Volume Ii Part 22 (2/2)
This grave advice was followed by the jolly laugh that was never long absent from the intercourse between Franklin and Strahan. ”This,” Franklin said, ”may look a little like Advice, and yet I have drank no _Madeira_ these Ten Months.”
The manner in which Franklin acquired the elements of his literary education is one of the inspiring things in the history of knowledge. At the age of ten, as we have seen, he was done forever with all schools except those of self-education and experience; but he had one of those minds that simply will not be denied knowledge. Even while he was pouring tallow into his father's moulds, he was reading the _Pilgrim's Progress_, Burton's _Historical Collections_, ”small chapmen's books, and cheap, 40 or 50 in all,” Plutarch's _Lives_, Defoe's _Essay on Projects_ and Cotton Mather's _Essay upon the Good that is to be Devised and Designed by those who desire to answer the Great end of Life, and to do Good while they Live_; all books full of wholesome and stimulating food for a hungry mind.
Happily for him, his propensity for reading found ampler scope when his father bound him over as an apprentice to James Franklin. Here he had access to better books.
An acquaintance with the apprentices of book-sellers [he tells us in the _Autobiography_] enabled me sometimes to borrow a small one, which I was careful to return soon and clean. Often I sat up in my room reading the greatest part of the night, when the book was borrowed in the evening and to be returned early in the morning, lest it should be missed or wanted.
This clandestine use of what did not belong to him or to his obliging young friends was an illicit enjoyment; but was one of those offences, we may be sure, for which the Recording Angel has an expunging tear. More legitimate was the use that he made of the volumes lent to him by Mr. Matthew Adams, who had a pretty collection of books, and who frequented the printing-house, took notice of him and invited him to his library, and very kindly lent him such books as he chose to read. As we have seen, it was not long before Benjamin struck a bargain with his brother, by which the obligation of the latter to board him was commuted into a fixed weekly sum, which, though only half what had been previously paid by James for his weekly board, proved large enough to afford the boy a fund for buying books with. Not only under this arrangement did he contrive to save for this purpose one half of the sum allowed him by James but also to secure an additional margin of time for reading.
My brother and the rest [Franklin tells us in the _Autobiography_] going from the printing-house to their meals, I remained there alone, and, despatching presently my light repast, which often was no more than a bisket or a slice of bread, a handful of raisins or a tart from the pastry-cook's, and a gla.s.s of water, had the rest of the time till their return for study, in which I made the greater progress, from that greater clearness of head and quicker apprehension which usually attend temperance in eating and drinking.
Then it was that he read Locke's _Essay on Human Understanding_ and the _Art of Thinking_ by ”Messrs. du Port Royal.” To the same period belongs his provoking dalliance with the Socratic method of reasoning.
From reading the works of others to what Sir Fopling Flutter called ”the natural sprouts” of one's own brain is always but a short step for a clever and ambitious boy. Franklin's first literary ventures were metrical ones, the lispings that filled the mind of his uncle Benjamin with such glowing antic.i.p.ations, and ”some little pieces” which excited the commercial instincts of James Franklin to the point of putting Benjamin to composing occasional ballads. The subject of one ballad, _The Light House Tragedy_, was the death by drowning of Captain Worthilake and his two daughters; another ballad was a sailor's song on the taking of Teach (or Blackbeard), the flagitious pirate. The opinion of these ballads held by Franklin is probably just enough, if we may judge by his subsequent irruptions into the province of Poetry.
They were wretched stuff, in the Grub-Street-ballad style [he says in the _Autobiography_], and when they were printed he (James Franklin) sent me about the town to sell them. The first sold wonderfully, the event being recent, having made a great noise. This flattered my vanity; but my father discouraged me by ridiculing my performances, and telling me verse-makers were generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most probably a very bad one.
From the doggerel, thus condemned by the hard head of Josiah, Benjamin turned to prose. Believing that in oral discussion with his friend Collins on the qualifications of women for learning, he had been borne down rather by the fluency than the logic of his antagonist, he reduced his arguments to writing, copied them in a fair hand and sent them to Collins. He replied, and Franklin rejoined, and no less than three or four letters had been addressed by each of the friends to the other when the correspondence happened to fall under the eye of Josiah. Again the son had reason to be thankful for the candid discernment of the father, for Josiah pointed out to him that, while he had the advantage of Collins in correct spelling and pointing (thanks to the printing-house) he fell far short of Collins in elegance of expression, method and perspicuity, all of which he ill.u.s.trated by references to the correspondence.
