Jan. 26, 1784—Watching the rise of an American
fraternal military organization with a mixture of trepidation and mockery from his diplomatic posting in France, Benjamin Franklin put his thoughts to
paper about the bird symbol that the group chose for itself, inadvertently
giving birth to an amusing story that has become an urban myth.
If you’re like me, you tried to catch the musical 1776 whenever it came on TV when you were
growing up. If you weren’t lucky enough to see the show about the creation of the Declaration of Independence onstage, then, like me,
you bought the soundtrack album and played it constantly. You might, in that
case, recall one especially spirited scene created by playwright Peter Stone
and lyricist-composer Sherman Edwards.
In “The Egg,” Franklin, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson,
as they contemplate “playing midwives to an egg” (i.e., “the birth of a new
nation,’ Franklin translates), hash out their differences over the bird to be
chosen as the symbol of America. Jefferson, the junior and quietest member of
the trio, is quickly drowned out when he suggests the dove. In a microcosm of
the main action of the musical, the loudly insistent Adams carries the day for
the eagle, “a majestic bird,” despite its rather fierce qualities.
But in the 50 years since the musical premiered on
Broadway, audiences have chortled over Franklin’s defense of the turkey. Only
one problem: Perhaps more than any other element in the show (even more than
its depiction of the solemn Richard Henry Lee as a grinning Southern idiot),
it’s a distortion of actual events and motives.
One element in this comes from the thinnest of
historical justifications: On the same day that the resolution for American
independence passed in the Continental Congress, Franklin, Adams and Jefferson
were commissioned by the other delegates to design a seal for the new nation, and,
as they did onstage, each had his own ideas for it. But none involved a bird of any kind.
The proposal they submitted in August 1776 went
nowhere, as did others submitted by a second and third committee over the next
six years. (Hmmm…nothing happening among our nation’s lawmakers. Stop me if
this sounds familiar!)
In 1782, Charles Thomson, the longtime secretary of
the Congress, submitted a proposal that combined elements of the three
committees’ work. But the bald eagle we know was not the handiwork of Franklin,
Adams and Jefferson.
A 1962 New
Yorker cover illustration by Anatole Kovarsky substituted a turkey for the
bald eagle in the Great Seal. That planted one seed for the stage actions that took
place by the end of the decade.
The basic rationale (though not the exact verbiage)
used by Franklin in the play derives from his letter to daughter Sarah Bache, written 235 years ago today. When you read
the first half of that explanation, it will certainly remind you of the
scientist-politician’s denunciation of the eagle in the musical:
“Others object to the Bald Eagle, as looking too
much like a Dindon, or Turkey. For my
own part I wish the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our
country. He is a bird of bad moral character. He does not get his living
honestly. You may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to
fish for himself, he watches the labour of the fishing hawk; and when that
diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to his nest for the
support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him, and takes it
from him. With all this injustice, he is never in good case, but like those
among men who live by sharping and robbing he is generally poor and often very
lousy. Besides he is a rank coward: the little king bird not bigger than a sparrow attacks him boldly and drives
him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a proper emblem for the
brave and honest Cincinnati of America, who have driven all the king birds from our country…”
Okay, stop right there! What’s this “Cincinnati”
stuff?
With the American Revolution winding down, Henry
Knox, Washington’s Chief of Artillery, helped found The Society of the Cincinnati, a fraternal organization composed of
veterans of the Continental Army. While one of the group’s aims—assisting
former soldiers who had fallen on hard times—was charitable, another provision—heredity
membership, to be passed down to descendants of veterans—struck observers
such as Adams and Jefferson to be a portent for nobility and, therefore, an
undermining of the republic in its crib.
But irony was Franklin’s dominant spirit, so rather
than take on the group itself, he decided to mock its seal. With tongue in
cheek, he went after all the reasons why the bird in the seal, the bald eagle,
was so wrong for a group of veterans: notably, that it was cowardly. Why
couldn’t the Cincinnati have tried a different bird?
“[I]n truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more
respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America. Eagles have
been found in all countries, but the turkey was peculiar to ours, the first of
the species seen in Europe being brought to France by the Jesuits from Canada,
and served up at the wedding table of Charles the ninth. He is besides, (though
a little vain and silly tis true, but not the worse emblem for that) a bird of
courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards who
should presume to invade his farm yard with a red coat on.”
This letter to his daughter was never sent: a
Frenchman to whom Franklin showed it persuaded the 78-year-old diplomat to
avoid involvement in another controversy. In fact, its contents would not be
revealed until 1817, another 27 years after his death. In time, the dust-up over
the Society of the Cincinnati faded, too. And there matters stood, for nearly
another century and a half, until creative types, hoping to have some fun with
our nation’s history, took Dr. Franklin literally.
For more details on this whole thing, I suggest that you read this post by Emily Sneff from the Declaration Resources Project blog, run by Harvard University.
