“No; not by any means,” replied the governor, earnestly. “If your father will not set you up in business, I’ll see what I can do for you. I want a first-class printing house in this town; and a young man like you, capable of running it, should be encouraged.”
“That is more than I expected, and I shall feel myself under great obligations to you for aid of that kind, if you deem it best.” Benjamin spoke in a tone of grateful feeling, but without the least show of importunity.
“I do deem it best; and I will give you a start in business. You can keep the matter a secret; continue at work for Keimer, and use your first leisure moments to make out an inventory of what a first-class printing establishment requires. That will be the first thing.”
“How soon will you want the inventory of articles?”
“As soon as you can make it out. I shall be obliged to send to England for them, and that will take considerable time.”
It was a lengthy interview that Benjamin had with the governor, and he was very much elated by this turn of affairs. It looked now as if he would start the printing business in Philadelphia under the patronage of the governor himself! That seemed to promise more than to go into business by the aid of only a tallow-chandler.
He reported next to Keimer, who was glad to welcome him back, especially so because he had considerable work on hand, and no person could turn it off like Benjamin.
“Glad to see you, Ben. I suppose the governor will be round to see you when he hears of your arrival.” Keimer spoke in a vein of pleasantry rather than as a fling.
“Possibly, unless he should send for me to call on him. The governor of New York sent for me–Governor Burnet–what do you think of that?”
“You are joking now, Ben; it can’t be that all the governors are after you.”
“Well, the governor of New York was, and I went to see him.” And Benjamin went on to describe his interview with Governor Burnet in detail, and how it came about, to which Keimer listened with the greatest interest and wonder.
“Governor Burnet has the largest library in this country,” continued Benjamin, “and judging from the number of books I had on the sloop, he concluded that I loved books, and so wanted to show me his.”
“Well,” answered Keimer, after being in a sort of reverie some minutes, “if this thing goes on, you will not be willing to associate long with us fellows in the printing business.”
“I will give you due notice when I get to that. I will not cut your acquaintance suddenly.” Benjamin could treat the matter jocosely as well as Keimer.
To return to John Collins. He sought a position as clerk or bookkeeper in several stores; but was unsuccessful. Then he tried other kinds of work; but no one appeared to want him. Benjamin went with him to several places, to introduce him and intercede for him; but there was no opening for him. Days passed away, and still he was without a position; and he kept on drinking, too, not so beast-like as he did in New York, but enough to be more or less disguised.
“It is your disgusting habit of intemperance; they smell your breath or study your face, and then don’t want you around. I told you in Boston, that no one wants a drinking employee about.” Benjamin’s patience was nearly exhausted, and he spoke as he felt.
“That is your surmise; you are a fanatic on drink, and are not capable of exercising sound judgement when you come to that,” John replied with considerable temper.
“And you would not be capable of keeping your soul and body together if it were not for my money. You have no regard at all for your word; a promise amounts to nothing with you, and never will until you stop drinking.”
“I shall not stop drinking until I get ready,” retorted John, becoming very angry. “You are an insulting dog, when you get to attacking brandy.”
Brandy was John’s favorite beverage in Philadelphia, as it was in Boston. He frequently borrowed money of Benjamin; the latter not having the heart to deny him, with which he continued to gratify his appetite. Benjamin often remonstrated with him, and threatened to complain of him; but the old friendship of former days always came in to favor John. Frequently they had serious difficulties, for John was very irritable, and daily grew more so. Yet, Benjamin continued to pay his board, and loan him a little money from time to time, though Collins continued unsuccessful in his search for a position.
Several young men were enjoying a pastime on the Delaware one day, boating, among them Benjamin and John. The latter was under the influence of drink sufficiently to be very irritable; and he refused to take his turn rowing.
“I will be rowed home,” he said in anger.
“No, you won’t, unless you do your part,” replied Benjamin, who thought it was quite time to teach the boozy fellow a lesson.
“Then we will stay here all night on the water,” snapped out John.
“Just as you please; I can stay as long as you can,” said Benjamin, who had endured about as much of John’s impudence as he could.
“Come, Ben, let us row him; he don’t know what he is about,” said one of the other boys; “what signifies it?”
“Not one stroke,” replied Benjamin emphatically; “it is his turn to row, and he _shall_ row, if he is full of brandy.”
“I’ll make you row, you insulting dog,” exclaimed John, as he rose and made for Benjamin. “I’ll throw you overboard if you don’t row.”
Approaching Benjamin with the vehemence of a mad bull, determined to throw him into the river, Benjamin clapped his head under his thighs, when he came up and struck at him, and, rising, pitched him head foremost into the river.
“He’ll drown,” shouted one.
“No, he won’t,” answered Benjamin, “he is a good swimmer, and he is not too drunk to swim.”
“Will you row, John?” shouted another.
“No, you —-,” he shouted back, with an oath.
“We’ll take you in when you will promise to row,” said Benjamin.
“I shall not promise to row; I’ll drown first.” He turned about to reach the boat, but just as he was ready to grasp it with his hand, the rowers pushed it forward out of his reach.
“Will you row now?” shouted Benjamin.
“No; but I will give you a thrashing when I can get at you.” And he continued to swim after the boat, the rowers pushing it forward out of his reach, whenever he got near enough to seize it. Then Benjamin would cry out:
“Will you row now, John?” and back the defiant answer would come:
“Never; but I’ll throw you into the river if I can get at you.”
Then forward the rowers would push the boat beyond his reach. For twenty minutes this game was played with the miserable fellow in the water, when one of the number said:
“He is giving out, we must take him in, or he’ll drown.”
“Well, we don’t want to drown him,” replied Benjamin; “I guess we better take him in.” Then, turning to John, he continued:
“Say, John, we’ll take you in now; you are soaked outside as much as you were inside,” and, stopping the boat, they hauled the poor fellow in, too much exhausted to throw Benjamin or any one else overboard.
“John!” shouted Benjamin, as they laid him down, dripping wet, on the bottom of the boat, “it don’t pay to drink too much brandy. You are the only one in the crowd who can’t take care of himself.”
Benjamin was rather severe, but then he had endured insult and ingratitude so long from his old friend, that his patience was exhausted. The outcome of this scrape on the Delaware Benjamin shall tell in his own words:
“We hardly exchanged a civil word after this adventure. At length a West India captain, who had a commission to procure a preceptor for the sons of a gentleman at Barbadoes, met with him and proposed to carry him thither to fill the situation. He accepted, and promised to remit what he owed me out of the first money he should receive; but I never heard of him after.”
Probably he died, a miserable sot, in Barbadoes, without a friend to mark his grave or write the story of his shame. Benjamin lost, of course, all the money he had loaned him. In later life he referred to the end of John Collins, and said that he (Benjamin) received retribution for his influence over Collins, when he made him as much of a skeptic as himself in Boston. It was there that he unsettled his mind as to the reality of religion. At that time he was industrious, temperate, and honest. But, losing his respect for religion, he was left without restraint and went rapidly to ruin. Benjamin was the greatest sufferer by his fall, and thus was terribly rebuked for influencing him to treat religion with contempt.
Governor Keith frequently sent for Benjamin to dine with him, that he might converse with him about the proposed printing house. At length Benjamin was able to take with him an inventory of all the articles necessary for establishing a printing house.
“It is not on a large scale,” said Benjamin. “I think I better begin moderately. I can enlarge as business increases.”
“That is wise,” answered the governor; “but you want a suitable outfit for a first-class printing office.”
“Yes; and my inventory contemplates that. The cost will be about one hundred pounds sterling, I judge.”
“Not so expensive as I supposed,” remarked Governor Keith. “I have been thinking whether you better not go to England to purchase these articles. You understand what is wanted.”
“I had not thought of that,” replied Benjamin, both surprised and pleased by the proposition to visit London. “I should defer to your judgment in that as in other things.”
“If you go it will be necessary for you to sail with Captain Annis, who makes a trip once a year from here to London. It will be some months before he will sail, so that you have plenty of time to think and plan.”
“I think favorably of the proposition now,” continued Benjamin. “I could select the types and see that every thing ordered was good of the kind, and this would be of advantage.”
“That is what I thought. And more than that; while there you can establish correspondences in the book-selling and stationery line.”
“I think I could; and such acquaintance might prove of advantage to me in other respects.”
“It certainly would; and I decide that you get yourself ready to sail with Captain Annis. You can continue to work for Keimer, still keeping the secret, but completing your plans.”
This was the final agreement, and Benjamin never dreamed that Governor Keith was not honest. If he had divulged to Mr. Read, or Bradford, or even to Mr. Keimer, what the governor proposed, they would have exposed his deceitful, unreliable character, and the enterprise would have been abandoned.
XXV.
WORKING, READING, AND COURTING.
Benjamin continued to work for Keimer, who did not suspect that his employee was planning to set up business for himself. Keimer was a very singular, erratic man, believing little in the Christian religion, and yet given to a kind of fanaticism on certain lines.
“_Thou shalt not mar the corners of thy beard_,” he quoted from the Mosaic law, as a reason for wearing a long beard, when Benjamin inquired of him:
“Then you think that passage means ‘Thou shalt not shave,’ if I understand you?” asked Benjamin.
