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The Riverside Biographical Series
1. ANDREW JACKSON, by W. G. BROWN.
2. JAMES B. EADS, by LOUIS HOW.
3. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, by PAUL E. MORE.
4. PETER COOPER, by R. W. RAYMOND.
5. THOMAS JEFFERSON, by H. C. MERWIN.
6. WILLIAM PENN, by GEORGE HODGES.
7. GENERAL GRANT, by WALTER ALLEN.
8. LEWIS AND CLARK, by WILLIAM R. LIGHTON.
9. JOHN MARSHALL, by JAMES B. THAYER.
10. ALEXANDER HAMILTON, by CHAS. A. CONANT.
11. WASHINGTON IRVING, by H. W. BOYNTON.
12. PAUL JONES, by HUTCHINS HAPGOOD.
13. STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS, by W. G. BROWN.
14. SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN, by H. D. SEDGWICK, Jr.
Each about 140 pages, 16mo, with photogravure portrait, 65 cents,
_net_; _School Edition_, each, 50 cents, _net._
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
The Riverside Biographical Series
NUMBER 3
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
By
PAUL ELMER MORE
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY PAUL E. MORE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. EARLY DAYS IN BOSTON 1
II. BEGINNINGS IN PHILADELPHIA AND FIRST VOYAGE TO ENGLAND 22
III. RELIGIOUS BELIEFS.--THE JUNTO 37
IV. THE SCIENTIST AND PUBLIC CITIZEN IN PHILADELPHIA 52
V. FIRST AND SECOND MISSIONS TO ENGLAND 85
VI. MEMBER OF CONGRESS--ENVOY TO FRANCE 109
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
I
EARLY DAYS IN BOSTON
When the report of Franklin's death reached Paris, he received, among
other marks of respect, this significant honor by one of the
revolutionary clubs: in the cafe where the members met, his bust was
crowned with oak-leaves, and on the pedestal below was engraved the
single word VIR. This simple encomium, calling to mind Napoleon's _This
is a man_ after meeting Goethe, sums up better than a volume of eulogy
what Franklin was in his own day and what his life may still signify to
us. He acted at one time as a commander of troops, yet cannot be called
a soldier; he was a great statesman, yet not among the greatest; he
made famous discoveries in science, yet was scarcely a professional
scientist; he was lauded as a philosopher, yet barely outstepped the
region of common sense; he wrote ever as a moralist, yet in some
respects lived a free life; he is one of the few great American
authors, yet never published a book; he was a shrewd economist, yet
left at his death only a moderate fortune; he accomplished much as a
philanthropist, yet never sacrificed his own weal. Above all and in all
things he was a man, able to cope with every chance of life and wring
profit out of it; he had perhaps the alertest mind of any man of that
alert century. In his shrewdness, versatility, self-reliance, wit, as
also in his lack of the deeper reverence and imagination, he, I think,
more than any other man who has yet lived, represents the full American
character. And so in studying his life, though at times we may wish
that to his practical intelligence were added the fervid insight of
Jonathan Edwards, who was his only intellectual equal in the colonies,
or the serene faith of an Emerson, who was born "within a kite string's
distance" of his birthplace in Boston, yet in the end we are borne away
by the wonderful openness and rectitude of his mind, and are willing to
grant him his high representative position.
Franklin's ancestors were of the sturdy sort that have made the
strength of the Anglo-Saxon race. For three hundred years at least his
family had lived on a freehold of thirty acres in the village of Ecton,
Northamptonshire; and for many generations father and son had been
smiths. Parton, in his capital Life of Franklin, has observed that
Washington's ancestors lived in the same county, although much higher
in the social scale; and it may well have been that more than one of
Franklin's ancestors "tightened a rivet in the armor or replaced a shoe
upon the horse of a Washington, or doffed his cap to a Washington
riding past the ancestral forge." During these long years the family
seems to have gathered strength from the soil, as families are wont to
do. Seeing how the Franklins, when the fit of emigrating seized upon
them, blossomed out momentarily, and then dwindled away, we are
reminded of Poor Richard's wise observation,--
"I never saw an oft-removed tree
Nor yet an oft-removed family
That throve so well as those that settled be."
About the year 1685, Josiah Franklin, the youngest of four sons, came
with his wife and three children to Boston. He had been a dyer in the
old home, but now in New England, finding little to be done in this
line, he set up as a tallow-chandler and soap-boiler, and prospered in
a small way. By his first wife he had four more children, and then by a
second wife ten others,--a goodly sheaf of seventeen, among whom
Benjamin, the destined philosopher, was the fifteenth.
