THE STONE WHARF, AND LADY WIGGLEWORTH, WHO FELL ASLEEP IN CHURCH.
Did little Ben's trumpet and gun indicate that he would become a
statesman whose cause would employ armies? We do not know. The free will
of a boy on the playground is likely to present a picture of his leading
traits of character. In old New England days there was a custom of
testing a child's character in a novel way. A bottle, a coin, and a
Bible were laid on the floor at some distance apart to tempt the notice
of the little one when he first began to creep. It was supposed that the
one of the three objects that he crept toward and seized upon was
prophetic of his future character--that the three objects represented
worldly pleasure, the seeking for wealth, and the spiritual life.
Franklin's love for public improvements was certainly indicated in his
early years. He liked the water and boats, and he saw how convenient a
little wharf near his house would be; so he planned to build one, and
laid his plans before his companions.
"We will build it of stone," he said. "There are plenty of stones near
the wharf."
"But the workmen there would not let us have them," said a companion.
"We will take them after they have gone from their work. We can build
the wharf in a single evening. The workmen may scold, but they will not
scold the stone landing out of the water again."
One early twilight of a long day the boys assembled at the place chosen
by young Franklin for his wharf, and began to work like beavers, and
before the deep shadows of night they had removed the stones to the
water and builded quite a little wharf or landing.
"We can catch minnows and sail our boats from here now," said young
Franklin as he looked with pride on the triumphs of his plan. "All the
boys will be free to use this landing," he thought. "Won't it make the
people wonder!"
It did.
The next morning the weather door of the thrifty tallow chandler opened
with a ring.
"Josiah Franklin, where is that boy of yours?" asked a magistrate.
The paper cap bobbed up, and the man at the molds bent his head forward
with wondering eyes.
"Which boy?"
"Ben, the one that is always leading other boys round."
"I dunno. He's making a boat--or was.--Benjamin!" he called; "I say,
Benjamin!"
The door of the living room opened, and little Ben appeared.
"Here's a man who has come to see you. What have you been doing now?"
"Boy," said the man--he spoke the word so loudly that the little boy
felt that it raised him almost to the dignity of a man.
"What, sir?" gasped Ben, very intelligent as to what would follow.
"Did you put those stones into the water?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you do that for?"
"To make a wharf, sir."
"'To make a wharf, sir!' Didn't you have the sense to know that those
stones were building stones and belonged to the workmen?"
"No, sir; I didn't know that they belonged to any one. I thought that
they belonged to everybody."
"You did, you little rascal! Then why did you wait to have the workmen
go away before you put them into the water?"
"The workmen would have hindered us, sir. They don't think that
improvements can be made by little shavers like us. I wanted to surprise
them, sir--to show them what we could do, sir."
"Benjamin Franklin," said Josiah, "come here, and I will show you what I
can do.--Stranger, the boy's godfather has come to live with us and to
take charge of him, and he does need a godfather, if ever a stripling
did."
Josiah Franklin laid his hand on the boy, and the workman went away. The
father removed the boy's jacket, and showed him what he could do, the
memory of which was not a short one.
"I did not mean any harm, father," young Benjamin said over and over.
"It was a mistake."
"My boy," said the tallow chandler, softening, "never make a second
mistake. There are some people who learn wisdom from their first
mistakes by never making second mistakes. May you be one of them."
"I shall never do anything that I don't think is honest, father. I
thought stones and rocks belonged to the people."
"But there are many things that belong to the people in this world that
you have no right to use, my son. When you want to make any more public
improvements, first come and talk with me about them, or go to your
Uncle Ben, into whose charge I am going to put you--and no small job he
will have of it, in my thinking!"
Benjamin Franklin said, when he was growing old and was writing his own
life, that his father _convinced_ him at the time of this event that
"that which is not honest could not be useful."
We can see in fancy his father with a primitive switch thus _convincing_
him. He never forgot the moral lesson.
Where was Jamie the Scotchman during this convincing episode? When he
heard that the little wharf-builder, bursting with desire for public
improvement, had fallen into disgrace, he came upon him slyly:
"So you've been building a wharf for the boys of the town. When one
begins so soon in life to improve the town, there can be no telling what
he will do when he grows up. Perhaps you will become one of the great
benefactors of Boston yet. Who knows?"
