Chapter I

Grandfather had been sitting in his old arm-chair,
all that pleasant afternoon, while the children
were pursuing their various sports, far off or near at
hand. Sometimes you would have said, “Grandfather
is asleep;” but still, even when his eyes were
closed, his thoughts were with the young people,
playing among the flowers and shrubbery of the garden.

He heard the voice of Laurence, who had taken possession
of a heap of decayed branches which the gardener
had lopped from the fruit trees, and was building
a little hut for his cousin Clara and himself. He
heard Clara’s gladsome voice, too, as she weeded
and watered the flower-bed which had been given
her for her own. He could have counted every
footstep that Charley took, as he trundled his wheelbarrow
[pg 002]

along the gravel walk. And though Grandfather
was old and gray-haired, yet his heart leaped
with joy whenever little Alice came fluttering, like a
butterfly, into the room. She had made each of the
children her playmate in turn, and now made Grandfather
her playmate too, and thought him the merriest
of them all.

At last the children grew weary of their sports;
because a summer afternoon is like a long lifetime
to the young. So they came into the room together,
and clustered round Grandfather’s great chair. Little
Alice, who was hardly five years old, took the
privilege of the youngest, and climbed his knee. It
was a pleasant thing to behold that fair and golden-haired
child in the lap of the old man, and to think
that, different as they were, the hearts of both could
be gladdened with the same joys.

“Grandfather,” said little Alice, laying her head
back upon his arm, “I am very tired now. You
must tell me a story to make me go to sleep.”

“That is not what story-tellers like,” answered
Grandfather, smiling. “They are better satisfied
when they can keep their auditors awake.”

“But here are Laurence, and Charley, and I,”
cried cousin Clara, who was twice as old as little
Alice. “We will all three keep wide awake. And
pray, Grandfather, tell us a story about this strange-looking
old chair.”

Now, the chair in which Grandfather sat was made
of oak, which had grown dark with age, but had been
[pg 003]

rubbed and polished till it shone as bright as mahogany.
It was very large and heavy, and had a back
that rose high above Grandfather’s white head. This
back was curiously carved in open work, so as to
represent flowers and foliage and other devices;
which the children had often gazed at, but could
never understand what they meant. On the very
tiptop of the chair, over the head of Grandfather
himself, was a likeness of a lion’s head, which had
such a savage grin that you would almost expect to
hear it growl and snarl.

The children had seen Grandfather sitting in this
chair ever since they could remember any thing.
Perhaps the younger of them supposed that he and
the chair had come into the world together, and that
both had always been as old as they were now. At
this time, however, it happened to be the fashion for
ladies to adorn their drawing-rooms with the oldest
and oddest chairs that could be found. It seemed
to cousin Clara that if these ladies could have seen
Grandfather’s old chair, they would have thought it
worth all the rest together. She wondered if it were
not even older than Grandfather himself, and longed
to know all about its history.

“Do, Grandfather, talk to us about this chair,”
she repeated.

“Well, child,” said Grandfather, patting Clara’s
cheek, “I can tell you a great many stories of my
chair. Perhaps your cousin Laurence would like to
hear them too. They would teach him something
[pg 004]

about the history and distinguished people of his
country, which he has never read in any of his
school-books.”

Cousin Laurence was a boy of twelve, a bright
scholar, in whom an early thoughtfulness and sensibility
began to show themselves. His young fancy
kindled at the idea of knowing all the adventures of
this venerable chair. He looked eagerly in Grandfather’s
face; and even Charley, a bold, brisk, restless
little fellow of nine, sat himself down on the
carpet, and resolved to be quiet for at least ten minutes,
should the story last so long.

Meantime, little Alice was already asleep; so
Grandfather, being much pleased with such an
attentive audience, began to talk about matters that
had happened long ago.

Chapter II

But, before relating the adventures of the chair,
Grandfather found it necessary to speak of the circumstances
that caused the first settlement of New
England. For it will soon be perceived that the
story of this remarkable chair cannot be told without
telling a great deal of the history of the country.

So, Grandfather talked about the Puritans, as
those persons were called who thought it sinful to
practise the religious forms and ceremonies which
the Church of England had borrowed from the
Roman Catholics. These Puritans suffered so much
persecution in England that, in 1607, many of them
went over to Holland, and lived ten or twelve years
at Amsterdam and Leyden. But they feared that,
if they continued there much longer, they should
cease to be English, and should adopt all the manners
and ideas and feelings of the Dutch. For this
and other reasons, in the year 1620, they embarked
on board of the ship Mayflower, and crossed the ocean
to the shores of Cape Cod. There they made a
settlement, and called it Plymouth; which, though
now a part of Massachusetts, was for a long time a
colony by itself. And thus was formed the earliest
settlement of the Puritans in America.

Meantime, those of the Puritans who remained in
[pg 006]

England continued to suffer grievous persecution on
account of their religious opinions. They began to
look around them for some spot where they might
worship God, not as the king and bishops thought fit,
but according to the dictates of their own consciences.
When their brethren had gone from Holland
to America, they bethought themselves that
they likewise might find refuge from persecution
there. Several gentlemen among them purchased a
tract of country on the coast of Massachusetts Bay,
and obtained a charter from King Charles, which authorized
them to make laws for the settlers. In the
year 1628, they sent over a few people, with John
Endicott at their head, to commence a plantation at
Salem. Peter Palfrey, Roger Conant, and one or
two more, had built houses there in 1626, and may
be considered as the first settlers of that ancient
town. Many other Puritans prepared to follow Endicott.

“And now we come to the chair, my dear children,”
said Grandfather. “This chair is supposed to
have been made of an oak tree which grew in the
park of the English earl of Lincoln, between two and
three centuries ago. In its younger days it used,
probably, to stand in the hall of the earl’s castle.
Do not you see the coat of arms of the family of
Lincoln, carved in the open work of the back? But
when his daughter, the Lady Arbella, was married
to a certain Mr. Johnson, the earl gave her this
valuable chair.”
[pg 007]

“Who was Mr. Johnson?” inquired Clara.

“He was a gentleman of great wealth, who agreed
with the Puritans in their religious opinions,” answered
Grandfather. “And as his belief was the
same as theirs, he resolved that he would live and
die with them. Accordingly, in the month of April,
1630, he left his pleasant abode and all his comforts
in England, and embarked with the Lady Arbella,
on board of a ship bound for America.”

As Grandfather was frequently impeded by the
questions and observations of his young auditors,
we deem it advisable to omit all such prattle as is
not essential to the story. We have taken some
pains to find out exactly what Grandfather said, and
here offer to our readers, as nearly as possible in his
own words, the story of

Chapter III

Not long after Grandfather had told the story of
his great chair, there chanced to be a rainy day.
Our friend Charley, after disturbing the household
with beat of drum and riotous shouts, races up and
down the staircase, overturning of chairs, and much
other uproar, began to feel the quiet and confinement
within doors intolerable. But as the rain came down
in a flood, the little fellow was hopelessly a prisoner,
and now stood with sullen aspect at a window, wondering
whether the sun itself were not extinguished
by so much moisture in the sky.

Charley had already exhausted the less eager
activity of the other children; and they had betaken
themselves to occupations that did not admit
of his companionship. Laurence sat in a recess near
the book-case, reading, not for the first time, the
Midsummer Night’s Dream. Clara was making a
rosary of beads for a little figure of a Sister of
Charity, who was to attend the Bunker Hill Fair, and
lend her aid in erecting the Monument. Little Alice
sat on Grandfather’s foot-stool, with a picture-book
in her hand; and, for every picture, the child was
telling Grandfather a story. She did not read from
the book, (for little Alice had not much skill in
reading,) but told the story out of her own heart
and mind.
[pg 017]

Charley was too big a boy, of course, to care any
thing about little Alice’s stories, although Grandfather
appeared to listen with a good deal of interest.
Often, in a young child’s ideas and fancies, there is
something which it requires the thought of a lifetime
to comprehend. But Charley was of opinion, that
if a story must be told, it had better be told by
Grandfather, than little Alice.

“Grandfather, I want to hear more about your
chair,” said he.

Now Grandfather remembered that Charley had
galloped away upon a stick, in the midst of the narrative
of poor Lady Arbella, and I know not whether
he would have thought it worth while to tell another
story, merely to gratify such an inattentive auditor
as Charley. But Laurence laid down his book and
seconded the request. Clara drew her chair nearer
to Grandfather, and little Alice immediately closed
her picture-book, and looked up into his face.
Grandfather had not the heart to disappoint them.

He mentioned several persons who had a share in
the settlement of our country, and who would be
well worthy of remembrance, if we could find room
to tell about them all. Among the rest, Grandfather
spoke of the famous Hugh Peters, a minister
of the gospel, who did much good to the inhabitants
of Salem. Mr. Peters afterwards went back to England,
and was chaplain to Oliver Cromwell; but
Grandfather did not tell the children what became
of this upright and zealous man, at last. In fact,
[pg 018]

his auditors were growing impatient to hear more
about the history of the chair.

“After the death of Mr. Johnson,” said he,
“Grandfather’s chair came into the possession of
Roger Williams. He was a clergyman, who arrived
at Salem, and settled there in 1631. Doubtless the
good man has spent many a studious hour in this
old chair, either penning a sermon, or reading some
abstruse book of theology, till midnight came upon
him unawares. At that period, as there were few
lamps or candles to be had, people used to read or
work by the light of pitchpine torches. These supplied
the place of the “midnight oil,” to the learned
men of New England.”

Grandfather went on to talk about Roger Williams,
and told the children several particulars,
which we have not room to repeat. One incident,
however, which was connected with his life, must be
related, because it will give the reader an idea of
the opinions and feelings of the first settlers of New
England. It was as follows:

Chapter IV

“Roger Williams,” said Grandfather, “did not
keep possession of the chair a great while. His
opinions of civil and religious matters differed, in
many respects, from those of the rulers and clergymen
of Massachusetts. Now the wise men of those
days believed, that the country could not be safe,
unless all the inhabitants thought and felt alike.”

“Does any body believe so in our days Grandfather?”
asked Laurence.

“Possibly there are some who believe it,” said
Grandfather; “but they have not so much power to
act upon their belief, as the magistrates and ministers
had, in the days of Roger Williams. They had
the power to deprive this good man of his home, and
to send him out from the midst of them, in search of
a new place of rest. He was banished in 1634, and
went first to Plymouth colony; but as the people
there held the same opinions as those of Massachusetts,
he was not suffered to remain among them.
However, the wilderness was wide enough; so Roger
Williams took his staff and travelled into the
forest, and made treaties with the Indians, and began
a plantation which he called Providence.”

“I have been to Providence on the railroad,”
said Charley. “It is but a two hours’ ride.”
[pg 024]

“Yes, Charley,” replied Grandfather; “but when
Roger Williams travelled thither, over hills and valleys,
and through the tangled woods, and across
swamps and streams, it was a journey of several
days. Well; his little plantation is now grown to
be a populous city; and the inhabitants have a
great veneration for Roger Williams. His name is
familiar in the mouths of all because they see it on
their bank bills. How it would have perplexed this
good clergyman, if he had been told that he should
give his name to the ROGER WILLIAMS BANK!”

“When he was driven from Massachusetts,” said
Laurence, “and began his journey into the woods,
he must have felt as if he were burying himself forever
from the sight and knowledge of men. Yet
the whole country has now heard of him, and will
remember him forever.”

“Yes,” answered Grandfather, “it often happens,
that the outcasts of one generation are those, who
are reverenced as the wisest and best of men by the
next. The securest fame is that which comes after
a man’s death. But let us return to our story.
When Roger Williams was banished, he appears to
have given the chair to Mrs. Anne Hutchinson. At
all events it was in her possession in 1637. She
was a very sharp-witted and well-instructed lady,
and was so conscious of her own wisdom and abilities,
that she thought it a pity that the world should
not have the benefit of them. She therefore used
to hold lectures in Boston, once or twice a week, at
[pg 025]

which most of the women attended. Mrs. Hutchinson
presided at these meetings, sitting, with great
state and dignity, in Grandfather’s chair.”

“Grandfather, was it positively this very chair?”
demanded Clara, laying her hand upon its carved
elbow.

“Why not, my dear Clara?” said Grandfather.
“Well; Mrs. Hutchinson’s lectures soon caused a
great disturbance; for the ministers of Boston did
not think it safe and proper, that a woman should
publicly instruct the people in religious doctrines.
Moreover, she made the matter worse, by declaring
that the Rev. Mr. Cotton was the only sincerely pious
and holy clergyman in New England. Now the
clergy of those days had quite as much share in the
government of the country, though indirectly, as the
magistrates themselves; so you may imagine what a
host of powerful enemies were raised up against Mrs.
Hutchinson. A synod was convened; that is to say,
an assemblage of all the ministers in Massachusetts.
They declared that there were eighty-two erroneous
opinions on religious subjects, diffused among the
people, and that Mrs. Hutchinson’s opinions were of
the number.”

“If they had eighty-two wrong opinions,” observed
Charley, “I don’t see how they could have any
right ones.”

“Mrs. Hutchinson had many zealous friends and
converts,” continued Grandfather. “She was favored
by young Henry Vane, who had come over
[pg 026]

from England a year or two before, and had since
been chosen governor of the colony, at the age of
twenty-four. But Winthrop, and most of the other
leading men, as well as the ministers, felt an abhorrence
of her doctrines. Thus two opposite parties
were formed; and so fierce were the dissensions,
that it was feared the consequence would be civil
war and bloodshed. But Winthrop and the ministers
being the most powerful, they disarmed and imprisoned
Mrs. Hutchinson’s adherents. She, like
Roger Williams, was banished.”

“Dear Grandfather, did they drive the poor woman
into the woods?” exclaimed little Alice, who
contrived to feel a human interest even in these discords
of polemic divinity.

“They did, my darling,” replied Grandfather;
“and the end of her life was so sad, you must not
hear it. At her departure, it appears from the best
authorities, that she gave the great chair to her
friend, Henry Vane. He was a young man of wonderful
talents and great learning, who had imbibed
the religious opinions of the Puritans, and left England
with the intention of spending his life in Massachusetts.
The people chose him governor; but the
controversy about Mrs. Hutchinson, and other troubles,
caused him to leave the country in 1637. You
may read the subsequent events of his life in the
History of England.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” cried Laurence; “and we
may read them better in Mr. Upham’s biography of
[pg 027]

Vane. And what a beautiful death he died, long
afterwards! beautiful, though it was on a scaffold.”

“Many of the most beautiful deaths have been
there,” said Grandfather. “The enemies of a great
and good man can in no other way make him so
glorious, as by giving him the crown of martyrdom.”

In order that the children might fully understand
the all-important history of the chair, Grandfather
now thought fit to speak of the progress that was
made in settling several colonies. The settlement
of Plymouth, in 1620, has already been mentioned.
In 1635, Mr. Hooker and Mr. Stone, two ministers,
went on foot from Massachusetts to Connecticut,
through the pathless woods, taking their whole congregation
along with them. They founded the town
of Hartford. In 1638, Mr. Davenport, a very celebrated
minister, went, with other people, and began
a plantation at New Haven. In the same year,
some persons who had been persecuted in Massachusetts,
went to the Isle of Rhodes, since called Rhode
Island, and settled there. About this time, also,
many settlers had gone to Maine, and were living
without any regular government. There were likewise
settlers near Piscataqua River, in the region
which is now called New Hampshire.

Thus, at various points along the coast of New
England, there were communities of Englishmen.
Though these communities were independent of one
another, yet they had a common dependence upon
[pg 028]

England; and, at so vast a distance from their native
home, the inhabitants must all have felt like
brethren. They were fitted to become one united
people, at a future period. Perhaps their feelings
of brotherhood were the stronger, because different
nations had formed settlements to the north and to
the south. In Canada and Nova Scotia were colonies
of French. On the banks of the Hudson River
was a colony of Dutch, who had taken possession of
that region many years before, and called it New
Netherlands.

Grandfather, for aught I know, might have gone
on to speak of Maryland and Virginia; for the good
old gentleman really seemed to suppose, that the
whole surface of the United States was not too broad
a foundation to place the four legs of his chair upon.
But, happening to glance at Charley, he perceived
that this naughty boy was growing impatient, and
meditating another ride upon a stick. So here, for
the present, Grandfather suspended the history of
his chair.

Chapter V

The Children had now learned to look upon the
chair with an interest, which was almost the same as
if it were a conscious being, and could remember the
many famous people whom it had held within its
arms.

Even Charley, lawless as he was, seemed to feel
that this venerable chair must not be clambered upon
nor overturned, although he had no scruple in taking
such liberties with every other chair in the house.
Clara treated it with still greater reverence, often
taking occasion to smooth its cushion, and to brush
the dust from the carved flowers and grotesque
figures of its oaken back and arms. Laurence
would sometimes sit a whole hour, especially at twilight,
gazing at the chair, and, by the spell of his
imaginations, summoning up its ancient occupants to
appear in it again.

Little Alice evidently employed herself in a similar
way; for once, when Grandfather had gone
abroad, the child was heard talking with the gentle
Lady Arbella, as if she were still sitting in the
chair. So sweet a child as little Alice may fitly
talk with angels, such as the Lady Arbella had long
since become.

Grandfather was soon importuned for more stories
[pg 030]

about the chair. He had no difficulty in relating
them; for it really seemed as if every person, noted
in our early history, had, on some occasion or other,
found repose within its comfortable arms. If Grandfather
took pride in any thing, it was in being the
possessor of such an honorable and historic elbow
chair.

“I know not precisely who next got possession of
the chair, after Governor Vane went back to England,”
said Grandfather. “But there is reason to
believe that President Dunster sat in it, when he
held the first commencement at Harvard College.
You have often heard, children, how careful our
forefathers were, to give their young people a good
education. They had scarcely cut down trees
enough to make room for their own dwellings, before
they began to think of establishing a college. Their
principal object was, to rear up pious and learned
ministers; and hence old writers call Harvard College
a school of the prophets.”

“Is the college a school of the prophets now?”
asked Charley.

“It is a long while since I took my degree, Charley.
You must ask some of the recent graduates,”
answered Grandfather. “As I was telling you,
President Dunster sat in Grandfather’s chair in
1642, when he conferred the degree of bachelor of
arts on nine young men. They were the first in
America, who had received that honor. And now,
my dear auditors, I must confess that there are contradictory
[pg 031]

statements and some uncertainty about
the adventures of the chair, for a period of almost
ten years. Some say that it was occupied by your
own ancestor, William Hawthorne, first Speaker of
the House of Representatives. I have nearly satisfied
myself, however, that, during most of this questionable
period, it was literally the Chair of State.
It gives me much pleasure to imagine, that several
successive governors of Massachusetts sat in it at
the council board.”

“But, Grandfather,” interposed Charley, who
was a matter-of-fact little person, “what reason
have you to imagine so?”

“Pray do imagine it, Grandfather,” said Laurence.

“With Charley’s permission, I will,” replied
Grandfather, smiling. “Let us consider it settled,
therefore, that Winthrop, Bellingham, Dudley, and
Endicott, each of them, when chosen governor, took
his seat in our great chair on election day. In this
chair, likewise, did those excellent governors preside,
while holding consultations with the chief counsellors
of the province, who were styled Assistants.
The governor sat in this chair, too, whenever messages
were brought to him from the chamber of Representatives.”

And here Grandfather took occasion to talk,
rather tediously, about the nature and forms of
government that established themselves, almost spontaneously,
in Massachusetts and the other New England
[pg 032]

colonies. Democracies were the natural growth
of the new world. As to Massachusetts, it was at
first intended that the colony should be governed by
a council in London. But, in a little while, the
people had the whole power in their own hands, and
chose annually the governor, the counsellors, and
the representatives. The people of old England
had never enjoyed any thing like the liberties and
privileges, which the settlers of New England now
possessed. And they did not adopt these modes of
government after long study, but in simplicity, as if
there were no other way for people to be ruled.

“But, Laurence,” continued Grandfather, “when
you want instruction on these points, you must seek
it in Mr. Bancroft’s History. I am merely telling
the history of a chair. To proceed. The period
during which the governors sat in our chair, was not
very full of striking incidents. The province was
now established on a secure foundation; but it did
not increase so rapidly as at first, because the Puritans
were no longer driven from England by persecution.
However, there was still a quiet and natural
growth. The legislature incorporated towns, and
made new purchases of lands from the Indians. A
very memorable event took place in 1643. The
colonies of Massachusetts, Plymouth, Connecticut,
and New Haven, formed a union, for the purpose of
assisting each other in difficulties, and for mutual
defence against their enemies. They called themselves
the United Colonies of New England.”