The second wife, Benjamin's mother, was the daughter of Peter Folger,
one of the settlers of Nantucket,--"a godly and learned Englishman,"
who, like many of the pious New England folk, used to relieve his heart
in doggerel rhymes. In his "Looking-Glass for the Times" he appeals
boldly for liberty of conscience in behalf of the persecuted
Anabaptists and Quakers, and we are not surprised that Franklin should
have commended the manly freedom of these crude verses. Young Benjamin
was open to every influence about him, and something of the large and
immovable tolerance of his nature may have been caught from old Peter
Folger, his grandfather. We can imagine with what relish that sturdy
Protestant, if he had lived so long, would have received Benjamin's
famous "Parable against Persecution," which the author used to pretend
to read as the last chapter of Genesis, to the great mystification of
his audience,--"And it came to pass after these things that Abraham sat
in the door of his tent," etc. Try the trick to-day, and you will find
most of your hearers equally mystified, so perfectly has Franklin
imitated the tone of Old Testament language.
But we forget that our hero, like Tristram Shandy, is still in the
limbo of non-existence. Benjamin Franklin was born in Boston, January 6
(old style), 1706. At that time the family home was in Milk Street,
opposite the Old South Church, to which sacred edifice the child was
taken the day of his birth, tradition asserting that his own mother
carried him thither through the snow. Shortly afterwards the family
moved to a wooden house on the corner of Hanover and Union streets.
Naturally in so large a family, where the means of support were so
slender, young Benjamin had to get most of his education outside of the
schoolroom, and something of this practical unscholastic training clung
to his mind always. Perhaps this was just as well in that age and
place, where theology and education were synonymous terms. Certainly
his consequent lack of deep root in the past and his impressionability,
though limitations to his genius, make him the more typical of American
intelligence. At the age of eight he was sent to the grammar school,
where he remained less than a year, and then passed under the charge of
Mr. George Brownell, a teacher of the three R's. Benjamin had learned
to read so young that he himself could not remember being unable to
read, and at school he did notably well. It is curious, however, that
he found difficulty with his arithmetic, and was never a mathematician,
though later in life he became skillful in dealing with figures. No
error could be greater than Carlyle's statement that ability in
mathematics is a test of intelligence. Goethe, scientist as well as
poet, could never learn algebra; and Faraday, the creator of electrical
science, knew no mathematics at all.
When ten years old the lad was taken from school and set to work under
his father. But his education was by no means ended. There is a
temptation to dwell on these early formative years because he himself
was so fond of deducing lessons from the little occurrences of his
boyhood; nor do I know any life that shows a more consistent
development from beginning to end. There is, too, a peculiar charm in
hearing the world-famous philosopher discourse on these petty
happenings of childhood and draw from them his wise experience of life.
So, for instance, at sixty-six years of age he writes to a friend in
Paris the story of "The Whistle." One day when he was seven years old
his pocket was filled with coppers, and he immediately started for the
shop to buy toys. On the way he met a boy with a whistle, and was so
charmed with the sound of it that he gave all his money for one. Of
course his kind brothers and sisters laughed at him for his extravagant
bargain, and his chagrin was so great that he adopted as one of his
maxims of life, "Don't give too much for the whistle." As he grew up,
came into the world, and observed the actions of men, he thought he met
with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle,--men
sacrificing time and liberty and virtue for court favor; misers, giving
up comfort and esteem and the joy of doing good for wealth; others
sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind and fortune and
health to mere corporal sensations, and all the other follies of
exorbitant desire.
Another experience, this time a more painful lesson in honesty, he
relates in his Autobiography. Having one day stolen some stones from an
unfinished house while the builders were away, he and his comrades
built up a wharf where they might stand and fish for minnows in the
mill-pond. They were discovered, complained of, and corrected by their
fathers; "and though I demonstrated the utility of our work," says
Franklin, "mine convinced me that that which was not honest could not
be truly useful."
It is interesting, too, to see the boy showing the same experimental
aptitude which brought scientific renown to the man. Like all American
boys living on the coast, he was strongly attracted to the water, and
early learned to swim. But ordinary swimming was not enough for
Benjamin: with some skill he made a pair of wooden paddles for his
hands, which enabled him to move through the water very rapidly,
although, as he says, they tired his wrists. Another time he combined
the two joyful pursuits of swimming and kite-flying in such a manner
perhaps as no boy before him had ever conceived. Lying on his back, he
held in his hands the stick to which the kite-string was attached, and
thus "was drawn along the surface of the water in a very agreeable
manner." Later in life he said he thought it not impossible to cross in
this manner from Dover to Calais. "But the packet-boat is still
preferable," he added. We shall see how he managed to put even his
knowledge of swimming to practical use; and kite-flying, every one
knows, served him in his most notable electrical experiment. Certainly,
if it could ever be said of any one, it might be said of him, "The
child is father of the man."
But swimming and boyish play formed a small, though it may be
important, part of his education. He was from childhood up
"passionately fond of reading," and he was moreover a wise reader,
which is still better. Books were not so easy to get in those days; and
the good libraries of the country were composed chiefly of great
theological volumes in folio on the shelves of the clergymen's studies.
