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Grandfather's Chair

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

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THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR

or

TRUE STORIES FROM NEW ENGLAND HISTORY, 1620-1808

by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

CONTENTS.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

PART I.

I. GRANDFATHER AND THE CHILDREN AND THE CHAIR

II. THE PURITANS AND THE LADY ARBELLA

III. A RAINY DAY

IV. TROUBLOUS TIMES

V. THE GOVERNMENT OF NEW ENGLAND

VI. THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS

VII. THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS

VIII. THE INDIAN BIBLE

IX. ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND

X. THE SUNKEN TREASURE

XI. WHAT THE CHAIR HAD KNOWN

APPENDIX. EXTRACTS FROM THE LIFE OF JOHN ELIOT

PART II.

I. THE CHAIR IN THE FIRELIGHT

II. THE SALEM WITCHES

III. THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL

IV. COTTON MATHER

V. THE REJECTED BLESSING

VI. POMPS AND VANITIES

VII. THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER

VIII. THE OLD FRENCH WAR AND THE ACADIAN EXILES.

IX. THE END OF THE WAR

X. THOMAS HUTCHINSON

APPENDIX. ACCOUNT OF THE DEPORTATION OF THE ACADIANS

PART III.

I. A NEW YEAR’S DAY

II. THE STAMP ACT

III. THE HUTCHINSON MOB

IV. THE BRITISH TROOPS IN BOSTON

V. THE BOSTON MASSACRE

VI. A COLLECTION OF PORTRAITS

VII. THE TEA PARTY AND LEXINGTON

VIII. THE SIEGE OF BOSTON

IX. THE TORY'S FAREWELL

X. THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE

XI. GRANDFATHER'S DREAM

APPENDIX. A LETTER FROM GOVERNOR HUTCHINSON

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

than by connecting their images with the substantial and homely reality

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

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

contained within that cold array of outward action which we are

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

this impression can be given, much is accomplished.

Setting aside Grandfather and his auditors, and excepting the adventures

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

necessary to purge his mind.

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

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

lively and entertaining narrative for children, with such unmalleable

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

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

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

New England is founded.

GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR.

PART I.

1620-1692.

CHAPTER I.

GRANDFATHER AND THE CHILDREN AND THE CHAIR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

footstep that Charley took, as he trundled his wheelbarrow along the

gravel-walk. And though' Grandfather was old and gray-haired, yet his

heart leaped with joy whenever little Alice came fluttering, like a

butterfly, into the room. Sire had made each of the children her

playmate in turn, and now made Grandfather her playmate too, and thought

him the merriest of them all.

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

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

room together, anti clustered round Grandfather's great chair. Little

Alice, who was hardly five years old, took the privilege of the

youngest, and climbed his knee. It was a pleasant thing to behold that

fair and golden-haired child in the lap of the old man, and to think

that, different as they were, the hearts of both could be gladdened with

the same joys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

chair."

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

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

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

above Grandfather's white head. This back was curiously carved in open

work, so as to represent flowers, and foliage, and other devices, which

the children had often gazed at, but could never understand what they

meant. On the very tip-top of the chair, over the head of Grandfather

himself, was a likeness of a lion's head, which had such a savage grin

that you would almost expect to hear it growl and snarl.

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

could remember anything. Perhaps the younger of them supposed that he

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

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

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

oddest chairs that could be found. It seemed to cousin Clara that, if

these ladies could have seen Grandfather's old chair, they would have

thought it worth all the rest together. She wondered if it were not even

older than Grandfather himself, and longed to know all about its

history.

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

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

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

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

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

of his schoolbooks."

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

thoughtfulness and sensibility began to show themselves. His young fancy

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

chair. He looked eagerly in Grandfather's face; and even Charley, a

bold, brisk, restless little fellow of nine, sat himself down on the

carpet, and resolved to be quiet for at least ten minutes, should the

story last so long.

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

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

that happened long ago.

CHAPTER II.

THE PURITANS AND THE LADY ARBELLA,

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

speak of circumstances that caused the first settlement of New England.

For it will soon be perceived that the story of this remarkable chair

cannot be told without telling a great deal of the history of the

country.

So Grandfather talked about the Puritans, {Foot Note: It is more precise

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

afterward to Plymouth. They were sometimes called Separatists because

they separated themselves from the church of England, sometimes

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

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

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

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

called who thought it sinful to practise certain religious forms and

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

persecuted in England that, in 1607, many of them went over to Holland,

and lived ten or twelve years at Amsterdam and Leyden. But they feared

that, if they continued there much longer, they should cease to be

England, and should adopt all the manners, and ideas, and feelings of

the Dutch. For this and other reasons, in the year 1620 they embarked on

board the ship Mayflower, and crossed the ocean, to the shores of Cape

Cod. There they made a settlement, and called it Plymouth, which,

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

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

America.

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

suffer grievous persecution on account of their religious opinions. They

began to look around them for some spot where they might worship God,

not as the king and bishops thought fit, but according to the dictates

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

America, they bethought themselves that they likewise might find refuge

from persecution there. Several gentlemen among them purchased a tract

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

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

In the year 1628 they sent over a few people, with John Endicott at

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

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

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

name was Naumkeag.} Peter Palfrey, Roger Conant, and one or two more had

built houses there in 1626, and may be considered as the first settlers

of that ancient town. Many other Puritans prepared to follow Endicott.

