The First Scientific American

by Joyce Chaplin

  Nonsense, declared Londoner John Canton, a self-taught experimenter and schoolmaster who greatly resembled Franklin (and would later meet him). Canton was the first to successfully repeat Franklin’s experiments in England, and drawing electricity from the clouds, he discovered independently that clouds might be charged positively or negatively. But he disbelieved Franklin’s idea of atmospheres and designed an experiment to disprove it.30

  Canton hung a cylinder from insulated cords and suspended cork balls from it. He moved a charged glass rod toward the apparatus to see if it would break the atmosphere. Instead, the balls retreated gradually from its approach, ebbing and flowing, not breaking out of an atmosphere. He published the results in the 1753 Philosophical Transactions. Instead of being defensive or hurt, Franklin was so convinced by the evidence that he embraced Canton’s criticism—and began a correspondence with him—and gamely improved the experiment by using silk tassels that spread at the approach of the glass rod and contracted when it was withdrawn. Franklin also eased the term “atmosphere” out of his descriptions of electricity. If his long study of heat and atmospheres had encouraged him to portray electrical force in an unconvincing way, he nonetheless knew when to relinquish the idea.31

  Franklin was most fascinated by those parts of the earth’s atmosphere he could never reach, even with the world’s longest kite-string. The electrical experiments prompted him to speculate further on the composition of the earth’s atmosphere, especially how the atmosphere might occur in distinct layers of air. A “lower Region of Air” was cooler than an “upper” one—the macrocosm’s inversion of a cozy room heated by a Pennsylvania fireplace. The thermal variation created a dynamic field. In a 1749 letter to John Mitchell, Franklin had noted that the varying motions of clouds at different heights showed there were “different Currents of Air.” Warmer air would rise in the tropics, and the denser and cooler air of northern areas would keep pushing it up until it arrived in polar regions, where it had to descend so “that the Circulation may be carried on.” Considering the formation of rain and hail in 1753, Franklin ventured that there was, high in the atmosphere, a frigid zone where moisture froze.32

  From this chilly level, Franklin pressed on to consider a higher, hotter layer above. He was puzzled that although he had demonstrated that atmospheric electricity existed, air itself did not easily conduct electricity. Something else must help do so—perhaps the aerial “Atmosphere” was only one of several layers above the earth. “Who knows then, but there may be, as the Antients thought, a Region of this Fire, above our Atmosphere, prevented by our Air and its own too great Distance for Attraction, from joining our Earth?” And “perhaps the Aurorae Boreales are Currents of this Fluid in its own Region above our Atmosphere.” Fire and electricity might be revealingly similar fluids. Unable to design an experiment to verify any of this, Franklin merely concluded that “there is no End to Conjectures.” 33

  He speculated similarly about magnetism, admitting that this “Fluid” puzzled him. He suspected “that Magnetism fills all Space,” indicating north and south throughout the known universe and making it possible for any “Being capable of Passing from one Heavenly Body to another” to use a compass as “a Mariner on our Ocean,” a lovely interstellar image.34

  And still his conjectures about fluids did not end. Franklin considered the nature of light, starting with Newton’s assertion that it resulted from moving corpuscles. Franklin was “not satisfy’d” with this doctrine, comically confessing himself “much in the Dark about Light.” He explained to Colden in 1752 that he believed “Universal Space” was filled “with a subtle elastic Fluid, which when at rest is not visible, but whose Vibrations affect that fine Sense the Eye, as those of Air do the grosser Organs of the Ear.” With this idea, Franklin accepted Newton’s concept of the aether as a material that filled space. But he also emphasized aether’s extremely subtle nature—was it even material, really? With these speculations, Franklin rounded out his repertoire. He had now made claims on areas of natural philosophy in which he had done no experiments and had attempted a unified theory of the subtle substances whose forces pervaded the cosmos.35

  IT IS EASY to trace the spread of Franklin’s fame—it followed his Experiments and Observations on Electricity (1751). Initially brief, the essays went through five English editions from 1751 to 1774. Each included the primary electrical writings but then gathered more and more of Franklin’s letters and essays. (Increasingly, they would address nonmeteorological and nonelectrical topics.)36

