_The Death of Doctor Franklin._
One cannot read the biography of this great man without being put in
mind of those sweet though simple strains of the bard of Zion.
"Happy the man, whose tender care
Relieves the poor distrest;
When he's with troubles compass'd round,
The Lord shall give him rest."
"If, he in languishing estate,
Oppress'd with sickness, lie,
The Lord shall easy make his bed,
And inward strength supply."
The latter end of doctor Franklin affords glorious proof that nothing
so softens the bed of sickness, and brightens the gloom of the grave,
as a life spent in works of love to mankind.
See George Washington, who by an active and disinterested benevolence,
was called "THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY." See Martha Washington, who by
domestic virtues, and extensive charities, obtained to herself the
high character of "THE MOTHER TO THE POOR."--Both of these found the
last bed spread as it were with roses; and the last enemy converted
into a friend. Such is the lot of all who love; "not in _word, but in
deed and in truth_."
The friends of doctor Franklin never entered his chamber without being
struck with this precious text, _"Mark the perfect man, and behold the
upright, for the end of that man is peace."_ Though laid on the bed
whence he is to rise no more, he shows no sign of dejection or defeat.
On the contrary, he appears like an aged warrior reposing himself
after glorious victory; while his looks beaming with benevolence,
express an air pure and serene as the Heaven to which he is going.
Death, which most sick people are so unwilling to mention, was to him
a favourite topic, and the sublime conversations of Socrates on that
great subject, were heard a second time, from the lips of our American
Franklin, pregnant with "_immortality and eternal life_." No wonder
then that with such views doctor Franklin should have been so cheerful
on his dying bed; so self-possessed and calm, even under the tortures
of the gravel, which was wearing him down to the grave. "_Don't go
away_," said he to the Rev. Dr. Colline, of the Swedes' church,
Philadelphia, who, as a friend, was much with him in his last illness,
and at sight of his agonies and cold sweats under the fits of the
gravel, would take up his hat to retire--"_O no! don't go away_," he
would say, "_don't go away_. These pains will soon be over. They are
for my good. And besides, what are the pains of a moment in comparison
of the pleasures of eternity."
Blest with an excellent constitution, well nursed by nature's three
great physicians, _temperance_, _exercise_, and _cheerfulness_, he was
hardly ever sick until after his seventy-sixth year. The gout and
gravel then attacked him with great severity. He bore their
excruciating tortures as became one who habitually felt that he was as
he said, in the hands of an infinitely wise and benevolent being, who
did all things right.
His physician, the celebrated Dr. Jones, published the following
account of his last illness.
"The stone, had for the last twelve months confined him chiefly to his
bed; and during the extreme painful paroxysms, he was obliged to take
large doses of laudanum to mitigate his tortures--still in the
intervals of pain, he not only amused himself with reading and
conversing with his family, and his friends who visited him, but was
often employed in doing business of a public as well as private
nature, with various persons who waited on him for that purpose, and
in every instance displayed, not only that readiness of doing good,
which was the distinguishing characteristic of his life, but the
fullest possession of his uncommon mental abilities; and not
unfrequently indulged himself in those flashes of wit and entertaining
anecdotes, which were the delight of all who heard him.
"About sixteen days before his death, he was seized with a pain in his
left breast, which increased till it became extremely acute, attended
with a cough and laborious breathing. During this state, when the
severity of his pains some times drew forth a groan, he would observe,
that, _he was afraid he did not bear them as he ought--acknowledged
his grateful sense of the many blessings he had received from the
Supreme Being, who had raised him from small and low beginnings to
such high rank and consideration among men--and made no doubt but his
present afflictions were kindly intended to wean him from a world, in
which he was no longer fit to act the part assigned him_. In this
frame of body and mind he continued till five days before his death,
when an imposthumation in his lungs, suddenly burst, and discharged a
great quantity of matter, which he continued to throw up while he had
strength, but, as that failed, the organs of respiration became
gradually oppressed--a calm lethargic state succeeded--and, on the 7th
of April, 1790, about eleven o'clock at night he quietly expired,
closing a long and useful life of _eighty-four years and three
months_."
Come holy calm of the soul! Expressive silence come! and meditating
the mighty talents of the dead, and their constant application to the
_glory of the giver_, let us ascend with him on the wings of that
blessed promise, "_Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord! even so
saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours and their works do
follow them._"
That Franklin is now enjoying that rest which "_remaineth_ _for the
people of God_"--and that while many a blood-stained monster who made
great noise in the world, is _followed_ by the cries of thousands of
widows and orphans, Franklin dying in the Lord, and followed by the
blessings of thousands, fed, clothed, educated, and enriched by his
charities, is in GLORY, may be fairly inferred from the following most
valuable anecdote of him.
Naturalists tell us, that so great is the paternal care of God, that
every climate affords the food and physic best suited to the
necessaries of its population. What gratitude is due to that goodness,
which foreseeing the dangers impending over this country from British
injustice, sent us two such protectors as Franklin and Washington? The
first, (the forerunner of the second,) like the lightning of Heaven,
to expose the approaching tempest; and the second, like the rock of
the ocean, to meet that tempest in all its fury, and dash it back on
its proud assailants? And how astonishing too, and almost unexampled
that goodness, which with talents of wisdom and fortitude to establish
our republic, combined the cardinal virtues of _justice_, _industry_,
and _economy_ that alone can render our republic immortal?