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

"This chair is supposed to have been made of an oak-tree which grew in

the park of the English Earl of Lincoln between two and three centuries

ago. In its younger days it used, probably, to stand in the hall of the

earl's castle. I)o not you see the coat of arms of the family of Lincoln

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

Arbella, was married to a certain Mr. Johnson, the earl gave her this

valuable chair."

"Who was Mr. Johnson?" inquired Clara.

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

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

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

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

all his comforts in England, and embarked, with Lady Arbella, on board

of a ship bound for America."

As Grandfather was frequently impeded by the questions and observations

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

is no( essential to the story. We have taken some pains to find out

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

as possible in his own words, the story of the Lady Arbella.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

women of their day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

those of Sir Richard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wilderness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

month of June.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

midst of a new scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

friends will dig her grave.

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

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

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

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

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

the great chair. Whenever John Endicott noticed her despondency he

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

he would say.

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

do." But Endicott's heart was as bold and resolute as iron, and he could

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

accomplish it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the spot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

have stood, there was his grave."

"I never heard anything so melancholy," said Clara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Johnson's field."

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

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

set apart a burial-ground!"

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

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

England."

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

and true a thing he had said.

CHAPTER III.

A RAINY DAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

stood with sullen aspect at a window, wondering whether the sun itself

were not extinguished by so much moisture in the sky.

Charley had already exhausted the less eager activity of the other

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

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

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

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

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

Monument. Little Alice sat on Grandfather's footstool, with a picture-

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

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

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

and mind.

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

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

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

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

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

told by Grandfather than little Alice.

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

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

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

whether he would have thought it worth while to tell another story

merely to gratify such an inattentive auditor as Charley. But Laurence

laid down his book and seconded the request. Clara drew her chair nearer

to Grandfather; and little Alice immediately closed her picture-book and

looked up into his face. Grandfather had not the heart to disappoint

them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the chair.

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

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

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

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

reading some abstruse book of theology, till midnight came upon him

unawares. At that period, as there were few lamps or candles to be had,

people used to read or work by the light of pitch. pine torches. These

supplied the place of the 'midnight oil' to the learned men of New

England."

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

several particulars, which we have not room to repeat.

CHAPTER IV.

TROUBLOUS TIMES.

"ROGER WILLIAMS," said Grandfather, "did not keep possession of the

chair a great while. His opinions of civil and religious matters

differed, in many respects, from those of the rulers and clergymen of

Massachusetts. Now, the wise men of those days believed that the country

could not be safe unless all the inhabitants thought and felt alike."

"Does anybody believe so in our days, Grandfather?" asked Lawrence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and began a plantation which he called Providence."

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

two-hours' ride."

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

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

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

little plantation has now grown to be a populous city; and the

inhabitants have a great veneration for Roger Williams. His name is

familiar in the mouths of all, because they see it on their bank-bills.

How it would have perplexed this good clergyman if he had been told that

he should give his name to the ROGER WILLIAMS BANK!"

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

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

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

now heard of him, and will remember him forever."

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

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

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

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

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

in her possession in 1687. She was a very sharp-witted and well-

instructed lady, and was so conscious of her own wisdom and abilities

that she thought it a pity that the world should not have the benefit of

them. She therefore used to hold lectures in Boston once or twice a

week, at which most of the women attended. Mrs. Hutchinson presided at

these meetings, sitting with great state and dignity in Grandfather's

chair."

"Grandfather, was it positively this very chair?" demanded Clara, laying

her hand upon its carved elbow.

"Why not, my dear Clara?" said Grandfather. "Well, Mrs. Hutchinson's

lectures soon caused a great disturbance; for the ministers of Boston

did not think it safe and proper that a woman should publicly instruct

the people in religious doctrines. Moreover, she made the matter worse

by declaring that the Rev. Mr. Cotton was the only sincerely pious and

holy clergyman in New England. Now, the clergy of those days had quite

as much share in the government of the country, though indirectly, as

the magistrates themselves; so you may imagine what a host of powerful

enemies were raised up against Mrs. Hutchinson. A synod was convened;

that is to say, an assemblage of all the ministers in Massachusetts.

They declared that there were eighty-two erroneous opinions on religious

subjects diffused among the people, and that Mrs. Hutchinson's opinions

were of the number."

"If they had eighty-two wrong opinions," observed Charley, "I don't see

how they could have any right ones."

"Mrs. Hutchinson had many zealous friends and converts," continued

Grandfather. "She was favored by young Henry Vane, who had come over

from England a year or two before, and had since been chosen governor of

the colony, at the age of twenty-four. But Winthrop and most of the

other leading men, as well as the ministers, felt an abhorrence of her

doctrines. Thus two opposite parties were formed; and so fierce were the

dissensions that it was feared the consequence would be civil war and

bloodshed. But Winthrop and the ministers being the most powerful, they

disarmed and imprisoned Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents. She, like Roger

Williams, was banished."

"Dear Grandfather, did they drive the poor woman

into the woods?" exclaimed little Alice, who contrived to feel a human

interest even in these discords of polemic divinity.

