CHAPTER XXI
The next day, when they came to settle with the tavern-keeper, and Ben with his usual alacrity had paraded his dollars for payment, poor Collins hung back, pale and dumb-founded, as a truant school-boy at the call to recitation. The truth is, the fumes of his brandy having driven all the wit out of his noddle, had puffed it up with such infinite vanity, that he must needs turn in, red faced and silly as he was, to gamble with the cool-headed water-drinking sharpers of New-York. The reader hardly need be informed, that poor Collins' pistareens, which he had scraped together for this expedition, were to these light-fingered gentlemen as a fry of young herrings to the hungry dog-fish.
Ben was now placed in a most awkward predicament. To pay off Collins' scores at New-York, and also his expenses on the road to Philadelphia, would drain him to the last farthing. But how could he leave in distress a young friend with whom he had passed so many happy days and nights in the elegant pleasure of literature, and for whom he had contracted such an attachment! Ben could not bear the idea, especially as his young friend, if left in this sad condition, might be driven to despair; so drawing his purse he paid off Collins' bill, which, from the quantity of liquor he had drank, was swelled to a serious amount; and taking him by the arm, set out with a heart much heavier than his purse, which indeed was now so empty that had it not been replenished at Bristol by the thirty pounds for which, as we have seen, Vernon gave him an order on a gentleman living there, who readily paid it, would never have carried him and his drunken companion to Philadelphia. On their arrival Collins endeavoured to procure employment as a merchant's clerk, and paraded with great confidence his letters of recommendation. But his breath betrayed him. And the merchants would have nothing to say to him notwithstanding all his letters; he continued, therefore, to lodge and board with Ben at his expense. Nor was this all; for knowing that Ben had Vernon's money, he was continually craving loans of it, promising to pay as soon as he should get into business. By thus imposing on Ben's friendship, getting a little of him at one time, and a little at another, he had at last got so much of it, that when Ben, who had gone on lending without taking note, came to count Vernon's money, he could hardly find a dollar to count!
It is not easy to describe the agitation of Ben's mind on making this discovery; nor the alternate chill and fever, that discoloured his cheeks, as he reflected on his own egregious folly in this affair. "What demon," said he to himself, as he bit his lip, "could have put it into my head to tell Collins that I had Vernon's money! Didn't I know that a drunkard has no more reason in him than a hog; and can no better be satisfied, unless like him he is eternally pulling at his filthy swill? And have I indeed been all this time throwing away Vernon's money for brandy to addle the brain of this poor self-made brute? Well then, I am served exactly as I deserve, for thus making myself a pander to his vices. But now that the money is all gone, and I without a shilling to replace it, what's to be done? Vernon will, no doubt, soon learn that I have collected his money; and will of course be daily expecting to hear from me. But what can I write? To tell him that I have collected his money, but lent it to a poor, pennyless sot, will sound like a pretty story, to a man of business! And if I don't write to him, what will he think of me, and what will become of that high opinion he had formed of me, on which it appeared he would have trusted me with thousands? So you see, I have got myself into a pretty hobble. And worse than all yet, how shall I ever again lift up my booby face to my affectionate brother John, after having thus basely stabbed him, through his friend, as also through the honour of our family! O my dear, dear old father; now I see your wisdom and my own folly! A thousand times did you tell me I was too young; too inexperienced yet, to undertake by myself.—But no. It would not all do. For the life of you, you could not lead or drive such divine counsel into this conceited noddle of mine. I despised it as the weakness of old age, and much too slow for me. I wanted to save time, and get three or four years ahead of other young men; and that tempted me to disobedience. Well, I am justly punished for it! My bubble is broke. And now I see I shall be thrown back as long as if I had continued the apprentice of my brother James!!"
O young men! young men! you that with segars in your mouths, and faces flushed with libations of whiskey, can fancy yourselves clever fellows, and boast the long list of your dear friends, O think of the curses that Ben bestowed on his dear friend Collins, for bringing him in such a scrape; and learn that an idle, drinking rascal has no friends. If you think otherwise, it is only a proof that you don't even yet understand the meaning of the word. Friends indeed! you talk of friends! What, you, who instead of nobly pressing on for virtue and knowledge and wealth, to make yourselves an honour and blessing to your connexions, are constantly, by your drunken and gambling courses, making yourselves a disgrace and curse to them. And when, like that fool in the parable, your all is gone, then, instead of modestly going with him into the fields, to feed the swine, you have the impudence to quarter your rags and red noses on your dear friends, spunging and borrowing of them as long as they'll lend. And if at last, they should get wise enough to refuse such unconscionable leechers, as would suck every drop of their blood, instantly you can turn tail and abuse your dear friends as though they were pick-pockets.—Witness now master Collins.
