But we have said nothing yet about the main object of Ben's sudden
return to Boston, _i.e._ governor Keith's letter to his father, on the
grand project of setting him up as a printer in Philadelphia. The
reader has been told that all the family, his brother James excepted,
were greatly rejoiced to see Ben again. But among them all there was
none whose heart felt half such joy as did that of his father. He had
always doted on this young son, as one whose rare genius and
unconquerable industry, if but conducted by prudence, would assuredly,
one day, lead him to greatness. His sudden elopement, as we have seen,
had greatly distressed the old man, especially as he was under the
impression that he was gone to sea. And when he remembered how few that
go out at his young and inexperienced age, ever return better than
blackguards and vagabonds, his heart sickened within him, and he was
almost ready to wish he had never lived to feel the pangs of such
bitter disappointment in a child so beloved. He counted the days of
Ben's absence; by night his sleep departed from his eyes for thinking
of his son; and all day long whenever he heard a rapping at the door,
his heart would leap with expectation: "who knows," he would say to
himself, "but this may be my child?" And although he would feel
disappointed when he saw it was not Ben who rapped, yet he was afraid,
at times, to see him lest he should see him covered with the marks of
dishonour. Who can tell what this anxious father felt when he saw his
son return as he did? Not in the mean apparel and sneaking looks of a
drunkard, but in a dress far more genteel than he himself had ever been
able to put on him; while his beloved cheeks were fresh with
temperance, and his eyes bright with innocence and conscious well
doing. Imagination dwells with pleasure on the tender scene that marked
that meeting, where the withered cheeks of seventy and the florid bloom
of seventeen met together in the eager embrace of parental affection
and filial gratitude:
"_God bless my son!_" the sobbing sire he sigh'd.
"_God bless my sire!_" that pious son replied.
Soon as the happy father could recover his articulation, with great
tenderness he said, "but how, my beloved boy could you give me the pain
to leave me as you did?"
"Why you know, my dear father," replied Ben, "that I could not live
with my brother; nor would he let me live with the other printers; and
as I could not bear the thought of living on an aged father now that I
was able to work for myself, I determined to leave Boston and seek my
fortune abroad. And knowing that if I but hinted my intentions you
would prevent me, I thought I would leave you as I did."
"But why, my son, did you keep me so long unhappy about your fate, and
not write to me sooner?"
"I knew, father, what a deep interest you took in my welfare, and
therefore I resolved never to write to you until by my own industry and
economy I had got myself into such a state, that I could write to you
with pleasure. This state I did not attain till lately. And just as I
was a going to write to you, a strange affair took place that decided
me to come and see you, rather than write to you."
"Strange affair! what can that mean, my son?"
"Why, sir, the governor of Pennsylvania, sir William Keith--I dare say,
father, you have often heard of governor Keith?"
"I may have heard of him, child--I'm not positive--but what of governor
Keith?"
"Why he has taken a wonderful liking to me, father!"
"Aye! has he so?" said the old man, with joy sparkling in his eyes.
"Well I pray God you may be grateful for such favours, my son, and make
a good use of them!"
"Yes, father, he has taken a great liking to me sure enough; he says I
am the only one in Philadelphia who knows any thing about printing; and
he says too, that if I will only come and set up in Philadelphia, he
will make my fortune for me in a trice!!"
Old Josias here shook his head; "No, no, Ben!" said he, "that will
never do: that will never do: you are too young yet, child, for all
that, a great deal too young."
"So I told him, father, that I was too young. And I told him too that I
was certain you would never give your consent to it."
"You were right there, Ben; no indeed, I could never give my consent to
it, that's certain."
"So I told the governor, father; but still he would have it there was a
fine opening in Philadelphia, and that I would fill it so exactly, that
nothing could be wanting to insure your approbation but a clear
understanding of it. And to that end he has written you a letter."
"A letter, child! a letter from governor Keith to me!"
"Yes, father, here it is."
