The voyage, though quick, was very rough, and Franklin, confined in a small cabin and "poorly nourished," since much of the meat was too tough for his old teeth, had a hard time of it; so that upon coming on shore he found himself "much fatigued and weakened," indeed, "almost demolished." He therefore rested several days at Nantes before going to Paris, where he arrived just before the close of the year. The excitement which his arrival in the French capital created was unmistakable evidence of the estimate set by Europe upon his abilities. Some persons in England endeavored to give to his voyage the color of a desertion from a cause of which he despaired. "The arch----, Dr. Franklin, has lately eloped under a cloak of plenipotentiary to Versailles," wrote Sir Grey Cooper. But Edmund Burke refused to believe that the man whom he had seen examined before the privy council was "going to conclude a long life, which has brightened every hour it has continued, with so foul and dishonorable a flight." Lord Rockingham said that the presence of Franklin in Paris much more than offset the victory of the English on Long Island, and their capture of New York. Lord Stormont, it is said, threatened to leave _sans prendre conge_, if the "chief of the American rebels" were allowed to come to Paris. The adroit de Vergennes replied that the government had already dispatched a courier to direct Franklin to remain at Nantes; but since they knew neither the time of his departure nor his route, the message might not reach him. Should he thus innocently arrive in Paris it would be scandalous, inhospitable, and contrary to the laws of nations to send him away.[40] [Note 40: Hale's _Franklin in France_, i. 73.] But while the English were angry, the French indulged in a _furore_ of welcome. They made feasts and hailed the American as the friend of human kind, as the "ideal of a patriarchal republic and of idyllic simplicity," as a sage of antiquity; and the exuberant classicism of the nation exhausted itself in glorifying him by comparisons with those great names of Greece and Rome which have become symbols for all private and public virtues. They admired him because he did not wear a wig; they lauded his spectacles; they were overcome with enthusiasm as they contemplated his great cap of martin fur, his scrupulously white linen, and the quaint simplicity of his brown Quaker raiment of colonial make. They noted with amazement that his "only defense" was a "walking-stick in his hand." The print-shops were soon full of countless representations of his noble face and venerable figure, set off by all these pleasing adjuncts. The people thronged the streets to see him pass, and respectfully made way for him. He seemed, as John Adams said later, to enjoy a reputation "more universal than that of Leibnitz or Newton, Frederick or Voltaire."