"They did, my darling," replied Grandfather; "and the end of her life

was so sad you must not hear it. At her departure, it appears, from the

best authorities, that she gave the great Chair to her friend Henry

Vane. He was a young man of wonderful talents and great learning, who

had imbibed the religious opinions of the Puritans, and left England

with the intention of spending his life in Massachusetts. The people

chose him governor; but the controversy about Mrs. Hutchinson, and other

troubles, caused him to leave country in 1637. You may read the

subsequent events of his life in the History of England."

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

Upham’s biography of Vane. And what a beautiful death he died, long

afterwards! beautiful, though it was on a scaffold."

"Many of the most beautiful dear]as 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 govern-

ment. There were likewise settlers near Piscataqua River, in the region

which is now called New Hampshire.

Thus, at various points along the coast of New England, there were

communities of Englishmen. Though these communities were independent of

one another, yet they had a common dependence upon England; and, at so

vast a distance from their native home, the inhabitants must all have

felt like brethren. They were fitted to become one united People at a

future period. Perhaps their feelings of brotherhood were the stronger

because different nations had formed settlements to the north and to the

south. In Canada and Nova Scotia were colonies of French. On the banks

of the Hudson River was a colony of Dutch, who had taken possession of

that region many years before, and called it New Netherlands.

Grandfather, for aught I know, might have gone on to speak of Maryland

and Virginia; for the good old gentleman really seemed to suppose that

the whole surface of the United States was not too broad a foundation to

place the four legs of his chair upon. But, happening to glance at

Charley, he perceived that this naughty boy was growing impatient and

meditating another ride upon a stick. So here, for the present,

Grandfather suspended the history of his chair.

CHAPTER V.

THE GOVERNMENT OF NEW ENGLAND.

The children had now learned to look upon the chair with an interest

which was almost the same as if it were a conscious being, and could

remember the many famous people whom it had held within its arms.

Even Charley, lawless as he was, seemed to feel that this venerable

chair must not be clambered upon nor overturned, although he had no

scruple in taking such liberties With every other chair in the house.

Clara treated it with still greater reverence, often taking occasion to

smooth its cushion, and to brush the dust from the carved flowers and

grotesque figures of its oaken back and arms. Laurence would sometimes

sit a whole hour, especially at twilight, gazing at the chair, and, by

the spell of his imaginations, summoning up its ancient occupants to

appear in it again.

Little Alice evidently employed herself in a similar way; for once when

Grandfather had gone abroad, the child was heard talking with the gentle

Lady Arbella, as if she were still sitting in the chair. So sweet a

child as little Alice may fitly talk with angels, such as the Lady

Arbella had long since become.

Grandfather was soon importuned for more stories about the chair. He had

no difficulty in relating them; for it really seemed as if every person

noted in our early history had, on some occasion or other, found repose

within its comfortable arms. If Grandfather took pride in anything, it

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

chair.

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

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

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

first Commencement at Harvard College. You have often heard, children,

how careful our forefathers were to give their young people a good

education. They had scarcely cut down trees enough to make room for

their own dwellings before they began to think of establishing a

college. Their principal object was, to rear up pious and learned

ministers; and hence old writers call Harvard College a school of the

prophets."

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

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

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

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

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

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

confess that there are contradictory statements and some uncertainty

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

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

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

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

the chair of state. It gives me much pleasure to imagine that several

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

excellent governors preside while holding consultations with the chief

councillors of the province, who were styled assistants. The governor

sat in this chair, too, whenever messages were brought to him from the

chamber of representatives."

And here Grandfather took occasion to talk rather tediously about the

nature and forms of government that established themselves, almost

spontaneously, in Massachusetts and the other New England colonies.

Democracies were the natural growth of the New World. As to

Massachusetts, it was at first intended that the colony should be

governed by a council in London. But in a little while the people had

the whole power in their own hands, and chose annually the governor, the

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

never enjoyed anything like the liberties and privileges which the

settlers of New England now possessed. And they did not adopt these

modes of government after long study, but in simplicity, as if there

were no other way for people to be ruled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

natural growth. The Legislature incorporated towns, and made new

purchases of lands from the Indians. A very memorable event took place

in 1643. The colonies of Massachusetts, Plymouth, Connecticut, and New

Haven formed a union, for the purpose of assisting each other in

difficulties, for mutual defence against their enemies. They called

themselves the United Colonies of New England."

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

Laurence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

countries?" asked Laurence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

itself. In 1649 King Charles was beheaded. Oliver Cromwell then became

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

the valor of the English Puritans, he showed himself a loving and

indulgent father to the Puritan colonies in America."

Grandfather might have continued to talk in this dull manner nobody

knows how long; but suspecting that Charley would find the subject

rather dry, he looked sidewise at that vivacious little fellow, and saw

him give an involuntary yawn. Whereupon Grandfather proceeded with the

history of the chair, and related a very entertaining incident, which

will be found in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS.

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

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

its leg. It was probably on account of this accident that it ceased to

be the seat of the governors of Massachusetts; for, assuredly, it would

have been ominous of evil to the commonwealth if the chair of state had

tottered upon three legs. Being therefore sold at auction,--alas I what

a vicissitude for a chair that had figured in such high company!--our

venerable friend was knocked down to a certain Captain John Hull. This

old gentleman, on carefully examining the maimed chair, discovered that

its broken leg might be clamped with iron and made as serviceable as

ever."