  Franklin used these successive editions to craft his image as a philosopher. It would have made sense for Franklin to open the Experiments and Observations with his initial letter of 1747 to Collinson, thanking his patron for the electric “Tube” and breathlessly relating his first use of it. Instead, he wrote a stiff note to Collinson in 1750, thanking him and Penn for the tube and apparatus. It was almost as if someone had told Franklin he had to write the letter and he reluctantly did—a bit late in the course of the experiments and a mere year before he published his findings. And then he buried the letter within the other essays. Indeed, Franklin’s slowness to thank patrons matched his determination to ignore critics—why shift focus away from himself? Moreover, the electrical experiments themselves, done collaboratively, were published under his name alone. Carefully, relentlessly, he had worked his way to center stage. He intended to stay there.37

  Translations of Franklin’s writings introduced him all around Europe. After the initial French edition of 1752, an enlarged one appeared four years later. Subsequent editions in Italian, German, and Latin would follow, for a total of eleven in Europe before the American Revolution. The Philadelphia experiment thus spread from Spain to Russia. (The latter country saw the only electrical fatality, when an ungrounded Georg Wilhelm Richmann unwisely approached a charged Leyden jar during a St. Petersburg experiment.) The proliferation of Franklin’s works in Europe sharply contrasted with the situation in his native land: the first American edition of the Experiments and Observations appeared in the nineteenth century, and the first scholarly edition was not issued until 1941.38

  Franklin may have been American, but his initial fame as a natural philosopher was not—it depended entirely on European approbation. He was absolutely right to look to Europe for validation. Anglo-America could not yet support the elaborate culture of learning necessary for natural philosophy. No American printer thought that an edition of Franklin’s essays would sell; any colonist who bought the Experiments and Observations was probably used to ordering such things from London. And London had been essential to Franklin’s philosophical success. The metropolis had given him a patron (Collinson), equipment (the electric tube), and published validation (the 1751 edition of his essays). That he was a colonial client clearly irked Franklin, hence his muffled thanks to Collinson and Penn in early versions of the story of his success. But colonial client Franklin was, and only by his meticulous cultivation of friends and patrons in the republic of letters had he been able to claim a place in that cosmopolitan realm.

  Not that Franklin’s native land neglected him entirely. In 1752, he received honorary master’s degrees from Harvard and Yale Colleges. Alas, his Boston parents could never swell with pride that their youngest son was, after all, a college man; his father had died in 1745 and his mother in 1752—just before her son’s triumphs made news on both sides of the ocean.

  The sweetest plum for Franklin was the Copley Medal of London’s Royal Society. This was the society’s highest distinction, one previously given only to its British fellows. But “Benjamin Franklin Esquire of Philadelphia in America” received it in 1753, “on Account of his Curious Experiments and Observations on Electricity.” The society’s president, George, Earl of Macclesfield, emphasized that the award had no precedent. Though Franklin was neither “a Fellow of this Society nor an Inhabitant of this Island,” he was “a Subject of the Crown of Great Britain.” Moreover, all “learned men and Philosophers of all Nations�
� were “Fellow members of one and the same illustrious Republic, and look upon it to be beneath Persons of their character to betray a fond partiality for this or that particular district.” In a way, the Royal Society needed Franklin as much as he needed it. By giving the Copley Medal to Franklin, a commoner and colonist, the society made its point that the sciences established universal truths apparent to everyone across the globe.39

  Franklin had probably not anticipated receiving the Copley Medal. His surprise might be roughly equivalent to that of a modern scientist who, trying for years to land an article or two in a major journal, suddenly finds she has succeeded—and has also somehow won the Nobel Prize. For Franklin, it was dizzying. He must have practiced and practiced drafts of the thank-you note he sent to the Royal Society; it is powerfully succinct (no telltale gushing) and one of the loveliest examples of the Franklin hand. The note is the bookend to the letter he had sent to Peter Collinson seven years earlier, acknowledging the glass electric globe. And it is the antithesis of the supplication he had sent almost thirty years earlier to Sir Hans Sloane, offering a view of his asbestos curiosities. It was a wonderful vindication of Franklin’s faith that the republic of letters would recognize talent of whatever nation and rank. In his case, it had—spectacularly.40