[pg 033]

“Were they under a government like that of
the United States?” inquired Laurence.

“No,” replied Grandfather, “the different colonies
did not compose one nation together; it was
merely a confederacy among the governments. It
somewhat resembled the league of the Amphictyons,
which you remember in Grecian history. But to
return to our chair. In 1644 it was highly honored;
for Governor Endicott sat in it, when he gave audience
to an ambassador from the French governor of
Acadie, or Nova Scotia. A treaty of peace, between
Massachusetts and the French colony, was
then signed.”

“Did England allow Massachusetts to make war
and peace with foreign countries?” asked Laurence.

“Massachusetts, and the whole of New England,
was then almost independent of the mother country,”
said Grandfather. “There was now a civil
war in England; and the king, as you may well
suppose, had his hands full at home, and could pay
but little attention to these remote colonies. When
the Parliament got the power into their hands, they
likewise had enough to do in keeping down the
Cavaliers. Thus New England, like a young and
hardy lad, whose father and mother neglect it, was
left to take care of itself. In 1649, King Charles
was beheaded. Oliver Cromwell then became Protector
of England; and as he was a Puritan himself,
and had risen by the valor of the English Puritans,
[pg 034]

he showed himself a loving and indulgent father to
the Puritan colonies in America.”

Grandfather might have continued to talk in this
dull manner, nobody knows how long; but, suspecting
that Charley would find the subject rather dry,
he looked sideways at that vivacious little fellow,
and saw him give an involuntary yawn. Whereupon,
Grandfather proceeded with the history of
the chair, and related a very entertaining incident,
which will be found in the next chapter.

Chapter VI

“According to the most authentic records, my
dear children,” said Grandfather, “the chair, about
this time, had the misfortune to break its leg. It
was probably on account of this accident, that it
ceased to be the seat of the governors of Massachusetts;
for, assuredly, it would have been ominous of
evil to the commonwealth, if the Chair of State had
tottered upon three legs. Being therefore sold at
auction,—alas! what a vicissitude for a chair that
had figured in such high company, our venerable
friend was knocked down to a certain Captain John
Hull. This old gentleman, on carefully examining
the maimed chair, discovered that its broken leg
might be clamped with iron and made as serviceable
as ever.”

“Here is the very leg that was broken!” exclaimed
Charley, throwing himself down on the floor
to look at it. “And here are the iron clamps.
How well it was mended!”

When they had all sufficiently examined the broken
leg, Grandfather told them a story about Captain
John Hull and

Chapter VII

When his little audience next assembled round
the chair, Grandfather gave them a doleful history
of the Quaker persecution, which began in 1656,
and raged for about three years in Massachusetts.

He told them how, in the first place, twelve of
the converts of George Fox, the first Quaker in the
world, had come over from England. They seemed
to be impelled by an earnest love for the souls of
men, and a pure desire to make known what they
considered a revelation from Heaven. But the
rulers looked upon them as plotting the downfall of
all government and religion. They were banished
from the colony. In a little while, however, not
only the first twelve had returned, but a multitude
of other Quakers had come to rebuke the rulers,
and to preach against the priests and steeple-houses.

Grandfather described the hatred and scorn with
which these enthusiasts were received. They were
thrown into dungeons; they were beaten with many
stripes, women as well as men; they were driven
forth into the wilderness, and left to the tender mercies
of wild beasts and Indians. The children were
amazed to hear, that, the more the Quakers were
scourged, and imprisoned, and banished, the more
did the sect increase, both by the influx of strangers,
[pg 043]

and by converts from among the Puritans. But
Grandfather told them, that God had put something
into the soul of man, which always turned the cruelties
of the persecutor to nought.

He went on to relate, that, in 1659, two Quakers,
named William Robinson and Marmaduke Stephenson,
were hanged at Boston. A woman had been
sentenced to die with them, but was reprieved, on
condition of her leaving the colony. Her name was
Mary Dyer. In the year 1660 she returned to
Boston, although she knew death awaited her there;
and, if Grandfather had been correctly informed, an
incident had then taken place, which connects her
with our story. This Mary Dyer had entered the
mint-master’s dwelling, clothed in sackcloth and
ashes, and seated herself in our great chair, with a
sort of dignity and state. Then she proceeded to
deliver what she called a message from Heaven;
but in the midst of it, they dragged her to prison.

“And was she executed?” asked Laurence.

“She was,” said Grandfather.

“Grandfather,” cried Charley, clenching his fist,
“I would have fought for that poor Quaker woman!”

“Ah! but if a sword had been drawn for her,”
said Laurence, “it would have taken away all the
beauty of her death.”

It seemed as if hardly any of the preceding stories
had thrown such an interest around Grandfather’s
chair, as did the fact, that the poor, persecuted,
wandering Quaker woman had rested in it for
[pg 044]

a moment. The children were so much excited,
that Grandfather found it necessary to bring his
account of the persecution to a close.

“In 1660, the same year in which Mary Dyer
was executed,” said he, “Charles the Second was
restored to the throne of his fathers. This king had
many vices; but he would not permit blood to be
shed, under pretence of religion, in any part of his
dominions. The Quakers in England told him what
had been done to their brethren in Massachusetts;
and he sent orders to Governor Endicott to forbear
all such proceedings in future. And so ended the
Quaker persecution,—one of the most mournful
passages in the history of our forefathers.”

Grandfather then told his auditors, that, shortly
after the above incident, the great chair had been
given by the mint-master to the Rev. Mr. John Eliot.
He was the first minister of Roxbury. But besides
attending to his pastoral duties there, he learned the
language of the red men, and often went into the
woods to preach to them. So earnestly did he labor
for their conversion, that he has always been called
the apostle to the Indians. The mention of this
holy man suggested to Grandfather the propriety of
giving a brief sketch of the history of the Indians,
so far as they were connected with the English colonists.

A short period before the arrival of the first Pilgrims
at Plymouth, there had been a very grievous
plague among the red men; and the sages and ministers
[pg 045]

of that day were inclined to the opinion, that
Providence had sent this mortality, in order to make
room for the settlement of the English. But I know
not why we should suppose that an Indian’s life is
less precious, in the eye of Heaven, than that of a
white man. Be that as it may, death had certainly
been very busy with the savage tribes.

In many places the English found the wigwams
deserted, and the corn-fields growing to waste, with
none to harvest the grain. There were heaps of
earth also, which, being dug open, proved to be
Indian graves, containing bows and flint-headed
spears and arrows; for the Indians buried the dead
warrior’s weapons along with him. In some spots,
there were skulls and other human bones, lying unburied.
In 1633, and the year afterwards, the
smallpox broke out among the Massachusetts Indians,
multitudes of whom died by this terrible disease of
the old world. These misfortunes made them far
less powerful than they had formerly been.

For nearly half a century after the arrival of the
English, the red men showed themselves generally
inclined to peace and amity. They often made
submission, when they might have made successful
war. The Plymouth settlers, led by the famous
Captain Miles Standish, slew some of them in 1623,
without any very evident necessity for so doing. In
1636, and the following year, there was the most
dreadful war that had yet occurred between the Indians
and the English. The Connecticut settlers,
[pg 046]

assisted by a celebrated Indian chief, named Uncas,
bore the brunt of this war, with but little aid from
Massachusetts. Many hundreds of the hostile Indians
were slain, or burnt in their wigwams. Sassacus,
their sachem, fled to another tribe, after his
own people were defeated; but he was murdered
by them, and his head was sent to his English enemies.

From that period, down to the time of King
Philip’s war, which will be mentioned hereafter,
there was not much trouble with the Indians. But
the colonists were always on their guard, and kept
their weapons ready for the conflict.

“I have sometimes doubted,” said Grandfather,
when he had told these things to the children, “I
have sometimes doubted whether there was more
than a single man, among our forefathers, who realized
that an Indian possesses a mind and a heart,
and an immortal soul. That single man was John
Eliot. All the rest of the early settlers seemed to
think that the Indians were an inferior race of beings,
whom the Creator had merely allowed to keep
possession of this beautiful country, till the white
men should be in want of it.

“Did the pious men of those days never try to
make Christians of them?” asked Laurence.

“Sometimes, it is true,” answered Grandfather,
“the magistrates and ministers would talk about
civilizing and converting the red people. But, at
the bottom of their hearts, they would have had
[pg 047]

almost as much expectation of civilizing a wild bear
of the woods, and making him fit for paradise.
They felt no faith in the success of any such attempts,
because they had no love for the poor Indians. Now
Eliot was full of love for them, and therefore so full
of faith and hope, that he spent the labor of a lifetime
in their behalf.”

“I would have conquered them first, and then
converted them,” said Charley.

“Ah, Charley, there spoke the very spirit of our
forefathers!” replied Grandfather. “But Mr.
Eliot had a better spirit. He looked upon them as
his brethren. He persuaded as many of them as
he could, to leave off their idle and wandering habits,
and to build houses, and cultivate the earth, as the
English did. He established schools among them,
and taught many of the Indians how to read. He
taught them, likewise, how to pray. Hence they
were called ‘praying Indians.’ Finally, having
spent the best years of his life for their good, Mr.
Eliot resolved to spend the remainder in doing them
a yet greater benefit.”

“I know what that was!” cried Laurence.

“He sat down in his study,” continued Grandfather,
“and began a translation of the Bible into
the Indian tongue. It was while he was engaged
in this pious work, that the mint-master gave him
our great chair. His toil needed it, and deserved
it.”

“O, Grandfather, tell us all about that Indian
[pg 048]

Bible!” exclaimed Laurence. “I have seen it in
the library of the Athenæum; and the tears came
into my eyes, to think that there were no Indians
left to read it.”

Chapter VIII

As Grandfather was a great admirer of the Apostle
Eliot, he was glad to comply with the earnest request
which Laurence had made, at the close of the
last chapter. So he proceeded to describe how good
Mr. Eliot labored, while he was at work upon

Chapter IX

The children were now accustomed to assemble
round Grandfather’s chair, at all their unoccupied moments;
and often it was a striking picture to behold
the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath
of young people around him. When he talked to
them, it was the past speaking to the present,—or
rather to the future, for the children were of a generation
which had not become actual. Their part in
life, thus far, was only to be happy, and to draw
knowledge from a thousand sources. As yet, it was
not their time to do.

Sometimes, as Grandfather gazed at their fair,
unworldly countenances, a mist of tears bedimmed
his spectacles. He almost regretted that it was
necessary for them to know any thing of the past,
or to provide aught for the future. He could have
wished that they might be always the happy, youthful
creatures, who had hitherto sported around his
chair, without inquiring whether it had a history.
It grieved him to think that his little Alice, who
was a flower-bud fresh from paradise, must open her
leaves to the rough breezes of the world, or ever
open them in any clime. So sweet a child she was,
that it seemed fit her infancy should be immortal!

But such repinings were merely flitting shadows
[pg 058]

across the old man’s heart. He had faith enough to
believe, and wisdom enough to know, that the bloom
of the flower would be even holier and happier than
its bud. Even within himself,—though Grandfather
was now at that period of life, when the veil
of mortality is apt to hang heavily over the soul,—still,
in his inmost being, he was conscious of something
that he would not have exchanged for the best
happiness of childhood. It was a bliss to which
every sort of earthly experience,—all that he had
enjoyed or suffered, or seen, or heard, or acted, with
the broodings of his soul upon the whole,—had
contributed somewhat. In the same manner must a
bliss, of which now they could have no conception,
grow up within these children, and form a part of
their sustenance for immortality.

So Grandfather, with renewed cheerfulness, continued
his history of the chair, trusting that a profounder
wisdom than his own would extract, from
these flowers and weeds of Time, a fragrance that
might last beyond all time.

At this period of the story, Grandfather threw a
glance backward, as far as the year 1660. He
spoke of the ill-concealed reluctance with which the
Puritans in America had acknowledged the sway of
Charles the Second, on his restoration to his father’s
throne. When death had stricken Oliver Cromwell,
that mighty protector had no sincerer mourners than
in New England. The new king had been more
than a year upon the throne before his accession
[pg 059]

was proclaimed in Boston; although the neglect to
perform the ceremony might have subjected the
rulers to the charge of treason.

During the reign of Charles the Second, however,
the American colonies had but little reason to complain
of harsh or tyrannical treatment. But when
Charles died, in 1685, and was succeeded by his
brother James, the patriarchs of New England
began to tremble. King James was a bigoted
Roman Catholic, and was known to be of an arbitrary
temper. It was feared by all Protestants,
and chiefly by the Puritians, that he would assume
despotic power, and attempt to establish Popery
throughout his dominions. Our forefathers felt that
they had no security either for their religion or their
liberties.

The result proved that they had reason for their
apprehensions. King James caused the charters of
all the American colonies to be taken away. The
old charter of Massachusetts, which the people
regarded as a holy thing, and as the foundation of
all their liberties, was declared void. The colonists
were now no longer freemen; they were entirely
dependent on the king’s pleasure. At first, in
1685, King James appointed Joseph Dudley, a
native of Massachusetts, to be president of New
England. But soon afterwards, Sir Edmund Andros,
an officer of the English army, arrived, with a
commission to be governor-general of New England
and New York.

[pg 060]

The king had given such powers to Sir Edmund
Andros, that there was now no liberty, nor scarcely
any law, in the colonies over which he ruled. The
inhabitants were not allowed to choose representatives,
and consequently had no voice whatever in
the government, nor control over the measures that
were adopted. The counsellors, with whom the governor
consulted on matters of state, were appointed
by himself. This sort of government was no better
than an absolute despotism.

“The people suffered much wrong, while Sir Edmund
Andros ruled over them,” continued Grandfather,
“and they were apprehensive of much more.
He had brought some soldiers with him from England,
who took possession of the old fortress on Castle
Island, and of the fortification on Fort Hill.
Sometimes it was rumored that a general massacre
of the inhabitants was to be perpetrated by these
soldiers. There were reports, too, that all the ministers
were to be slain or imprisoned.”

“For what?” inquired Charley.

“Because they were the leaders of the people,
Charley,” said Grandfather. “A minister was a
more formidable man than a general, in those days.
Well; while these things were going on in America,
King James had so misgoverned the people of England,
that they sent over to Holland for the Prince
of Orange. He had married the king’s daughter,
and was therefore considered to have a claim to the
crown. On his arrival in England, the Prince of
[pg 061]

Orange was proclaimed king, by the name of William
the Third. Poor old King James made his
escape to France.”

Grandfather told how, at the first intelligence of
the landing of the Prince of Orange in England,
the people of Massachusetts rose in their strength,
and overthrew the government of Sir Edmund
Andros. He, with Joseph Dudley, Edmund Randolph,
and his other principal adherents, were thrown
into prison. Old Simon Bradstreet, who had been
governor, when King James took away the charter,
was called by the people to govern them again.

“Governor Bradstreet was a venerable old man,
nearly ninety years of age,” said Grandfather.
“He came over with the first settlers, and had been
the intimate companion of all those excellent and
famous men who laid the foundation of our country.
They were all gone before him to the grave; and
Bradstreet was the last of the Puritans.”

Grandfather paused a moment, and smiled, as if
he had something very interesting to tell his auditors.
He then proceeded:

“And now, Laurence,—now, Clara,—now,
Charley,—now, my dear little Alice,—what chair
do you think had been placed in the council chamber,
for old Governor Bradstreet to take his seat
in? Would you believe that it was this very chair
in which grandfather now sits, and of which he is
telling you the history?”

“I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!” cried
[pg 062]

Charley, after a shout of delight. “I thought
Grandfather had quite forgotten the chair.”

“It was a solemn and affecting sight,” said
Grandfather, “when this venerable patriarch, with
his white beard flowing down upon his breast, took
his seat in his Chair of State. Within his remembrance,
and even since his mature age, the site
where now stood the populous town, had been a wild
and forest-covered peninsula. The province, now
so fertile, and spotted with thriving villages, had
been a desert wilderness. He was surrounded by
a shouting multitude, most of whom had been born
in the country which he had helped to found. They
were of one generation, and he of another. As the
old man looked upon them, and beheld new faces
everywhere, he must have felt that it was now time
for him to go, whither his brethren had gone before
him.”

“Were the former governors all dead and gone?”
asked Laurence.

“All of them,” replied Grandfather. “Winthrop
had been dead forty years. Endicott died, a
very old man, in 1665. Sir Henry Vane was beheaded
in London, at the beginning of the reign of
Charles the Second. And Haynes, Dudley, Bellingham
and Leverett, who had all been governors of
Massachusetts, were now likewise in their graves.
Old Simon Bradstreet was the sole representative of
that departed brotherhood. There was no other
public man remaining to connect the ancient system
[pg 063]

of government and manners with the new system,
which was about to take its place. The era of the
Puritans was now completed.”

“I am sorry for it,” observed Laurence; “for,
though they were so stern, yet it seems to me that
there was something warm and real about them. I
think, Grandfather, that each of these old governors
should have his statue set up in our State House,
sculptured out of the hardest of New England
granite.”

“It would not be amiss, Laurence,” said Grandfather;
“but perhaps clay, or some other perishable
material, might suffice for some of their successors.
But let us go back to our chair. It was occupied by
Governor Bradstreet from April, 1689, until May,
1692. Sir William Phips then arrived in Boston,
with a new charter from King William, and a commission
to be governor.”

Chapter X

“And what became of the chair,” inquired
Clara.

“The outward aspect of our chair,” replied Grandfather,
“was now somewhat the worse for its long
and arduous services. It was considered hardly
magnificent enough to be allowed to keep its place
in the council chamber of Massachusetts. In fact,
it was banished as an article of useless lumber.
But Sir William Phips happened to see it and being
much pleased with its construction, resolved to take
the good old chair into his private mansion. Accordingly,
with his own gubernatorial hands, he
repaired one of its arms, which had been slightly
damaged”.

“Why, Grandfather, here is the very arm!”
interrupted Charley, in great wonderment. “And
did Sir William Phips put in these screws with his
own hands? I am sure, he did it beautifully! But
how came a governor to know how to mend a chair?”

“I will tell you a story about the early life of Sir
William Phips,” said Grandfather. “You will then
perceive, that he well knew how to use his hands.”

So Grandfather related the wonderful and true
tale of

Chapter XI

“Sir William Phips,” continued Grandfather,
“was too active and adventurous a man to sit still
in the quiet enjoyment of his good fortune. In the
year 1690, he went on a military expedition against
the French colonies in America, conquered the
whole province of Acadie, and returned to Boston
with a great deal of plunder.”

“Why, grandfather, he was the greatest man
that ever sat in the chair!” cried Charley.

“Ask Laurence what he thinks,” replied Grandfather
with a smile. “Well; in the same year, Sir
William took command of an expedition against
Quebec, but did not succeed in capturing the city.
In 1692, being then in London, King William the
Third appointed him governor of Massachusetts.
And now, my dear children, having followed Sir
William Phips through all his adventures and hardships,
till we find him comfortably seated in Grandfather’s
chair, we will here bid him farewell. May
he be as happy in ruling a people, as he was while
he tended sheep!”

Charley, whose fancy had been greatly taken by
the adventurous disposition of Sir William Phips,
was eager to know how he had acted, and what happened
[pg 075]

to him while he held the office of governor.
But Grandfather had made up his mind to tell no
more stories for the present.

“Possibly, one of these days, I may go on with
the adventures of the chair,” said he. “But its
history becomes very obscure just at this point; and
I must search into some old books and manuscripts,
before proceeding further. Besides, it is now a
good time to pause in our narrative; because the
new charter, which Sir William Phips brought over
from England, formed a very important epoch in the
history of the province.”

“Really, Grandfather,” observed Laurence, “this
seems to be the most remarkable chair in the world.
Its history cannot be told without intertwining it
with the lives of distinguished men, and the great
events that have befallen the country.”

“True, Laurence,” replied Grandfather, smiling,
“We must write a book, with some such title as
this,—Memoirs of my own Times, by Grandfather’s
Chair.”

“That would be beautiful!” exclaimed Laurence,
clapping his hands.

“But, after all,” continued Grandfather, “any
other old chair, if it possessed memory, and a hand
to write its recollections, could record stranger stories
than any that I have told you. From generation
to generation, a chair sits familiarly in the midst
of human interests, and is witness to the most secret
and confidential intercourse, that mortal man can
[pg 076]

hold with his fellow. The human heart may best
be read in the fireside chair. And as to external
events, Grief and Joy keep a continual vicissitude
around it and within it. Now we see the glad face
and glowing form of Joy, sitting merrily in the old
chair, and throwing a warm fire-light radiance over
all the household. Now, while we thought not of it,
the dark clad mourner, Grief, has stolen into the
place of Joy, but not to retain it long. The imagination
can hardly grasp so wide a subject, as is embraced
in the experience of a family chair.”

