what he had sanctioned, and the bill bearing his signature was sent by the colony to the king for his approval, since without his consent no law made by the province of Pennsylvania could be enforced. Now came the real battle between Franklin and the proprietaries. The process

through which every colonial act had to pass before it obtained the royal signature, if, indeed, it ever got it, was long, tedious, often expensive, and always vexatious. First, it must be laid before the Board of Trade that they might decide whether or not it would be prejudicial to the interests of English exporters and commercial agents, or would in any way tend to impair the revenue of the crown. If the act was so fortunate as to pass that ordeal without material alteration, it was next sent to the king's solicitor, who examined it minutely to see if it encroached in the smallest degree on the royal power. Should that question be settled favorably, the act was then returned to the Board of Trade for a second and sharper examination. If that body, after a microscopic inspection and analysis of every clause, could find no objection, the act was then forwarded to the king's council, who, after due discussion and deliberation, reported a final decision. In this particular case the proprietaries fought the measure, tooth and nail, at every step of the whole round of wearisome procedure. They had money, they had influence; and if money and influence combined could have killed the act, they would have dispatched it; but notwithstanding all their efforts, Franklin had the satisfaction of at last getting the law confirmed by the king's authority. Such a victory might well give him cause to exult. It meant that henceforth Thomas and Richard Penn could no longer boast that they possessed a privilege which no English noble

man would have dared claim in Great Britain, that of holding their lands exempt from public charges while they continued to be protected at the public cost.1

Now that the object of his mission was attained, Franklin felt at liberty to take some recreation. He accordingly visited the continent, where he spent several months in travel in Holland and Flanders. The next year he prepared to return to Philadelphia.

The universities of Oxford and Edinburgh now followed the example of St. Andrews in bestowing honorary degrees on the man who had proved that a printing-office may sometimes educate as well, or perhaps, better, than a college. The English government showed its good will by appointing his son, William Franklin, who had accompanied his father as secretary, to the governorship of the colony of New Jersey. William had, in fact, greatly coveted and diligently sought this honor, contrary to the Doctor's advice, who feared, with only too good reason, that such a favor would bind his son to the throne rather than to the colonies. "Think what this whistle will some day cost you," said he to the young office-seeker. “Why not rather be a carpenter or a plowman,2 if the fortune I leave you prove insufficient? The man who works for his living is at least independent."3 But the wise counsel had no effect. The temptation of power and title were irresistible, and when Doctor Franklin sailed for home, about the end of August, 1762, the son who remained for

1 The law, as confirmed, exempted the unsurveyed wild lands of the proprietaries from taxation, and provided that their surveyed lands should be assessed at as low a rate as that of similar property held by the colonists.

2 Long before, Franklin had made "Poor Richard" say, "A plowman on

his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees."

8 "Euvres de Cabanis," Vol. V., p. 223, quoted by Bigelow.

a short time in London was no longer plain William Franklin, but his "Excellency, the Governor." From this date the paths of father and son began to diverge more and more, until finally the king of England virtually owned the latter body and soul.

§ 15. Franklin's Two Years' Work at Home, 1762-1764.

Franklin wrote Lord Kames: "On the 1st of November [1762] I arrived safe and well at my own home, after an absence of near six years; found my wife and daughter well, the latter grown quite a woman, with many amiable accomplishments acquired in my absence, and my friends as hearty and affectionate as ever, with whom my house was filled for many days, to congratulate me on my return. I had been chosen yearly during my absence to represent the city of Philadelphia in our provincial Assembly; and on my appearance in the House, they voted me three thousand pounds sterling for my services in England, and their thanks, delivered by the speaker."

Early in the spring, Franklin, who still retained his position of postmaster-general, set out on a lengthy journey relating to the business of that department. A number of years before, he had startled the good people of Philadelphia by proposing to run a "stage wagon" to carry the mail once a week from that place to Boston. It was thought then that the Doctor was pushing matters altogether too fast, and conservative citizens shook their heads doubtfully at such an innovation on old-established customs. Up to that time the usual way of transporting the mails was on horseback. The rider often had no regular day for starting, but prudently waited until letters enough

had accumulated to pay the expense of the trip. Not infrequently these riders were gray-haired men, who, seeing no great occasion for haste, used to drop their reins on their horses' necks, and improve the time by knitting woolen mittens or stockings as their patient beasts jogged slowly on. When the postman reached his destination, his bag of say half-a-dozen letters with one or two newspapers would be delivered, and the minister of the place, or perhaps the landlord of its single tavern, would read the news aloud to an interested group of listeners.1

Franklin, who had something of the energy of his favorite electricity, was bent on making the entire postoffice department more prompt and efficient. To that end he started off on a journey of inspection covering some sixteen hundred miles. The Doctor traveled in a light two-wheeled vehicle, accompanied by his daughter, Sally, who usually rode on horseback by his side. In this way he spent the summer of 1763. He does not tell us how many post-offices he visited, but it could not have been many, since the whole number, in the entire country, nearly thirty years later, was only seventy-five, while to-day there are over fifty-five thousand, handling about six hundred millions of letters annually. The postage in Franklin's time was no trifling charge, the rate for a letter between Philadelphia and Charleston being twenty-five cents, and proportionately high for shorter distances. These rates necessarily deterred people from writing any oftener then they were absolutely compelled to do, and the result was, that up to the date when Franklin became

1 See further on the post-office and postal service of that day, McMaster's "United States."

postmaster-general the department had never paid expenses. He set to work with his accustomed vigor, and eventually so remodeled and improved the service that, when he was ejected from office just before the outbreak of the Revolution, the American post-office was yielding King George III. a handsome profit.

In December of the year in which he was thus engaged a tragic affair occurred, which roused Franklin as nothing had before, and showed that beneath the philosopher's calm exterior he shared those feelings which made the Roman poet declare, "I am a man, and whatever concerns humanity concerns me." The settlers of the Pennsylvania frontier towns of Peckstang (or Paxton) and Donegall had become terribly excited over stories of Indian outrages, many of which were unfortunately but too true. In the fury and thirst for vengeance, roused by these accounts, the "Paxton Boys," as they were called, determined to destroy every Indian that should fall into their hands. It happened that not far from them there was living the feeble remnant of a peaceful tribe that many years before had made a treaty of friendship with William Penn, which, as they expressed it, was to continue "as long as the sun should shine in the heavens or the waters run in the rivers." In open and unprovoked violation of that treaty, which the tribe had always faithfully kept, the "Paxton Boys" now planned an attack on these inoffensive neighbors. One of the Indians, an aged chief named Shehaes, was told of the impending peril, but refused to believe it. He said, "It is impossible; there are, indeed, Indians in the woods, who would kill me and mine, if they could get at us, because of my friendship to the English; but the English will wrap me in their matchcoat,1 and save me from all danger."

1 Matchcoat: a loose woolen coat made of coarse stuff called matchcloth.