“Yes, that is about it; and I feel religiously bound to observe it.”
“Well, I prefer a religion that is seated in the heart instead of the beard.” And there was a twinkle in Benjamin’s eye when he said it.
He enjoyed arguing with Keimer, and frequently had a contest with him in argument. Keimer had come to respect his abilities. Indeed, he considered Benjamin the most remarkable young man he ever met.
“It is the religion of the heart that settles the length of the beard, my youthful Socrates.” By this reference to Socrates, Keimer meant to slap Benjamin’s Socratic method of argument, about which he talked much. “Can’t you see it?”
“And it ought to settle the appetite, also; and the quantity and kind of food that goes into the stomach,” rejoined Benjamin, quickly.
Keimer was a large eater–never more satisfied than when devouring a good dinner that was exactly to his taste. On the other hand, while Benjamin had abandoned his “vegetable diet,” he cared very little about a good dinner, and seemed to eat one thing with about as good relish as another. He often discussed the subject with Keimer, and always maintained that most people ate too much meat. His last remark hit, and Keimer knew where.
“I shall not dispute you on that point,” Keimer answered; “if we had religion enough in our hearts, I suppose it would regulate all our acts.”
“It ought to; but there is not much prospect of its regulating you and me at present. Neither of us has much to boast of in that respect.”
“Perhaps not. I don’t propose to carry my religion so far as many people do, and be fanatical,” replied Keimer.
“Not much danger of it, I think,” retorted Benjamin. “You and I will never be charged with that.”
Benjamin was as much of a skeptic as Keimer, only his skepticism took a different turn. Keimer believed two things thoroughly: first, to wear the beard long, and, second, to keep the seventh day of the week as the Sabbath. Benjamin, on the other hand, regarded these and kindred dogmas as of little consequence, compared with morality and industry. He believed in work, self-improvement, and uprightness; and that was more than Keimer believed or practised. So their disputes were frequent and animated. Of the two, Benjamin’s skepticism was the less dangerous.
“I am seriously thinking of establishing a new sect,” continued Keimer; “if you will join me, I will. I can preach my doctrines, and you can confound all opponents by your Socratic method.”
“I shall want some latitude if I join you. It is narrowing down a little too much when a creed contains but two articles, like yours, and both of those grave errors.”
“In starting a sect I should not insist upon those two articles alone; minor doctrines will naturally gather about them. But I am really in earnest about a new sect, Ben; and I am only waiting to win you over.”
“Well, perhaps I will join you after you adopt my creed, to use no animal food. Your head will be clearer for running your sect, and such respect for your stomach will show more religion than a long beard does.”
“My constitution would not withstand that sort of a diet; it would undermine my health.”
“Temperance in eating and drinking never undermined any body’s constitution,” retorted Benjamin. “You will live twenty years longer to practise it, and possess a much larger per cent, of self-respect.”
“Perhaps I will try it, if you will; and also, if you will adopt my creed, and go for a new sect.”
“I am ready to join you any time in discarding animal food; and, if you succeed well, then I will talk with you about the rest of it.”
“Agreed,” responded Keimer, thinking that Benjamin was really inclined to embrace his scheme, whereas he was only laying his plans for sport. He knew that a man, who liked a good meal as well as Keimer did, would have a hard time on the diet he proposed. Referring to it in his “Autobiography” he said:
“He was usually a great eater, and I wished to give myself some diversion in half-starving him. He consented to try the practice, if I would keep him company. I did so, and we held it for three months. Our provisions were purchased, cooked, and brought to us regularly by a woman in the neighborhood, who had from me a list of forty dishes, which she prepared for us at different times, in which there entered neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. This whim suited me the better at this time from the cheapness of it,–not costing us above eighteen pence sterling each per week. I have since kept several lents most strictly, leaving the common diet for that, and that for the common, abruptly, without the least inconvenience. So that, I think, there is little in the advice of making those changes by easy gradations. I went on pleasantly, but poor Keimer suffered grievously, grew tired of the project, longed for the flesh pots of Egypt, and ordered a roast pig. He invited me and two women friends to dine with him; but, it being brought too soon upon the table, he could not resist the temptation, and ate the whole before we came.”
The trial resulted about as Benjamin anticipated, and he got out of it as much fun as he expected. Keimer proved himself a greater pig than the one he swallowed. At the same time, the result left Keimer without a claim on Benjamin to advocate the new sect. So the scheme was dropped.
Keimer was no match for Benjamin in disputation. With the use of the Socratic way of reasoning, Benjamin discomfited him every time; so that he grew shy and suspicious. In his ripe years, Benjamin wrote of those days, and said:
“Keimer and I lived on a pretty good familiar footing, and agreed tolerably well; for he suspected nothing of my setting up. He retained a great deal of his old enthusiasm, and loved argumentation. We therefore had many disputations. I used to work him so with my Socratic method, and had trepanned him so often by questions apparently so distant from any point we had in hand, yet by degrees leading to the point and bringing him into difficulties and contradictions, that at last he grew ridiculously cautious, and would hardly answer me the most common question, without asking first, ‘What do you intend to infer from that?’ However, it gave him so high an opinion of my abilities in the confuting way, that he seriously proposed my being his colleague in a project he had of setting up a new sect. He was to preach the doctrines, and I was to confound all opponents.”
Benjamin found pleasant literary associates in Philadelphia. A gifted young man usually attracts to himself bright young men near his age. Such was the case with Benjamin. Three young men especially became his boon companions, all of them great readers. Their literary tendencies attracted Benjamin, though their characters were not deficient in high aims and integrity. Their names were Charles Osborne, Joseph Matson, and James Ralph. The first two were clerks of Charles Brockden, an eminent conveyancer of the town, and the other was a merchant’s clerk. Matson was a pious young man of sterling integrity, while the others were more lax in their religious opinions and principles. All were sensible young men, much above the average of this class in intellectual endowments. Osborne and Ralph were imaginative and poetical, and frequently tried their talents at verse-making.
They formed a literary club, and spent their leisure time together, reading to each other, discussing questions, and, in other ways, seeking self-improvement. Sundays they devoted chiefly to intellectual pastime, strolling along the banks of the Schuylkill, except Matson, who was too much of a Christian to desecrate the Sabbath. He always went to the house of God on Sundays; nor was he esteemed any less highly by his skeptical associates for so doing.
“You estimate your talent for poetry too highly,” said Osborne to Ralph, at one of their literary interviews. “Poets are born, not made; and I hardly think you was born one.”
“Much obliged for your compliment,” replied Ralph, not at all disconcerted by Osborne’s rather personal remark; “but I may become poet enough for my own use. All poets are not first-best when they begin. It is practice that makes perfect, you know.”
“Practice can’t make a poet out of a man who is not born one; and you are not such,” continued Osborne. “That piece that you just read is not particularly poetical. It is good rhyme, but it lacks the real spirit of poesy.”
“I agree with you; I do not call it good poetry; but every poet must begin; and his first piece can not be his best. Poets improve as well as clerks.”
“Real poets!” responded Osborne, with a peculiar smile at the corners of his mouth. And he continued:
“You seem to think that a fortune awaits a poet, too; but you are laboring under a great mistake. There is no money in poetry in our day, and there never was.”
“Perhaps not; nevertheless I am confident that a poet may readily win popularity and a livelihood. At any rate, I am determined to try it, in spite of your decidedly poor opinion of my abilities.”
“Well, my advice is that you stick to the business for which you were bred, if you would keep out of the poor-house.” Osborne said it more to hector Ralph than any thing. “A good clerk is better than a poor poet; you will agree to that.”
Benjamin listened with a good deal of interest to the foregoing discussion, and he saw that, from jealousy or some other cause, Osborne was not according to Ralph the credit to which he was entitled; and so he interrupted, by saying:
“You set yourself up for a critic, Osborne; but I think more of Ralph as a poet than I do of you as a critic. You are unwilling to grant that his productions have any merit at all; but I think have. Moreover, it is a good practice for him, and for all of us, to write poetry, even if it does not come quite up to Milton. It will improve us in the use of language.”
“Fiddlesticks! It is simply wasting time that might be spent in profitable reading; and good reading will improve the mind more than rhyming.” Osborne spoke with much earnestness.
“Not half so much as your empty criticisms are wasting your breath,” replied Benjamin, with a smile. “But, look here, I have just thought of a good exercise that we better adopt. At our next meeting each one of us shall bring in a piece of poetry of our own composition, and we’ll compare notes and criticise each other.”
“I should like that,” responded Ralph; “it is a capital proposition. Perhaps Osborne may think it will be a waste of time and breath.”
“Not at all,” answered Osborne; “I agree to the plan, provided the subject shall be selected now, so that all shall have fair play.”
“We will do that, of course,” said Benjamin. “Have you a subject to suggest?”
“None whatever, unless it is a paraphrase of the Eighteenth Psalm, which describes the descent of the Deity.”
“That is a grand subject,” responded Benjamin. “What do you say to taking that, Ralph?”
