JANE'S LAST VISIT.
IT was midsummer. Benjamin Franklin, of fourscore years, President of
Pennsylvania, had finished a long, three-story ell to his house on
Market Street, and in this ell he had caused to be made a library which
filled his heart with pride. He had invented a long arm with which to
take down books from the high shelves of this library--an invention
which came into use in other libraries in such a way as to make many
librarians grateful to him.
He was overburdened with care, and suffered from chronic disease.
In his days of pain he had been comforted by letters from Jenny, now
long past seventy years of age. She had written to him in regard to his
sufferings such messages as these:
"Oh, that after you have spent your whole life in the service of the
public, and have attained so glorious a conclusion, as I thought, as
would now permit you to come home and spend (as you say) the evening
with your friends in ease and quiet, that now such a dreadful malady
should attack you! My heart is ready to burst with grief at the thought.
How many hours have I lain awake on nights thinking what excruciating
pains you might then be encountering, while I, poor, useless, and
worthless worm, was permitted to be at ease! Oh, that it was in my power
to mitigate or alleviate the anguish I know you must endure!"
When she heard of his arrival in Philadelphia she wrote:
"I long so much to see you that I should immediately seek for some one
that would accompany me, but my daughter is in a poor state of health
and gone into the country to try to get a little better, and I am in a
strait between two; but the comfortable reflection that you are at home
among all your dear children, and no more seas to cross, will be
constantly pleasing to me till I am permitted to enjoy the happiness of
seeing and conversing with you."
The tenderness and charity of Franklin for the many members of his own
family still revealed his heart. "I tenderly love you," he wrote to
Jane--Jenny--"for the care of our father in his sickness."
One of his sisters, Mrs. Dowse, whose family had died, insisted upon
living alone, on account of her love for the place that had been her
home. Many other men would have compelled her removal, but there is
nothing more beautiful in all Franklin's letters than the way that he
advised Jenny how to treat this matter. He had been told that this
venerable woman would have her own way.
"As _having their own way_ is one of the greatest comforts of life to
old people, I think their friends should endeavor to accommodate them in
that as well as anything else. When they have long lived in a house, it
becomes natural to them; they are almost as closely connected with it as
the tortoise with his shell; they die if you tear them out. Old folks
and old trees, if you remove them, 'tis ten to one that you kill them,
so let our good old sister be no more importuned on that head; we are
growing old fast ourselves, and shall expect the same kind of
indulgences; if we give them, we shall have a right to receive them in
our turn."
Jane Mecom--the "Jenny" of Franklin's young life--had one great desire
as the years went on: it was, to meet her brother once more and to
review the past with him.
"I will one day go to Philadelphia and give him a great surprise," the
woman used to say.
Let us picture such a day.
Benjamin Franklin sat down in his new library. His books had been placed
and his pictures hung.
Among the pictures were two that were so choice that we may suppose them
to be hung under coverings. One of them was the portrait of the King of
France in its frame of four hundred brilliants, and the other was his
own portrait with, perhaps, Turgot's famous inscription.
It was near evening when he sat down and asked to be left alone.
He opened his secretary, and took from it a letter from Washington. It
read:
"Amid the public gratulations on your safe return to America after a
long absence, and many eminent services you have rendered it, for which
as a benefited person I feel the obligation, permit an individual to
join the public voice in expressing a sense of them, and to assure you
that, as no one entertains more respect for your character, so no one
can salute you with more sincerity or with greater pleasure than I do
on the occasion."
He took from his papers the resolution of the Assembly of Pennsylvania
and began to read:
"We are confident, sir, that we speak the sentiments of the whole
country when we say that your services in the public councils and
negotiations have not only merited the thanks of the present generation,
but will be recorded in the pages of history to your immortal honor."
He dropped the paper on the table beside the letter of Washington and
sank into his armchair, for his pains were coming upon him again.
He thought of the past--of old Boston, of Passy, of all his
struggles--and he wished that he might feel again the sympathetic touch
of the hand of his sister who had been so true to him, and who had loved
him so long and well.
It was near sunset of one of the longest days of the year when he heard
a carriage stop before the door.
"I can not see any one," he said. "I must have rest--I must have rest."
