“Heaven forbid!” said Benjamin.

“No act,” continued Mr. Franklin, “can possibly be for the benefit of the public generally, which involves injustice to any individual.  It would be easy to prove this by examples.  But, indeed, can we suppose that our all-wise and just Creator would have so ordered the affairs of the world, that a wrong act should be the true method of attaining a right end?  It is impious to think so!  And I do verily believe, Benjamin, that almost all the public and private misery of mankind arises from a neglect of this great truth—­that evil can produce only evil—­that good ends must be wrought out by good means.”

“I will never forget it again,” said Benjamin, bowing his head.

“Remember,” concluded his father, “that, whenever we vary from the highest rule of right, just so far we do an injury to the world.  It may seem otherwise for the moment; but, both in Time and in Eternity, it will be found so.”

To the close of his life, Ben Franklin never forgot this conversation with his father; and we have reason to suppose, that in most of his public and private career, he endeavored to act upon the principles which that good and wise man had then taught him.

After the great event of building the wharf, Ben continued to cut wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for about two years.  But, as he had no love for that occupation, his father often took him to see various artisans at their work, in order to discover what trade he would prefer.  Thus Ben learned the use of a great many tools, the knowledge of which afterwards proved very useful to him.  But he seemed much inclined to go to sea.  In order to keep him at home, and likewise to gratify his taste for letters, the lad was bound apprentice to his elder brother, who had lately set up a printing-office in Boston.

Here he had many opportunities of reading new books, and of hearing instructive conversation.  He exercised himself so successfully in writing composition, that, when no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, he became a contributor to his brother’s newspaper.  Ben was also a versifier, if not a poet.  He made two doleful ballads; one about the shipwreck of Captain Worthilake, and the other about the pirate Black Beard, who not long before, infested the American seas.

When Ben’s verses were printed, his brother sent him to sell them to the town’s-people, wet from the press.  “Buy my ballads!” shouted Benjamin, as he trudged through the streets, with a basketful on his arm.  “Who’ll buy a ballad about Black Beard?  A penny a piece! a penny a piece! who’ll buy my ballads?”

If one of those roughly composed and rudely printed ballads could be discovered now, it would be worth more than its weight in gold.