thing for him that he did not; for the captain missing a silver spoon and some other things from the cabin, and knowing these women to be prostitutes, procured a search warrant, and finding his goods in their possession, had them brought to the whipping-post.
As God would have it, Ben happened to fall in with the constable and crowd who were taking them to whip. He would fain have run off. But there was a drawing of sympathy towards them which he could not resist: so on he went with the rest. He said afterwards that it was well he did: for when he beheld these poor devils tied up to the stake, and also their sweet faces distorted with terror and pain, and heard their piteous screams under the strokes of the cowhide on their bleeding backs, he could not help melting into tears, at the same time saying to himself—"now had I but yielded to the allurements of these poor creatures, and made myself an accessary to their crimes and sufferings, what would now be my feelings!"
From the happy escape which he had thus made through the seasonable advice of the good old quaker lady he learned that acts of this sort hold the first place on the list of charities: and entered it as a resolution on his journal that he would imitate it and do all in his power to open the eyes of all, but especially of the young, to a timely sense of the follies and dangers that beset them. How well he kept his promise, will, 'tis likely, gentle reader, be remembered by thousands when you and I are forgotten.
CHAPTER XIX
On the arrival of the vessel at New-York, Ben went up to a tavern, and lo! who should he first cast his eyes on there, but his old friend Collins, of Boston!
Collins had, it seems, been so charmed with Ben's account of Philadelphia, that he came to the determination to try his fortune there also; and learning that Ben was shortly to return by the way of New-York, he had jumped into the first vessel, and was there before him, waiting his arrival. Great was the joy of Ben at the sight of his friend Collins, for it drew after it a train of the most pleasant recollections.—But who can describe his feelings, when flying to embrace that long esteemed youth, he beheld him now risen from his chair equally eager for the embrace, but alas! only able to make a staggering step or two before down he came sprawling on the floor, drunk as a lord!
To see a young man of his wit—his eloquence—his education—his hitherto unstained character and high promise, thus overwhelmed by a worse than brutal vice, would have been a sad sight to Ben, even though that young man had been an entire stranger. But oh! how tenfold sad to see such marks of ruinous dishonour on one so dear, and from whom he had expected so much.
Ben had just returned from assisting to put poor Collins to bed, when the captain of the vessel which had brought him to New-York, stepped up and in a very respectful manner put a note into his hand.—Ben opened it, not without considerable agitation, and read as follows:—
"G. Burnet's compliments await young Mr. Franklin—and should be glad of half an hour's chat with him over a glass of wine."
"G. Burnet!" said Ben, "who can that be?"
"Why, 'tis the governor," replied the captain with a smile. "I have just been to see him, with some letters I brought for him from Boston. And when I told him what a world of books you have, he expressed a curiosity to see you, and begged I would return with you to his palace."
Ben instantly set off with the captain, but not without a sigh as he cast a look back on the door of poor Collins' bed-room, to think what an honour that wretched young man had lost for the sake of two or three vile gulps of filthy grog.
The governor's looks, at the approach of Ben, showed somewhat of disappointment. He had, it seems, expected considerable entertainment from Ben's conversation. But his fresh and ruddy countenance showed him so much younger than he had counted on, that he gave up all his promised entertainment as a lost hope. He received Ben, however, with great politeness, and after pressing on him a glass of wine, took him into an adjoining room, which was his library, consisting of a large and well-chosen collection.
Seeing the pleasure which sparkled in Ben's eyes as he surveyed so many elegant authors, and thought of the rich stores of knowledge which they contained, the governor, with a smile of complacency, as on a young pupil of science, said to him, "Well, Mr. Franklin, I am told by the captain here, that you have a fine collection too."
"Only a trunk full, sir," said Ben.
"A trunk full!" replied the governor. "Why, what use can you have for so many books? Young people at your age have seldom read beyond the 10th chapter of Nehemiah."
