The Life of Benjamin Franklin Part 6

Old Josias here shook his head; "No, no, Ben!" said he, "that will never do: that will never do: you are too young yet, child, for all that, a great deal too young."

"So I told him, father, that I was too young. And I told him too that I was certain you would never give your consent to it."

"You were right there, Ben; no indeed, I could never give my consent to it, that's certain."

"So I told the governor, father; but still he would have it there was a fine opening in Philadelphia, and that I would fill it so exactly, that nothing could be wanting to insure your approbation but a clear understanding of it. And to that end he has written you a letter."

"A letter, child! a letter from governor Keith to me!"

"Yes, father, here it is."

With great eagerness the old gentleman took it from Ben; and drawing his spectacles, read it over and over again with much eagerness. When he was done he lifted his eyes to heaven, while in the motion of his lips and change of countenance, Ben could clearly see that the soul of his father was breathing an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of praise to G.o.d on his account. Soon as his _Te Deum_ was finished, he turned to Ben with a countenance bright with holy joy, and said, "Ben, I've cause to be happy; my son, I've cause to be happy indeed. O how differently have things turned out with you! G.o.d's blessed name be praised for it, how differently have they turned out to what I dreaded! I was afraid you were gone a poor vagabond, on the seas; but instead of that you had fixed yourself in one of the finest cities in the country. I was afraid to see you; yes, my dear child, I was afraid to see you, lest I should see you clad in the mean garb of a poor sailor boy; but here I behold you clad in the dress of a gentleman! I trembled lest you had been degrading yourself into the low company of the profane and worthless; and lo! you have been all the time exalting yourself into the high society of great men and governors. And all this in so short a time, and in a way most honourable to yourself, and therefore most delightful to me, I mean by your virtues and your close attention to the duties of a most useful profession. Go on, my son, go on! and may G.o.d Almighty, who has given you wisdom to begin so glorious a course, grant you fort.i.tude to persevere in it!"

Ben thanked his father for the continuance of his love and solicitude for him; and he told him moreover, that one princ.i.p.al thing that had stirred him up to act as he had done, was the joy which he knew he should be giving him thereby; as also the great trouble which he knew a contrary conduct would have brought upon him. Here his father tenderly embraced him, and said, "Blessed be G.o.d for giving me such a son! I have always, Ben, fed myself with hopes of great things from you. And now I have the joy to say my hopes were not in vain. Yes, glory to G.o.d, I trust my precious hopes of you were not in vain." Then, after making a short pause, as from fullness of joy, he went on, "but as to this letter, my son; this same letter here from governor Keith; though nothing was ever more flattering to you, yet depend upon it, Ben, it will never do; at least not yet awhile.--The duties of the place are too numerous, child, and difficult for any but one who has had many more years of experience than you have had."

"Well then, father, what's to be done, for I know that the governor is so very anxious to get me into this place, that he will hardly be said nay?"

"Why, my dear boy, we must still decline it, for all that: not only because from your very unripe age and inexperience, it may involve you in ruin; but also because it actually is not in your power. It is true the governor, from his letter, appears to have the greatest friends.h.i.+p in the world for you; but yet, it is not to be expected that he would advance funds to set you up. O no, my dear boy, that's entirely out of the question. The governor, though perhaps rich, has no doubt too many poor friends and relations hanging on him, for you to expect any thing from that quarter. And as to myself, Ben, with all my love for you, it is not in my power to a.s.sist you in such an affair. My family you know, is very large, and the profits of my trade but small, insomuch that at the end of the year there is nothing left. And indeed I never can be sufficiently thankful to G.o.d for that health and blessing which enables me to feed and clothe them every year so plentifully."

Seeing Ben look rather serious, the old gentleman, in a livelier tone, resumed his speech, "Yes, Ben, all this is very true; but yet let us not be disheartened. Although we have no funds now, yet a n.o.ble supply is at hand."

"Where, father," said Ben, roused up, "where?"

"Why, in your own virtues, Ben, in your own virtues, my boy--There are the n.o.blest funds that G.o.d can bestow on a young man. All other funds may easily be drained by our vices and leave us poor indeed. But the virtues are fountains that never fail: they are indeed the true riches and honours, only by other names. Only persevere, my son, in the virtues, as you have already so bravely begun, and the grand object is gained. By the time you reach twenty-one, for every friend that you now have, you will have ten; and for every dollar an hundred; and with these you will make thousands more. Thus, under G.o.d, you will have the glory to be the artificer of your own fame and fortune: and that will bring ten thousand times more honour and happiness, to you, Ben, than all the money that governors and fathers could ever give you."

