have perished in duels between individuals from the pride and revenge nursed by reading Homer."

"Well, sir," replied the governor, "I never heard the prince of bards treated in this way before. You must certainly be singular in your charges against Homer."

"I ask your pardon, sir, I have the honour to think of Homer exactly as did the greatest philosopher of antiquity; I mean Plato, who strictly forbids the reading of Homer in his republic. And yet Plato was a heathen. I don't boast myself as a christian; and yet I am shocked at the inconsistency of our Latin and Greek teachers (generally christians and DIVINES too) who can one day pat Homer into the hands of their pupils, and in the midst of their recitations can stop them short to point out the divine beauties and sublimities which the poet gives to his hero, in the bloody work of slaughtering the. poor Trojans; and the next day take them to church to hear a discourse from Christ on the blessedness of meekness and forgiveness. No wonder that hot-livered young men thus educated, should despise meekness and forgiveness as mere cowards' virtues, and deem nothing so glorious as fighting duels and blowing out brains."

Here the governor came to a pause, like a gamester at his last trump. But perceiving Ben cast his eye on a splendid copy of Pope's works, he suddenly seized that as a fine opportunity to turn the conversation. So stepping up, he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in a very familiar manner said, "Well, Mr. Franklin, there's an author that I am sure you'll not quarrel with; an author that I think you'll pronounce 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

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:—

"Immodest words admit but this defence-
That want of decency is want of sense."

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 the 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 look higher for their sons than to see them delving like muck-worms for money; or hopping about like jay-birds, in fine feathers. Hence their conversation is generally no better than froth and nonsense."

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 forever consider him as one of his fastest friends, and also never come to New-York without * coming to see him.

CHAPTER XX.

ON returning to the tavern, he hastened into his chamber, where he found his drunken comrade, poor Collins, in a fine perspiration and considerably sobered, owing to the refrigerating effects of a pint of strong sage tea, with a tea-spoonful of salt petre, which Ben, before he set out to the governor's, had pressed on him as a remedy he had somewhere read, much in vogue among the London topers, to cool off after a rum fever. Collins appeared still to have enough of brandy in him for

a frolic; but when Ben came to tell him of the amiable governor Burnet, in whose company, at his own palace, he had spent a most delightful evening; and also to remind him of the golden opportunity he had lost, of forming an acquaintance with that noble gentleman, poor Collins wept bitterly.

Ben was exceedingly affected to see him in tears, and endeavoured to comfort him. But he refused comfort. He said, "if this had been the first time, he should not himself think much of it; but he candidly confessed, that for a long time he had been guiity of it, though till of late he had always kept it to himself, drinking in his chamber. But now he felt at times," he said, "an awful apprehension that he was a lost man. His cravings for liquor were so strong on the one hand, and on the other his powers of resistance so feeble, that it put him fearfully in mind of the dismal state of a poor wretch, within the fatal attraction of a whirlpool, whose resistless suction, in spite of all his feeble efforts, was hurrying him down to sure and speedy destruction."

Collins, who was exceedingly eloquent on every subject, but especially on one so nearly affecting himself, went on deploring his misfortune in strains so tender and pathetic, that Ben, whose eyes were fountains ever ready to flow at the voice of sorrow, could not refrain from weeping, which he did most unfeignedly for a long esteemed friend now going to ruin. He could bear, he said, to see the brightest plumed bird, charmed by the rattle-snake, descending into the horrid sepulchre of the monster's jaws. He could bear to see the richest laden Indiaman,dismasted and rudderless, drifting ashore on the merciless breakers; because made of dust, these things must at any rate return to dust again. But to see an immortal mind stopped in her first soarings, entangled and limed in the filth of so brutal a vice as drunkenness 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 ever will as long as human nature endures.

66

Wit," says he, "in young men, is dangerous, because apt to breed vanity, which, when disapointed, 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 tavern-keeper, and Ben with his usual alacrity had paraded his dollars for payment, poor Collins hung back pale and dumb-founded 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 be 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 conditon, 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 nu. 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, be 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 ne bit his lip, could have put it into my head to tell Collins that I had Vernon's money! Did'nt I know that a drunkard has no more reason in him than a hog; and can no better 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,