“It makes my breath flutter,—my heart thrill,—to
think of it,” said Laurence. “Yes; a family
chair must have a deeper history than a Chair of
State.”

“O, yes!” cried Clara, expressing a woman’s
feeling on the point in question, “The history of a
country is not nearly so interesting as that of a single
family would be.”

“But the history of a country is more easily told,”
said Grandfather. “So, if we proceed with our
narrative of the chair, I shall still confine myself to
its connection with public events.”

Good old Grandfather now rose and quitted the
room, while the children remained gazing at the
chair. Laurence, so vivid was his conception of
past times, would hardly have deemed it strange, if
its former occupants, one after another, had resumed
the seat which they had each left vacant, such a
dim length of years ago.
[pg 077]

First, the gentle and lovely lady Arbella would
have been seen in the old chair, almost sinking out
of its arms, for very weakness; then Roger Williams,
in his cloak and band, earnest, energetic, and benevolent;
then the figure of Anne Hutchinson, with the
like gesture as when she presided at the assemblages
of women; then the dark, intellectual face of Vane,
“young in years, but in sage counsel old.” Next
would have appeared the successive governors, Winthrop,
Dudley, Bellingham, and Endicott, who sat in
the chair, while it was a Chair of State. Then its
ample seat would have been pressed by the comfortable,
rotund corporation of the honest mint-master.
Then the half-frenzied shape of Mary Dyer, the persecuted
Quaker woman, clad in sackcloth and ashes,
would have rested in it for a moment. Then the
holy apostolic form of Eliot would have sanctified it.
Then would have arisen, like the shade of departed
Puritanism, the venerable dignity of the white-bearded
Governor Bradstreet. Lastly, on the gorgeous
crimson cushion of Grandfather’s chair, would
have shone the purple and golden magnificence of
Sir William Phips.

But, all these, with the other historic personages,
in the midst of whom the chair had so often stood,
had passed, both in substance and shadow, from the
scene of ages. Yet here stood the chair, with the
old Lincoln coat of arms, and the oaken flowers and
foliage, and the fierce lion’s head at the summit, the
whole, apparently, in as perfect preservation as when
[pg 078]

it had first been placed in the Earl of Lincoln’s Hall.
And what vast changes of society and of nations had
been wrought by sudden convulsions or by slow
degrees, since that era!

“This chair has stood firm when the thrones of
kings were overturned!” thought Laurence. “Its
oaken frame has proved stronger than many frames
of government!”

More the thoughtful and imaginative boy might
have mused; but now a large yellow cat, a great
favorite with all the children, leaped in at the open
window. Perceiving that Grandfather’s chair was
empty, and having often before experienced its comforts,
puss laid herself quietly down upon the cushion.
Laurence, Clara, Charley, and little Alice, all
laughed at the idea of such a successor to the worthies
of old times.

“Pussy,” said little Alice, putting out her hand,
into which the cat laid a velvet paw, “you look very
wise. Do tell us a story about Grandfather’s
Chair!”

Chapter I

“O Grandfather,” dear Grandfather, cried little
Alice, “pray tell us some more stories about your
chair!”

How long a time had fled, since the children had
felt any curiosity to hear the sequel of this venerable
chair’s adventures! Summer was now past and
gone, and the better part of Autumn likewise.
Dreary, chill November was howling, out of doors,
and vexing the atmosphere with sudden showers of
wintry rain, or sometimes with gusts of snow, that
rattled like small pebbles against the windows.

When the weather began to grow cool, Grandfather’s
chair had been removed from the summer
parlor into a smaller and snugger room. It now
stood by the side of a bright blazing wood-fire.
Grandfather loved a wood-fire, far better than a
[pg 080]

grate of glowing anthracite, or than the dull heat of
an invisible furnace, which seems to think that it
has done its duty in merely warming the house.
But the wood-fire is a kindly, cheerful, sociable
spirit, sympathizing with mankind, and knowing
that to create warmth is but one of the good offices
which are expected from it. Therefore it dances
on the hearth, and laughs broadly through the room,
and plays a thousand antics, and throws a joyous
glow over all the faces that encircle it.

In the twilight of the evening, the fire grew
brighter and more cheerful. And thus, perhaps,
there was something in Grandfather’s heart, that
cheered him most with its warmth and comfort in
the gathering twilight of old age. He had been
gazing at the red embers, as intently as if his past
life were all pictured there, or as if it were a prospect
of the future world, when little Alice’s voice
aroused him.

“Dear Grandfather,” repeated the little girl,
more earnestly, “do talk to us again about your
chair.”

Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little
Alice, had been attracted to other objects, for two
or three months past. They had sported in the
gladsome sunshine of the present, and so had forgotten
the shadowy region of the past, in the midst
of which stood Grandfather’s chair. But now, in
the autumnal twilight, illuminated by the flickering
blaze of the wood-fire, they looked at the old chair
[pg 081]

and thought that it had never before worn such an
interesting aspect. There it stood, in the venerable
majesty of more than two hundred years. The light
from the hearth quivered upon the flowers and foliage,
that were wrought into its oaken back; and
the lion’s head at the summit seemed almost to
move its jaws and shake its mane.

“Does little Alice speak for all of you?” asked
Grandfather. “Do you wish me to go on with the
adventures of the chair?”

“Oh, yes, yes, Grandfather!” cried Clara.
“The dear old chair! How strange that we should
have forgotten it so long!”

“Oh, pray begin, Grandfather,” said Laurence;
“for I think, when we talk about old times, it should
be in the early evening before the candles are lighted.
The shapes of the famous persons, who once sat in
the chair, will be more apt to come back, and be
seen among us, in this glimmer and pleasant gloom,
than they would in the vulgar daylight. And,
besides, we can make pictures of all that you tell us,
among the glowing embers and white ashes.”

Our friend Charley, too, thought the evening the
best time to hear Grandfather’s stories, because he
could not then be playing out of doors. So, finding
his young auditors unanimous in their petition, the
good old gentleman took up the narrative of the historic
chair, at the point where he had dropt it.

Chapter II

“You recollect, my dear children,” said Grandfather,
“that we took leave of the chair in 1692,
while it was occupied by Sir William Phips. This
fortunate treasure-seeker, you will remember, had
come over from England, with King William’s commission
to be Governor of Massachusetts. Within
the limits of this province were now included the
old colony of Plymouth, and the territories of Maine
and Nova Scotia. Sir William Phips had likewise
brought a new charter from the king, which served
instead of a constitution, and set forth the method in
which the province was to be governed.”

“Did the new charter allow the people all their
former liberties?” inquired Laurence.

“No,” replied Grandfather. “Under the first
charter, the people had been the source of all power.
Winthrop, Endicott, Bradstreet, and the rest of
them, had been governors by the choice of the people,
without any interference of the king. But henceforth
the governor was to hold his station solely by
the king’s appointment, and during his pleasure; and
the same was the case with the lieutenant-governor,
and some other high officers. The people, however,
were still allowed to choose representatives; and the
governor’s council was chosen by the general court.”

[pg 083]

“Would the inhabitants have elected Sir William
Phips,” asked Laurence, “if the choice of governor
had been left to them?”

“He might probably have been a successful candidate,”
answered Grandfather; “for his adventures
and military enterprises had gained him a sort of
renown, which always goes a great way with the
people. And he had many popular characteristics,
being a kind, warm-hearted man, not ashamed of
his low origin, nor haughty in his present elevation.
Soon after his arrival, he proved that he did not
blush to recognize his former associates.”

“How was that?” inquired Charley.

“He made a grand festival at his new brick
house,” said Grandfather, “and invited all the
ship-carpenters of Boston to be his guests. At the
head of the table, in our great chair, sat Sir William
Phips himself, treating these hard handed men
as his brethren, cracking jokes with them, and talking
familiarly about old times. I know not whether
he wore his embroidered dress, but I rather choose
to imagine that he had on a suit of rough clothes,
such as he used to labor in, while he was Phips the
ship-carpenter.”

“An aristocrat need not be ashamed of the
trade,” observed Laurence; “for the czar Peter
the Great once served an apprenticeship to it.”

“Did Sir William Phips make as good a governor
as he was a ship-carpenter?” asked Charley.

[pg 084]

“History says but little about his merits as a
ship-carpenter,” answered Grandfather; “but, as
a governor, a great deal of fault was found with
him. Almost as soon as he assumed the government,
he became engaged in a very frightful business,
which might have perplexed a wiser and better
cultivated head than his. This was the witchcraft
delusion.”

And here Grandfather gave his auditors such
details of this melancholy affair, as he thought it fit
for them to know. They shuddered to hear that a
frenzy, which led to the death of many innocent persons,
had originated in the wicked arts of a few
children. They belonged to the Rev. Mr. Parris,
minister of Salem. These children complained of
being pinched, and pricked with pins, and otherwise
tormented by the shapes of men and women,
who were supposed to have power to haunt them
invisibly, both in darkness and daylight. Often,
in the midst of their family and friends, the children
would pretend to be seized with strange convulsions,
and would cry out that the witches were
afflicting them.

These stories spread abroad, and caused great
tumult and alarm. From the foundation of New
England, it had been the custom of the inhabitants,
in all matters of doubt and difficulty, to look to their
ministers for council. So they did now; but, unfortunately,
the ministers and wise men were more
deluded than the illiterate people. Cotton Mather,
[pg 085]

a very learned and eminent clergyman, believed
that the whole country was full of witches and wizards,
who had given up their hopes of heaven, and
signed a covenant with the Evil One.

Nobody could be certain that his nearest neighbor,
or most intimate friend, was not guilty of this
imaginary crime. The number of those who pretended
to be afflicted by witchcraft, grew daily
more numerous; and they bore testimony against
many of the best and worthiest people. A minister,
named George Burroughs, was among the
accused. In the months of August and September,
1692, he, and nineteen other innocent men
and women, were put to death. The place of execution
was a high hill, on the outskirts of Salem;
so that many of the sufferers, as they stood beneath
the gallows, could discern their own habitations in
the town.

The martyrdom of these guiltless persons seemed
only to increase the madness. The afflicted now
grew bolder in their accusations. Many people of
rank and wealth were either thrown into prison, or
compelled to flee for their lives. Among these
were two sons of old Simon Bradstreet, the last of
the Puritan governors. Mr. Willard, a pious minister
of Boston, was cried out upon as a wizard, in
open court. Mrs. Hale, the wife of the minister of
Beverly, was likewise accused. Philip English, a
rich merchant of Salem, found it necessary to take
flight, leaving his property and business in confusion.
[pg 086]

But a short time afterwards, the Salem people were
glad to invite him back.

“The boldest thing that the accusers did,” continued
Grandfather, “was to cry out against the
governor’s own beloved wife. Yes; the lady of
Sir William Phips was accused of being a witch,
and of flying through the air to attend witch meetings.
When the governor heard this, he probably
trembled, so that our great chair shook beneath
him.”

“Dear Grandfather,” cried little Alice, clinging
closer to his knee, “is it true that witches ever
come in the night-time to frighten little children?”

“No, no, dear little Alice,” replied Grandfather.
“Even if there were any witches, they would flee
away from the presence of a pure-hearted child.
But there are none; and our forefathers soon
became convinced, that they had been led into a
terrible delusion. All the prisoners on account of
witchcraft were set free. But the innocent dead
could not be restored to life; and the hill where
they were executed, will always remind people of
the saddest and most humiliating passage in our
history.”

Grandfather then said, that the next remarkable
event, while Sir William Phips remained in the
chair, was the arrival at Boston of an English fleet,
in 1693. It brought an army, which was intended
for the conquest of Canada. But a malignant disease,
more fatal than the small-pox, broke out
[pg 087]

among the soldiers and sailors, and destroyed the
greater part of them. The infection spread into
the town of Boston, and made much havoc there.
This dreadful sickness caused the governor, and
Sir Francis Wheeler, who was commander of the
British forces, to give up all thoughts of attacking
Canada.

“Soon after this,” said Grandfather, “Sir William
Phips quarrelled with the captain of an English
frigate, and also with the Collector of Boston.
Being a man of violent temper, he gave each of
them a sound beating with his cane.”

“He was a bold fellow,” observed Charley, who
was himself somewhat addicted to a similar mode of
settling disputes.

“More bold than wise,” replied Grandfather;
“for complaints were carried to the king, and Sir
William Phips was summoned to England, to make
the best answer he could. Accordingly he went
to London, where, in 1695, he was seized with a
malignant fever, of which he died. Had he lived
longer, he would probably have gone again in
search of sunken treasure. He had heard of a
Spanish ship, which was cast away in 1502, during
the lifetime of Columbus. Bovadilla, Roldan, and
many other Spaniards, were lost in her, together
with the immense wealth of which they had robbed
the South American kings.”

“Why, Grandfather,” exclaimed Laurence,
“what magnificent ideas the governor had! Only
[pg 088]

think of recovering all that old treasure, which had
lain almost two centuries under the sea! Me thinks
Sir William Phips ought to have been buried in the
ocean, when he died; so that he might have gone
down among the sunken ships, and cargoes of treasure,
which he was always dreaming about in his
lifetime.”

“He was buried in one of the crowded cemeteries
of London,” said Grandfather. “As he left
no children, his estate was inherited by his nephew,
from whom is descended the present Marquis of
Normandy. The noble Marquis is not aware, perhaps,
that the prosperity of his family originated in
the successful enterprise of a New England ship
carpenter.”

Chapter III

“At the death of Sir William Phips,” proceeded
Grandfather, “our chair was bequeathed to Mr.
Ezekiel Cheever, a famous school-master in Boston.
This old gentleman came from London in 1637, and
had been teaching school ever since; so that there
were now aged men, grandfathers like myself, to
whom Master Cheever had taught their alphabet.
He was a person of venerable aspect, and wore a
long white beard.

“Was the chair placed in his school?” asked
Charley.

“Yes, in his school,” answered Grandfather;
“and we may safely say that it had never before
been regarded with such awful reverence—no, not
even when the old governors of Massachusetts sat in
it. Even you, Charley, my boy, would have felt
some respect for the chair, if you had seen it occupied
by this famous school-master.”

And here Grandfather endeavored to give his
auditors an idea how matters were managed in
schools above a hundred years ago. As this will
probably be an interesting subject to our readers,
we shall make a separate sketch of it, and call it

THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL

Now imagine yourselves, my children, in Master
[pg 090]

Ezekiel Cheever’s school-room. It is a large, dingy
room, with a sanded floor, and is lighted by windows
that turn on hinges, and have little diamond shaped
panes of glass. The scholars sit on long benches,
with desks before them. At one end of the room is
a great fire-place, so very spacious, that there is
room enough for three or four boys to stand in each
of the chimney corners. This was the good old
fashion of fire-places, when there was wood enough
in the forests to keep people warm, without their
digging into the bowels of the earth for coal.

It is a winter’s day when we take our peep into
the school-room. See what great logs of wood have
been rolled into the fire-place, and what a broad,
bright blaze goes leaping up the chimney! And
every few moments, a vast cloud of smoke is puffed
into the room, which sails slowly over the heads of
the scholars, until it gradually settles upon the walls
and ceiling. They are blackened with the smoke of
many years already.

Next, look at our old historic chair! It is placed,
you perceive, in the most comfortable part of the
room, where the generous glow of the fire is sufficiently
felt, without being too intensely hot. How
stately the old chair looks, as if it remembered its
many famous occupants, but yet were conscious that
a greater man is sitting in it now! Do you see the
venerable school-master, severe in aspect, with a
black scull-cap on his head, like an ancient Puritan,
and the snow of his white beard drifting down to his
[pg 091]

very girdle? What boy would dare to play, or
whisper, or even glance aside from his book, while
Master Cheever is on the look-out, behind his spectacles!
For such offenders, if any such there be, a
rod of birch is hanging over the fire-place, and a
heavy ferule lies on the master’s desk.

And now school is begun. What a murmur of
multitudinous tongues, like the whispering leaves of
a wind-stirred oak, as the scholars con over their various
tasks! Buz, buz, buz! Amid just such a murmur
has Master Cheever spent above sixty years:
and long habit has made it as pleasant to him as the
hum of a bee-hive, when the insects are busy in the
sunshine.

Now a class in Latin is called to recite. Forth
steps a row of queer-looking little fellows, wearing
square-skirted coats, and small clothes, with buttons
at the knee. They look like so many grandfathers
in their second childhood. These lads are to be sent
to Cambridge, and educated for the learned professions.
Old Master Cheever has lived so long, and
seen so many generations of school-boys grow up to
be men, that now he can almost prophesy what sort
of a man each boy will be. One urchin shall hereafter
be a doctor, and administer pills and potions,
and stalk gravely through life, perfumed with assaf[oe]tida.
Another shall wrangle at the bar, and fight
his way to wealth and honors, and in his declining
age, shall be a worshipful member of his Majesty’s
council. A third—and he is the Master’s favorite—shall
[pg 092]

be a worthy successor to the old Puritan
ministers, now in their graves; he shall preach with
great unction and effect, and leave volumes of sermons,
in print and manuscript, for the benefit of
future generations.

But, as they are merely school-boys now, their
business is to construe Virgil. Poor Virgil, whose
verses, which he took so much pains to polish, have
been mis-scanned, and mis-parsed, and mis-interpreted,
by so many generations of idle school-boys!
There, sit down, ye Latinists. Two or three of you,
I fear, are doomed to feel the master’s ferule.

Next comes a class in Arithmetic. These boys
are to be the merchants, shop-keepers, and mechanics,
of a future period. Hitherto, they have traded only
in marbles and apples. Hereafter, some will send
vessels to England for broadcloths and all sorts of
manufactured wares, and to the West Indies for
sugar, and rum, and coffee. Others will stand behind
counters, and measure tape, and ribbon, and
cambric, by the yard. Others will upheave the
blacksmith’s hammer, or drive the plane over the
carpenter’s bench, or take the lapstone and the awl,
and learn the trade of shoe-making. Many will follow
the sea, and become bold, rough sea-captains.

This class of boys, in short, must supply the world
with those active, skilful hands, and clear, sagacious
heads, without which the affairs of life would be
thrown into confusion, by the theories of studious
and visionary men. Wherefore, teach them their
[pg 093]

multiplication table, good Master Cheever, and whip
them well, when they deserve it; for much of the
country’s welfare depends on these boys!

But, alas! while we have been thinking of other
matters, Master Cheever’s watchful eye has caught
two boys at play. Now we shall see awful times!
The two malefactors are summoned before the master’s
chair, wherein he sits, with the terror of a
judge upon his brow. Our old chair is now a judgment-seat.
Ah, Master Cheever has taken down
that terrible birch-rod! Short is the trial—the
sentence quickly passed—and now the judge prepares
to execute it in person. Thwack! thwack!
thwack! In those good old times, a school-master’s
blows were well laid on.

See! the birch-rod has lost several of its twigs,
and will hardly serve for another execution. Mercy
on us, what a bellowing the urchins make! My
ears are almost deafened, though the clamor comes
through the far length of a hundred and fifty years.
There, go to your seats, poor boys; and do not cry,
sweet little Alice; for they have ceased to feel the
pain, a long time since.

And thus the forenoon passes away. Now it is
twelve o’clock. The master looks at his great silver
watch, and then with tiresome deliberation, puts the
ferule into his desk. The little multitude await the
word of dismissal, with almost irrepressible impatience.

“You are dismissed,” says Master Cheever.
[pg 094]

The boys retire, treading softly until they have
passed the threshold; but, fairly out of the school-room,
lo, what a joyous shout!—what a scampering
and trampling of feet!—what a sense of recovered
freedom, expressed in the merry uproar of all their
voices! What care they for the ferule and birch-rod
now? Were boys created merely to study Latin
and Arithmetic? No; the better purposes of their
being are to sport, to leap, to run, to shout, to slide
upon the ice, to snow-ball!

Happy boys! Enjoy your play-time now, and
come again to study, and to feel the birch-rod and
the ferule, to-morrow; not till to-morrow, for to-day
is Thursday-lecture; and ever since the settlement
of Massachusetts, there has been no school on Thursday
afternoons. Therefore, sport, boys, while you
may; for the morrow cometh, with the birch-rod and
the ferule; and after that, another Morrow, with
troubles of its own.

Now the master has set every thing to rights, and
is ready to go home to dinner. Yet he goes reluctantly.
The old man has spent so much of his life
in the smoky, noisy, buzzing school-room, that, when
he has a holiday, he feels as if his place were lost,
and himself a stranger in the world. But, forth he
goes; and there stands our old chair, vacant and
solitary, till good Master Cheever resumes his seat
in it to-morrow morning.

