Franklin

by Thomas Fleming

  Another trip took him to Twyford House, the country home of Jonathan Shipley, Bishop of St. Asaph. Shipley and Franklin had apparently met in London, where the Bishop sat in the House of Lords. Their friendship was quickly cemented by a similarity in disposition and political views; Shipley was an urbane, witty, charming man thoroughly on the side of the colonies in the great and continuing debate on the “American problem.” His red-brick country house was in one of the most beautiful sections of England, especially in mid-summer, when Franklin arrived. Named for the village of Twyford, which surrounded it, the house was only nine miles from Southampton in the heart of a green, glowing region. Franklin had already spent a few days there and had written a grateful letter to the Bishop, telling how he was breathing “with reluctance the smoke of London, when I think of the sweet air of Twyford.”

  The Bishop’s family was another source of pleasure to Franklin. He had five beautiful daughters, Anna Maria, Amelia (called Emily), Elizabeth, Georgiana, and Katherine, and, together with his wife, they fussed over Franklin as if he were a visiting god. It was a perfect consolation for his bruised spirit, and he responded with a wealth of anecdotes about his life and times. Perhaps it was one of the girls, or the Bishop who suggested that he ought to write down some of these stories for posterity. But there is another much more probable explanation, suggested by the first words he wrote in the secluded red-brick summer house in the Shipley’s sun-drenched garden: “Dear Son,”

  This opening of what was to become the century’s most famous autobiography is a commentary in itself on the main emotional thrust of Franklin’s life. It was no casual act, this book he began, no mere response to an offhand suggestion by one of the charming Shipley’s. It was part of the most fundamental dream of Franklin’s life, to found a family that would honor his name and emulate his example, and carry into that American future he envisioned so magnificently the wisdom he had accumulated from his experimental approach to life. Simultaneously it was an attempt to build an emotional bridge of words to this living son, separated from him now for seven years, and not, he sensed, in complete agreement with him on the great political question of their time, America’s relationship to England.

  He began the book with a memory that was certain to stir William’s feelings. “I have ever had a pleasure in obtaining any little anecdotes of my ancestors. You may remember the inquiries I made among the remains of my relations when you were with me in England; and the journey I took for that purpose. Now imagining it may be equally agreeable to you to know the circumstances of my life, many of which you are yet unacquainted with; and expecting a few weeks uninterrupted leisure in my present country retirement, I sit down to write them for you.”

  Then Franklin added words which reflected another equally strong side of his complex character. “Having emerg’d from the poverty and obscurity in which I was born and bred, to a state of affluence and some degree of reputation in the world....” This was the unique aspect of Benjamin Franklin, the thing that made him so extraordinary in his time. It was an era still dominated by aristocracy. For a man to have risen from Franklin’s humble birth to his present state of fame, influence, and power was an extraordinary achievement. It has become commonplace for us, but it was nothing less than phenomenal in the eighteenth century. It was one of several reasons why British aristocrats felt an instinctive hostility to Franklin. That habit of reflection on his experience, which had not a little to do with his success, made it inevitable that Franklin would be aware of his uniqueness, and proud of it.

  An autobiography was also “the next best thing most like living one’s life over again.” In fact, it was better to write it than talk about it, “the inclination so natural in old men,” since no one “thro’ respect to age” need feel obliged to give him a bearing, since “this may be read or not as one pleases.”

  Perhaps the most charming note in these opening pages was Franklin’s cheerful admission that he had enjoyed life so much “that were it offer’d to my choice, I should have no objection to a repetition to the same life from its beginning, only asking the advantage authors have in a second edition to correct some faults of the first.” But even if this were denied, he would still “accept the offer.” This reminded him of an epitaph he had written for himself, many years ago.

