Chapter I

True Stories from History and Biography

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

BOSTON:

TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS.

MDCCCLI.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by NATHANIEL

HAWTHORNE, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of

Massachusetts.

CAMBRIDGE:

PRINTED BY BOLLES AND HOUGHTON.

[Frontispiece]

Preface

THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR

Part I

Chapter I

Chapter II

THE LADY ARBELLA

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

THE INDIAN BIBLE

Chapter IX

Chapter X

THE SUNKEN TREASURE

Chapter XI

Part II

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL

Chapter IV

Chapter VI

THE REJECTED BLESSING

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER

Chapter IX

THE ACADIAN EXILES

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Part III

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

THE HUTCHINSON MOB

Chapter IV

Chapter V

THE BOSTON MASSACRE

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

THE TORY’S FAREWELL

Chapter X

Chapter XI

GRANDFATHER’S DREAM

Biographical Stories

Chapter I

Chapter II

BENJAMIN WEST

Chapter III

SIR ISAAC NEWTON

Chapter IV

SAMUEL JOHNSON

Chapter V

SAMUEL JOHNSON—CONTINUED.

Chapter VI

OLIVER CROMWELL

Chapter VII

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Chapter VIII

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN—CONTINUED

Chapter IX

QUEEN CHRISTINA

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 might 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 a

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 he 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.

THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR

COMPLETE IN THREE PARTS.

PART I

Chapter I

Grandfather had been sitting in his old arm-chair, all that pleasant

afternoon, while the children were pursuing their various sports, far off

or near at hand. Sometimes you would have said, "Grandfather is asleep;"

but still, even when his eyes were closed, his thoughts were with the

young people, playing among the flowers and shrubbery of the garden.

He heard the voice of Laurence, who had taken possession of a heap of

decayed branches which the gardener had lopped from the fruit trees, and

was building a little hut for his cousin Clara and himself. He heard

Clara’s gladsome voice, too, as she weeded and watered the flower-bed

which had been given her for her own. He could have counted every footstep

that Charley took, as he trundled his wheelbarrow along the gravel walk.

And though Grandfather was old and gray-haired, yet his heart leaped with

joy whenever little Alice came fluttering, like a butterfly, into the

room. She had made each of the children her playmate in turn, and now made

Grandfather her playmate too, and thought him the merriest of them all.

At last the children grew weary of their sports; because a summer

afternoon is like a long lifetime to the young. So they came into the room

together, and clustered round Grandfather’s great chair. Little Alice, who

was hardly five years old, took the privilege of the youngest, and climbed

his knee. It was a pleasant thing to behold that fair and golden-haired

child in the lap of the old man, and to think that, different as they

were, the hearts of both could be gladdened with the same joys.

"Grandfather," said little Alice, laying her head back upon his arm, "I am

very tired now. You must tell me a story to make me go to sleep."

"That is not what story-tellers like," answered Grandfather, smiling.

"They are better satisfied when they can keep their auditors awake."

"But here are Laurence, and Charley, and I," cried cousin Clara, who was

twice as old as little Alice. "We will all three keep wide awake. And

pray, Grandfather, tell us a story about this strange-looking old chair."

Now, the chair in which Grandfather sat was made of oak, which had grown

dark with age, but had been rubbed and polished till it shone as bright as

mahogany. It was very large and heavy, and had a back that rose high above

Grandfather’s white head. This back was curiously carved in open work, so

as to represent flowers and foliage and other devices; which the children

had often gazed at, but could never understand what they meant. On the

very tiptop of the chair, over the head of Grandfather himself, was a

likeness of a lion’s head, which had such a savage grin that you would

almost expect to hear it growl and snarl.

The children had seen Grandfather sitting in this chair ever since they

could remember any thing. Perhaps the younger of them supposed that he and

the chair had come into the world together, and that both had always been

as old as they were now. At this time, however, it happened to be the

fashion for ladies to adorn their drawing-rooms with the oldest and oddest

chairs that could be found. It seemed to cousin Clara that if these ladies

could have seen Grandfather’s old chair, they would have thought it worth

all the rest together. She wondered if it were not even older than

Grandfather himself, and longed to know all about its history.

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

"Well, child," said Grandfather, patting Clara’s cheek, "I can tell you a

great many stories of my chair. Perhaps your cousin Laurence would like to

hear them too. They would teach him something about the history and

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

school-books."

Cousin Laurence was a boy of twelve, a bright scholar, in whom an early

thoughtfulness and sensibility began to show themselves. His young fancy

kindled at the idea of knowing all the adventures of this venerable chair.

He looked eagerly in Grandfather’s face; and even Charley, a bold, brisk,

restless little fellow of nine, sat himself down on the carpet, and

resolved to be quiet for at least ten minutes, should the story last so

long.

Meantime, little Alice was already asleep; so Grandfather, being much

pleased with such an attentive audience, began to talk about matters that

had happened long ago.

Chapter II

But, before relating the adventures of the chair, Grandfather found it

necessary to speak of the circumstances that caused the first settlement

of New England. For it will soon be perceived that the story of this

remarkable chair cannot be told without telling a great deal of the

history of the country.

So, Grandfather talked about the Puritans, as those persons were called

who thought it sinful to practise the religious forms and ceremonies which

the Church of England had borrowed from the Roman Catholics. These

Puritans suffered so much persecution in England that, in 1607, many of

them went over to Holland, and lived ten or twelve years at Amsterdam and

Leyden. But they feared that, if they continued there much longer, they

should cease to be English, and should adopt all the manners and ideas and

feelings of the Dutch. For this and other reasons, in the year 1620, they

embarked on board of the ship Mayflower, and crossed the ocean to the

shores of Cape Cod. There they made a settlement, and called it Plymouth;

which, though now a part of Massachusetts, was for a long time a colony by

itself. And thus was formed the earliest settlement of the Puritans in

America.

Meantime, those of the Puritans who remained in England continued to

suffer grievous persecution on account of their religious opinions. They

began to look around them for some spot where they might worship God, not

as the king and bishops thought fit, but according to the dictates of

their own consciences. When their brethren had gone from Holland to

America, they bethought themselves that they likewise might find refuge

from persecution there. Several gentlemen among them purchased a tract of

country on the coast of Massachusetts Bay, and obtained a charter from

King Charles, which authorized them to make laws for the settlers. In the

year 1628, they sent over a few people, with John Endicott at their head,

to commence a plantation at Salem. Peter Palfrey, Roger Conant, and one or

two more, had built houses there in 1626, and may be considered as the

first settlers of that ancient town. Many other Puritans prepared to

follow Endicott.

"And now we come to the chair, my dear children," said Grandfather. "This

chair is supposed to have been made of an oak tree which grew in the park

of the English earl of Lincoln, between two and three centuries ago. In

its younger days it used, probably, to stand in the hall of the earl’s

castle. Do not you see the coat of arms of the family of Lincoln, carved

in the open work of the back? But when his daughter, the Lady Arbella, was

married to a certain Mr. Johnson, the earl gave her this valuable chair."

"Who was Mr. Johnson?" inquired Clara.

"He was a gentleman of great wealth, who agreed with the Puritans in their

religious opinions," answered Grandfather. "And as his belief was the same

as theirs, he resolved that he would live and die with them. Accordingly,

in the month of April, 1630, he left his pleasant abode and all his

comforts in England, and embarked with the Lady Arbella, on board of a

ship bound for America."

As Grandfather was frequently impeded by the questions and observations of

his young auditors, we deem it advisable to omit all such prattle as is

not essential to the story. We have taken some pains to find out exactly

what Grandfather said, and here offer to our readers, as nearly as

possible in his own words, the story of

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. 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 for ever 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 shell-work 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 one 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 thereabouts 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 corn-field 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.

"O, 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 any thing 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

Not long after Grandfather had told the story of his great chair, there

chanced to be a rainy day. Our friend Charley, after disturbing the

household with beat of drum and riotous shouts, races up and down the

staircase, overturning of chairs, and much other uproar, began to feel the

quiet and confinement within doors intolerable. But as the rain came down

in a flood, the little fellow was hopelessly a prisoner, and now stood

with sullen aspect at a window, wondering whether the sun itself were not

extinguished by so much moisture in the sky.

Charley had already exhausted the less eager activity of the other

children; and they had betaken themselves to occupations that did not

admit of his companionship. Laurence sat in a recess near the book-case,

reading, not for the first time, the Midsummer Night’s Dream. Clara was

making a rosary of beads for a little figure of a Sister of Charity, who

was to attend the Bunker Hill Fair, and lend her aid in erecting the

Monument. Little Alice sat on Grandfather’s foot-stool, with a

picture-book in her hand; and, for every picture, the child was telling

Grandfather a story. She did not read from the book, (for little Alice had

not much skill in reading,) but told the story out of her own heart and

mind.

Charley was too big a boy, of course, to care any thing about little

Alice’s stories, although Grandfather appeared to listen with a good deal

of interest. Often, in a young child’s ideas and fancies, there is

something which it requires the thought of a lifetime to comprehend. But

Charley was of opinion, that if a story must be told, it had better be

told by Grandfather, than little Alice.

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

Now Grandfather remembered that Charley had galloped away upon a stick, in

the midst of the narrative of poor Lady Arbella, and I know not whether he

would have thought it worth while to tell another story, merely to gratify

such an inattentive auditor as Charley. But Laurence laid down his book

and seconded the request. Clara drew her chair nearer to Grandfather, and

little Alice immediately closed her picture-book, and looked up into his

face. Grandfather had not the heart to disappoint them.

He mentioned several persons who had a share in the settlement of our

country, and who would be well worthy of remembrance, if we could find

room to tell about them all. Among the rest, Grandfather spoke of the

famous Hugh Peters, a minister of the gospel, who did much good to the

inhabitants of Salem. Mr. Peters afterwards went back to England, and was

chaplain to Oliver Cromwell; but Grandfather did not tell the children

what became of this upright and zealous man, at last. In fact, his

auditors were growing impatient to hear more about the history of the

chair.

"After the death of Mr. Johnson," said he, "Grandfather’s chair came into

the possession of Roger Williams. He was a clergyman, who arrived at

Salem, and settled there in 1631. Doubtless the good man has spent many a

studious hour in this old chair, either penning a sermon, or reading some

abstruse book of theology, till midnight came upon him unawares. At that

period, as there were few lamps or candles to be had, people used to read

or work by the light of pitchpine torches. These supplied the place of the

"midnight oil," to the learned men of New England."

Grandfather went on to talk about Roger Williams, and told the children

several particulars, which we have not room to repeat. One incident,

however, which was connected with his life, must be related, because it

will give the reader an idea of the opinions and feelings of the first

settlers of New England. It was as follows:

THE RED CROSS

While Roger Williams sat in Grandfather’s chair, at his humble residence

in Salem, John Endicott would often come to visit him. As the clergy had

great influence in temporal concerns, the minister and magistrate would

talk over the occurrences of the day, and consult how the people might be

governed according to scriptural laws.

One thing especially troubled them both. In the old national banner of

England, under which her soldiers have fought for hundreds of years, there

is a Red Cross, which has been there ever since the days when England was

in subjection to the Pope. The Cross, though a holy symbol, was abhorred

by the Puritans, because they considered it a relic of Popish idolatry.

Now, whenever the train-band of Salem was mustered, the soldiers, with

Endicott at their head, had no other flag to march under than this same

old papistical banner of England, with the Red Cross in the midst of it.

The banner of the Red Cross, likewise, was flying on the walls of the fort

of Salem; and a similar one was displayed in Boston harbor, from the

fortress on Castle Island.

"I profess, brother Williams," Captain Endicott would say, after they had

been talking of this matter, "it distresses a Christian man’s heart, to

see this idolatrous Cross flying over our heads. A stranger beholding it,

would think that we had undergone all our hardships and dangers, by sea

and in the wilderness, only to get new dominions for the Pope of Rome."

