UNCLE BENJAMIN, THE POET.
MRS. FRANKLIN has said that she could hardly remember the time in her
son's childhood when he could not read. He emerged almost from babyhood
a reader, and soon began to "devour"--to use the word then applied to
his habit--all the books that fell within his reach.
When about four years old he became much interested in stories told him
by his father of his Uncle Benjamin, the poet, who lived in England, and
for whom he had been named, and who, it was hoped, would come to the new
country and be his godfather.
The family at the Blue Ball was quick to notice the tendencies of their
children in early life. Little Benjamin Franklin developed a curious
liking for a trumpet and a gun. He liked to march about to noise, and
this noise he was pleased to make himself--to blow his own trumpet. The
family wrote to Uncle Benjamin, the poet, then in England, in regard to
this unpromising trait, and the good man returned the following letter
in reply:
_To my Namesake, on hearing of his Inclination to Martial
Affairs. July 7, 1710._
"Believe me, Ben, it is a dangerous trade;
The sword has many marred as well as made;
By it do many fall, not many rise--
Makes many poor, few rich, not many wise;
Fills towns with ruin, fields with blood beside;
'Tis sloth's maintainer, and the shield of pride;
Fair cities, rich to-day in plenty flow,
War fills with want to-morrow, and with woe;
Ruined estates, victims of vice, broken limbs, and scars
Are the effects of desolating wars."
One evening, as the tallow chandler was hurrying hither and thither in
his apron and paper cap, the door opened with a sharp ring of the bell
fastened by a string upon it. The paper cap bobbed up.
"Hoi, what now?" said the tallow chandler.
"A letter from England, sirrah. The Lively Nancy has come in. There it
is."
The tallow chandler held the letter up to the fire, for it had been a
_melting_ day, as certain days on which the melting of tallow for the
molds were called. He read "Benjamin Franklin," and said: "That's
curious--that's Brother Ben's writing. I would know that the world
over." He put the letter in his pocket. He saw Dame Franklin looking
through the transom over the door, and shook his head.
He sat down with his large family to a meal of bread and milk, and then
took the letter from his pocket and read it over to himself.
"Ben," said he, "this is for you. I am going to read it. As I do so, you
repeat after me the first letter of the first and of every line. Are you
ready? Now.
"'_Be to thy parents an obedient son._'"
"B," said little Ben.
"'_Each day let duty constantly be done._'"
"E," the boy continued.
"'_Never give way to sloth, or lust, or pride._'"
"N, father."
"'_Just free to be from thousand ills beside._'"
"J, father."
"'_Above all ills be sure avoid the shelf._'"
"A, father."
"'_Man's danger lies in Satan, sin, and self._'"
"M, father."
"'_In virtue, learning, wisdom, progress make._'"
"I, father."
"'_Ne'er shrink at suffering for thy Saviour's sake._'"
"N, father. I know what that spells."
"What?"
"Benjamin."
"'_Fraud and all falsehood in thy dealings flee._'"
"F," said the boy.
"'_Religious always in thy station be._'"
"R, father."
"'_Adore the Maker of thy inward heart._'"
"A, father."
"'_Now's the accepted time, give him thy heart._'"
"N, father; and now I can guess the rest."
"'_Keep a good conscience, 'tis a constant friend._'"
"K, father."
"'_Like judge and witness this thy acts attend._'"
"L."
"'_In heart with bended knee alone adore._'"
"I."
"'_None but the Three in One forever more._'"
"N."
"And to whom are all these things written?"
"'To BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,' sir."
"Well, my boy, if you will only follow the advice of your Uncle
Benjamin, the poet, you never will need any more instruction.--Wife,
hear this: Brother Ben writes that he is coming to America as soon as he
can settle his affairs, and when he arrives I will give over the
training of little Ben to him. He is his godfather, and he takes a great
interest in a boy that he has never seen. Sometimes people are drawn
toward each other before they meet--there's a kind of sympathy in this
world that is felt in ways unseen and that is prophetic. Your father was
a poet, and Uncle Ben, he is one, after a fashion. I wonder what little
Ben will be!"
He put on his paper cap and opened the door into the molding-room. The
fire was dying out on the hearth, and the candles in the molds were
cooling and hardening. He opened the weather door, causing the bell
attached to it to ring. He stood looking out on the bowery street of
Boston town.