  The Body of

  B. 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

  But the work shall not be wholly lost:

  For it will, as he believ’d, appear once more,

  In a new & more perfect Edition,

  Corrected and Amended

  By the Author

  From there the story moved swiftly through a brief history of the English Franklins into the heart of the book, Franklin’s vivid portrait of himself and his father Josiah in early eighteenth-century Boston, his boyhood in a family where thirteen sat at one time at the dinner table, his apprenticeship as a printer to his bad-tempered brother James, and young Benjamin’s flight to Philadelphia. At the end of three weeks, he had brought his story up to 1731, the year of the foundation of Philadelphia’s Subscription Library, “the mother of all the N. American subscription libraries now so numerous.” Proudly he declared, “These libraries have improv’d the general conversation of the Americans, made the common tradesmen and farmers as intelligent as most gentlemen from other countries, and perhaps have contributed in some degree to the stand so generally made throughout the colonies in defence of their privileges.”

  On this harshly contemporary note, Franklin broke off his narrative, and returned to London’s political wars. For company on his ride he took the youngest Shipley daughter, Katherine or Kitty, then eleven, who was going back to school. Nothing illustrates the endless diversity of Franklin’s mind and character more than the letter which he wrote to Mrs. Shipley, describing the journey and the delight he took in Kitty’s girlish chatter.

  The first stage we were rather pensive. I tried several topics of conversation, but none of them would hold. But after breakfast we began to recover spirits and had a good deal of chat. Would you hear some of it? We talked of her brother, she wished he was married. And don’t you wish your sisters married too? Yes. All but Emily; I would not have her married. Why? Because I can’t spare her, I can’t part with her. The rest may marry as soon as they please, so they do but get good husbands. We then took upon us to consider for ‘em what sort of husband would be fitted for every one of them. We began with Georgiana. She thought a country gentleman who loved traveling and would take her with him, that loved books and would hear her read to him. I added that had a good estate and was a member of Parliament and loved to see an experiment now and then. This she agreed to. So we set him down for Georgiana and went on to Betsy. Betsy, says I, seems of a sweet mild temper, and if we should give her a country squire, and he should happen to be of a rough, passionate turn, and be angry now and then, it might break her heart! 0 none of ‘on must be so for then they would not be good husbands. To make sure of this point, however, for Betsy, shall we give her a bishop? 0 no, that won’t do. They all declare against the church, and against the army; not one of them will marry either a clergyman or an officer; that they are resolved upon. What can be the reason for that? Why, you know that when a clergyman or an officer dies, the income goes with ‘em; and then what is there to maintain the family? There is the point. Then suppose we give her a good, honest, sensible city merchant who will love her dearly and is very rich? I don’t know but that may do. We proceeded to Emily, her dear Emily. I was afraid we should hardly find anything good enough for Emily; but at last, after settling that if she did marry, Kitty was to live a good deal with her, we agreed that as Emily is very handsome we might expect an earl for her. So having fix’d her, as I thought, a countess, we went on to Anna Maria. She, says Kitty, should have a rich man that has a large fami
ly and a great many things to take care of; for she is very good at managing, helps my mama very much, can look over bills, and order all sorts of family business. Very well, and as there is a grace and dignity in her manner that would become the station, what do you think of giving her a duke? 0 no! I’ll have the duke for Emily. You may give the earl to Anna Maria if you please: but Emily shall have the duke. I contested this matter some time; but at length was forced to give up the point, leave Emily in possession of the duke, and content myself with the earl for Anna Maria. And now what shall we do for Kitty? We have forgot her, all this time. Well, and what will you do for her? I suppose that though the rest have resolved against the army, she may not yet have made so rash a resolution. Yes, but she has: Unless, now, an old one, an old general that has done fighting, and is rich, such a one as General Rufane. I like him a good deal; you must know that I like an old man, indeed I do. And somehow or other all the old men take to me; all that come to our house like me better than my other sisters. I go to ‘em and ask ‘em how they do, and they like it mightily; and the maids take notice of it, and say when they see an old man come, there’s a friend of yours, Miss Kitty. But then as you like an old general, hadn’t you better take him while he’s a young officer, and let him grow old upon your hands? Because then you’ll like him better and better every year as he grows older and older? No, that won’t do. He must be an old man of 70 or 80, and take me when I’m about 30. And then you know I may be a rich young widow.