"Truly, good Mr. Endicott," Roger Williams would answer, "you speak as an

honest man and Protestant Christian should. For mine own part, were it my

business to draw a sword, I should reckon it sinful to fight under such a

banner. Neither can I, in my pulpit, ask the blessing of Heaven upon it."

Such, probably, was the way in which Roger Williams and John Endicott used

to talk about the banner of the Red Cross. Endicott, who was a prompt and

resolute man, soon determined that Massachusetts, if she could not have a

banner of her own, should at least be delivered from that of the Pope of

Rome.

Not long afterwards there was a military muster at Salem. Every

able-bodied man, in the town and neighborhood, was there. All were well

armed, with steel caps upon their heads, plates of iron upon their breasts

and at their backs, and gorgets of steel around their necks. When the sun

shone upon these ranks of iron-clad men, they flashed and blazed with a

splendor that bedazzled the wild Indians, who had come out of the woods to

gaze at them. The soldiers had long pikes, swords, and muskets, which were

fired with matches, and were almost as heavy as a small cannon.

These men had mostly a stern and rigid aspect. To judge by their looks,

you might have supposed that there was as much iron in their hearts, as

there was upon their heads and breasts. They were all devoted Puritans,

and of the same temper as those with whom Oliver Cromwell afterwards

overthrew the throne of England. They hated all the relics of Popish

superstition as much as Endicott himself; and yet, over their heads, was

displayed the banner of the Red Cross.

Endicott was the captain of the company. While the soldiers were expecting

his orders to begin their exercise, they saw him take the banner in one

hand, holding his drawn sword in the other. Probably he addressed them in

a speech, and explained how horrible a thing it was, that men, who had

fled from Popish idolatry into the wilderness, should be compelled to

fight under its symbols here. Perhaps he concluded his address somewhat in

the following style.

"And now, fellow soldiers, you see this old banner of England. Some of

you, I doubt not, may think it treason for a man to lay violent hands upon

it. But whether or no it be treason to man, I have good assurance in my

conscience that it is no treason to God. Wherefore I have resolved that we

will rather be God’s soldiers, than soldiers of the Pope of Rome; and in

that mind I now cut the Papal Cross out of this banner."

And so he did. And thus, in a province belonging to the crown of England,

a captain was found bold enough to deface the King’s banner with his

sword.

When Winthrop, and the other wise men of Massachusetts, heard of it, they

were disquieted, being afraid that Endicott’s act would bring great

trouble upon himself and them. An account of the matter was carried to

King Charles; but he was then so much engrossed by dissensions with his

people, that he had no leisure to punish the offender. In other times, it

might have cost Endicott his life, and Massachusetts her charter.

"I should like to know, Grandfather," said Laurence, when the story was

ended, "whether, when Endicott cut the Red Cross out of the banner, he

meant to imply that Massachusetts was independent of England?"

"A sense of the independence of his adopted country, must have been in

that bold man’s heart," answered Grandfather; "but I doubt whether he had

given the matter much consideration, except in its religious bearing.

However, it was a very remarkable affair, and a very strong expression of

Puritan character."

Grandfather proceeded to speak further of Roger Williams, and of other

persons who sat in the great chair, as will be seen in the following

chapter.

Chapter IV

"Roger Williams," said Grandfather, "did not keep possession of the chair

a great while. His opinions of civil and religious matters differed, in

many respects, from those of the rulers and clergymen of Massachusetts.

Now the wise men of those days believed, that the country could not be

safe, unless all the inhabitants thought and felt alike."

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

"Possibly there are some who believe it," said Grandfather; "but they have

not so much power to act upon their belief, as the magistrates and

ministers had, in the days of Roger Williams. They had the power to

deprive this good man of his home, and to send him out from the midst of

them, in search of a new place of rest. He was banished in 1634, and went

first to Plymouth colony; but as the people there held the same opinions

as those of Massachusetts, he was not suffered to remain among them.

However, the wilderness was wide enough; so Roger Williams took his staff

and travelled into the forest, and made treaties with the Indians, and

began a plantation which he called Providence."

"I have been to Providence on the railroad," said Charley. "It is but a

two hours’ ride."

"Yes, Charley," replied Grandfather; "but when Roger Williams travelled

thither, over hills and valleys, and through the tangled woods, and across

swamps and streams, it was a journey of several days. Well; his little

plantation is now grown to be a populous city; and the inhabitants have a

great veneration for Roger Williams. His name is familiar in the mouths of

all because they see it on their bank bills. How it would have perplexed

this good clergyman, if he had been told that he should give his name to

the ROGER WILLIAMS BANK!"

"When he was driven from Massachusetts," said Laurence, "and began his

journey into the woods, he must have felt as if he were burying himself

forever from the sight and knowledge of men. Yet the whole country has now

heard of him, and will remember him forever."

"Yes," answered Grandfather, "it often happens, that the outcasts of one

generation are those, who are reverenced as the wisest and best of men by

the next. The securest fame is that which comes after a man’s death. But

let us return to our story. When Roger Williams was banished, he appears

to have given the chair to Mrs. Anne Hutchinson. At all events it was in

her possession in 1637. She was a very sharp-witted and well-instructed

lady, and was so conscious of her own wisdom and abilities, that she

thought it a pity that the world should not have the benefit of them. She

therefore used to hold lectures in Boston, once or twice a week, at 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 the country in 1637. You may read the subsequent

events of his life in the History of England."

"Yes, Grandfather," cried Laurence; "and we may read them better in Mr.

Upham’s biography of 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 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 any thing, it

was in being the possessor of such an honorable and historic elbow chair.

"I know not precisely who next got possession of the chair, after Governor

Vane went back to England," said Grandfather. "But there is reason to

believe that President Dunster sat in it, when he held the first

commencement at Harvard College. You have often heard, children, how

careful our forefathers were, to give their young people a good education.

They had scarcely cut down trees enough to make room for their own

dwellings, before they began to think of establishing a college. Their

principal object was, to rear up pious and learned ministers; and hence

old writers call Harvard College a school of the prophets."

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

"It is a long while since I took my degree, Charley. You must ask some of

the recent graduates," answered Grandfather. "As I was telling you,

President Dunster sat in Grandfather’s chair in 1642, when he conferred

the degree of bachelor of arts on nine young men. They were the first in

America, who had received that honor. And now, my dear auditors, I must

confess that there are contradictory statements and some uncertainty about

the adventures of the chair, for a period of almost ten years. Some say

that it was occupied by your own ancestor, William Hawthorne, first

Speaker of the House of Representatives. I have nearly satisfied myself,

however, that, during most of this questionable period, it was literally

the Chair of State. It gives me much pleasure to imagine, that several

successive governors of Massachusetts sat in it at the council board."

"But, Grandfather," interposed Charley, who was a matter-of-fact little

person, "what reason have you to imagine so?"

"Pray do imagine it, Grandfather," said Laurence.

"With Charley’s permission, I will," replied Grandfather, smiling. "Let us

consider it settled, therefore, that Winthrop, Bellingham, Dudley, and

Endicott, each of them, when chosen governor, took his seat in our great

chair on election day. In this chair, likewise, did those excellent

governors preside, while holding consultations with the chief counsellors

of the province, who were styled Assistants. The governor sat in this

chair, too, whenever messages were brought to him from the chamber of

Representatives."

And here Grandfather took occasion to talk, rather tediously, about the

nature and forms of government that established themselves, almost

spontaneously, in Massachusetts and the other New England colonies.

Democracies were the natural growth of the new world. As to Massachusetts,

it was at first intended that the colony should be governed by a council

in London. But, in a little while, the people had the whole power in their

own hands, and chose annually the governor, the counsellors, and the

representatives. The people of old England had never enjoyed any thing

like the liberties and privileges, which the settlers of New England now

possessed. And they did not adopt these modes of government after long

study, but in simplicity, as if there were no other way for people to be

ruled.

"But, Laurence," continued Grandfather, "when you want instruction on

these points, you must seek it in Mr. Bancroft’s History. I am merely

telling the history of a chair. To proceed. The period during which the

governors sat in our chair, was not very full of striking incidents. The

province was now established on a secure foundation; but it did not

increase so rapidly as at first, because the Puritans were no longer

driven from England by persecution. However, there was still a quiet and

natural growth. The legislature incorporated towns, and made new purchases

of lands from the Indians. A very memorable event took place in 1643. The

colonies of Massachusetts, Plymouth, Connecticut, and New Haven, formed a

union, for the purpose of assisting each other in difficulties, and for

mutual defence against their enemies. They called themselves the United

Colonies of New England."

"Were they under a government like that of the United States?" inquired

Laurence.

"No," replied Grandfather, "the different colonies did not compose one

nation together; it was merely a confederacy among the governments. It

somewhat resembled the league of the Amphictyons, which you remember in

Grecian history. But to return to our chair. In 1644 it was highly

honored; for Governor Endicott sat in it, when he gave audience to an

ambassador from the French governor of Acadie, or Nova Scotia. A treaty of

peace, between Massachusetts and the French colony, was then signed."

"Did England allow Massachusetts to make war and peace with foreign

countries?" asked Laurence.

"Massachusetts, and the whole of New England, was then almost independent

of the mother country," said Grandfather. "There was now a civil war in

England; and the king, as you may well suppose, had his hands full at

home, and could pay but little attention to these remote colonies. When

the Parliament got the power into their hands, they likewise had enough to

do in keeping down the Cavaliers. Thus New England, like a young and hardy

lad, whose father and mother neglect it, was left to take care of itself.

In 1649, King Charles was beheaded. Oliver Cromwell then became Protector

of England; and as he was a Puritan himself, and had risen by the valor of

the English Puritans, he showed himself a loving and indulgent father to

the Puritan colonies in America."

Grandfather might have continued to talk in this dull manner, nobody knows

how long; but, suspecting that Charley would find the subject rather dry,

he looked sideways at that vivacious little fellow, and saw him give an

involuntary yawn. Whereupon, Grandfather proceeded with the history of the

chair, and related a very entertaining incident, which will be found in

the next chapter.

Chapter VI

"According to the most authentic records, my dear children," said

Grandfather, "the chair, about this time, had the misfortune to break its

leg. It was probably on account of this accident, that it ceased to be the

seat of the governors of Massachusetts; for, assuredly, it would have been

ominous of evil to the commonwealth, if the Chair of State had tottered

upon three legs. Being therefore sold at auction,—alas! what a vicissitude

for a chair that had figured in such high company, our venerable friend

was knocked down to a certain Captain John Hull. This old gentleman, on

carefully examining the maimed chair, discovered that its broken leg might

be clamped with iron and made as serviceable as ever."

"Here is the very leg that was broken!" exclaimed Charley, throwing

himself down on the floor to look at it. "And here are the iron clamps.

How well it was mended!"

When they had all sufficiently examined the broken leg, Grandfather told

them a story about Captain John Hull and

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 buccaniers—(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 himself in.

When the mint-master had grown very rich, a young man, Samuel Sewell 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 Sewell 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 smallclothes 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 pæony, 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 bride-maids 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. Sewell, 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 Sewell

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 handfulls 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 Sewell!" 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 Sewell, he afterwards became Chief Justice of Massachusetts.

"Well, Grandfather," remarked Clara, "if wedding portions now-a-days were

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

airy figure as many of them do."

Chapter VII

When his little audience next assembled round the chair, Grandfather gave

them a doleful history of the Quaker persecution, which began in 1656, and

raged for about three years in Massachusetts.

He told them how, in the first place, twelve of the converts of George

Fox, the first Quaker in the world, had come over from England. They

seemed to be impelled by an earnest love for the souls of men, and a pure

desire to make known what they considered a revelation from Heaven. But

the rulers looked upon them as plotting the downfall of all government and

religion. They were banished from the colony. In a little while, however,

not only the first twelve had returned, but a multitude of other Quakers

had come to rebuke the rulers, and to preach against the priests and

steeple-houses.

