The First American: The Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin (20 page)

As to virtue in humans, the Supreme Being valued it not for what it did for Him—since humans, again, could do nothing for One so far above them—but for what it did for
them.
“Since without virtue man can have no happiness in this world, I firmly believe He delights to see me virtuous, because He is pleased when he sees me happy.” This same pragmatic calculus prescribed the appropriate use of all things. “Since He has created many things which seem purely designed for the delight of man, I believe He is not offended when He sees His children solace themselves in any manner of pleasant exercises and innocent delights, and I think no pleasure innocent that is to man hurtful.”

Thus Franklin, having previously wandered from the pietistic moralism of his Boston upbringing to the agnostic—almost atheistic—amoralism of his London days, now found his way to a pragmatic moralism that made man the measure of virtue rather than virtue the measure of man. The good was what rendered men happy. A more practical philosophy, or one better suited to success in tolerant but sober Philadelphia, was hard to imagine.

Having
settled the philosophical issue—essentially once for all, though he had no way of knowing this—Franklin turned to implementing his conclusions. On the voyage back from London he had filled that part of the time not devoted to playing draughts, conjecturing the ontogeny of crustaceans, or making astronomical observations, with formulating a plan of conduct for his life. Throughout his career Franklin would employ metaphors from the literary world to convey lessons about life; he started early. “Those who write the art of poetry,” he explained, “teach us that if we would write what may be worth the reading, we ought always, before we begin, to form a regular plan and design of our piece; otherwise we shall be in danger of incongruity. I am apt to think it is the same as to life.” He chided himself for the irregularity of his life to date, which consisted of a “confused variety of different scenes.” Now that he was entering on a new phase of his life, he felt obliged to make certain resolutions and form a scheme of action “that henceforth I may live in all respects like a rational creature.”

His resolutions were straightforward and eminently practical.

1. It is necessary for me to be extremely frugal for some time, till I have paid what I owe.
   

2. To endeavor to speak truth in every instance; to give nobody expectations that are not likely to be answered, but aim at sincerity in every word and action—the most amiable excellence in a rational being.
   

3. To apply myself industriously to whatever business I take in hand, and not divert my mind from my business by any foolish project of growing suddenly rich; for industry and patience are the surest means of plenty.
   

4. I resolve to speak ill of no man whatever, not even in a matter of truth; but rather by some means excuse the faults I hear charged upon others, and upon proper occasions speak all the good I know of every body.
   

Franklin was proud of this plan, and prouder still, with the passing years, of making it the basis for his life’s conduct. Writing almost half a century later, he said, “It is the more remarkable, as being formed when I
was so young, and yet being pretty faithfully adhered to quite through to old age.”

Having formulated his four commandments on the high seas, Franklin proceeded after landing to identify thirteen cardinal virtues. In typical orderly fashion (number three on the list), he enumerated them, with a thumbnail description of each:

1. Temperance
   

   Eat not to dullness. Drink not to elevation.
   

2. Silence
   

   Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself. Avoid trifling conversation.
   

3. Order
   

   Let all your things have their places. Let each part of your business have its time.
   

4. Resolution
   

   Resolve to perform what you ought. Perform without fail what you resolve.
   

5. Frugality
   

   Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself: i.e., Waste nothing.
   

6. Industry
   

   Lose no time. Be always employed in something useful. Cut off all unnecessary actions.
   

7. Sincerity
   

   Use no hurtful deceit.
   

   Think innocently and justly; and if you speak, speak accordingly.
   

8. Justice
   

   Wrong none, by doing injuries or omitting the benefits that are your duty.
   

9. Moderation
   

   Avoid extremes. Forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.
   

10. Cleanliness
    

    Tolerate no uncleanness in body, clothes or habitation.
    

11. Tranquillity
    

    Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
    

12. Chastity
    

    Rarely use venery but for health or offspring; never to dullness, weakness or the injury of your own or another’s peace or reputation.
    

Franklin’s list originally stopped at a dozen. But a Quaker friend gently pointed out that certain of Franklin’s neighbors thought him proud. Franklin expressed surprise, thinking he had tamed that lion. After the friend cited examples, however, Franklin conceded that he required more work in this area. He added a thirteenth virtue:

13. Humility

  Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

Other young men—albeit not many—might have compiled such a list; what truly set Franklin apart was the program he inaugurated to integrate his thirteen virtues into his daily life. The program was straightforward. In successive weeks he would concentrate on mastering particular virtues. There was a method (that is, order: number three again) to his approach. During the first week he would focus on temperance, letting the other virtues fend for themselves. Once he conquered temperance (in his early optimism, a week appeared sufficient), his steady head would allow him to move on to silence. Silence would clear his mind the way temperance cleared his brain; together they would enable him to perfect order. Order would facilitate resolution, which in turn would render resolution easier. And so on.