"I can't boast," replied Ben, "of having read any great deal beyond that myself; but still, I should be sorry if I could not get a trunk full of books to read every six months." At this, the governor regarding him with a look of surprise, said, "You must then, though so young, be a scholar; perhaps a teacher of the languages."
"No sir," answered Ben, "I know no language but my own."
"What, not Latin nor Greek!"
"No sir, not a word of either."
"Why, don't you think them necessary?"
"I don't set myself up as a judge. But I should not suppose them necessary."
"Aye! well, I should like to hear your reasons."
"Why, sir, I am not competent to give reasons that may satisfy a gentleman of your learning, but the following are the reasons with which I satisfy myself. I look on languages, sir, merely as arbitrary sounds of characters, whereby men communicate their ideas to each other. Now, if I already possess a language which is capable of conveying more ideas than I shall ever acquire, were it not wiser in me to improve my time in getting sense through that one language, than waste it in getting mere sounds through fifty languages, even if I could learn as many?"
Here the governor paused a moment, though not without a little red on his cheeks, for having only a minute before put Ben and the 10th chapter of Nehemiah so close together. However, catching a new idea, he took another start. "Well, but, my dear sir, you certainly differ from the learned world, which is, you know, decidedly in favour of the languages."
"I would not wish wantonly to differ from the learned world," said Ben, "especially when they maintain opinions that seem to be founded on truth. But when this is not the case, to differ from them I have ever thought my duty; and especially since I studied Locke."
"Locke!" cried the governor with surprise, "you studied Locke!"
"Yes, sir, I studied Locke on the Understanding three years ago, when I was thirteen."
"You amaze me, sir. You studied Locke on the Understanding at thirteen!"
"Yes, sir, I did."
"Well, and pray at what college did you study Locke at thirteen; for at Cambridge college in Old England, where I got my education, they never allowed the senior class to look at Locke till eighteen?"
"Why, sir, it was my misfortune never to be at a college, nor even at a grammar school, except nine months when I was a child."
Here the governor sprung from his seat, and staring at Ben, cried out, "the devil! well, and where—where did you get your education, pray?"
"At home, sir, in a tallow chandler's shop."
"In a tallow chandler's shop!" screamed the governor.
"Yes, sir; my father was a poor old tallow chandler, with sixteen children, and I the youngest of all. At eight he put me to school, but finding he could not spare the money from the rest of the children to keep me there, he took me home into the shop, where I assisted him by twisting the candle wicks and filling the moulds all day, and at night I read by myself. At twelve, my father bound me to my brother, a printer, in Boston, and with him I worked hard all day at the press and cases, and again read by myself at night."
Here the governor, spanking his hands together, put up a loud whistle, while his eye-balls, wild with surprise, rolled about in their sockets as if in a mighty mind to hop out. "Impossible, young man!" he exclaimed: "Impossible! you are only sounding my credulity. I can never believe one half of all this." Then turning to the captain, he said, "captain, you are an intelligent man, and from Boston; pray tell me can this young man here, be aiming at any thing but to quiz me?"
"No, indeed, please your excellency," replied the captain, "Mr. Franklin is not quizzing you. He is saying what is really true, for I am acquainted with his father and family."
The governor then turning to Ben said, more moderately, "Well, my dear wonderful boy, I ask your pardon for doubting your word; and now pray tell me, for I feel a stronger desire than ever to hear your objection to learning the dead languages."
"Why, sir, I object to it principally on account of the shortness of human life. Taking them one with another, men do not live above forty years. Plutarch, indeed, puts it only thirty-three. But say forty. Well, of this full ten years are lost in childhood, before any boy thinks of a Latin grammar. This brings the forty down to thirty. Now of such a moment as this, to spend five or six years in learning the dead languages, especially when all the best books in those languages are translated into ours, and besides, we already have more books on every subject than such short-lived creatures can ever acquire, seems very preposterous."
"Well, but what are you to do with their great poets, Virgil and Homer, for example; I suppose you would not think of translating Homer out of his rich native Greek into our poor homespun English, would you?"
