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One of his very last acts, on his death-bed, was to recite to his faithful attendant, Mrs. Hewson, the daughter of his London landlady, the simple and elevated verses of good Doctor Watts.*

The compliments to Franklin, the sage, philosopher, politician, would fill a volume. Perhaps the Latin epigraph, written by the philosopher Turgot, has been the most productive ever paid:

Eripuit cœlo fulmen sceptrumque tyrannis† His portrait is frequently graced with similar inscriptions, of which the best is that from Horace, placed by Bishop Shipley in the edition of the Miscellanies of 1779, Non sordidus auctor Natura Verique.‡

He was equally admired by peasants and kings; Louis XV., “the grand monarch," commanded a return of his thanks to Mr. Franklin "for his useful discoveries in electricity;" the court of Louis XVI., its philosophers, wits, and ladies of fashion, hailed him with enthusiasm; Chatham was his eulogist in England, and Washington in America; he had the best inen in both hemispheres for his friends and correspondents; towns and counties, and even a state, have been named after him; his portrait and bust are familiar as those of Washington; "Every penny stamp," says Robert C. Winthrop, happily, in his address, Archimedes and Franklin, "is a monument to Franklin, earned, if not established by himself, as the fruit of his early labors and his signal success in the organization of our infant post-office." His writings are read with equal zest, though with different emotions, in childhood and age-as the old man goes out of the world

says, that they were encouraged by the statements of the defenders of Christianity, the Boyle lecturers; but in such cases, it is less the argument than the predisposition which fails to convince.

Epes Sargent's Memoir of Franklin, 110; prefixed to a well chosen selection of the writings, agreeably presented.

This inscription by Turgot, which has been ascribed to Condorcet and Mirabeau, first appears in the correspondence of Grimm and Diderot, April, 1778, and has been traced to a line of the Anti-Lucretius of Cardinal de Polignac, lib. 1, verse 87, which reads:

Eripuitque Jovi fulmen, Phœboque sagittas: And thence to Manilius, lib. 1., verse 104, where he says of Epicurus,

Eripuitque Jovi fulmen, viresque Tonanti. Notes and Queries, vi. 88. Taking the laurel from the brow of Epicurus to place it upon the head of Franklin is not so inappropriate when we recall the sketch of the former by Lucretius illustrans commoda vila,

Ode L. 28.

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1758

Franklin's Letter to Jared Ellot, Philadelphia, April 12th,
Sparka, vi. 162.

To the town of Franklin, Massachusetts, named after him, he orders from Paris a gift of books, in preference to the bell which they had solicited, "sense being preferable to sound."Letter to Richard Price, Passy, March 18, 1785. Sparks, x. 158. The Rev. Nath. Emmons, clergyman of the town, preached a sermon, "The Dignity of Man," on the receipt of the gift. The proposed new State of Franklin, afterwards called Tennessee, was named after our philosopher.

repeating to the grandchild at the fireside the apologue of quaint familiar wisdom which he had learnt in his primer.

The genius of Franklin is omnipresent at Philadelphia. It points to his Library, his Philosophical Society, his University, his Hospital, the Institute. At Boston, his benevolence still lives in the provisions of his will, his silver medal for the encouragement of scholarship in the free grammar schools, in gratitude for his own "first instructions in literature," and in a fund to be loaned to young mechanics. At one time it was thought the influence of Poor Richard had produced a too general thrift and parsimony: but these were not the vices of Franklin's instructions, but the virtues of a young state building up its fortunes by economy and endurance. Now these maxims are simply the correctives of rapidly increasing prodigality; the mottoes and incentives to honorable toil and frugality throughout the land. For Franklin having been born in one part of the country, and found that development in another which would probably have been denied him in his birth-place, and having been employed abroad in the service of several states, and afterwards in behalf of them all, is properly the son of the Union and the nation, and his life, as his fame, belongs to his country.