Grandfather described the hatred and scorn with which these enthusiasts

were received. They were thrown into dungeons; they were beaten with many

stripes, women as well as men; they were driven forth into the wilderness,

and left to the tender mercies of wild beasts and Indians. The children

were amazed to hear, that, the more the Quakers were scourged, and

imprisoned, and banished, the more did the sect increase, both by the

influx of strangers, and by converts from among the Puritans. But

Grandfather told them, that God had put something into the soul of man,

which always turned the cruelties of the persecutor to nought.

He went on to relate, that, in 1659, two Quakers, named William Robinson

and Marmaduke Stephenson, were hanged at Boston. A woman had been

sentenced to die with them, but was reprieved, on condition of her leaving

the colony. Her name was Mary Dyer. In the year 1660 she returned to

Boston, although she knew death awaited her there; and, if Grandfather had

been correctly informed, an incident had then taken place, which connects

her with our story. This Mary Dyer had entered the mint-master’s dwelling,

clothed in sackcloth and ashes, and seated herself in our great chair,

with a sort of dignity and state. Then she proceeded to deliver what she

called a message from Heaven; but in the midst of it, they dragged her to

prison.

"And was she executed?" asked Laurence.

"She was," said Grandfather.

"Grandfather," cried Charley, clenching his fist, "I would have fought for

that poor Quaker woman!"

"Ah! but if a sword had been drawn for her," said Laurence, "it would have

taken away all the beauty of her death."

It seemed as if hardly any of the preceding stories had thrown such an

interest around Grandfather’s chair, as did the fact, that the poor,

persecuted, wandering Quaker woman had rested in it for a moment. The

children were so much excited, that Grandfather found it necessary to

bring his account of the persecution to a close.

"In 1660, the same year in which Mary Dyer was executed," said he,

"Charles the Second was restored to the throne of his fathers. This king

had many vices; but he would not permit blood to be shed, under pretence

of religion, in any part of his dominions. The Quakers in England told him

what had been done to their brethren in Massachusetts; and he sent orders

to Governor Endicott to forbear all such proceedings in future. And so

ended the Quaker persecution,—one of the most mournful passages in the

history of our forefathers."

Grandfather then told his auditors, that, shortly after the above

incident, the great chair had been given by the mint-master to the Rev.

Mr. John Eliot. He was the first minister of Roxbury. But besides

attending to his pastoral duties there, he learned the language of the red

men, and often went into the woods to preach to them. So earnestly did he

labor for their conversion, that he has always been called the apostle to

the Indians. The mention of this holy man suggested to Grandfather the

propriety of giving a brief sketch of the history of the Indians, so far

as they were connected with the English colonists.

A short period before the arrival of the first Pilgrims at Plymouth, there

had been a very grievous plague among the red men; and the sages and

ministers of that day were inclined to the opinion, that Providence had

sent this mortality, in order to make room for the settlement of the

English. But I know not why we should suppose that an Indian’s life is

less precious, in the eye of Heaven, than that of a white man. Be that as

it may, death had certainly been very busy with the savage tribes.

In many places the English found the wigwams deserted, and the corn-fields

growing to waste, with none to harvest the grain. There were heaps of

earth also, which, being dug open, proved to be Indian graves, containing

bows and flint-headed spears and arrows; for the Indians buried the dead

warrior’s weapons along with him. In some spots, there were skulls and

other human bones, lying unburied. In 1633, and the year afterwards, the

smallpox broke out among the Massachusetts Indians, multitudes of whom

died by this terrible disease of the old world. These misfortunes made

them far less powerful than they had formerly been.

For nearly half a century after the arrival of the English, the red men

showed themselves generally inclined to peace and amity. They often made

submission, when they might have made successful war. The Plymouth

settlers, led by the famous Captain Miles Standish, slew some of them in

1623, without any very evident necessity for so doing. In 1636, and the

following year, there was the most dreadful war that had yet occurred

between the Indians and the English. The Connecticut settlers, assisted by

a celebrated Indian chief, named Uncas, bore the brunt of this war, with

but little aid from Massachusetts. Many hundreds of the hostile Indians

were slain, or burnt in their wigwams. Sassacus, their sachem, fled to

another tribe, after his own people were defeated; but he was murdered by

them, and his head was sent to his English enemies.

From that period, down to the time of King Philip’s war, which will be

mentioned hereafter, there was not much trouble with the Indians. But the

colonists were always on their guard, and kept their weapons ready for the

conflict.

"I have sometimes doubted," said Grandfather, when he had told these

things to the children, "I have sometimes doubted whether there was more

than a single man, among our forefathers, who realized that an Indian

possesses a mind and a heart, and an immortal soul. That single man was

John Eliot. All the rest of the early settlers seemed to think that the

Indians were an inferior race of beings, whom the Creator had merely

allowed to keep possession of this beautiful country, till the white men

should be in want of it.

"Did the pious men of those days never try to make Christians of them?"

asked Laurence.

"Sometimes, it is true," answered Grandfather, "the magistrates and

ministers would talk about civilizing and converting the red people. But,

at the bottom of their hearts, they would have had almost as much

expectation of civilizing a wild bear of the woods, and making him fit for

paradise. They felt no faith in the success of any such attempts, because

they had no love for the poor Indians. Now Eliot was full of love for

them, and therefore so full of faith and hope, that he spent the labor of

a lifetime in their behalf."

"I would have conquered them first, and then converted them," said

Charley.

"Ah, Charley, there spoke the very spirit of our forefathers!" replied

Grandfather. "But Mr. Eliot had a better spirit. He looked upon them as

his brethren. He persuaded as many of them as he could, to leave off their

idle and wandering habits, and to build houses, and cultivate the earth,

as the English did. He established schools among them, and taught many of

the Indians how to read. He taught them, likewise, how to pray. Hence they

were called ’praying Indians.’ Finally, having spent the best years of his

life for their good, Mr. Eliot resolved to spend the remainder in doing

them a yet greater benefit."

"I know what that was!" cried Laurence.

"He sat down in his study," continued Grandfather, "and began a

translation of the Bible into the Indian tongue. It was while he was

engaged in this pious work, that the mint-master gave him our great chair.

His toil needed it, and deserved it."

"O, Grandfather, tell us all about that Indian Bible!" exclaimed Laurence.

"I have seen it in the library of the Athenæum; and the tears came into my

eyes, to think that there were no Indians left to read it."

Chapter VIII

As Grandfather was a great admirer of the Apostle Eliot, he was glad to

comply with the earnest request which Laurence had made, at the close of

the last chapter. So he proceeded to describe how good Mr. Eliot labored,

while he was at work upon

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 great 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 any thing that earth could offer.

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

to know what literary undertaking Mr. Elliot 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 babble 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," said he, "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 if 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 counsellors 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

corslet beneath it, accompanied the governor and counsellors. 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 for ever.

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,

had 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."

"O, 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

any thing 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

The children were now accustomed to assemble round Grandfather’s chair, at

all their unoccupied moments; and often it was a striking picture to

behold the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath of young people

around him. When he talked to them, it was the past speaking to the

present,—or rather to the future, for the children were of a generation

which had not become actual. Their part in life, thus far, was only to be

happy, and to draw knowledge from a thousand sources. As yet, it was not

their time to do.

Sometimes, as Grandfather gazed at their fair, unworldly countenances, a

mist of tears bedimmed his spectacles. He almost regretted that it was

necessary for them to know any thing of the past, or to provide aught for

the future. He could have wished that they might be always the happy,

youthful creatures, who had hitherto sported around his chair, without

inquiring whether it had a history. It grieved him to think that his

little Alice, who was a flower-bud fresh from paradise, must open her

leaves to the rough breezes of the world, or ever open them in any clime.

So sweet a child she was, that it seemed fit her infancy should be

immortal!

But such repinings were merely flitting shadows across the old man’s

heart. He had faith enough to believe, and wisdom enough to know, that the

bloom of the flower would be even holier and happier than its bud. Even

within himself,—though Grandfather was now at that period of life, when

the veil of mortality is apt to hang heavily over the soul,—still, in his

inmost being, he was conscious of something that he would not have

exchanged for the best happiness of childhood. It was a bliss to which

every sort of earthly experience,—all that he had enjoyed or suffered, or

seen, or heard, or acted, with the broodings of his soul upon the

whole,—had contributed somewhat. In the same manner must a bliss, of which

now they could have no conception, grow up within these children, and form

a part of their sustenance for immortality.

So Grandfather, with renewed cheerfulness, continued his history of the

chair, trusting that a profounder wisdom than his own would extract, from

these flowers and weeds of Time, a fragrance that might last beyond all

time.

At this period of the story, Grandfather threw a glance backward, as far

as the year 1660. He spoke of the ill-concealed reluctance with which the

Puritans in America had acknowledged the sway of Charles the Second, on

his restoration to his father’s throne. When death had stricken Oliver

Cromwell, that mighty protector had no sincerer mourners than in New

England. The new king had been more than a year upon the throne before his

accession was proclaimed in Boston; although the neglect to perform the

ceremony might have subjected the rulers to the charge of treason.

During the reign of Charles the Second, however, the American colonies had

but little reason to complain of harsh or tyrannical treatment. But when

Charles died, in 1685, and was succeeded by his brother James, the

patriarchs of New England began to tremble. King James was a bigoted Roman

Catholic, and was known to be of an arbitrary temper. It was feared by all

Protestants, and chiefly by the Puritians, that he would assume despotic

power, and attempt to establish Popery throughout his dominions. Our

forefathers felt that they had no security either for their religion or

their liberties.

The result proved that they had reason for their apprehensions. King James

caused the charters of all the American colonies to be taken away. The old

charter of Massachusetts, which the people regarded as a holy thing, and

as the foundation of all their liberties, was declared void. The colonists

were now no longer freemen; they were entirely dependent on the king’s

pleasure. At first, in 1685, King James appointed Joseph Dudley, a native

of Massachusetts, to be president of New England. But soon afterwards, Sir

Edmund Andros, an officer of the English army, arrived, with a commission

to be governor-general of New England and New York.

The king had given such powers to Sir Edmund Andros, that there was now no

liberty, nor scarcely any law, in the colonies over which he ruled. The

inhabitants were not allowed to choose representatives, and consequently

had no voice whatever in the government, nor control over the measures

that were adopted. The counsellors, with whom the governor consulted on

matters of state, were appointed by himself. This sort of government was

no better than an absolute despotism.

"The people suffered much wrong, while Sir Edmund Andros ruled over them,"

continued Grandfather, "and they were apprehensive of much more. He had

brought some soldiers with him from England, who took possession of the

old fortress on Castle Island, and of the fortification on Fort Hill.

Sometimes it was rumored that a general massacre of the inhabitants was to

be perpetrated by these soldiers. There were reports, too, that all the

ministers were to be slain or imprisoned."

"For what?" inquired Charley.

"Because they were the leaders of the people, Charley," said Grandfather.

"A minister was a more formidable man than a general, in those days. Well;

while these things were going on in America, King James had so misgoverned

the people of England, that they sent over to Holland for the Prince of

Orange. He had married the king’s daughter, and was therefore considered

to have a claim to the crown. On his arrival in England, the Prince of

Orange was proclaimed king, by the name of William the Third. Poor old

King James made his escape to France."

Grandfather told how, at the first intelligence of the landing of the

Prince of Orange in England, the people of Massachusetts rose in their

strength, and overthrew the government of Sir Edmund Andros. He, with

Joseph Dudley, Edmund Randolph, and his other principal adherents, were

thrown into prison. Old Simon Bradstreet, who had been governor, when King

James took away the charter, was called by the people to govern them

again.

