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CHAPTER XLI.
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 c[oe]lo 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."
CHAPTER XLII.
FOR THE LAST TIME
Silence Dogood is an old man now – a very old man. He looks back on the spring and summer and autumn of life – it is now the time of the snow. But there are sunny days in winter, and they came to him, though on the trees hang the snow, and the nights are long and painful.
What has Silence Dogood done in his eighty years now ending in calm, in dreams and silence? Let us look back over the past with him now. What a review it is!
He had founded literary and scientific clubs in his early life that had made not idlers, but men. He had founded the first subscription library in America. It had multiplied, and in its many branches had become a national influence.
He made a stove that was a family luxury, and showed how it might be enjoyed without a smoky chimney.
He had shown that lightning was electricity and could be controlled, and had disarmed the thunder cloud by a simple rod.
He had founded the High School in Pennsylvania.
He had encouraged the raising of silk.
He had helped found the Philadelphia Hospital, and had founded the American Philosophical Society.
He had promoted the scheme for uniting the colonies.
He had signed the Declaration of Independence, the Treaty of the Alliance with France, the Treaty of Peace between England and the United States, and the draft of the Constitution of the United States.
We may truly say, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." But there remains yet one paper to sign. It is his will. The influence of that paper is felt in the world to-day, but nowhere more than in Boston. In this will he made provision for lending the interest of great bequests to poor citizens, he left the fund for the Franklin Silver Medal in Boston schools, and he sought to be a benefactor to the children of Boston after a hundred years. This will has the following words:
"If this plan is executed, and succeeds as projected without interruption for one hundred years, the sum will then be one hundred and thirty-one thousand pounds, of which I would have the managers of the donation to the town of Boston then lay out, at their discretion, one hundred thousand pounds in public works, which may be judged of most general utility to the inhabitants, such as fortifications, bridges, aqueducts, public buildings, baths, pavements, or whatever may make living in the town more convenient to its people, and render it more agreeable to strangers resorting thither for health or a temporary residence. The remaining thirty-one thousand pounds I would have continued to be let out on interest, in the manner above directed, for another hundred years, as I hope it will have been found that the institution has had a good effect on the conduct of youth, and been of service to many worthy characters and useful citizens. At the end of this second term, if no unfortunate accident has prevented the operation, the sum will be four millions and sixty-one thousand pounds sterling; of which I leave one million sixty-one thousand pounds to the disposition of the inhabitants of the town of Boston, and three millions to the disposition of the government of the State, not presuming to carry my views farther."
He put his signature to this last paper, and for the last time did honor to his old writing-master, George Brownell.
He died looking upon a picture of Christ, and he was buried amid almost unexampled honors, France joining with the United States in his eulogies.
But in a high sense he lives. There is one boy who has never ceased to attend the Boston Latin School, and will not for generations to come. It is Silence Dogood.
Virtue to virtue, intelligence to intelligence, benevolence to benevolence, faith to faith! So ascend the feet of worth on the ladder of life; so reaches a high purpose a place beyond the derision of the world.
The bells of the nation tolled when he died. "He was true to his country!" said all men; but aged Jenny, "He was true to his home!"
The influence of Uncle Benjamin in his godson had lived, but it was not ended.
On September 17th, in the year 1856, the city of Boston stopped business to render homage to the memory of her greatest citizen. On that day was inaugurated the Franklin statue, by Horatio Greenough, that now stands in front of the City Hall. On that day the graves of Josiah and Abiah Franklin in the Granary burying ground were covered with evergreens and flowers, and we hope that the grave of Uncle Ben, the poet, which is near by, was not forgotten.
The procession was one of the grandest that the city has ever seen, for it was not only great in numbers, but it blossomed with heart tributes. The trades were in it, the military, the schools. Orators, poets, artists, all contributed to the festival. Boston was covered with flags, and her halls were filled with joyous assemblages.
There was one house that was ornamented by a motto from Franklin's private liturgy. It was:
"Help me to be faithful to my country,
Careful for its good,
Valiant for its defense,
And obedient to its laws."
Conspicuous among the mottoes were:
"Time is money," "Knowledge is power," "Worth makes the man," and, queerly enough, "Don't give too much for the whistle," the teaching of an experience one hundred and fifty years before.
The bells rang, and the influence of the old man who slept beside the flower-crowned grave of Josiah Franklin and Abiah Franklin was in the joy; the chimes of Nottingham were ringing again. Good influences are seeds of immortal flowers, and no life fails that inspires another.
Franklin Park, Boston, which will be one of the most beautiful in the world, will carry forward, in its forests, fountains, and flowers, these influences for generations to come.
CHAPTER XLIII.