"Why not, sir?"
"Why I should as soon think of transplanting a pine-apple from Jamaica to Boston."
"Well, sir, a skilful gardener, with his hot-house, can give us nearly as fine a pine-apple as any in Jamaica. And so Mr. Pope, with his fine imagination, has given us Homer, in English, with more of his beauties than ordinary scholars would find in him after forty years' study of the Greek. And besides, sir, if Homer was not translated, I am far from thinking it would be worth spending five or six years to learn to read him in his own language."
"You differ from the critics, Mr. Franklin; for the critics all tell us that his beauties are inimitable."
"Yes, sir, and the naturalists tell us that the beauties of the basilisk are inimitable too."
"The basilisk, sir! Homer compared with the basilisk! I really don't understand you, sir."
"Why, I mean, sir, that as the basilisk is the more to be dreaded for the beautiful skin that covers his poison, so Homer for the bright colourings he throws over bad characters and passions. Now, as I don't think the beauties of poetry are comparable to those of philanthropy, nor a thousandth part so important to human happiness, I must confess I dread Homer, especially as the companion of youth. The humane and gentle virtues are certainly the greatest charms and sweeteners of life. And I suppose, sir, you would hardly think of sending your son to Achilles to learn these."
"I agree he has too much revenge in his composition."
"Yes, sir, and when painted in the colours which Homer's glowing fancy lends, what youth but must run the most imminent risk of catching a spark of bad fire from such a blaze as he throws on his pictures?"
"Why this, though an uncommon view of the subject, is, I confess, an ingenious one, Mr. Franklin; but surely 'tis overstrained."
"Not at all, sir; we are told from good authority, that it was the reading of Homer that first put it into the head of Alexander the great to become a Hero: and after him of Charles the 12th. What millions of human beings have been slaughtered by these two great butchers is not known; but still probably not a tythe of what have perished in duels between individuals from the pride and revenge nursed by reading Homer."
"Well, sir," replied the governor, "I never heard the prince of bards treated in this way before. You must certainly be singular in your charges against Homer."
"I ask your pardon, sir, I have the honour to think of Homer exactly as did the greatest philosopher of antiquity; I mean Plato, who strictly forbids the reading of Homer in his republic. And yet Plato was a heathen. I don't boast myself as a christian; and yet I am shocked at the inconsistency of our Latin and Greek teachers (generally christians and divines too,) who can one day put Homer into the hands of their pupils, and in the midst of their recitations can stop them short to point out the divine beauties and sublimities which the poet gives to his hero, in the bloody work of slaughtering the poor Trojans; and the next day take them to church to hear a discourse from Christ on the blessedness of meekness and forgiveness. No wonder that hot-livered young men thus educated, should despise meekness and forgiveness, as mere cowards' virtues, and deem nothing so glorious as fighting duels, and blowing out brains."
Here the governor came to a pause, like a gamester at his last trump. But perceiving Ben cast his eyes on a splendid copy of Pope's works, he suddenly seized that as a fine opportunity to turn the conversation. So stepping up, he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in a very familiar manner said, "Well, Mr. Franklin, there's an author that I am sure you'll not quarrel with; an author that I think you'll pronounce faultless."
"Why, sir," replied Ben, "I entertain a most exalted opinion of Pope; but still, sir, I think he is not without his faults."
"It would puzzle you, I suspect, Mr. Franklin, as keen a critic as you are, to point out one."
"Well, sir," answered Ben, hastily turning to the place, "what do you think of this famous couplet of Mr. Pope's—
"Immodest words admit of no defence,
For want of decency is want of sense."
"I see no fault there."
"No, indeed!" replied Ben, "why now to my mind a man can ask no better excuse for any thing wrong he does, than his want of sense."
"Well, sir," said the governor, sensibly staggered, "and how would you alter it?"
"Why, sir, if I might presume to alter a line in this great Poet, I would do it in this way:—
"Immodest words admit but this defence—
That want of decency is want of sense."