"Governor Bradstreet was a venerable old man, nearly ninety years of age,"

said Grandfather. "He came over with the first settlers, and had been the

intimate companion of all those excellent and famous men who laid the

foundation of our country. They were all gone before him to the grave; and

Bradstreet was the last of the Puritans."

Grandfather paused a moment, and smiled, as if he had something very

interesting to tell his auditors. He then proceeded:

"And now, Laurence,—now, Clara,—now, Charley,—now, my dear little

Alice,—what chair do you think had been placed in the council chamber, for

old Governor Bradstreet to take his seat in? Would you believe that it was

this very chair in which grandfather now sits, and of which he is telling

you the history?"

"I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!" cried Charley, after a shout of

delight. "I thought Grandfather had quite forgotten the chair."

"It was a solemn and affecting sight," said Grandfather, "when this

venerable patriarch, with his white beard flowing down upon his breast,

took his seat in his Chair of State. Within his remembrance, and even

since his mature age, the site where now stood the populous town, had been

a wild and forest-covered peninsula. The province, now so fertile, and

spotted with thriving villages, had been a desert wilderness. He was

surrounded by a shouting multitude, most of whom had been born in the

country which he had helped to found. They were of one generation, and he

of another. As the old man looked upon them, and beheld new faces

everywhere, he must have felt that it was now time for him to go, whither

his brethren had gone before him."

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

"All of them," replied Grandfather. "Winthrop had been dead forty years.

Endicott died, a very old man, in 1665. Sir Henry Vane was beheaded in

London, at the beginning of the reign of Charles the Second. And Haynes,

Dudley, Bellingham and Leverett, who had all been governors of

Massachusetts, were now likewise in their graves. Old Simon Bradstreet was

the sole representative of that departed brotherhood. There was no other

public man remaining to connect the ancient system of government and

manners with the new system, which was about to take its place. The era of

the Puritans was now completed."

"I am sorry for it," observed Laurence; "for, though they were so stern,

yet it seems to me that there was something warm and real about them. I

think, Grandfather, that each of these old governors should have his

statue set up in our State House, sculptured out of the hardest of New

England granite."

"It would not be amiss, Laurence," said Grandfather; "but perhaps clay, or

some other perishable material, might suffice for some of their

successors. But let us go back to our chair. It was occupied by Governor

Bradstreet from April, 1689, until May, 1692. Sir William Phips then

arrived in Boston, with a new charter from King William, and a commission

to be governor."

Chapter X

"And what became of the chair," inquired Clara.

"The outward aspect of our chair," replied Grandfather, "was now somewhat

the worse for its long and arduous services. It was considered hardly

magnificent enough to be allowed to keep its place in the council chamber

of Massachusetts. In fact, it was banished as an article of useless

lumber. But Sir William Phips happened to see it and being much pleased

with its construction, resolved to take the good old chair into his

private mansion. Accordingly, with his own gubernatorial hands, he

repaired one of its arms, which had been slightly damaged".

"Why, Grandfather, here is the very arm!" interrupted Charley, in great

wonderment. "And did Sir William Phips put in these screws with his own

hands? I am sure, he did it beautifully! But how came a governor to know

how to mend a chair?"

"I will tell you a story about the early life of Sir William Phips," said

Grandfather. "You will then perceive, that he well knew how to use his

hands."

So Grandfather related the wonderful and true tale of

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 Indian 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 cast 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

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 any thing 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 learnt 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. That 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 the 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

"Sir William Phips," continued Grandfather, "was too active and

adventurous a man to sit still in the quiet enjoyment of his good fortune.

In the year 1690, he went on a military expedition against the French

colonies in America, conquered the whole province of Acadie, and returned

to Boston with a great deal of plunder."

"Why, grandfather, he was the greatest man that ever sat in the chair!"

cried Charley.

"Ask Laurence what he thinks," replied Grandfather with a smile. "Well; in

the same year, Sir William took command of an expedition against Quebec,

but did not succeed in capturing the city. In 1692, being then in London,

King William the Third appointed him governor of Massachusetts. And now,

my dear children, having followed Sir William Phips through all his

adventures and hardships, till we find him comfortably seated in

Grandfather’s chair, we will here bid him farewell. May he be as happy in

ruling a people, as he was while he tended sheep!"

Charley, whose fancy had been greatly taken by the adventurous disposition

of Sir William Phips, was eager to know how he had acted, and what

happened 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

fire-light radiance over all the household. Now, while we thought not of

it, the dark clad mourner, Grief, has stolen into the place of Joy, but

not to retain it long. The imagination can hardly grasp so wide a subject,

as is embraced in the experience of a family chair."

"It makes my breath flutter,—my heart thrill,—to think of it," said

Laurence. "Yes; a family chair must have a deeper history than a Chair of

State."

"O, yes!" cried Clara, expressing a woman’s feeling on the point in

question, "The history of a country is not nearly so interesting as that

of a single family would be."

"But the history of a country is more easily told," said Grandfather. "So,

if we proceed with our narrative of the chair, I shall still confine

myself to its connection with public events."

Good old Grandfather now rose and quitted the room, while the children

remained gazing at the chair. Laurence, so vivid was his conception of

past times, would hardly have deemed it strange, if its former occupants,

one after another, had resumed the seat which they had each left vacant,

such a dim length of years ago.

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 has stood firm when the thrones of kings were overturned!"

thought Laurence. "Its oaken frame has proved stronger than many frames of

government!"

More the thoughtful and imaginative boy might have mused; but now a large

yellow cat, a great favorite with all the children, leaped in at the open

window. Perceiving that Grandfather’s chair was empty, and having often

before experienced its comforts, puss laid herself quietly down upon the

cushion. Laurence, Clara, Charley, and little Alice, all laughed at the

idea of such a successor to the worthies of old times.

"Pussy," said little Alice, putting out her hand, into which the cat laid

a velvet paw, "you look very wise. Do tell us a story about GRANDFATHER’S

CHAIR!"

PART II

Chapter I

"O Grandfather," dear Grandfather, cried little Alice, "pray tell us some

more stories about your chair!"

How long a time had fled, since the children had felt any curiosity to

hear the sequel of this venerable chair’s adventures! Summer was now past

and gone, and the better part of Autumn likewise. Dreary, chill November

was howling, out of doors, and vexing the atmosphere with sudden showers

of wintry rain, or sometimes with gusts of snow, that rattled like small

pebbles against the windows.

When the weather began to grow cool, Grandfather’s chair had been removed

from the summer parlor into a smaller and snugger room. It now stood by

the side of a bright blazing wood-fire. Grandfather loved a wood-fire, far

better than a grate of glowing anthracite, or than the dull heat of an

invisible furnace, which seems to think that it has done its duty in

merely warming the house. But the wood-fire is a kindly, cheerful,

sociable spirit, sympathizing with mankind, and knowing that to create

warmth is but one of the good offices which are expected from it.

Therefore it dances on the hearth, and laughs broadly through the room,

and plays a thousand antics, and throws a joyous glow over all the faces

that encircle it.

In the twilight of the evening, the fire grew brighter and more cheerful.

And thus, perhaps, there was something in Grandfather’s heart, that

cheered him most with its warmth and comfort in the gathering twilight of

old age. He had been gazing at the red embers, as intently as if his past

life were all pictured there, or as if it were a prospect of the future

world, when little Alice’s voice aroused him.

"Dear Grandfather," repeated the little girl, more earnestly, "do talk to

us again about your chair."

Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little Alice, had been attracted to

other objects, for two or three months past. They had sported in the

gladsome sunshine of the present, and so had forgotten the shadowy region

of the past, in the midst of which stood Grandfather’s chair. But now, in

the autumnal twilight, illuminated by the flickering blaze of the

wood-fire, they looked at the old chair and thought that it had never

before worn such an interesting aspect. There it stood, in the venerable

majesty of more than two hundred years. The light from the hearth quivered

upon the flowers and foliage, that were wrought into its oaken back; and

the lion’s head at the summit seemed almost to move its jaws and shake its

mane.

"Does little Alice speak for all of you?" asked Grandfather. "Do you wish

me to go on with the adventures of the chair?"

"Oh, yes, yes, Grandfather!" cried Clara. "The dear old chair! How strange

that we should have forgotten it so long!"

"Oh, pray begin, Grandfather," said Laurence; "for I think, when we talk

about old times, it should be in the early evening before the candles are

lighted. The shapes of the famous persons, who once sat in the chair, will

be more apt to come back, and be seen among us, in this glimmer and

pleasant gloom, than they would in the vulgar daylight. And, besides, we

can make pictures of all that you tell us, among the glowing embers and

white ashes."

Our friend Charley, too, thought the evening the best time to hear

Grandfather’s stories, because he could not then be playing out of doors.

So, finding his young auditors unanimous in their petition, the good old

gentleman took up the narrative of the historic chair, at the point where

he had dropt it.

Chapter II

"You recollect, my dear children," said Grandfather, "that we took leave

of the chair in 1692, while it was occupied by Sir William Phips. This

fortunate treasure-seeker, you will remember, had come over from England,

with King William’s commission to be Governor of Massachusetts. Within the

limits of this province were now included the old colony of Plymouth, and

the territories of Maine and Nova Scotia. Sir William Phips had likewise

brought a new charter from the king, which served instead of a

constitution, and set forth the method in which the province was to be

governed."

"Did the new charter allow the people all their former liberties?"

inquired Laurence.

"No," replied Grandfather. "Under the first charter, the people had been

the source of all power. Winthrop, Endicott, Bradstreet, and the rest of

them, had been governors by the choice of the people, without any

interference of the king. But henceforth the governor was to hold his

station solely by the king’s appointment, and during his pleasure; and the

same was the case with the lieutenant-governor, and some other high

officers. The people, however, were still allowed to choose

representatives; and the governor’s council was chosen by the general

court."

"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

council. 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 1693. It brought an army, which was intended for the conquest of

Canada. But a malignant disease, more fatal than the small-pox, broke out

among the soldiers and sailors, and destroyed the greater part of them.

The infection spread into the town of Boston, and made much havoc there.

This dreadful sickness caused the governor, and Sir Francis Wheeler, who

was commander of the British forces, to give up all thoughts of attacking

Canada.

"Soon after this," said Grandfather, "Sir William Phips quarrelled with

the captain of an English frigate, and also with the Collector of Boston.

Being a man of violent temper, he gave each of them a sound beating with

his cane."

"He was a bold fellow," observed Charley, who was himself somewhat

addicted to a similar mode of settling disputes.

"More bold than wise," replied Grandfather; "for complaints were carried

to the king, and Sir William Phips was summoned to England, to make the

best answer he could. Accordingly he went to London, where, in 1695, he

was seized with a malignant fever, of which he died. Had he lived longer,

he would probably have gone again in search of sunken treasure. He had

heard of a Spanish ship, which was cast away in 1502, during the lifetime

of Columbus. Bovadilla, Roldan, and many other Spaniards, were lost in

her, together with the immense wealth of which they had robbed the South

American kings."

"Why, Grandfather," exclaimed Laurence, "what magnificent ideas the

governor had! Only think of recovering all that old treasure, which had

lain almost two centuries under the sea! Me thinks Sir William Phips ought

to have been buried in the ocean, when he died; so that he might have gone

down among the sunken ships, and cargoes of treasure, which he was always

dreaming about in his lifetime."

"He was buried in one of the crowded cemeteries of London," said

Grandfather. "As he left no children, his estate was inherited by his

nephew, from whom is descended the present Marquis of Normandy. The noble

Marquis is not aware, perhaps, that the prosperity of his family

originated in the successful enterprise of a New England ship carpenter."

Chapter III

"At the death of Sir William Phips," proceeded Grandfather, "our chair was

bequeathed to Mr. Ezekiel Cheever, a famous school-master in Boston. This

old gentleman came from London in 1637, and had been teaching school ever

since; so that there were now aged men, grandfathers like myself, to whom

Master Cheever had taught their alphabet. He was a person of venerable

aspect, and wore a long white beard.

