The Life of Benjamin Franklin Part 14

A most learned discussion ensued. And it being made apparent to the n.o.ble lords, that wool is _actually_ the basis of broadcloths, flannels, and most other of the best British manufactures--and it being also made apparent to the n.o.ble lords, which was another great point gained, that two good things are better than one, _i.e._ that wool and mutton together, are better than mutton by itself, or wool by itself, the motion for a t.i.tLE was unanimously scouted: and in place of a pension the rascal had like to have got a prison, for daring thus to trump up a vile discovery that would have robbed the world of one its greatest comforts.

Just so, to my mind at least, it fares with all the boasted discoveries of our modern atheists. Admitting that these wonderful wizards could raise a nation of men and women without religion, as easily as this, their brother conjurer, could a breed of Merinos without wool--still we must ask _cui bono_? that is, what _good_ would it be to the world? Supposing they could away at a dash, with all sense of so glorious a being as G.o.d, and all comfort of so mighty a hope as heaven, what benefit would it bring to man or beast?

But, G.o.d be praised, this dismal question about the consequence of discarding religion need not be asked at this time of day. These gentlemen without religion, like bell-wethers without wool, do so constantly betray their nakedness, I mean their want of morality, that the world, bad as it is, is getting ashamed of them. Here, for example, is master Ralph, who, for reasons abundantly convenient to himself, had accompanied Ben to London--Ben, as he himself confesses, had lent a liberal hand to make Ralph a st.u.r.dy infidel, that is, to free him from the restraints of the gospel. Now mark the precious fruits of this boasted freedom. Getting displeased with the parents of a poor girl, whom he had married, he determines to quit her for ever, as also a poor unoffending child he had by her, whom, by the ties of nature, he was bound to comfort and protect! Ben, though secretly abhorring this villany of Ralph, yet suffered himself to be so enamoured of his vivacity and wit, as to make him an inmate. "We were," says Ben, "_inseparable companions_." Very little cause had he, poor lad! as he himself owns afterwards, to boast of this connexion.

But it was fine sport for Ralph; for having brought no money with him from America but what just sufficed to pay his pa.s.sage, and knowing what a n.o.ble drudge Ben was, and also that he had with him fifteen pistoles, the fruits of his hard labours and savings in Philadelphia, he found it very convenient to hang upon him; not only boarding and lodging at his expense, and at his expense going to plays and concerts, but also frequently drawing on his dear yellow boys, the pistoles, for purposes of private pleasure.

If the reader should ask, how Ralph, even as a man of honour, could reconcile it to himself, thus to devour his friend, let me, in turn, ask what business had Ben to furnish Ralph the very alphabet and syntax of this abominable lesson against himself? And, if that should not be thought quite to the point, let me ask again, where, taking the fear of G.o.d out of the heart, is the difference between a man and a beast? If man has reason, it is only to make him ten-fold more a beast. Ralph, it is true, did no work; but what of that? He wrote such charming poetry--and spouted such fine plays--and talked so eloquently with Ben of nights!--and sure this was a good offset against Ben's hard labours and pistoles. At any rate Ralph thought so. Nay, more; he thought, in return for these sublime entertainments, Ben ought to support not only him, but also his concubine. Accordingly he went and sc.r.a.ped acquaintance with a handsome young widow, a milliner, in the next street: and what with reading his fine poetry to her, and spouting his plays, he got so completely into her good graces, that she presently turned actress too; and in the "COMEDY OF ERRORS," or "ALL FOR LOVE," played her part so unluckily, that she was hissed from the stage, by all her virtuous acquaintance, and compelled to troop off with a big belly to another neighbourhood, where Ralph continued to visit her.

The reader will hardly wonder, when told that Ralph and his fair milliner soon found the bottom of Ben's purse. He will rather wonder what sort of love-powder it was that Ben took of this young man that could, for such a length of time, so fatally have befooled him. But Ben was _first in the transgression_. Like Alexander the coppersmith, he had done Ralph "_much harm_," and "G.o.d, who is wiser than all, had ordained that he should be "_rewarded according to his works_.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Learn to be wise from others' ill, And you'll learn to do full well."

