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 WHISTLE.

A TRUE STORY.

WRITTEN 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 SAFE.

_To 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.

[3] In India, where out of 140 poor British prisoners shut up in a close small room 120 of them perished in one night.

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.

[4] What physicians call the perspirable matter, is that vapour which passes off from our bodies, from the lungs, and through the pores of the skin. The quantity of this is said to be five-eighths of what we eat.

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.

These are the rules of the art. But though they will generally prove effectual in producing the end intended, there is a case in which the most punctual observance of them will be totally fruitless. This case is, when the person who desires to have pleasant dreams has not taken care to preserve, what is necessary above all things--A GOOD CONSCIENCE.

ON THE ART OF SWIMMING.

The exercise of swimming is one of the most healthy and agreeable in the world. After having swam for an hour or two in the evening, one sleeps coolly the whole night, even during the most ardent heat of summer. Perhaps the pores being cleansed, the insensible perspiration increases, and occasions this coolness. It is certain that much swimming is the means of stopping a diarrhoea and even of producing a constipation. With respect to those who do not know how to swim, or who are affected with a diarrhoea at the season which does not permit them to use that exercise, a warm bath, by cleansing and purifying the skin, is found very salutary, and often effects a radical cure. I speak from my own experience, frequently repeated, and that of others, to whom I have recommended this.

You will not be displeased if I conclude these hasty remarks by informing you, that as the ordinary method of swimming is reduced to the act of rowing with the arms and legs, and is consequently a laborious and fatiguing operation, when the space of water to be crossed is considerable; there is a method in which a swimmer may pass a great distance with much facility, by means of a sail. This discovery I fortunately made by accident, and in the following manner.

When I was a boy, I amused myself one day with flying a paper kite; and approaching the bank of a pond, which was near a mile broad, I tied the string to a stake, and the kite ascended to a very considerable height, above the pond, while I was swimming. In a little time, being desirous of amusing myself with my kite, and enjoying at the same time the pleasure of swimming, I returned, and loosing from the stake the string, with the little stick fastened to it, went again into the water, where I found, that, lying on my back, and holding the stick in my hands, I was drawn along the surface of the water in a very agreeable manner. Having then engaged another boy to carry my clothes round the pond to the other side, I began to cross the pond with my kite, which carried me quite over without the least fatigue, and with the greatest pleasure imaginable. I was only obliged occasionally to halt a little in my course, and resist its progress, when it appeared that, by following too quick, I lowered the kite too much, by doing which occasionally I made it rise again. I have never since that time practised this singular mode of swimming, though I think it not impossible to cross, in this manner, from Dover to Calais. The packet boat, however, is still preferable.

NEW MODE OF BATHING.

The cold bath has long been in vogue as a tonic, but the shock of the cold water has always appeared to me, generally speaking, as too violent, and I have found it much more agreeable to my constitution to bathe in another element--I mean cold air. With this view, I rise, early every morning and sit in my chamber, without any clothes whatever, half an hour or an hour, according to the season, either reading or writing, This practice is not the least painful, but, on the contrary, agreeable; and if I return to bed afterwards, before I dress myself, as sometimes happens, I make a supplement to my night's rest of one or two hours of the most pleasing sleep that can be imagined. I find no ill consequences whatever resulting from it, and that at least I do not injure my health, if it does not, in fact, contribute much to its preservation. I shall, therefore, call it for the future a _tonic air bath_.

The common saying, "_lazy people take the most pains_," was never more clearly exemplified than in the following squib.

STRENUOUS IDLENESS.

Passing the Schuylkill, one day, he saw a man sitting on the bridge, very earnestly looking on the cork of his fishing line. "_What luck? What luck?_" cried the doctor. "_O none! none!_" answered our fishing hawk; "_none yet; I have not been here over a couple of hours or so_." The doctor pushed on. Near sun-down he returned. The man was still sitting and staring at his cork, like a spaniel at a dead set. "Well," said the doctor, "I hope you have had a fine haul among the fish." "Not a single one," replied the man. "_Not a single one!_" quoth the doctor, amazed. "No, not one, sir," answered the fisher, "not one; but I've had a most _glorious nibble_!"

