The verse of Turgot was not alone in its testimony. An incident precisely contemporaneous shows how completely France had fallen under the fascination of the American cause. Voltaire, the acknowledged chief of French literature in the brilliant eighteenth century, after many years of busy exile at Ferney, in the neighborhood of Geneva, where he had wielded his far-reaching sceptre, was induced in old age to visit Paris once again before he died. He left his Swiss retreat on the 6th of February, 1778, the very day on which Franklin signed the alliance with France, and, after a journey which resembled the progress of a sovereign, reached Paris on the 10th of February. He was at once surrounded by the homage of all most illustrious in literature and science, while the Theatre, grateful for his contributions, vied with the Academy. There were two characters on whom the patriarch, as he was fondly called, lavished a homage of his own. He had already addressed to Turgot a most remarkable epistle in verse, the mood of which may be seen in its title, “Épître à un Homme”; but on seeing the discarded statesman, who had been so true to benevolent ideas, he came forward to meet him, saying, with his whole soul, “Let me kiss the hand which signed the salvation of the people.” The scene with Franklin was more touching still. Voltaire began in English, which he had spoken early in life, but, having lost the habit, soon changed to French, saying that he “could not resist the desire of speaking for one moment the language of Franklin.” The latter had brought with him his grandson, for whom he asked a benediction. “God and Liberty,” said Voltaire, putting his hands upon the head of the child; “this is the only benediction proper for the grandson of Franklin.” A few weeks afterward, at a public session of the Academy, they were placed side by side, when, amidst the applause of the enlightened company, the two old men rose and embraced. The political triumphs of Franklin and the dramatic triumphs of Voltaire caused the exclamation, “Solon and Sophocles embrace!” It was more than this. It was France and America embracing beneath the benediction of “God and Liberty.” Only a month later Voltaire died. But the alliance with France had received new assurance, and the cause of American independence an immutable impulse.
Turgot did not live to enjoy the final triumph to which he had given such remarkable expression. He died March 20, 1781, several months before that “crowning mercy,” the capture of Cornwallis, and nearly two years before the Provisional Articles of Peace, by which the Colonies were recognized as free and independent States. But his attachment to Franklin was one of the enjoyments of his latter years.[255] Besides the verse to which so much reference has been made, there is an interesting incident attesting the communion of ideas between them, if not the direct influence of Turgot. Captain Cook, the eminent navigator, who “steered Britain’s oak into a world unknown,” was in distant seas on a voyage of discovery. Such an enterprise naturally interested Franklin, and, in the spirit of a refined humanity, he sought to save it from the chances of war. Accordingly, he issued a passport, addressed “To all captains and commanders of armed ships acting by commission from the Congress of the United States of America, now in war with Great Britain,” where, after setting forth the nature of the voyage of the English navigator, he proceeded to say: “This is most earnestly to recommend to every one of you, that, in case the said ship, which is now expected to be soon in the European seas on her return, should happen to fall into your hands, you would not consider her as an enemy, nor suffer any plunder to be made of the effects contained in her, nor obstruct her immediate return to England by detaining her or sending her into any other part of Europe or to America, but that you would treat the said Captain Cook and his people with all civility and kindness, affording them, as common friends to mankind, all the assistance in your power which they may happen to stand in need of.”[256] This document bears date March 10, 1779. But Turgot had anticipated Franklin. At the first menace of war he had submitted a memoir to the French Government, on which it was ordered that Captain Cook should not be treated as an enemy, but as a benefactor of all European nations.[257] Here was a triumph of Civilization by which we, too, have been gainers; for such an example is universal and immortal in influence.
There is yet another circumstance which should be mentioned as revealing an identity of sympathies in these two eminent persons. Each sought to marry Madame Helvétius: Turgot early in life, while she was still Mademoiselle Ligniville, belonging to a family of twenty-one children, from a château in Lorraine, and a niece of Madame de Graffigny, author of the “Peruvian Letters”; Franklin in his old age, while a welcome guest in the intellectual company which this widowed lady continued to gather about her at Auteuil, in the neighborhood of Paris, and not far from his own house at Passy. Throughout his stay in France he continued in unbroken relations with this circle, dining with it very often, and adding much to its gayety, while Madame Helvétius, with her friends, dined with him once a week. It was with tears in his eyes that he parted from her, whom he never expected to see again in this life; and on reaching his American home he addressed her in words of touching tenderness: “I stretch out my arms towards you, notwithstanding the immensity of the seas which separate us, while I wait the heavenly kiss which I firmly trust one day to give you.”[258]
In the permanent group about Madame Helvétius were Cabanis and Morellet, both living for many years under her hospitable roof. To the former we are indebted for the interesting extract last quoted. The intimacy with Franklin is attested in other ways. Nobody who has visited the Imperial[259] Library at Paris can forget his very pleasant autograph note in French concerning Madame Helvétius, exhibited in the same case with an autograph note of Henry the Fourth to Gabrielle d’Estrées.