Just as Ben was in the midst of his fever and pet, on discovering as aforesaid, the great injury which Collins had done him, who but that promising youth should come in, red faced and blowzy, and with extreme confidence, demand of him a couple of dollars. Ben, rather tartly, replied that he had no more to spare. "Pshaw," answered Collins, "'tis only a brace of dollars I want, just to treat an old Boston acquaintance I fell in with at the tavern, and you know Vernon tipt you 'the shiners' t'other day to the tune of a round hundred." "Yes," replied Ben, "but what with two dollars at one time, and two at another, you have taken nearly the whole." "Well, man, and what of that," rejoined Collins, swaggeringly; "suppose I had taken the whole; yes, and twice as much, sha'nt I get into fine business presently, some head clerk's place, or governor's secretary? And then you'll see how I'll tumble you in the yellow boys hand over hand, and pay you off these little beggarly items all at a dash."
"Fair words, Mr. Collins," answered Ben, "butter no parsnips. And you have been so long talking at this rate, and yet doing nothing, that I really am afraid–"
"Afraid, the d–l," interrupted Collins, insultingly, "afraid of what? But see here, Mr. Franklin, I came to you, not to preach to me, but to lend me a couple of dollars. And now all that you have to do is just to tell me, at a word, whether you can lend them or not."
"Well then, at a word, I cannot," said Ben.
"Well then, you are an ungrateful fellow," retorted Collins.
"Ungrateful?" asked Ben, utterly astonished.
"Yes, an ungrateful fellow," replied Collins. "You dare not deny, sir, that it was I who first took you out of the tallow pots and grease of your old father's candle shop in Boston, and made a man of you. And now after all, when I only ask you to lend me a couple of shabby dollars to treat a friend, you can refuse me! Well, keep your dollars to yourself and be d–d for an ungrateful fellow as you are!" then wheeling on his heel he went off, blustering and swollen with passion, as though he had been most outrageously ill-treated. Soon as Ben had recovered himself a little from the stupefaction into which this tornado of Collins had thrown him, he clapped his hands, and rolling up his eyes like one devoutly given, exclaimed, "O Ulysses, well called wise! You, though a heathen, could lash your sailors to the mast to keep them from going ashore to be made hogs of at the grog shops of Circe, while I, the son of an old presbyterian christian, the son of his old age, and heir elect of all his wisdom, have been here now for weeks together, lending money to brutalize my own friend! Would to heaven, I had been but half as wise as you, I should not have been so shamefully fleeced, and now so grossly insulted by this young swine, Collins. But what brain of man could have suspected this of him? After taking him out of the stye of a jug tavern in New-York, where he was up to the back in dirt and debt—after paying all his expenses to Philadelphia, and here supporting him cheerfully, out of my hard and scanty earnings;—after submitting, for cheapness sake, to sleep in the same bed with him every night, scorched with his rum-fevered flesh, drenched in his nocturnal sweats, and poisoned with his filthy breath; and still worse, after lending him nearly the whole of Vernon's money, and thereby brought my own silly nose to the grindstone, perhaps for many a doleful year, I should now at last be requited with all this abuse: d—n—d for an ungrateful fellow!! Well, I don't know where all this is to end; but I will still hope for the best. I hope it will teach me this important lesson, never to have any thing to do with a sot again, as long as I live. But stop, though I refused him money to get drunk with, I still feel a friendship for this wretched young man, this Collins; and will still work to support him, while he stays with me. It is likely that now, that he can get no more money from me, he will take his departure; and then, if my senses remain, I think I will for ever hereafter shun, as I would a beast, the young man who drinks drams and grog."
