He died in 17O2,
January 6, old style, just four years to a day before I was born.
The account we received of his life and character from some old
people at Ecton, I remember, struck you as something extraordinary,
from its similarity to what you knew of mine.
"Had he died on the same day," you said, "one might have supposed
a transmigration."
John was bred a dyer, I believe of woolens. Benjamin was bred a silk
dyer, serving an apprenticeship at London. He was an ingenious man.
I remember him well, for when I was a boy he came over to my father
in Boston, and lived in the house with us some years. He lived
to a great age. His grandson, Samuel Franklin, now lives in Boston.
He left behind him two quarto volumes, MS., of his own poetry, consisting
of little occasional pieces addressed to his friends and relations,
of which the following, sent to me, is a specimen.<2> He had formed
a short-hand of his own, which he taught me, but, never practising it,
I have now forgot it. I was named after this uncle, there being
a particular affection between him and my father. He was very pious,
a great attender of sermons of the best preachers, which he took
down in his short-hand, and had with him many volumes of them.
He was also much of a politician; too much, perhaps, for his station.
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