BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

1

A BOYHOOD IN BOSTON

The Franklins of Boston were poor, numerous, lively and intelligent.

There were seventeen children in all, seven by their father’s first

wife, who had died after Josiah Franklin brought her from England to

America; and ten by his second wife, Abiah, Benjamin’s mother. Benjamin,

born on January 6 (January 17, new style), 1706, was the youngest son,

though he had two younger sisters, Jane, who was always his favorite,

and Lydia.

They lived on Milk Street across from the Old South Church until he was

six, when they took a larger house on Hanover Street. A blue ball hung

over the door, serving to identify the house in lieu of street numbers.

In June 1713, a firm of slave traders advertised “three able Negro men

and three Negro women ... to be seen at the house of Mr. Josiah Franklin

at the Blue Ball.” Josiah kept no slaves himself but had a shed in which

he allowed these captives to be housed.

Boston was then a busy seaport town, with some 12,000 population, next

largest to Philadelphia in the American colonies. Its harbor was filled

with sailing vessels; merchant ships from the Barbados or faraway

England unloaded their goods at the Long Wharf. Streets were unpaved and

unlighted, but there was plenty of activity in the coffeehouses and

taverns. The town boasted of at least six book stores.

Benjamin could not remember when he learned to read. According to his

sister Jane, he was reading the Bible at five and composing verses at

seven. The verse writing was inspired by his father’s brother, Uncle

Benjamin, a versifier himself, who appeared at varying intervals,

usually staying as long as his welcome lasted.

At a very young age, Benjamin devoured his father’s religious tracts and

sermons, but soon found boring their tirades against infidels and

Catholics. _Pilgrim’s Progress_, in contrast, was an absorbing adventure

story, and _Plutarch’s Lives_ opened up a new and exciting world. His

official schooling began at eight and lasted just two years. After that

he worked in his father’s soap and candle making shop, doing errands,

dipping molds, cutting wick for candles.

With so many mouths to feed, higher education, such as that offered at

nearby Harvard University, was out of reach for any of the Franklin

children. To improve their minds, Josiah often invited men of learning

to dinner, encouraging them to discuss worthwhile matters. Though his

trade was lowly, he was one of the town’s most respected citizens.

Leading Bostonians often consulted him about public affairs, or asked

him to arbitrate disputes. He was a man of many skills, was handy with

tools, played the violin, and sang hymns in a pleasing voice. Benjamin’s

love of music began in his childhood.

The values of obedience and industry were implanted in all of them.

“Seest thou a man diligent in his calling,” Josiah would quote from

Solomon, “he shall stand before kings, he shall not stand before mean

men.” Nothing then seemed more unlikely than that he, Benjamin Franklin,

would ever stand before a king.

He was a sturdy, squarely built youngster, with a broad friendly face,

light brown hair, and bright mischievous eyes. Among boys of his own age

he was the leader—and sometimes led them into scrapes.

Once they were fishing for minnows in the salt marsh. Benjamin suggested

they build a wharf so as not to get their feet wet. For the purpose,

they appropriated a pile of stones belonging to some workmen who were

using them to build a house. The wharf was a success but there were

repercussions when the men found their stones missing.

“Nothing is useful which is not honest,” Josiah told his erring son.

As a youth, he learned to handle boats, to swim, to dive, and to perform

all manner of water stunts. One day he resolved to try swimming and

flying his kite simultaneously. To his delight, he found that if he

floated on his back while holding the kite’s string, he was effortlessly

drawn across the pond. Another time he carved himself two oval slabs of

wood, shaped like a painter’s palette, bored a hole for his thumb, and

used them like oars to propel himself along. In this way he could easily

outswim his comrades, though his wrists soon tired. He tried similar

devices for his feet with less success. For this invention he might be

called the first frog man.

He had no enthusiasm for cutting candle wicks and often dreamed of going

to sea as an older brother had done. Josiah Franklin, sensing his

discontent, told him he could take his pick of other trades. In turn, he

took his son to watch the work of joiners, bricklayers, turners, and

braziers. Young Benjamin admired the way they handled their tools but

did not find these trades to his taste either.

Wisely, his father did not press him. His brother James had returned

from England in 1717 with equipment to set up a printing shop at the

corner of Queen Street and Dasset Alley. Since Benjamin liked to read,

what would he think of being a printer—a trade that deals with

pamphlets, books, everything made with words? The idea appealed to

Benjamin, though he balked when he learned he would be apprenticed to

his brother until he was twenty. His father insisted; the

apprenticeship, legal as a slave contract, would assure him against

losing a second son to the dangerous sea. When Benjamin finally signed

the papers which bound him to his brother’s service, he was twelve years

old. Everyone agreed he was exceptionally bright for his age.

James Franklin was one of Boston’s young intellectuals, belonging to

what the pious Cotton Mather called the “Hell Fire Club,” made up of

clever young men like himself. He had reason to be pleased with how

quickly his little brother mastered the techniques of a printer’s trade.

As Benjamin’s skill began to surpass his own, his attitude changed to

resentment and jealousy. He found excuses to scold Benjamin, and

sometimes gave him blows.

The shop handled pamphlets and advertisements and such odd jobs. As a

sideline they printed patterns on linen, calico, and silk “in good

figures, very lively and durable colours.” In the second year of

Benjamin’s apprenticeship, their fortunes improved with a substantial

contract to print the Boston _Gazette_ for 40 weeks. The _Gazette_ was

one of Boston’s two newspapers, both insufferably dull. When his

contract came to an end, James decided to publish his own newspaper. His

friends scoffed, saying that America had no need of still another

newspaper!

The first issue of James Franklin’s _New England Courant_ appeared

August 7, 1721, during a smallpox epidemic—and was devoted to opposing

the new “doubtful and dangerous practice” of smallpox inoculation. There

is no evidence that young Benjamin took any stand—either for or

against—in the controversy.

The great advantage of working for his brother was that he had access to

books. Several apprentices to booksellers with whom he made friends

obligingly “loaned” him volumes from their masters’ shelves. So they

could be returned early in the morning before they were missed, he often

sat up all night reading. There was also a tradesman named Matthew Adams

with his own library, who took a fancy to Benjamin and let him borrow

what he chose. From reading he turned his hand to writing, composing a

ballad called _The Lighthouse Tragedy_, the account of the drowning of a

ship’s captain and his two daughters.

James saw possibilities in this effort, printed it for Benjamin, then

sent him out on the streets to sell it. (The story of young Benjamin

Franklin hawking his ballads on the streets of Boston would much later

bring tears to the eyes of his aristocratic French friends.) _The

Lighthouse Tragedy_ was wonderfully popular, but his second ballad, a

sailor’s song about a pirate, was such a dismal failure that he allowed

his father to discourage him from trying others.

“Verse-makers are usually beggars,” Josiah Franklin had commented.

Prose was Benjamin’s next effort. His inspiration was a volume of the

London _Spectator_, with essays by Joseph Addison and Richard Steele,

leading prose stylists of the eighteenth century. He made notes on their

subject matter, laid the notes aside a few days, tried to reconstruct

the original. He changed the essays into verse, endeavored to put them

back to prose. Thus he strove to correct his own writing faults, on

occasion having the thrill of finding he had in a phrase or expression

improved the original.

Both reading and writing were done on his own time, before the shop

opened in the morning, at night, and on Sundays when his conscience let

him miss church. And still there were never enough hours in the day for

all the learning he sought.

When he was sixteen he came under the influence of a book by a man named

Tryon, who preached on the evils of eating “fish or flesh.” He had been

taking his dinners with James and the workmen at a boardinghouse run by

a Mrs. Peabody. Would his brother agree to giving him half what he paid

Mrs. Peabody and let him buy his own dinner? Benjamin proposed. James

jumped at such a bargain. Henceforth the young apprentice dined on dried

raisins and bread instead of roasts and legs of mutton. He even had

money left over for books, and two extra hours in the empty shop to

peruse them as he ate. One of the volumes he purchased at this time

influenced him even more than Tryon and his vegetarianism.

This was Xenophon’s _Memorabilia_, which told of Socrates and his

philosophy.

Hitherto when Benjamin had an opinion, he stated it, as so many do,

unequivocally as a fact. It had been a mystery to him why people so

often took offense and set to arguing the opposite side of the question.

Instead of saying outright what he had in mind, Socrates asked

questions—and indirectly led people to his own opinion. From that time

on, Benjamin used rarely such words as “certainly” or “undoubtedly,” but

expressed his own ideas with seeming diffidence and modesty. Rather than

saying, “This is so,” he substituted, “In my opinion, this might be so.”

He retained this habit of speech the rest of his life.

Outwardly more humble, he was inwardly gaining self-confidence. It

seemed to him that the things which James and his literary friends wrote

for the _Courant_ were no better than he could do himself, but he was

too smart to risk asking his brother to let him have an opportunity to

try. One morning a letter was slipped under the door of the shop before

any of the staff arrived. It was signed by a “Mrs. Silence Dogood.”

Mrs. Dogood claimed to have been born on a ship bringing her parents

from London to New England. Her father, so she said, was standing on the

deck rejoicing at her birth when “a merciless wave” carried him to his

death. In America, as soon as she was old enough, her hard-pressed

mother had apprenticed her to a young country parson, whom the young

girl later married. Now she was a widow with three children.

James printed Mrs. Dogood’s first letter, as well as subsequent ones in

which she expressed herself, wittily and clearly, on such varied

subjects as the folly of fashionable dress, the character of the

so-called weaker sex, the ill effects of liquor, the inferior quality of

New England poetry, the need of insurance for widows and old maids, the

hypocrisy of certain “pretenders to religion,” and the uselessness of

sending dullards to Harvard simply because their fathers could afford to

pay their way.