There came a mechanical knock on his door. He did not respond.
A servant's voice said outside, "There is a woman, master, that asks to
see you."
"I can not see any one," answered the tortured old man.
"She is an old woman."
"I could not see the queen."
He heard an echo of the servant's voice in the hall.
"He says that he could not see the queen."
"Well, tell him that I am something more than that to him. He will see
me, or else I will die at his door."
There came a tap on the door, very gentle.
"Who is there?"
"It is Jane."
"What Jane--who?"
"She who folded the hands of your father for the last time. Open the
door. There can be no No to me."
The door opened.
"Jenny!"
"Ben--let all titles pass now--I have come to give you a surprise."
The old woman sank into a chair.
"I have come to visit you for the last time," she said, "and to number
with you our mercies of life. Let me rest before I talk. You are in
pain."
"Jenny, my pains have gone. I had sat down in agony in this new room; my
head ached as well as my body. I am happy now that you have come."
She moved her chair to his, and he took her hand again, saying:
"My sister's hand--your hand, Jenny, as when we were children. They are
gone, all gone."
He looked in her face.
"Jenny, your hair is gray now, and mine is white. I have been reading
over again this letter from Washington."
"Read it to me while I rest, then we will talk of old times."
He read the letter.
"Here are the resolutions of the Assembly of Pennsylvania passed on my
return."
"Read them to me, brother, for I must rest longer before we talk of old
times."
He read the resolutions.
"Jenny, let me uncover this. It is not vanity that makes me wish to do
it now, but on account of what I wish to say."
He uncovered the portrait of the French king. The last light of the sun
fell into the room and upon the frame, causing the four hundred diamonds
to gleam.
"That was presented to me by the court of France."
"I never saw anything so splendid, brother. But what is the other
picture under the cover?"
He drew away the screen.
"It is my portrait, Jenny."
"But, brother, what are those words written under it?"
Franklin read, "_Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis._"
"Brother, what does that mean?"
"'He snatched the thunderbolts from heaven, and the scepter from the
tyrants.'"
"Who, brother?"
* * * * *
"Jenny, let us talk of these things no longer. Do you remember Uncle
Ben?"
"He has never died. He lives in you. You have lived out his life. You
have lived, Ben, and I have loved. Brother, you have done well. He who
does his best does well."
"Jenny, can you repeat what Uncle Ben said under the tree on the
showery day when the birds sang, nearly seventy years ago?"
"Let us repeat it together, brother. You have made that lesson your
life."
"'More than wealth, more than fame, or any other thing, is the power of
the human heart, and it is developed by seeking the good of others. Live
for the things that live.'"
"Jenny, my own true sister, I have something else to show you--something
that I value more than a present from a throne. I have here some
'pamphlets,' into which Uncle Ben put his soul before he sought to
impress the same thoughts upon me. I want you to have them now, to read
them, and give them to his family."
He went to his secretary and took from it the pamphlets.
"Here are the thoughts of a man who told me when I was a poor boy in
Boston town that I had a chance in the world.
"He told me not to be laughed down.
"He told me that diligence was power.
"He told me that I would be helped in helping others.
"He told me that justice was the need of mankind.
"He told me that to have influence with men I must overcome my conscious
defects.
"He was poor, he was empty-handed, but Heaven gave to him the true
vision of life. He committed that vision to me, and what he wished to be
I have struggled to fulfill. These pamphlets are the picture of his
mind, and that picture deserves to be hung in diamonds, and is more to
me than the portrait of the king. Blessed be the memory of that old man,
who taught my young life virtue, and gave it hope!
"Jenny, I have tried to live well."
"You have been 'Silence Dogood,' the idea that Uncle Benjamin printed on
your mind."
"Jenny, I have heard the church bells--Uncle Tom's bells--of Nottingham
ring. I found Uncle Benjamin's letters there--those that he wrote to his
old friends from America. He lovingly described you and me. What days
those were! Father was true to his home when he invited Uncle Benjamin
to America. You have been true to your home, and my heart has been,
through your hands. Jenny, I have given my house in Boston to you."
The old woman wept.
"Jenny, you have loved, and your heart has been better than mine. Let me
call the servants. These are hours when the soul is full--my soul is
full. I ask for nothing more."