Ben's countenance brightened as his father uttered this; then heaving a deep sigh, as of strong hope that such great things might one day be realized, he said, "Well father, G.o.d only knows what I am to come to; but this I know, that I feel in myself a determination to do my best."

"I believe you do, my son, and I thank G.o.d most heartily that I have such good reason to believe you do. And when I consider, on the one hand, what a fine field for fame and fortune this new country presents to young men of talents and enterprise: and on the other hand, what wonders you, a poor unknown and unfriended boy have done in Philadelphia, in only six months, I feel transported at the thought of what you may yet attain before my gray hairs descend to the grave. Who knows, Ben, for G.o.d is good, my son, who knows but that a fate like that of young Joseph, whom his brethren drove into Egypt, may be in reserve for you? And who knows but that old Jacob's joys may be mine?

that like him, after all my anxieties on your account, I may yet hear the name of my youngest son, my beloved Benjamin, coming up from the South, perfumed with praise for his great virtues and services to his country? Then when I hear the sound of his fame rising from that distant land, like the pleasant thunders of summer before refres.h.i.+ng showers, and remember how he used to stand a little prattling boy by my side, in his rosy cheeks and flaxen locks filling the candle moulds, or twisting the snow white cotton wicks with his tender fingers, O how will such remembrance lighten up the dark evening of my days, and cause my setting sun to go down in joy!"

He spoke this in tones so melting, that Ben, who was sitting by his father's side, fell with his face on his bosom, without saying a word.

The fond parent, hearing him sob, tenderly embraced him, and with a voice broken with sighs, went on, "Yes, my son, the measure of my joys will then be full. I shall have nothing to detain me any longer in this vale of troubles, but shall gladly breathe out my life in praise to G.o.d for this his last, his crowning act of goodness--for this his blessing me in my son."

After a moment's pause, the feelings of both being too deliciously affected for speech, Ben gently raised his face from his father's bosom, and with his eyes yet red and wet with tears, tenderly looking at him, said, "I would to G.o.d, father, you would go and live in Philadelphia."

"Why so, my son?"

"Because, I don't want ever to part with you, father, and I am, you know, obliged to go back to Philadelphia immediately."

"Not immediately, my son, I cannot let you go from me immediately."

"Father, I would never go from you, if I could help it; but I must be doing something to make good your fond hopes of me; and I can't stay here."

"Why not, my son?"

"Father, I can't stay with those who hate me; and you know that brother James hates me very much."

"O! he does not hate you, I hope, my son."

"Yes, he does, father, indeed he does; because I only differed from him in opinion and ventured to reason with him, he kindled into pa.s.sion and abused me even to _blows_, though I was in the right, as you told him afterwards. And because I told him I did not think he acted the part of a brother by me in wis.h.i.+ng to make me a slave so many years, he went about town and set all the printers against me, and thus drove me away from home, and from you, my father, whom I so much love. And just now, when I went to his office to see him, instead of running to meet me and rejoicing to see me returned safe and sound and so well dressed and a plenty of money in my pocket, he would not even speak to me, but looked as dark and angry as though he would have torn me to pieces. And yet he can turn up his eyes, and make long prayers and graces, and talk a great deal about JESUS CHRIST!"

The old man here shook his head with a deep groan, while Ben thus went on, "No, father, I can't stay here; I must be going back to Philadelphia and to my good friend governor Keith; for I long to be realizing all the great hopes that you have been forming of me. And should G.o.d but give me a good settlement in Philadelphia, then you will come and live with me. O say, my father, wont you come and live with me?"

Ben spoke this, looking up to his father with that joy of filial love sparkling in his youthful eyes which made him look like all that we fancy of angels.

The old man embraced him and said, "I will, my son, I will; but stay with me a little while, at the least three days, and then you may depart." Ben consenting to this, the old gentleman wrote a polite letter to governor Keith, thanking him very heartily for that he, so great a man, should have paid such attentions to his poor boy: but at the same time begged his pardon for declining to do any thing for him, not only because he had very little in his power to do; but also because he thought him too young to be intrusted with the conduct of an enterprise that required much more experience than he possessed.

CHAPTER XVII.