“I think it is an excellent subject, and I am in favor of adopting it.”
Thus it was understood that each one should write a poetical paraphrase of the Eighteenth Psalm for their next meeting, and, with this understanding, they separated.
Just before the time of their next meeting Ralph called upon Benjamin with his paraphrase, and asked him to examine it.
“I have been so busy,” remarked Benjamin, “that I have not been able to write any thing, and I shall be obliged to say ‘unprepared’ when my turn comes to read. But I should like to read yours.”
Benjamin read Ralph’s article over, and then reread it.
“It is excellent; better than any poetry you have ever written,” remarked Benjamin, when he had finished reading. “Osborne will have to praise that.”
“But he won’t; you see if he does. Osborne never allows the least merit in any thing I write. His envy, or jealousy, or something else, hatches severe criticism, whether there is reason for it or not. He will do that with this article; see if he don’t.”
“If he does, it will be proof that he is prejudiced against you, or is no judge of poetry,” replied Benjamin.
“Suppose we try a little game,” continued Ralph. “I think we can put his judgment to a test. He is not so jealous of you as he is of me. Now you take this article, and produce it as your own, and I will make some excuse for not being prepared. We shall then get at his real opinion of the composition.”
“A very ingenious test, Ralph,” exclaimed Benjamin. “I will enter into the plan with all my heart. But I must transcribe the article, so that he will see that it is in my own handwriting.”
“Certainly; and be careful that you do not let the secret out.”
So they waited, almost impatiently, for the time of meeting, both feeling almost sure that Osborne would fall into their net. The appointed time came. Matson was the first to read his production. Osborne came next; and his piece was much better than Matson’s. Ralph noticed two or three blemishes, but pointed out many beauties in it.
Next it was Ralph’s turn to read. “I am sorry to confess that I have nothing to read; but I promise to atone for this failure by doing my part faithfully in future.”
“Poets ought to be ready at any time,” remarked Osborne humorously, looking at Ralph.
“It is in order for them to fail sometimes, I think,” replied Ralph; “especially if they are not _born_ poets.”
“Well, Ben, we must have yours, then. You will not disappoint us.”
“I think you must excuse me this time,” Benjamin answered, feigning an unwillingness to read.
“No, Ben, no excuse for you,” said Osborne. “You have it written; I saw it in your hand.”
“That is true; but after listening to such fine productions as we have heard, I am not ambitious to read mine. I think I must correct it, and dress it up a little before I submit it for criticism.”
“That was not in the arrangement, Ben, when you suggested the exercise,” remarked Ralph.
“You are prepared, and, of course, we shall not excuse you.”
After much bantering and urging, Benjamin proceeded to read his, apparently with much diffidence; and all listened with profound attention.
“You must read that again,” said Osborne, when he finished reading it. “Two readings of such a poem as that are none too much. Come, read it again.”
Benjamin read the article again, apparently with more confidence than at first.
“You surprise me, Ben,” exclaimed Osborne, when the second reading was finished. “You are a genuine poet. I had no idea that you could write like that.”
“Nor I,” added Matson. “It is better than half the poetry that is printed. If the subject had not been given out, I don’t know but I should have charged you with stealing it.”
“What do you say, Ralph?” inquired Osborne. “You are a poet, and poets ought to be good judges of such matters.” Another fling at Ralph’s claim to poetical ability.
“I don’t think it is entirely faultless,” remarked Ralph, after some hesitation. “I think you have commended it full as highly as it deserves. Not being a _born_ poet, however, I may not be a good judge,” glancing his eye at Osborne.
“Well done, Ralph!” exclaimed Osborne. “Your opinion of that production is proof positive that you are destitute of real poetical taste, as I have told you before.”
Osborne was fairly caught. Ralph and Benjamin exchanged glances, as if to inquire if their time of avowed triumph had not come; but both appeared to conclude to keep the secret a little longer. They controlled their risibles successfully, and allowed Osborne to go on and express himself still more strongly in favor of the composition.
Ralph walked home with Osborne, in order to play the game a little more, and their conversation was very naturally about Benjamin’s poetry.
“I had no idea,” remarked Osborne, “that Ben could write poetry like that. I was ashamed of my own when I heard his. I knew him to be a talented fellow; but I had no idea that he was a poet. His production was certainly very fine. In common conversation he seems to have no choice of words; he hesitates and blunders; and yet, how he writes!”
“Possibly he might not have written it,” suggested Ralph; a very natural suggestion in the circumstances, though Osborne thought it was an outrageous reflection.
“That is the unkindest cut of all,” retorted Osborne; “to charge him with plagiarism. Ben would never descend to so mean a thing as that.”
They separated for that night; but Ralph embraced the first opportunity to call on Benjamin, to exult over the success of their little scheme. They laughed to their hearts’ content, and discussed the point of revealing the secret. They concluded finally, that the real author of the article should be known at their next meeting.
Accordingly, the affair was managed so as to bring the facts of the case before their companions at their next gathering. Osborne was utterly confounded when the revelation was made, and knew not what to say for himself. Matson shook his whole frame with convulsive laughter at poor Osborne’s expense, and Benjamin joined him with a keen relish. Never was a fellow in a more mortifying predicament than this would-be critic, since it was now perfectly manifest that he was influenced by blind prejudice in his criticisms of Ralph’s poetry. For now, disarmed of prejudice, he had given it his most emphatic endorsement.
A few years later, Matson died in Benjamin’s arms, much lamented by all of his companions, who regarded him as “the best of their set.” Osborne removed to the West Indies, where he became an eminent lawyer, but died just past middle life. Of the others we shall have occasion to speak hereafter.
Benjamin always spoke well of that literary club. It was an excellent way of using leisure time. It contributed much to his self-advancement, as it did to that of his companions. Such an arrangement converts spare moments into great blessings.
The time was drawing near for Benjamin to leave for England; and there was one thing above all others, that he wished to do, viz.: to be betrothed to Deborah Read. They had fallen in love with each other, but were not engaged. He had not opened the subject to her parents; but he must, if he would win her hand before going to England. So he ventured.
“Both of you are too young,” replied Deborah’s mother. “You are only eighteen! You can not tell what changes may occur before you are old enough to be married.”
“But that need not interfere with an engagement,” suggested Benjamin. “We only pledge each to the other against the time we are ready to be married. Sometimes parties are engaged for years before they are married.”
“It is not a good plan, however. And why, Benjamin, do you deem an engagement necessary in the circumstances?”
“Simply because a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” answered Benjamin, laughing. Mrs. Read laughed, too.
“I have not quite satisfied myself that it is best to give up my daughter to a printer,” she added.
“How so?” inquired Benjamin with some anxiety.
“Because there are already several printing houses in the country, and I doubt whether another can be supported.”
“If I can not support her by the printing business, then I will do it by some other,” responded Benjamin, emphatically.
“I do not call in question your good intentions, by any means; but you may not realize the fulfillment of your hopes. I think you had better leave the matter as it is until you return from England, and see how you are prospered.”
“Of course, I shall yield to your judgment in the matter,” said Benjamin, very politely, “though I shall be somewhat disappointed.”
“You and Deborah can have such understanding with each other as you wish; but I object to a formal engagement. Leave that until you return.” Mrs. Read was decided in her opinions. Her husband died five or six weeks before this interview.
So Benjamin had to leave his bird in the bush, instead of having it in hand. And the bird promised to stay there, and sing for him on his return.
XXVI.
A BOGUS SCHEME.
“I’m thinking of going to England with you,” said Ralph to Benjamin, one day in October, 1724.
“You don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it. I am thinking seriously of going.”
“I shall be delighted to have your company, but the news is almost too good to be true,” continued Benjamin.
“I have been looking the matter over ever since you told me that you expected to go; and now it is settled in my own mind that I shall go.”
“Going out for your employer?”
“No, going out to establish a correspondence, if possible, and arrange to obtain goods to sell on commission.”
“That is a capital scheme, it seems to me, Ralph. I think you can establish a good business with your tact and experience. You’ll have to hurry up; for I expect that Captain Annis will sail in three weeks.” Benjamin’s words showed his gladness that one of his intimate companions would accompany him.
“It won’t take me long to get ready; I have been arranging matters for some time with reference to going, though I have spoken to no one about it.” Ralph was careful not to divulge the real reason of his going, lest Benjamin should disapprove.
At length it was announced that the _London Hope_, Captain Annis, master, would sail about the 10th of November. And now, Benjamin was full of business. He made known his intentions to Keimer and other friends, without disclosing the real object of his trip, or that he was going under the patronage of Governor Keith. Considerable surprise and regret were expressed by several friends that he was going, and yet they were free to say that it would prove an excellent school for such a young man as Benjamin. Governor Keith was lavish in his attentions and interest.
“You will want letters of introduction from me; and I shall have some instructions, which I will write out carefully,” he said.
“The letters will be indispensable; and the instructions I shall most surely need to relieve my lack of experience,” Benjamin replied.
“I will have them all ready two or three days before Captain Annis sails,” added the governor, “and you can call for them. I may want to see you again before I get them ready, and I will send for you.”