Of

For extracts from Franklin's writings, passing over the scientific portions, as hardly admitting of separation from the context, and leaving his political papers for the historian, we may properly give several of those essays which have chiefly promoted his popular literary reputation. these the Parable on Persecution has always been considered one of his most characteristic efforts. It was his habit to call for a Bible and read it as a passage of the Old Testament, till it became public property by its appearance in Lord Kames's Sketches of the History of Man, in 1774, where it appears as "communicated by Benjamin Franklin." Vaughan then placed it in his edition of Franklin. The apologue was soon discovered in Jeremy Taylor's Liberty of Prophesying, who quotes it from "the Jews' books." It then turned up in the dedication of a book published at Amsterdam, in 1680, a translation from the Hebrew into Latin, by George Gentius, of a work on the Jewish Calamities. Gentius carries it back to Sadus, who, it appears, is Saadi, the Persian poet, who, as Lord Teignmouth related to Bishop Heber, has the story in the second book of his Bostan; and carrying the antiquity still further, Saadi says the story was told to him.*

A PARABLE AGAINST PERSECUTION,

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, came from the way of the wilderness, leaning on a staff.

8. 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 on the morrow, and go on thy way."

•Letter from Franklin to Vaughan, Nov. 2, 1789. Appendix to Priestley's Memoirs, where the Latin of Gentius is given, 876. Heber's Life of Jeremy Taylor, notes, Sparks's Franklin, น. 118-21.

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 the God thou speakest of, neither do I call upon his name; for I have made to myself a god, which abideth alway in mine house, and provideth me with all things."

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

9. And at midnight God called unto Abraham, saying, "Abraham, 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 ninety and eight years, and nourished him, and clothed him, notwithstanding his rebellion against me; and couldst not thou, that art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night?"

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

13. And Abraham arose, and went forth into the wilderness, and sought diligently for the man, and found him, and returned with him to the tent; and when he had entreated him kindly, he sent him away on the morrow with gifts.

14. And God spake again unto Abraham, saying, "For this thy sin shall thy seed be afflicted four hundred years in a strange land;

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

ТПЕ ЕРПЕМЕВА;

AN EMBLEM OF HUMAN LIFE

To Madame Brillon, of Passy.
Written in 1778.

You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly, called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I understand all the inferior animal tongues. My too great application to the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress I have made in your charming language. I listened through curiosity to the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign musicians, one a cousin, the other a moscheto; in which dispute they spent their time, seemingly as regardless of the shortness of life as if they had been sure of living a month. Happy people! thought I; you are certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no public

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grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention but the perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from them to an old greyheaded one, who was single on another leaf, and talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it dow in writing, in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company and heavenly harmony.

"It was," said he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours; and I think there was some foundation for that opinion, since, by the apparent motion of the great luminary that gives life to all nature, and which in my time has evidently declined considerably towards the ocean at the end of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished in the waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness, necessarily producing universal death and destruction. I have lived seven of those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long! I have seen generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the children and grandchildren of the friends of my youth, who are now, alas, no more! And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or eight minutes longer. What now avails all my toil and labor, in amassing honey-dew on this leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of our race in general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals? Our present race of ephemera will in a course of minutes become corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as wretched. And in philosophy how small our progress! Alas! art is long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me I have lived long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera who no longer exists? And what will become of all history in the eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly, shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin?"

To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, but the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible conversation of a few good lady ephemere, and now and then a kind smile and a tune from the ever amiable Brillante.

THE WHISTLE. To Madame Brillon.

PASSY, 10 November, 1779.

