by H. W. Brands
More critical for Franklin was the simultaneous sickness of Thomas Denham. The precise nature of Denham’s disease is unknown, except that it lasted long and finally proved fatal. In time, perhaps, Denham might have left the business to Franklin; quite possibly that prospect had entered Franklin’s mind. But all he left in the event was an oral statement releasing Franklin from his debt of ten pounds, three shillings, and five pence—the ten pounds being the price of Franklin’s passage from London, the balance an amount forwarded against wages. (It may have been an indication of Franklin’s high hopes for his future with Denham that for one of the very few times in his life he lived beyond his means.) Denham’s executors and heirs honored the deceased’s wishes in dropping the debt, but apart from this they had no desire to share their new wealth with an interloper, however worthy he might be. Franklin was informed that his services were no longer needed, and he was left once more to the wide world and his own wits.
Briefly Franklin attempted to pursue his new calling as a merchant. But as he might have guessed, a city as attuned to business as Philadelphia had more merchants than it could well support, and, lacking the kind of personal connection Denham provided, he had no luck finding work.
Friends and his brother-in-law Robert Homes, happening to be in Philadelphia on his commercial travels, recommended a return to the printing craft. This course had obvious advantages but required a lowering of the expectations Franklin’s taste of the mercantile trade had raised. Philadelphia not being London, it also required accommodation with one of the city’s two printers: Keimer and Andrew Bradford. Franklin knew Keimer’s eccentricities and Bradford’s intellectual limitations. He may have entertained the idea of setting himself up in the printing business, but, lacking capital, he would have had to find investors. His father had mentioned assistance upon his turning twenty-one, which he did in January 1727. But that assistance had supposed steady progress in the craft—and it came with an implicit warning about people like William Keith, a warning that had proved all too true. Franklin could guess that his London adventure fell outside what Josiah judged steady progress, and in any event he had no desire to give his father the satisfaction of being right.
By this time Franklin had severed nearly all ties with his family. He encountered Robert Homes periodically, and he took the occasion of his twenty-first birthday to write a letter to his youngest sister, Jane, now fifteen, said to be a beauty (though Franklin himself had no way of knowing this, not having seen her since she was a girl) and engaged to be married. Without indicating any inclination to attend the wedding, Franklin pondered what he might send her by way of a gift. “I had almost determined on a tea table,” he said, in a tone that must have sounded to Jane as patronizing; “but when I considered that the character of a good housewife was far preferable to that of being only a pretty gentlewoman, I concluded to send you a spinning wheel.” He went on to deliver a small homily about vanity. “Remember that modesty, as it makes the most homely virgin amiable and charming, so the want of it infallibly renders the most perfect beauty disagreeable and odious. But when that brightest of female virtues shines among other perfections of body and mind in the same person, it makes the woman more lovely than an angel.” Beyond this distant and diffident connection, Franklin had rendered himself essentially a stranger to his family, and as a result did not feel he could call on Josiah or other family members for financial assistance.
Consequently, when Keimer, somewhat to his surprise, offered employment on attractive terms, Franklin was in no position to decline. Keimer evidently had followed Franklin’s career, at least sufficiently to appreciate the business sense the young man acquired under Denham; he now asked Franklin to take over management of the operations of his print shop. Keimer said he wished to devote his own full attention to the stationery store he ran as an adjunct to the printing business. Franklin would receive an annual salary, rather than the weekly wage common among journeymen; he would supervise and train the others on Keimer’s staff.
Thus Franklin assumed his first managerial post. He directed the activities of five men. The oldest, at thirty, was Hugh Meredith, a man of Welsh descent and rural upbringing who had a strength for hard work and a weakness for hard liquor; he also had an inquisitive mind and, except when clouded by drink, good sense. Stephen Potts was another country boy, likewise older than Franklin. Possessed of wit and humor, he showed flashes of promise between bouts of laziness. Beyond these two waged workers, Franklin oversaw three bound workers. David Harry, yet another with hay behind his ears, was Keimer’s apprentice. A rambunctious Irish lad named John was an indentured servant who had sold several years of his life to a ship’s captain in exchange for passage to America; the captain in turn had sold the indenture to Keimer. George Webb was also indentured but had arrived at that state by an unusual route. Born in Gloucester in old England, he had shown real literary and dramatic promise as a schoolboy, with the result of a scholarship to Oxford. That venerable institution had not suited him, however; he ached for fame on the stage. He took the fifteen guineas scholars were allotted quarterly, abandoned his studies, stashed his gown in a bush, and set out for London afoot. Unable to obtain work as an actor, however, and unused to the deceits of the city, he presently found himself destitute and starving. In his extremity he accepted an offer of transport to the American plantations in exchange for four years’ service. He was taken to Philadelphia, where Keimer purchased his indenture, thinking the lad likely to be useful in the literary trades. So he was, although his usefulness suffered from an idle streak and his innate imprudence.
