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1835

TWICE-TOLD TALES

ALICE DOANE’S APPEAL

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

ON A PLEASANT AFTERNOON of June, it was my good fortune to be the

companion of two young ladies in a walk. The direction of our course

being left to me, I led them neither to Legge’s Hill, nor to the

Cold Spring, nor to the rude shores and old batteries of the Neck, nor

yet to Paradise; though if the latter place were rightly named, my

fair friends would have been at home there. We reached the outskirts

of the town, and turning aside from a street of tanners and

curriers, began to ascend a hill, which at a distance, by its dark

slope and the even line of its summit, resembled a green rampart along

the road. It was less steep than its aspect threatened. The eminence

formed part of an extensive tract of pasture land, and was traversed

by cow paths in various directions; but, strange to tell, though the

whole slope and summit were of a peculiarly deep green, scarce a blade

of grass was visible from the base upward. This deceitful verdure

was occasioned by a plentiful crop of "woodwax," which wears the

same dark and glossy green throughout the summer, except at one

short period, when it puts forth a profusion of yellow blossoms. At

that season, to a distant spectator, the hill appears absolutely

overlaid with gold, or covered with a glory of sunshine, even

beneath a clouded sky. But the curious wanderer on the hill will

perceive that all the grass, and everything that should nourish man or

beast, has been destroyed by this vile and ineradicable weed: its

tufted roots make the soil their own, and permit nothing else to

vegetate among them; so that a physical curse may be said to have

blasted the spot, where guilt and frenzy consummated the most

execrable scene that our history blushes to record. For this was the

field where superstition won her darkest triumph; the high place where

our fathers set up their shame, to the mournful gaze of generations

far remote. The dust of martyrs was beneath our feet. We stood on

Gallows Hill.

For my own part, I have often courted the historic influence of the

spot. But it is singular how few come on pilgrimage to this famous

hill; how many spend their lives almost at its base, and never once

obey the summons of the shadowy past, as it beckons them to the

summit. Till a year or two since, this portion of our history had been

very imperfectly written, and, as we are not a people of legend or

tradition, it was not every citizen of our ancient town that could

tell, within half a century, so much as the date of the witchcraft

delusion. Recently, indeed, an historian has treated the subject in

a manner that will keep his name alive, in the only desirable

connection with the errors of our ancestry, by converting the hill

of their disgrace into an honorable monument of his own antiquarian

lore, and of that better wisdom, which draws the moral while it

tells the tale. But we are a people of the present, and have no

heartfelt interest in the olden time. Every fifth of November, in

commemoration of they know not what, or rather without an idea

beyond the momentary blaze, the young men scare the town with bonfires

on this haunted height, but never dream of paying funeral honors to

those who died so wrongfully, and, without a coffin or a prayer,

were buried here.

Though with feminine susceptibility, my companions caught all the

melancholy associations of the scene, yet these could but

imperfectly overcome the gayety of girlish spirits. Their emotions

came and went with quick vicissitude, and sometimes combined to form a

peculiar and delicious excitement, the mirth brightening the gloom

into a sunny shower of feeling, and a rainbow in the mind. My own more

sombre mood was tinged by theirs. With now a merry word and next a sad

one, we trod among the tangled weeds, and almost hoped that our feet

would sink into the hollow of a witch’s grave. Such vestiges were to

be found within the memory of man, but have vanished now, and with

them, I believe, all traces of the precise spot of the executions.

On the long and broad ridge of the eminence, there is no very

decided elevation of any one point, nor other prominent marks,

except the decayed stumps of two trees, standing near each other,

and here and there the rocky substance of the hill, peeping just above

the woodwax.

There are few such prospects of town and village, woodland and

cultivated field, steeples and country seats, as we beheld from this

unhappy spot. No blight had fallen on old Essex; all was prosperity

and riches, healthfully distributed. Before us lay our native town,

extending from the foot of the hill to the harbor, level as a chess

board embraced by two arms of the sea, and filling the whole peninsula

with a close assemblage of wooden roofs, overtopped by many a spire,

and intermixed with frequent heaps of verdure, where trees threw up

their shade from unseen trunks. Beyond was the bay and its islands,

almost the only objects, in a country unmarked by strong natural

features, on which time and human toil had produced no change.

Retaining these portions of the scene, and also the peaceful glory and

tender gloom of the declining sun, we threw, in imagination, a veil of

deep forest over the land, and pictured a few scattered villages,

and this old town itself a village, as when the prince of hell bore

sway there. The idea thus gained of its former aspect, its quaint

edifices standing far apart, with peaked roofs and projecting stories,

and its single meeting-house pointing up a tall spire in the midst;

the vision, in short, of the town in 1692, served to introduce a

wondrous tale of those old times.

I had brought the manuscript in my pocket. It was one of a series

written years ago, when my pen, now sluggish and perhaps feeble,

because I have not much to hope or fear, was driven by stronger

external motives, and a more passionate impulse within, than I am

fated to feel again. Three or four of these tales had appeared in

the "Token," after a long time and various adventures, but had

encumbered me with no troublesome notoriety, even in my birthplace.

One great heap had met a brighter destiny: they had fed the flames;

thoughts meant to delight the world and endure for ages had perished

in a moment, and stirred not a single heart but mine. The story now to

be introduced, and another, chanced to be in kinder custody at the

time, and thus, by no conspicuous merits of their own, escaped

destruction.

The ladies, in consideration that I had never before intruded my

performances on them, by any but the legitimate medium, through the

press, consented to hear me read. I made them sit down on a moss-grown

rock, close by the spot where we chose to believe that the death

tree had stood. After a little hesitation on my part, caused by a

dread of renewing my acquaintance with fantasies that had lost their

charm in the ceaseless flux of mind, I began the tale, which opened

darkly with the discovery of a murder.

A hundred years, and nearly half that time, have elapsed since

the body of a murdered man was found, at about the distance of three

miles, on the old road to Boston. He lay in a solitary spot, on the

bank of a small lake, which the severe frost of December had covered

with a sheet of ice. Beneath this, it seemed to have been the

intention of the murderer to conceal his victim in a chill and

watery grave, the ice being deeply hacked, perhaps with the weapon

that had slain him, though its solidity was too stubborn for the

patience of a man with blood upon his hand. The corpse therefore

reclined on the earth, but was separated from the road by a thick

growth of dwarf pines. There had been a slight fall of snow during the

night, and as if nature were shocked at the deed, and strove to hide

it with her frozen tears, a little drifted heap had partly buried

the body, and lay deepest over the pale dead face. An early traveller,

whose dog had led him to the spot, ventured to uncover the features,

but was affrighted by their expression. A look of evil and scornful

triumph had hardened on them, and made death so life-like and so

terrible, that the beholder at once took flight, as swiftly as if

the stiffened corpse would rise up and follow.

I read on, and identified the body as that of a young man, a

stranger in the country, but resident during several preceding

months in the town which lay at our feet. The story described, at some

length, the excitement caused by the murder, the unavailing quest

after the perpetrator, the funeral ceremonies, and other commonplace

matters, in the course of which, I brought forward the personages

who were to move among the succeeding events. They were but three. A

young man and his sister; the former characterized by a diseased

imagination and morbid feelings; the latter, beautiful and virtuous,

and instilling something of her own excellence into the wild heart

of her brother, but not enough to cure the deep taint of his nature.

The third person was a wizard; a small, gray, withered man, with

fiendish ingenuity in devising evil, and superhuman power to execute

it, but senseless as an idiot and feebler than a child to all better

purposes. The central scene of the story was an interview between this

wretch and Leonard Doane, in the wizard’s hut, situated beneath a

range of rocks at some distance from the town. They sat beside a

smouldering fire, while a tempest of wintry rain was beating on the

roof. The young man spoke of the closeness of the tie which united him

and Alice, the consecrated fervor of their affection from childhood

upwards, their sense of lonely sufficiency to each other, because they

only of their race had escaped death, in a night attack by the

Indians. He related his discovery or suspicion of a secret sympathy

between his sister and Walter Brome, and told how a distempered

jealousy had maddened him. In the following passage, I threw a

glimmering light on the mystery of the tale.

"Searching," continued Leonard, "into the breast of Walter Brome, I

at length found a cause why Alice must inevitably love him. For he was

my very counterpart! I compared his mind by each individual portion,

and as a whole, with mine. There was a resemblance from which I shrunk

with sickness, and loathing, and horror, as if my own features had

come and stared upon me in a solitary place, or had met me in

struggling through a crowd. Nay! the very same thoughts would often

express themselves in the same words from our lips, proving a

hateful sympathy in our secret souls. His education, indeed, in the

cities of the old world, and mine in this rude wilderness, had wrought

a superficial difference. The evil of his character, also, had been

strengthened and rendered prominent by a reckless and ungoverned life,

while mine had been softened and purified by the gentle and holy

nature of Alice. But my soul had been conscious of the germ of all the

fierce and deep passions, and of all the many varieties of wickedness,

which accident had brought to their full maturity in him. Nor will I

deny that, in the accursed one, I could see the withered blossom of

every virtue, which, by a happier culture, had been made to bring

forth fruit in me. Now, here was a man whom Alice might love with

all the strength of sisterly affection, added to that impure passion

which alone engrosses all the heart. The stranger would have more than

the love which had been gathered to me from the many graves of our

household- and I be desolate!"

Leonard Doane went on to describe the insane hatred that had

kindled his heart into a volume of hellish flame. It appeared, indeed,

that his jealousy had grounds, so far as that Walter Brome had

actually sought the love of Alice, who also had betrayed an

undefinable, but powerful interest in the unknown youth. The latter,

in spite of his passion for Alice, seemed to return the loathful

antipathy of her brother; the similarity of their dispositions made

them like joint possessors of an individual nature, which could not

become wholly the property of one, unless by the extinction of the

other. At last, with the same devil in each bosom, they chanced to

meet, they two on a lonely road. While Leonard spoke, the wizard had

sat listening to what he already knew, yet with tokens of

pleasurable interest, manifested by flashes of expression across his

vacant features, by grisly smiles and by a word here and there,

mysteriously filling up some void in the narrative. But when the young

man told how Walter Brome had taunted him with indubitable proofs of

the shame of Alice, and, before the triumphant sneer could vanish from

his face, had died by her brother’s hand, the wizard laughed aloud.

Leonard started, but just then a gust of wind came down the chimney,

forming itself into a close resemblance of the slow, unvaried

laughter, by which he had been interrupted. "I was deceived,"

thought he; and thus pursued his fearful story.

"I trod out his accursed soul, and knew that he was dead; for my

spirit bounded as if a chain had fallen from it and left me free.

But the burst of exulting certainty soon fled, and was succeeded by

a torpor over my brain and a dimness before my eyes, with the

sensation of one who struggles through a dream. So I bent down over

the body of Walter Brome, gazing into his face, and striving to make

my soul glad with the thought, that he, in very truth, lay dead before

me. I know not what space of time I had thus stood, nor how the vision

came. But it seemed to me that the irrevocable years since childhood

had rolled back, and a scene, that had long been confused and broken

in my memory, arrayed itself with all its first distinctness.

Methought I stood a weeping infant by my father’s hearth; by the

cold and blood-stained hearth where he lay dead. I heard the

childish wail of Alice, and my own cry arose with hers, as we beheld

the features of our parent, fierce with the strife and distorted

with the pain, in which his spirit had passed away. As I gazed, a cold

wind whistled by, and waved my father’s hair. Immediately I stood

again in the lonesome 91 road, no more a sinless child, but a man of

blood, whose tears were falling fast over the face of his dead

enemy. But the delusion was not wholly gone; that face still wore a

likeness of my father; and because my soul shrank from the fixed glare

of the eyes, I bore the body to the lake, and would have buried it

there. But before his icy sepulchre was hewn, I heard the voice of two

travellers and fled."

Such was the dreadful confession of Leonard Doane. And now tortured

by the idea of his sister’s guilt, yet sometimes yielding to a

conviction of her purity; stung with remorse for the death of Walter

Brome, and shuddering with a deeper sense of some unutterable crime,

perpetrated, as he imagined, in madness or a dream; moved also by dark

impulses, as if a fiend were whispering him to meditate violence

against the life of Alice; he had sought this interview with the

wizard, who, on certain conditions, had no power to withhold his aid

in unravelling the mystery. The tale drew near its close.

The moon was bright on high; the blue firmament appeared to glow

with an inherent brightness; the greater stars were burning in their

spheres; the northern lights threw their mysterious glare far over the

horizon; the few small clouds aloft were burdened with radiance; but

the sky, with all its variety of light, was scarcely so brilliant as

the earth. The rain of the preceding night had frozen as it fell, and,

by that simple magic, had wrought wonders. The trees were hung with

diamonds and many-colored gems; the houses were overlaid with

silver, and the streets paved with slippery brightness; a frigid glory

was flung over all familiar things, from the cottage chimney to the

steeple of the meetinghouse, that gleamed upward to the sky. This

living world, where we sit by our firesides, or go forth to meet

beings like ourselves, seemed rather the creation of wizard power,

with so much of the resemblance to known objects that a man might

shudder at the ghostly shape of his old beloved dwelling, and the

shadow of a ghostly tree before his door. One looked to behold

inhabitants suited to such a town, glittering in icy garments, with

the motionless features, cold, sparkling eyes, and just sensation

enough in their frozen hearts to shiver at each other’s presence.

By this fantastic piece of description, and more in the same style,

I intended to throw a ghostly glimmer round the reader, so that his

imagination might view the town through a medium that should take

off its every-day aspect, and make it a proper theatre for so wild a

scene as the final one. Amid this unearthly show, the wretched brother

and sister were represented as setting forth, at midnight, through the

gleaming streets, and directing their steps to a graveyard, where

all the dead had been laid, from the first corpse in that ancient

town, to the murdered man who was buried three days before. As they

went, they seemed to see the wizard gliding by their sides, or walking

dimly on the path before them. But here I paused, and gazed into the

faces of my two fair auditors, to judge whether, even on the hill

where so many had been brought to death by wilder tales than this, I

might venture to proceed. Their bright eyes were fixed on me; their

lips apart. I took courage, and led the fated pair to a new-made

grave, where for a few moments, in the bright and silent midnight,

they stood alone. But suddenly there was a multitude of people among

the graves.

Each family tomb had given up its inhabitants, who, one by one,

through distant years, had been borne to its dark chamber, but now

came forth and stood in a pale group together. There was the gray

ancestor, the aged mother, and all their descendants, some withered

and full of years, like themselves, and others in their prime;

there, too, were the children who went prattling to the tomb, and

there the maiden who yielded her early beauty to death’s embrace,

before passion had polluted it. Husbands and wives arose, who had lain

many years side by side, and young mothers who had forgotten to kiss

their first babes, though pillowed so long on their bosoms. Many had

been buried in the habiliments of life, and still wore their ancient

garb; some were old defenders of the infant colony, and gleamed

forth in their steel-caps and bright breast-plates, as if starting

up at an Indian war-cry; other venerable shapes had been pastors of

the church, famous among the New England clergy, and now leaned with

hands clasped over their gravestones, ready to call the congregation

to prayer. There stood the early settlers, those old illustrious ones,

the heroes of tradition and fireside legends, the men of history whose

features had been so long beneath the sod that few alive could have

remembered them. There, too, were faces of former townspeople, dimly

recollected from childhood, and others, whom Leonard and Alice had

wept in later years, but who now were most terrible of all, by their

ghastly smile of recognition. All, in short, were there; the dead of

other generations, whose moss-grown names could scarce be read upon

their tombstones, and their successors, whose graves were not yet

green; all whom black funerals had followed slowly thither now

reappeared where the mourners left them. Yet none but souls accursed

were there, and fiends counterfeiting the likeness of departed saints.

The countenances of those venerable men, whose very features had

been hallowed by lives of piety, were contorted now by intolerable

pain or hellish passion, and now by an unearthly and derisive

merriment. Had the pastors prayed, all saintlike as they seemed, it

had been blasphemy. The chaste matrons, too, and the maidens with

untasted lips, who had slept in their virgin graves apart from all

other dust, now wore a look from which the two trembling mortals

shrank, as if the unimaginable sin of twenty worlds were collected

there. The faces of fond lovers, even of such as had pined into the

tomb, because there their treasure was, were bent on one another

with glances of hatred and smiles of bitter scorn, passions that are

to devils what love is to the blest. At times, the features of those

who had passed from a holy life to heaven would vary to and fro,

between their assumed aspect and the fiendish lineaments whence they

had been transformed. The whole miserable multitude, both sinful

souls and false spectres of good men, groaned horribly and gnashed

their teeth, as they looked upward to the calm loveliness of the

midnight sky, and beheld those homes of bliss where they must never

dwell. Such was the apparition, though too shadowy for language to

portray; for here would be the moonbeams on the ice, glittering

through a warrior’s breast-plate, and there the letters of a

tombstone, on the form that stood before it; and whenever a breeze

went by, it swept the old men’s hoary heads, the women’s fearful

beauty, and all the unreal throng, into one indistinguishable cloud

together.

I dare not give the remainder of the scene, except in a very

brief epitome. This company of devils and condemned souls had come

on a holiday, to revel in the discovery of a complicated crime; as

foul a one as ever imagined in their dreadful abode. In the course

of the tale, the reader had been permitted to discover that all the

incidents were results of the machinations of the wizard, who had

cunningly devised that Walter Brome should tempt his unknown sister

to guilt and shame, and himself perish by the hand of his

twin-brother. I described the glee of the fiends at this hideous

conception, and their eagerness to know if it were consummated. The

story concluded with the Appeal of Alice to the spectre of Walter

Brome, his reply, absolving her from every stain; and the trembling

awe with which ghost and devil fled, as from the sinless presence of

an angel.

The sun had gone down. While I held my page of wonders in the

fading light, and read how Alice and her brother were left alone

among the graves, my voice mingled with the sigh of a summer wind,

which passed over the hill-top, with the broad and hollow sound as

of the flight of unseen spirits. Not a word was spoken till I added

that the wizard’s grave was close beside us, and that the woodwax had

sprouted originally from his unhallowed bones. The ladies started;

perhaps their cheeks might have grown pale had not the crimson west

been blushing on them; but after a moment they began to laugh, while

the breeze took a livelier motion, as if responsive to their mirth.

I kept an awful solemnity of visage, being, indeed, a little piqued

that a narrative which had good authority in our ancient

superstitions, and would have brought even a church deacon to

Gallows Hill, in old witch times, should now be considered too

grotesque and extravagant for timid maids to tremble at. Though it

was past supper time, I detained them a while longer on the hill, and

made a trial whether truth were more powerful than fiction.

We looked again towards the town, no longer arrayed in that icy

splendor of earth, tree, and edifice, beneath the glow of a wintry

midnight, which shining afar through the gloom of a century had made

it appear the very home of visions in visionary streets. An

indistinctness had begun to creep over the mass of buildings and

blend them with the intermingled tree-tops, except where the roof of

a statelier mansion, and the steeples and brick towers of churches,

caught the brightness of some cloud that yet floated in the

sunshine. Twilight over the landscape was congenial to the obscurity

of time. With such eloquence as my share of feeling and fancy could

supply, I called back hoar antiquity, and bade my companions imagine

an ancient multitude of people, congregated on the hill-side,

spreading far below, clustering on the steep old roofs, and climbing

the adjacent heights, wherever a glimpse of this spot might be

obtained. I strove to realize and faintly communicate the deep,

unutterable loathing and horror, the indignation, the affrighted

wonder, that wrinkled on every brow, and filled the universal heart.

See! the whole crowd turns pale and shrinks within itself, as the

virtuous emerge from yonder street. Keeping pace with that devoted

company, I described them one by one; here tottered a woman in her

dotage, knowing neither the crime imputed her, nor its punishment;

there another, distracted by the universal madness, till feverish

dreams were remembered as realities, and she almost believed her

guilt. One, a proud man once, was so broken down by the intolerable

hatred heaped upon him, that he seemed to hasten his steps, eager to

hide himself in the grave hastily dug at the foot of the gallows. As

they went slowly on, a mother looked behind, and beheld her peaceful

dwelling; she cast her eyes elsewhere, and groaned inwardly yet with

bitterest anguish, for there was her little son among the accusers.

I watched the face of an ordained pastor, who walked onward to the

same death; his lips moved in prayer; no narrow petition for himself

alone, but embracing all his fellow-sufferers and the frenzied

multitude; he looked to Heaven and trod lightly up the hill.

Behind their victims came the afflicted, a guilty and miserable

band; villains who had thus avenged themselves on their enemies, and

viler wretches, whose cowardice had destroyed their friends;

lunatics, whose ravings had chimed in with the madness of the land;

and children, who had played a game that the imps of darkness might

have envied them, since it disgraced an age, and dipped a people’s

hands in blood. In the rear of the procession rode a figure on

horseback, so darkly conspicuous, so sternly triumphant, that my

hearers mistook him for the visible presence of the fiend himself;

but it was only his good friend, Cotton Mather, proud of his well-won

dignity, as the representative of all the hateful features of his

time; the one blood-thirsty man, in whom were concentrated those

vices of spirit and errors of opinion that sufficed to madden the

whole surrounding multitude. And thus I marshalled them onward, the

innocent who were to die, and the guilty who were to grow old in long

remorse- tracing their every step, by rock, and shrub, and broken

track, till their shadowy visages had circled round the hill-top,

where we stood. I plunged into my imagination for a blacker horror,

and a deeper woe, and pictured the scaffold-

But here my companions seized an arm on each side; their nerves

were trembling; and, sweeter victory still, I had reached the seldom

trodden places of their hearts, and found the well-spring of their

tears. And now the past had done all it could. We slowly descended,

watching the lights as they twinkled gradually through the town, and

listening to the distant mirth of boys at play, and to the voice of

a young girl warbling somewhere in the dusk, a pleasant sound to

wanderers from old witch times. Yet, ere we left the hill, we could

not but regret that there is nothing on its barren summit, no relic

of old, nor lettered stone of later days, to assist the imagination

in appealing to the heart. We build the memorial column on the height

which our fathers made sacred with their blood, poured out in a holy

cause. And here, in dark, funereal stone, should rise another

monument, sadly commemorative of the errors of an earlier race, and

not to be cast down, while the human heart has one infirmity that

may result in crime.

THE END

.

1835

TWICE-TOLD TALES

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

ONE SEPTEMBER NIGHT a family had gathered round their hearth, and

piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones of

the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come

crashing down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and

brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father

and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest

daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen; and the aged

grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of

Happiness grown old. They had found the "herb, heart’s-ease," in the

bleakest spot of all New England. This family were situated in the

Notch of the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the

year, and pitilessly cold in the winter- giving their cottage all

its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley of the Saco.

They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain

towered above their heads, so steep, that the stones would often

rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all

with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause

before their cottage- rattling the door, with a sound of wailing and

lamentation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it

saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But

the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was

lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the

dreary blast which heralded his approach, and wailed as he was

entering, and went moaning away from the door.

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily

converse with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a great

artery, through which the life-blood of internal commerce is

continually throbbing between Maine, on one side, and the Green

Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The

stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The

way-farer, with no companion but his staff, paused here to exchange

a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him

ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach the

first house in the valley. And here the teamster, on his way to

Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, might

sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, and steal a kiss from the

mountain maid at parting. It was one of those primitive taverns

where the traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a

homely kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard,

therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole

family rose up, grandmother, children, and all, as if about to welcome

someone who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs.

The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the

melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild

and bleak road, at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he

saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring

forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who wiped a chair with

her apron, to the little child that held out its arms to him. One

glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent

familiarity with the eldest daughter.

"Ah, this fire is the right thing!" cried he; "especially when

there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed; for the

Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a

terrible blast in my face all the way from Bartlett."

"Then you are going towards Vermont?" said the master of the house,

as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man’s shoulders.

"Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "I meant

to have been at Ethan Crawford’s tonight; but a pedestrian lingers

along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, when I saw this

good fire, and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled

it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down

among you, and make myself at home."

The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire

when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down

the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapid strides, and

taking such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite

precipice. The family held their breath, because they knew the

sound, and their guest held his by instinct.

"The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear we should

forget him," said the landlord, recovering himself. "He sometimes nods

his head and threatens to come down; but we are old neighbors, and

agree together pretty well upon the whole. Besides we have a sure

place of refuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest."

Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of

bear’s meat; and, by his natural felicity of manner, to have placed

himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family, so that they

talked as freely together as if he belonged to their mountain brood.

He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit- haughty and reserved among the

rich and great; but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly

cottage door, and be like a brother or a son at the poor man’s

fireside. In the household of the Notch he found warmth and simplicity

of feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England, and a poetry of

native growth, which they had gathered when they little thought of

it from the mountain peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of

their romantic and dangerous abode. He had travelled far and alone;

his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path; for, with the

lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those

who might otherwise have been his companions. The family, too,

though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity among

themselves, and separation from the world at large, which, in every

domestic circle, should still keep a holy place where no stranger

may intrude. But this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the

refined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple

mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him with the same free

confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the kindred of a

common fate a closer tie than that of birth?

The secret of the young man’s character was a high and abstracted

ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not

to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had been transformed

to hope; and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, that,

obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway-

though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity

should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they

would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner

glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his

cradle to his tomb with none to recognize him.

"As yet," cried the stranger- his cheek glowing and his eye

flashing with enthusiasm- "as yet, I have done nothing. Were I to

vanish from the earth tomorrow, none would know so much of me as

you: that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the

Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through

the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, ‘Who

was he? Whither did the wanderer go?’ But I cannot die till I have

achieved my destiny. Then, let Death come! I shall have built my

monument!"

There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gushing forth amid

abstracted reverie, which enabled the family to understand this

young man’s sentiments, though so foreign from their own. With quick

sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he

had been betrayed.

"You laugh at me," said he, taking the eldest daughter’s hand,

and laughing himself. "You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I

were to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington, only

that people might spy at me from the country round about. And,

truly, that would be a noble pedestal for a man’s statue!"

"It is better to sit here by this fire," answered the girl,

blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinks

about us."

"I suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing, "there is

something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had

been turned that way, I might have felt just the same. It is

strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are

pretty certain never to come to pass."

"Perhaps they may," observed the wife. "Is the man thinking what he

will do when he is a widower?"

"No, no!" cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness.

"When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine, too. But I was

wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, or Littleton, or

some other township round the White Mountains; but not where they

could tumble on our heads. I should want to stand well with my

neighbors and be called Squire, and sent to General Court for a term

or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer.

And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman,

so as not to be long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and

leave you all crying around me. A slate gravestone would suit me as

well as a marble one- with just my name and age, and a verse of a

hymn, and something to let people know that I lived an honest man

and died a Christian."

"There now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is our nature to desire

a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a

glorious memory in the universal heart of man."

"We’re in a strange way, tonight," said the wife, with tears in her

eyes. "They say it’s a sign of something, when folks’ minds go

a-wandering so. Hark to the children!"

They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bed

in another room, but with an open door between, so that they could

be heard talking busily among themselves. One and all seemed to have

caught the infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying

each other in wild wishes, and childish projects, of what they would

do when they came to be men and women. At length a little boy, instead

of addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother.

"I’ll tell you what I wish, mother," cried he. "I want you and

father and grandma’m, and all of us, and the stranger too, to start

right away, and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume!"

Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion of leaving a

warm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful fire, to visit the basin

of the Flume- a brook, which tumbles over the precipice, deep within

the Notch. The boy had hardly spoken when a wagon rattled along the

road, and stopped a moment before the door. It appeared to contain two

or three men, who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus

of a song, which resounded, in broken notes, between the cliffs, while

the singers hesitated whether to continue their journey or put up here

for the night.

"Father," said the girl, "they are calling you by name."

But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and

was unwilling to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting

people to patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door;

and the lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged into the

Notch, still singing and laughing, though their music and mirth came

back drearily from the heart of the mountain.

"There, mother!" cried the boy, again. "They’d have given us a ride

to the Flume."

Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious fancy for a night

ramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over the

daughter’s spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew a breath

that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a little

struggle to repress it. Then starting and blushing, she looked quickly

round the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom.

The stranger asked what she had been thinking of.

"Nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile. "Only I felt

lonesome just then."

"Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other

people’s hearts," said he, half seriously. "Shall I tell the secrets

of yours? For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm

hearth, and complains of lonesomeness at her mother’s side. Shall I

put these feelings into words?"

"They would not be a girl’s feelings any longer if they could be

put into words," replied the mountain nymph, laughing, but avoiding

his eye.

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in

their hearts, so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it

could not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity

as his; and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul is oftenest

captivated by simplicity like hers. But while they spoke softly, and

he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy

yearnings of a maiden’s nature, the wind through the Notch took a

deeper and drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said,

like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast, who in old

Indian times had their dwelling among these mountains, and made

their heights and recesses a sacred region. There was a wail along the

road, as if a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, the

family threw pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves crackled

and the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of peace and

humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly, and caressed

them all. There were the little faces of the children, peeping from

their bed apart, and here the father’s frame of strength, the mother’s

subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and

the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. The aged

woman looked up from her task, and, with fingers ever busy, was the

next to speak.

"Old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones.

You’ve been wishing and planning; and letting your heads run on one

thing and another, till you’ve set my mind a-wandering too. Now what

should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before

she comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me night and day

till I tell you."

"What is it, mother?" cried the husband and wife at once.

Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle

closer round the fire, informed them that she had provided her

grave-clothes some years before- a nice linen shroud, a cap with a

muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since

her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition had strangely

recurred to her. It used to be said, in her younger days, that if

anything were amiss with a corpse, if only the ruff were not smooth,

or the cap did not set right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath the

clods would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare

thought made her nervous.

"Don’t talk so, grandmother!" said the girl, shuddering.

"Now," continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet

smiling strangely at her own folly, "I want one of you, my children-

when your mother is dressed and in the coffin- I want one of you to

hold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take a

glimpse at myself, and see whether all’s right?"

"Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments," murmured the

stranger youth. "I wonder how mariners feel when the ship is

sinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried

together in the ocean- that wide and nameless sepulchre?"

For a moment, the old woman’s ghastly conception so engrossed the

minds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the

roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated

group were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled;

the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful

sound were the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one

wild glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, without

utterance, or power to move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously

from all their lips.

"The Slide! The Slide!"

The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the

unutterable horror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed from their

cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot- where, in

contemplation of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared.

Alas! they had quitted their security, and fled right into the pathway

of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain, in a

cataract of ruin. Just before it reached the house, the stream broke

into two branches- shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the

whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated everything in its

dreadful course. Long ere the thunder of the great Slide had ceased to

roar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the

victims were at peace. Their bodies were never found.

The next morning, the light smoke was seen stealing from the

cottage chimney up the mountain side. Within, the fire was yet

smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as

if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view the devastation of the

Slide, and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for their

miraculous escape. All had left separate tokens, by which those who

had known the family were made to shed a tear for each. Who has not

heard their name? The story has been told far and wide, and will

forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate.

There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a

stranger had been received into the cottage on this awful night, and

had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. Others denied that

there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. Wo for the

high-souled youth, with his dream of Earthly Immortality! His name and

person utterly unknown; his history, his way of life, his plans, a

mystery never to be solved, his death and his existence equally a

doubt! Whose was the agony of that death moment?

THE END

.

1844

TWICE-TOLD TALES

THE ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

AN ELDERLY MAN, with his pretty daughter on his arm, was passing

along the street, and emerged from the gloom of the cloudy evening

into the light that fell across the pavement from the window of a

small shop. It was a projecting window; and on the inside were

suspended a variety of watches- pinchbeck, silver, and one or two of

gold- all with their faces turned from the street, as if churlishly

disinclined to inform the wayfarers what o’clock it was. Seated within

the shop, sidelong to the window, with his pale face bent earnestly

over some delicate piece of mechanism, on which was thrown the

concentrated lustre of a shade-lamp, appeared a young man.

"What can Owen Warland be about?" muttered old Peter Hovenden-

himself a retired watchmaker, and the former master of this same young

man, whose occupation he was now wondering at. "What can the fellow be

about? These six months past, I have never come by his shop without

seeing him just as steadily at work as now. It would be a flight

beyond his usual foolery to seek for the Perpetual Motion. And yet I

know enough of my old business to be certain, that what he is now so

busy with is no part of the machinery of a watch."

"Perhaps, father," said Annie, without showing much interest in the

question, "Owen is inventing a new kind of time-keeper. I am sure he

has ingenuity enough."

"Pooh, child! he has not the sort of ingenuity to invent anything

better than a Dutch toy," answered her father, who had formerly been

put to much vexation by Owen Warland’s irregular genius. "A plague

on such ingenuity! All the effect that ever I knew of it was, to spoil

the accuracy of some of the best watches in my shop. He would turn the

sun out of its orbit, and derange the whole course of time, if, as I

said before, his ingenuity could grasp anything bigger than a

child’s toy!"

"Hush, father! he hears you," whispered Annie, pressing the old

man’s arm. "His ears are as delicate as his feelings, and you know how

easily disturbed they are. Do let us move on."

So Peter Hovenden and his daughter Annie plodded on, without

further conversation, until, in a by-street of the town, they found

themselves passing the open door of a blacksmith’s shop. Within was

seen the forge, now blazing up, and illuminating the high and dusky

roof, and now confining its lustre to a narrow precinct of the

coal-strewn floor, according as the breath of the bellows was puffed

forth, or again inhaled into its vast leathern lungs. In the intervals

of brightness, it was easy to distinguish objects in remote corners of

the shop, and the horse-shoes that hung upon the wall; in the

momentary gloom, the fire seemed to be glimmering amidst the vagueness

of un-enclosed space. Moving about in this red glare and alternate

dusk, was the figure of the blacksmith, well worthy to be viewed in so

picturesque an aspect of light and shade, where the bright blaze

struggled with the black night, as if each would have snatched his

comely strength from the other. Anon, he drew a white-hot bar of

iron from the coals, laid it on the anvil, uplifted his arm of

might, and was seen enveloped in the myriads of sparks which the

strokes of his hammer scattered into the surrounding gloom.

"Now, that is a pleasant sight," said the old watchmaker. "I know

what it is to work in gold, but give me the worker in iron, after

all is said and done. He spends his labor upon a reality. What say

you, daughter Annie?"

"Pray don’t speak so loud, father," whispered Annie. "Robert

Danforth will hear you."

"And what if he should hear me?" said Peter Hovenden; "I say again,

it is a good and a wholesome thing to depend upon main strength and

reality, and to earn one’s bread with the bare and brawny arm of a

blacksmith. A watchmaker gets his brain puzzled by his wheels within a

wheel, or loses his health or the nicety of his eyesight, as was my

case; and finds himself, at middle age, or a little after, past

labor at his own trade, and fit for nothing else, yet too poor to live

at his ease. So, I say once again, give me main strength for my money.

And then, how it takes the nonsense out of a man! Did you ever hear of

a blacksmith being such a fool as Owen Warland, yonder?"

"Well said, uncle Hovenden!" shouted Robert Danforth, from the

forge, in a full, deep, merry voice, that made the roof reecho. "And

what says Miss Annie to that doctrine? She, I suppose, will think it a

genteeler business to tinker up a lady’s watch than to forge a

horse-shoe or make a gridiron!"

Annie drew her father onward, without giving him time for reply.

But we must return to Owen Warland’s shop, and spend more

meditation upon his history and character than either Peter

Hovenden, or probably his daughter Annie, or Owen’s old school-fellow,

Robert Danforth, would have thought due to so slight a subject. From

the time that his little fingers could grasp a pen-knife, Owen had

been remarkable for a delicate ingenuity, which sometimes produced

pretty shapes in wood, principally figures of flowers and birds, and

sometimes seemed to aim at the hidden mysteries of mechanism. But it

was always for purposes of grace, and never with any mockery of the

useful. He did not, like the crowd of school-boy artizans, construct

little windmills on the angle of a barn, or watermills across the

neighboring brook. Those who discovered such peculiarity in the boy,

as to think it worth their while to observe him closely, sometimes saw

reason to suppose that he was attempting to imitate the beautiful

movements of nature, as exemplified in the flight of birds or the

activity of little animals. It seemed, in fact, a new development of

the love of the Beautiful, such as might have made him a poet, a

painter, or a sculptor, and which was as completely refined from all

utilitarian coarseness, as it could have been in either of the fine

arts. He looked with singular distaste at the stiff and regular

processes of ordinary machinery. Being once carried to see a

steam-engine, in the expectation that his intuitive comprehension of

mechanical principle would be gratified, he turned pale, and grew

sick, as if something monstrous and unnatural had been presented to

him. This horror was partly owing to the size and terrible energy of

the Iron Laborer; for the character of Owen’s mind was microscopic,

and tended naturally to the minute, in accordance with his

diminutive frame, and the marvellous smallness and delicate power of

his fingers. Not that his sense of beauty was thereby diminished

into a sense of prettiness. The beautiful Idea has no relation to

size, and may be as perfectly developed in a space too minute for

any but microscopic investigation, as within the ample verge that is

measured by the arc of the rainbow. But, at all events, this

characteristic minuteness in his objects and accomplishments made

the world even more incapable than it might otherwise have been, of

appreciating Owen Warland’s genius. The boy’s relatives saw nothing

better to be done- as perhaps there was not- than to bind him

apprentice to a watchmaker, hoping that his strange ingenuity might

thus be regulated, and put to utili-tarian purposes.

Peter Hovenden’s opinion of his apprentice has already been

expressed. He could make nothing of the lad. Owen’s apprehension of

the professional mysteries, it is true, was inconceivably quick. But

he altogether forgot or despised the grand object of a watchmaker’s

business, and cared no more for the measurement of time than if it had

been merged into eternity. So long, however, as he remained under

his old master’s care, Owen’s lack of sturdiness made it possible,

by strict injunctions and sharp oversight, to restrain his creative

eccentricity within bounds. But when his apprenticeship was served

out, and he had taken the little shop which Peter Hovenden’s failing

eyesight compelled him to relinquish, then did people recognize how

unfit a person was Owen Warland to lead old blind Father Time along

his daily course. One of his most rational projects was, to connect

a musical operation with the machinery of his watches, so that all the

harsh dissonances of life might be rendered tuneful, and each flitting

moment fall into the abyss of the Past in golden drops of harmony.

If a family-clock was entrusted to him for repair- one of those

tall, ancient clocks that have grown nearly allied to human nature, by

measuring out the lifetime of many generations- he would take upon

himself to arrange a dance or funeral procession of figures across its

venerable face, representing twelve mirthful or melancholy hours.

Several freaks of this kind quite destroyed the young watchmaker’s

credit with that steady and matter-of-fact class of people, who hold

the opinion that time is not to be trifled with, whether considered as

the medium of advancement and prosperity in this world, or preparation

for the next. His custom rapidly diminished- a misfortune, however,

that was probably reckoned among his better accidents by Owen Warland,

who was becoming more and more absorbed in a secret occupation,

which drew all his science and manual dexterity into itself, and

likewise gave full employment to the characteristic tendencies of

his genius. This pursuit had already consumed many months.

After the old watchmaker and his pretty daughter had gazed at

him, out of the obscurity of the street, Owen Warland was seized

with a fluttering of the nerves, which made his hand tremble too

violently to proceed with such delicate labor as he was now engaged

upon.

"It was Annie herself!" murmured he. "I should have known by this

throbbing of my heart, before I heard her father’s voice. Ah, how it

throbs! I shall scarcely be able to work again on this exquisite

mechanism tonight. Annie- dearest Annie- thou shouldst give firmness

to my heart and hand, and not shake them thus; for if I strive to

put the very spirit of Beauty into form, and give it motion, it is for

thy sake alone. Oh, throbbing heart, be quiet! If my labor be thus

thwarted, there will come vague and unsatisfied dreams, which will

leave me spiritless tomorrow."

As he was endeavoring to settle himself again to his task, the

shop-door opened, and gave admittance to no other than the stalwart

figure which Peter Hovenden had paused to admire, as seen amid the

light and shadow of the blacksmith’s shop. Robert Danforth had brought

a little anvil of his own manufacture, and peculiarly constructed,

which the young artist had recently bespoken. Owen examined the

article, and pronounced it fashioned according to his wish.

"Why, yes," said Robert Danforth, his strong voice filling the shop

as with the sound of a bass-viol, "I consider myself equal to anything

in the way of my own trade; though I should have made but a poor

figure at yours, with such a fist as this"- added he, laughing, as

he laid his vast hand beside the delicate one of Owen. "But what then?

I put more main strength into one blow of my sledge-hammer, than all

that you have expended since you were a ‘prentice. Is not that the

truth?"

"Very probably," answered the low and slender voice of Owen.

"Strength is an earthly monster. I make no pretensions to it. My

force, whatever there may be of it, is altogether spiritual."

"Well, but, Owen, what are you about?" asked his old school-fellow,

still in such a hearty volume of tone that it made the artist

shrink; especially as the question related to a subject so sacred as

the absorbing dream of his imagination. "Folks do say, that you are

trying to discover the Perpetual Motion."

