CHAPTER VIII._Biographical Stories (From: "True Stories of History and Biography")

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As the children had no more questions to ask, Mr. Temple proceeded to

relate what consequences ensued from the building of Bell Franklin’s

wharf.

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BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

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[CONTINUED]

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In the morning, when the early sunbeams were gleaming on the steeples and

roofs of the town and gilding the water that surrounded it, the masons

came, rubbing their eyes, to begin their work at the foundation of the new

house. But, on reaching the spot, they rubbed their eyes so much the

harder. What had become of their heap of stones?

“Why, Sam,” said one to another, in great perplexity, “here’s been some

witchcraft at work while we were asleep. The stones must have flown away

through the air!”

“More likely they have been stolen!” answered Sam.

“But who on earth would think of stealing a heap of stones?” cried a

third. “Could a man carry them away in his pocket?”

The master mason, who was a gruff kind of man, stood scratching his head,

and said nothing at first. But, looking carefully on the ground, he

discerned innumerable tracks of little feet, some with shoes and some

barefoot. Following these tracks with his eye, he saw that they formed a

beaten path towards the water-side.

“Ah, I see what the mischief is,” said he, nodding his head. “Those little

rascals, the boys,—they have stolen our stones to build a wharf

with!”

The masons immediately went to examine the new structure. And to say the

truth, it was well worth looking at, so neatly and with such admirable

skill had it been planned and finished. The stones were put together so

securely that there was no danger of their being loosened by the tide,

however swiftly it might sweep along. There was a broad and safe platform

to stand upon, whence the little fishermen might cast their lines into

deep water and draw up fish in abundance. Indeed, it almost seemed as if

Ben and his comrades might be forgiven for taking the stones, because they

had done their job in such a workmanlike manner.

“The chaps that built this wharf understood their business pretty well,”

said one of the masons. “I should not be ashamed of such a piece of work

myself.”

But the master mason did not seem to enjoy the joke. He was one of those

unreasonable people who care a great deal more for their own rights and

privileges than for the convenience of all the rest of the world.

“Sam,” said he, more gruffly than usual, “go call a constable.”

So Sam called a constable, and inquiries were set on foot to discover the

perpetrators of the theft. In the course of the day warrants were issued,

with the signature of a justice of the peace, to take the bodies of

Benjamin Franklin and other evil-disposed persons who had stolen a heap of

stones. If the owner of the stolen property had not been more merciful

than the master mason, it might have gone hard with our friend Benjamin

and his fellow-laborers. But, luckily for them, the gentleman had a

respect for Ben’s father, and, moreover, was amused with the spirit of the

whole affair. He therefore let the culprits off pretty easily.

But, when the constables were dismissed, the poor boys had to go through

another trial, and receive sentence, and suffer execution, too, from their

own fathers. Many a rod, I grieve to say, was worn to the stump on that

unlucky night.

As for Ben, he was less afraid of a whipping than of his father’s

disapprobation. Mr. Franklin, as I have mentioned before, was a sagacious

man, and also an inflexibly upright one. He had read much for a person in

his rank of life, and had pondered upon the ways of the world, until he

had gained more wisdom than a whole library of books could have taught

him. Ben had a greater reverence for his father than for any other person

in the world, as well on account of his spotless integrity as of his

practical sense and deep views of things.

Consequently, after being released from the clutches of the law, Ben came

into his father’s presence with no small perturbation of mind.

“Benjamin, come hither,” began Mr. Franklin, in his customary solemn and

weighty tone.

The boy approached and stood before his father’s chair, waiting reverently

to hear what judgment this good man would pass upon his late offence. He

felt that now the right and wrong of the whole matter would be made to

appear.

“Benjamin!” said his father, “what could induce you to take property which

did not belong to you?”

“Why, father,” replied Ben, hanging his head at first, but then lifting

eyes to Mr. Franklin’s face, “if it had been merely for my own benefit, I

never should have dreamed of it. But I knew that the wharf would be a

public convenience. If the owner of the stones should build a house with

them, nobody will enjoy any advantage except himself. Now, I made use of

them in a way that was for the advantage of many persons. I thought it

right to aim at doing good to the greatest number.”

“My son,” said Mr. Franklin, solemnly, “so far as it was in your power,

you have done a greater harm to the public than to the owner of the

stones.”

“How can that he, father?” asked Ben.

“Because,” answered his father, “in building your wharf with stolen

materials, you have committed a moral wrong. There is no more terrible

mistake than to violate what is eternally right for the sake of a seeming

expediency. Those who act upon such a principle do the utmost in their

power to destroy all that is good in the world.”

“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

compositions, 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

townspeople 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 apiece! a penny apiece! 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.

In this way our friend Benjamin spent his boyhood and youth, until, on

account of some disagreement with his brother, he left his native town and

went to Philadelphia. He landed in the latter city, a homeless and hungry

young man, and bought three-pence worth of bread to satisfy his appetite.

Not knowing where else to go, he entered a Quaker meeting-house, sat down,

and fell fast asleep. He has not told us whether his slumbers were visited

by any dreams. But it would have been a strange dream, indeed, and an

incredible one, that should have foretold how great a man he was destined

to become, and how much he would be honored in that very city where he was

now friendless and unknown.

So here we finish our story of the childhood of Benjamin Franklin. One of

these days, if you would know what he was in his manhood, you must read

his own works and the history of American independence.

“Do let us hear a little more of him!” said Edward; “not that I admire him

so much as many other characters; but he interests me, because he was a

Yankee boy.”

“My dear son,” replied Mr. Temple, “it would require a whole volume of

talk to tell you all that is worth knowing about Benjamin Franklin. There

is a very pretty anecdote of his flying a kite in the midst of a

thunder-storm, and thus drawing down the lightning from the clouds and

proving that it was the same thing as electricity. His whole life would be

an interesting story, if we had time to tell it.”

“But, pray, dear father, tell us what made him so famous,” said George. “I

have seen his portrait a great many tines. There is a wooden bust of him

in one of our streets; and marble ones, I suppose, in some other places.

And towns, and ships of war, and steamboats, and banks, and academies, and

children are often named after Franklin. Why should he have grown so very

famous?”

“Your question is a reasonable one, George,” answered his father. “I doubt

whether Franklin’s philosophical discoveries, important as they were, or

even his vast political services, would have given him all the fame which

he acquired. It appears to me that Poor Richard’s Almanac did more than

anything else towards making him familiarly known to the public. As the

writer of those proverbs which Poor Richard was supposed to utter,

Franklin became the counsellor and household friend of almost every family

in America. Thus it was the humblest of all his labors that has done the

most for his fame.”

“I have read some of those proverbs,” remarked Edward; “but I do not like

them. They are all about getting money or saving it.”

“Well,” said his father, “they were suited to the condition of the

country; and their effect, upon the whole, has doubtless been good,

although they teach men but a very small portion of their duties.”

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