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The Project Gutenberg EBook of True Stories of History and Biography
by Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Title: True Stories of History and Biography

Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne

Release Date: April 24, 2005 [EBook #15697]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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[Illustration]




TRUE STORIES

FROM

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY.

BY

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

BOSTON:
TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS.
MDCCCLI.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by NATHANIEL
HAWTHORNE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.

CAMBRIDGE:
PRINTED BY BOLLES AND HOUGHTON.




PREFACE.


In writing this ponderous tome, the author's desire has been to describe
the eminent characters and remarkable events of our annals, in such a
form and style, that the YOUNG might make acquaintance with them of
their own accord. For this purpose, while ostensibly relating the
adventures of a Chair, he has endeavored to keep a distinct and unbroken
thread of authentic history. The Chair is made to pass from one to
another of those personages, of whom he thought it most desirable for
the young reader to have vivid and familiar ideas, and whose lives and
actions would best enable him to give picturesque sketches of the times.
On its sturdy oaken legs, it trudges diligently from one scene to
another, and seems always to thrust itself in the way, with most benign
complacency, whenever a historical personage happens to be looking round
for a seat.

There is certainly no method, by which the shadowy outlines of departed
men and women can 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.




THE WHOLE HISTORY

OF

GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR.

COMPLETE IN THREE PARTS.




PART I.




CHAPTER I.


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

He heard the voice of Laurence, who had taken possession of a heap of
decayed branches which the gardener had lopped from the fruit trees, and
was building a little hut for his cousin Clara and himself. He heard
Clara's gladsome voice, too, as she weeded and watered the flower-bed
which had been given her for her own. He could have counted every
footstep that Charley took, as he trundled his wheelbarrow along the
gravel walk. And though Grandfather was old and gray-haired, yet his
heart leaped with joy whenever little Alice came fluttering, like a
butterfly, into the room. She had made each of the children her playmate
in turn, and now made Grandfather her playmate too, and thought him the
merriest of them all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, child," said Grandfather, patting Clara's cheek, "I can tell you
a great many stories of my chair. Perhaps your cousin Laurence would
like to hear them too. They would teach him something about the history
and distinguished people of his country, which he has never read in any
of his school-books."

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

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




CHAPTER II.


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

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

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

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

"Who was Mr. Johnson?" inquired Clara.

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

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


THE LADY ARBELLA.

The ship in which Mr. Johnson and his lady embarked, taking
Grandfather's chair along with them, was called the Arbella, in honor of
the lady herself. A fleet of ten or twelve vessels, with many hundred
passengers, left England about the same time; for a multitude of people,
who were discontented with the king's government and oppressed by the
bishops, were flocking over to the new world. One of the vessels in the
fleet was that same Mayflower which had carried the Puritan pilgrims to
Plymouth. And now, my children, I would have you fancy yourselves in the
cabin of the good ship Arbella; because if you could behold the
passengers aboard that vessel, you would feel what a blessing and honor
it was for New England to have such settlers. They were the best men and
women of their day.

Among the passengers was John Winthrop, who had sold the estate of his
forefathers, and was going to prepare a new home for his wife and
children in the wilderness. He had the king's charter in his keeping,
and was appointed the first Governor of Massachusetts. Imagine him a
person of grave and benevolent aspect, dressed in a black velvet suit,
with a broad ruff around his neck and a peaked beard upon his chin.
There was likewise a minister of the Gospel, whom the English bishops
had forbidden to preach, but who knew that he should have liberty both
to preach and pray in the forests of America. He wore a black cloak,
called a Geneva cloak, and had a black velvet cap, fitting close to his
head, as was the fashion of almost all the Puritan clergymen. In their
company came Sir Richard Saltonstall, who had been one of the five first
projectors of the new colony. He soon returned to his native country.
But his descendants still remain in New England; and the good old family
name is as much respected in our days as it was in those of Sir Richard.

Not only these, but several other men of wealth and pious ministers,
were in the cabin of the Arbella. One had banished himself for ever from
the old hall where his ancestors had lived for hundreds of years.
Another had left his quiet parsonage, in a country town of England.
Others had come from the universities of Oxford or Cambridge, where they
had gained great fame for their learning. And here they all were,
tossing upon the uncertain and dangerous sea, and bound for a home that
was more dangerous than even the sea itself. In the cabin, likewise, sat
the Lady Arbella in her chair, with a gentle and sweet expression on her
face, but looking too pale and feeble to endure the hardships of the
wilderness.

Every morning and evening the Lady Arbella gave up her great chair to
one of the ministers, who took his place in it and read passages from
the Bible to his companions. And thus, with prayers and pious
conversation, and frequent singing of hymns, which the breezes caught
from their lips and scattered far over the desolate waves, they
prosecuted their voyage, and sailed into the harbor of Salem in the
month of June.

At that period there were but six or eight dwellings in the town; and
these were miserable hovels, with roofs of straw and wooden chimneys.
The passengers in the fleet either built huts with bark and branches of
trees, or erected tents of cloth till they could provide themselves with
better shelter. Many of them went to form a settlement at Charlestown.
It was thought fit that the Lady Arbella should tarry in Salem for a
time; she was probably received as a guest into the family of John
Endicott. He was the chief person in the plantation, and had the only
comfortable house which the new comers had beheld since they left
England. So now, children, you must imagine Grandfather's chair in the
midst of a new scene.

Suppose it a hot summer's day, and the lattice-windows of a chamber in
Mr. Endicott's house thrown wide open. The Lady Arbella, looking paler
than she did on shipboard, is sitting in her chair, and thinking
mournfully of far-off England. She rises and goes to the window. There,
amid patches of garden ground and cornfield, she sees the few wretched
hovels of the settlers, with the still ruder wigwams and cloth tents of
the passengers who had arrived in the same fleet with herself. Far and
near stretches the dismal forest of pine trees, which throw their black
shadows over the whole land, and likewise over the heart of this poor
lady.

All the inhabitants of the little village are busy. One is clearing a
spot on the verge of the forest for his homestead; another is hewing the
trunk of a fallen pine tree, in order to build himself a dwelling; a
third is hoeing in his field of Indian corn. Here comes a huntsman out
of the woods, dragging a bear which he has shot, and shouting to the
neighbors to lend him a hand. There goes a man to the sea-shore, with a
spade and a bucket, to dig a mess of clams, which were a principal
article of food with the first settlers. Scattered here and there are
two or three dusky figures, clad in mantles of fur, with ornaments of
bone hanging from their ears, and the feathers of wild birds in their
coal black hair. They have belts of shell-work slung across their
shoulders, and are armed with bows and arrows and flint-headed spears.
These are an Indian Sagamore and his attendants, who have come to gaze
at the labors of the white men. And now rises a cry, that a pack of
wolves have seized a young calf in the pasture; and every man snatches
up his gun or pike, and runs in chase of the marauding beasts.

Poor Lady Arbella watches all these sights, and feels that this new
world is fit only for rough and hardy people. None should be here but
those who can struggle with wild beasts and wild men, and can toil in
the heat or cold, and can keep their hearts firm against all
difficulties and dangers. But she is not one of these. Her gentle and
timid spirit sinks within her; and turning away from the window she sits
down in the great chair, and wonders thereabouts in the wilderness her
friends will dig her grave.

Mr. Johnson had gone, with Governor Winthrop and most of the other
passengers, to Boston, where he intended to build a house for Lady
Arbella and himself. Boston was then covered with wild woods, and had
fewer inhabitants even than Salem. During her husband's absence, poor
Lady Arbella felt herself growing ill, and was hardly able to stir from
the great chair. Whenever John Endicott noticed her despondency, he
doubtless addressed her with words of comfort. "Cheer up, my good
lady!" he would say. "In a little time, you will love this rude life of
the wilderness as I do." But Endicott's heart was as bold and resolute
as iron, and he could not understand why a woman's heart should not be
of iron too.

Still, however, he spoke kindly to the lady, and then hastened forth to
till his corn-field and set out fruit trees, or to bargain with the
Indians for furs, or perchance to oversee the building of a fort. Also
being a magistrate, he had often to punish some idler or evil-doer, by
ordering him to be set in the stocks or scourged at the whipping-post.
Often, too, as was the custom of the times, he and Mr. Higginson, the
minister of Salem, held long religious talks together. Thus John
Endicott was a man of multifarious business, and had no time to look
back regretfully to his native land. He felt himself fit for the new
world, and for the work that he had to do, and set himself resolutely to
accomplish it.

What a contrast, my dear children, between this bold, rough, active man,
and the gentle Lady Arbella, who was fading away, like a pale English
flower, in the shadow of the forest! And now the great chair was often
empty, because Lady Arbella grew too weak to arise from bed.

Meantime, her husband had pitched upon a spot for their new home. He
returned from Boston to Salem, travelling through the woods on foot, and
leaning on his pilgrim's staff. His heart yearned within him; for he
was eager to tell his wife of the new home which he had chosen. But when
he beheld her pale and hollow cheek, and found how her strength was
wasted, he must have known that her appointed home was in a better land.
Happy for him then,--happy both for him and her,--if they remembered
that there was a path to heaven, as well from this heathen wilderness as
from the Christian land whence they had come. And so, in one short month
from her arrival, the gentle Lady Arbella faded away and died. They dug
a grave for her in the new soil, where the roots of the pine trees
impeded their spades; and when her bones had rested there nearly two
hundred years, and a city had sprung up around them, a church of stone
was built upon the spot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Charley, almost at the commencement of the foregoing narrative, had
galloped away with a prodigious clatter, upon Grandfather's stick, and
was not yet returned. So large a boy should have been ashamed to ride
upon a stick. But Laurence and Clara had listened attentively, and were
affected by this true story of the gentle lady, who had come so far to
die so soon. Grandfather had supposed that little Alice was asleep, but,
towards the close of the story, happening to look down upon her, he saw
that her blue eyes were wide open, and fixed earnestly upon his face.
The tears had gathered in them, like dew upon a delicate flower; but
when Grandfather ceased to speak, the sunshine of her smile broke forth
again.

"O, the lady must have been so glad to get to heaven!" exclaimed little
Alice.

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

"His heart appears to have been quite broken," answered Grandfather;
"for he died at Boston within a month after the death of his wife. He
was buried in the very same tract of ground, where he had intended to
build a dwelling for Lady Arbella and himself. Where their house would
have stood there was his grave.

"I never heard any thing so melancholy!" said Clara.

"The people loved and respected Mr. Johnson so much," continued
Grandfather, "that it was the last request of many of them, when they
died, that they might be buried as near as possible to this good man's
grave. And so the field became the first burial-ground in Boston. When
you pass through Tremont street, along by King's Chapel, you see a
burial-ground, containing many old grave-stones and monuments. That was
Mr. Johnson's field."

"How sad is the thought," observed Clara, "that one of the first things
which the settlers had to do, when they came to the new world, was to
set apart a burial-ground!"

"Perhaps," said Laurence, "if they had found no need of burial-grounds
here, they would have been glad, after a few years, to go back to
England."

Grandfather looked at Laurence, to discover whether he knew how profound
and true a thing he had said.




CHAPTER III.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


THE RED CROSS.

While Roger Williams sat in Grandfather's chair, at his humble residence
in Salem, John Endicott would often come to visit him. As the clergy had
great influence in temporal concerns, the minister and magistrate would
talk over the occurrences of the day, and consult how the people might
be governed according to scriptural laws.

One thing especially troubled them both. In the old national banner of
England, under which her soldiers have fought for hundreds of years,
there is a Red Cross, which has been there ever since the days when
England was in subjection to the Pope. The Cross, though a holy symbol,
was abhorred by the Puritans, because they considered it a relic of
Popish idolatry. Now, whenever the train-band of Salem was mustered, the
soldiers, with Endicott at their head, had no other flag to march under
than this same old papistical banner of England, with the Red Cross in
the midst of it. The banner of the Red Cross, likewise, was flying on
the walls of the fort of Salem; and a similar one was displayed in
Boston harbor, from the fortress on Castle Island.

"I profess, brother Williams," Captain Endicott would say, after they
had been talking of this matter, "it distresses a Christian man's heart,
to see this idolatrous Cross flying over our heads. A stranger beholding
it, would think that we had undergone all our hardships and dangers, by
sea and in the wilderness, only to get new dominions for the Pope of
Rome."

"Truly, good Mr. Endicott," Roger Williams would answer, "you speak as
an honest man and Protestant Christian should. For mine own part, were
it my business to draw a sword, I should reckon it sinful to fight under
such a banner. Neither can I, in my pulpit, ask the blessing of Heaven
upon it."

Such, probably, was the way in which Roger Williams and John Endicott
used to talk about the banner of the Red Cross. Endicott, who was a
prompt and resolute man, soon determined that Massachusetts, if she
could not have a banner of her own, should at least be delivered from
that of the Pope of Rome.

Not long afterwards there was a military muster at Salem. Every
able-bodied man, in the town and neighborhood, was there. All were well
armed, with steel caps upon their heads, plates of iron upon their
breasts and at their backs, and gorgets of steel around their necks.
When the sun shone upon these ranks of iron-clad men, they flashed and
blazed with a splendor that bedazzled the wild Indians, who had come out
of the woods to gaze at them. The soldiers had long pikes, swords, and
muskets, which were fired with matches, and were almost as heavy as a
small cannon.

These men had mostly a stern and rigid aspect. To judge by their looks,
you might have supposed that there was as much iron in their hearts, as
there was upon their heads and breasts. They were all devoted Puritans,
and of the same temper as those with whom Oliver Cromwell afterwards
overthrew the throne of England. They hated all the relics of Popish
superstition as much as Endicott himself; and yet, over their heads, was
displayed the banner of the Red Cross.

Endicott was the captain of the company. While the soldiers were
expecting his orders to begin their exercise, they saw him take the
banner in one hand, holding his drawn sword in the other. Probably he
addressed them in a speech, and explained how horrible a thing it was,
that men, who had fled from Popish idolatry into the wilderness, should
be compelled to fight under its symbols here. Perhaps he concluded his
address somewhat in the following style.

"And now, fellow soldiers, you see this old banner of England. Some of
you, I doubt not, may think it treason for a man to lay violent hands
upon it. But whether or no it be treason to man, I have good assurance
in my conscience that it is no treason to God. Wherefore I have resolved
that we will rather be God's soldiers, than soldiers of the Pope of
Rome; and in that mind I now cut the Papal Cross out of this banner."

And so he did. And thus, in a province belonging to the crown of
England, a captain was found bold enough to deface the King's banner
with his sword.

When Winthrop, and the other wise men of Massachusetts, heard of it,
they were disquieted, being afraid that Endicott's act would bring great
trouble upon himself and them. An account of the matter was carried to
King Charles; but he was then so much engrossed by dissensions with his
people, that he had no leisure to punish the offender. In other times,
it might have cost Endicott his life, and Massachusetts her charter.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I should like to know, Grandfather," said Laurence, when the story was
ended, "whether, when Endicott cut the Red Cross out of the banner, he
meant to imply that Massachusetts was independent of England?"

"A sense of the independence of his adopted country, must have been in
that bold man's heart," answered Grandfather; "but I doubt whether he
had given the matter much consideration, except in its religious
bearing. However, it was a very remarkable affair, and a very strong
expression of Puritan character."

Grandfather proceeded to speak further of Roger Williams, and of other
persons who sat in the great chair, as will be seen in the following
chapter.




CHAPTER IV.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Hutchinson had many zealous friends and converts," continued
Grandfather. "She was favored by young Henry Vane, who had come over
from England a year or two before, and had since been chosen governor
of the colony, at the age of twenty-four. But Winthrop, and most of the
other leading men, as well as the ministers, felt an abhorrence of her
doctrines. Thus two opposite parties were formed; and so fierce were the
dissensions, that it was feared the consequence would be civil war and
bloodshed. But Winthrop and the ministers being the most powerful, they
disarmed and imprisoned Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents. She, like Roger
Williams, was banished."

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

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

"Yes, Grandfather," cried Laurence; "and we may read them better in Mr.
Upham's biography of Vane. And what a beautiful death he died, long
afterwards! beautiful, though it was on a scaffold."

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.


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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is a long while since I took my degree, Charley. You must ask some
of the recent graduates," answered Grandfather. "As I was telling you,
President Dunster sat in Grandfather's chair in 1642, when he conferred
the degree of bachelor of arts on nine young men. They were the first in
America, who had received that honor. And now, my dear auditors, I must
confess that there are contradictory statements and some uncertainty
about the adventures of the chair, for a period of almost ten years.
Some say that it was occupied by your own ancestor, William Hawthorne,
first Speaker of the House of Representatives. I have nearly satisfied
myself, however, that, during most of this questionable period, it was
literally the Chair of State. It gives me much pleasure to imagine, that
several successive governors of Massachusetts sat in it at the council
board."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI.


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

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

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


THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS.

The Captain John Hull, aforesaid, was the mint-master of Massachusetts,
and coined all the money that was made there. This was a new line of
business: for, in the earlier days of the colony, the current coinage
consisted of gold and silver money of England, Portugal, and Spain.
These coins being scarce, the people were often forced to barter their
commodities, instead of selling them.

For instance, if a man wanted to buy a coat, he perhaps exchanged a
bear-skin for it. If he wished for a barrel of molasses, he might
purchase it with a pile of pine boards. Musket-bullets were used instead
of farthings. The Indians had a sort of money, called wampum, which was
made of clam-shells; and this strange sort of specie was likewise taken
in payment of debts, by the English settlers. Bank-bills had never been
heard of. There was not money enough of any kind, in many parts of the
country, to pay the salaries of the ministers; so that they sometimes
had to take quintals of fish, bushels of corn, or cords of wood, instead
of silver or gold.

As the people grew more numerous, and their trade one with another
increased, the want of current money was still more sensibly felt. To
supply the demand, the general court passed a law for establishing a
coinage of shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Captain John Hull was
appointed to manufacture this money, and was to have about one shilling
out of every twenty to pay him for the trouble of making them.

Hereupon, all the old silver in the colony was handed over to Captain
John Hull. The battered silver cans and tankards, I suppose, and silver
buckles, and broken spoons, and silver buttons of worn-out coats, and
silver hilts of swords that had figured at court, all such curious old
articles were doubtless thrown into the melting-pot together. But by far
the greater part of the silver consisted of bullion from the mines of
South America, which the English buccaniers--(who were little better
than pirates)--had taken from the Spaniards, and brought to
Massachusetts.

All this old and new silver being melted down and coined, the result was
an immense amount of splendid shillings, sixpences, and threepences.
Each had the date, 1652, on the one side, and the figure of a pine-tree
on the other. Hence they were called pine-tree shillings. And for every
twenty shillings that he coined, you will remember, Captain John Hull
was entitled to put one shilling into his own pocket.

The magistrates soon began to suspect that the mint-master would have
the best of the bargain. They offered him a large sum of money, if he
would but give up that twentieth shilling, which he was continually
dropping into his own pocket. But Captain Hull declared himself
perfectly satisfied with the shilling. And well he might be; for so
diligently did he labor, that, in a few years, his pockets, his money
bags, and his strong box, were overflowing with pine-tree shillings.
This was probably the case when he came into possession of Grandfather's
chair; and, as he had worked so hard at the mint, it was certainly
proper that he should have a comfortable chair to rest himself in.

When the mint-master had grown very rich, a young man, Samuel Sewell by
name, came a courting to his only daughter. His daughter,--whose name I
do not know, but we will call her Betsey,--was a fine hearty damsel, by
no means so slender as some young ladies of our own days. On the
contrary, having always fed heartily on pumpkin pies, doughnuts, Indian
puddings, and other Puritan dainties, she was as round and plump as a
pudding herself. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, did Samuel Sewell
fall in love. As he was a young man of good character, industrious in
his business, and a member of the church, the mint-master very readily
gave his consent.

"Yes--you may take her," said he, in his rough way; "and you'll find her
a heavy burden enough!"

On the wedding day, we may suppose that honest John Hull dressed himself
in a plum-colored coat, all the buttons of which were made of pine-tree
shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were sixpences; and the knees of
his smallclothes were buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired, he
sat with great dignity in Grandfather's chair; and, being a portly old
gentleman, he completely filled it from elbow to elbow. On the opposite
side of the room, between her bride-maids, sat Miss Betsey. She was
blushing with all her might, and looked like a full blown paeony, or a
great red apple.

There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine purple coat, and gold
lace waistcoat, with as much other finery as the Puritan laws and
customs would allow him to put on. His hair was cropped close to his
head, because Governor Endicott had forbidden any man to wear it below
the ears. But he was a very personable young man; and so thought the
bride-maids and Miss Betsey herself.

The mint-master also was pleased with his new son-in-law; especially as
he had courted Miss Betsey out of pure love, and had said nothing at all
about her portion. So when the marriage ceremony was over, Captain Hull
whispered a word to two of his men-servants, who immediately went out,
and soon returned, lugging in a large pair of scales. They were such a
pair as wholesale merchants use, for weighing bulky commodities; and
quite a bulky commodity was now to be weighed in them.

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

Miss Betsey,--or Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call her,--did as she was
bid, like a dutiful child, without any question of the why and
wherefore. But what her father could mean, unless to make her husband
pay for her by the pound, (in which case she would have been a dear
bargain,) she had not the least idea.

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

The box, to which the mint-master pointed, was a huge, square, iron
bound, oaken chest; it was big enough, my children, for all four of you
to play at hide-and-seek in. The servants tugged with might and main,
but could not lift this enormous receptacle, and were finally obliged to
drag it across the floor. Captain Hull then took a key from his girdle,
unlocked the chest, and lifted its ponderous lid. Behold! it was full to
the brim of bright pine-tree shillings, fresh from the mint; and Samuel
Sewell began to think that his father-in-law had got possession of all
the money in the Massachusetts treasury. But it was only the
mint-master's honest share of the coinage.

Then the servants, at Captain Hull's command, heaped double handfulls of
shillings into one side of the scales, while Betsey remained in the
other. Jingle, jingle, went the shillings, as handful after handful was
thrown in, till, plump and ponderous as she was, they fairly weighed the
young lady from the floor.

"There, son Sewell!" cried the honest mint-master, resuming his seat in
Grandfather's chair. "Take these shillings for my daughter's portion.
Use her kindly, and thank Heaven for her. It is not every wife that's
worth her weight in silver!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The children laughed heartily at this legend, and would hardly be
convinced but that Grandfather had made it out of his own head. He
assured them faithfully, however, that he had found it in the pages of
a grave historian, and had merely tried to tell it in a somewhat funnier
style. As for Samuel Sewell, he afterwards became Chief Justice of
Massachusetts.

"Well, Grandfather," remarked Clara, "if wedding portions now-a-days
were paid as Miss Betsey's was, young ladies would not pride themselves
upon an airy figure as many of them do."




CHAPTER VII.


