The Life of Benjamin Franklin

It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as poor Richard says, "pride breakfasted with plenty, dined with poverty, and supped with infamy." And, after all, of what use is this pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered? It cannot promote health, nor ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person, it creates envy, it hastens misfortune.

But what madness must it be to run in debt for these superfluities? We are offered, by the terms of this sale, six months credit; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be fine without it. But ah! think what you do when you run in debt; you give to another power over your liberty. If you cannot pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in fear when you speak to him; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses, and by degrees, come to lose your veracity, and sink into base, downright lying; for "the second vice is lying, the first is running in debt," as poor Richard says; and again, to the same purpose, "lying rides on debt's back;" whereas a free American ought not to be ashamed, nor afraid to see or speak to any man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. "It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright." What would you think of that nation, or of that government, who should issue an edict, forbidding you to dress like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would you not say that you were free; have a right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such a government tyrannical? And yet you are about to put yourself under that tyranny when you run into debt for such a dress! your creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive you of your liberty, by confining you in jail for life, or by selling you for a servant, if you should not be able to pay him: when you have got your bargain, you may perhaps think little of payment; but as poor Richard says, "creditors have better memories than debtors; creditors are a superstitious set, great observers of set days and times." The day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made before you are prepared to satisfy it; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term, which, at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely short; time will seem to have added wings to his heels, as well as his shoulders. "Those have a short Lent, who owe money at Easter." At present, perhaps, you may think yourself in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance without injury; but,

"For age and want save while you may,No morning suns last the whole day."

Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever while you live, expense is constant and certain; and "it is easier to build two chimneys, than to keep one in fuel," as poor Richard says: so "rather go to bed supperless, than rise in debt."

"Get what you can, and what you get, hold, 'Tis the stones that will turn lead into gold."

And when you have got the philosopher's stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying taxes.

IV. This doctrine of my friend's is reason and wisdom; but after all, do not depend too much upon your own industry and frugality, and prudence, though excellent things; for they may all be blasted without the blessing of heaven; and therefore ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Remember Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.

And now to conclude, "experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other," as poor Richard says, and scarce in that; for it is true, "we may give advice, but we cannot give conduct;" however, remember this, "they that will not be counselled cannot be helped;" and farther, that "if you will not hear reason, she will surely wrap your knuckles," as poor Richard says.

Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it and approved the doctrine, and immediately practised the contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; for the auction opened, and they began to buy extravagantly. I found the good man had thoroughly studied my Almanacs, and digested all I had dropt on those topics during the course of twenty-five years. The frequent mention he made of me must have tired any one else; but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious, that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my own, which he ascribed to me; but rather the gleanings that I had made of the sense of all ages and nations. However I resolved to be the better for the echo of it; and though I had at first determined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away, resolved to wear my old one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as great as mine. I am, as ever thine to serve thee.

Richard Saunders.

CHAPTER XXXV

"When poverty comes in at the door," said a shrewd observer, "love flies out at the window." When foolish families, "wasting their substance in riotous living," have fairly run their estates through the girt, and brought a host of hungry sheriffs and constables to the door, seizing on all their trumpery of fine carpets and curtains, and side-boards, and looking-glasses for auction, oh what sudden palpitations and blank looks ensue! what bitter upbraidings between husbands and wives, parents and children! what lyings, and perjuries, and secret transfers of property to cheat creditors! with universal wreck of character, and conscience, and every thing else that can give dignity or pleasure to life!

But while Franklin, by his famous Almanack "poor Richard," was generously striving to prevent all these curses of sloth and extravagance, his wide spread newspapers were scattering thousands of the finest lectures on that honest industry and prudence, which makes nations wealthy and glorious. And his lecturing, like one born to be the moralist of nations, was in that style of brevity, sprightliness, and nerve, that young and old, men, women, and children were never tired of reading. And to give more value to these beautiful little essays, they were always written under the smarting recollection of what himself had suffered, from the follies which he wished to guard others against. Witness first, his celebrated little story, entitled

THE WHISTLEA TRUE STORYWRITTEN TO HIS NEPHEW

When I was a child, about 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 my 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 continued 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 pleasures 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 do, indeed, 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—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 fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in 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 her 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 whistle.