I RECEIVED my dear friend's two letters, one for Wednesday and one for Saturday. This is again Wednesday. I do not deserve one for to-day, because I have not answered the former. But, indolent as I am, and averse to writing, the fear of having no more of your pleasing epistles, if I do not contribute to the correspondence, obliges me to take up my pen; and as Mr. B. has kindly sent me word, that he sets out to-morrow to see you, instead of spending this Wednesday evening as I have done its namesakes, in your delightful company, I sit down to spend it in thinking of you, in writing to you, and in reading over and over again your letters

I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the mean time, we

should draw all the good we can from this world. | In my opinion, we might all draw more good from it than we do, and suffer less evil, if we would take care not to give too much for whistles. For to me it seems, that most of the unhappy people we meet with, are become so by neglect of that caution.

You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of myself.

I

When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppera 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 and gave all my money for one. 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; put ine in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and 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 continuing 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 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 one too ambitious of court favor, 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, said I, too much for his whistle.

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure 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, said I, you pay too much for your whistle.

When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, Mistaken man, said I, you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle.

If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, Alas! say 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, say I, that she should pay so much for her whistle!

In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider, that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.

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FRANKLIN. Who is it that accuses me?
GOUT. It is I, even I, the Gout.
FRANKLIN. What! my enemy in person!
GOUT. No, not your enemy.

FRANKLIN. repeat it; my enemy; for you would not only torment my body to death, but ruin my good name; you reproach me as a glutton and a tippler; now all the world, that knows me, will allow that I am neither the one nor the other.

GOUT. The world may think as it pleases; it is always very complaisant to itself, and sometimes to its friends; but very well know that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man, who takes a reasonable degree of exercise, would be too much for another, who never takes any.

FRANKLIN. I take-Eh! Oh!-as much exerciseEh!-as I can, Madam Gout. You know my sedentary state, and on that account, it would seem, Madam Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my own fault.

Gour. Not a jot; your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away; your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be active. You ought to walk or ride; or, if the weather prevents that, play at billiards. But let us examine your course of life. While the mornings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Why, instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast, by salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the reading. Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast, four dishes of tea, with cream, and one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef, which I fancy are not things the most easily digested. Immediately afterward you sit down to write at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business. Thus the time passes till one, without any kind of bodily exercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition. But what is your practice after dinner? Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends, with whom you have dined, would be the choice of men of sense; yours is to be fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours! This is your perpetual recreation, which is the least eligible of any for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating the motion of the fluids, the rigid attention it requires helps to retard the circulation and obstruct internal secretions, Wrapt in the speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your constitution. What can be expected from such a course of living, but a body replete with stagnant humors, ready to full a prey to all kinds of dangerous maludies, if I, the Gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by agitating these humors, and so purifying or dissipating them! If it was in some nook or alley in Paris, deprived of walks, that you played awhile at chess after dinner, this might be excusable; but the same taste prevaile with you in Passy, Auteuil, Menmartre, or Sanoy, places where there are the finest gardens and walks, ▲ pure air, beautiful women, and most agreeable and

instructive conversation; all which you might enjoy by frequenting the walks. But these are rejected for this abominable game of chess. Fie, then, Mr. Franklin! But amidst my instructions, I had almost forgot to administer my wholesome corrections; so take that twinge,and that.

FRANKLIN. Oh! Eh! Oh! Ohhh! As much instruction as you please, Madam Gout, and as many reproaches; but pray, Madam, a truce with your corrections!

GOUT. No, Sir, no,-I will not abate a particle of what is so much for your good,-therefore

FRANKLIN. Oh! Ehhh!-It is not fair to say I take no exercise, when I do very often, going out to dine and returning in my carriage