"The Perpetual Motion? nonsense!" replied Owen Warland, with a

movement of disgust; for he was full of little petulances. "It never

can be discovered! It is a dream that may delude men whose brains

are mystified with matter, but not me. Besides, if such a discovery

were possible, it would not be worth my while to make it, only to have

the secret turned to such purposes as are now effected by steam and

water-power. I am not ambitious to be honored with the paternity of

a new kind of cotton-machine."

"That would be droll enough!" cried the blacksmith, breaking out

into such an uproar of laughter, that Owen himself, and the

bell-glasses on his work-board, quivered in unison. "No, no, Owen!

No child of yours will have iron joints and sinews. Well, I won’t

hinder you any more. Good night, Owen, and success; and if you need

any assistance, so far as a downright blow of hammer upon anvil will

answer the purpose, I’m your man!"

And with another laugh, the man of main strength left the shop.

"How strange it is," whispered Owen Warland to himself, leaning his

head upon his hand, "that all my musings, my purposes, my passion

for the Beautiful, my consciousness of power to create it- a finer,

more ethereal power, of which this earthly giant can have no

conception- all, all, look so vain and idle, whenever my path is

crossed by Robert Danforth! He would drive me mad, were I to meet

him often. His hard, brute force darkens and confuses the spiritual

element within me. But I, too, will be strong in my own way. I will

not yield to him!"

He took from beneath a glass, a piece of minute machinery, which he

set in the condensed light of his lamp, and, looking intently at it

through a magnifying glass, proceeded to operate with a delicate

instrument of steel. In an instant, however, he fell back in his

chair, and clasped his hands, with a look of horror on his face,

that made its small features as impressive as those of a giant would

have been.

"Heaven! What have I done!" exclaimed he. "The vapor! the influence

of that brute force! it has bewildered me, and obscured my perception.

I have made the very stroke- the fatal stroke- that I have dreaded

from the first! It is all over- the toil of months- the object of my

life! I am ruined!"

And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered in

the socket, and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness.

Thus it is, that ideas which grow up within the imagination, and

appear so lovely to it, and of a value beyond whatever men call

valuable, are exposed to be shattered and annihilated by contact

with the Practical. It is requisite for the ideal artist to possess

a force of character that seems hardly compatible with its delicacy;

he must keep his faith in himself, while the incredulous world assails

him with its utter disbelief; he must stand up against mankind and

be his own sole disciple, both as respects his genius, and the objects

to which it is directed.

For a time, Owen Warland succumbed to this severe, but inevitable

test. He spent a few sluggish weeks, with his head so continually

resting in his hands, that the townspeople had scarcely an opportunity

to see his countenance. When, at last, it was again uplifted to the

light of day, a cold, dull, nameless change was perceptible upon it.

In the opinion of Peter Hovenden, however, and that order of sagacious

understandings who think that life should be regulated, like

clock-work, with leaden weights, the alteration was entirely for the

better. Owen now, indeed, applied himself to business with dogged

industry. It was marvellous to witness the obtuse gravity with which

he would inspect the wheels of a great, old silver watch; thereby

delighting the owner, in whose fob it had been worn till he deemed

it a portion of his own life, and was accordingly jealous of its

treatment. In consequence of the good report thus acquired, Owen

Warland was invited by the proper authorities to regulate the clock in

the church-steeple. He succeeded so admirably in this matter of public

interest, that the merchants gruffly acknowledged his merits on

‘Change; the nurse whispered his praises, as she gave the potion in

the sick-chamber; the lover blessed him at the hour of appointed

interview; and the town in general thanked Owen for the punctuality of

dinner-time. In a word, the heavy weight upon his spirits kept

everything in order, not merely within his own system, but wheresoever

the iron accents of the church-clock were audible. It was a

circumstance, though minute, yet characteristic of his present

state, that, when employed to engrave names or initials on silver

spoons, he now wrote the requisite letters in the plainest possible

style; omitting a variety of fanciful flourishes, that had

heretofore distinguished his work in this kind.

One day, during the era of this happy transformation, old Peter

Hovenden came to visit his former apprentice.

"Well, Owen," said he, I am glad to hear such good accounts of

you from all quarters; and especially from the town-clock yonder,

which speaks in your commendation every hour of the twenty-four.

Only get rid altogether of your nonsensical trash about the Beautiful-

which I, nor nobody else, nor yourself to boot, could ever understand-

only free yourself of that, and your success in life is as sure as

daylight. Why, if you go on in this way, I should even venture to

let you doctor this precious old watch of mine; though, except my

daughter Annie, I have nothing else so valuable in the world."

"I should hardly dare touch it, sir," replied Owen in a depressed

tone; for he was weighed down by his old master’s presence.

"In time, said the latter, "in time, you will be capable of it."

The old watchmaker, with the freedom naturally consequent on his

former authority, went on inspecting the work which Owen had in hand

at the moment, together with other matters that were in progress.

The artist, meanwhile, could scarcely lift his head. There was nothing

so antipodal to his nature as this man’s cold, unimaginative sagacity,

by contact with which everything was converted into a dream, except

the densest matter of the physical world. Owen groaned in spirit,

and prayed fervently to be delivered from him.

"But what is this?" cried Peter Hovenden abruptly, taking up a

dusty bell-glass, beneath which appeared a mechanical something, as

delicate and minute as the system of a butterfly’s anatomy. "What have

we here! Owen, Owen! there is witchcraft in these little chains, and

wheels, and paddles! See! with one pinch of my finger and thumb, I

am going to deliver you from all future peril."

"For Heaven’s sake," screamed Owen Warland, springing up with

wonderful energy, "as you would not drive me mad- do not touch it! The

slightest pressure of your finger would ruin me for ever.

"Aha, young man! And is it so?" said the old watchmaker, looking at

him with just enough of penetration to torture Owen’s soul with the

bitterness of worldly criticism. "Well; take your own course. But I

warn you again, that in this small piece of mechanism lives your

evil spirit. Shall I exorcise him?"

"You are my Evil Spirit," answered Owen, much excited- "you, and

the hard, coarse world! The leaden thoughts and the despondency that

you fling upon me are my clogs. Else, I should long ago have

achieved the task that I was created for."

Peter Hovenden shook his head, with the mixture of contempt and

indignation which mankind, of whom he was partly a representative,

deem themselves entitled to feel towards all simpletons who seek other

prizes than the dusty one along the highway. He then took his leave

with an uplifted finger, and a sneer upon his face, that haunted the

artist’s dreams for many a night afterwards. At the time of his old

master’s visit, Owen was probably on the point of taking up the

relinquished task; but, by this sinister event, he was thrown back

into the state whence he had been slowly emerging.

But the innate tendency of his soul had only been accumulating

fresh vigor, during its apparent sluggishness. As the summer advanced,

he almost totally relinquished his business, and permitted Father

Time, so far as the old gentleman was represented by the clocks and

watches under his control, to stray at random through human life,

making infinite confusion among the train of bewildered hours. He

wasted the sunshine, as people said, in wandering through the woods

and fields, and along the banks of streams. There, like a child, he

found amusement in chasing butterflies, or watching the motions of

water-insects. There was something truly mysterious in the

intentness with which he contemplated these living playthings, as they

sported on the breeze; or examined the structure of an imperial insect

whom he had imprisoned. The chase of butterflies was an apt emblem

of the ideal pursuit in which he had spent so many golden hours.

But, would the Beautiful Idea ever be yielded to his hand, like the

butterfly that symbolized it? Sweet, doubtless, were these days, and

congenial to the artist’s soul. They were full of bright

conceptions, which gleamed through his intellectual world, as the

butterflies gleamed through the outward atmosphere, and were real to

him for the instant, without the toil and perplexity, and many

disappointments, of attempting to make them visible to the sensual

eye. Alas, that the artist, whether in poetry or whatever other

material, may not content himself with the inward enjoyment of the

Beautiful, but must chase the flitting mystery beyond the verge of his

ethereal domain, and crush its frail being in seizing it with a

material grasp! Owen Warland felt the impulse to give external reality

to his ideas, as irresistibly as any of the poets or painters, who

have arrayed the world in a dimmer and fainter beauty, imperfectly

copied from the richness of their visions.

The night was now his time for the slow progress of recreating

the one Idea, to which all his intellectual activity referred

itself. Always at the approach of dusk, he stole into the town, locked

himself within his shop, and wrought with patient delicacy of touch,

for many hours. Sometimes he was startled by the rap of the

watchman, who, when all the world should be asleep, had caught the

gleam of lamplight through the crevices of Owen Warland’s shutters.

Daylight, to the morbid sensibility of his mind, seemed to have an

intrusiveness that interfered with his pursuits. On cloudy and

inclement days, therefore, he sat with his head upon his hands,

muffling, as it were, his sensitive brain in a mist of indefinite

musings; for it was a relief to escape from the sharp distinctness

with which he was compelled to shape out his thoughts, during his

nightly toil.

From one of these fits of torpor, he was aroused by the entrance of

Annie Hovenden, who came into the shop with the freedom of a customer,

and also with something of the familiarity of a childish friend. She

had worn a hole through her silver thimble, and wanted Owen to

repair it.

"But I don’t know whether you will condescend to such a task," said

she, laughing, "now that you are so taken up with the notion of

putting spirit into machinery."

"Where did you get that idea, Annie?" said Owen, starting in

surprise.

"Oh, out of my own head," answered she, "and from something that

I heard you say, long ago, when you were but a boy, and I a little

child. But, come! will you mend this poor thimble of mine?"

"Anything for your sake, Annie," said Owen Warland- "anything! even

were it to work at Robert Danforth’s forge."

"And that would be a pretty sight!" retorted Annie, glancing with

imperceptible slightness at the artist’s small and slender frame.

"Well; here is the thimble."

"But that is a strange idea of yours," said Owen, "about the

spiritualization of matter!"

And then the thought stole into his mind, that this young girl

possessed the gift to comprehend him, better than all the world

beside. And what a help and strength would it be to him, in his lonely

toil, if he could gain the sympathy of the only being whom he loved!

To persons whose pursuits are insulated from the common business of

life- who are either in advance of mankind, or apart from it- there

often comes a sensation of moral cold, that makes the spirit shiver,

as if it had reached the frozen solitudes around the pole. What the

prophet, the poet, the reformer, the criminal, or any other man,

with human yearnings, but separated from the multitude by a peculiar

lot, might feel, poor Owen Warland felt.

"Annie," cried he, growing pale as death at the thought, "how

gladly would I tell you the secret of my pursuit! You, methinks, would

estimate it rightly. You, I know, would hear it with a reverence

that I must not expect from the harsh, material world."

"Would I not! to be sure I would!" replied Annie Hovenden,

lightly laughing. "Come; explain to me quickly what is the meaning

of this little whirligig, so delicately wrought that it might be a

plaything for Queen Mab. See; I will put it in motion."

"Hold," exclaimed Owen, hold!"

Annie had but given the slightest possible touch, with the point of

a needle, to the same minute portion of complicated machinery which

has been more than once mentioned, when the artist seized her by the

wrist with a force that made her scream aloud. She was affrighted at

the convulsion of intense rage and anguish that writhed across his

features. The next instant he let his head sink upon his hands.

"Go, Annie," murmured he, "I have deceived myself, and must

suffer for it. I yearned for sympathy- and thought- and fancied- and

dreamed- that you might give it me. But you lack the talisman,

Annie, that should admit you into my secrets. That touch has undone

the toil of months, and the thought of a lifetime! It was not your

fault, Annie- but you have ruined me!"

Poor Owen Warland! He had indeed erred, yet pardonably; for if

any human spirit could have sufficiently reverenced the processes so

sacred in his eyes, it must have been a woman’s. Even Annie

Hovenden, possibly, might not have disappointed him, had she been

enlightened by the deep intelligence of love.

The artist spent the ensuing winter in a way that satisfied any

persons, who had hitherto retained a hopeful opinion of him, that he

was, in truth, irrevocably doomed to inutility as regarded the

world, and to an evil destiny on his own part. The decease of a

relative had put him in possession of a small inheritance. Thus

freed from the necessity of toil, and having lost the steadfast

influence of a great purpose- great, at least, to him- he abandoned

himself to habits from which, it might have been supposed, the mere

delicacy of his organization would have availed to secure him. But

when the ethereal portion of a man of genius is obscured, the

earthly part assumes an influence the more uncontrollable, because the

character is now thrown off the balance to which Providence had so

nicely adjusted it, and which, in coarser natures, is adjusted by some

other method. Owen Warland made proof of whatever show of bliss may be

found in riot. He looked at the world through the golden medium of

wine, and contemplated the visions that bubble up so gaily around

the brim of the glass, and that people the air with shapes of pleasant

madness, which so soon grow ghostly and forlorn. Even when this dismal

and inevitable change had taken place, the young man might still

have continued to quaff the cup of enchantments, though its vapor

did but shroud life in gloom, and fill the gloom with spectres that

mocked at him. There was a certain irksomeness of spirit, which, being

real, and the deepest sensation of which the artist was now conscious,

was more intolerable than any fantastic miseries and horrors that

the abuse of wine could summon up. In the latter case, he could

remember, even out of the midst of his trouble, that all was but a

delusion; in the former, the heavy anguish was his actual life.

From this perilous state, he was redeemed by an incident which more

than one person witnessed, but of which the shrewdest could not

explain nor conjecture the operation on Owen Warland’s mind. It was

very simple. On a warm afternoon of Spring, as the artist sat among

his riotous companions, with a glass of wine before him, a splendid

butterfly flew in at the open window, and fluttered about his head.

"Ah!" exclaimed Owen, who had drunk freely, "are you alive again,

child of the sun, and playmate of the summer breeze, after your dismal

winter’s nap! Then it is time for me to be at work!"

And leaving his unemptied glass upon the table, he departed, and

was never known to sip another drop of wine.

And now, again, he resumed his wanderings in the woods and

fields. It might be fancied that the bright butterfly, which had

come so spiritlike into the window, as Owen sat with the rude

revellers, was indeed a spirit, commissioned to recall him to the

pure, ideal life that had so etherealised him among men. It might be

fancied, that he went forth to seek this spirit, in its sunny

haunts; for still, as in the summer-time gone by, he was seen to steal

gently up, wherever a butterfly had alighted, and lose himself in

contemplation of it. When it took flight, his eyes followed the winged

vision, as if its airy track would show the path to heaven. But what

could be the purpose of the unseasonable toil, which was again

resumed, as the watchman knew by the lines of lamp-light through the

crevices of Owen Warland’s shutters? The townspeople had one

comprehensive explanation of all these singularities. Owen Warland had

gone mad! How universally efficacious- how satisfactory, too, and

soothing to the injured sensibility of narrowness and dullness- is

this easy method of accounting for whatever lies beyond the world’s

most ordinary scope! From Saint Paul’s days, down to our poor little

Artist of the Beautiful, the same talisman had been applied to the

elucidation of all mysteries in the words or deeds of men, who spoke

or acted too wisely or too well. In Owen Warland’s case, the

judgment of his townspeople may have been correct. Perhaps he was mad.

The lack of sympathy- that contrast between himself and his neighbors,

which took away the restraint of example- was enough to make him so.

Or, possibly, he had caught just so much of ethereal radiance as

served to bewilder him, in an earthly sense, by its intermixture

with the common day light.

One evening, when the artist had returned from a customary

ramble, and had just thrown the lustre of his lamp on the delicate

piece of work, so often interrupted, but still taken up again, as if

his fate were embodied in its mechanism, he was surprised by the

entrance of old Peter Hovenden. Owen never met this man without a

shrinking of the heart. Of all the world, he was most terrible, by

reason of a keen understanding, which saw so distinctly what it did

see, and disbelieved so uncompromisingly in what it could not see.

On this occasion, the old watchmaker had merely a gracious word or two

to say.

"Owen, my lad," said he, "we must see you at my house tomorrow

night."

The artist began to mutter some excuse.

"Oh, but it must be so," quoth Peter Hovenden, "for the sake of the

days when you were one of the household. What, my boy, don’t you

know that my daughter Annie is engaged to Robert Danforth? We are

making an entertainment, in our humble way, to celebrate the event."

"Ah!" said Owen.

That little monosyllable was all he uttered; its tone seemed cold

and unconcerned, to an ear like Peter Hovenden’s; and yet there was in

it the stifled outcry of the poor artist’s heart, which he

compressed within him like a man holding down an evil spirit. One

slight out-break, however, imperceptible to the old watchmaker, he

allowed himself. Raising the instrument with which he was about to

begin his work, he let it fall upon the little system of machinery

that had, anew, cost him months of thought and toil. It was

shattered by the stroke!

Owen Warland’s story would have been no tolerable representation of

the troubled life of those who strive to create the Beautiful, if,

amid all other thwarting influences, love had not interposed to

steal the cunning from his hand. Outwardly he had been no ardent or

enterprising lover; the career of his passion had confined its tumults

and vicissitudes so entirely within the artist’s imagination, that

Annie herself had scarcely more than a woman’s intuitive perception of

it. But, in Owen’s view, it covered the whole field of his life.

Forgetful of the time when she had shown herself incapable of any deep

response, he had persisted in connecting all his dreams of

artistical success with Annie’s image; she was the visible shape in

which the spiritual power that he worshipped, and on whose altar he

hoped to lay a not unworthy offering, was made manifest to him. Of

course he had deceived himself; there were no such attributes in Annie

Hovenden as his imagination had endowed her with. She, in the aspect

which she wore to his inward vision, was as much a creation of his

own, as the mysterious piece of mechanism would be were it ever

realized. Had he become convinced of his mistake through the medium of

successful love; had he won Annie to his bosom, and there beheld her

fade from angel into ordinary woman, the disappointment might have

driven him back, with concentrated energy, upon his sole remaining

object. On the other hand, had he found Annie what he fancied, his lot

would have been so rich in beauty, that out of its mere redundancy

he might have wrought the Beautiful into many a worthier type than

he had toiled for. But the guise in which his sorrow came to him,

the sense that the angel of his life had been snatched away and

given to a rude man of earth and iron, who could neither need nor

appreciate her ministrations; this was the very perversity of fate,

that makes human existence appear too absurd and contradictory to be

the scene of one other hope or one other fear. There was nothing

left for Owen Warland but to sit down like a man that had been

stunned.

He went through a fit of illness. After his recovery, his small and

slender frame assumed an obtuser garniture of flesh than it had ever

before worn. His thin cheeks became round; his delicate little hand,

so spiritually fashioned to achieve fairy task-work, grew plumper than

the hand of a thriving infant. His aspect had a childishness, such

as might have induced a stranger to pat him on the head- pausing,

however, in the act, to wonder what manner of child was here. It was

as if the spirit had gone out of him, leaving the body to flourish

in a sort of vegetable existence. Not that Owen Warland was idiotic.

He could talk, and not irrationally. Somewhat of a babbler, indeed,

did people begin to think him; for he was apt to discourse at

wearisome length, of marvels of mechanism that he had read about in

books, but which he had learned to consider as absolutely fabulous.

Among them he enumerated the Man of Brass, constructed by Albertus

Magnus, and the Brazen Head of Friar Bacon; and, coming down to

later times, the automata of a little coach and horses, which, it

was pretended, had been manufactured for the Dauphin of France;

together with an insect that buzzed about the ear like a living fly,

and yet was but a contrivance of minute steel springs. There was a

story, too, of a duck that waddled, and quacked, and ate; though,

had any honest citizen purchased it for dinner, he would have found

himself cheated with the mere mechanical apparition of a duck.

"But all these accounts," said Owen Warland, "I am now satisfied,

are mere impositions."

Then, in a mysterious way, he would confess that he once thought

differently. In his idle and dreamy days he had considered it

possible, in a certain sense, to spiritualize machinery; and to

combine with the new species of life and motion, thus produced, a

beauty that should attain to the ideal, which Nature has proposed to

herself, in all her creatures, but has never taken pains to realize.

He seemed, however, to retain no very distinct perception either of

the process of achieving this object, or of the design itself.

"I have thrown it all aside now," he would say. "It was a dream,

such as young men are always mystifying themselves with. Now that I

have acquired a little common sense, it makes me laugh to think of it.

Poor, poor, and fallen Owen Warland! These were the symptoms that

he had ceased to be an inhabitant of the better sphere that lies

unseen around us. He had lost his faith in the invisible, and now

prided himself, as such unfortunates invariably do, in the wisdom

which rejected much that even his eye could see, and trusted

confidently in nothing but what his hand could touch. This is the

calamity of men whose spiritual part dies out of them, and leaves

the grosser understanding to assimilate them more and more to the

things of which alone it can take cognizance. But, in Owen Warland,

the spirit was not dead, nor past away; it only slept.

How it awoke again, is not recorded. Perhaps, the torpid slumber

was broken by a convulsive pain. Perhaps, as in a former instance, the

butterfly came and hovered about his head, and reinspired him- as,

indeed, this creature of the sunshine had always a mysterious

mission for the artist- reinspired him with the former purpose of

his life. Whether it were pain or happiness that thrilled through

his veins, his first impulse was to thank Heaven for rendering him

again the being of thought, imagination, and keenest sensibility, that

he had long ceased to be.

"Now for my task," said he. "Never did I feel such strength for

it as now."

Yet, strong as he felt himself, he was incited to toil the more

diligently, by an anxiety lest death should surprise him in the

midst of his labors. This anxiety, perhaps, is common to all men who

set their hearts upon anything so high, in their own view of it,

that life becomes of importance only as conditional to its

accomplishment. So long as we love life for itself, we seldom dread

the losing it. When we desire life for the attainment of an object, we

recognize the frailty of its texture. But, side by side with this

sense of insecurity, there is a vital faith in our invulnerability

to the shaft of death, while engaged in any task that seems assigned

by Providence as our proper thing to do, and which the world would

have cause to mourn for, should we leave it unaccomplished. Can the

philosopher, big with the inspiration of an idea that is to reform

mankind, believe that he is to be beckoned from this sensible

existence, at the very instant when he is mustering his breath to

speak the word of light? Should he perish so, the weary ages may

pass away- the world’s whole life- sand may fall, drop by drop- before

another intellect is prepared to develope the truth that might have

been uttered then. But history affords many an example, where the most

precious spirit, at any particular epoch manifested in human shape,

has gone hence untimely, without space allowed him, so far as mortal

judgment could discern, to perform his mission on the earth. The

prophet dies; and the man of torpid heart and sluggish brain lives on.

The poet leaves his song half sung, or finishes it, beyond the scope

of mortal ears, in a celestial choir. The painter- as Allston did-

leaves half his conception on the canvas, to sadden us with its

imperfect beauty, and goes to picture forth the whole, if it be no

irreverence to say so, in the hues of Heaven. But, rather, such

incomplete designs of this life will be perfected nowhere. This so

frequent abortion of man’s dearest projects must be taken as a

proof, that the deeds of earth, however etherealized by piety or

genius, are without value, except as exercises and manifestations of

the spirit. In Heaven, all ordinary thought is higher and more

melodious than Milton’s song. Then, would he add another verse to

any strain that he had left unfinished here?

But to return to Owen Warland. It was his fortune, good or ill,

to achieve the purpose of his life. Pass we over a long space of

intense thought, yearning effort, minute toil, and wasting anxiety,

succeeded by an instant of solitary triumph; let all this be imagined;

and then behold the artist, on a winter evening, seeking admittance to

Robert Danforth’s fireside circle. There he found the Man of Iron,

with his massive substance, thoroughly warmed and attempered by

domestic influences. And there was Annie, too, now transformed into

a matron, with much of her husband’s plain and sturdy nature, but

imbued, as Owen Warland still believed, with a finer grace, that might

enable her to be the interpreter between Strength and Beauty. It

happened, likewise, that old Peter Hovenden was a guest, this evening,

at his daughter’s fireside; and it was his well-remembered

expression of keen, cold criticism, that first encountered the

artist’s glance.

"My old friend Owen!" cried Robert Danforth, starting up, and

compressing the artist’s delicate fingers within a hand that was

accustomed to gripe bars of iron. "This is kind and neighborly, to

come to us at last! I was afraid your Perpetual Motion had bewitched

you out of the remembrance of old times."

"We are glad to see you!" said Annie, while a blush reddened her

matronly cheek. "It was not like a friend to stay from us so long."

"Well, Owen," inquired the old watchmaker, as his first greeting,

"how comes on the Beautiful? Have you created it at last?"

The artist did not immediately reply, being startled by the

apparition of a young child of strength, that was tumbling about on

the carpet; a little personage who had come mysteriously out of the

infinite, but with something so sturdy and real in his composition

that he seemed moulded out of the densest substance which earth

could supply. This hopeful infant crawled towards the newcomer, and

setting himself on end- as Robert Danforth expressed the posture-

stared at Owen with a look of such sagacious observation, that the

mother could not help exchanging a proud glance with her husband.

But the artist was disturbed by the child’s look, as imagining a

resemblance between it and Peter Hovenden’s habitual expression. He

could have fancied that the old watchmaker was compressed into this

baby-shape, and looking out of those baby-eyes, and repeating- as he

now did- the malicious question: "The Beautiful, Owen! How comes on

the Beautiful? Have you succeeded in creating the Beautiful?"

"I have succeeded," replied the artist, with a momentary light of

triumph in his eyes, and a smile of sunshine, yet steeped in such

depth of thought, that it was almost sadness. "Yes, my friends, it

is the truth. I have succeeded!"

"Indeed!" cried Annie, a look of maiden mirthfulness peeping out of

her face again. "And is it lawful, now, to inquire what the secret

is?"

"Surely; it is to disclose it, that I have come," answered Owen

Warland. "You shall know, and see, and touch, and possess the

secret! For, Annie- if by that name I may still address the friend

of my boyish years- Annie, it is for your bridal gift that I have

wrought this spiritualized mechanism, this harmony of motion, this

Mystery of Beauty! It comes late, indeed; but it is as we go onward in

life, when objects begin to lose their freshness of hue, and our souls

their delicacy of perception, that the spirit of Beauty is most

needed. If- forgive me, Annie- if you know how to value this gift,

it can never come too late!"

He produced, as he spoke, what seemed a jewel-box. It was carved

richly out of ebony by his own hand, and inlaid with a fanciful

tracery of pearl, representing a boy in pursuit of a butterfly, which,

elsewhere, had become a winged spirit, and was flying heavenward;

while the boy, or youth, had found such efficacy in his strong desire,

that he ascended from earth to cloud, and from cloud to celestial

atmosphere, to win the Beautiful. This case of ebony the artist

opened, and bade Annie place her finger on its edge. She did so, but

almost screamed, as a butterfly fluttered forth, and, alighting on her

finger’s tip, sat waving the ample magnificence of its purple and

gold-speckled wings, as if in prelude to a flight. It is impossible to

express by words the glory, the splendor, the delicate gorgeousness,

which were softened into the beauty of this object. Nature’s ideal

butterfly was here realized in all its perfection; not in the

pattern of such faded insects as flit among earthly flowers, but of

those which hover across the meads of Paradise, for child-angels and

the spirits of departed infants to disport themselves with. The rich

down was visible upon its wings; the lustre of its eyes seemed

instinct with spirit. The firelight glimmered around this wonder-

the candles gleamed upon it- but it glistened apparently by its own

radiance, and illuminated the finger and outstretched hand on which it

rested, with a white gleam like that of precious stones. In its

perfect beauty, the consideration of size was entirely lost. Had its

wings overreached the firmament, the mind could not have been more

filled or satisfied.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!" exclaimed Annie. "Is it alive? Is it

alive?"

"Alive? To be sure it is," answered her husband. "Do you suppose

any mortal has skill enough to make a butterfly- or would put

himself to the trouble of making one, when any child may catch a score

of them in a summer’s afternoon? Alive? certainly! But this pretty box

is undoubtedly of our friend Owen’s manufacture; and really it does

him credit."

At this moment, the butterfly waved its wings anew, with a motion

so absolutely lifelike that Annie was startled, and even awe-stricken;

for, in spite of her husband’s opinion, she could not satisfy

herself whether it was indeed a living creature, or a piece of

wondrous mechanism.

"Is it alive?" she repeated, more earnestly than before.

"Judge for yourself," said Owen Warland, who stood gazing in her

face with fixed attention.

The butterfly now flung itself upon the air, fluttered round

Annie’s head, and soared into a distant region of the parlor, still

making itself perceptible to sight by the starry gleam in which the

motion of its wings enveloped it. The infant, on the floor, followed

its course with his sagacious little eyes. After flying about the

room, it returned, in a spiral curve, and settled again on Annie’s

finger.

"But is it alive?" exclaimed she again; and the finger, on which

the gorgeous mystery had alighted, was so tremulous that the butterfly

was forced to balance himself with his wings. "Tell me if it be alive,

or whether you created it?"

"Wherefore ask who created it, so it be beautiful?" replied Owen

Warland. "Alive? Yes, Annie; it may well be said to possess life,

for it has absorbed my own being into itself; and in the secret of

that butterfly, and in its beauty- which is not merely outward, but

deep as its whole system- is represented the intellect, the

imagination, the sensibility, the soul, of an Artist of the Beautiful!

Yes, I created it. But"- and here his countenance somewhat changed-

"this butterfly is not now to me what it was when I beheld it afar

off, in the day-dreams of my youth."

"Be it what it may, it is a pretty plaything," said the blacksmith,

grinning with childlike delight. "I wonder whether it would condescend

to alight on such a great clumsy finger as mine? Hold it hither,

Annie!"

By the artist’s direction, Annie touched her finger’s tip to that

of her husband; and, after a momentary delay, the butterfly

fluttered from one to the other. It preluded a second flight by a

similar, yet not precisely the same waving of wings, as in the first

experiment. Then ascending from the blacksmith’s stalwart finger, it

rose in a gradually enlarging curve to the ceiling, made one wide

sweep around the room, and returned with an undulating movement to the

point whence it had started.

"Well, that does beat all nature!" cried Robert Danforth, bestowing

the heartiest praise that he could find expression for; and, indeed,

had he paused there, a man of finer words and nicer perception could

not easily have said more. "That goes beyond me, I confess! But what

then? There is more real use in one downright blow of my

sledge-hammer, than in the whole five years’ labor that our friend

Owen has wasted on this butterfly!"

Here the child clapped his hands, and made a great babble of

indistinct utterance, apparently demanding that the butterfly should

be given him for a plaything.

Owen Warland, meanwhile, glanced sidelong at Annie, to discover

whether she sympathized in her husband’s estimate of the comparative

value of the Beautiful and the Practical. There was, amid all her

kindness towards himself, amid all the wonder and admiration with

which she contemplated the marvellous work of his hands, and

incarnation of his ideal a secret scorn; too secret, perhaps, for

her own consciousness, and perceptible only to such intuitive

discernment as that of the artist. But Owen, in the latter stages of

his pursuit, had risen out of the region in which such a discovery

might have been torture. He knew that the world, and Annie as the

representative of the world, whatever praise might be bestowed,

could never say the fitting word, nor feel the fitting sentiment which

should be the perfect recompense of an artist who, symbolizing a lofty

moral by a material trifle- converting what was earthly to spiritual

gold- had won the Beautiful into his handiwork. Not at this latest

moment was he to learn that the reward of all high performance must be

sought within itself, or sought in vain. There was, however, a view of

the matter, which Annie, and her husband, and even Peter Hovenden,

might fully have understood, and which would have satisfied them

that the toil of years had here been worthily bestowed. Owen Warland

might have told them, that this butterfly, this plaything, this

bridal-gift of a poor watchmaker to a blacksmith’s wife, was, in

truth, a gem of art that a monarch would have purchased with honors

and abundant wealth, and have treasured it among the jewels of his

kingdom, as the most unique and wondrous of them all! But the artist

smiled and kept the secret to himself.

"Father," said Annie, thinking that a word of praise from the old

watchmaker might gratify his former apprentice, "do come and admire

this pretty butterfly!"

"Let us see," said Peter Hovenden, rising from his chair, with a

sneer upon his face that always made people doubt, as he himself

did, in everything but a material existence. "Here is my finger for it

to alight upon. I shall understand it better when once I have

touched it."

But, to the increased astonishment of Annie, when the tip of her

father’s finger was pressed against that of her husband, on which

the butterfly still rested, the insect drooped its wings, and seemed

on the point of falling to the floor. Even the bright spots of gold

upon its wings and body, unless her eyes deceived her, grew dim, and

the glowing purple took a dusky hue, and the starry lustre that

gleamed around the blacksmith’s hand became faint, and vanished.

"It is dying! it is dying!" cried Annie, in alarm.

"It has been delicately wrought," said the artist, calmly. "As I

told you, it has imbibed a spiritual essence- call it magnetism, or

what you will. In an atmosphere of doubt and mockery, its exquisite

susceptibility suffers torture, as does the soul of him who

instilled his own life into it. It has already lost its beauty; in a

few moments more, its mechanism would be irreparably injured."

"Take away your hand, father!" entreated Annie, turning pale. "Here

is my child; let it rest on his innocent hand. There, perhaps, its

life will revive, and its colors grow brighter than ever."

Her father, with an acrid smile, withdrew his finger. The butterfly

then appeared to recover the power of voluntary motion; while its hues

assumed much of their original lustre, and the gleam of starlight,

which was its most ethereal attribute, again formed a halo round about

it. At first, when transferred from Robert Danforth’s hand to the

small finger of the child, this radiance grew so powerful that it

positively threw the little fellow’s shadow back against the wall. He,

meanwhile, extended his plump hand as he had seen his father and

mother do, and watched the waving of the insect’s wings with infantine

delight. Nevertheless, there was a certain odd expression of sagacity,

that made Owen Warland feel as if here were old Peter Hovenden,

partially, and but partially, redeemed from his hard scepticism into

childish faith.

"How wise the little monkey looks!" whispered Robert Danforth to

his wife.

"I never saw such a look on a child’s face," answered Annie,

admiring her own infant, and with good reason, far more than the

artistic butterfly. "The darling knows more of the mystery than we

do."

As if the butterfly, like the artist, were conscious of something

not entirely congenial in the child’s nature, it alternately

sparkled and grew dim. At length, it arose from the small hand of

the infant with an airy motion, that seemed to bear it upward

without an effort; as if the ethereal instincts, with which its

master’s spirit had endowed it, impelled this fair vision

involuntarily to a higher sphere. Had there been no obstruction, it

might have soared into the sky, and grown immortal. But its lustre

gleamed upon the ceiling; the exquisite texture of its wings brushed

against that earthly medium; and a sparkle or two, as if stardust,

floated downward and lay glimmering on the carpet. Then the

butterfly came fluttering down, and, instead of returning to the

infant, was apparently attracted towards the artist’s hand.

"Not so, not so!" murmured Owen Warland, as if his handiwork

could have understood him. "Thou hast gone forth out of thy master’s

heart. There is no return for thee!"

With a wavering movement, and emitting a tremulous radiance, the

butterfly struggled, as it were, towards the infant, and was about

to alight upon his finger. But, while it still hovered in the air, the

little Child of Strength, with his grandsire’s sharp and shrewd

expression in his face, made a snatch at the marvellous insect, and

compressed it in his hand. Annie screamed! Old Peter Hovenden burst

into a cold and scornful laugh. The blacksmith, by main force,

unclosed the infant’s hand, and found within the palm a small heap

of glittering fragments, whence the Mystery of Beauty had fled for

ever. And as for Owen Warland, he looked placidly at what seemed the

ruin of his life’s labor, and which yet was no ruin. He had caught a

far other butterfly than this. When the artist rose high enough to

achieve the Beautiful, the symbol by which he made it perceptible to

mortal senses became of little value in his eyes, while his spirit

possessed itself in the enjoyment of the reality.

THE END

.

1843

TWICE-TOLD TALES

THE BIRTHMARK

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

IN THE LATTER PART of the last century, there lived a man of

science- an eminent proficient in every branch of natural

philosophy- who, not long before our story opens, had made

experience of a spiritual affinity, more attractive than any

chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an

assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace-smoke, washed

the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman

to become his wife. In those days, when the comparatively recent

discovery of electricity, and other kindred mysteries of nature,

seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual

for the love of science to rival the love of woman, in its depth and

absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit,

and even the heart, might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits

which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from

one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher

should lay his hand on the secret of creative force, and perhaps

make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this

degree of faith in man’s ultimate control over nature. He had

devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies, ever

to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young

wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by

intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength

of the latter to its own.

Such an union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly

remarkable consequences, and a deeply impressive moral. One day,

very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife, with

a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger, until he spoke.

"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark

upon your cheek might be removed?"

"No, indeed, said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of

his manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth, it has been so

often called a charm, that I was simple enough to imagine it might

be so."

"Ah, upon another face, perhaps it might," replied her husband.

"But never on yours! No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect

from the hand of Nature, that this slightest possible defect- which we

hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty- shocks me, as being the

visible mark of earthly imperfection."

"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first

reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then

why did you take me from my mother’s side? You cannot love what shocks

you!"

To explain this conversation, it must be mentioned, that, in the

centre of Georgiana’s left cheek, there was a singular mark, deeply

interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In

the usual state of her complexion- a healthy, though delicate bloom-

the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined

its shape amid the surrounding rosiness. When she blushed, it

gradually became more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the

triumphant rush of blood, that bathed the whole cheek with its

brilliant glow. But, if any shifting emotion caused her to turn

pale, there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what

Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness. Its shape bore

not a little similarity to the human hand, though of the smallest

pigmy size. Georgiana’s lovers were wont to say, that some fairy, at

her birth-hour, had laid her tiny hand upon the infant’s cheek, and

left this impress there, in token of the magic endowments that were to

give her such sway over all hearts. Many a desperate swain would

have risked life for the privilege of pressing his lips to the

mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the

impression wrought by this fairy sign-manual varied exceedingly,

according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some

fastidious persons- but they were exclusively of her own sex- affirmed

that the Bloody Hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the

effect of Georgiana’s beauty, and rendered her countenance even

hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say, that one of those small

blue stains, which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble,

would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine observers,

if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration, contented

themselves with wishing it away, that the world might possess one

living specimen of ideal loveliness, without the semblance of a

flaw. After his marriage- for he thought little or nothing of the

matter before- Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.

Had she been less beautiful- if Envy’s self could have found

aught else to sneer at- he might have felt his affection heightened by

the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost,

now stealing forth again, and glimmering to and fro with every pulse

of emotion that throbbed within her heart. But, seeing her otherwise

so perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable,

with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of

humanity, which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably

on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and

finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The

Crimson Hand expressed the ineludible gripe, in which mortality

clutches the highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them

into kindred with the lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom

their visible frames return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as

the symbol of his wife’s liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death,

Aylmer’s sombre imagination was not long in rendering the birthmark

a frightful object, causing him more trouble and horror than ever

Georgiana’s beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight.

At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he

invariably, and without intending it- nay, in spite of a purpose to

the contrary- reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at

first appeared, it so connected itself with innumerable trains of

thought, and modes of feeling, that it became the central point of

all. With the morning twilight, Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife’s

face, and recognized the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat

together at the evening hearth, his eyes wandered stealthily to her

cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of the wood fire, the

spectral Hand that wrote mortality where he would fain have

worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed

but a glance, with the peculiar expression that his face often wore,

to change the roses of her cheek into a death-like paleness, amid

which the Crimson Hand was brought strongly out, like a bas-relief

of ruby on the whitest marble.

Late, one night, when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly

to betray the stain on the poor wife’s cheek, she herself, for the

first time, voluntarily took up the subject.

"Do you remember, my dear Aylmer," said she, with a feeble

attempt at a smile- "have you any recollection of a dream, last night,

about this odious Hand?"

"None! none whatever!" replied Aylmer, starting; but then he

added in a dry, cold tone, affected for the sake of concealing the

real depth of his emotion: "I might well dream of it; for, before I

fell asleep, it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy."

"And you did dream of it," continued Georgiana, hastily; for she

dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had to say-

"A terrible dream! I wonder that you can forget it. Is it possible

to forget this one expression? ‘It is in her heart now- we must have

it out!’ Reflect, my husband; for by all means I would have you recall

that dream."

The mind is in a sad state, when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot

confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers

them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that

perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered his dream.

He had fancied himself, with his servant Aminadab, attempting an

operation for the removal of the birthmark. But the deeper went the

knife, the deeper sank the Hand, until at length its tiny grasp

appeared to have caught hold of Georgiana’s heart; whence, however,

her husband was inexorably resolved to cut or wrench it away.

When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his memory, Aylmer

sat in his wife’s presence with a guilty feeling. Truth often finds

its way to the mind close-muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks

with uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we

practise an unconscious self-deception, during our waking moments.

Until now, he had not been aware of the tyrannizing influence acquired

by one idea over his mind, and of the lengths which he might find in

his heart to go, for the sake of giving himself peace.

"Aylmer," resumed Georgiana, solemnly, "I know not what may be

the cost to both of us, to rid me of this fatal birthmark. Perhaps its

removal may cause cureless deformity. Or, it may be, the stain goes as

deep as life itself. Again, do we know that there is a possibility, on

any terms, of unclasping the firm gripe of this little Hand, which was

laid upon me before I came into the world?"

"Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject,"

hastily interrupted Aylmer- "I am convinced of the perfect

practicability of its removal."

"If there be the remotest possibility of it," continued

Georgiana, "let the attempt be made, at whatever risk. Danger is

nothing to me; for life- while this hateful mark makes me the object

of your horror and disgust- life is a burthen which I would fling down

with joy. Either remove this dreadful Hand, or take my wretched

life! You have deep science! All the world bears witness of it. You

have achieved great wonders! Cannot you remove this little, little

mark, which I cover with the tips of two small fingers! Is this beyond

your power, for the sake of your own peace, and to save your poor wife

from madness?"

"Noblest- dearest- tenderest wife!" cried Aylmer, rapturously.

"Doubt not my power. I have already given this matter the deepest

thought- thought which might almost have enlightened me to create a

being less perfect than yourself. Georgiana, you have led me deeper

than ever into the heart of science. I feel myself fully competent

to render this dear cheek as faultless as its fellow; and then, most

beloved, what will be my triumph, when I shall have corrected what

Nature left imperfect, in her fairest work! Even Pygmalion, when his

sculptured woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will

be."

"It is resolved, then," said Georgiana, faintly smiling- "And,

Aylmer, spare me not, though you should find the birthmark take refuge

in my heart at last."

Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek- her right cheek- not that

which bore the impress of the Crimson Hand.

The next day, Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had

formed, whereby he might have opportunity for the intense thought

and constant watchfulness which the proposed operation would

require; while Georgiana, likewise, would enjoy the perfect repose

essential to its success. They were to seclude themselves in the

extensive apartments occupied by Aylmer as a laboratory, and where,

during his toilsome youth, he had made discoveries in the elemental

powers of Nature, that had roused the admiration of all the learned

societies in Europe. Seated calmly in this laboratory, the pale

philosopher had investigated the secrets of the highest

cloud-region, and of the profoundest mines; he had satisfied himself

of the causes that kindled and kept alive the fires of the volcano;

and had explained the mystery of fountains, and how it is that they

gush forth, some so bright and pure, and others with such rich

medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth. Here, too, at

an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame,

and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature assimilates

all her precious influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual

world, to create and foster Man, her masterpiece. The latter

pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside, in unwilling recognition

of the truth, against which all seekers sooner or later stumble,

that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with apparently

working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to keep

her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us

nothing but results. She permits us indeed to mar, but seldom to mend,

and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to make. Now, however,

Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations; not, of course,

with such hopes or wishes as first suggested them; but because they

involved much physiological truth, and lay in the path of his proposed

scheme for the treatment of Georgiana.

As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory, Georgiana was

cold and tremulous. Aylmer looked cheerfully into her face, with

intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense glow of

the birthmark upon the whiteness of her cheek, that he could not

restrain a strong convulsive shudder. His wife fainted.

"Aminadab! Aminadab!" shouted Aylmer, stamping violently on the

floor.

Forthwith, there issued from an inner apartment a man of low

stature, but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging about his visage,

which was grimed with the vapors of the furnace. This personage had

been Aylmer’s under-worker during his whole scientific career, and was

admirably fitted for that office by his great mechanical readiness,

and the skill with which, while incapable of comprehending a single

principle, he executed all the practical details of his master’s

experiments. With his vast strength, his shaggy hair, his smoky

aspect, and the indescribable earthiness that encrusted him, he seemed

to represent man’s physical nature; while Aylmer’s slender figure, and

pale, intellectual face, were no less apt a type of the spiritual

element.

"Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab," said Aylmer, "and

burn a pastille."

"Yes, master," answered Aminadab, looking intently at the

lifeless form of Georgiana; and then he muttered to himself: "If she

were my wife, I’d never part with that birthmark."

When Georgiana recovered consciousness, she found herself breathing

an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which

had recalled her from her death-like faintness. The scene around her

looked like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy,

sombre rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite

pursuits, into a series of beautiful apartments, not unfit to be the

secluded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous

curtains, which imparted the combination of grandeur and grace, that

no other species of adornment can achieve; and as they fell from the

ceiling to the floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all

angles and straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite

space. For aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the

clouds. And Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have

interfered with his chemical processes, had supplied its place with

perfumed lamps, emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a

soft, empurpled radiance. He now knelt by his wife’s side, watching

her earnestly, but without alarm; for he was confident in his science,

and felt that he could draw a magic circle round her, within which

no evil might intrude.

"Where am I? Ah, I remember!" said Georgiana, faintly; and she

placed her hand over her cheek, to hide the terrible mark from her

husband’s eyes.

"Fear not, dearest!" exclaimed he. "Do not shrink from me!

Believe me, Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single imperfection,

since it will be such a rapture to remove it."

"Oh, spare me!" sadly replied his wife. "Pray do not look at it

again. I never can forget that convulsive shudder."

In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her

mind from the burthen of actual things, Aylmer now put in practice

some of the light and playful secrets which science had taught him

among its profounder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless ideas,

and forms of unsubstantial beauty, came and danced before her,

imprinting their momentary footsteps on beams of light. Though she had

some indistinct idea of the method of these optical phenomena, still

the illusion was almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that

her husband possessed sway over the spiritual world. Then again,

when she felt a wish to look forth from her seclusion, immediately, as

if her thoughts were answered, the procession of external existence

flitted across a screen. The scenery and the figures of actual life

were perfectly represented, but with that bewitching, yet

indescribable difference, which always makes a picture, an image, or a

shadow, so much more attractive than the original. When wearied of

this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes upon a vessel, containing a

quantity of earth. She did so, with little interest at first, but

was soon startled, to perceive the germ of a plant, shooting upward

from the soil. Then came the slender stalk- the leaves gradually

unfolded themselves- and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower.

"It is magical!" cried Georgiana, "I dare not touch it."

"Nay, pluck it," answered Aylmer, "pluck it, and inhale its brief

perfume while you may. The flower will wither in a few moments, and

leave nothing save its brown seed-vessels- but thence may be

perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself."

But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant

suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black, as if by the

agency of fire.

"There was too powerful a stimulus," said Aylmer thoughtfully.

To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her

portrait by a scientific process of his own invention. It was to be

effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of metal.

Georgiana assented- but, on looking at the result, was affrighted to

find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable; while the

minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek should have been.

Aylmer snatched the metallic plate, and threw it into a jar of

corrosive acid.

Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the

intervals of study and chemical experiment, he came to her, flushed

and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke in

glowing language of the resources of his art. He gave a history of the

long dynasty of the Alchemists, who spent so many ages in quest of the

universal solvent, by which the Golden Principle might be elicited

from all things vile and base. Aylmer appeared to believe, that, by

the plainest scientific logic, it was altogether within the limits

of possibility to discover this long-sought medium; but, he added, a

philosopher who should go deep enough to acquire the power, would

attain too lofty a wisdom to stoop to the exercise of it. Not less

singular were his opinions in regard to the Elixir Vitae. He more than

intimated, that it was at his option to concoct a liquid that should

prolong life for years- perhaps interminably- but that it would

produce a discord in nature, which all the world, and chiefly the

quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would find cause to curse.

"Aylmer, are you in earnest?" asked Georgiana, looking at him

with amazement and fear; "it is terrible to possess such power, or

even to dream of possessing it.

"Oh, do not tremble, my love!" said her husband, "I would not wrong

either you or myself, by working such inharmonious effects upon our

lives. But I would have you consider how trifling, in comparison, is

the skill requisite to remove this little Hand."

At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank, as if

a red-hot iron had touched her cheek.

Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his

voice in the distant furnace-room, giving directions to Aminadab,

whose harsh, uncouth, mis-shapen tones were audible in response,

more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours

of absence, Aylmer reappeared, and proposed that she should now

examine his cabinet of chemical products, and natural treasures of the

earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial, in which, he

remarked, was contained a gentle yet most powerful fragrance,

capable of impregnating all the breezes that blow across a kingdom.

They were of inestimable value, the contents of that little vial; and,

as he said so, he threw some of the perfume into the air, and filled

the room with piercing and invigorating delight.

"And what is this?" asked Georgiana, pointing to a small crystal

globe, containing a gold-colored liquid. "It is so beautiful to the

eye, that I could imagine it the Elixir of Life."

"In one sense it is," replied Aylmer, "or rather the Elixir of

Immortality. It is the most precious poison that ever was concocted in

this world. By its aid, I could apportion the life-time of any

mortal at whom you might point your finger. The strength of the dose

would determine whether he were to linger out years, or drop dead in

the midst of a breath. No king, on his guarded throne, could keep

his life, if I, in my private station, should deem that the welfare of

millions justified me in depriving him of it."

"Why do you keep such a terrific drug?" inquired Georgiana in

horror.

"Do not mistrust me, dearest!" said her husband, smiling; "its

virtuous potency is yet greater than its harmful one. But, see! here

is a powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this, in a vase of

water, freckles may be washed away as easily as the hands are

cleansed. A stronger infusion would take the blood out of the cheek,

and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost."

"Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek?" asked

Georgiana, anxiously.

"Oh, no!" hastily replied her husband- "this is merely superficial.

Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper."

In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute

inquiries as to her sensations, and whether the confinement of the

rooms, and the temperature of the atmosphere, agreed with her. These

questions had such a particular drift, that Georgiana began to

conjecture that she was already subjected to certain physical

influences, either breathed in with the fragrant air, or taken with

her food. She fancied, likewise- but it might be altogether fancy-

that there was a stirring up of her system: a strange, indefinite

sensation creeping through her veins, and tingling, half-painfully,

half-pleasurably, at her heart. Still, whenever she dared to look into

the mirror, there she beheld herself, pale as a white rose, and with

the crimson birthmark stamped upon her cheek. Not even Aylmer now

hated it so much as she.

To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it

necessary to devote to the processes of combination and analysis,

Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientific library. In many

dark old tomes, she met with chapters full of romance and poetry. They

were the works of the philosophers of the middle ages, such as

Albertus Magnus, Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and the famous friar

who created the prophetic Brazen Head. All these antique naturalists

stood in advance of their centuries, yet were imbued with some of

their credulity, and therefore were believed, and perhaps imagined

themselves, to have acquired from the investigation of nature a

power above nature, and from physics a sway over the spiritual

world. Hardly less curious and imaginative were the early volumes of

the Transactions of the Royal Society, in which the members, knowing

little of the limits of natural possibility, were continually

recording wonders, or proposing methods whereby wonders might be

wrought.

But, to Georgiana, the most engrossing volume was a large folio

from her husband’s own hand, in which he had recorded every experiment

of his scientific career, with its original aim, the methods adopted

for its development, and its final success or failure, with the

circumstances to which either event was attributable. The book, in

truth, was both the history and emblem of his ardent, ambitious,

imaginative, yet practical and laborious, life. He handled physical

details, as if there were nothing beyond them; yet spiritualized

them all, and redeemed himself from materialism, by his strong and

eager aspiration towards the infinite. In his grasp, the veriest

clod of earth assumed a soul. Georgiana, as she read, reverenced

Aylmer, and loved him more profoundly than ever, but with a less

entire dependence on his judgment than heretofore. Much as he had

accomplished, she could not but observe that his most splendid

successes were almost invariably failures, if compared with the

ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were the merest

pebbles, and felt to be so by himself, in comparison with the

inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his reach. The volume, rich

with achievements that had won renown for its author, was yet as

melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad

confession, and continual exemplification, of the short-comings of the

composite man- the spirit burthened with clay and working in matter;

and of the despair that assails the higher nature, at finding itself

so miserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every man of

genius, in whatever sphere, might recognize the image of his own

experience in Aylmer’s journal.

So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana, that she laid her

face upon the open volume, and burst into tears. In this situation she

was found by her husband.

"It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer’s books," said he, with a

smile, though his countenance was uneasy and displeased. "Georgiana,

there are pages in that volume, which I can scarcely glance over and

keep my senses. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you!"

It has made me worship you more than ever," said she.

"Ah! wait for this one success," rejoined he, "then worship me if

you will. I shall deem myself hardly unworthy of it. But, come! I have

sought you for the luxury of your voice. Sing to me, dearest!"

So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the

thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave, with a boyish exuberance

of gaiety, assuring her that her seclusion would endure but a little

longer, and that the result was already certain. Scarcely had he

departed, when Georgiana felt irresistibly impelled to follow him. She

had forgotten to inform Aylmer of a symptom, which, for two or three

hours past, had begun to excite her attention. It was a sensation in

the fatal birthmark, not painful, but which induced a restlessness

throughout her system. Hastening after her husband, she intruded,

for the first time, into the laboratory.

The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, that hot and

feverish worker, with the intense glow of its fire, which, by the

quantities of soot clustered above it, seemed to have been burning for

ages. There was a distilling apparatus in full operation. Around the

room were retorts, tubes, cylinders, crucibles, and other apparatus of

chemical research. An electrical machine stood ready for immediate

use. The atmosphere felt oppressively close, and was tainted with

gaseous odors, which had been tormented forth by the processes of

science. The severe and homely simplicity of the apartment, with its

naked walls and brick pavement, looked strange, accustomed as

Georgiana had become to the fantastic elegance of her boudoir. But

what chiefly, indeed almost solely, drew her attention, was the aspect

of Aylmer himself.

He was pale as death, anxious, and absorbed, and hung over the

furnace as if it depended upon his utmost watchfulness whether the

liquid, which it was distilling, should be the draught of immortal

happiness or misery. How different from the sanguine and joyous mien

that he had assumed for Georgiana’s encouragement!

"Carefully now, Aminadab! Carefully, thou human machine! Carefully,

thou man of clay!" muttered Aylmer, more to himself than his

assistant. "Now, if there be a thought too much or too little, it is

all over!"

"Hoh! hoh!" mumbled Aminadab- "look, master, look!"

Aylmer raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, then grew

paler than ever, on beholding Georgiana. He rushed towards her, and

seized her arm with a gripe that left the print of his fingers upon

it.

"Why do you come hither? Have you no trust in your husband?"

cried he impetuously. "Would you throw the blight of that fatal

birthmark over my labors? It is not well done. Go, prying woman, go!"

Nay, Aylmer," said Georgiana, with the firmness of which she

possessed no stinted endowment, "it is not you that have a right to

complain. You mistrust your wife! You have concealed the anxiety

with which you watch the development of this experiment. Think not

so unworthily of me, my husband! Tell me all the risk we run; and fear

not that I shall shrink, for my share in it is far less than your

own!"

"No, no, Georgiana!" said Aylmer impatiently, "it must not be."

"I submit," replied she calmly. "And, Aylmer, I shall quaff

whatever draught you bring me; but it will be on the same principle

that would induce me to take a dose of poison, if offered by your

hand."

"My noble wife," said Aylmer, deeply moved, "I knew not the height

and depth of your nature, until now. Nothing shall be concealed.

Know, then, that this Crimson Hand, superficial as it seems, has

clutched its grasp into your being, with a strength of which I had no

previous conception. I have already administered agents powerful

enough to do aught except to change your entire physical system. Only

one thing remains to be tried. If that fail us, we are ruined!"

"Why did you hesitate to tell me this?" asked she.

"Because, Georgiana," said Aylmer, in a low voice, "there is

danger!"

"Danger? There is but one danger- that this horrible stigma shall

be left upon my cheek!" cried Georgiana. "Remove it! remove it!-

whatever be the cost- or we shall both go mad!"

"Heaven knows, your words are too true," said Aylmer, sadly. "And

now, dearest, return to your boudoir. In a little while, all will be

tested."

He conducted her back, and took leave of her with a solemn

tenderness, which spoke far more than his words how much was now at

stake. After his departure, Georgiana became wrapt in musings. She

considered the character of Aylmer, and did it completer justice

than at any previous moment. Her heart exulted, while it trembled,

at his honorable love, so pure and lofty that it would accept

nothing less than perfection, nor miserably make itself contented with

an earthlier nature than he had dreamed of. She felt how much more

precious was such a sentiment, than that meaner kind which would

have borne with the imperfection for her sake, and have been guilty of

treason to holy love, by degrading its perfect idea to the level of

the actual. And, with her whole spirit, she prayed, that, for a single

moment, she might satisfy his highest and deepest conception. Longer

than one moment, she well knew, it could not be; for his spirit was

ever on the march- ever ascending- and each instant required something

that was beyond the scope of the instant before.

The sound of her husband’s footsteps aroused her. He bore a crystal

goblet, containing a liquor colorless as water, but bright enough to

be the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale; but it seemed rather

the consequence of a highly wrought state of mind, and tension of

spirit, than of fear or doubt.

"The concoction of the draught has been perfect," said he, in

answer to Georgiana’s look. "Unless all my science have deceived me,

it cannot fail."

"Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer," observed his wife, "I

might wish to put off this birthmark of mortality by relinquishing

mortality itself, in preference to any other mode. Life is but a sad

possession to those who have attained precisely the degree of moral

advancement at which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder, it might be

happiness. Were I stronger, it might be endured hopefully. But, being

what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die."

"You are fit for heaven without tasting death!" replied her

husband. "But why do we speak of dying? The draught cannot fail.

Behold its effect upon this plant!"

On the window-seat there stood a geranium, diseased with yellow

blotches, which had overspread all its leaves. Aylmer poured a small

quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it grew. In a little

time, when the roots of the plant had taken up the moisture, the

unsightly blotches began to be extinguished in a living verdure.

"There needed no proof," said Georgiana, quietly. "Give me the

goblet. I joyfully stake all upon your word."

"Drink, then, thou lofty creature!" exclaimed Aylmer, with fervid

admiration. "There is no taint of imperfection on thy spirit. Thy

sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect!"

She quaffed the liquid, and returned the goblet to his hand.

"It is grateful," said she, with a placid smile. "Methinks it is

like water from a heavenly fountain; for it contains I know not what

of unobtrusive fragrance and deliciousness. It allays a feverish

thirst, that had parched me for many days. Now, dearest, let me sleep.

My earthly senses are closing over my spirit, like the leaves around

the heart of a rose, at sunset."

She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it

required almost more energy than she could command to pronounce the

faint and lingering syllables. Scarcely had they loitered through

her lips, ere she was lost in slumber. Aylmer sat by her side,

watching her aspect with the emotions proper to a man, the whole value

of whose existence was involved in the process now to be tested.

Mingled with this mood, however, was the philosophic investigation,

characteristic of the man of science. Not the minutest symptom escaped

him. A heightened flush of the cheek- a slight irregularity of breath-

a quiver of the eyelid- a hardly perceptible tremor through the frame-

such were the details which, as the moments passed, he wrote down in

his folio volume. Intense thought had set its stamp upon every

previous page of that volume; but the thoughts of years were all

concentrated upon the last.

While thus employed, he failed not to gaze often at the fatal Hand,

and not without a shudder. Yet once, by a strange and unaccountable

impulse, he pressed it with his lips. His spirit recoiled, however, in

the very act, and Georgiana, out of the midst of her deep sleep, moved

uneasily and murmured, as if in remonstrance. Again, Aylmer resumed

his watch. Nor was it without avail. The Crimson Hand, which at

first had been strongly visible upon the marble paleness of

Georgiana’s cheek now grew more faintly outlined. She remained not

less pale than ever; but the birthmark, with every breath that came

and went, lost somewhat of its former distinctness. Its presence had

been awful; its departure was more awful still. Watch the stain of the

rainbow fading out of the sky; and you will know how that mysterious

symbol passed away.

"By Heaven, it is well-nigh gone!" said Aylmer to himself, in

almost irrepressible ecstasy. "I can scarcely trace it now. Success!

Success! And now it is like the faintest rose-color. The slightest

flush of blood across her cheek would overcome it. But she is so

pale!"

He drew aside the window-curtain, and suffered the light of natural

day to fall into the room, and rest upon her cheek. At the same

time, he heard a gross, hoarse chuckle, which he had long known as his

servant Aminadab’s expression of delight.

"Ah, clod! Ah, earthly mass!" cried Aylmer, laughing in a sort of

frenzy. "You have served me well! Master and Spirit- Earth and Heaven-

have both done their part in this! Laugh, thing of the senses! You

have earned the right to laugh."

These exclamations broke Georgiana’s sleep. She slowly unclosed her

eyes, and gazed into the mirror, which her husband had arranged for

that purpose. A faint smile flitted over her lips, when she recognized

how barely perceptible was now that Crimson Hand, which had once

blazed forth with such disastrous brilliancy as to scare away all

their happiness. But then her eyes sought Aylmer’s face, with a

trouble and anxiety that he could by no means account for.

"My poor Aylmer!" murmured she.

"Poor? Nay, richest! Happiest! Most favored!" exclaimed he. "My

peerless bride, it is successful! You are perfect!"

"My poor Aylmer!" she repeated, with a more than human

tenderness. "You have aimed loftily! you have done nobly! Do not

repent, that, with so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the

best the earth could offer. Aylmer- dearest Aylmer, I am dying!"

Alas, it was too true! The fatal Hand had grappled with the mystery

of life, and was the bond by which an angelic spirit kept itself in

union with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the birthmark-

that sole token of human imperfection- faded from her cheek, the

parting breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere,

and her soul, lingering a moment near her husband, took its heavenward

flight. Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus ever does

the gross Fatality of Earth exult in its invariable triumph over the

immortal essence, which, in this dim sphere of half-development,

demands the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had Aylmer reached a

profounder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happiness,

which would have woven his mortal life of the self-same texture with

the celestial. The momentary circumstance was too strong for him; he

failed to look beyond the shadowy scope of Time, and living once for

all in Eternity, to find the perfect Future in the present.

THE END

.

PHILADELPHIA 1785-1790

by Benjamin Franklin

_A Petition of the Left Hand_

TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE SUPERINTENDENCY OF EDUCATION

I address myself to all the friends of youth, and conjure them

to direct their compassionate regards to my unhappy fate, in order to

remove the prejudices of which I am the victim. There are twin

sisters of us; and the two eyes of man do not more resemble, nor are

capable of being upon better terms with each other, than my sister

and myself, were it not for the partiality of our parents, who make

the most injurious distinctions between us. From my infancy, I have

been led to consider my sister as a being of a more elevated rank. I

was suffered to grow up without the least instruction, while nothing

was spared in her education. She had masters to teach her writing,

drawing, music, and other accomplishments; but if by chance I touched

a pencil, a pen, or a needle, I was bitterly rebuked; and more than

once I have been beaten for being awkward, and wanting a graceful

manner. It is true, my sister associated me with her upon some

occasions; but she always made a point of taking the lead, calling

upon me only from necessity, or to figure by her side.

But conceive not, Sirs, that my complaints are instigated

merely by vanity. No; my uneasiness is occasioned by an object much

more serious. It is the practice in our family, that the whole

business of providing for its subsistence falls upon my sister and

myself. If any indisposition should attack my sister, — and I

mention it in confidence upon this occasion, that she is subject to

the gout, the rheumatism, and cramp, without making mention of other

accidents, — what would be the fate of our poor family? Must not

the regret of our parents be excessive, at having placed so great a

difference between sisters who are so perfectly equal? Alas! we must

perish from distress; for it would not be in my power even to scrawl

a suppliant petition for relief, having been obliged to employ the

hand of another in transcribing the request which I have now the

honour to prefer to you.

Condescend, Sirs, to make my parents sensible of the injustice

of an exclusive tenderness, and of the necessity of distributing

their care and affection among all their children equally. I am,

with a profound respect, Sirs, your obedient servant,

THE LEFT HAND.

1785

_Description of an Instrument for Taking Down Books from High

Shelves_

January, 1786.

Old men find it inconvenient to mount a ladder or steps for

that purpose, their heads being sometimes subject to giddinesses, and

their activity, with the steadiness of their joints, being abated by

age; besides the trouble of removing the steps every time a book is

wanted from a different part of their library.

For a remedy, I have lately made the following simple machine,

which I call the _Long Arm._

_A B_, the _Arm_, is a stick of pine, an inch square and 8 feet

long. _C, D_, the _Thumb_ and _Finger_, are two pieces of ash lath,

an inch and half wide, and a quarter of an inch thick. These are

fixed by wood screws on opposite sides of the end _A_ of the arm _A

B_; the finger _D_ being longer and standing out an inch and half

farther than the thumb _C._ The outside of the ends of these laths

are pared off sloping and thin, that they may more easily enter

between books that stand together on a shelf. Two small holes are

bored through them at _i, k._ _E F_, the sinew, is a cord of the size

of a small goosequill, with a loop at one end. When applied to the

machine it passes through the two laths, and is stopped by a knot in

its other end behind the longest at _k._ The hole at _i_ is nearer

the end of the arm than that at _k_, about an inch. A number of

knots are also on the cord, distant three or four inches from each

other.

To use this instrument; put one hand into the loop, and draw

the sinew straight down the side of the arm; then enter the end of

the finger between the book you would take down and that which is

next to it. The laths being flexible, you may easily by a slight

pressure sideways open them wider if the book is thick, or close them

if it is thin by pulling the string, so as to enter the shorter lath

or thumb between your book (Illustrations omitted) and that which is

next to its other side, then push till the back of your book comes to

touch the string. Then draw the string or sinew tight, which will

cause the thumb and finger to pinch the book strongly, so that you

may draw it out. As it leaves the other books, turn the instrument a

_quarter_ round, so that the book may lie flat and rest on its side

upon the under lath or finger. The knots on the sinew will help you

to keep it tight and close to the side of the arm as you take it down

hand over hand, till the book comes to you; which would drop from

between the thumb and finger if the sinew was let loose.

All new tools require some practice before we can become expert

in the use of them. This requires very little.

Made in the proportions above given, it serves well for books

in duodecimo or octavo. Quartos and folios are too heavy for it; but

those are usually placed on the lower shelves within reach of hand.

The book taken down, may, when done with, be put up again into

its place by the same machine.

The Art of Procuring Pleasant Dreams

INSCRIBED TO MISS SHIPLEY, BEING WRITTEN AT HER REQUEST

As a great part of our life is spent in sleep during which we

have sometimes pleasant and sometimes painful dreams, it becomes of

some consequence to obtain the one kind and avoid the other; for

whether real or imaginary, pain is pain and pleasure is pleasure. If

we can sleep without dreaming, it is well that painful dreams are

avoided. If while we sleep we can have any pleasing dream, it is, as

the French say, _autant de gagne_, so much added to the pleasure of

life.

To this end it is, in the first place, necessary to be careful

in preserving health, by due exercise and great temperance; for, in

sickness, the imagination is disturbed, and disagreeable, sometimes

terrible, ideas are apt to present themselves. Exercise should

precede meals, not immediately follow them; the first promotes, the

latter, unless moderate, obstructs digestion. If, after exercise, we

feed sparingly, the digestion will be easy and good, the body

lightsome, the temper cheerful, and all the animal functions

performed agreeably. Sleep, when it follows, will be natural and

undisturbed; while indolence, with full feeding, occasions nightmares

and horrors inexpressible; we fall from precipices, are assaulted by

wild beasts, murderers, and demons, and experience every variety of

distress. Observe, however, that the quantities of food and exercise

are relative things; those who move much may, and indeed ought to eat

more; those who use little exercise should eat little. In general,

mankind, since the improvement of cookery, eat about twice as much as

nature requires. Suppers are not bad, if we have not dined; but

restless nights naturally follow hearty suppers after full dinners.

Indeed, as there is a difference in constitutions, some rest well

after these meals; it costs them only a frightful dream and an

apoplexy, after which they sleep till doomsday. Nothing is more

common in the newspapers, than instances of people who, after eating

a hearty supper, are found dead abed in the morning.

Another means of preserving health, to be attended to, is the

having a constant supply of fresh air in your bed-chamber. It has

been a great mistake, the sleeping in rooms exactly closed, and in

beds surrounded by curtains. No outward air that may come in to you

is so unwholesome as the unchanged air, often breathed, of a close

chamber. As boiling water does not grow hotter by longer boiling, if

the particles that receive greater heat can escape; so living bodies

do not putrefy, if the particles, so fast as they become putrid, can

be thrown off. Nature expels them by the pores of the skin and the

lungs, and in a free, open air they are carried off; but in a close

room we receive them again and again, though they become more and

more corrupt. A number of persons crowded into a small room thus

spoil the air in a few minutes, and even render it mortal, as in the

Black Hole at Calcutta. A single person is said to spoil only a

gallon of air per minute, and therefore requires a longer time to

spoil a chamber-full; but it is done, however, in proportion, and

many putrid disorders hence have their origin. It is recorded of

Methusalem, who, being the longest liver, may be supposed to have

best preserved his health, that he slept always in the open air; for,

when he had lived five hundred years, an angel said to him; "Arise,

Methusalem, and build thee an house, for thou shalt live yet five

hundred years longer." But Methusalem answered, and said, "If I am to

live but five hundred years longer, it is not worth while to build me

an house; I will sleep in the air, as I have been used to do."

Physicians, after having for ages contended that the sick should not

be indulged with fresh air, have at length discovered that it may do

them good. It is therefore to be hoped, that they may in time

discover likewise, that it is not hurtful to those who are in health,

and that we may be then cured of the _aerophobia_, that at present

distresses weak minds, and makes them choose to be stifled and

poisoned, rather than leave open the window of a bed-chamber, or put

down the glass of a coach.

Confined air, when saturated with perspirable matter, will not

receive more; and that matter must remain in our bodies, and occasion

diseases; but it gives some previous notice of its being about to be

hurtful, by producing certain uneasiness, slight indeed at first,

which as with regard to the lungs is a trifling sensation, and to the

pores of the skin a kind of restlessness, which is difficult to

describe, and few that feel it know the cause of it. But we may

recollect, that sometimes on waking in the night, we have, if warmly

covered, found it difficult to get asleep again. We turn often

without finding repose in any position. This fidgettiness (to use a

vulgar expression for want of a better) is occasioned wholly by an

uneasiness in the skin, owing to the retention of the perspirable

matter — the bed-clothes having received their quantity, and, being

saturated, refusing to take any more. To become sensible of this by

an experiment, let a person keep his position in the bed, but throw

off the bed-clothes, and suffer fresh air to approach the part

uncovered of his body; he will then feel that part suddenly

refreshed; for the air will immediately relieve the skin, by

receiving, licking up, and carrying off, the load of perspirable

matter that incommoded it. For every portion of cool air that

approaches the warm skin, in receiving its part of that vapour,

receives therewith a degree of heat that rarefies and renders it

lighter, when it will be pushed away with its burthen, by cooler and

therefore heavier fresh air, which for a moment supplies its place,

and then, being likewise changed and warmed, gives way to a

succeeding quantity. This is the order of nature, to prevent animals

being infected by their own perspiration. He will now be sensible of

the difference between the part exposed to the air and that which,

remaining sunk in the bed, denies the air access: for this part now

manifests its uneasiness more distinctly by the comparison, and the

seat of the uneasiness is more plainly perceived than when the whole

surface of the body was affected by it.

Here, then, is one great and general cause of unpleasing

dreams. For when the body is uneasy, the mind will be disturbed by

it, and disagreeable ideas of various kinds will in sleep be the

natural consequences. The remedies, preventive and curative, follow:

1. By eating moderately (as before advised for health’s sake)

less perspirable matter is produced in a given time; hence the

bed-clothes receive it longer before they are saturated, and we may

therefore sleep longer before we are made uneasy by their refusing to

receive any more.

2. By using thinner and more porous bed-clothes, which will

suffer the perspirable matter more easily to pass through them, we

are less incommoded, such being longer tolerable.

3. When you are awakened by this uneasiness, and find you

cannot easily sleep again, get out of bed, beat up and turn your

pillow, shake the bed-clothes well, with at least twenty shakes, then

throw the bed open and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing

undrest, walk about your chamber till your skin has had time to

discharge its load, which it will do sooner as the air may be dried

and colder. When you begin to feel the cold air unpleasant, then

return to your bed, and you will soon fall asleep, and your sleep

will be sweet and pleasant. All the scenes presented to your fancy

will be too of the pleasing kind. I am often as agreeably

entertained with them, as by the scenery of an opera. If you happen

to be too indolent to get out of bed, you may, instead of it, lift up

your bed-clothes with one arm and leg, so as to draw in a good deal

of fresh air, and by letting them fall force it out again. This,

repeated twenty times, will so clear them of the perspirable matter

they have imbibed, as to permit your sleeping well for some time

afterwards. But this latter method is not equal to the former.

Those who do not love trouble, and can afford to have two beds,

will find great luxury in rising, when they wake in a hot bed, and

going into the cool one. Such shifting of beds would also be of

great service to persons ill of a fever, as it refreshes and

frequently procures sleep. A very large bed, that will admit a

removal so distant from the first situation as to be cool and sweet,

may in a degree answer the same end.

One or two observations more will conclude this little piece.

Care must be taken, when you lie down, to dispose your pillow so as

to suit your manner of placing your head, and to be perfectly easy;

then place your limbs so as not to bear inconveniently hard upon one

another, as, for instance, the joints of your ankles; for, though a

bad position may at first give but little pain and be hardly noticed,

yet a continuance will render it less tolerable, and the uneasiness

may come on while you are asleep, and disturb your imagination.

These are the rules of the art. But, though they will generally

prove effectual in producing the end intended, there is a case in

which the most punctual observance of them will be totally fruitless.

I need not mention the case to you, my dear friend, but my account of

the art would be imperfect without it. The case is, when the person

who desires to have pleasant dreams has not taken care to preserve,

what is necessary above all things,

A GOOD CONSCIENCE.

May 2, 1786

_The Retort Courteous_

"John Oxly, Pawnbroker of Bethnal Green, was indicted for

assaulting Jonathan Boldsworth on the Highway, putting him in fear,

and taking from him one Silver Watch, value 5_l._ 5_s._ The Prisoner

pleaded, that, having sold the Watch to the Prosecutor, and being

immediately after informed by a Person who knew him, that he was not

likely to pay for the same, he had only followed him and taken the

Watch back again. But it appearing on the Trial, that, presuming he

had not been known when he committed the Robbery, he had afterwards

sued the Prosecutor for the Debt, on his Note of Hand, he was found

Guilty, DEATH." — _Old Bailey Sessions Paper_, 1747.

I chose the above Extract from the Proceedings at the Old

Bailey in the Trial of Criminals, as a Motto or Text, on which to

amplify in my ensuing Discourse. But on second Thoughts, having

given it forth, I shall, after the Example of some other Preachers,

quit it for the present, and leave to my Readers, if I should happen

to have any, the Task of discovering what Relation there may possibly

be between my Text and my Sermon.

During some Years past, the British Newspapers have been filled

with Reflections on the Inhabitants of America, for _not paying their

old Debts to English Merchants._ And from these Papers the same

Reflections have been translated into Foreign Prints, and circulated

throughout Europe; whereby the American Character, respecting Honour,

Probity, and Justice in commercial Transactions, is made to suffer in

the Opinion of Strangers, which may be attended with pernicious

Consequences.

At length we are told that the British Court has taken up the

Complaint, and seriously offer’d it as a reason for refusing to

evacuate the Frontier Posts according to Treaty. This gives a kind

of Authenticity to the Charge, and makes it now more necessary to

examine the matter thoro’ly; to inquire impartially into the Conduct

of both Nations; take Blame to ourselves where we have merited it;

and, where it may be fairly done, mitigate the Severity of the

Censures that are so liberally bestow’d upon us.

We may begin by observing, that before the War our mercantile

Character was good. In Proof of this (and a stronger Proof can

hardly be desired), the Votes of the House of Commons in 1774-5 have

recorded a Petition signed by the Body of the Merchants of London

trading to North America, in which they expressly set forth, not only

that the Trade was profitable to the Kingdom, but that the

Remittances and Payments were as punctually and faithfully made, as

in any other Branch of Commerce whatever. These Gentlemen were

certainly competent Judges, and as to that Point could have no

Interest in deceiving the Government.

The making of these punctual Remittances was however a

Difficulty. Britain, acting on the selfish and perhaps mistaken

Principle of receiving nothing from abroad that could be produced at

home, would take no Articles of our Produce that interfered with any

of her own; and what did not interfere, she loaded with heavy Duties.

We had no Mines of Gold or Silver. We were therefore oblig’d to run

the World over, in search of something that would be receiv’d in

England. We sent our Provisions and Lumber to the West Indies, where

Exchange was made for Sugars, Cotton, &c. to remit. We brought

Mollasses from thence, distill’d it into Rum, with which we traded in

Africa, and remitted the Gold Dust to England. We employ’d ourselves

in the Fisheries, and sent the Fish we caught, together with

Quantities of Wheat Flour, and Rice, to Spain and Portugal, from

whence the Amount was remitted to England in Cash or Bills of

Exchange. Great Quantities of our Rice, too, went to Holland,

Hamburgh &c., and the Value of that was also sent to Britain. Add to

this, that contenting ourselves with Paper, all the hard Money we

could possibly pick up among the Foreign West India Islands, was

continually sent off to Britain, not a Ship going thither from

America without some Chests of those precious Metals.

Imagine this great Machine of mutually advantageous Commerce,

going roundly on, in full Train; our Ports all busy, receiving and

selling British Manufactures, and equipping Ships for the circuitous

Trade, that was finally to procure the necessary Remittances; the

Seas covered with those Ships, and with several hundred Sail of our

Fishermen, all working for Britain; and then let us consider what

Effect the Conduct of Britain, in 1774 and 1775 and the following

Years, must naturally have on the future Ability of our Merchants to

make the Payments in question.

We will not here enter into the Motives of that Conduct; they

are well enough known, and not to her Honour. The first Step was

shutting up the Port of Boston by an Act of Parliament; the next, to

prohibit by another the New England Fishery. An Army and a Fleet

were sent to enforce these Acts. Here was a Stop put at once to all

the mercantile Operations of one of the greatest trading Cities of

America; the Fishing Vessels all laid up, and the usual Remittances,

by way of Spain, Portugal, and the Straits, render’d impossible. Yet

the Cry was now begun against us, _These New England People do not

pay their Debts!_

The Ships of the Fleet employ’d themselves in cruising

separately all along the Coast. The marine Gentry are seldom so well

contented with their Pay, as not to like a little Plunder. They

stopp’d and seiz’d, under slight Pretences, the American Vessels they

met with, belonging to whatever Colony. This checked the Commerce of

them all. Ships loaded with Cargoes destin’d either directly or

indirectly to make Remittance in England, were not spared. If the

Difference between the two Countries had been then accommodated,

these unauthoriz’d Plunderers would have been called to account, and

many of their Exploits must have been found Piracy. But what cur’d

all this, set their Minds at ease, made short Work, and gave full

Scope to their Piratical Disposition, was another Act of Parliament,

forbidding any Inquisition into those _past_ Facts, declaring them

all Lawful, and all American Property to be forfeited, whether on Sea

or Land, and authorizing the King’s British Subjects to take, seize,

sink, burn, or destroy, whatever they could find of it. The Property

suddenly, and by surprise taken from our Merchants by the Operation

of this Act, is incomputable. And yet the Cry did not diminish,

_These Americans don’t pay their Debts!_

Had the several States of America, on the Publication of this

Act seiz’d all British Property in their Power, whether consisting of

Lands in their Country, Ships in their Harbours, or Debts in the

Hands of their Merchants, by way of Retaliation, it is probable a

great Part of the World would have deem’d such Conduct justifiable.

They, it seems, thought otherwise, and it was done only in one or two

States, and that under particular Circumstances of Provocation. And

not having thus abolish’d all Demands, the Cry subsists, that _the

Americans should pay their Debts!_

General Gage, being with his Army (before the declaration of

open War) in peaceable Possession of Boston, shut its Gates, and

plac’d Guards all around to prevent its Communication with the

Country. The Inhabitants were on the Point of Starving. The

general, though they were evidently at his Mercy, fearing that, while

they had any Arms in their Hands, frantic Desperation might possibly

do him some Mischief, propos’d to them a Capitulation, in which he

stipulated, that if they would deliver up their Arms, they might

leave the Town with their Families and _Goods._ In faith of this

Agreement, they deliver’d their Arms. But when they began to pack up

for their Departure, they were inform’d, that by the word _Goods_,

the General understood only Houshold Goods, that is, their Beds,

Chairs, and Tables, not _Merchant Goods_; those he was inform’d they

were indebted for to the Merchants of England, and he must secure

them for the Creditors. They were accordingly all seized, to an

immense Value, _what had been paid for not excepted._ It is to be

supposed, tho’ we have never heard of it, that this very honourable

General, when he returned home, made a just Dividend of those Goods,

or their Value, among the said Creditors. But the Cry nevertheless

continued, _These Boston People do not pay their Debts!_

The Army, having thus ruin’d Boston, proceeded to different

Parts of the Continent. They got possession of all the capital

trading Towns. The Troops gorg’d themselves with Plunder. They

stopp’d all the Trade of Philadelphia for near a year, of Rhode

Island longer, of New York near eight Years, of Charlestown in South

Carolina and Savanah in Georgia, I forget how long. This continu’d

Interruption of their Commerce ruin’d many Merchants. The Army also

burnt to the Ground the fine Towns of Falmouth and Charlestown near

Boston, New London, Fairfield, Norwalk, Esopus, Norfolk, the chief

trading City in Virginia, besides innumerable Country Seats and

private Farm-Houses. This wanton Destruction of Property operated

doubly to the Disabling of our Merchants, who were importers from

Britain, in making their Payments, by the immoderate Loss they

sustain’d themselves, and also the Loss suffered by their Country

Debtors, who had bought of them the British Goods, and who were now

render’d unable to pay. The Debts to Britain of course remained

undischarg’d, and the Clamour continu’d, _These knavish Americans

will not pay us!_

Many of the British Debts, particularly in Virginia and the

Carolinas, arose from the Sales made of Negroes in those Provinces by

the British Guinea merchants. These, with all before in the country,

were employed when the war came on, in raising tobacco and rice for

remittance in payment of British debts. An order arrives from

England, advised by one of their most celebrated _moralists_, Dr.