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

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

How well it was mended!"

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

them a story about Captain John Hull and the Pine-tree Shillings.

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

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

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

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

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

commodities instead of selling them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of silver or gold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

was entitled to put one shilling into his own pocket.

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

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

would but give up that twentieth shilling which he was continually

dropping into his own pocket. But Captain Hull declared himself

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

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

bags, and his strong box were overflowing with pine-tree shillings. This

was probably the case when he came into possession of Grandfather's

chair; and, as he had worked so hard at the mint, it was certainly

proper that he should have a comfortable chair to rest him self in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

gave his consent.

"Yes, you may take her," said he, in his rough way, "and you'll find her

a heavy burden enough!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a great red apple.

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

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

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

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

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

bridemaids and Miss Betsey herself.

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

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

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

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

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

pair as wholesale merchants use for weighing bulky commodities; and

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

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

scales."

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

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

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

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

bargain), she had not the least idea.

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

hither."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

honest share of the coinage.

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

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

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

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

young lady from the floor.

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

Grandfather's chair, "take these shillings for my daughter's portion.

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

worth her weight in silver!"

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

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

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

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

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

Massachusetts.

"Well, Grandfather," remarked Clara, "if wedding portions nowadays were

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

an airy figure, as many of them do."

CHAPTER VII.

THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS.

WHEN his little audience next assembled round the chair, Grandfather

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

1656, and raged for about three years in Massachusetts.

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

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

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

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

But the rulers looked upon them as plotting the downfall of all

government and religion. They were banished from the colony. In a little

while, however, not only the first twelve had returned, but a multitude

of other Quakers had come to rebuke the rulers and to preach against the

priests and steeple-houses.

Grandfather described the hatred and scorn with which these enthusiasts

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

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

wilderness, and left to the tender mercies of tender mercies of wild

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

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

sect increase, both by the influx of strangers and by converts from

among the Puritans, But Grandfather told them that God had put something

into the soul of man, which always turned the cruelties of the

persecutor to naught.

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

and Marmaduke Stephen-son, were hanged at Boston. A woman had been sen-

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

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

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

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

connects her with our story. This Mary Dyer had entered the mint-

master's dwelling, clothed in sackcloth and ashes, and seated herself in

our great chair with a sort of dignity and state. Then she proceeded to

deliver what she called a message from Heaven, but in the midst of it

they dragged her to prison.

"And was she executed?" asked Laurence.

"She was," said Grandfather.

"Grandfather," cried Charley, clinching his fist, "I would have fought

for that poor Quaker woman!"

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

have taken away all the beauty of her death."

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

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

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

children were so much excited that Grandfather found it necessary to

bring his account of the persecution to a close.

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

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

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

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

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

orders to Governor Endicott to forbear all such proceedings in future.

And so ended the Quaker persecution,--one of the most mournful passages

in the history of our forefathers."

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

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

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

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

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

did he labor for their conversion that he has always been called the

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

Grandfather the propriety of giving a brief sketch of the history of the

Indians, so far as they were connected with the English colonists.

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

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

and ministers of that day were inclined to the opinion that Providence

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

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

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

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

In many places the English found the wigwams deserted and the cornfields

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

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

containing bows and flint-headed spears and arrows; for the Indians

buried the dead warrior's weapons along with him. In some spots there

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

afterwards, the small-pox broke out among the Massachusetts Indians,

multitudes of whom died by this terrible disease of the Old World. These

misfortunes made them far less powerful than they had formerly been.

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

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

submission when they might have made successful war. The Plymouth

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

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

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

occurred between the Indians and the English. The Connecticut settlers,

assisted by a celebrated Indian chief named Uncas, bore the brunt of

this war, with but little aid from Massachusetts. Many hundreds of the

hostile Indians were slain or burned in their wigwams. Sassacus, their

sachem, fled to another tribe, after his own people were defeated; but

he was murdered by them, and his head was sent to his English enemies.

From that period down to the time of King Philip's War, which will be

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

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

for the conflict.

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

things to the Children,- "I have sometimes doubted whether there was

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

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

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

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

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

should be in want of it."

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

asked Laurence. "Sometimes, it is true," answered Grandfather, "the

magistrates and ministers would talk about civilizing and converting the

red people. But, at the bottom of their hearts, they would have had

almost as much expectation of civilizing the wild bear of the woods and

making him fit for paradise. They felt no faith in the success of any

such attempts, because they had no love for the poor Indians. Now, Eliot

was full of love for them; and therefore so full of faith and hope that

he spent the labor of a lifetime in their behalf."

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

Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

they were called 'praying Indians.' Finally, having spent the best years

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

doing them a yet greater benefit."

"I know what that was!" cried Laurence.

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

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

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

chair. His toil needed it and deserved it."

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

THE INDIAN BIBLE.

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

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

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

labored, while he was at work upon the Indian Bible.

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

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

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

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

language utterly unlike all other tongues, a language which hitherto had

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

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

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

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

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

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

what the apostle Eliot did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ble of their childhood. Hebrew was like their mother tongue. They had

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

manuscript by the light of the midnight lamp.

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

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

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

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

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

had so puzzled the learned Englishmen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

turned patiently to his toil again.

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

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

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

his countrymen in their transactions with the Indians. Occasionally,

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

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

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

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

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

bondage to the more powerful white man.