Benjamin thanked Governor Keith for his great kindness, assuring him that he should always feel himself under a heavy debt of gratitude, never dreaming that the scheming politician was luring him into a snare. He put his whole heart and soul into preparation to leave. To him it was the great event of his life; and it would have been, if Sir William Keith had been an honest man instead of a rogue. For an American youth, eighteen years of age, to represent the governor of Pennsylvania in the city of London, to consummate a business enterprise of the greatest importance to a thriving American town, was an unusual occurrence. Any youth of considerable ability and ambition must have realized the value and dignity of the enterprise; but to such a youth as Benjamin was,–talented, aspiring, coveting success, striving for the best,–the opportunity of this business enterprise, proposed and patronized by the highest officer in the colony, must have appealed strongly to his manly and noble nature. We shall see, however, as it turned out, that all the honesty and high-minded purpose that invested it was in Benjamin’s soul. Treachery, dishonesty, and perfidy blackened the soul of his patron, loading him down with infamy almost without a parallel.
Three days before Captain Annis set sail, Benjamin called for his letters.
“My time has been so thoroughly occupied by public business that I have not been able to prepare them, but I will attend to it.”
“I can call again without any trouble,” answered Benjamin, exceedingly grateful for the governor’s patronage.
“I am sorry that I have not been able to prepare them; but I will not disappoint you again. Call day after to-morrow.” The more the governor said and promised, the more thankful Benjamin felt that he had fallen into such generous hands.
“I will call in the afternoon, day after to-morrow,” replied Benjamin; and thanking him again for his great kindness, took his leave.
He called as he promised for the letters and other papers. Instead of being ushered into the governor’s presence, as usual, his secretary, Colonel French, came out to announce:
“The governor regrets exceedingly that he has not the documents ready yet, and desires that you shall call again to-morrow, just before the vessel sails.”
“Very well, I will call,” replied Benjamin, without the least suspicion that any trouble was brewing for him.
On the next day, with all his baggage on board, and the “good-bye” said to all his friends, he hastened to the governor’s head-quarters for his papers. Again Colonel French met him with the announcement:
“The governor desires me to say that he is really ashamed to disappoint you again; but a constant pressure of business has prevented. But the vessel will stop at Newcastle, and he will meet you and deliver yours with other letters he has to send; and he hopes that you will have a pleasant voyage and meet with great success.”
“Please convey my thanks to him for his many kindnesses and present good wishes,” answered Benjamin, “and say to him that I will execute his commands to the very best of my ability, and report at the earliest possible time.”
So saying, Benjamin returned and boarded the vessel, which soon dropped down the Delaware, thinking all the while of his good fortune in having so great and good a man as Governor Keith for his friend.
At Newcastle, Benjamin landed and hastened to see the governor, whom he expected to be there, as Colonel French said; but he met only the secretary, who announced again:
“The governor is now writing the last dispatch, and will send your documents, with others, on board before the ship weighs anchor. He would be glad to see you again before you leave, but requires me to say that every moment of his time will be occupied to the very last minute, so he must content himself with sending to you, by me, his last words of confidence and his best wishes.”
“Convey mine, also, to him,” Benjamin replied, as he turned away to go to the vessel.
Just as the ship was about to sail, a bag of letters and other documents came on board from the governor. Benjamin supposed that it contained his indispensable letters, and, at a suitable time, he went to the captain and said:
“Governor Keith was to furnish me with letters of introduction to friends in London, and I suppose they are in the bag which he sent aboard. Can I look them over for my letters?”
“Just now I am too busy to give the matter any attention,” Captain Annis said; “but I assure you that, long before we reach London, you shall have the opportunity to examine and take what belongs to you.”
“That will do; I thank you,” replied Benjamin, perfectly satisfied that all was right; and he settled down to enjoy the voyage.
When the vessel entered the English Channel, Captain Annis brought out the bag of documents from the governor for Benjamin to inspect. He was surprised beyond measure not to find any letters addressed to himself. He found several addressed to other parties with his name written upon them, as under his care, but not one addressed to himself. It was very singular, he thought, but he concluded that one of the number was devoted to his mission, as it was addressed to Baskett, the king’s printer. He found seven or eight letters addressed to different parties, “Care of Benjamin Franklin,” and he took them all from the bag. He still supposed that every thing about his mission was correct.
They arrived in London on the 24th of December, when Benjamin lacked about a month of being nineteen years old. With Ralph, he proceeded to find lodgings at once; and just as soon as that arrangement was made, he hastened to deliver the letters submitted to his care. The first party upon whom he called was a stationer.
“I have the honor of bringing a letter to you, sir, from Governor Keith of Pennsylvania, America,” he said, with considerable assurance.
“I have not the honor of his acquaintance,” answered the stationer. “Pray, tell me who Governor Keith may be.”
“The letter will inform you, no doubt,” replied Benjamin, giving him the letter.
The stationer opened it; but read scarcely three lines before he exclaimed, to Benjamin’s consternation:
“Oh, this is from Riddlesden! I have lately found him to be a complete rascal, and I will have nothing to do with him, nor receive any letters from him,” and he handed the letter back to Benjamin without reading all of it, turned upon his heel and went back to his work.
Benjamin’s feelings can be imagined better than described. He was well-nigh dumbfounded to learn that the letter was not from Governor Keith. And then it was that the first flash of suspicion that he had been deceived entered his mind. He was still more surprised to learn, on examination, that not one of the letters he had taken from the bag was written by Governor Keith. There he was without one letter of introduction to any person in London, the scheme of establishing a printing house in Philadelphia discovered to be a myth, a mere boy, friendless and without work, in a great city, three thousand miles from home. If another American youth was ever lured into a baser trap, by a baser official, his name has never been recorded. Benjamin was at his wits’ end–he knew not what to do. His feelings bordered upon despair. Had he not been a wonderful youth to rise superior to difficulties, he must have yielded to overwhelming discouragement.
To add to his troubles, when he disclosed his situation to Ralph, he learned that his old companion had abandoned his wife and child, never intending to return to America.
“You are a hard-hearted wretch; I never would have thought such a thing of you, Ralph,” he exclaimed. “Such meanness ought to be left to baser men than you are.”
“I suppose that you would never look with any favor upon such a plan as mine, and so I did not tell you,” replied Ralph.
“It is lucky for you that you did not; for I never would have consented to be the companion of a young man running away from his wife and child.”
“Well, I have never been treated well by one member of my wife’s family from the day I was married, and before, too. I have borne it without complaining to any one, until I could bear it no longer. Now let them reflect.”
“But that is no excuse for a man to abandon his family, no excuse whatever. Why, Ralph, I am almost as much deceived in you as I have been in Governor Keith. I did not think that you were capable of such meanness.” Benjamin meant every word he uttered; and he was not disposed to spare his old friend at all. Another bit of information just here magnified his sorrows.
“I am out of funds entirely, Ben, so that I have begun to be cursed already, you see, without yours.” Ralph spoke as if the remarks of Ben cut him to the quick.
“Out of money!” exclaimed Ben. “Come here dead broke? You must be crazy, Ralph. Abandon your family, and shove yourself upon me to support in London! I am shocked.”
“I am afraid that both of us will be more shocked than that before we get through,” answered Ralph with the utmost coolness. “You have been too good a friend to desert me now, Ben.”
The last remark touched a tender spot in Benjamin’s heart. He and Ralph had been true friends, and passed many happy hours together. He abhorred his inhumanity to his wife and child, and his deceitfulness in claiming to go to London to secure goods to sell on commission and establish correspondence; but he had no heart to abandon him in a strange city.
“Get work, Ralph, as soon as possible, or we shall be in a bad plight; for I have only fifteen pistoles in all, which will not keep up a connection between soul and body long.” This remark of Benjamin’s implied that he should divide what he had with Ralph as long as it lasted.
“I shall do that, Ben, you may rest assured; for I will not take advantage of your generosity any longer than I can help. I mean to continue a good friend of yours whether you continue to be a good friend of mine or not.” This was a shrewd way of putting it. Ralph knew the young man he was talking with thoroughly.
Benjamin resolved to seek the advice of Mr. Denham. He was a Quaker merchant who sailed from Philadelphia with him. He was a stranger to him; but, when Colonel French came on board with letters from the governor at Newcastle, he introduced Benjamin to Denham. For this reason Denham became deeply interested in Benjamin, and showed him many favors. Now his advice would be specially useful to Benjamin; so he sought and found him.
“I find, Mr. Denham, that Governor Keith has been deceiving me. I came here under his auspices, and he promised me letters of introduction to parties, and the means to purchase an outfit for a first-class printing house in Philadelphia; and he has not fulfilled either promise. There are no letters for me among the dispatches he sent on board at Newcastle. He has proved himself a fraud and a cheat.”
“He always did that,” Mr. Denham replied. “If I had known that you were depending on Keith for any thing, I could have opened your eyes to his rascality at once. Keith is an official scamp.”
“Here is a letter from Riddlesden to a stationer here,” and passing the letter to Denham, he rehearsed his interview with the stationer.
