s that must
operate to prevent it that I will venture to say a union amongst them
for such a purpose is not merely improbable, it is impossible.... When
I say such a union is impossible, I mean without the most grievous
tyranny and oppression.... _The waves do not rise but when the wind
blows._... What such an administration as the Duke of Alva's in the
Netherlands might produce, I know not; but this, I think, I have a
right to deem impossible." Strange words to come from Franklin in those
days; but it is thought they were of considerable influence in the
final decision of the question. Franklin indeed was always fond of
prophesying the future greatness of America, and again in the
diplomatic debates after the revolutionary war he long insisted that
Canada should be severed from England and joined to the thirteen
States.

But our philosopher had much to occupy him besides politics. He had
taken lodgings at No. 7 Craven Street with a Mrs. Stevenson, in whom
and in whose daughter he found warm and congenial friends. His
correspondence with "Dear Polly," the daughter, contains some of his
most entertaining letters; and he even planned, but unsuccessfully, to
make her the wife of his son William. His fame as a scientist had
preceded him, and introduced him into the society of many distinguished
men in England and Scotland, among whom his genial nature freely
expanded. And nothing could stop the activity of his mind, not even
sickness. For eight weeks he struggled with a fever, but the letter to
his wife conveying the story of his illness reads as if he were almost
willing to undergo such an experience for the opportunity of studying
pathology which it offered.

At last he was ready to return home. The University of St. Andrews had
conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Laws, and afterwards Oxford
had done the same. He had succeeded in his mission, his son had been
appointed governor of New Jersey, and he looked forward to a life of
honorable ease in his adopted city. Just before sailing he wrote to
Lord Kames: "I am now waiting here only for a wind to waft me to
America, but cannot leave this happy island and my friends in it
without extreme regret, though I am going to a country and a people
that I love. I am going from the old world to the new, and I fancy I
feel like those who are leaving this world for the next. Grief at the
parting, fear of the passage, hope of the future,--these different
passions all affect thei