As nothing is so repellant of base minds as poverty, soon as Ralph found that Ben's pistoles were all gone, and his finances reduced to the beggarly ebb of living _from hand to mouth_, he "_cleared out_,"

and betook himself into the country to teach _school_, whence he was continually writing fine poetical epistles to Ben, not forgetting in every postscript, to put him in mind of his dear Dulcinea, the fair milliner, and to commend her to his kindness. As to Ben, he still persevered, after Ralph's departure, in his good old habits of industry and economy--never indulging in tobacco or gin--never sauntering to taverns or play houses, nor at any time laying out his money but on books, which he always visited, as frugal lovers do their sweethearts, at night. But still it would not all do. He could lay up nothing. The daily postage of Ralph's long poetical epistles, with the unceasing application of the poor milliner, kept his purse continually in a galloping consumption. At length he obtained a release from this unpleasant situation, though in a way that he himself never could think of afterwards without a blush.

After very frequent loans of money to her, she came, it seems, one night to his lodgings on the old errand--_to borrow half a guinea_!

when Ben, who had been getting too fond of her, took this opportunity to offer freedoms which she highly resented.

This Ben tells himself, with a candour that will for ever do him credit among those who know that the confession of folly is the first step on the way to wisdom.

"Having, at that time," says he, "no ties of religion upon me, and taking advantage of her necessitous situation, I attempted liberties (_another great error of my life_,) which she repelled with _becoming indignation_. She informed Ralph; and the affair occasioned a breach between us. When he returned to London, he gave to understand that he considered all the obligations he owed me as annihilated by this proceeding; and that I was not to expect _one farthing of all the monies I had lent him_."

Ben used to say, many years afterwards, that this conduct of his friend Ralph put him in mind of an anecdote he had some where heard, of good old Gilbert Tenant: the same that George Whitefield generally called h.e.l.l-FIRE TENANT. This eminent divine, believing _fear_ to be a much stronger motive with the mult.i.tude than _love_, constantly made a great run upon that pa.s.sion in all his discourses. And Boanerges himself could hardly have held a candle to him in this way. Nature had given him a countenance which he could, at will, clothe with all the terrors of the tornado. And besides he had a talent for painting the scenes of dread perdition in such colours, that when aided by the lightning of his eyes, and the bursting thunders of his voice, it was enough to start the soul of lion-hearted innocence; what then of rabbit-livered guilt? The truth is, he wrought miracles in New-Jersey: casting out devils--the devils of drunkenness, gambling, and l.u.s.t, out of many a wretch _possessed_.

Among the thousands whom he thus frightened for their good, was a tame Indian of Woodbury, who generally went by the name of Indian-d.i.c.k.

This poor savage, on hearing Mr. Tenant preach, was so terrified, that he fell down in the meeting house, and roared as if under the scalping knife.

He lost his stomach: and even his beloved bottle was forgotten. Old Mr. Tenant went to see d.i.c.k, and rejoiced over him as a son in the gospel;--heartily thanking G.o.d for adding this INDIAN GEM to the crown of his glory.

Not many days after this, the man of G.o.d took his journey through the south counties of New-Jersey, calling the poor clam-catchers of Cape May to repentance. As he returned and drew near to Woodbury, lo! a great mult.i.tude! He rejoiced in spirit, as hoping that it was a meeting of the people to hear the word of G.o.d: but the uproar bursting upon his ear, put him in doubt.

"Surely," said he, "this is not the voice of praise; 'tis rather, I fear, the noise of drunkenness." And so it was indeed; for it being a day of election, the friends of the candidates had dealt out their brandy so liberally that the street was filled with sots of every degree, from the simple _stagger_ to the _dead drunk_. Among the rest, he beheld his Indian convert, poor d.i.c.k, under full sail in the street, reeling and hallooing, great as a sachem. Mr. Tenant strove hard to avoid him; but d.i.c.k, whose quick eye had caught the old pie-balled horse that Tenant rode on, instantly staggered towards him.