“Riddlesden!” exclaimed Denham; “so base an attorney-at-law never cursed Pennsylvania. He is matched in perfidy only by Keith. Two worse rogues never occupied important positions in any country.”
Then, reading the letter through, he went on:
“And this very letter proves that he is an arrant knave. For here is proof of a conspiracy against Mr. Hamilton, who was booked to sail with Captain Annis, and Keith is in it.” Denham read the letter to Benjamin, explaining its meaning as he went along, for he was well posted about Keith and the villainous attorney.
“You should keep this letter, Franklin, and show it to Mr. Hamilton when he comes,” added Denham. “Hamilton will come just as soon as he can. He came aboard our ship with his son, intending to come; but a party appeared, offering him a very large fee to wait and conduct a case in court, and he consented. He is the greatest lawyer in Pennsylvania. Keep the letter and give it to him.”
We may say here, once for all, that Benjamin did keep the letter until the arrival of Mr. Hamilton, several months later, when he presented it to him, for which favor Hamilton was very grateful, and became Benjamin’s life-long friend.
“But what can I do, Mr. Denham?” asked Benjamin. “I am here a stranger in a strange city, with very little money. What would you advise me to do?”
“I do not see but one thing that you can do just now. You are a printer, and you can get work without doubt in some printing office until you see fit to return.”
“I thought of that; but it occurred to me that an American printer would be at a discount here, where the printing business is so much better understood,” suggested Benjamin.
“You can get over that difficulty quickly by showing them what you can do,” answered Mr. Denham. “You have more intelligence and culture than most of the English printers; and that will help you.”
“I will lose no time in making an application for a place,” said Benjamin. “I am under obligations to you for your interest in me.”
“It may prove of great advantage to you to have this opportunity to become familiar with printing in London,” continued Mr. Denham. “You can perfect yourself in the art against the time you return, and set up business in Philadelphia. So you may get some good out of your trials, after all. ‘It is an ill wind that blows no one any good.'”
“It looks so, certainly,” Benjamin answered. “I will accept your advice, and see what I can do.”
Benjamin had _paid too dear for the whistle_ again; but he made the best of it. First of all, he found a permanent boarding-place for himself and Ralph, where the charges were in proportion to his pecuniary ability. It was in Little Britain Street; and the weekly charge was only three shillings and sixpence. Then both started out in search of work. Benjamin went direct to Palmer’s famous printing house in Bartholomew Close, where fifty hands were then employed, and applied for a situation.
“What experience have you had?” inquired the overseer.
“Several years. I learned the business of my brother, James Franklin, in Boston, America; and he came to your country and learned it, before setting up the business in his own country.”
“You ought to understand it, then. But why do you seek work in this country?”
“I did not come to London for work, but for an outfit with which to establish the business in Philadelphia.” And Benjamin rehearsed his arrangement with Governor Keith, and the treachery which had been practised upon him, which interested the manager very much, and, at the same time, won his sympathy.
“Though Governor Keith proved so treacherous to you, the facts show his confidence in your ability as a printer,” he remarked; “and, surely, in these misfortunes, a friend in need is a friend indeed. I think I can find something for you to do.”
“You can try me, and I shall be very thankful for the chance,” Benjamin answered. “I have no desire to work for any man unless I can suit him.”
“That is an honorable view of the matter; and I have no doubt of your ability to satisfy me. You can come at once, and I will give you a position.”
They agreed upon wages that were satisfactory to Benjamin, and the next day he went to work. The truth was, that the boss of Palmer’s printing house was very much pleased with Benjamin’s appearance. He saw at once that he was a young man of uncommon ability. He was surprised to learn that he was not quite nineteen years of age, since his appearance was that of a young man of twenty-two. Therefore, he was not only desirous of aiding him in his embarrassing situation, but he was glad to employ a young man of so much promise.
Ralph was not so successful. Here and there he applied for work, but no one appeared to want him. Benjamin rendered him all the assistance possible evenings; but his efforts met with no success. In advanced life, Benjamin spoke of Ralph’s efforts as follows:
“He first endeavored to get into the playhouse, believing himself qualified for an actor; but Wilkes, to whom he applied, advised him candidly not to think of that employment, as it was impossible he should succeed in it. Then he proposed to Roberts, a publisher in Pater Noster Row, to write for him a weekly paper like the _Spectator_, on certain conditions; which Roberts did not approve. Then he endeavored to get employment as a hackney writer, to copy for the stationers and lawyers about the Temple; but could not find a vacancy.”
Ralph possessed considerable ability as an amateur player of tragedy or comedy; and he was quite a racy writer, also; hence his application for a situation as above. Benjamin was familiar with his qualifications on the lines mentioned, and seconded his efforts as best he could; but all to no purpose.
As Ralph had no money or work, Benjamin was obliged to support him. He paid his board, and loaned him small sums from time to time, so that he could maintain the appearance of a respectable citizen. But he was another elephant on Benjamin’s hands. The weeks multiplied, and still Ralph had no employment. He was a constant bill of expense. Willing to work, abhorring a life of idleness, his condition and prospects were a torment to himself. He was more troubled even than Benjamin over his misfortune. At length, however, he announced:
“I am going to put an end to this sort of a life, Ben. I have stood it as long as I can. I am going out into the country to find a school to teach. I am told that I can easily find one.”
“Not a bad idea, in the circumstances,” replied Benjamin. “Teaching is an honorable and useful business; and it will make you friends.”
“I should much prefer to remain in this city and find a more congenial situation; but beggars can’t be choosers, and so I have concluded to make the best of it. I am completely discouraged in trying for work in London.” Ralph spoke as he felt, for he had become disheartened.
“It seems strange, almost,” continued Benjamin “that you can find no situation of any sort in this great city, where—-“
“I was not born under a lucky star, as you were, Ben,” interrupted Ralph.
“My experience with Governor Keith doesn’t show much of a star any way,” rejoined Benjamin. “Certainly, it is not a lucky one, nor a morning star; if it is a star at all, it must be an _evening_ star, seen only when it is getting dark.”
“I wish I could accept disappointment and defeat as philosophically as you can, Ben; but I can’t. It is quite impossible for me to make the best out of the worst; but you can.”
“It is the way I am made, no doubt,” said Benjamin in reply. “I never could make any thing by fretting.”
“Nor any body else,” quickly answered Ralph, “and still I fret and worry as if thereby I could mend the matter. But I am going to strike out for a school, and leave London to suffer the consequences of not employing me.”
“That is philosophical, sure,” added Benjamin.
The school was secured within a short time, and Ralph became a schoolmaster a few miles out of London. Benjamin continued to serve in the Palmer printing house, where he gave satisfaction, and made his mark, as we shall see.
XXVII.
“OUR WATER-DRINKER.”
A letter from Ralph to Benjamin informed the latter that the former was settled in a small village called Berkshire, where he was teaching about a dozen boys in reading and writing at a sixpence each per week, –not a very flattering position, but, in the circumstances, better than none.
What surprised Benjamin, however, was that Ralph had changed his name, and was known in that village as Franklin. He had assumed Franklin’s name, thinking that such a position was not honorable for James Ralph to occupy. At first, Benjamin was somewhat displeased to find himself scattered about in such a way, printer and schoolmaster, and he knew not what next. But, on the whole, he concluded to let the matter rest; and, if his old friend could get success out of his name, allow him to do it. So he corresponded with him from time to time, directing his letters to “Mr. Franklin, schoolmaster,” as Ralph desired.
It was not long before Benjamin began to receive instalments of an epic poem which Ralph was composing, with the request to examine and return remarks and corrections. Benjamin did examine and return it, with the advice to cease writing epic poems and attend to his legitimate business or get into some other. But it was of no use, the poem continued to come by instalments.
At this juncture, too, another trial was added to his singular experience. Ralph’s English wife called upon him for help. The following is Franklin’s account of the manner in which Ralph came into these new relations:
“In our house lodged a young woman, a milliner, who, I think, had a shop in the Cloisters. She had been genteelly bred, was sensible, lively, and of a most pleasing conversation. Ralph read plays to her in the evenings, they grew intimate, she took another lodging, and he followed her. They lived together some time, but he being still out of business, and her income not sufficient to maintain them with her child, he took a resolution of going from London to try for a country school.”
“I need help, and know not where to go except to you,” said Mrs. Ralph; “indeed, James told me to apply to you.”
“I recall,” replied Benjamin, “that he asked me in one of his letters to see that you were not in want. I am not in circumstances to do much for you, but I will cheerfully do what I can.”
“I shall be very much obliged for the smallest favor. My wants are few, and I can make a little assistance go a good way.”
Benjamin relieved her wants, and from that time continued to call upon her, to see that she was made comfortable and to enjoy her company. These demands upon his purse kept it drained to the last cent all the time, so that he could lay nothing by for himself. He could see no way out of his trouble. He must continue penniless, or let Ralph and his family suffer. But just then an indiscreet act on his part offended Ralph, who, coming to London for a day or two, said to Benjamin:
“I consider myself under no obligations to you whatever from this time. I shall ask no more favors of you for myself or family, and will have nothing more to do with you.”
“Very well,” replied Benjamin, “I will so understand it.”
