Mr. Matthew Adams， who had a pretty collection of books， and who frequented our printing-house， took notice of me， invited me to his library， and very kindly lent me such books as I chose to read. I now took a fancy to poetry， and made some little pieces; my brother， thinking it might turn to account， encouraged me， and put me on composing occasional ballads.
One was called The Lighthouse Tragedy， and contained an account of the drowning of Captain Worthilake， with his two daughters. The other was a sailor’s song， on the taking of Teach (or Blackbeard) the pirate.
They were wretched stuff， in the Grub-street-ballad style; and when they were printed he sent me about the town to sell them. The first sold wonderfully， the event being recent， having made a great noise.
This flattered my vanity; but my father discouraged me by ridiculing my performances， and telling me verse-makers were generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet， most probably a very bad one; but as prose writing had been of great use to me in the course of my life， and was a principal means of my advancement， I shall tell you how， in such a situation， I acquired what little ability I have in that way.
About this time I met with an odd volume of the Spectator. It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought it， read it over and over， and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent， and wished， if possible， to imitate it.
With this view I took some of the papers， and making short hints of the sentiment in each entence， laid them by a few days. Then， without looking at the book， I tried to complete the papers again， by expressing each hinted sentiment at length， and as fully as it had been expressed before， in any suitable words that should come to hand. Then I compared my Spectator with the original， discovered some of my faults， and corrected them.
But I found I wanted a stock of words， or a readiness in recollecting and using them. This I thought I should have acquired before that time if I had gone on making verses.
In verse the continual occasion for words of the same value， but of different length， to suit the measure， or of different sound for the rhyme， would have laid me under a constant necessity of searching for variety.
Verse would also have tended to fix variety in my mind， and make me master of it.
Therefore I took some of the tales and turned them into verse. After a time， when I had pretty well forgotten the prose， I turned them into prose again.
I also sometimes jumbled my collections of hints into confusion， and after some weeks endeavored to reduce them into the best order， before I began to form the full sentences and complete the paper. This was to teach me method in the arrangement of thoughts.
By comparing my work afterwards with the original， I discovered many faults and amended them; but I sometimes had the pleasure of fancying that， in certain particulars of small import， I had been lucky enough to improve the method or the language， and this encouraged me to think I might possibly in time come to be a tolerable English writer.
(Benjamin Franklin)
译文
富兰克林是怎么学写作的 马修·亚当先生家中藏书丰富，他经常光顾我们的印刷所，并且对我颇为关照。他邀请我去他的藏书室，还慷慨地将我想读的书借给我。那时候我十分喜爱诗歌，自己也写些小诗；我哥觉得写诗可以赚点钱，便鼓励我时不时地写些叙事诗。
我写了两首叙事诗。一首叫作《灯塔悲剧》，讲述的是沃斯莱克船长与他的两个女儿溺水身亡的故事。另一首是水手歌，讲的是捉拿海盗铁柯的经过。
这两首诗没什么水准，都是些葛拉布街诗（译注：葛拉布街是伦敦一条旧街，过去为穷苦潦倒文人的聚居地；因此文中将低劣的诗歌叫作“葛拉布街诗”）。印好之后，哥哥叫我拿到小镇上去卖。首诗卖得很好，毕竟讲的是近期发生的、轰动一时的事情。
这使我沾沾自喜，然而我的父亲反对我写诗，他嘲笑我的作品，说诗人都是穷光蛋。如此，我成为诗人（极可能是个低劣的诗人）的路便被切断了。但是，写散文却让我十分受益，并且成了我提升自己的一种基本手段，接下来我将告诉你，在这种情况下，我是如何获得我现有的这点小小才能的。
大约在那时候，我偶然看到了《旁观者》的零售本，是第三册，在此之前我从未看过这一系列的书。我把它买了下来，一遍又一遍地反复品味，爱不释手。这本书写得好极了，我想或许我也能模仿它写点什么。
于是我挑了几篇文章，摘录出要点，搁置几天后，再自己想出合适的词句将这些要点表述成文，与原版对照，找出自己的错误和不足，加以修改。
这样我便发现了自己词汇贫乏的问题，或者说，我不能很快地找到适当的词来用，我不禁想，假如我以前没有放弃写诗的话，那么现在我的词汇一定会丰富得多了。
如果我写诗的话，我得不断地寻找意思相同而长度不同的词，或是不同音素的词去凑韵脚，这会迫使我不断地搜索形式不同的同义词，这会有助于我记忆并掌握这些不同的词。
于是我选取了一些故事，改编成诗歌。过了一段时间，当我把原来的散文忘得差不多的时候，再把自己改编的诗歌改写成散文。
有时候我会把我摘录的思想打乱，几个星期以后，再设法把它们用恰当的次序排列起来，然后再把它们写成完整的句子，凑成文章。这样做是为了学习如何组织思想。
完成这件事之后，再拿我的文章与原文比较，会发现许多错误和不足之处，我便加以改正。
但是有时候我不禁觉得：在某些小细节上，我侥幸地改进了原文的条理和语言，这样的想法鼓励了我，使我相信，在将来，我或许能成为一个不错的英文作家。
（富兰克林）
A Second Trial
It was commencement at one of our colleges. The people were pouring into the church as I entered it， rather tardy. Finding the choice seats in the center of the audience-room already taken， I pressed forward， looking to the right and to the left for a vacancy. On the very front row of seats I found one.
Here a little girl moved along to make room for me， looking into my face with large gray eyes， whose brightness was softened by very long lashes. Her face was open and fresh as a newly blown rose before sunrise.
Again and again I found my eyes turning to the rose-like face， and each time the gray eyes moved half-smiling to meet mine. Evidently the child was ready to “make up” with me. And when， with a bright smile she returned my dropped handkerchief， and I said “Thank you”. We seemed fairly introduced.