[pg 095]

“Grandfather,” said Charley, “I wonder whether
the boys did not use to upset the old chair, when the
school-master was out?”

“There is a tradition,” replied Grandfather, “that
one of its arms was dislocated, in some such manner.
But I cannot believe that any school-boy would behave
so naughtily.”

As it was now later than little Alice’s usual bedtime,
Grandfather broke off his narrative, promising
to talk more about Master Cheever and his scholars,
some other evening.

Chapter IV

Accordingly the next evening, Grandfather resumed
the history of his beloved chair.

“Master Ezekiel Cheever,” said he, “died in
1707, after having taught school about seventy
years. It would require a pretty good scholar in
arithmetic to tell how many stripes he had inflicted,
and how many birch-rods he had worn out, during
all that time, in his fatherly tenderness for his pupils.
Almost all the great men of that period, and for
many years back, had been whipt into eminence by
Master Cheever. Moreover, he had written a Latin
Accidence, which was used in schools more than half
a century after his death; so that the good old man,
even in his grave, was still the cause of trouble and
stripes to idle school-boys.”

Grandfather proceeded to say, that, when Master
Cheever died, he bequeathed the chair to the most
learned man that was educated at his school, or that
had ever been born in America. This was the renowned
Cotton Mather, minister of the Old North
Church in Boston.

“And author of the Magnalia, Grandfather, which
we sometimes see you reading,” said Laurence.

“Yes, Laurence,” replied Grandfather. “The
Magnalia is a strange, pedantic history, in which
[pg 097]

true events and real personages move before the
reader, with the dreamy aspect which they wore in
Cotton Mather’s singular mind. This huge volume,
however, was written and published before our chair
came into his possession. But, as he was the author of
more books than there are days in the year, we may
conclude that he wrote a great deal, while sitting in
this chair.”

“I am tired of these school-masters and learned
men,” said Charley. “I wish some stirring man,
that knew how to do something in the world, like Sir
William Phips, would set in the chair.”

“Such men seldom have leisure to sit quietly in
a chair,” said Grandfather. “We must make the
best of such people as we have.”

As Cotton Mather was a very distinguished man,
Grandfather took some pains to give the children a
lively conception of his character. Over the door
of his library were painted these words—BE SHORT—as
a warning to visitors that they must not do the
world so much harm, as needlessly to interrupt this
great man’s wonderful labors. On entering the
room you would probably behold it crowded, and
piled, and heaped with books. There were huge,
ponderous folios and quartos, and little duodecimos,
in English, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Chaldaic, and all
other languages, that either originated at the confusion
of Babel, or have since come into use.

All these books, no doubt, were tossed about in confusion,
thus forming a visible emblem of the manner
[pg 098]

in which their contents were crowded into Cotton
Mather’s brain. And in the middle of the room stood a
table, on which, besides printed volumes, were strewn
manuscript sermons, historical tracts, and political
pamphlets, all written in such a queer, blind, crabbed,
fantastical hand, that a writing-master would have
gone raving mad at the sight of them. By this table
stood Grandfather’s chair, which seemed already to
have contracted an air of deep erudition, as if its
cushion were stuffed with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew,
and other hard matters.

In this chair, from one year’s end to another, sat
that prodigious book-worm, Cotton Mather, sometimes
devouring a great book, and sometimes scribbling
one as big. In Grandfather’s younger days,
there used to be a wax figure of him in one of the
Boston museums, representing a solemn, dark-visaged
person, in a minister’s black gown, and with a
black-letter volume before him.

“It is difficult, my children,” observed Grandfather,
“to make you understand such a character
as Cotton Mather’s, in whom there was so much good,
and yet so many failings and frailties. Undoubtedly,
he was a pious man. Often he kept fasts;
and once, for three whole days, he allowed himself
not a morsel of food, but spent the time in prayer
and religious meditation. Many a live-long night
did he watch and pray. These fasts and vigils made
him meagre and haggard, and probably caused him
to appear as if he hardly belonged to the world.”

[pg 099]

“Was not the witchcraft delusion partly caused
by Cotton Mather?” inquired Laurence.

“He was the chief agent of the mischief,” answered
Grandfather; “but we will not suppose that
he acted otherwise than conscientiously. He believed
that there were evil spirits all about the
world. Doubtless he imagined that they were hidden
in the corners and crevices of his library, and
that they peeped out from among the leaves of many
of his books, as he turned them over, at midnight.
He supposed that these unlovely demons were everywhere,
in the sunshine as well as in the darkness, and
that they were hidden in men’s hearts, and stole into
their most secret thoughts.”

Here Grandfather was interrupted by little Alice,
who hid her face in his lap, and murmured a wish
that he would not talk any more about Cotton Mather
and the evil spirits. Grandfather kissed her,
and told her that angels were the only spirits whom
she had any thing to do with. He then spoke of the
public affairs of the period.

A new war between France and England had
broken out in 1702, and had been raging ever since.
In the course of it, New England suffered much injury
from the French and Indians, who often came
through the woods from Canada, and assaulted the
frontier towns. Villages were sometimes burnt, and
the inhabitants slaughtered, within a day’s ride of
Boston. The people of New England had a bitter
hatred against the French, not only for the mischief
[pg 100]

which they did with their own hands, but because
they incited the Indians to hostility.

The New Englanders knew that they could never
dwell in security, until the provinces of France
should be subdued, and brought under the English
government. They frequently, in time of war, undertook
military expeditions against Acadia and
Canada, and sometimes besieged the fortresses, by
which those territories were defended. But the
most earnest wish of their hearts was, to take Quebec,
and so get possession of the whole province of
Canada. Sir William Phips had once attempted it,
but without success.

Fleets and soldiers were often sent from England,
to assist the colonists in their warlike undertakings.
In 1710, Port Royal, a fortress of Acadia, was
taken by the English. The next year, in the month
of June, a fleet, commanded by Admiral Sir Hovenden
Walker, arrived in Boston Harbor. On board
of this fleet was the English General Hill, with seven
regiments of soldiers, who had been fighting under
the Duke of Marlborough, in Flanders. The government
of Massachusetts was called upon to find
provisions for the army and fleet, and to raise more
men to assist in taking Canada.

What with recruiting and drilling of soldiers, there
was now nothing but warlike bustle in the streets of
Boston. The drum and fife, the rattle of arms, and
the shouts of boys, were heard from morning till
night. In about a month, the fleet set sail, carrying
[pg 101]

four regiments from New England and New York,
besides the English soldiers. The whole army
amounted to at least seven thousand men. They
steered for the mouth of the river St. Lawrence.

“Cotton Mather prayed most fervently for their
success,” continued Grandfather, “both in his pulpit,
and when he kneeled down in the solitude of his
library, resting his face on our old chair. But
Providence ordered the result otherwise. In a few
weeks, tidings were received, that eight or nine of
the vessels had been wrecked in the St. Lawrence,
and that above a thousand drowned soldiers had been
washed ashore, on the banks of that mighty river.
After this misfortune, Sir Hovenden Walker set sail
for England; and many pious people began to think
it a sin, even to wish for the conquest of Canada.”

“I would never give it up so,” cried Charley.

“Nor did they, as we shall see,” replied Grandfather.
“However, no more attempts were made
during this war, which came to a close in 1713.
The people of New England were probably glad of
some repose; for their young men had been made
soldiers, till many of them were fit for nothing else.
And those, who remained at home, had been heavily
taxed to pay for the arms, ammunition, fortifications,
and all the other endless expenses of a war. There
was great need of the prayers of Cotton Mather, and
of all pious men, not only on account of the sufferings
of the people, but because the old moral and religious
character of New England was in danger of
being utterly lost.”
[pg 102]

“How glorious it would have been,” remarked
Laurence, “if our forefathers could have kept the
country unspotted with blood.”

“Yes,” said Grandfather; “but there was a stern
warlike spirit in them, from the beginning. They
seem never to have thought of questioning either
the morality or piety of war.”

The next event, which Grandfather spoke of, was
one that Cotton Mather, as well as most of the other
inhabitants of New England, heartily rejoiced at.
This was the accession of the Elector of Hanover to
the throne of England, in 1714, on the death of
Queen Anne. Hitherto, the people had been in
continual dread that the male line of the Stuarts,
who were descended from the beheaded King
Charles and the banished King James, would be
restored to the throne. In that case, as the Stuart
family were Roman Catholics, it was supposed that
they would attempt to establish their own religion
throughout the British dominions. But the Elector
of Hanover, and all his race, were Protestants; so
that now the descendants of the old Puritans were
relieved from many fears and disquietudes.

“The importance of this event,” observed Grandfather,
“was a thousand times greater than that of
a Presidential Election, in our own days. If the
people dislike their president, they may get rid of
him in four years; whereas, a dynasty of kings may
wear the crown for an unlimited period.”

The German elector was proclaimed king from
[pg 103]

the balcony of the town-house, in Boston, by the title
of George the First, while the trumpets sounded,
and the people cried Amen. That night, the town
was illuminated; and Cotton Mather threw aside
book and pen, and left Grandfather’s chair vacant,
while he walked hither and thither to witness the
rejoicings.

Chapter VI

“Cotton Mather,” continued Grandfather,
“was a bitter enemy to Governor Dudley; and
nobody exulted more than he, when that crafty politician
was removed from the government, and succeeded
by Colonel Shute. This took place in 1716.
The new governor had been an officer in the renowned
Duke of Marlborough’s army, and had
fought in some of the great battles in Flanders.”

“Now, I hope,” said Charley, “we shall hear of
his doing great things.”

“I am afraid you will be disappointed, Charley,”
answered Grandfather. “It is true, that Colonel
Shute had probably never led so unquiet a life while
fighting the French, as he did now, while governing
this province of Massachusetts Bay. But his troubles
consisted almost entirely of dissensions with the
legislature. The king had ordered him to lay claim
to a fixed salary; but the representatives of the
people insisted upon paying him only such sums,
from year to year, as they saw fit.”

Grandfather here explained some of the circumstances,
that made the situation of a colonial governor
so difficult and irksome. There was not the
same feeling towards the chief magistrate, now,
that had existed, while he was chosen by the free
[pg 105]

suffrages of the people. It was felt, that, as the
king appointed the governor, and as he held his
office during the king’s pleasure, it would be his
great object to please the king. But the people
thought, that a governor ought to have nothing in
view, but the best interests of those whom he
governed.

“The governor,” remarked Grandfather, “had
two masters to serve—the king, who appointed
him, and the people, on whom he depended for his
pay. Few men, in this position, would have ingenuity
enough to satisfy either party. Colonel
Shute, though a good-natured, well-meaning man,
succeeded so ill with the people, that in 1722, he
suddenly went away to England, and made complaint
to King George. In the mean time, Lieutenant-Governor
Dummer directed the affairs of the province,
and carried on a long and bloody war with the
Indians.”

“But where was our chair, all this time?” asked
Clara.

“It still remained in Cotton Mather’s library,”
replied Grandfather; “and I must not omit to tell
you an incident, which is very much to the honor of
this celebrated man. It is the more proper, too,
that you should hear it, because it will show you
what a terrible calamity the small pox was to our
forefathers. The history of the province, (and, of
course, the history of our chair,) would be incomplete,
without particular mention of it.”
[pg 106]

Accordingly, Grandfather told the children a
story, to which, for want of a better title, we shall
give that of

Chapter VII

A few evenings afterwards, cousin Clara happened
to inquire of Grandfather, whether the old
chair had never been present at a ball. At the
same time, little Alice brought forward a doll, with
whom she had been holding a long conversation.

“See, Grandfather,” cried she. “Did such a
pretty lady as this ever sit in your great chair?”

These questions led Grandfather to talk about the
fashions and manners, which now began to be introduced
from England into the provinces. The simplicity
of the good old Puritan times was fast disappearing.
This was partly owing to the increasing
number and wealth of the inhabitants, and to the
additions which they continually received, by the
arrival and settlement of people from beyond the
sea.

Another cause of a pompous and artificial mode
of life, among those who could afford it, was, that the
example was set by the royal governors. Under
the old charter, the governors were the representatives
of the people, and therefore their way of living
had probably been marked by a popular simplicity.
But now, as they represented the person of the king,
they thought it necessary to preserve the dignity of
[pg 118]

their station, by the practice of high and gorgeous
ceremonials. And, besides, the profitable offices
under the government were filled by men who had
lived in London, and had there contracted fashionable
and luxurious habits of living, which they would
not now lay aside. The wealthy people of the province
imitated them; and thus began a general
change in social life.

“So, my dear Clara,” said Grandfather, “after
our chair had entered the Province House, it must
often have been present at balls and festivals, though
I cannot give you a description of any particular
one. But I doubt not that they were very magnificent;
and slaves in gorgeous liveries waited on the
guests, and offered them wine in goblets of massive
silver.”

“Were there slaves in those days?” exclaimed
Clara.

“Yes; black slaves and white,” replied Grandfather.
“Our ancestors not only bought negroes
from Africa, but Indians from South America, and
white people from Ireland. These last were sold,
not for life, but for a certain number of years, in
order to pay the expenses of their voyage across the
Atlantic. Nothing was more common than to see a
lot of likely Irish girls, advertised for sale in the
newspapers. As for the little negro babies, they
were offered to be given away, like young kittens.”

“Perhaps Alice would have liked one to play
with, instead of her doll,” said Charley, laughing.
[pg 119]

But little Alice clasped the waxen doll closer to
her bosom.

“Now, as for this pretty doll, my little Alice,”
said Grandfather, “I wish you could have seen
what splendid dresses the ladies wore in those times.
They had silks, and satins, and damasks, and brocades,
and high head-dresses, and all sorts of fine
things. And they used to wear hooped-petticoats,
of such enormous size that it was quite a journey to
walk round them.”

“And how did the gentlemen dress?” asked
Charley.

“With full as much magnificence as the ladies,”
answered Grandfather. “For their holiday suits,
they had coats of figured velvet, crimson, green,
blue, and all other gay colors, embroidered with
gold or silver lace. Their waistcoats, which were
five times as large as modern ones, were very
splendid. Sometimes, the whole waistcoat, which
came down almost to the knees, was made of gold
brocade.”

“Why, the wearer must have shone like a golden
image!” said Clara.

“And, then,” continued Grandfather, “they
wore various sorts of periwigs, such as the Tie, the
Spencer, the Brigadier, the Major, the Albemarle,
the Ramilies, the Feather-top, and the Full-bottom!
Their three-cornered hats were laced with gold or
silver. They had shining buckles at the knees of
their small clothes, and buckles likewise in their
[pg 120]

shoes. They wore swords, with beautiful hilts,
either of silver, or sometimes of polished steel,
inlaid with gold.”

“Oh, I should like to wear a sword!” cried
Charley.

“And an embroidered crimson velvet coat,” said
Clara, laughing, “and a gold brocade waistcoat
down to your knees!”

“And knee-buckles and shoe-buckles,” said Laurence,
laughing also.

“And a periwig,” added little Alice, soberly,
not knowing what was the article of dress, which
she recommended to our friend Charley.

Grandfather smiled at the idea of Charley’s
sturdy little figure in such a grotesque caparison.
He then went on with the history of the chair, and
told the children, that, in 1730, King George the
Second appointed Jonathan Belcher to be governor
of Massachusetts, in place of the deceased Governor
Burnet. Mr. Belcher was a native of the province,
but had spent much of his life in Europe.

The new governor found Grandfather’s chair in
the Province House, he was struck with its noble
and stately aspect, but was of opinion, that age and
hard services had made it scarcely so fit for courtly
company, as when it stood in the Earl of Lincoln’s
hall. Wherefore, as Governor Belcher was fond of
splendor, he employed a skilful artist to beautify
the chair. This was done by polishing and varnishing
it, and by gilding the carved work of the elbows,
[pg 121]

and likewise the oaken flowers of the back. The
lion’s head now shone like a veritable lump of gold.
Finally, Governor Belcher gave the chair a cushion
of blue damask, with a rich golden fringe.

“Our good old chair being thus glorified,” proceeded
Grandfather, “it glittered with a great deal
more splendor than it had exhibited just a century
before, when the Lady Arbella brought it over from
England. Most people mistook it for a chair of the
latest London fashion. And this may serve for an
example, that there is almost always an old and
time-worn substance under all the glittering show
of new invention.”

“Grandfather, I cannot see any of the gilding,”
remarked Charley, who had been examining the
chair very minutely.

“You will not wonder that it has been rubbed
off,” replied Grandfather, “when you hear all the
adventures that have since befallen the chair.
Gilded it was; and the handsomest room in the
Province House was adorned by it.”

There was not much to interest the children, in
what happened during the years that Governor Belcher
remained in the chair. At first, like Colonel
Shute and Governor Burnet, he was engaged in
disputing with the legislature about his salary.
But, as he found it impossible to get a fixed sum,
he finally obtained the king’s leave to accept whatever
the legislature chose to give him. And thus
the people triumphed, after this long contest for the
[pg 122]

privilege of expending their own money as they
saw fit.

The remainder of Governor Belcher’s term of
office was principally taken up in endeavoring to
settle the currency. Honest John Hull’s pine-tree
shillings had long ago been worn out, or lost, or
melted down again, and their place was supplied by
bills of paper or parchment, which were nominally
valued at three pence and upwards. The value of
these bills kept continually sinking, because the
real hard money could not be obtained for them.
They were a great deal worse than the old Indian
currency of clam-shells. These disorders of the
circulating medium were a source of endless plague
and perplexity to the rulers and legislators, not only
in Governor Belcher’s days, but for many years
before and afterwards.

Finally, the people suspected that Governor Belcher
was secretly endeavoring to establish the Episcopal
mode of worship in the provinces. There was
enough of the old Puritan spirit remaining, to cause
most of the true sons of New England to look with
horror upon such an attempt. Great exertions
were made, to induce the king to remove the governor.
Accordingly, in 1740, he was compelled to
resign his office, and Grandfather’s chair into the
bargain, to Mr. Shirley.

Chapter VIII

“William Shirley,” said Grandfather, “had
come from England a few years before, and begun
to practise law in Boston. You will think, perhaps,
that, as he had been a lawyer, the new governor
used to sit in our great chair, reading heavy law-books
from morning till night. On the contrary,
he was as stirring and active a governor as Massachusetts
ever had. Even Sir William Phips hardly
equalled him. The first year or two of his administration
was spent in trying to regulate the currency.
But, in 1744, after a peace of more than thirty
years, war broke out between France and England.”

“And I suppose,” said Charley, “the governor
went to take Canada.”

“Not exactly, Charley,” said Grandfather,
“though you have made a pretty shrewd conjecture.
He planned, in 1745, an expedition against
Louisbourg. This was a fortified city, on the
Island of Cape Breton, near Nova Scotia. Its
walls were of immense height and strength, and
were defended by hundreds of heavy cannon. It
was the strongest fortress which the French possessed
in America; and if the king of France had
[pg 124]

guessed Governor Shirley’s intentions, he would
have sent all the ships he could muster, to protect
it.”

As the siege of Louisbourg was one of the most
remarkable events that ever the inhabitants of New
England were engaged in, Grandfather endeavored
to give his auditors a lively idea of the spirit with
which they set about it. We shall call his description

Chapter IX

In the early twilight of Thanksgiving eve, came
Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little Alice,
hand in hand, and stood in a semi-circle round Grandfather’s
chair. They had been joyous, throughout
that day of festivity, mingling together in all kinds
of play, so that the house had echoed with their airy
mirth.

Grandfather, too, had been happy, though not
mirthful. He felt that this was to be set down as
one of the good Thanksgivings of his life. In truth,
all his former Thanksgivings had borne their part in
the present one; for, his years of infancy, and youth,
and manhood with their blessings and their griefs,
had flitted before him, while he sat silently in the
great chair. Vanished scenes had been pictured in
the air. The forms of departed friends had visited
him. Voices, to be heard no more on earth, had
sent an echo from the infinite and the eternal.
These shadows, if such they were, seemed almost as
real to him, as what was actually present—as the
merry shouts and laughter of the children—as their
figures, dancing like sunshine before his eyes.

He felt that the past was not taken from him.
The happiness of former days was a possession forever.
And there was something in the mingled
[pg 134]

sorrow of his lifetime, that became akin to happiness,
after being long treasured in the depths of his heart.
There it underwent a change, and grew more precious
than pure gold.