Johnson, in his _Taxation no Tyranny_, to excite these slaves to

rise, cut the throats of their purchasers, and resort to the British

army, where they should be rewarded with freedom. This was done, and

the planters were thus deprived of near thirty thousand of their

working people. Yet the demand for those sold and unpaid still

exists; and the cry continues against the Virginians and Carolinians,

that _they do not pay their debts!_

Virginia suffered great loss in this kind of property by

another ingenious and humane British invention. Having the small-pox

in their army while in that country, they inoculated some of the

negroes they took as prisoners belonging to a number of plantations,

and then let them escape, or sent them, covered with the pock, to mix

with and spread the distemper among the others of their colour, as

well as among the white country people; which occasioned a great

mortality of both, and certainly did not contribute to the enabling

debtors in making payment. The war too having put a stop to the

exportation of tobacco, there was a great accumulation of several

years’ produce in all the public inspecting warehouses and private

stores of the planters. Arnold, Phillips, and Cornwallis, with

British troops, then entered and overran the country, burnt all the

inspecting and other stores of tobacco, to the amount of some hundred

ship-loads; all which might, on the return of peace, if it had not

been thus wantonly destroyed, have been remitted to British

creditors. But _these d — d Virginians, why don’t they pay their

debts?_

Paper money was in those times our universal currency. But, it

being the instrument with which we combated our enemies, they

resolved to deprive us of its use by depreciating it; and the most

effectual means they could contrive was to counterfeit it. The

artists they employed performed so well, that immense quantities of

these counterfeits, which issued from the British government in New

York, were circulated among the inhabitants of all the States, before

the fraud was detected. This operated considerably in depreciating

the whole mass, first, by the vast additional quantity, and next by

the uncertainty in distinguishing the true from the false; and the

depreciation was a loss to all and the ruin of many. It is true our

enemies gained a vast deal of our property by the operation; but it

did not go into the hands of our particular creditors; so their

demands still subsisted, and we were still abused _for not paying our

debts!_

By the seventh article of the treaty of peace, it was solemnly

stipulated, that the King’s troops, in evacuating their posts in the

United States, should not carry away with them any negroes. In

direct violation of this article, General Carleton, in evacuating New

York, carried off all the negroes that were with his army, to the

amount of several hundreds. It is not doubted that he must have had

secret orders to justify him in this transaction; but the reason

given out was, that, as they had quitted their masters and joined the

King’s troops on the faith of proclamations promising them their

liberty, the national honour forbade returning them into slavery.

The national honour was, it seemed, pledged to both parts of a

contradiction, and its wisdom, since it could not do it with both,

chose to keep faith rather with its old black, than its new white

friends; a circumstance demonstrating clear as daylight, that, in

making a present peace, they meditated a future war, and hoped, that,

though the promised manumission of slaves had not been effectual in

the _last_, in the _next_ it might be more successful; and that, had

the negroes been forsaken, no aid could be hereafter expected from

those of the colour in a future invasion. The treaty however with us

was thus broken almost as soon as made, and this by the people who

charge us with breaking it by not paying perhaps for some of the very

negroes carried off in defiance of it. Why should England observe

treaties, _when these Americans do not pay their debts?_

Unreasonable, however, as this clamour appears in general, I do

not pretend, by exposing it, to justify those debtors who are still

able to pay, and refuse it on pretence of injuries suffered by the

war. Public injuries can never discharge private obligations.

Contracts between merchant and merchant should be sacredly observed,

where the ability remains, whatever may be the madness of ministers.

It is therefore to be hoped the fourth article of the treaty of peace

which stipulates, _that no legal obstruction shall be given to the

payment of debts contracted before the war_, will be punctually

carried into execution, and that every law in every State which

impedes it, may be immediately repealed. Those laws were indeed made

with honest intentions, that the half-ruined debtor, not being too

suddenly pressed by _some_, might have time to arrange and recover

his affairs so as to do justice to _all_ his creditors. But, since

the intention in making those acts has been misapprehended, and the

acts wilfully misconstrued into a design of defrauding them, and now

made a matter of reproach to us, I think it will be right to repeal

them all. Individual Americans may be ruined, but the country will

save by the operation; since these unthinking, merciless creditors

must be contented with all that is to be had, instead of all that may

be due to them, and the accounts will be settled by insolvency. When

all have paid that can pay, I think the remaining British creditors,

who suffered by the inability of their ruined debtors, have some

right to call upon their own government (which by its bad projects

has ruined those debtors) for a compensation. A sum given by

Parliament for this purpose would be more properly disposed, than in

rewarding pretended loyalists, who fomented the war. And, the

heavier the sum, the more tendency it might have to discourage such

destructive projects hereafter.

Among the merchants of Britain, trading formerly to America,

there are to my knowledge many considerate and generous men, who

never joined in this clamour, and who, on the return of peace, though

by the treaty entitled to an immediate suit for their debts, were

kindly disposed to give their debtors reasonable time for restoring

their circumstances, so as to be able to make payment conveniently.

These deserve the most grateful acknowledgments. And indeed it was

in their favour, and perhaps for their sakes in favour of all other

British creditors, that the law of Pennsylvania, though since much

exclaimed against, was made, restraining the recovery of old debts

during a certain time. For this restraint was general, respecting

domestic as well as British debts, it being thought unfair, in cases

where there was not sufficient for all, that the inhabitants, taking

advantage of their nearer situation, should swallow the whole,

excluding foreign creditors from any share. And in cases where the

favourable part of the foreign creditors were disposed to give time,

with the views abovementioned, if others less humane and considerate

were allowed to bring immediate suits and ruin the debtor, those

views would be defeated. When this law expired in September, 1784, a

new one was made, continuing for some time longer the restraint with

respect to domestic debts, but expressly taking it away where the

debt was due from citizens of the State to any of the subjects of

Great Britain; which shows clearly the disposition of the Assembly,

and that the fair intentions above ascribed to them in making the

former act, are not merely the imagination of the writer.

Indeed, the clamour has been much augmented by numbers joining

it, who really had no claim on our country. Every debtor in Britain,

engaged in whatever trade, when he had no better excuse to give for

delay of payment, accused the want of returns from America. And the

indignation, thus excited against us, now appears so general among

the English, that one would imagine their nation, which is so exact

in expecting punctual payment from all the rest of the world, must be

at home the model of justice, the very pattern of punctuality. Yet,

if one were disposed to recriminate, it would not be difficult to

find sufficient Matter in several Parts of their Conduct. But this I

forbear. The two separate Nations are now at Peace, and there can be

no use in mutual Provocations to fresh Enmity. If I have shown

clearly that the present Inability of many American Merchants to

discharge their Debts, contracted before the War, is not so much

their Fault, as the Fault of the crediting Nation, who, by making an

unjust War on them, obstructing their Commerce, plundering and

devastating their Country, were the Cause of that Inability, I have

answered the Purpose of writing this Paper. How far the Refusal of

the British Court to execute the Treaty in delivering up the Frontier

Posts may on account of this Deficiency of Payment, be justifiable,

is chearfully submitted to the World’s impartial Judgment.

1786

_Exception in Favour of British Creditors._

"Sect. 7. And provided also, and be it further enacted by the

authority aforesaid, that this Act, nor any thing therein contained,

shall not extend, or be construed to extend, to any debt or debts

which were due before the fourth day of July, one thousand seven

hundred and seventy-six, by any of the citizens of the State, to any

of the subjects of Great Britain."

THE CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION

_Speech in the Convention on the Subject of Salaries_

SIR,

It is with Reluctance that I rise to express a Disapprobation

of any one Article of the Plan, for which we are so much obliged to

the honourable Gentleman who laid it before us. From its first

Reading, I have borne a good Will to it, and, in general, wish’d it

Success. In this Particular of Salaries to the Executive Branch, I

happen to differ; and, as my Opinion may appear new and chimerical,

it is only from a Persuasion that it is right, and from a Sense of

Duty, that I hazard it. The Committee will judge of my Reasons when

they have heard them, and their judgment may possibly change mine. I

think I see Inconveniences in the Appointment of Salaries; I see none

in refusing them, but on the contrary great Advantages.

Sir, there are two Passions which have a powerful Influence in

the Affairs of Men. These are _Ambition_ and _Avarice_; the Love of

Power and the Love of Money. Separately, each of these has great

Force in prompting Men to Action; but when united in View of the same

Object, they have in many Minds the most violent Effects. Place

before the Eyes of such Men a Post of _Honour_, that shall at the

same time be a Place of _Profit_, and they will move Heaven and Earth

to obtain it. The vast Number of such Places it is that renders the

British Government so tempestuous. The Struggles for them are the

true Source of all those Factions which are perpetually dividing the

Nation, distracting its Councils, hurrying it sometimes into

fruitless and mischievous Wars, and often compelling a Submission to

dishonourable Terms of Peace.

And of what kind are the men that will strive for this

profitable Preeminence, thro’ all the Bustle of Cabal, the Heat of

Contention, the infinite mutual Abuse of Parties, tearing to Pieces

the best of Characters? It will not be the wise and moderate, the

Lovers of Peace and good Order, the men fittest for the Trust. It

will be the Bold and the Violent, the men of strong Passions and

indefatigable Activity in their selfish Pursuits. These will thrust

themselves into your Government, and be your Rulers. And these, too,

will be mistaken in the expected Happiness of their Situation; for

their vanquish’d competitors, of the same Spirit, and from the same

Motives, will perpetually be endeavouring to distress their

Administration, thwart their Measures, and render them odious to the

People.

Besides these Evils, Sir, tho’ we may set out in the Beginning

with moderate Salaries, we shall find, that such will not be of long

Continuance. Reasons will never be wanting for propos’d

Augmentations; and there will always be a Party for giving more to

the Rulers, that the Rulers may be able in Return to give more to

them. Hence, as all History informs us, there has been in every

State and Kingdom a constant kind of Warfare between the Governing

and the Governed; the one striving to obtain more for its Support,

and the other to pay less. And this has alone occasion’d great

Convulsions, actual civil Wars, ending either in dethroning of the

Princes or enslaving of the People. Generally, indeed, the Ruling

Power carries its Point, and we see the Revenues of Princes

constantly increasing, and we see that they are never satisfied, but

always in want of more. The more the People are discontented with

the Oppression of Taxes, the greater Need the Prince has of Money to

distribute among his Partisans, and pay the Troops that are to

suppress all Resistance, and enable him to plunder at Pleasure.

There is scarce a King in a hundred, who would not, if he could,

follow the Example of Pharaoh, — get first all the People’s Money,

then all their Lands, and then make them and their Children Servants

for ever. It will be said, that we do not propose to establish

Kings. I know it. But there is a natural Inclination in Mankind to

kingly Government. It sometimes relieves them from Aristocratic

Domination. They had rather have one Tyrant than 500. It gives more

of the Appearance of Equality among Citizens; and that they like. I

am apprehensive, therefore, — perhaps too apprehensive, — that the

Government of these States may in future times end in a Monarchy.

But this Catastrophe, I think, may be long delay’d, if in our

propos’d System we do not sow the Seeds of Contention, Faction, and

Tumult, by making our Posts of Honour Places of Profit. If we do, I

fear, that, tho’ we employ at first a Number and not a single Person,

the Number will in time be set aside; it will only nourish the

F;oetus of a King (as the honourable Gentleman from Virg’a very aptly

express’d it), and a King will the sooner be set over us.

It may be imagined by some, that this is an Utopian Idea, and

that we can never find Men to serve us in the Executive Department,

without paying them well for their Services. I conceive this to be a

Mistake. Some existing Facts present themselves to me, which incline

me to a contrary Opinion. The High Sheriff of a County in England is

an honourable Office, but it is not a profitable one. It is rather

expensive, and therefore not sought for. But yet it is executed, and

well executed, and usually by some of the principal Gentlemen of the

County. In France, the Office of Counsellor, or Member of their

judiciary Parliaments, is more honourable. It is therefore purchas’d

at a high Price; there are indeed Fees on the Law Proceedings, which

are divided among them, but these Fees do not amount to more than

three per cent on the Sum paid for the Place. Therefore, as legal

Interest is there at five per cent, they in fact pay two per cent for

being allow’d to do the Judiciary Business of the Nation, which is at

the same time entirely exempt from the Burthen of paying them any

Salaries for their Services. I do not, however, mean to recommend

this as an eligible Mode for our judiciary Department. I only bring

the Instance to show, that the Pleasure of doing Good and serving

their Country, and the Respect such Conduct entitles them to, are

sufficient Motives with some Minds, to give up a great Portion of

their Time to the Public, without the mean Inducement of pecuniary

Satisfaction.

Another Instance is that of a respectable Society, who have

made the Experiment, and practis’d it with Success, now more than a

hundred years. I mean the Quakers. It is an establish’d Rule with

them that they are not to go to law, but in their Controversies they

must apply to their Monthly, Quarterly, and Yearly Meetings.

Committees of these sit with Patience to hear the Parties, and spend

much time in composing their Differences. In doing this, they are

supported by a Sense of Duty, and the Respect paid to Usefulness. It

is honourable to be so employ’d, but it was never made profitable by

Salaries, Fees, or Perquisites. And indeed, in all Cases of public

Service, the less the Profit the greater the Honour.

To bring the Matter nearer home, have we not seen the greatest

and most important of our Offices, that of General of our Armies,

executed for Eight Years together, without the smallest Salary, by a

patriot whom I will not now offend by any other Praise; and this,

thro’ Fatigues and Distresses, in common with the other brave Men,

his military Friends and Companions, and the constant Anxieties

peculiar to his Station? And shall we doubt finding three or four

Men in all the United States, with public Spirit enough to bear

sitting in peaceful Council, for perhaps an equal Term, merely to

preside over our civil Concerns, and see that our Laws are duly

executed? Sir, I have a better opinion of our Country. I think we

shall never be without a sufficient Number of wise and good Men to

undertake, and execute well and faithfully, the Office in question.

Sir, the Saving of the Salaries, that may at first be propos’d,

is not an object with me. The subsequent Mischiefs of proposing them

are what I apprehend. And therefore it is that I move the Amendment.

If it is not seconded or accepted, I must be contented with the

Satisfaction of having delivered my Opinion frankly, and done my

Duty.

June 2, 1787

_Speech in a Committee of the Convention on the Proportion of

Representation and Votes_

MR. CHAIRMAN,

It has given me great Pleasure to observe, that, till this

Point, _the Proportion of Representation_, came before us, our

Debates were carry’d on with great Coolness and Temper. If any thing

of a contrary kind has, on this Occasion, appeared, I hope it will

not be repeated; for we are sent hither to _consult_, not to

_contend_, with each other; and Declaration of a fix’d Opinion, and

of determined Resolutions never to change it, neither enlighten nor

convince us. Positiveness and Warmth on one side naturally beget

their like on the other; and tend to create and augment Discord and

Division in a great Concern, wherein Harmony and Union are extremely

necessary, to give Weight to our Counsels, and render them effectual

in promoting and securing the common Good.

I must own, that I was originally of Opinion it would be better

if every Member of Congress, or our national Council, were to

consider himself rather as a Representative of the whole, than as an

Agent for the Interests of a particular State; in which Case the

Proportion of Members for each State would be of less Consequence,

and it would not be very material whether they voted by States or

individually. But as I find this is not to be expected, I now think

the Number of Representatives should bear some Proportion to the

Number of the Represented, and that the Decisions should be by the

Majority of Members, not by the Majority of States. This is objected

to, from an Apprehension that the greater States would then swallow

up the Smaller. I do not at present clearly see what Advantage the

greater States could propose to themselves by swallowing the smaller,

and therefore do not apprehend they would attempt it. I recollect,

that in the Beginning of this Century, when the Union was propos’d of

the two Kingdoms, England and Scotland, the Scotch patriots were full

of Fears, that, unless they had an equal Number of Representatives in

Parliament, they should be ruined by the Superiority of the English.

They finally agreed, however, that the different Proportions of

Importance in the Union of the two Nations should be attended to;

whereby they were to have only Forty Members in the House of Commons,

and only Sixteen of their Peers were to sit in the House of Lords; a

very great Inferiority of Numbers! And yet, to this Day, I do not

recollect that any thing has been done in the Parliament of Great

Britain to the Prejudice of Scotland; and whoever looks over the

Lists of publick Officers, Civil and Military, of that Nation, will

find, I believe, that the North Britons enjoy at least their full

proportion of Emolument.

But, Sir, in the present Mode of Voting by States, it is

equally in the Power of the lesser States to swallow up the greater;

and this is mathematically demonstrable. Suppose, for example, that

7 smaller States had each 3 members in the House, and the Six larger

to have, one with another, 6 Members; and that, upon a Question, two

Members of each smaller State should be in the Affirmative, and one

in the Negative; they will make

Affirmatives, 14 Negatives 7

And that all the large States should

be unanimously in the negative;

they would make Negatives 36

–

In all 43

It is then apparent, that the 14 carry the question against the

43, and the Minority overpowers the Majority, contrary to the common

Practice of Assemblies in all Countries and Ages.

The greater States, Sir, are naturally as unwilling to have

their Property left in the Disposition of the smaller, as the smaller

are to leave theirs in the Disposition of the greater. An honourable

Gentleman has, to avoid this difficulty, hinted a Proposition of

equalizing the States. It appears to me an equitable one; and I

should, for my own Part, not be against such a Measure, if it might

be found practicable. Formerly, indeed, when almost every Province

had a different Constitution, some with greater, others with fewer

Privileges, it was of Importance to the Borderers, when their

Boundaries were contested, whether, by running the Division Lines,

they were placed on one Side or the other. At present, when such

Differences are done away, it is less material. The Interest of a

State is made up of the Interests of its individual Members. If they

are not injured, the State is not injured. Small States are more

easily, well, and happily governed, than large ones. If, therefore,

in such an equal Division, it should be found necessary to diminish

Pennsylvania, I should not be averse to the giving a part of it to N.

Jersey, and another to Delaware: But as there would probably be

considerable Difficulties in adjusting such a Division; and, however

equally made at first, it would be continually varying by the

Augmentation of Inhabitants in some States, and their more fixed

proportion in others, and thence frequent Occasion for new Divisions;

I beg leave to propose for the Consideration of the Committee another

Mode, which appears to me to be as equitable, more easily carry’d

into Practice, and more permanent in its Nature.

Let the weakest State say what Proportion of Money or Force it

is able and willing to furnish for the general Purposes of the Union.

Let all the others oblige themselves to furnish each an equal

Proportion.

The whole of these joint Supplies to be absolutely in the

Disposition of Congress.

The Congress in this Case to be compos’d of an equal Number of

Delegates from each State;

And their Decisions to be by the Majority of individual Members

voting.

If these joint and equal Supplies should, on particular

Occasions, not be sufficient, let Congress make Requisitions on the

richer and more powerful States for further Aids, to be voluntarily

afforded; so leaving each State the Right of considering the

Necessity and Utility of the Aid desired, and of giving more or less,

as it should be found proper.

This Mode is not new; it was formerly practic’d with Success by

the British Government, with respect to Ireland and the Colonies. We

sometimes gave even more than they expected, or thought just to

accept; and in the last War, carried on while we were united, they

gave us back in 5 Years a Million Sterling. We should probably have

continu’d such voluntary Contributions, whenever the Occasions

appear’d to require them for the common Good of the Empire. It was

not till they chose to force us, and to deprive us of the Merit and

Pleasure of voluntary Contributions, that we refus’d and resisted.

Those Contributions, however, were to be dispos’d of at the Pleasure

of a Government in which we had no Representative. I am therefore

persuaded, that they will not be refus’d to one in which the

Representation shall be equal.

My learned Colleague has already mentioned that the present

method of voting by States, was submitted to originally by Congress,

under a Conviction of its Impropriety, Inequality, and Injustice.

This appears in the Words of their Resolution. It is of Sept. 6,

1774. The words are,

"Resolved, That, in determining Questions in this Congress,

each Colony or Province shall have one vote; the Congress not being

possessed of, or at present able to procure, Materials for

ascertaining the Importance of each Colony."

June 11, 1787

_Motion for Prayers in the Convention_

MR. PRESIDENT,

The small Progress we have made, after 4 or 5 Weeks’ close

Attendance and continual Reasonings with each other, our different

Sentiments on almost every Question, several of the last producing as

many _Noes_ as _Ayes_, is, methinks, a melancholy Proof of the

Imperfection of the Human Understanding. We indeed seem to _feel_

our own want of political Wisdom, since we have been running all

about in Search of it. We have gone back to ancient History for

Models of Government, and examin’d the different Forms of those

Republics, which, having been originally form’d with the Seeds of

their own Dissolution, now no longer exist; and we have view’d modern

States all round Europe, but find none of their Constitutions

suitable to our Circumstances.

In this Situation of this Assembly, groping, as it were, in the

dark to find Political Truth, and scarce able to distinguish it when

presented to us, how has it happened, Sir, that we have not hitherto

once thought of humbly applying to the Father of Lights to illuminate

our Understandings? In the Beginning of the Contest with Britain,

when we were sensible of Danger, we had daily Prayers in this Room

for the Divine Protection. Our Prayers, Sir, were heard; — and they

were graciously answered. All of us, who were engag’d in the

Struggle, must have observed frequent Instances of a superintending

Providence in our Favour. To that kind Providence we owe this happy

Opportunity of Consulting in Peace on the Means of establishing our

future national Felicity. And have we now forgotten that powerful

Friend? or do we imagine we no longer need its assistance? I have

lived, Sir, a long time; and the longer I live, the more convincing

proofs I see of this Truth, _that_ GOD _governs in the Affairs of

Men._ And if a Sparrow cannot fall to the Ground without his Notice,

is it probable that an Empire can rise without his Aid? We have been

assured, Sir, in the Sacred Writings, that "except the Lord build the

House, they labour in vain that build it." I firmly believe this; and

I also believe, that, without his concurring Aid, we shall succeed in

this political Building no better than the Builders of Babel; we

shall be divided by our little, partial, local Interests, our

Projects will be confounded, and we ourselves shall become a Reproach

and a Bye-word down to future Ages. And, what is worse, Mankind may

hereafter, from this unfortunate Instance, despair of establishing

Government by human Wisdom, and leave it to Chance, War, and

Conquest.

I therefore beg leave to move,

That henceforth Prayers, imploring the Assistance of Heaven and

its Blessing on our Deliberations, be held in this Assembly every

morning before we proceed to Business; and that one or more of the

Clergy of this city be requested to officiate in that Service. (*)

(*) The convention, except three or four persons, thought

prayers unnecessary!

June 28, 1787

_Speech in the Convention at the Conclusion of its

Deliberations_

MR. PRESIDENT,

I confess, that I do not entirely approve of this Constitution

at present; but, Sir, I am not sure I shall never approve it; for,

having lived long, I have experienced many instances of being

obliged, by better information or fuller consideration, to change my

opinions even on important subjects, which I once thought right, but

found to be otherwise. It is therefore that, the older I grow, the

more apt I am to doubt my own judgment of others. Most men, indeed,

as well as most sects in religion, think themselves in possession of

all truth, and that wherever others differ from them, it is so far

error. Steele, a Protestant, in a dedication, tells the Pope, that

the only difference between our two churches in their opinions of the

certainty of their doctrine, is, the Romish Church is _infallible_,

and the Church of England is _never in the wrong._ But, though many

private Persons think almost as highly of their own infallibility as

of that of their Sect, few express it so naturally as a certain

French Lady, who, in a little dispute with her sister, said, "But I

meet with nobody but myself that is _always_ in the right." _"Je ne

trouve que moi qui aie toujours raison."_

In these sentiments, Sir, I agree to this Constitution, with

all its faults, — if they are such; because I think a general

Government necessary for us, and there is no _form_ of government but

what may be a blessing to the people, if well administered; and I

believe, farther, that this is likely to be well administered for a

course of years, and can only end in despotism, as other forms have

done before it, when the people shall become so corrupted as to need

despotic government, being incapable of any other. I doubt, too,

whether any other Convention we can obtain, may be able to make a

better constitution; for, when you assemble a number of men, to have

the advantage of their joint wisdom, you inevitably assemble with

those men all their prejudices, their passions, their errors of

opinion, their local interests, and their selfish views. From such

an assembly can a _perfect_ production be expected? It therefore

astonishes me, Sir, to find this system approaching so near to

perfection as it does; and I think it will astonish our enemies, who

are waiting with confidence to hear, that our councils are confounded

like those of the builders of Babel, and that our States are on the

point of separation, only to meet hereafter for the purpose of

cutting one another’s throats. Thus I consent, Sir, to this

Constitution, because I expect no better, and because I am not sure

that it is not the best. The opinions I have had of its _errors_ I

sacrifice to the public good. I have never whispered a syllable of

them abroad. Within these walls they were born, and here they shall

die. If every one of us, in returning to our Constituents, were to

report the objections he has had to it, and endeavour to gain

Partisans in support of them, we might prevent its being generally

received, and thereby lose all the salutary effects and great

advantages resulting naturally in our favour among foreign nations,

as well as among ourselves, from our real or apparent unanimity.

Much of the strength and efficiency of any government, in procuring

and securing happiness to the people, depends on _opinion_, on the

general opinion of the goodness of that government, as well as of the

wisdom and integrity of its governors. I hope, therefore, for our

own sakes, as a part of the people, and for the sake of our

posterity, that we shall act heartily and unanimously in recommending

this Constitution, wherever our Influence may extend, and turn our

future thoughts and endeavours to the means of having it _well

administered._

On the whole, Sir, I cannot help expressing a wish, that every

member of the Convention who may still have objections to it, would

with me on this occasion doubt a little of his own infallibility,

and, to make _manifest_ our _unanimity_, put his name to this

Instrument.

September 17, 1787

_On Sending Felons to America_

FOR THE PENNSYLVANIA GAZETTE

SIR,

We may all remember the Time when our Mother Country, as a Mark

of her parental Tenderness, emptied her Jails into our Habitations,

_"for the_ BETTER _Peopling,"_ as she express’d it, _"of the

Colonies."_ It is certain that no due Returns have yet been made for

these valuable Consignments. We are therefore much in her Debt on

that Account; and, as she is of late clamorous for the Payment of all

we owe her, and some of our Debts are of a kind not so easily

discharg’d, I am for doing however what is in our Power. It will

show our good-will as to the rest. The Felons she planted among us

have produc’d such an amazing Increase, that we are now enabled to

make ample Remittance in the same Commodity. And since the

Wheelbarrow Law is not found effectually to reform them, and many of

our Vessels are idle through her Restraints on our Trade, why should

we not employ those Vessels in transporting the Felons to Britain?

I was led into this Thought by perusing the Copy of a Petition

to Parliament, which fell lately by Accident into my Hands. It has

no Date, but I conjecture from some Circumstances, that it must have

been about the year 1767 or 68. (It seems, if presented, it had no

Effect, since the Act passed.) I imagine it may not be unacceptable

to your Readers, and therefore transcribe it for your paper; viz.

To the Honourable th

_Poor Richard Improved_

1748

_Kind Reader,_

The favourable Reception my annual Labours have met with from

the Publick these 15 Years past, has engaged me in Gratitude to

endeavour some Improvement of my Almanack. And since my Friend

_Taylor_ is no more, whose _Ephemerides_ so long and so agreeably

serv’d and entertain’d these Provinces, I have taken the Liberty to

imitate his well-known Method, and give two Pages for each Month;

which affords me Room for several valuable Additions, as will best

appear on Inspection and Comparison with former Almanacks. Yet I have

not so far follow’d his Method, as not to continue my own where I

thought it preferable; and thus my Book is increas’d to a Size beyond

his, and contains much more Matter.

Hail Night serene! thro’ Thee where’er we turn

Our wond’ring Eyes, Heav’n’s Lamps profusely burn;

And Stars unnumber’d all the Sky adorn.

But lo! — what’s that I see appear?

It seems far off a pointed flame;

From Earthwards too the shining Meteor came:

How swift it climbs th’ etherial Space!

And now it traverses each Sphere,

And seems some knowing Mind, familiar to the Place.

Dame, hand my Glass, the longest, strait prepare; –

‘Tis He — ’tis TAYLOR’s Soul, that travels there.

O stay! thou happy Spirit, stay,

And lead me on thro’ all th’ unbeaten Wilds of Day;

Where Planets in pure Streams of Ether driven,

Swim thro’ the blue Expanse of Heav’n.

There let me, thy Companion, stray

From Orb to Orb, and now behold

Unnumber’d Suns, all Seas of molten Gold,

And trace each Comet’s wandring Way. ——

Souse down into Prose again, my Muse; for Poetry’s no more thy

Element, than Air is that of the Flying-Fish; whose Flights, like

thine, are therefore always short and heavy. ——

We complain sometimes of hard Winters in this Country; but our

Winters will appear as Summers, when compar’d with those that some of

our Countrymen undergo in the most Northern _British_ Colony on this

Continent, which is that upon _Churchill_ River, in _Hudson’s Bay_,

Lat. 58d. 56m. Long. from _London_ 94d. 50m. West. Captain

_Middleton_, a Member of the _Royal Society_, who had made many

Voyages thither, and winter’d there 1741 — 2, when he was in Search

of the _North-West_ Passage to the _South-Sea_, gives an Account of

it to that Society, from which I have extracted these Particulars,

_viz._

The Hares, Rabbits, Foxes, and Partridges, in _September_ and

the Beginning of _October_, change their Colour to a snowy White, and

continue white till the following Spring.

The Lakes and standing Waters, which are not above 10 or 12

Feet deep, are frozen to the Ground in Winter, and the Fishes therein

all perish. Yet in Rivers near the Sea, and Lakes of a greater Depth

than 10 or 12 Feet, Fishes are caught all the Winter, by cutting

Holes thro’ the Ice, and therein putting Lines and Hooks. As soon as

the Fish are brought into the open Air, they instantly freeze stiff.

Beef, Pork, Mutton, and Venison, kill’d in the Beginning of the

Winter, are preserved by the Frost for 6 or 7 Months, entirely free

from Putrefaction. Likewise Geese, Partridges, and other Fowls,

kill’d at the same Time, and kept with their Feathers on and Guts in,

are preserv’d by the Frost, and prove good Eating. All Kinds of Fish

are preserv’d in the same Manner.

In large Lakes and Rivers, the Ice is sometimes broken by

imprison’d Vapours; and the Rocks, Trees, Joists, and Rafters of our

Buildings, are burst with a Noise not less terrible than the firing

of many Guns together. The Rocks which are split by the Frost, are

heaved up in great Heaps, leaving large Cavities behind. If Beer or

Water be left even in Copper Pots by the Bed-side, the Pots will be

split before Morning. Bottles of strong Beer, Brandy, strong Brine,

Spirits of Wine, set out in the open Air for 3 or 4 Hours, freeze to

solid Ice. The Frost is never out of the Ground, how deep is not

certain; but on digging 10 or 12 Feet down in the two Summer Months,

it has been found hard frozen.

All the Water they use for Cooking, Brewing, _&c._ is melted

Snow and Ice; no Spring is yet found free from freezing, tho’ dug

ever so deep down. — All Waters inland, are frozen fast by the

Beginning of _October_, and continue so to the Middle of _May._

The Walls of the Houses are of Stone, two Feet thick; the

Windows very small, with thick wooden Shutters, which are close shut

18 Hours every Day in Winter. In the Cellars they put their Wines,

Brandies, _&c._ Four large Fires are made every Day, in great Stoves

to warm the Rooms: As soon as the Wood is burnt down to a Coal, the

Tops of the Chimnies are close stopped, with an Iron Cover; this

keeps the Heat in, but almost stifles the People. And

notwithstanding this, in 4 or 5 Hours after the Fire is out, the

Inside of the Walls and Bed-places will be 2 or 3 Inches thick with

Ice, which is every Morning cut away with a Hatchet. Three or four

Times a Day, Iron Shot, of 24 Pounds Weight, are made red hot, and

hung up in the Windows of their Apartments, to moderate the Air that

comes in at Crevices; yet this, with a Fire kept burning the greatest

Part of 24 Hours, will not prevent Beer, Wine, Ink, _&c._ from

Freezing.

For their Winter Dress, a Man makes use of three Pair of Socks,

of coarse Blanketting, or Duffeld, for the Feet, with a Pair of

Deerskin Shoes over them; two Pair of thick _English_ Stockings, and

a Pair of Cloth Stockings upon them; Breeches lined with Flannel; two

or three _English_ Jackets, and a Fur, or Leather Gown over them; a

large Beaver Cap, double, to come over the Face and Shoulders, and a

Cloth of Blanketting under the Chin; with Yarn Gloves, and a large

Pair of Beaver Mittins, hanging down from the Shoulders before, to

put the Hands in, reaching up as high as the Elbows. Yet

notwithstanding this warm Clothing, those that stir Abroad when any

Wind blows from the Northward, are sometimes dreadfully frozen; some

have their Hands, Arms, and Face blistered and froze in a terrible

Manner, the Skin coming off soon after they enter a warm House, and

some lose their Toes. And keeping House, or lying-in for the Cure of

these Disorders, brings on the Scurvy, which many die of, and few are

free from; nothing preventing it but Exercise and stirring Abroad.

The Fogs and Mists, brought by northerly Winds in Winter,

appear visible to the naked Eye to be Icicles innumerable, as small

as fine Hairs, and pointed as sharp as Needles. These Icicles lodge

in their Clothes, and if their Faces and Hands are uncover’d,

presently raise Blisters as white as a Linnen Cloth, and as hard as

Horn. Yet if they immediately turn their Back to the Weather, and

can bear a Hand out of the Mitten, and with it rub the blister’d Part

for a small Time, they sometimes bring the Skin to its former State;

if not, they make the best of their Way to a Fire, bathe the Part in

hot Water, and thereby dissipate the Humours raised by the frozen

Air; otherwise the Skin wou’d be off in a short Time, with much hot,

serous, watry Matter, coming from under along with the Skin; and this

happens to some almost every Time they go Abroad, for 5 or 6 Months

in the Winter, so extreme cold is the Air, when the Wind blows any

Thing strong. — Thus far Captain _Middleton._ And now, my tender

Reader, thou that shudderest when the Wind blows a little at N-West,

and criest, _’Tis extrrrrrream cohohold! ‘Tis terrrrrrible cohold!_

what dost thou think of removing to that delightful Country? Or dost

thou not rather chuse to stay in _Pennsylvania_, thanking God that

_He has caused thy Lines to fall in pleasant Places._

_I am,

_Thy Friend to serve thee,_

R. SAUNDERS.

______

Robbers must exalted be,

Small ones on the Gallow-Tree,

While greater ones ascend to Thrones,

But what is that to thee or me?

Lost Time is never found again.

______

On the 19th of this Month, _Anno_ 1493, was born the famous

Astronomer _Copernicus_, to whom we owe the Invention, or rather the

Revival (it being taught by _Pythagoras_ near 2000 Years before) of

that now generally receiv’d System of the World which bears his Name,

and supposes the Sun in the Center, this Earth a Planet revolving

round it in 365 Days, 6 Hours, _&c._ and that Day and Night are

caused by the Turning of the Earth on its own Axis once round in 24

h. _&c._ The _Ptolomean_ System, which prevail’d before _Copernicus_,

suppos’d the Earth to be fix’d, and that the Sun went round it daily.

Mr. _Whiston_, a modern Astronomer, says, the Sun is 230,000 times

bigger than the Earth, and 81 Millions of Miles distant from it: That

vast Body must then have mov’d more than 480 Millions of Miles in 24

h. A prodigious Journey round this little Spot! How much more

natural is _Copernicus_’s Scheme! — _Ptolomy_ is compar’d to a

whimsical Cook, who, instead of Turning his Meat in Roasting, should

fix That, and contrive to have his whole Fire, Kitchen and all,

whirling continually round it.

______

To lead a virtuous Life, my Friends, and get to Heaven

in Season,

You’ve just so much more Need of _Faith_, as you have

less of _Reason._

To avoid Pleurisies, _&c._ in cool Weather; Fevers, Fluxes,

_&c._ in hot; beware of _Over-Eating_ and _Over-Heating._

The Heathens when they dy’d, went to Bed without a Candle.

Knaves & Nettles are akin;

stroak ‘em kindly, yet they’ll sting.

______

On the 20th of this month, 1727, died the prince of astronomers

and philosophers, sir _Isaac Newton_, aged 85 years: Who, as

_Thomson_ expresses it, _Trac’d the boundless works of God, from laws

sublimely simple._

What were his raptures then! how pure! how strong!

And what the triumphs of old _Greece_ and _Rome_,

By his diminish’d, but the pride of boys

In some small fray victorious! when instead

Of shatter’d parcels of this earth usurp’d

By violence unmanly, and sore deeds

Of cruelty and blood; _Nature_ herself

Stood all-subdu’d by him, and open laid

Her every latent glory to his view.

Mr. _Pope_’s epitaph on sir _Isaac Newton_, is justly admired

for its conciseness, strength, boldness, and sublimity:

Nature and nature’s laws lay hid in night;

God said, _Let_ NEWTON _be_, and all was light.

______

Life with Fools consists in Drinking;

With the wise Man Living’s Thinking.

Eilen thut selten gut.

______

On the 25th of this month, _Anno_ 1599, was OLIVER CROMWELL

born, the son of a private gentleman, but became the conqueror and

protector (some say the tyrant) of three great kingdoms. His son

_Richard_ succeeded him, but being of an easy peaceable disposition,

he soon descended from that lofty station, and became a private man,

living, unmolested, to a good old age; for he died not till about the

latter end of queen _Anne_’s reign, at his lodgings in

_Lombard-street_, where he had lived many years unknown, and seen

great changes in government, and violent struggles for that, which,

by experience, he knew could afford no solid happiness.

_Oliver_ was once about to remove to _New-England_, his goods

being on shipboard; but somewhat alter’d his mind. There he would

doubtless have risen to be a _Select Man_, perhaps a _Governor_; and

then might have had 100 bushels of _Indian_ corn _per Annum_, the

salary of a governor of that then small colony in those days.

______

_Sell-cheap_ kept Shop on _Goodwin Sands_, and yet had Store of

Custom.

_Liberality_ is not giving much but giving wisely.

Finikin _Dick_, curs’d with nice Taste,

Ne’er meets with good dinner, half starv’d at a feast.

Alas! that Heroes ever were made!

The _Plague_, and the _Hero_, are both of a Trade!

Yet the Plague spares our Goods which the Heroe does not;

So a Plague take such Heroes and let their Fames rot.

_Q. P. D._

______

The 19th of this month, 1719, died the celebrated _Joseph

Addison_, Esq; aged 47, whose writings have contributed more to the

improvement of the minds of the _British_ nation, and polishing their

manners, than those of any other _English_ pen whatever.

______

To Friend, Lawyer, Doctor, tell plain your whole Case;

Nor think on bad Matters to put a good Face:

How can they advise, if they see but a Part?

‘Tis very ill driving black Hogs in the dark.

Suspicion may be no Fault, but shewing it may be a great one.

He that’s secure is not safe.

The second Vice is Lying; the first is Running in Debt.

The Muses love the Morning.

______

_Muschitoes_, or _Musketoes_, a little venomous fly, so light,

that perhaps 50 of them, before they’ve fill’d their bellies, scarce

weigh a grain, yet each has all the parts necessary to life, motion,

digestion, generation, _&c._ as veins, arteries, muscles, _&c._ each

has in his little body room for the five senses of seeing, hearing,

feeling, smelling, tasting: How inconceivably small must their organs

be! How inexpressibly fine the workmanship! And yet there are

little animals discovered by the microscope, to whom a _Musketo_ is

an _Elephant_! — In a scarce summer any citizen may provide

Musketoes sufficient for his own family, by leaving tubs of

rain-water uncover’d in his yard; for in such water they lay their

eggs, which when hatch’d, become first little fish, afterwards put

forth legs and wings, leave the water, and fly into your windows.

_Probatum est._

Two Faults of one a Fool will make;

He half repairs, that owns & does forsake.

_Harry Smatter_,

has a Mouth for every Matter.

When you’re good to others, you are best to yourself.

Half Wits talk much but say little.

If _Jack’s_ in love, he’s no judge of _Jill_’s Beauty.

Most Fools think they are only ignorant.