Tenant put forth all his horsemans.h.i.+p to avoid the interview. He kicked old Pie-ball in one flank, and then in the other; pulled this rein and then that; laid on _here_ with his staff, and laid on _there_; but all would not do; unless he could at once ride down the drunken beasts, there was no way of getting clear of them. So that d.i.c.k, _half shaved_ as he was, soon got along side of old Pie-ball, whom he grappled by the rein with one hand, and stretching forth the other, bawled out, "_how do? how do, Mr. Tenant?_"

Tenant could not look at him.

Still, d.i.c.k, with his arm full extended, continued to bawl, "_how do, Mr. Tenant, how do?_" Finding that there was no getting clear of him, Mr. Tenant, red as crimson, lifted up his eyes on d.i.c.k, who still, bold as brandy, stammered out, "_High, Mr. Tenant! d-d-d-don't you know me, Mr. Tenant? Don't you know Indian d.i.c.k? Why, sure, Mr.

Tenant, you are the man that converted me?_"

_"I converted you!" replied Tenant, nearly fainting._

"_Yes_, roared d.i.c.k, _I'll be d-d-d-nd, Mr. Tenant, if you an't the very man that converted me_."

"Poor fellow!" said Tenant, with a heavy sigh, "you look like one of my _handiworks_. Had G.o.d Almighty converted you, you would have looked like another guess sort of a creature."

From Ben's constantly relating this story of old Tenant and Indian d.i.c.k, whenever he mentioned the aforesaid case of Ralph's baseness, many of his acquaintance were of opinion, that Ben thereby as good as acknowledged, that at the time he took Ralph in hand, he did not altogether understand the art of converting; or, that at any rate, it would have been much better for Ralph, if, as Mr, Tenant said of Indian d.i.c.k, _G.o.d Almighty had converted him_. He would hardly, for the sake of a harlot, have so basely treated his best friend and benefactor.

CHAPTER XXIX.

_Ben resolves to return to America.--Anecdote of a rare character._

"A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod, An _honest_ man's the n.o.blest work of G.o.d."

Ben used, with singular pleasure, to relate the following story of his Quaker friend Denham. This excellent man had formerly been in business as a Bristol merchant; but failing, he compounded with his creditors and departed for America, where, by his extraordinary diligence and frugality, he acquired in a few years a considerable fortune.

Returning to England, in the same s.h.i.+p with Ben, he invited all his old creditors to a dinner. After thanking them for their former kindness and a.s.suring them that they should soon be paid, he begged them to take their seats at table. On turning up their plates, every man found his due, princ.i.p.al and interest, under his plate, in s.h.i.+ning gold.

This was the man after Ben's own heart. Though he never found in Denham any of those flashes of wit, or floods of eloquence, which used so to dazzle him in Ralph, yet he contracted such a friends.h.i.+p for him, on account of his honesty and Quaker-like meekness, that he would often steal an hour from his books at night, to go and chat with him.

And on the other hand, Ben's steady and persevering industry, with his pa.s.sion for knowledge, had so exalted him in Denham's esteem, that he was never better pleased than when his _young friend Franklin_, as he always called him, came to see him. One night Denham asked Ben how he would like a trip to America?

"Nothing on earth would so please me," replied Ben, "if I could do it to advantage."

"Well, friend Benjamin," said Denham, "I am just a-going to make up a large a.s.sortment of goods for a store in Philadelphia, and if fifty pounds sterling a year, and bed and board with myself, will satisfy thee, I shall be happy of thy services to go and live with me as my clerk."

The memory of his dear Philadelphia, and the many happy days he had spent there, instantly sprung a something at his heart that reddened his cheeks with joy. But the saddening thought of his total unacquaintedness with commerce, soon turned them pale again. "I should be happy indeed to accompany you," replied he, with a deep sigh, "if I were but qualified to do you justice."