And now came the children, somewhat aweary with
their wild play, and sought the quiet enjoyment of
Grandfather’s talk. The good old gentleman rubbed
his eyes, and smiled round upon them all. He was
glad, as most aged people are, to find that he was
yet of consequence, and could give pleasure to the
world. After being so merry, all day long, did
these children desire to hear his sober talk? Oh,
then, old Grandfather had yet a place to fill among
living men,—or at least among boys and girls!

“Begin quick, Grandfather,” cried little Alice;
“for Pussy wants to hear you.”

And, truly, our yellow friend, the cat, lay upon
the hearth rug, basking in the warmth of the fire,
pricking up her ears, and turning her head from the
children to Grandfather, and from Grandfather to
the children, as if she felt herself very sympathetic
with them all. A loud purr, like the singing of a
tea-kettle, or the hum of a spinning-wheel, testified
that she was as comfortable and happy as a cat could
be. For Puss had feasted, and therefore, like Grandfather
and the children, had kept a good Thanksgiving.

“Does Pussy want to hear me?” said Grandfather,
smiling. “Well; we must please Pussy, if
we can!”
[pg 135]

And so he took up the history of the chair, from
the epoch of the peace of 1748. By one of the
provisions of the treaty, Louisbourg, which the New
Englanders had been at so much pains to take, was
restored to the king of France.

The French were afraid, that, unless their colonies
should be better defended than heretofore,
another war might deprive them of the whole. Almost
as soon as peace was declared, therefore, they
began to build strong fortifications in the interior of
North America. It was strange to behold these
warlike castles, on the banks of solitary lakes, and
far in the midst of woods. The Indian, paddling
his birch-canoe on Lake Champlain, looked up at the
high ramparts of Ticonderoga, stone piled on stone,
bristling with cannon, and the white flag of France
floating above. There were similar fortifications on
Lake Ontario, and near the great Falls of Niagara,
and at the sources of the Ohio River. And all
around these forts and castles lay the eternal
forest; and the roll of the drum died away in those
deep solitudes.

The truth was, that the French intended to build
forts, all the way from Canada to Louisiana. They
would then have had a wall of military strength,
at the back of the English settlements, so as completely
to hem them in. The king of England
considered the building of these forts as a sufficient
cause of war, which was accordingly commenced in
1754.
[pg 136]

“Governor Shirley,” said Grandfather, “had returned
to Boston in 1753. While in Paris, he had
married a second wife, a young French girl, and
now brought her to the Province House. But, when
war was breaking out, it was impossible for such a
bustling man to stay quietly at home, sitting in our
old chair, with his wife and children round about him.
He therefore obtained a command in the English
forces.”

“And what did Sir William Pepperell do?”
asked Charley.

“He staid at home,” said Grandfather, “and was
general of the militia. The veteran regiments of the
English army, which were now sent across the Atlantic,
would have scorned to fight under the orders
of an old American merchant. And now began what
aged people call the Old French War. It would be
going too far astray from the history of our chair, to
tell you one half of the battles that were fought. I
cannot even allow myself to describe the bloody defeat
of General Braddock, near the sources of the
Ohio River, in 1755. But, I must not omit to mention,
that when the English general was mortally
wounded, and his army routed, the remains of it
were preserved by the skill and valor of George
Washington.”

At the mention of this illustrious name, the children
started, as if a sudden sunlight had gleamed
upon the history of their country, now that the
great Deliverer had arisen above the horizon.
[pg 137]

Among all the events of the Old French War,
Grandfather thought that there was none more interesting
than the removal of the inhabitants of Acadia.
From the first settlement of this ancient province of
the French, in 1604, until the present time, its people
could scarcely ever know what kingdom held
dominion over them. They were a peaceful race,
taking no delight in warfare, and caring nothing for
military renown. And yet, in every war, their
region was infested with iron-hearted soldiers, both
French and English, who fought one another for the
privilege of ill treating these poor harmless Acadians.
Sometimes the treaty of peace made them
subjects of one king, sometimes of another.

At the peace of 1748, Acadia had been ceded to
England. But the French still claimed a large
portion of it, and built forts for its defence. In
1755, these forts were taken, and the whole of
Acadia was conquered, by three thousand men from
Massachusetts, under the command of General Winslow.
The inhabitants were accused of supplying
the French with provisions, and of doing other
things that violated their neutrality.

“These accusations were probably true,” observed
Grandfather; “for the Acadians were descended
from the French, and had the same friendly
feelings towards them, that the people of Massachusetts
had for the English. But their punishment
was severe. The English determined to tear these
poor people from their native homes and scatter
them abroad.”

The Acadians were about seven thousand in number.
A considerable part of them were made prisoners,
and transported to the English colonies. All
their dwellings and churches were burnt, their cattle
were killed, and the whole country was laid
waste, so that none of them might find shelter or
food in their old homes, after the departure of the
English. One thousand of the prisoners were sent
to Massachusetts; and Grandfather allowed his
fancy to follow them thither, and tried to give his
auditors an idea of their situation.

We shall call this passage the story of

Chapter X

In the twilight of the succeeding eve, when the
red beams of the fire were dancing upon the wall,
the children besought Grandfather to tell them what
had next happened to the old chair.

“Our chair,” said Grandfather, “stood all this
time in the Province House. But, Governor Shirley
had seldom an opportunity to repose within its
arms. He was loading his troops through the forest,
or sailing in a flat-boat on Lake Ontario, or sleeping
in his tent, while the awful cataract of Niagara sent
its roar through his dreams. At one period, in the
early part of the war, Shirley had the chief command
of all the king’s forces in America.”

“Did his young wife go with him to the war?”
asked Clara.

“I rather imagine,” replied Grandfather, “that
she remained in Boston. This lady, I suppose, had
our chair all to herself, and used to sit in it, during
those brief intervals when a young French woman
can be quiet enough to sit in a chair. The people
of Massachusetts were never fond of Governor Shirley’s
young French wife. They had a suspicion that
she betrayed the military plans of the English to the
generals of the French armies.”

“And was it true?” inquired Clara.

“Probably not,” said Grandfather. “But the
mere suspicion did Shirley a great deal of harm.
Partly, perhaps, for this reason, but much more on
account of his inefficiency as a general, he was deprived
of his command, in 1756, and recalled to
England. He never afterwards made any figure in
public life.”

As Grandfather’s chair had no locomotive properties,
and did not even run on castors, it cannot be
supposed to have marched in person to the Old
French War. But Grandfather delayed its momentous
history, while he touched briefly upon some of
the bloody battles, sieges, and onslaughts, the tidings
of which kept continually coming to the ears of the
old inhabitants of Boston. The woods of the north
were populous with fighting men. All the Indian
tribes uplifted their tomahawks, and took part either
with the French or English. The rattle of musketry
and roar of cannon disturbed the ancient quiet of the
forest, and actually drove the bears and other wild
beasts to the more cultivated portion of the country
in the vicinity of the sea-ports. The children felt as
if they were transported back to those forgotten
times, and that the couriers from the army, with the
news of a battle lost or won, might even now be
heard galloping through the streets. Grandfather
told them about the battle of Lake George, in 1755,
when the gallant Colonel Williams, a Massachusetts
officer, was slain, with many of his countrymen.
But General Johnson and General Lyman, with their
army, drove back the enemy, and mortally wounded
the French leader, who was called the Baron Dieskau.
A gold watch, pilfered from the poor Baron, is still
in existence, and still marks each moment of time,
without complaining of weariness, although its hands
have been in motion ever since the hour of battle.

In the first years of the war, there were many
disasters on the English side. Among these was
the loss of Fort Oswego, in 1756, and of Fort William
Henry, in the following year. But the greatest
misfortune that befell the English, during the whole
war, was the repulse of General Abercrombie, with
his army, from the ramparts of Ticonderoga, in
1758. He attempted to storm the walls; but a
terrible conflict ensued, in which more than two
thousand Englishmen and New Englanders were
killed or wounded. The slain soldiers now lie buried
around that ancient fortress. When the plough
passes over the soil, it turns up here and there a
mouldering bone.

Up to this period, none of the English generals
had shown any military talent. Shirley, the Earl
of Loudon, and General Abercrombie, had each held
the chief command, at different times; but not one
of them had won a single important triumph for the
British arms. This ill success was not owing to the
want of means; for, in 1758, General Abercrombie
had fifty thousand soldiers under his command. But
the French general, the famous Marquis de Montcalm,
possessed a great genius for war, and had
something within him, that taught him how battles
were to be won.

At length, in 1759, Sir Jeffrey Amherst was appointed
commander-in-chief of all the British forces
in America. He was a man of ability, and a skilful
soldier. A plan was now formed for accomplishing
that object, which had so long been the darling wish
of the New Englanders, and which their fathers had
so many times attempted. This was the conquest
of Canada.

Three separate armies were to enter Canada, from
different quarters. One of the three, commanded
by General Prideaux, was to embark on Lake Ontario,
and proceed to Montreal. The second, at the
head of which was Sir Jeffrey Amherst himself, was
destined to reach the River St. Lawrence, by the
way of Lake Champlain, and then go down the river
to meet the third army. This last, led by General
Wolfe, was to enter the St. Lawrence from the sea,
and ascend the river to Quebec. It is to Wolfe and
his army that England owes one of the most splendid
triumphs, ever written in her history.

Grandfather described the siege of Quebec, and
told how Wolfe led his soldiers up a rugged and
lofty precipice, that rose from the shore of the river
to the plain on which the city stood. This bold adventure
was achieved in the darkness of night. At
day-break, tidings were carried to the Marquis de
Montcalm, that the English army was waiting to give
him battle on the plains of Abraham. This brave
French general ordered his drums to strike up, and
immediately marched to encounter Wolfe.

He marched to his own death. The battle was
the most fierce and terrible, that had ever been
fought in America. General Wolfe was at the head
of his soldiers, and while encouraging them onward,
received a mortal wound. He reclined against a
stone, in the agonies of death; but it seemed as if
his spirit could not pass away, while the fight yet
raged so doubtfully. Suddenly, a shout came pealing
across the battle-field—”They flee! they flee!”
and, for a moment, Wolfe lifted his languid head.
“Who flee?” he inquired. “The French,” replied
an officer. “Then I die satisfied!” said Wolfe, and
expired in the arms of victory.

“If ever a warrior’s death were glorious, Wolfe’s
was so!” said Grandfather; and his eye kindled,
though he was a man of peaceful thoughts, and gentle
spirit. “His life-blood streamed to baptize the soil
which he had added to the dominion of Britain!
His dying breath was mingled with his army’s shout
of victory!”

“Oh, it was a good death to die!” cried Charley,
with glistening eyes. “Was it not a good death,
Laurence?”

Laurence made no reply; for his heart burned
within him, as the picture of Wolfe, dying on the
blood-stained field of victory, arose to his imagination;
and yet, he had a deep inward consciousness,
that, after all, there was a truer glory than could
thus be won.

“There were other battles in Canada, after Wolfe’s
victory,” resumed Grandfather; “but we may consider
the Old French War as having terminated with
this great event. The treaty of peace, however, was
not signed until 1763. The terms of the treaty
were very disadvantageous to the French; for all
Canada, and all Acadia, and the island of Cape
Breton, in short, all the territories that France
and England had been fighting about, for nearly
a hundred years—were surrendered to the English.”

“So, now, at last,” said Laurence, “New England
had gained her wish. Canada was taken!”

“And now there was nobody to fight with, but
the Indians,” said Charley.

Grandfather mentioned two other important
events. The first was the great fire of Boston,
in 1700, when the glare from nearly three hundred
buildings, all in flames at once, shone through the
windows of the Province House, and threw a fierce
lustre upon the gilded foliage and lion’s head of our
old chair. The second event was the proclamation,
in the same year, of George the Third as king of
Great Britain. The blast of the trumpet sounded
from the balcony of the Town House, and awoke the
echoes far and wide, as if to challenge all mankind
to dispute King George’s title.

Seven times, as the successive monarchs of Britain
ascended the throne, the trumpet-peal of proclamation
had been heard by those who sat in our venerable
chair. But, when the next king put on his
father’s crown, no trumpet-peal proclaimed it to
New England! Long before that day, America had
shaken off the royal government.

Chapter XI

Now that Grandfather had fought through the
Old French War, in which our chair made no very
distinguished figure, he thought it high time to tell
the children some of the more private history of that
praiseworthy old piece of furniture.

“In 1757,” said Grandfather, “after Shirley
had been summoned to England, Thomas Pownall
was appointed governor of Massachusetts. He was
a gay and fashionable English gentleman, who had
spent much of his life in London, but had a considerable
acquaintance with America. The new governor
appears to have taken no active part in the
war that was going on; although, at one period, he
talked of marching against the enemy, at the head
of his company of cadets. But, on the whole, he
probably concluded that it was more befitting a
governor to remain quietly in our chair, reading the
newspapers and official documents.”

“Did the people like Pownall?” asked Charley.

“They found no fault with him,” replied Grandfather.
“It was no time to quarrel with the governor,
when the utmost harmony was required, in
order to defend the country against the French.
But Pownall did not remain long in Massachusetts.
In 1759, he was sent to be governor of South Carolina.
In thus exchanging one government for
another, I suppose he felt no regret, except at the
necessity of leaving Grandfather’s chair behind
him.”

“He might have taken it to South Carolina,”
observed Clara.

“It appears to me,” said Laurence, giving the
rein to his fancy, “that the fate of this ancient
chair was, somehow or other, mysteriously connected
with the fortunes of old Massachusetts. If Governor
Pownall had put it aboard the vessel in which he
sailed for South Carolina, she would probably have
lain wind-bound in Boston harbor. It was ordained
that the chair should not be taken away. Don’t you
think so, Grandfather?”

“It was kept here for Grandfather and me to sit
in together,” said little Alice, “and for Grandfather
to tell stories about.”

“And Grandfather is very glad of such a companion,
and such a theme,” said the old gentleman,
with a smile. “Well, Laurence, if our oaken chair,
like the wooden Palladium of Troy, was connected
with the country’s fate, yet there appears to have
been no supernatural obstacle to its removal from
the Province House. In 1760, Sir Francis Bernard,
who had been governor of New Jersey, was
appointed to the same office in Massachusetts.
He looked at the old chair, and thought it quite too
shabby to keep company with a new set of mahogany
chairs, and an aristocratic sofa, which had just arrived
from London. He therefore ordered it to be
put away in the garret.”

The children were loud in their exclamations
against this irreverent conduct of Sir Francis Bernard.
But Grandfather defended him, as well as
he could. He observed, that it was then thirty years
since the chair had been beautified by Governor
Belcher. Most of the gilding was worn off by the
frequent scourings which it had undergone, beneath
the hands of a black slave. The damask cushion,
once so splendid, was now squeezed out of all shape,
and absolutely in tatters, so many were the ponderous
gentlemen who had deposited their weight upon
it, during these thirty years.

Moreover, at a council held by the Earl of Loudon
with the governors of New England, in 1757,
his lordship, in a moment of passion, had kicked over
the chair with his military boot. By this unprovoked
and unjustifiable act, our venerable friend
had suffered a fracture of one of its rungs.

“But,” said Grandfather, “our chair, after all,
was not destined to spend the remainder of its days
in the inglorious obscurity of a garret. Thomas
Hutchinson, lieutenant-governor of the province, was
told of Sir Francis Bernard’s design. This gentleman
was more familiar with the history of New
England than any other man alive. He knew all
the adventures and vicissitudes through which the
old chair had passed, and could have told, as accurately
as your own Grandfather, who were the personages
that had occupied it. Often, while visiting
at the Province House, he had eyed the chair with
admiration, and felt a longing desire to become the
possessor of it. He now waited upon Sir Francis
Bernard, and easily obtained leave to carry it
home.”

“And I hope,” said Clara, “he had it varnished
and gilded anew.”

“No,” answered Grandfather. “What Mr.
Hutchinson desired was to restore the chair, as
much as possible, to its original aspect, such as it
had appeared, when it was first made out of the Earl
of Lincoln’s oak-tree. For this purpose he ordered
it to be well scoured with soap and sand and polished
with wax, and then provided it with a substantial
leather cushion. When all was completed to his
mind, he sat down in the old chair, and began to
write his History of Massachusetts.”

“Oh, that was a bright thought in Mr. Hutchinson!”
exclaimed Laurence. “And, no doubt, the
dim figures of the former possessors of the chair
flitted around him, as he wrote, and inspired him
with a knowledge of all that they had done and
suffered while on earth.”

“Why, my dear Laurence,” replied Grandfather,
smiling, “if Mr. Hutchinson was favored with any
such extraordinary inspiration, he made but a poor
use of it in his History; for a duller piece of composition
never came from any man’s pen. However,
he was accurate, at least, though far from possessing
the brilliancy or philosophy of Mr. Bancroft.”

“But, if Hutchinson knew the history of the
chair,” rejoined Laurence, “his heart must have
been stirred by it.”

“It must, indeed,” said Grandfather. “It would
be entertaining and instructive, at the present day,
to imagine what were Mr. Hutchinson’s thoughts, as
he looked back upon the long vista of events with
which this chair was so remarkably connected.”

And Grandfather allowed his fancy to shape out
an image of Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson, sitting
in an evening reverie by his fireside, and meditating
on the changes that had slowly passed around the
chair.

A devoted monarchist, Hutchinson would heave
no sigh for the subversion of the original republican
government, the purest that the world had seen,
with which the colony began its existence. While
reverencing the grim and stern old Puritans as the
founders of his native land, he would not wish to
recall them from their graves, nor to awaken again
that king-resisting spirit, which he imagined to be
laid asleep with them forever. Winthrop, Dudley,
Bellingham, Endicott, Leverett, and Bradstreet!
All these had had their day. Ages might come and
go, but never again would the people’s suffrages
place a republican governor in their ancient Chair
of State!

Coming down to the epoch of the second charter,
Hutchinson thought of the ship-carpenter Phips,
springing from the lowest of the people, and attaining
to the loftiest station in the land. But, he
smiled to perceive that this governor’s example
would awaken no turbulent ambition in the lower
orders, for it was a king’s gracious boon alone that
made the ship-carpenter a ruler. Hutchinson rejoiced
to mark the gradual growth of an aristocratic
class, to whom the common people, as in duty bound,
were learning humbly to resign the honors, emoluments,
and authority of state. He saw,—or else
deceived himself—that, throughout this epoch, the
people’s disposition to self-government had been
growing weaker, through long disuse, and now existed
only as a faint traditionary feeling.

The Lieutenant-Governor’s reverie had now come
down to the period at which he himself was sitting in
the historic chair. He endeavored to throw his
glance forward, over the coming years. There,
probably, he saw visions of hereditary rank, for himself
and other aristocratic colonists. He saw the
fertile fields of New England, portioned out among
a few great landholders, and descending by entail
from generation to generation. He saw the people
a race of tenantry, dependent on their lords. He
saw stars, garters, coronets, and castles.

“But,” added Grandfather, turning to Laurence,
“the Lieutenant-Governor’s castles were built nowhere
but among the red embers of the fire, before
which he was sitting. And, just as he had constructed
a baronial residence for himself and his posterity,
the fire rolled down upon the hearth, and
crumbled it to ashes!”

Grandfather now looked at his watch, which hung
within a beautiful little ebony Temple, supported by
four Ionic columns. He then laid his hand on the
golden locks of little Alice, whose head had sunk
down upon the arm of our illustrious chair.

“To bed, to bed, dear child!” said he. “Grandfather
has put you to sleep, already, by his stories
about these Famous Old People!”

Chapter I

On the evening of New Year’s day, Grandfather
was walking to and fro, across the carpet, listening
to the rain which beat hard against the curtained
windows. The riotous blast shook the casement, as
if a strong man were striving to force his entrance
into the comfortable room. With every puff of the
wind, the fire leaped upward from the hearth,
laughing and rejoicing at the shrieks of the wintry
storm.

Meanwhile, Grandfather’s chair stood in its customary
place by the fireside. The bright blaze
gleamed upon the fantastic figures of its oaken back,
and shone through the open-work, so that a complete
pattern was thrown upon the opposite side of
the room. Sometimes, for a moment or two, the
shadow remained immovable, as if it were painted
on the wall. Then, all at once, it began to quiver,
and leap, and dance, with a frisky motion. Anon,
seeming to remember that these antics were unworthy
of such a dignified and venerable chair, it suddenly
stood still. But soon it began to dance anew.

“Only see how grandfather’s chair is dancing!”
cried little Alice.

And she ran to the wall, and tried to catch hold
of the flickering shadow; for to children of five
years old, a shadow seems almost as real as a substance.

“I wish,” said Clara, “Grandfather would sit
down in the chair, and finish its history.”