To chart his moral progress Franklin compiled a kind of scorecard, consisting of a small notebook of nearly identical pages. Each page was blocked out in seven columns of thirteen rows each. The columns were labeled for the days of the week, Sunday through Saturday. The rows were labeled for the thirteen virtues, temperance down to humility. The pages differed only in the headings; the page for week one was headed “Temperance: Eat not to dullness. Drink not to elevation.” The second page featured silence, the third order, and so on.

At the end of every day Franklin evaluated his progress—or rather lack of progress—toward making a habit of his virtues. Each failure received a black mark in the appropriate position. During the first week he aimed to keep the row for temperance devoid of spots. During the second week the silence row should be spotless (as, presumably, would be the row above it, for temperance, which by then would have become a
habit). At the end of thirteen weeks he would have mastered all the virtues. To allow for stubborn imperfection, and to prevent backsliding, he would then repeat the process—indeed make it a regular and continuing part of his daily regimen. (In this regard the addition of the thirteenth virtue proved convenient, for now the fifty-two weeks of the year neatly comprised four repetitions of the self-improvement process).

Franklin was an idealist of a very practical sort. In this case his practicality guided his choice of virtues, which were well suited to the worldly success he aimed to achieve; his idealism appeared in his belief that mastering these virtues might be so simply accomplished.

He shortly discovered, however, as had countless others before him, that virtue was
not
so simply accomplished. Surprisingly—considering how far the project had already progressed—Franklin found order to be the most elusive virtue. To some degree he attributed this to the circumstances of his daily life. His position as a tradesman required him to be, to a not insignificant extent, at the disposal of others. A customer required a job done immediately; this threw an entire day’s schedule into confusion. Franklin’s attempts at order also suffered from what others might have considered a virtue—or at least a gift—in itself. With an excellent memory, his failure to keep things in their places, both spatial and temporal, hindered him only minimally in his work.

For a time his inability to maintain order vexed him greatly. But soon he began to rationalize his deficiency. He afterward told a story on himself, of a man who wanted to buy an ax from a smith. The man agreed to pay the advertised price only on the condition that the smith grind the ax until the entire surface of the head shone as brightly as the cutting edge. The smith accepted, on a condition of his own: that the purchaser power the grinding wheel. The man consented and the work began. After a time the man inquired how the polishing was progressing. Steadily, said the smith. The man turned the wheel some more and inquired again. Steadily, said the smith. Again more turning, again the inquiry. Again: Steadily. Finally, exhausted from his labors, the man said he would take the ax as it was. No, no, said the smith; keep turning and we shall have the whole head like a mirror by and by. So we might, said the man, but I think I like a speckled ax best.

Not content simply to accept his speckles, Franklin explained they were better than a polished moral finish. “Something that pretended to be reason was every now and then suggesting to me that such extreme nicety as I exacted of myself might be a kind of foppery in morals, which if it were known would make me ridiculous; that a perfect character
might be attended with the inconvenience of being envied and hated; and that a benevolent man should allow a few faults in himself, to keep his friends in countenance.” Yet even as he embraced imperfection—he abandoned his project before the end of the first thirteen-week course—he judged that the mere attempt made him a better and happier man than he would have been otherwise—“as those who aim at perfect writing by imitating the engraved copies, though they never reach the wished for excellence of those copies, their hand is mended by the endeavour.”

While
Franklin’s moral calisthenics reflected a sincere pursuit of virtue, he hardly insisted that virtue be its own reward. On the contrary, whatever the virtuous might earn for themselves in the hereafter (a time and place of which Franklin remained skeptical), they could hope to realize material benefits in the here and now. Of course, to do so, they must take care not to hide their virtue under a bushel basket. “In order to secure my credit and character as a tradesman,” he explained, “I took care not only to be in
reality
industrious and frugal, but to avoid all
appearances
of the contrary. I dressed plainly; I was seen at no places of idle diversion; I never went out a-fishing or shooting; a book, indeed, sometimes debauched me from my work; but that was seldom, snug, and gave no scandal.” Even after he hired an assistant and took an apprentice—this latter the son of the late Aquila Rose—he continued occasionally to do the most menial tasks himself. “To show that I was not above my business, I sometimes brought home the paper I purchased at the stores, through the streets on a wheelbarrow.” (This may have had a second purpose. Paper was expensive in America, and Franklin would not have wanted to take a chance on having suppliers shortchange his apprentice or assistant.)