This Day in Art History (Benjamin Franklin Waggishly Laments Bald Eagle as Symbol)

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.

This Day in Theater History (‘1776’ Opens in New Era of Revolution)

March 16, 1969—After a decade of striving to bring 1776 to Broadway, its creators were annoyed by any suggestion that their musical about the turbulent creation of the Declaration of Independence was out of step with a new generation that had just made Hair a hit. They felt that, rather than passing, their time had arrived. Thousands of theatergoers—not to mention three Tony Awards (including Best Musical)--proved them right. By the time its extraordinary run was over, 1776 had gone on to 1,217 performances in three different Broadway theaters.

The musical did not simply humanize the signers of the Declaration of Independence, welcome though that may have been. It also clearly struck a chord with audiences without being politically incorrect. For theatergoers beset everywhere by troubling and seemingly new questions on the meaning and justice of the American experiment, it showed that even during the nation’s birth, its “fathers” (just the appropriate word, in Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address)  wrestled with issues of race, in the form of slavery; an earlier deeply divisive war, a revolution probably supported by no more than one-third of the inhabitants of the time; determined right-wing opponents (and, in articulate conservative John Dickinson, a sort of forerunner of William F. Buckley Jr.); and, in the form of John Adams’ fiercely intelligent spouse Abigail, wives dissatisfied with their lot in a changing world.

Yet 1776 did not make the mistake of another history-based Broadway musical from the year before, Maggie Flynn, about the New York City Draft Riots of 1863, in providing no significant respite from material already inherently depressing. (See my prior post on the latter.) Onetime schoolteacher Sherman Edwards composed enough songs with bounce and light to balance out undeniably darker fare such as “Molasses to Rum to Slaves,” about the “triangle trade” among Africa, the North and the South that sustained slavery. And, of course, it featured a happy ending.

The film version, released three years later, can stand as a fair proxy for the original Broadway production, as it featured the same director and most of the same cast. (The most significant exception to the latter was Blythe Danner, who, in the role of Martha Jefferson, had replaced Betty Buckley, whose debut on Broadway turned out to be an accurate promise for a fine career in musical theater.)

I came to know 1776 late in elementary school, when I repeatedly played the movie soundtrack and hunted down the script. At a pretty decisive point in my own education, when I became extremely interested in history, it opened a door into aspects of American history that I had not known.

The libretto by Peter Stone (who would go on to write another book for a musical that strove for historical accuracy, but was much less financially successful: Titanic) did an excellent job of detailing Adams’ irascibility, Thomas Jefferson’s taciturnity, Ben Franklin’s bonhomie—and the strong yen for women that, whether in marriage (Adams and Jefferson) or outside (Franklin), animated all three. To be sure, it took a couple of large stabs at dramatic license to heighten the suspense of the show (in real life, the crafting of the Declaration was a formality after the epic battle in the Continental Congress to pass the resolution for independence, and the signing took place over a period of months rather than a single day), and at least one unjustifiable mischaracterization (of the solemn Virginia firebrand Richard Henry Lee as a goof, which I discussed in this post).

But musicals can—and they have—been far, far less historically accurate than this. For instance, another musical about this crucial year in American history, Rodgers and Hart’s Dearest Enemy, took a real incident (a Quaker woman who, through hospitality to General Howe, slowed down the British pursuit of the Continental Army out of New York) and added quite a bit of fanciful trappings. I suspect that quite a few fans of the show, like me, became fascinated enough by what they saw on screen or stage to follow up in reading about the actual history.

I missed the much-praised 1997 Roundabout Theatre revival starring Brent Spiner. But the show has become a staple of regional productions all around the country. In recent years, as Americans have endured the spectacle of a deadlocked Congress, more than a few people have discovered fresh meaning in the opening scene of the play, when Adams, his patience exhausted by the slow progress of his attempts to move independence along, lashes out memorably with: “I have come to the conclusion that one useless man is a disgrace, that two are called a law firm, and that three or more become a Congress!”