"We can't tell," said the future projector of Franklin Park,
philosophically.
"No, that is a fact, bubby. Take your finger out of your mouth and go to
cutting candle wicks. It must make a family proud to have in it such a
promising one as you! You'll be apt to set something ablaze some day if
you keep on as you've begun."
He did.
Jamie the Scotchman went out, causing the bell on the door to ring. He
whistled lustily as he went down the street.
Little Benjamin sat cutting wicks for the candle molds and wondering at
the ways of the world. He had not intended to do wrong. He may have
thought that the stones, although put aside by the workmen, were common
property. He had made a mistake. But how are mistakes to be avoided in
life? He would ask his Uncle Benjamin, the poet, when he should meet
him. It was well, indeed, never to make a _second_ mistake, but better
not to make any mistake at all. Uncle Benjamin was wise, and could write
poetry. He would ask him.
Besides Jamie the Scotchman, who spent much time at the Blue Ball,
little Benjamin's brother James seems to have looked upon him as one
whose activities of mind were too obvious, and needed to be suppressed.
The evening that followed the disgrace of little Ben was a serious one
in the Franklin family. Uncle Ben had "gone to meeting" in the Old South
Church.
The shop, with its molded candles, dipped candles, ingot bars of soap,
pewter molds, and kettles, was not an unpleasant place in the evening,
and old sea captains used to drop in to talk with Josiah, and sometimes
the leading members of the Old South Church came to discuss church
affairs, which were really town affairs, for the church governed the
town.
On this particular night little Ben sat in the corner of the shop very
quietly, holding little Jane as usual. The time had come for a perfect
calm in his life, and he himself was well aware how becoming was silence
in his case.
Among those who used to come to the shop evenings to talk with Josiah
and Uncle Ben, the poet, was one Captain Holmes. He came to-night,
stamping his feet at the door, causing the bell to ring very violently
and the faces of some of the Franklin children to appear in the window
framed over the shop door. How comical they looked!
"Where's Ben to-night?" asked Captain Holmes.
Little Ben's heart thumped. He thought the captain meant _him_.
"He's gone to meetin'," said Josiah. "Come, sit down. Ben will be at
home early."
Little Ben's heart did not beat so fast now.
"Where's that boy o' yourn?" asked the captain.
Ben's heart began to beat again.
"There, in the corner," said Josiah, with a doubtful look in his face.
"He'll be given to making public improvements when he grows up," said
the captain. "But I hope that he will not take other people's property
to do it. If there is any type of man for whom I have no use it is he
who does good with what belongs to others."
The door between the shop and the living room opened, and the grieved,
patient face of Abiah appeared.
"Good evening, Captain Holmes," said Abiah. "I heard what you said--how
could I help it?--and it hurt me. No descendant of Peter Folger will
ever desire to use other people's property for his own advantage. Ben
won't."
"That's right, my good woman, stand up for your own. Every drop of an
English exile's blood is better than its weight in gold."
"Ben is a boy," said Abiah. "If he makes an error, it will be followed
by a contrite heart."
Little Ben could hear no more. He flew, as it were, up to the garret
chamber and laid down on the trestle bed. A pet squirrel came to comfort
him or to get some corn. He folded the squirrel in his bosom.
Ting-a-ling! It was Uncle Ben, the poet, whose name he had disgraced. He
could endure no more; he began to sob, and so went to sleep, his little
squirrel pitying him, perhaps.
There was another heart that pitied the boy. It was Uncle Ben's. Poor
Uncle Ben! He sleeps now at the side of the Franklin monument in the
Granary burying ground, and we like to cast a kindly glance that way as
we pass the Park Street Church on Tremont Street, on the west side. It
is a good thing to have good parents, and also to have a good uncle with
a poetic mind and a loving heart.
There was one trait in little Benjamin's character that Josiah Franklin
saw with his keen eye to business, and it gave him hope. He was
diligent. One of Josiah Franklin's favorite texts of Scripture was,
"Seest thou a man diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings;
he shall not stand before mean men." This text he used to often repeat,
or a part of it, and little Ben must have thought that it applied to
him. Hints of hope, not detraction, build a boy.