The following is a fine hint to such as have learned useful trades, but have not learned what is infinitely more valuable, I mean that divine philanthropy which alone can make their trades their delight, and thus strew life over with roses.

THE SILVER HOOK.

Doctor Franklin observing one day a hearty young fellow, whom he knew to be an extraordinary blacksmith, sitting on the wharf, bobbing for little mud-cats and eels, he called to him, "Ah Tom, what a pity 'tis you don't fish with a _silver_ hook." The young man replied, "he was not able to fish with a silver hook." Some days after this, the doctor passing that way, saw Tom out at the end of the wharf again, with his long pole bending over the flood. "What, Tom," cried the doctor, "have you not got the silver hook yet?"

"God bless you, doctor," cried the blacksmith, "I'm hardly able to fish with an iron hook."

"Poh! poh!" replied the doctor, "go home to your anvil; and you'll make silver enough in one day to buy more and better fish than you would catch here in a month."

But few have it so much in their power to do good or evil as the PRINTERS. I know they all glory in Dr. Franklin as a FATHER, and are wont to name his name with _veneration_; happy would it be for this country if they would read the following with _imitation_.

TRUE INDEPENDENCE.

Soon after his establishment in Philadelphia, Franklin was offered a piece for publication in his newspaper. Being very busy, he begged the gentleman would leave it for consideration. The next day the author called and asked his opinion of it. "Why, sir," replied Franklin, "I am sorry to say that I think it highly scurrilous and defamatory. But being at a loss on account of my poverty whether to reject it or not, I thought I would put it to this issue--at night, when my work was done, I bought a two-penny loaf, on which with a mug of cold water I supped heartily, and then wrapping myself in my great coat, slept very soundly on the floor till morning; when another loaf and a mug of water afforded me a pleasant breakfast. Now, sir, since I can live very comfortably in this manner, why should I prostitute my press to personal hatred or party passion, for a more luxurious living?"

One cannot read this anecdote of our American sage without thinking of Socrates' reply to King Archilaus, who had pressed him to give up preaching in the dirty streets of Athens, and come and live with him in his splendid courts--"_Meal, please your majesty, is a half penny a peck at Athens, and water I can get for nothing._"

The letter ensuing was from Dr. Franklin to a friend of his, who having displeased some of his relatives by marrying very early, wrote to him for his opinion on that subject. Young bachelors would do well to read it once a month.

ON EARLY MARRIAGES.

DEAR JACK,

From the marriages that have fallen under my observation, I am rather inclined to think that _early_ ones stand the best chance for happiness. The temper and habits of the young are not yet become so stiff and uncomplying, as when more advanced in life; they form more easily to each other, and hence, many occasions of disgust are removed. And if youth has less of that prudence which is necessary to manage a family, the parents and elder friends of young married persons are generally at hand to afford their advice, which amply supplies that defect. By early marriage youth is sooner formed to regular and useful life; and possibly some of those accidents or connexions that might have injured the constitution, or reputation, or both, are thereby happily prevented. Particular circumstances of particular persons, may sometimes make it prudent to delay entering into that state; but in general, when nature has rendered our bodies fit for it, the presumption is in nature's favour, that she has not judged amiss in making us _desire_ it. Late marriages are often attended too, with this inconvenience, that there is not the same chance that the parents shall live to see their offspring educated. "_Late children_," says the Spanish proverb, "_are early orphans_." A melancholy reflection to those whose case it may be! With us in America, marriages are generally in the morning of life; our children are educated and settled in the world by noon; and thus, our business done, we have an evening of cheerful leisure to ourselves.

By these early marriages we are blessed with more children; and from the mode among us, founded in nature, of every mother suckling her own child, more of them are raised. Thence the swift progress of population among us, unparalleled in Europe. In fine, I am glad you are married, and congratulate you most cordially upon it. You are now in the way of becoming a useful citizen; and you have escaped the unnatural state of celibacy for life--the fate of many who never intended it, but who having too long postponed the change of their condition, find, at length, that it is too late to think of it, and so live all their lives in a situation that greatly lessens a man's value. An odd volume of a set of books bears not the value of its proportion to the set: what think you of the _half_ of a pair of scissors? it can't well cut anything; it may possibly serve to scrape a trencher.