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

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

Grandfather described the hatred and scorn with which these enthusiasts
were received. They were thrown into dungeons; they were beaten with
many stripes, women as well as men; they were driven forth into the
wilderness, and left to the tender mercies of wild beasts and Indians.
The children were amazed to hear, that, the more the Quakers were
scourged, and imprisoned, and banished, the more did the sect increase,
both by the influx of strangers, and by converts from among the
Puritans. But Grandfather told them, that God had put something into the
soul of man, which always turned the cruelties of the persecutor to
nought.

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

"And was she executed?" asked Laurence.

"She was," said Grandfather.

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

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

It seemed as if hardly any of the preceding stories had thrown such an
interest around Grandfather's chair, as did the fact, that the poor,
persecuted, wandering Quaker woman had rested in it for a moment. The
children were so much excited, that Grandfather found it necessary to
bring his account of the persecution to a close.

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

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

A short period before the arrival of the first Pilgrims at Plymouth,
there had been a very grievous plague among the red men; and the sages
and ministers of that day were inclined to the opinion, that Providence
had sent this mortality, in order to make room for the settlement of the
English. But I know not why we should suppose that an Indian's life is
less precious, in the eye of Heaven, than that of a white man. Be that
as it may, death had certainly been very busy with the savage tribes.

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

For nearly half a century after the arrival of the English, the red men
showed themselves generally inclined to peace and amity. They often made
submission, when they might have made successful war. The Plymouth
settlers, led by the famous Captain Miles Standish, slew some of them in
1623, without any very evident necessity for so doing. In 1636, and the
following year, there was the most dreadful war that had yet occurred
between the Indians and the English. The Connecticut settlers, assisted
by a celebrated Indian chief, named Uncas, bore the brunt of this war,
with but little aid from Massachusetts. Many hundreds of the hostile
Indians were slain, or burnt in their wigwams. Sassacus, their sachem,
fled to another tribe, after his own people were defeated; but he was
murdered by them, and his head was sent to his English enemies.

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

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

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

"Sometimes, it is true," answered Grandfather, "the magistrates and
ministers would talk about civilizing and converting the red people.
But, at the bottom of their hearts, they would have had almost as much
expectation of civilizing a wild bear of the woods, and making him fit
for paradise. They felt no faith in the success of any such attempts,
because they had no love for the poor Indians. Now Eliot was full of
love for them, and therefore so full of faith and hope, that he spent
the labor of a lifetime in their behalf."

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

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

"I know what that was!" cried Laurence.

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

"O, Grandfather, tell us all about that Indian Bible!" exclaimed
Laurence. "I have seen it in the library of the Athenaeum; and the tears
came into my eyes, to think that there were no Indians left to read it."




CHAPTER VIII


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


THE INDIAN BIBLE

My dear children, what a task would you think it, even with a long
lifetime before you, were you bidden to copy every chapter and verse,
and word, in yonder great family Bible! Would not this be a heavy toil?
But if the task were, not to write off the English Bible, but to learn a
language, utterly unlike all other tongues,--a language which hitherto
had never been learned, except by the Indians themselves, from their
mothers' lips,--a language never written, and the strange words of which
seemed inexpressible by letters;--if the task were, first, to learn this
new variety of speech, and then to translate the Bible into it, and to
do it so carefully, that not one idea throughout the holy book should be
changed,--what would induce you to undertake this toil? Yet this was
what the Apostle Eliot did.

It was a mighty work for a man, now growing old, to take upon himself.
And what earthly reward could he expect from it? None; no reward on
earth. But he believed that the red men were the descendants of those
lost tribes of Israel of whom history has been able to tell us nothing,
for thousands of years. He hoped that God had sent the English across
the ocean, Gentiles as they were, to enlighten this benighted portion of
his once chosen race. And when he should be summoned hence, he trusted
to meet blessed spirits in another world, whose bliss would have been
earned by his patient toil, in translating the Word of God. This hope
and trust were far dearer to him, than any thing that earth could offer.

Sometimes, while thus at work, he was visited by learned men, who
desired to know what literary undertaking Mr. Elliot had in hand. They,
like himself, had been bred in the studious cloisters of a university,
and were supposed to possess all the erudition which mankind has hoarded
up from age to age. Greek and Latin were as familiar to them as the
babble of their childhood. Hebrew was like their mother tongue. They had
grown gray in study; their eyes were bleared with poring over print and
manuscript by the light of the midnight lamp.

And yet, how much had they left unlearned! Mr. Eliot would put into
their hands some of the pages, which he had been writing; and behold!
the gray-headed men stammered over the long, strange words, like a
little child in his first attempts to read. Then would the apostle call
to him an Indian boy, one of his scholars, and show him the manuscript,
which had so puzzled the learned Englishmen.

"Read this, my child," said he, "these are some brethren of mine, who
would fain hear the sound of thy native tongue."

Then would the Indian boy cast his eyes over the mysterious page, and
read it so skilfully, that it sounded like wild music. It seemed as if
the forest leaves were singing in the ears of his auditors, and as if
the roar of distant streams were poured through the young Indian's
voice. Such were the sounds amid which the language of the red man had
been formed; and they were still heard to echo in it.

The lesson being over, Mr. Eliot would give the Indian boy an apple or a
cake, and bid him leap forth into the open air, which his free nature
loved. The apostle was kind to children, and even shared in their
sports, sometimes. And when his visitors had bidden him farewell, the
good man turned patiently to his toil again.

No other Englishman had ever understood the Indian character so well,
nor possessed so great an influence over the New England tribes, as the
apostle did. His advice and assistance must often have been valuable to
his countrymen, in their transactions with the Indians. Occasionally,
perhaps, the governor and some of the counsellors came to visit Mr.
Eliot. Perchance they were seeking some method to circumvent the forest
people. They inquired, it may be, how they could obtain possession of
such and such a tract of their rich land. Or they talked of making the
Indians their servants, as if God had destined them for perpetual
bondage to the more powerful white man.

Perhaps, too, some warlike captain, dressed in his buff-coat, with a
corslet beneath it, accompanied the governor and counsellors. Laying his
hand upon his sword hilt, he would declare, that the only method of
dealing with the red men was to meet them with the sword drawn, and the
musket presented.

But the apostle resisted both the craft of the politician, and the
fierceness of the warrior.

"Treat these sons of the forest as men and brethren," he would say, "and
let us endeavor to make them Christians. Their forefathers were of that
chosen race, whom God delivered from Egyptian bondage. Perchance he has
destined us to deliver the children from the more cruel bondage of
ignorance and idolatry. Chiefly for this end, it may be, we were
directed across the ocean."

When these other visitors were gone, Mr. Eliot bent himself again over
the half written page. He dared hardly relax a moment from his toil. He
felt that, in the book which he was translating, there was a deep human,
as well as heavenly wisdom, which would of itself suffice to civilize
and refine the savage tribes. Let the Bible be diffused among them, and
all earthly good would follow. But how slight a consideration was this,
when he reflected that the eternal welfare of a whole race of men
depended upon his accomplishment of the task which he had set himself!
What if his hands should be palsied? What if his mind should lose its
vigor? What if death should come upon him, ere the work were done? Then
must the red man wander in the dark wilderness of heathenism for ever.

Impelled by such thoughts as these, he sat writing in the great chair,
when the pleasant summer breeze came in through his open casement; and
also when the fire of forest logs sent up its blaze and smoke, through
the broad stone chimney, into the wintry air. Before the earliest bird
sang, in the morning, the apostle's lamp was kindled; and, at midnight,
his weary head was not yet upon its pillow. And at length, leaning back
in the great chair, he could say to himself, with a holy triumph,--"The
work is finished!"

It was finished. Here was a Bible for the Indians. Those long lost
descendants of the ten tribes of Israel would now learn the history of
their forefathers. That grace, which the ancient Israelites had
forfeited, was offered anew to their children.

There is no impiety in believing that, when his long life was over, the
apostle of the Indians was welcomed to the celestial abodes by the
prophets of ancient days, and by those earliest apostles and
evangelists, who had drawn their inspiration from the immediate presence
of the Saviour. They first had preached truth and salvation to the
world. And Eliot, separated from them by many centuries, yet full of the
same spirit, had borne the like message to the new world of the West.
Since the first days of Christianity, there has been no man more worthy
to be numbered in the brotherhood of the apostles, than Eliot.

       *       *       *       *       *

"My heart is not satisfied to think," observed Laurence, "that Mr.
Eliot's labors have done no good, except to a few Indians of his own
time. Doubtless, he would not have regretted his toil, if it were the
means of saving but a single soul. But it is a grievous thing to me,
that he should have toiled so hard to translate the Bible, and now the
language and the people are gone! The Indian Bible itself is almost the
only relic of both."

"Laurence," said his Grandfather, "if ever you should doubt that man is
capable of disinterested zeal for his brother's good, then remember how
the apostle Eliot toiled. And if you should feel your own self-interest
pressing upon your heart too closely, then think of Eliot's Indian
Bible. It is good for the world that such a man has lived, and left this
emblem of his life."

The tears gushed into the eyes of Laurence, and he acknowledged that
Eliot had not toiled in vain. Little Alice put up her arms to
Grandfather, and drew down his white head beside her own golden locks.

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

And, doubtless, good Mr. Eliot would gladly receive the kiss of so sweet
a child as little Alice, and would think it a portion of his reward in
heaven.

Grandfather now observed, that Dr. Francis had written a very beautiful
Life of Eliot, which he advised Laurence to peruse. He then spoke of
King Philip's war, which began in 1675, and terminated with the death of
King Philip, in the following year. Philip was a proud, fierce Indian,
whom Mr. Eliot had vainly endeavored to convert to the Christian faith.

"It must have been a great anguish to the apostle," continued
Grandfather, "to hear of mutual slaughter and outrage between his own
countrymen, and those for whom he felt the affection of a father. A few
of the praying Indians joined the followers of King Philip. A greater
number fought on the side of the English. In the course of the war, the
little community of red people whom Mr. Eliot had begun to civilize, was
scattered, and probably never was restored to a flourishing condition.
But his zeal did not grow cold; and only about five years before his
death he took great pains in preparing a new edition of the Indian
Bible."

"I do wish Grandfather," cried Charley, "you would tell us all about the
battles in King Philip's war."

"O, no!" exclaimed Clara. "Who wants to hear about tomahawks and
scalping knives!"

"No, Charley," replied Grandfather, "I have no time to spare in talking
about battles. You must be content with knowing that it was the
bloodiest war that the Indians had ever waged against the white men; and
that, at its close, the English set King Philip's head upon a pole."

"Who was the captain of the English?" asked Charley.

"Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church,--a very famous warrior,"
said Grandfather. "But I assure you, Charley, that neither Captain
Church, nor any of the officers and soldiers who fought in King Philip's
war, did any thing a thousandth part so glorious, as Mr. Eliot did, when
he translated the Bible for the Indians."

"Let Laurence be the apostle," said Charley to himself, "and I will be
the captain."




CHAPTER IX.


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

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

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

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

At this period of the story, Grandfather threw a glance backward, as far
as the year 1660. He spoke of the ill-concealed reluctance with which
the Puritans in America had acknowledged the sway of Charles the Second,
on his restoration to his father's throne. When death had stricken
Oliver Cromwell, that mighty protector had no sincerer mourners than in
New England. The new king had been more than a year upon the throne
before his accession was proclaimed in Boston; although the neglect to
perform the ceremony might have subjected the rulers to the charge of
treason.

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

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

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

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

"For what?" inquired Charley.

"Because they were the leaders of the people, Charley," said
Grandfather. "A minister was a more formidable man than a general, in
those days. Well; while these things were going on in America, King
James had so misgoverned the people of England, that they sent over to
Holland for the Prince of Orange. He had married the king's daughter,
and was therefore considered to have a claim to the crown. On his
arrival in England, the Prince of Orange was proclaimed king, by the
name of William the Third. Poor old King James made his escape to
France."

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

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

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

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

"I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!" cried Charley, after a shout
of delight. "I thought Grandfather had quite forgotten the chair."

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

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

"All of them," replied Grandfather. "Winthrop had been dead forty years.
Endicott died, a very old man, in 1665. Sir Henry Vane was beheaded in
London, at the beginning of the reign of Charles the Second. And Haynes,
Dudley, Bellingham and Leverett, who had all been governors of
Massachusetts, were now likewise in their graves. Old Simon Bradstreet
was the sole representative of that departed brotherhood. There was no
other public man remaining to connect the ancient system of government
and manners with the new system, which was about to take its place. The
era of the Puritans was now completed."

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

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




CHAPTER X.


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

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

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

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

So Grandfather related the wonderful and true tale of


THE SUNKEN TREASURE.

Picture to yourselves, my dear children, a handsome, old-fashioned room,
with a large, open cupboard at one end, in which is displayed a
magnificent gold cup, with some other splendid articles of gold and
silver plate. In another part of the room, opposite to a tall
looking-glass, stands our beloved chair, newly polished, and adorned
with a gorgeous cushion of crimson velvet tufted with gold.

In the chair sits a man of strong and sturdy frame, whose face has been
roughened by northern tempests, and blackened by the burning sun of the
West Indies. He wears an immense periwig, flowing down over his
shoulders. His coat has a wide embroidery of golden foliage; and his
waistcoat, likewise, is all flowered over and bedizened with gold. His
red, rough hands, which have done many a good day's work with the hammer
and adze, are half covered by the delicate lace ruffles at his wrists.
On a table lies his silver-hilted sword, and in a corner of the room
stands his gold-headed cane, made of a beautifully polished West Indian
wood.

Somewhat such an aspect as this, did Sir William Phips present, when he
sat in Grandfather's chair, after the king had appointed him governor of
Massachusetts. Truly, there was need that the old chair should be
varnished, and decorated with a crimson cushion, in order to make it
suitable for such a magnificent looking personage.

But Sir William Phips had not always worn a gold embroidered coat, nor
always sat so much at his ease as he did in Grandfather's chair. He was
a poor man's son, and was born in the province of Maine, where he used
to tend sheep upon the hills, in his boyhood and youth. Until he had
grown to be a man, he did not even know how to read and write. Tired of
tending sheep, he next apprenticed himself to a ship-carpenter, and
spent about four years in hewing the crooked limbs of oak trees into
knees for vessels.

In 1673, when he was twenty-two years old, he came to Boston, and soon
afterwards was married to a widow lady, who had property enough to set
him up in business. It was not long, however, before he lost all the
money that he had acquired by his marriage, and became a poor man again.
Still, he was not discouraged. He often told his wife that, some time or
other, he should be very rich, and would build a "fair brick house" in
the Green Lane of Boston.

Do not suppose, children, that he had been to a fortune-teller to
inquire his destiny. It was his own energy and spirit of enterprise, and
his resolution to lead an industrious life, that made him look forward
with so much confidence to better days.

Several years passed away; and William Phips had not yet gained the
riches which he promised to himself. During this time he had begun to
follow the sea for a living. In the year 1684, he happened to hear of a
Spanish ship, which had been cast away near the Bahama Islands, and
which was supposed to contain a great deal of gold and silver. Phips
went to the place in a small vessel, hoping that he should be able to
recover some of the treasure from the wreck. He did not succeed,
however, in fishing up gold and silver enough to pay the expenses of his
voyage.

But, before he returned, he was told of another Spanish ship or galleon,
which had been cast away near Porto de la Plata. She had now lain as
much as fifty years beneath the waves. This old ship had been laden with
immense wealth; and, hitherto, nobody had thought of the possibility of
recovering any part of it from the deep sea, which was rolling and
tossing it about. But though it was now an old story, and the most aged
people had almost forgotten that such a vessel had been wrecked. William
Phips resolved that the sunken treasure should again be brought to
light.

He went to London, and obtained admittance to King James, who had not
yet been driven from his throne. He told the king of the vast wealth
that was lying at the bottom of the sea. King James listened with
attention, and thought this a fine opportunity to fill his treasury with
Spanish gold. He appointed William Phips to be captain of a vessel,
called the Rose Algier, carrying eighteen guns and ninety-five men. So
now he was Captain Phips of the English navy.

Captain Phips sailed from England in the Rose Algier, and cruised for
nearly two years in the West Indies, endeavoring to find the wreck of
the Spanish ship. But the sea is so wide and deep, that it is no easy
matter to discover the exact spot where a sunken vessel lies. The
prospect of success seemed very small; and most people would have
thought that Captain Phips was as far from having money enough to build
a "fair brick house," as he was while he tended sheep.

The seamen of the Rose Algier became discouraged, and gave up all hope
of making their fortunes by discovering the Spanish wreck. They wanted
to compel Captain Phips to turn pirate. There was a much better
prospect, they thought, of growing rich by plundering vessels, which
still sailed the sea, than by seeking for a ship that had lain beneath
the waves full half a century. They broke out in open mutiny, but were
finally mastered by Phips, and compelled to obey his orders. It would
have been dangerous, however, to continue much longer at sea with such a
crew of mutinous sailors; and, besides, the Rose Algier was leaky and
unseaworthy. So Captain Phips judged it best to return to England.

Before leaving the West Indies, he met with a Spaniard, an old man, who
remembered the wreck of the Spanish ship, and gave him directions how to
find the very spot. It was on a reef of rocks a few leagues from Porto
de la Plata.

On his arrival in England, therefore, Captain Phips solicited the king
to let him have another vessel, and send him back again to the West
Indies. But King James, who had probably expected that the Rose Algier
would return laden with gold, refused to have any thing more to do with
the affair. Phips might never have been able to renew the search, if the
Duke of Albemarle, and some other noblemen had not lent their
assistance. They fitted out a ship and gave the command to Captain
Phips. He sailed from England, and arrived safely at Porto de la Plata,
where he took an adze and assisted his men to build a large boat.

The boat was intended for the purpose of going closer to the reef of
rocks than a large vessel could safely venture. When it was finished,
the Captain sent several men in it, to examine the spot where the
Spanish ship was said to have been wrecked. They were accompanied by
some Indians, who were skilful divers, and could go down a great way
into the depths of the sea.

The boat's crew proceeded to the reef of rocks, and rowed round and
round it, a great many times. They gazed down into the water, which was
so transparent that it seemed as if they could have seen the gold and
silver at the bottom, had there been any of those precious metals there.
Nothing, however, could they see; nothing more valuable than a curious
sea shrub, which was growing beneath the water, in a crevice of the
reef of rocks. It flaunted to and fro with the swell and reflux of the
waves, and looked as bright and beautiful as if its leaves were gold.

"We won't go back empty-handed," cried an English sailor; and then he
spoke to one of the Indian divers. "Dive down and bring me that pretty
sea shrub there. That's the only treasure we shall find!"

Down plunged the diver, and soon rose dripping from the water, holding
the sea shrub in his hand. But he had learnt some news at the bottom of
the sea.

"There are some ship's guns," said he, the moment he had drawn breath,
"some great cannon among the rocks, near where the shrub was growing."

No sooner had he spoken, than the English sailors knew that they had
found the very spot where the Spanish galleon had been wrecked so many
years before. The other Indian divers immediately plunged over the
boat's side, and swam headlong down, groping among the rocks and sunken
cannon. In a few moments one of them rose above the water, with a heavy
lump of silver in his arms. That single lump was worth more than a
thousand dollars. The sailors took it into the boat, and then rowed back
as speedily as they could, being in haste to inform Captain Phips of
their good luck.

But, confidently as the Captain had hoped to find the Spanish wreck,
yet now that it was really found, the news seemed too good to be true.
He could not believe it till the sailors showed him the lump of silver.

"Thanks be to God!" then cries Captain Phips. "We shall every man of us
make our fortunes!"

Hereupon the Captain and all the crew set to work, with iron rakes and
great hooks and lines, fishing for gold and silver at the bottom of the
sea. Up came the treasure in abundance. Now they beheld a table of solid
silver, once the property of an old Spanish Grandee. Now they found a
sacramental vessel, which had been destined as a gift to some Catholic
church. Now they drew up a golden cup, fit for the king of Spain to
drink his wine out of. Perhaps the bony hand of its former owner had
been grasping the precious cup, and was drawn up along with it. Now
their rakes or fishing lines were loaded with masses of silver bullion.
There were also precious stones among the treasure, glittering and
sparkling, so that it is a wonder how their radiance could have been
concealed.

There is something sad and terrible in the idea of snatching all this
wealth from the devouring ocean, which had possessed it for such a
length of years. It seems as if men had no right to make themselves rich
with it. It ought to have been left with the skeletons of the ancient
Spaniards, who had been drowned when the ship was wrecked, and whose
bones were now scattered among the gold and silver.

But Captain Phips and his crew were troubled with no such thoughts as
these. After a day or two they lighted on another part of the wreck,
where they found a great many bags of silver dollars. But nobody could
have guessed that these were money-bags. By remaining so long in the
salt-water, they had become covered over with a crust which had the
appearance of stone, so that it was necessary to break them in pieces
with hammers and axes. When this was done, a stream of silver dollars
gushed out upon the deck of the vessel.

The whole value of the recovered treasure, plate, bullion, precious
stones, and all, was estimated at more than two millions of dollars. It
was dangerous even to look at such a vast amount of wealth. A sea
captain, who had assisted Phips in the enterprise, utterly lost his
reason at the sight of it. He died two years afterwards, still raving
about the treasures that lie at the bottom of the sea. It would have
been better for this man, if he had left the skeletons of the
shipwrecked Spaniards in quiet possession of their wealth.

Captain Phips and his men continued to fish up plate, bullion, and
dollars, as plentifully as ever, till their provisions grew short. Then,
as they could not feed upon gold and silver any more than old King Midas
could, they found it necessary to go in search of better sustenance.
Phips resolved to return to England. He arrived there in 1687, and was
received with great joy by the Duke of Albemarle and the other English
lords, who had fitted out the vessel. Well they might rejoice; for they
took by far the greater part of the treasure to themselves.

The Captain's share, however, was enough to make him comfortable for the
rest of his days. It also enabled him to fulfil his promise to his wife,
by building a "fair brick house," in the Green Lane of Boston. The Duke
of Albemarle sent Mrs. Phips a magnificent gold cup, worth at least five
thousand dollars. Before Captain Phips left London, King James made him
a knight; so that, instead of the obscure ship-carpenter who had
formerly dwelt among them, the inhabitants of Boston welcomed him on his
return, as the rich and famous Sir William Phips.




CHAPTER XI.


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

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

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

Charley, whose fancy had been greatly taken by the adventurous
disposition of Sir William Phips, was eager to know how he had acted,
and what happened to him while he held the office of governor. But
Grandfather had made up his mind to tell no more stories for the
present.

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

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

"True, Laurence," replied Grandfather, smiling, "We must write a book,
with some such title as this,--MEMOIRS OF MY OWN TIMES, BY GRANDFATHER'S
CHAIR."

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

"But, after all," continued Grandfather, "any other old chair, if it
possessed memory, and a hand to write its recollections, could record
stranger stories than any that I have told you. From generation to
generation, a chair sits familiarly in the midst of human interests, and
is witness to the most secret and confidential intercourse, that mortal
man can hold with his fellow. The human heart may best be read in the
fireside chair. And as to external events, Grief and Joy keep a
continual vicissitude around it and within it. Now we see the glad face
and glowing form of Joy, sitting merrily in the old chair, and throwing
a warm fire-light radiance over all the household. Now, while we thought
not of it, the dark clad mourner, Grief, has stolen into the place of
Joy, but not to retain it long. The imagination can hardly grasp so wide
a subject, as is embraced in the experience of a family chair."

