“My reputation as an inventor preceded me—as the discoverer, only a few years back, of harnessing lightning from the skies. The instant the Maryland Gazette announced the new deputy postmaster’s arrival in the bustling waterfront community, I received a flood of invitations from political, social and scientific societies.

“The most mysterious of these was from a group of gentlemen claiming to be none of the above. Rather, they represented themselves as amateur musicians, many of Scottish descent, who met twice a month to compose and perform music. As these meetings always took place on Tuesdays, they had dubbed their little group ‘The Tuesday Club.’” As Franklin began his tale, the only sound to be heard was that of cutlery scraping on plates…

* * *

The Tuesday evening that I joined the group was a dismal, rain-splashed night on the waterfront. The founder of the club, who greeted me at the door, was a native of Edinburgh, a recent transplant to our shores: one Alexander Hamilton—no relation to our congressman and war hero by that name. The Hamilton name is a powerful one in Scotland. I soon had cause to understand what that might mean, in the grander scheme.

The members, whose names I’ve long forgotten, played amusing songs all the night. We were dubbed with secret names—I was called Electrico Vitrifico, I recall, for my bringing of the power of lightning to earth. They had made a model of my glass ’armonica for playing watery tunes. There was a supper, much drinking of alcohol, and between, some Freemason ditties were sung. Since I’d been a chartering member of Philadelphia’s lodge in the 1730s, I recognized myself to be among the brethren, and felt well at ease. There is nothing better than the camaraderie of a club.

It was late that same night, after most of the young gents had returned to their households, when I found myself alone with Hamilton’s inner clique, as it were. It was then that I came to pose the most important question: “What song is it that you’ve asked me here to listen to?”

The members, by all appearances, were exceedingly pleased by my remark. They stood one by one to sing, a cappella, a familiar rondel or canon of ancient origin. First they sang in French, then in English, a song like this:

Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,

Dormez-Vous? Dormez-Vous?

Sonnez les Matines, Sonnez les Matines,

Din-Dan-Don, Din-Dan-Don…

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?

Brother John, Brother John,

Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing,

Ding-Ding-Dong, Ding-Ding-Dong…

As each singer finished his repeats of the song he took his seat, one by one, until only a sole singer was standing, singing the last chiming bell. When he, too, was seated, the men all looked at me in silence. Only the sound of rain could be heard, pattering on the roof. I was the first to speak:

“Simple ditties like this one, gentlemen,” I said, “have long been used to communicate hidden meaning across time and place. In the case of ‘Frère Jacques,’ as I now perceive, it is a meaning that may, indeed, have been hidden for a hundred years or more. Not only a secret is hidden—perhaps even a conspiracy of sorts, from the Latin conspirare, ‘to breathe together’—suggesting a mystery of the kind that oughtn’t be more than whispered. But I believe I do comprehend your mission, and I shall assist you, my brethren, in any way I can.”