Pray make my best wishes acceptable to your bride. I am old and heavy, or I should ere this have presented them in person. I shall make but small use of the old man's privilege, that of giving _advice to younger friends_. Treat your wife always with respect; it will procure respect to you, not only from her, but from all that observe it. Never use a slighting expression to her even in _jest_; for slights in _jest_, after frequent bandyings, are apt to end in angry _earnest_. Be studious in your profession, and you will be learned. Be industrious and frugal, and you will be rich. Be sober and temperate, and you will be healthy. Be virtuous, and you will be happy. At least, you will, by such conduct, stand the best chance for such consequences. I pray God to bless you both!

Your affectionate friend,

B. FRANKLIN.

As next to a GOOD WIFE, there is but "ONE THING" to be compared to a _handsome fortune_, we advise our young countrymen to read the following. It needs but be read to be valued, and it can hardly be read and valued enough by all who know the value of INDEPENDENCE.

ADVICE TO A YOUNG TRADESMAN.

Remember that time is money. He that can earn ten shillings a day, by his labour, and goes abroad, or sits idle one half of that day, though he spends but six-pence during his diversion or idleness, ought not to reckon _that_ the only expense; he has really spent, or rather thrown away five shillings besides.

Remember that _credit_ is money. If a man let his money lie in my hands, after it is due, he gives me the interest, or so much as I can make of it, during that time. This amounts to a considerable sum where a man has good and large credit, and makes good use of it.

Remember that money is of a very breeding prolific nature. Money begets money; and its offspring can beget more: and so on. Five shillings turned is six. Turned again it is seven and three-pence; and so on, till it becomes hundreds and thousands of pounds. The more there is of it, the more it produces, every turning; so that the profits rise quicker and quicker. He, who kills a breeding sow, destroys all her offspring, to the thousandth generation. He, who murders a crown, destroys all that it might have produced; even scores of pounds.

Remember that six pounds a year is but a groat a day. For this little sum, which may be daily wasted either in time or expense, unperceived, a man of credit may, on his own security, have the constant possession and use of an hundred pounds. So much in stock, briskly turned by an industrious man, produces great advantages.

Remember this saying, "the good paymaster is lord of another man's purse." He who is known to pay punctually and exactly to the time he promises, may, at any time, and on any occasion, raise all the money his friends can spare. This is sometimes of great use. After industry and frugality, nothing contributes more to the raising of a young man in the world, than punctuality and justice in all his dealings. Therefore never keep borrowed money an hour beyond the time you promised, lest a disappointment shut up your friend's purse for ever.

The most trifling actions, that affect a man's credit, are to be regarded. The sound of your hammer at five in the morning, or nine at night, heard by a creditor, makes him easy six months longer; but if he see you at a billiard table, or hears your voice at a tavern, when you should be at work, he sends for his money next day; and demands it before he can receive it in a lump.

It shows, besides, that you are mindful of what you owe. It makes you appear a careful as well as an honest man; and that still increases your credit.

Beware of thinking all your own, that you possess; and of living accordingly. It is a mistake that many people, who have credit, fall into.

To prevent this, keep an exact account, for some time, both of your expenses and your income. If you take the pains at first to mention particulars, it will have this good effect:--you will discover how wonderfully small, trifling expenses mount up to large sums; and will soon discern, what might have been, and may for the future be saved, without occasioning any great inconvenience.

Again: he, who sells upon credit, asks a price, for what he sells, equivalent to the principal and interest of his money, for the time he is to be kept out of it. Therefore, he who buys upon credit, pays interest for what he buys; and, he who pays ready money, might let that money out to use. So, that he who possesses any thing he has bought, pays interest for the use of it.

Yet, in buying goods, it is best to pay ready money; because, he who sells upon credit, expects to lose five per cent, by bad debts. Therefore, he charges, on all he sells upon credit, an advance that shall make up that deficiency.

Those who pay for what they buy upon credit, pay their share of this advance.

He who pays ready money, escapes, or may escape that charge.

A penny sav'd is two-pence clear, A pin a day's a groat a year.