Gour. That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most slight and insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a carriage suspended on springs. By observing the degree of heat obtained by different kinds of notion, we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given by each. Thus, for example, if you turn out to walk in winter with cold feet, in an hour's time you will be in a glow all over; ride on horseback, the same effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours' round trotting; but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have mentioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to warin your feet by a fire. Flatter yourself then no longer, that half an hour's airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Providence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more cominodious and serviceable. Be grateful then, and make a proper use of yours. Would you know how they forward the circulation of your fluids, in the very action of transporting you from place to place; observe when you walk, that all your weight is alternately thrown from one leg to the other; this Occasions a great pressure on the vessels of the foot, and repels their contents; when relieved, by the weight being thrown on the other foot, the vessels of the first are allowed to replenish, and, by a return of this weight, this repulsion again succeeds; thus accelerating the circulation of the blood. The heat produced in any given tine, depends on the degree of this acceleration; the fluids are shaken, the humors attenuated, the secretions facilitated, and all goes well; the cheeks are ruddy, and health is established. Behold your fair friend at Auteuil; a lady who received from bounteous nature more really useful science, than half a dozen such pretenders to philosophy as you have been able to extract from all your books. When she honors you with a visit, it is on foot. She walks all hours of the day, and leaves indolence, and its concomitant maladies, to be endured by her horses. In this sce at once the preservative of her health and personal charms. But when you go to Auteuil, you must have your carriage, though it is no further from Passy to Auteuil than from Auteuil to Passy.

FRANKLIN. Your reasonings grow very tiresome. GOUT. I stand corrected. I will be silent and continue my office; tuke that, and that.

FRANKLIN. Oh! Ohh! Talk on, I pray you! GOUT. No, no; I have a good number of twinges for you to-night, and you may be sure of some more

to-morrow.

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list of offences against your own health distinctly written, and can justify every stroke inflicted oa you.

FRANKLIN. Read it, then.

GOUT. It is too long a detail; but I will briefly mention some particulars.

FRANKLIN. Proceed. I am all attention.

GOUT. Do you remember how often you have promised yourself, the following morning, a walk in the grove of Boulogne, in the garden de la Muette, or in your own garden, and have violated your promise, alleging, at one time, it was too cold, at another too warm, too windy, too moist, or what else you pleased; when in truth it was too nothing, but your insuperable love of ease!

FRANKLIN. That I confess may have happened occasionally, probably ten times in a year.

GOUT. Your confession is very far short of the truth; the gross amount is one hundred and ninetynine times.

FRANKLIN. Is it possible?

GOUT. So possible, that it is fact; you may rely on the accuracy of my statement. You know Mr. Brillon's gardens, and what fine walks they contain; you know the handsome flight of an hundred steps, which lead from the terrace above to the lawn below. You have been in the practice of visiting this amiable family twice a week, after dinner, and it is a maxim of your own, that "a man may take as much exercise in walking a mile, up and down stairs, as in ten on level ground." What an oppor tunity was here for you to have had exercise in both these ways! Did you embrace it, and how

often?

FRANKLIN. I cannot iminediately answer that question.

GOUT. I will do it for you; not once.
FRANKLIN. Not once!

GOUT. Even so. During the summer you went there at six o'clock. You found the charming lady, with her lovely children and friends, eager to walk with you, and entertain you with their agreeable conversation; and what has been your choice! Why, to sit on the terrace, satisfying yourself with the fine prospect, and passing your eye over the beauties of the garden below, without taking one step to descend and walk about in them. On the contrary, you call for tea and the chess-board; and lo! you are occupied in your seat till nine o'clock, and that besides two hours' play after dinner; and then, instead of walking hoine, which would have bestirred you a little, you step into your carriage How absurd to suppose that all this carelessness can be reconcilable with health, without my inter position!

FRANKLIN. I am convinced now of the justness of poor Richard's remark, that "Our debts and our sius are always greater than we think for."

Gour. So it is. You philosophers are sages in your maxims, and fools in your conduct.

FRANKLIN. But do you charge among my crimes, that I return in a carriage from Mr. Brillou's?

GOUT. Certainly; for, having been seated all the while, you cannot object the fatigue of the day, and cannot want therefore the relief of a carriage.

