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 correspondence, obliges me to
take up my pen: and as Mr. B. has kindly sent me word, that he sets
out to-morrow to see you; instead of spending this Wednesday evening,
as I have done its name-sakes, in your delightful company, I sit down
to spend it in thinking of you, in writing to you, and in reading
over and over again your letters.
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 but 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, at seven years old, my friends, on a holiday,
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 him all my money for it. 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. This put me in mind what good things
I might have bought with the rest of the money; and they 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 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 myself, _Don't give too much for the whistle_; and
so 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 any one too ambitious of court favours, 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_, 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, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake
of accumulating wealth, _Poor man_, says I, _you pay too much for
your whistle_.
When I meet 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_, says I, _you are
providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure: you give too much
for your whistle_.
If I see one fond of appearance, of fine clothes, 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 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 it is_, says I, _that
she has paid so much for a whistle_!
In short, I conceived, 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 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 dearest friend, and believe me ever yours very sincerely
and with unalterable affection,
B. FRANKLIN.
FOOTNOTE:
[182] This story has generally been supposed to have been written
by Dr. Franklin for his nephew: but it seems, by the introductory
paragraphs, which we have no where seen prefixed to the story but
in a small collection of our author's works printed at Paris, to
have been addressed to some female relative. The two concluding
paragraphs, which are from the same source, are equally new to us.
_Editor._
_A Petition to those who have the Superintendency of
Education[183]._
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 aukward, 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.
FOOTNOTE:
[183] From the American Museum, Vol. VII. p. 265. _Editor._
_The handsome and deformed Leg[184]._
There are two sorts of people in the world, who, with equal degrees
of health and wealth, and the other comforts of life, become, the
one happy, and the other miserable. This arises very much from the
different views in which they consider things, persons, and events;
and the effect of those different views upon their own minds.
In whatever situation men can be placed, they may find conveniences
and inconveniences; in whatever company, they may find persons and
conversation more or less pleasing: at whatever table, they may
meet with meats and drinks of better and worse taste, dishes better
and worse dressed; in whatever climate, they will find good and bad
weather: under whatever government, they may find good and bad laws,
and good and bad administration of those laws; in whatever poem, or
work of genius, they may see faults and beauties; in almost every
face, and every person, they may discover fine features and defects,
good and bad qualities.
Under these circumstances, the two sorts of people above mentioned
fix their attention, those, who are disposed to be happy, on the
conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of conversation, the
well-dressed dishes, the goodness of the wines, the fine weather,
&c. and enjoy all with cheerfulness. Those, who are to be unhappy,
think and speak only of the contraries. Hence they are continually
discontented themselves, and, by their remarks, sour the pleasures
of society, offend personally many people, and make themselves every
where disagreeable. If this turn of mind was founded in nature,
such unhappy persons would be the more to be pitied. But as the
disposition to criticise, and to be disgusted, is, perhaps, taken up
originally by imitation, and is, unawares, grown into a habit, which,
though at present strong, may nevertheless be cured, when those who
have it are convinced of its bad effects on their felicity; I hope
this little admonition may be of service to them, and put them on
changing a habit, which, though in the exercise it is chiefly an
act of imagination, yet has serious consequences in life, as it
brings on real griefs and misfortunes. For, as many are offended by,
and nobody loves, this sort of people, no one shows them more than
the most common civility and respect, and scarcely that; and this
frequently puts them out of humour, and draws them into disputes
and contentions. If they aim at obtaining some advantage in rank or
fortune, nobody wishes them success, or will stir a step, or speak a
word, to favour their pretensions. If they incur public censure or
disgrace, no one will defend or excuse, and many join to aggravate
their misconduct, and render them completely odious. If these people
will not change this bad habit, and condescend to be pleased with
what is pleasing, without fretting themselves and others about the
contraries, it is good for others to avoid an acquaintance with
them; which is always disagreeable, and sometimes very inconvenient,
especially when one finds oneself entangled in their quarrels.
An old philosophical friend of mine was grown, from experience, very
cautious in this particular, and carefully avoided any intimacy
with such people. He had, like other philosophers, a thermometer,
to show him the heat of the weather, and a barometer, to mark when
it was likely to prove good or bad; but there being no instrument
invented to discover, at first sight, this unpleasing disposition
in a person, he, for that purpose, made use of his legs; one of
which was remarkably handsome, the other, by some accident, crooked
and deformed. If a stranger, at the first interview, regarded his
ugly leg more than his handsome one, he doubted him. If he spoke
of it, and took no notice of the handsome leg, that was sufficient
to determine my philosopher to have no further acquaintance with
him. Every body has not this two-legged instrument; but every
one, with a little attention, may observe signs of that carping,
fault-finding disposition, and take the same resolution of avoiding
the acquaintance of those infected with it, I therefore advise those
critical querulous, discontented, unhappy people, that, if they wish
to be respected and beloved by others, and happy in themselves, they
should _leave off looking at the ugly leg_.
FOOTNOTE:
[184] From the Columbian Magazine, Vol. I. p. 61. _Editor._
_Morals of Chess[185]._
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 civilized
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 begins lately to make its appearance
in these states. It is so interesting in itself, as not to need the
view of gain to induce engaging in it; and thence it is never 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 acquired or strengthened by it, so as to become habits,
ready on all occasions. For life is a kind of chess, in which we have
often points to gain, and 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
advantage 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 chess-board, 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 take 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 thereby becomes 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 bad 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 oneself from a supposed
insurmountable difficulty, that one is encouraged to continue the
contest to the last, in hopes of victory by our own skill, or at
least of getting a stale mate, by 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,
and its consequent inattention, by which the loss may be recovered,
will learn not to be too much discouraged by the 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 choose this
beneficial amusement, in preference to others, which are not attended
with the same advantages, every circumstance which may increase the
pleasures 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 agreeably.
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 it 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
criticising, 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.
FOOTNOTE:
[185] This letter has appeared in too many forms in this country,
and is too well known to be Dr. Franklin's, to require being
authenticated. _Editor._
_The Art of procuring Pleasant Dreams[186]._
INSCRIBED TO MISS ****,
Being written at her request.
As a great part of our life is spent in sleep, during which we have
sometimes pleasing, 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 dreams, it is, as the
French say, _tant 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 a-bed 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 into 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 putrify, if the particles, as 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 _aërophobia_, that at
present distresses weak minds, and make 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.