immense. Franklin and his companions had long wished the court to
acknowledge publicly the independence of the United States and to make
a treaty of commerce with them. The news of Burgoyne's surrender
reached Paris on the 4th of December, 1777; the desired treaty was
actually signed on the 6th of February following. Dr. Bancroft, who was
present when both parties signed the document, tells us that Franklin
on that occasion wore the old suit of Manchester velvet which he had
worn on the day of his outrage in the Privy Council, and which had been
long laid aside. It was apparently a bit of quaint and secret revenge
in which the philosopher indulged himself. But when Dr. Bancroft
intimated to Franklin his suspicions in the matter, the philosopher
only smiled, and said nothing.
Several weeks later the new treaty was to receive formal recognition,
and the American commissioners were to be presented to Louis XVI in
their public capacity. Franklin intended to wear the regular court
costume at the presentation, but was balked of his desire. The costume
did not come in time; and when the perruquier brought his wig it
refused to sit on the Doctor's head. Franklin suggested that the wig
might be too small. "Monsieur, it is impossible," cried the perruquier,
and then, dashing the wig to the floor, exclaimed, "No, Monsieur!--it
is not the wig which is too small; it is your head which is too large."
At any rate the wig could not be worn, and Franklin appeared in his own
gray hair, dressed in black velvet, with white silk stockings,
spectacles on nose, and no sword at his side. The king received the
envoys courteously, saying: "Gentlemen, I wish the Congress to be
assured of my friendship. I beg leave also to observe that I am
exceedingly satisfied in particular with your own conduct during your
residence in my kingdom;" and with these words walked out of the
apartment. Immediately Lord Stormont, the British ambassador, left
Paris; and a few days later M. Gerard, the first minister of France to
this country, sailed for America.
Franklin had met the king; he had now to meet a greater and more famous
man than Louis,--the only man living whose fame was equal to his own.
Voltaire, eighty-four years old, feeble in body but with intellect
unconquered, had just come to Paris after his long exile to hear the
plaudits of his countrymen, and to die. The American envoys asked
permission to wait upon the great man, and were received by Voltaire
lying on his couch. He quoted a few lines from Thomson's "Ode to
Liberty," and then began to talk with Franklin in English; but his
niece, not understanding that language, begged them to speak in French.
Whereupon Voltaire replied: "I beg your pardon. I have for a moment
yielded to the vanity of showing that I can speak in the language of a
Franklin." When Dr. Franklin presented his grandson, the old
philosopher pronounced over his head only these words: "_God and
Liberty!_" All who were present shed tears.
John Adams tells the story of a more public meeting between the two men
at the Academy of Sciences: "Voltaire and Franklin were both present,
and there presently arose a general cry that M. Voltaire and M.
Franklin should be introduced to each other. This was done, and they
bowed and spoke to each other. This was no satisfaction; there must be
something more. Neither of our philosophers seemed to divine what was
wished or expected. They, however, took each other by the hand; but
this was not enough. The clamor continued until the exclamation came
out, 'Il faut s'embrasser a la Francaise!'[2] The two aged actors upon
this great theatre of philosophy and frivolity then embraced each other
by hugging one another in their arms and kissing each other's cheeks,
and then the tumult subsided. And the cry immediately spread throughout
the kingdom, and I suppose over all Europe, 'Qu'il etait charmant de
voir embrasser Solon et Sophocle!'"[3]
[2] They must embrace like Frenchmen.
[3] How charming it was to see Solon and Sophocles embrace.