______

On the 14th of this month, _Anno_ 1644, was born WILLIAM PENN,

the great founder of this Province; who prudently and benevolently

sought success to himself by no other means, than securing the

_liberty_, and endeavouring the _happiness_ of his people. Let no

envious mind grudge his posterity those advantages which arise to

them from the wisdom and goodness of their ancestor; and to which

their own merit, as well as the laws, give them an additional title.

______

On the 28th, _Anno_ 1704, died the famous _John Locke_, Esq;

the _Newton_ of the _Microcosm_: For, as _Thomson_ says,

_He made the whole_ internal world _his own._

His book on the _Human Understanding_, shows it. _Microcosm_,

honest reader, is a hard word, and, they say, signifies the _little

world_, man being so called, as containing within himself the four

elements of the _greater_, &c. &c. I here explain _Greek_ to thee by

_English_, which, I think, is rather a more intelligible way, than

explaining _English_ by _Greek_, as a certain writer does, who

gravely tells us, _Man is rightly called_ a little world, _because he

is a_ Microcosm.

______

On the 29th, _Anno_ 1618, was the famous sir _Walter Rawleigh_

beheaded; to the eternal shame of the attorney-general, who first

prosecuted him, and of the king, who ratify’d the sentence.

______

How happy is he, who can satisfy his hunger with any

food, quench his thirst with any drink, please his ear with any

musick, delight his eye with any painting, any sculpture, any

architecture, and divert his mind with any book or any company! How

many mortifications must he suffer, that cannot bear any thing but

beauty, order, elegance & perfection! _Your man of_ taste, _is

nothing but a man of_ distaste.

______

Pardoning the Bad, is injuring the Good.

He is not well-bred, that cannot bear Ill-Breeding in others.

In Christmas feasting pray take care;

Let not your table be a Snare;

but with the Poor God’s Bounty share.

.

PHILADELPHIA 1726-1757

by Benjamin Franklin

_Articles of Belief and Acts of Religion_

IN TWO PARTS.

Here will I hold —— If there is a Pow’r above us

(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud,

Thro’ all her Works), He must delight in Virtue

And that which he delights in must be Happy. Cato.

PART I.

Philada.

Nov. 20 1728.

First Principles

I believe there is one Supreme most perfect Being, Author and

Father of the Gods themselves.

For I believe that Man is not the most perfect Being but One,

rather that as there are many Degrees of Beings his Inferiors, so

there are many Degrees of Beings superior to him.

Also, when I stretch my Imagination thro’ and beyond our System

of Planets, beyond the visible fix’d Stars themselves, into that

Space that is every Way infinite, and conceive it fill’d with Suns

like ours, each with a Chorus of Worlds for ever moving round him,

then this little Ball on which we move, seems, even in my narrow

Imagination, to be almost Nothing, and my self less than nothing, and

of no sort of Consequence.

When I think thus, I imagine it great Vanity in me to suppose,

that the _Supremely Perfect_, does in the least regard such an

inconsiderable Nothing as Man. More especially, since it is

impossible for me to have any positive clear Idea of that which is

infinite and incomprehensible, I cannot conceive otherwise, than that

He, _the Infinite Father_, expects or requires no Worship or Praise

from us, but that he is even INFINITELY ABOVE IT.

But since there is in all Men something like a natural

Principle which enclines them to DEVOTION or the Worship of some

unseen Power;

And since Men are endued with Reason superior to all other

Animals that we are in our World acquainted with;

Therefore I think it seems required of me, and my Duty, as a

Man, to pay Divine Regards to SOMETHING.

I CONCEIVE then, that the INFINITE has created many Beings or

Gods, vastly superior to Man, who can better conceive his Perfections

than we, and return him a more rational and glorious Praise. As

among Men, the Praise of the Ignorant or of Children, is not regarded

by the ingenious Painter or Architect, who is rather honour’d and

pleas’d with the Approbation of Wise men and Artists.

It may be that these created Gods, are immortal, or it may be

that after many Ages, they are changed, and Others supply their

Places.

Howbeit, I conceive that each of these is exceeding wise, and

good, and very powerful; and that Each has made for himself, one

glorious Sun, attended with a beautiful and admirable System of

Planets.

It is that particular wise and good God, who is the Author and

Owner of our System, that I propose for the Object of my Praise and

Adoration.

For I conceive that he has in himself some of those Passions he

has planted in us, and that, since he has given us Reason whereby we

are capable of observing his Wisdom in the Creation, he is not above

caring for us, being pleas’d with our Praise, and offended when we

slight Him, or neglect his Glory.

I conceive for many Reasons that he is a _good Being_, and as I

should be happy to have so wise, good and powerful a Being my Friend,

let me consider in what Manner I shall make myself most acceptable to

him.

Next to the Praise due, to his Wisdom, I believe he is pleased

and delights in the Happiness of those he has created; and since

without Virtue Man (*) can have no Happiness in this World, I firmly

believe he delights to see me Virtuous, because he is pleas’d when he

sees me Happy.

(*) See Junto Paper of Good and Evil, &c.

And since he has created many Things which seem purely design’d

for the Delight of Man, I believe he is not offended when he sees his

Children solace themselves in any manner of pleasant Exercises and

innocent Delights, and I think no Pleasure innocent that is to Man

hurtful.

I _love_ him therefore for his Goodness and I _adore_ him for

his Wisdom.

Let me then not fail to praise my God continually, for it is

his Due, and it is all I can return for his many Favours and great

Goodness to me; and let me resolve to be virtuous, that I may be

happy, that I may please Him, who is delighted to see me happy.

Amen.

1. Adoration. 2. Petition. 3. Thanks.

Prel.

Being mindful that before I address the DEITY, my Soul ought to

be calm and Serene, free from Passion and Perturbation, or otherwise

elevated with Rational Joy and Pleasure, I ought to use a Countenance

that expresses a filial Respect, mixt with a kind of Smiling, that

signifies inward Joy, and Satisfaction, and Admiration.

O wise God,

My good Father,

Thou beholdest the Sincerity of my Heart,

And of my Devotion;

Grant me a Continuance of thy Favour!

(1)

Powerful Goodness, &c.

O Creator, O Father, I believe that thou art Good, and that

thou art _pleas’d with the Pleasure_ of thy Children.

Praised be thy Name for Ever.

(2)

By thy Power hast thou made the glorious Sun, with his

attending Worlds; from the Energy of thy mighty Will they first

received their prodigious Motion, and by thy Wisdom hast thou

prescribed the wondrous Laws by which they move.

Praised be thy Name for ever.

(3)

By thy Wisdom hast thou formed all Things, Thou hast created

Man, bestowing Life and Reason, and plac’d him in Dignity superior to

thy other earthly Creatures.

Praised be thy Name for ever.

(4)

Thy Wisdom, thy Power, and thy GOODNESS are every where clearly

seen; in the Air and in the Water, in the Heavens and on the Earth;

Thou providest for the various winged Fowl, and the innumerable

Inhabitants of the Water; Thou givest Cold and Heat, Rain and

Sunshine in their Season, and to the Fruits of the Earth Increase.

Praised be thy Name for ever.

(5)

I believe thou hast given Life to thy Creatures that they might

Live, and art not delighted with violent Death and bloody Sacrifices.

Praised be thy Name for Ever.

(6)

Thou abhorrest in thy Creatures Treachery and Deceit, Malice,

Revenge, Intemperance and every other hurtful Vice; but Thou art a

Lover of Justice and Sincerity, of Friendship, Benevolence and every

Virtue. Thou art my Friend, my Father, and my Benefactor.

Praised be thy Name, O God, for Ever.

Amen.

After this, it will not be improper to read part of some such

Book as Ray’s Wisdom of God in the Creation or Blacmore on the

Creation, or the Archbishop of Cambray’s Demonstration of the Being

of a God; &c. or else spend some Minutes in a serious Silence,

contemplating on those Subjects.

Then Sing

Milton’s Hymn to the Creator

These are thy Glorious Works, Parent of Good!

Almighty: Thine this Universal Frame,

Thus wondrous fair! Thy self how wondrous then!

Speak ye who best can tell, Ye Sons of Light,

Angels, for ye behold him, and with Songs,

And Choral Symphonies , Day without Night

Circle his Throne rejoicing. You in Heav’n,

On Earth, join all Ye Creatures to extol

Him first, him last, him midst and without End.

Fairest of Stars, last in the Train of Night,

If rather thou belongst not to the Dawn,

Sure Pledge of Day! That crown’st the smiling Morn

With thy bright Circlet; Praise him in thy Sphere

While Day arises, that sweet Hour of Prime.

Thou Sun, of this Great World both Eye and Soul

Acknowledge Him thy Greater, Sound his Praise

In thy Eternal Course; both when thou climb’st,

And when high Noon hast gain’d, and when thou fall’st.

Moon! that now meet’st the orient Sun, now fly’st

With the fix’d Stars, fix’d in their Orb that flies,

And ye five other Wandring Fires, that move

In mystic Dance, not without Song, resound

His Praise, that out of Darkness call’d up Light.

Air! and ye Elements! the Eldest Birth

Of Nature’s Womb, that in Quaternion run

Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix

And nourish all Things, let your ceaseless Change

Vary to our great Maker still new Praise.

Ye Mists and Exhalations! that now rise

From Hill or steaming Lake, dusky or grey,

Till the Sun paint your fleecy Skirts with Gold,

In Honour to the World’s Great Author rise.

Whether to deck with Clouds th’ uncolour’d Sky

Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling Show’rs,

Rising or falling still advance his Praise.

His Praise, ye Winds! that from 4 Quarters blow,

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your Tops ye Pines!

With every Plant, in Sign of Worship wave.

Fountains! and ye that warble as ye flow

Melodious Murmurs, warbling tune his Praise.

Join Voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds!

That singing, up to Heav’n’s high Gate ascend,

Bear on your Wings, and in your Notes his Praise.

Ye that in Waters glide! and ye that walk

The Earth! and stately Tread, or lowly Creep;

Witness _if I be silent_, Ev’n orain or Fresh Shade,

Made Vocal by my Song, and taught his Praise.

Here follows the Reading of some Book or part of a Book

Discoursing on and exciting to MORAL VIRTUR

Petition.

Prel.

In as much as by Reason of our Ignorance We cannot be Certain

that many Things Which we often hear mentioned in the Petitions of

Men to the Deity, would prove REAL GOODS if they were in our

Possession, and as I have Reason to hope and believe that the

Goodness of my Heavenly Father will not withold from me a suitable

Share of Temporal Blessings, if by a VIRTUOUS and HOLY Life I merit

his Favour and Kindness, Therefore I presume not to ask such Things,

but rather Humbly, and with a sincere Heart express my earnest

Desires that he would graciously assist my Continual Endeavours and

Resolutions of eschewing Vice and embracing Virtue; Which kind of

Supplications will at least be thus far beneficial, as they remind me

in a solemn manner of my Extensive DUTY.

That I may be preserved from Atheism and Infidelity, Impiety

and Profaneness, and in my Addresses to Thee carefully avoid

Irreverence and Ostentation, Formality and odious Hypocrisy,

Help me, O Father

That I may be loyal to my Prince, and faithful to my Country,

careful for its Good, valiant in its Defence, and obedient to its

Laws, abhorring Treason as much as Tyranny,

Help me, O Father

That I may to those above me be dutiful, humble, and

submissive, avoiding Pride, Disrespect and Contumacy,

Help me, O Father

That I may to those below me, be gracious, Condescending and

Forgiving, using Clemency, protecting _Innocent Distress_, avoiding

Cruelty, Harshness and Oppression, Insolence and unreasonable

Severity,

Help me, O Father

That I may refrain from Calumny and Detraction; that I may

avoid and abhor Deceit and Envy, Fraud, Flattery and Hatred, Malice,

Lying and Ingratitude,

Help me, O Father

That I may be sincere in Friendship, faithful in Trust, and

impartial in Judgment, watchful against Pride, and against Anger

(that momentary Madness),

Help me, O Father

That I may be just in all my Dealings and temperate in my

Pleasures, full of Candour and Ingenuity, Humanity and Benevolence,

Help me, O Father

That I may be grateful to my Benefactors and generous to my

Friends, exerting Charity and Liberality to the Poor, and Pity to the

Miserable,

Help me, O Father

That I may avoid Avarice, Ambition, and Intemperance, Luxury

and Lasciviousness,

Help me, O Father

That I may possess Integrity and Evenness of Mind, Resolution

in Difficulties, and Fortitude under Affliction; that I may be

punctual in performing my Promises, peaceable and prudent in my

Behaviour,

Help me, O Father

That I may have Tenderness for the Weak, and a reverent Respect

for the Ancient; That I may be kind to my Neighbours, good-natured to

my Companions, and hospitable to Strangers,

Help me, O Father

That I may be averse to Craft and Overreaching, abhor

Extortion, Perjury, and every kind of Wickedness,

Help me, O Father

That I may be honest and Openhearted, gentle, merciful and

Good, chearful in Spirit, rejoicing in the Good of Others,

Help me, O Father

That I may have a constant Regard to Honour and Probity; That I

may possess a perfect Innocence and a good Conscience, and at length

become Truly Virtuous and Magnanimous, Help me, Good God,

Help me, O Father

And forasmuch as Ingratitude is one of the most odious of

Vices, let me not be unmindful gratefully to acknoledge the Favours I

receive from Heaven.

Thanks.

For Peace and Liberty, for Food and Raiment, for Corn and Wine,

and Milk, and every kind of Healthful Nourishment, _Good God, I Thank

thee._

For the Common Benefits of Air and Light, for useful Fire and

delicious Water, _Good God, I Thank thee._

For Knowledge and Literature and every useful Art; for my

Friends and their Prosperity, and for the fewness of my Enemies,

_Good God, I Thank thee._

For all thy innumerable Benefits; For Life and Reason, and the

Use of Speech, for Health and Joy and every Pleasant Hour, _my Good

God, I thank thee._

End of the first Part.

_Epitaph_

The Body of

B. Franklin,

Printer;

Like the Cover of an old Book,

Its Contents torn out,

And stript of its Lettering and Gilding,

Lies here, Food for Worms.

But the Work shall not be wholly lost:

For it will, as he believ’d, appear once more,

In a new & more perfect Edition,

Corrected and amended

By the Author.

He was born Jan. 6. 1706.

Died 17

1728

_The Busy-Body, No. 1_

Mr. _Andrew Bradford_,

I design this to acquaint you, that I, who have long been one

of your _Courteous Readers_, have lately entertain’d some Thoughts of

setting up for an Author my Self; not out of the least Vanity, I

assure you, or Desire of showing my Parts, but purely for the Good of

my Country.

I have often observ’d with Concern, that your _Mercury_ is not

always equally entertaining. The Delay of Ships expected in, and

want of fresh Advices from _Europe_, make it frequently very Dull;

and I find the Freezing of our River has the same Effect on News as

on Trade. — With more Concern have I continually observ’d the

growing Vices and Follies of my Country-folk. And tho’ Reformation

is properly the concern of every Man; that is, _Every one ought to

mend One_; yet ’tis too true in this Case, that _what is every Body’s

Business is no Body’s Business_, and the Business is done

accordingly. I, therefore, upon mature Deliberation, think fit to

take _no Body’s Business_ wholly into my own Hands; and, out of Zeal

for the Publick Good, design to erect my Self into a Kind of _Censor

Morum_; proposing with your Allowance, to make Use of the _Weekly

Mercury_ as a Vehicle in which my Remonstrances shall be convey’d to

the World.

I am sensible I have, in this Particular, undertaken a very

unthankful Office, and expect little besides my Labour for my Pains.

Nay, ’tis probable I may displease a great Number of your Readers,

who will not very well like to pay 10 s a Year for being told of

their Faults. But as most People delight in Censure when they

themselves are not the Objects of it, if any are offended at my

publickly exposing their private Vices, I promise they shall have the

Satisfaction, in a very little Time, of seeing their good Friends and

Neighbours in the same Circumstances.

However, let the Fair Sex be assur’d, that I shall always treat

them and their Affairs with the utmost _Decency_ and Respect. I

intend now and then to dedicate a Chapter wholly to their Service;

and if my Lectures any Way contribute to the Embellishment of their

Minds, and Brightning of their Understandings, without offending

their _Modesty_, I doubt not of having their Favour and

Encouragement.

‘Tis certain, that no Country in the World produces naturally

finer Spirits than ours, Men of Genius for every kind of Science, and

capable of acquiring to Perfection every Qualification that is in

Esteem among Mankind. But as few here have the Advantage of good

Books, for want of which, good Conversation is still more scarce, it

would doubtless have been very acceptable to your Readers, if,

instead of an old out-of-date Article from _Muscovy_ or _Hungary_,

you had entertained them with some well-chosen Extract from a good

Author. This I shall sometimes do, _when I happen to have nothing of

my own to say that I think of more Consequence._ Sometimes, I propose

to deliver Lectures of Morality or Philosophy, and (because I am

naturally enclin’d to be meddling with Things that don’t concern me)

perhaps I may sometimes talk Politicks. And if I can by any means

furnish out a Weekly Entertainment for the Publick, that will give a

rational Diversion, and at the same Time be instructive to the

Readers, I shall think my Leisure Hours well employ’d: And if you

publish this I hereby invite all ingenious Gentlemen and others,

(that approve of such an Undertaking) to my Assistance and

Correspondence.

‘Tis like by this Time you have a Curiosity to be acquainted

with my Name and Character. As I do not aim at publick Praise I

design to remain concealed; and there are such Numbers of our Family

and Relations at this Time in the Country, that tho’ I’ve sign’d my

Name at full Length, I am not under the least Apprehension of being

distinguish’d and discover’d by it. My Character indeed I would

favour you with, but that I am cautious of praising my Self, lest I

should be told _my Trumpeter’s dead_: And I cannot find in my Heart,

at present, to say any Thing to my own Disadvantage.

It is very common with Authors in their First Performances to

talk to their Readers thus, _If this meets with a SUITABLE

_Reception_; Or, _If this should meet with DUE _Encouragement, I

shall hereafter publish, &c._ This only manifests the Value they put

on their own Writings, since they think to frighten the Publick into

their Applause, by threatning, that unless you approve what they have

already wrote, they intend never to write again; when perhaps, it

mayn’t be a Pin Matter whether they ever do or no. As I have not

observ’d the Criticks to be more favourable on this Account, I shall

always avoid saying any Thing of the Kind; and conclude with telling

you, that if you send me a Bottle of Ink and a Quire of Paper by the

Bearer, you may depend on hearing further from

SIR,

Your most humble Servant

_The Busy Body._

_No 1_.

_The American Weekly Mercury_, February 4, 1728/9

_The Busy-Body, No. 2_

_All Fools have still an Itching to deride;

And fain would be upon the laughing Side._ Pope.

Monsieur _Rochefocaut_ tells us somewhere in his Memoirs, that

the Prince of _Conde_ delighted much in Ridicule; and us’d frequently

to shut himself up for Half a Day together in his Chamber with a

Gentleman that was his Favourite, purposely to divert himself with

examining what was the Foible or ridiculous side of every Noted

Person in the Court. That Gentleman said afterwards in some Company,

that he thought nothing was more ridiculous in any Body, than this

same Humour in the Prince; and I am somewhat inclin’d to be of his

Opinion. The General Tendency there is among us to this

Embellishment, (which I fear has too often been grossly imposed upon

my loving Countrymen instead of Wit) and the Applause it meets with

from a rising Generation, fill me with fearful Apprehensions for the

future Reputation of my Country: A young Man of Modesty (which is the

most certain Indication of large Capacities) is hereby discourag’d

from attempting to make any Figure in Life: His Apprehensions of

being out-laugh’d, will force him to continue in a restless

Obscurity, without having an Opportunity of knowing his own Merit

himself, or discovering it to the World, rather than venture to

expose himself in a Place where a Pun or a Sneer shall pass for Wit,

Noise for Reason, and the Strength of the Argument be judg’d by that

of the Lungs. Among these witty Gentlemen let us take a View of

_Ridentius_: What a contemptible Figure does he make with his Train

of paultry Admirers? This Wight shall give himself an Hours

Diversion with the Cock of a Man’s Hat, the Heels of his Shoes, an

unguarded Expression in his Discourse, or even some Personal Defect;

and the Height of his low Ambition is to put some One of the Company

to the Blush, who perhaps must pay an equal Share of the Reckoning

with himself. If such a Fellow makes Laughing the sole End and

Purpose of his Life, if it is necessary to his Constitution, or if he

has a great Desire of growing suddenly fat, let him treat; let him

give publick Notice where any dull stupid Rogues may get a Quart of

Four-penny for being laugh’d at; but ’tis barbarously unhandsome,

when Friends meet for the Benefit of Conversation, and a proper

Relaxation from Business, that one should be the _Butt_ of the

Company, and Four Men made merry at the Cost of the Fifth.

How different from this Character is that of the good-natur’d

gay _Eugenius_? who never spoke yet but with a Design to divert and

please; and who was never yet baulk’d in his Intention. _Eugenius_

takes more Delight in applying the Wit of his Friends, than in being

admir’d himself: And if any one of the Company is so unfortunate as

to be touch’d a little too nearly, he will make Use of some ingenious

Artifice to turn the Edge of Ridicule another Way, chusing rather to

make even himself a publick Jest, than be at the Pain of seeing his

Friend in Confusion.

Among the Tribe of Laughers I reckon the _pretty Gentlemen_

that write _Satyrs_, and carry them about in their Pockets, reading

them themselves in all Company they happen into; taking an Advantage

of the ill Taste of the Town, to make themselves famous for a Pack of

paultry low Nonsence, for which they deserve to be kick’d, rather

than admir’d, by all who have the least Tincture of Politeness.

These I take to be the most incorrigible of all my Readers; nay I

expect they will be squibbing at the _BUSY-BODY_ himself: However the

only Favour he begs of them is this; that if they cannot controul

their over-bearing Itch of _Scribbling_, let him be attack’d in down

right _BITING LYRICKS_; for there is no _Satyr_ he Dreads half so

much as an Attempt towards a Panegyrick.

_The American Weekly Mercury_, February 11, 1728/9

_The Busy-Body, No. 3_

_Non vultus instantis Tyranni

Mente quatit solida — neque Auster

Dux inquieti turbidus Adriae,

Nec fulminantis magna Jovis manus._ Hor.

It is said that the _Persians_ in their ancient Constitution,

had publick Schools in which Virtue was taught as a Liberal Art or

Science; and it is certainly of more Consequence to a Man that he has

learnt to govern his Passions; in spite of Temptation to be just in

his Dealings, to be Temperate in his Pleasures, to support himself

with Fortitude under his Misfortunes, to behave with Prudence in all

Affairs and in every Circumstance of Life; I say, it is of much more

real Advantage to him to be thus qualified, than to be a Master of

all the Arts and Sciences in the World beside.

_Virtue alone is sufficient to make a Man Great, Glorious and

Happy._ — He that is acquainted with _CATO_, as I am, cannot help

thinking as I do now, and will acknowledge he deserves the Name

without being honour’d by it. _Cato_ is a Man whom Fortune has

plac’d in the most obscure Part of the Country. His Circumstances

are such as only put him above Necessity, without affording him many

Superfluities; Yet who is greater than _Cato_? — I happened but the

other Day to be at a House in Town, where among others were met Men

of the most Note in this Place: _Cato_ had Business with some of

them, and knock’d at the Door. The most trifling Actions of a Man,

in my Opinion, as well as the smallest Features and Lineaments of the

Face, give a nice Observer some Notion of his Mind. Methought he

rapp’d in such a peculiar Manner, as seem’d of itself to express,

there was One who deserv’d as well as desir’d Admission. He appear’d

in the plainest Country Garb; his Great Coat was coarse and looked

old and thread-bare; his Linnen was homespun; his Beard perhaps of

Seven Days Growth, his Shoes thick and heavy, and every Part of his

Dress corresponding. Why was this Man receiv’d with such concurring

Respect from every Person in the Room, even from those who had never

known him or seen him before? It was not an exquisite Form of

Person, or Grandeur of Dress that struck us with Admiration. I

believe long Habits of Virtue have a sensible Effect on the

Countenance: There was something in the Air of his Face that

manifested the true Greatness of his Mind; which likewise appear’d in

all he said, and in every Part of his Behaviour, obliging us to

regard him with a Kind of Veneration. His Aspect is sweetned with

Humanity and Benevolence, and at the same Time emboldned with

Resolution, equally free from a diffident Bashfulness and an

unbecoming Assurance. The Consciousness of his own innate Worth and

unshaken Integrity renders him calm and undaunted in the Presence of

the most Great and Powerful, and upon the most extraordinary

Occasions. His strict Justice and known Impartiality make him the

Arbitrator and Decider of all Differences that arise for many Miles

around him, without putting his Neighbours to the Charge, Perplexity

and Uncertainty of Law-Suits. He always speaks the Thing he means,

which he is never afraid or asham’d to do, because he knows he always

means well; and therefore is never oblig’d to blush and feel the

Confusion of finding himself detected in the Meanness of a Falshood.

He never contrives Ill against his Neighbour, and therefore is never

seen with a lowring suspicious Aspect. A mixture of Innocence and

Wisdom makes him ever seriously chearful. His generous Hospitality

to Strangers according to his Ability, his Goodness, his Charity, his

Courage in the Cause of the Oppressed, his Fidelity in Friendship,

his Humility, his Honesty and Sincerity, his Moderation and his

Loyalty to the Government, his Piety, his Temperance, his Love to

Mankind, his Magnanimity, his Publick-spiritedness, and in fine, his

_Consummate Virtue_, make him justly deserve to be esteem’d the Glory

of his Country.

—— _The Brave do never shun the Light,

Just are their Thoughts and open are their Tempers;

Freely without Disguise they love and hate;

Still are they found in the fair Face of Day,

And Heaven and Men are Judges of their Actions._

Rowe.

Who would not rather chuse, if it were in his Choice, to merit

the above Character, than be the richest, the most learned, or the

most powerful Man in the Province without it?

Almost every Man has a strong natural Desire of being valu’d

and esteem’d by the rest of his Species; but I am concern’d and

griev’d to see how few fall into the Right and only infallible Method

of becoming so. That laudable Ambition is too commonly misapply’d

and often ill employ’d. Some to make themselves considerable pursue

Learning, others grasp at Wealth, some aim at being thought witty,

and others are only careful to make the most of an handsome Person;

But what is Wit, or Wealth, or Form, or Learning when compar’d with

Virtue? ‘Tis true, we love the handsome, we applaud the Learned, and

we fear the Rich and Powerful; but we even Worship and adore the

Virtuous. — Nor is it strange; since Men of Virtue, are so rare, so

very rare to be found. If we were as industrious to become Good, as

to make ourselves Great, we should become really Great by being Good,

and the Number of valuable Men would be much increased; but it is a

Grand Mistake to think of being Great without Goodness; and I

pronounce it as certain, _that there was never yet a truly Great Man

that was not at the same Time truly Virtuous._

O _Cretico_! Thou sowre Philosopher! Thou cunning States-man!

Thou art crafty, but far from being Wise. When wilt thou be

esteem’d, regarded and belov’d like _Cato_? When wilt thou, among

thy Creatures meet with that unfeign’d Respect and warm Good-will

that all Men have for him? Wilt thou never understand that the

cringing, mean, submissive Deportment of thy Dependants, is (like the

Worship paid by _Indians_ to the Devil) rather thro’ Fear of the Harm

thou may’st do to them, than out of Gratitude for the Favours they

have receiv’d of thee? — Thou art not wholly void of Virtue; there

are many good Things in thee, and many good Actions reported of thee.

Be advised by thy Friend: Neglect those musty Authors; let them be

cover’d with Dust, and moulder on their proper Shelves; and do thou

apply thy self to a Study much more profitable, The Knowledge of

Mankind, and of thy Self.

_This is to give Notice that the BUSY-BODY strictly forbids all

Persons, from this Time forward, of what Age, Sex, Rank, Quality,

Degree or Denomination soever, on any Pretence to enquire who is the

Author of this Paper, on Pain of his Displeasure, (his own near and

Dear Relations only excepted)._

_’Tis to be observ’d that if any bad Characters happen to be

drawn in the Course of these Papers, they mean no particular Person,

if they are not particularly apply’d._

_Likewise that the Author is no Partyman, but a general

Meddler._

N. B. Cretico _lives in a neighbouring Province_.

_The American Weekly Mercury_, February 18, 1728/9

_The Busy-Body, No. 4_

_Nequid nimis._

In my first Paper I invited the Learned and the Ingenious to

join with me in this Undertaking; and I now repeat that Invitation.

I would have such Gentlemen take this Opportunity, (by trying their

Talent in Writing) of diverting themselves and their Friends, and

improving the Taste of the Town. And because I would encourage all

Wit of our own Growth and Produce, I hereby promise, that whoever

shall send me a little Essay on some moral or other Subject, that is

fit for publick View in this Manner (and not basely borrow’d from any

other Author) I shall receive it with Candour, and take Care to place

it to the best Advantage. It will be hard if we cannot muster up in

the whole Country, a sufficient Stock of Sense to supply the

_Busy-Body_ at least for a Twelvemonth. For my own Part, I have

already profess’d that I have the Good of my Country wholly at Heart

in this Design, without the least sinister View; my chief Purpose

being to inculcate the noble Principles of Virtue, and depreciate

Vice of every kind. But as I know the Mob hate Instruction, and the

Generality would never read beyond the first Line of my Lectures, if

they were usually fill’d with nothing but wholesome Precepts and

Advice; I must therefore sometimes humour them in their own Way.

There are a Set of Great Names in the Province, who are the common

Objects of Popular Dislike. If I can now and then overcome my

Reluctance, and prevail with my self to Satyrize a little, one of

these Gentlemen, the Expectation of meeting with such a

Gratification, will induce many to read me through, who would

otherwise proceed immediately to the Foreign News. As I am very well

assured that the greatest Men among us have a sincere Love for their

Country, notwithstanding its Ingratitude, and the Insinuations of the

Envious and Malicious to the contrary, so I doubt not but they will

chearfully tolerate me in the Liberty I design to take for the End

above mentioned.

As yet I have but few Correspondents, tho’ they begin now to

increase. The following Letter, left for me at the Printers, is one

of the first I have receiv’d, which I regard the more for that it

comes from one of the Fair Sex, and because I have my self oftentimes

suffer’d under the Grievance therein complain’d of.

_To the Busy-Body._

_Sir,_

`You having set your self up for a _Censuror Morum_ (as I think

you call it) which is said to mean a _Reformer of Manners_, I know no

Person more proper to be apply’d to for Redress in all the Grievances

we suffer from _Want of Manners_ in some People. You must know I am

a single Woman, and keep a Shop in this Town for a Livelyhood. There

is a certain Neighbour of mine, who is really agreeable Company

enough, and with whom I have had an Intimacy of some Time standing;

But of late she makes her Visits so excessively often, and stays so

very long every Visit, that I am tir’d out of all Patience. I have

no Manner of Time at all to my self; and you, who seem to be a wise

Man, must needs be sensible that every Person has little Secrets and

Privacies that are not proper to be expos’d even to the nearest

Friend. Now I cannot do the least Thing in the World, but she must

know all about it; and it is a Wonder I have found an Opportunity to

write you this Letter. My Misfortune is, that I respect her very

well, and know not how to disoblige her so much as to tell her I

should be glad to have less of her Company; for if I should once hint

such a Thing, I am afraid she would resent it so as never to darken

my Door again. — But, alas, Sir, I have not yet told you half my

Afflictions. She has two Children that are just big enough to run

about and do pretty Mischief: These are continually along with

_Mamma_, either in my Room or Shop, if I have never so many Customers

or People with me about Business. Sometimes they pull the Goods off

my low Shelves down to the Ground, and perhaps where one of them has

just been making Water; My Friend takes up the Stuff, and cries, _Eh!

thou little wicked mischievous Rogue! — But however, it has done no

great Damage; ’tis only wet a little_; and so puts it up upon the

Shelf again. Sometimes they get to my Cask of Nails behind the

Counter, and divert themselves, to my great Vexation, with mixing my

Ten-penny and Eight-penny and Four-penny together. I Endeavour to

conceal my Uneasiness as much as possible, and with a grave Look go

to Sorting them out. She cries, _Don’t thee trouble thy self,

Neighbour: Let them play a little; I’ll put all to rights my self

before I go._ But Things are never so put to rights but that I find a

great deal of Work to do after they are gone. Thus, Sir, I have all

the Trouble and Pesterment of Children, without the Pleasure of –

calling them my own; and they are now so us’d to being here that they

will be content no where else. If she would have been so kind as to

have moderated her Visits to ten times a Day, and stay’d but half an

hour at a Time, I should have been contented, and I believe never

have given you this Trouble: But this very Morning they have so

tormented me that I could bear no longer; For while the Mother was

asking me twenty impertinent Questions, the youngest got to my Nails,

and with great Delight rattled them by handfuls all over the Floor;

and the other at the same Time made such a terrible Din upon my

Counter with a Hammer, that I grew half distracted. I was just then

about to make my self a new Suit of Pinners, but in the Fret and

Confusion I cut it quite out of all Manner of Shape, and utterly

spoil’d a Piece of the first Muslin. Pray, Sir, tell me what I shall

do. And talk a little against such unreasonable Visiting in your

next Paper: Tho’ I would not have her affronted with me for a great

Deal, for sincerely I love her and her Children as well I think, as a

Neighbour can, and she buys a great many Things in a Year at my Shop.

But I would beg her to consider that she uses me unmercifully; Tho’ I

believe it is only for want of Thought. — But I have twenty Things

more to tell you besides all this; There is a handsome Gentleman that

has a Mind (I don’t question) to make love to me, but he can’t get

the least Opportunity to — : O dear, here she comes again; — I must

conclude

Yours, &c.

Patience.’

Indeed, ’tis well enough, as it happens, that _she is come_, to

shorten this Complaint which I think is full long enough already, and

probably would otherwise have been as long again. However, I must

confess I cannot help pitying my Correspondent’s Case, and in her

Behalf exhort the Visitor to remember and consider the Words of the

Wise Man, _Withdraw thy Foot from the House of thy Neighbour least he

grow weary of thee, and so hate thee._ It is, I believe, a nice thing

and very difficult, to regulate our Visits in such a Manner, as never

to give Offence by coming too seldom, or too often, or departing too

abruptly, or staying too long. However, in my Opinion, it is safest

for most People, in a general way, who are unwilling to disoblige, to

visit seldom, and tarry but a little while in a Place;

notwithstanding pressing Invitations, which are many times insincere.

And tho’ more of your Company should be really desir’d; yet in this

Case, too much Reservedness is a Fault more easily excus’d than the

Contrary.

Men are subjected to various Inconveniences meerly through lack

of a small Share of Courage, which is a Quality very necessary in the

common Occurences of Life, as well as in a Battle. How many

Impertinences do we daily suffer with great Uneasiness, because we

have not Courage enough to discover our Dislike? And why may not a

Man use the Boldness and Freedom of telling his Friends that their

long Visits sometimes incommode him? — On this Occasion, it may be

entertaining to some of my Readers, if I acquaint them with the

_Turkish_ Manner of entertaining Visitors, which I have from an

Author of unquestionable Veracity; who assures us, that even the

Turks are not so ignorant of Civility, and the Arts of Endearment,

but that they can practice them with as much Exactness as any other

Nation, whenever they have a Mind to shew themselves obliging.

`When you visit a Person of Quality, (says he) and have talk’d

over your Business, or the Complements, or whatever Concern brought

you thither, he makes a Sign to have Things serv’d in for the

Entertainment, which is generally, a little Sweetmeat, a Dish of

Sherbet, and another of Coffee; all which are immediately brought in

by the Servants, and tender’d to all the Guests in Order, with the

greatest Care and Awfulness imaginable. At last comes the finishing

Part of your Entertainment, which is, Perfuming the Beards of the

Company; a Ceremony which is perform’d in this Manner. They have for

the Purpose a small Silver Chaffing-Dish, cover’d with a Lid full of

Holes, and fixed upon a handsome Plate. In this they put some fresh

Coals, and upon them a piece of _Lignum Aloes_, and shutting it up,

the Smoak immediately ascends with a grateful Odour thro’ the Holes

of the Cover. This Smoak is held under every one’s Chin, and offer’d

as it were a Sacrifice to his Beard. The bristly Idol soon receives

the Reverence done to it, and so greedily takes in and incorporates

the gummy Steam, that it retains the Savour of it, and may serve for

a Nosegay a good while after.

`This Ceremony may perhaps seem ridiculous at first hearing;

but it passes among the _Turks_ for an high Gratification. And I

will say this in its Vindication, that it’s Design is very wise and

useful. For it is understood to give a civil Dismission to the

Visitants; intimating to them, that the Master of the House has

Business to do, or some other Avocation, that permits them to go away

as soon as they please; and the sooner after this Ceremony the

better. By this Means you may, at any Time, without Offence, deliver

your self from being detain’d from your Affairs by tedious and

unseasonable Visits; and from being constrain’d to use that Piece of

Hypocrisy so common in the World, of pressing those to stay longer

with you, whom perhaps in your Heart you wish a great Way off for

having troubled you so long already.’

Thus far my Author. For my own Part, I have taken such a Fancy

to this Turkish Custom, that for the future I shall put something

like it in Practice. I have provided a Bottle of right French Brandy

for the Men, and Citron-Water for the Ladies. After I have treated

with a Dram, and presented a Pinch of my best Snuff, I expect all

Company will retire, and leave me to pursue my Studies for the Good

of the Publick.

Advertisement.

_I give Notice that I am now actually compiling, and design to

publish in a short Time, the true History of the Rise, Growth and

Progress of the renowned_ Tiff-Club. _All Persons who are acquainted

with any Facts, Circumstances, Characters, Transactions,_ &c. _which

will be requisite to the Perfecting and Embellishment of the said

Work, are desired to communicate the same to the Author, and direct

their Letters to be left with the Printer hereof._

The Letter sign’d _Would-be-something_ is come to hand.

_The American Weekly Mercury_, February 25, 1728/9

_The Busy-Body, No. 5_

_Vos, O Patricius sanguis, quos vivere fas est

Occipiti caeco, posticae occurrite sannae_. Persius.

This Paper being design’d for a Terror to Evil-Doers, as well

as a Praise to them that do well, I am lifted up with secret Joy to

find that my Undertaking is approved, and encourag’d by the Just and

Good, and that few are against me but those who have Reason to fear

me.

There are little Follies in the Behaviour of most Men, which

their best Friends are too tender to acquaint them with: There are

little Vices and small Crimes which the Law has no Regard to, or

Remedy for: There are likewise great Pieces of Villany sometimes so

craftily accomplish’d, and so circumspectly guarded, that the Law can

take no Hold of the Actors. All these Things, and all Things of this

Nature, come within my Province as _CENSOR_, and I am determined not

to be negligent of the Trust I have reposed in my self, but resolve

to execute my Office diligently and Faithfully.

And that all the World may judge with how much Humanity as well

as Justice I shall behave in this Office; and that even my Enemies

may be convinc’d I take no Delight to rake into the Dunghill Lives of

vicious Men; and to the End that certain Persons may be a little

eas’d of their Fears, and reliev’d from the terrible Palpitations

they have lately felt and suffer’d, and do still suffer; I hereby

graciously pass an Act of general Oblivion, for all Offences, Crimes

and Misdemeanors of what Kind soever, committed from the Beginning of

Year sixteen hundred and eighty one, until the Day of the Date of my

first Paper; and promise only to concern my self with such as have

been since and shall hereafter be committed. I shall take no Notice

who has, (heretofore) rais’d a Fortune by Fraud and Oppression, nor

who by Deceit and Hypocrisy: What Woman has been false to her good

Husband’s Bed; nor what Man has, by barbarous Usage or Neglect, broke

the Heart of a faithful Wife, and wasted his Health and Substance in

Debauchery: What base Wretch has betray’d his Friend, and sold his

Honesty for Gold, nor what yet baser Wretch, first corrupted him and

then bought the Bargain: All this, and much more of the same Kind I

shall forget and pass over in Silence; — but then it is to be

observed that I expect and require a sudden and general Amendment.

These Threatnings of mine I hope will have a good Effect, and,

if regarded, may prevent abundance of Folly and Wickedness in others,

and at the same Time save me abundance of Trouble. And that People

may not flatter themselves with the Hopes of concealing their

Misdemeanours from my Knowledge, and in that View persist in

Evil-doing, I must acquaint them, that I have lately enter’d into an

Intimacy with the extraordinary Person who some Time since wrote me

the following Letter; and who, having a Wonderful Faculty that

enables him to discover the most secret Iniquity, is capable of

giving me great Assistance in my designed Work of Reformation.

_Mr. Busy-Body_.

