Chapter XVIII: Introduction (15)

[187] What physicians call the perspirable matter, is that vapour which passes off from our bodies, from the lungs, and through the pores of the skin. The quantity of this is said to be five-eighths of what we eat.

_Dialogue between Franklin and the Gout[188]._

_Midnight, October 22, 1780._

_Franklin._--Eh! Oh! Eh! What have I done to merit these cruel sufferings?

_Gout._--Many things; you have ate and drank too freely, and too much indulged those legs of yours in their indolence.

_Franklin._--Who is it that accuses me?

_Gout._--It is I, even I, the gout.

_Franklin._--What! my enemy in person?

_Gout._--No, not your enemy.

_Franklin._--I repeat it; my enemy: for you would not only torment my body to death, but ruin my good name: you reproach me as a glutton and a tipler; now all the world that knows me will allow, that I am neither the one nor the other.

_Gout._--The world may think as it pleases: it is always very complaisant to itself, and sometimes to its friends; but I very well know, that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man, who takes a reasonable degree of exercise, would be too much for another, who never takes any.

_Franklin._--I take--Eh! Oh!--as much exercise--Eh!--as I can, Madam Gout. You know my sedentary state, and on that account, it would seem, Madam Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my own fault.

_Gout._--Not a jot: your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away; your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be active. You ought to walk or ride; or, if the weather prevents that, play at billiards. But let us examine your course of life. While the mornings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Why, instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast, by salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the reading. Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast, four dishes of tea, with cream, and one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef, which I fancy are not things the most easily digested. Immediately afterward you sit down to write at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business. Thus the time passes till one, without any kind of bodily exercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition. But what is your practice after dinner. Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends with whom you have dined would be the choice of men of sense: yours is to be fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours! This is your perpetual recreation, which is the least eligible of any for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating the motion of the fluids, the rigid attention it requires helps to retard the circulation and obstruct internal secretions. Wrapt in the speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your constitution. What can be expected from such a course of living, but a body replete with stagnant humours, ready to fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies, if I, the gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by agitating these humours, and so purifying or dissipating them. If it was in some nook or alley in Paris, deprived of walks, that you played awhile at chess after dinner, this might be excusable, but the same taste prevails with you in Passey, Auteuil, Montmartre, or Sanoy, places where there are the finest gardens and walks, a pure air, beautiful women, and most agreeable and instructive conversation; all which you might enjoy by frequenting the walks! But these are rejected for this abominable game of chess. Fie, then, Mr. Franklin! But amidst my instructions, I had almost forgot to administer my wholsome corrections: so take that twinge--and that.

_Franklin._--Oh! Eh! Oh!--Ohhh! As much instruction as you please, Madam Gout, and as many reproaches, but pray, Madam, a truce with your corrections!

_Gout._--No, sir, no--I will not abate a particle of what is so much for your good--therefore--

_Franklin._--Oh! Ehhh!--It is not fair to say I take no exercise, when I do very often, going out to dine, and returning in my carriage.

_Gout._--That of all imaginable exercise is the most slight and insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a carriage suspended on springs. By observing the degree of heat obtained by different kinds of motion we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given by each. Thus, for example, if you turn out to walk in winter with cold feet, in an hour's time you will be in a glow all over; ride on horseback, the same effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours round trotting: but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have mentioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to warm your feet by a fire. Flatter yourself then no longer, that half an hour's airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Providence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more commodious and serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a proper use of yours. Would you know, how they forward the circulation of your fluids, in the very action of transporting you from place to place? observe when you walk, that all your weight is alternately thrown from one leg to the other; this occasions a great pressure on the vessels of the foot, and repels their contents. When relieved, by the weight being thrown on the other foot, the vessels of the first are allowed to replenish, and by a return of this weight, this repulsion again succeeds; thus accelerating the circulation of the blood. The heat produced in any given time depends on the degree of this acceleration: the fluids are shaken, the humours attenuated, the secretions facilitated, and all goes well; the cheeks are ruddy, and health is established. Behold your fair friend at Auteuil: a lady who received from bounteous nature more really useful science, than half a dozen such pretenders to philosophy, as you, have been able to extract from all your books. When she honours you with a visit, it is on foot. She walks all hours of the day, and leaves indolence and its concomitant maladies to be endured by her horses. In this see at once the preservative of her health and personal charms. But you, when you go to Auteuil, must have your carriage, though it is no farther from Passy to Auteuil, than from Auteuil to Passy.