The mention of John Adams recalls us to the most disagreeable part of
Franklin's experience. During all his sojourn in France he was subject
to continual and annoying interference from his colleagues. Before his
arrival in Paris, Silas Deane had entered for Congress into
semi-commercial relations with the French government through the
eccentric and industrious Beaumarchais. Franklin was content to leave
these affairs to him, and did not at the time even know their real
nature. But with Arthur Lee it was different. Of all characters in
American history Lee is almost the hardest to endure. He was patriotic,
and in a way honest, but meddlesome, suspicious, vain, and quarrelsome
to an incredible degree. He immediately made up his mind that Deane was
peculating, and never ceased writing accusatory letters until Congress
recalled the unfortunate envoy. All this time he was also acting toward
Franklin in a manner which can only be described as insane. He fumed at
Franklin's easy way of conducting business; his vanity suffered
indescribable tortures at every mark of respect paid to his
distinguished colleague; he suspected him of treason and every other
crime; and with his partisans (whose names we need not here mention) he
wrote voluble letters of incrimination to Congress. When Silas Deane
was recalled, John Adams was sent over to take his place, and for a
while Franklin received support from his new colleague,--for Adams,
with all his faults, was at least single-hearted in his patriotism. But
their characters were too widely different for them to work easily
together in harness. Adams's vanity was almost as great as Arthur
Lee's. The homage paid to Franklin drove him almost into a frenzy of
rage, both because he thought himself overlooked and because such
homage savored of aristocracy. In Franklin's catalogue of the virtues
there were two which he could not claim to have attained,--chastity and
orderliness; and these two weaknesses now rose to exact their penalty.
Adams could not believe that a man who had been lax with women could be
honest in anything else; Adams was the spirit of petty orderliness, and
Franklin's easy ways seemed to him the destruction of all business. At
last Congress came to the rescue, and for once acted sensibly: Lee and
Adams were recalled, and Franklin was left as sole plenipotentiary in
Paris.
With other Americans Franklin's relationship was of a pleasanter sort.
To the American navy and privateers Franklin was the American
government; and, though he was often annoyed by the unreasonable
conduct of importunate captains, yet he also shared in the glory of
their deeds. John Paul Jones was one of the many forced to endure
Arthur Lee's impertinences, and had it not been for Franklin's aid and
friendship our navy would have lost the honor of that name. At one time
Paul Jones was in Paris with no ship to command, and though he tried
every channel to obtain a vessel from the French court, was always put
off. At last, as he was reading a French translation of Poor Richard's
Almanac, his eye was struck by this sentence: "If you would have your
business done, go; if not, send." Without delay he went himself to
Versailles, and obtained an order to purchase an old ship of forty
guns. This good vessel he christened Le Bon Homme Richard, which is
French for Poor Richard, and the story of how she beat the Serapis need
not here be retold.
Through all these difficulties in France, as before in England,
Franklin found consolation and amusement in the intellectual society of
a great capital. And what a society this was! The very list of names of
Franklin's friends is an inspiration. With the scientists of the day he
continued to discuss philosophic questions; and with the great ladies
of society he could find relaxation from his graver cares. Chess still
absorbed more of his time than his conscience approved, and there are
several well known stories of him in connection with that game. Once
when playing with the old Duchess of Bourbon, the lady happened to put
her king into prize, and the Doctor took it. "Ah," says she, "we do not
take kings so." "We do in America," said the Doctor; and this pleasant
joke he seems to have repeated several times in different forms. To
Madame Brillon, a wealthy and amiable lady of the neighborhood, he
wrote a number of those clever sketches which might well find a place
in the "Spectator,"--such as The Ephemera, The Petition of the Left
Hand, The Whistle, The Dialogue between Franklin and the Gout, and
others almost as well known.
One of his best friends was Madame Helvetius, widow of the celebrated
philosopher, and it was to her he wrote his famous dream ending with
the words, "Let us avenge ourselves." We must at least find space for
Mrs. Adams's curious account of that lady: "She entered the room with a
careless, jaunty air; upon seeing ladies who were strangers to her, she
bawled out, 'Ah! mon Dieu, where is Franklin? Why did you not tell me
there were ladies here?' You must suppose her speaking all this in
French. 'How I look!' said she, taking hold of a chemise made of
tiffany, which she had on over a blue lute-string, and which looked as
much upon the decay as her beauty, for she was once a handsome woman;
her hair was frizzled; over it she had a small straw hat, with a dirty
gauze half-handkerchief round it, and a bit of dirtier gauze than ever
my maid wore was bowed on behind. She had a black gauze scarf thrown
over her shoulders. She ran out of the room; when she returned, the
Doctor entered at one door, she at the other; upon which she ran
forward to him, caught him by the hand, 'Helas! Franklin;' then gave
him a double kiss, one upon each cheek, and another upon his forehead.