But in one way and another Franklin contrived to lay hands on the food
he most needed. All the money he could save he devoted to buying books,
and he even had recourse to unusual methods of saving for this purpose.
When sixteen he chanced to read a treatise commending a vegetable diet,
and forthwith he put himself under this regimen, finding he could thus
set aside half his board money to increase his library. He also made
the acquaintance of the booksellers' apprentices from whom he could
borrow books; and often he would read late into the night so as to
return the purloined volume early the next morning.
The first book he owned was the "Pilgrim's Progress," which remained a
favorite with him through life and even served to a certain extent as a
model for his own work. This book he sold to buy Burton's "Historical
Collections" in forty volumes. His father's library was mainly
theological, and the young lad was courageous enough to browse even in
this dry pasture, but to his little profit as he thought. There was,
however, a book on his father's shelves which was admirably suited to
train one destined himself to play a large part in a great drama of
history. Where could patriotism and fortitude of character better be
learnt than in Plutarch? and Plutarch he read "abundantly" and thought
his "time spent to great advantage." That was in the good days before
children's books and boys' books were printed. In place of--whom shall
we say, Henty or Abbott or another?--boys, if they read at all, read
Plutarch and the "Spectator." They came to the intellectual tasks of
manhood with their minds braced by manly reading and not deboshed by
silly or at best juvenile literature. It is safe to say that no book
written primarily for a boy is a good book for a boy to read. Apart
from lessons in generous living, Franklin may have had his natural
tendency to moralize strengthened by this study of Plutarch. It is
indeed notable that in one respect eighteenth-century literature has
marked affinity with the Greek. The writers of that age, and among them
Franklin, were like the Greeks distinctly ethical. In telling a story
or recording a life, their interest was in the moral to be drawn,
rather than in the passions involved.
Another book which had a special influence on his style may be
mentioned. An odd volume of the "Spectator" coming into his hands, he
read the essays over and over and took them deliberately as a model in
language. This was before the date of Johnson's well-known dictum:
"Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse,
and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the
volumes of Addison." His method of work was "to make short hints of the
sentiments in each sentence," lay these by for a few days, and then
having reconstructed the essay from his notes to compare his version
with the original. Sometimes he jumbled the collection of hints into
confusion and thus made a study of construction as well as of style; or
again he turned an essay into verse and after a while converted it back
into prose. And this we believe to be the true method of acquiring a
good style, more efficacious than any English course in Harvard
College.
At sixteen he was reading Locke "On Human Understanding,"--very strong
meat for a boy--and the Port Royal "Art of Thinking." From Xenophon's
"Memorable Things of Socrates" he acquired a lesson which he never
forgot and which he always esteemed of importance in his education.
This was the skillful assumption of ignorance or uncertainty in
dispute, the so-called "irony" of Socrates. At first he employed this
ironical method to trap his opponents into making unwary statements
that led to their confusion; and in this way he grew expert in
obtaining victories that, as he said, neither he nor his cause
deserved. Accordingly he afterwards gave up this form of sophistry and
only retained the habit of expressing himself in terms of modest
diffidence, always saying: He conceived or imagined such a thing to be
so, and never using the words _certainly_, _undoubtedly_, and the like.
Books, however, occupied but a small part of his life at this time.
After leaving school he was first made to assist his father in the
tallow-chandler business; but his distaste for this trade was so great
that his father, fearing the boy would run away to sea, began to look
about for other employment for him. He took the lad to see "joiners,
brick-layers, turners, braziers, etc., at their work," in order to
discover where the boy's inclination lay. And this event of his boyhood
he as an old man remembered, saying, that it had ever since been a
pleasure to him to see good workmen handle their tools, and adding that
it was useful to him in his business and science to have learned so
much in the way of handicraft. At length Benjamin's love of books
determined his occupation, and like many another famous author he was
set to the printing-press. In 1717 his brother James had come back from
England with a press and letters, and at the age of twelve Benjamin was
bound to his brother as an apprentice.
James soon discovered Benjamin's cleverness with the pen and induced
him to compose two ballads, "The Light-House Tragedy," being the story
of a recent shipwreck, and "Blackbeard," a sailor's song on the capture
of that notorious pirate. These ballads, which the author frankly, and
no doubt truthfully, describes as "wretched stuff," were printed and
hawked about the streets by the boy. "The Light-House Tragedy" at least
sold prodigiously, and the boy's vanity was correspondingly flattered;
but the father stepped in and discouraged such work, warning Benjamin
that "verse-makers were generally beggars." So, perhaps, we were spared
a mediocre poet and given a first-rate prose writer, for the stuff of
poetry was not in Franklin's sober brain.