If the children had been looking at Grandfather,
they would have noticed that he paused in his walk
across the room, when Clara made this remark.
The kind old gentleman was ready and willing to
resume his stories of departed times. But he had
resolved to wait till his auditors should request him
to proceed, in order that they might find the instructive
history of the chair a pleasure, and not a
task.

“Grandfather,” said Charley, “I am tired to
death of this dismal rain, and of hearing the wind
roar in the chimney. I have had no good time all
day. It would be better to hear stories about the
chair, than to sit doing nothing, and thinking of
nothing.”

To say the truth, our friend Charley was very
much out of humor with the storm, because it had
kept him all day within doors, and hindered him from
making trial of a splendid sled, which Grandfather
had given him for a New Year’s gift. As all sleds,
now-a-days, must have a name, the one in question
had been honored with the title of Grandfather’s
Chair, which was painted in golden letters, on each
of the sides. Charley greatly admired the construction
of the new vehicle, and felt certain that it
would outstrip any other sled that ever dashed
adown the long slopes of the Common.

As for Laurence, he happened to be thinking,
just at this moment, about the history of the chair.
Kind old Grandfather had made him a present of a
volume of engraved portraits, representing the features
of eminent and famous people of all countries.
Among them Laurence found several who had formerly
occupied our chair, or been connected with
its adventures. While Grandfather walked to and
fro across the room, the imaginative boy was gazing
at the historic chair. He endeavored to summon
up the portraits which he had seen in his volume,
and to place them, like living figures, in the empty
seat.

“The old chair has begun another year of its
existence, to-day,” said Laurence. “We must
make haste, or it will have a new history to be told
before we finish the old one.”

“Yes, my children,” replied Grandfather, with a
smile and a sigh, “another year has been added to
those of the two centuries, and upward, which have
passed since the Lady Arbella brought this chair
over from England. It is three times as old as
your Grandfather; but a year makes no impression
on its oaken frame, while it bends the old man
nearer and nearer to the earth; so let me go on
with my stories while I may.”

Accordingly, Grandfather came to the fireside,
and seated himself in the venerable chair. The
lion’s head looked down with a grimly good-natured
aspect, as the children clustered around the old
gentleman’s knees. It almost seemed as if a real
lion were peeping over the back of the chair, and
smiling at the group of auditors, with a sort of lion-like
complaisance. Little Alice, whose fancy often
inspired her with singular ideas, exclaimed that the
lion’s head was nodding at her, and that it looked
as if it were going to open its wide jaws and tell a
story.

But, as the lion’s head appeared to be in no
haste to speak, and as there was no record or tradition
of its having spoken, during the whole existence
of the chair, Grandfather did not consider it
worth while to wait.

Chapter II

“Charley, my boy,” said Grandfather, “do
you remember who was the last occupant of the
chair?”

“It was Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson,” answered
Charley. “Sir Francis Bernard, the new
governor, had given him the chair, instead of putting
it away in the garret of the Province House.
And when we took leave of Hutchinson, he was sitting
by his fireside, and thinking of the past adventures
of the chair, and of what was to come.”

“Very well,” said Grandfather; “and you
recollect that this was in 1763, or thereabouts, at
the close of the Old French War. Now, that you
may fully comprehend the remaining adventures of
the chair, I must make some brief remarks on the
situation and character of the New England colonies
at this period.”

So Grandfather spoke of the earnest loyalty of
our fathers during the Old French War, and after
the conquest of Canada had brought that war to a
triumphant close.

The people loved and reverenced the king of
England, even more than if the ocean had not rolled
its waves between him and them; for, at the distance
of three thousand miles, they could not discover
his bad qualities and imperfections. Their
love was increased by the dangers which they had
encountered in order to heighten his glory and
extend his dominion. Throughout the war, the
American colonists had fought side by side with the
soldiers of Old England; and nearly thirty thousand
young men had laid down their lives for the
honor of King George. And the survivors loved
him the better, because they had done and suffered
so much for his sake.

But, there were some circumstances, that caused
America to feel more independent of England than
at an earlier period. Canada and Acadia had now
become British provinces; and our fathers were no
longer afraid of the bands of French and Indians,
who used to assault them in old times. For a century
and a half this had been the great terror of
New England. Now, the old French soldier was
driven from the north forever. And, even had it
been otherwise the English colonies were growing
so populous and powerful, that they might have felt
fully able to protect themselves without any help
from England.

There were thoughtful and sagacious men, who
began to doubt, whether a great country like America,
would always be content to remain under the
government of an island three thousand miles away.
This was the more doubtful, because the English
Parliament had long ago made laws which were
intended to be very beneficial to England, at the
expense of America. By these laws, the colonists
were forbidden to manufacture articles for their
own use, or to carry on trade with any nation but
the English.

“Now,” continued Grandfather, “if King George
the Third and his counsellors had considered these
things wisely, they would have taken another course
than they did. But, when they saw how rich and
populous the colonies had grown, their first thought
was, how they might make more profit out of them
than heretofore. England was enormously in debt,
at the close of the Old French War, and it was pretended,
that this debt had been contracted for the
defence of the American colonies, and that therefore
a part of it ought to be paid by them.”

“Why, this was nonsense,” exclaimed Charley;
“did not our fathers spend their lives and their
money too, to get Canada for King George?”

“True, they did,” said Grandfather; “and they
told the English rulers so. But the king and his
ministers would not listen to good advice. In 1765,
the British Parliament passed a Stamp Act.”

“What was that?” inquired Charley.

“The Stamp Act,” replied Grandfather, “was a
law by which all deeds, bonds, and other papers of
the same kind, were ordered to be marked with the
king’s stamp; and without this mark, they were
declared illegal and void. Now, in order to get a
blank sheet of paper, with the king’s stamp upon it,
people were obliged to pay three pence more than
the actual value of the paper. And this extra sum
of three pence was a tax, and was to be paid into
the king’s treasury.”

“I am sure three pence was not worth quarrelling
about!” remarked Clara.

“It was not for three pence, nor for any amount
of money, that America quarrelled with England,”
replied Grandfather; “it was for a great principle.
The colonists were determined not to be taxed,
except by their own representatives. They said
that neither the king and Parliament nor any other
power on earth, had a right to take their money out
of their pockets, unless they freely gave it. And,
rather than pay three pence when it was unjustly
demanded, they resolved to sacrifice all the wealth
of the country, and their lives along with it. They
therefore made a most stubborn resistance to the
Stamp Act.”

“That was noble!” exclaimed Laurence. “I
understand how it was. If they had quietly paid
this tax of three pence, they would have ceased to
be freemen, and would have become tributaries of
England. And so they contended about a great
question of right and wrong, and put every thing at
stake for it.”

“You are right, Laurence,” said Grandfather;
“and it was really amazing and terrible to see what
a change came over the aspect of the people, the
moment the English Parliament had passed this
oppressive act. The former history of our chair,
my children, has given you some idea of what a
harsh, unyielding, stern set of men the old Puritans
were. For a good many years back, however, it
had seemed as if these characteristics were disappearing.
But no sooner did England offer wrong
to the colonies, than the descendants of the early
settlers proved that they had the same kind of temper
as their forefathers. The moment before, New
England appeared like an humble and loyal subject
of the crown; the next instant, she showed the
grim, dark features of an old king-resisting Puritan.”

Grandfather spoke briefly of the public measures
that were taken in opposition to the Stamp Act.
As this law affected all the American colonies alike,
it naturally led them to think of consulting together
in order to procure its repeal. For this purpose,
the legislature of Massachusetts proposed that delegates
from every colony should meet in Congress.
Accordingly nine colonies, both northern and southern,
sent delegates to the city of New York.

“And did they consult about going to war with
England?” asked Charley.

“No, Charley,” answered Grandfather; “a
great deal of talking was yet to be done, before
England and America could come to blows. The
Congress stated the rights and the grievances of the
colonists. They sent an humble petition to the
king, and a memorial to the Parliament, beseeching
that the Stamp Act might be repealed. This
was all that the delegates had it in their power to
do.”

“They might as well have staid at home, then,”
said Charley.

“By no means,” replied Grandfather. “It was
a most important and memorable event—this first
coming together of the American people, by their
representatives from the north and south. If England
had been wise, she would have trembled at the
first word that was spoken in such an assembly!”

These remonstrances and petitions, as Grandfather
observed, were the work of grave, thoughtful, and
prudent men. Meantime, the young and hot-headed
people went to work in their own way. It is probable
that the petitions of Congress would have had
little or no effect on the British statesmen, if the violent
deeds of the American people had not shown
how much excited the people were. Liberty Tree
was soon heard of in England.

“What was Liberty Tree?” inquired Clara.

“It was an old elm tree,” answered Grandfather,
“which stood near the corner of Essex street, opposite
the Boylston market. Under the spreading
branches of this great tree, the people used to assemble,
whenever they wished to express their feelings
and opinions. Thus, after a while, it seemed as if
the liberty of the country was connected with Liberty
Tree.”

“It was glorious fruit for a tree to bear,”
remarked Laurence.

“It bore strange fruit, sometimes,” said Grandfather.
“One morning in August, 1765, two figures
were found hanging on the sturdy branches of Liberty
Tree. They were dressed in square-skirted
coats and small-clothes; and, as their wigs hung
down over their faces, they looked like real men.
One was intended to represent the Earl of Bute,
who was supposed to have advised the king to tax
America. The other was meant for the effigy of
Andrew Oliver, a gentleman belonging to one of the
most respectable families in Massachusetts.”

“What harm had he done?” inquired Charley.

“The king had appointed him to be distributor of
the stamps,” answered Grandfather. “Mr. Oliver
would have made a great deal of money by this
business. But the people frightened him so much
by hanging him in effigy, and afterwards by breaking
into his house, that he promised to have nothing
to do with the stamps. And all the king’s friends
throughout America were compelled to make the
same promise.”

Chapter III

“Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson,” continued
Grandfather, “now began to be unquiet in our old
chair. He had formerly been much respected and
beloved by the people, and had often proved himself
a friend to their interests. But the time was come,
when he could not be a friend to the people, without
ceasing to be a friend to the king. It was pretty
generally understood, that Hutchinson would act
according to the king’s wishes, right or wrong,
like most of the other gentlemen who held offices
under the crown. Besides, as he was brother-in-law
of Andrew Oliver, the people now felt a particular
dislike to him.”

“I should think,” said Laurence, “as Mr.
Hutchinson had written the history of our Puritan
forefathers, he would have known what the temper
of the people was, and so have taken care not to
wrong them.”

“He trusted in the might of the king of England,”
replied Grandfather, “and thought himself
safe under the shelter of the throne. If no dispute
had arisen between the king and the people, Hutchinson
would have had the character of a wise,
good, and patriotic magistrate. But, from the time
that he took part against the rights of his country,
the people’s love and respect were turned to scorn
and hatred; and he never had another hour of
peace.”

In order to show what a fierce and dangerous
spirit was now aroused among the inhabitants,
Grandfather related a passage from history, which
we shall call

Chapter IV

The next evening, Clara, who remembered that
our chair had been left standing in the rain, under
Liberty Tree, earnestly besought Grandfather to tell
when and where it had next found shelter. Perhaps
she was afraid that the venerable chair, by being
exposed to the inclemency of a September gale,
might get the rheumatism in its aged joints.

“The chair,” said Grandfather, “after the ceremony
of Mr. Oliver’s oath, appears to have been
quite forgotten by the multitude. Indeed, being
much bruised and rather rickety, owing to the violent
treatment it had suffered from the Hutchinson
mob, most people would have thought that its days
of usefulness were over. Nevertheless, it was conveyed
away, under cover of the night, and committed
to the care of a skilful joiner. He doctored our old
friend so successfully, that, in the course of a few
days, it made its appearance in the public room of
the British Coffee House in King Street.”

“But why did not Mr. Hutchinson get possession
of it again?” inquired Charley.

“I know not,” answered Grandfather, “unless
he considered it a dishonor and disgrace to the chair
to have stood under Liberty Tree. At all events,
he suffered it to remain at the British Coffee House,
which was the principal hotel in Boston. It could
not possibly have found a situation, where it would
be more in the midst of business and bustle, or would
witness more important events, or be occupied by a
greater variety of persons.”

Grandfather went on to tell the proceedings of the
despotic king and ministry of England, after the repeal
of the Stamp Act. They could not bear to
think, that their right to tax America should be
disputed by the people. In the year 1767, therefore,
they caused Parliament to pass an act for laying
a duty on tea, and some other articles that were in
general use. Nobody could now buy a pound of tea,
without paying a tax to King George. This scheme
was pretty craftily contrived; for the women of
America were very fond of tea, and did not like to
give up the use of it.

But the people were as much opposed to this new
act of Parliament, as they had been to the Stamp
Act. England, however, was determined that they
should submit. In order to compel their obedience,
two regiments, consisting of more than seven hundred
British soldiers, were sent to Boston. They
arrived in September, 1768, and were landed on Long
Wharf. Thence they marched to the Common, with
loaded muskets, fixed bayonets, and great pomp and
parade. So now, at last, the free town of Boston was
guarded and over-awed by red-coats, as it had been
in the days of old Sir Edmund Andros.

In the month of November, more regiments
arrived. There were now four thousand troops in
Boston. The Common was whitened with their
tents. Some of the soldiers were lodged in Faneuil
Hall, which the inhabitants looked upon as a consecrated
place, because it had been the scene of a
great many meetings in favor of liberty. One regiment
was placed in the town house, which we now
call the Old State House. The lower floor of this
edifice had hitherto been used by the merchants as
an exchange. In the upper stories were the chambers
of the judges, the representatives, and the governor’s
council. The venerable counsellors could
not assemble to consult about the welfare of the
province, without being challenged by sentinels, and
passing among the bayonets of the British soldiers.

Sentinels, likewise, were posted at the lodgings
of the officers, in many parts of the town. When
the inhabitants approached, they were greeted by
the sharp question—”Who goes there?” while
the rattle of the soldier’s musket was heard, as he
presented it against their breasts. There was no
quiet, even on the Sabbath day. The pious descendants
of the Puritans were shocked by the uproar of
military music, the drum, fife, and bugle, drowning
the holy organ peal and the voices of the singers.
It would appear as if the British took every method
to insult the feelings of the people.

“Grandfather,” cried Charley, impatiently, “the
people did not go to fighting half soon enough!
These British red-coats ought to have been driven
back to their vessels, the very moment they landed
on Long Wharf.”

“Many a hot-headed young man said the same as
you do, Charley,” answered Grandfather. “But
the elder and wiser people saw that the time was not
yet come. Meanwhile, let us take another peep at
our old chair.”

“Ah, it drooped its head, I know,” said Charley,
“when it saw how the province was disgraced. Its
old Puritan friends never would have borne such
doings.”

“The chair,” proceeded Grandfather, “was now
continually occupied by some of the high tories, as
the king’s friends were called, who frequented the
British Coffee House. Officers of the custom-house,
too, which stood on the opposite side of King Street,
often sat in the chair, wagging their tongues against
John Hancock.”

“Why against him?” asked Charley.

“Because he was a great merchant, and contended
against paying duties to the king,” said Grandfather.

“Well, frequently, no doubt, the officers of the
British regiments, when not on duty, used to fling
themselves into the arms of our venerable chair.
Fancy one of them, a red nosed captain, in his
scarlet uniform, playing with the hilt of his sword,
and making a circle of his brother officers merry
with ridiculous jokes at the expense of the poor Yankees.
And perhaps he would call for a bottle of
wine, or a steaming bowl of punch, and drink confusion
to all rebels.”

“Our grave old chair must have been scandalized
at such scenes,” observed Laurence. “The chair
that had been the Lady Arbella’s, and which the
holy Apostle Eliot had consecrated.”

“It certainly was little less than sacrilege,” replied
Grandfather; “but the time was coming, when
even the churches, where hallowed pastors had long
preached the word of God, were to be torn down or
desecrated by the British troops. Some years
passed, however, before such things were done.”

Grandfather now told his auditors, that, in 1769,
Sir Francis Bernard went to England, after having
been governor of Massachusetts ten years. He was
a gentleman of many good qualities, an excellent
scholar, and a friend to learning. But he was naturally
of an arbitrary disposition; and he had been
bred at the University of Oxford, where young men
were taught that the divine right of kings was the
only thing to be regarded in matters of government.
Such ideas were ill adapted to please the people of
Massachusetts. They rejoiced to get rid of Sir
Francis Bernard, but liked his successor, Lieutenant-Governor
Hutchinson, no better than himself.

About this period, the people were much incensed
at an act, committed by a person who held an office
in the custom-house. Some lads, or young men,
were snow-balling his windows. He fired a musket
at them and killed a poor German boy, only eleven
years old. This event made a great noise in town
and country, and much increased the resentment
that was already felt against the servants of the
crown.

“Now, children,” said Grandfather, “I wish to
make you comprehend the position of the British
troops in King Street. This is the same which we
now call State Street. On the south side of the
town-house, or Old State House, was what military
men call a court of guard, defended by two brass
cannons, which pointed directly at one of the doors
of the above edifice. A large party of soldiers were
always stationed in the court of guard. The custom-house
stood at a little distance down King Street,
nearly where the Suffolk bank now stands; and a
sentinel was continually pacing before its front.”

“I shall remember this, to-morrow,” said Charley;
“and I will go to State Street, so as to see exactly
where the British troops were stationed.”

“And, before long,” observed Grandfather, “I
shall have to relate an event, which made King
Street sadly famous on both sides of the Atlantic.
The history of our chair will soon bring us to this
melancholy business.”

Here Grandfather described the state of things,
which arose from the ill-will that existed between the
inhabitants and the red-coats. The old and sober
part of the town’s-people were very angry at the
government, for sending soldiers to overawe them.
But those gray-headed men were cautious, and kept
their thoughts and feelings in their own breasts,
without putting themselves in the way of the British
bayonets.

The younger people, however, could hardly be
kept within such prudent limits. They reddened
with wrath at the very sight of a soldier, and would
have been willing to come to blows with them, at any
moment. For it was their opinion, that every tap of
a British drum within the peninsula of Boston, was an
insult to the brave old town.

“It was sometimes the case,” continued Grandfather,
“that affrays happened between such wild
young men as these, and small parties of the soldiers.
No weapons had hitherto been used, except fists or
cudgels. But, when men have loaded muskets in
their hands, it is easy to foretell, that they will soon
be turned against the bosoms of those who provoke
their anger.”

“Grandfather,” said little Alice, looking fearfully
into his face, “your voice sounds as though you
were going to tell us something awful!”

Chapter V

Little Alice, by her last remark, proved herself
a good judge of what was expressed by the tones of
Grandfather’s voice. He had given the above description
of the enmity between the town’s-people
and the soldiers, in order to prepare the minds of
his auditors for a very terrible event. It was one
that did more to heighten the quarrel between England
and America, than any thing that had yet
occurred.

Without further preface, Grandfather began the
story of

Chapter VI

The next evening the astral lamp was lighted
earlier than usual, because Laurence was very much
engaged in looking over the collection of portraits
which had been his New Year’s gift from Grandfather.

Among them he found the features of more than
one famous personage who had been connected with
the adventures of our old chair. Grandfather bade
him draw the table nearer to the fire-side; and
they looked over the portraits together, while Clara
and Charley likewise lent their attention. As for
little Alice, she sat in Grandfather’s lap, and seemed
to see the very men alive, whose faces were there
represented.

Turning over the volume, Laurence came to the
portrait of a stern, grim-looking man, in plain attire,
of much more modern fashion than that of the old
Puritans. But the face might well have befitted
one of those iron-hearted men. Beneath the portrait
was the name of Samuel Adams.

“He was a man of great note in all the doings
that brought about the Revolution,” said Grandfather.
“His character was such, that it seemed as
if one of the ancient Puritans had been sent back to
earth, to animate the people’s hearts with the same
abhorrence of tyranny, that had distinguished the
earliest settlers. He was as religious as they, as
stern and inflexible, and as deeply imbued with democratic
principles. He, better than any one else,
may be taken as a representative of the people of
New England, and of the spirit with which they engaged
in the revolutionary struggle. He was a poor
man, and earned his bread by an humble occupation;
but with his tongue and pen, he made the
king of England tremble on his throne. Remember
him, my children, as one of the strong men of our
country.”

“Here is one whose looks show a very different
character,” observed Laurence, turning to the portrait
of John Hancock. “I should think, by his
splendid dress and courtly aspect, that he was one
of the king’s friends.”