_Franklin._--Your reasonings grow very tiresome.

_Gout._--I stand corrected. I will be silent and continue my office: take that, and that.

_Franklin._--Oh! Ohh! Talk on, I pray you!

_Gout._--No, no; I have a good number of twinges for you to-night, and you may be sure of some more to-morrow.

_Franklin._--What, with such a fever! I shall go distracted. Oh! Eh! Can no one bear it for me?

_Gout._--Ask that of your horses; they have served you faithfully.

_Franklin._--How can you so cruelly sport with my torments?

_Gout._--Sport? I am very serious. I have here a list of your offences against your own health distinctly written, and can justify every stroke inflicted on you.

_Franklin._--Read it then.

_Gout._--It is too long a detail; but I will briefly mention some particulars.

_Franklin._--Proceed--I am all attention.

_Gout._--Do you remember how often you have promised yourself, the following morning, a walk in the grove of Boulogne, in the garden de la Muette, or in your own garden, and have violated your promise, alledging, at one time, it was too cold, at another too warm, too windy, too moist, or what else you pleased; when in truth it was too nothing, but your insuperable love of ease?

_Franklin._--That I confess may have happened occasionally, probably ten times in a year.

_Gout._--Your confession is very far short of the truth; the gross amount is one hundred and ninety-nine times.

_Franklin._--Is it possible?

_Gout._--So possible that it is fact; you may rely on the accuracy of my statement. You know Mr. B----'s gardens, and what fine walks they contain; you know the handsome flight of an hundred steps, which lead from the terrace above to the lawn below. You have been in the practice of visiting this amiable family twice a week after dinner, and as it is a maxim of your own, that "a man may take as much exercise in walking a mile up and down stairs, as in ten on level ground," what an opportunity was here for you to have had exercise in both these ways? Did you embrace it, and how often?

_Franklin._--I cannot immediately answer that question.

_Gout._--I will do it for you; not once.

_Franklin._--Not once?

_Gout._--Even so. During the summer you went there at six o'clock. You found the charming lady, with her lovely children and friends, eager to walk with you, and entertain you with their agreeable conversation: and what has been your choice? Why to sit on the terrace, satisfying yourself with the fine prospect, and passing your eye over the beauties of the garden below, without taking one step to descend and walk about in them. On the contrary, you call for tea, and the chess-board; and lo! you are occupied in your seat till nine o'clock, and that beside two hours play after dinner; and then, instead of walking home, which would have bestirred you a little, you step into your carriage. How absurd to suppose, that all this carelessness can be reconcileable with health, without my interposition!

_Franklin._--I am convinced now of the justness of poor Richard's remark, that, "Our debts and our sins are always greater than we think for."

_Gout._--So it is! you philosophers are sages in your maxims, and fools in your conduct.

_Franklin._--But do you charge among my crimes, that I return in a carriage from Mr. B----'s?

_Gout._--Certainly: for having been seated all the while, you cannot object the fatigue of the day, and cannot want therefore the relief of a carriage.

_Franklin._--What then would you have me do with my carriage?

_Gout._--Burn it, if you choose; you would at least get heat out of it once in this way; or if you dislike that proposal, here's another for you: observe the poor peasants who work in the vineyards and grounds about the villages of Passy, Anteuil, Chaillois, &c.; you may find every day among these deserving creatures, four or five old men and women, bent and perhaps crippled by weight of years, and too long and too great labour. After a most fatiguing day, these people have to trudge a mile or two to their smoky huts. Order your coachmen to set them down. That is an act that will be good for your soul; and at the same time, after your visit to the B----'s, if you return on foot, that will be good for your body.

_Franklin._--Ah! how tiresome you are.

_Gout._--Well then, to my office; it should not be forgotten, that I am your physician. There.

_Franklin._--Ohhh! what a devil of a physician!

_Gout._--How ungrateful are you to say so! Is it not I, who, in the character of your physician, have saved you from the palsy, dropsy, and apoplexy? one or other of which would have done for you long ago, but for me.

_Franklin._--I submit, and thank you for the past, but intreat the discontinuance of your visits for the future: for in my mind one had better die, than be cured so dolefully. Permit me just to hint, that I have also not been unfriendly to _you_. I never feed physician, or quack of any kind, to enter the list against you; if then you do not leave me to my repose, it may be said you are ungrateful too.