At this time the good people of Massachusetts were dependent for the
news of the world on a single paper, the "Boston News-Letter,"
afterwards called the "Gazette" (and indeed there was no other paper in
the whole country), published, as was commonly the case in those days,
by the postmaster of the town. But in 1721 James Franklin, much against
the advice of his friends, started a rival paper, the "New England
Courant," which the young apprentice had to carry about to subscribers
after helping it through the press. Benjamin, however, soon played a
more important part than printer's devil. Several ingenious men were in
the habit of writing little Addisonian essays for the paper, and
Benjamin, hearing their conversation, was fired to try his own skill.
"But being still a boy,"--so he tells the story himself,--"and
suspecting that my brother would object to printing anything of mine in
his paper if he knew it to be mine, I contrived to disguise my hand,
and writing an anonymous paper, I put it at night under the door of the
printing-house. It was found in the morning and communicated to his
writing friends when they called in as usual. They read it, commented
on it in my hearing, and I had the exquisite pleasure of finding it met
with their approbation, and that in their different guesses at the
author none were named but men of some character among us for learning
and ingenuity." Naturally the lad was flattered by the success of his
ruse; and he continued to send in his anonymous essays for more than a
year. They have been pretty conclusively identified as the series of
articles signed "Silence Dogood," and are a clever enough imitation of
the "Spectator's" style of allegory and humorous satire, such as
Franklin was fond of using all his life. The signature, too, Silence
Dogood, was characteristic of the man who turned all religion into a
code of morality, and was famous for his power of keeping a secret.
Like the ancient poet Simonides, he knew the truth of the saying,
_Silence hath a safe reward_.
Those days were not easy times for printers, nor was the freedom of the
press any more respected than liberty of conscience. Trouble very soon
arose between the new paper and the authorities chiefly on account of
the "Courant's" free handling of the church. Already the free-thinking
party which afterwards formed into the Unitarian church was showing its
head, and the writers for the "Courant" were among the most outspoken.
The climax was reached when one day the paper appeared with a diatribe
containing such words as these: "For my own part, when I find a man
full of religious cant and palaver, I presently suspect him to be a
knave,"--a sentiment which the religious authorities very properly took
as an insult to themselves. James was arrested and imprisoned for a
month, and on his release was forbidden to print the "Courant." To
escape this difficulty the old indenture of Benjamin was canceled and
the paper was printed in his name; at the same time, however, a new
indenture was secretly made so that James might still, if he desired,
claim his legal rights in the apprentice. It was a "flimsy scheme," and
held but a little while.
Bickerings had been constant between the two brothers, and Benjamin was
especially resentful for the blows his master's passion too often urged
him to bestow.
"My mind now is set,
My heart's thought, on wide waters,"--
said the youth in the old Anglo-Saxon poem, and this same sea-longing
was bred in the bones of our Boston apprentice. Now at length the boy
would break away; at least he would voyage to another home, though he
might give up the notion of becoming a sailor. He intimates, moreover,
that the narrow bigotry of New England in religion was distasteful to
him--as we may well believe it was. Yet he always retained an
affectionate memory of the place of his birth; and only two years
before his death he wrote pleasantly regarding the citizens of that
town, "for besides their general good sense, which I value, the Boston
manner, turn of phrase, and even tone of voice and accent in
pronunciation, all please and seem to refresh and revive me." The
newspapers of those days were full of advertisements for runaway
apprentices, and Benjamin was one to get his freedom in the same way.
He sold his books for a little cash, took secret passage in a sloop for
New York, and in three days (some time in October, 1723) found himself
in that strange city "without the least recommendation or knowledge of
anybody in the place." The voyage had been uneventful save for an
incident which happened while they were becalmed off Block Island. The
crew here employed themselves in catching cod, and to Franklin, at this
time a devout vegetarian, the taking of every fish seemed a kind of
unprovoked murder, since none of them had done or could do their
catchers any injury. But he had been formerly a great lover of fish,
and the smell of the frying-pan was most tempting. He balanced some
time between principle and inclination, till, recollecting that when
the fish were opened he had seen smaller fish taken out of their
stomachs, he bethought himself: "If you eat one another I don't see why
we may not eat you;" so he dined upon cod very heartily, and continued
through life, except at rare intervals, to eat as other people. "So
convenient a thing it is," he adds, "to be a reasonable creature, since
it enables one to find or make a reason for everything one has a mind
to do."
II
BEGINNINGS IN PHILADELPHIA AND FIRST VOYAGE TO ENGLAND
The only printer then in New York was old William Bradford, formerly of
Philadelphia, whose monument may still be seen in Trinity Churchyard.
To Mr. William Bradford accordingly young Franklin applied for work;
but there was little printing done in the town and Bradford had no need
of another hand at the press. He told Franklin, however, that his son
at Philadelphia had lately lost his principal assistant by death, and
advised Franklin to go thither.
Without delay Franklin set out for that place, and after a somewhat
adventurous journey arrived at the Market Street wharf about eight or
nine o'clock of a Sunday morning.