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

corselet beneath it, accompanied the governor and councillors. Laying

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

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

musket presented.

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

fierceness of the warrior.

"Treat these sons of the forest as men and brethren,'' he would say;

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

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

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

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

directed across the ocean."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

work is finished!"

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

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

their forefathers. That grace which the ancient Israelites had forfeited

was offered anew to their children.

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

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

prophets of ancient days and by those earliest apostles and evangelists

who had drawn their inspiration from the immediate presence of the

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

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

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

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

numbered in the brotherhood of the apostles than Eliot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

only relic of both."

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

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

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

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

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

emblem of his life."

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

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

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

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

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

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

heaven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bible."

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

the battles in King Philip's War."

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

scalping knives?"

"No, Charley," replied Grandfather, "I have no time to spare in talking

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

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

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

"Who was the captain of the English?" asked Charley.

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

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

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

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

translated the Bible for the Indians."

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

the captain."

CHAPTER IX.

ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND,

The children were now accustomed to assemble round Grandfather's chair

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

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

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

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

generation which had not become actual. Their part in life, thus far,

was only to be happy and to draw knowledge from a thousand sources. As

yet, it was not their time to do.

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

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

necessary for them to know anything of the past or to provide aught for

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

youthful creatures who had hitherto sported around his chair, without

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

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

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

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

be immortal.

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

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

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

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

when the veil of mortality is apt to hang heavily over the soul, still,

in his inmost being he was conscious of something that he would not have

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

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

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

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

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

and form a part of their sustenance for immortality.

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

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

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

all time.

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

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

the Puritans in America had acknowledged the sway of Charles II. on his

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

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

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

his accession was proclaimed in Boston, although the neglect to perform

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

During the reign of Charles II., however, the American colonies had but

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

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

patriarchs of New England began to tremble. King James was known to be

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

assume despotic power. Our forefathers felt that they had no security

either for their religion or their liberties.

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

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

The old charter of Massachusetts, which the people regarded as a holy

thing and as the foundation of all their liberties, was declared void.

The colonists were now no longer freemen; they were entirely dependent

on the king's pleasure. At first, in 1685, King James appointed Joseph

Dudley, a native of Massachusetts, to be president of New England. But

soon afterwards, Sir Edmund Andros, an officer of the English army,

arrived, with a commission to be governor-general of New England and New

York.

The king had given such powers to Sir Edmund Andros that there was now

no liberty, nor scarcely any law, in the colonies over which he ruled.

The inhabitants were not allowed to choose representatives, and

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

the measures that were adopted. The councillors with whom the governor

consulted on matters of state were appointed by himself. This sort of

government was no better than an absolute despotism.

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

them," continued Grandfather; "and they were apprehensive of much more.

He had brought some soldiers with him from England, who took possession

of the old fortress on Castle Island and of the fortification on Fort

Hill. Sometimes it was rumored that a general massacre of the

inhabitants was to be perpetrated by these soldiers. There were reports,

too, that all the ministers were to be slain or imprisoned."

"For what?" inquired Charley.

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

Grandfather. "A minister was a more formidable man than a general, in

those days. Well, while these things were going on in America, King

James had so misgoverned the people of England that they sent over to

Holland for the Prince of Orange. He had married the king's daughter,

and was therefore considered to have a claim to the crown. On his

arrival in England, the Prince of Orange was proclaimed king, by the

name of William III. Poor old King James made his escape to France."

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

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

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

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

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

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

them again.

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

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

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

laid the foundation of our country. They were all gone before him to the

grave, and Bradstreet was the last of the Puritans."

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

interesting to tell his auditors. He then proceeded:--

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

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

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

it was this very chair in which Grandfather now sits, and of which he is

telling you the history?"

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

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

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

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

took his seat in his chair of state. Within his remembrance, and even

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his brethren had gone before him."

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

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

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

London, at the beginning of the reign of Charles II. And Haynes, Dudley,

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

were now likewise in their graves. Old Simon Bradstreet was the sole

representative of that departed brotherhood. There was no other public

man remaining to connect the ancient system of government and manners

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

Puritans was now completed."

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

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

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

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

England granite."

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

or some other perishable material, might suffice for some of their

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

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

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

to be governor."

CHAPTER X.

THE SUNKEN TREASURE.

"AND what became of the chair?" inquired Clara, "The outward aspect of

our chair," replied Grandfather, "was now somewhat the worse for its

long and arduous services. It was considered hardly magnificent enough

to be allowed to keep its place in the council chamber of Massachusetts.

In fact, it was banished as an article of useless lumber. But Sir

William Phips happened to see it, and, being much pleased with its

construction, resolved to take the good old chair into his private

mansion. Accordingly, with his own gubernatorial hands, he repaired one

of its arms, which had been slightly damaged."

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

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

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

how to mend a chair?"

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

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

his hands."

So Grandfather related the wonderful and true tale of the sunken

treasure.

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

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

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

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

glass, stands our beloved chair, newly polished, and adorned with a

gorgeous cushion of crimson velvet tufted with gold.

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

roughened by northern tempests and blackened by the burning sun of the

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wood.

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

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

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

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

suitable for such a magnificent-looking personage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

knees for vessels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

the Green Lane of Boston.