"O! as to that, friend Benjamin, don't be uneasy," replied Denham: "If thou art not qualified _now_, thou soon wilt be. And then as soon as thou art fit; I'll send thee with a cargo of corn and flour to the West Indies, and put thee in a way wherein, with such talents and industry as thine, thee may soon make a fortune."

Ben was highly delighted with this proposal, for though fifty pounds a year was not so much as he could earn at printing, yet the prospects in other respects were so much greater. Added to this, he was getting heartily tired of printing. He had tried it five years at Boston, three at Philadelphia, and now nearly two in London. At all these places he had worked without ceasing; had lived most sparingly; had left no stone unturned; and after all was now, in his twenty-first year, just as indigent as when he began! "Scurvy, starving business!"

thought he to himself, "'tis high time to quit you! and G.o.d be thanked for this fair opportunity to do it; and now we will shake hands and part for ever." Taking leave now of the printing business, and as he believed and wished, _for ever_, he gave himself up entirely to his new occupation, constantly going from house to house with Denham, purchasing goods and packing them. When every thing was safe on board, he took a little leisure to visit his friends, and amuse himself. This was a rule which he observed through life--to do business first, and then enjoy pleasure without a sting.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

On the 23d of July, 1726, Ben, with his friend Denham, took leave of their London acquaintance, and embarked for America. As the ebbing current gently bore the vessel along down the amber coloured flood, Ben could not suppress his emotions, as he looked back on that mighty city, whose restless din was now gradually dying on his ear, as were its smoke-covered houses sinking from his view, perhaps for ever. And as he looked back, the secret sigh would arise, for the many toils and heart aches he had suffered there, and all to so little profit. But virtue, like the sun, though it may be overcast with clouds, will soon scatter those clouds, and spread a brighter ray after their transient showers. 'Tis true, eighteen months had been spent there, but they had not been _misspent_. He could look back upon them without shame or remorse. He had broken no midnight lamps--had knocked down no poor watchman--had contributed nothing to the idleness and misery of any family. On the contrary, he had the exceeding satisfaction to know, that he had left the largest printing-houses in London in mourning for his departure--that he had shown them the blessings of temperance, and had proselyted many of them from folly to wise and manly living. And though, when he looked at those eighteen months, he could not behold them, like eastern maidens, dowered with gold and diamonds, yet, better still, he could behold them like the "Wise Virgins," whose lamps he had diligently fed with the oil of wisdom, for some great marriage supper--perhaps that between LIBERTY and his COUNTRY.

After a wearisome pa.s.sage of near eleven weeks, the s.h.i.+p arrived at Philadelphia, where Ben met the perfidious Keith, walking the street alone, and shorn of all the short-lived splendours of his governors.h.i.+p.

Ben's honest face struck the culprit pale and dumb. The reader hardly need be told, that Ben was too magnanimous to add to his confusion, by reproaching or even speaking to him. But as if to keep Ben from pride, Providence kindly threw into his way his old sweetheart, Miss Read.

Here his confusion would have been equal to Keith's, had not that fair one furnished him with the sad charge against herself--of marrying during his absence. Her friends, after reading his letter to her, concluding that he would never return, had advised her to take a husband. But she soon separated from him, and even refused to bear his name; in consequence of learning that he had another wife.

Denham and Ben took a store-house, and displayed their goods; which, having been well laid in, sold off very rapidly. This was in October, 1726. Early in the following February, when the utmost kindness on Denham's part, and an equal fidelity on Ben's, had rendered them mutually dear, as father and son; and when also, by their extraordinary success in trade, they had a fair prospect of speedily making their fortunes, behold! O, vanity of all worldly hopes! they were both taken down dangerously ill. Denham, for his part, actually made a die of it.

And Ben was so far gone, at one time, that he concluded it was all over with him; which afforded a melancholy kind of pleasure, especially when he was told that his friend Denham, who lay in the next room, was dead.

And when he reflected that now, since his good patron had left him, he should be turned out again upon the world, with the same hard struggles to encounter, and no prospect of ever being able to do any thing for his aged father, he felt a secret regret, that he was called back to life again.