"Was the chair placed in his school?" asked Charley.

"Yes, in his school," answered Grandfather; "and we may safely say that it

had never before been regarded with such awful reverence—no, not even when

the old governors of Massachusetts sat in it. Even you, Charley, my boy,

would have felt some respect for the chair, if you had seen it occupied by

this famous school-master."

And here Grandfather endeavored to give his auditors an idea how matters

were managed in schools above a hundred years ago. As this will probably

be an interesting subject to our readers, we shall make a separate sketch

of it, and call it

THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL

Now imagine yourselves, my children, in Master Ezekiel Cheever’s

school-room. It is a large, dingy room, with a sanded floor, and is

lighted by windows that turn on hinges, and have little diamond shaped

panes of glass. The scholars sit on long benches, with desks before them.

At one end of the room is a great fire-place, so very spacious, that there

is room enough for three or four boys to stand in each of the chimney

corners. This was the good old fashion of fire-places, when there was wood

enough in the forests to keep people warm, without their digging into the

bowels of the earth for coal.

It is a winter’s day when we take our peep into the school-room. See what

great logs of wood have been rolled into the fire-place, and what a broad,

bright blaze goes leaping up the chimney! And every few moments, a vast

cloud of smoke is puffed into the room, which sails slowly over the heads

of the scholars, until it gradually settles upon the walls and ceiling.

They are blackened with the smoke of many years already.

[Image #2]

Next, look at our old historic chair! It is placed, you perceive, in the

most comfortable part of the room, where the generous glow of the fire is

sufficiently felt, without being too intensely hot. How stately the old

chair looks, as if it remembered its many famous occupants, but yet were

conscious that a greater man is sitting in it now! Do you see the

venerable school-master, severe in aspect, with a black scull-cap on his

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

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

glance aside from his book, while Master Cheever is on the look-out,

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

birch is hanging over the fire-place, and a heavy ferule lies on the

master’s desk.

And now school is begun. What a murmur of multitudinous tongues, like the

whispering leaves of a wind-stirred oak, as the scholars con over their

various tasks! Buz, buz, buz! Amid just such a murmur has Master Cheever

spent above sixty years: and long habit has made it as pleasant to him as

the hum of a bee-hive, when the insects are busy in the sunshine.

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

queer-looking little fellows, wearing square-skirted coats, and small

clothes, with buttons at the knee. They look like so many grandfathers in

their second childhood. These lads are to be sent to Cambridge, and

educated for the learned professions. Old Master Cheever has lived so

long, and seen so many generations of school-boys grow up to be men, that

now he can almost prophesy what sort of a man each boy will be. One urchin

shall hereafter be a doctor, and administer pills and potions, and stalk

gravely through life, perfumed with assaf[oe]tida. Another shall wrangle

at the bar, and fight his way to wealth and honors, and in his declining

age, shall be a worshipful member of his Majesty’s council. A third—and he

is the Master’s favorite—shall be a worthy successor to the old Puritan

ministers, now in their graves; he shall preach with great unction and

effect, and leave volumes of sermons, in print and manuscript, for the

benefit of future generations.

But, as they are merely school-boys now, their business is to construe

Virgil. Poor Virgil, whose verses, which he took so much pains to polish,

have been mis-scanned, and mis-parsed, and mis-interpreted, by so many

generations of idle school-boys! There, sit down, ye Latinists. Two or

three of you, I fear, are doomed to feel the master’s ferule.

Next comes a class in Arithmetic. These boys are to be the merchants,

shop-keepers, and mechanics, of a future period. Hitherto, they have

traded only in marbles and apples. Hereafter, some will send vessels to

England for broadcloths and all sorts of manufactured wares, and to the

West Indies for sugar, and rum, and coffee. Others will stand behind

counters, and measure tape, and ribbon, and cambric, by the yard. Others

will upheave the blacksmith’s hammer, or drive the plane over the

carpenter’s bench, or take the lapstone and the awl, and learn the trade

of shoe-making. Many will follow the sea, and become bold, rough

sea-captains.

This class of boys, in short, must supply the world with those active,

skilful hands, and clear, sagacious heads, without which the affairs of

life would be thrown into confusion, by the theories of studious and

visionary men. Wherefore, teach them their multiplication table, good

Master Cheever, and whip them well, when they deserve it; for much of the

country’s welfare depends on these boys!

But, alas! while we have been thinking of other matters, Master Cheever’s

watchful eye has caught two boys at play. Now we shall see awful times!

The two malefactors are summoned before the master’s chair, wherein he

sits, with the terror of a judge upon his brow. Our old chair is now a

judgment-seat. Ah, Master Cheever has taken down that terrible birch-rod!

Short is the trial—the sentence quickly passed—and now the judge prepares

to execute it in person. Thwack! thwack! thwack! In those good old times,

a school-master’s blows were well laid on.

See! the birch-rod has lost several of its twigs, and will hardly serve

for another execution. Mercy on us, what a bellowing the urchins make! My

ears are almost deafened, though the clamor comes through the far length

of a hundred and fifty years. There, go to your seats, poor boys; and do

not cry, sweet little Alice; for they have ceased to feel the pain, a long

time since.

And thus the forenoon passes away. Now it is twelve o’clock. The master

looks at his great silver watch, and then with tiresome deliberation, puts

the ferule into his desk. The little multitude await the word of

dismissal, with almost irrepressible impatience.

"You are dismissed," says Master Cheever.

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

but, fairly out of the school-room, lo, what a joyous shout!—what a

scampering and trampling of feet!—what a sense of recovered freedom,

expressed in the merry uproar of all their voices! What care they for the

ferule and birch-rod now? Were boys created merely to study Latin and

Arithmetic? No; the better purposes of their being are to sport, to leap,

to run, to shout, to slide upon the ice, to snow-ball!

Happy boys! Enjoy your play-time now, and come again to study, and to feel

the birch-rod and the ferule, to-morrow; not till to-morrow, for to-day is

Thursday-lecture; and ever since the settlement of Massachusetts, there

has been no school on Thursday afternoons. Therefore, sport, boys, while

you may; for the morrow cometh, with the birch-rod and the ferule; and

after that, another Morrow, with troubles of its own.

Now the master has set every thing to rights, and is ready to go home to

dinner. Yet he goes reluctantly. The old man has spent so much of his life

in the smoky, noisy, buzzing school-room, that, when he has a holiday, he

feels as if his place were lost, and himself a stranger in the world. But,

forth he goes; and there stands our old chair, vacant and solitary, till

good Master Cheever resumes his seat in it to-morrow morning.

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

upset the old chair, when the school-master was out?"

"There is a tradition," replied Grandfather, "that one of its arms was

dislocated, in some such manner. But I cannot believe that any school-boy

would behave so naughtily."

As it was now later than little Alice’s usual bedtime, Grandfather broke

off his narrative, promising to talk more about Master Cheever and his

scholars, some other evening.

Chapter IV

Accordingly the next evening, Grandfather resumed the history of his

beloved chair.

"Master Ezekiel Cheever," said he, "died in 1707, after having taught

school about seventy years. It would require a pretty good scholar in

arithmetic to tell how many stripes he had inflicted, and how many

birch-rods he had worn out, during all that time, in his fatherly

tenderness for his pupils. Almost all the great men of that period, and

for many years back, had been whipt into eminence by Master Cheever.

Moreover, he had written a Latin Accidence, which was used in schools more

than half a century after his death; so that the good old man, even in his

grave, was still the cause of trouble and stripes to idle school-boys."

Grandfather proceeded to say, that, when Master Cheever died, he

bequeathed the chair to the most learned man that was educated at his

school, or that had ever been born in America. This was the renowned

Cotton Mather, minister of the Old North Church in Boston.

"And author of the Magnalia, Grandfather, which we sometimes see you

reading," said Laurence.

"Yes, Laurence," replied Grandfather. "The Magnalia is a strange, pedantic

history, in which true events and real personages move before the reader,

with the dreamy aspect which they wore in Cotton Mather’s singular mind.

This huge volume, however, was written and published before our chair came

into his possession. But, as he was the author of more books than there

are days in the year, we may conclude that he wrote a great deal, while

sitting in this chair."

"I am tired of these school-masters and learned men," said Charley. "I

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

Sir William Phips, would set in the chair."

"Such men seldom have leisure to sit quietly in a chair," said

Grandfather. "We must make the best of such people as we have."

As Cotton Mather was a very distinguished man, Grandfather took some pains

to give the children a lively conception of his character. Over the door

of his library were painted these words—BE SHORT—as a warning to visitors

that they must not do the world so much harm, as needlessly to interrupt

this great man’s wonderful labors. On entering the room you would probably

behold it crowded, and piled, and heaped with books. There were huge,

ponderous folios and quartos, and little duodecimos, in English, Latin,

Greek, Hebrew, Chaldaic, and all other languages, that either originated

at the confusion of Babel, or have since come into use.

All these books, no doubt, were tossed about in confusion, thus forming a

visible emblem of the manner in which their contents were crowded into

Cotton Mather’s brain. And in the middle of the room stood a table, on

which, besides printed volumes, were strewn manuscript sermons, historical

tracts, and political pamphlets, all written in such a queer, blind,

crabbed, fantastical hand, that a writing-master would have gone raving

mad at the sight of them. By this table stood Grandfather’s chair, which

seemed already to have contracted an air of deep erudition, as if its

cushion were stuffed with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and other hard

matters.

In this chair, from one year’s end to another, sat that prodigious

book-worm, Cotton Mather, sometimes devouring a great book, and sometimes

scribbling one as big. In Grandfather’s younger days, there used to be a

wax figure of him in one of the Boston museums, representing a solemn,

dark-visaged person, in a minister’s black gown, and with a black-letter

volume before him.

"It is difficult, my children," observed Grandfather, "to make you

understand such a character as Cotton Mather’s, in whom there was so much

good, and yet so many failings and frailties. Undoubtedly, he was a pious

man. Often he kept fasts; and once, for three whole days, he allowed

himself not a morsel of food, but spent the time in prayer and religious

meditation. Many a live-long night did he watch and pray. These fasts and

vigils made him meagre and haggard, and probably caused him to appear as

if he hardly belonged to the world."

"Was not the witchcraft delusion partly caused by Cotton Mather?" inquired

Laurence.

"He was the chief agent of the mischief," answered Grandfather; "but we

will not suppose that he acted otherwise than conscientiously. He believed

that there were evil spirits all about the world. Doubtless he imagined

that they were hidden in the corners and crevices of his library, and that

they peeped out from among the leaves of many of his books, as he turned

them over, at midnight. He supposed that these unlovely demons were

everywhere, in the sunshine as well as in the darkness, and that they were

hidden in men’s hearts, and stole into their most secret thoughts."

Here Grandfather was interrupted by little Alice, who hid her face in his

lap, and murmured a wish that he would not talk any more about Cotton

Mather and the evil spirits. Grandfather kissed her, and told her that

angels were the only spirits whom she had any thing to do with. He then

spoke of the public affairs of the period.

A new war between France and England had broken out in 1702, and had been

raging ever since. In the course of it, New England suffered much injury

from the French and Indians, who often came through the woods from Canada,

and assaulted the frontier towns. Villages were sometimes burnt, and the

inhabitants slaughtered, within a day’s ride of Boston. The people of New

England had a bitter hatred against the French, not only for the mischief

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. In that case, as the Stuart family were

Roman Catholics, it was supposed that they would attempt to establish

their own religion throughout the British dominions. But the Elector of

Hanover, and all his race, were Protestants; so that now the descendants

of the old Puritans were relieved from many fears and disquietudes.

"The importance of this event," observed Grandfather, "was a thousand

times greater than that of a Presidential Election, in our own days. If

the people dislike their president, they may get rid of him in four years;

whereas, a dynasty of kings may wear the crown for an unlimited period."

The German elector was proclaimed king from the balcony of the town-house,

in Boston, by the title of George the First, while the trumpets sounded,

and the people cried Amen. That night, the town was illuminated; and

Cotton Mather threw aside book and pen, and left Grandfather’s chair

vacant, while he walked hither and thither to witness the rejoicings.

Chapter VI

"Cotton Mather," continued Grandfather, "was a bitter enemy to Governor

Dudley; and nobody exulted more than he, when that crafty politician was

removed from the government, and succeeded by Colonel Shute. This took

place in 1716. The new governor had been an officer in the renowned Duke

of Marlborough’s army, and had fought in some of the great battles in

Flanders."

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

"I am afraid you will be disappointed, Charley," answered Grandfather. "It

is true, that Colonel Shute had probably never led so unquiet a life while

fighting the French, as he did now, while governing this province of

Massachusetts Bay. But his troubles consisted almost entirely of

dissensions with the legislature. The king had ordered him to lay claim to

a fixed salary; but the representatives of the people insisted upon paying

him only such sums, from year to year, as they saw fit."

Grandfather here explained some of the circumstances, that made the

situation of a colonial governor so difficult and irksome. There was not

the same feeling towards the chief magistrate, now, that had existed,

while he was chosen by the free suffrages of the people. It was felt,

that, as the king appointed the governor, and as he held his office during

the king’s pleasure, it would be his great object to please the king. But

the people thought, that a governor ought to have nothing in view, but the

best interests of those whom he governed.

"The governor," remarked Grandfather, "had two masters to serve—the king,

who appointed him, and the people, on whom he depended for his pay. Few

men, in this position, would have ingenuity enough to satisfy either

party. Colonel Shute, though a good-natured, well-meaning man, succeeded

so ill with the people, that in 1722, he suddenly went away to England,

and made complaint to King George. In the mean time, Lieutenant-Governor

Dummer directed the affairs of the province, and carried on a long and

bloody war with the Indians."

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

"It still remained in Cotton Mather’s library," replied Grandfather; "and

I must not omit to tell you an incident, which is very much to the honor

of this celebrated man. It is the more proper, too, that you should hear

it, because it will show you what a terrible calamity the small pox was to

our forefathers. The history of the province, (and, of course, the history

of our chair,) would be incomplete, without particular mention of it."

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 these 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 madness

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 burnt 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 Boylston, 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 assaf[oe]tida, 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 more 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 Burnet, 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 Burnet 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 Burnet, 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

any thing 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 Burnet 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 1720. 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 VII

A few evenings afterwards, cousin Clara happened to inquire of

Grandfather, whether the old chair had never been present at a ball. At

the same time, little Alice brought forward a doll, with whom she had been

holding a long conversation.

"See, Grandfather," cried she. "Did such a pretty lady as this ever sit in

your great chair?"

These questions led Grandfather to talk about the fashions and manners,

which now began to be introduced from England into the provinces. The

simplicity of the good old Puritan times was fast disappearing. This was

partly owing to the increasing number and wealth of the inhabitants, and

to the additions which they continually received, by the arrival and

settlement of people from beyond the sea.

Another cause of a pompous and artificial mode of life, among those who

could afford it, was, that the example was set by the royal governors.

Under the old charter, the governors were the representatives of the

people, and therefore their way of living had probably been marked by a

popular simplicity. But now, as they represented the person of the king,

they thought it necessary to preserve the dignity of their station, by the

practice of high and gorgeous ceremonials. And, besides, the profitable

offices under the government were filled by men who had lived in London,

and had there contracted fashionable and luxurious habits of living, which

they would not now lay aside. The wealthy people of the province imitated

them; and thus began a general change in social life.

"So, my dear Clara," said Grandfather, "after our chair had entered the

Province House, it must often have been present at balls and festivals,

though I cannot give you a description of any particular one. But I doubt

not that they were very magnificent; and slaves in gorgeous liveries

waited on the guests, and offered them wine in goblets of massive silver."

"Were there slaves in those days?" exclaimed Clara.

"Yes; black slaves and white," replied Grandfather. "Our ancestors not

only bought negroes from Africa, but Indians from South America, and white

people from Ireland. These last were sold, not for life, but for a certain

number of years, in order to pay the expenses of their voyage across the

Atlantic. Nothing was more common than to see a lot of likely Irish girls,

advertised for sale in the newspapers. As for the little negro babies,

they were offered to be given away, like young kittens."

"Perhaps Alice would have liked one to play with, instead of her doll,"

said Charley, laughing.

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

"Now, as for this pretty doll, my little Alice," said Grandfather, "I wish

you could have seen what splendid dresses the ladies wore in those times.

They had silks, and satins, and damasks, and brocades, and high

head-dresses, and all sorts of fine things. And they used to wear

hooped-petticoats, of such enormous size that it was quite a journey to

walk round them."

"And how did the gentlemen dress?" asked Charley.

"With full as much magnificence as the ladies," answered Grandfather. "For

their holiday suits, they had coats of figured velvet, crimson, green,

blue, and all other gay colors, embroidered with gold or silver lace.

Their waistcoats, which were five times as large as modern ones, were very

splendid. Sometimes, the whole waistcoat, which came down almost to the

knees, was made of gold brocade."

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

"And, then," continued Grandfather, "they wore various sorts of periwigs,

such as the Tie, the Spencer, the Brigadier, the Major, the Albemarle, the

Ramilies, the Feather-top, and the Full-bottom! Their three-cornered hats

were laced with gold or silver. They had shining buckles at the knees of

their small clothes, and buckles likewise in their shoes. They wore

swords, with beautiful hilts, either of silver, or sometimes of polished

steel, inlaid with gold."

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

"And an embroidered crimson velvet coat," said Clara, laughing, "and a

gold brocade waistcoat down to your knees!"

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

"And a periwig," added little Alice, soberly, not knowing what was the

article of dress, which she recommended to our friend Charley.

Grandfather smiled at the idea of Charley’s sturdy little figure in such a

grotesque caparison. He then went on with the history of the chair, and

told the children, that, in 1730, King George the Second appointed

Jonathan Belcher to be governor of Massachusetts, in place of the deceased

Governor Burnet. Mr. Belcher was a native of the province, but had spent

much of his life in Europe.

The new governor found Grandfather’s chair in the Province House, he was

struck with its noble and stately aspect, but was of opinion, that age and

hard services had made it scarcely so fit for courtly company, as when it

stood in the Earl of Lincoln’s hall. Wherefore, as Governor Belcher was

fond of splendor, he employed a skilful artist to beautify the chair. This

was done by polishing and varnishing it, and by gilding the carved work of

the elbows, and likewise the oaken flowers of the back. The lion’s head

now shone like a veritable lump of gold. Finally, Governor Belcher gave

the chair a cushion of blue damask, with a rich golden fringe.

"Our good old chair being thus glorified," proceeded Grandfather, "it

glittered with a great deal more splendor than it had exhibited just a

century before, when the Lady Arbella brought it over from England. Most

people mistook it for a chair of the latest London fashion. And this may

serve for an example, that there is almost always an old and time-worn

substance under all the glittering show of new invention."

"Grandfather, I cannot see any of the gilding," remarked Charley, who had

been examining the chair very minutely.

"You will not wonder that it has been rubbed off," replied Grandfather,

"when you hear all the adventures that have since befallen the chair.

Gilded it was; and the handsomest room in the Province House was adorned

by it."

There was not much to interest the children, in what happened during the

years that Governor Belcher remained in the chair. At first, like Colonel

Shute and Governor Burnet, he was engaged in disputing with the

legislature about his salary. But, as he found it impossible to get a

fixed sum, he finally obtained the king’s leave to accept whatever the

legislature chose to give him. And thus the people triumphed, after this

long contest for the privilege of expending their own money as they saw

fit.

The remainder of Governor Belcher’s term of office was principally taken

up in endeavoring to settle the currency. Honest John Hull’s pine-tree

shillings had long ago been worn out, or lost, or melted down again, and

their place was supplied by bills of paper or parchment, which were

nominally valued at three pence and upwards. The value of these bills kept

continually sinking, because the real hard money could not be obtained for

them. They were a great deal worse than the old Indian currency of

clam-shells. These disorders of the circulating medium were a source of

endless plague and perplexity to the rulers and legislators, not only in

Governor Belcher’s days, but for many years before and afterwards.

Finally, the people suspected that Governor Belcher was secretly

endeavoring to establish the Episcopal mode of worship in the provinces.

There was enough of the old Puritan spirit remaining, to cause most of the

true sons of New England to look with horror upon such an attempt. Great

exertions were made, to induce the king to remove the governor.

Accordingly, in 1740, he was compelled to resign his office, and

Grandfather’s chair into the bargain, to Mr. Shirley.

Chapter VIII

"William Shirley," said Grandfather, "had come from England a few years

before, and begun to practise law in Boston. You will think, perhaps,

that, as he had been a lawyer, the new governor used to sit in our great

chair, reading heavy law-books from morning till night. On the contrary,

he was as stirring and active a governor as Massachusetts ever had. Even

Sir William Phips hardly equalled him. The first year or two of his

administration was spent in trying to regulate the currency. But, in 1744,

after a peace of more than thirty years, war broke out between France and

England."

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

"Not exactly, Charley," said Grandfather, "though you have made a pretty

shrewd conjecture. He planned, in 1745, an expedition against Louisbourg.

This was a fortified city, on the Island of Cape Breton, near Nova Scotia.

Its walls were of immense height and strength, and were defended by

hundreds of heavy cannon. It was the strongest fortress which the French

possessed in America; and if the king of France had guessed Governor

Shirley’s intentions, he would have sent all the ships he could muster, to

protect it."

As the siege of Louisbourg was one of the most remarkable events that ever

the inhabitants of New England were engaged in, Grandfather endeavored to

give his auditors a lively idea of the spirit with which they set about

it. We shall call his description

THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER

The expedition against Louisbourg first began to be thought of in the

month of January. From that time, the governor’s chair was continually

surrounded by counsellors, 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 every thing 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 descendants had grown rusty by

disuse. There was nobody in New England that knew any thing 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

leger, 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 touch-holes 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 seen 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. Tall, 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 corn-fields, 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 twenty-fourth 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 Louisbourg, 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 burthen of his

petition was for the safety of those dear ones, who were fighting under

the walls of Louisbourg.

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 sea-ward,

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

freestone steps, to receive some mud-bespattered courtier, 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 of the

walls of Louisbourg. 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

Louisbourg 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 day-break, on the morning of the

third 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! Louisbourg 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 Louisbourg, while

several bombs are falling through the air."

"But, did the country gain any real good by the conquest of Louisbourg?"

asked Laurence. "Or was all the benefit reaped by Pepperell and Shirley?"

"The English Parliament," said 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 Louisbourg,

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

Louisbourg, 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 Louisbourg, 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 brick-bats 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 dispatched to France, on public

business. Meanwhile, as Shirley had not resigned his office,

Lieutenant-Governor Phips acted as chief magistrate in his stead.

Chapter IX

In the early twilight of Thanksgiving eve, came Laurence, and Clara, and

Charley, and little Alice, hand in hand, and stood in a semi-circle round

Grandfather’s chair. They had been joyous, throughout that day of

festivity, mingling together in all kinds of play, so that the house had

echoed with their airy mirth.

Grandfather, too, had been happy, though not mirthful. He felt that this

was to be set down as one of the good Thanksgivings of his life. In truth,

all his former Thanksgivings had borne their part in the present one; for,

his years of infancy, and youth, and manhood with their blessings and

their griefs, had flitted before him, while he sat silently in the great

chair. Vanished scenes had been pictured in the air. The forms of departed

friends had visited him. Voices, to be heard no more on earth, had sent an

echo from the infinite and the eternal. These shadows, if such they were,

seemed almost as real to him, as what was actually present—as the merry

shouts and laughter of the children—as their figures, dancing like

sunshine before his eyes.