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

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

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

with so much confidence to better days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

brought to light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Phips of the English navy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

a "fair brick house" as he was while he tended sheep.

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

of making their fortunes by discovering the Spanish wreck. They wanted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

de la Plata.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

adze and assisted his men to build a large boat.

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

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

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

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

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

depths of the

sea.

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

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

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

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

Nothing, however, could they see, nothing more valuable than a curious

sea shrub, which was growing beneath the water, in a crevice of the reef

of rocks. It flaunted to and fro with the swell and reflux of the waves,

and looked as bright and beautiful as if its leaves were gold.

"We won't go back empty-handed," cried an English sailor; and then he

spoke to one of the Indian divers. "Dive down and bring me that pretty

sea shrub there. That's the only treasure we shall find."

Down plunged the diver, and soon rose dripping from the water, holding

the sea shrub in his hand. But he had learned some news at the bottom of

the sea.

"There are some ship's guns," said he, the moment he had drawn breath,

"some great cannon, among the rocks, near where the shrub was growing."

No sooner had he spoken than the English sailors knew that they had

found the very spot where the Spanish galleon had been wrecked, so many

years before. The other Indian divers immediately plunged over the

boat's side and swam headlong down, groping among the rocks and sunken

cannon. In a few moments one of them rose above the water with a heavy

lump of silver in his arms. The single lump was worth more than a

thousand dollars. The sailors took it into the boat, and then rowed back

as speedily as they could, being in haste to inform Captain Phips of

their good luck.

But, confidently as the captain had hoped to find the Spanish wreck,

yet, now that it was really found, the news seemed too good to be true.

He could not believe it till the sailors showed him the lump of silver.

"Thanks be to God!" then cries Captain Phips "We shall every man of us

make our fortunes!"

Hereupon the captain and all the crew set to work, with iron rakes and

great hooks and lines, fishing for gold and silver at the bottom of the

sea. Up came the treasure in abundance. Now they beheld a table of solid

silver, once the property of an old Spanish grandee. Now they found a

sacramental vessel, which had been destined as a gift to some Catholic

church. Now they drew up a golden cup, fit for the King of Spain to

drink his wine out of. Perhaps the bony hand of its former owner had

been grasping the precious cup, and was drawn up along with it. Now

their rakes or fishing-lines were loaded with masses of silver bullion.

There were also precious stones among the treasure, glittering and

sparkling, so that it is a wonder how their radiance could have been

concealed.

There is something sad and terrible in the idea of snatching all this

wealth from the devouring ocean, which had possessed it for such a

length of years. It seems as if men had no right to make themselves rich

with it. It ought to have been left with the skeletons of the ancient

Spaniards, who had been drowned when the ship was wrecked, and whose

bones were now scattered among the gold and silver.

But Captain Phips and his crew were troubled with no such thoughts as

these. After a day or two they lighted on another part of the wreck,

where they found a great many bags of silver dollars. But nobody could

have guessed that these were money-bags. By remaining so long in the

salt water, they had become covered over with a crust which had the

appearance of stone, so that it was necessary to break them in pieces

with hammers and axes. When this was done, a stream of silver dollars

gushed out upon the deck of the vessel.

The whole value of the recovered treasure, plate, bullion, precious

stones, and all, was estimated at more than two millions of dollars. It

was dangerous even to look at such a vast amount of wealth. A sea-

captain, who had assisted Phips in the enterprise, utterly lost his

reason at the sight of it. He died two years afterwards, still raving

about the treasures that lie at the bottom of the sea. It would have

been better for this man if he had left the skeletons of the shipwrecked

Spaniards in quiet possession of their wealth.

Captain Phips and his men continued to fish up plate, bullion, and

dollars, as plentifully as ever, till their provisions grew short. Then,

as they could not feed upon gold and silver any more than old King Midas

could, they found it necessary to go in search of better sustenance.

Phips resolved to return to England. He arrived there in 1687, and was

received with great joy by the Duke of Albemarle and other English lords

who had fitted out the vessel. Well they might rejoice; for they took by

far the greater part of the treasure to themselves.

The captain's share, however, was enough to make him comfortable for the

rest of his days. It also enabled him to fulfil his promise to his wife,

by building a "fair brick house" in the Green Lane of Boston. The Duke

of Albemarle sent Mrs. Phips a magnificent gold cup, worth at least five

thousand dollars. Before Captain Phips left London, King James made him

a knight; so that, instead of the obscure ship-carpenter who had

formerly dwelt among them, the inhabitants of Boston welcomed him on his

return as the rich and famous Sir William Phips.

CHAPTER XI.

WHAT THE CHAIR HAD KNOWN.

"Sir William Phips," continued Grandfather, "was too active and

adventurous a man to sit still in the quiet enjoyment of his good

fortune. In the year 1690 he went on a military expedition against the

French colonies in America, conquered the whole province of Acadia, and

returned to Boston with a great deal of plunder."

"Why, Grandfather, he was the greatest man that ever sat in the chair!"

cried Charley.

"Ask Laurence what he thinks," replied Grandfather, with a smile. "Well,

in the same year, Sir William took command of an expedition against Que-

bec, but did not succeed in capturing the city. In 1692, being then in

London, King William III. appointed him governor of Massachusetts. And

now, my dear children, having followed Sir William Phips through all his

adventures and hardships till we find him comfortably seated in

Grandfather's chair, we will here bid him farewell. May he be as happy

in ruling a people as he was while he tended sheep!"