Philadelphia at that time was a comfortable town of some ten thousand
inhabitants, extending a mile or more along the Delaware and reaching
only a few blocks back into the country. It was a shady easy-going
place, with pleasant gardens about the houses, and something of Quaker
repose and substantial thrift lent a charm to its busy life. Men were
still living who could remember when unbroken forests held the place of
Penn's city:--
"And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest,
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested."
Franklin was fond of contrasting his humble entrance into his adopted
home with the honorable station he afterwards acquired there. He was,
as he says, in his working dress, his best clothes coming round by sea.
He was dirty from being so long in the boat. His pockets were stuffed
out with shirts and stockings, and he knew no one nor where to look for
lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and the want of sleep, he was
very hungry; and his whole stock of cash consisted in a single dollar
and about a shilling in copper coin, which he gave to the boatmen for
his passage. At first they refused it on account of his having rowed,
but he insisted on their taking it. "Man is sometimes," he adds, "more
generous when he has little money than when he has plenty; perhaps to
prevent his being thought to have but little."
It was indeed a strange entrance for the future statesman and
scientist. As he walked up to Market Street he met a boy with bread,
which reminded him forcibly of his hunger, and asking the boy where he
had got his loaf he went straight to the same baker's. Here, after some
difficulty due to difference of names in Boston and Philadelphia, he
provided himself with three "great puffy rolls" for threepence, and
with these he started up Market Street, eating one and carrying one
under each arm, as his pockets were already full. On the way he passed
the door of Mr. Read's house, where his future wife saw him and thought
he made an awkward, ridiculous appearance. At Fourth Street he turned
across to Chestnut and walked down Chestnut and Walnut, munching his
roll all the way. Coming again to the river he took a drink of water,
gave away the two remaining rolls to a poor woman, and started up
Market Street again. He found a number of clean-dressed people all
going in one direction, and by following them was led into the great
meeting-house of the Quakers. There he sat down and looked about him.
It was apparently a silent meeting, for not a word was spoken, and the
boy, being now utterly exhausted, fell into a sleep from which he was
roused only at the close of the service.
That night he lodged at the Crooked Billet, which despite its ominous
name seems to have been a comfortable inn, and the next morning, having
dressed as neatly as he could, set out to find employment. Andrew
Bradford had no place for him; but another printer named Keimer, who
had recently set up in business, was willing to give him work. It was a
queer house and a queer printer. There was an old damaged press, on
which Franklin exercised his skill in repairing, and a small worn-out
font of type. Keimer himself, who seems to have been a grotesque
compound of knave and crank, was engaged at once in composing and
setting up in type an elegy on the death of a prominent young man. He
is the only poet to my knowledge who ever used the composition-stick
instead of a pen for the vehicle of inspiration. The elegy may still be
read in Duyckinck's Cyclopaedia, and on perusing it we may well repeat
the first line:--
"What mournful accents thus accost mine ear!"
Now began a period of growing prosperity for our philosopher. The two
printers of Philadelphia were poorly qualified for their business, and
Franklin by his industry and intelligence soon rendered himself
indispensable to Keimer. He was making money, had discovered a few
agreeable persons to pass his evenings with, and was contented. He took
lodging with Mr. Read, and now, as he says, "made rather a more
respectable appearance in the eyes of Miss Read."
He was even in a fair way to forget Boston when an incident occurred of
some importance in his life. Robert Holmes, who had married his sister,
being at Newcastle, forty miles below Philadelphia, heard of him and
wrote entreating him to return home. To this appeal Franklin replied
giving his reasons for leaving Boston. Now Sir William Keith, governor
of Pennsylvania, chanced at this time to be at Newcastle, and, being
shown the letter by Holmes, was so much impressed with it that he
determined to offer encouragement to the writer. Great, then, was the
surprise of Benjamin and his master when one day the governor and
another gentleman in their fine clothes called at the printing-house
and inquired for the young man. They took him to a tavern at the corner
of Third Street, and there over the Madeira the governor proposed that
Benjamin should start an independent shop, promising in this case to
give him the government printing. Benjamin was skeptical, but at last
it was decided that he should go to Boston and seek help of his father;
and in April, 1724, with a flattering letter from the governor, he set
out for his old home. Benjamin's father, however, though pleased by the
governor's approval, thought the boy too young to assume so much
responsibility, and sent him back to Philadelphia with no money, but
with his blessing and abundant good counsel, advising him to restrain
his natural tendency to lampoon, and telling him that by steady
industry and prudent parsimony he might save enough by the time he was
twenty-one to set himself up, and withal promising help if he came near
the matter.
The return voyage was unimportant save for an amusing incident which
showed Franklin's innocence at that time whatever he may have been
later on, and for an agreement he made to collect a debt of thirty-five
pounds in Pennsylvania for one Vernon,--an agreement which was to cost
him considerable anxiety. While stopping in New York, too, his
reputation as a reader got him an invitation to visit Governor Burnet,
who showed him his library and conversed with him on books and authors.