  Perhaps Franklin’s greatest gift was his ability to enjoy precisely what he was doing. When he was doing it, even to make an art of it, whether it was making an experiment, testifying before Parliament or chatting with an eleven-year-old girl.

  In London, Franklin found politics in a state of summer quiescence. All the noble lords who ran the British government were enjoying the sunny pleasures of their great estates. Franklin decided to profit by their example, and, as he told his wife in a letter, “I am to set out next week with my old friend and fellow traveler, Counselor Jackson.” The destination was Ireland and Scotland.

  After some visiting in the Midlands, the two travelers made for Holy-head in Wales, where they caught a packet boat for Ireland. The packet’s name was Hillsborough, and Franklin must have wondered if he ought to risk boarding it. But on the afternoon of Thursday, September 5, 1771, he and Jackson stepped ashore in the little port of Dunleary, four miles from Dublin. Franklin’s first impression of Ireland never left him. Toothless, dirty, ragged people, described by one contemporary traveler as “the dregs of creation,” stood idly in the doors of their crumbling shacks or shuffled desultorily along the slimy, smelly street. Dunleary, whose name has since been changed to Kingstown, was Irish poverty at its worst. The travelers had to fight their way past hordes of whining beggars and aggressive porters to get their bags aboard the Dublin stagecoach. In the capital, which Dubliners proudly called the second city of the empire, Franklin and Jackson saw some of the reason for the misery they had witnessed at Dunleary. Dublin was being rebuilt on a magnificent scale by Ireland’s British overlords. The new Parliament House with its Ionic columns had recently risen, the Royal Exchange in Cork Street was half built, and Trinity College was expanding. The spacious new avenues and squares were considered the equal of any other city in Europe. Best of all, of course, were the stately Georgian mansions of the Anglo-Irish nobility, Moira House on the South Quay, Tyrone House in Marlborough Street, and Leinster House, which was to inspire an Irish architect named Hoban to create prize-winning plans for a house called “The President’s Palace” in a yet unborn city named Washington, D.C.

  The two travelers were graciously greeted by the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, George Townshend, brother of the late minister, whose whimsical ways had inflamed the quarrel between England and America. The Viceroy shared his brother’s whimsical character, often wandering unescorted through Dublin and helping blind beggars across the busy streets. He invited Franklin and Jackson to dine with him at Dublin Castle.

  When they arrived at the Castle, they were shown into a room to await the other members of the party. There, to Franklin’s astonishment, they found themselves face to face with none other than Lord Hillsborough. He too was a dinner guest. Franklin was even more amazed to discover his Lordship “was extremely civil, wonderfully so to me whom he had not long before abused to Mr. Strahan as a factious, turbulent fellow, always in mischief, a republican, enemy to the King’s service and what not.” At the dinner table, Lord Hillsborough’s civilities continued. He even raised a bumper of good Madeira, and drank to Dr. Franklin’s health. He showered pleasantries on the two visitors and insisted on knowing where they planned to travel in Ireland. If they came north, he hoped they would visit with him on his estate for a few days. Describing the conversation to his son, Franklin said Hillsborough “urged it in so polite a manner that we could not avoid saying that we would wait on him if we went that way. In my own mind I was determined not to go that way.”

  Franklin soon found himself whirling from dinner party to dinner party in sociable Dublin. Many of the dinners were political. The country was divided between the Courtiers and the Patriots. The Courtiers supported the prerogative of the Crown, not unlike the royalist party in Massachusetts, while the Patriots fought for more independence for Ireland. “The latter [the Patriots] treated me with particular respect,” Franklin told William proudly. In fact, he had not a little to do with the creation of what the British government considered a somewhat incendiary publication. The Patriots were all friends of America and Franklin said “everything I could think of to confirm them.” He paid particular attention to Dr. Charles Lucas, founder of the Freeman’s Journal and a member of the Irish Parliament from Dublin City. Eleven days after Franklin arrived, Lucas published an open letter expressing his sympathy for the victims of the Boston Massacre. In fact, Franklin so thoroughly converted Dr. Lucas that at a dinner his toast was “Mr. Bowdoin of Boston.”