Not until her column had become the most controversial and the most

popular in the paper, did James Franklin learn that his

apprentice-brother was Mrs. Dogood’s creator.

In the meantime James was having his own troubles. Because of an

editorial attack by one of his contributors on the Massachusetts

governor, James was summoned before the City Council, sent to jail for a

month, and released only when he agreed to make an abject apology. The

City Council then forbade him to print or publish the _Courant_. In

desperation, James and his friends hit on the scheme of making Benjamin,

in name only, the _Courant_ publisher. So it would be legal, James

burned his brother’s apprenticeship papers, although privately a new set

was drawn up.

“Mrs. Dogood” added her voice to the indignation aroused at James

Franklin’s persecution. From the London _Journal_, she quoted an

article: “Without Freedom of Thought, there can be no such Thing as

Wisdom; and no such Thing as public liberty without Freedom of Speech.”

(Capitalization of nouns was then held part of elegant writing, a

practice which Benjamin Franklin always followed carefully.)

He had a freer hand now and composed many articles for the _Courant_. At

seventeen, he was without doubt the best writer in Boston, with a mind

inferior to none. It is small wonder that his brother felt it his moral

duty to exert his authority over him. There were arguments. There were

more blows on the part of James. Benjamin, by his own admission, was

“perhaps ... too saucy and provoking.”

One day he told his brother he was quitting. A runaway apprentice was

subject to the same penalties as a runaway slave, but Benjamin’s case

was slightly different. James could not make public the secret

apprenticeship papers without getting himself in trouble. He took out

his fury by visiting other Boston printing shops to warn them not to

employ his arrogant younger brother.

Benjamin resolved to go to New York. His only confidant was a young

friend named Collins. Collins persuaded the captain of a New York sloop

to give him passage, telling a fantastic yarn about Benjamin being

pursued by a young woman who wanted to marry him. The captain would not

have carried a runaway apprentice but goodnaturedly agreed to help the

young “ne’er-do-well” elude the female sex.

New York, where Benjamin arrived after a three-day journey, had only

7,000 inhabitants but was suffused with an atmosphere of luxury unknown

in Boston. Streets, paved with cobblestones, were filled with elegantly

attired English officials and wealthy businessmen. Houses were mostly of

brick with stairstep roofs in the Dutch style. Though the English had

captured it from the Netherlands in 1674, Dutch customs still prevailed.

Benjamin called at once on William Bradford, New York’s only printer.

Bradford told him he needed no help—privately he thought the Boston

youth unstable—but advised him to go to Philadelphia and see his son,

Andrew Bradford, also a printer. He could guarantee nothing but at least

there was no harm trying.

In history, William Bradford, a worthy man in his own way, has two

indirect claims to fame. One was that a former apprentice of his named

Peter Zenger braved official censure and served a prison sentence for

the principle of freedom of the press. The other—that he refused a job

to Benjamin Franklin.

2

A YOUNG MAN ON HIS OWN

No one could have looked sadder or funnier than Benjamin Franklin when

he walked down Philadelphia’s Market Street for the first time. At the

Fourth Street intersection, a rosy-cheeked buxom young girl, standing in

a doorway, burst out laughing at the sight of him. It was

understandable. His traveling suit was wet, shrunken and shapeless. His

pockets were bulging with spare socks and shirts. He was hugging a large

puffy white roll tightly under each arm and simultaneously eating a

third.

The journey from New York had been a series of mishaps. His ship nearly

foundered in a squall off the Long Island coast and was becalmed near

Block Island. Fresh water ran low. They would have gone hungry had not

some of the passengers hauled in a batch of codfish. Benjamin found the

aroma of frying fish so tempting that he there and then renounced Mr.

Tryon’s vegetarian regime, never returning to it except for lack of

funds.

Thirty hours later they landed at Amboy, where a leaky ferry took him

across to Perth Amboy. From there he walked some fifty miles to

Burlington, a two-day hike in pouring rain, then caught a boat going

down the Delaware. The captain was short a hand and Benjamin helped with

the rowing.

By the time they reached Philadelphia, his entire fortune was a Dutch

dollar and a shilling in copper. The captain told him he had earned his

passage, but he insisted on paying the shilling. It was a matter of

pride: “A man being sometimes more generous when he has but a little

money than when he has plenty, perhaps thro’ fear of being thought to

have but little.”

A three-penny piece had procured him the three enormous rolls. One of

them satisfied his hunger. He gave the other two to a woman and child

who had been on the boat with him. That night he slept at the Crooked

Billet Tavern, to which a friendly Quaker directed him.

The next morning he made himself as presentable as he could and went to

see Andrew Bradford, the printer. Young Bradford had no work but

hospitably invited him to lodge with his family. The same day Benjamin

called on another printer, Samuel Keimer, who promptly hired him. Thus

within twenty-four hours of his inopportune arrival, he had a place to

stay and a job.

Keimer was an eccentric little man with a long black beard who had but

recently come from France. He was somewhat of a knave as Benjamin would

learn later, and he knew little about his trade. His press was old and

in disrepair with only one small and worn-out font (set of type). But

the pay was good, or so it seemed to a youth who had never had a salary

before. He soon had Keimer befuddled with admiration by quoting Socrates

to him.

His employer was nervous about Benjamin living with a rival printer and

in a few weeks arranged for him to lodge with a family named Read. His

chest of clothes which he had shipped from New York had now arrived.

When Keimer took him to his new landlady, Ben was dressed in his best, a

handsome, husky well-mannered young man, about five feet ten inches,

with a wide mouth and a humorous light in his brown eyes. He was

introduced to the daughter of the house, Deborah Read. Both young people

started in surprise. She was the same lass who had laughed at him as he

walked down Market Street eating his roll.

Debby was a warmhearted outspoken young lady, cheerful and quite pretty.

Although, unlike himself, she had little interest in improving her mind,

he enjoyed her company. There was shortly some talk of marriage between

them. Her parents discouraged the idea, saying they were both too young.

Nor was Benjamin overly ardent in his courtship. He was not yet

eighteen, and far too pleased to be free of family discipline to think

of settling down as a married man.

Philadelphia was largely a Quaker town, with a sprinkling of Swedes and

Finns and a large contingent of German immigrants. The rich farms

surrounding it were cut into deep forests where Indians lingered. Bears

and wolves were still shot at the city’s gates. This “City of Brotherly

Love” had been planned by William Penn, the noble Quaker to whom King

Charles II had made a grant of the some forty thousand square miles of

land that made up the province of Pennsylvania. In contrast to the royal

colonies, like New York and Massachusetts, Pennsylvania was known as a

“proprietary” colony.

At William Penn’s death, his sons inherited the proprietorship. There

was already some resentment because of the vast tracts which the Penns

held tax-free.

In Philadelphia, Benjamin soon found friends of his own age and of

kindred interests. There were three with whom he spent many social

evenings: a pious young man named Watson, an argumentative one named

Osborne, and James Ralph, who fancied himself a poet. They exchanged

ideas on a multitude of subjects and read each other things they had

written. Franklin was not overworked on his job and had leisure for

reading. His needs were few and he saved some money.

Certainly he missed his family but he dared not let them know where he

was for fear of being dragged back to Boston. He did not realize that in

the small and intimate world of the colonies news of a stranger was

likely to get around. He had a brother-in-law, Robert Holmes, who was a

sloop owner living in New Castle, forty miles from Philadelphia. Somehow

Holmes learned of his whereabouts and wrote to tell him the worry he had

caused his parents. Benjamin answered in considerable detail, explaining

the reasons for his departure.

Soon afterwards two distinguished gentlemen knocked at Keimer’s shop.

Keimer spied them from an upstairs window. “Sir William Keith!” he

gasped in awe, and rushed down the steps to open the door, bowing and

scraping. Keith was governor of the province of Pennsylvania! With him

was another important citizen, one Colonel French. No doubt Keimer

expected some important commission. The governor, however, brushed him

aside and demanded to see Mr. Benjamin Franklin.

“How do you do, sir,” he said when Benjamin appeared. “I must reproach

you for not making yourself known to me when you first arrived. I have

heard fine things about you, very fine things indeed. The colonel and I

are headed to the tavern across the way which serves an excellent

Madeira. Would you care to join us?”

“I would be delighted, your honor,” Benjamin told him, removing the

leather apron which was a symbol of his trade. His face was as impassive

as if it were an everyday occurrence to have a governor invite him for a

glass of wine.

Keimer, mouth open, stared at them with the look of a “poisoned pig.”

Over the Madeira, Benjamin learned that Keith knew Robert Holmes, his

brother-in-law, and had seen his letter. Keith, a man of some literary

pretensions himself, had been deeply impressed with his skill at

expressing himself.

“The printers of Philadelphia are a wretched lot,” Keith asserted. “From

what your brother-in-law says, Mr. Franklin, I am convinced that you

would succeed in your own shop. I will do all in my power to aid you.”

As Benjamin basked in this heady tribute, the governor and Colonel

French launched into ways and means of setting him up in the printing

business. All that was needed was capital. Would not Benjamin’s father

provide the necessary backing? It was very unlikely, Benjamin commented.

“I will tell you what I will do,” said the governor. “I will write to

your father myself to tell him how much faith I have in your ability.”

Dazzled, Benjamin agreed to make a trip home to deliver the governor’s

letter personally.

He took a leave of absence a few weeks later, telling Keimer only that

he was visiting his family. A year before he had quit Boston, a near

penniless runaway. He returned in triumph, wearing a new suit, carrying

a watch, and jingling some five pounds of sterling in his pocket. His

mother and father were overjoyed to see him, and his sisters crowded

around him delightedly.

He could not resist going to the printing shop of his brother James. No

doubt he strutted somewhat and bragged about his success. He showed the

admiring workmen his silver money, a novelty in Boston where paper money

was used, and handed each a piece of eight to buy a drink. Only James

refused to be impressed. He grew increasingly glum during Benjamin’s

visit. Later he said Benjamin had gone out of his way to insult him and

he would never forgive him.