When we went into the room to dine, she was placed between the Doctor
and Mr. Adams. She carried the chief of the conversation at dinner,
frequently locking her hand into the Doctor's, and sometimes spreading
her arms upon the backs of both the gentlemen's chairs, then throwing
her arm carelessly upon the Doctor's neck."
Another house to which Franklin was welcome was that of the Countess
d'Houdetot celebrated for her part in the life of Rousseau. It was at
her chateau that Franklin had to undergo the ordeal of such a
glorification as must have tried his philosophic nerves to the
uttermost. The chronicler of the occasion declares that "the venerable
sage, with his gray hair flowing down upon his shoulders, his staff in
hand, the spectacles of wisdom on his nose, was the perfect picture of
true philosophy and virtue." But the "sage" must have found his virtue
a burden on that day. He was escorted through the grounds; wine was
poured out freely; music was played, and the company in turn celebrated
the guest in stanzas which were none the less fulsome because they were
true. The ceremony closed with the planting of a Virginia locust by the
Doctor.
The surrender of Burgoyne in 1777 had brought about the treaty with
France; the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown, four years later, was
the beginning of peace and the cause of the treaty with England. What
effect the news of Cornwallis's defeat had in England; how Lord North,
the Prime Minister, received the message "as he would have taken a ball
in his breast," walking wildly up and down the room, tossing his arms,
and crying out, "Oh God! it is all over! it is all over!"--all this is
known to everybody.
The diplomacy which now passed between the belligerent parties is a
most complicated chapter of history. Franklin, Jay, and Adams were
appointed by Congress to treat with England concerning peace, with
instructions to consult the French government in every measure. The
first difficulty was one of form. England was ready to sign a treaty of
peace and acknowledge the independence of the colonies; but the envoy
sent to Paris for this purpose was empowered to treat only with
commissioners of the "colonies or plantations," and Jay and Adams felt
incensed that the United States did not receive recognition by name.
Franklin regarded the matter as a mere formality and was eager to push
on the proceedings; but his colleagues were obdurate, and after some
delay England made the required recognition. Three important points had
then to be settled: 1. Whether the Americans should be allowed to fish
on the New Foundland banks; 2. Whether the western boundary should
extend to the Mississippi River; 3. Whether the United States
government should reimburse the losses of the Tories.
Adams, who as a Bostonian understood the importance of the first
measure, insisted stubbornly that England should cede this point, and
finally won the day. That the United States were not confined to a
strip of land along the seacoast was chiefly due to Jay. And here a new
complication came in. Jay had from the first suspected that France was
playing a double game, and convincing evidence of duplicity now fell
into his hands. To obtain concessions for herself, France was secretly
encouraging England to refuse the American claims on the New Foundland
fishing banks and on the territory lying between the Alleghanies and
the Mississippi. Jay thereupon insisted that the American envoys should
treat secretly with England without consulting the French court, and
Adams sided with him. Franklin was at first much averse to this mode of
procedure, both because Congress had distinctly commanded them to act
in concert with Versailles, and because he could not believe in the
treachery of his French friends. When, however, Jay laid the matter
clearly before him he gave up the point, and the negotiations
proceeded. England acknowledged the American right to the western
territory, but was more obstinate in regard to the Tory
indemnification. Franklin was willing to grant this if England in
return would cede Canada to the American union, and for a time the
question was debated in this form. Finally a compromise was adopted,
Congress promising to recommend to the state legislatures "to restore
the estates, rights, and properties of real British subjects,"--which
was of course a concession in words only, as Congress had no authority
to enforce such a recommendation. The preliminary treaty between
England and America was signed November 30, 1782, and Franklin had at
once to appease the wrath of the French government which felt it had
been duped. With consummate skill he accomplished this task, and all
the vexing questions at issue were settled by the signing, on September
3, 1783, of separate definitive treaties between the three hostile
powers.