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

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

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

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

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

But, all these, with the other historic personages, in the midst of whom
the chair had so often stood, had passed, both in substance and shadow,
from the scene of ages. Yet here stood the chair, with the old Lincoln
coat of arms, and the oaken flowers and foliage, and the fierce lion's
head at the summit, the whole, apparently, in as perfect preservation as
when it had first been placed in the Earl of Lincoln's Hall. And what
vast changes of society and of nations had been wrought by sudden
convulsions or by slow degrees, since that era!

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

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

"Pussy," said little Alice, putting out her hand, into which the cat
laid a velvet paw, "you look very wise. Do tell us a story about
GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR!"




PART II.




CHAPTER I.


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

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

When the weather began to grow cool, Grandfather's chair had been
removed from the summer parlor into a smaller and snugger room. It now
stood by the side of a bright blazing wood-fire. Grandfather loved a
wood-fire, far better than a grate of glowing anthracite, or than the
dull heat of an invisible furnace, which seems to think that it has done
its duty in merely warming the house. But the wood-fire is a kindly,
cheerful, sociable spirit, sympathizing with mankind, and knowing that
to create warmth is but one of the good offices which are expected from
it. Therefore it dances on the hearth, and laughs broadly through the
room, and plays a thousand antics, and throws a joyous glow over all the
faces that encircle it.

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

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

Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little Alice, had been attracted
to other objects, for two or three months past. They had sported in the
gladsome sunshine of the present, and so had forgotten the shadowy
region of the past, in the midst of which stood Grandfather's chair. But
now, in the autumnal twilight, illuminated by the flickering blaze of
the wood-fire, they looked at the old chair and thought that it had
never before worn such an interesting aspect. There it stood, in the
venerable majesty of more than two hundred years. The light from the
hearth quivered upon the flowers and foliage, that were wrought into its
oaken back; and the lion's head at the summit seemed almost to move its
jaws and shake its mane.

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II.


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

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

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

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

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

"How was that?" inquired Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

These stories spread abroad, and caused great tumult and alarm. From the
foundation of New England, it had been the custom of the inhabitants, in
all matters of doubt and difficulty, to look to their ministers for
council. So they did now; but, unfortunately, the ministers and wise men
were more deluded than the illiterate people. Cotton Mather, a very
learned and eminent clergyman, believed that the whole country was full
of witches and wizards, who had given up their hopes of heaven, and
signed a covenant with the Evil One.

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

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

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

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

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

Grandfather then said, that the next remarkable event, while Sir William
Phips remained in the chair, was the arrival at Boston of an English
fleet, in 1693. It brought an army, which was intended for the conquest
of Canada. But a malignant disease, more fatal than the small-pox, broke
out among the soldiers and sailors, and destroyed the greater part of
them. The infection spread into the town of Boston, and made much havoc
there. This dreadful sickness caused the governor, and Sir Francis
Wheeler, who was commander of the British forces, to give up all
thoughts of attacking Canada.

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III.


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

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

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

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


THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL.

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

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

[Illustration]

Next, look at our old historic chair! It is placed, you perceive, in the
most comfortable part of the room, where the generous glow of the fire
is sufficiently felt, without being too intensely hot. How stately the
old chair looks, as if it remembered its many famous occupants, but yet
were conscious that a greater man is sitting in it now! Do you see the
venerable school-master, severe in aspect, with a black scull-cap on his
head, like an ancient Puritan, and the snow of his white beard drifting
down to his very girdle? What boy would dare to play, or whisper, or
even glance aside from his book, while Master Cheever is on the
look-out, behind his spectacles! For such offenders, if any such there
be, a rod of birch is hanging over the fire-place, and a heavy ferule
lies on the master's desk.

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

Now a class in Latin is called to recite. Forth steps a row of
queer-looking little fellows, wearing square-skirted coats, and small
clothes, with buttons at the knee. They look like so many grandfathers
in their second childhood. These lads are to be sent to Cambridge, and
educated for the learned professions. Old Master Cheever has lived so
long, and seen so many generations of school-boys grow up to be men,
that now he can almost prophesy what sort of a man each boy will be. One
urchin shall hereafter be a doctor, and administer pills and potions,
and stalk gravely through life, perfumed with assafoetida. Another
shall wrangle at the bar, and fight his way to wealth and honors, and in
his declining age, shall be a worshipful member of his Majesty's
council. A third--and he is the Master's favorite--shall be a worthy
successor to the old Puritan ministers, now in their graves; he shall
preach with great unction and effect, and leave volumes of sermons, in
print and manuscript, for the benefit of future generations.

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

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

This class of boys, in short, must supply the world with those active,
skilful hands, and clear, sagacious heads, without which the affairs of
life would be thrown into confusion, by the theories of studious and
visionary men. Wherefore, teach them their multiplication table, good
Master Cheever, and whip them well, when they deserve it; for much of
the country's welfare depends on these boys!

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

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

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

"You are dismissed," says Master Cheever.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All these books, no doubt, were tossed about in confusion, thus forming
a visible emblem of the manner in which their contents were crowded
into Cotton Mather's brain. And in the middle of the room stood a table,
on which, besides printed volumes, were strewn manuscript sermons,
historical tracts, and political pamphlets, all written in such a queer,
blind, crabbed, fantastical hand, that a writing-master would have gone
raving mad at the sight of them. By this table stood Grandfather's
chair, which seemed already to have contracted an air of deep erudition,
as if its cushion were stuffed with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and other
hard matters.

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

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

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

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

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

A new war between France and England had broken out in 1702, and had
been raging ever since. In the course of it, New England suffered much
injury from the French and Indians, who often came through the woods
from Canada, and assaulted the frontier towns. Villages were sometimes
burnt, and the inhabitants slaughtered, within a day's ride of Boston.
The people of New England had a bitter hatred against the French, not
only for the mischief which they did with their own hands, but because
they incited the Indians to hostility.

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

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

What with recruiting and drilling of soldiers, there was now nothing but
warlike bustle in the streets of Boston. The drum and fife, the rattle
of arms, and the shouts of boys, were heard from morning till night. In
about a month, the fleet set sail, carrying four regiments from New
England and New York, besides the English soldiers. The whole army
amounted to at least seven thousand men. They steered for the mouth of
the river St. Lawrence.

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

"I would never give it up so," cried Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI.


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

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

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

Grandfather here explained some of the circumstances, that made the
situation of a colonial governor so difficult and irksome. There was not
the same feeling towards the chief magistrate, now, that had existed,
while he was chosen by the free suffrages of the people. It was felt,
that, as the king appointed the governor, and as he held his office
during the king's pleasure, it would be his great object to please the
king. But the people thought, that a governor ought to have nothing in
view, but the best interests of those whom he governed.

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

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

"It still remained in Cotton Mather's library," replied Grandfather;
"and I must not omit to tell you an incident, which is very much to the
honor of this celebrated man. It is the more proper, too, that you
should hear it, because it will show you what a terrible calamity the
small pox was to our forefathers. The history of the province, (and, of
course, the history of our chair,) would be incomplete, without
particular mention of it." Accordingly, Grandfather told the children a
story, to which, for want of a better title, we shall give that of


THE REJECTED BLESSING.

One day, in 1721, Doctor Cotton Mather sat in his library, reading a
book that had been published by the Royal Society of London. But, every
few moments, he laid the book upon the table, and leaned back in
Grandfather's chair, with an aspect of deep care and disquietude. There
were certain things which troubled him exceedingly, so that he could
hardly fix his thoughts upon what he read.

It was now a gloomy time in Boston. That terrible disease, the small
pox, had recently made its appearance in the town. Ever since the first
settlement of the country, this awful pestilence had come, at intervals,
and swept away multitudes of the inhabitants. Whenever it commenced its
ravages, nothing seemed to stay its progress, until there were no more
victims for it to seize upon. Oftentimes, hundreds of people, at once,
lay groaning with its agony; and when it departed, its deep footsteps
were always to be traced in many graves.

The people never felt secure from this calamity. Sometimes, perhaps, it
was brought into the country by a poor sailor, who had caught the
infection in foreign parts, and came hither to die, and to be the cause
of many deaths. Sometimes, no doubt, it followed in the train of the
pompous governors, when they came over from England. Sometimes, the
disease lay hidden in the cargoes of ships, among silks and brocades,
and other costly merchandise, which was imported for the rich people to
wear. And, sometimes, it started up, seemingly of its own accord; and
nobody could tell whence it came. The physician, being called to attend
the sick person, would look at him, and say,--"It is the small pox! let
the patient be carried to the hospital."

And now, this dreadful sickness had shown itself again in Boston. Cotton
Mather was greatly afflicted, for the sake of the whole province. He had
children, too, who were exposed to the danger. At that very moment, he
heard the voice of his youngest son, for whom his heart was moved with
apprehension.

"Alas! I fear for that poor child," said Cotton Mather to himself. "What
shall I do for my son Samuel?"

Again, he attempted to drive away these thoughts, by taking up the book
which he had been reading. And now, all of a sudden, his attention
became fixed. The book contained a printed letter that an Italian
physician had written upon the very subject, about which Cotton Mather
was so anxiously meditating. He ran his eye eagerly over the pages; and,
behold! a method was disclosed to him, by which the small pox might be
robbed of its worst terrors. Such a method was known in Greece. The
physicians of Turkey, too, those long-bearded Eastern sages, had been
acquainted with it for many years. The negroes of Africa, ignorant as
they were, had likewise practised it, and thus had shown themselves
wiser than the white men.

"Of a truth," ejaculated Cotton Mather, clasping his hands and looking
up to Heaven, "it was a merciful Providence that brought this book under
mine eye! I will procure a consultation of physicians, and see whether
this wondrous Inoculation may not stay the progress of the Destroyer."

So he arose from Grandfather's chair, and went out of the library. Near
the door he met his son Samuel, who seemed downcast and out of spirits.
The boy had heard, probably, that some of his playmates were taken ill
with the small pox. But, as his father looked cheerfully at him, Samuel
took courage, trusting that either the wisdom of so learned a minister
would find some remedy for the danger, or else that his prayers would
secure protection from on high.

Meanwhile, Cotton Mather took his staff and three-cornered hat, and
walked about the streets, calling at the houses of all the physicians in
Boston. They were a very wise fraternity; and their huge wigs, and black
dresses, and solemn visages, made their wisdom appear even profounder
than it was. One after another, he acquainted them with the discovery
which he had hit upon.

But these grave and sagacious personages would scarcely listen to him.
The oldest doctor in town contented himself with remarking, that no such
thing as inoculation was mentioned by Galen or Hippocrates, and it was
impossible that modern physicians should be wiser than those old sages.
A second held up his hands in dumb astonishment and horror, at the
madness of what Cotton Mather proposed to do. A third told him, in
pretty plain terms, that he knew not what he was talking about. A fourth
requested, in the name of the whole medical fraternity, that Cotton
Mather would confine his attention to people's souls, and leave the
physicians to take care of their bodies.

In short, there was but a single doctor among them all, who would grant
the poor minister so much as a patient hearing. This was Doctor Zabdiel
Boylston. He looked into the matter like a man of sense, and finding,
beyond a doubt, that inoculation had rescued many from death, he
resolved to try the experiment in his own family.

And so he did. But, when the other physicians heard of it, they arose in
great fury, and began a war of words, written, printed, and spoken,
against Cotton Mather and Doctor Boylston. To hear them talk, you would
have supposed that these two harmless and benevolent men had plotted the
ruin of the country.

The people, also, took the alarm. Many, who thought themselves more
pious than their neighbors, contended, that, if Providence had ordained
them to die of the small pox, it was sinful to aim at preventing it.
The strangest reports were in circulation. Some said, that Doctor
Boylston had contrived a method for conveying the gout, rheumatism, sick
headache, asthma, and all other diseases, from one person to another,
and diffusing them through the whole community. Others flatly affirmed
that the Evil One had got possession of Cotton Mather, and was at the
bottom of the whole business.

You must observe, children, that Cotton Mather's fellow citizens were
generally inclined to doubt the wisdom of any measure, which he might
propose to them. They recollected how he had led them astray in the old
witchcraft delusion; and now, if he thought and acted ever so wisely, it
was difficult for him to get the credit of it.

The people's wrath grew so hot at his attempt to guard them from the
small pox, that he could not walk the streets in peace. Whenever the
venerable form of the old minister, meagre and haggard with fasts and
vigils, was seen approaching, hisses were heard, and shouts of derision,
and scornful and bitter laughter. The women snatched away their children
from his path, lest he should do them a mischief. Still, however,
bending his head meekly, and perhaps stretching out his hands to bless
those who reviled him, he pursued his way. But the tears came into his
eyes, to think how blindly the people rejected the means of safety, that
were offered them.

Indeed, there were melancholy sights enough in the streets of Boston, to
draw forth the tears of a compassionate man. Over the door of almost
every dwelling, a red flag was fluttering in the air. This was the
signal that the small pox had entered the house, and attacked some
member of the family; or perhaps the whole family, old and young, were
struggling at once with the pestilence. Friends and relatives, when they
met one another in the streets, would hurry onward without a grasp of
the hand, or scarcely a word of greeting, lest they should catch or
communicate the contagion. And, often a coffin was borne hastily along.

"Alas, alas!" said Cotton Mather to himself. "What shall be done for
this poor, misguided people? Oh, that Providence would open their eyes,
and enable them to discern good from evil!"

So furious, however, were the people, that they threatened vengeance
against any person who should dare to practise inoculation, though it
were only in his own family. This was a hard case for Cotton Mather, who
saw no other way to rescue his poor child Samuel from the disease. But
he resolved to save him, even if his house should be burnt over his
head.

"I will not be turned aside," said he. "My townsmen shall see that I
have faith in this thing, when I make the experiment on my beloved son,
whose life is dearer to me than my own. And when I have saved Samuel,
peradventure they will be persuaded to save themselves."

Accordingly, Samuel was inoculated; and so was Mr. Walter, a son-in-law
of Cotton Mather. Doctor Boylston, likewise, inoculated many persons;
and while hundreds died, who had caught the contagion from the garments
of the sick, almost all were preserved, who followed the wise
physician's advice.

But the people were not yet convinced of their mistake. One night, a
destructive little instrument, called a hand-grenade, was thrown into
Cotton Mather's window, and rolled under Grandfather's chair. It was
supposed to be filled with gunpowder, the explosion of which would have
blown the poor minister to atoms. But the best-informed historians are
of opinion, that the grenade contained only brimstone and assafoetida,
and was meant to plague Cotton Mather with a very evil perfume.

This is no strange thing in human experience. Men, who attempt to do the
world more good, than the world is able entirely to comprehend, are
almost invariably held in bad odor. But yet, if the wise and good man
can wait awhile, either the present generation or posterity, will do him
justice. So it proved, in the case which we have been speaking of. In
after years, when inoculation was universally practised, and thousands
were saved from death by it, the people remembered old Cotton Mather,
then sleeping in his grave. They acknowledged that the very thing, for
which they had so reviled and persecuted him, was the best and wisest
thing he ever did.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Grandfather, this is not an agreeable story," observed Clara.

"No, Clara," replied Grandfather. "But it is right that you should know
what a dark shadow this disease threw over the times of our forefathers.
And now, if you wish to learn more about Cotton Mather, you must read
his biography, written by Mr. Peabody, of Springfield. You will find it
very entertaining and instructive; but perhaps the writer is somewhat
too harsh in his judgment of this singular man. He estimates him fairly,
indeed, and understands him well; but he unriddles his character rather
by acuteness than by sympathy. Now, his life should have been written by
one, who, knowing all his faults, would nevertheless love him."

So Grandfather made an end of Cotton Mather, telling his auditors that
he died in 1728, at the age of sixty-five, and bequeathed the chair to
Elisha Cooke. This gentleman was a famous advocate of the people's
rights.

The same year, William Burnet, a son of the celebrated Bishop Burnet,
arrived in Boston, with the commission of governor. He was the first
that had been appointed since the departure of Colonel Shute. Governor
Burnet took up his residence with Mr. Cooke, while the Province House
was undergoing repairs. During this period, he was always complimented
with a seat in Grandfather's chair; and so comfortable did he find it,
that on removing to the Province House, he could not bear to leave it
behind him. Mr. Cooke, therefore, requested his acceptance of it.

"I should think," said Laurence, "that the people would have petitioned
the king always to appoint a native-born New Englander to govern them."

"Undoubtedly it was a grievance," answered Grandfather, "to see men
placed in this station, who perhaps had neither talents nor virtues to
fit them for it, and who certainly could have no natural affection for
the country. The king generally bestowed the governorships of the
American colonies upon needy noblemen, or hangers-on at court, or
disbanded officers. The people knew that such persons would be very
likely to make the good of the country subservient to the wishes of the
king. The legislature, therefore, endeavored to keep as much power as
possible in their own hands, by refusing to settle a fixed salary upon
the governors. It was thought better to pay them according to their
deserts."

"Did Governor Burnet work well for his money?" asked Charley.

Grandfather could not help smiling at the simplicity of Charley's
question. Nevertheless, it put the matter in a very plain point of
view.

He then described the character of Governor Burnet, representing him as
a good scholar, possessed of much ability, and likewise of unspotted
integrity. His story affords a striking example, how unfortunate it is
for a man, who is placed as ruler over a country, to be compelled to aim
at any thing but the good of the people. Governor Burnet was so chained
down by his instructions from the king, that he could not act as he
might otherwise have wished. Consequently, his whole term of office was
wasted in quarrels with the legislature.

"I am afraid, children," said Grandfather, "that Governor Burnet found
but little rest or comfort in our old chair. Here he used to sit,
dressed in a coat which was made of rough, shaggy cloth outside, but of
smooth velvet within. It was said that his own character resembled that
coat, for his outward manner was rough, but his inward disposition soft
and kind. It is a pity that such a man could not have been kept free
from trouble. But so harassing were his disputes with the
representatives of the people, that he fell into a fever, of which he
died, in 1720. The legislature had refused him a salary, while alive;
but they appropriated money enough to give him a splendid and pompous
funeral."

And now Grandfather perceived that little Alice had fallen fast asleep,
with her head upon his footstool. Indeed, as Clara observed, she had
been sleeping from the time of Sir Hovenden Walker's expedition against
Quebec, until the death of Governor Burnet--a period of about eighteen
years. And yet, after so long a nap, sweet little Alice was a
golden-haired child, of scarcely five years old.

"It puts me in mind," said Laurence, "of the story of the enchanted
princess, who slept many a hundred years, and awoke as young and
beautiful as ever."




CHAPTER VII.


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

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

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

Another cause of a pompous and artificial mode of life, among those who
could afford it, was, that the example was set by the royal governors.
Under the old charter, the governors were the representatives of the
people, and therefore their way of living had probably been marked by a
popular simplicity. But now, as they represented the person of the king,
they thought it necessary to preserve the dignity of their station, by
the practice of high and gorgeous ceremonials. And, besides, the
profitable offices under the government were filled by men who had lived
in London, and had there contracted fashionable and luxurious habits of
living, which they would not now lay aside. The wealthy people of the
province imitated them; and thus began a general change in social life.

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

"Were there slaves in those days?" exclaimed Clara.

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

"Perhaps Alice would have liked one to play with, instead of her doll,"
said Charley, laughing.

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

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

"And how did the gentlemen dress?" asked Charley.

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

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

"And, then," continued Grandfather, "they wore various sorts of
periwigs, such as the Tie, the Spencer, the Brigadier, the Major, the
Albemarle, the Ramilies, the Feather-top, and the Full-bottom! Their
three-cornered hats were laced with gold or silver. They had shining
buckles at the knees of their small clothes, and buckles likewise in
their shoes. They wore swords, with beautiful hilts, either of silver,
or sometimes of polished steel, inlaid with gold."

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

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

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

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

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

The new governor found Grandfather's chair in the Province House, he was
struck with its noble and stately aspect, but was of opinion, that age
and hard services had made it scarcely so fit for courtly company, as
when it stood in the Earl of Lincoln's hall. Wherefore, as Governor
Belcher was fond of splendor, he employed a skilful artist to beautify
the chair. This was done by polishing and varnishing it, and by gilding
the carved work of the elbows, and likewise the oaken flowers of the
back. The lion's head now shone like a veritable lump of gold. Finally,
Governor Belcher gave the chair a cushion of blue damask, with a rich
golden fringe.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII


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

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

"Not exactly, Charley," said Grandfather, "though you have made a pretty
shrewd conjecture. He planned, in 1745, an expedition against
Louisbourg. This was a fortified city, on the Island of Cape Breton,
near Nova Scotia. Its walls were of immense height and strength, and
were defended by hundreds of heavy cannon. It was the strongest fortress
which the French possessed in America; and if the king of France had
guessed Governor Shirley's intentions, he would have sent all the ships
he could muster, to protect it."

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


THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER.

The expedition against Louisbourg first began to be thought of in the
month of January. From that time, the governor's chair was continually
surrounded by counsellors, representatives, clergymen, captains, pilots,
and all manner of people, with whom he consulted about this wonderful
project.

First of all, it was necessary to provide men and arms. The legislature
immediately sent out a huge quantity of paper money, with which, as if
by magic spell, the governor hoped to get possession of all the old
cannon, powder and balls, rusty swords and muskets, and every thing else
that would be serviceable in killing Frenchmen. Drums were beaten in all
the villages of Massachusetts, to enlist soldiers for the service.
Messages were sent to the other governors of New England, and to New
York and Pennsylvania, entreating them to unite in this crusade against
the French. All these provinces agreed to give what assistance they
could.

But there was one very important thing to be decided. Who shall be the
General of this great army? Peace had continued such an unusual length
of time, that there was now less military experience among the
colonists, than at any former period. The old Puritans had always kept
their weapons bright, and were never destitute of warlike captains, who
were skilful in assault or defence. But the swords of their descendants
had grown rusty by disuse. There was nobody in New England that knew any
thing about sieges, or any other regular fighting. The only persons, at
all acquainted with warlike business, were a few elderly men, who had
hunted Indians through the underbrush of the forest, in old Governor
Dummer's war.

In this dilemma, Governor Shirley fixed upon a wealthy merchant, named
William Pepperell, who was pretty well known and liked among the people.
As to military skill, he had no more of it than his neighbors. But, as
the governor urged him very pressingly, Mr. Pepperell consented to shut
up his leger, gird on a sword, and assume the title of General.

Meantime, what a hubbub was raised by this scheme! Rub-a-dub-dub!
Rub-a-dub-dub! The rattle of drums, beaten out of all manner of time,
was heard above every other sound.