Charley, whose fancy had been greatly taken by the adventurous

disposition of Sir William Phips, was eager to know how he had acted and

what happened to him while he held the office of governor. But

Grandfather had made up his mind to tell no more stories for the

present.

"Possibly, one of these days, I may go on with the adventures of the

chair," said he. "But its history becomes very obscure just at this

point; and I must search into some old books and manuscripts before

proceeding further. Besides, it is now a good time to pause in our

narrative; because the new charter, which Sir William Phips brought over

from England, formed a very important epoch in the history of the

province."

"Really, Grandfather," observed Laurence, "this seems to be the most

remarkable chair, in the world. Its history cannot be told without

intertwining it with the lives of distinguished men and the great events

that have befallen the country."

"True, Laurence,'" replied Grandfather, smiling; "we must write a book

with some such title as this: MEMOIRS OF MY OWN TIMES, BY GRANDFATHER'S

CHAIR."

"That would be beautiful!" exclaimed Laurence, clapping his hands.

"But, after all," continued Grandfather, "any other old chair, if it

possessed memory and a hand to write its recollections, could record

stranger stories than any that I have told you. From generation to

generation, a chair sits familiarly in the midst of human interests, and

is witness to the most secret and confidential intercourse that mortal

man can hold with his fellow. The human heart may best be read in the

fireside chair. And as to external events, Grief and Joy keep a

continual vicissitude around it and within it. Now we see the glad face

and glowing form of Joy, sitting merrily in the old chair, and throwing

a warm firelight radiance over all the household. Now, while we thought

not of it, the dark-clad mourner, Grief, has stolen into the place of

Joy, but not to retain it long. The imagination can hardly grasp so wide

a subject as is embraced in the experience of a family chair."

"It makes my breath flutter, my heart thrill, to think of it," said

Laurence. "Yes, a family chair must have a deeper history than a chair

of state."

"Oh yes!" cried Clara, expressing a woman's feeling of the point in

question; "the history of a country is not nearly so interesting as that

of a single family would be."

"But the history of a country is more easily told," said Grandfather.

"So, if we proceed with our narrative of the chair, I shall still

confine myself to its connection with public events."

Good old Grandfather now rose and quitted the room, while the children

remained gazing at the chair. Laurence, so vivid was his conception of

past times, would hardly have deemed it strange if its former occupants,

one after another, had resumed the seat which they had each left vacant

such a dim length of years ago.

First, the gentle and lovely Lady Arbella would have been seen in the

old chair, almost sinking out of its arms for very weakness; then Roger

Williams, in his cloak and band, earnest, energetic, and benevolent;

then the figure of Anne Hutchinson, with the like gesture as when she

presided at the assemblages of women; then the dark, intellectual face

of Vane, "young in years, but in sage counsel old." Next would have

appeared the successive governors, Winthrop, Dudley, Bellingham, and

Endicott, who sat in the chair while it was a chair of state. Then its

ample seat would have been pressed by the comfortable, rotund

corporation of the honest mint-master. Then the half-frenzied shape of

Mary Dyer, the persecuted Quaker woman, clad in sackcloth and ashes

would have rested in it for a moment. Then the holy, apostolic form of

Eliot would have sanctified it. Then would have arisen, like the shade

of departed Puritanism, the venerable dignity of the white-bearded

Governor Bradstreet. Lastly, on the gorgeous crimson cushion of

Grandfather's chair would have shone the purple and golden magnificence

of Sir William Phips. But all these, with the other historic personages,

in the midst of whom the chair had so often stood, had passed, both in

substance and shadow, from the scene of ages. Yet here stood the chair,

with the old Lincoln coat of arms, and the oaken flowers and foliage,

and the fierce lion's head at the summit, the whole, apparently, in as

perfect preservation as when it had first been placed in the Earl of

Lincoln's hall. And what vast changes of society and of nations had been

wrought by sudden convulsions or by slow degrees since that era!

"This Chair had stood firm when the thrones of kings were overturned!"

thought Laurence. "Its oaken frame has proved stronger than many frames

of government!"

More the thoughtful and imaginative boy might have mused; but now a

large yellow cat, a great favorite with all the children, leaped in at

the open window. Perceiving that Grandfather's chair was empty, and

having often before experienced its comforts, puss laid herself quietly

down upon the cushion. Laurence, Clara, Charley, and little Alice all

laughed at the idea of such a successor to the worthies of old times.

"Pussy," said little Alice, putting out her hand, into which the cat

laid a velvet paw, "you look very wise. Do tell us a story about

GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR!"

APPENDIX TO PART I.

EXTRACTS FROM THE LIFE OF JOHN ELIOT,

BY CONVERS FRANCIS.

MR. ELIOT had been for some time assiduously employed in learning the

Indian language. To accomplish this, he secured the assistance of one of

the natives, who could speak English. Eliot, at the close of his Indian

Grammar, mentions him as "a pregnant-witted young man, who had been a

servant in an English house, who pretty well understood his own

language, and had a clear pronunciation." He took this Indian into his

family, and by constant intercourse with him soon become sufficiently

conversant with the vocabulary and construction of the language to

translate the ten commandments, the Lord's prayer, and several passages

of Scripture, besides composing exhortations and prayers.