Franklin's great work was done. He had before this urged Congress to
release him from his heavy duties, and at last--in 1785, after he had
assisted in making treaties with the other powers of Europe--his
resignation was accepted, and he was free to return home. Thomas
Jefferson came over to Paris as plenipotentiary in his stead. When
asked if he replaced Dr. Franklin, Jefferson used to reply: "I
_succeed_. No one can _replace_ him."
Franklin returned to Philadelphia laden with years and honors; yet
still his country could not let him repose. For three successive years
he was elected President of Pennsylvania; but the labors entailed were
not severe, and the old man found time for amusement and quiet study.
We have a beautiful picture of his life at home with his daughter and
her family in one of his letters of the time: "The companions of my
youth are indeed almost all departed; but I find an agreeable society
among their children and grandchildren. I have public business enough
to preserve me from ennui, and private amusement besides in
conversation, books, my garden, and cribbage. Considering our
well-furnished, plentiful market as the best of gardens, I am turning
mine, in the midst of which my house stands, into grass plots and
gravel walks, with trees and flowering shrubs. Cards we sometimes play
here in long winter evenings; but it is as they play at chess,--not for
money, but for honor, or the pleasure of beating one another. This will
not be quite a novelty to you, as you may remember we played together
in that manner during the winter at Passy. I have indeed now and then a
little compunction in reflecting that I spend time so idly. But another
reflection comes to relieve me, whispering: '_You know that the soul is
immortal. Why, then, should you be such a niggard of a little time,
when you have a whole eternity before you?_' So, being easily
convinced, and, like other reasonable creatures, satisfied with a small
reason when it is in favor of doing what I have a mind to, I shuffle
the cards again, and begin another game." Yet the old man could not but
feel lonely at times in the new society growing up about him. He says
pathetically in another letter: "I seem to have intruded myself into
the company of posterity, when I ought to have been abed and asleep."
In 1787 the constitutional convention met in Philadelphia, and it was a
fitting thing that the statesman and philosopher should live to aid in
framing laws by which his country is still governed. He was now too
weak to stand long, so that his speeches on various questions had to be
read out by a friend. His work in the convention was altogether
subordinate to that of Madison and one or two other leading spirits;
but his part in reconciling various factious elements in the convention
was of the greatest importance. When at last the deadlock came between
the smaller and the larger States on the question of representation in
the legislature, it was Franklin who saved the day by a suggestion
which led to the famous compromise, making the Senate represent the
individual States, while the lower house is proportioned to population.
Washington presided over the assembly; and we are told that while "the
last members were signing, Dr. Franklin, looking towards the
president's chair, at the back of which a rising sun happened to be
painted, observed to a few members near him that painters had found it
difficult to distinguish in their art a rising from a setting sun. 'I
have,' said he, 'often and often in the course of the session and the
vicissitudes of my hopes and fears as to its issue looked at that
behind the president without being able to tell whether it was rising
or setting; but now at length I have the happiness to know that it is a
rising, and not a setting sun.'"
It was, however, the setting sun for Franklin. The few years that
remained to him were peaceful and noble; but his old maladies increased
on him, until at the last he was confined to his bed. Yet through it
all he showed the same untiring energy. He wrote against the study of
the classics, against the abuse of the liberty of the press, and from
his very deathbed sent out a stinging letter against slavery. The end
was come: at eleven o'clock at night, April 17, 1790, he passed away.
Philadelphia knew that she had lost her most distinguished citizen, and
he was followed to the grave by a procession including all that was
honorable in the city.
In closing this brief Life of a great and good man we cannot do better
than quote the words sent to him by America's greatest citizen: "If to
be venerated for benevolence, if to be admired for talent, if to be
esteemed for patriotism, if to be beloved for philanthropy, can gratify
the human mind, you must have the pleasing consolation to know that you
have not lived in vain. And I flatter myself that it will not be ranked
among the least grateful occurrences of your life to be assured that so
long as I retain my memory you will be recollected with respect,
veneration, and affection by your sincere friend." To receive such
praise from Washington is sufficient answer to all the petty cavils
that have been raised against the memory of Benjamin Franklin.