In this way Benjamin was relieved of a great burden unexpectedly. Incumbrances thus removed, he devoted himself with remarkable energy and industry to his business and self-improvement.
About this time Benjamin was offered larger pay at Watts’ printing house, near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and he removed thither. He changed his boarding-place, also, to Duke Street, opposite the Romish chapel.
Next door to Benjamin’s lodgings was a bookstore kept by one Wilcox. He had an immense collection of second-hand books, in which, of course, Benjamin became much interested, spending his leisure time here.
“I have not the money to make purchases,” he said to Wilcox. “I wish I had. There are so many valuable books here, and they are so cheap, that I wish I was able to make many of them my own.”
“Well, you are at liberty to spend all the time you can reading them here,” answered Wilcox, who had already formed a high opinion of his abilities. “Perhaps some day you will be able to own some of them.”
“You are very kind indeed, Mr. Wilcox, and I shall avail myself of your generosity to make the acquaintance of some of these authors.”
Benjamin had already rehearsed the story of the fraud through which he became a London printer, so that Wilcox understood the reason that he was penniless.
“Glad to see you here any time; feel perfectly at home, and get all the good you can out of these books,” Wilcox added with great kindness.
It was not long before an original idea about the use of those books took possession of Benjamin’s mind, and he made it known to the bookseller.
“A new idea has struck me, Mr. Wilcox. I do not want to take so much advantage of your generosity, and it has occurred to me that I can pay you a sum we can agree upon to take out and read such books as I may select. I mean, pay you a given amount on each book I read.”
“I had not thought of that; it is an excellent plan, I think. We will have no difficulty about the price,” answered Wilcox.
“It will take me longer, of course, to read some books than it will others,” continued Benjamin; “but I am a rapid reader, and shall be as expeditious as possible with each volume. And, also, I pledge myself that each volume shall be returned in as good a condition as when I take it out.”
“That is fair; I accept the proposition.”
The price per volume was agreed upon, and Benjamin reveled in books every night. He never advanced more rapidly in intellectual attainments than he did after this arrangement with Wilcox.
This is the first instance of loaning books for a price on record–a practice that has become well-nigh universal since that day.
He had not been at Palmer’s long before he was employed in composing for the second edition of Wollaston’s “Religion of Nature,” which was just the kind of a treatise to arouse his intellect, and to set him to thinking and also to speculating.
“Poor reasoning!” he said to Mr. Watts; “very fallacious and superficial, too.”
“Ah!” replied Mr. Watts, considerably surprised that his new employee, just over from a new and uncultivated country, should handle a treatise like that so gingerly; “how is that? Rather a popular work, that of Wollaston’s.”
“Popular enough it may be, but error is often popular. The work is illogical, and not altogether in harmony with facts.” Benjamin’s criticisms impressed Mr. Watts somewhat, though he thought he was laboring under a mistake.
“Perhaps the trouble is in your own mind, and not in Wollaston’s,” he suggested.
“That may be; but I am going to review it for my own satisfaction and benefit,” answered Benjamin.
“Then I will suspend judgment until I can read your review,” said Mr. Watts, at the same time being still more surprised that a youth of his age should be so familiar with such topics.
Within a short time Benjamin had his review of “Religion of Nature” prepared and printed, bearing the somewhat dignified title, “A Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity, Pleasure and Pain,” and it was inscribed to his friend, James Ralph. A copy was submitted to Mr. Watts for examination, and his opinion awaited with some anxiety.
“I confess that it is a remarkable production for a youth like you to father–remarkable in its plan, thought, and reasoning–but it is no credit to your principles,” Mr. Watts said.
“How so?”
“It is really deistical in its position. You remember that I suggested the trouble might be in yourself, instead of Wollaston; and it is, in my judgment.”
“Wherein is my reasoning illogical or incorrect?” Benjamin’s use of the Socratic method of reasoning still adhered to him.
“Any reasoning is illogical and fallacious that takes it for granted that there is no God,” answered Mr. Watts. “Without a God, we are nowhere; and that is where your pamphlet is. There is ingenuity in it, I grant; but it is false.”
“From your standpoint, you mean, Mr. Watts?”
“Yes, if you please; but my standpoint is the Bible. Any reasoning that ignores the Bible is fallacious. To pretend to understand the things of this world without a God is abominable. ‘The _fool_ hath said in his heart, There is no God.'”
“Well, you are getting rather personal,” Benjamin answered, roguishly. “I suspect that you are rather puritanical in your notions; but I am not.”
“No, that is quite evident; nothing puritanical about your Dissertation, but a plenty that is fanatical,” retorted Mr. Watts.
“Much obliged for your opinion, so frankly expressed,” added Benjamin, as Mr. Watts turned to answer a call.
A short time after the publication of the foregoing Dissertation, a London surgeon, by the name of Lyons, called at Watts’ office.
“Is there a man at work in your printing house by the name of Franklin–Benjamin Franklin?” he inquired of Mr. Watts.
“There is.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes, I will call him.”
Benjamin was called and introduced to the gentleman, who said, holding a pamphlet in his hand:
“Are you the author of this ‘Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity, Pleasure and Pain’?”
“I am, sir.” Benjamin had received such a trimming from his employer, that he was almost sure the stranger had come to stigmatize him for writing that pamphlet. But he was soon relieved by the remark of Lyons:
“I have read it with great interest, and have been very much profited by it. I did not dream, however, that it was written by so young a person as you are.”
Benjamin thanked him for his complimentary words, and the surgeon went on:
“I am the author of the book entitled, ‘The Infallibility of Human Judgment,’ and I think our views harmonize in the main. I should be pleased to loan you a copy if you care to read it.”
“It will afford me real pleasure to read it, Doctor Lyons, and I shall appreciate your favor.”
“And when you have read it, I shall be glad to meet you, and compare notes, and discuss the topics.”
“Nothing will suit me better than that,” added Benjamin.
Doctor Lyons frequently called on Benjamin to converse upon the subject-matter of his pamphlet, and, at one time, he says, “He carried me to the Horns, a pale-ale house in —— Lane, Cheapside, and introduced me to Doctor Mandeville, author of the ‘Fable of the Bees,’ who had a club there, of which he was the soul, being a most facetious, entertaining companion.”
The religion in Benjamin’s pamphlet, and that in Lyons’ book, was well suited to a “pale-ale house.” It was so _pale_ as scarcely to be discernible in either book or pamphlet–almost entirely faded out. That was why Benjamin’s pamphlet pleased Lyons so much–the religion in it was not too much for a “pale-ale house.”
Doctor Lyons introduced him, also, to one Doctor Pemberton, “at Batson’s Coffee-house,” a kindred spirit, whose coffee was stronger than his religion–a quick-witted, lively sort of a man. He was very familiar with Benjamin.
“Glad to know that your mind is interested in subjects of so grave importance,” he said. “In a youth of your age it is evidence of a strong mind and expanding intellect.”
“Most of my friends do not regard my views with the favor you express; they see evidence, rather, of mental weakness and distortion,” said Benjamin in reply.
“It is because they do not investigate for themselves. They are content to receive opinions secondhand, labelled and fixed. How would you like to number Sir Isaac Newton among your friends?” Doctor Pemberton spoke as a man of authority.
“I should feel myself highly honored,” answered Benjamin. “Do you know him?”
“I have the honor of his acquaintance; and I will give you an introduction at some future time.”
“I shall accept your favor with thanks”; and Benjamin waited and waited for the opportunity, but it never came, probably because Newton could never be found in “an ale-house.”
This was the outcome of Benjamin’s literary venture; and the pleasantest part of the whole was that he lived to see the folly of his effort, especially its non-religious character. He became satisfied that Mr. Watts was right when he declared the principles of his Dissertation “abominable.”
At another time, while Benjamin worked at Watts’, Sir Hans Sloane called upon him,–another notable London character of that day. Benjamin was taken aback when he met him,–he could scarcely divine what this titled Englishman could want of him.
“I have heard of you, Mr. Franklin, as recently from America, and I have called to make your acquaintance,” he said.
“Glad to meet you, Sir Hans,” replied Benjamin, fully equal to the occasion. “I am at your service.”
“You are the author of a pamphlet called,” and he gave the title, “are you?”
“I am.”
“I have not read it; but I have heard it discussed, and I concluded that a youth of your age must possess a strong mind to undertake such a treatise. And I understand that you brought many curiosities with you to this country.” Now, Sir Hans was getting to the subject that was near to his heart; for he was a curiosity-hunter.
“A few only–very few,” replied Benjamin.
“You have a purse, I understand, made of the _asbestos_, which purifies by fire?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“I should be delighted to have you call upon me in Bloomsbury Square, and bring the purse; and I will show you _my_ great collection of curiosities. I think you can spend a pleasant and profitable evening in that way.”
“I will do it with the greatest pleasure, and be obliged for the opportunity,” Benjamin answered.
And he did. The first opportunity he improved to take the asbestos purse to Bloomsbury Square, where he had a splendid time examining the best collection of curiosities he had ever dreamed of, and where he discussed various topics of interest with the entertaining Sir Hans.