Hoping that our _youth_ may be persuaded to love and imitate the
virtues of the men whose great names they have been accustomed, from
the cradle, to lisp with veneration, I have long coveted to set these
virtues before them. The grey haired men of other days, have given me
their aid. The following I obtained from the Rev. Dr. Helmuth, of the
German church, Philadelphia. Hearing that this learned and pious
divine possessed a valuable anecdote of doctor Franklin, I immediately
waited on him. "Yes, sir," said he, "I have indeed a valuable anecdote
of doctor Franklin, which I would tell you with great pleasure; but as
I do not speak English very well, I wish you would call on David
Ritter, at the sign of the _Golden Lamb_, in Front street; he will
tell it to you better. I hastened to Mr Ritter, and told him my
errand. He seemed mightily pleased at it, and said, "Yes, I will tell
you all I know of it. You must understand then, sir, first of all,
that I always had a prodigious opinion of doctor Franklin, as the
_usefulest_ man we ever had among us, by a long way; and so hearing
that he was sick, I thought I would go and see him. As I rapped at the
door, who should come and open it but old Sarah Humphries. I was right
glad to see her, for I had known her a long time. She was of the
people called FRIENDS; and a mighty good sort of body she was too. The
great people set a heap of store by her, for she was famous throughout
the town for nursing and tending on the sick. Indeed, many of them, I
believe, hardly thought they could sicken, and die right if they had
not old Sarah Humphries with them. Soon as she saw me, she said, 'Well
David, how dost?'"
"'O, much after the old sort, Sarah,' said I; 'but that's neither here
nor there; I am come to see doctor Franklin.'
"'Well then,' said she, 'thou art too late, for he is _just dead_!'
"'Alack a day,' said I, 'then a great man is gone.'
"'Yes, indeed,' said she, 'and a _good_ one too; for it seemed as
though he never thought the day went away as it ought, if he had not
done somebody a service. However, David,' said she, 'he is not the
worse off for all that now, where he is gone to: but come, as thee
came to see Benjamin Franklin, thee shall see him yet.' And so she
took me into his room. As we entered, she pointed to him, where he lay
on his bed, and said, '_there_, did thee ever see any thing look so
natural?'
"And he did look natural indeed. His eyes were close--but that you saw
he did not breathe, you would have thought he was in a sweet sleep, he
looked so calm and happy. Observing that his face was fixed right
towards the chimney, I cast my eyes that way, and behold! just above
the mantle-piece was a noble picture! O it was a _noble picture_, sure
enough! It was the picture of our Saviour on the cross.
"I could not help calling out, 'Bless us all, Sarah!' said I, 'what's
all this?'
"'What dost mean, David,' said she, quite crusty.
"'Why, how came this picture here, Sarah?' said I, 'you know that many
people think he was not after this sort.'
"'Yes,' said she, 'I know that too. But thee knows that many who makes
a great fuss about religion have very little, while some who say but
little about it have a good deal.'
"'That's sometimes the case, I fear, Sarah,' said I.
"'Well, and that was the case,' said she, 'with Benjamin Franklin. But
be that as it may, David, since thee asks me about this great picture,
I'll tell thee how it came here. Many weeks ago, as he lay, he
beckoned me to him, and told me of this picture up stairs, and begged
I would bring it to him. I brought it to him. His face brightened up
as he looked at it; and he said, '_Aye, Sarah_,' said he, '_there's a
picture worth looking at! that's the picture of him who came into the
world to teach men to love one another!_' Then after looking wistfully
at it for some time, he said, '_Sarah_,' said he, '_set this picture
up over the mantlepiece, right before me as I lie; for I like to look
at it_,' and when I had fixed it up, he looked at it, and looked at it
very much; and indeed, as thee sees, he died with his eyes fixed on
it.'"
Happy Franklin! Thus doubly blest! Blest in life, by a diligent
co-working with "THE GREAT SHEPHERD," in his precepts of perfect
love.--Blest in death, with his closing eyes piously fixed upon him,
and meekly bowing to the last summons in joyful hope that through the
force of his divine precepts, the "wintry storms" of hate will one day
pass away, and one "eternal spring of love and peace encircle all."
Now Franklin in his lifetime had written for himself an _epitaph_, to
be put upon his grave, that honest posterity might see that he was no
_unbeliever_, as certain enemies had slandered him, but that he
_firmly believed_ "_that his Redeemer liveth; and that in the latter
day he shall stand upon the earth; and that though worms destroyed his
body, yet in his flesh he should see God_."
FRANKLIN'S EPITAPH.
"THE BODY
OF
_BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, PRINTER_,
LIKE THE COVER OF AN OLD BOOK,
_its contents torn out,
and stripped of its lettering and gilding,
lies here food for worms_.
Yet the work itself shall not be lost;
for it will, as he believed, appear once more
IN A NEW
_and more beautiful edition,
corrected and amended_
BY
_THE AUTHOR_."
This epitaph was never put upon his tomb. But the friend of man needs
no stone of the valley to perpetuate his memory. It lives among the
clouds of heaven. The lightnings, in their dreadful courses, bow to
the genius of Franklin. His magic rods, pointed to the skies, still
watch the irruptions of the FIERY METEORS. They seize them by
their hissing heads as they dart forth from the dark chambers of the
thunders; and cradled infants, half waked by the sudden glare, are
seen to curl the cherub smile hard by the spot where the dismal bolts
had fallen.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Life of Benjamin Franklin, by Mason Locke Weems