"This," as Franklin observes, "was the second governor who had done me
the honor to take notice of me, and for a poor boy like me it was very
pleasing."
In New York he had picked up his old friend Collins, a companion of his
childhood, who had preceded him from Boston. Collins had passed from
license of belief to license of morals, and was now besotting himself
with drink. On the way to Philadelphia Franklin had collected the money
due to Vernon, and Collins pressed him until he drew largely on this
sum to help the spendthrift. Franklin regarded this as one of the chief
_errata_ of his life, and would have repented his error still more
seriously perhaps if Vernon had not allowed him time to make good the
defalcation. It was some five years before he was able to restore the
money, and then, having paid both principal and interest, he felt a
load taken off his mind.
His association with Collins came to an amusing end. Once when they
were on the Delaware with some other young men, Collins refused to row
in his turn. "I will be rowed home," said he. "We will not row you,"
said Franklin. "You must," said he, "or stay all night on the water,
just as you please." The others were willing to indulge him, but
Franklin, being soured with his other conduct, continued to refuse.
Collins swore he would make Franklin row or throw him overboard, and
came along stepping on the thwarts to carry out his threat. But he
mistook his man. Franklin clapped his head under the fellow's thighs
and, rising, pitched him headforemost into the river. Collins was a
good swimmer, but they kept him pulling after the boat until he was
stifled with vexation and almost drowned. And that was the end of the
friendship between the two. Collins later went to the Barbadoes, that
limbo of the unsuccessful in colonial days, and Franklin never heard of
him again.
With his employer, Keimer, Franklin had little sympathy, despising both
his knavery and his false enthusiasms. Keimer wore his beard at full
length, because somewhere in the Mosaic law it is said, "Thou shalt not
mar the corners of thy beard." He likewise kept the seventh day
Sabbath. Franklin disliked both practices, but agreed to them on
condition of their adopting a vegetarian diet, this whim suiting him at
the time, both because he could save money by it and because he wished
to give himself some diversion in half starving the gluttonous fanatic.
Poor Keimer suffered grievously, grew tired of the project in three
months, longed for the fleshpots of Egypt, and ordered a roast pig. He
invited Franklin and two women friends to dine with him; but the pig
being brought too soon upon the table, he could not resist the
temptation, and ate the whole before his guests came.
Having to do with such a man, Franklin was very glad to accept Sir
William Keith's offer to set him up alone. It was agreed that Franklin
should sail to London, with letters of introduction, and also with
letters of credit for purchasing press, types, paper, and such like.
But for one reason and another the governor delayed writing the
letters, and at last Franklin actually found himself afloat and on the
way to London without a word from his patron. Great was his chagrin
when he learned during the passage that it was a habit of this amiable
magistrate to promise anything and perform nothing. Franklin's comment
on the occasion displays the imperturbable justice of his mind: "But
what shall we think of a governor playing such pitiful tricks and
imposing so grossly on a poor ignorant boy! It was a habit he had
acquired. He wished to please everybody, and having little to give he
gave expectations. He was otherwise an ingenious, sensible man, a
pretty good writer, and a good governor for the people, though not for
his constituents, the proprietaries."
Franklin reached London December 24, 1724, and remained there some
nineteen months, doing many things and learning many things during this
time that were of use to him in after life. But interesting as his
experiences were, we pass over them with a few words. Without
difficulty he got work with the printers, and employed his time
industriously--of that there could be no doubt. As always, his head was
full of plans of economy; and we are amused to see him carry his
reforms into the printing chapel, attempting to persuade the men to
give up their expensive beer and take to hot-water gruel.
But though Franklin was always industrious, he was far from leading a
confined life. Then as ever he mixed much with men, and his experience
in London added largely no doubt to his knowledge of human nature. He
even saw something of the ways of Grub Street through his friend Ralph,
who had come with him from Philadelphia. "This low writer," as Pope
called him, is now remembered only for a couple of vicious lines in the
Dunciad, and for the ignominious part he plays in Franklin's
Autobiography. For many months he was a continual drain on Franklin's
pocket, and seems to have been the boy's evil genius in immorality as
well.
Another acquaintance introduced him to a phase of character quite new
to the youth from America. This was an old maiden lady of seventy, who
occupied the garret of his lodging house. She was a Roman Catholic, and
lived the secluded life of a nun, having given away to charities all
her estate except twelve pounds a year, out of which small sum she
still gave a part, living herself on water gruel only, and using no
fire but to boil it. Franklin was permitted to visit her once, and
remarks that she was cheerful and polite, as also that the room was
almost without furniture. "She looked pale," he says, "but was never
sick; and I give it as another instance on how small an income life and
health may be supported."--Not another word! Ah, Doctor Franklin, you
were very wise in this world's wisdom! Your life was for a young
struggling nation a splendid example of probity and thrift and
self-culture. And yet we think your countrymen could wish you had used
this poor enthusiast's folly as something else than a mere lesson in
economy.