  In no time at all, admirers attached the terms philosopher and genius to Franklin. The first word did not even need the modifier natural before it: the sciences were the apex of learning, philosophy for the modern age. Poets, clergymen, naturalists, and complete nobodies all agreed. When Franklin received his honorary degree from Yale, clergyman and Yale professor Ezra Stiles wrote a Latin oration calling his subject “Philosophorum Princeps” (first among philosophers). James Turner, who had done engraving work for Franklin and for Lewis Evans, went further, extolling Franklin as “the eminent philosopher,” indeed “the admiration of the world!”41

  Above all, his admirers claimed that Franklin, as natural philosopher, commanded nature itself, making him equivalent to deities and giving him a place in the pantheon. In a 1753 poem published in the next year’s Gentleman’s Magazine, Charles Woodmason insisted that Franklin could:Dictate science with imperial nod,

  And save[,] not ruin[,] by an iron rod.

  If for thy birth, when latest times draw nigh,

  As now for Homer’s, rival cities vie.

  Richard Brooke maintained in 1755 that Franklin’s feat, identifying lightning with electricity, was “a Discovery far more Philosophical and beneficial than those for which many of the Antients were De-ifyed!” An anonymous poem, circa 1756, claimed that heaven would welcome Franklin’s “Genius”; there, “Bacon [and] Newton will our F–-lin greet. / And place him in his Electrisic seat,” a somewhat alarming prospect. Even Franklin’s electrical collaborators, who did not exactly share the glory, praised him immoderately. Ebenezer Kinnersley expected that the “Posterity of Mankind” would “make the Name of FRANKLIN like that of NEWTON, immortal.”42

  A short letter of thanks. Benjamin Franklin to the President and Fellows of the Royal Society (1754). THE ROYAL SOCIETY.

  The praise of Franklin’s immortal wisdom did not let up. In 1766, Stiles (still eager to flatter Franklin) claimed that just as “Confucius and his Posterity have been honored in China for Twenty Ages—the Electrical Philosopher, the American Inventor of the pointed Rods will live for Ages to come.” John Walsh even implied Franklin’s divinity when he repeatedly capitalized the pronouns addressing him: “He, who predicted and shewed that electricity wings the formidable bolt . . . : He, who analysed the electrified Phial . . . ; He, who by Reason became an electrician.” No one had ever rhapsodized about Franklin as a printer, civic booster, or clerk to the Pennsylvania Assembly. Science made it happen.43

  People went a bit crazy, it must be said. In Germany especially, the idea that Franklin had supernatural power became a commonplace. In 1756, Immanuel Kant proclaimed Franklin the Prometheus of the modern age (Prometheus der neuern Zeiten) because he had, like the mythological figure, defied the gods in order to draw “fire” (electricity) from the heavens. A German acolyte sent Franklin some verses (styled as a dialogue between Earth and Moon) celebrating how the great American had protected “Mankind” from lightning; what was needed next, the Earth tells the Moon, was “still one Francklin more, to secure us [from] the Power of Death.” He was no longer quite human, our colonial chandler’s son.44

  Again, it is worth noting the new meaning of genius. It had once meant a quality or trait a person had; by the middle of the eighteenth century, it had also come to mean what a certain kind of person was. That kind of person did not possess mere talent—a genius was born, not made. Franklin’s rapid rise—he sprang from the dust of the Newton-Descartes squabble in France—greatly reinforced the idea. We can trace the transformation of genius from modifier to noun over the rest of Franklin’s life. For example, Woodmason’s 1753 poem wished for Franklin “those honours that are virtue’s meed, / Whate’er to genius wisdom has decreed!” and in 1761, Kinnersley described his compatriot’s “superiour and more penetrating Genius.” But Penuel Bowen in 1771 called Franklin “the distinguish’d genius of America,” not only a genius but the genius.45

  Now, Franklin had to decide what to do with his fame. His reputation made him indispensable not only within the republic of letters but also in the political realm. For the rest of his life, he would have to balance the demands of philosophy and politics. Elevated by his experimental achievements, he could never again pursue natural philosophy on a full-time basis, as he had done during his two-year, headlong pursuit of electricity.