That night Benjamin showed his father the letter from Sir William Keith.

Josiah Franklin was pleased as any parent that such an important

personage had taken an interest in his son but did not approve of

Keith’s proposal. In his opinion Benjamin was too young to have the

responsibility of his own shop, he wrote in his politely worded reply.

“I see your father is a prudent man,” Keith said later in Philadelphia

when Benjamin came to make his report. He added that he had found there

was a great difference in persons and that discretion did not always

accompany years. Since Josiah Franklin did not recognize his son’s

unusual abilities, he, the governor, would sponsor him.

He had Benjamin regularly to his fine house for dinner the next weeks.

Gradually he unfolded his plan. Benjamin must take his savings and go to

England. There he could pick out for himself his own press, type fonts,

paper, and whatever else he needed for a printing shop. The governor

would provide him with letters of introduction and letters of credit to

cover everything.

Who could have refused such a splendid opportunity? Toward the end of

1724, after quitting his employment with Keimer, Benjamin set sail for

his first visit to the Old World. There had been a touching farewell to

Deborah Read, to whom he promised to write often. James Ralph, his poet

friend, went with him, having decided to try his fortune in England.

Since the governor was busy with pressing affairs, Colonel French saw

him off. He did not have the letters Keith had promised, but assured

Benjamin they were safe in the captain’s mailbag.

He had a pleasant trip and made one good friend—an elderly Quaker

merchant named Thomas Denham. Not until they reached the English Channel

did the ship captain sort out his mail. That was when Benjamin learned

that there were no letters of credit, no letters of introduction,

nothing at all from Governor Keith. He was stranded in London, with only

twelve pounds to his name.

In his bewilderment, he confided his plight to Denham.

“There is not the least probability that he wrote any letters for you,”

the Quaker told him. “No one who knows the governor would depend on him.

As for his giving you any letters of credit—that is a sad joke. He has

no credit to give.”

“But why?” Benjamin asked. “Why would he play such a trick on me?”

“Do not think too harshly of him,” Denham said charitably. “Keith wants

to please everyone. Having little to give, he gives expectations.”

It was a bitter lesson.

He stayed in London nearly eighteen months. It turned out to be as easy

for him to find a job here as in Philadelphia. Part of the time he

worked for a printer named Palmer and after that for a Mr. Watt. Under

the tutelage of experienced workmen, he perfected his printing skills.

He also attempted to improve his colleagues by urging them to drink

water instead of beer for breakfast. The “Water American,” they dubbed

him, but a few of them followed his advice.

Not that he was a prude. London had much to offer a young man who was

curious and alert and full of fun. There were operas in French or

Italian, plays by William Shakespeare at the Drury Lane Theatre,

scientific lectures, and the lure of dance halls. He wrote a pamphlet

called “A Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity, Pleasure and Pain,”

which brought him some acclaim among London’s young intellectuals. He

presented an American curiosity, a purse of stone asbestos, to Sir Hans

Sloane, secretary of the Royal Society, and almost met Sir Isaac Newton.

James Ralph borrowed money from him and then split up with him without

paying him back, in a quarrel over a pretty milliner. He sent off one

letter to Deborah Read, but never got around to writing another.

He could not have missed observing the squalor of the slums and the

contrasting elegance of the great lords with their postilions and

liveried coachmen. That no such vast difference existed between rich and

poor in America may have struck him, but he drew no moral lesson. He was

not yet a crusader and his heart was set on having as good a time as his

means allowed.

On occasion he went swimming in the Thames with a co-worker named

Wygate, and once on an excursion to Chelsea he dazzled Wygate and his

other companions with a display of the water exercises which he had

invented in his childhood. A certain Sir William Wyndham, a friend of

the great Jonathan Swift, heard of his prowess and invited him to teach

swimming to his sons. About the same time, Wygate proposed that the two

of them travel through Europe, earning their way as journeymen printers.

Both suggestions tempted Benjamin but he rejected them. His Quaker

friend Thomas Denham had offered him a position in his Philadelphia

importing company. Denham had made one fortune as a merchant and was set

on making another. With the crying need of America’s growing population

for goods from abroad, there was no reason why he should not succeed.

The salary was less than Franklin earned as a printer, but there would

be handsome commissions, travel to foreign lands, and, so he believed,

an assured future.

He set sail on July 23, 1726, on the _Berkshire_. It was October 11

before they reached Philadelphia. Franklin, now twenty, kept a journal

on this long voyage. He had time to think, to observe nature, to

philosophize.

An eclipse of the sun and one of the moon were notable events of the

trip, duly recorded in his journal. The passengers fished for dolphins.

He noted their glorious appearance in the water, their bodies “of a

bright green, mixed with a silver colour, and their tails of a shining

golden yellow,” and wondered at the “vulgar error of the painters, who

always represent this fish monstrously crooked and deformed.”

From the Gulf Stream he fished out several branches of gulfweed and

spent long hours studying a growth which he called “vegetable animals,”

resembling shellfish and yet seeming part of the weed. Noting a small

crab of the same yellowish color as the weed, he deduced—erroneously but

with logic—that the crab came from the “vegetable animals” as a

butterfly comes from a cocoon.

The idiosyncrasies of his fellow passengers also came under his

scrutiny. From watching the men play drafts he concluded that “if two

persons equal in judgment play for a considerable sum, he that loves

money will lose; his anxiety for the success of the game confounds him.”

One of the passengers was caught cheating and would not pay a fine. The

others refused to eat, drink or talk with him. The cheat soon paid up.

“Man is a sociable being,” young Franklin wrote in his journal, “and it

is, for aught I know, one of the worst of punishments to be excluded

from society.”

He discovered that there was nothing like a contrary wind to bring out

the worst in mankind: “... we grow sullen, silent, and reserved, and

fret at each other upon every little occasion.” At the sight of a ship

from Dublin bound from New York, on the contrary, he commented: “There

is something strangely cheering to the spirits in the meeting of a ship

at sea ... after we had been long separated and excommunicated as it

were from the rest of mankind.”

Interesting as the trip was, there was no moment equal to that when one

of the mess cried “Land! Land!” In less than an hour they perceived the

tufts of trees. “I could not discern it so soon as the rest; my eyes

were dimmed with the suffusion of two small drops of joy.”

He had set out to conquer Philadelphia three years before and had not

succeeded. Now he was to have another try.

3

THE BIRTH OF POOR RICHARD

Deborah Read was married. This bit of news which greeted his return came

as a shock, though he had only himself to blame. A luscious young woman

like Debby could hardly be expected to nourish her affection on one

letter in a year and a half.

He had, it seemed to him, three major causes for self-reproach in his

past: the grief he had caused his parents by running away from Boston;

the wrong he had done his brother James; and his long neglect of Debby.

He resolved that henceforth his life would be conducted differently.

Printing was behind him now, or so he thought. Under Thomas Denham he

set himself to learning the intricacies of merchandising. He lived with

Denham; their relationship was that of father and son. It lasted only a

few months. In February 1727, the good Quaker fell ill and did not

recover. His executors took over his store, and Franklin was out of a

job.

Swallowing his pride, he went back to Samuel Keimer. To his surprise his

former employer welcomed him with open arms and even gave him a raise.

He soon found out why. Keimer had hired half a dozen men at very low

pay. The trouble was they knew nothing about printing. He needed

Franklin to teach them their trade.

Obligingly, Franklin went to great pains to show the men everything he

knew himself. He did considerably more than he was paid to do. When

types wore out, instead of sending an order to England for more, he

devised a copper mold to cast new type, the first time this had been

done in America. He made their ink, and he started a sideline of

engraving. All the techniques he had learned from the London experts, he

now put to use.

Knowing Keimer, he did not expect gratitude nor did he get it. As

business improved and as the workmen mastered their trade, the employer

grew increasingly uncivil and quarrelsome. He complained that he was

paying Franklin too much and nagged him incessantly. Matters soon came

to a climax. One day Franklin heard a loud noise outside the shop and

dashed to the window to see what was happening. He never did find out.

Keimer was standing in the street below and, on seeing Franklin’s face

at the window, he bawled him out in such violent and insulting terms

that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. No job was worth that

much. Franklin took his hat and walked out, never to come back.

That night a fellow journeyman named Hugh Meredith came to see him.

Meredith, who had been a farmer and taken up printing only recently, was

fed up with Keimer. He proposed that the two of them should go into

partnership as soon as his period of service was up a few months hence.

His father admired Franklin and was willing to finance them. Mr.

Meredith senior soon confirmed the offer, privately telling Franklin he

felt he would be a good influence on his son, who drank too much.

During the next months Franklin did odd jobs and, in his spare time,

organized a club called the Junto. There were twelve members in all,

including Hugh and two other printers, a shoemaker, a joiner, a

scrivener, and others in modest trades. “The Leather Apron Club,” the

town’s wealthier citizens nicknamed the Junto, because of the humble

working class background of its membership.

The Junto met each Friday. Franklin provided them with a list of

“queries” to be discussed. “Have you lately observed any encroachment on

the just liberties of the people?” Already he was beginning to think in

terms of civil rights. “Do you know of any deserving young beginner

lately set up whom it lies in the power of the Junto any way to

encourage?” He knew from personal experience how much it meant to a

young man to have friends to give him support and advice. “Which is

best: to make a friend of a wise and good man that is poor or of a rich

man that is neither wise nor good?” His brief tussle with earning a

living had convinced him that wisdom was preferable to riches.

“Whence comes the dew that stands on the outside of a tankard that has

cold water in it in the summertime?” The latter was one of many

scientific “queries” he suggested to the Junto, in line with his own

curiosity about the mysteries of life.