The following admirable satire against prejudice, can never be too often read by the ill-natured and hypochondrical.

THE HANDSOME AND UGLY LEG

There are two sorts of people in the world, who, with equal advantages of life, become, the one happy, and the other miserable. This arises, very much, from the different views in which they consider things, and the effect of those different views upon their own minds.

In every situation men can be placed, they may find conveniences and inconveniences; in every company, persons and conversation more or less pleasing; at every table, meats and drinks of better or worse taste; dishes better and worse dressed; in every climate, good and bad weather; and under every government, good and bad laws, and a good and bad administration of those laws; in every poem, faults and beauties; in almost every face, and every person, fine features and sad defects, good and bad qualities.

Under these circumstances, the two classes 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 wine, 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, and make themselves every where disagreeable.

Nobody loves this sort of people; no one shows them more than the commonest civility, and scarcely that; and this frequently puts them out of humour, and draws them into disputes. If they aim at obtaining any advantage in rank or fortune, nobody wishes them success, or will stir a step 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 poor gentlemen will not change this bad habit, condescend to be pleased with what is pleasing, without fretting themselves and others about the contraries, it is good to avoid an acquaintance with them, which is always disagreeable, and sometimes very inconvenient, especially when one finds one's self 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, kept his eyes on his ugly leg more than the 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.

"A good wit will turn every thing to advantage," says Shakespeare; and the following will show what a singular passion Dr. Franklin had to turn every little cross incident of his own life into pleasure and profit to others. He calls it

STOOP, AND GO SAFETo the late Dr. Mather, of Boston

Rev. Sir,

When I was a boy, I met with a book, entitled, "Essays to do good," which, I think, was written by your father. It had been so little regarded by a former possessor, that several leaves of it were torn out: but the remainder gave me such a turn for thinking, as to have an influence on my conduct through life; for I have always set a greater value on the character of a doer of good than any other kind of reputation; and if I have been, as you seem to think, a useful citizen, the public owes the advantage of it to that book.

The last time I saw your father was in the beginning of 1724, when I visited him after my first trip to Pennsylvania. He received me in his library; and on my taking leave, showed me a shorter way out of the house, through a narrow passage, which was crossed by a beam over head. We were still talking, as I withdrew; he accompanying me behind, and I turning partly towards him, when he said hastily, "stoop! stoop!" I did not understand him, till I felt my head hit against the beam. He was a man, who never missed any occasion of giving instruction; and upon this he said to me, "you are young, and have the world before you. Stoop, as you go through, and you will miss many hard thumps." This advice, thus beat into my head, has frequently been of use to me; and I often think of it, when I see pride mortified, and misfortune brought upon people, by carrying their heads too high.

I long much to see again my native place; and did hope to have been there in 1783; but could not obtain my dismission from employment here. And now I fear I shall never have that happiness. My best wishes, however, attend my dear country. It is now blessed with an excellent constitution. May it last for ever!

This powerful monarchy continues its friendship for the United States. It is a friendship of the utmost importance to our security; and should be carefully cultivated. Britain has not yet digested the loss of its dominion over us, and has still, at times, some flattering hopes of recovering it. Accidents may increase those hopes, and encourage dangerous attempts. A breach between us and France would infallibly bring the English again upon our backs: and yet, we have some wild beasts among our countrymen, who are endeavouring to weaken that connexion.

Let us preserve our reputation, by performing our engagements; our credit, by fulfilling our contracts; and our friends, by gratitude and kindness: for we know not how soon we may again have occasion for all of them.—With great and sincere esteem, I have the honour to be—Reverend sir,

Your most obedient and most humble servant,

B. FRANKLIN.

Passy, May 12, 1784.