`I rejoice Sir, at the Opportunity you have given me to be

serviceable to you, and by your Means to this Province. You must

know, that such have been the Circumstances of my Life, and such were

the marvellous Concurrences of my Birth, that I have not only a

Faculty of discovering the Actions of Persons that are absent or

asleep; but even of the Devil himself in many of his secret Workings,

in the various Shapes, Habits and Names of Men and Women. And having

travel’d and conversed much and met but with a very few of the same

Perceptions and Qualifications, I can recommend my Self to you as the

most useful Man you can correspond with. My Father’s Father’s Father

(for we had no Grandfathers in our Family) was the same _John Bunyan_

that writ that memorable Book _The Pilgrim’s Progress_, who had in

some Degree a natural Faculty of _Second Sight_. This Faculty (how

derived to him, our Family Memoirs are not very clear) was enjoy’d by

all his Descendants, but not by equal Talents — ‘Twas very dim in

several of my first Cousins, and probably had been nearly extinct in

our particular Branch, had not my Father been a Traveller — He lived

in his youthful Days in _New-England_. There he married, and there

was born my elder Brother, who had so much of this Faculty, as to

discover Witches in some of their occult Performances. My Parents

transporting themselves to _Great Britain_ my second Brother’s Birth

was in that Kingdom — He shared but a small Portion of this Virtue,

being only able to discern Transactions about the Time, and for the

most Part after their happening. My good Father, who delighted in

the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, and mountainous Places, took Shipping with

his Wife for _Scotland_, and inhabited in the Highlands, where my

Self was born; and whether the Soil, Climate or Astral Influences, of

which are preserved divers Prognosticks, restored our Ancestors

Natural Faculty of _Second Sight_, in a greater Lustre to me than it

had shined in thro’ several Generations, I will not here discuss.

But so it is, that I am possess’d largely of it, and design if you

encourage the Proposal, to take this Opportunity of doing good with

it, which I question not will be accepted of in a grateful Way, by

many of your honest Readers, Tho’ the Discovery of my Extraction

bodes me no Deference from your great Scholars and modern

Philosophers. This my Father was long ago aware of, and lest the

Name alone should hurt the Fortunes of his Children; he in his

Shiftings from one Country to another wisely changed it.

`Sir, I have only this further to say, how I may be useful to

you & as a Reason for my not making my Self more known in the World:

By Virtue of this Great Gift of Nature _Second-Sightedness_. I do

continually see Numbers of Men, Women and Children of all Ranks, and

what they are doing, while I am sitting in my Closet; which is too

great a Burthen for the Mind, and makes me also conceit even against

Reason, that all this Host of People can see and observe me, which

strongly inclines me to Solitude and an obscure Living; and on the

other Hand, it will be an Ease to me to disburthen my Thoughts and

Observations in the Way proposed to you by, Sir, your Friend, and

humble Servant. —— ‘

I conceal this Correspondent’s Name in my Care for his Life and

Safety, and cannot but approve his Prudence in chusing to live

obscurely. I remember the Fate of my poor Monkey: He had an

ill-natur’d Trick of grinning and chattering at every Thing he saw in

Pettycoats. My ignorant Country Neighbours got a Notion that _Pugg_

snarl’d by instinct at every Female who had lost her Virginity. This

was no sooner generally believ’d than he was condemn’d to Death; By

whom I could never learn, but he was assassinated in the Night,

barbarously stabb’d and mangled in a Thousand Places, and left

hanging dead on one of my Gate posts, where I found him the next

Morning.

_The_ Censor _observing that the_ Itch of Scribbling _begins to

spread exceedingly, and being carefully tender of the Reputation of

his Country in Point of_ Wit _and_ Good Sense, _has determined to

take all manner of Writings, in Verse or Prose, that pretend to

either, under his immediate Cognizance; and accordingly hereby

prohibits the Publishing any such for the future, ’till they have

first pass’d his Examination, and receiv’d his_ Imprimatur. _For

which he demands as a Fee only 6_ d. _per Sheet_.

N. B. _He nevertheless permits to be published all Satyrical

Remarks on the_ Busy-Body, _the above Prohibition notwithstanding,

and without Examination, or requiring the said Fees: which Indulgence

the small Wits in and about this City are advised gratefully to

accept and acknowledge.

_The Gentleman who calls himself_ Sirronio, _is directed, on

the Receipt of this, to burn his great Book of_ Crudities.

P. S. _In Compassion to that young Man on Account of the great

Pains he has taken; in Consideration of the Character I have just

receiv’d of him, that he is really_ _Good-natured; _and on Condition

he shows it to no Foreigner or Stranger of Sense, I have thought fit

to reprieve his said_ _great Book of Crudities _from the Flames,

’till further Order_.

_Noli me tangere_.

I had resolved when I first commenc’d this Design, on no

Account to enter into a publick Dispute with any Man; for I judg’d it

would be equally unpleasant to me and my Readers, to see this Paper

fill’d with contentious Wrangling, Answers, Replies, _&c_. which is a

Way of Writing that is Endless, and at the same time seldom contains

any Thing that is either edifying or entertaining. Yet when such a

considerable Man as Mr. —— finds himself concern’d so warmly to

accuse and condemn me, as he has done in _Keimer_’s last

_Instructor_, I cannot forbear endeavouring to say something in my

own Defence, from one of the worst of Characters that could be given

of me by a Man of Worth. But as I have many Things of more

Consequence to offer the Publick, I declare that I will never, after

this Time, take Notice of any Accusations not better supported with

Truth and Reason; much less may every little Scribbler, that shall

attack me, expect an Answer from the _Busy-Body_.

The Sum of the _Charge deliver’d_ against me, either directly

or indirectly in the said Paper, is this. Not to mention the first

weighty Sentence concerning _Vanity and Ill-Nature_, and the shrew’d

Intimation _that I am without Charity, and therefore can have no

Pretence to Religion_, I am represented as guilty of _Defamation and

Scandal, the Odiousness of which is apparent to every good Man, and

the Practice of it opposite to Christianity, Morality, and common

Justice, and in some Cases so far below all these as to be inhumane_.

As a _Blaster of Reputations_. As _attempting by a Pretence to

screen my Self from the Imputation of Malice and Prejudice_. As

_using a Weapon which the Wiser and better Part of Mankind hold in

Abhorrence_: And as _giving Treatment which the wiser and better Part

of Mankind dislike on the same Principles, and for the same Reason as

they do Assassination_. &c, And all this, is infer’d and concluded

from a Character I wrote in my Number 3.

In order to examine the Justice and Truth of this heavy Charge,

let us recur to that Character. — And here we may be surpriz’d to

find what a Trifle has rais’d this mighty Clamour and Complaint, this

Grievous Accusation! — The worst Thing said of the Person, in what

is called my gross Description, (be he who he will to whom my Accuser

has apply’d the Character of _Cretico_) is, that he is a _sower

Philosopher, crafty, but not wise_: Few Humane Characters can be

drawn that will not fit some body, in so large a Country as this; But

one would think, supposing I meant _Cretico_ a real Person, I had

sufficiently manifested my impartiality, when I said in that very

Paragraph, _That_ Cretico _is not without Virtue; that there are MANY

good Things in him, and MANY good Actions reported of him_; Which

must be allow’d in all Reason, very much to overballance in his

Favour those worst Words, _sowre Temper’d_ and _cunning_. Nay my

very Enemy and Accuser must have been sensible of this, when he

freely acknowledges, _that he has been seriously considering, and

cannot yet determine, which he would chuse to be, the_ Cato _or_

Cretico _of that Paper_: Since my _Cato_ is one of the best of

Characters.

Thus much in my own Vindication. As to the _only reasons_

there given why I ought not to continue drawing Characters, viz.

_Why should any Man’s Picture be published which he never sat for; or

his good Name taken from him any more than his Money or Possessions

at the arbitrary Will of another,_ &c? I have but this to answer.

The Money or Possessions I presume are nothing to the Purpose, since

no Man can claim a Right either to those or a good Name, if he has

acted so as to forfeit them. And are not the Publick the only Judges

what Share of Reputation they think proper to allow any Man? –

Supposing I was capable, and had an Inclination to draw all the good

and bad Characters in _America_; Why should a good Man be offended

with me for drawing good Characters? And if I draw Ill Ones, can

they fit any but those that deserve them? And ought any _but such_

to be concern’d that they have their Deserts? I have as great an

Aversion and Abhorrence from Defamation and Scandal as any Man, and

would with the utmost Care avoid being guilty of such base Things:

Besides I am very sensible and certain, that if I should make use of

this Paper to defame any Person, my Reputation would be sooner hurt

by it than his, and the _Busy-Body_ would quickly become detestable;

because in such a Case, as is justly observ’d, _The Pleasure arising

from a Taste of Wit and Novelty soon dies away in generous and Honest

Minds, and is follow’d with a secret Grief to see their Neighbours

calumniated_. But if I my self was actually the worst Man in the

Province, and any one should draw my true Character, would it not be

ridiculous in me to say, _he had defam’d and scandaliz’d me_; unless

added, _in a Matter of Truth_? — If any Thing is meant by asking,

_Why any Man’s Picture should be publish’d which he never sate for?_

It must be, that we should give no Character without the Owner’s

Consent. If I discern the Wolf disguis’d in harmless Wool, and

contriving the Destruction of my Neighbour’s Sheep, must I have his

Permission before I am allow’d to discover and prevent him? If I

know a Man to be a designing Knave, must I ask his Consent to bid my

Friends beware of him? If so, Then by the same Rule, supposing the

_Busy-Body_ had really merited all his Enemy has charg’d him with,

his Consent likewise ought to have been obtain’d before so terrible

an Accusation was published against him.

I shall conclude with observing, that in the last Paragraph

save one of the Piece now examin’d, much _ILL-NATURE_ and some Good

Sense are _Co-inhabitants_, (as he expresses it.) The _Ill Nature_

appears, in his endeavouring to discover Satyr, where I intended no

such Thing, but quite the Reverse: The good Sense is this, _that

drawing too good a Character of any one, is a refined Manner of Satyr

that may be as injurious to him as the contrary, by bringing on an

Examination that undresses the Person, and in the Haste of doing it,

he may happen to be stript of what he really owns and deserves_. As

I am _Censor_, I might punish the first, but I forgive it. Yet I

will not leave the latter unrewarded; but assure my Adversary, that

in Consideration of the Merit of those four Lines, I am resolved to

forbear _injuring_ him on any Account in that _refined Manner_.

_I thank my Neighbour_ P — w — l _for his kind Letter_. The

Lions complain’d of shall be muzzled.

_The American Weekly Mercury_, March 4, 1728/9

_The Busy-Body, No. 8_

—— _Quid non mortalia Pectora cogis

Auri sacra Fames!_ Virgil.

One of the greatest Pleasures an Author can have is

certainly the Hearing his Works applauded. The hiding from the World

our Names while we publish our Thoughts, is so absolutely necessary

to this Self-Gratification, that I hope my Well-wishers will

congratulate me on my Escape from the many diligent, but fruitless

Enquires that have of late been made after me. Every Man will own,

That an Author, as such, ought to be try’d by the Merit of his

Productions only; but Pride, Party, and Prejudice at this Time run so

very high, that Experience shews we form our Notions of a Piece by

the Character of the Author. Nay there are some very humble

Politicians in and about this City, who will ask on which Side the

Writer is, before they presume to give their Opinion of the Thing

wrote. This ungenerous Way of Proceeding I was well aware of before

I publish’d my first Speculation; and therefore concealed my Name.

And I appeal to the more generous Part of the World, if I have since

I appear’d in the Character of the _Busy-Body_ given an Instance of

my siding with any Party more than another, in the unhappy Divisions

of my Country; and I have above all, this Satisfaction in my Self,

That neither Affection, Aversion or Interest, have byass’d me to use

any Partiality towards any Man, or Sett of Men; but whatsoever I find

nonsensically ridiculous, or immorally dishonest, I have, and shall

continue openly to attack with the Freedom of an honest Man, and a

Lover of my Country.

I profess I can hardly contain my Self, or preserve the Gravity

and Dignity that should attend the _Censorial-Office_, when I hear

the odd and unaccountable Expositions that are put upon some of my

Works, thro’ the malicious Ignorance of

İŞLETME BÜYÜKLÜĞÜ Başta işletme kurulumu olmak üzere işletmelerin incelenmesinde en önemli noktalardan biri de işletmenin çeşitli kriterlere göre büyüklüğüdür.

Bu kriterlerden en yaygın olanları aşağıda sunulmuştur:

·Yıllık Kârlar

·Net Aktifler (Varlık)

·Yıllık Satışlar

·Yatırım Toplamı

·Öz Sermaye Miktarı

·Çalıştırılan Eleman Sayısı

·Harcanan Enerji Miktarı

(Not: Çeşitli sektörlere göre değişik kriterler oluşturulabilir:

Otellerde yatak sayısı, sinemalarda koltuk sayısı, limanlarda giriş-çıkış yapan gemi sayısı vb.)

Ayrıca bu değerler baz alınarak işletmeler “küçük işletme”, “orta işletme”, “büyük işletme” gibi ayrılabilirler. Günümüzdeyse büyük işletmelerin daha da büyüyerek çokuluslu hale gelmiş olanları “dev işletme” olarak adlandırılmaktadır.

Ülkemizde işletme büyüklüklerini inceleyerek bunları dergisinde duyuran en önemli dergi İstanbul Sanayi Odası’nın yayını İSO’dur. Dünyada ise başta A.B.D.’nin Fortune, Business Week, ve Forbes dergileri olmak üzere çeşitli kaynaklar vardır. Bu araştırmaların ülkemiz için İSO ve dünya geneli için Fortune dergilerinden alınan 2001 yılında yayınlanmış, 2000 yılına ait örnekler ekte görülmektedir.

[IMG]file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Yasin/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/msohtml1/01/clip_image001.gif[/IMG] Veriler Fortune Dergisi Temmuz 2001 sayısından alınmıştır. Sıralama:

Firma:

Gelirler: (x1.000.000 $)

1

Exxon Mobil

210,392.0

2

Wal-Mart Stores

193,295.0

3

General Motors

184,632.0

4

Ford Motor

180,598.0

5

DaimlerChrysler

150,069.7

6

Royal Dutch/Shell Group

149,146.0

7

BP

148,062.0

8

General Electric

129,853.0

9

Mitsubishi

126,579.4

10

Toyota Motor

121,416.2

11

Mitsui

118,013.7

12

Citigroup

111,826.0

13

Itochu

109,756.5

14

Total Fina Elf

105,869.6

15

Nippon Telegraph & Telephone

103,234.7

16

Enron

100,789.0

17

AXA

92,781.6

18

Sumitomo

91,168.4

19

Intl. Business Machines

88,396.0

20

Marubeni

85,351.0

21

Volkswagen

78,851.9

22

Hitachi

76,126.8

23

Siemens

74,858.3

24

ING Group

71,195.9

25

Allianz

71,022.3

26

Matsushita Electric Industrial

69,475.3

27

E. ON

68,432.6

28

Nippon Life Insurance

68,054.8

29

Deutsche Bank

67,133.2

30

Sony

66,158.4

31

AT&T

65,981.0

32

Verizon Communications

64,707.0

33

U.S. Postal Service

64,540.0

34

Philip Morris

63,276.0

35

CGNU

61,498.7

36

J.P. Morgan Chase

60,065.0

37

Carrefour

59,887.8

38

Credit Suisse

59,315.5

39

Nissho Iwai

58,557.3

40

Honda Motor

58,461.6

41

Bank of America Corp.

57,747.0

42

BNP Paribas

57,611.6

43

Nissan Motor

55,077.1

44

Toshiba

53,826.6

45

PDVSA

53,680.0

46

Assicurazioni Generali

53,333.1

47

Fiat

53,190.4

48

Mizuho Holdings

52,068.5

49

SBC Communications

51,476.0

50

Boeing

51,321.0

51

Texaco

51,130.0

52

Fujitsu

49,603.5

53

Duke Energy

49,318.0

54

Kroger

49,000.4

55

NEC

48,928.0

56

Hewlett-Packard

48,782.0

57

HSBC Holdings

48,632.8

58

Koninklijke Ahold

48,491.7

59

Nestlé

48,225.0

60

Chevron

48,069.0

61

State Farm Insurance Cos.

47,863.1

62

Tokyo Electric Power

47,555.7

63

UBS

47,315.8

64

Dai-ichi Mutual Life Insurance

46,435.6

65

American International Group

45,972.0

66

Home Depot

45,738.0

67

Morgan Stanley Dean Witter

45,413.0

68

Sinopec

45,346.0

69

ENI

45,139.0

70

Merrill Lynch

44,872.0

71

Fannie Mae

44,088.9

72

Unilever

43,973.6

73

Fortis

43,830.9

74

ABN AMRO Holding

43,389.6

75

Metro

43,371.1

76

Prudential

43,125.5

77

State Power Corporation

42,548.7

78

Rwe Group

42,513.7

79

Compaq Computer

42,383.0

80

Repsol YPF

42,273.2

81

Pemex

42,166.8

82

McKesson HBOC

42,010.0

83

China Petroleum

41,683.7

84

Lucent Technologies

41,420.0

85

Sears Roebuck

40,937.0

86

Peugeot

40,830.6

87

Munich Re Group

40,671.6

88

Merck

40,363.2

89

Procter & Gamble

39,951.0

90

WorldCom

39,090.0

91

Vivendi Universal

38,628.3

92

Samsung Electronics

38,490.7

93

TIAA-CREF

38,063.5

94

Deutsche Telekom

37,834.4

95

Motorola

37,580.0

96

Sumitomo Life Insurance

37,535.8

97

Zurich Financial Services

37,431.0

98

Mitsubishi Electric

37,348.9

99

Renault

37,128.4

100

Kmart

37,028.0

[IMG]file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Yasin/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/msohtml1/01/clip_image002.gif[/IMG] (Veriler İstanbul Sanayi Odası’ndan alınmıştır.) Sıra:

Firma ve Müesseseler:

Net Gelirler: (x1.000.000 TL)

1

TÜPRAŞ-TÜRKİYE PETROL RAFİNERİLERİ A.Ş.

3.013.092.639

2

TEAŞ TÜRKİYE ELEKTRİK ÜRETİM İLETİM A.Ş.

1.103.979.869

3

OYAK-RENAULT OTOMOBİL FABRİKALARI A.Ş.

760.821.050

4

ARÇELİK A.Ş.

646.492.158

5

EREĞLİ DEMİR VE ÇELİK FABRİKALARI T.A.Ş.

606.608.856

6

TEKEL TÜTÜN,TÜTÜN MAMULLERİ,TUZ VE ALKOL İŞLETMELERİ GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

565.979.069

7

TÜRKİYE ŞEKER FABRİKALARI A.Ş.

526.676.392

8

TOFAŞ TÜRK OTOMOBİL FABRİKASI A.Ş.

501.713.948

9

PETKİM PETROKİMYA HOLDİNG A.Ş. GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

496.830.833

10

VESTEL ELEKTRONİK SAN VE TİC A.Ş.

491.746.154

11

FORD OTOMOTİV SANAYİ A.Ş.

386.087.066

12

TÜRKİYE KÖMÜR İŞLETMELERİ KURUMU GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

367.442.265

13

MERCEDES-BENZ TÜRK ANONİM ŞİRKETİ

326.676.739

14

AYGAZ A.Ş.

324.214.753

15

TÜRKİYE PETROLLERİ ANONİM ORTAKLIĞI

247.852.159

16

BEKO ELEKTRONİK A.Ş.

243.497.884

17

İSKENDERUN DEMİR VE ÇELİK A.Ş. GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

243.307.986

18

SASA DUPONT SABANCI POLYESTER SANAYİ A.Ş.

237.279.181

19

BSH PROFİLO ELEKTRİKLİ GEREÇLER SANAYİİ A.Ş.

234.495.297

20

PHILSA PHILIP MORRIS SABANCI SİGARA VE TÜTÜNCÜLÜK SANAYİ VE TİCARET ANONİM ŞİRKETİ.

233.500.223

21

ÇOLAKOĞLU METALURJİ A.Ş.

227.425.152

22

İPRAGAZ A.Ş.

204.391.783

23

HABAŞ SINAİ VE TIBBİ GAZLAR İSTİHSAL ENDÜSTRİSİ A.Ş.

203.527.173

24

ÇAY İŞLETMELERİ GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

201.437.297

25

AKSA AKRİLİK KİMYA SANAYİİ A.Ş.

198.769.159

26

İÇDAŞ ÇELİK ENERJİ TERSANE VE ULAŞIM SAN. A.Ş.

190.174.902

27

KORTEKS MENSUCAT SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

185.571.264

28

ASSAN DEMİR VE SAÇ SAN.A.Ş.

182.760.875

29

HÜRRİYET GAZETECİLİK VE MATBAACILIK A.Ş.

169.692.884

30

PROFİLO TELRA ELEKTRONİK SANAYİ VE TİCARET ANONİM ŞİRKETİ.

163.330.994

31

BİLKONT DIŞ TİCARET VE TEKSTİL SAN. ANONİM ŞİRKETİ.

161.618.160

32

HYUNDAI-ASSAN OTOMOTİV SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

160.620.609

33

-

34

BMC SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

154.815.186

35

TÜRKİYE SELÜLOZ VE KAĞIT FABRİKALARI A.Ş. (SEKA) GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

153.581.533

36

PAŞABAHÇE CAM SANAYİİ VE TİCARET ANONİM ŞİRKETİ

151.314.289

37

TRAKYA CAM SANAYİİ A.Ş.

144.008.888

38

TRAKYA YAĞLI TOHUMLAR TARIM SATIŞ KOOPERATİFLERİ BİRLİĞİ

142.548.659

39

UZEL MAKİNA SAN.A.Ş.

142.400.762

40

TEMSA TERMO MEKANİK SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

142.264.342

41

ETİ BOR ANONİM ŞİRKETİ GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

141.467.067

42

-

43

BRİSA BRİDGESTONE SABANCI LASTİK SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

138.718.267

44

ASELSAN ELEKTRONİK SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

138.052.949

45

GOODYEAR LASTİKLERİ T.A.Ş.

131.822.152

46

MİLANGAZ LPG DAĞITIM TİCARET VE SANAYİ A.Ş.

128.016.613

47

TARİŞ PAMUK TARIM SATIŞ KOOPERATİFLERİ BİRLİĞİ

126.938.849

48

SARKUYSAN ELEKTROLİTİK BAKIR SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

125.597.794

49

SANKO TEKSTİL SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

123.120.673

50

KARSAN OTOMOTİV SANAYİİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

120.550.881

51

NETAŞ NORTHERN ELECTRİC TELEKOMÜNİKASYON A.Ş.

120.238.408

52

-

53

JTI TÜTÜN ÜRÜNLERİ SANAYİ A.Ş.

116.714.923

54

PINAR SÜT MAMÜLLERİ SANAYİİ A.Ş.

116.693.471

55

SABAH YAYINCILIK A.Ş.

115.587.891

56

TOROS GÜBRE VE KİMYA ENDÜSTRİSİ A.Ş

114.349.091

57

KARDEMİR KARABÜK DEMİR ÇELİK SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

113.756.198

58

AKÇANSA ÇİMENTO SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

112.646.128

59

TÜRK PİRELLİ LASTİKLERİ A.Ş.

111.408.531

60

MARSA KRAFT JACOBS SUCHARD SABANCI GIDA SANAYİ VE TİC. A.Ş.

109.915.775

61

KONYA ŞEKER FABRİKASI A.Ş.

109.912.242

62

NOVARTİS SAĞLIK GIDA VE TARIM ÜRÜNLERİ SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

109.681.386

63

ALCATEL TELETAŞ TELEKOMÜNİKASYON ENDÜSTRİ TİCARET A.Ş.

107.727.535

64

ANADOLU EFES BİRACILIK VE MALT SANAYİİ A.Ş.

106.599.509

65

İZMİR DEMİR ÇELİK SANAYİ A.Ş.

104.668.779

66

BORÇELİK ÇELİK SANAYİİ TİCARET A.Ş.

104.615.059

67

EİS ECZACIBAŞI İLAÇ SAN VE TİC A.Ş.

103.895.545

68

FRUKO MEŞRUBAT SANAYİİ A.Ş.

103.822.350

69

ROCHE MÜSTAHZARLARI SAN.A.Ş.

98.976.151

70

BOSCH SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

98.862.349

71

ANADOLU-ISUZU OTOMOTİV SANAYİ VE TİC.A.Ş.

97.394.705

72

MERKEZ ÇELİK SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

96.868.846

73

TÜRK TRAKTÖR VE ZİRAAT MAK. A.Ş.

96.020.000

74

MAN KAMYON VE OTOBÜS SAN.A.Ş

95.922.283

75

KORDSA SABANCI DUPONT ENDÜSTRİYEL İPLİK VE KORD BEZİ SANAYİ VE TİCARET ANONİM ŞİRKETİ

93.900.064

76

GÜNEY SANAYİ VE TİCARET İŞLETMELERİ A.Ş.

93.333.615

77

YEŞİM TEKSTİL SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

92.292.631

78

TOYOTA SABANCI OTOMOTİV SAN. TÜRKİYE A.Ş.

92.075.951

79

KALESERAMİK ÇANAKKALE KALEBODUR SERAMİK SANAYİ ANONİM ŞİRKETİ

90.920.011

80

PINAR ENTEGRE ET VE UN SANAYİ A.Ş

90.258.540

81

VESTEL KOMÜNİKASYON SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

88.485.952

82

OTOYOL SANAYİ A.Ş.

88.108.129

83

ERBAKIR ELEKTROLİTİK BAKIR MAMULLERİ A.Ş.

86.995.532

84

TÜRK PİRELLİ KABLO VE SİSTEMLERİ A.Ş.

86.835.972

85

BOSSA TİCARET VE SANAYİ İŞLETMELERİ T.A.Ş.

86.219.638

86

SIEMENS SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

86.178.560

87

AK ENERJİ ELEKTRİK ÜRETİMİ OTOPRODÜKTÖR GRUBU A.Ş.

86.013.170

88

BESLER GIDA VE KİMYA SANAYİ VE TİCARET ANONİM ŞİRKETİ

85.522.690

89

BORUSAN BİRLEŞİK BORU FABRİKALARI ANONİM ŞİRKETİ.

85.229.618

90

CHRYSLER KAMYON İMALAT VE TİCARET A.Ş.

84.328.090

91

İSKO DOKUMA SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

82.915.540

92

YAZICI DEMİR ÇELİK SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

82.759.191

93

TÜRK DEMİR DÖKÜM FABRİKALARI A.Ş.

82.591.850

94

SODA SANAYİİ A.Ş.

82.429.402

95

ABDİ İBRAHİM İLAÇ SAN. VE TİC. A.Ş.

81.865.560

96

KROMAN ÇELİK SANAYİİ A.Ş.

80.960.312

97

BANVİT BANDIRMA VİTAMİNLİ YEM SAN. A.Ş.

80.824.320

98

OSMAN AKÇA TARIM ÜRÜNLERİ İTHALAT İHRACAT SANAYİ VE TİCARET A.Ş.

79.215.132

99

ALSTOM ELEKTRİK ENDÜSTRİSİ A.Ş.

77.165.868

100

ETİ ALÜMİNYUM A.Ş. GENEL MÜDÜRLÜĞÜ

75.355.284

LONDON 1757-1775

by Benjamin Franklin

_William Franklin to the

Printer of the Citizen:

A Defense of the Quakers and the

Pennsylvania Assembly_

_Some Account of the late Disputes between the Assembly of_

Pensylvania, _and their present Governor_ William Denny, _Esq;_

In our _Magazine_, _Vol._ xxv. p. 87 _Vol._ xxvi. _p._ 28. we

have given a very particular account of the disputes between the

assembly of _Pensylvania_ and the late Governor _Morris_, which had

exactly the same cause, and produced exactly the same effects, as the

late dispute between this assembly and Mr _Denny_.

The acting governor, who is only lieutenant governor,

besides the royal instructions, receives instructions from the

proprietaries. By these proprietary instructions the governor is

required not to pass any bill for taxing their quit rents, their

located unimproved lands, and their purchase money at interest,

but the assembly have ever been determined to frame no money

bill, in which these quit rents, lands, and money shall be

exempted, for the following reasons.

1st, Because they conceive that neither the proprietaries nor

any other power on earth, ought to interfere between them and their

sovereign, either to modify or refuse their free gifts and grants for

his majesty’s service.

2d, Because though the governor may be under obligations to the

proprietaries, yet he is under greater to the crown, and to the

people he is appointed to govern, to promote the service of his

majesty, and preserve the rights of his subjects, and protect them

from their cruel enemies.

3d. Because a tax laid comformable to the proprietary

instructions, could not possibly produce the necessary supply. By

these instructions all the proprietors estate, except a trifle, and

all located unimproved lands, to whomsoever belonging, are to be

exempted. There remains then to be taxed, only the improved lands,

houses, and personal estates of the people. Now it is well known,

from the tax books, that there are not in the province more than

20,000 houses, including those of the towns with those on

plantations. If these, with the improved lands annexed to them, and

the personal estate of those that inhabit them, are worth, one with

another, 250_l_. each, it may, we think, be reckoned their full

value; then multiply 20,000 the number of houses, by 250_l_. the

value of each estate, and the produce is 5,000,000_l_. for the full

value of all our estates, real and personal, the unimproved lands

excepted. Now three _per cent._ on five millions is but one hundred

and fifty thousand pounds; and four shillings in the pound on one

hundred and fifty thousand pounds, being but a fifth part, is no more

than thirty thousand pounds; so that we ought to have near seventeen

millions to produce, by such a tax, one hundred thousand pounds.

4th. Because the bill (*) which they have prepared, without the

exceptions required in the proprietaries instructions, is exactly

conformable to an act lately passed by a former governor, and allowed

by the crown.

(*) _In the bill which passed in_ March _last, the proprietary

estate was not taxed, that matter being intended to be referred to

the determination of superior authority in_ England.

It is indeed matter of equal astonishment and concern, that in

this time of danger and distress, when the utmost unanimity and

dispatch is necessary to the preservation of life, liberty, and

estate, a governor should be sent to our colonies with such

instructions as must inevitably produce endless dispute and delay,

and prevent the assembly from effectually opposing the _French_ upon

any other condition, than the giving up their rights as _Englishmen_.

The assembly, indeed, have been stigmatized as obstinate,

fanatical, and disaffected; and reproached as the authors of every

calamity under which they suffer. A paragraph in one of the public

papers, which lately ecchoed the charge that has been long urged

against them, has been answered by Mr _William Franklin_ of

_Philadelphia_, who is now in _England_. We shall insert the

paragraph and reply at large, as we cannot exhibit any other

representation with equal authority.

_To the Printer of the_ CITIZEN. _SIR,_ In your Paper of the

9th Instant, I observe the following Paragraph, viz. `The last

Letters from Philadelphia bring Accounts of the Scalping the

Inhabitants of the Back Provinces by the Indians: At the same Time

the Disputes between the Governor and the Assembly are carried to as

great a Height as ever, and the Messages sent from the Assembly to

the Governor, and from the Governor to the Assembly, are expressed in

Terms which give very little Hopes of a Reconciliation. The Bill to

raise Money is clogged, so as to prevent the Governor from giving his

Consent to it; and the Obstinacy of the Quakers in the Assembly is

such, that they will in no Shape alter it: So that, while the Enemy

is in the Heart of the Country, Cavils prevent any Thing being done

for its Relief. — Mr. Denny is the third Governor with whom the

Assembly has had these Disputes within a few Years.’

As this Paragraph, like many others heretofore published in the

Papers, is not founded on Truth, but calculated to prejudice the

Public against the Quakers and People of Pennsylvania, you are

desired to do that injured Province some Justice, in publishing the

following Remarks; which would have been sent you sooner, had the

Paper come sooner to my Hands.

1. That the Scalping of the Frontier Inhabitants by the Indians

is not peculiar to Pennsylvania, but common to all the Colonies, in

Proportion as their Frontiers are more or less extended and exposed

to the Enemy. That the Colony of Virginia, in which there are very

few, if any Quakers, and none in the Assembly, has lost more

Inhabitants and Territory by the War than Pennsylvannia. That even

the Colony of New York, with all its own Forces, a great Body of

New-England Troops encamp’d on its Frontier, and the regular Army

under Lord Loudoun, posted in different Places, has not been able to

secure its Inhabitants from Scalping by the Indians; who coming

secretly in very small Parties skulking in the Woods, must sometimes

have it in their Power to surprize and destroy Travellers, or single

Families settled in scattered Plantations, notwithstanding all the

Care that can possibly be taken by any Government for their

Protection. Centinels posted round an Army, while standing on their

Guard, with Arms in their Hands, are often kill’d and scalp’d by

Indians. How much easier must it be for such an Enemy to destroy a

Ploughman at Work in his Field?

2. That the Inhabitants of the Frontiers of Pennsylvania are

not Quakers, were in the Beginning of the War supplied with Arms and

Ammunition by the Assembly, and have frequently defended themselves,

and repelled the Enemy, being withheld by no Principle from Fighting;

and the Losses they have suffer’d were owing entirely to their

Situation, and the loose scattered Manner in which they had settled

their Plantations and Families in the Woods, remote from each other,

in Confidence of lasting Peace.

3. That the Disputes between the late and present Governors,

and the Assembly of Pennsylvania, were occasioned, and are continued,

chiefly by _new_ Instructions from the Proprietors to those

Governors, forbidding them to pass any Laws to raise Money for the

Defence of the Country, unless the proprietary Estate, or much the

greatest Part of it, was exempted from the Tax to be raised by Virtue

of such Laws, and other Clauses inserted in them, by which the

Privileges long enjoyed by the People, and which they think they have

a Right to, not only as Pennsylvanians, but as Englishmen, were to be

extorted from them, under their present Distresses. The Quakers,

who, tho’ the first Settlers, are now but a small Part of the People

of Pennsylvania, were concerned in those Disputes only as Inhabitants

of the Province, and not as Quakers; and all the other Inhabitants

join in opposing those Instructions, and contending for their Rights,

the Proprietary Officers and Dependants only excepted, with a few of

such as they can influence.

4. That though some Quakers have Scruples against bearing Arms,

they have when most numerous in the Assembly, granted large Sums for

the King’s Use (as they expressed it) which have been applied to the

Defence of the Province; for Instance, in 1755, and 1756, they

granted the Sum of 55,000l. to be raised by a Tax on Estates real and

personal, and 30,000l. to be raised by Excise on Spirituous Liquors;

besides near 10,000l. in Flour, &c. to General Braddock and for

cutting his Roads, and 10,000l. to General Shirley in Provisions for

the New England and New-York Forces, then on the Frontiers of

New-York; at the same Time that the Contingent Expences of Government

to be otherwise provided for, were greatly and necessarily enhanced.

That however, to remove all Pretence for Reflection on their Sect, as

obstructing military Measures in Time of War, a Number of them

voluntarily quitted their Seats in Assembly, in 1756; others

requested their Friends not to chuse them in the ensuing Election,

nor did any of that Profession stand as Candidates, or request a Vote

for themselves at that Election, many Quakers refusing even to vote

at all, and others voting for such Men as would, and did, make a

considerable Majority in the House, who were not Quakers; and yet

four of the Quakers, who were nevertheless chosen, refused to serve,

and Writs were issued for new Elections, when four others, not

Quakers, were chosen in their Places; that of 36 Members, the Number

of which the House consists, there are not at the most above 12 of

that Denomination, and those such as are well known to be for

supporting the Government in Defence of the Country, but are too few,

if they were against such a Measure, to prevent it.

5. That the Bill to raise Money said in the above Article of

News, to be so clogged as to prevent the Governor from giving his

Assent, was drawn in the same Form, and with the same Freedom from

all Clogs, as that for granting 60,000l. which had been passed by the

Governor in 1755, and received the Royal Approbation; that the real

Clogs or Obstructions to its passing were not in the Bill, but in the

above-mentioned proprietary Instructions; that the Governor having

long refused his Assent to the Bill, did in Excuse of his Conduct, on

Lord Loudoun’s Arrival at Philadelphia, in March last, lay his

Reasons before his Lordship, who was pleased to communicate them to

one of the Members of the House, and patiently to hear what that

Member had to say in Answer, the Governor himself being present; and

that his Lordship did finally declare himself fully satisfied with

the Answers made to those Reasons, and to give it as his Opinion to

the Governor, that he ought immediately to pass the Bill, any

Instructions he might have to the contrary from the Proprietors

notwithstanding, which the Governor accordingly complied with, passed

the Bill on the 22d of March, and the Money, being 100,000l. for the

Service of the current Year, has been ever since actually expending

in the Defence of the Province; so that the whole Story of the Bill’s

not passing, the clogging of the Bill by the Assembly, and the

Obstinacy of the Quakers preventing its Passage, is absolutely a

malicious and notorious Falshood.

6. The Assertion of the News-Writers, `That while the Enemy is

in the Heart of the Country, Cavils prevent any Thing being done for

its Relief,’ is so far from being true: That First, the Enemy is not,

nor ever was, in the Heart of the Country, having only molested the

Frontier Settlements by their Parties. Secondly, More is done for

the Relief and Defence of the Country, without any Assistance from

the Crown, than is done perhaps by any other Colony in America; there

having been, soon after the War broke out, the following Forts

erected at the Province Expence, in a Line to cover the Frontier,

viz. Henshaw’s Fort on Delaware, Fort Hamilton, Fort Norris, Fort

Allen, Fort Franklin, Fort Lebanon, Fort William Henry, Fort

Augustus, Fort Halifax, Fort Granville, Fort Shirley, Fort Littleton,

and Shippensburg Fort, besides several smaller Stockades and Places

of Defence, garrisoned by Troops in the Pay of the Province, under

whose Protection the Inhabitants, who at first abandoned their

Frontier Settlements, returned generally to their Habitations, and

many yet continue, though not without some Danger, to cultivate their

Lands: By these Pennsylvanian Troops, under Col. Armstrong, the

greatest Blow was given to the Enemy last Year on the Ohio that they

have received during the War: in burning and destroying the Indian

Town of Kittanning, and killing their great Captain Jacobs, with many

other Indians, and recovering a Number of Captives of their own and

the neighbouring Provinces: Besides the Garrisons, in the Forts, 1100

Soldiers are maintained on the Frontiers in Pay, being armed and

accoutred by the Province, as ranging Companies.

And at Philadelphia, 15 Iron Cannon, 18 Pounders, were last

Year purchased in England, and added to the 50 they had before,

either mounted on their Batteries, or ready to be mounted, besides a

Train of Artillery, being new Brass Field Pieces, 12 and 6 Pounders,

with all their Appurtenances in extreme good Order, and a Magazine

stored with Ammunition, a Quantity of large Bomb-shells, and above

2000 new Small Arms lately procured, exclusive of those in the Hands

of the People. They have likewise this Summer fitted out a 20 Gun

Province Ship of War, to scour the Coast of Privateers, and protect

the Trade of that and the neighbouring Provinces, which is more than

any other Colony to the Southward of New England has done.

Pennsylvania also, by its Situation, covers the greatest Part of New

Jersey, all the Government of the Delaware Countries, and great Part

of Maryland, from the Invasions of the Indians, without receiving any

Contribution from those Colonies, or the Mother-Country, towards the

Expence.

The above are Facts, consistent with the Knowledge of the

Subscriber, who but lately left Philadelphia, is now in London, is

not, nor ever was, a Quaker, nor writes this at the Request of any

Quaker, but purely to do Justice to a Province and People, of late

frequently abused in nameless Papers and Pamphlets published in

England. And he hereby calls upon the Writer of that Article of News

to produce the Letters out of which, he says, he has drawn those

Calumnies and Falshoods, or to take the Shame to himself. WILLIAM

FRANKLIN. Pensylvania Coffee-house London, Sept. 16, 1757.

_The London Chronicle_, September 20, 1757

_Gentleman’s Magazine_, September, 1757

_A Letter from Father Abraham, to His Beloved Son_

_Dear_ Isaac, You frequently desire me to give you some

_Advice_, in Writing. There is, perhaps, no other valuable Thing in

the World, of which so great a Quantity is _given_, and so little

_taken_. Men do not generally err in their Conduct so much through

Ignorance of their Duty, as thro Inattention to their own Faults, or

thro strong Passions and bad Habits; and, therefore, till that

Inattention is cured, or those Passions reduced under the Government

of Reason, _Advice_ is rather resented as a Reproach, than gratefully

acknowledged and followed.

Supposing then, that from the many good Sermons you have heard,

good Books read, and good Admonitions received from your Parents and

others, your Conscience is by this Time pretty well informed, and

capable of advising you,if you attentively listen to it, I shall not

fill this Letter with Lessons or Precepts of Morality and Religion;

but rather recommend to you, that in order to obtain a _clear_ Sight

and _constant_ Sense of your Errors, you would set apart a Portion of

every Day for the Purpose of _Self-Examination_, and trying your

daily Actions by that Rule of Rectitude implanted by GOD in your

Breast. The properest Time for this, is when you are retiring to

Rest; then carefully review the Transactions of the past Day; and

consider how far they have agreed with _what you know_ of your Duty

to God and to Man, in the several Relations you stand in of a Subject

to the Government, Servant to your Master, a Son, a Neighbour, a

Friend, _&c._ When, by this Means, you have discovered the Faults of

the Day, acknowledge them to God, and humbly beg of him notonly

Pardon for what is past, but Strength to fulfil your solemn

Resolutions of guarding against them for the Future. Observing this

Course steadily for some Time, you will find (through God’s Grace

assisting) that your Faults are continually diminishing, and your

Stock of Virtue encreasing; in Consequence of which you will grow in

Favour both with GOD and Man.