Nothing now was so valuable as arms, of whatever style and fashion they
might be. The bellows blew, and the hammer clanged continually upon the
anvil, while the blacksmiths were repairing the broken weapons of other
wars. Doubtless, some of the soldiers lugged out those enormous, heavy
muskets, which used to be fired with rests, in the time of the early
Puritans. Great horse-pistols, too, were found, which would go off with
a bang like a cannon. Old cannon, with touch-holes almost as big as
their muzzles, were looked upon as inestimable treasures. Pikes, which
perhaps, had been handled by Miles Standish's soldiers, now made their
appearance again. Many a young man ransacked the garret, and brought
forth his great-grandfather's sword, corroded with rust, and stained
with the blood of King Philip's war.

Never had there been seen such an arming as this, when a people, so long
peaceful, rose to the war, with the best weapons that they could lay
their hands upon. And still the drums were heard--Rub-a-dub-dub!
Rub-a-dub-dub!--in all the towns and villages; and louder and more
numerous grew the trampling footsteps of the recruits that marched
behind.

And now the army began to gather into Boston. Tall, lanky, awkward,
fellows, came in squads, and companies, and regiments, swaggering along,
dressed in their brown homespun clothes and blue yarn stockings. They
stooped, as if they still had hold of the plough-handles, and marched
without any time or tune. Hither they came, from the corn-fields, from
the clearing in the forest, from the blacksmith's forge, from the
carpenter's workshop, and from the shoemaker's seat. They were an army
of rough faces and sturdy frames. A trained officer of Europe would have
laughed at them, till his sides had ached. But there was a spirit in
their bosoms, which is more essential to soldiership than to wear red
coats, and march in stately ranks to the sound of regular music.

Still was heard the beat of the drum--rub-a-dub-dub!--and now a host of
three or four thousand men had found their way to Boston. Little quiet
was there then! Forth scampered the school-boys, shouting behind the
drums. The whole town--the whole land--was on fire with war.

After the arrival of the troops, they were probably reviewed upon the
Common. We may imagine Governor Shirley and General Pepperell riding
slowly along the line, while the drummers beat strange old tunes, like
psalm-tunes, and all the officers and soldiers put on their most warlike
looks. It would have been a terrible sight for the Frenchmen, could they
but have witnessed it!

At length, on the twenty-fourth of March, 1745, the army gave a parting
shout, and set sail from Boston in ten or twelve vessels, which had been
hired by the governor. A few days afterwards, an English fleet,
commanded by Commodore Peter Warren, sailed also for Louisbourg, to
assist the provincial army. So, now, after all this bustle of
preparation, the town and province were left in stillness and repose.

But, stillness and repose, at such a time of anxious expectation, are
hard to bear. The hearts of the old people and women sunk within them,
when they reflected what perils they had sent their sons, and husbands,
and brothers, to encounter. The boys loitered heavily to school, missing
the rub-a-dub-dub, and the trampling march, in the rear of which they
had so lately run and shouted. All the ministers prayed earnestly, in
their pulpits, for a blessing on the army of New England. In every
family, when the good man lifted up his heart in domestic worship, the
burthen of his petition was for the safety of those dear ones, who were
fighting under the walls of Louisbourg.

Governor Shirley, all this time, was probably in an ecstasy of
impatience. He could not sit still a moment. He found no quiet, not even
in Grandfather's chair, but hurried to-and-fro, and up and down the
staircase of the Province House. Now, he mounted to the cupola, and
looked sea-ward, straining his eyes to discover if there were a sail
upon the horizon. Now, he hastened down the stairs, and stood beneath
the portal, on the red freestone steps, to receive some mud-bespattered
courtier, from whom he hoped to hear tidings of the army.

A few weeks after the departure of the troops, Commodore Warren sent a
small vessel to Boston, with two French prisoners. One of them was
Monsieur Bouladrie, who had been commander of a battery, outside of the
walls of Louisbourg. The other was the Marquis de la Maison Forte,
captain of a French frigate, which had been taken by Commodore Warren's
fleet. These prisoners assured Governor Shirley, that the fortifications
of Louisbourg were far too strong ever to be stormed by the provincial
army.

Day after day, and week after week, went on. The people grew almost
heart-sick with anxiety; for the flower of the country was at peril in
this adventurous expedition. It was now day-break, on the morning of the
third of July.

But, hark! what sound is this? The hurried clang of a bell! There is the
Old North, pealing suddenly out!--there, the Old South strikes in!--now,
the peal comes from the church in Brattle street!--the bells of nine or
ten steeples are all flinging their iron voices, at once, upon the
morning breeze! Is it joy or alarm? There goes the roar of a cannon,
too! A royal salute is thundered forth. And, now, we hear the loud
exulting shout of a multitude, assembled in the street. Huzza, Huzza!
Louisbourg has surrendered! Huzza!

       *       *       *       *       *

"O Grandfather, how glad I should have been to live in those times!"
cried Charley. "And what reward did the king give to General Pepperell
and Governor Shirley?"

"He made Pepperell a baronet; so that he was now to be called Sir
William Pepperell," replied Grandfather. "He likewise appointed both
Pepperell and Shirley to be colonels in the royal army. These rewards,
and higher ones, were well deserved; for this was the greatest triumph
that the English met with, in the whole course of that war. General
Pepperell became a man of great fame. I have seen a full length portrait
of him, representing him in a splendid scarlet uniform, standing before
the walls of Louisbourg, while several bombs are falling through the
air."

"But, did the country gain any real good by the conquest of Louisbourg?"
asked Laurence. "Or was all the benefit reaped by Pepperell and
Shirley?"

"The English Parliament," said Grandfather, "agreed to pay the colonists
for all the expenses of the siege. Accordingly, in 1749, two hundred and
fifteen chests of Spanish dollars, and one hundred casks of copper coin,
were brought from England to Boston. The whole amount was about a
million of dollars. Twenty-seven carts and trucks carried this money
from the wharf to the provincial treasury. Was not this a pretty liberal
reward?"

"The mothers of the young men, who were killed at the siege of
Louisbourg, would not have thought it so," said Laurence.

"No, Laurence," rejoined Grandfather; "and every warlike achievement
involves an amount of physical and moral evil, for which all the gold in
the Spanish mines would not be the slightest recompense. But, we are to
consider that this siege was one of the occasions, on which the
colonists tested their ability for war, and thus were prepared for the
great contest of the Revolution. In that point of view, the valor of our
forefathers was its own reward."

Grandfather went on to say, that the success of the expedition against
Louisbourg, induced Shirley and Pepperell to form a scheme for
conquering Canada. This plan, however, was not carried into execution.

In the year 1746, great terror was excited by the arrival of a
formidable French fleet upon the coast. It was commanded by the Duke
d'Anville, and consisted of forty ships of war, besides vessels with
soldiers on board. With this force, the French intended to retake
Louisbourg, and afterwards to ravage the whole of New England. Many
people were ready to give up the country for lost.

But the hostile fleet met with so many disasters and losses, by storm
and shipwreck, that the Duke d'Anville is said to have poisoned himself
in despair. The officer next in command threw himself upon his sword and
perished. Thus deprived of their commanders, the remainder of the ships
returned to France. This was as great a deliverance for New England, as
that which old England had experienced in the days of Queen Elizabeth,
when the Spanish Armada was wrecked upon her coast.

"In 1747," proceeded Grandfather, "Governor Shirley was driven from the
Province House, not by a hostile fleet and army, but by a mob of the
Boston people. They were so incensed at the conduct of the British
Commodore Knowles, who had impressed some of their fellow-citizens, that
several thousands of them surrounded the council-chamber, and threw
stones and brick-bats into the windows. The governor attempted to pacify
them; but, not succeeding, he thought it necessary to leave the town,
and take refuge within the walls of Castle William. Quiet was not
restored, until Commodore Knowles had sent back the impressed men. This
affair was a flash of spirit, that might have warned the English not to
venture upon any oppressive measures against their colonial brethren."

Peace being declared between France and England in 1748, the governor
had now an opportunity to sit at his ease in Grandfather's chair. Such
repose, however, appears not to have suited his disposition; for, in the
following year, he went to England, and thence was dispatched to France,
on public business. Meanwhile, as Shirley had not resigned his office,
Lieutenant-Governor Phips acted as chief magistrate in his stead.




CHAPTER IX.


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

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

He felt that the past was not taken from him. The happiness of former
days was a possession forever. And there was something in the mingled
sorrow of his lifetime, that became akin to happiness, after being long
treasured in the depths of his heart. There it underwent a change, and
grew more precious than pure gold.

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

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

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

"Does Pussy want to hear me?" said Grandfather, smiling. "Well; we must
please Pussy, if we can!"

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

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

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

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

"And what did Sir William Pepperell do?" asked Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We shall call this passage the story of


THE ACADIAN EXILES.

A sad day it was for the poor Acadians, when the armed soldiers drove
them, at the point of the bayonet, down to the sea-shore. Very sad were
they, likewise, while tossing upon the ocean, in the crowded transport
vessels. But, methinks, it must have been sadder still, when they were
landed on the Long Wharf, in Boston, and left to themselves, on a
foreign strand.

Then, probably, they huddled together, and looked into one another's
faces for the comfort which was not there. Hitherto, they had been
confined on board of separate vessels, so that they could not tell
whether their relatives and friends were prisoners along with them. But,
now, at least, they could tell that many had been left behind, or
transported to other regions.

Now, a desolate wife might be heard calling for her husband. He, alas!
had gone, she knew not whither, or perhaps had fled into the woods of
Acadia, and had now returned to weep over the ashes of their dwelling.
An aged widow was crying out, in a querulous, lamentable tone, for her
son, whose affectionate toil had supported her for many a year. He was
not in the crowd of exiles; and what could this aged widow do but sink
down and die? Young men and maidens, whose hearts had been torn asunder
by separation, had hoped, during the voyage, to meet their beloved ones
at its close. Now, they began to feel that they were separated forever.
And, perhaps, a lonesome little girl, a golden-haired child of five
years old, the very picture of our little Alice, was weeping and wailing
for her mother, and found not a soul to give her a kind word.

Oh, how many broken bonds of affection were here! Country lost!--friends
lost!--their rural wealth of cottage, field, and herds, all lost
together! Every tie between these poor exiles and the world seemed to be
cut off at once. They must have regretted that they had not died before
their exile; for even the English would not have been so pitiless as to
deny them graves in their native soil. The dead were happy; for they
were not exiles!

While they thus stood upon the wharf, the curiosity and inquisitiveness
of the New England people would naturally lead them into the midst of
the poor Acadians. Prying busy-bodies thrust their heads into the
circle, wherever two or three of the exiles were conversing together.
How puzzled did they look, at the outlandish sound of the French tongue!
There were seen the New England women, too. They had just come out of
their warm, safe homes, where every thing was regular and comfortable,
and where their husbands and children would be with them at night-fall.
Surely, they could pity the wretched wives and mothers of Acadia! Or,
did the sign of the cross, which the Acadians continually made upon
their breasts, and which was abhorred by the descendants of the
Puritans--did that sign exclude all pity?

Among the spectators, too, was the noisy brood of Boston school-boys,
who came running, with laughter and shouts, to gaze at this crowd of
oddly dressed foreigners. At first they danced and capered around them,
full of merriment and mischief. But the despair of the Acadians soon had
its effect upon these thoughtless lads, and melted them into tearful
sympathy.

At a little distance from the throng, might be seen the wealthy and
pompous merchants, whose warehouses stood on Long Wharf. It was
difficult to touch these rich men's hearts; for they had all the
comforts of the world at their command; and when they walked abroad,
their feelings were seldom moved, except by the roughness of the
pavement, irritating their gouty toes. Leaning upon their gold-headed
canes, they watched the scene with an aspect of composure. But, let us
hope, they distributed some of their superfluous coin among these
hapless exiles, to purchase food and a night's lodging.

After standing a long time at the end of the wharf, gazing seaward, as
if to catch a glimpse of their lost Acadia, the strangers began to stray
into the town.

They went, we will suppose, in parties and groups, here a hundred, there
a score, there ten, there three or four, who possessed some bond of
unity among themselves. Here and there was one, who, utterly desolate,
stole away by himself, seeking no companionship.

Whither did they go? I imagine them wandering about the streets, telling
the town's-people, in outlandish, unintelligible words, that no earthly
affliction ever equalled what had befallen them. Man's brotherhood with
man was sufficient to make the New Englanders understand this language.
The strangers wanted food. Some of them sought hospitality at the doors
of the stately mansions, which then stood in the vicinity of Hanover
Street and the North Square. Others were applicants at the humble wooden
tenements, where dwelt the petty shop-keepers and mechanics. Pray
Heaven, that no family in Boston turned one of these poor exiles from
their door! It would be a reproach upon New England--a crime worthy of
heavy retribution--if the aged women and children, or even the strong
men, were allowed to feel the pinch of hunger.

Perhaps some of the Acadians, in their aimless wanderings through the
town, found themselves near a large brick edifice, which was fenced in
from the street by an iron railing, wrought with fantastic figures. They
saw a flight of red freestone steps, ascending to a portal, above which
was a balcony and balustrade. Misery and desolation give men the right
of free passage everywhere. Let us suppose, then, that they mounted the
flight of steps, and passed into the Province House. Making their way
into one of the apartments, they beheld a richly clad gentleman, seated
in a stately chair, with gilding upon the carved work of its back, and a
gilded lion's head at the summit. This was Governor Shirley, meditating
upon matters of war and state, in Grandfather's chair!

If such an incident did happen, Shirley, reflecting what a ruin of
peaceful and humble hopes had been wrought by the cold policy of the
statesman, and the iron hand of the warrior, might have drawn a deep
moral from it. It should have taught him that the poor man's hearth is
sacred, and that armies and nations have no right to violate it. It
should have made him feel, that England's triumph, and increased
dominion, could not compensate to mankind, nor atone to Heaven, for the
ashes of a single Acadian cottage. But it is not thus that statesmen and
warriors moralize.

"Grandfather," cried Laurence, with emotion trembling in his voice, "did
iron-hearted War itself ever do so hard and cruel a thing as this
before?"

"You have rend in history, Laurence, of whole regions wantonly laid
waste," said Grandfather. "In the removal of the Acadians, the troops
were guilty of no cruelty or outrage, except what was inseparable from
the measure."

Little Alice, whose eyes had, all along, been brimming full of tears,
now burst forth a-sobbing; for Grandfather had touched her sympathies
more than he intended.

"To think of a whole people, homeless in the world!" said Clara, with
moistened eyes. "There never was any thing so sad!"

"It was their own fault," cried Charley, energetically. "Why did not
they fight for the country where they were born? Then, if the worst had
happened to them they could only have been killed and buried there. They
would not have been exiles then!"

"Certainly, their lot was as hard as death," said Grandfather. "All that
could be done for them, in the English provinces, was to send them to
the alms-houses, or bind them out to task-masters. And this was the fate
of persons, who had possessed a comfortable property in their native
country. Some of them found means to embark for France; but though it
was the land of their forefathers, it must have been a foreign land to
them. Those, who remained behind, always cherished a belief, that the
king of France would never make peace with England, till his poor
Acadians were restored their country and their homes."

"And did he?" inquired Clara.

"Alas, my dear Clara," said Grandfather, "it is improbable that the
slightest whisper of the woes of Acadia ever reached the ears of Louis
the Fifteenth. The exiles grew old in the British provinces, and never
saw Acadia again. Their descendants remain among us, to this day. They
have forgotten the language of their ancestors, and probably retain no
tradition of their misfortunes. But, methinks, if I were an American
poet, I would choose Acadia for the subject of my song."

Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the most famous of American
poets has drawn sweet tears from all of us, by his beautiful poem of
Evangeline.

And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around the Thanksgiving fire-side,
by a story that made the children feel the blessing of a secure and
peaceful hearth, Grandfather put off the other events of the Old French
War till the next evening.




CHAPTER X.


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

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

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

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

"And was it true?" inquired Clara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI.


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

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

"Did the people like Pownall?" asked Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To bed, to bed, dear child!" said he. "Grandfather has put you to
sleep, already, by his stories about these FAMOUS OLD PEOPLE!"




PART III.




CHAPTER I.


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

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

"Only see how grandfather's chair is dancing!" cried little Alice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was that?" inquired Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was Liberty Tree?" inquired Clara.

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

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

[Illustration]

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

"What harm had he done?" inquired Charley.

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




CHAPTER III.


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

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

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

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


THE HUTCHINSON MOB.

On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, 1765, a bonfire was
kindled in King Street. It flamed high upward, and threw a ruddy light
over the front of the town house, on which was displayed a carved
representation of the royal arms. The gilded vane of the cupola
glittered in the blaze. The kindling of this bonfire was the well known
signal for the populace of Boston to assemble in the street.

Before the tar-barrels, of which the bonfire was made, were half burnt
out, a great crowd had come together. They were chiefly laborers and
seafaring men, together with many young apprentices, and all those idle
people about town who are ready for any kind of mischief. Doubtless some
school-boys were among them.

While these rough figures stood round the blazing bonfire, you might
hear them speaking bitter words against the high officers of the
province. Governor Bernard, Hutchinson, Oliver, Storey, Hallowell, and
other men whom King George delighted to honor, were reviled as traitors
to the country. Now and then, perhaps, an officer of the crown passed
along the street, wearing the gold-laced hat, white wig, and embroidered
waistcoat, which were the fashion of the day. But, when the people
beheld him, they set up a wild and angry howl, and their faces had an
evil aspect, which was made more terrible by the flickering blaze of the
bonfire.

"I should like to throw the traitor right into that blaze!" perhaps one
fierce rioter would say.

"Yes; and all his brethren too!" another might reply; "and the governor
and old Tommy Hutchinson into the hottest of it!"

"And the Earl of Bute along with them," muttered a third; "and burn the
whole pack of them under King George's nose! No matter if it singed
him!"

Some such expressions as these, either shouted aloud, or muttered under
the breath, were doubtless heard in King Street. The mob, meanwhile,
were growing fiercer, and fiercer, and seemed ready even to set the town
on fire, for the sake of burning the king's friends out of house and
home. And yet, angry as they were, they sometimes broke into a loud roar
of laughter, as if mischief and destruction were their sport.

But we must now leave the rioters for a time, and take a peep into the
lieutenant-governor's splendid mansion. It was a large brick house,
decorated with Ionic pilasters, and stood in Garden Court Street, near
the North Square.

While the angry mob in King Street were shouting his name,
Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson sat quietly in Grandfather's chair,
unsuspicious of the evil that was about to fall upon his head. His
beloved family were in the room with him. He had thrown off his
embroidered coat and powdered wig, and had on a loose flowing gown and
purple velvet cap. He had likewise laid aside the cares of state, and
all the thoughts that had wearied and perplexed him throughout the day.

Perhaps, in the enjoyment of his home, he had forgotten all about the
Stamp Act, and scarcely remembered that there was a king, across the
ocean, who had resolved to make tributaries of the New Englanders.
Possibly, too, he had forgotten his own ambition, and would not have
exchanged his situation, at that moment, to be governor, or even a lord.

The wax candles were now lighted, and showed a handsome room, well
provided with rich furniture. On the walls hung the pictures of
Hutchinson's ancestors, who had been eminent men in their day, and were
honorably remembered in the history of the country. Every object served
to mark the residence of a rich, aristocratic gentleman, who held
himself high above the common people, and could have nothing to fear
from them. In a corner of the room, thrown carelessly upon a chair,
were the scarlet robes of the chief justice. This high office, as well
as those of lieutenant-governor, counsellor, and judge of probate, was
filled by Hutchinson.

Who or what could disturb the domestic quiet of such a great and
powerful personage as now sat in Grandfather's chair.

The lieutenant-governor's favorite daughter sat by his side. She leaned
on the arm of our great chair, and looked up affectionately into her
father's face, rejoicing to perceive that a quiet smile was on his lips.
But suddenly a shade came across her countenance. She seemed to listen
attentively, as if to catch a distant sound.

"What is the matter, my child?" inquired Hutchinson.

"Father, do not you hear a tumult in the streets?" said she.

The lieutenant-governor listened. But his ears were duller than those of
his daughter; he could hear nothing more terrible than the sound of a
summer breeze, sighing among the tops of the elm trees.

"No, foolish child!" he replied, playfully patting her cheek. "There is
no tumult. Our Boston mobs are satisfied with what mischief they have
already done. The king's friends need not tremble."

So Hutchinson resumed his pleasant and peaceful meditations, and again
forgot that there were any troubles in the world. But his family were
alarmed, and could not help straining their ears to catch the slightest
sound. More and more distinctly they heard shouts, and then the
trampling of many feet. While they were listening, one of the neighbors
rushed breathless into the room.

"A mob!--a terrible mob!" cried he: "they have broken into Mr. Storey's
house, and into Mr. Hallowell's, and have made themselves drunk with the
liquors in his cellar, and now they are coming hither, as wild as so
many tigers. Flee, lieutenant-governor, for your life! for your life!"

"Father, dear father, make haste!" shrieked his children.

But Hutchinson would not hearken to them. He was an old lawyer; and he
could not realize that the people would do any thing so utterly lawless
as to assault him in his peaceful home. He was one of King George's
chief officers; and it would be an insult and outrage upon the king
himself, if the lieutenant-governor should suffer any wrong.

"Have no fears on my account," said he; "I am perfectly safe. The king's
name shall be my protection."

Yet he bade his family retire into one of the neighboring houses. His
daughter would have remained, but he forced her away.

The huzzas and riotous uproar of the mob were now heard, close at hand.
The sound was terrible, and struck Hutchinson with the same sort of
dread as if an enraged wild beast had broken loose, and were roaring
for its prey. He crept softly to the window. There he beheld an immense
concourse of people, filling all the street, and rolling onward to his
house. It was like a tempestuous flood, that had swelled beyond its
bounds, and would sweep every thing before it. Hutchinson trembled; he
felt, at that moment, that the wrath of the people was a thousand-fold
more terrible than the wrath of a king.

That was a moment when a loyalist and an aristocrat, like Hutchinson,
might have learned how powerless are kings, nobles, and great men, when
the low and humble range themselves against them. King George could do
nothing for his servant now. Had King George been there, he could have
done nothing for himself. If Hutchinson had understood this lesson, and
remembered it, he need not, in after years, have been an exile from his
native country, nor finally have laid his bones in a distant land.

There was now a rush against the doors of the house. The people sent up
a hoarse cry. At this instant, the lieutenant-governor's daughter, whom
he had supposed to be in a place of safety, ran into the room, and threw
her arms around him. She had returned by a private entrance.

"Father, are you mad!" cried she. "Will the king's name protect you now?
Come with me, or they will have your life."

"True," muttered Hutchinson to himself; "what care these roarers for the
name of king? I must flee, or they will trample me down, on the door of
my own dwelling!"

Hurrying away, he and his daughter made their escape by the private
passage, at the moment when the rioters broke into the house. The
foremost of them rushed up the stair-case, and entered the room which
Hutchinson had just quitted. There they beheld our good old chair,
facing them with quiet dignity, while the lion's head seemed to move its
jaws in the unsteady light of their torches. Perhaps the stately aspect
of our venerable friend, which had stood firm through a century and a
half of trouble, arrested them for an instant. But they were thrust
forward by those behind, and the chair lay overthrown.