To improve themselves, to cultivate ethical virtues, to lend a hand to

their neighbors—all were included in the Junto’s lofty aims. They

composed essays on various subjects. If a member read something of

interest in “history, morality, Poetry, physic, travels, mechanic arts,”

he shared his new knowledge with his fellow members.

They were not always serious. Sometimes they met for outdoor sports.

They held banquets, composed and sang songs, made jokes, told stories,

often had riotous times together. The friendships they formed were firm,

lasting as long as they lived.

Occasionally Franklin caught sight of Sir William Keith on the street,

The former governor would look uncomfortable and slink away. His fortune

had deteriorated. Before very long, he fled to England, leaving his wife

and daughter penniless; he died in a London debtors’ prison.

In the spring of 1728, when Franklin was twenty-two, he and Hugh

Meredith were ready to open their own printing shop in a house on High

Street. Their first customer was a farmer who gave them five shillings

to print an advertisement. No sum ever loomed so large.

Customers were few and far between those first months. It was not due to

Franklin’s partner that they survived at all. He was rarely sober enough

to do a day’s labor. His father had been optimistic in hoping that

Franklin could change him. Eventually Hugh admitted that he would never

make a printer.

“I was bred a farmer, Benjamin. ’Twas folly for me to come to town and

apprentice myself to learn a new trade.”

They talked the matter over and came to an agreement. Franklin would pay

back Hugh’s father the hundred pounds he had advanced for their printing

equipment, pay Hugh’s personal debts and give him thirty pounds and a

new saddle. Two of his Junto friends loaned him the money he needed.

Hugh took off for his farm, leaving Franklin, at twenty-three, the sole

owner of the printing shop.

The common people of Pennsylvania at this time were pleading for paper

money, such as was used in Massachusetts and other colonies, but the

wealthier citizens opposed it. Franklin, siding with the people, wrote a

pamphlet on “The Nature and Necessity of a Paper Currency,” which he

printed himself, and which swayed the Pennsylvania Assembly to pass a

bill to issue such paper currency. For his contribution, Franklin was

awarded the contract to print the money.

Soon afterward, Philadelphia’s most esteemed lawyer, Andrew Hamilton,

arranged for him to print the laws and votes of the government. Business

was beginning to prosper.

With all orders he took infinite pains. He kept his equipment in

excellent shape, cleaning the type himself. He used very white paper and

very black inks and sometimes made decorative woodcuts to illustrate

advertisements. He hired a workman and took an apprentice, but outworked

them both, staying in the shop from dawn to near midnight.

His rival, Andrew Bradford, printed an address from the Pennsylvania

Assembly to the governor in a slipshod manner. Franklin reprinted the

same address elegantly, sending a copy to every Assembly member. The

next year he was voted official printer for the Assembly. He started a

stationer’s shop to sell paper, booklets, and miscellaneous items.

Perhaps to impress the citizens of Philadelphia with his industry, he

carted his supplies from the wharf in a wheelbarrow, wearing his leather

apron.

Philadelphia boasted only one newspaper, a dreary and conservative sheet

which Bradford published. Franklin talked over with his friends his own

desire to start a livelier paper. One of them betrayed him to Keimer,

his other rival, who promptly put out a newspaper with the ambitious

title, _The Universal Instructor in All Arts and Science, and

Pennsylvania Gazette_.

That poor illiterate Keimer running a paper? It lasted only until

September 1729 when Keimer, head over heels in debt, sold it to Franklin

for a pittance and departed to the Barbados, never to return. The

_Pennsylvania Gazette_, as he called it, became Franklin’s newspaper to

run as he wished.

That winter he performed his first scientific experiment, designed to

find out if the heat of the sun was absorbed more readily by colored

objects than by white ones. The experiment was so simple any child could

do it; the wonder was no one had thought of it before. He took some

tailor’s samples—small squares of cloth in black, blue, green, purple,

red, yellow, and white—and laid them out on the snow a bright sunny

morning. In a few hours, the black square, which the sun had warmed

most, had sunk low into the snow; the dark blue was almost as low; the

other colors had sunk less deeply; while the white sample remained on

the surface of the snow.

Franklin thought in terms of the practical value of this discovery:

white clothes would be more suitable than black ones in a hot climate;

summer hats should be white to repel the heat and prevent sunstroke;

fruit walls, if painted black, could absorb enough of the sun’s heat to

stay warm at night, thereby helping to preserve the fruit from frost.

A glazier’s family named Godfrey had been sharing his High Street house.

He was lonely when they moved. Even his close friends of the Junto could

not ease his longing to have a family of his own.

On occasion he visited the Read family. Deborah’s marriage had turned

out tragically. Her husband, a good workman but irresponsible, had, like

Keimer, taken off to the West Indies to escape debts. Even worse, it

turned out that he had a wife still living in England. Debby, who had

come home to live with her mother, was so pale and sad Franklin was

filled with pity for her. Perhaps first out of a desire to do good,

Franklin did his best to cheer her up, and it pleased him no end to see

the color gradually come back to her cheeks as her normally high spirits

returned. No woman had ever appealed to him more than she. In time she

responded to his affection. They were married on September 1, 1730.

Theirs was not the most romantic attachment in the world, but it

endured. “She proved a good and faithful helpmate,” he wrote some years

later in his _Autobiography_, “... we throve together, and have ever

mutually endeavor’d to make each other happy.” Indeed Debby proved the

ideal wife for an ambitious young man. She helped him in his printing

orders, by folding and stitching pamphlets or purchasing old linen rags

for the paper makers, and she ran their stationer’s shop. Since he

preached the need of economy, she obligingly served him plain and simple

fare and contented herself with the cheapest furniture. Nor did she

complain when he went every Friday night to the meetings of the Junto.

The little club had now hired a hall for its weekly gatherings. As there

was no good bookshop in Philadelphia, the members pooled their own books

and loaned them to each other. This practice of communal sharing gave

them so much pleasure that, at Franklin’s suggestion, they commenced a

public library. Every subscriber, Junto member or not, paid a sum down

to buy books from England, and there was an annual contribution for

additional purchases. America’s earliest lending library had come into

being, the first of many civic benefits which Franklin initiated over

the years.

A rival organization to the Junto was the newly established Philadelphia

branch of the Masons, mostly well-to-do citizens. The aim of Freemasonry

was “to promote Friendship, mutual Assistance, and Good Fellowship.”

Franklin succeeded in becoming a member by a rather sly trick, a note in

the _Gazette_ claiming knowledge of the “Masonic mysteries.” Since these

“mysteries” were supposed to be highly secret, the members were so

alarmed they invited the _Gazette’s_ editor and publisher to join their

ranks. For many years he was a leader in Masonic affairs.

He had wanted to be a Mason, but no one could persuade him to join any

church or denomination. That there was one God who made all things and

that the soul was immortal, he believed firmly. He held that “the most

acceptable service to God is doing good to man.” Since all religious

sects, in theory, preached the same, he never did see a reason to favor

one of them above others.

Within a year or so of its inception, the _Pennsylvania Gazette_ had the

largest circulation of any paper in America. Profiting from the lessons

he had learned while working for his brother James, he stressed human

interest stories and local news. He ran an article on the harsh

treatment of a ship captain to the Palatine immigrants. He published

stories on robberies and murders, was not above poking fun at the stodgy

official reports which filled the pages of Andrew Bradford’s paper, and

he took up the cudgel for the freedom of the press.

Most popular of all were his “Letters from the Readers,” many of which

he undoubtedly wrote himself. Thus “Anthony Afterwit” complained that

his wife, who wished to play the grand lady, was ruining him. “Celia

Single” scolded the _Gazette_ editor for being partial to men. “Alice

Addertongue,” another contributor, announced the opening of her shop to

sell “calumnies, slanders and other feminine wares.” He ran

advertisements, sometimes for runaway slaves (it would be some years

before he crystallized his thinking on the evil of slavery), sometimes

for a wife pleading to her husband to come home. He slipped in jokes as

a good cook adds seasoning, and he refused to let the paper be used for

personal quarrels.

In 1732, three years after launching the _Gazette_, he was ready for a

new publishing venture, his celebrated _Poor Richard’s Almanack_. There

were other almanacs published in the colonies; almanacs in fact sold

almost as well as Bibles. Soon _Poor Richard_ eclipsed them all.

Like the others, it noted holidays, changes of season, dates of fairs,

gave weather information, advised the best day to gather grapes or to

sow seeds. Interspersed with such data were proverbs, verses, witticisms

and epigrams, some original but a great many adapted from sayings of

great writers of the past, trimmed to suit an American audience:

Light purse, heavy heart. A rich rogue is like a fat hog, who never does

good till dead as a log. Eat to live, and not live to eat. Nothing more

like a fool, than a drunken man. To lengthen thy life, lessen thy meals.

None preaches better than the ant, and she says nothing. Observe all

men; thyself most. Half the truth is often a great lie. Lost time is

never found again. Little strokes, fell great oaks. Nothing but money is

sweeter than honey. Love your enemies, for they tell you your faults.

Love your neighbor; yet don’t pull down your hedge. Don’t throw stones

at your neighbors’, if your own windows are glass. The cat in gloves

catches no mice. To err is human, to repent divine; to persist devilish.

A brother may not be a friend, but a friend will always be a brother.

And, a tribute to Debby: “He that has not got a wife, is not yet a

complete man.”

Poor Richard had something to say on practically every subject under the

sun. He was in turn witty, wise, and, in keeping with the time he lived

in, somewhat bawdy. No matter that he was sometimes inconsistent and

contradictory, that he might praise saving money at one moment and make

fun of the miser the next. Americans—farmers, businessmen, wives and

workmen—chuckled at him, laughed with him, and perhaps at times took his

moral lessons to heart. Many of his maxims became embedded in the

American language.