“There never was a greater contrast than between
Samuel Adams and John Hancock,” said
Grandfather. “Yet they were of the same side in
politics, and had an equal agency in the Revolution.
Hancock was born to the inheritance of the largest
fortune in New England. His tastes and habits
were aristocratic. He loved gorgeous attire, a
splendid mansion, magnificent furniture, stately festivals,
and all that was glittering and pompous in
external things. His manners were so polished, that
there stood not a nobleman at the footstool of King
George’s throne, who was a more skilful courtier
than John Hancock might have been. Nevertheless,
he, in his embroidered clothes, and Samuel
Adams in his threadbare coat, wrought together in
the cause of liberty. Adams acted from pure and
rigid principle. Hancock, though he loved his
country, yet thought quite as much of his own popularity
as he did of the people’s rights. It is remarkable,
that these two men, so very different as I
describe them, were the only two exempted from
pardon by the king’s proclamation.”

On the next leaf of the book, was the portrait of
General Joseph Warren. Charley recognized the
name, and said that here was a greater man than
either Hancock or Adams.

“Warren was an eloquent and able patriot,” replied
Grandfather. “He deserves a lasting memory
for his zealous efforts in behalf of liberty. No
man’s voice was more powerful in Faneuil Hall than
Joseph Warren’s. If his death had not happened
so early in the contest, he would probably have
gained a high name as a soldier.”

The next portrait was a venerable man, who held
his thumb under his chin, and, through his spectacles,
appeared to be attentively reading a manuscript.

“Here we see the most illustrious Boston boy
that ever lived,” said Grandfather. “This is Benjamin
Franklin! But I will not try to compress,
into a few sentences, the character of the sage, who,
as a Frenchman expressed it, snatched the lightning
from the sky, and the sceptre from a tyrant. Mr.
Sparks must help you to the knowledge of Franklin.”

The book likewise contained portraits of James
Otis and Josiah Quincy. Both of them, Grandfather
observed, were men of wonderful talents and true
patriotism. Their voices were like the stirring tones
of a trumpet, arousing the country to defend its freedom.
Heaven seemed to have provided a greater
number of eloquent men than had appeared at any
other period, in order that the people might be fully
instructed as to their wrongs, and the method of
resistance.

“It is marvellous,” said Grandfather, “to see
how many powerful writers, orators, and soldiers
started up, just at the time when they were wanted.
There was a man for every kind of work. It is
equally wonderful, that men of such different characters
were all made to unite in the one object of
establishing the freedom and independence of America.
There was an overruling Providence above
them.”

“Here was another great man,” remarked Laurence,
pointing to the portrait of John Adams.

“Yes; an earnest, warm-tempered, honest, and
most able man,” said Grandfather. “At the period
of which we are now speaking, he was a lawyer in
Boston. He was destined, in after years, to be
ruler over the whole American people, whom he
contributed so much to form into a nation.”

Grandfather here remarked, that many a New
Englander, who had passed his boyhood and youth
in obscurity, afterward attained to a fortune, which
he never could have foreseen, even in his most ambitious
dreams. John Adams, the second president
of the United States, and the equal of crowned
kings, was once a schoolmaster and country lawyer.
Hancock, the first signer of the Declaration of Independence,
served his apprenticeship with a merchant.
Samuel Adams, afterward governor of Massachusetts,
was a small tradesman and a tax-gatherer.
General Warren was a physician, General Lincoln
a farmer, and General Knox a bookbinder. General
Nathaniel Greene, the best soldier, except Washington,
in the revolutionary army, was a Quaker and a
blacksmith. All these became illustrious men, and
can never be forgotten in American history.

“And any boy, who is born in America, may
look forward to the same things,” said our ambitious
friend Charley.

After these observations, Grandfather drew the
book of portraits towards him, and showed the children
several British peers and members of Parliament,
who had exerted themselves either for or against the
rights of America. There were the Earl of Bute,
Mr. Grenville, and Lord North. These were looked
upon as deadly enemies to our country.

Among the friends of America was Mr. Pitt, afterward
Earl of Chatham, who spent so much of his
wondrous eloquence in endeavoring to warn England
of the consequences of her injustice. He fell down
on the floor of the House of Lords, after uttering
almost his dying words in defence of our privileges
as freemen. There was Edmund Burke, one of the
wisest men and greatest orators that ever the world
produced. There was Colonel Barré, who had been
among our fathers, and knew that they had courage
enough to die for their rights. There was Charles
James Fox, who never rested until he had silenced
our enemies in the House of Commons.

“It is very remarkable to observe how many of
the ablest orators in the British Parliament were favorable
to America,” said Grandfather. “We ought
to remember these great Englishmen with gratitude;
for their speeches encouraged our fathers, almost as
much as those of our own orators, in Faneuil Hall,
and under Liberty Tree. Opinions, which might
have been received with doubt, if expressed only by
a native American, were set down as true, beyond
dispute, when they came from the lips of Chatham,
Burke, Barré, or Fox.”

“But, Grandfather,” asked Laurence, “were
there no able and eloquent men in this country who
took the part of King George?”

“There were many men of talent, who said what
they could in defence of the king’s tyrannical proceedings,”
replied Grandfather. “But they had
the worst side of the argument, and therefore seldom
said any thing worth remembering. Moreover their
hearts were faint and feeble; for they felt that the
people scorned and detested them. They had no
friends, no defence, except in the bayonets of the
British troops. A blight fell upon all their faculties,
because they were contending against the rights of
their own native land.”

“What were the names of some of them?” inquired
Charley.

“Governor Hutchinson, Chief Justice Oliver,
Judge Auchmuty, the Reverend Mather Byles, and
several other clergymen, were among the most noted
loyalists,” answered Grandfather.

“I wish the people had tarred and feathered every
man of them!” cried Charley.

“That wish is very wrong, Charley,” said Grandfather.
“You must not think that there was no
integrity and honor, except among those who stood
up for the freedom of America. For aught I know,
there was quite as much of these qualities on one
side as on the other. Do you see nothing admirable
in a faithful adherence to an unpopular cause? Can
you not respect that principle of loyalty, which made
the royalists give up country, friends, fortune, every
thing, rather than be false to their king? It was a
mistaken principle; but many of them cherished it
honorably, and were martyrs to it.”

“Oh, I was wrong!” said Charley, ingenuously.
“And I would risk my life, rather than one of those
good old royalists should be tarred and feathered.”

“The time is now come, when we may judge fairly
of them,” continued Grandfather. “Be the good
and true men among them honored; for they were
as much our countrymen as the patriots were. And,
thank Heaven! our country need not be ashamed
of her sons—of most of them, at least—whatever
side they took in the revolutionary contest.”

Among the portraits was one of King George the
Third. Little Alice clapped her hands, and seemed
pleased with the bluff good nature of his physiognomy.
But Laurence thought it strange, that a
man with such a face, indicating hardly a common
share of intellect, should have had influence enough
on human affairs, to convulse the world with war.
Grandfather observed, that this poor king had always
appeared to him one of the most unfortunate persons
that ever lived. He was so honest and conscientious,
that, if he had been only a private man, his life would
probably have been blameless and happy. But his
was that worst of fortunes, to be placed in a station
far beyond his abilities.

“And so,” said Grandfather, “his life, while he
retained what intellect Heaven had gifted him with,
was one long mortification. At last, he grew crazed
with care and trouble. For nearly twenty years,
the monarch of England was confined as a madman.
In his old age, too, God took away his eyesight; so
that his royal palace was nothing to him but a dark,
lonesome prison-house.”

Chapter VII

“Our old chair,” resumed Grandfather, “did not
now stand in the midst of a gay circle of British
officers. The troops, as I told you, had been removed
to Castle William, immediately after the Boston
Massacre. Still, however, there were many
tories, custom-house officers, and Englishmen, who
used to assemble in the British Coffee House, and
talk over the affairs of the period. Matters grew
worse and worse; and in 1773, the people did a
deed, which incensed the king and ministry more
than any of their former doings.”

Grandfather here described the affair, which is
known by the name of the Boston Tea Party. The
Americans, for some time past, had left off importing
tea, on account of the oppressive tax. The East
India Company, in London, had a large stock of tea
on hand, which they had expected to sell to the
Americans, but could find no market for it. But,
after a while, the government persuaded this company
of merchants to send the tea to America.

“How odd it is,” observed Clara, “that the liberties
of America should have had any thing to do
with a cup of tea!”

Grandfather smiled, and proceeded with his narrative.
When the people of Boston heard that
several cargoes of tea were coming across the Atlantic,
they held a great many meetings at Faneuil
Hall, in the Old South church, and under Liberty
Tree. In the midst of their debates, three ships
arrived in the harbor with the tea on board. The
people spent more than a fortnight in consulting
what should be done. At last, on the 16th of December,
1773, they demanded of Governor Hutchinson,
that he should immediately send the ships
back to England.

The governor replied that the ships must not leave
the harbor, until the custom-house duties upon the
tea should be paid. Now, the payment of these
duties was the very thing, against which the people
had set their faces; because it was a tax, unjustly
imposed upon America by the English government.
Therefore, in the dusk of the evening, as soon as
Governor Hutchinson’s reply was received, an immense
crowd hastened to Griffin’s Wharf, where the
tea-ships lay. The place is now called Liverpool
Wharf.

“When the crowd reached the wharf,” said Grandfather,
“they saw that a set of wild-looking figures
were already on board of the ships. You would
have imagined that the Indian warriors, of old times,
had come back again; for they wore the Indian
dress, and had their faces covered with red and
black paint, like the Indians, when they go to war.
These grim figures hoisted the tea chests on the
decks of the vessels, broke them open, and threw all
the contents into the harbor.”

“Grandfather,” said little Alice, “I suppose Indians
don’t love tea; else they would never waste
it so.”

“They were not real Indians, my child,” answered
Grandfather. “They were white men, in disguise;
because a heavy punishment would have been inflicted
on them, if the king’s officers had found who they
were. But it was never known. From that day to
this, though the matter has been talked of by all the
world, nobody can tell the names of those Indian
figures. Some people say that there were very famous
men among them, who afterwards became governors
and generals. Whether this be true, I cannot tell.”

When tidings of this bold deed were carried to
England, King George was greatly enraged. Parliament
immediately passed an act, by which all vessels
were forbidden to take in or discharge their cargoes at
the port of Boston. In this way, they expected to ruin
all the merchants, and starve the poor people, by
depriving them of employment. At the same time,
another act was passed, taking away many rights
and privileges which had been granted in the charter
of Massachusetts.

Governor Hutchinson, soon afterward, was summoned
to England, in order that he might give his
advice about the management of American affairs.
General Gage, an officer of the Old French War,
and since commander-in-chief of the British forces in
America, was appointed governor in his stead. One
of his first acts, was to make Salem, instead of Boston,
the metropolis of Massachusetts, by summoning
the General Court to meet there.

According to Grandfather’s description, this was
the most gloomy time that Massachusetts had ever
seen. The people groaned under as heavy a tyranny
as in the days of Sir Edmund Andros. Boston
looked as if it were afflicted with some dreadful
pestilence,—so sad were the inhabitants, and so
desolate the streets. There was no cheerful hum of
business. The merchants shut up their warehouses,
and the laboring men stood idle about the wharves.
But all America felt interested in the good town of
Boston; and contributions were raised, in many
places, for the relief of the poor inhabitants.

“Our dear old chair!” exclaimed Clara. “How
dismal it must have been now!”

“Oh,” replied Grandfather, “a gay throng of
officers had now come back to the British Coffee
House; so that the old chair had no lack of mirthful
company. Soon after General Gage became governor,
a great many troops had arrived, and were
encamped upon the Common. Boston was now a
garrisoned and fortified town; for the general had
built a battery across the neck, on the road to Roxbury,
and placed guards for its defence. Every
thing looked as if a civil war were close at hand.”

“Did the people make ready to fight?” asked
Charley.

“A continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia,”
said Grandfather, “and proposed such measures
as they thought most conducive to the public
good. A provincial Congress was likewise chosen in
Massachusetts. They exhorted the people to arm
and discipline themselves. A great number of
minute men were enrolled. The Americans called
them minute men, because they engaged to be ready
to fight at a minute’s warning. The English officers
laughed, and said that the name was a very proper
one, because the minute men would run away the
the minute they saw the enemy. Whether they
would fight or run, was soon to be proved.”

Grandfather told the children, that the first open
resistance offered to the British troops, in the province
of Massachusetts was at Salem. Colonel Timothy
Pickering, with thirty or forty militia men, prevented
the English colonel, Leslie, with four times as many
regular soldiers, from taking possession of some military
stores. No blood was shed on this occasion;
but, soon afterward, it began to flow.

General Gage sent eight hundred soldiers to
Concord, about eighteen miles from Boston, to
destroy some ammunition and provisions which the
colonists had collected there. They set out on their
march in the evening of the 18th of April, 1775.
The next morning, the General sent Lord Percy,
with nine hundred men, to strengthen the troops
which had gone before. All that day, the inhabitants
of Boston heard various rumors. Some said,
that the British were making great slaughter among
our countrymen. Others affirmed that every man
had turned out with his musket, and that not a single
soldier would ever get back to Boston.

“It was after sunset,” continued Grandfather,
“when the troops, who had marched forth so proudly,
were seen entering Charlestown. They were
covered with dust, and so hot and weary that their
tongues hung out of their mouths. Many of them
were faint with wounds. They had not all returned.
Nearly three hundred were strewn, dead or dying,
along the road from Concord. The yeomanry had
risen upon the invaders, and driven them back.”

“Was this the battle of Lexington?” asked Charley.

“Yes,” replied Grandfather; “it was so called,
because the British, without provocation, had fired
upon a party of minute men, near Lexington meeting-house,
and killed eight of them. That fatal volley,
which was fired by order of Major Pitcairn,
began the war of the Revolution.”

About this time, if Grandfather had been correctly
informed, our chair disappeared from the
British Coffee House. The manner of its departure
cannot be satisfactorily ascertained. Perhaps the
keeper of the Coffee House turned it out of doors,
on account of its old-fashioned aspect. Perhaps he
sold it as a curiosity. Perhaps it was taken, without
leave, by some person who regarded it as public
property, because it had once figured under Liberty
Tree. Or, perhaps, the old chair, being of a
peaceable disposition, had made use of its four
oaken legs, and run away from the seat of war.

“It would have made a terrible clattering over
the pavement,” said Charley, laughing.

“Meanwhile,” continued Grandfather, “during
the mysterious non-appearance of our chair, an
army of twenty thousand men had started up, and
come to the siege of Boston. General Gage and
his troops were cooped up within the narrow precincts
of the peninsula. On the 17th of June,
1775, the famous battle of Bunker Hill was fought.
Here General Warren fell. The British got the
victory, indeed, but with the loss of more than a
thousand officers and men.”

“O, Grandfather,” cried Charley, “you must
tell us about that famous battle.”

“No, Charley,” said Grandfather, “I am not
like other historians. Battles shall not hold a prominent
place in the history of our quiet and comfortable
old chair. But, to-morrow evening, Laurence,
Clara, and yourself, and dear little Alice too, shall
visit the Diorama of Bunker Hill. There you shall
see the whole business, the burning of Charlestown
and all, with your own eyes, and hear the cannon
and musketry with your own ears.”

Chapter VIII

The next evening but one, when the children had
given Grandfather a full account of the Diorama of
Bunker Hill, they entreated him not to keep them
any longer in suspense about the fate of his chair.
The reader will recollect, that at the last accounts,
it had trotted away upon its poor old legs, nobody
knew whither. But, before gratifying their
curiosity, Grandfather found it necessary to say
something about public events.

The continental Congress, which was assembled
at Philadelphia, was composed of delegates from all
the colonies. They had now appointed George
Washington, of Virginia, to be commander-in-chief
of all the American armies. He was, at that time,
a member of Congress, but immediately left Philadelphia,
and began his journey to Massachusetts.
On the 3d of July, 1775, he arrived at Cambridge,
and took command of the troops which were besieging
General Gage.

“O, Grandfather,” exclaimed Laurence, “it
makes my heart throb to think what is coming now.
We are to see General Washington himself.”

The children crowded around Grandfather, and
looked earnestly into his face. Even little Alice
opened her sweet blue eyes, with her lips apart,
and almost held her breath to listen; so instinctive
is the reverence of childhood for the father of his
country. Grandfather paused a moment; for he
felt as if it might be irreverent to introduce the hallowed
shade of Washington into a history, where an
ancient elbow chair occupied the most prominent
place. However, he determined to proceed with
his narrative, and speak of the hero when it was
needful, but with an unambitious simplicity.

So Grandfather told his auditors, that, on General
Washington’s arrival at Cambridge, his first
care was, to reconnoitre the British troops with his
spy-glass, and to examine the condition of his own
army. He found that the American troops amounted
to about fourteen thousand men. They were
extended all round the peninsula of Boston, a space
of twelve miles, from the high grounds of Roxbury
on the right, to Mystic river on the left. Some
were living in tents of sail-cloth, some in shanties,
rudely constructed of boards, some in huts of stone
or turf, with curious windows and doors of basket-work.

In order to be near the centre, and oversee the
whole of this wide-stretched army, the commander-in-chief
made his head-quarters at Cambridge, about
half a mile from the colleges. A mansion-house,
which perhaps had been the country-seat of some
tory gentleman, was provided for his residence.

“When General Washington first entered this
mansion,” said Grandfather, “he was ushered up
the stair-case, and shown into a handsome apartment.
He sat down in a large chair, which was
the most conspicuous object in the room. The noble
figure of Washington would have done honor to a
throne. As he sat there, with his hand resting on
the hilt of his sheathed sword, which was placed
between his knees, his whole aspect well befitted
the chosen man on whom his country leaned for the
defence of her dearest rights. America seemed
safe, under his protection. His face was grander
than any sculptor had ever wrought in marble;
none could behold him without awe and reverence.
Never before had the lion’s head, at the summit of
the chair, looked down upon such a face and form
as Washington’s!”

“Why! Grandfather,” cried Clara, clasping her
hands in amazement, “was it really so? Did General
Washington sit in our great chair?”

“I knew how it would be,” said Laurence;
“I foresaw it, the moment Grandfather began to
speak.”

Grandfather smiled. But, turning from the personal
and domestic life of the illustrious leader, he
spoke of the methods which Washington adopted to
win back the metropolis of New England from the
British.

The army, when he took command of it, was
without any discipline or order. The privates considered
themselves as good as their officers, and seldom
thought it necessary to obey their commands,
unless they understood the why and wherefore.
Moreover, they were enlisted for so short a period,
that, as soon as they began to be respectable soldiers,
it was time to discharge them. Then came
new recruits, who had to be taught their duty,
before they could be of any service. Such was the
army, with which Washington had to contend
against more than twenty veteran British regiments.

Some of the men had no muskets, and almost all
were without bayonets. Heavy cannon, for battering
the British fortifications, were much wanted.
There was but a small quantity of powder and ball,
few tools to build entrenchments with, and a great
deficiency of provisions and clothes for the soldiers.
Yet, in spite of these perplexing difficulties, the
eyes of the whole people were fixed on General
Washington, expecting him to undertake some great
enterprise against the hostile army.

The first thing that he found necessary, was to
bring his own men into better order and discipline.
It is wonderful how soon he transformed this rough
mob of country people into the semblance of a regular
army. One of Washington’s most invaluable
characteristics, was the faculty of bringing order
out of confusion. All business, with which he had
any concern, seemed to regulate itself, as if by
magic. The influence of his mind was like light,
gleaming through an unshaped world. It was this
faculty, more than any other, that made him so fit
to ride upon the storm of the Revolution, when
every thing was unfixed, and drifting about in a
troubled sea.

“Washington had not been long at the head of
the army,” proceeded Grandfather, “before his
soldiers thought as highly of him, as if he had led
them to a hundred victories. They knew that he
was the very man whom the country needed, and
the only one who could bring them safely through
the great contest against the might of England.
They put entire confidence in his courage, wisdom,
and integrity.”

“And were not they eager to follow him against
the British?” asked Charley.

“Doubtless they would have gone whithersoever
his sword pointed the way,” answered Grandfather;
“and Washington was anxious to make a decisive
assault upon the enemy. But as the enterprise was
very hazardous, he called a council of all the generals
in the army. Accordingly, they came from
their different posts, and were ushered into the
reception room. The commander-in-chief arose from
our great chair to greet them.”

“What were their names?” asked Charley.

“There was General Artemas Ward,” replied
Grandfather, a “lawyer by profession. He had
commanded the troops before Washington’s arrival.
Another was General Charles Lee, who had been a
colonel in the English army, and was thought to possess
vast military science. He came to the council,
followed by two or three dogs, who were always at
his heels. There was General Putnam, too, who
was known all over New England by the name of
Old Put.”

