THE JOURNEY TO PHILADELPHIA
The _New York Mercury_ of November 4, 1770, contains this item:
"John Irons, Jr., and Solomon Binkus, the famous scout, arrived
Wednesday morning on the schooner _Ariel_ from Albany. Mr. Binkus is
on his way to Alexandria, Virginia, where he is to meet Major
Washington and accompany him to the Great Kanawha River in the Far
West."
Solomon was soon to meet an officer with whom he was to find the
amplest scope for his talents. Jack was on his way to Philadelphia.
They had found the ship crowded and Jack and two other boys "pigged
together"--in the expressive phrase of that time--on the cabin floor,
through the two nights of their journey. Jack minded not the hardness
of the floor, but there was much drinking and arguing and expounding of
the common law in the forward end of the cabin, which often interrupted
his slumbers.
He was overawed by the length and number of the crowded streets of New
York and by "the great height" of many of its buildings. The grandeur
of Broadway and the fashionable folk who frequented it was the subject
of a long letter which he indited to his mother from The City Tavern.
He took the boat to Amboy as Benjamin Franklin had done, but without
mishap, and thence traveled by stage to Burlington. There he met Mr.
John Adams of Boston, who was on his way to Philadelphia. He was a
full-faced, ruddy, strong-built man of about thirty-five years, with
thick, wavy dark hair that fell in well trimmed tufts on either cheek
and almost concealed his ears. It was beginning to show gray. He had
a prominent forehead, large blue and expressive eyes and a voice clear
and resonant. He was handsomely dressed.
Mr. Adams greeted the boy warmly and told him that the testimony which
he and Solomon Binkus gave had saved the life of Captain Preston. The
great lawyer took much interest in the boy and accompanied him to the
top of the stage, the weather being clear and warm. Mr. Adams sat
facing Jack, and beside the latter was a slim man with a small sad
countenance which wore a permanent look of astonishment. Jack says in
a letter that his beard "was not composed of hair, but hairs as
straight and numerable as those in a cat's whiskers." They were also
gray like his eyes. After the stage had started this man turned to
Jack and asked:
"What is your name, boy?"
"John Irons."
The man opened his eyes wider and drew in his breath between parted
lips as if he had heard a most astonishing fact.
"My name is Pinhorn, sir--Eliphalet Pinhorn," he reciprocated. "I have
been visiting my wife in Newark."
Jack thought it a singular thing that a man should have been visiting
his wife.
"May I ask where you are going?" the man inquired of the boy.
"To Philadelphia."
Mr. Pinhorn turned toward him with a look of increased astonishment and
demanded:
"Been there before?"
"Never."
The man made a sound that was between a sigh and a groan. Then, almost
sternly and in a confidential tone, as if suddenly impressed by the
peril of an immortal soul, he said:
"Young man, beware! I say to you, beware!"
Each stiff gray hair on his chin seemed to erect itself into an
animated exclamation point. Turning again, he whispered:
"You will soon shake its dust from your feet."
"Why?"
"A sinking place! Every one bankrupt or nearly so. Display! Nothing
but display! Feasting, drinking! No thought of to-morrow! Ungodly
city!"
In concluding his indictment, Mr. Pinhorn partly covered his mouth and
whispered the one word:
"Babylon!"
A moment of silence followed, after which he added; "I would never
build a house or risk a penny in business there."
"I am going to work in Doctor Benjamin Franklin's print shop," said
Jack proudly.
Mr. Pinhorn turned with a look of consternation clearly indicating that
this was the last straw. He warned in a half whisper:
"Again I say beware! That is the word--beware!"
He almost shuddered as he spoke, and leaning close to the boy's ear,
added in a confidential tone:
"The King of Babylon! A sinking business! An evil man!" He looked
sternly into the eyes of the boy and whispered: "Very! Oh, very!" He
sat back in his seat again, while the expression of his whole figure
seemed to say, "Thank God, my conscience is clear, whatever happens to
you."
Jack was so taken down by all this that, for a moment, his head swam.
Mr. Pinhorn added:
"Prospered, but how? That is the question. Took the money of a friend
and spent it. Many could tell you. Wine! Women! Infidelity! House
built on the sands!"
Mr. Adams had heard most of the gloomy talk of the slim man. Suddenly
he said to the slanderer:
"My friend, did I hear you say that you have been visiting your wife?"
"You did, sir."
"Well, I do not wonder that she lives in another part of the country,"
said Mr. Adams. "I should think that Philadelphia would feel like
moving away from you. I have heard you say that it was a sinking city.