Franklin initially puzzled over the fact that Keimer had hired him, when, with these other hands, he already had more labor than he had work. Needing employment, however, Franklin put aside his puzzlement and accepted the job. Once in charge, he soon guessed the proprietor’s purpose: to have Franklin train these novices, better than Keimer himself could do, and then to let Franklin go. Rather than confront Keimer, Franklin joined the game of indirection. He carried on cheerfully yet improved every opportunity to prepare himself for something better. He reacquainted himself with old customers and introduced himself to new. He scrutinized the performance of each of those beneath him, estimating which might make suitable partners. He took advantage of Keimer’s sabbatarianism to lengthen his weekends, and with them the time he could devote to his literary and other studies. He experimented with casting types, alleviating the need to send to England for replacements. He taught himself engraving and ink-making.
Perhaps Keimer divined Franklin’s strategy; perhaps he simply decided that Franklin had served his purpose. In either case, after a few months he contrived an excuse to break with his manager. One day a commotion near the courthouse, up the street from Keimer’s shop, prompted Franklin to look out the window to investigate. Keimer, seeing Franklin not at his task, berated him for neglecting business; he added a few insults that Franklin took the more amiss for being broadcast to the entire street. Keimer continued the abuse upon coming inside, provoking Franklin to respond in kind. Keimer escalated the quarrel; he cursed the day he had consented to give three months’ notice in the event of deciding to terminate Franklin’s employ. Franklin, angry at Keimer’s rude treatment of him and, in any event, anticipating Keimer’s next move, retorted that notice would be unnecessary. He would leave that very moment. Which he did, taking only his hat.
As his anger subsided, Franklin examined his options. They appeared bleak—so bleak, in fact, that he briefly considered returning to Boston. But Hugh Meredith would hear no such defeatism. He reminded Franklin what a poor businessman Keimer was: how he ran chronically into debt and could not, or would not, even keep track of what he was owed. Keimer’s creditors doubtless would press him for payment as soon as they discovered he had lost his most talented employee. Keimer’s business must fail, and probably soon. The failure would open a way to Franklin’s success.
Similar considerations must have occurred to Franklin, yet they ran up
against the problem that had vexed him from before his trip to England: his lack of capital. The printing trade was comparatively capital-intensive, requiring specialized equipment that had to be purchased. Whether he bought an existing business—Keimer’s, for instance—or started his own from nothing, he would have to find the funds to purchase the equipment. Such funds were precisely what he lacked.
Meredith evidently had been thinking over this problem too. He declared that his father had formed a high opinion of Franklin, and that between this high opinion and his paternal desire to see his son succeed, he gave every indication of willingness to underwrite a partnership between the two of them. Intrigued, Franklin followed Meredith’s suggestion to meet the father, who indeed registered willingness to stake the two young men to a start in the trade. Pulling Franklin aside, he added a personal element to the business reckoning. He said he was most grateful that his son, under Franklin’s guidance, had sworn off spirits; he earnestly desired that the good influence continue.
Thus it was agreed that Franklin and Hugh Meredith should enter into a partnership, Franklin providing the expertise and Meredith, from his father, the financing. Because the younger Meredith remained committed to Keimer for several months more, the partnership would not commence operations until the spring of 1728. This was just as well, as it would allow time to procure the requisite types and press from London. Meanwhile Franklin and the Merediths would keep their plans to themselves. Franklin might take such printing work as he could find—presumably with Keimer’s rival, Bradford.
Yet Keimer was cannier than Franklin or the Merediths allowed. Recognizing that Franklin was the best printer in the province, and not wishing to lose him to his competitor, he parleyed for peace. He sent what seemed to Franklin “a very civil message” that old friends ought not to part on account of a few words spoken in heat. Would not Franklin return, that they might resume their former relation?
Franklin doubted that a change of heart informed Keimer’s change of tone. Investigating, he discovered that Keimer was trying to secure a contract to print paper money for New Jersey. The contract specified a quality of notes beyond anything Keimer himself could supply; the only man he knew who could was Franklin. Andrew Bradford also wanted the New Jersey contract; like Keimer, he recognized that Franklin was the one who might bring the contract home. It was to preempt Bradford and win the New Jersey job that Keimer was offering amends.
Franklin hesitated. If he waited, perhaps Bradford would make him a better offer. Certainly Keimer was no joy to work for. Yet he could not afford to wait long, as his cash reserves were essentially at zero. What appears to have decided the issue was Hugh Meredith’s observation that if Franklin came back to Keimer, he—Franklin—might continue to instruct Meredith in the printing art, to the benefit of their partnership once they struck out on their own.
Displaying what would prove to be one of his trademark gifts—making virtue of necessity—Franklin returned to Keimer’s shop. He improved Meredith’s skills, at Keimer’s expense; he also taught himself some new techniques. The perennial problem with paper money was that paper, unlike specie—gold and silver—might be multiplied at the squeeze of a printing press. This was a temptation to the legislatures and other bodies charged with directing the printing process; it was equally a temptation to counterfeiters. Shortly Franklin would address the former temptation; for the moment the latter was what concerned him. The chief means of frustrating counterfeiters was to produce bills of such quality as could not be readily reproduced. Governments were willing to pay well for quality of this sort, as New Jersey was paying Keimer—and Keimer, less his own profit, was paying Franklin.