With great eagerness the old gentleman took it from Ben; and drawing
his spectacles, read it over and over again with much eagerness. When
he was done he lifted his eyes to heaven, while in the motion of his
lips and change of countenance, Ben could clearly see that the soul of
his father was breathing an ejaculation of praise to God on his
account. Soon as his _Te Deum_ was finished, he turned to Ben with
a countenance bright with holy joy, and said, "Ben, I've cause to be
happy; my son, I've cause to be happy indeed. O how differently have
things turned out with you! God's blessed name be praised for it, how
differently have they turned out to what I dreaded! I was afraid you
were gone a poor vagabond, on the seas; but instead of that you had
fixed yourself in one of the finest cities in the country. I was afraid
to see you; yes, my dear child, I was afraid to see you, lest I should
see you clad in the mean garb of a poor sailor boy; but here I behold
you clad in the dress of a gentleman! I trembled lest you had been
degrading yourself into the low company of the profane and worthless;
and lo! you have been all the time exalting yourself into the high
society of great men and governors. And all this in so short a time,
and in a way most honourable to yourself, and therefore most delightful
to me, I mean by your virtues and your close attention to the duties of
a most useful profession. Go on, my son, go on! and may God Almighty,
who has given you wisdom to begin so glorious a course, grant you
fortitude to persevere in it!"
Ben thanked his father for the continuance of his love and solicitude
for him; and he told him moreover, that one principal thing that had
stirred him up to act as he had done, was the joy which he knew he
should be giving him thereby; as also the great trouble which he knew a
contrary conduct would have brought upon him. Here his father tenderly
embraced him, and said, "Blessed be God for giving me such a son! I
have always, Ben, fed myself with hopes of great things from you. And
now I have the joy to say my hopes were not in vain. Yes, glory to God,
I trust my precious hopes of you were not in vain." Then, after making
a short pause, as from fullness of joy, he went on, "but as to this
letter, my son; this same letter here from governor Keith; though
nothing was ever more flattering to you, yet depend upon it, Ben, it
will never do; at least not yet awhile.--The duties of the place are
too numerous, child, and difficult for any but one who has had many
more years of experience than you have had."
"Well then, father, what's to be done, for I know that the governor is
so very anxious to get me into this place, that he will hardly be said
nay?"
"Why, my dear boy, we must still decline it, for all that: not only
because from your very unripe age and inexperience, it may involve you
in ruin; but also because it actually is not in your power. It is true
the governor, from his letter, appears to have the greatest friendship
in the world for you; but yet, it is not to be expected that he would
advance funds to set you up. O no, my dear boy, that's entirely out of
the question. The governor, though perhaps rich, has no doubt too many
poor friends and relations hanging on him, for you to expect any thing
from that quarter. And as to myself, Ben, with all my love for you, it
is not in my power to assist you in such an affair. My family you know,
is very large, and the profits of my trade but small, insomuch that at
the end of the year there is nothing left. And indeed I never can be
sufficiently thankful to God for that health and blessing which enables
me to feed and clothe them every year so plentifully."
Seeing Ben look rather serious, the old gentleman, in a livelier tone,
resumed his speech, "Yes, Ben, all this is very true; but yet let us
not be disheartened. Although we have no funds now, yet a noble supply
is at hand."
"Where, father," said Ben, roused up, "where?"
"Why, in your own virtues, Ben, in your own virtues, my boy--There are
the noblest funds that God can bestow on a young man. All other funds
may easily be drained by our vices and leave us poor indeed. But the
virtues are fountains that never fail: they are indeed the true riches
and honours, only by other names. Only persevere, my son, in the
virtues, as you have already so bravely begun, and the grand object is
gained. By the time you reach twenty-one, for every friend that you now
have, you will have ten; and for every dollar an hundred; and with
these you will make thousands more. Thus, under God, you will have the
glory to be the artificer of your own fame and fortune: and that will
bring ten thousand times more honour and happiness, to you, Ben, than
all the money that governors and fathers could ever give you."
Ben's countenance brightened as his father uttered this; then heaving a
deep sigh, as of strong hope that such great things might one day be
realized, he said, "Well father, God only knows what I am to come to;
but this I know, that I feel in myself a determination to do my best."