He felt that the past was not taken from him. The happiness of former days

was a possession forever. And there was something in the mingled sorrow of

his lifetime, that became akin to happiness, after being long treasured in

the depths of his heart. There it underwent a change, and grew more

precious than pure gold.

And now came the children, somewhat aweary with their wild play, and

sought the quiet enjoyment of Grandfather’s talk. The good old gentleman

rubbed his eyes, and smiled round upon them all. He was glad, as most aged

people are, to find that he was yet of consequence, and could give

pleasure to the world. After being so merry, all day long, did these

children desire to hear his sober talk? Oh, then, old Grandfather had yet

a place to fill among living men,—or at least among boys and girls!

"Begin quick, Grandfather," cried little Alice; "for Pussy wants to hear

you."

And, truly, our yellow friend, the cat, lay upon the hearth rug, basking

in the warmth of the fire, pricking up her ears, and turning her head from

the children to Grandfather, and from Grandfather to the children, as if

she felt herself very sympathetic with them all. A loud purr, like the

singing of a tea-kettle, or the hum of a spinning-wheel, testified that

she was as comfortable and happy as a cat could be. For Puss had feasted,

and therefore, like Grandfather and the children, had kept a good

Thanksgiving.

"Does Pussy want to hear me?" said Grandfather, smiling. "Well; we must

please Pussy, if we can!"

And so he took up the history of the chair, from the epoch of the peace of

1748. By one of the provisions of the treaty, Louisbourg, which the New

Englanders had been at so much pains to take, was restored to the king of

France.

The French were afraid, that, unless their colonies should be better

defended than heretofore, another war might deprive them of the whole.

Almost as soon as peace was declared, therefore, they began to build

strong fortifications in the interior of North America. It was strange to

behold these warlike castles, on the banks of solitary lakes, and far in

the midst of woods. The Indian, paddling his birch-canoe on Lake

Champlain, looked up at the high ramparts of Ticonderoga, stone piled on

stone, bristling with cannon, and the white flag of France floating above.

There were similar fortifications on Lake Ontario, and near the great

Falls of Niagara, and at the sources of the Ohio River. And all around

these forts and castles lay the eternal forest; and the roll of the drum

died away in those deep solitudes.

The truth was, that the French intended to build forts, all the way from

Canada to Louisiana. They would then have had a wall of military strength,

at the back of the English settlements, so as completely to hem them in.

The king of England considered the building of these forts as a sufficient

cause of war, which was accordingly commenced in 1754.

"Governor Shirley," said Grandfather, "had returned to Boston in 1753.

While in Paris, he had married a second wife, a young French girl, and now

brought her to the Province House. But, when war was breaking out, it was

impossible for such a bustling man to stay quietly at home, sitting in our

old chair, with his wife and children round about him. He therefore

obtained a command in the English forces."

"And what did Sir William Pepperell do?" asked Charley.

"He staid at home," said Grandfather, "and was general of the militia. The

veteran regiments of the English army, which were now sent across the

Atlantic, would have scorned to fight under the orders of an old American

merchant. And now began what aged people call the Old French War. It would

be going too far astray from the history of our chair, to tell you one

half of the battles that were fought. I cannot even allow myself to

describe the bloody defeat of General Braddock, near the sources of the

Ohio River, in 1755. But, I must not omit to mention, that when the

English general was mortally wounded, and his army routed, the remains of

it were preserved by the skill and valor of GEORGE WASHINGTON."

At the mention of this illustrious name, the children started, as if a

sudden sunlight had gleamed upon the history of their country, now that

the great Deliverer had arisen above the horizon.

Among all the events of the Old French War, Grandfather thought that there

was none more interesting than the removal of the inhabitants of Acadia.

From the first settlement of this ancient province of the French, in 1604,

until the present time, its people could scarcely ever know what kingdom

held dominion over them. They were a peaceful race, taking no delight in

warfare, and caring nothing for military renown. And yet, in every war,

their region was infested with iron-hearted soldiers, both French and

English, who fought one another for the privilege of ill treating these

poor harmless Acadians. Sometimes the treaty of peace made them subjects

of one king, sometimes of another.

At the peace of 1748, Acadia had been ceded to England. But the French

still claimed a large portion of it, and built forts for its defence. In

1755, these forts were taken, and the whole of Acadia was conquered, by

three thousand men from Massachusetts, under the command of General

Winslow. The inhabitants were accused of supplying the French with

provisions, and of doing other things that violated their neutrality.

"These accusations were probably true," observed Grandfather; "for the

Acadians were descended from the French, and had the same friendly

feelings towards them, that the people of Massachusetts had for the

English. But their punishment was severe. The English determined to tear

these poor people from their native homes and scatter them abroad."

The Acadians were about seven thousand in number. A considerable part of

them were made prisoners, and transported to the English colonies. All

their dwellings and churches were burnt, their cattle were killed, and the

whole country was laid waste, so that none of them might find shelter or

food in their old homes, after the departure of the English. One thousand

of the prisoners were sent to Massachusetts; and Grandfather allowed his

fancy to follow them thither, and tried to give his auditors an idea of

their situation.

We shall call this passage the story of

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 busy-bodies 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 every thing was regular and comfortable, and where their

husbands and children would be with them at night-fall. Surely, they could

pity the wretched wives and mothers of Acadia! Or, did 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 hope, 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 town’s-people, 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 shop-keepers 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 hand 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 rend 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 any thing 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

alms-houses, or bind them out to task-masters. 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 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 the

Fifteenth. 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 of

Evangeline.

And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around the Thanksgiving fire-side,

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 X

In the twilight of the succeeding eve, when the red beams of the fire were

dancing upon the wall, the children besought Grandfather to tell them what

had next happened to the old chair.

"Our chair," said Grandfather, "stood all this time in the Province House.

But, Governor Shirley had seldom an opportunity to repose within its arms.

He was loading his troops through the forest, or sailing in a flat-boat on

Lake Ontario, or sleeping in his tent, while the awful cataract of Niagara

sent its roar through his dreams. At one period, in the early part of the

war, Shirley had the chief command of all the king’s forces in America."

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

"I rather imagine," replied Grandfather, "that she remained in Boston.

This lady, I suppose, had our chair all to herself, and used to sit in it,

during those brief intervals when a young French woman can be quiet enough

to sit in a chair. The people of Massachusetts were never fond of Governor

Shirley’s young French wife. They had a suspicion that she betrayed the

military plans of the English to the generals of the French armies."

"And was it true?" inquired Clara.

"Probably not," said Grandfather. "But the mere suspicion did Shirley a

great deal of harm. Partly, perhaps, for this reason, but much more on

account of his inefficiency as a general, he was deprived of his command,

in 1756, and recalled to England. He never afterwards made any figure in

public life."

As Grandfather’s chair had no locomotive properties, and did not even run

on castors, it cannot be supposed to have marched in person to the Old

French War. But Grandfather delayed its momentous history, while he

touched briefly upon some of the bloody battles, sieges, and onslaughts,

the tidings of which kept continually coming to the ears of the old

inhabitants of Boston. The woods of the north were populous with fighting

men. All the Indian tribes uplifted their tomahawks, and took part either

with the French or English. The rattle of musketry and roar of cannon

disturbed the ancient quiet of the forest, and actually drove the bears

and other wild beasts to the more cultivated portion of the country in the

vicinity of the sea-ports. The children felt as if they were transported

back to those forgotten times, and that the couriers from the army, with

the news of a battle lost or won, might even now be heard galloping

through the streets. Grandfather told them about the battle of Lake

George, in 1755, when the gallant Colonel Williams, a Massachusetts

officer, was slain, with many of his countrymen. But General Johnson and

General Lyman, with their army, drove back the enemy, and mortally wounded

the French leader, who was called the Baron Dieskau. A gold watch,

pilfered from the poor Baron, is still in existence, and still marks each

moment of time, without complaining of weariness, although its hands have

been in motion ever since the hour of battle.

In the first years of the war, there were many disasters on the English

side. Among these was the loss of Fort Oswego, in 1756, and of Fort

William Henry, in the following year. But the greatest misfortune that

befell the English, during the whole war, was the repulse of General

Abercrombie, with his army, from the ramparts of Ticonderoga, in 1758. He

attempted to storm the walls; but a terrible conflict ensued, in which

more than two thousand Englishmen and New Englanders were killed or

wounded. The slain soldiers now lie buried around that ancient fortress.

When the plough passes over the soil, it turns up here and there a

mouldering bone.

Up to this period, none of the English generals had shown any military

talent. Shirley, the Earl of Loudon, and General Abercrombie, had each

held the chief command, at different times; but not one of them had won a

single important triumph for the British arms. This ill success was not

owing to the want of means; for, in 1758, General Abercrombie had fifty

thousand soldiers under his command. But the French general, the famous

Marquis de Montcalm, possessed a great genius for war, and had something

within him, that taught him how battles were to be won.

At length, in 1759, Sir Jeffrey Amherst was appointed commander-in-chief

of all the British forces in America. He was a man of ability, and a

skilful soldier. A plan was now formed for accomplishing that object,

which had so long been the darling wish of the New Englanders, and which

their fathers had so many times attempted. This was the conquest of

Canada.

Three separate armies were to enter Canada, from different quarters. One

of the three, commanded by General Prideaux, was to embark on Lake

Ontario, and proceed to Montreal. The second, at the head of which was Sir

Jeffrey Amherst himself, was destined to reach the River St. Lawrence, by

the way of Lake Champlain, and then go down the river to meet the third

army. This last, led by General Wolfe, was to enter the St. Lawrence from

the sea, and ascend the river to Quebec. It is to Wolfe and his army that

England owes one of the most splendid triumphs, ever written in her

history.

Grandfather described the siege of Quebec, and told how Wolfe led his

soldiers up a rugged and lofty precipice, that rose from the shore of the

river to the plain on which the city stood. This bold adventure was

achieved in the darkness of night. At day-break, tidings were carried to

the Marquis de Montcalm, that the English army was waiting to give him

battle on the plains of Abraham. This brave French general ordered his

drums to strike up, and immediately marched to encounter Wolfe.

He marched to his own death. The battle was the most fierce and terrible,

that had ever been fought in America. General Wolfe was at the head of his

soldiers, and while encouraging them onward, received a mortal wound. He

reclined against a stone, in the agonies of death; but it seemed as if his

spirit could not pass away, while the fight yet raged so doubtfully.

Suddenly, a shout came pealing across the battle-field—"They flee! they

flee!" and, for a moment, Wolfe lifted his languid head. "Who flee?" he

inquired. "The French," replied an officer. "Then I die satisfied!" said

Wolfe, and expired in the arms of victory.

"If ever a warrior’s death were glorious, Wolfe’s was so!" said

Grandfather; and his eye kindled, though he was a man of peaceful

thoughts, and gentle spirit. "His life-blood streamed to baptize the soil

which he had added to the dominion of Britain! His dying breath was

mingled with his army’s shout of victory!"

"Oh, it was a good death to die!" cried Charley, with glistening eyes.

"Was it not a good death, Laurence?"

Laurence made no reply; for his heart burned within him, as the picture of

Wolfe, dying on the blood-stained field of victory, arose to his

imagination; and yet, he had a deep inward consciousness, that, after all,

there was a truer glory than could thus be won.

"There were other battles in Canada, after Wolfe’s victory," resumed

Grandfather; "but we may consider the Old French War as having terminated

with this great event. The treaty of peace, however, was not signed until

1763. The terms of the treaty were very disadvantageous to the French; for

all Canada, and all Acadia, and the island of Cape Breton, in short, all

the territories that France and England had been fighting about, for

nearly a hundred years—were surrendered to the English."