Then began the work of destruction. The carved and polished mahogany
tables were shattered with heavy clubs, and hewn to splinters with axes.
The marble hearths and mantel pieces were broken. The volumes of
Hutchinson's library, so precious to a studious man, were torn out of
their covers, and the leaves sent flying out of the windows.
Manuscripts, containing secrets of our country's history, which are now
lost forever, were scattered to the winds.

The old ancestral portraits, whose fixed countenances looked down on the
wild scene, were rent from the walls. The mob triumphed in their
downfall and destruction, as if these pictures of Hutchinson's
forefathers had committed the same offences as their descendant. A tall
looking-glass, which had hitherto presented a reflection of the enraged
and drunken multitude, was now smashed into a thousand fragments. We
gladly dismiss the scene from the mirror of our fancy.

Before morning dawned, the walls of the house were all that remained.
The interior was a dismal scene of ruin. A shower pattered in at the
broken windows, and when Hutchinson and his family returned, they stood
shivering in the same room, where the last evening had seen them so
peaceful and happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Grandfather," said Laurence indignantly, "if the people acted in this
manner, they were not worthy of even so much liberty as the king of
England was willing to allow them."

"It was a most unjustifiable act, like many other popular movements at
that time," replied Grandfather. "But we must not decide against the
justice of the people's cause, merely because an excited mob was guilty
of outrageous violence. Besides, all these things were done in the first
fury of resentment. Afterwards, the people grew more calm, and were more
influenced by the counsel of those wise and good men who conducted them
safely and gloriously through the Revolution."

Little Alice, with tears in her blue eyes, said that she hoped the
neighbors had not let Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson and his family be
homeless in the street, but had taken them into their houses, and been
kind to them. Cousin Clara, recollecting the perilous situation of our
beloved chair, inquired what had become of it.

"Nothing was heard of our chair for sometime afterwards," answered
Grandfather. "One day in September, the same Andrew Oliver, of whom I
before told you, was summoned to appear at high noon, under Liberty
Tree. This was the strangest summons that had ever been heard of; for it
was issued in the name of the whole people, who thus took upon
themselves the authority of a sovereign power. Mr. Oliver dared not
disobey. Accordingly, at the appointed hour, he went, much against his
will, to Liberty Tree."

Here Charley interposed a remark that poor Mr. Oliver found but little
liberty under Liberty Tree. Grandfather assented.

"It was a stormy day," continued he. "The equinoctial gale blew
violently, and scattered the yellow leaves of Liberty Tree all along the
street. Mr. Oliver's wig was dripping with water-drops, and he probably
looked haggard, disconsolate, and humbled to the earth. Beneath the
tree, in Grandfather's chair,--our own venerable chair,--sat Mr. Richard
Dana, a justice of the peace. He administered an oath to Mr. Oliver,
that he would never have any thing to do with distributing the stamps. A
vast concourse of people heard the oath, and shouted when it was taken."

"There is something grand in this," said Laurence. "I like it, because
the people seem to have acted with thoughtfulness and dignity; and this
proud gentleman, one of his Majesty's high officers, was made to feel
that King George could not protect him in doing wrong."

"But it was a sad day for poor Mr. Oliver," observed Grandfather. "From
his youth upward, it had probably been the great principle of his life,
to be faithful and obedient to the king. And now, in his old age, it
must have puzzled and distracted him, to find the sovereign people
setting up a claim to his faith and obedience."

Grandfather closed the evening's conversation by saying that the
discontent of America was so great, that, in 1766, the British
Parliament was compelled to repeal the Stamp Act. The people made great
rejoicings, but took care to keep Liberty Tree well pruned, and free
from caterpillars and canker worms. They foresaw, that there might yet
be occasion for them to assemble under its far projecting shadow.




CHAPTER IV.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why against him?" asked Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.


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

Without further preface, Grandfather began the story of


THE BOSTON MASSACRE.

It was now the 3d of March, 1770. The sunset music of the British
regiments was heard, as usual, throughout the town. The shrill fife and
rattling drum awoke the echoes in King Street, while the last ray of
sunshine was lingering on the cupola of the town-house. And now, all the
sentinels were posted. One of them marched up and down before the
custom-house, treading a short path through the snow, and longing for
the time when he would be dismissed to the warm fire-side of the
guard-room. Meanwhile, Captain Preston was perhaps sitting in our great
chair, before the hearth of the British Coffee House. In the course of
the evening, there were two or three slight commotions, which seemed to
indicate that trouble was at hand. Small parties of young men stood at
the corners of the streets, or walked along the narrow pavements. Squads
of soldiers, who were dismissed from duty, passed by them, shoulder to
shoulder, with the regular step which they had learned at the drill.
Whenever these encounters took place, it appeared to be the object of
the young men to treat the soldiers with as much incivility as possible.

"Turn out, you lobster-backs!" one would say. "Crowd them off the
side-walks!" another would cry. "A red-coat has no right in Boston
streets."

"Oh, you rebel rascals!" perhaps the soldiers would reply, glaring
fiercely at the young men. "Some day or other, we'll make our way
through Boston streets, at the point of the bayonet!"

Once or twice, such disputes as these brought on a scuffle; which passed
off, however, without attracting much notice. About eight o'clock, for
some unknown cause, an alarm bell rang loudly and hurriedly.

At the sound, many people ran out of their houses, supposing it to be an
alarm of fire. But there were no flames to be seen; nor was there any
smell of smoke in the clear, frosty air; so that most of the townsmen
went back to their own fire-sides, and sat talking with their wives and
children about the calamities of the times. Others, who were younger
and less prudent, remained in the streets; for there seems to have been
a presentiment that some strange event was on the eve of taking place.

Later in the evening, not far from nine o'clock, several young men
passed by the town-house, and walked down King Street. The sentinel was
still on his post, in front of the custom-house, pacing to and fro,
while, as he turned, a gleam of light, from some neighboring window,
glittered on the barrel of his musket. At no great distance were the
barracks and the guard-house, where his comrades were probably telling
stories of battle and bloodshed.

Down towards the custom-house, as I told you, came a party of wild young
men. When they drew near the sentinel, he halted on his post, and took
his musket from his shoulder, ready to present the bayonet at their
breasts.

"Who goes there?" he cried, in the gruff, peremptory tones of a
soldier's challenge.

The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they had a right to walk
their own streets, without being accountable to a British red-coat, even
though he challenged them in King George's name. They made some rude
answer to the sentinel. There was a dispute, or, perhaps a scuffle.
Other soldiers heard the noise, and ran hastily from the barracks, to
assist their comrade. At the same time, many of the town's-people rushed
into King Street, by various avenues, and gathered in a crowd round
about the custom-house. It seemed wonderful how such a multitude had
started up, all of a sudden.

The wrongs and insults, which the people had been suffering for many
months, now kindled them into a rage. They threw snow-balls and lumps of
ice at the soldiers. As the tumult grew louder, it reached the ears of
Captain Preston, the officer of the day. He immediately ordered eight
soldiers of the main guard to take their muskets and follow him. They
marched across the street, forcing their way roughly through the crowd,
and pricking the town's-people with their bayonets.

A gentleman, (it was Henry Knox, afterwards general of the American
artillery,) caught Captain Preston's arm.

"For Heaven's sake, sir," exclaimed he, take heed what you do, or here
will be bloodshed."

"Stand aside!" answered Captain Preston, haughtily. "Do not interfere,
sir. Leave me to manage the affair."

Arriving at the sentinel's post, Captain Preston drew up his men in a
semi-circle, with their faces to the crowd and their rear to the
custom-house. "When the people saw the officer, and beheld the
threatening attitude with which the soldiers fronted them, their rage
became almost uncontrollable.

"Fire, you lobster-backs!" bellowed some.

"You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats," cried others.

"Rush upon them!" shouted many voices. "Drive the rascals to their
barracks! Down with them! Down with them! Let them fire, if they dare!"

Amid the uproar, the soldiers stood glaring at the people, with the
fierceness of men whose trade was to shed blood.

Oh, what a crisis had now arrived! Up to this very moment, the angry
feelings between England and America might have been pacified. England
had but to stretch out the hand of reconciliation, and acknowledge that
she had hitherto mistaken her rights but would do so no more. Then, the
ancient bonds of brotherhood would again have been knit together, as
firmly as in old times. The habit of loyalty, which had grown as strong
as instinct, was not utterly overcome. The perils shared, the victories
won, in the Old French War, when the soldiers of the colonies fought
side by side with their comrades from beyond the sea, were unforgotten
yet. England was still that beloved country which the colonists called
their home. King George, though he had frowned upon America, was still
reverenced as a father.

But, should the king's soldiers shed one drop of American blood, then it
was a quarrel to the death. Never--never would America rest satisfied,
until she had torn down the royal authority, and trampled it in the
dust.

"Fire, if you dare, villains!" hoarsely shouted the people, while the
muzzles of the muskets were turned upon them; "you dare not fire!"

They appeared ready to rush upon the levelled bayonets. Captain Preston
waved his sword, and uttered a command which could not be distinctly
heard, amid the uproar of shouts that issued from a hundred throats. But
his soldiers deemed that he had spoken the fatal mandate--"fire!" The
flash of their muskets lighted up the street, and the report rang loudly
between the edifices. It was said, too, that the figure of a man with a
cloth hanging down over his face, was seen to step into the balcony of
the custom-house, and discharge a musket at the crowd.

A gush of smoke had overspread the scene. It rose heavily, as if it were
loath to reveal the dreadful spectacle beneath it. Eleven of the sons of
New England lay stretched upon the street. Some, sorely wounded, were
struggling to rise again. Others stirred not, nor groaned, for they were
past all pain. Blood was streaming upon the snow; and that purple stain,
in the midst of King Street, though it melted away in the next day's
sun, was never forgotten nor forgiven by the people.

       *       *       *       *       *

Grandfather was interrupted by the violent sobs of little Alice. In his
earnestness, he had neglected to soften down the narrative, so that it
might not terrify the heart of this unworldly infant. Since Grandfather
began the history of our chair, little Alice had listened to many tales
of war. But, probably, the idea had never really impressed itself upon
her mind, that men have shed the blood of their fellow-creatures. And
now that this idea was forcibly presented to her, it affected the sweet
child with bewilderment and horror.

"I ought to have remembered our dear little Alice," said Grandfather
reproachfully to himself. "Oh, what a pity! Her heavenly nature has now
received its first impression of earthly sin and violence. Well, Clara,
take her to bed, and comfort her. Heaven grant that she may dream away
the recollection of the Boston Massacre!"

"Grandfather," said Charley, when Clara and little Alice had retired,
"did not the people rush upon the soldiers, and take revenge?"

"The town drums beat to arms," replied Grandfather, "the alarm bells
rang, and an immense multitude rushed into King Street. Many of them had
weapons in their hands. The British prepared to defend themselves. A
whole regiment was drawn up in the street, expecting an attack; for the
townsmen appeared ready to throw themselves upon the bayonets."

"And how did it end?" asked Charley.

"Governor Hutchinson hurried to the spot," said Grandfather, "and
besought the people to have patience, promising that strict justice
should be done. A day or two afterward, the British troops were
withdrawn from town, and stationed at Castle William. Captain Preston
and the eight soldiers were tried for murder. But none of them were
found guilty. The judges told the jury that the insults and violence
which had been offered to the soldiers, justified them in firing at the
mob."

"The Revolution," observed Laurence, who had said but little during the
evening, "was not such a calm, majestic movement as I supposed. I do not
love to hear of mobs and broils in the street. These things were
unworthy of the people, when they had such a great object to
accomplish."

"Nevertheless, the world has seen no grander movement than that of our
Revolution, from first to last," said Grandfather. "The people, to a
man, were full of a great and noble sentiment. True, there may be much
fault to find with their mode of expressing this sentiment; but they
knew no better--the necessity was upon them to act out their feelings,
in the best manner they could. We must forgive what was wrong in their
actions, and look into their hearts and minds for the honorable motives
that impelled them."

"And I suppose," said Laurence, "there were men who knew how to act
worthily of what they felt."

"There were many such," replied Grandfather, "and we will speak of some
of them, hereafter."

Grandfather here made a pause. That night, Charley had a dream about
the Boston Massacre, and thought that he himself was in the crowd, and
struck down Captain Preston with a great club. Laurence dreamed that he
was sitting in our great chair, at the window of the British Coffee
House, and beheld the whole scene which Grandfather had described. It
seemed to him, in his dream, that if the town's-people and the soldiers
would but have heard him speak a single word, all the slaughter might
have been averted. But there was such an uproar that it drowned his
voice.

The next morning, the two boys went together to State Street, and stood
on the very spot where the first blood of the Revolution had been shed.
The Old State House was still there, presenting almost the same aspect
that it had worn on that memorable evening, one-and-seventy years ago.
It is the sole remaining witness of the Boston Massacre.




CHAPTER VI.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What were the names of some of them?" inquired Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did the people make ready to fight?" asked Charley.

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

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

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

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

"Was this the battle of Lexington?" asked Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What were their names?" asked Charley.

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

"Was it he who killed the wolf?" inquired Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX.


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

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

This effort of Grandfather's fancy may be called--


THE TORY'S FAREWELL.

Old Chief Justice Oliver threw on his red cloak, and placed his
three-cornered hat on the top of his white wig. In this garb he intended
to go forth and take a parting look at objects that had been familiar
to him from his youth. Accordingly, he began his walk in the north part
of the town, and soon came to Faneuil Hall. This edifice, the cradle of
liberty, had been used by the British officers as a play-house.

"Would that I could see its walls crumble to dust!" thought the chief
justice; and, in the bitterness of his heart, he shook his fist at the
famous hall. "There began the mischief which now threatens to rend
asunder the British empire. The seditious harangues of demagogues in
Faneuil Hall, have made rebels of a loyal people, and deprived me of my
country."

He then passed through a narrow avenue, and found himself in King
Street, almost in the very spot which, six years before, had been
reddened by the blood of the Boston Massacre. The chief justice stept
cautiously, and shuddered, as if he were afraid, that, even now, the
gore of his slaughtered countrymen might stain his feet.

Before him rose the town house, on the front of which were still
displayed the royal arms. Within that edifice he had dispensed justice
to the people, in the days when his name was never mentioned without
honor. There, too, was the balcony whence the trumpet had been sounded,
and the proclamation read to an assembled multitude, whenever a new king
of England ascended the throne.

"I remember--I remember," said Chief Justice Oliver to himself, "when
his present most sacred majesty was proclaimed. Then how the people
shouted. Each man would have poured out his life-blood to keep a hair of
King George's head from harm. But now, there is scarcely a tongue in all
New England that does not imprecate curses on his name. It is ruin and
disgrace to love him. Can it be possible that a few fleeting years have
wrought such a change!"

It did not occur to the chief justice, that nothing but the most
grievous tyranny could so soon have changed the people's hearts.
Hurrying from the spot, he entered Cornhill, as the lower part of
Washington Street was then called. Opposite to the town house was the
waste foundation of the Old North church. The sacrilegious hands of the
British soldiers had torn it down, and kindled their barrack fires with
the fragments.

Further on, he passed beneath the tower of the Old South. The threshold
of this sacred edifice was worn by the iron tramp of horse's feet: for
the interior had been used as a riding-school and rendezvous, for a
regiment of dragoons. As the chief justice lingered an instant at the
door, a trumpet sounded within, and the regiment came clattering forth,
and galloped down the street. They were proceeding to the place of
embarkation.

"Let them go!" thought the chief justice, with somewhat of an old
puritan feeling in his breast. "No good can come of men who desecrate
the house of God."

He went on a few steps further, and paused before the Province House.
No range of brick stores had then sprung up to hide the mansion of the
royal governors from public view. It had a spacious court-yard, bordered
with trees, and enclosed with a wrought-iron fence. On the cupola, that
surmounted the edifice, was the gilded figure of an Indian chief, ready
to let fly an arrow from his bow. Over the wide front door was a
balcony, in which the chief justice had often stood, when the governor
and high officers of the province showed themselves to the people.

While Chief Justice Oliver gazed sadly at the Province House, before
which a sentinel was pacing, the double leaves of the door were thrown
open, and Sir William Howe made his appearance. Behind him came a throng
of officers, whose steel scabbards clattered against the stones, as they
hastened down the court-yard. Sir William Howe was a dark-complexioned
man, stern and haughty in his deportment. He stepped as proudly, in that
hour of defeat, as if he were going to receive the submission of the
rebel general.

The chief justice bowed and accosted him.

"This is a grievous hour for both of us, Sir William," said he.

"Forward! gentlemen," said Sir William Howe to the officers who attended
him: "we have no time to hear lamentations now!"

And, coldly bowing, he departed. Thus, the chief justice had a
foretaste of the mortifications which the exiled New Englanders
afterwards suffered from the haughty Britons. They were despised even by
that country which they had served more faithfully than their own.

A still heavier trial awaited Chief Justice Oliver, as he passed onward
from the Province House. He was recognized by the people in the street.
They had long known him as the descendant of an ancient and honorable
family. They had seen him sitting, in his scarlet robes, upon the
judgment seat. All his life long, either for the sake of his ancestors,
or on account of his own dignified station and unspotted character, he
had been held in high respect. The old gentry of the province were
looked upon almost as noblemen, while Massachusetts was under royal
government.

But now, all hereditary reverence for birth and rank was gone. The
inhabitants shouted in derision, when they saw the venerable form of the
old chief justice. They laid the wrongs of the country, and their own
sufferings during the siege--their hunger, cold, and sickness--partly to
his charge, and to that of his brother Andrew, and his kinsman
Hutchinson. It was by their advice that the king had acted, in all the
colonial troubles. But the day of recompense was come.

"See the old tory!" cried the people, with bitter laughter. "He is
taking his last look at us. Let him show his white wig among us an hour
hence, and we'll give him a coat of tar and feathers!"

The chief justice, however, knew that he need fear no violence, so long
as the British troops were in possession of the town. But alas! it was a
bitter thought, that he should leave no loving memory behind him. His
forefathers, long after their spirits left the earth, had been honored
in the affectionate remembrance of the people. But he, who would
henceforth be dead to his native land, would have no epitaph save
scornful and vindictive words. The old man wept.

"They curse me--they invoke all kinds of evil on my head!" thought he,
in the midst of his tears. "But, if they could read my heart, they would
know that I love New England well. Heaven bless her, and bring her again
under the rule of our gracious king! A blessing, too, on these poor,
misguided people!"

The chief justice flung out his hands with a gesture, as if he were
bestowing a parting benediction on his countrymen. He had now reached
the southern portion of the town, and was far within the range of cannon
shot from the American batteries. Close beside him was the broad stump
of a tree, which appeared to have been recently cut down. Being weary
and heavy at heart, he was about to sit down upon the stump.

Suddenly, it flashed upon his recollection, that this was the stump of
Liberty Tree! The British soldiers had cut it down, vainly boasting that
they could as easily overthrow the liberties of America. Under its
shadowy branches, ten years before, the brother of Chief Justice Oliver
had been compelled to acknowledge the supremacy of the people, by taking
the oath which they prescribed. This tree was connected with all the
events that had severed America from England.

"Accursed tree!" cried the chief justice, gnashing his teeth: for anger
overcame his sorrow. "Would that thou hadst been left standing, till
Hancock, Adams, and every other traitor, were hanged upon thy branches!
Then fitly mightest thou have been hewn down, and cast into the flames."

He turned back, hurried to Long Wharf without looking behind him,
embarked with the British troops for Halifax, and never saw his country
more. Throughout the remainder of his days, Chief Justice Oliver was
agitated with those same conflicting emotions, that had tortured him,
while taking his farewell walk through the streets of Boston. Deep love
and fierce resentment burned in one flame within his breast. Anathemas
struggled with benedictions. He felt as if one breath of his native air
would renew his life, yet would have died, rather than breathe the same
air with rebels.

And such, likewise, were the feelings of the other exiles, a thousand
in number, who departed with the British army. Were they not the most
unfortunate of men?

       *       *       *       *       *

"The misfortunes of these exiled tories," observed Laurence, "must have
made them think of the poor exiles of Acadia."

"They had a sad time of it, I suppose," said Charley. "But I choose to
rejoice with the patriots, rather than be sorrowful with the tories.
Grandfather, what did General Washington do now?"

"As the rear of the British army embarked from the wharf," replied
Grandfather, "General Washington's troops marched over the neck, through
the fortification gates, and entered Boston in triumph. And now, for the
first time since the pilgrims landed, Massachusetts was free from the
dominion of England. May she never again be subjected to foreign
rule--never again feel the rod of oppression!"

"Dear Grandfather," asked little Alice, "did General Washington bring
our chair back to Boston?"

"I know not how long the chair remained at Cambridge," said Grandfather.
"Had it staid there till this time, it could not have found a better or
more appropriate shelter. The mansion which General Washington occupied
is still standing; and his apartments have since been tenanted by
several eminent men. Governor Everett, while a professor in the
university, resided there. So at an after period, did Mr. Sparks, whose
invaluable labors have connected his name with the immortality of
Washington. And, at this very time, a venerable friend and contemporary
of your Grandfather, after long pilgrimages beyond the sea, has set up
his staff of rest at Washington's head-quarters."

"You mean Professor Longfellow, Grandfather," said Laurence. "Oh, how I
should love to see the author of those beautiful VOICES OF THE NIGHT!"

"We will visit him next summer," answered Grandfather, "and take Clara
and little Alice with us--and Charley, too, if he will be quiet."




CHAPTER X.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And I would perish too!" cried Charley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"O Grandfather, don't let there be another war!" cried little Alice,
piteously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what next?" asked Charley.

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI.


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

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


GRANDFATHER'S DREAM.

Laurence and Clara, where were you last night? Where were you, Charley,
and dear little Alice? You had all gone to rest, and left old
Grandfather to meditate alone, in his great chair. The lamp had grown so
dim, that its light hardly illuminated the alabaster shade. The wood
fire had crumbled into heavy embers, among which the little flames
danced, and quivered, and sported about, like fairies.

And here sat Grandfather, all by himself. He knew that it was bedtime;
yet he could not help longing to hear your merry voices, or to hold a
comfortable chat with some old friend; because then his pillow would be
visited by pleasant dreams. But, as neither children nor friends were at
hand, Grandfather leaned back in the great chair, and closed his eyes,
for the sake of meditating more profoundly.

And, when Grandfather's meditations had grown very profound indeed, he
fancied that he heard a sound over his head, as if somebody were
preparing to speak.

"Hem!" it said, in a dry, husky tone. "H-e-m! Hem!"

As Grandfather did not know that any person was in the room, he started
up in great surprise, and peeped hither and thither, behind the chair,
and into the recess by the fireside, and at the dark nook yonder, near
the bookcase. Nobody could he see.

"Pooh!" said Grandfather to himself, "I must have been dreaming."