Another glimpse is furnished by Mrs. Adams, who, in her family correspondence, reports a scene at the house of Franklin. “The Doctor entered at one door, she [Madame Helvétius] at the other; upon which she ran forward to him, caught him by the hand, ‘Hélas, Franklin!’—then gave him a double kiss, one upon each cheek, and another upon his forehead.… She carried on the chief of the conversation at dinner, frequently locking her hand into the Doctor’s.” Franklin spoke of her as “a genuine Frenchwoman, wholly free from affectation or stiffness of behavior, and one of the best women in the world.”[260] Madame Helvétius died at Auteuil, August 12, 1800, aged eighty-one, and, according to her desire, was buried in her garden. A few years later the same house became the home of Benjamin Thompson, Count Rumford, who died there, and was buried in the neighboring cemetery.
But the story of the verse is not yet finished. And here it mingles with the history of Franklin in Paris, constituting an episode of the American Revolution. The verse was written for a portrait. And now that the costly first step had been taken, the portrait of Franklin was seen everywhere,—in painting, in sculpture, and in engraving. I have counted in the superb collection of the Bibliothèque Impériale, at Paris, forty-seven engraved heads of him. At the royal exhibition of pictures the republican portrait found place, and the name of Franklin was printed at length in the catalogue,—a circumstance which did not pass unobserved at the time; for the “Espion Anglais,” in recording it, treats it as “announcing that he began to come out of his obscurity.”[261] The same curious authority, describing a festival at Marseilles, says, under date of March 20, 1779, “I was struck, on entering the hall, to observe a crowd of portraits representing the insurgents; but that of M. Franklin especially drew my attention, on account of the device, ‘Eripuit cœlo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis.’ This was inscribed recently, and every one admired the sublime truth.”[262] Thus completely was France, not merely in its social centre, where fashion gives the law, but in its distant borders, pledged to the cause of which Franklin was the representative.
As in halls of science and popular resorts, so was our Plenipotentiary even in the palace of princes. The biographer of the Prince de Condé dwells with admiration upon the illustrious character, who, during the great debate and the negotiations that ensued, had fixed the regards of Paris, of Versailles, of the whole kingdom indeed,—although in simple and farmer-like exterior, so unlike those gilded plenipotentiaries to whom France was accustomed,—and he recounts, most sympathetically, that the Prince, after an interview of two hours, declared that “Franklin appeared to him above even his reputation.”[263] And here we encounter again the unwilling testimony of Capefigue, who says that he was followed everywhere, taking possession of “hearts and minds,” and that “his picture, in his simple Quaker dress, was suspended at the hearth of the poor and in the boudoir of the fashionable,”[264]—all of which is in harmony with the more sympathetic record of Lacretelle, who says that “portraits of Franklin were to be seen everywhere, with this inscription, which the Court itself found just and sublime, ‘Eripuit cœlo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis.’”[265]
Fragonard, the King’s painter, united in this adulation. A French paper describes the artist as displaying his utmost efforts “in an elegant picture dedicated to the genius of Franklin, who is represented with one hand opposing the ægis of Minerva to the thunderbolt, which he first knew how to fix by his conductors, and with the other commanding the God of War to fight against Avarice and Tyranny, whilst America, nobly reclining upon him, and holding in her hand the fasces, true emblem of the union of the American States, looks down with tranquillity on her defeated enemies.” It is then said, that “the painter, in this picture, most beautifully expressed the idea of the Latin verse which has been so justly applied to M. Franklin.” The enthusiastic journalist, not content with the picture and the verse, proceeded to claim him as of French ancestry. “Franklin appears rather to be of French than of English origin. It is certain that the name of Franklin, or Franquelin, is very common in Picardy, especially in the districts of Vimeux and Ponthieu. It is very probable that one of the Doctor’s ancestors was an inhabitant of this country, and went over to England with the fleet of Jean de Biencourt, or that which was fitted out by the nobility of this province.”[266] The story of Homer seems revived.
The tribute of Madame d’Houdetot was most peculiar. This lady, one of the riddles of French society in the eighteenth century, whom Rousseau depicted in a passage of surpassing fervor and made the inspiration of his “Nouvelle Éloïse,” received Franklin at her château, near Paris, in a brilliant circle, with banquet and verses in his honor. The famous guest, at his arrival, and then at dinner, with every glass of wine was saluted by a new verse, the whole ending with the ascription of Turgot.[267] Whether to admire or pity the philosopher on this occasion is the question.