Because of _Poor Richard_, prosperity touched the family that had

hitherto known only economy and hard work. One day Franklin came down to

breakfast to find that Deborah had served his bread and milk not in his

usual two-penny earthenware crock, but in a china bowl. Instead of his

old pewter spoon, there was one of silver.

“What is the meaning of this, Debby?”

“My Pappy can afford a china bowl and a silver spoon now,” she said.

4

THE CIVIC-MINDED CITIZEN

There were two children in the Franklin family now. The first was

William, the other, Francis Folger, whom the father called Franky. He

was proud of his sons. He had reason to want to be a good example to

them.

One day he drew up a list of thirteen “virtues” as follows:

Temperance (eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation)

Silence (speak not but what may benefit others or yourself)

Order

Resolution (perform without fail what you resolve)

Frugality

Industry

Sincerity

Justice (wrong none by doing injuries)

Moderation

Cleanliness

Tranquillity

Chastity

Humility (imitate Jesus and Socrates)

Franklin’s ambitious project was to try to achieve all these virtues,

thus to approach as near as possible moral perfection. This was no New

Year’s Resolution to be lightly made and quickly forgotten. He purchased

a small notebook, ruled the pages with red ink, making seven vertical

columns, one for each day of the week, and thirteen horizontal columns,

one for each virtue.

Each time he felt he had failed to practice one of his virtues he made a

black mark in the proper square. Thus if he put a cross in the Tuesday

column opposite Silence, he judged he had that day talked too much about

trivial matters. The thirteenth virtue, Humility, suggested by a Quaker

friend, was a check on the others; if he was proud of his mastery over

any of his virtues, he would be lacking in humility.

He kept this notebook regularly for a long time. The virtue which gave

him most trouble was Order (let all your things have their places; let

each part of your business have its time). Eventually he had to decide

that he was not an orderly person and never would be. Nor did he ever

claim that he achieved anywhere near “moral perfection” in any of the

others, although he did give credit years later to his daily discipline

for “the constant felicity of my life.”

It is unlikely that in any other part of the world a grown and

prospering businessman would have resolved to make himself more

virtuous, with all the diligence of a schoolboy attacking a problem in

arithmetic. His act was typically American. The colonies were young and

growing and pliable, not old and set in their ways like the European

nations. Young countries, like young people, harbor the seeds of

idealism, yearnings for greatness, deep-rooted desires to be better in

any or every sphere of activity than their predecessors or

contemporaries. The youthful spirit that was part and parcel of America

remained with Benjamin Franklin to the end of his days.

He was always trying to enlarge his mental horizons. For that aim he

taught himself French, Italian, Spanish, and German, not yet dreaming

that he would ever have practical use for these languages. He was at the

same time widening his business activities, starting a branch of his

printing shop in Charleston, South Carolina, on a partnership

arrangement. It was the first of many branches.

In 1733, after an absence of ten years, he went back to Boston to see

his family. His parents were well but there were some sad changes. Four

of his sisters and one of his brothers had died. Jane, his beautiful

young sister, closer to him than anyone else in the family, had been

married for six years to a saddler named Edward Mecom, and had two boys,

but her husband was in poor health and her children were also sickly.

Tragedy had cast its first shadow over her. She would in the years to

come lose her husband and twelve children, two of them dying insane, as

the result of some unknown inherited sickness.

James was living in Newport, and on his way back to Philadelphia,

Franklin paid this older brother a visit. Their reunion was cordial and

old differences were ignored if not forgotten. James too was sick and

knew that death was not far away. His former apprentice promised to take

care of James’ son and teach him the printing business. When James died

two years later, Franklin sent the boy to school for five years and then

took him into his home as an apprentice, thus making James “ample amends

for the service I had depriv’d him of by leaving him so early.”

All his life he would be giving aid—jobs, partnerships, loans, gifts

and, less welcome, advice—to his family, his in-laws, his nieces,

nephews, friends, and children of friends. The assistance was sometimes

unappreciated and seldom rewarded. It played havoc with virtue number

four, Frugality. Nor, as he had omitted the virtue of generosity from

his list, did he ever give himself any good marks for such services.

Sorrow struck him personally on November 21, 1736, when Francis Folger,

a grave and sweet-faced lad of four, died of smallpox. In the midst of

his terrible grief, Franklin refuted a false rumor. It was not true, he

wrote in the _Gazette_, that his boy had died as the result of smallpox

inoculation. Had he been inoculated, his life might have been spared. He

felt it important that his readers should know that he considered

inoculation “a safe and beneficial practice.”

The year of his son’s death, he was appointed clerk to the Pennsylvania

Assembly, and the following year he was made postmaster of Philadelphia.

These were his first official positions, and there was pay and prestige

attached to both. What matter if the Assembly sessions were so tedious

he worked out mathematical puzzles to keep himself awake, and that his

home on High Street now housed the city post office in addition to the

Franklins, various relatives of both of them for varying lengths of

times, servants, apprentices, and on occasion journeymen who had no

other lodgings.

He had six of these workmen now, including a Swede and a German, which

made it possible to print in those languages. They were all kept busy.

He was public printer for Delaware, New Jersey and Maryland. Besides the

_Almanack_ and the _Gazette_, a number of books were coming off the High

Street presses: Cato’s _Moral Distichs; The Constitution of the

Free-Masons_, the first Masonic book printed in America; Cadwallader

Colden’s _An Explication of the First Causes of Motion in Matter_; and

Richardson’s _Pamela_, the first novel printed in America.

Their stationer’s shop now sold books as well as an astounding range of

miscellany: goose quills, chocolate, cordials, cheese, codfish,

compasses, scarlet broadcloth, four-wheeled chaises, Seneca rattlesnake

root with directions on how to use it for pleurisy, ointments and salves

for the “itch” and other ailments, made by the Widow Read, Debby’s

mother, and fine green Crown soap, unique in the colonies, produced by

Franklin’s brothers John and Peter who had learned the secret of its

composition from their father.

In all this hustle and bustle, Franklin reigned as instigator and

executor. He was a little heavier, his brown hair somewhat thinner, his

face more mature, and his manner more calm and assured, but in his eyes

was the same merriment of the Boston youth. Around the house and shop,

he dressed in working clothes, red flannel shirt, leather breeches, and

his old leather apron.

For meetings of the Masons or for dinners with prominent Philadelphians

who were now demanding his company, he had more elegant attire. On such

occasions he might wear his best black cloth breeches, velvet jacket, a

Holland shirt with ruffles at the wrist and neck, calfskin shoes,

high-quality worsted stockings, and a fashionable wig.

Debby never accompanied him to such affairs, nor would she have been

comfortable if she had done so. The years of their marriage had put a

wider social and intellectual gap between them. While Franklin had

cultivated his mental powers and learned to speak as an equal to anyone,

she was the same Debby he had married, grown older and plumper. Her

voice was still rough, her language uncouth, her manners hearty, and her

taste in clothes flamboyant. He never tried to change her. He

appreciated her loyalty, her industry, her warm heart, and asked for

nothing more. “My plain Country Joan,” he called her in a ballad he

wrote and sang for the members of the Junto:

Of their Chloes and Phyllises poets may prate,

I sing my plain Country Joan,

These twelve years my wife, still the joy of my life,

Blest day that I made her my own.

As for Debby, had anyone told her that her husband would one day be

among the most famous men in the world, she would have laughed in his

face. Not her “Pappy”—as she always called him. Not that he wasn’t the

best of husbands, a good provider, and really handy at doing things

around the house.

She must have clapped her hands in delight at the stove he set up in

their common room in 1740. Houses then were mostly heated by fireplaces.

Large or small, they had in common that one was scorched on approaching

the fire too closely and chilled at the far side of the room. It was

impossible for a woman to sit by the window to sew on a winter day. Her

fingers would be too stiff with cold to hold a needle. It was taken for

granted that everyone had colds during the winter months, especially the

women, who of necessity were indoors more than the men. There was the

problem of smoke too. With the usual fireplace, most of the smoke came

into the room instead of going up the chimney, blackening curtains and

spreading soot everywhere.

Franklin’s Pennsylvania Fireplace, later called the Franklin Stove, was

made of cast iron, could be taken apart and moved easily from room to

room. It spread no smoke and, most amazingly, heated the entire room an

almost equal temperature.

Debby’s sole complaint about her husband had to do with the way he

spoiled his son William. Ever since the death of little Franky, he

humored the boy to excess. William had a string of private

schoolmasters—one of them decamped with Franklin’s wardrobe when William

was nine. He had his own pony, like the sons of the rich. Whatever the

boy wanted, he managed to wangle from his indulgent father. “The

greatest villain on earth,” Debby once called this clever lad. The two

of them never did get along.

Even William had to take second place after their first and only

daughter, Sarah, was born in 1743. Sarah would bring to her father joy

and comfort to modify the pain caused by his son.

He was busy that year with a new project. In May he issued a circular

letter headed “Proposal for Promoting Useful Knowledge Among the British

Plantations in North America,” which be mailed to men of learning

throughout the colonies. Now that the first drudgery of settling was

over, he wrote, the time had come “to cultivate the finer arts and

improve the common stock.”

For this purpose, he proposed formation of an organization whose

members, through meetings or by correspondence, would exchange

information on all new scientific discoveries or inventions, and he

offered his own services as secretary “till they shall be provided with

one more capable.” From this letter grew the American Philosophical

Society, which came into being the following year. (The words

“philosophical” and “scientific” were then used as synonyms.) Its

activities were parallel to those of the famous Royal Society in London.

One of Franklin’s first contributions to the new society was a paper on

his “Pennsylvania Fireplace,” which he and Debby had been enjoying

several years, including diagrams and instructions on how to install it.

