It was read and repeated; Watson and Osborne gave up the contest,
and join'd in applauding it. Ralph only made some criticisms,
and propos'd some amendments; but I defended my text. Osborne was
against Ralph, and told him he was no better a critic than poet,
so he dropt the argument. As they two went home together,
Osborne expressed himself still more strongly in favor of what he
thought my production; having restrain'd himself before, as he said,
lest I should think it flattery. "But who would have imagin'd,"
said he, "that Franklin had been capable of such a performance;
such painting, such force, such fire! He has even improv'd the original.
In his common conversation he seems to have no choice of words;
he hesitates and blunders; and yet, good God! how he writes!"
When we next met, Ralph discovered the trick we had plaid him,
and Osborne was a little laught at.
This transaction fixed Ralph in his resolution of becoming a poet.
I did all I could to dissuade him from it, but he continued
scribbling verses till Pope cured him. He became, however, a pretty
good prose writer. More of him hereafter. But, as I may not have
occasion again to mention the other two, I shall just remark here,
that Watson died in my arms a few years after, much lamented,
being the best of our set.
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