Part 19 (2/2)
In the morning he went to his work.
Some friends of James came into the office.
”I have found something here this morning,” said James, ”that I think is good. It was tucked under the door. It seems to me uncommonly good. You must read it.”
He handed it to one of his friends.
”That is the best article I have read for a long time,” said one of the callers. ”There is force in it. It goes like a song that whistles. It carries you. I advise you to use it. Everybody would read that and like it. I wonder who wrote it? You should find out. A person who can write like that should never be idle. He was born to write.”
James handed it to another caller.
”There are brains in that ink. The piece flows out of life. Who do you think wrote it?”
”I have no idea,” said James.--”Here, Ben, set it up. Here's nuts for you. If I knew who wrote it I would ask the writer to send in other articles.”
Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography and Charles d.i.c.kens's novels have had a sale equaled by a few books in the world. The two authors began their literary life in a like manner, by tucking their ma.n.u.scripts under the editor's door at night and running away. They both came to wonder at themselves at finding themselves suddenly people of interest. Still, we could hardly say to the literary candidate, ”Fling your article into the editor's room at night and run,” though modesty, silence, and prudence are commendable in a beginner, and qualities that win.
What pen name did Ben Franklin sign to this interesting article? It was one that implies his purpose in life; you may read his biography in it--SILENCE DOGOOD.
The day after the name of Silence Dogood had attracted the attention of Boston town, Benjamin said to Jane, his sympathetic little sister:
”Jenny, let's go to walk this evening upon Beacon Hill. I have something to tell you.”
They went out in the early twilight together, up the brow of the hill which the early settlers seem to have found a blackberry pasture, to the tree where they had gone with Uncle Benjamin on the showery, s.h.i.+ning midsummer Sunday.
”Can you repeat what Uncle Benjamin said to us here, two years ago?”
asked Ben.
”No; it was too long. You repeat it to me again and I will learn it.”
”He said, 'More than wealth, or fame, or anything, is the power of the human heart, and that that power is developed in seeking the good of others.' Jenny, what did father say when he read the piece by Silence Dogood in the Courant?”
”He clapped his hand on his leather breeches so that they rattled; he did, Ben, and he exclaimed, 'That is a good one!' and he read the piece to mother, and she asked him who he supposed wrote it, and she shook her head, and he said, 'I wish that I knew.'”
”Would you like to know who wrote it, Jenny?”
”Yes. Do you know?”
”_I_ wrote it. Jenny, you must not tell. I am writing another piece.
James does not know. I tucked the ma.n.u.script under the door. I am going to put another one under the door at night.”
”O Ben, Ben, you will be a great man yet, and I hope that I will live to see it. But why did you take the name of _Silence Dogood_?”
”That carries out Uncle Ben's idea. It stands for seeking the good of others quietly. That name is what I would like to be.”
”It is what you will be, Ben. Uncle would say that the Franklin heart is in that name. If you should ever become a big man, Ben, and I should come to see you when we are old, I will say, 'Silence Dogood, more than wealth, more than fame, and more than anything else, is the power of the human heart.' There, I have quoted it correctly now. Maybe the day will come. Maybe we will live to be old, and you will write things that everybody will read, and I will take care of father and mother while you go out into the world.”
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