He refused to patent his invention: “As we enjoy great advantages from

the inventions of others, we should be glad of an opportunity to serve

others by any invention of ours.”

Also in 1743 he printed his “Proposal Relating to the Education of Youth

in Pennsylvania,” a pamphlet suggesting an academy of learning to match

Yale, Harvard, and William and Mary College at Williamsburg. He launched

this plan not as his own but as coming from some “public-spirited

gentlemen,” a tactical approach he had figured out to be more effective

than using his own name.

The academy, he wrote, should be “not far from a river, having a garden,

orchard, meadow, and a field or two.” It should have a library. The

students—youths from eight to sixteen—should “diet together plainly,

temperately, and frugally.” They should be trained in running, leaping,

wrestling, and swimming.

Subjects studied should be “those things that are likely to be most

useful and most ornamental.” All should be taught to “write a fair hand”

and to learn drawing, “a universal language, understood by all nations.”

They should learn grammar, with Addison, Pope, and Cato’s _Letters_ as

models. He stressed the importance of elocution: “pronouncing properly,

distinctly, emphatically.” The curriculum should include mathematics,

astronomy, history, geography, ancient customs, morality, but not Latin

and Greek, unless a student had “an ardent desire to learn them.”

Franklin’s ideal and surprisingly modern academy was also to teach

practical matters: invention, manufactures, trade, mechanics, “that art

by which weak men perform such wonders ...,” planting and grafting.

There should be “now and then excursions made to the neighboring

plantations of the best farmers, their methods observed and reasoned

upon for the information of youth.”

This “Proposal” was the genesis of the University of Pennsylvania, which

in six years’ time—1749—became a reality. (Franklin was elected first

president, a post he held seven years.)

Philadelphia had as yet no regular police force. Its dark and narrow

streets were in theory guarded by the local citizens, appointed in

rotation by the ward constables. Often citizens preferred to pay the six

shillings required to hire a substitute, money which might be dissipated

in drink, leaving streets unguarded, or to pay the very ruffians against

whom protection was needed. To abolish such abuses, Franklin persuaded

his Junto members to campaign for a paid police force, which was voted a

few years later.

Also through the Junto, he called public attention to Philadelphia’s

fire hazards and means of avoiding them. From this effort came the Union

Fire Company, the first organized firemen in the colonies. Subsequently,

he was responsible for the first fire insurance company in the colonies.

Since 1739, England had been at war with Spain, and in 1744, war with

France erupted. The struggle involved the colonies when, in July 1747,

French and Spanish privateers plundered two plantations on the Delaware

River, a little below New Castle. There were rumors of a French plan to

sack Philadelphia. The city had no defenses. The Quaker-dominated

Assembly had refused to vote money for war purposes.

Seeing danger threaten, Franklin published “Plain Truth,” a pamphlet

which succeeded in convincing even the Quakers of the need for

preparedness. Under his leadership, Pennsylvania’s first volunteer

militia, with some 10,000 members, was formed. He was offered the post

of colonel in the Philadelphia branch. He declined, preferring to serve

as a common soldier. William, now sixteen, was also in service, not in

the militia but in a company raised by the British for a campaign

against French Canada.

In 1748, France, Spain and England settled their difficulties

temporarily in the peace treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. For the time being,

the colonies were free from danger of invasion or attack. At last the

Franklin family could return to normal life.

He was forty-two and by the standards of the time a rich man. Since his

income was sufficient for his needs, he made up his mind to retire. A

fellow printer named David Hall took over the management of his printing

shop. Franklin moved to a quiet part of town, at Race and Second

streets, and bought a 300-acre farm in Burlington, New Jersey, where he

could practice the art of a gentleman farmer.

It was time, he believed, to devote the remaining years of his life to

his friends, to his writing, to the pursuit of learning. Particularly a

branch of learning that had occupied his attention on and off for the

past several years—the study of electricity.

5

THE THUNDER GIANT

A few years before his retirement, Franklin, on a visit to Boston,

attended a display of electrical tricks given by a Dr. Adam Spencer of

Scotland. There is no record of the nature of these “electrical tricks.”

Franklin commented later that Dr. Spencer was no expert and that they

were imperfectly performed. Since he had never seen anything of the sort

before, he was “surpris’d and pleased.”

That sparks could be produced by friction had been known since ancient

times. Little more was known about electricity until, in the first part

of the eighteenth century, a young Frenchman, Charles François du Fay,

identified two different types of electricity: _vitreous_, produced by

rubbing glass with silk; _resinous_, produced by rubbing resin with wool

or fur. Such frictional electricity was brief-lived. Sparks flashed and

were gone, and that was the end of it.

Was there any way in which electric charges could be preserved from the

rapid decay which they underwent in the air? Around 1747 two scientists

were working independently on this problem—E. C. von Kleist of Pomerania

and Pieter van Musschenbroek of the University of Leyden. Within a few

months of each other, they had found a method of storing electricity in

a container. The Leyden jar, this container was named. It was the first

electrical condenser.

In one experiment Musschenbroek suspended a glass phial of water from a

gun barrel by a wire which went down through a cork in the phial a few

inches into the water. The gun barrel, hanging on a silk rope, had a

metallic fringe inserted into the barrel which touched an electrically

charged glass globe. A friend who was watching him, a man named Cunaeus,

happened to grasp the phial with one hand and the wire with another.

Immediately he felt a strange and startling sensation—reportedly the

first manmade electric shock in history.

Musschenbroek repeated what Cunaeus had done, this time using a small

glass bowl as his “Leyden jar.” “I would not take a second shock for the

King of France,” he said.

Van Kleist in Pomerania produced the same effect. He lined the inside

and outside of his Leyden jar with silver foil, charged the inner coat

heavily, connected it with the outer foil by a wire which he held in his

hand—and felt a violent shock run into his arm and chest.

A Leyden jar could take any number of forms. Even a wine bottle would

serve. The type used most frequently during the next few years was a

glass tube, some two and a half feet long, and just big enough around so

that a man might grasp it easily in his hand. The advantage of this size

and shape was that it could most conveniently be electrified, which was

then done by hand, by rubbing the glass with a cloth or buckskin. This

simple device gave impetus to research on electricity throughout Europe.

It also provided a new form of entertainment.

Performers went from town to town with their Leyden jars, giving

spectators the thrill of receiving electric shocks, and extolling the

marvels of “electrical fire.” Louis XV of France invited his guests to

watch a novel spectacle arranged by his court philosopher, Abbé

Jean-Antoine Nollet. The King’s Guard in full uniform lined up before

the throne, holding hands. The first one was instructed to grasp the

wire or chain connected to the Leyden jar. They all jumped convulsively

into the air as an electric current passed through them.

In Italy some scientists tried to cure paralysis by electric shock,

claiming moderate success. In May 1748, for instance, Jean-François

Calgagnia, thirty-five years old, was given an electric shock from a

simple cylinder-type Leyden jar. Since the age of twelve, his left arm

had been so paralyzed he could not lift his hand to his head. After the

first electrical treatment he at once raised his arm and touched his

face. There is no record as to whether the cure was permanent.

After Franklin became aware of this phenomenon, he was agog to try

experiments on his own. He wrote of his interest to a London friend,

Peter Collinson, a Quaker merchant and member of the Royal Society.

Collinson promptly sent him a glass tube, along with suggestions as to

how it might be used for electrical experiments. This was all Franklin

needed to get started.

He was not trained in scientific matters as were many of his European

contemporaries. He was unfamiliar with scientific jargon, and could only

write about what he was doing in everyday language. But he had those

qualities that are innate in any scientist, with or without a university

degree—an inquiring mind, patience, and persistence.

His experiments, beginning with the winter of 1746, covered a wide

range. He melted brass and steel needles by electricity, magnetized

needles, fired dry gunpowder by an electric spark. He stripped the

gilding from a book, and he electrified a small metallic crown above an

engraving of the King of England—so that whoever touched the crown

received a shock!

His home was soon so crowded with curious visitors trooping up and down

the stairs, he could hardly get any work done. He solved the problem by

having a glass blower make tubes similar to his, passing them out to

friends so they could make their own experiments.

Several of the Junto members worked closely with him. At first they

electrified the tube, as was still done in Europe, by vigorously rubbing

one side of it with a piece of buckskin. One of the club members, a

Silversmith named Philip Synge, devised a sort of grindstone, which

revolved the tube as one turned a handle. To charge the tube with

electricity, all that was needed was to hold the buckskin against the

glass as it revolved, a vast saving in physical labor.

Another invention of Franklin and his associates was the first storage

battery. For electrical plates they used eleven window glass panes about

six by eight inches in size, covered with sheets of lead, and hung on

silk cords by means of hooks of lead wire. They found it as easy to

charge this “battery” with frictional electricity as to charge a single

pane of glass.

Among his disciples was an unemployed Baptist minister named Ebenezer

Kinnersley. Franklin suggested he might both serve science and earn his

living if he held electrical demonstrations. Kinnersley’s first

announcement of a lecture, held in Newport, described “electrical fire”

as having “an appearance like fishes swimming in the air,” claiming this

fire would “live in water, a river not being sufficient to quench the

smallest spark of it.” He promised his audience such wonders as

“electrified money, which scarce anybody will take when offered ... a

curious machine acting by means of electric fire, and playing a variety

of tunes on eight musical bells ... the force of the electric spark,

making a fair hole through a quire of paper....”

Kinnersley lectured in the colonies and the West Indies and was hugely

successful. Neither he nor any of the other collaborators could rival

Franklin’s own achievements.

Early in 1747, he gave the names of positive and negative (or plus and

minus) to the two types of electricity, to replace the unwieldy terms,

resinous and vitreous. Positive and negative electricity became part of

the scientific vocabulary. He was the first to refer to the

_conductivity_ of certain substances. Electricity passed easily through

metals and water; they were _conductive_. Glass and wood were

_nonconductive_, unless they were wet. He also noted that pointed metal

rods were wonderfully effective “in drawing off and throwing off the

electrical fire.”