  A few days later, Franklin stood in the Dublin streets and watched the Viceroy ride past in his sumptuous coach to open Parliament. The crowds lining the sidewalks sang a defiant ballad which must have been especially appealing to Franklin.

  To Albion’s ear ye breezes bear

  This tale of Ireland’s woe

  That worth alone exalts a throne

  And vices bring it low.

  Later that day, Franklin sat in the gallery of the Parliament building beneath the striking dome, while the Lord Lieutenant read his opening speech. When he began talking about taxes, there was a volley of boos, shouts, and insulting remarks hurled from the galleries, and Lord Townshend, in a pet, threatened to clear the House if he did not get silence. Two days later, Franklin paid the Parliament another visit. The Speaker, Viscount Pery, whom he had met at the Lord Lieutenant’s dinner, saw him and Jackson entering the visitors’ gallery. What followed had the appearance of the impromptu, but in view of Franklin’s political expertise, the viscount may well have been carefully primed for the occasion. Pery suddenly announced that he understood there was in town an “American gentleman of distinguished character and merit” who was “a member or delegate of some of the parliaments of that country.” This, of course, was even better music to Franklin’s ears than the ballad he had just heard sung on the Dublin streets. He stood silent, carefully concealing his delight, as Pery went on. There was a rule of the House for admitting members of the English Parliament to the floor, and Pery wondered if the House would consider the American assemblies as English parliaments? He hesitated to give an order on it without receiving their directions. Instantly the whole House gave what Franklin proudly called “a loud, unanimous aye.” Two members came to the bar where Franklin was now standing, let him in, and gave him a seat of honor near the Speaker’s desk.

  As Franklin explained it to Thomas Cushing, the Irish were “dispos’d to be friends of America. with the expectation that our growing weight might in time be thrown into their scale, and by joining our interest with thei
rs might be obtained for them as well as for us, a more equitable treatment….” But as for Ireland’s weight helping America, Franklin saw small hope. The country was too totally crushed by the ruthless application of English power. “The appearances of general extreme poverty among the lower people are amazing,” Franklin told Cushing. “They live in wretched hovels of mud and straw, are clothed in rags, and subsist chiefly on potatoes. Our New England farmers, of the poorest sort, in regard to the enjoyment of all the comforts of life are princes when compared to them. Such is the effect of the discouragements of industry, the non-residence not only of pensioners, but of many original landlords, who lease their lands in gross to undertakers that rack the tenants and fleece them skin and all to make estates to themselves, while the rents, as well as most of the pensions are spent out of the country.”

  He told of an English gentleman who began needling Franklin about America’s inability to build up a better export trade. From all he had heard of the good grazing land in America, and from what he saw of the amount of American flaxseed imported by Ireland, he could not understand why the colonists were not able to share some of the Irish trade in beef and butter and linen to the West Indies and other parts of the Empire.

  “I suppose the reason might be,” Franklin said dryly, “our people eat beef and butter every day and wear shirts themselves.”

  After several more days of partying in Dublin, Franklin and Jackson set out for Belfast, where Franklin hoped to catch a ship to Scotland. Their route carried them within calling distance of Hillsboro, the Hill estate, and Jackson did not feel they could pass his Lordship by without offending him. Franklin, thoroughly prepared to do this, proposed that they separate. He would go on to Armagh to visit with Dean. Hugh Hamilton, a fellow scientist who had recently written a pamphlet on barometers which had attracted some attention. But when they reached the point in the road where they were to part, there was no carriage available for Franklin, and he was obliged to succumb to Jackson’s political necessities and jog onward to Hillsboro. The immense estate was run with military efficiency by his Lordship. Neat, well-kept plantations perched atop the hills the travelers passed, and at the mansion house they were greeted by a castle guard with cocked hats and Dutch breeches in memory of William of Orange “of glorious memory.” They were in the north of Ireland now where the Catholics were an utterly crushed, minority, without even the freedom to sing rebellious ballads.