that he had put ſome reſtraint on himſelf before, apprehenſive of my conſtruing his commendation into flattery. But who would have ſuppoſed, ſaid he, Franklin to be capable of ſuch a compoſition? What painting, what energy, what fire! He has ſurpaſſed the original. In his common converſation he appears not to have a choice of words; he heſitates, and is at a loſs: and yet, good God, how he writes!
At our next meeting Ralph diſcovered the trick we had played Oſborne, who was rallied without mercy.
By this adventure Ralph was fixed in his reſolution of becoming a poet. I left nothing unattempted to divert him from his purpoſe; but he perſevered, till at laſt the reading of Pope[1] effected his cure: he became, however, a very tolerable proſe writer. I ſhall ſpeak more of him hereafter; but as I ſhall probably have no farther occaſion to mention the other two, I ought to obſerve here, that Watſon died a few years after in my arms. He was greatly regretted; for he was the bell of our ſociety. Oſborne went to the iſlands, where he gained conſiderable reputation as a barriſter, and was getting money; but he died young. We had ſeriouſly engaged, that whoever died firſt ſhould return, if poſſible, and pay a friendly viſit to the ſurvivor, to give him an account of the other world; but he has never fulfilled his engagement.
The governor appeared to be fond of my company, and frequently invited me to his houſe. He always ſpoke of his intention of ſettling me in buſineſs, as a point that was decided. I was
- ↑ Probably the Dunciad, where we find him thus immortalized by the author:
Silence, ye wolves, while Ralph to Cynthia howls,
And makes night hideous; anſwer him, ye owls!