From his going off in such a pet, Ben had supposed at first, that Collins would not return again. But having no money nor friends in Philadelphia, the poor fellow came back at night, to his old roosting place with Ben, by whom he was received with the same good humour as if nothing had happened. But though the injured may forgive, the injurer seldom does. Collins never looked straight at Ben after this. The recollection of the past kept him sore. And to be dependent on one whom, in the pride of former days, he had thought his inferior, rendered his condition so uneasy, that he longed for an opportunity to get out of it. Fortunately an opportunity soon offered. The captain of a trader to the West Indies, falling in with him one day at a tavern, where he was spouting away at a most elegant rate, was so charmed with his vivacity and wit, which most young fools, half shaved, are apt to figure in, that he offered him the place of a private tutor in a rich family in Jamaica. Dame fortune, in her best humour, with all her cogged dice in the bargain, could not, as Collins himself thought, have thrown him a luckier hit. Young black eyed creoles, with fourth proof spirit, in all its delicious modifications, of slings, bumbo and punch, dancing before his delighted fancy, in such mazes of pleasurable promise, that 'tis likely he would hardly have exchanged places with the grand Turk. With a countenance glowing with joy, he hastened to Ben to tell him the glorious news, and to take leave. After heartily congratulating him on his good fortune, Ben asked, if he would not want a little money to fit him out. Collins thanked him, but said that the captain, who had engaged him, was such a noble-hearted fellow, that he had, of his own accord, advanced him three half joes to put him into what he called "complete sailing trim." Though Ben had of late been so scurvily treated by Collins, as to think it very desirable to be quit of him; yet, when the time came, he found it no such easy matter for the heart to dissolve the ties of a long and once pleasant friendship. He had passed with Collins many of his happiest hours, and these too, in the sweetest season of life, and amidst pleasures which best lift the soul from earth, and spring those unutterable hopes she delights in. How then, without tears, could he for the last time, feel the strong pressure of his hand, and catch the parting glance? On the other side, through watery eyes and broken accents, poor Collins sobbed out his last adieu, not without hearty thanks, for the many favors which Ben had done him, and solemn promises of speedily writing to him, and remitting all his money. Charity would fain believe, that he fully so intended; but alas! nor money, nor friend did Ben ever hear of afterwards. This elegant victim of rum, was no doubt presented by the captain to the wealthy family in Jamaica. And being introduced, under the genial influence perhaps of a cheerful glass, 'tis likely that with his advantages of education and eloquence, he made such a figure in the eyes of those wealthy and hospitable islanders, that they were in raptures with him, and fondly counted that they had got an elegant young schoolmaster who was to make scholars and wits of the whole family. Perhaps too, their darling hope, a blooming daughter, was seen to heave the tender sigh, as blushing she darted the side-long glance upon him. But alas! the next day sees the elegant young schoolmaster dead drunk! and the amiable family all in the dumps again. 'Tis more than probable, that after having been alternately received and dismissed from a dozen wealthy families, he sunk at length, into tattered garments, and a grog-blossomed face; the mournful victim of intemperance. And now perhaps, after all the fair prospects of his youth, and all the fond hopes of his parents, poor Collins, untimely buried in a foreign church-yard, only serves for the pious to point their children to his early tomb and remind them how vain are talents and education without the restraints of religion.
CHAPTER XXII
Soon as Ben reached Philadelphia, as aforesaid, he waited on the governor, who received him with joy, eagerly calling out, "Well my dear boy, what success? What success?" Ben, with a smile, drew his father's letter from his pocket. The governor snatched it, as if all impatient to see its contents, which he ran through with a devouring haste. When he was done, he shook his head and said, "it was to be sure a sensible letter, a vastly sensible letter; but—but,—it won't do," continued he to Ben, "no, it won't do; your father is too cautious, entirely too cautious, sir." Hereupon he fell into a brown study, with his eyes nailed to the ground, as in a profound reverie. After a moment's pause, he suddenly looked up, and with a countenance bright as with some happy thought, he cried out, "I've got it, my dear young friend, I've got it exactly. Zounds! what signifies making two bites at a cherry? In for a penny, in for a pound, is my way. Since your father will do nothing for you, I'll do it all myself. A printer I want, and a printer I'll have, that's a clear case: and I am sure you are the lad that will suit me to a fraction. So give me a list of the articles you want from England, and I will send for them by the very next ship, and set you up at once: and all I shall expect of you, is that you'll pay me when you are able!!" Seeing the tear swelling in Ben's eye, the governor took him by the hand, and in a softened tone said, "come, nothing of that my dear boy, nothing of that. A lad of your talents and merit, must not languish in the back ground for lack of a little money to bring you forward. So make me out, as I said, a list of such articles as you may want, and I'll send for them at once to London.—But stop! would it not be better for you to go to London, and choose these things yourself? you could then, you know, be sure to have them all of the best quality. And besides, you could form an acquaintance with some clever fellows in the book selling and stationary line, whose friendship might be worth a Jew's eye to you, in your business here."
