ms and

hardly ion."

Iomer's

st immia blaze

ject, is, rely 'tis

́, that it head of him of ive been wn; but luels beby read

eard the

must cer

think of ntiquity; Homer in n't boast ne inconlly chris- into the citations and subdy work lay take he blesshot-liver ness and

thing so

ter at his sprendid a fine opplaced

you'll not quarrel with; an author that I think you'll pro nounce faultless."

"Why, sir," replied Ben, "I entertain a most exalted opinion of Pope; but still, sir, I think he is not without his faults."

"It would puzzle you, I suspect, Mr. Franklin, as keen a critic as you are, to point out one.

"Well, sir," answered Ben, hastily turning to the place, "what do you think of this famous couplet of Mr. Pope's

"Immodest words admit of no defence,

For want of decency is want of sense."

"I see no fault there.”

"No, indeed!" replied Ben, "why now to my mind a man can ask no better excuse for any thing wrong he does, than his want of sense."

"Well, sir," said the governor, sensibly staggered, "and how would you alter it?"

"Why, sir, if I might presume to alter a line in this great Poet, I would do it in this way:

Here the governor caught Ben in his arms as a delighted father would his son, calling out at the same time to the captain, "How greatly am I obliged to you, sir, for bringing me to an acquaintance with this charming boy? O! what a delightful thing it would be for us old fellows to converse with sprightful youth if they were but all like him!-But the d-l of it is, most parents are as blind as bats to the true glory and happiness of their children. Most parents never Took higher for their sons than to see them delving like muckworms for money; or hopping about like jay-birds, in fine feathers. Hence their conversation is generally no better than froth and nonsense. 99

After several other handsome compliments on Ben, and the captain expressing a wish to be going, the governor shook hands with Ben, begging at the same time that he would for ever consider him as one of his fastest friends, and also never come to New-York without coming to see him.

H 2

Ox returning to the tavern, he hastened where he found his drunken comrade, poo perspiration, and considerably sobered, ow rating effects of a pint of strong sage tea, ful of saltpetre, which Ben, before he s vernor's, had pressed on him as a remedy read, much in vogue among the London after a rum fever. Collins appeared sti of brandy in hin for a frolic; but when Be of the amiable governor Burnet, in whos own palace, he had spent a most deligh also to remind him of the golden opport of forming an acquaintance with that nobl Collins wept bitterly.

Ben was exceedingly affected to see hi deavoured to comfort him. But he refu said, "if this had been the first time, he think much of it; but he candidly confess time he had been guilty of it, though till of kept it to himself, drinking in his chambe at times," he said, "an awful apprehensio man. His cravings for liquor were so hand, and on the other his powers of re that it put him fearfully in mind of the dis wretch, within the fatal attraction of a w sistless suction, in spite of all his feeble e him down to sure and speedy destruction

Collins, who was exceedingly eloquen but especially on one so nearly affecting deploring his misfortune in strains so te that Ben, whose eyes were fountains ev the voice of sorrow, could not refrain fro he did most unfeignedly for a long esteem to ruin. He could bear, he said, to see th bird, charmed by the rattle-snake, desce rid sepulchre of the monster's jaws.

H

that was a sight he could not bear. And as a mother looking on her child that is filleted for the accursed Moloch, cannot otherwise than shed tears, so Ben, when he looked on poor Collins, could not but weep when he saw him the victim of destruction.

However, as a good wit turns every thing to advantage, this sudden and distressing fall of poor Collins, set Ben to thinking: and the result of his thoughts noted down in his journal of that day, deserves the attention of all young men of this day; and even will as long as human nature endures.

66

Wit," says he, " in young men, is dangerous, because apt to breed vanity, which, when disappointed, brings them down, and by depriving them of natural cheerfulness, drives them to the bottle for that which is artificial. And learning also is dangerous, when it is aimed at as an end and not a mean. A young man who aspires to be learned merely for fame, is in danger; for, familiarity breeding contempt, creates an uneasy void that drives him to the bottle. Hence so many learned men with red noses. But when a man from a benevolent heart, seeks learning for the sublime pleasure of imitating the Deity in doing good, he is always made so happy in the spirit and pursuit of this godlike object, that he needs not the stimulus of brandy."

