HOME-COMING IN DISGUISE.
THERE is a very delightful fiction, which may have blossomed from fact,
which used to be found in schoolbooks, under the title of "The Story of
Franklin's Return to his Mother after a Long Absence."
It would have been quite like him to have returned to Boston in the
guise of a stranger. Some one has said that he had a joke for
everything, and that he would have put one into the Declaration of
Independence had he been able.
The tendency to make proverbs that Franklin showed in his early years
grew, and if he were not indeed as wise as King Solomon, no one since
the days of that Oriental monarch has made and "sought out" so many
proverbs and given them to the world.
The maxims of Poor Richard, which were at first given to the world
through an almanac, spread everywhere. They were current in most Boston
homes; they came back to the ears of Jamie the Scotchman--back, we say,
for some of them were the echoes of Silence Dogood's life in the Puritan
province.
Poor Richard's Almanac was a lively and curious miscellany, and its
coming was an event in America. Franklin put the wisdom that he gained
by experience into it. In the following resolution was the purpose of
his life at this time: "I wished to live," he says, "without committing
any fault at any time, and to conquer all that either natural
inclination, custom, or company might lead me into."
"But--but," he says, "I was surprised to find myself so much fuller of
faults than I had imagined; but I had the satisfaction of seeing them
diminish." In the spirit of this effort to correct life and to learn
wisdom from experience, he gave Poor Richard's Almanac annually to the
world. Like some of the proverbs of Solomon, it taught the people life
as he himself learned it. For years Franklin lived in Poor Richard, and
it was his pulse beat, his open heart, that gave the annual its power.
All the sayings of Poor Richard were not original with Franklin. When a
critical proverb, or a line from one of the poets, would express his
idea or conviction better than he could himself, he used it. For
example, he borrowed some beautiful lines from Pope, who in turn had
received the leading thought from a satire of Horace.
While Franklin was learning wisdom from life, and expressing it through
Poor Richard, he was studying French, Italian, and Spanish, and making
himself the master of philosophy. "He who would thrive must rise at
five," he makes Poor Richard say. He himself rose at five in the
morning, and began the day with a bath and a prayer. Intelligence to
intelligence!
Such was his life when Poor Richard was evolved.
Who was Poor Richard, whose influence came to lead the thought of the
time?
Poor Richard was a comic almanac, or a character assumed by Benjamin
Franklin, for the purpose of expressing his views of life. Having
established a paper, Franklin saw the need of an annual and of an
almanac, and he chose to combine the two, and to make the pamphlet a
medium of hard sense in a rough, keen, droll way.
He introduces himself in this curious annual as "Richard Saunders,"
"Poor Richard." He has an industrious wife named Bridget. He publishes
his almanac to earn a little money to meet his pressing wants. "The
plain truth of the matter is," says this pretended almanac maker, "I am
excessive poor, and my wife, good woman, is, I tell her, excessive
proud; she cannot bear, she says, to sit spinning in her gown of tow,
while I do nothing but gaze at the stars; and has threatened more than
once to burn all my books and rattling-traps (as she calls my
instruments) if I do not make some profitable use of them for the good
of my family. The printer has offer'd me some considerable share of the
profits, and I have thus began to comply with my dame's desire."
This Titian Leeds was a pen name for his rival publisher, who also
issued an almanac. The two had begun life in Philadelphia together as
printers.
The way in which he refers to his rival in his new almanac, as a man
about to die to fulfill the predictions of astrology, was so comical as
to excite a lively interest. Would he die? If not, what would the _next_
almanac say of him? Mr. Leeds (Keimer) had a reputation of a knowledge
of astronomy and astrology. In what way could Franklin have introduced a
character to the public in the spirit of good-natured rivalry that would
have awakened a more genuine curiosity?
The next year Poor Richard announced that his almanac had proved a
success, and told the public the news that they were waiting for and
much desired to hear: his wife Bridget had profited by it. She was now
able to have a dinner-pot of her own, and something to put into it.
But how about Titian Leeds, who was to die after the astrological
prediction? The people awaited the news of the fate of this poor man, as
we await the tidings of the end of a piece of statesmanship. He thus
answers, "I can not say positively whether he is dead or alive," but as
the author of the rival almanac had spoken very disrespectfully of him,
and as Mr. Leeds when living was a gentleman, he concludes that Mr.
Leeds must be dead.
In these comic annuals there is not only the almanacs and the play upon
Titian Leeds, but a large amount of rude wisdom in the form of proverbs,
aphorisms, and verses, most of which is original, but a part of which,
as we have said, is apt quotation. The proverbs were everywhere quoted,
and became a part of the national education. They became popular in
France, and filled nearly all Europe. They are still quoted. Let us give
you some of them:
"Who has deceived thee so oft as thyself?"
"Fly pleasures, and they will follow thee."
"Let thy child's first lesson be obedience, and the second will be what
thou wilt."
"Industry need not wish."
"In things of moment, on thyself depend,
Nor trust too far thy servant or thy friend;
With private views, thy friend may promise fair,
And servants very seldom prove sincere."
Besides these quaint sayings, which became a part of the proverbial
wisdom of the world, Franklin had a comical remark for every occasion,
as, when a boy, he advised his father to say grace over the whole pork
barrel, and so save time at the table. He once admonished Jenny in
regard to her spelling, and that after she was advanced in life, by
telling her that the true way to spell wife was _yf_. After the treaty
of peace with England, he thought it only a courtesy that America should
return deported people to their native shores. Once in Paris, on
receiving a cake labeled _Le digne Franklin_, which excited the jealousy
of Lee and Dean, he said that the present was meant for
Lee-Dean-Franklin, that being the pronunciation of the French label.