Jamie the Scotchman had little expectation that puttering Ben would ever
"stand before kings." Not he. He had not that kind of vision.
"Ah, boy, I could tell you a whole history of diligent boys who not only
came to stand before kings, but who overturned thrones; and he who
discrowns a king is greater than a king," said he one day. "Think what
you might become."
"Maybe I will."
"Will what?"
"Be some one in the world."
"Sorry a boy you would make to 'stand before kings,' and I don't think
you'll ever be likely to take off the crown from anybody. So your poor
old father might as well leave that text out of the Scriptures. There
are no pebbles in your sling of life. If there were, wonders would never
cease. You are just your Uncle Ben over again. I'm sorry for ye, and for
all."
Little Ben looked sorry too, and he wondered if there really were in the
text something prophetic for him, or if Jamie the Scotchman were the
true seer. But many poor boys had come to stand before kings, and some
such boys had left tyrants without a crown.
Jamie the Scotchman thought that he had the gift of "second sight," as
a consciousness of future events was called, but he usually saw shadows.
He liked to talk to himself, walking with his hands behind him.
After his dire prophecy concerning the future of little Ben he walked
down to Long Wharf with Uncle Benjamin, talking to himself for the
latter to hear.
"Ye can't always tell," said he; "I didn't speak out of the true inward
spirit when I said those things. It hurt the little shaver to tell him
there was no future in him; I could see it did. The boy has a curious
way of saying wise things; such words fly out of his mouth like swallows
from a cave. If I were to take up a dead brand in the blacksmith's shop
and he was around, as he commonly is, he would say, 'The more you handle
a burned stick the smuttier you become'; or if I were to pick up a
horseshoe there, and say, 'For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,' he
would answer, 'And for want of a shoe the horse was lost.' Then, after a
time, he would add, 'For want of a horse the rider was lost,' and so on.
His mind works in that way. Maybe he'll become a philosopher.
Philosophers stand before kings. I now have the true inner sight and
open vision. I can see a streak of light in that curious gift of his.
But blood tells, and his folks on his father's side were blacksmiths
over in England, and philosophers don't come from the forge more'n
eagles do from the hen yard.
"I said what I did to stimulate him. It cut the little shaver to the
quick, didn't it? Now he wouldn't have been so cut if there had been
nothing there. The Lord forgive me if I did wrong!"
He walked down the wharf to the end. Beyond lay the blue harbor and the
green islands. The town had only some ten thousand inhabitants then, but
several great ships lay in the harbor under the three hills, two of
which now are gone.
The harbor was girded with oaks and pines. Here and there a giant elm,
still the glory of New England, lifted its bowery top like a cathedral
amid towns of trees. Sea birds screamed low over the waters, and ospreys
wheeled high in the air.
Jamie the Scotchman had not many things to occupy his thoughts, so he
sat down to wonder as to what that curious Franklin boy might become.
A new thought struck him.
"He has French blood in him--the old family name used to be Franklein,"
he said to himself. "Now what does that signify? French blood is gentle;
it likes to be free. I don't see that it might not be a good thing to
have; the French like to find out things and give away to others what
they discover."
A shell fell into the water before him from high in the air. The water
spouted up, causing an osprey to swoop down, but to rise again.
Jamie the Scotchman turned his head.
"You, Ben? You follow me 'round everywhere. What makes ye, when I treat
ye so?"
"If a boy didn't hope for anything he would never have the heartache."
"True, true, my boy; and what of that?"
"I would rather expect something and have the heartache."
"No one ever misses his expectations who looks for the heartache in this
world. But what queer turns your mind does take, and what curious
questions you do ask! Let us return to the Blue Ball."
They did, through winding streets, one or more of which were said to
follow the wanderings of William Blackstone's cow from the Common.
Boston still follows the same interesting animal.