Other persons now coming into the seat， crowded me quite close up against the little girl， so that we soon felt very well acquainted.
“There’s going to be a great crowd，” she said to me.
“Yes，” I replied. “People always like to see how schoolboys are made into men.”
Her face beamed with pleasure and pride as she said， “My brother’s going to graduate; he’s going to speak; I’ve brought these flowers to throw to him.”
They were not greenhouse favorites; just old-fashioned domestic flowers， such as we associate with the dear grandmother. “But，” I thought， “they will seem sweet and beautiful to him for little sister’s sake.”
“That is my brother，” she went on， pointing with her nosegay.
“The one with the light hair?” I asked.
“Oh， no，” she said， smiling and shaking her head in innocent reproof， “not that homely one; that handsome one with brown wavy hair. His eyes look brown， too; but they are not-they are dark-blue. There! He’s got his hand up to his head now. You see him， don’t you?”
In an eager way she looked from me to him， and from him to me， as if some important fate depended upon my recognizing her brother.
“I see him，” I said. “He’s a very good-looking brother.”
“Yes， he is beautiful，” she said， with artless delight. “And he’s so good， and he studies so hard. He has taken care of me ever since mamma died. Here is his name on the program. He is not the valedictorian， but he has an honor， for all that.”
I saw in the little creature’s familiarity with these college terms that she had closely identified herself with her brother’s studies， hopes， and successes.
“His oration is a good one， and he says it beautifully. He has said it to me a great many times. I almost know it by heart. Oh! It begins so pretty and so grand. This is the way it begins，” she added， encouraged by the interest she must have seen in my face.“Amid the permutations and combinations of the actors and the forces which make up the great kaleidoscope of history， we often find that a turn of Destiny’s hand——”
“Why， bless the baby!” I thought， looking down into her bright proud face. I can’t describe how very odd and elfish it did seem to have those big words rolling out of the smiling childish mouth.
As the exercises progressed， and approached nearer and nearer the effort on which all her interest was concentrated， my little friend became excited and restless. Her eyes grew larger and brighter， two deep-red spots glowed on her cheeks.
“Now， it’s his turn，” she said， turning to me a face in which pride and delight and anxiety seemed about equally mingled. But when the overture was played through， and his name was called， the child seemed， in her eagerness， to forget me and all the earth beside him. She rose to her feet and leaned forward for a better view of her beloved， as he mounted to the speaker’s stand.
I knew by her deep breathing that her heart was throbbing in her throat. I knew， too， by the way her brother came up the steps and to the front that he was trembling. The hands hung limp; his face was pallid， and the lips blue as with cold. I felt anxious. The child， too， seemed to discern that things were not well with him. Something like fear showed in her face.
He made an automatic bow. Then a bewildered， struggling look came into his face， then a helpless look， and then he stood staring vacantly， like one in a dream， at the waiting audience. The moments of painful suspense went by， and still he stood as if struck dumb. I saw how it was; he had been seized with stage-fright.
Alas! Little sister! She turned her large dismayed eyes upon me.
“He’s forgotten it，” she said. Then a swift change came into her face; a strong determined look; and on the funeral-like silence of the room broke the sweet， brave child-voice， “Amid the permutations and combinations of the actors and the forces which make up the great kaleidoscope of history， we often find that a turn of Destiny’s hand——”
Everybody about us turned and looked. The breathless silence; the sweet， childish voice; the childish face; the long， unchildlike words， produced a weird effect.
But the help had come too late; the unhappy brother was already staggering in humiliation from the stage. The band quickly struck up， and waves of lively music rolled out to cover the defeat.
I gave the little sister a glance in which I meant to show the intense sympathy I felt; but she did not see me. Her eyes swimming with tears， were on her brother’s face. I put my arm around her， but she was too absorbed to heed the caress， and before I could appreciate her purpose she was on her way to the shame-stricken young man sitting with a face like a statue’s.
When he saw her by his side the set face relaxed， and a quick mist came into his eyes. The young men got closer together to make room for her. She sat down beside him， laid her flowers on his knee， and slipped her hand into his.
I could not keep my eyes from her sweet pitying face. I saw her whisper to him， he bending a little to catch her words. Later， I found out that she was asking him if he knew his “piece” now， and that he answered “Yes”.
When the young man next on the list had spoken， and while the band was playing， the child， to the brother’s great surprise， made her way up the stage steps， and pressed through the throng of professors and trustees and distinguished visitors， up to the college president.
“If you please， sir，” she said with a little courtesy， “will you and the trustees let my brother try again? He knows his piece now.”
For a moment the president stared at her through his gold-bowed spectacles， and then， appreciating the child’s petition， he smiled on her， and went down and spoke to the young man that had failed.
So it happened that when the band had again ceased playing， it was briefly announced that Mr.——would now deliver his oration——“Historical Parallels”.
A ripple of heightened and expectant interest passed over the audience， and then all sat stone still， as though fearing to breathe lest the speaker might again take fright. No danger. The hero in the youth was aroused. He went at his “piece” with a set purpose to conquer， to redeem
himself， and to bring the smile back into the child’s tear-stained face. I watched the face during the speaking. The wide eyes， the parted lips， the whole rapt being said that the breathless audience was forgotten， that her spirit was moving with his.
And when the address was ended with the ardent abandon of one who catches enthusiasm in the realization that he is fighting down a wrong judgment and conquering a sympathy， the effect was really thrilling. That dignified audience broke into rapturous applause; bouquets intended for the valedictorian rained like a tempest. And the child， the child that had helped to save the day——that one beaming little face， in its pride and gladness， is something to be forever remembered. (Sarah Winter Kellogg)
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