common affairs of human life, has rendered some knowledge of them very
necessary to a great part of mankind, and very convenient to all the
rest, that are any way conversant beyond the limits of their own
particular callings.
Those whom necessity has obliged to get their bread by manual industry,
where some degree of art is required to go along with it, and who have
had some insight into these studies, have very often found advantages
from them sufficient to reward the pains they were at in acquiring them.
And whatever may have been imputed to some other studies, under the
notion of insignificance and loss of time, yet these, I believe, never
caused repentance in any, except it was for their remissness in the
prosecution of them.
Philosophers do generally affirm that human knowledge to be most
excellent which is conversant among the most excellent things. What
science, then, can there be more noble, more excellent, more useful for
men, more admirably high and demonstrative, than this of the
mathematics?
I shall conclude with what Plato says, in the seventh book of his
_Republic_, with regard to the excellence and usefulness of geometry,
being to this purpose:
"Dear friend--You see, then, that mathematics are necessary, because, by
the exactness of the method, we get a habit of using our minds to the
best advantage. And it is remarkable that, all men being capable by
nature to reason and understand the sciences, the less acute, by
studying this, though useless to them in every other respect, will gain
this advantage, that their minds will be improved in reasoning aright;
for no study employs it more, nor makes it susceptible of attention so
much; and those who we find have a mind worth cultivating, ought to
apply themselves to this study."
* * * * *
THE ART OF PROCURING PLEASANT DREAMS.
_Inscribed to Miss * * * *, being written at her request_
As a great part of our life is spent in sleep, during which we have
sometimes pleasant and some times 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 dreams, it is, as the French
say, _autant de gagné_, 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 bedchamber. 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 bedchamber-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 a 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 a 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 then be cured of
the _aerophoba_, that at present distresses weak minds, and makes them
choose to be stifled and poisoned rather than leave open the window of a
bedchamber or put down the glass of a coach.
Confined air, when saturated with perspirable matter,[1] 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, such
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 fidgetiness (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 bedclothes 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 bedclothes, 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 portion of that vapour, receives therewith a
degree of heat that rarefies and renders it lighter, when it will be
pushed away, with its burden, 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.
[1] What physicians call perspirable matter is that vapour which
passes off from our bodies, from the lungs, and through the pores
of the skin. The quantity of this is said to be five eighths of
what we eat.--AUTHOR.
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 bedclothes
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 bedclothes, 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
bedclothes well, with at least twenty shakes, then throw the bed open
and leave it to cool; in the mean while, continuing undressed, walk
about your chamber till your skin has had time to discharge its load,
which it will do sooner as the air may be drier 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 bedclothes 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 afterward. 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 ancles; 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.
* * * * *
ADVICE TO A YOUNG TRADESMAN.
TO MY FRIEND A. B.
As you have desired it of me, I write the following hints, which have
been of service to me, and may, if observed, be so to you.
Remember that _time_ is money. He that can earn ten shillings a day by
his labour, and goes abroad or sits idle one half of that day, though he
spends but sixpence during his diversion or idleness, ought not to
reckon _that_ the only expense; he has really spent, or, rather, thrown
away, five shillings besides.
Remember that _credit_ is money. If a man lets his money lie in my hands
after it is due, he gives me the interest, or so much as I can make of
it during that time. This amounts to a considerable sum where a man has
good and large credit, and makes good use of it.
Remember that money is of the prolific, generating nature. Money can
beget money, and its offspring can beget more, and so on. Five shillings
turned is six, turned again it is seven and threepence, and so on till
it becomes a hundred pounds. The more there is of it, the more it
produces every turning, so that the profits rise quicker and quicker. He
that kills a breeding-sow, destroys all her offspring to the thousandth
generation. He that murders a crown, destroys all that it might have
produced, even scores of pounds.
Remember that six pounds a year is but a groat a day. For this little
sum (which may be daily wasted either in time or expense unperceived) a
man of credit may, on his own security, have the constant possession and
use of a hundred pounds. So much in stock, briskly turned by an
industrious man, produces great advantage.
Remember this saying, _The good paymaster is lord of another man's
purse._ He that is known to pay punctually and exactly to the time he
promises, may at any time, and on any occasion, raise all the money his
friends can spare. This is sometimes of great use. After industry and
frugality, nothing contributes more to the raising of a young man in the
world than punctuality and justice in all his dealings; therefore never
keep borrowed money an hour beyond the time you promised, lest a
disappointment shut up your friend's purse for ever.
The most trifling actions that affect a man's credit are to be regarded.
The sound of your hammer at five in the morning or nine at night, heard
by a creditor, makes him easy six months longer; but if he sees you at a
billiard-table, or hears your voice at a tavern when you should be at
work, he sends for his money the next day; demands it, before he can
receive it, in a lump.
