CHAPTER I. A NEW-YEAR’S DAY.

Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer

THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR

or TRUE STORIES FROM NEW ENGLAND HISTORY, 1620-1808

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

CONTENTS.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

PART I.

I. GRANDFATHER AND THE CHILDREN AND THE CHAIR

II. THE PURITANS AND THE LADY ARBELLA

III. A RAINY DAY

IV. TROUBLOUS TIMES

V. THE GOVERNMENT OF NEW ENGLAND

VI. THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS

VII. THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS

VIII. THE INDIAN BIBLE

IX. ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND

X. THE SUNKEN TREASURE

XI. WHAT THE CHAIR HAD KNOWN

APPENDIX. EXTRACTS FROM THE LIFE OF JOHN ELIOT

PART II.

I. THE CHAIR IN THE FIRELIGHT

II. THE SALEM WITCHES

III. THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL

IV. COTTON MATHER

V. THE REJECTED BLESSING

VI. POMPS AND VANITIES

VII. THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER

VIII. THE OLD FRENCH WAR AND THE ACADIAN EXILES.

IX. THE END OF THE WAR

X. THOMAS HUTCHINSON

APPENDIX. ACCOUNT OF THE DEPORTATION OF THE ACADIANS

PART III.

I. A NEW YEAR’S DAY

II. THE STAMP ACT

III. THE HUTCHINSON MOB

IV. THE BRITISH TROOPS IN BOSTON

V. THE BOSTON MASSACRE

VI. A COLLECTION OF PORTRAITS

VII. THE TEA PARTY AND LEXINGTON

VIII. THE SIEGE OF BOSTON

IX. THE TORY’S FAREWELL

X. THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE

XI. GRANDFATHER’S DREAM

APPENDIX. A LETTER FROM GOVERNOR HUTCHINSON

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

IN writing this ponderous tome, the author’s desire has been to describe

the eminent characters and remarkable events of our annals in such a

form and style that the YOUNG may make acquaintance with them of their

own accord. For this purpose, while ostensibly relating the adventures

of a chair, he has endeavored to keep a distinct and unbroken thread

of authentic history. The chair is made to pass from one to another

of those personages of whom he thought it most desirable for the young

reader to have vivid and familiar ideas, and whose lives and actions

would best enable him to give picturesque sketches of the times. On its

sturdy oaken legs it trudges diligently from one scene to another, and

seems always to thrust itself in the way, with most benign complacency,

whenever an historical personage happens to be looking round for a seat.

There is certainly no method by which the shadowy outlines of departed

men and women can be made to assume the hues of life more effectually

than by connecting their images with the substantial and homely reality

of a fireside chair. It causes us to feel at once that these characters

of history had a private and familiar existence, and were not wholly

contained within that cold array of outward action which we are

compelled to receive as the adequate representation of their lives. If

this impression can be given, much is accomplished.

Setting aside Grandfather and his auditors, and excepting the adventures

of the chair, which form the machinery of the work, nothing in the

ensuing pages can be termed fictitious. The author, it is true, has

sometimes assumed the license of filling up the outline of history with

details for which he has none but imaginative authority, but which,

he hopes, do not violate nor give a false coloring to the truth. He

believes that, in this respect, his narrative will not be found to

convey ideas and impressions of which the reader may hereafter find it

necessary to purge his mind.

The author’s great doubt is, whether he has succeeded in writing a book

which will be readable by the class for whom he intends it. To make a

lively and entertaining narrative for children, with such unmalleable

material as is presented by the sombre, stern, and rigid characteristics

of the Puritans and their descendants, is quite as difficult an attempt

as to manufacture delicate playthings out of the granite, rocks on which

New England is founded.

GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR.

PART I. 1620-1692.

CHAPTER I. GRANDFATHER AND THE CHILDREN AND THE CHAIR.

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;”

hut 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 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. Sire 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 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 tip-top 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 anything. 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 about the history

and distinguished people of his country which he has never read in any

of his schoolbooks.”

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 happened long ago.

CHAPTER II. THE PURITANS AND THE LADY ARBELLA.

BUT before relating the adventures of the chairs found it necessary to

speak of 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, {Foot Note: It is more precise

to give the name of Pilgrims to those Englishmen who went to Holland and

afterward to Plymouth. They were sometimes called Separatists because

they separated themselves from the church of England, sometimes

Brownists after the name of one of their eminent ministers. The Puritans

formed a great political as well as religious party in England, and

did not at first separate themselves from the church of England, though

those who came to this country did so at once.} as those persons were

called who thought it sinful to practise certain religious forms and

ceremonies of the Church of England. These Puritans suffered so much

persecuted 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

England, 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 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 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 bead, to commence a plantation at Salem. {Foot Note: The Puritans

had a liking for Biblical names for their children, and they sometimes

gave names out of the Bible to places, Salem means Peace. The Indian

name was Naumkeag.} 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.”

“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 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 the Lady Arbella.

The ship in which Mr. Johnson and his lady embarked, taking

Grandfather’s chair along with them, was called the Arbella, in honor

of the lady herself. A fleet of ten or twelve vessels, with many hundred

passengers, left England about the same time; for a multitude of people,

who were discontented with the king’s government and oppressed by the

bishops, were flocking over to the New World. One of the vessels in the

fleet was that same Mayflower which had carried the Puritan Pilgrims to

Plymouth. And now, my children, I would have you fancy yourselves in

the cabin of the good ship Arbella; because, if you could behold the

passengers aboard that vessel, you would feel what a blessing and honor

it was for New England to have such settlers. They were the best men and

women of their day.

Among the passengers was John Winthrop, who had sold the estate of

his forefathers, and was going to prepare a new home for his wife and

children in the wilderness. He had the king’s charter in his keeping,

and was appointed the first governor of Massachusetts. Imagine him a

person of grave and benevolent aspect, dressed in a black velvet suit,

with a broad ruff around his neck, and a peaked beard upon his chin.

{Foot Note: There is a statue representing John Winthrop in Scollay

Square in Boston. He holds the charter in his hand, and a Bible is under

his arm.} There was likewise a minister of the gospel whom the English

bishops had forbidden to preach, but who knew that he should have

liberty both to preach and pray in the forests of America. He wore a

black cloak, called a Geneva cloak, and had a black velvet cap,

fitting close to his head, as was the fashion of almost all the Puritan

clergymen. In their company came Sir Richard Saltonstall, who had been

one of the five first projectors of the new colony. He soon returned to

his native country. But his descendants still remain in New England; and

the good old family name is as much respected in our days as it was in

those of Sir Richard.

Not only these, but several other men of wealth and pious ministers were

in the cabin of the Arbella. One had banished himself forever from the

old hall where his ancestors had lived for hundreds of years. Another

had left his quiet parsonage, in a country town of England. Others had

come from the Universities of Oxford or Cambridge, where they had gained

great fame for their learning. And here they all were, tossing upon

the uncertain and dangerous sea, and bound for a home that was more

dangerous than even the sea itself. In the cabin, likewise, sat the Lady

Arbella in her chair, with a gentle and sweet expression on her

face, but looking too pale and feeble to endure the hardships of the

wilderness.

Every morning and evening the Lady Arbella gave up her great chair to

one of the ministers, who took his place in it and read passages

from the Bible to his companions. And thus, with prayers, and pious

conversation, and frequent singing of hymns, which the breezes caught

from their lips and scattered far over the desolate waves, they

prosecuted their voyage, and sailed into the harbor of Salem in the

month of June.

At that period there were but six or eight dwellings in the town; and

these were miserable hovels, with roofs of straw and wooden chimneys.

The passengers in the fleet either built huts with bark and branches of

trees, or erected tents of cloth till they could provide themselves with

better shelter. Many of them went to form a settlement at Charlestown.

It was thought fit that the Lady Arbella should tarry in Salem for

a time; she was probably received as a guest into the family of John

Endicott. He was the chief person in the plantation, and had the only

comfortable house which the new-comers had beheld since they left

England. So now, children, you must imagine Grandfather’s chair in the

midst of a new scene.

Suppose it a hot summer’s day, and the lattice-windows of a chamber in

Mr. Endicott’s house thrown wide open. The Lady Arbella, looking

paler than she did on shipboard, is sitting in her chair, and thinking

mournfully of far-off England. She rises and goes to the window. There,

amid patches Of garden ground and cornfield, she sees the few wretched

hovels of the settlers, with the still ruder wigwams and cloth tents of

the passengers who had arrived in the same fleet with herself. Far and

near stretches the dismal forest of pine-trees, which throw their black

shadows over the whole land, and likewise over the heart of this poor

lady.

All the inhabitants of the little village are busy. One is clearing a

spot on the verge of the forest for his homestead; another is hewing

the trunk of a fallen pine-tree, in order to build himself a dwelling;

a third is hoeing in his field of Indian corn. Here comes a huntsman

out of the woods, dragging a bear which he has shot, and shouting to the

neighbors to lend him a hand. There goes a man to the sea-shore, with

a spade and a bucket, to dig a mess of clams, which were a principal

article of food with the first settlers. Scattered here and there are

two or three dusky figures, clad in mantles of fur, with ornaments of

bone hanging from their ears, and the feathers of wild birds in their

coal-black hair. They have belts of shellwork slung across their

shoulders, and are armed with bows and arrows, and flint-headed spears.

These are an Indian sagamore and his attendants, who have come to gaze

at the labors of the white men. And now rises a cry that a pack of

wolves have seized a young calf in the pasture; and every man snatches

up his gun or pike and runs in chase of the marauding beasts.

Poor Lady Arbella watches all these sights, and feels that this New

World is fit only for rough and hardy people. None should be here but

those who can struggle with wild beasts and wild men, and can toil

in the heat or cold, and can keep their hearts firm against all

difficulties and dangers. But she is not of these. Her gentle and timid

spirit sinks within her; and, turning away from the window, she sits

down in the great chair and wonders whereabouts in the wilderness her

friends will dig her grave.

Mr. Johnson had gone, with Governor Winthrop and most of the other

passengers, to Boston, where he intended to build a house for Lady

Arbella and himself. Boston was then covered with wild woods, and had

fewer inhabitants, even, than Salem. During her husband’s absence, poor

Lady Arbella felt herself growing ill, and was hardly able to stir

from the great chair. Whenever John Endicott noticed her despondency he

doubtless addressed her with words of comfort. “Cheer up, my good lady!”

he would say.

“In a little time you will love this rude life of the wilderness as I

do.” But Endicott’s heart was as bold and resolute as iron, and he could

not understand why a woman’s heart should not be of iron too.

Still, however, he spoke kindly to the lady, and then hastened forth

to till his cornfield and set out fruit-trees, or to bargain with the

Indians for furs, or perchance to oversee the building of a fort. Also,

being a magistrate, he had often to punish some idler or evil doer, by

ordering him to be set in the stocks or scourged at the whipping-post.

Often, too, as was the custom of the times, he and Mr. Higginson,

the minister of Salem, held long religious talks together. Thus John

Endicott was a man of multifarious business, and had no time to look

back regretfully to his native land. He felt himself fit for the New

World and for the work that he had to do, and set himself resolutely to

accomplish it.

What a contrast, my dear children, between this bold, rough, active man,

and the gentle Lady Arbella, who was fading away, like a pale English

flower, in the shadow of the forest! And now the great chair was often

empty, because Lady Arbella grew too weak to arise from bed.

Meantime, her husband had pitched upon a spot for their new home. He

returned from Boston to Salem, travelling through the woods on foot, and

leaning on his pilgrim’s staff. His heart yearned within him; for he was

eager to tell his wife of the new home which he had chosen. But when he

beheld her pale and hollow cheek, and found how her strength was wasted,

he must have known that her appointed home was in a better land. Happy

for him then--happy both for him and her--if they remembered that there

was a path to heaven, as well from this heathen wilderness as from the

Christian land whence they had come. And so, in one short month from her

arrival, the gentle Lady Arbella faded away and died. They dug a grave

for her in the new soil, where the roots of the pine-trees impeded their

spades; and when her bones had rested there nearly two hundred years,

and a city had sprung up around them, a church of stone was built upon

the spot.

Charley, almost at the commencement of the foregoing narrative, had

galloped away, with a prodigious clatter, upon Grandfather’s stick, and

was not yet returned. So large a boy should have been ashamed to ride

upon a stick. But Laurence and Clara had listened attentively, and were

affected by this true story of the gentle lady who had come so far to

die so soon. Grandfather had supposed that little Alice was asleep; but

towards the close of the story, happening to look down upon her, he saw

that her blue eyes were wide open, and fixed earnestly upon his face.

The tears had gathered in them, like dew upon a delicate flower; but

when Grandfather ceased to speak, the sunshine of her smile broke forth

again.

“Oh, the lady must have been so glad to get to heaven!” exclaimed little

Alice. “Grandfather, what became of Mr. Johnson?” asked Clara.

“His heart appears to have been quite broken,” answered Grandfather;

“for he died at Boston within a month after the death of his wife. He

was buried in the very same tract of ground where he had intended to

build a dwelling for Lady Arbella and himself. Where their house would

have stood, there was his grave.”

“I never heard anything so melancholy,” said Clara.

“The people loved and respected Mr. Johnson so much,” continued

Grandfather, “that it was the last request of many of them, when they

died, that they might be buried as near as possible to this good man’s

grave. And so the field became the first burial ground in Boston. When

you pass through Tremont Street, along by King’s Chapel, you see a

burial-ground, containing many old grave-stones and monuments. That was

Mr. Johnson’s field.”

“How sad is the thought,” observed Clara, “that one of the first things

which the settlers had to do, when they came to the New World, was to

set apart a burial-ground!”

“Perhaps,” said Laurence, “if they had found no need of burial-grounds

here, they would have been glad, after a few years, to go back to

England.”

Grandfather looked at Laurence, to discover whether he knew how profound

and true a thing he had said.

CHAPTER III. A RAINY DAY.

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-ease,

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 footstool, 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.

Charley was too big a boy, of course, to care anything 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,

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 pitch-pine 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.

CHAPTER IV. TROUBLOUS TIMES.

“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 anybody believe so in our days, Grandfather?” asked Lawrence.

“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.”

“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 has 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 Lawrence, “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 1687. 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 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

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 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 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 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 GOVERNMENT OF NEW ENGLAND.

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 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 anything,

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 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

councillors 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 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 councillors, and the representatives. The people of Old England

had never enjoyed anything 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, for mutual defence against their enemies. They called

themselves the United Colonies of New England.”

“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 Acadia, 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, 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 sidewise 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. THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS.

“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 I 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 the Pine-tree Shillings.

The Captain John Hull aforesaid was the mint-master of Massachusetts,

and coined all the money that was made there. This was a new line of

business, for, in the earlier days of the colony, the current coinage

consisted of gold and silver money of England, Portugal, and Spain.

These coins being scarce, the people were often forced to barter their

commodities instead of selling them.

For instance, if a man wanted to buy a coat, he perhaps exchanged

a bear-skin for it. If he wished for a barrel of molasses, he might

purchase it with a pile of pine boards. Musket-bullets were used instead

of farthings. The Indians had a sort of money, called wampum, which was

made of clam-shells; and this strange sort of specie was likewise taken

in payment of debts by the English settlers. Bank-bills had never been

heard of. There was not money enough of any kind, in many parts of the

country, to pay the salaries of the ministers; so that they sometimes

had to take quintals of fish, bushels of corn, or cords of wood, instead

of silver or gold.

As the people grew more numerous, and their trade one with another

increased, the want of current money was still more sensibly felt. To

supply the demand, the General Court passed a law for establishing a

coinage of shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Captain John Hull was

appointed to manufacture this money, and was to have about one shilling

out of every twenty to pay him for the trouble of making them.

Hereupon all the old silver in the colony was handed over to Captain

John Hull. The battered silver cans and tankards, I suppose, and silver

buckles, and broken spoons, and silver buttons of worn-out coats, and

silver hilts of swords that had figured at court,--all such curious old

articles were doubtless thrown into the melting-pot together. But by far

the greater part of the silver consisted of bullion from the mines of

South America, which the English buccaneers--who were little better than

pirates--had taken from the Spaniards and brought to Massachusetts.

All this old and new silver being melted down and coined, the result

was an immense amount of splendid shillings, sixpences, and threepences.

Each had the date, 1652, on the one side, and the figure of a pine-tree

on the other. Hence they were called pine-tree shillings. And for every

twenty shillings that he coined, you will remember, Captain John Hull

was entitled to put one shilling into his own pocket.

The magistrates soon began to suspect that the mint master would have

the best of the bargain. They offered him a large sum of money if he

would but give up that twentieth shilling which he was continually

dropping into his own pocket. But Captain Hull declared himself

perfectly satisfied with the shilling. And well he might be; for

so diligently did he labor, that, in a few years, his pockets,

his money-bags, and his strong box were overflowing with pine-tree

shillings. This was probably the case when he came into possession of

Grandfather’s chair; and, as he had worked so hard at the mint, it was

certainly proper that he should have a comfortable chair to rest him

self in.

When the mint-master had grown very rich, a young man, Samuel Sewall by

name, came a-courting to his only daughter. His daughter--whose name I

do not know, but we will call her Betsey--was a fine, hearty damsel,

by no means so slender as some young ladies of our own days. On the

contrary, having always fed heartily on pumpkin-pies, doughnuts, Indian

puddings, and other Puritan dainties, she was as round and plump as a

pudding herself. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey did Samuel Sewall

fall in love. As he was a young man of good character, industrious in

his business, and a member of the church, the mint-master very readily

gave his consent.

“Yes, you may take her,” said he, in his rough way, “and you’ll find her

a heavy burden enough!”

On the wedding day, we may suppose that honest John Hull dressed himself

in a plum-colored coat, all the buttons of which were made of pine-tree

shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were sixpences; and the knees of

his small-clothes were buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired,

he sat with great dignity in Grandfather’s chair; and, being a portly

old gentleman, he completely filled it from elbow to elbow. On the

opposite side of the room, between her bride-maids, sat Miss Betsey. She

was blushing with all her might, and looked like a full-blown peony, or

a great red apple.

There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine purple coat and

gold-lace waistcoat, with as much other finery as the Puritan laws and

customs would allow him to put on. His hair was cropped close to his

head, because Governor Endicott had forbidden any man to wear it below

the ears. But he was a very personable young man; and so thought the

bridemaids and Miss Betsey herself.

The mint-master also was pleased with his new Son-in-law; especially as

he had courted Miss Betsey out of pure love, and had said nothing at all

about her portion. So, when the marriage ceremony was over, Captain Hull

whispered a word to two of his men-servants, who immediately went out,

and soon returned, lugging in a large pair of scales. They were such

a pair as wholesale merchants use for weighing bulky commodities; and

quite a bulky commodity was now to be weighed in them.

“Daughter Betsey,” said the mint-master, “get into one side of these

scales.”

Miss Betsey--or Mrs. Sewall, as we must now call her--did as she

was bid, like a dutiful child, without any question of the why and

wherefore. But what her father could mean, unless to make her husband

pay for her by the pound (in which case she would have been a dear

bargain), she had not the least idea.

“And now,” said honest John Hull to the servants “bring that box

hither.”

The box to which the mint-master pointed was a huge, square, iron-bound,

oaken chest; it was big enough, my children, for all four of you to play

at hide-and-seek in. The servants tugged with might and main, but could

not lift this enormous receptacle, and were finally obliged to drag it

across the floor. Captain Hull then took a key from his girdle, unlocked

the chest, and lifted its ponderous lid. Behold! it was full to the brim

of bright pine-tree shillings, fresh from the mint; and Samuel Sewall

began to think that his father-in-law had got possession of all the

money in the Massachusetts treasury. But it was only the mint-master’s

honest share of the coinage.

Then the servants, at Captain Hull’s command, heaped double handfuls

of shillings into one side of the scales, while Betsey remained in the

other. Jingle, jingle, went the shillings, as handful after handful was

thrown in, till, plump and ponderous as she was, they fairly weighed the

young lady from the floor.

“There, son Sewall!” cried the honest mint-master, resuming his seat in

Grandfather’s chair, “take these shillings for my daughter’s portion.

Use her kindly, and thank Heaven for her. It is not every wife that’s

worth her weight in silver!”

The children laughed heartily at this legend, and would hardly be

convinced but that Grandfather had made it out of his own head. He

assured them faithfully, however, that he had found it in the pages of

a grave historian, and had merely tried to tell it in a somewhat funnier

style. As for Samuel Sewall, he afterwards became chief justice of

Massachusetts.

“Well, Grandfather,” remarked Clara, “if wedding portions nowadays were

paid as Miss Betsey’s was, young ladies would not pride themselves upon

an airy figure, as many of them do.”

CHAPTER VII. THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS.

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 tender mercies of wild

beasts and Indians. The children were amazed hear that the more the

Quakers were scourged, and imprisoned, and banished, the more did the

sect increase, both by the influx of strangers 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 naught.

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, clinching 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 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 II. 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 the 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 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 cornfields

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 small-pox 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,

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 burned 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 Christian 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

almost as much expectation of civilizing the 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 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 Bible!” exclaimed

Laurence. “I have seen it in the library of the Athenaeum; and the tears

came into my eyes to think that there were no Indians left to read it.”

CHAPTER VIII. THE INDIAN BIBLE.

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 the Indian Bible.

My dear children, what a task would you think it, even with a long

lifetime before you, were you bidden to copy every chapter, and verse,

and word, in yonder family Bible! Would not this be a heavy toil? But

if the task were, not to write off the English Bible, but to learn a

language utterly unlike all other tongues, a language which hitherto

had never been learned, except by the Indians themselves, from their

mothers’ lips,--a language never written, and the strange words of which

seemed inexpressible by letters,--if the task were, first to learn this

new variety of speech, and then to translate the Bible into it, and to

do it so carefully that not one idea throughout the holy book should

be changed,--what would induce you to undertake this toil? Yet this was

what the apostle Eliot did.

It was a mighty work for a man, now growing old, to take upon himself.

And what earthly reward could he expect from it? None; no reward on

earth. But he believed that the red men were the descendants of those

lost tribes of Israel of whom history has been able to tell us nothing

for thousands of years. He hoped that God had sent the English across

the ocean, Gentiles as they were, to enlighten this benighted portion of

his once chosen race. And when he should be summoned hence, he trusted

to meet blessed spirits in another world, whose bliss would have been

earned by his patient toil in translating the word of God. This hope and

trust were far dearer to him than anything that earth could offer.

Sometimes, while thus at work, he was visited by learned men, who

desired to know what literary undertaking Mr. Eliot had in hand. They,

like himself, had been bred in the studious cloisters of a university,

and were supposed to possess all the erudition which mankind has hoarded

up from age to age. Greek and Latin were as familiar to them as the

bab-ble of their childhood. Hebrew was like their mother tongue. They

had grown gray in study; their eyes were bleared with poring over print

and manuscript by the light of the midnight lamp.

And yet, how much had they left unlearned! Mr. Eliot would put into

their hands some of the pages which he had been writing; and behold! the

gray-headed men stammered over the long, strange words, like a little

child in his first attempts to read. Then would the apostle call to him

an Indian boy, one of his scholars, and show him the manuscript which

had so puzzled the learned Englishmen.

“Read this, my child,” would he say; “these are some brethren of mine,

who would fain hear the sound of thy native tongue.”

Then would the Indian boy cast his eyes over the mysterious page, and

read it so skilfully that it sounded like wild music. It seemed as if

the forest leaves were singing in the ears of his auditors, and as the

roar of distant streams were poured through the young Indian’s voice.

Such were the sounds amid which the language of the red man had been

formed; and they were still heard to echo in it.

The lesson being over, Mr. Eliot would give the Indian boy an apple or

a cake, and bid him leap forth into the open air which his free nature

loved. The Apostle was kind to children, and even shared in their sports

sometimes. And when his visitors had bidden him farewell, the good man

turned patiently to his toil again.

No other Englishman had ever understood the Indian character so well,

nor possessed so great an influence over the New England tribes, as the

apostle did. His advice and assistance must often have been valuable

to his countrymen in their transactions with the Indians. Occasionally,

perhaps, the governor and some of the councillors came to visit Mr.

Eliot. Perchance they were seeking some method to circumvent the forest

people. They inquired, it may be, how they could obtain possession of

such and such a tract of their rich land. Or they talked of making

the Indians their servants; as if God had destined them for perpetual

bondage to the more powerful white man.

Perhaps, too, some warlike captain, dressed in his buff coat, with a

corselet beneath it, accompanied the governor and councillors. Laying

his hand upon his sword hilt, he would declare that the only method of

dealing with the red men was to meet them with the sword drawn and the

musket presented.

But the apostle resisted both the craft of the politician and the

fierceness of the warrior.

“Treat these sons of the forest as men and brethren,” he would say;

“and let us endeavor to make them Christians. Their forefathers were of

that chosen race whom God delivered from Egyptian bondage. Perchance he

has destined us to deliver the children from the more cruel bondage

of ignorance and idolatry. Chiefly for this end, it may be, we were

directed across the ocean.”

When these other visitors were gone, Mr. Eliot bent himself again over

the half-written page. He dared hardly relax a moment from his toil. He

felt that, in the book which he was translating, there was a deep human

as well as heavenly wisdom, which would of itself suffice to civilize

and refine the savage tribes. Let the Bible be diffused among them, and

all earthly good would follow. But how slight a consideration was

this, when he reflected that the eternal welfare of a whole race of men

depended upon his accomplishment of the task which he had set himself!

What if his hands should be palsied? What if his mind should lose its

vigor? What if death should come upon him ere the work were done? Then

must the red man wander in the dark wilderness of heathenism forever.

Impelled by such thoughts as these, he sat writing in the great chair

when the pleasant summer breeze came in through his open casement; and

also when the fire of forest logs sent up its blaze and smoke, through

the broad stone chimney, into the wintry air. Before the earliest bird

sang in the morning the apostle’s lamp was kindled; and, at midnight,

his weary head was not yet upon its pillow. And at length, leaning back

in the great chair, he could say to himself, with a holy triumph, “The

work is finished!”

It was finished. Here was a Bible for the Indians. Those long-lost

descendants of the ten tribes of Israel would now learn the history of

their forefathers. That grace which the ancient Israelites had forfeited

was offered anew to their children.

There is no impiety in believing that, when his long life was over,

the apostle of the Indians was welcomed to the celestial abodes by the

prophets of ancient days and by those earliest apostles and evangelists

who had drawn their inspiration from the immediate presence of the

Saviour. They first had preached truth and salvation to the world.

And Eliot, separated from them by many centuries, yet full of the same

spirit, has borne the like message to the New World of the west. Since

the first days of Christianity, there has been no man more worthy to be

numbered in the brotherhood of the apostles than Eliot.

“My heart is not satisfied to think,” observed Laurence, “that Mr.

Eliot’s labors have done no good except to a few Indians of his own

time. Doubtless he would not have regretted his toil, if it were the

means of saving but a single soul. But it is a grievous thing to me

that he should have toiled so hard to translate the Bible, and now the

language and the people are gone! The Indian Bible itself is almost the

only relic of both.”

“Laurence,” said his Grandfather, “if ever you should doubt that man is

capable of disinterested zeal for his brother’s good, then remember how

the apostle Eliot toiled. And if you should feel your own self-interest

pressing upon your heart too closely, then think of Eliot’s Indian

Bible. It is good for the world that such a man has lived and left this

emblem of his life.”

The tears gushed into the eyes of Laurence, and he acknowledged

that Eliot had not toiled in vain. Little Alice put up her arms to

Grandfather, and drew down his white head beside her own golden locks.

“Grandfather,” whispered she, “I want to kiss good Mr. Eliot!”

And, doubtless, good Mr. Eliot would gladly receive the kiss of so sweet

a child as little Alice, and would think it a portion of his reward in

heaven.

Grandfather now observed that Dr. Francis had written a very beautiful

Life of Eliot, which he advised Laurence to peruse. He then spoke of

King Philip’s War, which began in 1675, and terminated with the death of

King Philip, in the following year. Philip was a proud, fierce Indian,

whom Mr. Eliot had vainly endeavored to convert to the Christian faith.

“It must have been a great anguish to the apostle,” continued

Grandfather, “to hear of mutual slaughter and outrage between his own

countrymen and those for whom he felt the affection of a father. A few

of the praying Indians joined the followers of King Philip. A greater

number fought on the side of the English. In the course of the war the

little community of red people whom Mr. Eliot had begun to civilize was

scattered, and probably never was restored to a flourishing condition.

But his zeal did not grow cold; and only about five years before his

death he took great pains in preparing a new edition of the Indian

Bible.”

“I do wish, Grandfather,” cried Charley, “you would tell us all about

the battles in King Philip’s War.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Clara. “Who wants to hear about tomahawks and

scalping knives?”

“No, Charley,” replied Grandfather, “I have no time to spare in

talking about battles. You must be content with knowing that it was the

bloodiest war that the Indians had ever waged against the white men; and

that, at its close, the English set King Philip’s head upon a pole.”

“Who was the captain of the English?” asked Charley.

“Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church, a very famous warrior,”

said Grandfather. “But I assure you, Charley, that neither Captain

Church, nor any of the officers and soldiers who fought in King Philip’s

War, did anything a thousandth part so glorious as Mr. Eliot did when he

translated the Bible for the Indians.”

“Let Laurence be the apostle,” said Charley to himself, “and I will be

the captain.”

CHAPTER IX. ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND.

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 anything 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 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 II. 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 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 II., 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 known to

be of an arbitrary temper. It was feared by the Puritans that he would

assume despotic power. 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.

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 councillors 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 Orange was proclaimed king, by the

name of William III. 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, was

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 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 II. 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 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. THE SUNKEN TREASURE.

“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 the sunken

treasure.

Picture to yourselves, my dear children, a handsome, old-fashioned

room, with a large, open cupboard at one end, in which is displayed

a magnificent gold cup, with some other splendid articles of gold

and silver plate. In another part of the room, opposite to a tall

looking-glass, stands our beloved chair, newly polished, and adorned

with a gorgeous cushion of crimson velvet tufted with gold.

In the chair sits a man of strong and sturdy frame, whose face has been

roughened by northern tempests and blackened by the burning sun of

the West Indies. He wears an immense periwig, flowing down over his

shoulders. His coat has a wide embroidery of golden foliage; and his

waistcoat, likewise, is all flowered over and bedizened with gold. His

red, rough hands, which have done many a good day’s work with the hammer

and adze, are half covered by the delicate lace ruffles at his wrists.

On a table lies his silver-hilted sword; and in a corner of the room

stands his gold-headed cane, made of a beautifully polished West India

wood.

Somewhat such an aspect as this did Sir William Phips present when he

sat in Grandfather’s chair after the king had appointed him governor

of Massachusetts. Truly there was need that the old chair should be

varnished and decorated with a crimson cushion, in order to make it

suitable for such a magnificent-looking personage.

But Sir William Phips had not always worn a gold-embroidered coat, nor

always sat so much at his ease as he did in Grandfather’s chair. He was

a poor man’s son, and was born in the province of Maine, where he used

to tend sheep upon the hills in his boyhood and youth. Until he had

grown to be a man, he did not even know how to read and write. Tired

of tending sheep, he next apprenticed himself to a ship-carpenter, and

spent about four years in hewing the crooked limbs of oak-trees into

knees for vessels.

In 1673, when he was twenty-two years old, he came to Boston, and soon

afterwards was married to a widow lady, who had property enough to set

him up in business. It was not long, however, before he lost all the

money that he had acquired by his marriage, and became a poor man again.

Still he was not discouraged. He often told his wife that, some time or

other, he should be very rich, and would build a “fair brick house” in

the Green Lane of Boston.

Do not suppose, children, that he had been to a fortune-teller to

inquire his destiny. It was his own energy and spirit of enterprise, and

his resolution to lead an industrious life, that made him look forward

with so much confidence to better days.

Several years passed away, and William Phips had not yet gained the

riches which he promised to himself. During this time he had begun to

follow the sea for a living. In the year 1684 he happened to hear of a

Spanish ship which had been cast away near the Bahama Islands, and which

was supposed to contain a great deal of gold and silver. Phips went to

the place in a small vessel, hoping that he should be able to recover

some of the treasure from the wreck. He did not succeed, however, in

fishing up gold and silver enough to pay the expenses of his voyage.

But, before he returned, he was told of another Spanish ship, or

galleon, which had been east away near Porto de la Plata. She had now

lain as much as fifty years beneath the waves. This old ship had been

laden with immense wealth; and, hitherto, nobody had thought of the

possibility of recovering any part of it from the deep sea which was

rolling and tossing it about. But though it was now an old story, and

the most aged people had almost forgotten that such a vessel had been

wrecked, William Phips resolved that the sunken treasure should again be

brought to light.

He went to London and obtained admittance to King James, who had not yet

been driven from his throne. He told the king of the vast wealth that

was lying at the bottom of the sea. King James listened with attention,

and thought this a fine opportunity to fill his treasury with Spanish

gold. He appointed William Phips to be captain of a vessel, called the

Rose Algier, carrying eighteen guns and ninety-five men. So now he was

Captain Phips of the English navy.

Captain Phips sailed from England in the Rose Algier, and cruised for

nearly two years in the West Indies, endeavoring to find the wreck of

the Spanish ship. But the sea is so wide and deep that it is no easy

matter to discover the exact spot where a sunken vessel lies. The

prospect of success seemed very small; and most people would have

thought that Captain Phips was as far from having money enough to build

a “fair brick house” as he was while he tended sheep.

The seamen of the Rose Algier became discouraged, and gave up all hope

of making their fortunes by discovering the Spanish wreck. They

wanted to compel Captain Phips to turn pirate. There was a much better

prospect, they thought, of growing rich by plundering vessels which

still sailed in the sea than by seeking for a ship that had lain beneath

the waves full half a century. They broke out in open mutiny; but were

finally mastered by Phips, and compelled to obey his orders. It would

have been dangerous, however, to continue much longer at sea with such

a crew of mutinous sailors; and, besides, the Rose Algier was leaky and

unseaworthy. So Captain Phips judged it best to return to England.

Before leaving the West Indies, he met with a Spaniard, an old man, who

remembered the wreck of the Spanish ship, and gave him directions how to

find the very spot. It was on a reef of rocks, a few leagues from Porto

de la Plata.

On his arrival in England, therefore, Captain Phips solicited the king

to let him have another vessel and send him back again to the West

Indies. But King James, who had probably expected that the Rose Algier

would return laden with gold, refused to have anything more to do with

the affair. Phips might never have been able to renew the search if the

Duke of Albemarle and some other noblemen had not lent their assistance.

They fitted out a ship, and gave the command to Captain Phips. He sailed

from England, and arrived safely at Porto de la Plata, where he took an

adze and assisted his men to build a large boat.

The boat was intended for the purpose of going closer to the reef of

rocks than a large vessel could safely venture. When it was finished,

the captain sent several men in it to examine the spot where the Spanish

ship was said to have been wrecked. They were accompanied by some

Indians, who were skilful divers, and could go down a great way into the

depths of the sea.

The boat’s crew proceeded to the reef of rocks, and rowed round and

round it a great many times. They gazed down into the water, which was

so transparent that it seemed as if they could have seen the gold and

silver at the bottom, had there been any of those precious metals there.

Nothing, however, could they see, nothing more valuable than a curious

sea shrub, which was growing beneath the water, in a crevice of the reef

of rocks. It flaunted to and fro with the swell and reflux of the waves,

and looked as bright and beautiful as if its leaves were gold.

“We won’t go back empty-handed,” cried an English sailor; and then he

spoke to one of the Indian divers. “Dive down and bring me that pretty

sea shrub there. That’s the only treasure we shall find.”

Down plunged the diver, and soon rose dripping from the water, holding

the sea shrub in his hand. But he had learned some news at the bottom of

the sea.

“There are some ship’s guns,” said he, the moment he had drawn breath,

“some great cannon, among the rocks, near where the shrub was growing.”

No sooner had he spoken than the English sailors knew that they had

found the very spot where the Spanish galleon had been wrecked, so

many years before. The other Indian divers immediately plunged over the

boat’s side and swam headlong down, groping among the rocks and sunken

cannon. In a few moments one of them rose above the water with a heavy

lump of silver in his arms. The single lump was worth more than a

thousand dollars. The sailors took it into the boat, and then rowed back

as speedily as they could, being in haste to inform Captain Phips of

their good luck.

But, confidently as the captain had hoped to find the Spanish wreck,

yet, now that it was really found, the news seemed too good to be true.

He could not believe it till the sailors showed him the lump of silver.

“Thanks be to God!” then cries Captain Phips “We shall every man of us

make our fortunes!”

Hereupon the captain and all the crew set to work, with iron rakes and

great hooks and lines, fishing for gold and silver at the bottom of the

sea. Up came the treasure in abundance. Now they beheld a table of solid

silver, once the property of an old Spanish grandee. Now they found a

sacramental vessel, which had been destined as a gift to some Catholic

church. Now they drew up a golden cup, fit for the King of Spain to

drink his wine out of. Perhaps the bony hand of its former owner had

been grasping the precious cup, and was drawn up along with it. Now

their rakes or fishing-lines were loaded with masses of silver bullion.

There were also precious stones among the treasure, glittering and

sparkling, so that it is a wonder how their radiance could have been

concealed.

There is something sad and terrible in the idea of snatching all this

wealth from the devouring ocean, which had possessed it for such a

length of years. It seems as if men had no right to make themselves rich

with it. It ought to have been left with the skeletons of the ancient

Spaniards, who had been drowned when the ship was wrecked, and whose

bones were now scattered among the gold and silver.

But Captain Phips and his crew were troubled with no such thoughts as

these. After a day or two they lighted on another part of the wreck,

where they found a great many bags of silver dollars. But nobody could

have guessed that these were money-bags. By remaining so long in the

salt water, they had become covered over with a crust which had the

appearance of stone, so that it was necessary to break them in pieces

with hammers and axes. When this was done, a stream of silver dollars

gushed out upon the deck of the vessel.

The whole value of the recovered treasure, plate, bullion, precious

stones, and all, was estimated at more than two millions of dollars.

It was dangerous even to look at such a vast amount of wealth. A

sea-captain, who had assisted Phips in the enterprise, utterly lost his

reason at the sight of it. He died two years afterwards, still raving

about the treasures that lie at the bottom of the sea. It would have

been better for this man if he had left the skeletons of the shipwrecked

Spaniards in quiet possession of their wealth.

Captain Phips and his men continued to fish up plate, bullion, and

dollars, as plentifully as ever, till their provisions grew short. Then,

as they could not feed upon gold and silver any more than old King Midas

could, they found it necessary to go in search of better sustenance.

Phips resolved to return to England. He arrived there in 1687, and was

received with great joy by the Duke of Albemarle and other English lords

who had fitted out the vessel. Well they might rejoice; for they took by

far the greater part of the treasure to themselves.

The captain’s share, however, was enough to make him comfortable for the

rest of his days. It also enabled him to fulfil his promise to his wife,

by building a “fair brick house” in the Green Lane of Boston. The Duke

of Albemarle sent Mrs. Phips a magnificent gold cup, worth at least five

thousand dollars. Before Captain Phips left London, King James made

him a knight; so that, instead of the obscure ship-carpenter who had

formerly dwelt among them, the inhabitants of Boston welcomed him on his

return as the rich and famous Sir William Phips.

CHAPTER XI. WHAT THE CHAIR HAD KNOWN.

“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 Acadia, 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

Que-bec, but did not succeed in capturing the city. In 1692, being then

in London, King William III. 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 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 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 firelight 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.”

“Oh yes!” cried Clara, expressing a woman’s feeling of 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.

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 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 had 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!”

APPENDIX TO PART I.

EXTRACTS FROM THE LIFE OF JOHN ELIOT,

BY CONVERS FRANCIS.

MR. ELIOT had been for some time assiduously employed in learning the

Indian language. To accomplish this, he secured the assistance of one of

the natives, who could speak English. Eliot, at the close of his Indian

Grammar, mentions him as “a pregnant-witted young man, who had been

a servant in an English house, who pretty well understood his own

language, and had a clear pronunciation.” He took this Indian into his

family, and by constant intercourse with him soon become sufficiently

conversant with the vocabulary and construction of the language to

translate the ten commandments, the Lord’s prayer, and several passages

of Scripture, besides composing exhortations and prayers.

Mr. Eliot must have found his task anything but easy or inviting. He was

to learn a dialect, in which he could be assisted by no affinity with

the languages he already knew. He was to do this without the help of any

written or printed specimens, with nothing in the shape of a grammar or

analysis, but merely by oral communication with his Indian instructor,

or with other natives, who, however comparatively intelligent, must from

the nature of the case have been very imperfect teachers. He applied

himself to the work with great patience and sagacity, carefully acting

the differences between the Indian and the English modes of constructing

words; and, having once got a clew to this, he pursued every noun and

verb he could think of through all possible variations. In this way he

arrived at analyses and rules, which he could apply for himself in a

general manner.

Neal says that Eliot was able to speak the language intelligibly after

conversing with the Indian servant a few months. This, in a limited

sense, may be true; but he is said to have been engaged two years in the

process of learning, before he went to preached to the Indians. In that

time he acquired a somewhat ready facility in the use of that dialect,

by means of which he was to carry the instructions of spiritual truth to

the men of the forest, though as late as 1649 he still lamented his want

of skill in this respect.

Notice having been given of his intention [of instructing the Indians],

Mr. Eliot, in company with three others, whose names are not mentioned,

having implored the divine blessing on the undertaking, made his first

visit to the Indians on the 28th of October, 1646 at a place afterwards

called Nonantum; a spot that has the honor of being the first on which

a civilized and Christian settlement of Indians was effected within

the English colonies of North America. This name was given to the high

grounds in the north, east part of Newton, and to the bounds of that

town and Watertown. At a short distance from the wigwams, they were met

by Waban, a leading man among the Indians at that place, accompanied

by others, and were welcomed with “English salutations.” Waban, who

is described as “the chief minister of justice among them,” had

before shown a better disposition than any other native to receive the

religious instruction of the Christians, and had voluntarily proposed

to have his eldest son educated by them. His son had been accordingly

placed at school in Dedham, whence he had now come to attend the

meeting.

The Indians assembled in Waban’s wigwam; and thither Mr. Eliot and his

friends were conducted. When the company were all collected and quiet,

a religious service was begun with prayer. This was uttered in English;

the reason for which, as given by Mr. Eliot and his companions, was,

that he did not then feel sufficiently acquainted with the Indian

language to use it in that service.

The same difficulty would not occur in preaching, since for this, we may

suppose, he had sufficiently prepared his thoughts and expressions

to make his discourse intelligible on all important points; and if he

should, in some parts, fail of being, understood, he could repeat or

correct himself, till he should succeed better. Besides, he took with

him an interpretor, who was frequently able to express his instructions

more distinctly than he could himself. Though the prayer was

unintelligible to the Indians, yet, as they knew what the nature of the

service was, Mr. Eliot believed it might not be without an effect in

subduing their feelings so as to prepare them better to listen to the

preaching.

Mr. Eliot then began his sermon, or address, from Ezek. xxxvii. 9, 10.

The word wind, in this passage, suggested to the minds of some, who

afterwards gave an account of this meeting, a coincidence which might,

in the spirit of the times, be construed into a special appointment of

Providence. The name of Waban signified, in the Indian tongue, wind; so

that when the preacher uttered the words, “say to the wind,” it was as

if he had proclaimed, “say to Waban.” As this man afterwards exerted

much influence in awaking the attention of his fellow savages to

Christianity, it might seem that in this first visit of the messengers

of the gospel he was singled out by a special call to work in the cause.

It is not surprising that the Indians were struck with the coincidence.

Mr. Eliot gave no countenance to a superstitious use of the

circumstance, and took care to tell them that, when he chose his text,

he had no thought of any such application.

The sermon was an hour and a quarter long. One cannot but suspect that

Mr. Eliot injudiciously crowded too much into one address. It would

seem to have been better, for the first time at least, to have given

a shorter sermon, and to have touched upon fewer subjects. But he was

doubtless borne on by his zeal to do much in a good cause; and, as we

have reason to think, by the attentive, though vague, curiosity of the

Indians.

Thus ended a conference three hours long, at the end of which the

Indians affirmed that they were not weary, and requested their visitors

to come again. They expressed a wish to build a town and live together.

Mr. Eliot promised to intercede for them with the court. He and his

companions then gave the men some tobacco, and the children some apples,

and bade them farewell.

A fortnight afterwards, on the 11th of November, Mr. Eliot and his

friends repeated their visit to the wigwam of Waban. This meeting was

more numerous than the former. The religious service was opened, as

before, with a prayer in English. This was followed by a few brief and

plain questions addressed to the children, admitting short and easy

answers. The children seemed well disposed to listen and learn. To

encourage them, Mr. Eliot gave them occasionally an apple or a cake; and

the adults were requested to repeat to them the instructions that had

been given. He then preached to the assembly in their own language,

telling them that he had come to bring them good news from God, and

show them how wicked men might become good and happy; and, in general,

discoursing on nearly the same topics as he had treated at his first

visit.

PART II. 1692-1763.

CHAPTER I. THE CHAIR IN THE FIRELIGHT.

“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 bad 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 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 throughout 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, 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 dropped it.

CHAPTER II. THE SALEM WITCHES.

“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.”

“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.

“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

counsel. So they did now; but, unfortunately, the ministers and wise

men were more deluded than the illiterate people. Cotton Mather, 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. 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 1698. It brought an army which was intended for the conquest of

Canada. But a malignant disease, more fatal than the smallpox, broke out

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 or 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 think of recovering all that old treasure which had

lain almost two centuries under the sea! Methinks 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. THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL.

“At the death of Sir William Phips,” proceeded Grandfather, “our chair

was bequeathed to Mr. Ezekiel Cheever, a famous schoolmaster 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 schoolmaster.”

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 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 fireplace, 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 fireplaces 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 fireplace, 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 schoolmaster, severe in aspect, with a black skullcap on his

head, like an ancient Puritan, and the snow of his white beard drifting

down to his very girdle? What boy would dare to play; or whisper, or

even glance aside from his book; while Master Cheever is on the lookout

behind his spectacles? For such offenders, if any such there be, a rod

of birch is hanging over the fireplace, 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! Buzz! buzz! buzz! 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 beehive when the insects are busy in the

sunshine.

Now a class in Latin is called to recite. Forth steps a rowel

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

had 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 assafoetida.

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 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 misscanned, and misparsed, and misinterpreted 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,

shopkeepers, 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 shoemaking. 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 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

these good old times, a schoolmaster’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 his, 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.

The boys retire, treading softly until they have passed the threshold;

but, fairly out of the schoolroom, 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 snowball.

Happy boys! Enjoy your playtime 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 everything 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.

“Grandfather,” said Charley, “I wonder whether the boys did not use to

upset the old chair when the schoolmaster 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. COTTON MATHER

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 whipped 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 schoolboys.”

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 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 schoolmasters and learned men,” said Charley. “I

wish some stirring man, that knew how to do something in the world, like

Sir William Phips, would sit 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 in which their contents were crowded into

Cotton Mather’s brain. And in the middle of the room stood 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 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

bookworm, 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.”

“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 anything 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

burned, 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 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 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.”

“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.

“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 the balcony of the

town-house in Boston, by the title of George I.; 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 V. THE REJECTED BLESSING.

“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 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 meantime

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

smallpox 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.”

Accordingly Grandfather told the children a story, to which, for want of

a better title, we shall give that of The Rejected Blessing.

One day, in 1721, Doctor Cotton Mather sat in his library reading a book

that had been published by the Royal Society of London. But every

few moments he laid the book upon the table, and leaned back in

Grandfather’s chair with an aspect of deep care and disquietude. There

were certain things which troubled him exceedingly, so that he could

hardly fix his thoughts upon what he read.

It was now a gloomy time in Boston. That terrible disease; the

small-pox, had recently made its appearance in the town. Ever since

the first settlement of the country this awful pestilence had come at

intervals, and swept away multitudes of the inhabitants. Whenever it

commenced its ravages, nothing seemed to stay its progress until there

were no more victims for it to seize upon. Oftentimes hundreds of people

at once lay groaning with its agony; and when it departed, its deep

footsteps were always to be traced in many graves.

The people never felt secure from this calamity. Sometimes, perhaps,

it was brought into the country by a poor sailor, who had caught the

infection in foreign parts, and came hither to die and to be the cause

of many deaths. Sometimes, no doubt, it followed in the train of the

pompous governors when they came over from England. Sometimes the

disease lay hidden in the cargoes of ships, among silks, and brocades,

and other costly merchandise which was imported for the rich people

to wear. And sometimes it started up seemingly of its own accord, and

nobody could tell whence it came. The physician, being called to attend

the sick person, would look at him, and say, “It is the small-pox! Let

the patient be carried to the hospital.”

And now this dreadful sickness had shown itself again in Boston. Cotton

Mather was greatly afflicted for the sake of the whole province. He had

children, too, who were exposed to the danger. At that very moment he

heard the voice of his youngest son, for whom his heart was moved with

apprehension.

“Alas! I fear for that poor child,” said Cotton Mather to himself. “What

shall I do for my son Samuel?”

Again he attempted to drive away these thoughts by taking up the book

which he had been reading. And now, all of a sudden, his attention

became fixed. The book contained a printed letter that an Italian

physician had written upon the very subject about which Cotton Mather

was so anxiously meditating. He ran his eye eagerly over the pages; and,

behold! a method was disclosed to him by which the small-pox might be

robbed of its worst terrors. Such a method was known in Greece. The

physicians of Turkey, too, those long-bearded Eastern sages, had been

acquainted with it for many years. The negroes of Africa, ignorant as

they were, had likewise practised it, and thus had shown themselves

wiser than the white men.

“Of a truth,” ejaculated Cotton Mather, clasping his hands and looking

up to heaven, “it was a merciful Providence that brought this book under

mine eye. I will procure a consultation of physicians, and see whether

this wondrous inoculation may not stay the progress of the destroyer.”

So he arose from Grandfather’s chair and went out of the library. Near

the door he met his son Samuel, who seemed downcast and out of spirits.

The boy had heard, probably, that some of his playmates were taken ill

with the small-pox. But, as his father looked cheerfully at him, Samuel

took courage, trusting that either the wisdom of so learned a minister

would find some remedy for the danger, or else that his prayers would

secure protection from on high.

Meanwhile Cotton Mather took his staff and three-cornered hat and

walked about the streets, calling at the houses of all the physicians in

Boston. They were a very wise fraternity; and their huge wigs, and black

dresses, and solemn visages made their wisdom appear even profounder

than it was. One after another he acquainted them with the discovery

which he had hit upon.

But the grave and sagacious personages would scarcely listen to him.

The oldest doctor in town contented himself with remarking that no such

thing as inoculation was mentioned by Galen or Hippocrates; and it was

impossible that modern physicians should be wiser than those old sages.

A second held up his hands in dumb astonishment and horror at the

mad-ness of what Cotton Mather proposed to do. A third told him, in

pretty plain terms, that he knew not what he was talking about. A fourth

requested, in the name of the whole medical fraternity, that Cotton

Mather would confine his attention to people’s souls, and leave the

physicians to take care of their bodies. In short, there was but a

single doctor among them all who would grant the poor minister so much

as a patient hearing, This was Doctor Zabdiel Boylston. He looked

into the matter like a man of sense, and finding, beyond a doubt,

that inoculation had rescued many from death, he resolved to try the

experiment in his own family.

And so he did. But when the other physicians heard of it they arose

in great fury and began a war of words, written, printed, and spoken,

against Cotton Mather and Doctor Boylston. To hear them talk, you would

have supposed that these two harmless and benevolent men had plotted the

ruin of the country.

The people, also, took the alarm. Many, who thought themselves more

pious than their neighbors, contended that, if Providence had ordained

them to die of the small-pox, it was sinful to aim at preventing it. The

strangest reports were in circulation. Some said that Doctor

Boylston had contrived a method for conveying the gout, rheumatism,

sick-headache, asthma, and all other diseases from one person to

another, and diffusing them through the whole community. Others flatly

affirmed that the evil one had got possession of Cotton Mather, and was

at the bottom of the whole business.

You must observe, children, that Cotton Mather’s fellow-citizens were

generally inclined to doubt the wisdom of any measure which he might

propose to them. They recollected how he had led them astray in the old

witchcraft delusion; and now, if he thought and acted ever so wisely, it

was difficult for him to get the credit of it.

The people’s wrath grew so hot at his attempt to guard them from the

small-pox that he could not walk the streets in peace. Whenever the

venerable form of the old minister, meagre and haggard with fasts and

vigils, was seen approaching, hisses were heard, and shouts of derision,

and scornful and bitter laughter. The women snatched away their children

from his path, lest he should do them a mischief. Still, however,

bending his head meekly, and perhaps stretching out his hands to bless

those who reviled him, he pursued his way. But the tears came into his

eyes to think how blindly the people rejected the means of safety that

were offered them.

Indeed, there were melancholy sights enough in the streets of Boston

to draw forth the tears of a compassionate man. Over the door of almost

every dwelling a red flag was fluttering in the air. This was the signal

that the small-pox had entered the house and attacked some member of the

family; or perhaps the whole family, old and young, were struggling

at once with the pestilence. Friends and relatives, when they met one

another in the streets, would hurry onward without a grasp of the hand

or scarcely a word of greeting, lest they should catch or communicate

the contagion; and often a coffin was borne hastily along.

“Alas! alas!” said Cotton Mather to himself, “what shall be done for

this poor, misguided people? Oh that Providence would open their eyes,

and enable them to discern good from evil!”

So furious, however, were the people, that they threatened vengeance

against any person who should dare to practise inoculation, though it

were only in his own family. This was a hard case for Cotton Mather, who

saw no other way to rescue his poor child Samuel from the disease. But

he resolved to save him, even if his house should be burned over his

head.

“I will not be turned aside,” said he. “My townsmen shall see that I

have faith in this thing, when I make the experiment on my beloved son,

whose life is dearer to me than my own. And when I have saved Samuel,

peradventure they will be persuaded to save themselves.”

Accordingly Samuel was inoculated; and so was Mr. Walter, a son-in-law

of Cotton Mather. Doctor Boyleston, likewise, inoculated many persons;

and while hundreds died who had caught the contagion from the garments

of the sick, almost all were preserved who followed the wise physician’s

advice.

But the people were not yet convinced of their mistake. One night a

destructive little instrument, called a hand-grenade, was thrown into

Cotton Mather’s window, and rolled under Grandfather’s chair. It was

supposed to be filled with gunpowder, the explosion of which would have

blown the poor minister to atoms. But the best informed historians are

of opinion that the grenade contained only brimstone and assafoetida,

and was meant to plague Cotton Mather with a very evil perfume.

This is no strange thing in human experience. Men who attempt to do the

world mere good than the world is able entirely to comprehend are almost

invariably held in bad odor. But yet, if the wise and good man can wait

awhile, either the present generation or posterity will do him justice.

So it proved in the case which we have been speaking of. In after years,

when inoculation was universally practised, and thousands were saved

from death by it, the people remembered old Cotton Mather, then sleeping

in his grave. They acknowledged that the very thing for which they had

so reviled and persecuted him was the best and wisest thing he ever did.

“Grandfather, this is not an agreeable story,” observed Clara.

“No, Clara,” replied Grandfather. “But it is right that you should know

what a dark shadow this disease threw over the times of our forefathers.

And now, if you wish to learn more about Cotton Mather, you must read

his biography, written by Mr. Peabody, of Springfield. You will find it

very entertaining and instructive; but perhaps the writer is somewhat

too harsh in his judgment of this singular man. He estimates him fairly,

indeed, and understands him well; but he unriddles his character rather

by acuteness than by sympathy. Now, his life should have been written by

one who, knowing all his faults, would nevertheless love him.”

So Grandfather made an end of Cotton Mather, telling his auditors that

he died in 1728, at the age of sixty-five, and bequeathed the chair

to Elisha Cooke. This gentleman was a famous advocate of the people’s

rights.

The same year William Burner, a son of the celebrated Bishop Burnet,

arrived in Boston with the commission of governor. He was the first that

had been appointed since the departure of Colonel Shute, Governor

Burnet took up his residence with Mr. Cooke while the Province House was

undergoing repairs. During this period he was always complimented with a

seat in Grandfather’s chair; and so comfortable did he find it, that,

on removing to the Province House, he could not bear to leave it behind

him. Mr. Cooke, therefore, requested his acceptance of it.

“I should think,” said Laurence, “that the people would have petitioned

the king always to appoint a native-born New-Englander to govern them.”

“Undoubtedly it was a grievance,” answered Grandfather, “to see men

placed in this station who perhaps had neither talents nor virtues to

fit them for it, and who certainly could have no natural affection

for the country. The king generally bestowed the governorships of

the American colonies upon needy noblemen, or hangers-on at court, or

disbanded officers. The people knew that such persons would be very

likely to make the good of the country subservient to the wishes of the

king. The Legislature, therefore, endeavored to keep as much power as

possible in their own hands, by refusing to settle a fixed salary upon

the governors. It was thought better to pay them according to their

deserts.”

“Did Governor Burner work well for his money?” asked Charley.

Grandfather could not help smiling at the simplicity of Charley’s

question. Nevertheless, it put the matter in a very plain point of view.

He then described the character of Governor Bur-net, representing him

as a good scholar, possessed of much ability, and likewise of unspotted

integrity. His story affords a striking example how unfortunate it is

for a man, who is placed as ruler over a country to be compelled to aim

at anything but the good of the people. Governor Burnet was so chained

down by his instructions from the king that he could not act as he might

otherwise have wished. Consequently, his whole term of office was wasted

in quarrels with the Legislature.

“I am afraid, children,” said Grandfather, “that Governor Burner found

but little rest or comfort in our old chair. Here he used to sit,

dressed in a coat which was made of rough, shaggy cloth outside, but of

smooth velvet within. It was said that his own character resembled that

coat; for his outward manner was rough, but his inward disposition soft

and kind. It is a pity that such a man could not have been kept

free from trouble. But so harassing were his disputes with the

representatives of the people that he fell into a fever, of which he

died in 1729. The Legislature had refused him a salary while alive;

but they appropriated money enough to give him a splendid and pompous

funeral.”

And now Grandfather perceived that little Alice had fallen fast asleep,

with her head upon his footstool. Indeed, as Clara observed, she had

been sleeping from the time of Sir Hovenden Walker’s expedition against

Quebec until the death of Governor Burnet,--a period of about

eighteen years. And yet, after so long a nap, sweet little Alice was a

golden-haired child of scarcely five years old.

“It puts me in mind,” said Laurence, “of the story of the enchanted

princess, who slept many a hundred years, and awoke as young and

beautiful as ever.”

CHAPTER VI. POMPS AND VANITIES.

A FEW evenings afterwards, cousin Clara happened 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 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 brought 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 giver away like young kittens.”

“Perhaps Alice would have liked one to play with, instead of her doll,”

said Charley, laughing.

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 Ramillies, 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 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 II. appointed Jonathan

Belcher to be governor of Massachusetts in place of the deceased

Governor Burner. 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, 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 timeworn

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 Burner, 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 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 threepence 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 VII. THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER.

“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 Louisburg.

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 guessed

Governor Shirley’s intentions, he would have sent all the ships he could

muster to protect it.”

As the siege of Louisburg 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 The Provincial Muster.

The expedition against Louisburg first began to be thought of in the

month of January. From that time the governor’s chair was continually

surrounded by councillors, representatives, clergymen, captains, pilots,

and all manner of people, with whom he consulted about this wonderful

project.

First of all, it was necessary to provide men and arms. The Legislature

immediately sent out a huge quantity of paper-money, with which, as

if by magic spell, the governor hoped to get possession of all the old

cannon, powder and balls, rusty swords and muskets, and everything else

that would be serviceable in killing Frenchmen. Drums were beaten in

all the villages of Massachusetts to enlist soldiers for the service.

Messages were sent to the other governors of New England, and to New

York and Pennsylvania, entreating them to unite in this crusade against

the French. All these provinces agreed to give what assistance they

could.

But there was one very important thing to be decided. Who shall be the

general of this great army? Peace had continued such an unusual length

of time that there was now less military experience among the colonists

than at any former period. The old Puritans had always kept their

weapons bright, and were never destitute of warlike captains who were

skilful in assault or defence. But the swords of their descendents

had grown rusty by disuse. There was nobody in New England that knew

anything about sieges or any other regular fighting. The only persons

at all acquainted with warlike business were a few elderly men, who

had hunted Indians through the underbrush of the forest in old Governor

Dummer’s War.

In this dilemma Governor Shirley fixed upon a wealthy merchant, named

William Pepperell, who was pretty well known and liked among the people.

As to military skill, he had no more of it than his neighbors. But, as

the governor urged him very pressingly, Mr. Pepperell consented to shut

up his ledger, gird on a sword, and assume the title of general.

Meantime, what a hubbub was raised by this scheme! Rub-a-dub-dub!

rub-a-dub-dub! The rattle of drums, beaten out of all manner of time,

was heard above every other sound.

Nothing now was so valuable as arms, of whatever style and fashion they

might be. The bellows blew, and the hammer clanged continually upon the

anvil, while the blacksmiths were repairing the broken weapons of other

wars. Doubtless some of the soldiers lugged out those enormous, heavy

muskets which used to be fired, with rests, in the time of the early

Puritans. Great horse-pistols, too, were found, which would go off with

a bang like a cannon. Old cannon, with touchholes almost as big as

their muzzles, were looked upon as inestimable treasures. Pikes which,

perhaps, had been handled by Miles Standish’s soldiers, now made their

appearance again. Many a young man ransacked the garret and brought

forth his great-grandfather’s sword, corroded with rust and stained with

the blood of King Philip’s War.

Never had there been such an arming as this, when a people, so long

peaceful, rose to the war with the best weapons that they could lay

their hands upon. And still the drums were heard--rub-a-dub-dub!

rub-a-dub-dub!--in all the towns and villages; and louder and more

numerous grew the trampling footsteps of the recruits that marched

behind.

And now the army began to gather into Boston. Tan, lanky, awkward

fellows came in squads, and companies, and regiments, swaggering along,

dressed in their brown homespun clothes and blue yarn stockings. They

stooped as if they still had hold of the plough-handles, and marched

without any time or tune. Hither they came, from the cornfields, from

the clearing in the forest, from the blacksmith’s forge, from the

carpenter’s workshop, and from the shoemaker’s seat. They were an army

of rough faces and sturdy frames. A trained officer of Europe would

have laughed at them till his sides had ached. But there was a spirit

in their bosoms which is more essential to soldiership than to wear red

coats and march in stately ranks to the sound of regular music.

Still was heard the beat of the drum,--rub-a-dub-dub! And now a host of

three or four thousand men had found their way to Boston. Little quiet

was there then! Forth scampered the school-boys, shouting behind the

drums. The whole town, the whole land, was on fire with war.

After the arrival of the troops, they were probably reviewed upon the

Common. We may imagine Governor Shirley and General Pepperell riding

slowly along the line, while the drummers beat strange old tunes, like

psalm-tunes, and all the officers and soldiers put on their most warlike

looks. It would have been a terrible sight for the Frenchmen, could they

but have witnessed it!

At length, on the 24th of March, 1745, the army gave a parting shout,

and set sail from Boston in ten or twelve vessels which had been hired

by the governor. A few days afterwards an English fleet, commanded

by Commodore Peter Warren, sailed also for Louisburg to assist the

provincial army. So now, after all this bustle of preparation, the town

and province were left in stillness and repose.

But stillness and repose, at such a time of anxious expectation, are

hard to bear. The hearts of the old people and women sunk within them

when they reflected what perils they had sent their sons, and husbands,

and brothers to encounter. The boys loitered heavily to School, missing

the rub-a-dub-dub and the trampling march, in the rear of which they had

so lately run and shouted. All the ministers prayed earnestly in their

pulpits for a blessing on the army of New England. In every family, when

the good man lifted up his heart in domestic worship, the burden of his

petition was for the safety of those dear ones who were fighting under

the walls of Louisburg.

Governor Shirley all this time was probably in an ecstasy of impatience.

He could not sit still a moment. He found no quiet, not even in

Grandfather’s chair; but hurried to and fro, and up and down the

staircase of the Province House. Now he mounted to the cupola and looked

seaward, straining his eyes to discover if there were a sail upon the

horizon. Now he hastened down the stairs, and stood beneath the portal,

on the red free-stone steps, to receive some mud-bespattered courier,

from whom he hoped to hear tidings of the army. A few weeks after the

departure of the troops, Commodore Warren sent a small vessel to Boston

with two French prisoners. One of them was Monsieur Bouladrie, who had

been commander of a battery outside the walls of Louisburg. The other

was the Marquis de la Maison Forte, captain of a French frigate which

had been taken by Commodore Warren’s fleet. These prisoners assured

Governor Shirley that the fortifications of Louisburg were far too

strong ever to be stormed by the provincial army.

Day after day and week after week went on. The people grew almost

heart-sick with anxiety; for the flower of the country was at peril in

this adventurous expedition. It was now daybreak on the morning of the

3d of July.

But hark! what sound is this? The hurried clang of a bell! There is the

Old North pealing suddenly out!--there the Old South strikes in!--now

the peal comes from the church in Brattle Street!--the bells of nine or

ten steeples are all flinging their iron voices at once upon the morning

breeze! Is it joy, or alarm? There goes the roar of a cannon too! A

royal salute is thundered forth. And now we hear the loud exulting shout

of a multitude assembled in the street. Huzza! huzza! Louisburg has

surrendered! Huzza!

“O Grandfather, how glad I should have been to live in those times!”

cried Charley. “And what reward did the king give to General Pepperell

and Governor Shirley?”

“He made Pepperell a baronet; so that he was now to be called Sir

William Pepperell,” replied Grandfather. “He likewise appointed both

Pepperell and Shirley to be colonels in the royal army. These rewards,

and higher ones, were well deserved; for this was the greatest triumph

that the English met with in the whole course of that war. General

Pepperell became a man of great fame. I have seen a full-length portrait

of him, representing him in a splendid scarlet uniform, standing before

the walls of Louisburg, while several bombs are falling through the

air.”

“But did the country gain any real good by the conquest of Louisburg?”

asked Laurence. “Or was all the benefit reaped by Pepperell and

Shirley?”

“The English Parliament,” replied Grandfather, “agreed to pay the

colonists for all the expenses of the siege. Accordingly, in 1749, two

hundred and fifteen chests of Spanish dollars and one hundred casks of

copper coin were brought from England to Boston. The whole amount was

about a million of dollars. Twenty-seven carts and trucks carried this

money from the wharf to the provincial treasury. Was not this a pretty

liberal reward?”

“The mothers of the young men who were killed at the siege of Louisburg

would not have thought it so,” said Laurence.

“No; Laurence,” rejoined Grandfather; “and every warlike achievement

involves an amount of physical and moral evil, for which all the gold in

the Spanish mines would not be the slightest recompense. But we are to

consider that this siege was one of the occasions on which the colonists

tested their ability for war, and thus were prepared for the great

contest of the Revolution. In that point of view, the valor of our

forefathers was its own reward.”

Grandfather went on to say that the success of the expedition against

Louisburg induced Shirley and Pepperell to form a scheme for conquering

Canada, This plan, however, was not carried into execution.

In the year 1746 great terror was excited by the arrival of a formidable

French fleet upon the coast It was commanded by the Duke d’Anville, and

consisted of forty ships of war, besides vessels with soldiers on board.

With this force the French intended to retake Louisburg, and afterwards

to ravage the whole of New England. Many people were ready to give up

the country for lost.

But the hostile fleet met with so many disasters and losses by storm and

shipwreck, that the Duke d’Anville is said to have poisoned himself in

despair. The officer next in command threw himself upon his sword and

perished. Thus deprived of their commanders, the remainder of the ships

returned to France. This was as great a deliverance for New England as

that which Old England had experienced in the days of Queen Elizabeth,

when the Spanish Armada was wrecked upon her coast.

“In 1747,” proceeded Grandfather, “Governor Shirley was driven from the

Province House, not by a hostile fleet and army, but by a mob of the

Boston people. They were so incensed at the conduct of the British

Commodore Knowles, who had impressed some of their fellow-citizens,

that several thousands of them surrounded the council chamber and threw

stones and brickbats into the windows. The governor attempted to pacify

them; but not succeeding, he thought it necessary to leave the town and

take refuge within the walls of Castle William. Quiet was not restored

until Commodore Knowles had sent back the impressed men. This affair was

a flash of spirit that might have warned the English not to venture upon

any oppressive measures against their colonial brethren.”

Peace being declared between France and England in 1748, the governor

had now an opportunity to sit at his ease in Grandfather’s chair. Such

repose, however, appears not to have suited his disposition; for in the

following year he went to England, and thence was despatched to France

on public business. Meanwhile, as Shirley had not resigned his office,

Lieu-tenant-Governor Phips acted as chief magistrate in his stead.

CHAPTER VIII. THE OLD FRENCH WAR AND THE ACADIAN EXILES

IN the early twilight of Thanksgiving Eve came Laurence, and Clara, and

Charley, and little Alice, hand in hand, and stood in a semicircle

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

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 Grandfathers smiling. “Well, we must

please pussy, if we can.”

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, Louisburg, 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.

“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 stayed 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.

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 burned, 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

THE ACADIAN EXILES.

A sad day it was for the poor Acadians when the armed soldiers drove

them, at the point of the bayonet, down to the sea-shore. Very sad were

they, likewise, while tossing upon the ocean in the crowded transport

vessels. But methinks it must have been sadder still when they were

landed on the Long Wharf in Boston, and left to themselves on a foreign

strand.

Then, probably, they huddled together and looked into one another’s

faces for the comfort which was not there. Hitherto they had been

confined on board of separate vessels, so that they could not tell

whether their relatives and friends were prisoners along with them.

But now, at least, they could tell that many had been left behind or

transported to other regions.

Now a desolate wife might be heard calling for her husband. He, alas!

had gone, she knew not whither; or perhaps had fled into the woods of

Acadia, and had now returned to weep over the ashes of their dwelling.

An aged widow was crying out in a querulous, lamentable tone for her

son, whose affectionate toil had supported her for many a. year. He was

not in the crowd of exiles; and what could this aged widow do but sink

down and die? Young men and maidens, whose hearts had been torn asunder

by separation, had hoped, during the voyage, to meet their beloved ones

at its close. Now they began to feel that they were separated forever.

And perhaps a lonesome little girl, a golden-haired child of five years

old, the very picture of our little Alice, was weeping and wailing for

her mother, and found not a soul to give her a kind word.

Oh, how many broken bonds of affection were here! Country lost,--friends

lost,--their rural wealth of cottage, field, and herds all lost

together! Every tie between these poor exiles and the world seemed to be

cut off at once. They must have regretted that they had not died before

their exile; for even the English would not have been so pitiless as

to deny them graves in their native soil. The dead were happy; for they

were not exiles!

While they thus stood upon the wharf, the curiosity and inquisitiveness

of the New England people would naturally lead them into the midst of

the poor Acadians. Prying busybodies thrust their heads into the circle

wherever two or three of the exiles were conversing together. How

puzzled did they look at the outlandish sound of the French tongue!

There were seen the New England women, too. They had just come out of

their warm, safe homes, where everything was regular and comfortable,

and where their husbands and children would be with them at nightfall.

Surely they could pity the wretched wives and mothers of Acadia! Or aid

the sign of the cross which the Acadians continually made upon their

breasts, and which was abhorred by the descendants of the Puritans,--did

that sign exclude all pity?

Among the spectators, too, was the noisy brood of Boston school-boys,

who came running, with laughter and shouts, to gaze at this crowd of

oddly dressed foreigners. At first they danced and capered around them,

full of merriment and mischief. But the despair of the Acadians soon

had its effect upon these thoughtless lads, and melted them into tearful

sympathy.

At a little distance from the throng might be seen the wealthy and

pompous merchants whose warehouses stood on Long Wharf. It was difficult

to touch these rich men’s hearts; for they had all the comforts of the

world at their command; and when they walked abroad their feelings were

seldom moved, except by the roughness of the pavement irritating their

gouty toes. Leaning upon their gold-headed canes, they watched the scene

with an aspect of composure. But let us hype they distributed some of

their superfluous coin among these hapless exiles to purchase food and a

night’s lodging.

After standing a long time at the end of the wharf, gazing seaward, as

if to catch a glimpse of their lost Acadia, the strangers began to stray

into the town.

They went, we will suppose, in parties and groups, here a hundred, there

a score, there ten, there three or four, who possessed some bond of

unity among themselves. Here and there was one who, utterly desolate,

stole away by himself, seeking no companionship.

Whither did they go? I imagine them wandering about the streets, telling

the townspeople, in outlandish, unintelligible words, that no earthly

affliction ever equalled what had befallen them. Man’s brotherhood with

man was sufficient to make the New-Englanders understand this language.

The strangers wanted food. Some of them sought hospitality at the doors

of the stately mansions which then stood in the vicinity of Hanover

Street and the North Square. Others were applicants at the humble wooden

tenements, where dwelt the petty shopkeepers and mechanics. Pray Heaven

that no family in Boston turned one of these poor exiles from their

door! It would be a reproach upon New England,--a crime worthy of heavy

retribution,--if the aged women and children, or even the strong men,

were allowed to feel the pinch of hunger.

Perhaps some of the Acadians, in their aimless wanderings through the

town, found themselves near a large brick edifice, which was fenced in

from the street by an iron railing, wrought with fantastic figures. They

saw a flight of red freestone steps ascending to a portal, above which

was a balcony and balustrade. Misery and desolation give men the right

of free passage everywhere. Let us suppose, then, that they mounted the

flight of steps and passed into the Province House. Making their way

into one of the apartments, they beheld a richly-clad gentleman, seated

in a stately chair, with gilding upon the carved work of its back, and a

gilded lion’s head at the summit. This was Governor Shirley, meditating

upon matters of war and state, in Grandfather’s chair!

If such an incident did happen, Shirley, reflecting what a ruin of

peaceful and humble hopes had been wrought by the cold policy of the

statesman and the iron band of the warrior, might have drawn a deep

moral from it. It should have taught him that the poor man’s hearth

is sacred, and that armies and nations have no right to violate it. It

should have made him feel that England’s triumph and increased dominion

could not compensate to mankind nor atone to Heaven for the ashes of a

single Acadian cottage. But it is not thus that statesmen and warriors

moralize.

“Grandfather,” cried Laurence, with emotion trembling in his voice,

“did iron-hearted War itself ever do so hard and cruel a thing as this

before?”

“You have read in history, Laurence, of whole regions wantonly laid

waste,” said Grandfather. “In the removal of the Acadians, the troops

were guilty of no cruelty or outrage, except what was inseparable from

the measure.”

Little Alice, whose eyes had all along been brimming full of tears, now

burst forth a-sobbing; for Grandfather had touched her sympathies more

than he intended.

“To think of a whole people homeless in the world!” said Clara, with

moistened eyes. “There never was anything so sad!”

“It was their own fault!” cried Charley, energetically. “Why did not

they fight for the country where they were born? Then, if the worst had

happened to them, they could only have been killed and buried there.

They would not have been exiles then.”

“Certainly their lot was as hard as death,” said Grandfather. “All that

could be done for them in the English provinces was, to send them to the

almshouses, or bind them out to taskmasters. And this was the fate

of persons who had possessed a comfortable property in their native

country. Some of them found means to embark for France; but though it

was the land of their forefathers, it must have been a foreign land to

them. Those who remained behind always cherished a belief that the King

of France would never make peace with England till his poor Acadians

were restored to their country and their homes.”

“And did he?” inquired Clara.

“Alas! my dear Clara,” said Grandfather, “it is improbable that the

slightest whisper of the woes of Acadia ever reached the ears of Louis

XV. The exiles grew old in the British provinces, and never saw

Acadia again. Their descendants remain among us to this day. They

have forgotten the language of their ancestors, and probably retain no

tradition of their misfortunes. But, methinks, if I were an American

poet, I would choose Acadia for the subject of my song.”

Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the most famous of American

poets has drawn sweet tears from all of us by his beautiful poem

Evangeline.

And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around the Thanksgiving fireside

by a story that made the children feel the blessing of a secure and

peaceful hearth, Grandfather put off the other events of the old French

War till the next evening.

CHAPTER IX. THE END OF THE WAR.

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 leading 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 Frenchwoman 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 seaports. 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 daybreak 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 1760, 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 III. 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 X. THOMAS HUTCHINSON.

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

cush-ion. 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 ally 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 proportioned 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.”

APPENDIX TO PART II.

ACCOUNT OF THE DEPORTATION OF THE ACADIANS.

FROM “HALIBURTON’S HISTORICAL AND STATISTICAL ACCOUNT OF NOVA SCOTIA.”

AT a consultation, held between Colonel Winslow and Captain Murray, [of

the New England forces, charged with the duty of exiling the Acadians,]

it was agreed that a proclamation should be issued at the different

settlements, requiring the attendance of the people at the respective

posts on the same day; which proclamation should be so ambiguous in

its nature that the object for which they were to assemble could not

be discerned, and so peremptory in its terms as to ensure implicit

obedience. This instrument, having been drafted and approved, was

distributed according to the original plan. That which was addressed

to the people inhabiting the country now comprised within the limits of

King’s County, was as follows:--

“To the inhabitants of the District of Grand Pre, Minas, River Canard,

&c.; as well ancient, as young men and lads:

“Whereas, his Excellency the Governor has instructed us of his late

resolution, respecting the matter proposed to the inhabitants, and

has ordered us to communicate the same in person, his Excellency being

desirous that each of them should be fully satisfied of his Majesty’s

intentions, which he has also ordered us to communicate to you, such as

they have been given to him. We, therefore, order and strictly enjoin,

by these presents, all of the inhabitants, as well of the above-named

district as of all the other Districts, both old men and young men, as

well as all the lads of ten years of age, to attend at the Church at

Grand Pre, on Friday, the fifth instant, at three of the clock in the

afternoon, that we may impart to them what we are ordered to communicate

to them; declaring that no excuse will be admitted on any pretence

whatever, on pain of forfeiting goods and chattels, in default of real

estate. Given at Grand Pre, 2d September, 1755, and 29th year of his

Majesty’s Reign.

“John Winslow.”

In obedience to this summons four hundred and eighteen able-bodied men

assembled. These being shut into the church (for that, too, had become

an arsenal), Colonel Winslow placed himself, with his officers, in the

centre, and addressed them thus:--

“GENTLEMEN:

“I have received from his Excellency Governor Lawrence, the King’s

Commission, which I have in my hand; and by his orders you are convened

together to manifest to you, his Majesty’s final resolution to the

French inhabitants of this his Province of Nova-Scotia; who, for almost

half a century, have had more indulgence granted them than any of his

subjects in any part of his dominions; what use you have made of it you

yourselves best know. The part of duty I am now upon, though necessary,

is very disagreeable to my natural make and temper, as I know it must be

grievous to you, who are of the same species; but it is not my business

to animadvert but to obey such orders as I receive, and therefore,

without hesitation, shall deliver you his Majesty’s orders and

instructions, namely--that your lands and tenements, cattle of all kinds

and live stock of all sorts, are forfeited to the Crown; with all other

your effects, saving your money and household goods, and you yourselves

to be removed from this his Province.

“Thus it is peremptorily his Majesty’s orders that the whole French

inhabitants of these Districts be removed; and I am, through his

Majesty’s goodness, directed to allow you liberty to carry off your

money and household goods, as many as you can without discommoding the

vessels you go in. I shall do everything in my power that all those

goods be secured to you, and that you are not molested in carrying them

off; also, that whole families shall go in the same vessel, and make

this remove, which I am sensible must give you a great deal of trouble,

as easy as his Majesty’s service will admit; and hope that, in whatever

part of the world you may fall, you may be faithful subjects, a

peaceable and happy people. I must also inform you, that it is his

Majesty’s pleasure that you remain in security under the inspection and

direction of the troops that I have the honor to command.”

And he then declared them the King’s prisoners. The whole number of

persons collected at Grand Pre finally amounted to four hundred and

eighty-three men, and three hundred and thirty-seven women, heads of

families; and their sons and daughters, to five hundred and twenty-seven

of the former, and five hundred and seventy-six of the latter; making in

the whole one thousand nine hundred and twenty-three souls. Their stock

consisted of one thousand two hundred and sixty-nine oxen, one thousand

five hundred and fifty-seven cows, five thousand and seven young cattle,

four hundred and ninety-three horses, eight thousand six hundred and

ninety sheep, and four thousand one hundred and ninety-seven hogs. As

some of these wretched inhabitants escaped to the woods, all possible

measures were adopted to force them back to captivity. The country was

laid waste to prevent their subsistence. In the District of Minas alone,

there were destroyed two hundred and fifty-five houses, two hundred and

seventy-six barns, one hundred and fifty-five outhouses, eleven mills,

and one church; and the friends of those who refused to surrender were

threatened as the victims of their obstinacy.

In short, so operative were the terrors that surrounded them, that of

twenty-four young men, who deserted from a transport, twenty-two were

glad to return of themselves, the others being shot by sentinels; and

one of their friends, who was supposed to have been accessory to their

escape, was carried on shore to behold the destruction of his house

and effects, which were burned in his presence, as a punishment for his

temerity and perfidious aid to his comrades. The prisoners expressed the

greatest concern at having incurred his Majesty’s displeasure, and in a

petition addressed to Colonel Winslow intreated him to detain a part of

them as sureties for the appearance of the rest, who were desirous

of visiting their families, and consoling them in their distress and

misfortunes. To comply with this request of holding a few as hostages

for the surrender of the whole body, was deemed inconsistent with his

instructions; but, as there could be no objection to allow a small

number of them to return to their homes, permission was given to them to

choose ten for the District of Minas (Horton) and ten for the District

of Canard (Cornwallis) to whom leave of absence was given for one day,

and on whose return a similar number were indulged in the same manner.

They bore their confinement, and received their sentence with a

fortitude and resignation altogether unexpected; but when the hour

of embarkation arrived, in which they were to leave the land of their

nativity forever--to part with their friends and relatives, without the

hope of ever seeing them again, and to be dispersed among strangers,

whose language, customs and religion were opposed to their own, the

weakness of human nature prevailed, and they were overpowered with the

sense of their miseries. The preparations having been all completed, the

10th of September was fixed upon as the day of departure. The prisoners

were drawn up six deep, and the young men, one hundred and sixty-one

in number, were ordered to go first on board of the vessels. This they

instantly and peremptorily refused to do, declaring that they would

not leave their parents; but expressed a willingness to comply with the

order, provided they were permitted to embark with their families. This

request was immediately rejected, and the troops were ordered to fix

bayonets and advance towards the prisoners, a motion which had the

effect of producing obedience on the part of the young men, who

forthwith commenced their march. The road from the chapel to the shore,

just one mile in length, was crowded with women and children; who, on

their knees, greeted them as they passed with their tears and their

blessings, while the prisoners advanced with slow and reluctant steps,

weeping, praying, and singing hymns. This detachment was followed by the

seniors, who passed through the same scene of sorrow and distress. In

this manner was the whole male part of the population of the District

of Minas put on board the five transports, stationed in the river

Gaspereaux, each vessel being guarded by six non-commissioned officers,

and eighty privates. As soon as the other vessels arrived, their wives

and children followed, and the whole were transported from Nova Scotia.

The haste with which these measures were carried into execution did not

admit of those preparations for their comfort, which, if unmerited by

their disloyalty, were at least due in pity to the severity of their

punishment. The hurry, confusion, and excitement connected with the

embarkation had scarcely subsided, when the Provincials were appalled

by the work of their own hands The novelty and peculiarity of their

situation could not but force itself upon the attention of even the

unreflecting soldiery; stationed in the midst of a beautiful and fertile

country, they suddenly found themselves without a foe to subdue, and

without a population to protect. The volumes of smoke which the half

expiring embers emitted, while they marked the site of the peasant’s

humble cottage, bore testimony to the extent of the work of destruction.

For several successive evenings the cattle assembled round the

smouldering ruins, as if in anxious expectation of the return of their

masters, while all night long the faithful watchdogs of the Neutrals

howled over the scene of desolation, and mourned alike the hand that had

fed, and the house that had sheltered them.

PART III. 1763-1803.

CHAPTER I. A NEW-YEAR’S DAY.

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 a trial of a splendid sled, which Grandfather had given him

for a New-Year’s gift. As all sleds, nowadays, 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 o f 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

por-traits 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.