The witty little essay that follows, will show how very closely Dr. Franklin observed every thing around him, and what gross errors in education yet remain to be corrected.

THE HUMOUROUS PETITION

I address myself to all the friends of youth, and conjure them to direct their compassionate regard 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 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 awkward, 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 distance 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 profound respect, Sirs,

Your obedient servant,

THE LEFT HAND.

The following essays strikingly illustrate the admirable wisdom and philanthropy of Dr. Franklin; and, if read practically, would, no doubt, greatly lessen the number both of physicians and patients.

THE ART OF PROCURING PLEASANT DREAMS

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 pleasing dreams, it is so much clear gain to the pleasures of life.

To this end, it is, in the first place, necessary to be careful in preserving health—for, in sickness, the imagination is disturbed; and disagreeable, sometimes terrible ideas are apt to present themselves. But for health, our main dependence is on exercise and temperance. These render the appetite sharp, the digestion easy, the body lightsome, and the temper cheerful, with sweet sleep and pleasant dreams. While indolence and full feeding never fail to bring on loaded stomachs, with night-mares and horrors—we fall from precipices—are stung by serpents—assaulted by wild beasts—murderers—devils—with all the black train of unimaginable danger and wo. Temperance, then, is all-important to sweet sleep and pleasant dreaming. But a main point of temperance, is to shun hearty suppers, which are indeed not safe, even when dinner has been missed; what then must be the consequence of hearty suppers after full dinners? why only restless nights and frightful dreams; and sometimes a stroke of the apoplexy, after which they sleep till doomsday. The newspapers often relate instances of persons, who, after eating hearty suppers, are found dead in their beds next morning.

Another grand mean of preserving health, is to admit a constant supply of fresh air into your chamber. A more sad mistake was never committed than that of sleeping in tight rooms, and beds closely curtained. This has arisen from the dread of night air. But, after all the clamour and abuse that have been heaped on night air, it is very certain that no outward air, that may come in, is half so unwholesome as the air often breathed in 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 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.3 A single person is said to spoil 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 it is not hurtful to those who are in health, and that we may be then cured of the acrophobia that at present distresses weak minds, and makes them choose to be stifled and poisoned, rather than leave open the windows of a bed chamber, or put down the glass of a coach.

Confined air, when saturated with perspirable matter,4 will not receive more; and that matter must remain in our bodies, and occasions diseases; but it gives some previous notice of its being about to be hurtful, by producing certain uneasinesses which are difficult to describe, and few that feel know the cause. But we may recollect, that sometimes, on waking in the night, we have, if warmly covered, found it difficult to get asleep again. We turn often without finding repose in any position. This fidgetiness, to use a vulgar expression for the want of a better, is occasioned wholly by an uneasiness in the skin, owing to the retention of the perspirable matter, the bed-clothes having received their quantity, and, being saturated, refusing to take any more.

When you are awakened by this uneasiness, and find you cannot easily sleep again, get out of bed, beat up and turn your pillow, shake the bed-clothes well, with at least twenty shakes, then throw the bed open, and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing undrest, walk about your chamber, till your skin has had time to discharge its load, which it will do sooner as the air may be drier and colder. When you begin to feel the cool air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant. All the scenes presented by your fancy, will be of the pleasing kind. I am often as agreeably entertained with them, as by the scenery of an opera. If you happen to be too indolent to get out of bed, you may instead of it, lift up your bed-clothes so as to draw in a good deal of fresh air, and, by letting them fall, force it out again. This, repeated twenty times, will so clear them of the perspirable matter they have imbibed, as to permit your sleeping well for some time afterwards. But this latter method is not equal to the former.

Those who do not love trouble, and can afford to have two beds, will find great luxury in rising, when they wake in a hot bed, and going into the cool one. Such shifting of beds, would be of great service to persons ill in a fever; as it refreshes and frequently procures sleep. A very large bed, that will admit a removal so distant from the first situation as to be cool and sweet, may in a degree answer the same end.