It is only natural that a conversation about an autobiography turns to a conversation about vanity. After all, who writes a book about himself?
Vanity is not merely one’s desire to stand above others—it is also one’s resentment of those who think they ought to be placed higher. Franklin’s democratic character, then, is evident in his realism regarding human beings’ vanity and readiness to give it fair quarter wherever he meets it.
For example, Franklin offers an account of leadership “not justly conducted.” Ten-year-old Franklin and friends fished at a marsh that turned into a quagmire, so he proposed they build a wharf with stones from a nearby construction site. Under the cover of evening, Franklin and friends “brought [the stones] all away and built [their] little Wharff.” All seemed well thanks to the enterprising young Franklin. Yet:
The next Morning the Workmen were surpriz’d at Missing the Stones; which were found in our Wharff; Enquiry was made after the Removers; we were discovered and complain’d of; several of us were corrected by our Fathers; and tho’ I pleaded the Usefulness of the Work, mine convinc’d me that nothing was useful which was not honest.
Nothing dishonest is useful, which means stealing is neither just nor useful. What is honest, just, and useful ought to be good for oneself and good for others, or at least not bad for others. When leadership benefits some at the expense of others, then it is vanity poorly used. When leadership benefits oneself and others, then it is honest, just, and vanity well used.
The lesson extends into Franklin’s adult life. Franklin and his friends in the Junto cherished reading, but books were costly. He proposed they acquire books by making the “benefit from Books more common,” that is, by defraying the costs to the public.
Yet in soliciting subscriptions for the Philadelphia Public Library, Franklin encountered men’s reluctance to support “any useful Project that might be suppos’d to raise [his] Reputation in the smallest degree above that of [his] Neighbours.” One should, therefore, remove oneself from the limelight and advance the proposal as “a Scheme of a Number of Friends,” for “the present little Sacrifice of [one’s] Vanity will afterwards be amply repaid.”
The library soon manifested its utility and was imitated by others, the Junto—and Franklin—accessed otherwise inaccessible books. In little time, Philadelphians “were observ’d by Strangers to be better instructed and more intelligent than People of the same Rank generally are in other Countries.” Admit the truth of your own vanity and the vanity of others, “use no hurtful deceit,” benefit your fellow men and city, and have your vanity sated.
Who writes a book about himself? A vain person. Who publicly confesses his vanity? A person productive of good for himself and others—a person who offers reflections on how he lived so posterity may reflect, imitate, and honor him accordingly.