“Be carefull not to Put two much salt in it will make it Britle.” Line a mold with a cloth (“not too coars”) and pour in the boiling soap: “keep it smoth on the top take care to let your Frame stand on a Level let care be taken when it is in that it Is not Jogd.” Let it set overnight, and in the morning cut it “with a small wier fixed to a round stick at Each End.” Use a gauge to make sure each cake is of equal weight and, if not, “Pare it fitt.” Then, in a copper pot, boil the lye with wax-“won third mirtle wax two thirds clean tallow the Greener the wax the beter,” she wrote-and keep it from boiling over “by flirting the froith with a scimer.” Stir in salt. In a wooden box with a hole bored in the bottom and set over a tub filled with bricks, soak eighteen bushels of ashes and one bushel of lime with water. She was bred to bookery and cookery, needle and thread. That Jane Franklin learned to write as well as she did was a twist of fate: she was her brother’s sister. To Book’ry, Cook’ry, Thimble, Needle, Thread. I tell thee Wife, once more, I’ll have her bred To scrub, to rub, to earn and not to spend, To knit, to spin, to sew, to make or mend, To roast, to toast, to boil and mix a Pudding. Teach her what’s useful, how to shun deluding, That God may keep her from the Devils Snares Make her expert and ready at her Prayers, That she may’nt mispronounce God’s People, Popel, Prithee, good Madam, let her first be able,
What more could she study? A Boston newspaper printed “A Dialogue between a thriving Tradesman and his Wife about the Education of Their Daughter.” The wife wishes to send the girl to school.
She helped her father in the shop, doing the work that her brother hated, “cutting Wick for the Candles, filling the Dipping Mold, and the Molds for cast Candles.” She learned to bake and to roast, to mend and to scrub. “She had outlived almost everyone she’d ever loved.” “Mourners must have been few,” Lepore writes.
The funeral was held in her home in Boston’s North End on May 10. Jane Franklin died on Wednesday May 7, 1794. Jane wrote what she called her Book of Ages. He wrote more letters to her than he wrote to anyone else.īen Franklin also wrote his autobiography. The book is based on decades of correspondence Ben and Jane shared. One we know a lot about the other we don’t but maybe should. It’s the story of two 18th century lives. Her favorite granddaughter died in childbirth, leaving four children for Jane to take care of, in her 70s.”īook of Ages: The Life and Opinions of Jane Franklin” Those who grew up to adulthood in many cases had children of their own, only to very soon after die and leave their children for Jane to raise. Granary Burial Ground in Boston, where Ben and Jane’s parents are buried. “It was for me an almost unbearable thing to write about,” Lepore told me during a recent conversation at the
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