In short, the way to wealth, if you desire it, is as plain as the way to market. It depends chiefly on two words: _Industry_ and _Frugality_. Waste neither _time_ nor _money_; but make the best use of both. Without industry and frugality, nothing will do; but with them every thing. He who gets all he can, honestly, and saves all he gets, necessary expenses excepted, will certainly become _rich_; if that Being who governs the world, to whom all should look for a blessing on their honest endeavours, doth not, in his wise providence, otherwise determine.

AN OLD TRADESMAN.

Every reader will be diverted with the following.

IDLE CURIOSITY CURED.

On his first trip, by land, to see his father in Boston, he was worried almost to death by the abominable inquisitiveness of the New England tavern-keepers.

Neither man nor beast could travel among them in comfort. No matter how wet or weary, how hungry or thirsty, the poor traveller might be, he was not to expect an atom of refreshment from these silly publicans until their most pestiferous curiosity was first gratified. And then Job himself could not stand such questions as they would goad him with; such as, _where he came from--and where he might be a-going--and what religion he might be of--and if he was a married man_--and so on. After having been prodigiously teazed in this way for several days, until at last the bare sight of a public house almost threw him into an ague, he determined to try the following remedy at the very next tavern. Soon as he alighted from his horse he desired the tavern keeper to collect his whole family, wife, children, and servants, every soul of them; for that he had something _vastly important_ to communicate. All being assembled and wondering what he had to say, he thus addressed them. "My name is Benjamin Franklin. I am a printer by trade. I live, when at home, in Philadelphia. In Boston I have a father, a good old man who taught me, when I was a little boy, to read my book and say my prayers. I have, ever since, thought it my duty to visit and pay my respects to such a father; and I am on that errand to Boston now. This is all that I can at present recollect of myself that I think worth telling you. But if you can think of any thing else that you wish to know about me, I beg you to out with it at once, that I may answer, and so give you opportunity to get me something to eat; for I long to be on my journey that I may return as soon as possible to my family and business, where I most of all delight to be."

Forty thousand sermons against IDLE CURIOSITY could hardly have driven it so effectually out of New England as did this little squib of ridicule.

The following jeu d'esprit is peculiarly in character with Dr. Franklin. It proves that his wit and his benevolence were equal to every emergence, and that if he carried the Old Testament language in his head, he carried the New Testament spirit in his heart.

WIT AND PERSECUTION.

The conversation turning, one day, on _persecution_, a doctor of divinity, distinguished for his wit, but, unfortunately, a little too much infected with that acrimony which is caught by reading books of religious controversy, took the part of persecution and contended that it was _sometimes_ right to employ it. Franklin said, he could not think of any case wherein _persecution_ was _admissible_ among rational creatures. It might be very excusable in _error_ to persecute, whose nature it was to see things wrong, and to get angry; but that for such a "_divinity as_ TRUTH," to persecute, was, in his opinion, a sin against the _Holy Ghost, never to be forgiven_. After using, in his facetious manner, a variety of arguments honourable to wit and philanthropy, and the clergyman still remaining unconvinced, Franklin called out to him with an air of great surprise, "Why, my dear sir, I am astonished that you plead thus for persecution when it is so diametrically opposite to your _Bible_."

The clergyman replied, that he did not know what doctor Franklin meant. He thought, he said, he knew something of his _Bible_, but he did not recollect any chapter in point.

"_No, sir!_" answered Franklin, still with the look and voice of surprise, "_not that memorable chapter concerning Abraham and the poor man! Pray, sir, favour us with your Bible a minute or two._"

"With all my heart," replied the clergyman, "I should like to see that _memorable chapter_."

The company manifested a solicitude for the issue of the pending controversy--the family Bible was brought and laid on the table by the side of doctor Franklin. "Well, reverend sir," said he, looking at the preacher, as he took up the Bible, "shall I read this chapter?"

"Certainly," replied the divine, settling himself in his chair to listen.--The eyes of all were fixed on Franklin; when, opening the Bible and turning back the leaves as to find the place, he thus audibly began:--

The twenty-seventh chapter of the first book of Moses, commonly called the book of Genesis.