To achieve the requisite quality, Franklin contrived the first copperplate press in America. He had observed the method in London and now repeated what he had observed. He carved curlicues and other ornamentation into the soft copper plates, along with the necessary information about the value of the notes and the authority of the government of New Jersey to print them. After a few intervening steps these were transferred to the sturdiest paper available. The product pleased the New Jersey authorities, who extended Keimer’s contract.
Besides enhancing Meredith’s skills and his own, Franklin’s continuation with Keimer enlarged Franklin’s circle of important acquaintances. Security—to wit, a close count on the number of notes run off—required that the printing be done in New Jersey, in Burlington. Franklin made no effort to hide from those authorities looking over his shoulder that his skill, not any attribute of Keimer’s, was responsible for the high quality of the product. In this regard Keimer’s personal eccentricities inadvertently assisted Franklin. His theological innovations put off more than a few of the establishment types who held positions of political authority in New Jersey; his obstreperousness, inattention to the most basic personal hygience (he was “slovenly to extreme dirtiness,” Franklin recalled), and overall air of untrustworthiness cast Franklin, who cultivated just the opposite qualities, in all the more favorable comparative light.
The social skills Franklin had learned around Josiah’s crowded table now helped him ingratiate himself to New Jersey’s influentials. He became a prized dinner guest, with his wide reading, his recent experience of London, and his general good manners. He charmed government officials and their wives; the approbation of the latter confirmed the judgment of the former that this young man would go far. He listened with attention and pleasure when the surveyor general of New Jersey took him aside, explained how he himself had sprung from the humblest beginnings to his present affluent estate, predicted that Franklin would soon work Keimer out of the printing business, and forecast that he would make a fortune in the process. “These friends were afterward of great use to me,” Franklin recalled candidly, “as I occasionally was to some of them.”
The New Jersey job ended about the time Hugh Meredith’s contract with Keimer ran out and the ordered equipment arrived from England. Keimer, pleased with the profit he had garnered, and evidently not suspecting any new competition, shook hands with Franklin and Meredith and amicably sent them on their way. For some time the covert partners had been scanning Philadelphia real estate; with the partnership now able to come out in the open they leased a house on Market Street, just below Second. The modest rent—£24 per year—was still more than they could shoulder alone; to help with the burden they rented part of the building to Thomas Godfrey, a glassman, and his family. In turn Mrs. Godfrey cooked for the two bachelors.
Almost before they had set up their press and sorted their types, the partners greeted their first customer. Franklin’s reputation was abroad in the city, and when a stranger to town inquired on the street where he might find a printer, an acquaintance of Franklin’s directed him to the new shop. Expressing a sentiment repeated by many other successful entrepreneurs, Franklin remembered, “This countryman’s five shillings being our first fruits, and coming so seasonably, gave me more pleasure than any crown I have since earned.”
Other friends and acquaintances sent more business Franklin’s way. Joseph Breintnall, a well-connected Quaker merchant, scrivener (that is, copyist), conversationalist, and occasional poet, procured for Franklin and Meredith the printing of forty sheets (comprising 160 pages) of the authorized history of the Quakers. Franklin devoted particular diligence to this job, as Keimer had the contract for the balance of the book, and a certain spirit of competition entered into the work. Franklin resolved to print a sheet a day, beyond the smaller jobs that walked through the door. Quite often this required working till nearly midnight; in at least one instance, when a slip reduced two set pages to ruin, he worked well into the next morning.
Besides the benefit of finishing the job on schedule, Franklin appreciated the positive impression he was making on the sober and hardworking Quakers. “This industry visible to our neighbors began to give us character and credit,” he remembered. Many of the merchants, who gathered for refreshment and the exchange of business intelligence at the Every-Nig
ht Club, wondered at Franklin and Meredith’s boldness in beginning their business when Philadelphia already had two printers and was hardly clamoring for a third. Those without personal knowledge of Franklin asserted that the new enterprise must surely fail. Yet individuals who observed Franklin at work argued a contrary view. Patrick Baird, a surgeon who passed Franklin’s shop regularly, explained that Franklin’s devotion to work excelled anything he had ever seen. The earliest risers found Franklin at his frame before dawn; the latest revelers saw him there after everyone else had retired.
Unfortunately, even as Franklin was earning credibility for the new partnership, Hugh Meredith was squandering it. Perhaps Franklin became distracted by the effort required to meet his quota of four pages of Quaker history per day and had less time to devote to the cure of Meredith’s character; perhaps Meredith listened less to Franklin’s advice now that he was a partner rather than a subordinate. Whatever the cause, Meredith resumed his alcoholic habits and soon proved a burden and an embarrassment. Franklin’s friends advised him to dissolve the partnership. Franklin demurred, partly from a feeling of responsibility to Meredith and his father, who had made this venture possible, and partly from a lack of funds to buy out his partner.
Franklin may well have reflected—thinking back on his experiences with John Collins and James Ralph—that his choice of associates was not always the best. He doubtless weighed various devices for ending his relationship with Meredith. In the meantime he redoubled his efforts in the shop, both to make up for what Meredith was not doing and to make clear to those merchants at the Every-Night Club which member of the partnership was doing all the work.