Such was Benjamin Franklin, printer, of Philadelphia, when he appeared in France as a representative of the young American republic. To say that he was received with respect and affection, would be saying nothing. He was idolized, adored.
Men imagined [says Lacretelle] they saw in Franklin a sage of antiquity, come back to give austere lessons and generous examples to the moderns. They personified in him the republic of which he was the representative and the legislator. They regarded his virtues as those of his countrymen, and even judged of their physiognomy by the imposing and severe traits of his own. Happy was he who could gain admittance to see him in the house he occupied.
He was the lion of the street no less than of the salon. A correspondent of an American paper wrote:
When Dr. Franklin appears abroad, it is more like a public than a private gentleman, and the curiosity of the people is so great, that he may be said to be followed by a genteel mob. A friend of mine paid something for a place at a two-pair-of-stairs window to see him pass in his coach, but the crowd was so great that he could but barely say he saw him.
Innumerable pictures and prints, busts, medals and medallions of him were made, some so small as to be set in the lids of snuffboxes, or to be worn in rings. Courtier and shopkeeper, duchess and chambermaid, talked of Franklin with equal interest and reverence as the friend of humankind who looked as if he had come to restore the golden age.
A wonderful popularity was his—but more wonderful still, he maintained it the nine long years he was in France. And, indeed, the young American republic needed such a spokesman. He appeared at a critical time and his mere