It is nothing of the kind. It is floating in spite of the fact that
there are human sinkers in it like yourself. I hate the heart of lead.
This is the land of hope and faith and confidence. If you do not like
it here, go back to England. _We_ do not put our money into holes in
the wall. We lend it to our neighbors because they are worthy of being
trusted. We believe in our neighbors. We put our cash into business
and borrow more to increase our profits. It is true that many men in
Philadelphia are in debt, but they are mostly good for what they owe.
It is a thriving place. I could not help hearing you speak evil of
Doctor Franklin. He is my friend. I am proud to say it and I should
be no friend of his if I allowed your words to go unrebuked. Yours,
sir, is a leaden soul. It is without hope or trust in the things of
this life. You seem not to know that a new world is born. It is a
world of three tenses. We who really live in it are chiefly interested
in what a man is and is likely _to be_, not in what he _was_. Doctor
Franklin would not hesitate to tell you that his youth was not all it
should have been. He does not conceal his errors. There is no more
honest gentleman in the wide world than Doctor Franklin."
Mr. Adams had spoken with feeling and a look of indignation in his
eyes. He was a frank, fearless character. All who sat on the top of
the coach had heard him and when he had finished they clapped their
hands.
Jack was much relieved. He had been put in mind of what Doctor
Franklin had said long ago, one evening in Albany, of his struggle
against the faults and follies of his youth. For a moment Mr. Pinhorn
was dumb with astonishment.
"Nevertheless, sir, I hold to my convictions," he said.
"Of course you do," Mr. Adams answered. "No man like you ever
recovered from his convictions, for the reason that his convictions are
stronger than he is."
Mr. Pinhorn partly covered his mouth and turned to the boy and
whispered:
"It is a time of violent men. Let us hold our peace."
At the next stop where they halted for dinner Mr. Adams asked the boy
to sit down with him at the table. When they were seated the great man
said:
"I have to be on guard against catching fire these days. Sometimes I
feel the need of a companion with a fire bucket. My headlight is hope
and I have little patience with these whispering, croaking Tories and
with the barons of the south and the upper Hudson. I used to hold the
plow on my father's farm and I am still plowing as your father is."
Jack turned with a look of inquiry.
"We are breaking new land," Mr. Adams went on. "We are treading the
ordeal path among the red-hot plowshares of politics."
"It is what I should like to do," said the boy.
"You will be needed, but we must be without fear, remembering that
almost every man who has gained real distinction in politics has met a
violent death. There are the shining examples of Brutus, Cassius,
Hampden and Sidney, but it is worth while."
"I believe you taught school at Worcester," said Jack.
"And I learned at least one thing doing it--that school-teaching is not
for me. It would have turned me into a shrub. Too much piddling! It
is hard enough to teach men that they have rights which even a king
must respect."
"Let me remind you, sir," said Mr. Pinhorn, who sat at the same table,
"that the King can do no wrong."
"But his ministers can do as they please," Mr. Adams rejoined, whereat
the whole company broke into laughter.
Mr. Pinhorn covered his mouth with astonishment, but presently allowed
himself to say: "Sir, I hold to my convictions."
"You are wrong, sir. It is your convictions that hold to you. They
are like the dead limbs on a tree," Mr. Adams answered. "The motto of
Great Britain would seem to be, 'Do no right and suffer no wrong.'
They search our ships; they impress our seamen; they impose taxes
through a Parliament in which we are not represented, and if we
threaten resistance they would have us tried for treason. Nero used to
say that he wished that the inhabitants of Rome had only one neck, so
that he could dispose of them with a single blow. It was a rather
merciful wish, after all. A neck had better be chopped off than held
under the yoke of tyranny."
"Sir, England shielded, protected, us from French and Indians," Mr.
Pinhorn declared with high indignation.
"It protected its commerce. We were protecting British interests and
ourselves. Connecticut had five thousand under arms; Massachusetts,
seven thousand; New York, New Jersey and New Hampshire, many more.
Massachusetts taxed herself thirteen shillings and four pence to the
pound of income. New Jersey expended a pound a head to help pay for
the war. On that score England is our debtor."
The horn sounded. The travelers arose from the tables and hurried out
to the coach.
"It was a good dinner," Mr. Adams said to Jack when they had climbed to
their seat. "We should be eating potatoes and drinking water, instead
of which we have two kinds of meat and wine and pudding and bread and
tea and many jellies. Still, I am a better philosopher after dinner
than before it. But if we lived simpler, we should pay fewer taxes."