It shows, besides, that you are mindful of what you owe; it makes you
appear a careful as well as an honest man, and that still increases your
credit.
Beware of thinking all your own that you possess, and of living
accordingly. It is a mistake that many people who have credit fall into.
To prevent this, keep an exact account for some time both of your
expenses and your income. If you take the pains at first to mention
particulars, it will have this good effect: you will discover how
wonderfully small, trifling expenses mount up to large sums, and will
discern what might have been, and may, for the future, be saved, without
occasioning any great inconvenience.
In short, the way to wealth, if you desire it, is as plain as the way to
market. It depends chiefly on two words, _industry_ and _frugality_;
that is, waste neither _time_ nor _money_, but make the best use of
both. Without industry and frugality nothing will do, and with them
everything. He that gets all he can honestly, and saves all he gets
(necessary expenses excepted), will certainly become _rich_, if that
Being who governs the world, to whom all should look for a blessing on
their honest endeavours, doth not, in his wise providence, otherwise
determine.
AN OLD TRADESMAN.
* * * * *
RULES OF HEALTH.
Eat and drink such an exact quantity as the constitution of thy body
allows of, in reference to the services of the mind.
They that study much ought not to eat so much as those that work hard,
their digestion being not so good.
The exact quantity and quality being found out, is to be kept to
constantly.
Excess in all other things whatever, as well as in meat and drink, is
also to be avoided.
Youth, age, and the sick require a different quantity.
And so do those of contrary complexions; for that which is too much for
a phlegmatic man is not sufficient for a choleric.
The measure of food ought to be (as much as possibly may be) exactly
proportionable to the quality and condition of the stomach, because the
stomach digests it.
That quantity that is sufficient, the stomach can perfectly concoct and
digest, and it sufficeth the due nourishment of the body.
A greater quantity of some things may be eaten than of others, some
being of lighter digestion than others.
The difficulty lies in finding out an exact measure; but eat for
necessity, not pleasure; for lust knows not where necessity ends.
Wouldst thou enjoy a long life, a healthy body, and a vigorous mind, and
be acquainted also with the wonderful works of God, labour in the first
place to bring thy appetite to reason.
* * * * *
THE EPHEMERA; AN EMBLEM OF HUMAN LIFE.
TO MADAME BRILLON, OF PASSY.
Written in 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 Joly, I
stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the
company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly,
called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were
bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of
them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged 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, through 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
conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard
now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign
musicians, one a _cousin_, the other a _moscheto_; 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
are certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no
public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention but the
perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from
them to an old gray-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and
talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I 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 heavenly harmony.
"It was," said he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who
lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the
Moulin Joy, could not itself subsist more than eighteen 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 declined considerably towards the ocean at the end
of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished 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 those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and
twenty 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, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or
eight 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 engaged in for the good of my compatriot
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?
Our present race of ephemeræ 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! 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. But what will fame be to an ephemera who no longer
exists? And what will become of all history in the eighteenth hour, when
the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly, 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 ephemeræ, and now and then a kind smile
and a tune from the ever amiable _Brillante_.
* * * * *
THE WHISTLE.
TO MADAME BRILLON.
Passy, November 10, 1779.
* * * * * I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and 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, and suffer less
evil, if we would take care not to give too much for _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 one of
myself.
When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holyday, filled
my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys
for children; and, being charmed with the sound of a _whistle_ that I
met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and
gave all my money for one. I then came home and went whistling all over
the house, much pleased with my _whistle_, but disturbing all the
family. My brothers, and sisters, and 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 of what good things I might have bought with the
rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried
with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the
_whistle_ gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterward 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 myself, _Don't give too much for the whistle_; and I
saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I
thought I met with many, very many, who _gave too much for the whistle_.
When I saw one too ambitious of court favour, sacrificing his time in
attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps
his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, _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 that
neglect, _He pays, indeed_, said 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, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of
accumulating wealth, _Poor man_, said I, _you pay too much for your
whistle._
When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable
improvement of the mind or of his fortune to mere corporeal sensations,
and ruining his health in their pursuit, _Mistaken man_, said I, _you
are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure; you give too much
for your whistle._
If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine
furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts
debts and ends his days in prison, _Alas!_ say I, _he has paid dear,
very dear, for his whistle._
When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured
brute of a husband, _What a pity_, say I, _that she should pay so much
for a whistle!_
In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are
brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of
things, and by their _giving too much for their whistles_.
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 myself in the purchase, and
find that I had once more given too much for the _whistle_.
Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours very sincerely and with
unalterable affection,
B. FRANKLIN.
* * * * *