The son realized the justice of the father's criticisms, and resolved to amend his faults. The means to which he resorted he has laid before us in the _Autobiography_:
About this time [he says] I met with an odd volume of the _Spectator_. It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent, and wished, if possible, to imitate it. With this view I took some of the papers, and, making short hints of the sentiment in each sentence, laid them by a few days, and then, without looking at the book, try'd to compleat the papers again, by expressing each hinted sentiment at length, and as fully as it had been expressed before, in any suitable words that should come to hand. Then I compared my _Spectator_ with the original, discovered some of my faults, and corrected them. But I found I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness in recollecting and using them, which I thought I should have acquired before that time if I had gone on making verses; since the continual occasion for words of the same import, but of different length, to suit the measure, or of different sound for the rhyme, would have laid me under a constant necessity of searching for variety, and also have tended to fix that variety in my mind, and make me master of it. Therefore I took some of the tales, and turned them into verse; and, after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them back again. I also sometimes jumbled my collection of hints into confusion, and after some weeks endeavoured to reduce them into the best order, before I began to form the full sentences and compleat the paper. This was to teach me method in the arrangement of thoughts. By comparing my work afterwards with the original, I discovered many faults and amended them; but I sometimes had the pleasure of fancying that, in certain particulars of small import, I had been lucky enough to improve the method of the language, and this encouraged me to think I might possibly in time come to be a tolerable English writer, of which I was extreamly ambitious. My time for these exercises and for reading was at night, after work or before it began in the morning, or on Sundays, when I contrived to be in the printing-house alone, evading as much as I could the common attendance on public wors.h.i.+p which my father used to exact of me when I was under his care, and which indeed I still thought a duty, though I could not, as it seemed to me, afford time to practise it.
The next step in Benjamin's literary development was when he contrived to disguise his handwriting and thrust the first of his Silence Dogood letters under the door of his brother's printing-house; and we can readily imagine what his feelings were when the group of contributors to the _Courant_, who frequented the place, read it and commented on it, in his hearing, and afforded him what he terms in the _Autobiography_ the exquisite pleasure of finding that it met with their approbation; and that in their different guesses at the author none were named but men of some character in the town for learning and ingenuity. Encouraged by his success, he wrote and communicated to the _Courant_ in the same furtive way the other letters in the Silence Dogood series, keeping his secret, he tells us, until his small fund of sense for such performances was pretty well exhausted, when he disclosed his authors.h.i.+p, only to arouse the jealousy of the churlish brother, who, alone of the _Courant_ circle, failed to regard him with augmented respect. If there was no extrinsic evidence to fix the authors.h.i.+p of the Dogood letters, their intrinsic characteristics, incipient as they are, would be enough to disclose the hand of Franklin. The good dame, who finally succ.u.mbed to the rhetoric of her reverend master and protector, after he had made several fruitless attempts on the more topping part of her s.e.x, bears very much the same family lineaments as the Anthony Afterwit and Alice Addertongue of the _Pennsylvania Gazette_. Deprived of her good husband by inexorable death, when her sun was in its meridian alt.i.tude, she proceeds to gratify her natural inclination for observing and reproving the faults of others, and to open up her mind in a way that leaves us little room for doubt as to who the lively, free-spirited and free-spoken boy was that she concealed beneath her petticoats. ”A hearty Lover of the Clergy and all good Men, and a mortal Enemy to arbitrary Government & unlimited Power,” she was, she a.s.sures us in one letter, besides being courteous and affable, good-humored (unless first provoked) and handsome, and sometimes witty. In her next paper, she tells us that she had from her youth been indefatigably studious to gain and treasure up in her mind all useful and desirable knowledge, especially such as tends to improve the mind and enlarge the understanding. With this frontispiece, she, from time to time, delivers her views on various topics with glib vivacity, set off by Latin quotations. In one letter, she falls asleep in her usual place of retirement under the Great Apple Tree, and is transported in a dream to the Temple of Learning (Harvard College), which we can only hope was not quite so bad as it appeared to be when seen through the distorting medium of her slumbers. Describing the concourse of outgoing students, she says, ”SOME I perceiv'd took to Merchandizing, others to Travelling, some to one Thing, some to another, and some to Nothing; and many of them from henceforth, for want of Patrimony, liv'd as poor as church Mice, being unable to dig, and asham'd to beg, and to live by their Wits it was impossible.” In another letter, Silence unsparingly lashes the existing system of female education.
”Their Youth,” she says, borrowing the words of an ”ingenious writer,” is spent to teach them to st.i.tch and sow, or make Baubles. ”They are taught to read indeed and perhaps to write their Names, or so; and that is the Heigth of a Womans Education.”
In another letter, she holds up hoop-petticoats to laughter. If a number of them, she declared, were well mounted on Noddle's Island, they would look more like engines of war for bombarding the town than ornaments of the fair s.e.x; and she concludes by asking her s.e.x, ”whether they, who pay no Rates or Taxes, ought to take up more Room in the King's Highway, than the Men, who yearly contribute to the Support of the Government.”
Another letter makes unmerciful fun of an Elegy upon the much Lamented Death of Mrs. Mehitebell Kitel, the wife of Mr. John Kitel, of Salem etc.
Two lines,
”Come let us mourn, for we have lost a Wife, a Daughter, and a Sister,”
affords Silence an opportunity for some merry satire. Contrasting these lines with Dr. Watts'
”GUNSTON the Just, the Generous, and the Young,”
she says:
The latter (Watts) only mentions three Qualifications of _one_ Person who was deceased, which therefore could raise Grief and Compa.s.sion but for _One_. Whereas the former, (_our most excellent Poet_) gives his Reader a Sort of an Idea of the Death of _Three Persons_, viz.
--a Wife, a Daughter, and a Sister,
which is _Three Times_ as great a Loss as the Death of _One_, and consequently must raise _Three Times_ as much Grief and Compa.s.sion in the Reader.
It was a pity, Silence added, that such an excellent piece should not be dignified with a particular name. Seeing that it could not justly be called either _Epic_, _Saphhic_, _Lyric_ or _Pindaric_, nor any other name yet invented, she presumed it might (in honour and remembrance of the dead) be called the Kitelic.
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