On the hill rose the North Church in the shadows near the sea. A horn
rent the still air. A stage coach from Salem came rolling in and stopped
at the Boston Stone, not far away. A little girl tripped down the
street.
"A pound of candles, sir."
"Hoi, yes, yes," and he took some candles out of a mold and laid them in
the scales. The girl courtesied, and the tallow chandler closed the door
with a ting-a-ling.
Then Josiah sat down with his family and played the violin. He loved his
brother Benjamin, and the thought of his coming made him a happy man.
One day the old man came. Soon after there happened a great event in the
family.
It was a windy night. The ocean was dashing and foaming along the sea
wall on the beach where Long Wharf, Lewis Wharf, and Rowe's Wharf now
are. The stars shone brightly, and clouds flew scudding over the moon.
Abiah Franklin opened the weather door and looked out. She returned to
her great chair slowly with a cloud in her face.
"It is a bad night for those on the sea," she said. "It is now nine
years since Josiah went away. Where he found an ocean grave we shall
never know. It is hard," she added, "to have hope leave you in this way.
It is one long torture to live in suspense. There hasn't been a day
since the first year after Josiah left us that my ear has not waited to
hear a knock on the door on a night like this.
"Josiah, you may say that I have faith in the impossible, but I
sometimes believe that I shall hear that knock yet. There is one
Scripture that comforts me when I think that; it is, 'Commit thy way
unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass.'"
Josiah Franklin sat silent. It was now indeed nine years since his son
Josiah had left home against his will and gone to sea--"run away to
sea," as his departure was called. It was a kind of mental distemper in
old New England times for a boy "to run away and go to sea."
There had been fearful storms on the coast. Abiah Franklin was a silent
woman when the winds bended the trees and the waves broke loudly on the
shore. She thought then; she inwardly prayed, but she said little of the
storm that was in her heart.
"I shall never see Josiah again," at last said Josiah Franklin. "It is a
pity; it is hard on me that the son who bears my name should leave me,
to become a wanderer. Boys will do such things. I may have made his home
too strict for him; if so, may the Lord forgive me. I have meant to do
my best for all my children.--Ben, let Josiah be a warning to you; you
have been having the boy fever to go to sea. Hear the winds blow and the
sea dash! Josiah must have longed to be back by the fire on nights like
these."
Josiah went to the window and tapped upon the pane. He did that often
when his mind was troubled. To tap upon the pane eased his heartache. It
was an old New England way.
Josiah took his violin, tuned it, and began to play while the family
listened by the fading coals.
"I thought I heard something," said Abiah between one of the tunes.
"What was it, Abiah?" asked her husband.
"It sounded like a step."
"That's nothing strange."
"It sounded familiar," she said. "Steps are peculiar."
"Oh, I know of whom you are thinking," said Josiah. "May the Lord
comfort you, for the winds and waves do not to-night."
He played again. His wife grew restless.
"Josiah," said she when he ceased playing, "you may say that I have
fancies, but I thought I saw a face pass the window."
"That is likely, Abiah."
"But this one had a short chin and a long nose."
She choked, and her eyes were wet.
There came a rap upon the door. It was a strong hand that made it; there
was a heart in the sound.
"I'll open the door, Josiah," said Abiah.
She removed the wooden bar with a trembling hand, and lifted the latch.
A tall, rugged form stood before her. She started back.
"Mother, don't you know me?"
"Yes, Josiah, I knew that you were coming to-night."
She gazed into his eyes silently.
"Who told you, mother?"
"My soul."
"Well, I've come back like the prodigal son. Let me give you a smack.
You'll take me in--but how about father? I thought I heard him playing
the violin."
"Josiah, that is your voice!" exclaimed Josiah the elder. "Now my cup
of joy is full and running over. Josiah, come in out of the storm."
Josiah Franklin rushed to the door and locked his son in his arms, but
there was probably but little sentiment in the response.
"Now I _know_ the parable of the prodigal son," said he. "I had only
read it before. Come in! come in! There are brothers and sisters here
whom you have never seen. Now we are all here."
Uncle Benjamin wrote a poem to celebrate young Josiah's return. It was
read in the family, with disheartening results. Sailor Josiah said that
he "never cared much for poetry." The poem may be found in the large
biographies of Franklin.