But, just as he was going to resume his seat, Grandfather happened to
look at the great chair. The rays of fire-light were flickering upon it
in such a manner that it really seemed as if its oaken frame were all
alive. What! Did it not move its elbow? There, too! It certainly lifted
one of its ponderous fore-legs, as if it had a notion of drawing itself
a little nearer to the fire. Meanwhile, the lion's head nodded at
Grandfather, with as polite and sociable a look as a lion's visage,
carved in oak, could possibly be expected to assume. Well, this is
strange!

"Good evening, my old friend," said the dry and husky voice, now a
little clearer than before. "We have been intimately acquainted so long,
that I think it high time we have a chat together."

Grandfather was looking straight at the lion's head, and could not be
mistaken in supposing that it moved its lips. So here the mystery was
all explained.

"I was not aware," said Grandfather, with a civil salutation to his
oaken companion, "that you possessed the faculty of speech. Otherwise, I
should often have been glad to converse with such a solid, useful, and
substantial, if not brilliant member of society."

"Oh!" replied the ancient chair, in a quiet and easy tone, for it had
now cleared its throat of the dust of ages. "I am naturally a silent and
incommunicative sort of character. Once or twice, in the course of a
century, I unclose my lips. When the gentle Lady Arbella departed this
life, I uttered a groan. When the honest mint-master weighed his plump
daughter against the pine-tree shillings, I chuckled audibly at the
joke. When old Simon Bradstreet took the place of the tyrant Andros, I
joined in the general huzza, and capered upon my wooden legs, for joy.
To be sure, the bystanders were so fully occupied with their own
feelings, that my sympathy was quite unnoticed."

"And have you often held a private chat with your friends?" asked
Grandfather.

"Not often," answered the chair. "I once talked with Sir William Phips,
and communicated my ideas about the witchcraft delusion. Cotton Mather
had several conversations with me, and derived great benefit from my
historical reminiscences. In the days of the Stamp Act, I whispered in
the ear of Hutchinson, bidding him to remember what stock his countrymen
were descended of, and to think whether the spirit of their forefathers
had utterly departed from them. The last man whom I favored with a
colloquy, was that stout old republican, Samuel Adams."

"And how happens it," inquired Grandfather, "that there is no record nor
tradition of your conversational abilities? It is an uncommon thing to
meet with a chair that can talk."

"Why, to tell you the truth," said the chair, giving itself a hitch
nearer to the hearth, "I am not apt to choose the most suitable moments
for unclosing my lips. Sometimes I have inconsiderately begun to speak,
when my occupant, lolling back in my arms, was inclined to take an
after-dinner nap. Or, perhaps, the impulse to talk may be felt at
midnight, when the lamp burns dim, and the fire crumbles into decay, and
the studious or thoughtful man finds that his brain is in a mist.
Oftenest, I have unwisely uttered my wisdom in the ears of sick persons,
when the inquietude of fever made them toss about, upon my cushion. And
so it happens, that, though my words make a pretty strong impression at
the moment, yet my auditors invariably remember them only as a dream. I
should not wonder if you, my excellent friend, were to do the same,
to-morrow morning."

"Nor I either," thought Grandfather to himself. However, he thanked this
respectable old chair for beginning the conversation, and begged to know
whether it had any thing particular to communicate.

"I have been listening attentively to your narrative of my adventures,"
replied the chair, "and it must be owned, that your correctness entitles
you to be held up as a pattern to biographers. Nevertheless, there are a
few omissions, which I should be glad to see supplied. For instance, you
make no mention of the good knight, Sir Richard Saltonstall, nor of the
famous Hugh Peters, nor of those old regicide judges, Whalley, Goffe,
and Dixwell. Yet I have borne the weight of all these distinguished
characters, at one time or another."

Grandfather promised amendment, if ever he should have an opportunity to
repeat his narrative. The good old chair, which still seemed to retain a
due regard for outward appearance, then reminded him how long a time had
passed, since it had been provided with a new cushion. It likewise
expressed the opinion, that the oaken figures on its back would show to
much better advantage, by the aid of a little varnish.

"And I have had a complaint in this joint," continued the chair,
endeavoring to lift one of its legs, "ever since Charley trundled his
wheelbarrow against me."

"It shall be attended to," said Grandfather. "And now, venerable chair,
I have a favor to solicit. During an existence of more than two
centuries, you have had a familiar intercourse with men who were
esteemed the wisest of their day. Doubtless, with your capacious
understanding, you have treasured up many an invaluable lesson of
wisdom. You certainly have had time enough to guess the riddle of life.
Tell us poor mortals, then, how we may be happy!"

The lion's head fixed its eyes thoughtfully upon the fire, and the whole
chair assumed an aspect of deep meditation. Finally, it beckoned to
Grandfather with its elbow, and made a step sideways towards him, as if
it had a very important secret to communicate.

"As long as I have stood in the midst of human affairs," said the chair,
with a very oracular enunciation, "I have constantly observed that
JUSTICE, TRUTH, and LOVE, are the chief ingredients of every happy
life."

"Justice, Truth, and Love!" exclaimed Grandfather. "We need not exist
two centuries to find out that these qualities are essential to our
happiness. This is no secret. Every human being is born with the
instinctive knowledge of it."

"Ah!" cried the chair, drawing back in surprise. "From what I have
observed of the dealings of man with man, and nation with nation, I
never should have suspected that they knew this all-important secret.
And, with this eternal lesson written in your soul, do you ask me to
sift new wisdom for you, out of my petty existence of two or three
centuries?"

"But, my dear chair--" said Grandfather.

"Not a word more," interrupted the chair; "here I close my lips for the
next hundred years. At the end of that period, if I shall have
discovered any new precepts of happiness, better than what Heaven has
already taught you, they shall assuredly be given to the world."

In the energy of its utterance, the oaken chair seemed to stamp its
foot, and trod, (we hope unintentionally) upon Grandfather's toe. The
old gentleman started, and found that he had been asleep in the great
chair, and that his heavy walking stick had fallen down across his foot.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Grandfather," cried little Alice, clapping her hands, "you must dream a
new dream, every night, about our chair!"

Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, said the same. But the good old
gentleman shook his head, and declared that here ended the history, real
or fabulous, of GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR.




BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES

  BENJAMIN WEST,
  SIR ISAAC NEWTON,
  SAMUEL JOHNSON,

  OLIVER CROMWELL,
  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,
  QUEEN CHRISTINA.

This small volume, and others of a similar character, from the same
hand, have not been composed without a deep sense of responsibility. The
author regards children as sacred, and would not, for the world, cast
any thing into the fountain of a young heart, that might embitter and
pollute its waters. And, even in point of the reputation to be aimed at,
juvenile literature is as well worth cultivating as any other. The
writer, if he succeed in pleasing his little readers, may hope to be
remembered by them till their own old age--a far longer period of
literary existence than is generally attained, by those who seek
immortality from the judgments of full grown men.




BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES.




CHAPTER I.


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

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

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

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

"Mother, I shall be very miserable," said Edward, sobbing.

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

"None that are worth having," said Edward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, very much!" replied Edward.

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




CHAPTER II.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Temple then began the following story:


BENJAMIN WEST.

BORN 1738. DIED 1820.


In the year 1738, there came into the world, in the town of Springfield,
Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant, from whom his parents and neighbors
looked for wonderful things. A famous preacher of the Society of Friends
had prophesied about little Ben, and foretold that he would be one of
the most remarkable characters that had appeared on earth since the days
of William Penn. On this account, the eyes of many people were fixed
upon the boy. Some of his ancestors had won great renown in the old wars
of England and France; but it was probably expected that Ben would
become a preacher, and would convert multitudes to the peaceful
doctrines of the Quakers. Friend West and his wife were thought to be
very fortunate in having such a son.

Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years, without doing any thing
that was worthy to be told in history. But, one summer afternoon, in his
seventh year, his mother put a fan into his hand, and bade him keep the
flies away from the face of a little babe, who lay fast asleep in the
cradle. She then left the room.

The boy waved the fan to-and-fro, and drove away the buzzing flies
whenever they had the impertinence to come near the baby's face. When
they had all flown out of the window, or into distant parts of the
room, he bent over the cradle, and delighted himself with gazing at the
sleeping infant. It was, indeed, a very pretty sight. The little
personage in the cradle slumbered peacefully, with its waxen hands under
its chin, looking as full of blissful quiet as if angels were singing
lullabies in its ear. Indeed, it must have been dreaming about Heaven;
for, while Ben stooped over the cradle, the little baby smiled.

"How beautiful she looks!" said Ben to himself. "What a pity it is, that
such a pretty smile should not last forever!"

Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard of that wonderful
art, by which a look, that appears and vanishes in a moment, may be made
to last for hundreds of years. But, though nobody had told him of such
an art, he may be said to have invented it for himself. On a table, near
at hand, there were pens and paper, and ink of two colors, black and
red. The boy seized a pen and sheet of paper, and kneeling down beside
the cradle, began to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was busied
in this manner, he heard his mother's step approaching, and hastily
tried to conceal the paper.

"Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing?" inquired his mother,
observing marks of confusion in his face.

At first, Ben was unwilling to tell; for he felt as if there might be
something wrong in stealing the baby's face, and putting it upon a sheet
of paper. However, as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch
into her hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well scolded. But
when the good lady saw what was on the paper, in lines of red and black
ink, she uttered a scream of surprise and joy.

"Bless me!" cried she. "It is a picture of little Sally!"

And then she threw her arms round our friend Benjamin, and kissed him so
tenderly, that he never afterwards was afraid to show his performances
to his mother.

As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast delight in looking at
the hues and forms of nature. For instance, he was greatly pleased with
the blue violets of spring, the wild roses of summer, and the scarlet
cardinal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline of the year, when the
woods were variegated with all the colors of the rainbow, Ben seemed to
desire nothing better than to gaze at them from morn till night. The
purple and golden clouds of sunset were a joy to him. And he was
continually endeavoring to draw the figures of trees, men, mountains,
houses, cattle, geese, ducks, and turkeys, with a piece of chalk, on
barn-doors, or on the floor.

In these old times, the Mohawk Indians were still numerous in
Pennsylvania. Every year a party of them used to pay a visit to
Springfield, because the wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood
there. These wild men grew fond of little Ben, and made him very happy
by giving him some of the red and yellow paint with which they were
accustomed to adorn their faces. His mother, too, presented him with a
piece of indigo. Thus he now had three colors,--red, blue, and
yellow--and could manufacture green, by mixing the yellow with the blue.
Our friend Ben was overjoyed, and doubtless showed his gratitude to the
Indians by taking their likenesses, in the strange dresses which they
wore, with feathers, tomahawks, and bows and arrows.

But, all this time, the young artist had no paint-brushes, nor were
there any to be bought, unless he had sent to Philadelphia on purpose.
However, he was a very ingenious boy, and resolved to manufacture
paint-brushes for himself. With this design, he laid hold upon--what do
you think? why, upon a respectable old black cat, who was sleeping
quietly by the fireside.

"Puss," said little Ben to the cat, "pray give me some of the fur from
the tip of thy tail!"

Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben was determined to
have the fur, whether she were willing or not. Puss, who had no great
zeal for the fine arts, would have resisted if she could; but the boy
was armed with his mother's scissors, and very dexterously clipped off
fur enough to make a paint-brush. This was of so much use to him, that
he applied to Madam Puss again and again, until her warm coat of fur had
become so thin and ragged, that she could hardly keep comfortable
through the winter. Poor thing! she was forced to creep close into the
chimney-corner, and eyed Ben with a very rueful physiognomy. But Ben
considered it more necessary that he should have paint-brushes, than
that Puss should be warm.

About this period, Friend West received a visit from Mr. Pennington, a
merchant of Philadelphia, who was likewise a member of the Society of
Friends. The visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it
ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds with beautiful
plumage, and of the wild flowers of the forest. Nothing of the kind was
ever seen before in the habitation of a Quaker farmer.

"Why, Friend West," exclaimed the Philadelphia merchant, "what has
possessed thee to cover thy walls with all these pictures? Where on
earth didst thou get them?"

Then Friend West explained, that all these pictures were painted by
little Ben, with no better materials than red and yellow ochre and a
piece of indigo, and with brushes made of the black cat's fur.

"Verily," said Mr. Pennington, "the boy hath a wonderful faculty. Some
of our friends might look upon these matters as vanity; but little
Benjamin appears to have been born a painter; and Providence is wiser
than we are."

The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, and evidently considered
him a wonderful boy. When his parents saw how much their son's
performances were admired, they no doubt remembered the prophecy of the
old Quaker preacher, respecting Ben's future eminence. Yet they could
not understand how he was ever to become a very great and useful man,
merely by making pictures.

One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington's return to Philadelphia, a
package arrived at Springfield, directed to our little friend Ben.

"What can it possibly be?" thought Ben, when it was put into his hands.
"Who can have sent me such a great square package as this!"

On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped it, behold! there
was a paint-box, with a great many cakes of paint, and brushes of
various sizes. It was the gift of good Mr. Pennington. There were
likewise several squares of canvas, such as artists use for painting
pictures upon, and, in addition to all these treasures, some beautiful
engravings of landscapes. These were the first pictures that Ben had
ever seen, except those of his own drawing.

What a joyful evening was this for the little artist! At bedtime, he put
the paint-box under his pillow, and got hardly a wink of sleep; for, all
night long, his fancy was painting pictures in the darkness. In the
morning, he hurried to the garret, and was seen no more till the
dinner-hour; nor did he give himself time to eat more than a mouthful or
two of food, before he hurried back to the garret again. The next day,
and the next, he was just as busy as ever; until at last his mother
thought it time to ascertain what he was about. She accordingly followed
him to the garret.

On opening the door, the first object that presented itself to her eyes
was our friend Benjamin, giving the last touches to a beautiful picture.
He had copied portions of two of the engravings, and made one picture
out of both, with such admirable skill that it was far more beautiful
than the originals. The grass, the trees, the water, the sky, and the
houses, were all painted in their proper colors. There, too, was the
sunshine and the shadow, looking as natural as life.

"My dear child, thou hast done wonders!" cried his mother.

The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And well might she be proud
of her boy; for there were touches in this picture, which old artists,
who had spent a lifetime in the business, need not have been ashamed of.
Many a year afterwards, this wonderful production was exhibited at the
Royal Academy in London.

When Benjamin was quite a large lad, he was sent to school at
Philadelphia. Not long after his arrival, he had a slight attack of
fever, which confined him to his bed. The light, which would otherwise
have disturbed him, was excluded from his chamber by means of closed
wooden shutters. At first, it appeared so totally dark, that Ben could
not distinguish any object in the room. By degrees, however, his eyes
became accustomed to the scanty light.

He was lying on his back, looking up towards the ceiling, when suddenly
he beheld the dim apparition of a white cow, moving slowly over his
head! Ben started, and rubbed his eyes, in the greatest amazement.

"What can this mean?" thought he.

The white cow disappeared; and next came several pigs, who trotted along
the ceiling, and vanished into the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike
did these grunters look, that Ben almost seemed to hear them squeak.

"Well, this is very strange!" said Ben to himself.

When the people of the house came to see him, Benjamin told them of the
marvellous circumstance which had occurred. But they would not believe
him.

"Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses!" cried they. "How is it
possible that a white cow and a litter of pigs should be visible on the
ceiling of a dark chamber?"

Ben, however, had great confidence in his own eyesight, and was
determined to search the mystery to the bottom. For this purpose, when
he was again left alone, he got out of bed, and examined the
window-shutters. He soon perceived a small chink in one of them, through
which a ray of light found its passage, and rested upon the ceiling. Now
the science of optics will inform us, that the pictures of the white cow
and the pigs, and of other objects out of doors, came into the dark
chamber, through this narrow chink, and were painted over Benjamin's
head. It is greatly to his credit, that he discovered the scientific
principle of this phenomenon, and, by means of it, constructed a Camera
Obscura, or Magic Lantern, out of a hollow box. This was of great
advantage to him in drawing landscapes.

Well; time went on, and Benjamin continued to draw and paint pictures,
until he had now reached the age when it was proper that he should
choose a business for life. His father and mother were in considerable
perplexity about him. According to the ideas of the Quakers it is not
right for people to spend their lives in occupations that are of no real
and sensible advantage to the world. Now, what advantage could the world
expect from Benjamin's pictures? This was a difficult question; and, in
order to set their minds at rest, his parents determined to consult the
preachers and wise men of their society. Accordingly, they all assembled
in the meeting-house, and discussed the matter from beginning to end.

Finally, they came to a very wise decision. It seemed so evident that
Providence had created Benjamin to be a painter, and had given him
abilities which would be thrown away in any other business, that the
Quakers resolved not to oppose his inclination. They even acknowledged
that the sight of a beautiful picture might convey instruction to the
mind, and might benefit the heart, as much as a good book or a wise
discourse. They therefore committed the youth to the direction of God,
being well assured that he best knew what was his proper sphere of
usefulness. The old men laid their hands upon Benjamin's head, and gave
him their blessing, and the women kissed him affectionately. All
consented that he should go forth into the world, and learn to be a
painter, by studying the best pictures of ancient and modern times.

So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his parents, and his native
woods and streams, and the good Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians
who had given him his first colors,--he left all the places and persons
whom he had hitherto known,--and returned to them no more. He went first
to Philadelphia, and afterwards to Europe. Here he was noticed by many
great people, but retained all the sobriety and simplicity which he had
learned among the Quakers. It is related of him, that, when he was
presented at the court of the Prince of Parma, he kept his hat upon his
head, even while kissing the Prince's hand.

When he was twenty-five years old, he went to London, and established
himself there as an artist. In due course of time, he acquired great
fame by his pictures, and was made chief painter to King George the
Third, and President of the Royal Academy of Arts. When the Quakers of
Pennsylvania heard of his success, they felt that the prophecy of the
old preacher, as to little Ben's future eminence, was now accomplished.
It is true, they shook their heads at his pictures of battle and
bloodshed, such as the Death of Wolfe,--thinking that these terrible
scenes should not be held up to the admiration of the world.

But they approved of the great paintings in which he represented the
miracles and sufferings of the Redeemer of Mankind. King George employed
him to adorn a large and beautiful chapel, at Windsor Castle, with
pictures of these sacred subjects. He likewise painted a magnificent
picture of Christ Healing the Sick, which he gave to the Hospital at
Philadelphia. It was exhibited to the public, and produced so much
profit that the Hospital was enlarged, so as to accommodate thirty more
patients. If Benjamin West had done no other good deed than this, yet it
would have been enough to entitle him to an honorable remembrance
forever. At this very day, there are thirty poor people in the Hospital,
who owe all their comforts to that same picture.

We shall mention only a single incident more. The picture of Christ
Healing the Sick was exhibited at the Royal Academy in London, where it
covered a vast space, and displayed a multitude of figures as large as
life. On the wall, close beside this admirable picture, hung a small and
faded landscape. It was the same that little Ben had painted in his
father's garret, after receiving the paint-box and engravings from good
Mr. Pennington.

He lived many years, in peace and honor, and died in 1820, at the age of
eighty-two. The story of his life is almost as wonderful as a fairy
tale; for there are few stranger transformations than that of a little
unknown Quaker boy, in the wilds of America, into the most distinguished
English painter of his day. Let us each make the best use of our natural
abilities, as Benjamin West did; and with the blessing of Providence, we
shall arrive at some good end. As for fame, it is but little matter
whether we acquire it or not.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Thank you for the story, my dear father," said Edward, when it was
finished. "Do you know, that it seems as if I could see things without
the help of my eyes? While you were speaking, I have seen little Ben,
and the baby in its cradle, and the Indians, and the white cow and the
pigs, and kind Mr. Pennington, and all the good old Quakers, almost as
plainly as if they were in this very room."

"It is because your attention was not disturbed by outward objects,"
replied Mr. Temple. "People, when deprived of sight, often have more
vivid ideas than those who possess the perfect use of their eyes. I will
venture to say that George has not attended to the story quite so
closely."

"No indeed," said George, "but it was a very pretty story for all that.
How I should have laughed to see Ben making a paint-brush out of the
black cat's tail! I intend to try the experiment with Emily's kitten."

"Oh, no, no, George!" cried Emily, earnestly. "My kitten cannot spare
her tail."

Edward being an invalid, it was now time for him to retire to bed. When
the family bade him good night, he turned his face towards them, looking
very loth to part.

"I shall not know when morning comes," said he sorrowfully. "And besides
I want to hear your voices all the time; for, when nobody is speaking,
it seems as if I were alone in a dark world!"

"You must have faith, my dear child," replied his mother. "Faith is the
soul's eyesight; and when we possess it, the world is never dark nor
lonely."




CHAPTER III.


The next day, Edward began to get accustomed to his new condition of
life. Once, indeed, when his parents were out of the way, and only Emily
was left to take care of him, he could not resist the temptation to
thrust aside the bandage, and peep at the anxious face of his little
nurse. But, in spite of the dimness of the chamber, the experiment
caused him so much pain, that he felt no inclination to take another
look. So, with a deep sigh, he resigned himself to his fate.

"Emily, pray talk to me!" said he, somewhat impatiently.

Now, Emily was a remarkably silent little girl, and did not possess that
liveliness of disposition which renders some children such excellent
companions. She seldom laughed, and had not the faculty of making many
words about small matters. But the love and earnestness of her heart
taught her how to amuse poor Edward, in his darkness. She put her
knitting-work into his hands.

"You must learn how to knit," said she.

"What! without using my eyes?" cried Edward.

"I can knit with my eyes shut," replied Emily.

Then, with her own little hands, she guided Edward's fingers, while he
set about this new occupation. So awkward were his first attempts, that
any other little girl would have laughed heartily. But Emily preserved
her gravity, and showed the utmost patience in taking up the innumerable
stitches which he let down. In the course of an hour or two, his
progress was quite encouraging.

When evening came, Edward acknowledged that the day had been far less
wearisome than he anticipated. But he was glad, nevertheless, when his
father and mother, and George and Emily, all took their seats around his
chair. He put out his hand to grasp each of their hands, and smiled with
a very bright expression upon his lips.

"Now I can see you all, with my mind's eye," said he; "and now, father,
pray tell us another story."

So Mr. Temple began.


SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

BORN 1642. DIED 1727.

On Christmas-day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton was born, at the small
village of Woolsthorpe, in England. Little did his mother think, when
she beheld her new-born babe, that he was destined to explain many
matters which had been a mystery ever since the creation of the world.

Isaac's father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married again to a
clergyman, and went to reside at North Witham. Her son was left to the
care of his good old grandmother, who was very kind to him, and sent him
to school. In his early years, Isaac did not appear to be a very bright
scholar, but was chiefly remarkable for his ingenuity in all mechanical
occupations. He had a set of little tools, and saws of various sizes,
manufactured by himself. With the aid of these, Isaac contrived to make
many curious articles, at which he worked with so much skill, that he
seemed to have been born with a saw or chisel in his hand.

The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the things which Isaac
manufactured. And his old grandmother, I suppose, was never weary of
talking about him.