But the religious imagination played a small part in our philosopher's
life, and least of all was it active in these London days. His
skepticism in fact became acute, and sought relief in public
expression. As a compositor Franklin was engaged in setting up one of
the many religious treatises then pouring out against the deists, and
as the author's arguments seemed insufficient to the young reasoner, he
wrote and printed a rejoinder. This is the pamphlet called "A
Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity, Pleasure and Pain," which he
inscribed to his friend Ralph, and whose printing he afterwards
regretted as one of the _errata_ of his life. It is a disquisition
quite after the manner of the day, and, though it has no permanent
value, is nevertheless a most unusual production for a boy of nineteen.
He accepts the belief in a God and an all-powerful Providence, and
argues thence the complete absence of free will in man; pleasure and
pain are necessary correlatives, and cannot exist apart; the soul is
perhaps immortal, but loses its personal identity at death.
It was time for Franklin to come home and prepare for the great work
before him. He was indeed ready to come when his skill in swimming
almost lost him to this country. He had made such an impression by his
feats in the water that one of his friends and pupils in the art
proposed they should travel over Europe together, and support
themselves by giving exhibitions. Fortunately Mr. Denham, an older and
wiser friend, persuaded Franklin to return with him to America.
III
RELIGIOUS BELIEFS.--THE JUNTO
Franklin reached Philadelphia some time in October, 1726, and found
many things had changed during his absence. Keith was no longer
governor, but walked the streets as a common citizen. He seemed a
little ashamed at seeing Franklin, and passed him by without saying
anything. Miss Read, too, whom he had left under the pledge of an
engagement, had grown tired of his long neglect, and at the insistence
of her friends had married a potter named Rogers. The union, however,
had proved unfortunate, and the lady was again living at home under her
maiden name, it being believed that Rogers had a previous wife.
Franklin at once entered the employment of his friend Denham, who
opened a thriving business on Water Street. But after an engagement of
four months he was left idle by Mr. Denham's death, and, finding
nothing better to do, returned to his old employer, Keimer. Here he
received good wages as foreman of the shop, but soon discovered that he
was engaged only to teach Keimer's raw hands the trade, and was to be
dismissed as soon as this was accomplished. Franklin had a habit
apparently of breaking with a burdensome friend by means of a judicious
quarrel. He had done so with his brother James, with Collins, with
Ralph, and now he parted with Keimer in the same way. After an interval
of a few months, during which he was again for a while in the
employment of Keimer, he entered into partnership with one of the
hands, Meredith by name, and in the spring of 1728 started an
independent printing-house.
At this point Franklin interrupts the narrative of his life to give
some account of his religious beliefs, and we will follow his example.
And first of all let us say frankly that Parton, whose work is likely
long to remain the standard biography of Franklin, gives a false color
to the religious experience of his hero. Of regeneration there is in
Franklin no sign, but instead of that a constant growth,--which is far
more wholesome. He was always an amused and skeptical observer of the
revivals and wild enthusiasms kindled by his friend Whitefield and by
the inspired preacher of Northampton. And it is quite absurd to speak
of Franklin as "the consummate Christian of his time." There was in him
none of the emotional nature and little of the spirituality that go to
make the complete Christian. His strength lay in his temperance,
prudence, justice, and courage,--eminently the pagan virtues; and
indeed he was from first to last a great pagan, who lapsed now and then
into the pseudo-religious platitudes of the eighteenth century deists.
His family had early adopted the reformed faith, and had possessed the
courage to continue of this faith through the bloody persecutions of
Queen Mary. Under Charles II. Benjamin's father went a step further,
casting in his lot with the non-conformist Presbyterians; and it was
the persecutions of that society which drove him with his family to
America. Independence, or even recalcitrance, together with broad
toleration of the faith of others, was in the family blood, and
Benjamin continued the good tradition. From revolt against Rome to
revolt against the established English Church, and from this to
complete independence of individual belief, was after all a natural
progression.
Among the books which Franklin had read in Boston were Shaftesbury and
Collins, representative deistical writers of the time, and he had been
led by them, as he says, to doubt "many points of our religious
doctrines." Now there are in religion two elements quite distinct and
at times even antagonistic, though by the ordinary mind they are
commonly seen as blended together. These are the emotional and the
moral natures. In many religious ceremonies of the Orient, religion is
purely an emotion, an exaltation of the nerves, accompanied at times by
outbreaking immorality; and unfortunately the same phenomena have been
too often seen in our own land. This emotional element is always
connected with the imagination and with belief in some form of
revelation. The other element of religion is the law of morality which
has been taught the world over by true philosophers, and which depends
at last on the simple feeling that a man should to a certain varying
extent sacrifice his personal advantage for the good of the community.