“Now,” said the host, as Benjamin was about to leave, “I should be glad to add the asbestos purse to my collection, and I will pay you well for it,” naming the amount.
“I will accommodate you and leave it.” Benjamin was happy to add to Sir Hans’ collection, in the circumstances.
Benjamin felt the need of more physical exercise, so that when he entered the printing house, he “took to working at press.” He drank water only; all other employees, about fifty of them, drank strong beer. He was really a curiosity to them.
“Beer-guzzling is a detestable habit,” he said to a fellow-workman, “and it is a very expensive one, too, for a poor fellow like you.”
“I could not do a decent day’s work without beer. I drink it for strength.”
“So much the worse for you; beer strength is the worst sort of weakness,” continued Benjamin. “Just stop a moment and think what a beer-barrel you make of yourself; a pint before breakfast, a pint at breakfast, a pint between breakfast and dinner, a pint at dinner, a pint in the afternoon, a pint at six o’clock, and a pint when you have done work–almost a gallon each day! Why, I could not hold half as much as that; I should run over.”
“Then you don’t believe a man can do more work for drinking strong beer?”
“Of course I don’t. I can do more work than any man in the establishment, and I can lift more than any other man here; and I drink nothing but water. If beer imparts the strength you imagine, any one of you ought to do more work and lift more than I can; isn’t that so?”
The workmen had good reason to believe this; for Benjamin had kept his eyes and ears open from the time he entered the printing house, and he had learned just what the men thought about beer, why they drank it, how much work they did, and how much they could lift. Without saying a word about it, he took special pains to turn off a large amount of work, and to lift more than his fellow-workmen. For example, he would carry two forms of type, one in each hand, up and down stairs, while the other workmen carried but one with both hands. Therefore, Watts (the name of the workman) knew that every thing Benjamin claimed about strength was true.
“Are all Americans like you?” inquired the workman.
“No; too many of them are like you, I am sorry to say; they drink beer and other intoxicants, that disqualify them for business. If more of them would drink water, as I do, they would be far better off physically and pecuniarily.”
“Some of our best doctors claim that there is much nutriment in beer,” he suggested.
“And every one of them knows that there is more nutriment in a pennyworth of bread than there is in a whole gallon of beer. Therefore, if you eat the bread and drink the water, you get more strength.”
The printer acknowledged that there was something in that.
“You see,” continued Benjamin, “that all the nutriment there is in the barley is destroyed to convert it into beer. Your beer is very dirty water made bitter with malt, out of which nearly every particle of nutriment has been squeezed. There is as much nourishment in dishwater as there is in that stuff.”
“Here, Jake, where are you?” called out another workman. “Bring on the beer.”
Jake was the ale-boy, whose business it was to supply the men with beer from the ale-house.
“Another nuisance required by your beer business,” exclaimed Benjamin. “Better by far pay a boy double price to bring water from the well, instead of bringing that stuff to absorb your money and sodden your brain.”
“A _Water-American_, indeed!” said Mr. Watts, who heard much of the conversation. “But will you not allow some comfort to hard-working men?”
“Certainly; that is what I am after. There is more comfort in one glass of pure water than there is in a whole barrel of beer. Here is Watts, paying out four or five shillings every week for beer, when water would cost him nothing, and he would have that amount to spend for genuine comforts. Besides, beer unfits him to get real comfort out of any thing, even out of his home.”
“You are about right on that,” replied Watts; “beer does make a class of men most miserable. But must I discard it because some men use it to their injury?”
“Of course you must,” Benjamin answered quickly and triumphantly. “There is where duty and right come in. The strong must bear the infirmities of the weak, or they won’t amount to much in the world.”
“Many of them won’t amount to much any way, beer or no beer,” responded Watts.
“Any of them will amount to more with water than they will with beer,” retorted Benjamin, who felt competent to support his side of the question. He went on:
“Look here: I am supplied with a large porringer of hot-water gruel, sprinkled with pepper, crumbled with bread, and a bit of butter in it, for just the price of a pint of beer, three half-pence. Now, honestly, is not this much better for me, or for yourself, than the same amount of filthy beer?”
“Possibly; it is a new view of the case to me,” was all that Mr. Watts could say, evidently conceding that Benjamin was about right.
Benjamin exchanged the press-room for the composing-room, after a few weeks.
“A treat now, Ben; that is the condition of admission here,” said the men.
“I guess not; I fulfilled that condition in the press-room,” answered Benjamin. “Once will do in this establishment.”
“But you _will_,” retorted a fellow-worker, enforced by a dozen voices. “The rule is irrevocable.”
“We will see about that,” replied Benjamin, with coolness, but determination.
“Yes, we _will_ see,” chimed in a resolute voice.
“And after all your seeing and blustering I shall not do it,” added Benjamin, in a tone that indicated he meant what he said.
“Ben is right,” interrupted Mr. Watts, who had listened to the colloquy; “he has met that condition once in the press-room, and he will not be required to repeat it. I forbid his doing it.”
“It is a very foolish custom any way,” said Benjamin, “and the sooner it is abandoned in England or anywhere else the better.”
After all he did not carry his point. His own words about the affair were as follows:
“I stood out two or three weeks, was accordingly considered as an excommunicate, and had so many little pieces of private malice practised on me, by mixing my sorts, transposing and breaking my matter, etc., etc., if ever I stepped out of the room,–and all ascribed to the _chapel ghost_, which they said ever haunted those not regularly admitted,–that, notwithstanding the master’s protection, I found myself obliged to comply and pay the money; convinced of the folly of being on ill terms with those one is to live with continually.”
Benjamin kept up the fight against beer-drinking until he fairly conquered. One after another yielded to his example and arguments, and abandoned the old habit of swilling down beer, until a thorough reformation was wrought in the printing office. The strength, health, tact, and enterprise of the “_water-drinker_” convinced them that he was right. The title, “_Our Water-drinker_” bandied about the printing house, came to be really an appellation of esteem.
The printing press, on which Benjamin worked at Watts’ printing house, is now in the Patent Office at Washington, where many visitors go to see it. Forty years after he worked on it, Franklin was in London, where his fame was greater than that of any other man, and he called at the old printing house, and going up to the familiar press, he said to the employees:
“It is just forty years since I worked at this press, as you are working now.”
[Illustration: FRANKLIN’S LONDON PRINTING PRESS]
The announcement rather startled them. That a public man of so much fame should ever have even served in a printing office as they were serving, was almost too much for them to believe.
The publisher of this volume has in his possession _fac-simile_ letters from different gentlemen in England, fully verifying the press the engraving of which appears above.
XXVIII.
AT HOME AGAIN.
We have seen that James Ralph and Benjamin parted company. Ralph had more brains than heart. His intellectual powers were greater than his principles. The reader may ask what became of him. After continuing poor and unsuccessful, engaging in several literary ventures that did little more than aggravate his poverty, and changing from one kind of work to another, good fortune seemed to become his portion. Mr. Parton says:
“As a political writer, pamphleteer, and compiler of booksellers’ history, he flourished long. Four ministers thought his pen worth purchasing: Sir Robert Walpole, Mr. Pelham, Lord Bute, and the Duke of Bedford. The nobleman last named evidently held him in high esteem, and furnished the money for one of Ralph’s political periodicals. Lord Bute, it is said, settled upon him an annuity of six hundred pounds. Fox praises the fairness, and Hallam the diligence, displayed in his two huge folios of the ‘History of William III.’ His works may be examined by the curious in the library of Harvard University and in the Philadelphia city library. In estimating the career of this erring man, we should not forget that many of the noblemen and statesmen with whom he associated, and for whose advancement he toiled, had less principle than he, and had not his excuse.”[3]
“Swimming is one of the fine arts, I think,” said Benjamin to Wygate, a printer with whom he was on the most intimate terms. “I feel about as much at home in the water as I do on the land.”
“Well, I should go to the bottom pretty quick if I should venture where the water is over my head, for I can’t swim any more than this printing-press can,” answered Wygate.
“Why don’t you learn? It might be of great use to you sometime.”
“I should like to know how, but I never tried to learn.”
“And that is a good reason for not knowing how to swim. You can’t expect to know any thing without learning. I can teach you without any trouble.”
“I accept your offer, and will try my best to learn; and Hall will try with me, I think. You can teach two as well as one, can’t you?”
“Yes, a dozen, so far as that goes; the more the merrier.”
“When will you go?”
“Just when you please. You and Hall fix the time, and I will be on hand.”
The result was that Benjamin was in the water with his two pupils within a few days, and he taught both of them to swim well in two lessons. At the same time, he gave them an exhibition of what an expert swimmer can do in the water, performing different feats on and under the water, that filled his two companions with surprise.
“You are a water-American in more senses than one,” remarked Wygate, in admiration of Benjamin’s pranks in the water. “You could live in the water about as well as on the land.”
“That is not strange,” responded Hall; “he believes in water, inside and outside; he only practises what he preaches, and that is what he ought to do.”
“Some people can’t practise what they preach if they try ever so hard, in business or in morals,” rejoined Wygate.
