A LITERARY GAME.
At this point it is necessary to speak of Benjamin's associates. He was not long in finding new acquaintances in Philadelphia. His industry and general good habits won the respect and confidence of all who came in contact with him. Among those who particularly pleased him were three young men, Charles Osborne, Joseph Watson, and James Ralph, all lovers of reading. Their literary tendencies no doubt attracted Benjamin, and caused him to value their companionship more highly. The first two were clerks of Charles Brockden, an eminent conveyancer of the town, and the other was a merchant's clerk. Watson was a pious young man of sterling integrity, while the others were more lax in their religious opinions and principles. All were sensible young men, much above the average of this class in intellectual endowments. Osborne and Ralph were imaginative and poetical, and frequently tried their talents at verse-making.
Much of their leisure time was spent together, reading to each other, and discussing what they read. Even their Sundays were often wickedly devoted to such intellectual pastime on the banks of the Schuylkill, whither they strolled, instead of visiting the house of God—all except Watson, who had too much religious principle thus to desecrate the Sabbath.
"You overrate your talent for poetry," said Osborne to Ralph, at one of their interviews. "You will never make a poet, if you live to be as old as Methuselah."
"Much obliged for your compliment," answered Ralph; "but it does not alter my own opinion. All poets have their faults when they begin. It is practice that makes perfect."
"It will take something more than practice to make a poet of you," continued Osborne. "That piece which you have just read has no poetry about it. Besides, if you should become a poet, it will not bring you a fortune, as you seem to think."
"Perhaps not; but I am confident that a poet may easily win both popularity and a livelihood. At any rate, I am determined to try it, in spite of your decidedly poor opinion of my abilities."
"Well, I advise you to stick to the business to which you were bred," added Osborne, "if you would keep out of the poor-house. A good clerk is better than a bad poet"—and he cast a particularly roguish glance at Ralph as he said it.
"You need not set yourself up for a critic," said Benjamin to Osborne, after hearing these remarks. "I think more of Ralph as a poet than I do of you as a critic. You are not willing to grant that his productions have any merit at all; but I think they have. Moreover, it is a good practice for him to write poetry, to improve himself in the use of language."
"Fiddlestick!" retorted Osborne; "it is wasting his time, that might be profitably employed in reading."
"Not half so much as your empty criticisms are wasting your breath," said Benjamin, with a smile. "But, look here, I will tell you what we better do. At our next meeting each one of us shall bring a piece of poetry, of our own making, and we will compare notes, and criticise each other."
"I will agree to that," replied Ralph.
"And so will I," added Osborne, "provided you will decide upon the subject now, so that all shall have fair play."
"We will do that, of course," answered Benjamin. "Have you a subject to suggest?"
"None, unless it is a paraphrase of the eighteenth Psalm, which describes the descent of the Deity."
"A capital subject," said Benjamin; "what do you say to taking that, Ralph?"
"I am satisfied with it," replied Ralph; "and more, too,—I rather like it."
Thus it was agreed that each one should write a poetical paraphrase of the eighteenth Psalm for their next meeting, and with this understanding they separated.
Just before the time of their next meeting, Ralph called upon Benjamin with his piece, and asked him to examine it.
"I have been so busy," said Benjamin, "that I have not been able to write anything, and I shall be obliged to appear unprepared. But I should like to read yours;" and he proceeded to examine it.
"That is excellent," said he, after reading it. "You have not written anything that is equal to this."
"But," said Ralph, "Osborne never will allow the least merit in anything of mine, but makes a thousand criticisms, out of mere envy. He will do so with that piece, I have no doubt."
"If he does, it will prove that he is prejudiced against you, or is no judge of poetry," replied Benjamin.
"I have a plan to test him," continued Ralph. "He is not so jealous of you; I wish, therefore, you would take this piece and produce it as yours. I will make some excuse and have nothing. We shall then hear what he will say to it."
"I will do it," answered Benjamin, who was well convinced that Osborne was prejudiced against Ralph; "but I must transcribe it, so that it will appear in my own handwriting."
"Certainly; and be careful that you don't let the secret out."
They met at the appointed time. Watson was the first to read his performance. Osborne came next, and his piece was much better than Watson's. Ralph noticed two or three blemishes, but pointed out many beauties in it.
"I have nothing to read," said Ralph, whose turn came next in order. "I will try to do my part next time."
"Poets ought to be ready at any time," remarked Osborne jestingly. "Well, then, Ben, let us have yours."
"I rather think I must be excused," answered Benjamin, feigning an unwillingness to read.
"No excuse for you," said Osborne. "You have it written, for I saw it in your hand."
"That is true," replied Benjamin; "but after such fine productions as we have heard, there is little encouragement for me to read this. I think I must correct it and dress it up a little before I read it."
"Not a word of it," said Ralph. "There is no excuse for any one who is prepared."
So, after much urging, Benjamin proceeded to read the verses, with seeming diffidence, all listening with rapt attention.
"You must read that again," said Osborne, when the first reading was finished; which Benjamin consented to do.
"You surprise me, Ben," said Osborne, after the piece was read the second time. "You are a genuine poet. I had no idea that you could write like that."
"Nor I," added Watson. "It is better than half the poetry that is printed. If we had not given out the subject, I should have charged you with stealing it."
"What do you say, Ralph?" inquired Osborne. "You are a poet, and ought to be a judge of such matters."
"I don't think it is entirely faultless," responded Ralph. "You have commended it full as highly as it will bear, in my estimation."
"Well done!" exclaimed Osborne. "Your opinion of that piece proves that you are destitute of poetical taste, as I have told you before."
Ralph and Benjamin saw that Osborne was fairly caught, and they hardly dared to exchange glances, lest they should betray themselves. They succeeded, however, in controlling themselves, and allowed Osborne to express himself most emphatically.
Ralph walked home with Osborne, and their conversation was upon Benjamin's poetry.
"Who would have imagined," said Osborne, "that Franklin was capable of such a performance,—such painting, such force, such fire! In common conversation he seems to have no choice of words; he hesitates and blunders; and yet, how he writes!"
"Possibly he may not have written it," suggested Ralph.
"That is the 'unkindest cut of all,'" retorted Osborne, "to charge him of plagiarism. Franklin would not descend to so mean a thing."
They parted for that night; but Ralph embraced the first opportunity to call on Benjamin, and have a sort of rejoicing over the success of their enterprise. They laughed to their hearts' content, and discussed the point of revealing the secret. They agreed that the real author of the article should be known at their next meeting.
Accordingly, the affair was so managed as to bring the facts of the case before their companions at their next gathering. Osborne was utterly confounded when the revelation was made, and knew not what to say for himself. Watson shook his whole frame with convulsive laughter at poor Osborne's expense, and Benjamin joined him with a keen relish. Never was a fellow in more mortifying predicament than this would-be critic, since it was now so manifest that he had been influenced by blind prejudice in his criticisms upon Ralph's poetry. It was certain now that he had given it his most emphatic indorsement. While Osborne was brought to confusion and suffered deservedly, the trick played upon him is not one which can be approved by right-thinking persons. Deceit is never commendable.
A few years after, Watson died in Benjamin's arms, much lamented by all his companions, who regarded him as "the best of their set." Osborne removed to the West Indies, where he became an eminent lawyer, but was early cut off by death. Of the others we shall have occasion to speak hereafter.
It is quite evident that this literary way of spending their leisure time was of great advantage to this group of youths. Doubtless it led to the cultivation of that taste which most of them who lived exhibited for literature and science in after life. It is certainly an example of the wise use of spare moments which the young may safely imitate.