"He'll make a capital workman, one of these days," she would probably
say. "No fear but what Isaac will do well in the world, and be a rich
man before he dies."

It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipations of his
grandmother and the neighbors, about Isaac's future life. Some of them,
perhaps, fancied that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany,
rose-wood, or polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, and
magnificently gilded. And then, doubtless, all the rich people would
purchase these fine things, to adorn their drawing-rooms. Others
probably thought that little Isaac was destined to be an architect, and
would build splendid mansions for the nobility and gentry, and churches
too, with the tallest steeples that had ever been seen in England.

Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac's grandmother to apprentice
him to a clockmaker; for, besides his mechanical skill, the boy seemed
to have a taste for mathematics, which would be very useful to him in
that profession. And then, in due time, Isaac would set up for himself,
and would manufacture curious clocks, like those that contain sets of
dancing figures, which issue from the dial-plate when the hour is
struck; or like those, where a ship sails across the face of the clock,
and is seen tossing up and down on the waves, as often as the pendulum
vibrates.

Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that Isaac would devote
himself to the manufacture of clocks; since he had already made one, of
a kind which nobody had ever heard of before. It was set a-going, not by
wheels and weights, like other clocks, but by the dropping of water.
This was an object of great wonderment to all the people roundabout; and
it must be confessed that there are few boys, or men either, who could
contrive to tell what o'clock it is, by means of a bowl of water.

Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sun-dial. Thus his grandmother was
never at a loss to know the hour; for the water-clock would tell it in
the shade, and the dial in the sunshine. The sun-dial is said to be
still in existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the house where
Isaac dwelt. If so, it must have marked the passage of every sunny hour
that has elapsed, since Isaac Newton was a boy. It marked all the famous
moments of his life; it marked the hour of his death; and still the
sunshine creeps slowly over it, as regularly as when Isaac first set it
up.

Yet we must not say that the sun-dial has lasted longer than its maker;
for Isaac Newton will exist, long after the dial--yea, and long after
the sun itself--shall have crumbled to decay.

Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring knowledge by the
simplest means. For instance, what method do you suppose he took, to
find out the strength of the wind? You will never guess how the boy
could compel that unseen, inconstant, and ungovernable wanderer, the
wind, to tell him the measure of its strength. Yet nothing can be more
simple. He jumped against the wind; and by the length of his jump, he
could calculate the force of a gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a
tempest. Thus, even in his boyish sports, he was continually searching
out the secrets of philosophy.

Not far from his grandmother's residence there was a windmill, which
operated on a new plan. Isaac was in the habit of going thither
frequently, and would spend whole hours in examining its various parts.
While the mill was at rest, he pryed into its internal machinery. When
its broad sails were set in motion by the wind, he watched the process
by which the mill-stones were made to revolve, and crush the grain that
was put into the hopper. After gaining a thorough knowledge of its
construction, he was observed to be unusually busy with his tools.

It was not long before his grandmother, and all the neighborhood, knew
what Isaac had been about. He had constructed a model of the windmill.
Though not so large, I suppose as one of the box-traps which boys set to
catch squirrels, yet every part of the mill and its machinery was
complete. Its little sails were neatly made of linen, and whirled round
very swiftly when the mill was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff
of wind from Isaac's mouth, or from a pair of bellows, was sufficient to
set the sails in motion. And--what was most curious--if a handful of
grains of wheat were put into the little hopper, they would soon be
converted into snow-white flour.

Isaac's playmates were enchanted with his new windmill. They thought
that nothing so pretty, and so wonderful, had ever been seen in the
whole world.

"But, Isaac," said one of them, "you have forgotten one thing that
belongs to a mill."

"What is that?" asked Isaac; for he supposed, that, from the roof of the
mill to its foundation, he had forgotten nothing.

"Why, where is the miller?" said his friend.

"That is true!--I must look out for one," said Isaac; and he set himself
to consider how the deficiency should be supplied.

He might easily have made the miniature figure of a man; but then it
would not have been able to move about, and perform the duties of a
miller. As Captain Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the island of
Lilliput, Isaac did not know that there were little men in the world,
whose size was just suited to his windmill. It so happened, however,
that a mouse had just been caught in the trap; and, as no other miller
could be found, Mr. Mouse was appointed to that important office. The
new miller made a very respectable appearance in his dark gray coat. To
be sure, he had not a very good character for honesty, and was suspected
of sometimes stealing a portion of the grain which was given him to
grind. But perhaps some two-legged millers are quite as dishonest as
this small quadruped.

As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far more important matters
in his mind than the manufacture of toys, like the little windmill. All
day long, if left to himself, he was either absorbed in thought, or
engaged in some book of mathematics, or natural philosophy. At night, I
think it probable, he looked up with reverential curiosity to the stars,
and wondered whether they were worlds, like our own,--and how great was
their distance from the earth,--and what was the power that kept them in
their courses. Perhaps, even so early in life, Isaac Newton felt a
presentiment that he should be able, hereafter, to answer all these
questions.

When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother's second husband being
now dead, she wished her son to leave school, and assist her in managing
the farm at Woolsthorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he tried to turn
his attention to farming. But his mind was so bent on becoming a
scholar, that his mother sent him back to school, and afterwards to the
University of Cambridge.

I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton's boyhood. My story
would be far too long, were I to mention all the splendid discoveries
which he made, after he came to be a man. He was the first that found
out the nature of Light; for, before his day, nobody could tell what the
sunshine was composed of. You remember, I suppose, the story of an
apple's falling on his head, and thus leading him to discover the force
of gravitation, which keeps the heavenly bodies in their courses. When
he had once got hold of this idea, he never permitted his mind to rest,
until he had searched out all the laws, by which the planets are guided
through the sky. This he did as thoroughly as if he had gone up among
the stars, and tracked them in their orbits. The boy had found out the
mechanism of a windmill; the man explained to his fellow-men the
mechanism of the universe.

While making these researches he was accustomed to spend night after
night in a lofty tower, gazing at the heavenly bodies through a
telescope. His mind was lifted far above the things of this world. He
may be said, indeed, to have spent the greater part of his life in
worlds that lie thousands and millions of miles away; for where the
thoughts and the heart are, there is our true existence.

Did you never hear the story of Newton and his little dog Diamond? One
day, when he was fifty years old, and had been hard at work more than
twenty years, studying the theory of Light, he went out of his chamber,
leaving his little dog asleep before the fire. On the table lay a heap
of manuscript papers, containing all the discoveries which Newton had
made during those twenty years. When his master was gone, up rose little
Diamond, jumped upon the table, and overthrew the lighted candle. The
papers immediately caught fire.

Just as the destruction was completed, Newton opened the chamber-door,
and perceived that the labors of twenty years were reduced to a heap of
ashes. There stood little Diamond, the author of all the mischief.
Almost any other man would have sentenced the dog to immediate death.
But Newton patted him on the head with his usual kindness, although
grief was at his heart.

"Oh, Diamond, Diamond," exclaimed he, "thou little knowest the mischief
thou hast done."

This incident affected his health and spirits for some time afterwards;
but, from his conduct towards the little dog, you may judge what was the
sweetness of his temper.

Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired great renown, and was
made a Member of Parliament, and received the honor of knighthood from
the king. But he cared little for earthly fame and honors, and felt no
pride in the vastness of his knowledge. All that he had learned only
made him feel how little he knew in comparison to what remained to be
known.

"I seem to myself like a child," observed he, "playing on the sea-shore,
and picking up here and there a curious shell or a pretty pebble, while
the boundless ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before me."

At last, in 1727, when he was fourscore and five years old, Sir Isaac
Newton died,--or rather he ceased to live on earth. We may be permitted
to believe that he is still searching out the infinite wisdom and
goodness of the Creator, as earnestly, and with even more success, than
while his spirit animated a mortal body. He has left a fame behind him,
which will be as endurable as if his name were written in letters of
light, formed by the stars upon the midnight sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I love to hear about mechanical contrivances--such as the water-clock
and the little windmill," remarked George. "I suppose if Sir Isaac
Newton had only thought of it, he might have found out the steam-engine,
and railroads, and all the other famous inventions that have come into
use since his day."

"Very possibly he might," replied Mr. Temple; "and, no doubt, a great
many people would think it more useful to manufacture steam-engines,
than to search out the system of the universe. Other great astronomers,
besides Newton, have been endowed with mechanical genius. There was
David Rittenhouse, an American,--he made a perfect little water-mill,
when he was only seven or eight years old. But this sort of ingenuity is
but a mere trifle in comparison with the other talents of such men."

"It must have been beautiful," said Edward, "to spend whole nights in a
high tower, as Newton did, gazing at the stars, and the comets, and the
meteors. But what would Newton have done, had he been blind? or if his
eyes had been no better than mine?"

"Why, even then, my dear child," observed Mrs. Temple, "he would have
found out some way of enlightening his mind, and of elevating his soul.
But, come! little Emily is waiting to bid you good night. You must go to
sleep, and dream of seeing all our faces."

"But how sad it will be, when I awake!" murmured Edward.




CHAPTER IV.


In the course of the next day, the harmony of our little family was
disturbed by something like a quarrel between George and Edward.

The former, though he loved his brother dearly, had found it quite too
great a sacrifice of his own enjoyments, to spend all his playtime in a
darkened chamber. Edward, on the other hand, was inclined to be
despotic. He felt as if his bandaged eyes entitled him to demand that
everybody, who enjoyed the blessing of sight, should contribute to his
comfort and amusement. He therefore insisted that George, instead of
going out to play at foot-ball, should join with himself and Emily in a
game of questions and answers.

George resolutely refused, and ran out of the house. He did not revisit
Edward's chamber till the evening, when he stole in, looking confused,
yet somewhat sullen, and sat down beside his father's chair. It was
evident, by a motion of Edward's head and a slight trembling of his
lips, that he was aware of George's entrance, though his footsteps had
been almost inaudible. Emily, with her serious and earnest little face,
looked from one to the other, as if she longed to be a messenger of
peace between them.

Mr. Temple, without seeming to notice any of these circumstances, began
a story.


SAMUEL JOHNSON.

BORN 1709. DIED 1784.

"Sam," said Mr. Michael Johnson of Lichfield, one morning, "I am very
feeble and ailing to-day. You must go to Uttoxeter in my stead, and tend
the bookstall in the market-place there."

This was spoken, above a hundred years ago, by an elderly man, who had
once been a thriving bookseller at Lichfield, in England. Being now in
reduced circumstances, he was forced to go, every market-day, and sell
books at a stall, in the neighboring village of Uttoxeter.

His son, to whom Mr. Johnson spoke, was a great boy of very singular
aspect. He had an intelligent face; but it was seamed and distorted by a
scrofulous humor, which affected his eyes so badly, that sometimes he
was almost blind. Owing to the same cause, his head would often shake
with a tremulous motion, as if he were afflicted with the palsy. When
Sam was an infant, the famous Queen Anne had tried to cure him of this
disease, by laying her royal hands upon his head. But though the touch
of a king or Queen was supposed to be a certain remedy for scrofula, it
produced no good effect upon Sam Johnson.

At the time which we speak of, the poor lad was not very well dressed,
and wore shoes from which his toes peeped out; for his old father had
barely the means of supporting his wife and children. But, poor as the
family were, young Sam Johnson had as much pride as any nobleman's son
in England. The fact was, he felt conscious of uncommon sense and
ability, which, in his own opinion, entitled him to great respect from
the world. Perhaps he would have been glad, if grown people had treated
him as reverentially as his school-fellows did. Three of them were
accustomed to come for him, every morning; and while he sat upon the
back of one, the two others supported him on each side, and thus he rode
to school in triumph!

Being a personage of so much importance, Sam could not bear the idea of
standing all day in Uttoxeter market, offering books to the rude and
ignorant country-people. Doubtless he felt the more reluctant on account
of his shabby clothes, and the disorder of his eyes, and the tremulous
motion of his head.

When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted, and made an indistinct
grumbling in his throat; then he looked his old father in the face, and
answered him loudly and deliberately.

"Sir," said he, "I will not go to Uttoxeter market!"

Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad's obstinacy ever since his
birth; and while Sam was younger, the old gentleman had probably used
the rod, whenever occasion seemed to require. But he was now too
feeble, and too much out of spirits, to contend with this stubborn and
violent-tempered boy. He therefore gave up the point at once, and
prepared to go to Uttoxeter himself.

"Well Sam," said Mr. Johnson, as he took his hat and staff, "If, for the
sake of your foolish pride, you can suffer your poor sick father to
stand all day in the noise and confusion of the market, when he ought to
be in his bed, I have no more to say. But you will think of this, Sam,
when I am dead and gone!"

So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his eye, but certainly with
sorrow in his heart) set forth towards Uttoxeter. The gray-haired,
feeble, melancholy Michael Johnson! How sad a thing it was, that he
should be forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for the support of an
ungrateful son, who was too proud to do any thing for his father, or his
mother, or himself! Sam looked after Mr. Johnson, with a sullen
countenance, till he was out of sight.

But when the old man's figure, as he went stooping along the street, was
no more to be seen, the boy's heart began to smite him. He had a vivid
imagination, and it tormented him with the image of his father, standing
in the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books to the noisy
crowd around him, Sam seemed to behold him, arranging his literary
merchandise upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to
attract notice. Here was Addison's Spectator, a long row of little
volumes; here was Pope's translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were
Dryden's poems, or those of Prior. Here, likewise, were Gulliver's
Travels, and a variety of little gilt-covered children's books, such as
Tom Thumb, Jack the Giant-queller, Mother Goose's Melodies, and others
which our great-grandparents used to read in their childhood. And here
were sermons for the pious, and pamphlets for the politicians, and
ballads, some merry and some dismal ones, for the country people to
sing.

Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, pamphlets, and
ballads, now to the rude yeomen, who perhaps could not read a word,--now
to the country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and
foxes,--now to the children, who chose to spend their coppers for
sugar-plums or gingerbread, rather than for picture-books. And if Mr.
Johnson should sell a book to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an
hour's talk to get a profit of only sixpence.

"My poor father!" thought Sam to himself. "How his head will ache, and
how heavy his heart will be! I am almost sorry that I did not do as he
bade me!"

Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy about the house. She did
not know of what had passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.

"Mother," said he, "did you think father seemed very ill to-day?"

"Yes, Sam," answered his mother, turning with a flushed face from the
fire, where she was cooking their scanty dinner. "Your father did look
very ill; and it is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter in his
stead. You are a great boy now, and would rejoice, I am sure, to do
something for your poor father, who has done so much for you."

The lad made no reply. But again his imagination set to work, and
conjured up another picture of poor Michael Johnson. He was standing in
the hot sunshine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, and
disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were drawn to him. "Had
this old man no son," the people would say among themselves, "who might
have taken his place at the bookstall, while the father kept his bed?"
And perhaps--but this was a terrible thought for Sam!--perhaps his
father would faint away, and fall down in the market-place, with his
gray hair in the dust, and his venerable face as deathlike as that of a
corpse. And there would be the bystanders gazing earnestly at Mr.
Johnson, and whispering, "Is he dead? Is he dead?"

And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself: "Is he dead?"

"Oh, I have been a cruel son!" thought he, within his own heart. "God
forgive me! God forgive me!"

But God could not yet forgive him; for he was not truly penitent. Had he
been so, he would have hastened away that very moment to Uttoxeter, and
have fallen at his father's feet, even in the midst of the crowded
market-place. There he would have confessed his fault, and besought Mr.
Johnson to go home, and leave the rest of the day's work to him. But
such was Sam's pride and natural stubbornness, that he could not bring
himself to this humiliation. Yet he ought to have done so, for his own
sake, and for his father's sake, and for God's sake.

After sunset, old Michael Johnson came slowly home, and sat down in his
customary chair. He said nothing to Sam; nor do I know that a single
word ever passed between them, on the subject of the son's disobedience.
In a few years, his father died and left Sam to fight his way through
the world by himself. It would make our story much too long were I to
tell you even a few of the remarkable events of Sam's life. Moreover,
there is the less need of this, because many books have been written
about that poor boy, and the fame that he acquired, and all that he did
or talked of doing, after he came to be a man.

But one thing I must not neglect to say. From his boyhood upward, until
the latest day of his life, he never forgot the story of Uttoxeter
market. Often when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford, or
master of an Academy at Edial, or a writer for the London
booksellers,--in all his poverty and toil, and in all his
success,--while he was walking the streets without a shilling to buy
food, or when the greatest men of England were proud to feast him at
their table,--still that heavy and remorseful thought came back to
him:--"I was cruel to my poor father in his illness!" Many and many a
time, awake or in his dreams, he seemed to see old Michael Johnson,
standing in the dust and confusion of the market-place, and pressing his
withered hand to his forehead as if it ached.

Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have such a thought as this
to bear us company through life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it was longer than
usual, Mr. Temple here made a short pause. He perceived that Emily was
in tears, and Edward turned his half-veiled face towards the speaker,
with an air of great earnestness and interest. As for George he had
withdrawn into the dusky shadow behind his father's chair.




CHAPTER V.


In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, as follows:


SAMUEL JOHNSON.

CONTINUED.

Well, my children, fifty years had passed away since young Sam Johnson
had shown himself so hard-hearted towards his father. It was now
market-day in the village of Uttoxeter.

In the street of the village, you might see cattle-dealers with cows and
oxen for sale, and pig-drovers, with herds of squeaking swine, and
farmers, with cart-loads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other
produce of the soil. Now and then a farmer's red-faced wife trotted
along on horseback, with butter and cheese in two large panniers. The
people of the village, with country squires and other visitors from the
neighborhood, walked hither and thither, trading, jesting, quarrelling,
and making just such a bustle as their fathers and grandfathers had made
half a century before.

In one part of the street, there was a puppet-show, with a ridiculous
Merry-Andrew, who kept both grown people and children in a roar of
laughter. On the opposite side was the old stone church of Uttoxeter,
with ivy climbing up its walls, and partly obscuring its Gothic windows.

There was a clock in the gray tower of the ancient church; and the hands
on the dial-plate had now almost reached the hour of noon. At this
busiest hour of the market, a strange old gentleman was seen making his
way among the crowd. He was very tall and bulky, and wore a brown coat
and small clothes, with black worsted stockings and buckled shoes. On
his head was a three-cornered hat, beneath which a bushy gray wig thrust
itself out, all in disorder. The old gentleman elbowed the people aside,
and forced his way through the midst of them with a singular kind of
gait, rolling his body hither and thither, so that he needed twice as
much room as any other person there.

"Make way, sir!" he would cry out, in a loud, harsh voice, when somebody
happened to interrupt his progress.--"Sir, you intrude your person into
the public thoroughfare!"

"What a queer old fellow this is!" muttered the people among themselves,
hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be angry.

But, when they looked into the venerable stranger's face, not the most
thoughtless among them dared to offer him the least impertinence. Though
his features were scarred and distorted with the scrofula, and though
his eyes were dim and bleared, yet there was something of authority and
wisdom in his look, which impressed them all with awe. So they stood
aside to let him pass; and the old gentleman made his way across the
market-place, and paused near the corner of the ivy-mantled church. Just
as he reached it, the clock struck twelve.

On the very spot of ground, where the stranger now stood, some aged
people remembered that old Michael Johnson had formerly kept his
bookstall. The little children, who had once bought picture-books of
him, were grandfathers now.

"Yes; here is the very spot!" muttered the old gentleman to himself.

There this unknown personage took his stand, and removed the
three-cornered hat from his head. It was the busiest hour of the day.
What with the hum of human voices, the lowing of cattle, the squeaking
of pigs, and the laughter caused by the Merry-Andrew, the market-place
was in very great confusion. But the stranger seemed not to notice it,
any more than if the silence of a desert were around him. He was wrapt
in his own thoughts. Sometimes he raised his furrowed brow to heaven, as
if in prayer; sometimes he bent his head, as if an insupportable weight
of sorrow were upon him. It increased the awfulness of his aspect that
there was a motion of his head, and an almost continual tremor
throughout his frame, with singular twitchings and contortions of his
features.

The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head; but he seemed not to feel
its fervor. A dark cloud swept across the sky, and rain-drops pattered
into the market-place; but the stranger heeded not the shower. The
people began to gaze at the mysterious old gentleman, with superstitious
fear and wonder. Who could he be? Whence did he come? Wherefore was he
standing bare-headed in the market-place? Even the school-boys left the
Merry-Andrew, and came to gaze, with wide open eyes, at this tall,
strange-looking old man.

There was a cattle-drover in the village, who had recently made a
journey to the Smithfield market, in London. No sooner had this man
thrust his way through the throng, and taken a look at the unknown
personage, than he whispered to one of his acquaintances:

"I say, neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know who this old gentleman
is?"

"Ay, that I would," replied neighbor Hutchins; "for a queerer chap I
never saw in my life! Somehow, it makes me feel small to look at him.
He's more than a common man."

"You may well say so," answered the cattle-drover. "Why, that's the
famous Doctor Samuel Johnson, who, they say, is the greatest and
learnedest man in England. I saw him in London Streets, walking with one
Mr. Boswell."

Yes; the poor boy--the friendless Sam--with, whom we began our story,
had become the famous Doctor Samuel Johnson! He was universally
acknowledged as the wisest man and greatest writer in all England. He
had given shape and permanence to his native language, by his
Dictionary. Thousands upon thousands of people had read his Idler, his
Rambler, and his Rasselas. Noble and wealthy men, and beautiful ladies,
deemed it their highest privilege to be his companions. Even the king of
Great Britain had sought his acquaintance, and told him what an honor he
considered it, that such a man had been born in his dominions. He was
now at the summit of literary renown.

But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter remembrance, which had
tormented him through life. Never, never, had he forgotten his father's
sorrowful and upbraiding look. Never--though the old man's troubles had
been over so many years--had he forgiven himself for inflicting such a
pang upon his heart. And now, in his old age, he had come hither to do
penance, by standing at noon-day in the market-place of Uttoxeter, on
the very spot where Michael Johnson had once kept his bookstall. The
aged and illustrious man had done what the poor boy refused to do. By
thus expressing his deep repentance and humiliation of heart, he hoped
to gain peace of conscience, and the forgiveness of God.

My dear children, if you have grieved--I will not say, your
parents--but, if you have grieved the heart of any human being, who has
a claim upon your love, then think of Samuel Johnson's penance! Will it
not be better to redeem the error now, than to endure the agony of
remorse for fifty years? Would you not rather say to a brother--"I have
erred! Forgive me!"--than perhaps to go hereafter, and shed bitter tears
upon his grave?

       *       *       *       *       *

Hardly was the story concluded, when George hastily arose, and Edward
likewise, stretching forth his hands into the darkness that surrounded
him, to find his brother. Both accused themselves of unkindness; each
besought the other's forgiveness; and having, done so, the trouble of
their hearts vanished away like a dream.

"I am glad! I am so glad!" said Emily, in a low, earnest voice. "Now I
shall sleep quietly to-night."

"My sweet child," thought Mrs. Temple, as she kissed her, "mayest thou
never know how much strife there is on earth! It would cost thee many a
night's rest."