1. And it came to pass, after these things, that Abraham sat in the door of his tent, about the going down of the sun.

2. And behold a man, bowed with age, coming from the way of the wilderness, leaning on a staff.

3. And Abraham arose, and met him, and said unto him, turn in, I pray thee, and wash thy feet, and tarry all night, and thou shalt arise early in the morning and go on thy way.

4. But the man said, nay, for I will abide under this tree.

5. And Abraham pressed him greatly; so he turned, and they went into the tent; and Abraham baked unleavened bread, and they did eat.

6. And when Abraham saw that the man blessed not God, he said unto him, wherefore dost thou not worship the most high God, Creator of heaven and earth.

7. And the man answered and said, I do not worship thy God, neither do I call upon his name; for I have made to myself a God, which abideth always in mine house, and provideth me all things.

8. And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man, and he arose and fell upon him, and drove him forth with blows into the wilderness.

9. And at midnight God called unto Abraham, saying, where is the stranger?

10. And Abraham answered, and said, Lord, he would not worship thee, neither would he call upon thy name, therefore have I driven him out from before my face into the wilderness.

11. And God said, have I borne with him these hundred and ninety and eight years, and nourished him and clothed him, notwithstanding his rebellion against me; and couldest not thou, that art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night?

12. And Abraham said, let not the anger of my Lord wax hot against his servant; lo, I have sinned: forgive me, I pray thee.

13. And he arose, and went forth into the wilderness, and sought diligently for the man and found him:

14. And returned with him to his tent; and when he had entreated him kindly, he sent him away in the morning with gifts.

15. And God spake again unto Abraham, saying, for this thy sin, shall thy seed be afflicted four hundred years in a strange land:

16. But for thy repentance, will I deliver them; and they shall come forth with power, and with gladness of heart, and with much substance.

That witty but splenetic old bachelor, Dean Swift, used to say, that "there was no dispute which a man of a tolerably good head and heart might not easily avoid falling into, or honourably get out of; and, therefore, as none but fools and rascals fought duels, the sooner such beasts cut each other's throats, the better for the community." This, no doubt, is very true, but still it is too much like striking with a war club, or _tomahawk_, to be allowed among christians. The following _impromptu_ on duelling, by Dr. Franklin, claims a far higher admiration. It is an arrow pointed with the diamond of wit, dipt in the oil of kindness, that wounds but to heal.

THE FOLLY OF DUELLING.

This most pusillanimous practice was one day made the theme of conversation in a large party in London, where Doctor Franklin dined. The philosophers and divines of the company joined unanimously to execrate it; and so many sensible and severe things were said against it, that everybody seemed willing to give it up to its father, the devil, except a young officer, whose ugly distortions showed plainly enough that he did not at all relish their strictures. Soon as they were done, he called aloud, "well, gentlemen, you may preach as much as you please against duelling, but I'll never pocket an insult for all that. No, if any man affront me, I'll call him to an account, if I lose my life for it."

The philosophers and divines looked at each other in silence, like fools who had shot their last bolt.

Here Franklin took up the cudgels; and looking at the young officer with a smile, said, "This, sir, puts me in mind of an affair that lately happened in a Philadelphia coffee-house."

The young fellow, rather pertly, said he should like to hear what had lately happened in a Philadelphia coffee-house.

"Why, sir," continued the doctor, "two gentlemen were sitting together in the coffee-house, when one said to the other, for heaven's sake, sir, sit further off, and don't poison me; you smell as bad as a pole-cat."

"Sir," resorted the other, "what do you mean? Draw, and defend yourself."

"O, sir," quoth the first, "I'll meet you in a moment, if you insist on it; but let's see first how that's to _mend the matter_. If you kill me, I shall smell as bad as a pole-cat too. And if I kill you, you will _only smell ten times worse_."

In short, that divine motto,

"Homo sum, nil humani a me alienum puto."