As they rode along a lady passenger sang the ballad of John Barleycorn,
in the chorus of which Mr. Adams joined with much spirit.
"My capacity for getting fun out of a song is like the gift of a weasel
for sucking eggs," he said.
So they fared along, and when Jack was taking leave of the
distinguished lawyer at The Black Horse Tavern in Philadelphia the
latter invited the boy to visit him in Boston if his way should lead
him there.
2
The frank, fearless, sledge-hammer talk of the lawyer made a deep
impression on the boy, as a long letter written next day to his father
and mother clearly shows. He went to the house of the printer, where
he did not receive the warm welcome he had expected. Deborah Franklin
was a fat, hard-working, illiterate, economical housewife. She had a
great pride in her husband, but had fallen hopelessly behind him. She
regarded with awe and slight understanding the accomplishments of his
virile, restless, on-pushing intellect. She did not know how to enjoy
the prosperity that had come to them. It was a neat and cleanly home,
but, as of old, Deborah was doing most of the work herself. She would
not have had it otherwise.
"Ben thinks we ortn't to be doin' nothin' but settin' eroun' in silk
dresses an' readin' books an' gabbin' with comp'ny," she said. "Men
don't know how hard tis to git help that cleans good an' cooks decent.
Everybody feels so kind o' big an' inderpendent they won't stan' it to
be found fault with."
Her daughter, Mrs. Bache, and the latter's children were there.
Suddenly confronted by the problem of a strange lad coming into the
house to live with them, they were a bit dismayed. But presently their
motherly hearts were touched by the look of the big, gentle-faced,
homesick boy. They made a room ready for him on the top floor and
showed him the wonders of the big house--the library, the electrical
apparatus, the rocking chair with its fan swayed by the movement of the
chair, the new stove and grate which the Doctor had invented. That
evening, after an excellent supper, they sat down for a visit in the
library, when Jack suggested that he would like to have a part of the
work to do.
"I can sweep and clean as well as any one," he said. "My mother taught
me how to do that. You must call on me for any help you need."
"Now I wouldn't wonder but what we'll git erlong real happy," said Mrs.
Franklin. "If you'll git up 'arly an' dust the main floor an' do the
broom work an' fill the wood boxes an' fetch water, I'll see ye don't
go hungry."
"I suppose you will be going to England if the Doctor is detained
there," said Jack.
"No, sir," Mrs. Franklin answered. "I wouldn't go out on that ol'
ocean--not if ye would give me a million pounds. It's too big an' deep
an' awful! No, sir! Ben got a big bishop to write me a letter an'
tell me I'd better come over an' look a'ter him. But Ben knowed all
the time that I wouldn't go a step."
There were those who said that her dread of the sea had been a blessing
to Ben, for Mrs. Franklin had no graces and little gift for
communication. But there was no more honest, hard-working, economical
housewife in Philadelphia.
Jack went to the shop and was put to work next morning. He had to
carry beer and suffer a lot of humiliating imposition from older boys
in the big shop, but he bore it patiently and made friends and good
progress. That winter he took dancing lessons from the famous John
Trotter of New York and practised fencing with the well-known Master
Brissac. He also took a course in geometry and trigonometry at the
Academy and wrote an article describing his trip to Boston for _The
Gazette_. The latter was warmly praised by the editor and reprinted in
New York and Boston journals. He joined the company for home defense
and excelled in the games, on training day, especially at the running,
wrestling, boxing and target shooting. There were many shooting
galleries in Philadelphia wherein Jack had shown a knack of shooting
with the rifle and pistol, which had won for him the Franklin medal for
marksmanship. In the back country the favorite amusement of himself
and father had been shooting at a mark.
Somehow the boy managed to do a great deal of work and to find time for
tramping in the woods along the Schuylkill and for skating and swimming
with the other boys. Mrs. Franklin and Mrs. Bache grew fond of Jack
and before the new year came had begun to treat him with a kind of
motherly affection.
William, the Doctor's son, who was the governor of the province of New
Jersey, came to the house at Christmas time. He was a silent, morose,
dignified, self-seeking man, who astonished Jack with his rabid
Toryism. He nettled the boy by treating the opinions of the latter
with smiling toleration and by calling his own father--the great
Doctor--"a misguided man."