Now the deists of the eighteenth century, of whom Voltaire was the
great champion, denied revelation and sought to banish the emotions
from religion. They believed in a God who manifested himself in the
splendid pageantry of nature, and this they called natural revelation.
They laid especial emphasis on morality, but in their attempt to sever
morals from enthusiasm (_enthousiasmos_, god-in-us) they too often
reduced human life to a barren formula. From this brief account it will
be seen how naturally Franklin, with his parentage and particular
genius, fell a prey to the teachings of Shaftesbury.
After a little while, however, he began to notice that certain of his
friends who protested most loudly against religion were quite
untrustworthy in their morals as well. Moreover he attributed several
_errata_ of his own early life to lack of religious principles, and to
remedy this defect he now undertook--deliberately if we may credit his
later confessions--to build up a religion of his own. There is, one
must acknowledge, something grotesque in this endeavor to supply the
warmth of the emotional imagination by the use of cold reason, and had
Franklin possessed less wit and more humor he would never have fallen
into such bathos. The little book still exists in which Franklin wrote
out his creed and private liturgy. The creed expresses a belief in "one
Supreme, most perfect Being, Author and Father of the gods themselves."
Finding this God to be infinitely above man's comprehension, our
religionist goes on to say: "I conceive, then, that the Infinite has
created many beings or gods vastly superior to man, who can better
conceive his perfections than we, and return him a more rational and
glorious praise.... It may be these created gods are immortal; or it
may be that, after many ages, they are changed, and others supply their
places. Howbeit, I conceive that each of these is exceeding wise and
good, and very powerful; and that each has made for himself one
glorious sun, attended with a beautiful and admirable system of
planets. It is that particular wise and good God, who is the author and
owner of our system, that I propose for the object of my praise and
adoration." Thereupon follows the form of adoration, or liturgy,
including an invocation, psalm, indication of philosophic reading to
take the place of the lessons, singing of the Hymn to the Creator from
Milton's Paradise Lost, and litany. The whole is not without elevation,
and the litany, composed as it is by a young man of twenty-two, touches
one with a feeling almost of pathos for its true humility and reaching
out after virtue.
Franklin continued to use this form of worship for a number of years;
but its fantastic nature seems to have dawned on him at last, and he
gave it up for a still simpler creed consisting merely in reverence for
the Deity and in respect for the moral law. In the matter of public
worship he was of the same opinion as Spinoza and many other
philosophers. He esteemed public worship salutary for the state, and
paid an annual subscription to the Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia;
but he also esteemed it his privilege to stay away from service, and
indulged in this privilege to the full, making Sunday his chief day of
study. Though affiliated in this way to the Presbyterians, he showed
perfect impartiality, or even indifference, to the various
denominations of the Christian world. The only sect he ever really
praised was the Dunkers, whom he commended for their modesty in not
formulating a creed. He quotes with pleasure the character given
himself of being merely "an honest man of no sect at all." Tolerance in
religion and in every other walk of life was indeed a marked and
distinguishing trait of his character. He was of the mind of Bishop
Warburton, when he said, "Orthodoxy is my doxy and Heterodoxy is your
doxy."
It is a little disconcerting to find our philosopher himself proposing
a new sect, which should be called the Society of the Free and Easy,
and which actually progressed so far as to possess two enthusiastic
disciples. The creed of this projected sect may be taken as an
expression of Franklin's mature belief:--
"That there is one God, who made all things.
"That he governs the world by his providence.
"That he ought to be worshipped by adoration, prayer, and thanksgiving.
"But that the most acceptable service to God is doing good to man.
"That the soul is immortal.
"And that God will certainly reward virtue and punish vice, either here
or hereafter."
The real religion of his life consisted in the practice of virtue with
a minimum of emotional imagination. His methodical mind found it
convenient to tabulate the virtues in a manner more precise, as he
thought, than they usually appear. His table is not without interest:--
"1. TEMPERANCE.--Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.
"2. SILENCE.--Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid
trifling conversation.
"3. ORDER.--Let all your things have their places; let each part of
your business have its time.
"4. RESOLUTION.--Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without
fail what you resolve.
"5. FRUGALITY.--Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself;
i.e., waste nothing.
"6. INDUSTRY.--Lose no time; be always employed in something useful;
cut off all unnecessary actions.
"7. SINCERITY.--Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly; and
if you speak, speak accordingly.
"8. JUSTICE.--Wrong none by doing injuries or omitting benefits that
are your duty.
"9. MODERATION.--Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as
you think they deserve.
"10. CLEANLINESS.--Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or
habitation.
"11. TRANQUILLITY.--Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common
or unavoidable.
"12. CHASTITY....
"13. HUMILITY.--Imitate Jesus and Socrates."