_Gout._--I can scarcely acknowledge that as any objection. As to quacks, I despise them: they may kill you, indeed, but cannot injure me. And as to regular physicians, they are at last convinced, that the gout, in such a subject as you are, is no disease, but a remedy; and wherefore cure a remedy?--but to our business--There.--

_Franklin._--Oh! Oh!--for heaven's sake leave me; and I promise faithfully never more to play at chess, but to take exercise daily, and live temperately.

_Gout._--I know you too well. You promise fair; but, after a few months of good health, you will return to your old habits; your fine promises will be forgotten like the forms of the last year's clouds. Let us then finish the account and I will go. But I leave you with an assurance, of visiting you again at a proper time and place; for my object is your good, and you are sensible now, that I am your real friend.

FOOTNOTE:

[188] We have no authority for ascribing this paper to Dr. Franklin, but its appearance, with his name, in a small collection of his works printed a few years ago at Paris, and cited before, page 480. As the rest of the papers in that collection are genuine, this probably is also genuine. What we give is a translation. _Editor._

TO MISS HUBBARD.

_On the Death of Relatives[189]._

_Philadelphia, Feb. 22, 1756._

I condole with you. We have lost a most dear and valuable relation[190]. But it is the will of God and nature, that these mortal bodies be laid aside, when the soul is to enter into real life. This is rather an embryo state, a preparation for living. A man is not completely born until he be dead. Why then should we grieve, that a new child is born among the immortals, a new member added to their happy society? 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. We ourselves, in some cases, prudently choose a partial death. A mangled painful limb, which cannot be restored, we willingly cut off. He, who plucks out a tooth, parts with it freely, since the pain goes with it: and he, who quits the whole body, parts at once with all pains, and possibilities of pains and diseases, it was liable to, or capable of making him suffer.

Our friend and we were invited abroad on a party of pleasure, which is to last for ever. His chair was ready first, and he is gone before us. We could not all conveniently start together: and why should you and I be grieved at this, since we are soon to follow, and know where to find him?

Adieu.

B. FRANKLIN.

FOOTNOTES:

[189] From the Columbian Magazine, Vol. I, p. 208. _Editor._

[190] Dr. Franklin's brother, Mr. John Franklin.

TO MADAME BRILLIANT.

_The Ephemera an Emblem of human Life[191]._

You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy day, in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I stopt a little in one of our walks, and staid some time behind the company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly, called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I understand all the inferior animal tongues: my too great application to the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress I have made in your charming language. I listened through curiosity to the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign musicians, one a _cousin_, the other a _muscheto_; in which dispute they spent their time, seemingly as regardless of the shortness of life, as if they had been sure of living a month. Happy people! thought I, you live certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention, but the perfections or imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from them to an old grey-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in writing, in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company, and heavenly harmony.

"It was," says he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours: and I think there was some foundation for that opinion; since, by the apparent motion of the great luminary, that gives life to all nature, and which in my time has evidently declined considerably towards the ocean at the end of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished in the waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness, necessarily producing universal death and destruction. I have lived seven of those hours; a great age, being no less than four hundred and twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long? I have seen generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the children and grand-children of the friends of my youth, who are now, alas no more! And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or eight minutes longer. What now avails all my toil and labour, in amassing honey-dew on this leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my com-patriot inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies, for the benefit of our race in general! for in politics (what can laws do without morals?) our present race of ephemeræ will in a course of minutes become corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as wretched: and in philosophy how small our progress! Alas! art is long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me, I have lived long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera, who no longer exists? and what will become of all history in the eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly, shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin?"----

To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, but the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible conversation of a few good lady ephemeræ, and now and then a kind smile and a tune from the ever amiable Brilliant.

B. FRANKLIN.

FOOTNOTE:

[191] From the American Museum, Vol. VIII. p. 183. It was written during the author's residence at Passy, and a translation of it at that time appeared in one of the Parisian periodical publications. This appears to be the original piece. _Editor._

APPENDIX:

CONTAINING

1. PAPERS PROPER FOR INSERTION, BUT OMITTED,
IN THE PRECEDING VOLUMES:

AND

2. LETTERS BY SEVERAL EMINENT PERSONS, ILLUSTRATIVE
OF DR. FRANKLIN'S MANNERS
AND CHARACTER.