This one hint, if duly reflected on by young men, would render the name of Franklin dear to them for ever.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE next day, when they came to settle with the tavernkeeper, and Ben with his usual alacrity had paraded his dollars for payment, poor Collins hung back, pale and dumbfounded, as a truant school-boy at the call to recitation. The truth is, the fumes of his brandy having driven all the wit out of his noddle, had puffed it up with such infinite vanity, that he must needs turn in, red faced and silly as he was, to gamble with the cool-headed water-drinking sharpers of New-York. The reader hardly need be informed, that poor Collins' pistareens, which he had scraped together for this expedition, were to these light-fingered gentlemen as a fry of young herrings to the hungry dog-fish.

Ben was now placed in a most awkward predicament To pay off Collins' scores at New-York, and also his expenses on the road to Philadelphia, would drain him to the last farthing. But how could he leave in distress a young friend with whom he had passed so many happy days and nights in the elegant pleasure of literature, and for whom he had contracted such an attachment! Ben could not bear the idea, especially as his young friend, if left in this sad condition, might be driven to despair; so drawing his purse he paid off Collins' bill, which, from the quantity of liquor he had drank, was swelled to a serious amount; and taking him by the arm, set out with a heart much heavier than his purse, which indeed was now so empty that had it not been replenished at Bristol by the thirty pounds for which, as we have seen, Vernon gave him an order on a gentleman living there, who readily paid it, would never have carried him and his drunken companion to Philadelphia. On their arrival Collins endeavoured to procure employment as a merchant's clerk, and paraded with great confidence his letters of recommendation. But his breath betrayed him. And the merchants would have nothing to say to him notwithstanding all his letters; he continued, therefore, to lodge and board with Ben at his expense. Nor was this all; for knowing that Ben had Vernon's money, he was continually craving loans of it, promising to pay as soon as he should get into business. By thus imposing on Ben's friendship, getting a little of him at one time, and a little at another, he had at last got so much of it, that when Ben, who had gone on lending without taking note, came to count Vernon's money, he could hardly find a dollar to count!

It is not easy to describe the agitation of Ben's mind on making this discovery; nor the alternate chill and fever, that discoloured his cheeks, as he reflected on his own egregious folly in this affair. "What demon," said he to himself, as he bit his lip, "could have put it into my head to tell Collins that I had Vernon's money! Didn't I know that a drunkard has no more reason in him than a hog; and can no botter be satisfied, unless like him he is eternally pulling at his filthy swill? And have I indeed been all this time throwing away Vernon's money for brandy to addle the brain of this poor self-made brute? Well then, I am served exactly as I deserve, for thus making myself a pander to his vices. But now that the money is all gone, and I without a shilling to replace it, what's to be done? Vernon will, no

doubt, soon learn that I have collected his money; and will of course be daily expecting to hear from me. But what can I write? To tell him that I have collected his money, but lent it to a poor, pennyless sot, will sound like a pretty story. to a man of business! And if I don't write to him, what will he think of me, and what will become of that high opinion he had formed of me, on which it appeared he would have trusted me with thousands? So you see, I have got myself into a pretty hobble. And worse than all yet, how shall I ever again lift up my booby face to my affectionate brother John, after having thus basely stabbed him, through his friend, as also through the honour of our family! O my dear, dear old father; now I see your wisdom and my own folly! A thousand times did you tell me I was too young; too inexperienced yet, to undertake by myself. But no. It would not all do. For the life of you, you could not lead or drive such divine counsel into this conceited noddle of mine. I despised it as the weakness of old age, and much too slow for me. I wanted to save time, and get three or four years ahead of other young men; and that tempted me to disobe dience. Well, I am justly punished for it! My bubble is broke. And now I see I shall be thrown back as long as if I had continued the apprentice of my brother James!!"

O young men! young men! you that with segars in your mouths, and faces flushed with libations of whiskey, can fancy yourselves clever fellows, and boast the long list of your dear friends, O think of the curses that Ben bestowed on his dear friend Collins, for bringing him in such a scrape; and learn that an e, drinking rascal has no friends. If you think otherwise, it is only a proof that you don't even yet un derstand the meaning of the word. FRIENDS indeed! you talk of friends! What, you, who instead of nobly pressing on for VIRTUE and KNOWLEDGE and WEALTH, to make your. selves an honour and blessing to your connexions, are constantly, by your drunken and gambling courses, making yourselves a disgrace and curse to them. And when, like that fool in the parable, your all is gone, then, instead of modestly going with him into the fields, to feed the swine, you have the impudence to quarter your rags and red noses on your dear friends, spunging and borrowing of them as long as they'll lend. And if at last, they should get wise enough to refuse such unconscionable leechers, as would suck every drop of their blood, instantly you can turn tail and abuse your dear