Benjamin Franklin

by Paul Elmer More

Franklin came now to reap the fruits of a long and well spent life. His personal fame aided him in a land where philosophers had become the fashion of the day, and as the representative of a people struggling for liberty he was peculiarly dear to the French, who were themselves speculating on such matters and preparing for their own revolution. It is of course easy to exaggerate the influence of sentiment in the case. France was glad to encourage America because the loss of the colonies would weaken the British Empire, and that was natural; but it is, I think, a mistake not to acknowledge the generous sentiments of the people and even of the grandees of the land. Voltaire and Rousseau had not been preaching in vain; the American Declaration of Independence was quite in the drift of French political ideas. But to awaken trust in a people who dwelt in a far-off wilderness and who were commonly esteemed little better than savages, the presence of such a man as Franklin was of incalculable value.

After a brief interval M. de Chaumont, one of the wealthy Frenchmen of the day, offered Franklin rooms at Passy in his Hôtel de Valentinois, and there our philosopher fixed his abode, living in some style, and spending perhaps about thirteen thousand dollars a year. His popularity was immediate and almost unexampled. The great people of France—philosophers, statesmen, titled noblemen, and fine ladies—thought it an honor to receive the famous American; and it is said that so great was his fame among the common people that the shopkeepers would run to their doors to see him pass down the street. Innumerable pictures were drawn and medallions cut of his figure, until, as he wrote, his countenance was made "as well known as that of the moon, so that he durst not do anything that would oblige him to run away, as his phiz would discover him wherever he should venture to show it." Parton quotes this interesting account of the commissioners from the Memoirs of Count Sigur: "Nothing could be more striking than ... the almost rustic apparel, the plain but firm demeanor, the free and direct language, of the envoys, whose antique simplicity of dress and appearance seemed to have introduced within our walls, in the midst of the effeminate and servile refinement of the eighteenth century, some sages contemporary with Plato, or republicans of the age of Cato and of Fabius. This unexpected apparition produced upon us a greater effect in consequence of its novelty, and of its occurring precisely at the period when literature and philosophy had circulated amongst us an unusual desire for reforms, a disposition to encourage innovations, and the seeds of an ardent attachment to liberty."

But life was not all roseate for Franklin; he and the other envoys had plenty of work to do. Among other things an endless number of foreign officers applied to Franklin for commissions in the American army. Some of these applicants—such as Lafayette and Steuben—were heartily welcome, and really aided the cause; but he was beset by innumerable others who would have been merely a burden on the army. For men of this stamp he drew up and actually used more than once a blank recommendation beginning with these ominous words: "The bearer of this, who is going to America, presses me to give him a letter of recommendation, though I know nothing of him, not even his name. This may seem extraordinary, but I assure you it is not uncommon here," etc. He was also kept busy managing the affairs of the small but active navy, which was largely fitted out in France, and which brought most of its prizes into French ports. But of all his labors the most difficult and the most important was the raising of money for Congress. Into the details of this exasperating task we cannot here enter. Congress was not wise, and its necessities were desperate, and, despite the generosity of the French court, he had often to employ extreme measures to borrow money on doubtful security or none at all.

To excite interest in favor of the colonies Franklin wrote several papers, whose practical ideas of political liberty were not without effect in guiding the French people on to their own revolution. Even the wit of "the old fox," as he was called in England, appealed strongly to that nation of esprit. So, for instance, when asked if a certain story of American defeat told by Lord Stormont, the British ambassador, was a truth, he answered: "No, monsieur, it is not a truth; it is only a Stormont." And straightway "a stormont" became the polite word for a lie. Again, when told that Howe had taken Philadelphia he retorted: "I beg your pardon, sir, Philadelphia has taken Howe."

But though Franklin could maintain his philosophic calm, and could even joke in the presence of disaster, yet the strain on his nerves was tremendous. I believe that only once in his life was he betrayed into manifesting a strong emotion. Mr. Austin, a messenger from Boston, is coming with important news. All the American commissioners, together with Beaumarchais, are at Passy waiting his arrival. His chaise is heard in the court, and they go out to meet him. But before he even alights Franklin cries out, "Sir, is Philadelphia taken?" "Yes, sir," says Austin. It seemed then that all was over. Without a word Franklin clasped his hands and turned toward the house. "But, sir," said Austin, "I have greater news than that General Burgoyne and his whole army are prisoners of war!" "The news," as one of the party afterwards declared, "was like a sovereign cordial to the dying." How deep the impression upon Franklin was we may judge from his gratitude to the messenger. Mr. Austin relates that often he "would break from one of those musings in which it was his habit to indulge, and clasping his hands together, exclaim, 'Oh, Mr. Austin, you brought us glorious news!'"