Mr. Eliot must have found his task anything but easy or inviting. He was

to learn a dialect, in which he could be assisted by no affinity with

the languages he already knew. He was to do this without the help of any

written or printed specimens, with nothing in the shape of a grammar or

analysis, but merely by oral communication with his Indian instructor,

or with other natives, who, however comparatively intelligent, must from

the nature of the case have been very imperfect teachers. He applied

himself to the work with great patience and sagacity, carefully acting

the

differences between the Indian and the English modes of constructing

words; and, having once got a clew to this, he pursued every noun and

verb he could think of through all possible variations. In this way he

arrived at analyses and rules, which he could apply for himself in a

general manner.

Neal says that Eliot was able to speak the language intelligibly after

conversing with the Indian servant a few months. This, in a limited

sense, may be true; but he is said to have been engaged two years in the

process of learning, before he went to preached to the Indians. In that

time he acquired a somewhat ready facility in the use of that dialect,

by means of which he was to carry the instructions of spiritual truth to

the men of the forest, though as late as 1649 he still lamented his want

of skill in this respect.

Notice having been given of his intention [of instructing the Indians],

Mr. Eliot, in company with three others, whose names are not mentioned,

having implored the divine blessing on the undertaking, made his first

visit to the Indians on the 28th of October, 1646 at a place afterwards

called Nonantum; a spot that has the honor of being the first on which a

civilized and Christian settlement of Indians was effected within the

English colonies of North America. This name was given to the high

grounds in the north, east part of Newton, and to the bounds of that

town and Watertown. At a short distance from the wigwams, they were met

by Waban, a leading man among the Indians at that place, accompanied by

others, and were welcomed with "English salutations." Waban, who is

described as "the chief minister of justice among them," had before

shown a better disposition than any other native to receive the

religious instruction of the Christians, and had voluntarily proposed to

have his eldest son educated by them. His son had been accordingly

placed at school in Dedham, whence he had now come to attend the

meeting.

The Indians assembled in Waban's wigwam; and thither Mr. Eliot and his

friends were conducted. When the company were all collected and quiet, a

religious service was begun with prayer. This was uttered in English;

the reason for which, as given by Mr. Eliot and his companions, was,

that he did not then feel sufficiently acquainted with the Indian

language to use it in that service.

The same difficulty would not occur in preaching, since for this, we may

suppose, he had sufficiently prepared his thoughts and expressions to

make his discourse intelligible on all important points; and if he

should, in some parts, fail of being, understood, he could repeat or

correct himself, till he should succeed better. Besides, he took with

him an interpretor, who was frequently able to express his instructions

more distinctly than he could himself. Though the prayer was

unintelligible to the Indians, yet, as they knew what the nature of the

service was, Mr. Eliot believed it might not be without an effect in

subduing their feelings so as to prepare them better to listen to the

preaching.

Mr. Eliot then began his sermon, or address, from Ezek. xxxvii. 9, 10.

The word wind, in this passage, suggested to the minds of some, who

afterwards gave an account of this meeting, a coincidence which might,

in the spirit of the times, be construed into a special appointment of

Providence. The name of Waban signified, in the Indian tongue, wind; so

that when the preacher uttered the words, "say to the wind," it was as

if he had proclaimed, "say to Waban." As this man afterwards exerted

much influence in awaking the attention of his fellow savages to

Christianity, it might seem that in this first visit of the messengers

of the gospel he was singled out by a special call to work in the cause.

It is not surprising that the Indians were struck with the coincidence.

Mr. Eliot gave no countenance to a superstitious use of the

circumstance, and took care to tell them that, when he chose his text,

he had no thought of any such application.

The sermon was an hour and a quarter long. One cannot but suspect that

Mr. Eliot injudiciously crowded too much into one address. It would seem

to have been better, for the first time at least, to have given a

shorter sermon, and to have touched upon fewer subjects. But he was

doubtless borne on by his zeal to do much in a good cause; and, as we

have reason to think, by the attentive, though vague, curiosity of the

Indians.

Thus ended a conference three hours long, at the end of which the

Indians affirmed that they were not weary, and requested their visitors

to come again. They expressed a wish to build a town and live together.

Mr. Eliot promised to intercede for them with the court. He and his

companions then gave the men some tobacco, and the children some apples,

and bade them farewell.

A fortnight afterwards, on the 11th of November, Mr. Eliot and his

friends repeated their visit to the wigwam of Waban. This meeting was

more numerous than the former. The religious service was opened, as

before, with a prayer in English. This was followed by a few brief and

plain questions addressed to the children, admitting short and easy

answers. The children seemed well disposed to listen and learn. To

encourage them, Mr. Eliot gave them occasionally an apple or a cake; and

the adults were requested to repeat to them the instructions that had

been given. He then preached to the assembly in their own language,

telling them that he had come to bring them good news from God, and show

them how wicked men might become good and happy; and, in general,

discoursing on nearly the same topics as he had treated at his first

visit.

PART II.

1692-1763.

CHAPTER I.

THE CHAIR IN THE FIRELIGHT,

"O GRANDFATHER, dear Grandfather," cried little Alice, "pray tell us

some more stories about your chair!"

How long a time had fled since the children bad felt any curiousity 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, b