I repeat it, that for the Acquirement of solid, uniform, steady

Virtue, nothing contributes more, than a daily strict

SELF-EXAMINATION, by the Lights of Reason, Conscience, and the Word

of GOD; joined with firm Resolutions of amending what you find amiss,

and fervent Prayer for Grace and Strength to execute those

Resolutions. — This Method is very antient. ‘Twas recommended by

_Pythagoras_, in his truly _Golden Verses_, and practised since in

every Age, with Success, by Men of all Religions. Those golden

Verses, as translated by _Rowe_, are well worth your Reading, and

even getting by Heart. The Part relating to this Matter I have

transcribed, to give you a Taste of them, _viz_.

Let not the stealing God of Sleep surprize, Nor creep in

Slumbers on thy weary Eyes, Ere ev’ry Action of the former Day,

_Strictly_ thou dost, and _righteously_ survey. With Rev’rence at

thy own Tribunal stand, And answer justly to thy own Demand. Where

have I been? In what have I transgrest? What Good or Ill has this

Day’s Life exprest? Where have I fail’d in what I ought to do? In

what to GOD, to Man, or to myself I owe? Inquire severe whate’er

from first to last, From Morning’s Dawn till Ev’nings Gloom has past.

If Evil were thy Deeds, repenting mourn, And let thy Soul with strong

Remorse be torn: If Good, the Good with Peace of Mind repay, And to

thy secret Self with Pleasure say, Rejoice, my Heart, for all went

well to Day.

And that no Passage to your Improvement in Virtue may be kept

secret, it is not sufficient that you make Use of _Self-Examination_

alone; therefore I have also added a _golden Extract_ from _a

favourite_ OLD BOOK, to instruct you in the prudent and deliberate

Choice of some disinterested Friend,to remind you of such Misconduct

as must necessarily escape your severest Inquiry: Which is as

follows;

Every prudent Man ought to be jealous and fearful of himself,

lest he run away too hastily with a Likelihood instead of Truth; and

abound too much in his own Understanding. All Conditions are equal,

that is, Men may be contented in every Condition: For Security is

equal to Splendor; Health to Pleasure, _&c_. Every Condition of Life

has its Enemies, for _Deus posuit duo & duo, unum contra unum_. A

rich Man hath Enemies sometimes for no other Reason than because he

is rich; the poor Man hath as poor Neighbours, or rich Ones that gape

after that small Profit which he enjoys. The Poor very often subsist

merely by Knavery and Rapine among each other. Beware, therefore,

how you offend any Man, for he that is displeased at your Words or

Actions, commonly joins against you, without putting the _best_

Construction on (or endeavouring to find out a reasonable Excuse for)

them. And be sure you _hate_ no Man, though you think him a

worthless or unjust Person. Never _envy_ any one above you: You have

Enemies enough by the common Course of Human Nature; be cautious not

to encrease the Number; and rather procure as many Friends as you

can, to countenance and strengthen you. Every Man has also an Enemy

within himself. Every Man is choleric and covetous, or gentle and

generous by Nature. Man is naturally a beneficent Creature: But

there are many external Objects and Accidents, met with as we go

through Life, which _seem_ to make great Alterations in our natural

Dispositions and Desires. A Man naturally passionate and greedy,

may, to all Appearance, become complaisant and hospitable, merely by

Force of Instruction and Discipline; and so the Contrary. ‘Tis in

vain for a passionate Man to say, _I am pardonable_ because _it is

natural to me_, when we can perhaps point out to him an Example in

his next Neighbour, who was _once_ affected in the very same Manner,

and could say as much to defend himself, who is now exceedingly

_different_ in his Behaviour, and quite free from those unhappy

Affections which disturbed his Repose so often, not long ago, and

become a chearful, facetious, and profitable Companion to his

Friends, and a Pattern of Humility to all around him.

Nothing was ever well done or said _in a Passion_. One Man’s

Infirmities and bad Inclinations may be harder to conquer than

another Man’s, according to the various and _secret_ Circumstances

that attend them; but they are capable of being conquered, or very

much improved for the better, except they have been suffered to _take

Root in_ OLD _Age_; in this Case it is most convenient to let them

_have their_ OWN _Way,_ as the Phrase is.

The strongest of our natural Passions are seldom perceived by

us; a choleric Man does not always discover when he is angry, nor an

envious Man when he is invidious; at most they think they commit no

great Faults.

Therefore it is necessary that you should have a MONITOR. Most

Men are very indifferent Judges of themselves, and often think they

do well when they sin; and imagine they commit only small Errors,

when they are guilty of Crimes. It is in Human Life as in the Arts

and Sciences; their plainest Doctrines are easily comprehended, but

the finest Points cannot be discovered without the closest Attention;

of these Parts only the wise and skilful in the Art or Science, can

be deemed competent Judges. Many Vices and Follies resemble their

opposite Virtues and Prudence; they border upon, and seem to mix with

each other; and therefore the exact Line of Division betwixt them is

hard to ascertain. Pride resembles a generous Spirit; Superstition

and Enthusiasm frequently resemble true Religion; a laudable worthy

Ambition resembles an unworthy Self-Sufficiency; Government resembles

Tyranny; Liberty resembles Licentiousness; Subjection resembles

Slavery; Covetousness resembles Frugality; Prodigality resembles

Generosity; and so of the Rest. Prudence chiefly consists in that

Excellence of Judgment, which is capable of discerning the MEDIUM; or

of acting so as not to intermingle the one with the other; and in

being able to assign to every Cause its _proper_ Actions and Effects.

It is therefore necessary for every Person who desires to be a wise

Man, to _take particular Notice of HIS OWN _Actions_, and of HIS OWN

_Thoughts and Intentions_ which are the Original of his Actions; with

great Care and Circumspection; otherwise he can never arrive to that

Degree of Perfection which constitutes the amiable Character he

aspires after. And, lest all this Diligence should be insufficient,

as Partiality to himself will certainly render it, it is very

requisite for him to _chuse a_ FRIEND, or MONITOR, who must be

allowed the greatest Freedom to advertise and remind him of his

Failings, and to point out Remedies. Such a One, I mean, as is a

discreet and virtuous Person; but especially One that does not creep

after the Acquaintance of, or play the Spaniel to, _great_ Men; One

who does not covet Employments which are known to be scandalous for

Opportunities of Injustice: One who can bridle his Tongue and curb

his Wit; One that can converse with himself, and industriously

attends upon his Affairs whatever they be. Find out such a _Man_;

insinuate yourself into a Confidence with him; and desire him to

observe your Conversation and Behaviour; intreat him to admonish you

of what he thinks amiss, in a serious and friendly Manner; importune

his Modesty till he condescends to grant your Request. — Do not

imagine that you live one Day without Faults, or that those Faults

are undiscovered. Most Men see that in another, which they can not

or will not see in themselves: And he is happiest, who through the

whole Course of his Life, can attain to a reasonable Freedom from Sin

and Folly, even by the Help of _Old Age_, that great Mortifier and

Extinguisher of our Lusts and Passions. If such a Monitor informs

you of any Misconduct, whether you know his Interpretations to be

true or false, take it not only _patiently_, but _thankfully_; and be

careful to reform. Thus you get and keep a Friend, break the

inordinate mischievous Affection you bore towards your Frailities,

and advance yourself in Wisdom and Virtue. When you consider that

you must give an Account of your Actions to your vigilant Reprover;

that other Men see the same Imperfections in you as he does; and that

it is impossible for a good Man to enjoy the Advantages of

Friendship, except he first puts off those Qualities which render him

subject to Flattery, that is, except he first cease to flatter

himself. A good, a generous _Christian_ Minister, or worthy sensible

Parents, may be suitable Persons for a difficult Office; difficult,

though it should be performed by _familiar_ Conversation. And how

much more meritorious of Entertainment are People of such a

Character, than those who come to your Table to _make Faces_, talk

Nonsense, devour your Substance, censure their Neighbours, flatter

and deride you? Remember that if a Friend tells you of a Fault,

always imagine that he does not tell you the whole, which is commonly

the Truth; for he desires your Reformation, but is loth to offend

you. And _nunquam sine querela aegra tanguntur_.

I know, dear Son, _Ambition_ fills your Mind, And in Life’s

Voyage, is th’ impelling Wind; But, at the Helm, let sober Reason

stand, To steer the Bark with Heav’n directed Hand: So shall you safe

_Ambition_’s Gales receive, And ride securely, though the Billows

heave; So shall you shun the giddy Hero’s Fate, And by her Influence

be both good and great.

She bids you first, in Life’s soft vernal Hours, With active

Industry wake Nature’s Pow’rs; With rising Years still rising Arts

display, With new-born Graces mark each new-born Day. ‘Tis now the

Time _young Passion_ to command, While yet the pliant Stem obeys the

Hand; Guide now the Courser with a steady Rein, E’er yet he bounds

o’er Pleasure’s flowry Plain; In Passion’s Strife no Medium you can

have; You rule, a Master; or submit, a Slave.

To conclude. — You are just entering into the World: Beware of

the _first Acts_ of Dishonesty: They present themselves to the Mind

under _specious Disguises_, and _plausible Reasons_ of Right and

Equity: But being admitted, they open the Way for admitting others,

that are _but a little_ more dishonest, which are followed by others

_a little_ more knavish than they, till by Degrees, however slow, a

Man becomes an _habitual_ Sharper, and at length a _consummate

Rascal_ and Villain. Then farewel all Peace of Mind, and inward

Satisfaction; all Esteem, Confidence, and Reputation among Mankind.

And indeed if _outward_ Reputation could be preserved, what Pleasure

can it afford to a Man that must _inwardly_ despise himself, whose

own Baseness will, in Spite of his Endeavours to forget it, be ever

presenting itself to his View. If you have a _Sir-Reverence_ in your

Breeches, what signifies it if you _appear_ to Others neat and clean

and genteel, when you _know_ and _feel_ yourself to be b —— t. I

make no Apology for the Comparison, however coarse, since none can be

too much so for a defiled and foul Conscience. But never flatter

yourself with _Concealment_; ’tis impossible to last long. One Man

may be too cunning for another Man, but not for _all Men_: Some Body

or other will smell you out, or some Accident will discover you; or

who can be sure that he shall never be heard to talk in his Sleep, or

be delirious in a Fever, when the working Mind usually throws out

Hints of what has inwardly affected it? Of this there have been many

Instances; some of which are within the Compass of your own

Knowledge.

Whether you chuse to act in a public or a private Station, if

you would maintain the personal Character of a Man of Sincerity,

Integrity and Virtue, there is a Necessity of becoming _really good_,

if you would _do good_: For the thin Disguises of _pretended_ private

Virtue and Public Spirit, are easily seen through; the Hypocrite

detected and exposed. For this Reason then, _My dear_ ISAAC, as well

as for many others, be sincere, candid, honest, well-meaning, and

upright, in all you do and say; be _really_ good, if you would

_appear_ so: Your Life then shall give Strength to your _Counsels_;

and though you should be found out an indifferent _Speaker_ or

_Writer_, you shall not be without Praise for the Benevolence of your

Intention.

But, again, suppose it possible for a Knave to preserve a fair

Character among Men, and even to approve his own Actions, what is

that to the Certainty of his being discovered and detested by the

all-seeing Eye of _that righteous_ BEING, who made and governs the

World, whose just Hand never fails to do right and to punish

Iniquity, and whose Approbation, Favour, and Friendship, is worth the

Universe?

Heartily wishing you every Accomplishment that can make a Man

amiable and valuable, to HIS Protection I commit you, being, with

sincere Affection, _dear Son_, Your very loving Father, _Abraham_.

_The New-England Magazine_, August, 1758

_A New Englandman to the Printer of the London Chronicle: A

Defense of the Americans_

_To the Printer of the_ CHRONICLE.

SIR, While the public attention is so much turned towards

_America_, every letter from thence that promises new information, is

pretty generally read; it seems therefore the more necessary that

care should be taken to disabuse the Public, when those letters

contain facts false in themselves, and representations injurious to

bodies of people, or even to private persons.

In your paper, No. 310. I find an extract of a letter, said to

be from a gentleman in General _Abercrombie_’s army. As there are

several strokes in it tending to render the colonies despicable, and

even odious to the mother country, which may have ill consequences;

and no notice having been taken of the injuries contained in that

letter, other letters of the same nature have since been published,

permit me to make a few observations on it.

The writer says, `_New England_ was settled by Presbyterians

and Independents, who took shelter there from the persecutions of

Archbishop _Laud_; — _they still retain their original character,

they generally hate the Church of England_,’ says he. If it were

true, that some resentment still remained for the hardships their

fathers suffer’d, it might perhaps be not much wondered at; but the

fact is, that the moderation of the present church of _England_

towards Dissenters in _Old_ as well as _New England_, has quite

effaced those impressions; the Dissenters too are become less rigid

and scrupulous, and the good-will between those different bodies in

that country is now both mutual and equal.

He goes on: _`They came out with a levelling spirit, and they

retain it. They cannot bear to think that one man should be

exorbitantly rich and another poor, so that, except in the seaport

towns, there are few great estates among them. This equality

produces also a rusticity of manners; for in their language, dress,

and in all their behaviour, they are more boorish than any thing you

ever saw in a certain Northern latitude.’_ One would imagine from

this account, that those who were growing poor, plundered those who

were growing rich to preserve this equality, and that property had no

protection; whereas in fact, it is no where more secure than in the

_New England_ colonies, the law is no where better executed, or

justice obtain’d at less expence. The equality he speaks of, arises

first from a more equal distribution of lands by the assemblies in

the first settlement than has been practised in the other colonies,

where favourites of governors have obtained enormous tracts for

trifling considerations, to the prejudice both of the crown revenues

and the public good; and secondly, from the nature of their

occupation; husbandmen with small tracts of land, though they may by

industry maintain themselves and families in mediocrity, having few

means of acquiring great wealth, especially in a young colony that is

to be supplied with its cloathing, and many other expensive articles

of consumption from the mother country. Their dress the gentleman

may be a more critical judge of than I can pretend to be; all I know

of it is, that they wear the manufactures of Britain, and follow its

fashions perhaps too closely, every remarkable change in the mode

making its appearance there within a few months after its invention

here; a natural effect of their constant intercourse with _England_,

by ships arriving almost every week from the capital, their respect

for the mother country, and admiration of every thing that is

_British_. But as to their language, I must beg this gentleman’s

pardon if I differ from him. His ear, accustomed perhaps to the

dialect practised in the _certain northern latitude_ he mentions, may

not be qualified to judge so nicely in what relates to _pure

English_. And I appeal to all Englishmen here, who have been

acquainted with the Colonists, whether it is not a common remark,

that they speak the language with such an exactness both of

expression and accent, that though you may know the natives of

several of the counties of _England_, by peculiarities in their

dialect, you cannot by that means distinguish a _North American_.

All the new books and pamphlets worth reading, that are published

here, in a few weeks are transmitted and found there, where there is

not a man or woman born in the country but what can read: and it

must, I should think, be a pleasing reflection to those who write

either for the benefit of the present age or of posterity, to find

their audience increasing with the increase of our colonies; and

their language extending itself beyond the narrow bounds of these

islands to a continent, larger than all _Europe_, and to a future

empire as fully peopled, which _Britain_ may probably one day possess

in those vast western regions.

But the Gentleman makes more injurious comparisons than these:

`_That latitude_, he says, has this advantage over them, that it has

produced sharp, acute men, fit for war or learning, whereas the other

are remarkably simple or silly, and blunder eternally. We have 6000

of their militia, which the General would willingly exchange for 2000

regulars. They are for ever marring some one or other of our plans

when sent to execute them. They can, indeed, some of them at least,

range in the woods; but 300 Indians with their yell, throw 3000 of

them into a panick, and then they will leave nothing to the enemy to

do, for they will shoot one another; and in the woods our regulars

are afraid to be on a command with them _on that very account._’ I

doubt, Mr. Chronicle, that this paragraph, when it comes to be read

in _America_, will have no good effect, and rather increase that

inconvenient disgust that is too apt to arise between the troops of

different corps, or countries, who are obliged to serve together.

Will not a _New England Officer_ be apt to retort and say, What

foundation have you for this odious distinction in favour of the

officers from your _certain northern latitude_? They may, as you

say, be _fit for learning_, but, surely, the return of your first

General, with a well-appointed and sufficient force from his

expedition against _Louisbourg_, is not the most shining proof of his

_talents for war_. And no one will say his plan was _marred by us_,

for we were not with him. — Was his successor, who conducted the

blundering attack and inglorious retreat from _Ticonderoga_, a New

England man, or one of _that certain latitude_? — Then as to the

comparison between _Regulars_ and _Provincials_, will not the latter

remark, That it was 2000 New England _Provincials_, with but about

150 _Regulars_, that took the strong fort of _Beausejour_ in the

beginning of the war, though in the accounts transmitted to the

English Gazette, the honour was claimed by the regulars, and little

or no notice taken of the others. — That it was the _Provincials_

who beat General _Dieskau_, with his _Regulars_, _Canadians_, and

_`yelling’ Indians_, and sent him prisoner to _England_. — That it

was a _Provincial-born_ Officer (* 1), with _American_ battoemen,

that beat the _French_ and _Indians_ on _Oswego_ river. — That it

was the same Officer, _with Provincials_, who made that long and

admirable march into the enemies country, took and destroyed Fort

_Frontenac_, with the whole French fleet on the lakes, and struck

terror into the heart of _Canada_. That it was a _Provincial_

Officer (* 2), _with Provincials_ only,

who made another extraordinary march into the enemy’s country,

surprised and destroyed the _Indian_ town of _Kittanning_, bringing

off the scalps of their chiefs. That one ranging Captain of a few

_Provincials_, _Rogers_, has harrassed the enemy _more_ on the

frontiers of _Canada_, and destroyed _more_ of their men, than the

_whole_ army of _Regulars_. — That it was the _Regulars_ who

surrendered themselves, with the Provincials under their command,

prisoners of war, almost as soon as they were besieged, with the

forts, fleet, and all the provisions and stores that had been

provided and amassed at so immense an expence, at _Oswego_. That it

was the _Regulars_ who surrendered Fort _William Henry_, and suffered

themselves to be butchered and scalped with arms in their hands.

That it was the _Regulars_, under _Braddock_, who were thrown into a

panick by the `_yells_ of 3 or 400 Indians,’ in their confusion shot

one another, and, with five times the force of the enemy, fled before

them, destroying all their own stores, ammunition, and provisions! –

These _Regular Gentlemen_, will the _Provincial rangers_ add, may

possibly be _afraid_, as they say they are, _to be on a command with

us_ in the woods; but when it is considered, that from all past

experience the chance of our shooting them is not as one to an

hundred, compared with that of their being shot by the enemy, may it

not be suspected, that what they give as the _very account_ of their

fear and unwillingness to venture out with us, is only the _very

excuse_; and that a concern for their scalps weighs more with them

than a regard for their honour.

Such as these, Sir, I imagine may be the reflections _extorted_

by such provocations from the Provincials in general. But the _New

England Men_ in particular will have reason to resent the remarks on

their reduction of _Louisbourg_. Your writer proceeds, `Indeed they

are all very ready to make their boast of taking _Louisbourg_, in

1745; but if people were to be acquitted or condemned according to

the propriety and wisdom of their plans, and not according to their

success, the persons that undertook that siege merited little praise:

for I have heard officers, who assisted at it, say, never was any

thing more rash; for had one single part of their plan failed, or had

the French made the fortieth part of the resistance then that they

have made now, every soul of the New Englanders must have fallen in

the trenches. The garrison was weak, sickly, destitute of

provisions, and disgusted, and therefore became a ready prey; and,

when they returned to France were decimated for their gallant

defence. Where then is the glory arising from thence?’ — After

denying his facts, `that the garrison was weak, wanted provisions,

made not a fortieth part of the resistance, were decimated,’ &c. the

_New England_ men will ask this regular gentleman, If the place was

well fortified, and had (as it really had) a numerous garrison, was

it not at least _brave_ to attack it with a handful of raw

undisciplined militia? If the garrison was, as you say, `sickly,

disgusted, destitute of provisions, and ready to become a prey,’ was

it not _prudent_ to seize that opportunity, and put the nation in

possession of so important a fortress at so small an expence? So

that if you will not allow the enterprize to be, as we think it was,

both _brave_ and _prudent_, ought you not at least to grant it was

_either one_ or _the other_? But is there no merit on this score in

the people, who, tho’ at first so greatly divided, as to the making

or forbearing the attempt, that it was carried in the affirmative, by

the small majority of _one_ vote only; yet when it was once resolved

on, _unanimously_ prosecuted the design (* 3), and prepared the means

with the greatest zeal and diligence; so that the whole equipment was

completely ready before the season would permit the execution? Is

there no merit of praise in laying and executing their plan so well,

that, as you have confessed, not a _single part_ of it failed? If

the plan was destitute of `propriety and wisdom,’ would it not have

required the _sharp acute_ men of the _northern latitude_ to execute

it, that by supplying its deficiencies they might give it some chance

of success? But if such `remarkably silly, simple, blundering

_Mar-plans_,’ as you say we are, could execute _this plan_, so that

not a _single part_ of it failed, does it not at least show that the

plan itself must be laid with _some_ `wisdom and propriety?’ — Is

there no merit in the ardour with which all degrees and ranks of

people quitted their private affairs, and ranged themselves under the

banners of their King, for the honour, safety, and advantage of their

country (* 4)? Is there no merit in the profound secrecy guarded by

a whole people, so that the enemy had not the least intelligence of

the design, till they saw the fleet of transports cover the sea

before their port? — Is there none in the indefatigable labour the

troops went thro’ during the siege, performing the duty both of men

and horses; the hardships they patiently suffered for want of tents

and other necessaries; the readiness with which they learnt to move,

direct, and manage cannon, raise batteries, and form approaches (*

5); the bravery with which they sustained sallies; and finally in

their consenting to stay and garrison the place after it was taken,

absent from their business and families, till troops could be brought

from England for that purpose, tho’ they undertook the service on a

promise of being discharged as soon as it was over, were unprovided

for so long an absence, and actually suffered ten times more loss by

mortal sickness, thro’ want of necessaries, than they suffered from

the arms of the enemy? The nation, however, had a sense of this

undertaking different from the unkind one of this gentleman. At the

treaty of peace, the possession of _Louisbourg_ was found of great

advantage to our affairs in _Europe_; and if the brave men that made

the acquisition for us were not _rewarded_, at least they were

_praised. Envy_ may continue a while to cavil and detract, but

_public virtue_ will in the end obtain esteem; and honest

impartiality in this and future ages will not fail doing justice to

merit.

Your _gentleman writer_ thus _decently_ goes on. `The most

substantial men of most of the provinces are children or

grandchildren of those that came here at the King’s expence, that is,

thieves, highwaymen, and robbers.’ Being probably a military

gentleman, this, and therefore a person of nice honour, if any one

should tell him in the _plainest_ language, that what he here says is

an absolute falsehood, challenges and cutting of throats might

immediately ensue. I shall therefore only refer him to _his own

account in this same letter_, of the _peopling_ of _New England_,

which he says, with more truth, was by _Puritans_ who fled thither

for shelter from the persecutions of Archbishop _Laud_. Is there not

a wide difference between removing to a distant country to enjoy the

exercise of religion according to a man’s conscience, and his being

transported thither by law as a punishment for his crimes? This

contradiction we therefore leave the _gentleman_ and _himself_ to

settle as well as they can between them. One would think from his

account, that the provinces were so many colonies from _Newgate_.

The truth is, not only _Laud_’s persecution, but the other publick

troubles in the following reigns, induc’d many thousand families to

leave _England_, and settle in the plantations. During the

predominance of the parliament, many royalists removed or were

banished to _Virginia_ and _Barbadoes_, who afterwards spread into

the other settlements: The Catholics shelter’d themselves in

_Maryland_. At the restoration, many of the depriv’d nonconformist

ministers with their families, friends and hearers, went over.

Towards the end of _Charles_ the Second’s reign and during _James_

the Second’s, the dissenters again flocked into _America_, driven by

persecution, and dreading the introduction of popery at home. Then

the high price or reward of labour in the colonies, and want of

Artisans there, drew over many, as well as the occasion of commerce;

and when once people begin to migrate, every one has his little

sphere of acquaintance and connections, which he draws after him, by

invitation, motives of interest, praising his new settlement, and

other encouragements. The `most substantial men’ are descendants of

those early settlers; new comers not having yet had time to raise

estates. The practice of sending convicts thither, is modern; and

the same indolence of temper and habits of idleness that make people

poor and tempt them to steal in _England_, continue with them when

they are sent to _America_, and must there have the same effects,

where all who live well owe their subsistence to labour and business,

and where it is a thousand times more difficult than here to acquire

wealth without industry. Hence the instances of transported thieves

advancing their fortunes in the colonies are extreamly rare, if there

_really is_ a single instance of it, which I very much doubt; but of

their being advanc’d there to the gallows the instances are plenty.

Might they not as well have been hang’d at home? — We call _Britain_

the _mother_ country; but what good mother besides, would introduce

thieves and criminals into the company of her children, to corrupt

and disgrace them? — And how cruel is it, to force, by the high hand

of power, a particular country of your subjects, who have not

deserv’d such usage, to receive your outcasts, repealing all the laws

they make to prevent their admission, and then reproach them with the

detested mixture you have made. `The emptying their jails into our

settlements (says a writer of that country) is an insult and

contempt, the cruellest perhaps that ever one people offered another;

and would not be equal’d even by emptying their jakes on our tables.’

The letter I have been considering, Mr. _Chronicle_, is

follow’d by another, in your paper of Tuesday the 17th past, said to

be _from an officer who attended Brigadier General_ Forbes _in his

march from_ Philadelphia _to_ Fort Duquesne; but wrote probably by

the same gentleman who wrote the former, as it seems calculated to

raise the character of the officers of the _certain northern

latitude_, at the expence of the reputation of the colonies, and the

provincial forces. According to this letter-writer, if the

_Pensilvanians_ granted large supplies, and raised a great body of

troops for the last campaign, it was not obedience to his Majesty’s

commands, signified by his minister Mr. _Pitt_, zeal for the King’s

service, or even a regard for their own safety; but it was owing to

the `General’s proper management of the Quakers and other parties in

the province.’ The withdrawing of the Indians from the French

interest by negotiating a peace, is all ascribed to the General, and

not a word said to the honour of the poor _Quakers_ who first set

those negotiations on foot, or of honest _Frederic Post_ that

compleated them with so much ability and success. Even the little

merit of the Assembly’s making a law to regulate carriages, is

imputed to the General’s `multitude of letters.’ Then he tells us,

`innumerable scouting parties had been sent out during a long period,

both by the General and Colonel _Bouquet_, towards Fort _Duquesne_,

to catch a prisoner, if possible, for intelligence, but never got

any.’ — How happened that? — Why, `It was the _Provincial troops_

that were constantly employed in that service,’ and they, it seems,

never do any thing they are ordered to do. — _That_, however, one

would think, might be easily remedied, by sending _Regulars_ with

them, who of course must command them, and may see that they do their

duty. _No; The Regulars are afraid of being shot by the Provincials

in a Panick_. — Then send all Regulars. — _Aye; That was what the

Colonel_ resolved _upon_. — `Intelligence was now wanted. (says the

letter-writer) Col. _Bouquet_, whose attention to business was [only]

very considerable [that is, _not quite so great_ as the General’s,

for he was not of the _northern latitude_] was _determined_ to send

NO MORE Provincials a scouting.’ — And how did he execute this

determination? Why, by sending `Major _Grant_ of the Highlanders,

with _seven_ hundred men, _three_ hundred of them Highlanders, THE

REST _Americans_, _Virginians_, and _Pensilvanians_!’ No _blunder_

this, in our writer; but a _misfortune_; and he is nevertheless one

of those _`acute sharp’_ men who are _`fit for learning!’_ — And how

did this Major and seven hundred men succeed in catching the

prisoner? — Why, their `march to Fort Duquesne was _so conducted_

that the _surprize_ was _compleat_.’ — Perhaps you may imagine,

gentle reader, that this was a surprize of the enemy. — No such

matter. They knew every step of his motions, and had, every man of

them, left their fires and huts in the fields, and retired into the

fort. — But the Major and his 700 men, _they_ were _surprized_;

first to find no body there at night; and next to find themselves

surrounded and cut to pieces in the morning; two or three hundred

being killed, drowned, or taken prisoners, and among the latter the

Major himself. Those who escaped were also _surprized_ at their own

good fortune; and the whole army was _surprized_ at the Major’s bad

management. Thus the _surprize_ was indeed _compleat_; — but not

the disgrace; for _Provincials were there_ to lay the blame on. The

_misfortune_ (we must not call it _misconduct_) of the Major was

owing, it seems, to an un-named and perhaps unknown _Provincial_

officer, who, it is said, `disobeyed his orders and quitted his

post.’ Whence a formal conclusion is drawn, `That a Planter is not to

be taken from the plow and made an officer in a day.’ — Unhappy

_Provincials_! If _success_ attends where you are joined with the

Regulars, they claim all the honour, tho’ not a tenth part of your

number. If _disgrace_, it is all yours, though you happen to be but

a small part of the whole, and have not the command; as if Regulars

were in their nature invincible, when not mix’d with Provincials, and

Provincials of no kind of value without Regulars! Happy is it for

you that you were present neither at _Preston-Pans_ nor _Falkirk_, at

the faint attempt against _Rochfort_, the route of _St. Cas_, or the

hasty retreat from _Martinico_. Every thing that went wrong, or did

not go right, would have been ascribed to you. Our commanders would

have been saved the labour of writing long apologies for their

conduct. It might have been sufficient to say, _Provincials were

with us!_

But these remarks, which we only suppose may be made by the

provok’d provincials, are probably too severe. The generals, even

those who have been recall’d, had in several respects great merit, as

well as many of the officers of the same nation that remain, which

the cool discreet part of the provincials will readily allow. They

are not insensible of the worth and bravery of the _British_ troops

in general, honour them for the amazing valour they manifested at the

landing on _Cape Breton_, the prudence and military skill they show’d

in the siege and reduction of _Louisburg_, and their good conduct on

other occasions; and can make due allowance for mistakes naturally

arising where even the best men are engag’d in a new kind of war,

with a new and strange enemy, and in a country different from any

they had before experienc’d. Lord HOWE was their darling

(* 6), and others might be nam’d who are

growing daily in their esteem and admiration. — There are also among

the regular officers, men of sentiments, concerning the colonies,

more generous and more just than those express’d by these

letter-writers; who can see faults even in their own corps, and who

can allow the Provincials their share of merit; who feel pleasure as

_Britons_, in observing that the _children_ of _Britain_ retain their

native intrepidity to the third and fourth generation in the regions

of _America_; together with that ardent love of liberty and zeal in

its defence, which in every age has distinguish’d their progenitors

among the rest of mankind. — To conclude, in all countries, all

nations, and all armies, there is, and will be a mixture of

characters, a medley of brave men, fools, wise-men and cowards.

National reflections being general, are therefore unjust. But

panegyrics, tho’ they should be too general, cannot offend the

subjects of them. I shall therefore boldly say, that the _English_

are brave and wise; the _Scotch_ are brave and wise; and the people

of the _British_ colonies, proceeding from both nations — I would

say the same of them, if it might not be thought vanity in Your

humble servant, May 9, 1759. _A New Englandman_.

_The London Chronicle_, May 12, 1759

(* 1) Colonel _Bradstreet_.

(* 2) Colonel _Armstrong_ of _Pensilvania_.

(* 3) `As the Massachuset’s assembly at first entered into the

expedition upon the _coolest deliberation_, so did they on the other

hand exert themselves with _uncommon vigour_ in the persecution of

it. As soon as the point was carried for undertaking it, EVERY

MEMBER which had opposed it _gave up his own private judgment_ to the

public voice, and _vied_ with those who had voted for the expedition,

in encouraging the enlistment of the troops, and forwarding the

preparations for the attempt.’ _Memoirs of the last War_, p. 41.

(* 4) `The bounty, pay, and other encouragements, allowed by the

Massachuset’s government to both officers and men, especially the

former, was but small; but the _spirit_ which reigned thro’ the

province supplied the want of that; the complement of troops was soon

inlisted; not only the officers, who served in this enterprize, were

gentlemen of considerable property, but most of the non-commission’d

officers, and many of the private men, had valuable freeholds, and

entered into the service upon the same principles that the old

_Roman_ citizens in the first Consular armies used to do.’ _Memoirs

of the last War_, p. 41.

To which I may add, that instances of the same noble spirit are

not uncommon in all the other colonies; where men have entered into

the service not for the sake of the pay, for their own affairs in

their absence suffer more by far than its value; not in hopes of

preferment in the army, for the Provincials are shut out from such

expectations, their own forces being always disbanded on a peace, and

the vacancies among the Regulars filled with _Europeans_; but merely

from _public spirit_ and a sense of duty. Among many others, give me

leave to name Col. PETER SCHUYLER of _New Jersey_; who, though a

gentleman of a considerable independent fortune, has, both in the

last and present war, quitted that domestic ease and quiet which such

affluence afforded, to take upon him the command of his country’s

forces, and by his example animated the soldiery to undergo the

greatest fatigues and hardships: And who when a prisoner in _Canada_

for fifteen months, did, during the whole time, generously make use

of his own credit to relieve such _British_ subjects as unhappily

fell into the hands of the enemy. — Not to mention his advancing his

own private fortune towards paying the forces, raised during last war

in _America_ by order of the crown; when, by the continued delays in

sending the money from _England_ for that purpose, it was generally

doubted whether it would ever be sent, and the common soldiers were

therefore, from necessity, on the point of quitting his Majesty’s

service in a body. An event which must at that time have been

attended with very fatal consequences; and would not have been

prevented, had not he risqued so considerable a part of his

substance.

(* 5) `The _New England_ troops, within the compass of 23 days from

the time of their first landing, erected five fascine batteries

against the town, mounted with cannon of 42 lb. 22 lb. and 18 lb.

shot, mortars of 13, 11, and 9 inches diameter, with some cohorns;

all which were transported _by hand_, with incredible labour and

difficulty, most of them above two miles; all the ground over which

they were drawn, except small patches or hills of rocks, was a _deep

morass_, in which, whilst the cannon were upon wheels, they several

times sunk so deep, as not only to bury the carriages, but their

whole bodies. Horses and oxen could not be employed in this service,

but all must be drawn by men, up to the knees in mud; the nights, in

which the work was done, were cold and foggy, their tents bad, there

being no proper materials for tents to be had in New England at the

outset of the expedition. But notwithstanding these difficulties,

and many of the men’s being taken down with fluxes, so that at one

time there were 1500 incapable of duty, they went on _without being

discouraged or murmuring_, and transported the cannon over those

ways, which the French had always thought impassable for such heavy

weights; and besides this, they had all their provisions and heavy

ammunition, which they daily made use of, to bring from the camp over

the same way upon their backs.’ _Memoirs of the last war in America_,

page 52.

(* 6) The assembly of the _Massachusets-Bay_ have voted a sum of

money for erecting a monument in _Westminster-Abbey_, to the memory

of that Nobleman, as a testimony of their veneration for his virtues.

– A proof that their sense of merit is not narrow’d to a country.

_A Description of Those, Who, at Any Rate, Would Have a Peace

with France_

The two prevailing motives among us, which strongly bias great

numbers of people, at this time, to wish for a peace with _France_,

let the terms be ever so dishonourable, ever so disadvantageous, or

likely to prove of ever so short a duration, are Power and

Self-interest.

As to the First, there is a set of men, who have been so long

used to Power, that it is become part of their constitution; and

PARIS 1776-1785

by Benjamin Franklin

_The Sale of the Hessians_

FROM THE COUNT DE SCHAUMBERGH TO THE BARON

HOHENDORF, COMMANDING THE HESSIAN TROOPS

IN AMERICA

Rome, February 18, 1777.

MONSIEUR LE BARON: — On my return from Naples, I received at

Rome your letter of the 27th December of last year. I have learned

with unspeakable pleasure the courage our troops exhibited at

Trenton, and you cannot imagine my joy on being told that of the

1,950 Hessians engaged in the fight, but 345 escaped. There were

just 1,605 men killed, and I cannot sufficiently commend your

prudence in sending an exact list of the dead to my minister in

London. This precaution was the more necessary, as the report sent

to the English ministry does not give but 1,455 dead. This would

make 483,450 florins instead of 643,500 which I am entitled to demand

under our convention. You will comprehend the prejudice which such

an error would work in my finances, and I do not doubt you will take

the necessary pains to prove that Lord North’s list is false and

yours correct.

The court of London objects that there were a hundred wounded

who ought not to be included in the list, nor paid for as dead; but I

trust you will not overlook my instructions to you on quitting

Cassel, and that you will not have tried by human succor to recall

the life of the unfortunates whose days could not be lengthened but

by the loss of a leg or an arm. That would be making them a

pernicious present, and I am sure they would rather die than live in

a condition no longer fit for my service. I do not mean by this that

you should assassinate them; we should be humane, my dear Baron, but

you may insinuate to the surgeons with entire propriety that a

crippled man is a reproach to their profession, and that there is no

wiser course than to let every one of them die when he ceases to be

fit to fight.

I am about to send to you some new recruits. Don’t economize

them. Remember glory before all things. Glory is true wealth.

There is nothing degrades the soldier like the love of money. He

must care only for honour and reputation, but this reputation must be

acquired in the midst of dangers. A battle gained without costing

the conqueror any blood is an inglorious success, while the conquered

cover themselves with glory by perishing with their arms in their

hands. Do you remember that of the 300 Lacedaemonians who defended

the defile of Thermopyl;ae, not one returned? How happy should I be

could I say the same of my brave Hessians!

It is true that their king, Leonidas, perished with them: but

things have changed, and it is no longer the custom for princes of

the empire to go and fight in America for a cause with which they

have no concern. And besides, to whom should they pay the thirty

guineas per man if I did not stay in Europe to receive them? Then,

it is necessary also that I be ready to send recruits to replace the

men you lose. For this purpose I must return to Hesse. It is true,

grown men are becoming scarce there, but I will send you boys.

Besides, the scarcer the commodity the higher the price. I am

assured that the women and little girls have begun to till our lands,

and they get on not badly. You did right to send back to Europe that

Dr. Crumerus who was so successful in curing dysentery. Don’t bother

with a man who is subject to looseness of the bowels. That disease

makes bad soldiers. One coward will do more mischief in an

engagement than ten brave men will do good. Better that they burst

in their barracks than fly in a battle, and tarnish the glory of our

arms. Besides, you know that they pay me as killed for all who die

from disease, and I don’t get a farthing for runaways. My trip to

Italy, which has cost me enormously, makes it desirable that there

should be a great mortality among them. You will therefore promise

promotion to all who expose themselves; you will exhort them to seek

glory in the midst of dangers; you will say to Major Maundorff that I

am not at all content with his saving the 345 men who escaped the

massacre of Trenton. Through the whole campaign he has not had ten

men killed in consequence of his orders. Finally, let it be your

principal object to prolong the war and avoid a decisive engagement

on either side, for I have made arrangements for a grand Italian

opera, and I do not wish to be obliged to give it up. Meantime I

pray God, my dear Baron de Hohendorf, to have you in his holy and

gracious keeping.

_Model of a Letter of Recommendation_

Sir Paris April 2, 1777

The Bearer of this who is going to America, presses me to give

him a Letter of Recommendation, tho’ I know nothing of him, not even

his Name. This may seem extraordinary, but I assure you it is not

uncommon here. Sometimes indeed one unknown Person brings me another

equally unknown, to recommend him; and sometimes they recommend one

another! As to this Gentleman, I must refer you to himself for his

Character and Merits, with which he is certainly better acquainted

than I can possibly be; I recommend him however to those Civilities

which every Stranger, of whom one knows no Harm, has a Right to, and

I request you will do him all the good Offices and show him all the

Favour that on further Acquaintance you shall find him to deserve. I

have the honour to be, &c.

_The Twelve Commandments_

TO MADAME BRILLON

Passy March 10.

I am charm’d with the goodness of my spiritual guide, and

resign myself implicitly to her Conduct, as she promises to lead me

to heaven in so delicious a Road when I could be content to travel

thither even in the roughest of all ways with the pleasure of her

Company.

How kindly partial to her Penitent in finding him, on examining

his conscience, guilty of only one capital sin and to call that by

the gentle name of Foible!

I lay fast hold of your promise to absolve me of all Sins past,

present, & future, on the easy & pleasing Condition of loving God,

America and my guide above all things. I am in Rapture when I think

of being absolv’d of the future.

People commonly speak of Ten Commandments. — I have been

taught that there are twelve. The first was increase & multiply &

replenish the earth. The twelfth is, A new Commandment I give unto

you, _that you love one another._ It seems to me that they are a

little misplaced, And that the last should have been the first.