"I believe you do, my son, and I thank God most heartily that I have
such good reason to believe you do. And when I consider, on the one
hand, what a fine field for fame and fortune this new country presents
to young men of talents and enterprise: and on the other hand, what
wonders you, a poor unknown and unfriended boy have done in
Philadelphia, in only six months, I feel transported at the thought of
what you may yet attain before my gray hairs descend to the grave. Who
knows, Ben, for God is good, my son, who knows but that a fate like
that of young Joseph, whom his brethren drove into Egypt, may be in
reserve for you? And who knows but that old Jacob's joys may be mine?
that like him, after all my anxieties on your account, I may yet hear
the name of my youngest son, my beloved Benjamin, coming up from the
South, perfumed with praise for his great virtues and services to his
country? Then when I hear the sound of his fame rising from that
distant land, like the pleasant thunders of summer before refreshing
showers, and remember how he used to stand a little prattling boy by my
side, in his rosy cheeks and flaxen locks filling the candle moulds, or
twisting the snow white cotton wicks with his tender fingers, O how
will such remembrance lighten up the dark evening of my days, and cause
my setting sun to go down in joy!"
He spoke this in tones so melting, that Ben, who was sitting by his
father's side, fell with his face on his bosom, without saying a word.
The fond parent, hearing him sob, tenderly embraced him, and with a
voice broken with sighs, went on, "Yes, my son, the measure of my joys
will then be full. I shall have nothing to detain me any longer in this
vale of troubles, but shall gladly breathe out my life in praise to God
for this his last, his crowning act of goodness--for this his blessing
me in my son."
After a moment's pause, the feelings of both being too deliciously
affected for speech, Ben gently raised his face from his father's
bosom, and with his eyes yet red and wet with tears, tenderly looking
at him, said, "I would to God, father, you would go and live in
Philadelphia."
"Why so, my son?"
"Because, I don't want ever to part with you, father, and I am, you
know, obliged to go back to Philadelphia immediately."
"Not immediately, my son, I cannot let you go from me immediately."
"Father, I would never go from you, if I could help it; but I must be
doing something to make good your fond hopes of me; and I can't stay
here."
"Why not, my son?"
"Father, I can't stay with those who hate me; and you know that brother
James hates me very much."
"O! he does not hate you, I hope, my son."
"Yes, he does, father, indeed he does; because I only differed from him
in opinion and ventured to reason with him, he kindled into passion and
abused me even to _blows_, though I was in the right, as you told
him afterwards. And because I told him I did not think he acted the
part of a brother by me in wishing to make me a slave so many years, he
went about town and set all the printers against me, and thus drove me
away from home, and from you, my father, whom I so much love. And just
now, when I went to his office to see him, instead of running to meet
me and rejoicing to see me returned safe and sound and so well dressed
and a plenty of money in my pocket, he would not even speak to me, but
looked as dark and angry as though he would have torn me to pieces. And
yet he can turn up his eyes, and make long prayers and graces, and talk
a great deal about JESUS CHRIST!"
The old man here shook his head with a deep groan, while Ben thus went
on, "No, father, I can't stay here; I must be going back to
Philadelphia and to my good friend governor Keith; for I long to be
realizing all the great hopes that you have been forming of me. And
should God but give me a good settlement in Philadelphia, then you will
come and live with me. O say, my father, wont you come and live with
me?"
Ben spoke this, looking up to his father with that joy of filial love
sparkling in his youthful eyes which made him look like all that we
fancy of angels.
The old man embraced him and said, "I will, my son, I will; but stay
with me a little while, at the least three days, and then you may
depart." Ben consenting to this, the old gentleman wrote a polite
letter to governor Keith, thanking him very heartily for that he, so
great a man, should have paid such attentions to his poor boy: but at
the same time begged his pardon for declining to do any thing for him,
not only because he had very little in his power to do; but also
because he thought him too young to be intrusted with the conduct of an
enterprise that required much more experience than he possessed.