Ben, hardly able now to speak, thanked the governor as well as he could for so generous an offer.—"Well then," continued the governor, "get yourself in readiness to go with the Annis." The reader will please to be informed, that the Annis was, at that time, (1722) the only regular trader between London and Philadelphia; and she made but one voyage in the year! Finding that the Annis was not to sail for several months yet, Ben prudently continued to do journey work for old Keimer; but often haunted with the ghost of Vernon's money which he had lent to Collins, and for fear of what would become of him if Vernon should be strict to mark his iniquities in that mad affair. But happily for him, Vernon made no demand. It appeared afterwards that this worthy man had not forgotten his money. But learning from a variety of quarters, that Ben was a perfect non-descript of industry and frugality, he concluded that as the money was not paid, Ben was probably under the hatches. He therefore, generously, let the matter lie over till a distant day, when Ben, as we shall by and by see, paid him up fully, both principal and interest, and thus recovered the high ground he formerly held in his friendship. Thanks be to God, who has given to inflexible honesty and industry, such power over the "heart strings," as well as "purse strings," of mankind.
CHAPTER XXIII
Ben was naturally comic in a high degree, and this pleasant vein, greatly improved by his present golden prospects, betrayed him into many a frolic with Keimer, to whom he had prudently attached himself as a journeyman, until the Annis should sail. The reader will excuse Ben for these frolics when he comes to learn what were their aims; as also what an insufferable old creature this Keimer was. Silly as a booby, yet vain as a jay, and garrulous as a pie, he could never rest but when in a stiff argument, and acting the orator, at which he looked on Cicero himself as but a boy to him. Here was a fine target for Ben's Socratic artillery, which he frequently played off on the old pomposo with great effect. By questions artfully put, he would obtain of him certain points, which Keimer readily granted, as seeing in them no sort of connexion with the matter in debate. But yet these points, when granted, like distant nets slyly hauling round a porpoise or sturgeon, would, by degrees, so completely circumvent the silly fish, that with all his flouncing and fury he could never extricate himself, but rather got more deeply entangled. Often caught in this way, he became at last so afraid of Ben's questions, that he would turn as mad when one of them was "poked at him," as a bull at sight of a scarlet cloak; and would not answer the simplest question without first asking, "well, and what would you make of that?" He came at length to form so exalted an opinion of Ben's talents for refutation, that he seriously proposed to him one day that they should turn out together and preach up a New Religion! Keimer was to preach and make the converts, and Ben to answer and put to silence the gainsayers. He said a world of money might be made by it.
On hearing the outlines of this new religion, Ben found great fault with it. This he did only that he might have another frolic with Keimer; but his frolics were praiseworthy, for they all "leaned to virtue's side." The truth is, he saw that Keimer was prodigiously a hypocrite. At every whip-stitch he could play the knave, and then for a pretence would read his Bible. But it was not the moral part of the Bible, the sweet precepts and parables of the Gospel that he read. No verily. Food so angelic was not at all to the tooth of his childish fancy, which delighted in nothing but the novel and curious. Like too many of the saints now-a-days, he would rather read about the witch of Endor, than the good Samaritan, and hear a sermon on the brazen candlesticks than on the love of God. And then, O dear! who was Melchizedeck? Or where was the land of Nod? Or, was it in the shape of a serpent or a monkey that the devil tempted Eve? As he was one day poring over the pentateuch as busy after some nice game of this sort as a terrier on the track of a weazle, he came to that famous text where Moses says, "thou shall not mar the corners of thy beard." Aye! this was the divinity for Keimer. It struck him like a new light from the clouds: then rolling his eyes as from an apparition, he exclaimed, "miserable man that I am! and was I indeed forbidden to mar even the corners of my beard, and have I been all this time shaving myself as smooth as an eunuch! Fire and brimstone, how have you been boiling up for me, and I knew it not! Hell, deepest hell is my portion, that's a clear case, unless I reform. And reform I will if I live. Yes, my poor naked chin, if ever I but get another crop upon thee and I suffer it to be touched by the ungodly steel, then let my right hand forget her cunning."
From that day he became as shy of a razor as ever Samson was. His long black whiskers "whistled in the wind." And then to see how he would stand up before his glass and stroke them down, it would have reminded you of some ancient Druid, adjusting the sacred Mistletoe.
Ben could not bear that sight. Such shameless neglect of angel morality, and yet such fidgetting about a goatish beard! "Heavens, sir," said he to Keimer, one day in the midst of a hot argument,
"Who can think, with common sense,
A smooth shaved face gives God offence?