A LESSON AFTER SCHOOL
It was the day of the award of the Franklin medals in the old Boston Latin School, a day in June, and such a one as James Russell Lowell so picturesquely describes. We say "old" Boston Latin School, not meaning old Boston in England, but such an association would not be an untrue one; for the Boston Latin School in Boston, Massachusetts, which was founded under the influence of Governor John Winthrop and Rev. John Cotton, and that numbers five signers of the Declaration of Independence among its pupils, was really begun in Boston, England, in 1554, or in the days of Queen Mary. It has the most remarkable history of any school in America; it has been the Harrow of Harvard, and for five or more generations has sent into life many men whose character has shed luster upon their times.
To gain the Franklin medal is the high aim of the Boston schoolboy. It is to associate one's name with a long line of illustrious men, among them John Collins Warren, Wendell Phillips, Charles Sumner, Phillips Brooks, S. F. Smith, and many others.
But one of the boys who had won the Franklin medal to-day had done so amid the ridicule of his people at home and after very hard work. Boston Latin boys are too well bred to laugh at the humble gifts of any one, but those of this period could hardly have failed to notice the natural stupidity and the strong, silent purpose and will of this lad. His name we will call Elwell – Frank Elwell. He came from a humble home, where he was not uncommonly taunted as being the "fool of the family."
He first attracted attention at this school of brilliant pupils by a bold question which he asked his teacher one day that commanded instant respect. After hard study he had made a very poor recitation. He was reproved by his teacher, who was a submaster, but a kindly, sensitive, and sympathetic man. He lifted his eyes and looked into the teacher's face, and said:
"Why do you reprove me? I am doing the best I can, sir."
The teacher knew the words to be true. The boys that heard the question turned with a kind of chivalrous feeling toward their dull companion, who was doing his best against poverty, limited gifts, and many disadvantages in life. The old school of Charles Sumner, Wendell Phillips, and Phillips Brooks is not wanting in true sympathy with any manly struggle in life.
The teacher answered: "Master Elwell, I have done wrong in reproving you. He does well who does his best. You are doing well."
Frank Elwell won the Franklin medal by doing his best. On the evening after his graduation he stood before his teacher and asked:
"Master Lowell" (for so we will call the teacher, and use the old term in the vocative case), "Master Lowell, did you ever know any boy to struggle against defects like mine?"
"Yes, my boy, I have."
"Did he succeed in life?"
"He did. He became the first citizen of Boston, and is so regarded still."
"Who was it, sir?"
"Look at your medal. It was Benjamin Franklin himself."
Reader, Frank Elwell perhaps is you.
"More than wealth, more than fame, more than any other thing, is the power of the human heart." Live for influences – live for the things that live, and let the best influences of the Peter Folgers and Benjamin Franklins of your family live on in you, and live after you. You will do well in life and will succeed in life if you do your best; and if your ideal seems to fail in you, it will not fail in the world, in whose harvest field no good intention perishes.
Be true to those who have faith in you, and to their faith in you, and help others by believing in the best that is in them. Those who have the most faith in you are your truest friends. An Uncle Benjamin and a Jenny are among the choicest characters that can enter the doors of life, and we will see it so at the end.
Do good, and you can not fail.
"Do thou thy work; it shall succeed
In thine or in another's day,
And if denied the visitor's meed,
Thou shalt not miss the toiler's pay."
APPENDIX.
FRANKLIN'S FAMOUS PROVERB STORY OF THE OLD AUCTIONEER
"Friends," said the old auctioneer, "the taxes are indeed very heavy. If those laid on by the government were the only ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commissioners can not ease or deliver us by allowing an abatement. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something may be done for us. God helps them that help themselves, as Poor Richard says.
"I. It would be thought a hard government that would tax its people one tenth part of their time to be employed in its service; but idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life. Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labor wears; while the used key is always bright, as Poor Richard says. But dost thou love life? then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of, as Poor Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep, forgetting that The sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that There will be sleeping enough in the grave? as Poor Richard says.
"If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be, as Poor Richard says, the greatest prodigality, since, as he elsewhere tells us, Lost time is never found again, and what we call time enough always proves little enough. Let us, then, be up and doing, and doing to the purpose; so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all ease; and He that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night; while Laziness travels so slowly that Poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee; and, Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise, as Poor Richard says.
"So, what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We make these times better if we bestir ourselves. Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hopes will die fasting. There are no gains without pains; then help, hands, for I have no lands; or, if I have, they are smartly taxed. He that hath a trade hath an estate; and he that hath a calling hath an office of profit and honor, as Poor Richard says; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious we shall never starve; for, At the workingman's house Hunger looks in but dares not enter; for, Industry pays debts, while despair increases them. What though you have no treasure, nor has any rich relation left you a legacy; Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then plow deep while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep. Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered to-morrow. One to-day is worth two to-morrows, as Poor Richard says; and further, Never leave that till to-morrow which you can do to-day. If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle? Are you, then, your own master? Be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country, your king. Handle your tools without mittens; remember that The cat in gloves catches no mice, as Poor Richard says. It is true there is much to be done, and perhaps you are weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and you will see great effects; for, Constant dropping wears away stones, and By diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable; and Little strokes fell great oaks.