Of the three days which Ben, as we have seen above, had consented to stay at home, he spent the chiefest part with his father, in his old candle manufactory. 'Tis true, this happy sire, whose _natural_ affection for Ben as a _son_, was now exalted into the highest respect for him as a youth of _talents_ and _virtues_; and _perhaps_ too, looking up to him as a young mountain oak, whose towering arms would soon protect the parent tree, insisted that Ben should not stay in _that dirty place_, as he called it. But knowing that his father could not be spared from his daily labour, Ben insisted to be with him in the old shop, and to a.s.sist in his labours, reminding his father how sweetly the time pa.s.ses away when at work and conversing with those we love. His father at length consented: and those three days, now spent with Ben, were the happiest days he had spent for a long time. His aged bosom was now relieved from his six months' load of fears and anxieties about this beloved child; nor only so, but this beloved child, s.h.i.+ning in a light of his own virtues, was now with him, and as a volunteer of filial love was mingling in his toils--eagerly lending his youthful strength to a.s.sist him in packing and boxing his candles and soap; while his sensible conversation, heightened all the time by the charm of that voice and those eyes that had ever been so dear to him, touched his heart with a sweetness inexpressible, and made the happy hours fly away as on angels' wings.

On the afternoon of the third day, as they were returning from dinner, walking down the garden, at the foot of which the factory stood, the old gentleman lifting his eyes to the sun, suddenly heaved a deep sigh and put on a melancholy look.

"High, father!" said Ben, "I see no cloud over the sun that we should fear a change of weather."

"No, Ben, there is no cloud over the sun, but still his beams throw a cloud over my spirits. They put me in mind that I shall walk here to-morrow, but with no son by my side!"

The idea was mournful: and more so by the tender look and plaintive tones in which it was conveyed.--It wrung the heart of Ben, who in silence glanced his eyes on his father. It was that tender glance of sorrowing love which quickest reaches the heart and stirs up all its yearnings. The old gentleman felt the meaning of his son's looks. They seemed to say to him, "_O my father, must we part to-morrow?_"

"Yes, Ben, we part to-morrow, and perhaps never to meet again!"

After a short pause, with a sigh, he thus resumed his speech--"Then, O my son, what a wretch were man without religion? Yes, Ben, without the hopes of immortality, how much better he had never been born? Without these, his n.o.blest capacities were but the greater curses. The more delightful his friends.h.i.+ps the more dreadful the thought they may be extinguished for ever; and the gayer his prospects the deeper his gloom, that endless darkness may so quickly cover all. We were yesterday feeding fond hopes, my son; we were yesterday painting bright castles in the air: you were to be a great man and I a happy father.

But alas! this is the last day, my child, that we may ever see each other again. And the sad reverse of all this may even now be at the door; when I, instead of hearing of my son's glory in Philadelphia, may hear that he is cold in his grave. And when you, returning--after years of virtuous toils, returning laden with riches and honours for your happy father to share in, may see nothing of that father but the tomb that covers his dust."

Seeing the moisture in Ben's eyes, the old gentleman, with a voice rising to exultation, thus went on. "Yes, Ben, this may soon be the case with us, my child; the dark curtain of our separation soon may _drop_, and your cheeks or mine be flooded with sorrows. But thanks be to G.o.d, that curtain will rise again, and open to our view those scenes of happiness, one glance at which is sufficient to start the tear of transport into our eyes. Yes, Ben, religion a.s.sures us of all this; religion a.s.sures us that this life is but the morning of our existence--that there is a glorious eternity beyond--and that to the penitent, death is but the pa.s.sage to that happy life where they shall soon meet again to part no more, but to congratulate their mutual felicities for ever. Then, O my son, lay hold of religion, and secure an interest in those blessed hopes that contribute so much to the virtues and the joys of life."

"Father," said Ben with a sigh, "I know that many people here in Boston think I never had any religion; or, that if I had I have apostatized from it."

"G.o.d forbid! But whence, my son, could these prejudices have arisen?"

"Why, father, I have for some time past discovered that there is no effect without a cause. These prejudices have been the effect of my youthful _errors_. You remember father, the old story of the pork, don't you?"

"No, child; what is it, for I have forgotten it?"

"I thought so, father, I thought you had been so good as to forget it.

But I have not, nor ever shall forget it."

"What is it, Ben?"

"Why, father, when our pork, one fall, lay salted and ready for the barrel, I begged you to say grace over it all at once; adding that it would _do as well_ and save _a great deal of time_."

"Pshaw, Ben, such a trifle as that, and in a child too, cannot be remembered against you now."

"Yes, father, I am afraid it is. All are not so loving, and so forgetful of my errors as you. It was at the time inserted in the Boston NEWS LETTER, and is now recollected to the discredit of my religion. And they have a prejudice against me on another account.

While I lived with you, father, you always took me to meeting with you; but when I left you and went to live with my brother James, I often neglected going to meeting; preferring to stay at home and read my books."