Or that a whisker hath a charm,
Eternal justice to disarm?"
He even proposed to him to get shaved. Keimer swore outright that he would never lose his beard. A stiff altercation ensued. But Keimer getting angry, Ben agreed at last to give up the beard. He said that, "as the beard at best was but an external, a mere excrescence, he would not insist on that as so very essential. But certainly sir," continued he, "there is one thing that is."
Keimer wanted to know what that was.
"Why sir," added Ben, "this turning out and preaching up a New Religion, is, without doubt, a very serious affair, and ought not to be undertaken too hastily. Much time, sir, in my opinion at least, should be spent in making preparation, in which, fasting should certainly have a large share."
Keimer, who was a great glutton, said he could never fast.
Ben then insisted that if they were not to fast altogether, they ought, at any rate, to abstain from animal food, and live as the saints of old did, on vegetables and water.
Keimer shook his head, and said that if he were to live on vegetables and water, he should soon die.
Ben assured him that it was entirely a mistake. He had tried it often, he said, and could testify from his own experience that he was never more healthy and cheerful than when he lived on vegetables alone. "Die from feeding on vegetables, indeed! Why, sir, it contradicts reason; and contradicts all history, ancient and profane. There was Daniel, and his three young friends, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who fed on a vegetable diet, of choice; did they languish and die of it? or rather did they not display a rouge of health and fire of genius, far beyond those silly youths who crammed on all the luxuries of the royal table? And that amiable Italian nobleman, Lewis Cornaro, who says of bread, that it was such a dainty to his palate, that he was almost afraid, at times, it was too good for him to eat; did he languish and die of this simple fare? On the contrary, did he not out-live three generations of gratified epicures; and after all, go off in his second century, like a bird of Paradise, singing the praises of Temperance and Virtue? And pray, sir," continued Ben, "where's the wonder of all this? Must not the blood that is formed of vegetables be the purest in nature? And then, as the spirits depend on the blood, must not the spirits secreted from such blood be the purest too? And when this is the case with the blood and spirits, which are the very life of the man, must not that man enjoy the best chance for such healthy secretions and circulations as are most conducive to long and happy life?"
While Ben argued at this rate, Keimer regarded him with a look which seemed to say, "Very true, sir; all this is very true; but still I cannot go it."
Ben, still unwilling to give up his point, thought he would make one more push at him. "What a pity it is," said he with a sigh, "that the blessings of so sublime a religion should be all lost to the world, merely for lack of a little fortitude on the part of its propagators."
This was touching him on the right string; for Keimer was a man of such vanity, that a little flattery would put him up to any thing. So after a few hems and ha's, he said, he believed he would, at any rate, make a trial of this new regimen.
Having thus carried his point, Ben immediately engaged a poor old woman of the neighbourhood to become their cook; and gave her off hand, written receipts for three and forty dishes; not one of which contained a single atom of fish, flesh, or fowl. For their first day's breakfast on the new regimen, the old woman treated them with a terrene of oatmeal gruel. Keimer was particularly fond of his breakfast, at which a nice beef-stake with onion sauce was a standing dish. It was as good as a farce to Ben, to see with what an eye Keimer regarded the terrene, when entering the room, in place of his stake, hot, smoking, and savory, he beheld this pale, meagre-looking slop.
"What have you got there?" said he, with a visage grum, and scowling eye.
"A dish of hasty pudding," replied Ben, with the smile of an innocent youth who had a keen appetite, with something good to satisfy it—"a dish of nice hasty pudding, sir, made of oats."
"Of oats!" retorted Keimer, with a voice raised to a scream.
"Yes, sir, oats," rejoined Ben,—"oats, that precious grain which gives such elegance and fire to our noblest of quadrupeds, the horse."
Keimer growled out, that he was no horse to eat oats.
"No matter for that," replied Ben, "'tis equally good for men."
Keimer denied that any human being ever eat oats.
"Aye!" said Ben, "and pray what's become of the Scotch? Don't they live on oats; and yet, where will you find a people so 'bonny, blythe, and gay;' a nation of such wits and warriors."
As there was no answering this, Keimer sat down to the terrene, and swallowed a few spoonfuls, but not without making as many wry faces as if it had been so much jalap; while Ben, all smile and chat, breakfasted most deliciously.
At dinner, by Ben's order, the old woman paraded a trencher piled up with potatoes. Keimer's grumbling fit came on him again. "He saw clear enough," he said, "that he was to be poisoned."