In English thus,

_A man I am, in man I take a part, And good of man is ever next my heart._

has seldom been more justly applied than to Dr. Franklin. He seems to have been all eye, all ear, all touch, to every thing that affected human happiness. Did he, even at the early age of twenty-five, form an acquaintance with young persons fond of reading, but unable to purchase books? Instantly he suggested the plan for obviating that great, great misfortune, by founding a PUBLIC LIBRARY; whereby, at a _small expense_ in hand, and a much smaller paid annually, a subscriber might have his choice of books, on all subjects, whether of pleasure or profit. This Library, which was commenced in 1731, by Franklin and only thirty-seven members, and no more than one hundred volumes, consisting of much little parcels of books as each subscriber possessed, is now, 1820, enlarged to six hundred members, and upwards of twenty thousand volumes.

The great advantages arising from this library became so sensibly felt that others were soon founded; and they have now kindled up their salutary lights not only in several parts of the city, but in almost every county in the state. From the choicest books on Religion, Morals, History, Voyages, Travels, &c. thus brought home to their fire-sides and constantly lying on their mantlepieces, the citizens derive advantages incalculable. Their idle hours, formerly so dangerous, were now innocently filled up; solitude was cheered with a succession of new ideas; company enlivened by witty conversation, and labour itself sweetened by the thought of a beloved book at night.

With their taste thus exalted to _better pleasures_, the youth of all classes were saved from the brutalizing sensualities that destroy character and health. Having their understandings enlightened, they were led to greater virtues and usefulness. And being thus taught to enjoy life, they felt the strongest inducements to preserve it. Hence the astonishing prosperity of Philadelphia in industry and morals, population and wealth.

The mother Library now displays its twenty thousand volumes, in an elegant building, on the corner of Fifth and Chestnut. In a niche on the wall above the door is a fine marble likeness of Dr. Franklin at full length, presented by William Bingham, Esq.

Again:--Did Franklin catch a glimpse of those poor pusillanimous creatures, who rather than live nobly independent in the pure aired country, by cultivating their own sweet vegetables, and raising fat poultry, will run into the sickly towns to sell whiskey and apples in the summer, and take their chance to starve and freeze in the winter? Did he, I say, catch a glimpse of these poor spiritless creatures with their children, shivering over small fires kindled by a little "_charity wood_?" Instantly his bowels of compassion were stirred within him. Although he was no friend to such _lazy self-made paupers_, nor to the miserable policy that winks at them, yet it was impossible for him to remain unconcerned at their sufferings. In a letter to one of his friends, he says, "since we can get no more wood for the poor, we must try from that wood to get more warmth for them." He set himself to examine the principles of the stoves generally in use. His genius, as usual, discovered such room for amendment, that he soon came out with a stove, which to this day, in honour of him, is called "THE FRANKLIN STOVE," and wherein one cord of charity oak would afford as much heat and comfort to those poor people, as two cords in the old way!

Did he hear the shrill midnight cry of FIRE! and mark the deep distress of the citizens, as with tearful eyes they beheld the flames swallowing up their pleasant habitations and furniture? Instantly he set himself to call up all the energies of the public against this dire calamity, and to point them to the only adequate remedy, MUTUAL INSURANCE COMPANIES.

"_Man_," said he, in his calls to the citizens through his popular newspaper, "_Man separate_ from man, is but a feeble creature; and like the filament of flax before the thread is formed, he is without strength, because without connexion. But UNION will make us strong, and _enable us to do all things essential to our safety. The houses burnt every year are, compared with all the houses in the city, but few. And were all the housekeepers in the city, joined for mutual security, to pay a certain sum; and were that sum put to interest, it would not only cover all the losses by fire, but would bring in every year, clear profit on his money to each subscriber._"

Numbers of the citizens came into his scheme; and a large "_Mutual Insurance Company_," was immediately formed. The great benefits, foretold to flow from it, being soon realized, several others were presently set on foot: and now (in 1820,) there are, in Philadelphia, no fewer than forty engines, with eight thousand feet of hose, (strong leather pipes,) to convey the water from the pumps or hydrants to the engines; whereby in less than _two minutes_ they are in full play, pouring their watery cataracts on the flames. Hence, while for lack of one Franklin, one intelligent and public spirited philanthropist, many of our promising young towns are suddenly turned to ashes, and their hapless families, driven out naked into the weather; the favoured citizens of Philadelphia, guarded by forty engines, and hundreds of well trained young firemen, seldom suffer any thing beyond a momentary pang from this most alarming element!