Jack forged ahead, not only in the printer's art, but on toward the
fulness of his strength. Under the stimulation of city life and
continuous study, his talents grew like wheat in black soil. In the
summer of seventy-three he began to contribute to the columns of _The
Gazette_. Certain of his articles brought him compliments from the
best people for their wit, penetration and good humor. He had entered
upon a career of great promise when the current of his life quickened
like that of a river come to a steeper grade. It began with a letter
from Margaret Hare, dated July 14, 1773. In it she writes:
"When you get this please sit down and count up the years that have
passed since we parted. Then think how our plans have gone awry. You
must also think of me waiting here for you in the midst of a marrying
world. All my friends have taken their mates and passed on. I went to
Doctor Franklin to-day and told him that I was an old lady well past
nineteen and accused him of having a heart of stone. He said that he
had not sent for you because you were making such handsome progress in
your work. I said: 'You do not think of the rapid progress I am making
toward old age. You forget, too, that I need a husband as badly as
_The Gazette_ needs a philosopher. I rebel. You have made me an
American--you and Jack, I will no longer consent to taxation without
representation. Year by year I am giving up some of my youth and I am
not being consulted about it.'
"Said he: 'I would demand justice of the king. I suppose he thinks
that his country can not yet afford a queen, I shall tell him that he
is imitating George the Third and that he had better listen to the
voice of the people.'
"Now, my beloved hero, the English girl who is not married at nineteen
is thought to be hopeless. There are fine lads who have asked my
father for the right to court me and still I am waiting for my brave
deliverer and he comes not. I can not forget the thrush's song and the
enchanted woods. They hold me. If they have not held you--if for any
reason your heart has changed--you will not fail to tell me, will you?
Is it necessary that you should be great and wise and rich and learned
before you come to me? Little by little, after many talks with the
venerable Franklin, I have got the American notion that I would like to
go away with you and help you to accomplish these things and enjoy the
happiness which was ours, for a little time, and of which you speak in
your letters. Surely there was something very great in those moments.
It does not fade and has it not kept us true to their promise? But,
Jack, how long am I to wait? You must tell me."
This letter went to the heart of the young man. She had deftly set
before him the gross unfairness of delay. He felt it. Ever since the
parting he had been eager to go, but his father was not a rich man and
the family was large. His own salary had been little more than was
needed for clothing and books. That autumn it had been doubled and the
editor had assured him that higher pay would be forthcoming. He
hesitated to tell the girl how little he earned and how small, when
measured in money, his progress had seemed to be. He was in despair
when his friend Solomon Binkus arrived from Virginia. For two years
the latter had been looking after the interests of Major Washington out
in the Ohio River country. They dined together that evening at The
Crooked Billet and Solomon told him of his adventures in the West, and
frontier stories of the notorious, one-legged robber, Micah Harpe, and
his den on the shore of the Ohio and of the cunning of the outlaw in
evading capture.
"I got his partner, Mike Fink, and Major Washington give me fifty
pounds for the job," said Solomon. "They say Harpe's son disappeared
long time ago an' I wouldn't wonder if you an' me had seen him do it."
"The white man that hung back in the bushes so long? I'll never forget
him," said Jack.
"Them wimmen couldn't 'a' been in wuss hands."
"It was a lucky day for them and for me," Jack answered. "I have here
a letter from Margaret. I wish you would read it."
Solomon read the girl's letter and said:
"If I was you I'd swim the big pond if nec'sary. This 'ere is a real
simon pure, four-masted womern an' she wants you fer Captain. As the
feller said when he seen a black fox, 'Come on, boys, it's time fer to
wear out yer boots.'"
"I'm tied to my job."
"Then break yer halter," said Solomon.
"I haven't money enough to get married and keep a wife."
"What an ignorant cuss you be!" Solomon exclaimed. "You don't 'pear to
know when ye're well off."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that ye're wuth at least a thousan' pounds cash money."
"I would not ask my father for help and I have only forty pounds in the
bank," Jack answered.
Solomon took out his wallet and removed from it a worn and soiled piece
of paper and studied the memoranda it contained. Then he did some
ciphering with a piece of lead. In a moment he said:
You have got a thousan' an' fifteen pounds an' six shillin' fer to do
with as ye please an' no questions asked--nary one."
"You mean you've got it."
"Which means that Jack Irons owns it hide, horns an' taller."
Tears came to the boy's eyes. He looked down for a moment without
speaking. "Thank you, Solomon," he said presently. "I can't use your
money. It wouldn't be right."