However I never made any difficulty about that, but was always

willing to obey them both whenever I had an opportunity. Pray tell

me my dear Casuist, whether my keeping religiously these two

commandments tho’ not in the Decalogue, may not be accepted in

Compensation for my breaking so often one of the ten I mean that

which forbids Coveting my neighbour’s wife, and which I confess I

break constantly God forgive me, as often as I see or think of my

lovely Confessor, and I am afraid I should never be able to repent of

the Sin even if I had the full Possession of her.

And now I am Consulting you upon a Case of Conscience I will

mention the Opinion of a certain Father of the church which I find

myself willing to adopt though I am not sure it is orthodox. It is

this, that the most effectual way to get rid of a certain Temptation

is, as often as it returns, to comply with and satisfy it.

Pray instruct me how far I may venture to practice upon this

Principle?

But why should I be so scrupulous when you have promised to

absolve me of the future?

Adieu my charming Conductress and believe me ever with the

sincerest Esteem & affection.

Your most obed’t hum. Serv.

1778

_Petition of the Letter Z_

FROM THE TATLER N 1778

TO THE WORSHIPFUL ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, ESQ;

CENSOR-GENERAL

THE PETITION OF THE LETTER Z COMMONLY CALLED

EZZARD, ZED, or IZARD, MOST HUMBLY SHEWETH,

He was always talking of his Family and of his being a Man of

Fortune.

That your Petitioner is of as high extraction, and has as

good an Estate as any other Letter of the Alphabet.

And complaining of his being treated, not with due Respect

That there is therefore no reason why he should be treated as

he is with Disrespect and Indignity.

At the tail of the Commission, of Ministers

He was not of the Commission for France, A Lee being preferr’d

to him, which made him very angry; and the Character here given of S,

is just what he in his Passion gave Lee.

That he is not only plac’d at the Tail of the Alphabet, when he

had as much Right as any other to be at the Head; but is, by the

Injustice of his enemies totally excluded from the Word WISE, and his

Place injuriously filled by a little, hissing, crooked, serpentine,

venemous Letter called s, when it must be evident to your Worship,

and to all the World, that Double U, I, S. E do not spell or sound

_Wize_, but _Wice._

The most impatient Man alive

Your Petitioner therefore prays that the Alphabet may by your

Censorial Authority be reformed, and that in Consideration of his

_Long-Suffering_ & _Patience_ he may be placed at the Head of it;

that S may be turned out of the Word Wise, and the Petitioner

employ’d instead of him;

And your Petitioner (as in Duty bound) shall ever pray, &c.

Mr. Bickerstaff having examined the Allegations of the above

Petition, judges and determines, that Z be admonished to be content

with his Station, forbear Reflections upon his Brother Letters, &

remember his own small Usefulness, and the little Occasion there is

for him in the Republick of Letters, since S, whom he so despises,

can so well serve instead of him.

c. August, 1778

_The Ephemera_

Passy Sept 20, 1778

You may remember, my dear Friend, that when we lately spent

that happy Day in the delightful Garden and sweet Society of the

Moulin Joli, I stopt a little in one of our Walks, and staid some

time behind the Company. We had been shewn numberless Skeletons of a

kind of little Fly, called an Ephemere all whose successive

Generations we were told were bred and expired within the Day. I

happen’d to see a living Company of them on a Leaf, who appear’d to

be engag’d in Conversation. — You know I understand all the inferior

Animal Tongues: my too great Application to the Study of them is the

best Excuse I can give for the little Progress I have made in your

charming Language. I listened thro’ Curiosity to the Discourse of

these little Creatures, but as they in their national Vivacity spoke

three or four together, I could make but little of their Discourse.

I found, however, by some broken Expressions that I caught now &

then, they were disputing warmly the Merit of two foreign Musicians,

one a _Cousin_, the other a _Musketo_; in which Dispute they spent

their time seemingly as regardless of the Shortness of Life, as if

they had been Sure of living a Month. Happy People! thought I, you

live certainly under a wise, just and mild Government; since you have

no public Grievances to complain of, nor any Subject of Contention

but the Perfection or Imperfection of foreign Music. I turned from

them to an old greyheaded one, who was single on another Leaf, &

talking to himself. Being amus’d with his Soliloquy, I have put it

down in writing in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am So

much indebted for the most pleasing of all Amusements, her delicious

Company and her heavenly Harmony.

"It was, says he, the Opinion of learned Philosophers of our

Race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast

World, the _Moulin Joli_, could not itself subsist more than 18

Hours; and I think there was some Foundation for that Opinion, since

by the apparent Motion of the great Luminary that gives Life to all

Nature, and which in my time has evidently declin’d considerably

towards the Ocean at the End of our Earth, it must then finish its

Course, be extinguish’d in the Waters that surround us, and leave the

World in Cold and Darkness, necessarily producing universal Death and

Destruction. I have lived seven of these Hours; a great Age; being

no less than 420 minutes of Time. How very few of us continue So

long. — I have seen Generations born, flourish and expire. My

present Friends are the Children and Grandchildren of the Friends of

my Youth, who are now, alas, no more! And I must soon follow them;

for by the Course of Nature, tho’ still in Health, I cannot expect to

live above 7 or 8 Minutes longer. What now avails all my Toil and

Labour in amassing Honey-Dew on this Leaf, which I cannot live to

enjoy! What the political Struggles I have been engag’d in for the

Good of my Compatriotes, Inhabitants of this Bush, or my

philosophical Studies for the Benefit of our Race in general! For in

Politics _what can Laws do without Morals._ (note-Ephemera-1, see

page 924) Our present Race of Ephemeres will in a Course of Minutes,

become corrupt like those of other and older Bushes, and consequently

as wretched. And in Philosophy how small our Progress! Alas, _Art

is long and Life is short_! (note-Ephemera-2, see page 924) — My

Friends would comfort me with the Idea of a Name they Say I shall

leave behind me; and they tell me I have _lived long enough, to

Nature and to Glory_; (note-Ephemera-3, see page 924) — But what

will Fame be to an Ephemere who no longer exists? And what will

become of all History in the 18th Hour, when the World itself, even

the whole _Moulin Joli_ shall come to its End, and be buried in

universal Ruin? — To me, after all my eager Pursuits, no solid

Pleasures now remain, but the Reflection of a long Life spent in

meaning well, the sensible Conversation of a few good Lady-Ephemeres,

and now and then a kind Smile and a Tune from the ever-amiable

BRILLANTE."

_The Elysian Fields_

M. FRANKLIN TO MADAME HELVETIUS

Vexed by your barbarous resolution, announced so positively

last evening, to remain single all your life in respect to your dear

husband, I went home, fell on my bed, and, believing myself dead,

found myself in the Elysian Fields.

I was asked if I desired to see anybody in particular. Lead me

to the home of the philosophers. — There are two who live nearby in

the garden: they are very good neighbors, and close friends of each

other. — Who are they? — Socrates and H —— . — I esteem them

both prodigiously; but let me see first H —— , because I

understand a little French, but not one word of Greek. He received

me with great courtesy, having known me for some time, he said, by

the reputation I had there. He asked me a thousand things about the

war, and about the present state of religion, liberty, and the

government in France. — You ask nothing then of your dear friend

Madame H —— ; nevertheless she still loves you excessively and I

was at her place but an hour ago. Ah! said he, you make me remember

my former felicity. — But it is necessary to forget it in order to

be happy here. During several of the early years, I thought only of

her. Finally I am consoled. I have taken another wife. The most

like her that I could find. She is not, it is true, so completely

beautiful, but she has as much good sense, a little more of Spirit,

and she loves me infinitely. Her continual study is to please me;

and she has actually gone to hunt the best Nectar and the best

Ambrosia in order to regale me this evening; remain with me and you

will see her. I perceive, I said, that your old friend is more

faithful than you: for several good offers have been made her, all of

which she has refused. I confess to you that I myself have loved her

to the point of distraction; but she was hard-hearted to my regard,

and has absolutely rejected me for love of you. I pity you, he said,

for your bad fortune; for truly she is a good and beautiful woman and

very loveable. But the Abbee de la R —— , and the Abbe M ——

, are they not still sometimes at her home? Yes, assuredly, for she

has not lost a single one of your friends. If you had won over the

Abbe M —— (with coffee and cream) to speak for you, perhaps you

would have succeeded; for he is a subtle logician like Duns Scotus or

St. Thomas; he places his arguments in such good order that they

become nearly irresistible. Also, if the Abbe de la R —– had been

bribed (by some beautiful edition of an old classic) to speak against

you, that would have been better: for I have always observed, that

when he advises something, she has a very strong penchant to do the

reverse. — At these words the new Madame H —— entered with the

Nectar: at which instant I recognized her to be Madame F —— , my

old American friend. I reclaimed to her. But she told me coldly, "I

have been your good wife forty-nine years and four months, nearly a

half century; be content with that. Here I have formed a new

connection, which will endure to eternity."

Offended by this refusal of my Eurydice, I suddenly decided to

leave these ungrateful spirits, to return to the good earth, to see

again the sunshine and you. Here I am! Let us revenge ourselves.

December 7, 1778

_Bilked for Breakfast_

MR. FRANKLIN TO MADAME LA FRETE

Upon my word, you did well, Madam, not to come so far, at so

inclement a Season, only to find so wretched a Breakfast. My Son & I

were not so wise. I will tell you the Story.

As the Invitation was for eleven O’clock, & you were of the

Party, I imagined I should find a substantial Breakfast; that there

would be a large Company; that we should have not only Tea, but

Coffee, Chocolate, perhaps a Ham, & several other good Things. I

resolved to go on Foot; my Shoes were a little too tight; I arrived

almost lamed. On entering the Courtyard, I was a little surprised to

find it so empty of Carriages, & to see that we were the first to

arrive. We go up the Stairs. Not a Sound. We enter the Breakfast

Room. No one except the Abbe & Monsieur Cabanis. Breakfast over, &

eaten! Nothing on the Table except a few Scraps of Bread & a little

Butter. General astonishment; a Servant sent running to tell Madame

Helvetius that we have come for Breakfast. She leaves her toilet

Table; she enters with her Hair half dressed. It is declared

surprising that I have come, when you wrote me that you would not

come. I Deny it. To prove it, they show me your Letter, which they

have received and kept.

Finally another Breakfast is ordered. One Servant runs for

fresh Water, another for Coals. The Bellows are plied with a will.

I was very Hungry; it was so late; "a watched pot is slow to boil,"

as Poor Richard says. Madame sets out for Paris & leaves us. We

begin to eat. The Butter is soon finished. The Abbe asks if we want

more. Yes, of course. He rings. No one comes. We talk; he forgets

the Butter. I began scraping the Dish; at that he seizes it & runs

to the Kitchen for some. After a while he comes slowly back, saying

mournfully that there is no more of it in the House. To entertain me

the Abbe proposes a Walk; my feet refuse. And so we give up

Breakfast; & we go upstairs to his apartment to let his good Books

furnish the end of our Repast — .

I am left utterly disconsolate, having, instead of half a Dozen

of your sweet, affectionate, substantial, & heartily applied Kisses,

which I expected from your Charity, having received only the Shadow

of one given by Madame Helvetius, willingly enough, it is true, but

the lightest & most superficial kiss that can possibly be imagined.

c. 1778

_Passport for Captain Cook_

To all Captains and Commanders of armed Ships acting by

Commission from the Congress of the United States of America, now in

war with Great Britain.

Gentlemen,

A Ship having been fitted out from England before the

Commencement of this War, to make Discoveries of new Countries in

Unknown Seas, under the Conduct of that most celebrated Navigator and

Discoverer Captain Cook; an Undertaking truly laudable in itself, as

the Increase of Geographical Knowledge facilitates the Communication

between distant Nations, in the Exchange of useful Products and

Manufactures, and the Extension of Arts, whereby the common

Enjoyments of human Life are multiply’d and augmented, and Science of

other kinds increased to the benefit of Mankind in general; this is,

therefore, most earnestly to recommend to every one of you, that, in

case the said Ship, which is now expected to be soon in the European

Seas on her Return, should happen to fall into your Hands, you would

not consider her as an Enemy, nor suffer any Plunder to be made of

the Effects contain’d in her, nor obstruct her immediate Return to

England, by detaining her or sending her into any other Part of

Europe or to America, but that you would treat the said Captain Cook

and his People with all Civility and Kindness, affording them, as

common Friends to Mankind, all the Assistance in your Power, which

they may happen to stand in need of. In so doing you will not only

gratify the Generosity of your own Dispositions, but there is no

doubt of your obtaining the Approbation of the Congress, and your

other American Owners. I have the honour to be, Gentlemen, your most

obedient humble Servant.

Given at Passy, near Paris, this 10th day of March, 1779.

_Plenipotentiary from the Congress of the

United States to the Court of France._

_The Morals of Chess_

[Playing at chess is the most ancient and most universal game

known among men; for its original is beyond the memory of history,

and it has, for numberless ages, been the amusement of all the

civilised nations of Asia, the Persians, the Indians, and the

Chinese. Europe has had it above a thousand years; the Spaniards

have spread it over their part of America; and it has lately begun to

make its appearance in the United States. It is so interesting in

itself, as not to need the view of gain to induce engaging in it; and

thence it is seldom played for money. Those therefore who have

leisure for such diversions, cannot find one that is more innocent:

and the following piece, written with a view to correct (among a few

young friends) some little improprieties in the practice of it, shows

at the same time that it may, in its effects on the mind, be not

merely innocent, but advantageous, to the vanquished as well as the

victor.]

The Game of Chess is not merely an idle Amusement. Several

very valuable qualities of the Mind, useful in the course of human

Life, are to be acquir’d or strengthened by it, so as to become

habits, ready on all occasions. For Life is a kind of Chess, in

which we often have Points to gain, & Competitors or Adversaries to

contend with; and in which there is a vast variety of good and ill

Events, that are in some degree the Effects of Prudence or the want

of it. By playing at Chess, then, we may learn,

I. _Foresight_, which looks a little into futurity, and

considers the Consequences that may attend an action; for it is

continually occurring to the Player, "If I move this piece, what will

be the advantages or disadvantages of my new situation? What Use can

my Adversary make of it to annoy me? What other moves can I make to

support it, and to defend myself from his attacks?"

II. _Circumspection_, which surveys the whole Chessboard, or

scene of action; the relations of the several pieces and situations,

the Dangers they are respectively exposed to, the several

possibilities of their aiding each other, the probabilities that the

Adversary may make this or that move, and attack this or the other

Piece, and what different Means can be used to avoid his stroke, or

turn its consequences against him.

III. _Caution_, not to make our moves too hastily. This habit

is best acquired, by observing strictly the laws of the Game; such

as, _If you touch a Piece, you must move it somewhere; if you set it

down, you must let it stand._ And it is therefore best that these

rules should be observed, as the Game becomes thereby more the image

of human Life, and particularly of War; in which, if you have

incautiously put yourself into a bad and dangerous position, you

cannot obtain your Enemy’s Leave to withdraw your Troops, and place

them more securely, but you must abide all the consequences of your

rashness.

And _lastly_, we learn by Chess the habit of not being

discouraged by present appearances in the state of our affairs, the

habit of hoping for a favourable Change, and that of persevering in

the search of resources. The Game is so full of Events, there is

such a variety of turns in it, the Fortune of it is so subject to

sudden Vicissitudes, and one so frequently, after long contemplation,

discovers the means of extricating one’s self from a supposed

insurmountable Difficulty, that one is encouraged to continue the

Contest to the last, in hopes of Victory from our own skill, or at

least of getting a stale mate, from the Negligence of our Adversary.

And whoever considers, what in Chess he often sees instances of, that

particular pieces of success are apt to produce Presumption, & its

consequent Inattention, by which more is afterwards lost than was

gain’d by the preceding Advantage, while misfortunes produce more

care and attention, by which the loss may be recovered, will learn

not to be too much discouraged by any present success of his

Adversary, nor to despair of final good fortune upon every little

Check he receives in the pursuit of it.

That we may therefore be induced more frequently to chuse this

beneficial amusement, in preference to others which are not attended

with the same advantages, every Circumstance that may increase the

pleasure of it should be regarded; and every action or word that is

unfair, disrespectful, or that in any way may give uneasiness, should

be avoided, as contrary to the immediate intention of both the

Players, which is to pass the Time agreably.

Therefore, first, if it is agreed to play according to the

strict rules, then those rules are to be exactly observed by both

parties, and should not be insisted on for one side, while deviated

from by the other — for this is not equitable.

Secondly, if it is agreed not to observe the rules exactly, but

one party demands indulgencies, he should then be as willing to allow

them to the other.

Thirdly, no false move should ever be made to extricate

yourself out of difficulty, or to gain an advantage. There can be no

pleasure in playing with a person once detected in such unfair

practice.

Fourthly, if your adversary is long in playing, you ought not

to hurry him, or express any uneasiness at his delay. You should not

sing, nor whistle, nor look at your watch, nor take up a book to

read, nor make a tapping with your feet on the floor, or with your

fingers on the table, nor do any thing that may disturb his

attention. For all these things displease; and they do not show your

skill in playing, but your craftiness or your rudeness.

Fifthly, you ought not to endeavour to amuse and deceive your

adversary, by pretending to have made bad moves, and saying that you

have now lost the game, in order to make him secure and careless, and

inattentive to your schemes: for this is fraud and deceit, not skill

in the game.

Sixthly, you must not, when you have gained a victory, use any

triumphing or insulting expression, nor show too much pleasure; but

endeavour to console your adversary, and make him less dissatisfied

with himself, by every kind of civil expression that may be used with

truth, such as, "you understand the game better than I, but you are a

little inattentive;" or, "you play too fast;" or, "you had the best

of the game, but something happened to divert your thoughts, and that

turned it in my favour."

Seventhly, if you are a spectator while others play, observe

the most perfect silence. For, if you give advice, you offend both

parties, him against whom you give it, because it may cause the loss

of his game, him in whose favour you give it, because, though it be

good, and he follows it, he loses the pleasure he might have had, if

you had permitted him to think until it had occurred to himself.

Even after a move or moves, you must not, by replacing the pieces,

show how they might have been placed better; for that displeases, and

may occasion disputes and doubts about their true situation. All

talking to the players lessens or diverts their attention, and is

therefore unpleasing. Nor should you give the least hint to either

party, by any kind of noise or motion. If you do, you are unworthy

to be a spectator. If you have a mind to exercise or show your

judgment, do it in playing your own game, when you have an

opportunity, not in criticizing, or meddling with, or counselling the

play of others.

Lastly, if the game is not to be played rigorously, according

to the rules above mentioned, then moderate your desire of victory

over your adversary, and be pleased with one over yourself. Snatch

not eagerly at every advantage offered by his unskilfulness or

inattention; but point out to him kindly, that by such a move he

places or leaves a piece in danger and unsupported; that by another

he will put his king in a perilous situation, &c. By this generous

civility (so opposite to the unfairness above forbidden) you may,

indeed, happen to lose the game to your opponent; but you will win

what is better, his esteem, his respect, and his affection, together

with the silent approbation and good-will of impartial spectators.

June, 1779

_The Whistle_

_Passy, November_ 10 1779.

I received my dear Friend’s two Letters, one for Wednesday &

one for Saturday. This is again Wednesday. I do not deserve one for

to day, because I have not answered the former. But indolent as I

am, and averse to Writing, the Fear of having no more of your

pleasing Epistles, if I do not contribute to the Correspondance,

obliges me to take up my Pen: And as M. B. has kindly sent me Word,

that he sets out to-morrow to see you; instead of spending this

Wednesday Evening as I have long done its Name-sakes, in your

delightful Company, I sit down to spend it in thinking of you, in

writing to you, & in reading over & over again your Letters.

I am charm’d with your Description of Paradise, & with your

Plan of living there. And I approve much of your Conclusion, that in

the mean time we should draw all the Good we can from this World. In

my Opinion we might all draw more Good, from it than we do, & suffer

less Evil, if we would but take care _not to give too much for our

Whistles._ For to me it seems that most of the unhappy People we meet

with, are become so by Neglect of that Caution.

You ask what I mean? — You love Stories, and will excuse my

telling you one of my self. When I was a Child of seven Years old,

my Friends on a Holiday fill’d my little Pocket with Halfpence. I

went directly to a Shop where they sold Toys for Children; and being

charm’d with the Sound of a Whistle that I met by the way, in the

hands of another Boy, I voluntarily offer’d and gave all my Money for

it. When I came home, whistling all over the House, much pleas’d

with my Whistle, but disturbing all the Family, my Brothers, Sisters

& Cousins, understanding the Bargain I had made, told me I had given

four times as much for it as it was worth, put me in mind what good

Things I might have bought with the rest of the Money, & laught at me

so much for my Folly that I cry’d with Vexation; and the Reflection

gave me more Chagrin than the Whistle gave me Pleasure.

This however was afterwards of use to me, the Impression

continuing on my Mind; so that often when I was tempted to buy some

unnecessary thing, I said to my self, _Do not give too much for the

Whistle_; and I sav’d my Money.

As I grew up, came into the World, and observed the Actions of

Men, I thought I met many _who gave too much for the Whistle_. –

When I saw one ambitious of Court Favour, sacrificing his Time in

Attendance at Levees, his Repose, his Liberty, his Virtue and perhaps

his Friend, to obtain it; I have said to my self, _This Man gives too

much for his Whistle_. — When I saw another fond of Popularity,

constantly employing himself in political Bustles, neglecting his own

Affairs, and ruining them by the Neglect, _He pays_, says I, _too

much for his Whistle_. — If I knew a Miser, who gave up every kind

of comfortable Living, all the pleasure of doing Good to others, all

the Esteem of his Fellow Citizens, & the Joys of benevolent

Friendship, for the sake of Accumulating Wealth, _Poor Man_, says I,

_you pay too much for your Whistle_. — When I met with a Man of

Pleasure, sacrificing every laudable Improvement of his Mind or of

his Fortune, to mere corporeal Satisfactions, & ruining his Health in

their Pursuit, _Mistaken Man_, says I, _you are providing Pain for

your self instead of Pleasure, you pay too much for your Whistle_. –

If I see one fond of Appearance, of fine Cloaths, fine Houses, fine

Furniture, fine Equipages, all above his Fortune, for which he

contracts Debts, and ends his Career in a Prison; _Alas_, says I, _he

has paid too much for his Whistle._ — When I saw a beautiful

sweet-temper’d Girl, marry’d to an ill-natured Brute of a Husband;

_What a Pity_, says I, _that she should pay so much for a Whistle!_

– In short, I conceiv’d that great Part of the Miseries of Mankind,

were brought upon them by the false Estimates they had made of the

Value of Things, and by their _giving too much for the Whistle._

Yet I ought to have Charity for these unhappy People, when I

consider that with all this Wisdom of which I am boasting, there are

certain things in the World so tempting; for Example the Apples of

King John, which happily are not to be bought, for if they were put

to sale by Auction, I might very easily be led to ruin my self in the

Purchase, and find that I had once more _given too much for the

Whistle._

Adieu, my dearest Friend, and believe me ever yours very

sincerely and with unalterable Affection.

Passy, 1779

_The Levee_

In the first chapter of Job we have an account of a transaction

said to have arisen in the court, or at the _levee_, of the best of

all possible princes, or of governments by a single person, viz. that

of God himself.

At this _levee_, in which the sons of God were assembled, Satan

also appeared.

It is probable the writer of that ancient book took his idea of

this _levee_ from those of the eastern monarchs of the age he lived

in.

It is to this day usual at the _levees_ of princes, to have

persons assembled who are enemies to each other, who seek to obtain

favor by whispering calumny and detraction, and thereby ruining those

that distinguish themselves by their virtue and merit. And kings

frequently ask a familiar question or two, of every one in the

circle, merely to show their benignity. These circumstances are

particularly exemplified in this relation.

If a modern king, for instance, finds a person in the circle

who has not lately been there, he naturally asks him how he has

passed his time since he last had the pleasure of seeing him? the

gentleman perhaps replies that he has been in the country to view his

estates, and visit some friends. Thus Satan being asked whence he

cometh? answers, "From going to and fro in the earth, and walking up

and down in it." And being further asked, whether he had considered

the uprightness and fidelity of the prince’s servant Job, he

immediately displays all the malignance of the designing courtier, by

answering with another question: "Doth Job serve God for naught?

Hast thou not given him immense wealth, and protected him in the

possession of it? Deprive him of that, and he will curse thee to thy

face." In modern phrase, Take away his places and his pensions, and

your Majesty will soon find him in the opposition.

This whisper against Job had its effect. He was delivered into

the power of his adversary, who deprived him of his fortune,

destroyed his family, and completely ruined him.

The book of Job is called by divines a sacred poem, and, with

the rest of the Holy Scriptures, is understood to be written for our

instruction.

What then is the instruction to be gathered from this supposed

transaction?

Trust not a single person with the government of your state.

For if the Deity himself, being the monarch may for a time give way

to calumny, and suffer it to operate the destruction of the best of

subjects; what mischief may you not expect from such power in a mere

man, though the best of men, from whom the truth is often

industriously hidden, and to whom falsehood is often presented in its

place, by artful, interested, and malicious courtiers?

And be cautious in trusting him even with limited powers, lest

sooner or later he sap and destroy those limits, and render himself

absolute.

For by the disposal of places, he attaches to himself all the

with their numerous connexions, and also all the expecters and hopers

of places, which will form a strong party in promoting his views. By

various political engagements for the interest of neighbouring states

or princes, he procures their aid in establishing his own personal

power. So that, through the hopes of emolument in one part of his

subjects, and the fear of his resentment in the other, all opposition

falls before him.

1779?

_Proposed New Version of the Bible_

TO THE PRINTER OF * * *

SIR,

It is now more than one hundred and seventy years since the

translation of our common English Bible. The language in that time

is much changed, and the style, being obsolete, and thence less

agreeable, is perhaps one reason why the reading of that excellent

book is of late so much neglected. I have therefore thought it would

be well to procure a new version, in which, preserving the sense, the

turn of phrase and manner of expression should be modern. I do not

pretend to have the necessary abilities for such a work myself; I

throw out the hint for the consideration of the learned; and only

venture to send you a few verses of the first chapter of Job, which

may serve as a sample of the kind of version I would recommend.

A. B.

PART OF THE FIRST CHAPTER OF JOB MODERNIZED

OLD TEXT NEW VERSION

Verse 6. Now there was a day Verse 6. And it being _levee_

when the sons of God came to present day in heaven, all God’s nobility

themselves before the Lord, and came to present themselves before

Satan came also amongst them. him; and Satan also appeared in

the circle, as one of the ministry.

7. And the Lord said unto 7. And God said to Satan,

Satan, Whence comest thou? Then You have been some time absent;

Satan answered the Lord, and said, where were you? And Satan answered

From going to and fro in the earth, I have been at my country-seat,

and from walking up and down in it. and in different places visiting

my friends.

8. And the Lord said unto 8. And God said, Well what

Satan, Hast thou considered my think you of Lord Job? You see he

servant Job, that there is none like is my best friend, a perfectly

him in the earth, a perfect and an honest man, full of respect for

upright man, one that feareth God, me, and avoiding every thing that

and escheweth evil? might offend me.

9. Then Satan answered the 9. And Satan answered, Does

Lord, and said, Doth Job fear God your Majesty imagine that his good

for naught? conduct is the effect of mere

personal attachment and affection?

10. Hast thou not made an 10. Have you not protected

hedge about his house, and about all him, and heaped your benefits upon

that he hath on every side? Thou hast him, till he is grown enormously

blessed the work of his hands, and rich?

his substance is increased in the land.

11. But put forth thine hand 11. Try him; — only withdraw

now, and touch all that he hath, and your favor, turn him out of his

he will curse thee to thy face. places, and withhold his pensions,

and you will soon find him in the

opposition.

1779?

_Drinking Song_

TO THE ABBE DE LA ROCHE, AT AUTEUIL

I have run over, my dear friend, the little book of poetry by

M. Helvetius, with which you presented me. The poem on _Happiness_

pleased me much, and brought to my recollection a little drinking

song which I wrote forty years ago upon the same subject, and which

is nearly on the same plan, with many of the same thoughts, but very

concisely expressed. It is as follows: –

_Singer._

Fair Venus calls, her voice obey,

In beauty’s arms spend night and day.

The joys of love, all joys excel,

And loving’s certainly doing well.

_Chorus._

Oh! no!

Not so!

For honest souls know,

Friends and a bottle still bear the bell.

_Singer._

Then let us get money, like bees lay up honey;

We’ll build us new hives, and store each cell.

The sight of our treasure shall yield us great pleasure;

We’ll count it, and chink it, and jingle it well.

_Chorus._

Oh! no!

Not so!

For honest souls know,

Friends and a bottle still bear the bell.

_Singer._

If this does not fit ye, let’s govern the city,

In power is pleasure no tongue can tell;

By crowds tho’ you’re teas’d, your pride shall be pleas’d,

And this can make Lucifer happy in hell!

_Chorus._

Oh! no!

Not so!

For honest souls know,

Friends and a bottle still bear the bell.

_Singer._

Then toss off your glasses, and scorn the dull asses,

Who, missing the kernel, still gnaw the shell;

What’s love, rule, or riches? wise Solomon teaches,

They’re vanity, vanity, vanity, still.

_Chorus._

That’s true;

He knew;

He’d tried them all through;

Friends and a bottle still bore the bell.

‘Tis a singer, my dear Abbe, who exhorts his companions to seek

_happiness_ in _love_, in _riches_, and in _power._ They reply,

singing together, that happiness is not to be found in any of these

things; that it is only to be found in _friends_ and _wine._ To this

proposition the singer at last assents. The phrase _"bear the

bell,"_ answers to the French expression, _"obtain the prize."_

I have often remarked, in reading the works of M. Helvetius,

that although we were born and educated in two countries so remote

from each other, we have often been inspired with the same thoughts;

and it is a reflection very flattering to me, that we have not only

loved the same studies, but, as far as we have mutually known them,

the same friends, and _the same woman._

Adieu! my dear friend, &c.

1779?

_A Tale_

There was once an Officer, a worthy man, named Montresor, who

was very ill. His parish Priest, thinking he would die, advised him

to make his Peace with God, so that he would be received into

Paradise. "I don’t feel much Uneasiness on that Score," said

Montresor; "for last Night I had a Vision which set me entirely at

rest." "What Vision did you have?" asked the good Priest. "I was,"

he said, "at the Gate of Paradise with a Crowd of People who wanted

to enter. And St. Peter asked each of them what Religion he belonged

to. One answered, `I am a Roman Catholic.’ `Very well,’ said St.

Peter; `come in, & take your Place over there among the Catholics.’

Another said he belonged to the Anglican Church. `Very well,’ said

St. Peter; `come in, & take your Place over there among the

Anglicans.’ Another said he was a Quaker. `Very well,’ said St.

Peter; `come in, & take a Place among the Quakers.’ Finally he asked

me what my Religion was. `Alas!’ I replied, `unfortunately, poor

Jacques Montresor belongs to none at all.’ `That’s a pity,’ said the

Saint. `I don’t know where to put you but come in anyway; just find

a Place for yourself wherever you can.’"

1779?

_On Wine_

FROM THE ABBE FRANKLIN TO THE ABBE MORELLET

You have often enlivened me, my dear friend, by your excellent

drinking-songs; in return, I beg to edify you by some Christian,

moral, and philosophical reflections upon the same subject.

_In vino veritas_, says the wise man, — _Truth is in wine._

Before the days of Noah, then, men, having nothing but water to

drink, could not discover the truth. Thus they went astray, became

abominably wicked, and were justly exterminated by _water_, which

they loved to drink.

The good man Noah, seeing that through this pernicious beverage

all his contemporaries had perished, took it in aversion; and to

quench his thirst God created the vine, and revealed to him the means

of converting its fruit into wine. By means of this liquor he

discovered numberless important truths; so that ever since his time

the word to _divine_ has been in common use, signifying originally,

_to discover by means of_ WINE. (VIN) Thus the patriarch Joseph took

upon himself to _divine_ by means of a cup or glass of wine, a liquor

which obtained this name to show that it was not of human but

_divine_ invention (another proof of the _antiquity_ of the French

language, in opposition to M. Geebelin); nay, since that time, all

things of peculiar excellence, even the Deities themselves, have been

called _Divine_ or Di_vin_ities.

We hear of the conversion of water into wine at the marriage in

Cana as of a miracle. But this conversion is, through the goodness

of God, made every day before our eyes. Behold the rain which

descends from heaven upon our vineyards; there it enters the roots of

the vines, to be changed into wine; a constant proof that God loves

us, and loves to see us happy. The miracle in question was only

performed to hasten the operation, under circumstances of present

necessity, which required it.

It is true that God has also instructed man to reduce wine into

water. But into what sort of water? — _Water of Life._ (_Eaude

Vie._) And this, that man may be able upon occasion to perform the

miracle of Cana, and convert common water into that excellent species

of wine which we call _punch._ My Christian brother, be kind and

benevolent like God, and do not spoil his good drink.

He made wine to gladden the heart of man; do not, therefore

when at table you see your neighbor pour wine into his glass, be

eager to mingle water with it. Why would you drown _truth_? It is

probable that your neighbor knows better than you what suits him.

Perhaps he does not like water; perhaps he would only put in a few

drops for fashion’s sake; perhaps he does not wish any one to observe

how little he puts in his glass. Do not, then, offer water, except

to children; ‘t is a mistaken piece of politeness, and often very

inconvenient. I give you this hint as a man of the world; and I will

finish as I began, like a good Christian, in making a religious

observation of high importance, taken from the Holy Scriptures. I

mean that the apostle Paul counselled Timothy very seriously to put

wine into his water for the sake of his health; but that not one of

the apostles or holy fathers ever recommended _putting water to

wine._

P.S. To confirm still more your piety and gratitude to Divine

Providence, reflect upon the situation which it has given to the

_elbow._ You see (Figures 1 and 2) in animals, who are intended to

drink the waters that flow upon the earth, that if they have long

legs, they have also a long neck, so that they can get at their drink

without kneeling down. But man, who was destined to drink wine, must

be able to raise the glass to his mouth. If the elbow had been

placed nearer the hand (as in Figure 3), the part in advance would

have been too short to bring the glass up to the mouth; and if it had

been placed nearer the shoulder, (as in Figure 4) that part would

have been so long that it would have carried the wine far beyond the

mouth. But by the actual situation, (represented in Figure 5), we

are enabled to drink at our ease, the glass going exactly to the

mouth. Let us, then, with glass in hand, adore this benevolent

wisdom; — let us adore and drink!

1779?

_Dialogue Between the Gout and Mr. Franklin_

MIDNIGHT, OCTOBER 22, 1780

MR. F.

Eh! oh! eh! What have I done to merit these cruel sufferings?

THE GOUT

Many things; you have ate and drank too freely, and too much

indulged those legs of yours in their indolence.

MR. F.

Who is it that accuses me?

THE GOUT

It is I, even I, the Gout.

MR. F.

What! my enemy in person?

THE GOUT

No, not your enemy.

MR. F.

I repeat it, my enemy; for you would not only torment my body

to death, but ruin my good name; you reproach me as a glutton and a

tippler; now all the world, that knows me, will allow that I am

neither the one nor the other.

THE GOUT

The world may think as it pleases; it is always very

complaisant to itself, and sometimes to its friends; but I very well

know that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man who takes a

reasonable degree of exercise, would be too much for another who

never takes any.

MR. F.

I take — eh! oh! — as much exercise — eh! — as I can, Madam

Gout. You know my sedentary state, and on that account, it would

seem, Madam Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing it is not

altogether my own fault.

THE GOUT

Not a jot; your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away;

your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a

sedentary one, your amusements, your recreation, at least, should be

active. You ought to walk or ride; or, if the weather prevents that,

play at billiards. But let us examine your course of life. While

the mornings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you

do? Why, instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast by salutary

exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or newspapers,

which commonly are not worth the reading. Yet you eat an inordinate

breakfast, four dishes of tea with cream, and one or two buttered

toasts, with slices of hung beef, which I fancy are not things the

most easily digested. Immediately afterwards you sit down to write

at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business.

Thus the time passes till one, without any kind of bodily exercise.

But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary

condition. But what is your practice after dinner? Walking in the

beautiful gardens of those friends with whom you have dined would be

the choice of men of sense; yours is to be fixed down to chess, where

you are found engaged for two or three hours! This is your perpetual

recreation, which is the least eligible of any for a sedentary man,

because, instead of accelerating the motion of the fluids, the rigid

attention it requires helps to retard the circulation and obstruct

internal secretions. Wrapt in the speculations of this wretched

game, you destroy your constitution. What can be expected from such

a course of living but a body replete with stagnant humours, ready to

fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies, if I, the Gout, did

not occasionally bring you relief by agitating those humours, and so

purifying or dissipating them? If it was in some nook or alley in

Paris, deprived of walks, that you played a while at chess after

dinner, this might be excusable; but the same taste prevails with you

in Passy, Auteuil, Montmartre, or Sanoy, places where there are the

finest gardens and walks, a pure air, beautiful women, and most

agreeable and instructive conversation: all which you might enjoy by

frequenting the walks. But these are rejected for this abominable

game of chess. Fie, then, Mr. Franklin! But amidst my instructions,

I had almost forgot to administer my wholesome corrections; so take

that twinge — and that.

MR. F.

Oh! eh! oh! ohhh! As much instruction as you please, Madam

Gout, and as many reproaches; but pray, Madam, a truce with your

corrections!

THE GOUT

No, Sir, no, I will not abate a particle of what is so much for

your good — therefore ——

Mr. F.

Oh! ehhh! — It is not fair to say I take no exercise, when I

do very often, going out to dine and returning in my carriage.

THE GOUT

That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most slight and

insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a carriage suspended on

springs. By observing the degree of heat obtained by different kinds

of motion, we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given

by each. Thus, for example, if you turn out to walk in winter with

cold feet, in an hour’s time you will be in a glow all over; ride on

horseback, the same effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours’

round trotting; but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have

mentioned, you may travel all day and gladly enter the last inn to

warm your feet by a fire. Flatter yourself then no longer that half

an hour’s airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise.

Providence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given

to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more commodious

and serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a proper use of yours.

Would you know how they forward the circulation of your fluids in the

very action of transporting you from place to place, observe when you

walk that all your weight is alternately thrown from one leg to the

other; this occasions a great pressure on the vessels of the foot,

and repels their contents; when relieved, by the weight being thrown

on the other foot, the vessels of the first are allowed to replenish,

and by a return of this weight, this repulsion again succeeds; thus

accelerating the circulation of the blood. The heat produced in any

given time depends on the degree of this acceleration; the fluids are

shaken, the humours attenuated, the secretions facilitated, and all

goes well; the cheeks are ruddy, and health is established. Behold

your fair friend at Auteuil; a lady who received from bounteous

nature more really useful science than half a dozen such pretenders

to philosophy as you have been able to extract from all your books.

When she honours you with a visit, it is on foot. She walks all

hours of the day, and leaves indolence, and its concomitant maladies,

to be endured by her horses. In this, see at once the preservative

of her health and personal charms. But when you go to Auteuil, you

must have your carriage, though it is no farther from Passy to

Auteuil than from Auteuil to Passy.

Mr. F.

Your reasonings grow very tiresome.

THE GOUT

I stand corrected. I will be silent and continue my office;

take that, and that.

MR. F.

Oh! Ohh! Talk on, I pray you.

THE GOUT

No, no; I have a good number of twinges for you tonight, and

you may be sure of some more tomorrow.

MR. F.

What, with such a fever! I shall go distracted. Oh! eh! Can

no one bear it for me?

THE GOUT

Ask that of your horses; they have served you faithfully.

MR. F.

How can you so cruelly sport with my torments?

THE GOUT

Sport! I am very serious. I have here a list of offences

against your own health distinctly written, and can justify every

stroke inflicted on you.

MR. F.

Read it then.

THE GOUT

It is too long a detail; but I will briefly mention some

particulars.

MR. F.

Proceed. I am all attention.

THE GOUT

Do you remember how often you have promised yourself, the

following morning, a walk in the grove of Boulogne, in the garden de

La Muette, or in your own garden, and have violated your promise,

alleging, at one time, it was too cold, at another too warm, too

windy, too moist, or what else you pleased; when in truth it was too

nothing but your insuperable love of ease?

MR. F.

That I confess may have happened occasionally, probably ten

times in a year.

THE GOUT

Your confession is very far short of the truth; the gross

amount is one hundred and ninety-nine times.

MR. F.

Is it possible?

THE GOUT

So possible that it is fact; you may rely on the accuracy of my

statement. You know M. Brillon’s gardens, and what fine walks they

contain; you know the handsome flight of an hundred steps which lead

from the terrace above to the lawn below. You have been in the

practice of visiting this amiable family twice a week, after dinner,

and it is a maxim of your own, that "a man may take as much exercise

in walking a mile up and down stairs, as in ten on level ground."

What an opportunity was here for you to have had exercise in both

these ways! Did you embrace it, and how often?

MR. F.

I cannot immediately answer that question.

THE GOUT

I will d