It was indeed glorious news. The result in France was instantaneous and immense. Franklin and his companions had long wished the court to acknowledge publicly the independence of the United States and to make a treaty of commerce with them. The news of Burgoyne's surrender reached Paris on the 4th of December, 1777; the desired treaty was actually signed on the 6th of February following. Dr. Bancroft, who was present when both parties signed the document, tells us that Franklin on that occasion wore the old suit of Manchester velvet which he had worn on the day of his outrage in the Privy Council, and which had been long laid aside. It was apparently a bit of quaint and secret revenge in which the philosopher indulged himself. But when Dr. Bancroft intimated to Franklin his suspicions in the matter, the philosopher only smiled, and said nothing.

Several weeks later the new treaty was to receive formal recognition, and the American commissioners were to be presented to Louis XVI in their public capacity. Franklin intended to wear the regular court costume at the presentation, but was balked of his desire. The costume did not come in time; and when the perruquier brought his wig it refused to sit on the Doctor's head. Franklin suggested that the wig might be too small. "Monsieur, it is impossible," cried the perruquier, and then, dashing the wig to the floor, exclaimed, "No, Monsieur!—it is not the wig which is too small; it is your head which is too large." At any rate the wig could not be worn, and Franklin appeared in his own gray hair, dressed in black velvet, with white silk stockings, spectacles on nose, and no sword at his side. The king received the envoys courteously, saying: "Gentlemen, I wish the Congress to be assured of my friendship. I beg leave also to observe that I am exceedingly satisfied in particular with your own conduct during your residence in my kingdom;" and with these words walked out of the apartment. Immediately Lord Stormont, the British ambassador, left Paris; and a few days later M. Gérard, the first minister of France to this country, sailed for America.

Franklin had met the king; he had now to meet a greater and more famous man than Louis,—the only man living whose fame was equal to his own. Voltaire, eighty-four years old, feeble in body but with intellect unconquered, had just come to Paris after his long exile to hear the plaudits of his countrymen, and to die. The American envoys asked permission to wait upon the great man, and were received by Voltaire lying on his couch. He quoted a few lines from Thomson's "Ode to Liberty," and then began to talk with Franklin in English; but his niece, not understanding that language, begged them to speak in French. Whereupon Voltaire replied: "I beg your pardon. I have for a moment yielded to the vanity of showing that I can speak in the language of a Franklin." When Dr. Franklin presented his grandson, the old philosopher pronounced over his head only these words: "God and Liberty!" All who were present shed tears.

John Adams tells the story of a more public meeting between the two men at the Academy of Sciences: "Voltaire and Franklin were both present, and there presently arose a general cry that M. Voltaire and M. Franklin should be introduced to each other. This was done, and they bowed and spoke to each other. This was no satisfaction; there must be something more. Neither of our philosophers seemed to divine what was wished or expected. They, however, took each other by the hand; but this was not enough. The clamor continued until the exclamation came out, 'Il faut s'embrasser à la Française!'[² ] The two aged actors upon this great theatre of philosophy and frivolity then embraced each other by hugging one another in their arms and kissing each other's cheeks, and then the tumult subsided. And the cry immediately spread throughout the kingdom, and I suppose over all Europe, 'Qu'il était charmant de voir embrasser Solon et Sophocle!'"[³ ]

The mention of John Adams recalls us to the most disagreeable part of Franklin's experience. During all his sojourn in France he was subject to continual and annoying interference from his colleagues. Before his arrival in Paris, Silas Deane had entered for Congress into semi-commercial relations with the French government through the eccentric and industrious Beaumarchais. Franklin was content to leave these affairs to him, and did not at the time even know their real nature. But with Arthur Lee it was different. Of all characters in American history Lee is almost the hardest to endure. He was patriotic, and in a way honest, but meddlesome, suspicious, vain, and quarrelsome to an incredible degree. He immediately made up his mind that Deane was peculating, and never ceased writing accusatory letters until Congress recalled the unfortunate envoy. All this time he was also acting toward Franklin in a manner which can only be described as insane. He fumed at Franklin's easy way of conducting business; his vanity suffered indescribable tortures at every mark of respect paid to his distinguished colleague; he suspected him of treason and every other crime; and with his partisans (whose names we need not here mention) he wrote voluble letters of incrimination to Congress. When Silas Deane was recalled, John Adams was sent over to take his place, and for a while Franklin received support from his new colleague,—for Adams, with all his faults, was at least single-hearted in his patriotism. But their characters were too widely different for them to work easily together in harness. Adams's vanity was almost as great as Arthur Lee's. The homage paid to Franklin drove him almost into a frenzy of rage, both because he thought himself overlooked and because such homage savored of aristocracy. In Franklin's catalogue of the virtues there were two which he could not claim to have attained,—chastity and orderliness; and these two weaknesses now rose to exact their penalty. Adams could not believe that a man who had been lax with women could be honest in anything else; Adams was the spirit of petty orderliness, and Franklin's easy ways seemed to him the destruction of all business. At last Congress came to the rescue, and for once acted sensibly: Lee and Adams were recalled, and Franklin was left as sole plenipotentiary in Paris.