Wygate was the son of a wealthy man, who educated him quite thoroughly. He could read Latin and French about as well as he could English, and he could write very entertaining articles. He was fond of reading, too, and loved to discuss important questions. Such a young man was not often found in a printing office, and he just suited Benjamin in his literary tastes, so that they became boon companions. Their mutual attachment was strengthened by this experience in the art of swimming.
Not long after Wygate learned to swim, and while the feats that Benjamin performed in the water were still a subject of remark, some gentlemen proposed an excursion by water to Chelsea, several miles from London.
“Wouldn’t you like to go, Ben?”
“Of course I would, if you are going.”
“I will go if you go. I will call round with some of the party and introduce you to them.”
This was done in due time, and Benjamin learned from them that they were going to Chelsea “to see the college and Don Saltero’s curiosities,” which object of the excursion more than doubled his interest.
On the trip Wygate talked much with some of the party about Benjamin’s feats in the water as almost too wonderful to be believed. On returning, one of the gentlemen said:
“Franklin, why can you not give us an exhibition of your antics in the water?”
“Yes, Ben, do; let them see that what I have told them is literally true,” entreated Wygate.
“Come, Ben, do it,” added Hall; “it will put Saltero’s curiosities into the shade. These gentlemen will be so interested in your performances that they will forget all other curiosities.”
“Well, I am always ready to accommodate,” replied Benjamin, “and it will not cross my disposition to have a little frolic in the water, so I will consent.”
So saying, he took off his clothing and leaped into the river, and was soon as much at home there as a water-fowl. Sometimes he was under the water, and sometimes on it; it did not seem to make much difference to him which. He swam from Chelsea to Blackfriars, four miles, entertaining the company with many manoeuvres all the way. Then he got on board, arrayed himself in his apparel to hear such words of praise as these:
“Wonderful! I had no idea that any man could attain to such skill in the water.”
“No one in London who can do that!”
“Nor in all England and Wales.”
“Couldn’t drown you, Franklin, if you were left in the middle of the Atlantic ocean.”
“You could make a fortune, if you chose to exhibit your skill.”
As this brief experience, together with his teaching Wygate and Hall to swim, won him quite a reputation on this line, we may state here, that after Benjamin had decided to return to Philadelphia and arranged therefor, he received a note from Sir William Wyndham, a noted public man, who was Chancellor of the Exchequer in the Bolingbroke administration, inviting him to pay him a visit. Benjamin was again perplexed to know what this great man could want of him; but he went to see him.
“I am happy to see you, Mr. Franklin, and I hope it has been no inconvenience to you to call at this time.”
“None at all,” answered Benjamin. “On the other hand, I consider myself highly honored by your invitation to call; and I have gladly embraced the first opportunity to do so.”
“I have heard of your great skill in the art of swimming,” continued Sir Wyndham; “and how quickly you taught two young printers to swim.”
“Yes,” modestly answered Benjamin, “I have some skill in the water, and I did teach two of my companions the art of swimming, so that they are excellent swimmers now.”
“That is what I heard; and I have two sons who are soon to start upon extensive travels, and I want they should learn to swim before they go. It may be of great service to them.”
“I have no doubt it would prove a benefit to them,” responded Benjamin. “I should not want to part with my skill for any consideration whatever.”
“Can you teach my two sons the art at once?”
“I regret to say that I can not, for the reason that I am soon to leave London and return to America.”
“Sorry for that, very sorry indeed. Allow me to suggest that, if you could prolong your stay here, you might make a real pecuniary success of establishing a swimming school. I should be willing to pay almost any price for the instruction of my two sons.” Sir Wyndham was very earnest in his counsel, and made this suggestion sincerely.
“I really feel under great obligations for your interest and good opinions,” Benjamin answered; “but I have already accepted an invitation to engage in business in Philadelphia, my home, and may leave within a few days.”
“That settles the matter, of course; but I am sorry that it is so,” added Sir Wyndham. “I trust that you may prosper wherever you are.”
Benjamin thanked him heartily for his complimentary words and good wishes, and left him, almost wishing that he could cancel his engagement with Mr. Denham and open a swimming school. Wygate and Hall assured him that he could do well in that business.
Soon after the excursion to Chelsea, Wygate made known to Benjamin a scheme that was in his mind.
“I want to travel extensively over Europe,” he said, “and I have decided to do it if you will become my traveling companion. We can stop as necessity requires, from time to time, and work at our business, so as to pay our way.”
“I should like nothing better than to travel all over Europe,” answered Benjamin. “I have a desire to see more than I have seen of this part of the world.”
“Well, what do you think of the plan?”
“I should say that it is practicable, although the suggestion is entirely new to me. Could we get work at our business?”
“I took it for granted that we could,” replied Wygate. “I have no more means of knowing than you have.”
“I should take it for granted that we could, too,” said Benjamin; “still I shall want to consider it; it is quite an enterprise to undertake.”
“Somewhat of a scheme; but a very interesting and instructive one if successfully prosecuted.”
“That is so, and I think favorably of it. I will consult my good friend, Denham, about it. He has seen more of the world than we have.”
Benjamin was evidently favorably impressed with the proposition; for he embraced the first opportunity to lay the subject before Mr. Denham.
“It does not strike me favorably,” said Mr. Denham.
“We could both see and learn a great deal,” remarked Benjamin.
“That is true; but other things are to be considered, which are of equal importance. What might do for Wygate, whose home is here, might not do for you, whose home is in America.”
“That may be.” Benjamin’s brief reply indicated that he was not quite certain on that point.
“It appears to me,” continued Mr. Denham, “that your first thoughts should be concerned about returning to Philadelphia, that you may set up business for yourself there.”
“I do not see much prospect of that at present. Of course I should be glad to return home; for there is no place I prefer to Philadelphia.”
“So far as prospects of which you speak are concerned, we can not always judge; unexpected opportunities sometimes offer; and you do not want to put yourself where you can not accept and use them.”
“Of course not,” Benjamin answered, evidently disappointed that his friend did not endorse the scheme.
“I should recommend decidedly that you abandon the project entirely, and think no more about it. Then you can continue your work with the intention of returning to America whenever a favorable opportunity occurs.”
Benjamin accepted the advice of Mr. Denham, and reported to Wygate, to the no small disappointment of the latter; and both discarded the scheme and devoted themselves to honest labor.
Benjamin heard of a place where he could get boarded at two shillings a week, when he was paying three shillings and sixpence a week in Duke Street.
“I think I shall be under the necessity of changing,” he said to the widow with whom he was boarding. “I want to save all the money I can, so as to return to America.”
“I shall be very sorry to have you leave, Mr. Franklin, if I can possibly arrange with you to remain.”
“I have no desire to leave, except to save a little in my expenses, that I may return to America sooner: that is all.”
“Rather than have you go, I will deduct two shillings a week from what you are paying me now.”
“That is, you propose to board me for one shilling and sixpence a week?”
“Yes, that is it, and it is a bargain if you say so.”
“It is a bargain, then.” And Benjamin continued to board there as long as he remained in London.
Before this woman received him for a boarder in the first place, she sent to the printing house to inquire about his character. The report was so favorable that she took him to board. And now she had tried him, and was a greater admirer of his character than ever.
It is one of the things to be said in Benjamin’s favor, that, with all his faults, he always pleased and satisfied his employers and boarding-house keepers.
Benjamin records the following interesting incident respecting his friend Denham, of whom we have spoken, and to whom we shall refer again:
“I must record one trait of this good man’s character. He had formerly been in business at Bristol, but failed, in debt to a number of people, compounded, and went to America. There, by a close application to business as a merchant, he acquired a plentiful fortune in a few years. Returning to England in the ship with me, he invited his old creditors to an entertainment, at which he thanked them for the easy composition they had favored him with, and, when they expected nothing but the treat, every man at the first remove found under his plate an order on a banker for the full amount of the unpaid remainder, with interest.”
It was this excellent man and friend, who finally approached Benjamin with a proposition.
“How would you like to return to Philadelphia?” he said to Benjamin.
“I should like nothing better, if the way was open for me to go.”
“I will open a way for you if you will go.”
“How?”
“I am going myself. I intend to open a store of goods in Philadelphia, and will employ you in the business, if you will go.”
“I should like to go; but that will be a new business for me; perhaps I shall not succeed in it.”
“That is _my_ lookout. I think you will succeed; at any rate, I am prepared to take the risk.”
“And I am prepared to go if you will.” Benjamin was really delighted with the proposition.
“I will pay you fifty pounds for one year, and increase your wages thereafter as you become familiar with the business.”
“That offer is satisfactory, though it is not as much as I make at my trade now.”
“It will be better if you succeed. When you become well acquainted with the business, I will send you with a cargo of bread and flour to the West Indies, and I will procure you commissions from others that will be profitable. In this way you can establish a good business for yourself.”
“That is a very generous offer on your part, and I hope that I shall merit your kindness.”
“It will be necessary for you to close up your business at the printing house at once, as I want you to assist me in purchasing, packing, and shipping goods. My purpose is to carry a large stock to Philadelphia.”
“I shall accept your proposition, and resign my position at Watts’ immediately, and be at your service early and late.”