From Boyhood to Manhood

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Collins was not too drunk to understand that Benjamin went to see the
governor by invitation, and he was on tiptoe to learn what it all
meant.

"Been to see the governor, hey?" he said.

"Yes; and I should have taken you if you had not been drunk."

"Good on you, Ben; you'll be governor yourself yet." And John laughed
at his own suggestion as only a silly drinker will.

"_You_ will not, John, unless you change your course. I have a mind to
leave you here in New York; then I shall not be disgraced by you in
Philadelphia. If you can't keep sober for your own sake nor mine, I
want nothing more to do with you."

This was a revelation to John. He had not dreamed of being left
penniless and friendless in New York. So he was ready to make promises
of the most flattering kind, in order to proceed with Benjamin to
Philadelphia.

"But you promised me as squarely as possible in Boston that you would
not drink any more," continued Benjamin. "Your promise is not worth
any thing to me, when it is worth nothing to you; and it is not worth
as much to you as a glass of brandy. I am tempted to leave you and all
your truck in the sloop here in New York."

John begged and entreated Benjamin not to desert him now, and promised
by all that was great and good that he would stop drinking and lead a
sober life. In the circumstances, Benjamin could scarcely do otherwise
than to pay his bill at the inn and take him along with him, though he
very reluctantly decided to do so. Having collected the thirty-five
pounds for Mr. Vernon, paid John's bill, and transacted some other
business, by the time the sloop was ready to sail, they proceeded to
Philadelphia.

There is no record preserved of his experience on the sloop between
New York and Philadelphia, except a paragraph in a letter written by
Doctor Franklin to Doctor Priestley, in 1780, when the former was
seventy-four years of age. He related the experience in order to
illustrate the truth, "that all situations in life have their
inconveniences." The paragraph is as follows:

"In my youth, I was passenger in a little sloop, descending the river
Delaware. There being no wind, we were obliged, when the ebb was
spent, to cast anchor and wait for the next. The heat of the sun on
the vessel was excessive, the company strangers to me, and not very
agreeable. Near the river-side I saw what I took to be a pleasant
green meadow, in the middle of which was a large shady tree, where, it
struck my fancy, I could sit and read (having a book in my pocket),
and pass the time agreeably till the tide turned. I therefore
prevailed with the captain to put me ashore. Being landed, I found the
greatest part of my meadow was really a marsh, in crossing which, to
come at my tree, I was up to my knees in mire; and I had not placed
myself under its shade five minutes, before the mosquitoes in swarms
found me out, attacked my legs, hands, and face, and made my reading
and my rest impossible; so that I returned to the beach, and called
for the boat to come and take me on board again, where I was obliged
to bear the heat I had strove to quit, and also the laugh of the
company. Similar cases in the affairs of life have since frequently
fallen under my observation."

In these modern days, it would be said that, when Benjamin arrived in
Philadelphia, he "had an elephant on his hands." The most
unmanageable and dangerous sort of an elephant on one's hands is a
dissolute friend. Benjamin scarcely knew what to do with John. It
troubled him exceedingly. But he was wont to make the best of
everything, and so he did in this case.

He took John with him to his boarding place, promising to pay his
bills until he could find work in some counting-room. John was well
qualified for such business, and Benjamin supposed that he could
readily find a situation. His estimate of Collins, before and after
he began to drink to excess, is given by his own pen, as follows:

"At New York I found my friend Collins, who had arrived there some
time before me. We had been intimate from children, and had read the
same books together; but he had the advantage of more time for reading
and studying, and a wonderful genius for mathematical learning, in
which he far outstripped me. While I lived in Boston, most of my
hours of leisure for conversation were spent with him, and he
continued a sober as well as industrious lad; was much respected for
his learning by several of the clergy and other gentlemen, and seemed
to promise making a good figure in life. But, during my absence, he
had acquired a habit of drinking brandy and I found by his own
account, as well as that of others, that he had been drunk every day
since his arrival at New York, and behaved himself in a very
extravagant manner. He had gamed, too, and lost his money, so that I
was obliged to discharge his lodgings, and defray his expenses on the
road and at Philadelphia; which proved a great burden to me."

Benjamin called upon Governor Keith as soon as possible, with a letter
from his father, in which the governor was thanked and praised for his
kindness to his son.

"Your father is too cautious," remarked the governor, after reading
the letter. "Some young men are better qualified to do business for
themselves at eighteen than others are at twenty-one."

"He said that he would assist me at twenty-one if I should need
assistance," replied Benjamin.

"Yes; he says so in this letter. But I think you will be established
in a good business three years from now, and need no help. Some aid
now will do more for you than at any future time."

"I dare say that is true; but, as father declines to do it, that ends
the matter, I suppose."

"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."

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