Here the governor caught Ben in his arms as a delighted father would his son, calling out at the same time to the captain, "How greatly am I obliged to you, sir, for bringing me to an acquaintance with this charming boy? O! what a delightful thing it would be for us old fellows to converse with sprightful youth if they were but all like him!—But the d–l of it is, most parents are as blind as bats to the true glory and happiness of their children. Most parents never look higher for their sons than to see them delving like muckworms for money; or hopping about like jay-birds, in fine feathers. Hence their conversation is generally no better than froth and nonsense."
After several other handsome compliments on Ben, and the captain expressing a wish to be going, the governor shook hands with Ben, begging at the same time that he would for ever consider him as one of his fastest friends, and also never came to New-York without coming to see him.
CHAPTER XX
On returning to the tavern, he hastened into his chamber, where he found his drunken comrade, poor Collins, in a fine perspiration, and considerably sobered, owing to the refrigerating effects of a pint of strong sage tea, with a tea-spoonful of saltpetre, which Ben, before he set out to the governor's, had pressed on him as a remedy he had somewhere read, much in vogue among the London topers, to cool off after a rum fever. Collins appeared still to have enough of brandy in him for a frolic; but when Ben came to tell him of the amiable governor Burnet, in whose company, at his own palace, he had spent a most delightful evening; and also to remind him of the golden opportunity he had lost, of forming an acquaintance with that noble gentleman, poor Collins wept bitterly.
Ben was exceedingly affected to see him in tears, and endeavoured to comfort him. But he refused comfort. He said, "if this had been the first time, he should not himself think much of it; but he candidly confessed, that for a long time he had been guilty of it, though till of late he had always kept it to himself, drinking in his chamber. But now he felt at times," he said, "an awful apprehension that he was a lost man. His cravings for liquor were so strong on the one hand, and on the other his powers of resistance so feeble, that it put him fearfully in mind of the dismal state of a poor wretch, within the fatal attraction of a whirlpool, whose resistless suction, in spite of all his feeble efforts, was hurrying him down to sure and speedy destruction."
Collins, who was exceedingly eloquent on every subject, but especially on one so nearly affecting himself, went on deploring his misfortune in strains so tender and pathetic, that Ben, whose eyes were fountains ever ready to flow at the voice of sorrow, could not refrain from weeping, which he did most unfeignedly for a long esteemed friend now going to ruin. He could bear, he said, to see the brightest plumed bird, charmed by the rattle-snake, descending into the horrid sepulchre of the monster's jaws. He could bear to see the richest laden Indiaman, dismasted and rudderless, drifting ashore on the merciless breakers; because made of dust, these things must at any rate return to dust, again. But to see an immortal mind stopped in her first soarings, entangled and limed in the filth of so brutal a vice as drunkenness—that was a sight he could not bear. And as a mother looking on her child that is filleted for the accursed Moloch, cannot otherwise than shed tears, so Ben, when he looked on poor Collins, could not but weep when he saw him the victim of destruction.
However, as a good wit turns every thing to advantage, this sudden and distressing fall of poor Collins, set Ben to thinking: and the result of his thoughts noted down in his journal of that day, deserves the attention of all young men of this day; and even will as long as human nature endures.
"Wit," says he, "in young men, is dangerous, because apt to breed vanity, which, when disappointed, brings them down, and by depriving them of natural cheerfulness, drives them to the bottle for that which is artificial.—And learning also is dangerous, when it is aimed at as an end and not a mean. A young man who aspires to be learned merely for fame, is in danger; for, familiarity breeding contempt, creates an uneasy void that drives him to the bottle. Hence so many learned men with red noses. But when a man from a benevolent heart, seeks learning for the sublime pleasure of imitating the Deity in doing good, he is always made so happy in the spirit and pursuit of this godlike object, that he needs not the stimulus of brandy."
This one hint, if duly reflected on by young men, would render the name of Franklin dear to them for ever.