Solomon shut one eye an' squinted with the other as if he were taking
aim along the top of a gun barrel. Then he shook his head and drawled:
"Cat's blood an' gunpowder! That 'ere slaps me in the face an' kicks
me on the shin," Solomon answered. "I've walked an' paddled eighty
mile in a day an' been stabbed an' shot at an' had to run fer my life,
which it ain't no fun--you hear to me. Who do ye s'pose I done it fer
but you an' my kentry? There ain't nobody o' my name an' blood on this
side o' the ocean--not nobody at all. An' if I kin't work fer you,
Jack, I'd just erbout as soon quit. This 'ere money ain't no good to
me 'cept fer body cover an' powder an' balls. I'd as leave drop it in
the river. It bothers me. I don't need it. When I git hum I go an'
hide it in the bush somewhars--jest to git it out o' my way. I been
thinkin' all up the road from Virginny o' this 'ere gol demnable money
an' what I were a-goin' to do with it an' what it could do to me. An',
sez I, I'm ergoin' to ask Jack to take it an' use it fer a wall 'twixt
him an' trouble, an' the idee hurried me erlong--honest! Kind o' made
me happy. Course, if I had a wife an' childern, 'twould be different,
but I ain't got no one. An' now ye tell me ye don't want it, which it
makes me feel lonesomer 'n a tarred Tory an' kind o' sorrowful--ayes,
sir, it does."
Solomon's voice sank to a whisper.
"Forgive me," said Jack. "I didn't know you felt that way. But I'm
glad you do. I'll take it on the understanding that as long as I live
what I have shall also be yours."
"I've two hundred poun' an' six shillin' in my pocket an' a lot more
hid in the bush. It's all yourn to the last round penny. I reckon
it'll purty nigh bridge the slough. I want ye to be married
respectable like a gentleman--slick duds, plenty o' cakes an' pies an'
no slightin' the minister er the rum bar'l.
"Major Washington give me a letter to take to Ben Franklin on t'other
side o' the ocean. Ye see ev'ry letter that's sent ercrost is opened
an' read afore it gits to him lessen it's guarded keerful. This 'ere
one, I guess, has suthin' powerful secret in it. He pays all the
bills. So I'll be goin' erlong with ye on the nex' ship an' when we
git thar I want to shake hands with the gal and tell her how to make ye
behave."
That evening Jack went to the manager of _The Gazette_ and asked for a
six months' leave of absence.
"And why would ye be leaving?" asked the manager, a braw Scot.
"I expect to be married."
"In England?"
"Yes."
"I'll agree if the winsome, wee thing will give ye time to send us news
letters from London. Doctor Franklin could give ye help. He has been
boiling over with praise o' you and has asked me to broach the matter.
Ye'll be sailing on the next ship."
Before there was any sailing Jack and Solomon had time to go to Albany
for a visit. They found the family well and prosperous, the town
growing. John Irons said that land near the city was increasing
rapidly in value. Solomon went away into the woods the morning of
their arrival and returned in the afternoon with his money, which he
gave to John Irons to be invested in land. Jack, having had a
delightful stay at home, took a schooner for New York that evening with
Solomon.
The night before they sailed for England his friends in the craft gave
Jack a dinner at The Gray Goose Tavern. He describes the event in a
long letter. To his astonishment the mayor and other well-known men
were present and expressed their admiration for his talents.
The table was spread with broiled fish and roasted fowls and mutton and
towering spiced hams and sweet potatoes and mince pies and cakes and
jellies.
"The spirit of hospitality expresses itself here in ham--often, also,
in fowls, fish and mutton, but always and chiefly in ham--cooked and
decorated with the greatest care and surrounded by forms, flavors and
colors calculated to please the eye and fill the human system with a
deep, enduring and memorable satisfaction," he writes.
In the midst of the festivities it was announced that Jack was to be
married and as was the custom of the time, every man at the table
proposed a toast and drank to it. One addressed himself to the eyes of
the fortunate young lady. Then her lips, her eyebrows, her neck, her
hands, her feet, her disposition and her future husband were each in
turn enthusiastically toasted by other guests in bumpers of French
wine. He adds that these compliments were "so moist and numerous that
they became more and more indistinct, noisy and irrational" and that
before they ended "Nearly every one stood up singing his own favorite
song. There is a stage of emotion which can only be expressed in
noises. That stage had been reached. They put me in mind of David
Culver's bird shop where many song birds--all of a different
feather--engage in a kind of tournament, each pouring out his soul with
a desperate determination to be heard. It was all very friendly and
good natured but it was, also, very wild."