There were windmills on the hills and tidemills near the water. There
was a ferryboat between Boston and Charlestown, and on the now Chelsea
side was the great Rumney Marsh. On the Common, which was a pasture, was
a branching elm, a place of executions. Near it was a pond into which
had been cast the Wishing Stone around which, it was reported, that if
one went three times at night and repeated the Lord's Prayer _backward_
at each circuit one might have whatever he wished for. Near the pond and
the great tree were the Charles River marshes. Such was Boston in
1715-'20.
Little Ben went to the South Church on Sundays, and the tithingman was
there. The latter sat in the gallery among the children with his long
rod, called the tithing stick, with which he used to touch or correct
any boy or girl who whispered in meeting, who fell asleep, or who
misbehaved. Little Ben must have looked from the family pew in awe at
the tithingman. The old-time ministers pictured the Lord himself as
being a kind of a tithingman, sitting up in heaven and watching out for
the unwary. Good Josiah Franklin governed the conduct of the children
in his own pew. You may be sure that none of them whispered there or
fell asleep or misbehaved.
The tithingman, who was a church constable, was annually elected to keep
peace and order in the church. In England he collected tithes, or a
tenth part of the parish income, which the people were supposed, after
the Mosaic command, to offer to the church. He sometimes wore a peculiar
dress; he was usually a very solemn-looking man, the good man of whom
all the children, and some of the old women, stood in terror.
A crafty man was the tithingman in the pursuit of his duties. He was on
the watch all the time, and, as suspicion breeds suspicion, so the
children were on the watch for him. The sermons were long, the hourglass
was sometimes twice turned during the service, and the children often
kept themselves awake by looking out for the tithingman, who was
watching out for them. This was hardly the modern idea of heart culture
and spiritual development, but the old Puritan churches made strong men
who faced their age with iron purposes.
We said that the tithingman was sometimes a terror to old women. Why was
he so? It was sweet for certain good old people to sleep in church, and
his duties extended to all sleepers, young and old. But he did not smite
the good old ladies with a stick. In some churches, possibly in this
one, he carefully tickled their noses with a feather. This led to a
gentle awakening, very charitable and kindly.
It is a warm summer day. Josiah Franklin's pew is crowded, and little
Ben has gone to the gallery to sit among the boys. Uncle Ben, the poet,
is there, for he sees that the family pew is full.
How can little Ben help whispering now, when the venerable poet is by
his side and will not harshly reprove him, and when so many little
things are happening that tempt him to share his thoughts with his
amiable godfather?
But he restrained himself long and well.
In her high-backed pew, provided with the luxury of the cushion, sat
fine old Lady Wiggleworth, all in silks, satins, and plumes. Little Ben,
looking over the gallery rail, saw that my lady's plumes nodded, and he
gently touched Uncle Ben and pointed down. Suddenly there came a tap of
the tithing stick on his head, and he was in disgrace. He looked very
solemn now; so did Uncle Ben. It was a solemn time after one had been
touched by the tithing rod.
But the tithingman had seen Lady Wiggleworth's nodding plumes. Could it
be possible that this woman, who was received at the Province House, had
lost her moral and physical control?
If such a thing had happened, he must yet do his duty. He would have
done that had the queen been there. The law of Heaven makes no
exception, nor did he.
He tiptoed down the stair and stood before the old lady's pew. All her
plumes were nodding, something like the picture of a far ship in a
rolling sea. My lady was asleep.
The tithingman's heart beat high, but his resolution did not falter. If
it had, it would soon have been restored, for my lady began to snore.
Gently, very gently, the tithingman took from his side pocket a
feather. He touched with it gently, very gently, a sensitive part of the
oblivious old lady's nose. She partly awoke and brushed her nose with
her hand. But her head turned to the other side of her shoulders, and
she relapsed into slumber again.
The sermon was still beating the sounding-board, and a more vigorous
duty devolved upon the tithingman.
He pushed the feather up my lady's nose, where the membrane was more
sensitive and more quickly communicated with the brain. He did this
vigorously and more vigorously. It was an obstinate case.
"Scat!"
The tithingman jumped. My lady opened her eyes. The sermon was still
beating the sounding-board, but she was not then aware that she, too,
had spoken in meeting.
There were some queer church customs in the days of Boston town.