After he retired in 1748, he spent much more time on electricity. To

Peter Collinson in London he wrote, “I never was before engaged in any

study that so totally engrossed my attention and my time as this has

lately done.” He kept Collinson informed in detail of his experiments,

not because he thought he had the final word but in the hope that his

experiments might possibly prove helpful to English scientists.

It was to Collinson he described an electrical party to be held on the

banks of the Schuylkill River in the spring of 1749: “A turkey is to be

killed for our dinner by the electrical shock, and roasted by the

electrical jack, before a fire kindled by the electrified bottle; when

the healths of all the famous electricians in England, Holland, France,

and Germany are to be drank in electrified bumpers, under the discharge

of guns from an electrical battery.”

For Christmas dinner that year, he started to electrocute another

turkey, but inadvertently gave himself the shock intended for the fowl:

“The company present ... say that the flash was very great and the crack

as loud as a pistol.... I neither saw the one nor heard the other.... I

then felt ... a universal blow throughout my whole body from head to

foot.... That part of my hand and fingers which held the chain was left

white, as though the blood had been driven out, and remained so eight or

ten minutes after, feeling like dead flesh; and I had a numbness in my

arms and the back of my neck which continued till the next morning but

wore off.”

He was apologetic rather than frightened by the near catastrophe,

comparing himself to the Irishman “who, being about to steal powder,

made a hole in the cask with a hot iron.”

This was soon after he had come to the conclusion that what he now

called “electrical fluid” had much in common with lightning—that indeed

they might be one and the same thing. He was not the first to propose

this theory but no one before him had been able to suggest how it might

be tested.

Thunder and lightning had mystified humanity since the beginning of

recorded history. The Greeks had held that thunderbolts were launched by

the god Jupiter. (One Greek philosopher, Empedocles, thought that

lightning was caused by the rays of the sun striking the clouds.)

Hunters of primitive tribes prayed to the god of lightning, who was a

killer, as they wished to be. Certain medicine men were said to be

endowed with the gift of summoning lightning at will.

Since biblical days, lightning was assumed to be an act of heavenly

vengeance, but no one could explain the paradox that it struck church

steeples more frequently than other buildings. In medieval times, people

believed that ringing church bells would keep lightning away, a belief

that survived the death of countless unfortunate bell ringers.

About 1718, an English scientist, Jonathan Edwards, suggested that

thunder and lightning might be produced by a “mighty fermentation, that

is some way promoted by the cool moisture, and perhaps attraction of the

clouds.” There had been very few other attempts to give a scientific

explanation of the phenomenon, and even in Franklin’s time many

preachers considered lightning a manifestation of the Divine Will.

“Electrical fluid” and lightning had in common, Franklin wrote in his

notes on November 7, 1749, that they both gave light, had a crooked

direction and swift motion, and were conducted by metals. Both melted

metals and could destroy animals. Since they were similar in so many

respects, would it not follow that lightning, like “electrical fluid”

would be attracted by pointed rods? “Let the experiment be made.”

By May 1750, he was sure enough of his hypothesis that he elaborated to

Peter Collinson the advantages to humanity of what later were called

lightning rods:

I am of the opinion that houses, ships, and even towers and churches

may be effectually secured from the strokes of lightning ... if,

instead of the round balls of wood or metal which are commonly placed

on tops of weathercocks, vanes, or masts, there should be a rod of

iron eight or ten feet in length, sharpened gradually to a point like

a needle ... the electric fire would, I think, be drawn out of a cloud

silently, before it could come near enough to strike....

Did he guess that he was on the verge of the most momentous discovery of

the century—one which would assure his name a place among the immortals?

It is fairly certain he was more interested in solving a perplexing

problem than in immortality. Possibly he took it for granted that

European scientists were already three steps ahead of him.

By July he had prepared a manuscript describing all his exciting

experiments of the past two years, and including specific instructions

for setting up a lightning rod on a tower or steeple, even to the

necessary feature of a grounding wire. “Let the experiment be made,” he

had said. He did not make it himself, not then. For one thing, he was

waiting for a spire to be erected on the top of Christ Church, from

which he wished to make his first try of drawing lightning from the

skies. Also, in spite of his alleged retirement, his days were becoming

increasingly filled with public duties.

He still had the Gazette and _Poor Richard’s Almanack_ to publish and

edit. Beginning in 1748, he served on the City Council. Since 1749 he

was Grand Master of the Masons. In 1751 he was made an alderman and a

member of the Pennsylvania Assembly, where previously he had served as

clerk.

In 1750, an American Philosophical Society member, Dr. Thomas Bond, came

to him for help in starting a hospital for the sick and the insane.

Hitherto those who could not pay for medical care had no choice but the

prison or the almshouse. The need was urgent but Dr. Bond had failed to

arouse interest in his project.

“Those whom I ask to subscribe,” he confided to Franklin, “often ask me

whether I have consulted you and what you think of it. When I tell them

I have not, they don’t subscribe.”

Franklin knew promotion methods as Dr. Bond did not, and began by

calling a meeting of citizens. Under his impetus the list of subscribers

grew, though not until May 1755 was the cornerstone of the Pennsylvania

Hospital laid on Eighth Street between Spruce and Pine. Nearly thirty

years later, when Dr. Benjamin Rush joined the staff, the “lunatics” at

Pennsylvania Hospital received the first intelligent care available in

America and, with few exceptions, in the world.

Franklin was also busy during this period in the formation of America’s

first insurance company (stemming from a meeting of Philadelphia

businessmen in 1752), and was taking the lead in organizing an

expedition in search of a Northwest Passage, under Captain Charles

Swaine, America’s first voyage of Arctic exploration.

In the category of pleasure were the infrequent periods he spent on his

Burlington farm, where he raised corn, red clover, herd grass and oats,

recording with scientific precision the effects of frost and the results

obtained from different types of soil. He was one of the earliest

Americans to think of agriculture as a science. He never could persuade

his farmer neighbors to follow his example. They held that the ways of

their forefathers were inevitably the best.

It may have been at his farm that he made his experiment on ants. Some

ants had found their way into an earthen pot of molasses. He shook out

all but one and hung the pot by a string to a nail in the ceiling. When

the ant had dined to its satisfaction, it climbed up the string and down

the wall to the floor. Half an hour later, he noted a swarm of ants

retracing its course back to the pot—exactly as though their comrade had

verbally informed them where to go for a good meal.

There were few mysteries of nature on which at one time or another

Franklin did not direct his attention. More often than not, he wrote his

speculations in long and entertaining and gracefully phrased letters to

his friends, men and women alike.

If he was not impatient to learn what Peter Collinson thought of his

proposed lightning rods, it was simply that he had no time for

impatience. The truth was that Collinson had found his paper fascinating

and had even read it to the Royal Society. As the Society members

remained skeptical and unimpressed, in 1751 he arranged for it to be

printed in a pamphlet—“Experiments and Observations on Electricity, Made

at Philadelphia, in America.” Dr. John Fothergill, a London physician,

wrote the preface. The pamphlet was translated into French the next

year, creating immediate excitement.

Three French scientists, the naturalist Count Georges Louis Buffon,

Thomas François d’Alibard, and another named de Lor, resolved to carry

out the experiment on drawing lightning from the skies, which Franklin

had outlined.

It was d’Alibard who succeeded first. At Marly, outside of Paris, he set

up a pointed iron rod forty feet long, not on a church steeple as

Franklin had recommended, but simply on a square plank with legs made of

three wine bottles to insulate it from the ground. During a

thunderstorm, on May 10, 1752, a crash of thunder was followed by a

crackling sound—and sparks flew out from the rod. Here then was absolute

proof that Franklin was right. Lightning and electricity were identical.

De Lor repeated the experiment in Paris eight days later. Louis XV, King

of France, was so moved that he sent congratulations to the Royal

Society, to be relayed to Messieurs Franklin and Peter Collinson. The

first successful experiment in London was made by John Canton. Soon it

was being repeated throughout Europe. The name of Benjamin Franklin was

on everyone’s tongue.

No news of all this had yet been brought on the slow sailing ships when,

in June 1752, Franklin decided not to wait for the completion of the

Christ Church spire for his experiment. He had another scheme. Why not

try to draw electricity from the skies with a kite?

“Make a small cross of two light strips of cedar, the arms so long as to

reach to the four corners of a large thin silk handkerchief when

extended; tie the corners of the handkerchief to the extremities of the

cross.” Thus he later described the body of this world famous kite. Like

ordinary kites, it had a tail, loop, and string. At the top of the

vertical cedar strip, he fastened a sharp pointed wire about a foot

long. At the end of the string he tied a silk ribbon. He fastened a

small key at the juncture of silk and twine.

With this child’s plaything, he and his tall full-grown son, William,

took off across the fields one threatening summer day. They let the wind

raise the kite into the air and they waited. Even before it began

raining, Franklin observed some loose threads from the hempen string

standing erect. He pressed his knuckle to the key—and an electric spark

shot out. There were more sparks when the thunderstorm began. After the

string was wet, the “electric fire” was “copious.”

He must have grinned triumphantly at William, and perhaps said casually,

“Well, Billy, we’ve done it.”

There is no evidence that he realized his experiment might be dangerous,

even deadly.

The first account of the “Electrical Kite” appeared five months later in

the October 19, 1752, issue of the _Gazette_. _Poor Richard’s Almanack_

for 1753 contained complete instructions on how to build a lightning

rod. He had already put one up on his own chimney. It had small bells

which chimed when clouds containing electricity passed by. The bells

rang in his house for years.