Every event had a comical side for him.
Let us bring prosperous Benjamin Franklin back to Boston to see his
widowed mother again, after the old story-book manner. She is nearly
blind now, and we may suppose Jamie the Scotchman to be halting and old.
He comes into the town in the stagecoach at night. Boston has grown. The
grand old Province House rises above it, the Indian vane turning hither
and thither in the wind. The old town pump gleams under a lantern, as
does the spring in Spring Lane, which fountain may have led to the
settlement of the town. On a hill a beacon gleams over the sea. He
passes the stocks and the whipping-post in the shadows.
There is a light in the window of the Blue Ball. He sees it. It is very
bright. Is his mother at work now that she is nearly blind?
He dismounts. He passes close to the old window. His father is not in
the room; he never will be there again. But an aged man is there. Who is
he?
The man is reading--what? The most popular pamphlet or little book that
ever appeared in the colonies; a droll story.
He knocks at the door. The old man rises and opens the door; the bell is
gone.
"Abiah, there's a stranger here."
"Ask him who he is."
"Say that he used to work here many years ago, and that he knew Josiah
Franklin well, and was acquainted with Ben."
"Tell him to come in," said the bent old woman with white hair.
The stranger entered, and avoided questions by asking them.
"What are you reading to-night, my good friend?" he asked.
"The Old Auctioneer," answered the aged man. "Have you read it?"
"Yes; it is on the taxes."
"So it is--I've read it twice over. I'm now reading it to Abiah. Let me
tell you a secret--her son wrote it. My opinion is that it is the
smartest piece of work that ever saw the light on this side of the
water. What's yourn?"
"There's sense in it."
"What did he say his name was?" asked Abiah.
"Have you ever read any of Poor Richard's maxims?" asked the stranger
quickly.
"Yes, yes; we have taken the Almanac for years. Ben publishes it."
"What did he say?" asked Abiah. "I can not hear as well as I once
could.--Stranger, I heard you when you spoke loud at the door."
"Repeat some of 'Poor Richard's' sayings," said the stranger.
"You may well say 'repeat,'" said the old man. "I used to hear Ben
Franklin say things like that when he was a 'prentice lad."
"Like what, my friend?"
"Like 'The noblest question in the world is what good may I do in it?'
There! Like 'None preaches better than the ant, and she says nothing.'
There!"
"I see, I see, my good friend, you seem to have confidence in Poor
Richard?"
"Sir, I taught him much of his wisdom--he and I used to be great
friends. I always knew that he had a star in his soul that would
shine--I foresaw it all. I have the gift of second sight. I am a
Scotchman."
"And you prophesied good things to him when he was a boy?"
"Yes, yes, or, if I did not, I only spoke in a discouraging way to
encourage him. He and I were chums; we used to sit on Long Wharf
together and _prognosticate_ together. That was a kind of Harvard
College to us. Uncle Ben was living then."
"Maybe the stranger would like you to read The Old Auctioneer," said
Abiah to the Scotchman. "My boy wrote that--he told you. My boy has good
sense--Jamie here will tell you so. I'm older now than I was."
"Yes, yes, read, and let me rest. When the bell rings for nine I will go
to the inn."
"Maybe we can keep you here. We'll talk it over later. I want to hear
Ben's piece. I'm his mother, and they tell me it is interesting to
people who are no relation to him.--Jamie, you read the piece, and then
we will talk over the past. It seems like meeting Ben again to hear his
pieces read."
Jamie the Scotchman read, and while he did so Abiah, wrinkled and old,
looked often toward the stranger out of her dim eyes, while she listened
to her son's always popular story of The Old Auctioneer.
"That is a very good piece," said Abiah Franklin; "and now, stranger,
let me say that your voice sounds familiar, and I want you to tell me in
a good strong tone who you be. I didn't hear you give any name."
"Is it almost nine?" asked the stranger.
Jamie opened the door.
A bell smote the still air, a silverlike bell. It spoke nine times.
"I never heard that bell before," said the stranger.
Suddenly music flooded the air; it seemed descending; there were many
bells--and they were singing.
"The Old North chimes," said the Scotchman; "they have just been put up.
I wish Ben could hear them; I sort of carry him in my heart."
"Don't speak! It is beautiful," said the stranger. "Hear what they are
saying."
"O Jamie, Jamie, _father_ used to play that tune on his violin."
"_Father!_" The old woman started.
"Ben, Ben, how could you! Come here; my eyes are failing me, Ben, but my
heart will never fail me.--Jamie, prepare for him his old room, and
leave us to talk together!"
"I will go out to Mrs. Mecom's, and tell her that Benjamin has come
home."
"Yes, yes, go and call Jenny."
They talked together long: of Josiah, now gone; of Uncle Benjamin, long
dead; and of Parson Sewell, and the deacons of the South Church, who had
passed away.
The door opened. Jenny again stood before him. She led on a boy by the
hand, and said to her portly brother:
"This, Benjamin, is Benjamin."
They talked together until the tears came.
He heard the whir of the swallows' wings in the chimney.
"The swallows come back," he said, "but they will never come again. It
fills my heart with tenderness to hear these old home sounds."
"No, _they_ will never come back from the mosses and ferns under the
elms," said his mother. "The orioles come, the orchards bloom, and
summer lights up the hills, and the leaves fall, but they will know no
more changes or seasons. And I am going after their feet into the
silence, Ben; I have almost got through. You have been a true son in the
main, and Jenny has never stepped aside from the way. Always be good to
Jenny."
"Jenny, always be true to mother, and I will be as true to you."
"Brother, I shall always be true to my home."