“Was it he who killed the wolf?” inquired
Charley.

“The same,” said Grandfather; “and he had
done good service in the Old French War. His
occupation was that of a farmer; but he left his
plough in the furrow, at the news of Lexington
battle. Then there was General Gates, who afterward
gained great renown at Saratoga, and lost it
again at Camden. General Greene, of Rhode
Island, was likewise at the council. Washington
soon discovered him to be one of the best officers in
the army.”

When the Generals were all assembled, Washington
consulted them about a plan for storming the
English batteries. But it was their unanimous
opinion that so perilous an enterprise ought not to
be attempted. The army, therefore, continued to
besiege Boston, preventing the enemy from obtaining
supplies of provisions, but without taking any
immediate measures to get possession of the town.
In this manner, the summer, autumn, and winter
passed away.

“Many a night, doubtless,” said Grandfather,
“after Washington had been all day on horseback,
galloping from one post of the army to another, he
used to sit in our great chair, wrapt in earnest
thought. Had you seen him, you might have supposed
that his whole mind was fixed on the blue
china tiles, which adorned the old fashioned fire-place.
But, in reality, he was meditating how to
capture the British army, or drive it out of Boston.
Once, when there was a hard frost, he formed a
scheme to cross the Charles River on the ice. But
the other Generals could not be persuaded that there
was any prospect of success.”

“What were the British doing, all this time?”
inquired Charley.

“They lay idle in the town,” replied Grandfather.
“General Gage had been recalled to England, and
was succeeded by Sir William Howe. The British
army, and the inhabitants of Boston, were now in great
distress. Being shut up in the town so long, they
had consumed almost all their provisions, and burnt
up all their fuel. The soldiers tore down the Old
North church, and used its rotten boards and timbers
for fire-wood. To heighten their distress, the small
pox broke out. They probably lost far more men by
cold, hunger, and sickness, than had been slain at
Lexington and Bunker Hill.”

“What a dismal time for the poor women and
children!” exclaimed Clara.

“At length,” continued Grandfather, “in March,
1776, General Washington, who had now a good
supply of powder, began a terrible cannonade and
bombardment from Dorchester heights. One of the
cannon balls which he fired into the town, struck the
tower of the Brattle Street church, where it may
still be seen. Sir William Howe made preparations
to cross over in boats, and drive the Americans from
their batteries, but was prevented by a violent gale
and storm. General Washington next erected a
battery on Nook’s hill, so near the enemy, that it
was impossible for them to remain in Boston any
longer.”

“Hurra! Hurra!” cried Charley, clapping his
hands triumphantly. “I wish I had been there, to
see how sheepish the Englishmen looked.”

And, as Grandfather thought that Boston had
never witnessed a more interesting period than this,
when the royal power was in its death agony, he determined
to take a peep into the town, and imagine
the feelings of those who were quitting it forever.

Chapter IX

“Alas! for the poor tories!” said Grandfather.
“Until the very last morning after Washington’s
troops had shown themselves on Nook’s hill, these
unfortunate persons could not believe that the audacious
rebels, as they called the Americans, would
ever prevail against King George’s army. But,
when they saw the British soldiers preparing to embark
on board of the ships of war, then they knew
that they had lost their country. Could the patriots
have known how bitter were their regrets, they would
have forgiven them all their evil deeds, and sent a
blessing after them as they sailed away from their
native shore.”

In order to make the children sensible of the
pitiable condition of these men, Grandfather singled
out Peter Oliver, chief justice of Massachusetts under
the crown, and imagined him walking through
the streets of Boston, on the morning before he left
it forever.

This effort of Grandfather’s fancy may be called—

Chapter X

When Grandfather resumed his narrative, the
next evening, he told the children that he had some
difficulty in tracing the movements of the chair,
during a short period after General Washington’s
departure from Cambridge.

Within a few months, however, it made its appearance
at a shop in Boston, before the door of
which was seen a striped pole. In the interior was
displayed a stuffed alligator, a rattlesnake’s skin, a
bundle of Indian arrows, an old-fashioned matchlock
gun, a walking-stick of Governor Winthrop’s, a wig
of old Cotton Mather’s, and a colored print of the
Boston Massacre. In short, it was a barber’s shop,
kept by a Mr. Pierce, who prided himself on having
shaved General Washington, Old Put, and
many other famous persons.

“This was not a very dignified situation for our
venerable chair,” continued Grandfather; “but,
you know, there is no better place for news, than a
barber’s shop. All the events of the revolutionary
war were heard of there, sooner than anywhere else.
People used to sit in the chair, reading the newspaper
or talking, and waiting to be shaved, while
Mr. Pierce with his scissors and razor, was at work
upon the heads or chins of his other customers.”

“I am sorry the chair could not betake itself to
some more suitable place of refuge,” said Laurence.
“It was old now, and must have longed for quiet.
Besides, after it had held Washington in its arms,
it ought not to have been compelled to receive all
the world. It should have been put into the pulpit
of the Old South Church, or some other consecrated
place.”

“Perhaps so,” answered Grandfather. “But the
chair, in the course of its varied existence, had grown
so accustomed to general intercourse with society,
that I doubt whether it would have contented itself
in the pulpit of the Old South. There it would have
stood solitary, or with no livelier companion than the
silent organ, in the opposite gallery, six days out of
seven. I incline to think, that it had seldom been
situated more to its mind, than on the sanded floor
of the snug little barber’s shop.”

Then Grandfather amused his children and himself,
with fancying all the different sorts of people
who had occupied our chair, while they awaited the
leisure of the barber.

There was the old clergyman, such as Dr. Chauncey,
wearing a white wig, which the barber took from
his head, and placed upon a wig-block. Half an hour,
perhaps, was spent in combing and powdering this
reverend appendage to a clerical skull. There too,
were officers of the continental army, who required
their hair to be pomatumed and plastered, so as to give
them a bold and martial aspect. There, once in a
while, was seen the thin, care-worn, melancholy visage
of an old tory, with a wig that, in times long past,
had perhaps figured at a Province House ball. And
there, not unfrequently, sat the rough captain of a
privateer, just returned from a successful cruise, in
which he had captured half a dozen richly laden
vessels, belonging to King George’s subjects. And,
sometimes, a rosy little school-boy climbed into our
chair, and sat staring, with wide-open eyes, at the
alligator, the rattlesnake, and the other curiosities
of the barber’s shop. His mother had sent him, with
sixpence in his hand, to get his glossy curls cropped
off. The incidents of the Revolution plentifully supplied
the barber’s customers with topics of conversation.
They talked sorrowfully of the death of General
Montgomery, and the failure of our troops to take
Quebec; for the New Englanders were now as
anxious to get Canada from the English, as they had
formerly been to conquer it from the French.

“But, very soon,” said Grandfather, “came news
from Philadelphia, the most important that America
had ever heard of. On the 4th of July, 1776, Congress
had signed the Declaration of Independence.
The thirteen colonies were now free and independent
states. Dark as our prospects were, the inhabitants
welcomed these glorious tidings, and resolved to perish,
rather than again bear the yoke of England!”

“And I would perish too!” cried Charley.

“It was a great day—a glorious deed!” said
Laurence, coloring high with enthusiasm. “And,
Grandfather, I love to think that the sages in Congress
showed themselves as bold and true as the
soldiers in the field. For it must have required
more courage to sign the Declaration of Independence,
than to fight the enemy in battle.”

Grandfather acquiesced in Laurence’s view of
the matter. He then touched briefly and hastily
upon the prominent events of the Revolution. The
thunder-storm of war had now rolled southward, and
did not again burst upon Massachusetts, where its
first fury had been felt. But she contributed her
full share to the success of the contest. Wherever
a battle was fought—whether at Long Island, White
Plains, Trenton, Princeton, Brandywine, or German-town—some
of her brave sons were found slain
upon the field.

In October, 1777, General Burgoyne surrendered
his army, at Saratoga, to the American general,
Gates. The captured troops were sent to Massachusetts.
Not long afterwards, Doctor Franklin
and other American commissioners made a treaty at
Paris, by which France bound herself to assist our
countrymen. The gallant Lafayette was already
fighting for our freedom, by the side of Washington.
In 1778, a French fleet, commanded by Count
d’Estaing, spent a considerable time in Boston Harbor.
It marks the vicissitudes of human affairs,
that the French, our ancient enemies, should come
hither as comrades and brethren, and that kindred
England should be our foe.

“While the war was raging in the Middle and
Southern States,” proceeded Grandfather, “Massachusetts
had leisure to settle a new constitution of
government, instead of the royal charter. This was
done in 1780. In the same year, John Hancock,
who had been president of Congress, was chosen
governor of the state. He was the first whom the
people had elected, since the days of old Simon
Bradstreet.”

“But, Grandfather, who had been governor since
the British were driven away?” inquired Laurence.
“General Gage and Sir William Howe were the
last whom you have told us of.”

“There had been no governor for the last four
years,” replied Grandfather. “Massachusetts had
been ruled by the legislature, to whom the people
paid obedience of their own accord. It is one of the
most remarkable circumstances in our history, that,
when the charter government was overthrown by the
war, no anarchy, nor the slightest confusion ensued.
This was a great honor to the people. But now,
Hancock was proclaimed governor by sound of trumpet;
and there was again a settled government.”

Grandfather again adverted to the progress of the
war. In 1781, General Greene drove the British
from the Southern States. In October, of the same
year, General Washington compelled Lord Cornwallis
to surrender his army, at Yorktown, in Virginia.
This was the last great event of the revolutionary
contest. King George and his ministers perceived,
that all the might of England could not compel
America to renew her allegiance to the crown.
After a great deal of discussion, a treaty of peace
was signed, in September, 1783.

“Now, at last,” said Grandfather, “after weary
years of war, the regiments of Massachusetts returned
in peace to their families. Now, the stately
and dignified leaders, such as General Lincoln
and General Knox, with their pondered hair and
their uniforms of blue and buff, were seen moving
about the streets.”

“And little boys ran after them, I suppose,” remarked
Charley; “and the grown people bowed
respectfully.”

“They deserved respect, for they were good men,
as well as brave,” answered Grandfather. “Now,
too, the inferior officers and privates came home, to
seek some peaceful occupation. Their friends remembered
them as slender and smooth-cheeked
young men; but they returned with the erect and
rigid mien of disciplined soldiers. Some hobbled
on crutches and wooden legs; others had received
wounds, which were still rankling in their breasts.
Many, alas! had fallen in battle, and perhaps were
left unburied on the bloody field.”

“The country must have been sick of war,” observed
Laurence.

“One would have thought so,” said Grandfather.
“Yet only two or three years elapsed, before the
folly of some misguided men caused another mustering
of soldiers. This affair was called Shays’ War,
because a Captain Shays was the chief leader of the
insurgents.”

“O Grandfather, don’t let there be another
war!” cried little Alice, piteously.

Grandfather comforted his dear little girl, by
assuring her that there was no great mischief done.
Shays’s War happened in the latter part of 1786,
and the beginning of the following year. Its principal
cause was the badness of the times. The
State of Massachusetts, in its public capacity, was
very much in debt. So, likewise, were many of
the people. An insurrection took place, the object
of which seems to have been, to interrupt the course
of law, and get rid of debts and taxes.

James Bowdoin, a good and able man, was now
governor of Massachusetts. He sent General Lincoln,
at the head of four thousand men, to put down
the insurrection. This general, who had fought
through several hard campaigns in the Revolution,
managed matters like an old soldier, and totally
defeated the rebels, at the expense of very little
blood.

“There is but one more public event to be
recorded in the history of our chair,” proceeded
Grandfather. “In the year 1794, Samuel Adams
was elected governor of Massachusetts. I have
told you what a distinguished patriot he was, and
how much he resembled the stern old Puritans.
Could the ancient freemen of Massachusetts, who
lived in the days of the first charter, have arisen
from their graves, they would probably have voted
for Samuel Adams to be governor.”

“Well, Grandfather, I hope he sat in our
chair!” said Clara.

“He did,” replied Grandfather. “He had
long been in the habit of visiting the barber’s shop,
where our venerable chair, philosophically forgetful
of its former dignities, had now spent nearly eighteen
not uncomfortable years. Such a remarkable
piece of furniture, so evidently a relic of long-departed
times, could not escape the notice of Samuel
Adams. He made minute researches into its history,
and ascertained what a succession of excellent
and famous people had occupied it.”

“How did he find it out?” asked Charley. “For
I suppose the chair could not tell its own history.”

“There used to be a vast collection of ancient
letters and other documents, in the tower of the old
South Church,” answered Grandfather. “Perhaps
the history of our chair was contained among these.
At all events, Samuel Adams appears to have been
well acquainted with it. When he became governor,
he felt that he could have no more honorable seat,
than that which had been the ancient Chair of State.
He therefore purchased it for a trifle, and filled it
worthily for three years, as governor of Massachusetts.”

“And what next?” asked Charley.

“That is all,” said Grandfather, heaving a sigh;
for he could not help being a little sad, at the thought
that his stories must close here. “Samuel Adams
died in 1803, at the age of above threescore and
ten. He was a great patriot but a poor man. At
his death, he left scarcely property enough to pay
the expenses of his funeral. This precious chair,
among his other effects, was sold at auction; and
your Grandfather, who was then in the strength of
his years, became the purchaser.”

Laurence, with a mind full of thoughts, that
struggled for expression, but could find none, looked
steadfastly at the chair.

He had now learned all its history, yet was not
satisfied.

“Oh, how I wish that the chair could speak!”
cried he. “After its long intercourse with mankind—after
looking upon the world for ages—what
lessons of golden wisdom it might utter! It might
teach a private person how to lead a good and happy
life—or a statesman how to make his country prosperous!”

Chapter XI

Grandfather was struck by Laurence’s idea, that
the historic chair should utter a voice, and thus pour
forth the collected wisdom of two centuries. The
old gentleman had once possessed no inconsiderable
share of fancy; and, even now, its fading sunshine
occasionally glimmered among his more sombre reflections.

As the history of the chair had exhausted all his
facts, Grandfather determined to have recourse to
fable. So, after warning the children that they must
not mistake this story for a true one, he related what
we shall call,—

Chapter I

When Edward Temple was about eight or nine
years old, he was afflicted with a disorder of the eyes.
It was so severe, and his sight was naturally so delicate,
that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest
the boy should become totally blind. He therefore
gave strict directions to keep him in a darkened
chamber, with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray
of the blessed light of Heaven could be suffered to
visit the poor lad.

This was a sad thing for Edward! It was just
the same as if there were to be no more sunshine,
nor moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire, nor light
of lamps. A night had begun which was to continue
perhaps for months,—a longer and drearier night
than that which voyagers are compelled to endure,
when their ship is ice-bound, throughout the winter,
in the Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother,
his brother George, and the sweet face of little Emily
Robinson, must all vanish, and leave him in utter
darkness and solitude. Their voices and footsteps,
it is true, would be heard around him; he would feel
his mother’s embrace, and the kind pressure of all
their hands; but still it would seem as if they were
a thousand miles away.

And then his studies! They were to be entirely
given up. This was another grievous trial; for Edward’s
memory hardly went back to the period when
he had not known how to read. Many and many a
holiday had he spent at his book, poring over its
pages until the deepening twilight confused the print,
and made all the letters run into long words. Then
would he press his hands across his eyes, and wonder
why they pained him so, and, when the candles
were lighted, what was the reason that they burned
so dimly, like the moon in a foggy night. Poor little
fellow! So far as his eyes were concerned, he
was already an old man, and needed a pair of spectacles
almost as much as his own grandfather did.

And now, alas! the time was come, when even
grandfather’s spectacles could not have assisted Edward
to read. After a few bitter tears, which only
pained his eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to
the surgeon’s orders. His eyes were bandaged, and,
with his mother on one side, and his little friend
Emily on the other, he was led into a darkened
chamber.

“Mother, I shall be very miserable,” said Edward,
sobbing.

“Oh, no, my dear child!” replied his mother,
cheerfully. “Your eyesight was a precious gift of
Heaven, it is true; but you would do wrong to be
miserable for its loss, even if there were no hope of
regaining it. There are other enjoyments, besides
what come to us through our eyes.”

“None that are worth having,” said Edward.

“Ah! but you will not think so long,” rejoined
Mrs. Temple, with tenderness. “All of us—your
father, and myself, and George, and our sweet Emily—will
try to find occupation and amusement for
you. We will use all our eyes to make you happy.
Will not they be better than a single pair?”

“I will sit by you all day long,” said Emily, in
her low, sweet voice, putting her hand into that of
Edward.

“And so will I, Ned,” said George, his elder
brother,—”school time and all, if my father will
permit me.”

Edward’s brother George was three or four years
older than himself, a fine, hardy lad, of a bold and
ardent temper. He was the leader of his comrades
in all their enterprises and amusements. As to his
proficiency at study, there was not much to be said.
He had sense and ability enough to have made himself
a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things
to do, that he seldom took hold of a book with his
whole heart. So fond was George of boisterous
sports and exercises, that it was really a great token
of affection and sympathy, when he offered to sit all
day long in a dark chamber, with his poor brother
Edward.

As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter
of one of Mr. Temple’s dearest friends. Ever since
her mother went to Heaven, (which was soon after
Emily’s birth,) the little girl had dwelt in the household
where we now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple
seemed to love her as well as their own children; for
they had no daughter except Emily; nor would the
boys have known the blessing of a sister, had not this
gentle stranger come to teach them what it was. If
I could show you Emily’s face, with her dark hair
smoothed away from her forehead, you would be
pleased with her look of simplicity and loving-kindness,
but might think that she was somewhat too
grave for a child of seven years old. But you would
not love her the less for that.

So brother George, and this loving little girl,
were to be Edward’s companions and playmates,
while he should be kept prisoner in the dark chamber.
When the first bitterness of his grief was
over, he began to feel that there might be some
comforts and enjoyments in life, even for a boy
whose eyes were covered with a bandage.

“I thank you, dear mother,” said he, with only
a few sobs, “and you, Emily; and you too, George.
You will all be very kind to me, I know. And my
father—will not he come and see me, every day?”

“Yes, my dear boy,” said Mr. Temple; for,
though invisible to Edward, he was standing close
beside him. “I will spend some hours of every day
with you. And as I have often amused you by relating
stories and adventures, while you had the use
of your eyes, I can do the same, now that you are
unable to read. Will this please you, Edward?”

“Oh, very much!” replied Edward.

“Well then,” said his father, “this evening we
will begin the series of Biographical Stories, which
I promised you some time ago.”

Chapter II

When evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward
considerably revived in spirits, and disposed to be resigned
to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure of the
boy, as it was dimly seen by the fire-light, reclining
in a well stuffed easy-chair, looked so very comfortable
that many people might have envied him.
When a man’s eyes have grown old with gazing at
the ways of the world, it does not seem such a terrible
misfortune to have them bandaged.

Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward’s side, with
the air of an accomplished nurse. As well as the
duskiness of the chamber would permit, she watched
all his motions, and each varying expression of his
face, and tried to anticipate her patient’s wishes, before
his tongue could utter them. Yet it was noticeable,
that the child manifested an indescribable awe
and disquietude, whenever she fixed her eyes on the
bandage; for to her simple and affectionate heart, it
seemed as if her dear friend Edward was separated
from her, because she could not see his eyes. A
friend’s eyes tell us many things, which could never
be spoken by the tongue.

George, likewise, looked awkward and confused,
as stout and healthy boys are accustomed to do, in
the society of the sick or afflicted. Never having
felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not
knowing how to sympathize with the sufferings of
others.

“Well, my dear Edward,” inquired Mrs. Temple,
“is your chair quite comfortable? and has your little
nurse provided for all your wants? If so, your
father is ready to begin his stories.”

“Oh, I am very well now,” answered Edward,
with a faint smile. “And my ears have not forsaken
me, though my eyes are good for nothing. So,
pray, dear father, begin!”

It was Mr. Temple’s design to tell the children a
series of true stories, the incidents of which should
be taken from the childhood and early life of eminent
people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward,
and Emily, into closer acquaintance with the
famous persons who have lived in other times, by
showing that they also had been children once. Although
Mr. Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing
but what was founded on fact, yet he felt himself at
liberty to clothe the incidents of his narrative in a
new coloring, so that his auditors might understand
them the better.

“My first story,” said he, “shall be about a
painter of pictures.”

“Dear me!” cried Edward, with a sigh. “I
am afraid I shall never look at pictures any more.”

“We will hope for the best,” answered his father.
“In the mean time, you must try to see things within
your own mind.”

Mr. Temple then began the following story: