WHEN Grandfather resumed his narrative the next evening, he told the
children that he had some difficulty in tracing the movements of the
chair during a short period after General Washington’s departure from
Cambridge.
Within a few months, however, it made its appearance at a shop in
Boston, before the door of which was seen a striped pole. In the
interior was displayed a stuffed alligator, a rattlesnake’s skin, a
bundle of Indian arrows, an old-fashioned matchlock gun, a walking-stick
of Governor Winthrop’s, a wig of old Cotton Mather’s, and a colored
print of the Boston massacre. In short, it was a barber’s shop, kept by
a Mr. Pierce, who prided himself on having shaved General Washington,
Old Put, and many other famous persons.
“This was not a very dignified situation for our venerable chair,”
continued Grandfather; “but, you know, there is no better place for news
than a barber’s shop. All the events of the Revolutionary War were heard
of there sooner than anywhere else. People used to sit in the chair,
reading the newspaper, or talking, and waiting to be shaved, while Mr.
Pierce, with his scissors and razor, was at work upon the heads or chins
of his other customers.”
“I am sorry the chair could not betake itself to some more suitable
place of refuge,” said Laurence.
“It was old now, and must have longed for quiet. Besides, after it had
held Washington in its arms, it ought not to have been compelled to
receive all the world. It should have been put into the pulpit of the
Old South Church, or some other consecrated place.”
“Perhaps so,” answered Grandfather. “But the chair, in the course of its
varied existence, had grown so accustomed to general intercourse with
society, that I doubt whether it would have contented itself in the
pulpit of the Old South. There it would have stood solitary, or with no
livelier companion than the silent organ, in the opposite gallery, six
days out of seven. I incline to think that it had seldom been situated
more to its mind than on the sanded floor of the snug little barber’s
shop.”
Then Grandfather amused his children and himself with fancying all the
different sorts of people who had occupied our chair while they awaited
the leisure Of the barber.
There was the old clergyman, such as Dr. Chauncey, wearing a white wig,
which the barber took from his head and placed upon a wig-block. Half
an hour, perhaps, was spent in combing and powdering this reverend
appendage to a clerical skull. There, too, were officers of the
Continental army, who required their hair to be pomatumed and plastered,
so as to give them a bold and martial aspect. There, once in a while,
was seen the thin, care-worn, melancholy visage of an old tory, with a
Wig that, in times long past, had perhaps figured at a Province House
ball. And there, not unfrequently, sat the rough captain of a privateer,
just returned from a successful cruise, in which he had captured half
a dozen richly laden vessels belonging to King George’s subjects. And
sometimes a rosy little school-boy climbed into our chair, and sat
staring, with wide-open eyes, at the alligator, the rattlesnake, and the
other curiosities of the barber’s shop. His mother had sent him, with
sixpence in his hand, to get his glossy curls cropped off. The incidents
of the Revolution plentifully supplied the barber’s customers with
topics of conversation. They talked sorrowfully of the death of General
Montgomery and the failure of our troops to take Quebec; for the
New-Englanders were now as anxious to get Canada from the English as
they had formerly been to conquer it from the French.
“But very soon,” said Grandfather, “came news from Philadelphia, the
most important that America had ever heard of. On the 4th of July,
1776, Congress had signed the Declaration of Independence. The thirteen
colonies were now free and independent States. Dark as our prospects
were, the inhabitants welcomed these glorious tidings, and resolved to
perish rather than again bear the yoke of England.”
“And I would perish, too!” cried Charley.
“It was a great day,--a glorious deed!” said Laurence, coloring high
with enthusiasm. “And, Grandfather, I love to think that the sages
in Congress showed themselves as bold and true as the soldiers in the
field; for it must have required more courage to sign the Declaration of
Independence than to fight the enemy in battle.”
Grandfather acquiesced in Laurence’s view of the matter. He then touched
briefly and hastily upon the prominent events of the Revolution. The
thunderstorm of war had now rolled southward, and did not again
burst upon Massachusetts, where its first fury had been felt. But she
contributed her full share. So the success of the contest. Wherever
a battle was fought,--whether at Long Island, White Plains, Trenton,
Princeton, Brandywine, or Germantown,--some of her brave sons were found
slain upon the field.
In October, 1777, General Burgoyne surrendered his army, at Saratoga,
to the American general, Gates. The captured troops were sent to
Massachusetts. Not long afterwards Dr. Franklin and other American
commissioners made a treaty at Paris, by which France bound herself to
assist our countrymen. The gallant Lafayette was already fighting for
our freedom by the side of Washington. In 1778 a French fleet, commanded
by Count d’Estaing, spent a considerable time in Boston harbor. It marks
the vicissitudes of human affairs, that the French, our ancient enemies,
should come hither as comrades and brethren, and that kindred England
should be our foe.
“While the war was raging in the Middle and Southern States,” proceeded
Grandfather, “Massachusetts had leisure to settle a new constitution of
government instead of the royal charter. This was done in 1780. In the
same year John Hancock, who had been president of Congress, was chosen
governor of the State. He was the first whom the people had elected
since the days of old Simon Bradstreet.”
“But, Grandfather, who had been governor since the British were driven
away?” inquired Laurence. “General Gage and Sir William Howe were the
last whom you have told us of.”
“There had been no governor for the last four years,” replied
Grandfather. “Massachusetts had been ruled by the Legislature, to whom
the people paid obedience of their own accord. It is one of the
most remarkable circumstances in our history, that, when the charter
government was overthrown by the war, no anarchy nor the slightest
confusion ensued, This was a great honor to the people. But now Hancock
was proclaimed governor by sound of trumpet; and there was again a
settled government.”
Grandfather again adverted to the progress of the war. In 1781 General
Greene drove the British from the Southern States. In October of the
same year General Washington compelled Lord Cornwallis to surrender his
army, at Yorktown, in Virginia. This was the last great event of the
Revolutionary contest. King George and his ministers perceived that all
the might of England could not compel America to renew her allegiance
to the crown. After a great deal of discussion, a treaty of peace was
signed in September, 1783.
“Now, at last,” said Grandfather, “after weary years of war, the
regiments of Massachusetts returned in peace to their families. Now the
stately and dignified leaders, such as General Lincoln and General Knox,
with their powdered hair and their uniforms of blue and buff, were seen
moving about the streets.”
“And little boys ran after them, I suppose,” remarked Charley; “and the
grown people bowed respectfully.”
“They deserved respect; for they were good men as well as brave,”
answered Grandfather. “Now, too, the inferior officers and privates came
home to seek some peaceful occupation. Their friends remembered them as
slender and smooth-checked young men; but they returned with the erect
and rigid mien of disciplined soldiers. Some hobbled on crutches and
wooden legs; others had received wounds, which were still rankling in
their breasts. Many, alas! had fallen in battle, and perhaps were left
unburied on the bloody field.”
“The country must have been sick of war,” observed Laurence.
“One would have thought so,” said Grandfather. “Yet only two or three
years elapsed before the folly of some misguided men caused another
mustering of soldiers. This affair was called Shays’s war, because a
Captain Shays was the chief leader of the insurgents.”
“Oh Grandfather, don’t let there be another war!” cried little Alice,
piteously.
Grandfather comforted his dear little girl by assuring her that there
was no great mischief done. Shays’s war happened in the latter part of
1786 and the beginning of the following year. Its principal cause
was the badness of times. The State of Massachusetts, in its public
capacity, was very much in debt. So likewise were many of the people.
An insurrection took place, the object of which seems to have been to
interrupt the course of law and get rid of debts and taxes.
James Bowdoin, a good and able man, was now governor of Massachusetts.
He sent General Lincoln, at the head of four thousand men, to put down
the insurrection. This general, who had fought through several hard
campaigns in the Revolution, managed matters like an old soldier, and
totally defeated the rebels at the expense of very little blood.
“There is but one more public event to be recorded in the history of
our chair,” proceeded Grandfather. “In the year 1794 Samuel Adams was
elected governor of Massachusetts. I have told you what a distinguished
patriot he was, and how much he resembled the stern old Puritans. Could
the ancient freemen of Massachusetts who lived in the days of the first
charter have arisen from their graves, they would probably have voted
for Samuel Adams to be governor.”
“Well, Grandfather, I hope he sat in our chair,” said Clara.
“He did,” replied Grandfather. “He had long been in the habit of
visiting the barber’s shop, where our venerable chair, philosophically
forgetful of its former dignities, had now spent nearly eighteen not
uncomfortable years. Such a remarkable piece of furniture, so evidently
a relic of long-departed times, could not escape the notice of Samuel
Adams. He made minute researches into its history, and ascertained what
a succession of excellent and famous people had occupied it.”
“How did he find it out?” asked Charley; “for I suppose the chair could
not tell its own history.”
“There used to be a vast collection of ancient letters and other
documents in the tower of the Old South Church,” answered Grandfather.
“Perhaps the history of our chair was contained among these. At all
events, Samuel Adams appears to have been well acquainted with it. When
he became governor, he felt that he could have no more honorable seat
than that which had been the ancient chair of state. He therefore
purchased it for a trifle, and filled it worthily for three years as
governor of Massachusetts.” “And what next?” asked Charley.
“That is all,” said Grandfather, heaving a sigh; for he could not help
being a little sad at the thought that his stories must close here.
“Samuel Adams died in 1803, at the age of above threescore and ten.
He was a great patriot, but a poor man. At his death he left scarcely
property enough to pay the expenses of his funeral. This precious chair,
among his other effects, was sold at auction; and your Grandfather, who
was then in the strength of his years, became the purchaser.”
Laurence, with a mind full of thoughts that struggled for expression,
but could find none, looked steadfastly at the chair.
He had now learned all its history, yet was not satisfied.
“Oh, how I wish that the chair could speak!” cried he. “After its long
intercourse with mankind,--after looking upon the world for ages,--what
lessons of golden wisdom it might utter! It might teach a private
person how to lead a good and happy life, or a statesman how to make his
country prosperous.”