"So, now, at last," said Laurence, "New England had gained her wish.

Canada was taken!"

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

Grandfather mentioned two other important events. The first was the great

fire of Boston, in 1700, when the glare from nearly three hundred

buildings, all in flames at once, shone through the windows of the

Province House, and threw a fierce lustre upon the gilded foliage and

lion’s head of our old chair. The second event was the proclamation, in

the same year, of George the Third as king of Great Britain. The blast of

the trumpet sounded from the balcony of the Town House, and awoke the

echoes far and wide, as if to challenge all mankind to dispute King

George’s title.

Seven times, as the successive monarchs of Britain ascended the throne,

the trumpet-peal of proclamation had been heard by those who sat in our

venerable chair. But, when the next king put on his father’s crown, no

trumpet-peal proclaimed it to New England! Long before that day, America

had shaken off the royal government.

Chapter XI

Now that Grandfather had fought through the Old French War, in which our

chair made no very distinguished figure, he thought it high time to tell

the children some of the more private history of that praiseworthy old

piece of furniture.

"In 1757," said Grandfather, "after Shirley had been summoned to England,

Thomas Pownall was appointed governor of Massachusetts. He was a gay and

fashionable English gentleman, who had spent much of his life in London,

but had a considerable acquaintance with America. The new governor appears

to have taken no active part in the war that was going on; although, at

one period, he talked of marching against the enemy, at the head of his

company of cadets. But, on the whole, he probably concluded that it was

more befitting a governor to remain quietly in our chair, reading the

newspapers and official documents."

"Did the people like Pownall?" asked Charley.

"They found no fault with him," replied Grandfather. "It was no time to

quarrel with the governor, when the utmost harmony was required, in order

to defend the country against the French. But Pownall did not remain long

in Massachusetts. In 1759, he was sent to be governor of South Carolina.

In thus exchanging one government for another, I suppose he felt no

regret, except at the necessity of leaving Grandfather’s chair behind

him."

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

"It appears to me," said Laurence, giving the rein to his fancy, "that the

fate of this ancient chair was, somehow or other, mysteriously connected

with the fortunes of old Massachusetts. If Governor Pownall had put it

aboard the vessel in which he sailed for South Carolina, she would

probably have lain wind-bound in Boston harbor. It was ordained that the

chair should not be taken away. Don’t you think so, Grandfather?"

"It was kept here for Grandfather and me to sit in together," said little

Alice, "and for Grandfather to tell stories about."

"And Grandfather is very glad of such a companion, and such a theme," said

the old gentleman, with a smile. "Well, Laurence, if our oaken chair, like

the wooden Palladium of Troy, was connected with the country’s fate, yet

there appears to have been no supernatural obstacle to its removal from

the Province House. In 1760, Sir Francis Bernard, who had been governor of

New Jersey, was appointed to the same office in Massachusetts. He looked

at the old chair, and thought it quite too shabby to keep company with a

new set of mahogany chairs, and an aristocratic sofa, which had just

arrived from London. He therefore ordered it to be put away in the

garret."

The children were loud in their exclamations against this irreverent

conduct of Sir Francis Bernard. But Grandfather defended him, as well as

he could. He observed, that it was then thirty years since the chair had

been beautified by Governor Belcher. Most of the gilding was worn off by

the frequent scourings which it had undergone, beneath the hands of a

black slave. The damask cushion, once so splendid, was now squeezed out of

all shape, and absolutely in tatters, so many were the ponderous gentlemen

who had deposited their weight upon it, during these thirty years.

Moreover, at a council held by the Earl of Loudon with the governors of

New England, in 1757, his lordship, in a moment of passion, had kicked

over the chair with his military boot. By this unprovoked and

unjustifiable act, our venerable friend had suffered a fracture of one of

its rungs.

"But," said Grandfather, "our chair, after all, was not destined to spend

the remainder of its days in the inglorious obscurity of a garret. Thomas

Hutchinson, lieutenant-governor of the province, was told of Sir Francis

Bernard’s design. This gentleman was more familiar with the history of New

England than any other man alive. He knew all the adventures and

vicissitudes through which the old chair had passed, and could have told,

as accurately as your own Grandfather, who were the personages that had

occupied it. Often, while visiting at the Province House, he had eyed the

chair with admiration, and felt a longing desire to become the possessor

of it. He now waited upon Sir Francis Bernard, and easily obtained leave

to carry it home."

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

"No," answered Grandfather. "What Mr. Hutchinson desired was to restore

the chair, as much as possible, to its original aspect, such as it had

appeared, when it was first made out of the Earl of Lincoln’s oak-tree.

For this purpose he ordered it to be well scoured with soap and sand and

polished with wax, and then provided it with a substantial leather

cushion. When all was completed to his mind, he sat down in the old chair,

and began to write his History of Massachusetts."

"Oh, that was a bright thought in Mr. Hutchinson!" exclaimed Laurence.

"And, no doubt, the dim figures of the former possessors of the chair

flitted around him, as he wrote, and inspired him with a knowledge of all

that they had done and suffered while on earth."

"Why, my dear Laurence," replied Grandfather, smiling, "if Mr. Hutchinson

was favored with any such extraordinary inspiration, he made but a poor

use of it in his History; for a duller piece of composition never came

from any man’s pen. However, he was accurate, at least, though far from

possessing the brilliancy or philosophy of Mr. Bancroft."

"But, if Hutchinson knew the history of the chair," rejoined Laurence,

"his heart must have been stirred by it."

"It must, indeed," said Grandfather. "It would be entertaining and

instructive, at the present day, to imagine what were Mr. Hutchinson’s

thoughts, as he looked back upon the long vista of events with which this

chair was so remarkably connected."

And Grandfather allowed his fancy to shape out an image of

Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson, sitting in an evening reverie by his

fireside, and meditating on the changes that had slowly passed around the

chair.

A devoted monarchist, Hutchinson would heave no sigh for the subversion of

the original republican government, the purest that the world had seen,

with which the colony began its existence. While reverencing the grim and

stern old Puritans as the founders of his native land, he would not wish

to recall them from their graves, nor to awaken again that king-resisting

spirit, which he imagined to be laid asleep with them forever. Winthrop,

Dudley, Bellingham, Endicott, Leverett, and Bradstreet! All these had had

their day. Ages might come and go, but never again would the people’s

suffrages place a republican governor in their ancient Chair of State!

Coming down to the epoch of the second charter, Hutchinson thought of the

ship-carpenter Phips, springing from the lowest of the people, and

attaining to the loftiest station in the land. But, he smiled to perceive

that this governor’s example would awaken no turbulent ambition in the

lower orders, for it was a king’s gracious boon alone that made the

ship-carpenter a ruler. Hutchinson rejoiced to mark the gradual growth of

an aristocratic class, to whom the common people, as in duty bound, were

learning humbly to resign the honors, emoluments, and authority of state.

He saw,—or else deceived himself—that, throughout this epoch, the people’s

disposition to self-government had been growing weaker, through long

disuse, and now existed only as a faint traditionary feeling.

The Lieutenant-Governor’s reverie had now come down to the period at which

he himself was sitting in the historic chair. He endeavored to throw his

glance forward, over the coming years. There, probably, he saw visions of

hereditary rank, for himself and other aristocratic colonists. He saw the

fertile fields of New England, portioned out among a few great

landholders, and descending by entail from generation to generation. He

saw the people a race of tenantry, dependent on their lords. He saw stars,

garters, coronets, and castles.

"But," added Grandfather, turning to Laurence, "the Lieutenant-Governor’s

castles were built nowhere but among the red embers of the fire, before

which he was sitting. And, just as he had constructed a baronial residence

for himself and his posterity, the fire rolled down upon the hearth, and

crumbled it to ashes!"

Grandfather now looked at his watch, which hung within a beautiful little

ebony Temple, supported by four Ionic columns. He then laid his hand on

the golden locks of little Alice, whose head had sunk down upon the arm of

our illustrious chair.

"To bed, to bed, dear child!" said he. "Grandfather has put you to sleep,

already, by his stories about these FAMOUS OLD PEOPLE!"

PART III

Chapter I

On the evening of New Year’s day, Grandfather was walking to and fro,

across the carpet, listening to the rain which beat hard against the

curtained windows. The riotous blast shook the casement, as if a strong

man were striving to force his entrance into the comfortable room. With

every puff of the wind, the fire leaped upward from the hearth, laughing

and rejoicing at the shrieks of the wintry storm.

Meanwhile, Grandfather’s chair stood in its customary place by the

fireside. The bright blaze gleamed upon the fantastic figures of its oaken

back, and shone through the open-work, so that a complete pattern was

thrown upon the opposite side of the room. Sometimes, for a moment or two,

the shadow remained immovable, as if it were painted on the wall. Then,

all at once, it began to quiver, and leap, and dance, with a frisky

motion. Anon, seeming to remember that these antics were unworthy of such

a dignified and venerable chair, it suddenly stood still. But soon it

began to dance anew.

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

And she ran to the wall, and tried to catch hold of the flickering shadow;

for to children of five years old, a shadow seems almost as real as a

substance.

"I wish," said Clara, "Grandfather would sit down in the chair, and finish

its history."

If the children had been looking at Grandfather, they would have noticed

that he paused in his walk across the room, when Clara made this remark.

The kind old gentleman was ready and willing to resume his stories of

departed times. But he had resolved to wait till his auditors should

request him to proceed, in order that they might find the instructive

history of the chair a pleasure, and not a task.

"Grandfather," said Charley, "I am tired to death of this dismal rain, and

of hearing the wind roar in the chimney. I have had no good time all day.

It would be better to hear stories about the chair, than to sit doing

nothing, and thinking of nothing."

To say the truth, our friend Charley was very much out of humor with the

storm, because it had kept him all day within doors, and hindered him from

making trial of a splendid sled, which Grandfather had given him for a New

Year’s gift. As all sleds, now-a-days, must have a name, the one in

question had been honored with the title of Grandfather’s Chair, which was

painted in golden letters, on each of the sides. Charley greatly admired

the construction of the new vehicle, and felt certain that it would

outstrip any other sled that ever dashed adown the long slopes of the

Common.

As for Laurence, he happened to be thinking, just at this moment, about

the history of the chair. Kind old Grandfather had made him a present of a

volume of engraved portraits, representing the features of eminent and

famous people of all countries. Among them Laurence found several who had

formerly occupied our chair, or been connected with its adventures. While

Grandfather walked to and fro across the room, the imaginative boy was

gazing at the historic chair. He endeavored to summon up the portraits

which he had seen in his volume, and to place them, like living figures,

in the empty seat.

"The old chair has begun another year of its existence, to-day," said

Laurence. "We must make haste, or it will have a new history to be told

before we finish the old one."

"Yes, my children," replied Grandfather, with a smile and a sigh, "another

year has been added to those of the two centuries, and upward, which have

passed since the Lady Arbella brought this chair over from England. It is

three times as old as your Grandfather; but a year makes no impression on

its oaken frame, while it bends the old man nearer and nearer to the

earth; so let me go on with my stories while I may."

Accordingly, Grandfather came to the fireside, and seated himself in the

venerable chair. The lion’s head looked down with a grimly good-natured

aspect, as the children clustered around the old gentleman’s knees. It

almost seemed as if a real lion were peeping over the back of the chair,

and smiling at the group of auditors, with a sort of lion-like

complaisance. Little Alice, whose fancy often inspired her with singular

ideas, exclaimed that the lion’s head was nodding at her, and that it

looked as if it were going to open its wide jaws and tell a story.

But, as the lion’s head appeared to be in no haste to speak, and as there

was no record or tradition of its having spoken, during the whole

existence of the chair, Grandfather did not consider it worth while to

wait.