News of his triumphs abroad were now flooding in. The praise of the

French king, he wrote a friend, made him feel like the girl “who was

observed to grow suddenly proud, and none could guess the reason, till

it came to be known that she had got on a new pair of garters.” The

Royal Society, making up for lost time, published an account of his kite

in _Transactions_, their official paper, and in November 1753, gave him

the Copley gold medal for “his curious experiments and observations on

electricity.” They conservatively held off making him a member of the

Society until May 29, 1756. At home, Harvard, Yale, and William and Mary

College in turn gave him honorary degrees of master of arts.

While these and other tributes were being heaped on him, he was

launching into a new profession—that of military expert and officer.

6

A BRIEF MILITARY CAREER

In 1753, trouble was brewing once more between Great Britain and France,

with the colonists caught in the middle. While English subjects in

America were as yet confined to a narrow strip along the Atlantic,

France held Canada and the St. Lawrence Valley to the north; New Orleans

and the great Louisiana territory in the south. By right of early

explorations, the French also claimed the rich Ohio Valley region and

were building forts along the Ohio and Allegheny rivers. The British

considered these forts an intrusion on _their_ territory.

As the situation grew more tense, both British and French courted the

favor of the Indians. In Pennsylvania this would have been easier had

the policy of William Penn been followed; he had gone further than any

other white man in establishing friendly Indian relations.

Unfortunately, much of his work had been undone by his son Thomas, in

the episode known as the Walking Purchase.

To make room for his immigrants, William Penn had once purchased a tract

of land from the Indians to extend “as far as a man could walk in three

days.” In 1683, he had leisurely walked out a day and a half of this

purchase, some twenty-five miles. In 1737, fifty years later, Thomas

Penn decided to take up the rest of the Walking Purchase. He hired three

athletes to do the walking for him. In a day and a half, they managed to

cover eighty-six miles. The Indians had never forgiven this underhanded

trick.

It was partially to undo this bad feeling that in September 1753

Franklin and several other commissioners were sent by Governor James

Hamilton to Carlisle, some 125 miles west of Philadelphia, to meet with

chiefs of the Delaware and Shawnee Indians and the Six Nations (the name

given to the united Iroquois tribes).

Franklin had never been so far inland before nor had he any previous

dealings with the original Americans. He was impressed with the

ceremonial exchange of gifts and greetings which preceded the actual

conference. These “savages” of whom he had heard such disparaging things

had customs very different from those of the white man, but “savage

justice,” as he was to write later, had as much to recommend it as

“civilized justice.”

The grievances presented by the chiefs after the conference began he

found reasonable. They wanted, from the white man, fewer trading posts

and more honest traders. They wanted to be sold less rum, which was

ruinous to the braves, and more gunpowder, which they needed for

hunting. The commissioners promised to do their best and, as they had

been authorized to do, offered the Indians protection from the French,

in return for their loyalty. Unfortunately, neither colonies nor British

were in a position to guarantee such protection.

Franklin returned from Carlisle to learn that he had been appointed

deputy postmaster, with William Hunter of Williamsburg, of all the North

American provinces. He had the prestige of being an officer of the Crown

though the pay was nominal—only 600 pounds a year divided between him

and Hunter should the service make a profit—and the work was

considerable, for Hunter was ill and could give little help.

He could and did provide his family with jobs. William, his son, became

postmaster of Philadelphia, Franklin’s former job. William later turned

this post over to a relative of Debby’s who in due time was succeeded by

Franklin’s brother Peter. He appointed another brother, John, postmaster

of Boston. At John’s death his widow succeeded him, thought to be the

first American woman to hold a public office.

Not only his family but all of America profited by Franklin’s

appointment. Horseback riders carried mail in colonial America. Delivery

was slow, irregular and costly. Franklin acted as an efficiency expert.

He increased mail deliveries from Philadelphia to New York from once a

week to three times a week during the warmer six months of the year and

he made sure his riders did the route twice a week in the winter except

in the worst weather. In time he visited all the post offices of the

colonies, studied their local problems, surveyed roads, ferries, and

fords. He started America’s first Dead Letter Office, and gave patrons

other services they had never had before. By the time he had held the

post eight years, not only could he and Hunter collect their full

salaries but there was a surplus for the London office, the first time

it had ever profited from its American branch.

Late in 1753, Governor Robert Dinwiddie of Virginia sent young Major

George Washington on a journey to the French Fort Le Boeuf (now Erie,

Pennsylvania) to order the French to evacuate. They chose to ignore the

warning.

Franklin attended another conference with the Six Nations, held at

Albany, New York, in June 1754, attended by commissioners from seven

colonies. In regard to Indian relations, the Albany conference was no

more successful than the one at Carlisle. Afterward the Indians claimed

they had been persuaded to deed a tract of land whose boundaries they

had not grasped and that the deed was irregular since, contrary to the

Six Nations’ custom, it gave away land of tribes whose representatives

had not signed the deed.

Thus the two meetings had the opposite effect of what had been hoped.

They succeeded only in antagonizing the Indians. Many of them decided to

support the French, as the lesser of the two white evils.

It is most unlikely that Franklin suspected any wrong being perpetrated

on the Indians. During the Albany conference he presented to his fellow

commissioners a plan which had its inspiration from Six Nations. If the

Iroquois tribes could work together harmoniously, why should the

American colonies, allegedly civilized, always be quarreling?

Accordingly, he proposed they form a confederacy under a single

president-general appointed by the Crown.

The commissioners approved wholeheartedly but that was as far as he got.

When his plan was presented to the assemblies of the various colonies,

it was rejected as being too dictatorial. The Crown opposed it as being

too democratic. In a final effort to make his point he published in the

_Gazette_ America’s first cartoon, a drawing of a snake chopped in eight

pieces, each marked with the initials of different colonies. “Join or

Die” read the caption. But he was several years in advance of the times.

Even while the Albany conference was under way, seven hundred French

soldiers and Indians forced the surrender of Fort Necessity, a small

barricade fifty miles from Wills Creek, held by George Washington, now a

colonel, and a scant 400 men. The nine-year French and Indian Wars were

unofficially under way.

In December, six months later, General Edward Braddock landed in

Virginia with two regiments of British regulars. They had come to take

the French Fort Duquesne, located on the forks of the Ohio (where

Pittsburgh now stands). The Pennsylvania Assembly sent Franklin to meet

the general at Frederickstown and offer his services as postmaster.

Franklin with his son William spent several days with Braddock. He found

the general a master of European military strategy but more than a

little arrogant.

“After taking Fort Duquesne,” Braddock announced one night at dinner, “I

will proceed to Niagara; and, having taken that, to Frontenac, if the

season will allow time; and I suppose it will, for Duquesne can hardly

detain me above three or four days.”

In his mind, Franklin pictured the long line of Braddock’s army marching

along a narrow road cut through thick woods and bushes, and he was

uneasy. He was sure, he told the general, that there would be scant

resistance at Duquesne, if he arrived there. The danger would be Indian

ambush on the way.

Braddock smiled patronizingly. “These savages may, indeed, be a

formidable enemy to your raw American militia, but upon the king’s

regular and disciplined troops, sir, it is impossible they should make

any impression.”

Franklin did not press his doubts. It would have been improper for him

to argue with a military man about his own profession. Braddock was only

too glad to let Franklin hunt up some transport wagons for him. This he

did by distributing circulars through Lancaster, York and Cumberland

counties. Within two weeks Pennsylvania farmers had come through with

the loan of 150 wagons and 259 horses. Of the 1,000 pounds due the

owners in payment, Braddock paid 800 and Franklin advanced the extra 200

pounds on his own. Since the farmers knew and trusted him, he, rather

than Braddock, gave them his bond for the full cost.

After he returned to Philadelphia, he persuaded the Assembly to donate

twenty parcels for the regiment officers, each containing six pounds of

sugar, a pound of tea, six pounds of coffee, six pounds of chocolate, as

well as biscuit, cheese, butter, wine, cured hams. He sent along other

supplies for the soldiers, advancing 1,000 pounds more of his own money

to cover the costs. Barely had he been reimbursed for his expenses thus

far, when the disastrous news broke.

Braddock’s army—some 1,400 British regulars and 700 colonial

militiamen—was ambushed by a force of French, Canadians, and Indians on

July 9, 1755, when they were within seven miles of Fort Duquesne.

Terrified at the shooting from this invisible enemy, the regulars

panicked. Nearly a thousand were killed or wounded, including most of

the officers. George Washington, who was serving as Braddock’s aide,

stayed to fight a valiant rear guard action. Braddock was mortally

wounded, dying four days later.

At the start of the fray, the drivers took one horse from each team and

raced off, leaving wagons, food parcels and provisions to the attackers.

Since Franklin had given bond, the wagon owners soon appeared, demanding

recompense for their losses—a total of some 20,000 pounds. He faced ruin

until October when the new British commander-in-chief, Governor Shirley,

authorized government payment of the debt.

In the midst of that summer’s harassment and disaster, there was one

pleasant interlude. On a trip to visit Rhode Island post offices,

Franklin met a delightful young lady named Catherine Ray. Middle-aged

and tending to stoutness as he was, she lavished affection on him, not

as a suitor but as someone to whom she could confide her innermost

thoughts. Though he saw Catherine only infrequently after that meeting,

she later married a worthy young man named William Greene by whom she

had six children—she and Franklin wrote each other lengthy and intimate

letters as long as they lived. Until he met her, apart from Debby, his

friendships had all been with men. Beginning with Catherine, he had many

women friends, who found in him a rare understanding of their qualities

of mind and spirit.

The defeat of Braddock taught the colonists that the British military

was not as invincible as they had been led to believe. Many more Indians

joined the French, deciding they were most likely to win. In the summer

of 1755, Indian raiders were attacking isolated farms less than 100

miles from Philadelphia. It was obvious that once again Pennsylvania

must provide its own defense.