"Poh, cheer up, man," replied Ben; "this is your right preacher's bread."
"Bread the d–l!" replied Keimer, snarling.
"Yes, bread, sir," continued Ben, pleasantly; "the bread of life, sir; for where do you find such health and spirits, such bloom and beauty, as among the honest-hearted Irish, and yet for their breakfast, dinner, and supper, the potato is their tetotum; the first, second, and third course." In this way, Ben and his old woman went on with Keimer; daily ringing the changes on oat-meal gruel, roasted potatoes, boiled rice, and so on, through the whole family of roots and grains in all their various genders, moods, and tenses.
Sometimes, like a restive mule, Keimer would kick up and show strong symptoms of flying the way. But then Ben would prick him up again with a touch of his ruling passion, vanity; "only think, Mr. Keimer," he would say, "only think what has been done by the founders of new religions: how they have enlightened the ignorant, polished the rude, civilized the savage, and made heroes of those who were little better than brutes. Think, sir, what Moses did among the stiff-necked Jews; what Mahomet did among the wild Arabs—and what you may do among these gentle drab-coated Pennsylvanians." This, like a spur in the flank of a jaded horse, gave Keimer a new start, and pushed him on afresh to his gruel breakfasts and potato dinners. Ben strove hard to keep him up to this gait. Often at table, and especially when he saw that Keimer was in good humour and fed kindly, he would give a loose to fancy, and paint the advantages of their new regimen in the most glowing colours. "Aye, sir," he would say, letting drop at the same time his spoon, as in an ecstasy of his subject, while his pudding on the platter cooled—"aye, sir, now we are beginning to live like men going a preaching indeed. Let your epicures gormandize their fowl, fish, and flesh, with draughts of intoxicating liquors. Such gross, inflammatory food may suit the brutal votaries of Mars and Venus. But our views, sir, are different altogether; we are going to teach wisdom and benevolence to mankind. This is a heavenly work, sir, and our minds ought to be heavenly. Now, as the mind depends greatly on the body, and the body on the food, we should certainly select that which is of the most pure and refining quality. And this, sir, is exactly the food to our purpose. This mild potato, or this gentle pudding, is the thing to insure the light stomach, the cool liver, the clear head, and, above all, those celestial passions which become a preacher that would moralize the world. And these celestial passions, sir, let me add, though I don't pretend to be a prophet, these celestial passions, sir, were you but to stick to this diet, would soon shine out in your countenance with such apostolic majesty and grace, as would strike all beholders with reverence, and enable you to carry the world before you."
Such was the style of Ben's rhetoric with old Keimer. But it could not all do. For though these harangues would sometimes make him fancy himself as big as Zoroaster or Confucius, and talk as if he should soon have the whole country running after him, and worshipping him for the Great Lama of the west; yet this divinity fit was too much against the grain to last long. Unfortunately for poor Keimer, the kitchen lay between him and his bishobprick: and both nature and habit had so wedded him to that swinish idol, that nothing could divorce him. So after having been led by Ben a "very d–l of a life," as he called it, "for three months," his flesh-pot appetites prevailed, and he swore, "by his whiskers, he would suffer it no longer." Accordingly he ordered a nice roast pig for dinner, and desired Ben to invite a young friend to dine with them. Ben did so: but neither himself nor his young friend were any thing the better for the pig. For before they could arrive, the pig being done, and his appetite beyond all restraint, Keimer had fallen on it and devoured the whole. And there he sat panting and torpid as an Anaconda who had just swallowed a young buffaloe. But still his looks gave sign that the "Ministers of Grace" had not entirely deserted him, for at sight of Ben and his young friend, he blushed up to the eye lids, and in a glow of scarlet, which showed that he paid dear for his whistle, (gluttony) he apologized for disappointing them of their dinner. "Indeed, the smell of the pig," he said, "was so sweet, and the nicely browned skin so inviting, especially to him who had been long starved, that for the soul of him he could not resist the temptation to taste it—and then, O! if Lucifer himself had been at the door, he must have gone on, let what would have been the consequences." He said too, "that for his part he was glad it was a pig and not a hog, for that he verily believed he should have bursted himself."—Then leaning back in his chair and pressing his swollen abdomen with his paws, he exclaimed with an awkward laugh, "Well, I don't believe I was ever cut out for a bishop!"—Here ended the farce: for Keimer never after this uttered another word about his New Religion.