"Methinks I hear some of you say, Must a man afford himself no leisure? I will tell thee, my friend, what Poor Richard says: Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; and since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour. Leisure is time for doing something useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never; for A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two things. Many, without labor, would live by their wits only, but they break for want of stock; whereas, industry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect. Fly pleasures, and they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, every one bids me good-morrow.
"II. But with our industry we must likewise be steady and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust too much to others; for, as Poor Richard says:
"I never saw an oft-removed tree,
Nor yet an oft-removed family,
That throve so well as those that settled be."
And again, Three removes are as bad as a fire; and again, Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee; and again, If you would have your business, go; if not, send. And again,
"He that by the plow would thrive,
Himself must either hold or drive."
And again, The eye of the master will do more work than both his hands; and again, "Want of care does us more damage than want of knowledge; and again, Not to oversee workmen is to leave them your purse open. Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of many; for, In the affairs of this world men are saved not by faith but by the want of it; but a man's own care is profitable, for, If you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, serve yourself. A little neglect may breed great mischief: for want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost, being overtaken and slain by the enemy – all for want of a little care about a horseshoe nail.
"III. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's own business; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all his life to the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a lean will; and
"Many estates are spent in the getting,
Since women forsook spinning and knitting,
And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.
If you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as of getting."
The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are greater than her incomes.
"Away, then, with your expensive follies, and you will not then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable families; for
"Women and wine, game and deceit,
Make the wealth small and the want great."
And, further, What maintains one vice would bring up two children. You may think, perhaps, that a little tea or a little punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but remember, Many a little makes a mickle. Beware of little expenses; A small leak will sink a great ship, as Poor Richard says; and again, Who dainties love shall beggars prove; and, moreover, Fools make feasts and wise men eat them.
"Here you are all got together at this sale of fineries and knickknacks. You call them goods; but if you do not take care, they will prove evils to some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap, and perhaps they may for less than they cost; but if you have no occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what Poor Richard says: Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessities. And again, At a great pennyworth pause awhile. He means that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good; for in another place he says, Many have been ruined by buying good pennyworths. Again, It is foolish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance; and yet this folly is practiced every day at auctions for want of minding the almanac. Many, for the sake of finery on the back, have gone with a hungry belly and half starved their families. Silks and satins, scarlet and velvets, put out the kitchen fire, as Poor Richard says.
"These are not the necessaries of life; they can scarcely be called the conveniences; and yet, only because they look pretty, how many want to have them! By these, and other extravagances, the genteel are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly despised, but who through industry and frugality have maintained their standing; in which case it appears plainly that A plowman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees, as Poor Richard says. Perhaps they have a small estate left them which they knew not the getting of; they think, It is day, and it never will be night; that a little to be spent out of so much is not worth minding; but Always taking out of the meal-tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the bottom, as Poor Richard says; and then, When the well is dry, they know the worth of water. But this they might have known before, if they had taken his advice. If you would know the value of money, go and try to borrow some; for, He that goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing, as Poor Richard says; and, indeed, so does he that lends to such people, when he goes to get it again. Poor Dick further advises, and says:
"Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse;
Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse."
And again, Pride is as loud a beggar as Want, and a great deal more saucy. When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy ten more, that your appearance may be all of a piece; but Poor Dick says, It is easier to suppress the first desire than to satisfy all that follow it. And it is as truly folly for the poor to ape the rich, as for the frog to swell in order to equal the ox.
"Vessels large may venture more,
But little boats should keep near shore."
It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as Poor Richard says, Pride that dines on vanity, sups on contempt. Pride breakfasted with Plenty, dined with Poverty, and supped with Infamy. And, after all, of what use is this pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered? It can not promote health, nor ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person; it creates envy; it hastens misfortune.
"But what madness must it be to run in debt for these superfluities! We are offered by the terms of this sale six months' credit; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, because we can not spare the ready money, and hope now to be fine without it. But, ah! think what you do when you run in debt: you give to another power over your liberty. If you can not pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in fear when you speak to him; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses, and, by degrees, come to lose your veracity, and sink into base, downright lying; for, The second vice is lying, the first is running in debt, as Poor Richard says; and again, to the same purpose, Lying rides upon Debt's back; whereas, a free-born Englishman ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright.
