Mr. Franklin and mr. Lyndon discuss the virtuous life.

D pinna Son, It is with great pleasure and gratitude for your most recent missive, received this third gear day of October, that I must write at once in the hope of conveying the most unusual and perhaps enlightening intercourse I entertained last evening at the home of iodin, Mr. Charles B. Lyndon, of prevail and New York, though how Mr. Lyndon explains the bifurcation of his precise self leads me to wonder if he tycoon be a Papist in Puritan woolens, given the roman type belief in the bi-location of their many saints.Suffice it to say such thoughts of sainthood and the conduct author to such an exalted (dare I say, un educated) station stands within this correspondence very close to the topic we held under discussion at the wide oak table in Mr. Lyndons kitchen, accompanied by his daughter, Elizabeth, on the solitude of his wife, Matilda. Mr. Lyndon and I and his daughter (Mr.Lyndon being a progressive soul in many ways, who saw no reason why his daughter should non be i ncluded in our after-dinner discussion, though of course she was not allowed to batch tobacco) align about like Socrates devotees with the propo ragion stated admirably by my host that the consummate(a) life is one that can be lived (though his call for word was the imprecise attained) with an exercise of constant vigilance, diligence and solid, hard work.Far be it from me to expandly argue with a host whose very wife had fed me so well, yet I was struck so with the open and apparent inconsistency and contradiction hidden in plain sight, that I rose from my chair, walked about the kitchen with my hands behind my back, leaned into the table, lowered myself so that my wait rested like a balloon on a run and a few inches from Mr. Lyndons nose and, with the boldness that has served me so well in life, scorn a ruffled feather here or there, I uttered the expletive balderdash, and re-took my seat.Mr. Lyndons daughter, the plain but intelligent Elizabeth, held her hand to her li ps as her father nearly sputtered his surprise, though without displeasure. maybe he believes us to be better acquainted than we are and relies upon that familiarity, accredited or apparent, to submit to him the easier avenue of near humor rather than the to a greater extent than difficult and adversarial stance taken on by the lightly insulted. Your reasoning, Mr.Franklin, he said, the question implicit in the salutation, and I set about enclose my argument as one sets about building a star sign that will withstand summers heat and winters cold. Are you a Papist, Mr. Lyndon, I asked, and he sit back, again move if not outright offended, and replied, No, sir. You know that I am a constituent of the First Congregational Church of Lexington, and a high-minded member at that. Then Mr.Lyndon, I said, Insofar as you and your loved ones are members in good standing in a church that clearly subscribes to the enlightened and reformative principles of the Great Reformation, which find their genesis in the theology of the new-fangled German monk, and his revolutionary reading of Pauls Letter to the I hesitated on purpose. Romans, Elizabeth said which afforded me a desired alliance in the middle-game of our discussion. Yes, Romans it is, I said, continuing on, preparing my lance for the final assault on the citadel of proud humanisms excesses, Then, Mr.Lyndon, my fine host, how can you say in the represent of Luthers doctrine of salvation by faith and not by works that the road to virtue is the one set down by laborers, sweating their earth-bound bodies in almost vain attempt, like the ancients of Babel, to obtain some blessed state by dint of human, and therefore ultimately corruptible effort. Mr. Lyndon sat back in his chair, while his daughters eyes, tawny with candle flame did not leave me. Only silence was our companion, silence and from magazine to time a brush of the wind through trees bare and dressed scarce with autumns wind.Then, my good frie nd, Mr. Lyndon rejoined in sur-reply, allowing for the theology of two c years or more, drafted by a man who died with a bequest of troubles, if not shame, how do you suggest that one live a virtuous life?. I told him that he was a brilliant host and that his liberality was scarcely matched by his daughters considerable beauty and that having been the beneficiary of his kindness, his wifes cooking and his daughters fond company, I would set forth my findings as follows.Virtues are but the white angels who sit across the balance of the more popular and burned umber of the 7 deadly crimes Pride, Envy, Anger, Lust, Avarice, Gluttony and Sloth. I said that although we who admit to some belief, the nature, breadth and depth thereof know to no one, not even ourselves, despite all proclamations to the contrary, are by reason of our fallen natures, far more conversant with the left handed path of the more exotic predispositions to sin than we are to the more rigorous climbs to virtu e.Therefore, to live the virtuous life one must enter the substantialms of gold through the back door known well to Gods most humble servants and on the liaison of our entrance argue that we were not so much virtuous in this life, poor vessels of grace doled out by an often chary God, as we were masters of avoidance, such that despite the siren call of experience and its joys, real or false, lasting or short-lived, the measure of our virtue can only be assessed by the evil we did not do, rather than by the good we tried to do.That is wrong, Mr. Lyndon said. Truly you dont mean that, Mr. Franklin. Perhaps not, Mr. Lyndon, I said, and yet between the two alternatives well framed by this pleasurable discussion, I will opt for that statement which sounds in humility concerning the scrape not to sin, rather than swab these meaty arms with the subtle and greasy brush of pride that accompanies all claims to virtue. Yours Very Truly, Father I read a good deal of Franklins writing out shouted and allowed the ear to do the work of imitation.Any comedian will tell you the ear is the agent of mimicry. Sight, i. e. , analysis is a distant second. I tried to run across an 18th century candlelit evening, after dinner, and then listened to the voices of the actors as they discussed with all the munificence (real or not) and grace of sitting congressmen an issue on which they disagreed. I set it in the form of a letter so as to afford Franklin an ironic point of view.