In 1728, at age twenty-two, Ben Franklin, freshly returned to his chosen home of Philadelphia, wrote a mocking epitaph for himself: “The Body of B. Franklin, Printer; like the Cover of an old Book, Its Contents torn out, And stript 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.”
At age twenty one Ben Franklin had his first attack of pleurisy. At age twenty-eight, he had a second attack, this time with an abscess on the left lung, leaving him vulnerable. In his later years, the attacks came readily, along with a sizable bladder stone.
In 1790, at age eighty-four, Ben Franklin writhed in bed, as he had, for nearly twelve months. His attending physician would send an account of his time for publication soon after Franklin’s death: sixteen days before death, he was seized with high fever; soon after, he reported symptoms of chest pain, cough, and difficulty breathing; five days before death, in his lungs, an abscess formed and pressed against his lungs. The abscess burst. He threw up. He expired around 11’o clock.
While it was his final days, he was still Ben Franklin. He would lie in bed and be over taken with paroxysms; he would take large doses of laudanum. But between these attacks, he dilly dallied with reading and good conversation, with business of both private and public affair. “I hope you live many years more,” his daughter said. “I hope not,” he replied. His final words, allegedly: “A dying man can do nothing easily.” Upon his passing, Count Miraebau declared to the French National Assembly: “He was able to restrain thunderbolts and tyrants.”
France went into national mourning. They sent tributes about Franklin to the senate. They were ignored. James Madison asked his colleagues to wear symbols of mourning for one month. The House of Representatives agreed. The Senate declined, influenced, perhaps, by John Adams, who had long held disregard for Franklin, as did Richard Henry Lee. Thomas Jefferson asked the executive branch to wear mourning symbols. George Washington declined, fearing it was too similar to how
royalty was honored. Ben Franklin would not be publicly mourned in America, at least not nationally.
On April 21st, 1790, Philadelphia held Ben Franklin’s funeral. 20,000 people attended. The city was 28,000 people big.
It was silent, despite the size of the crowds. The procession ended at Christ Church. Every clergyman of the city walked before the corpse. William Smith, a rival of Franklin’s, performed the eulogy. The city was in mourning, and they stood reverent before a man who had lived a large life, who had symbolized for them the formative values of an infant nation.
A few days later, the Pennsylvania Mercury published a letter of Franklin’s, originally sent after the death of his brother John, to comfort a family member:
“We are spirits. That bodies should be lent us, while they can afford us pleasure, assist us in acquiring knowledge, or doing good to our fellow creatures, is a kind and benevolent act of God – when they become unfit for these purposes, and afford us pain instead of pleasure – instead of an aid, become an incumbrance, and answer none of the intentions for which they were given, it is equally kind and benevolent that a way is provided by which we may get rid of them. Death is that way.”
