The Life of Benjamin Franklin Part 10

"Well, sir," replied the governor, "I never heard the prince of bards treated in this way before. You must certainly be singular in your charges against Homer."

"I ask your pardon, sir, I have the honour to think of Homer exactly as did the greatest philosopher of antiquity; I mean Plato, who strictly forbids the reading of Homer in his republic. And yet Plato was a heathen. I don't boast myself as a christian; and yet I am shocked at the inconsistency of our Latin and Greek teachers (generally christians and DIVINES too,) who can one day put Homer into the hands of their pupils, and in the midst of their recitations can stop them short to point out the _divine beauties_ and _sublimities_ which the poet gives to his hero, in the b.l.o.o.d.y work of slaughtering the poor Trojans; and the next day take them to church to hear a discourse from Christ on the blessedness of meekness and forgiveness.

No wonder that hot-livered young men thus educated, should despise meekness and forgiveness, as mere cowards' virtues, and deem nothing so glorious as fighting duels, and blowing out brains."

Here the governor came to a pause, like a gamester at his last trump.

But perceiving Ben cast his eyes on a splendid copy of Pope's works, he suddenly seized that as a _fine_ opportunity to turn the conversation. So stepping up, he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in a very familiar manner said, "Well, Mr. Franklin, there's an author that I am sure you'll not quarrel with; an author that I think you'll p.r.o.nounce _faultless_."

"Why, sir," replied Ben, "I entertain a most exalted opinion of Pope; but still, sir, I think he is not without his faults."

"It would puzzle you, I suspect, Mr. Franklin, as keen a critic as you are, to point out _one_."

"Well, sir," answered Ben, hastily turning to the place, "what do you think of this famous couplet of Mr. Pope's--

"Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense."

"I see no fault there."

"No, indeed!" replied Ben, "why now to my mind a man can ask no better excuse for any thing wrong he does, than his _want of sense_."

"Well, sir," said the governor, sensibly staggered, "and how would you alter it?"

"Why, sir, if I might presume to alter a line in this great Poet, I would do it in this way:--

"Immodest words admit but _this_ defence-- That want of decency is want of sense."

Here the governor caught Ben in his arms as a delighted father would his son, calling out at the same time to the captain, "How greatly am I obliged to you, sir, for bringing me to an acquaintance with this charming boy? O! what a delightful thing it would be for us old fellows to converse with sprightful youth if they were but all like him!--But the d----l of it is, most parents are as blind as bats to the true glory and happiness of their children. Most parents never look higher for their sons than to see them delving like muckworms for money; or hopping about like jay-birds, in fine feathers. Hence their conversation is generally no better than froth and nonsense."

After several other handsome compliments on Ben, and the captain expressing a wish to be going, the governor shook hands with Ben, begging at the same time that he would for ever consider him as one of his fastest friends, and also never came to New-York without coming to see him.

CHAPTER XX.

On returning to the tavern, he hastened into his chamber, where he found his drunken comrade, poor Collins, in a fine perspiration, and considerably sobered, owing to the refrigerating effects of a pint of strong sage tea, with a tea-spoonful of saltpetre, which Ben, before he set out to the governor's, had pressed on him as a remedy he had somewhere read, much in vogue among the London topers, to _cool off_ after a rum fever. Collins appeared still to have enough of brandy in him for a frolic; but when Ben came to tell him of the amiable governor Burnet, in whose company, at his own palace, he had spent a most delightful evening; and also to remind him of the golden opportunity he had lost, of forming an acquaintance with that n.o.ble gentleman, poor Collins wept bitterly.

Ben was exceedingly affected to see him in tears, and endeavoured to comfort him. But he refused comfort. He said, "if this had been the _first time_, he should not himself think much of it; but he candidly confessed, that for a long time he had been guilty of it, though till of late he had always kept it to himself, drinking in his chamber. But now he felt at times," he said, "an awful apprehension that he was a _lost man_. His cravings for liquor were so strong on the one hand, and on the other his powers of resistance so feeble, that it put him fearfully in mind of the dismal state of a poor wretch, within the fatal attraction of a whirlpool, whose resistless suction, in spite of all his feeble efforts, was hurrying him down to sure and speedy destruction."

Collins, who was exceedingly eloquent on every subject, but especially on one so nearly affecting himself, went on deploring his misfortune in strains so tender and pathetic, that Ben, whose eyes were fountains ever ready to flow at the voice of sorrow, could not refrain from weeping, which he did most unfeignedly for a long esteemed friend now going to ruin. He could bear, he said, to see the brightest plumed bird, charmed by the rattle-snake, descending into the horrid sepulchre of the monster's jaws. He could bear to see the richest laden Indiaman, dismasted and rudderless, drifting ash.o.r.e on the merciless breakers; because made of dust, these things must at any rate return to dust, again. But to see an immortal mind stopped in her first soarings, entangled and limed in the filth of so brutal a vice as drunkenness--that was a sight he could not bear. And as a mother looking on her child that is filleted for the accursed Moloch, cannot otherwise than shed tears, so Ben, when he looked on poor Collins, could not but weep when he saw him the victim of destruction.

However, as a good wit turns every thing to advantage, this sudden and distressing fall of poor Collins, set Ben to thinking: and the result of his thoughts noted down in his journal of that day, deserves the attention of all young men of this day; and even will as long as human nature endures.

"Wit," says he, "in young men, is dangerous, because apt to breed vanity, which, when disappointed, brings them down, and by depriving them of _natural_ cheerfulness, drives them to the bottle for that which is _artificial_.--And learning also is dangerous, when it is aimed at as an _end_ and not a _mean_. A young man who aspires to be learned merely for _fame_, is in danger; for, familiarity breeding contempt, creates an uneasy void that drives him to the bottle. Hence so many learned men with red noses. But when a man from a benevolent heart, seeks learning for the sublime pleasure of imitating the Deity in _doing good_, he is always made so happy in the spirit and pursuit of this G.o.dlike object, that he needs not the stimulus of brandy."

This one hint, if duly reflected on by young men, would render the name of Franklin dear to them for ever.

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 sc.r.a.ped 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 pa.s.sed 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 quant.i.ty 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+lling 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 b.o.o.by 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 sc.r.a.pe; 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 n.o.bly 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 s.h.i.+ners' 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, "_b.u.t.ter 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, bl.u.s.tering and swollen with pa.s.sion, 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 ash.o.r.e 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 friends.h.i.+p 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, b.u.mbo 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 n.o.ble-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 friends.h.i.+p. He had pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s, '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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 princ.i.p.al and interest, and thus recovered the high ground he formerly held in his friends.h.i.+p. Thanks be to G.o.d, who has given to inflexible honesty and industry, such power over the "_heart strings_," as well as "_purse strings_," of mankind.