  Franklin was aware of the problem and looked to other philosophical careers as cautionary tales. In 1749, Poor Richard had quoted James Thomson’s Seasons yet again, this time on Francis Bacon, “The great deliverer he! who from the gloom / Of cloister’d monks, and jargon-teaching schools, / Led forth the true Philosophy.” But Bacon was “hapless in his choice” of politics; “Unfit to stand the civil storm of state.... Him for the studious shade / Kind nature form’d.” A year later, Franklin offered the opposite choice—politics not philosophy—to Cadwallader Colden, who was smarting anew from reviews of his book. “Let not your Love of Philosophical Amusements have more than its due Weight with you,” Franklin warned. “Had Newton been Pilot but of a single common Ship, the finest of his Discoveries would scarce have excus’d, or atton’d for his abandoning the Helm one Hour in Time of Danger; how much less if she had carried the Fate of the Commonwealth.” Colden, in short, was no Newton, the philosopher he had attempted to correct. Thus, Franklin dismissed his friend’s aspirations in the sciences: “Forgive this Freedom,” he begged Colden, which he, North America’s ranking philosopher, offered “with the sincerest Esteem and Affection.”46

  Franklin was determined to do better, to combine philosophy and public affairs. If he did so, he would outstrip even Newton, whose contributions to public life had been limited. Demands on Franklin’s political energies were growing. He had been elected a member of the Philadelphia Common Council in 1748, was elected president of the trustees of the Academy of Philadelphia (which he had helped create) a year later, and became a member of the Pennsylvania Assembly and a Philadelphia alderman in 1751. Many men would have decided that they had no more time for natural philosophy—but not Franklin. He was determined to keep his hand in.

  But how could he? Franklin conserved his energy: he worked on problems for which he already had background. He would ever after follow developments in electricity and meteorology, for instance, but he did not—could not—keep up with everything. He ignored most discussion of earthquakes, as just one example, even though they were thought to be connected to atmospheric electricity (as he had briefly speculated) or even caused by lightning rods. Others pleaded for Franklin’s further thoughts on electricity and earthquakes; he declined to elaborate. It is most remarkable that he never even mentioned the devastating Lisbon earthquake of 1755, which obsessed most learned figures in the Atlantic worl
d—it had in fact inspired Kant’s declaration that Franklin was the modern Prometheus, someone who could comprehend and master nature’s terrible forces. But 1755 was just a few years too late; by then, Franklin lacked time to start research on earthquakes.47

  He coped, as well, by integrating his ongoing research on electricity into his household routine. In that way, he could keep an eye on his investigations, whatever else was happening. Having earlier used his home as an experimental space for heating systems, Franklin now rigged the place up as a big piece of electrical equipment. In September 1752, he erected a lightning rod “to draw the Lightning down into my house.” Suspended on wire running down from the lightning rod, two bells gave “Notice when the Rod should be electrified. A Contrivance obvious to every Electrician.” The bells were sometimes so loud “as to be heard all over the House.” Franklin gave “orders in my Family that if the Bells rang when I was [away] from home, they should catch some of the Lightning for me in electrical Vials, and they did so.”48

  It would be interesting to know who “they” were, exactly. In 1752 and 1753, when Franklin was trying to fill his electrical vials, his household included his wife, Deborah; young daughter Sarah; older son William; and two slaves, Peter and Jemima. It is unlikely that Deborah Franklin tried to “catch” any lightning—she complained about having bells announce the presence of electricity in her house. William was the obvious suspect, but surely Franklin wanted a backup as well. He could have enlisted his daughter or simply ordered his slaves to respond to the sound of the bell, as servants did anyway. Any of these options would have made Franklin’s ongoing investigations typical of an age when laboratories existed in households, workshops, rectories, and naval vessels—whatever location was convenient to the experimenter.49