FRANKLIN. What then would you have me do with my corringel

Gour. Burn it if you choose; you would at least get heat out of it once in this way; or, if you dislike that proposal, here's another for you; observe the poor peasants, who work in the vineyards and grounds about the villages of Passy, Auteuil, Chail lot, &c.; you may find every day, among these deserving creatures, four or five old inen and women, bent and perhaps crippled by weight of years, and

too long and too great labor. After a most fatiguing day, these people have to trudge a mile or two to their smoky huts. Order your coachman to set them down. This is an act that will be good for your soul; and, at the same time, after your visit to the Brillons, if you return on foot, that will be good for your body.

FRANKLIN. Ah! how tiresome you are!

GOUT. Well, then, to my office; it should not be forgotten that I am your physician. There,

FRANKLIN. Ohhh! what a devil of a physician! Gour. How ungrateful you are to say so! Is it not I who, in the character of your physician, have saved you from the palsy, dropsy, and apoplexy! one or other of which would have done for you long ago, but for me.

FRANKLIN. I submit, and thank you for the past, but entreat the discontinuance of your visits for the future; for, in my mind, one had better die than be cured so dolefully. Permit me just to hint, that I have also not been unfriendly to you. I never feed physician or quack of any kind, to enter the list against you; if then you do not leave me to my repose, it may be said you are ungrateful too.

GOUT. I can scarcely acknowledge that as any objection. As to quacks, I despise them; they may kill you indeed, but cannot injure me. And, as to regular physicians, they are at last convinced, that the gout, in such a subject as you are, is no disease, but a remedy; and wherefore cure a remedy!-but to our business,-there.

FRANKLIN. Oh! Oh!-for Heaven's sake leave me; and I promise faithfully never more to play at chess, but to take exercise daily, and live temper ately.

GOUT. I know you too well. You promise fair; but, after a few months of good health, you will return to your old habits; your fine promises will be forgotten like the forms of the last year's clouds. Let us then finish the account, and I will go. But I leave you with an assurance of visiting you again at a proper time and place; for my object is your good, and you are sensible now that I am your real friend

Franklin would hardly have made his title good in the old literature of New England, if he had not written verses of some kind. The lines entitled "Paper" have been so often printed as his, and are so appropriate to his tastes, that we may give them a place here, though evidence is wanting that he wrote them. In the Massachusetts Magazine for August, 1794, it is given as "written by the late Dr. Franklin," but in the American Museum of 1788, it is only "ascribed" to his pen. Mr. Sparks doubts the authorship, but prints the lines.*

PAPER; A POEM.

Some wit of old,-such wits of old there were,—
Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care,
By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Called clear blank paper every infant mind;
Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
1, (can you pardon my presumption !) I-
No wit, no genius,-yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce,
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use,

•Works, 11. 161,

Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each sort of
represents some man.
paper
Pray note the fop,-half powder and half lace,—
Nice as a band-box were his dwelling-place;
He's the gilt paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper of inferior worth:
Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch, whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,

Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper; such as pedlers choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark naught;

He foams with censure; with applause he raves,-
A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel, if you step awṛy,
Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure,—
What's hel

What! Touch-paper to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the same class you'll find;
They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet;
She's fair white-paper, an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I'll bring;
Tis the great man who scorns a little thing,
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are
his own,

Formed on the feelings of his heart alone;
True genuine royal paper is his breast;
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

Of the song of Country Joan, we have the history in Prof. McVickar's Life of Bard.* At a supper of a convivial club, to which Franklin belonged, and of which Dr. Bard, the physician of Washington, was then a member, objection was made, in jest, to married men being allowed to sing the praises of poets' mistresses. next morning, at breakfast, Bard received the following song from Franklin, with a request that he would be ready with it by the next meeting.

MY PLAIN COUNTRY JOAX.

Of their Chloes and Phyllises poets may prate, I sing my plain country Joan,

The

These twelve years my wife, still the joy of my life,

Blest day that I made her my own!.

Not a word of her face, of her shape, or her air,
Or of flames, or of darts, you shall hear;

I beauty admire, but virtue I prize,
That fades not in seventy year.

• Domestic Narrative of the Life of Samuel Bard, p. 18.

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