CHAPTER VI.


About this period, Mr. Temple found it necessary to take a journey,
which interrupted the series of Biographical Stories for several
evenings. In the interval, Edward practised various methods of employing
and amusing his mind.

Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects which he had formerly
seen, until the intensity of his recollection seemed to restore him the
gift of sight, and place every thing anew before his eyes. Sometimes he
repeated verses of poetry, which he did not know to be in his memory,
until he found them there, just at the time of need. Sometimes he
attempted to solve arithmetical questions, which had perplexed him while
at school.

Then, with his mother's assistance, he learned the letters of the
string-alphabet, which is used in some of the Institutions for the
Blind, in Europe. When one of his friends gave him a leaf of Saint
Mark's Gospel, printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read it
by passing his fingers over the letters, as blind children do.

His brother George was now very kind, and spent so much time in the
darkened chamber, that Edward often insisted upon his going out to play.
George told him all about the affairs at school, and related many
amusing incidents that happened among his comrades, and informed him
what sports were now in fashion, and whose kite soared the highest, and
whose little ship sailed fleetest on the Frog Pond. As for Emily, she
repeated stories which she had learned from a new book, called THE
FLOWER PEOPLE, in which the snow-drops, the violets, the columbines, the
roses, and all that lovely tribe, are represented as telling their
secrets to a little girl. The flowers talked sweetly, as flowers should;
and Edward almost fancied that he could behold their bloom and smell
their fragrant breath.

Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Edward's confinement
passed not unhappily. In due time, his father returned; and the next
evening, when the family were assembled, he began a story.

"I must first observe, children," said he, "that some writers deny the
truth of the incident which I am about to relate to you. There certainly
is but little evidence in favor of it. Other respectable writers,
however, tell it for a fact; and, at all events, it is an interesting
story, and has an excellent moral."

So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early days of


OLIVER CROMWELL.

BORN 1599. DIED 1658.

Not long after King James the First took the place of Queen Elizabeth
on the throne of England, there lived an English knight at a place
called Hinchinbrooke. His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He spent his
life, I suppose, pretty much like other English knights and squires in
those days, hunting hares and foxes, and drinking large quantities of
ale and wine. The old house in which he dwelt, had been occupied by his
ancestors before him, for a good many years. In it there was a great
hall, hung round with coats of arms, and helmets, cuirasses and swords
which his forefathers had used in battle, and with horns of deer and
tails of foxes, which they or Sir Oliver himself had killed in the
chase.

This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had been called Oliver, after
himself, but who was generally known in the family by the name of little
Noll. His father was a younger brother of Sir Oliver. The child was
often sent to visit his uncle, who probably found him a troublesome
little fellow to take care of. He was forever in mischief, and always
running into some danger or other from which he seemed to escape only by
miracle.

Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange accident had
befallen him. A huge ape which was kept in the family, snatched up
little Noll in his forepaws and clambered with him to the roof of the
house. There this ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators,
as if he had done the most praiseworthy thing imaginable. Fortunately,
however, he brought the child safe down again; and the event was
afterwards considered an omen that Noll would reach a very elevated
station in the world.

One morning, when Noll was five or six years old, a royal messenger
arrived at Hinchinbrooke, with tidings that King James was coming to
dine with Sir Oliver Cromwell. This was a high honor to be sure, but a
very great trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, squires,
guards, and yeomen, who waited on the king, were to be feasted as well
as himself; and more provisions would be eaten, and more wine drunk, in
that one day, than generally in a month. However, Sir Oliver expressed
much thankfulness for the king's intended visit, and ordered his butler
and cook to make the best preparations in their power. So a great fire
was kindled in the kitchen; and the neighbors knew by the smoke which
poured out of the chimney, that boiling, baking, stewing, roasting, and
frying, were going on merrily.

By and by the sound of trumpets was heard, approaching nearer and
nearer; and a heavy, old-fashioned coach, surrounded by guards on
horseback, drove up to the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in his hand,
stood at the gate to receive the king. His Majesty was dressed in a suit
of green, not very new; he had a feather in his hat, and a triple ruff
round his neck; and over his shoulder was slung a hunting horn, instead
of a sword. Altogether, he had not the most dignified aspect in the
world; but the spectators gazed at him as if there was something
superhuman and divine in his person. They even shaded their eyes with
their hands, as if they were dazzled by the glory of his countenance.

"How are ye, man?" cried King James, speaking in a Scotch accent; for
Scotland was his native country. "By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad
to see ye!"

The good knight thanked the king, at the same time kneeling down, while
his Majesty alighted. When King James stood on the ground, he directed
Sir Oliver's attention to a little boy, who had come with him in the
coach. He was six or seven years old, and wore a hat and feather, and
was more richly dressed than the king himself. Though by no means an
ill-looking child; he seemed shy, or even sulky; and his cheeks were
rather pale, as if he had been kept moping within doors, instead of
being sent out to play in the sun and wind.

"I have brought my son Charlie to see ye," said the king. "I hope, Sir
Oliver, ye have a son of your own, to be his playmate?"

Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the little prince, whom
one of the attendants had now taken out of the coach. It was wonderful
to see how all the spectators, even the aged men, with their gray
beards, humbled themselves before this child. They bent their bodies
till their beards almost swept the dust. They looked as if they were
ready to kneel down and worship him.

The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy not a soul had dared
to contradict him; everybody around him had acted as if he were a
superior being; so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of
himself. He naturally supposed that the whole kingdom of Great Britain
and all its inhabitants, had been created solely for his benefit and
amusement. This was a sad mistake; and it cost him dear enough after he
had ascended his father's throne.

"What a noble little prince he is!" exclaimed Sir Oliver, lifting his
hands in admiration. "No, please your Majesty, I have no son to be the
playmate of his Royal Highness; but there is a nephew of mine, somewhere
about the house. He is near the prince's age, and will be but too happy
to wait upon his Royal Highness."

"Send for him, man! send for him!" said the king.

But, as it happened, there was no need of sending for Master Noll. While
King James was speaking, a rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little urchin
thrust himself through the throng of courtiers and attendants, and
greeted the prince with a broad stare. His doublet and hose (which had
been put on new and clean in honor of the king's visit) were already
soiled and torn with the rough play in which he had spent the morning.
He looked no more abashed than if King James were his uncle, and the
prince one of his customary playfellows.

This was little Noll himself.

"Here, please your Majesty, is my nephew," said sir Oliver, somewhat
ashamed of Noll's appearance and demeanor. "Oliver, make your obeisance
to the king's Majesty!"

The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the king; for, in those
days, children were taught to pay reverence to their elders. King James,
who prided himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few
questions in the Latin Grammar, and then introduced him to his son. The
little prince in a very grave and dignified manner, extended his hand,
not for Noll to shake, but that he might kneel down and kiss it.

"Nephew," said Sir Oliver, "pay your duty to the prince."

"I owe him no duty," cried Noll, thrusting aside the prince's hand, with
a rude laugh. "Why should I kiss that boy's hand?"

All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and Sir Oliver the most of
all. But the king laughed heartily, saying that little Noll had a
stubborn English spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn
betimes what sort of a people he was to rule over.

So King James and his train entered the house; and the prince, with Noll
and some other children, was sent to play in a separate room while his
Majesty was at dinner. The young people soon became acquainted; for
boys, whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, all like play, and
are pleased with one another's society. What games they diverted
themselves with, I cannot tell. Perhaps they played at ball--perhaps at
blindman's buff--perhaps at leap-frog--perhaps at prison-bars. Such
games have been in use for hundreds of years; and princes as well as
poor children have spent some of their happiest hours in playing at
them.

Meanwhile, King James and his nobles were feasting with Sir Oliver, in
the great hall. The king sat in a gilded chair, under a canopy, at the
head of a long table. Whenever any of the company addressed him, it was
with the deepest reverence. If the attendants offered him wine, or the
various delicacies of the festival, it was upon their bended knees. You
would have thought, by these tokens of worship, that the monarch was a
supernatural being; only he seemed to have quite as much need of those
vulgar matters, food and drink, as any other person at the table. But
fate had ordained that good King James should not finish his dinner in
peace.

All of a sudden, there arose a terrible uproar in the room where the
children were at play. Angry shouts and shrill cries of alarm were mixed
up together; while the voices of elder persons were likewise heard,
trying to restore order among the children. The king, and everybody else
at table, looked aghast; for perhaps the tumult made them think that a
general rebellion had broken out.

"Mercy on us!" muttered Sir Oliver; "that graceless nephew of mine is in
some mischief or other. The naughty little whelp!"

Getting up from table, he ran to see what was the matter, followed by
many of the guests, and the king among them. They all crowded to the
door of the play-room.

On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles, with his rich
dress all torn, and covered with the dust of the floor. His royal blood
was streaming from his nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a
mixture of rage and affright, and at the same time a puzzled expression,
as if he could not understand how any mortal boy should dare to give him
a beating. As for Noll, there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a
lion, looking as if he were ready to fight not only the prince, but the
king and kingdom too.

"You little villain!" cried his uncle. "What have you been about? Down
on your knees, this instant, and ask the prince's pardon. How dare you
lay your hands on the king's Majesty's royal son?"

"He struck me first," grumbled the valiant little Noll; "and I've only
given him his due."

Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in astonishment and
horror. No punishment seemed severe enough for this wicked little
varlet, who had dared to resent a blow from the king's own son. Some of
the courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be sent prisoner to the
Tower of London, and brought to trial for high treason. Others, in their
great zeal for the king's service, were about to lay hands on the boy,
and chastise him in the royal presence.

But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal of sagacity, ordered
them to desist.

"Thou art a bold boy," said he, looking fixedly at little Noll; "and, if
thou live to be a man, my son Charlie would do wisely to be friends with
thee."

"I never will!" cried the little prince, stamping his foot.

"Peace, Charlie, peace!" said the king; then addressing Sir Oliver and
the attendants, "Harm not the urchin; for he has taught my son a good
lesson, if Heaven do but give him grace to profit by it. Hereafter,
should he be tempted to tyrannize over the stubborn race of Englishmen,
let him remember little Noll Cromwell, and his own bloody nose!"

So the king finished his dinner and departed; and, for many a long year,
the childish quarrel between Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was
forgotten. The prince, indeed, might have lived a happier life, and have
met a more peaceful death, had he remembered that quarrel, and the moral
which his father drew from it. But, when old King James was dead, and
Charles sat upon his throne, he seemed to forget that he was but a man,
and that his meanest subjects were men as well as he. He wished to have
the property and lives of the people of England entirely at his own
disposal. But the Puritans, and all who loved liberty, rose against him,
and beat him in many battles, and pulled him down from his throne.

Throughout this war between the king and nobles on one side, and the
people of England on the other, there was a famous leader, who did more
towards the ruin of royal authority, than all the rest. The contest
seemed like a wrestling-match between King Charles and this strong man.
And the king was overthrown.

When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, that warlike leader
sat in the judgment-hall. Many judges were present, besides himself; but
he alone had the power to save King Charles, or to doom him to the
scaffold. After sentence was pronounced, this victorious general was
entreated by his own children, on their knees, to rescue his Majesty
from death.

"No!" said he sternly. "Better that one man should perish, than that the
whole country should be ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he
shall die!"

When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaffold, his great enemy
stood at a window of the royal palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor
victim of pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as he laid
his head upon the block. He looked on, with a steadfast gaze, while a
black-veiled executioner lifted the fatal axe, and smote off that
anointed head at a single blow.

"It is a righteous deed," perhaps he said to himself. "Now Englishmen
may enjoy their rights."

At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the coffin, in a gloomy
chamber, the general entered, lighting himself with a torch. Its gleam
showed that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred with the many
battles in which he had led the van; his brow was wrinkled with care,
and with the continual exercise of stern authority. Probably there was
not a single trait, either of aspect or manner, that belonged to the
little Noll, who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles. Yet this
was he!

He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his torch to fall upon
the dead monarch's face. Then, probably, his mind went back over all the
marvellous events, that had brought the hereditary king of England to
this dishonored coffin, and had raised himself, an humble individual, to
the possession of kingly power. He was a king, though without the empty
title, or the glittering crown.

"Why was it," said Cromwell to himself--or might have said--as he gazed
at the pale features in the coffin,--"Why was it, that this great king
fell, and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the
realm?"

And, indeed, why was it?

King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the same as when a
child, he disdained to feel that every human creature was his brother.
He deemed himself a superior being, and fancied that his subjects were
created only for a king to rule over. And Cromwell rose, because, in
spite of his many faults, he mainly fought for the rights and freedom
of his fellow-men; and therefore the poor and the oppressed all lent
their strength to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Dear father, how I should hate to be a king!" exclaimed Edward.

"And would you like to be a Cromwell?" inquired his father.

"I should like it well," replied George, "only I would not have put the
poor old king to death. I would have sent him out of the kingdom, or
perhaps have allowed him to live in a small house, near the gate of the
royal palace. It was too severe, to cut off his head."

"Kings are in such an unfortunate position," said Mr. Temple, "that they
must either be almost deified by their subjects, or else be dethroned
and beheaded. In either case it is a pitiable lot."

"Oh, I had rather be blind than be a king!" said Edward.

"Well, my dear Edward," observed his mother, with a smile, "I am glad
you are convinced that your own lot is not the hardest in the world."




CHAPTER VII.


It was a pleasant sight (for those who had eyes) to see how patiently
the blinded little boy now submitted to what he had at first deemed an
intolerable calamity. The beneficent Creator has not allowed our comfort
to depend on the enjoyment of any single sense. Though he has made the
world so very beautiful, yet it is possible to be happy without ever
beholding the blue sky, or the green and flowery earth, or the kind
faces of those whom we love. Thus it appears that all the external
beauty of the universe is a free gift from God, over and above what is
necessary to our comfort. How grateful, then, should we be to that
Divine Benevolence, which showers even superfluous bounties upon us!

One truth, therefore, which Edward's blindness had taught him, was, that
his mind and soul could dispense with the assistance of his eyes.
Doubtless, however, he would have found this lesson far more difficult
to learn, had it not been for the affection of those around him. His
parents, and George and Emily, aided him to bear his misfortune; if
possible, they would have lent him their own eyes. And this, too, was a
good lesson for him. It taught him how dependent on one another God has
ordained us to be; insomuch that all the necessities of mankind should
incite them to mutual love.

So Edward loved his friends, and perhaps all the world, better than he
ever did before. And he felt grateful towards his father for spending
the evenings in telling him stories--more grateful, probably, than any
of my little readers will feel towards me for so carefully writing those
same stories down.

"Come, dear father," said he, the next evening, "now tell us all about
some other little boy, who was destined to be a famous man."

"How would you like a story of a Boston boy?" asked his father.

"Oh, pray let us have it!" cried George eagerly. "It will be all the
better if he has been to our schools, and has coasted on the Common, and
sailed boats in the Frog Pond. I shall feel acquainted with him then."

"Well, then," said Mr. Temple, "I will introduce you to a Boston boy,
whom all the world became acquainted with, after he grew to be a man."

The story was as follows:--


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

BORN 1706. DIED 1790.

In the year 1716, or about that period, a boy used to be seen in the
streets of Boston, who was known among his schoolfellows and playmates
by the name of Ben Franklin. Ben was born in 1706; so that he was now
about ten years old. His father, who had come over from England, was a
soap-boiler and tallow-chandler, and resided in Milk Street, not far
from the old South Church.

Ben was a bright boy at his book, and even a brighter one when at play
with his comrades. He had some remarkable qualities which always seemed
to give him the lead, whether at sport or in more serious matters. I
might tell you a number of amusing anecdotes about him. You are
acquainted, I suppose, with his famous story of the WHISTLE, and how he
bought it with a whole pocketful of coppers, and afterwards repented of
his bargain. But Ben had grown a great boy since those days, and had
gained wisdom by experience; for it was one of his peculiarities, that
no incident ever happened to him without teaching him some valuable
lesson. Thus he generally profited more by his misfortunes, than many
people do by the most favorable events that could befall them.

Ben's face was already pretty well known to the inhabitants of Boston.
The selectmen, and other people of note, often used to visit his father,
for the sake of talking about the affairs of the town or province. Mr.
Franklin was considered a person of great wisdom and integrity, and was
respected by all who knew him, although he supported his family by the
humble trade of boiling soap, and making tallow-candles.

While his father and the visitors were holding deep consultations about
public affairs, little Ben would sit on his stool in a corner,
listening with the greatest interest, as if he understood every word.
Indeed, his features were so full of intelligence, that there could be
but little doubt, not only that he understood what was said, but that he
could have expressed some very sagacious opinions out of his own mind.
But, in those days, boys were expected to be silent in the presence of
their elders. However, Ben Franklin was looked upon as a very promising
lad, who would talk and act wisely by and by.

"Neighbor Franklin," his father's friends would sometimes say, "you
ought to send this boy to college and make a minister of him."

"I have often thought of it," his father would reply; "and my brother
Benjamin promises to give him a great many volumes of manuscript sermons
in case he should be educated for the church. But I have a large family
to support, and cannot afford the expense."

In fact, Mr. Franklin found it so difficult to provide bread for his
family, that, when the boy was ten years old, it became necessary to
take him from school. Ben was then employed in cutting candlewicks into
equal lengths, and filling the moulds with tallow; and many families in
Boston spent their evenings by the light of the candles which he had
helped to make. Thus, you see, in his early days, as well as in his
manhood his labors contributed to throw light upon dark matters.

Busy as his life now was, Ben still found time to keep company with his
former schoolfellows. He and the other boys were very fond of fishing,
and spent any of their leisure hours on the margin of the mill-pond,
catching flounders, perch, eels, and tom-cod, which came up thither with
the tide. The place where they fished is now, probably, covered with
stone-pavements and brick buildings, and thronged with people, and with
vehicles of all kinds. But, at that period, it was a marshy spot on the
outskirts of the town, where gulls flitted and screamed overhead, and
salt meadow-grass grew under foot. On the edge of the water there was a
deep bed of clay, in which the boys were forced to stand, while they
caught their fish. Here they dabbled in mud and mire like a flock of
ducks.

"This is very uncomfortable," said Ben Franklin one day to his comrades,
while they were standing mid-leg deep in the quagmire.

"So it is," said the other boys. "What a pity we have no better place to
stand!"

If it had not been for Ben, nothing more would have been done or said
about the matter. But it was not in his nature to be sensible of an
inconvenience, without using his best efforts to find a remedy. So, as
he and his comrades were returning from the water-side, Ben suddenly
threw down his string of fish with a very determined air:

"Boys," cried he, "I have thought of a scheme, which will be greatly for
our benefit, and for the public benefit!"

It was queer enough, to be sure, to hear this little chap--this
rosy-cheeked, ten-year-old boy--talking about schemes for the public
benefit! Nevertheless, his companions were ready to listen, being
assured that Ben's scheme, whatever it was, would be well worth their
attention. They remembered how sagaciously he had conducted all their
enterprises, ever since he had been old enough to wear small-clothes.

They remembered, too, his wonderful contrivance of sailing across the
mill-pond by lying flat on his back, in the water, and allowing himself
to be drawn along by a paper-kite. If Ben could do that, he might
certainly do any thing.

"What is your scheme, Ben?--what is it?" cried they all.

It so happened that they had now come to a spot of ground where a new
house was to be built. Scattered round about lay a great many large
stones, which were to be used for the cellar and foundation. Ben mounted
upon the highest of these stones, so that he might speak with the more
authority.

"You know, lads," said he, "what a plague it is, to be forced to stand
in the quagmire yonder--over shoes and stockings (if we wear any) in mud
and water. See! I am bedaubed to the knees of my small-clothes, and you
are all in the same pickle. Unless we can find some remedy for this
evil, our fishing-business must be entirely given up. And, surely, this
would be a terrible misfortune!"

"That it would!--that it would!" said his comrades, sorrowfully.

"Now I propose," continued Master Benjamin, "that we build a wharf, for
the purpose of carrying on our fisheries. You see these stones. The
workmen mean to use them for the underpinning of a house; but that would
be for only one man's advantage. My plan is to take these same stones,
and carry them to the edge of the water and build a wharf with them.
This will not only enable us to carry on the fishing business with
comfort, and to better advantage, but it will likewise be a great
convenience to boats passing up and down the stream. Thus, instead of
one man, fifty, or a hundred, or a thousand, besides ourselves, may be
benefited by these stones. What say you, lads?--shall we build the
wharf?"

Ben's proposal was received with one of those uproarious shouts,
wherewith boys usually express their delight at whatever completely
suits their views. Nobody thought of questioning the right and justice
of building a wharf, with stones that belonged to another person.

"Hurrah, hurrah!" shouted they. "Let's set about it!"

It was agreed that they should all be on the spot, that evening, and
commence their grand public enterprise by moonlight. Accordingly, at the
appointed time, the whole gang of youthful laborers assembled, and
eagerly began to remove the stones. They had not calculated how much
toil would be requisite, in this important part of their undertaking.
The very first stone which they laid hold of, proved so heavy, that it
almost seemed to be fastened to the ground. Nothing but Ben Franklin's
cheerful and resolute spirit could have induced them to persevere.

Ben, as might be expected, was the soul of the enterprise. By his
mechanical genius, he contrived methods to lighten the labor of
transporting the stones; so that one boy, under his directions, would
perform as much as half a dozen, if left to themselves. Whenever their
spirits flagged, he had some joke ready, which seemed to renew their
strength by setting them all into a roar of laughter. And when, after an
hour or two of hard work, the stones were transported to the water-side,
Ben Franklin was the engineer, to superintend the construction of the
wharf.

The boys, like a colony of ants, performed a great deal of labor by
their multitude, though the individual strength of each could have
accomplished but little. Finally, just as the moon sank below the
horizon, the great work was finished.

"Now, boys," cried Ben, "let's give three cheers, and go home to bed.
To-morrow, we may catch fish at our ease!" "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"
shouted his comrades.

Then they all went home, in such an ecstasy of delight that they could
hardly get a wink of sleep.

The story was not yet finished; but George's impatience caused him to
interrupt it.

"How I wish that I could have helped to build that wharf!" exclaimed
he. "It must have been glorious fun. Ben Franklin for ever, say I!"

"It was a very pretty piece of work," said Mr. Temple. "But wait till
you hear the end of the story."

"Father," inquired Edward, "whereabouts in Boston was the mill-pond, on
which Ben built his wharf?"

"I do not exactly know," answered Mr. Temple; "but I suppose it to have
been on the northern verge of the town, in the vicinity of what are now
called Merrimack and Charlestown streets. That thronged portion of the
city was once a marsh. Some of it, in fact, was covered with water."




CHAPTER VIII.


As the children had no more questions to ask, Mr. Temple proceeded to
relate what consequences ensued from the building of Ben Franklin's
wharf.


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

CONTINUED.

In the morning, when the early sunbeams were gleaming on the steeples
and roofs of the town, and gilding the water that surrounded it, the
masons came, rubbing their eyes, to begin their work at the foundation
of the new house. But, on reaching the spot, they rubbed their eyes so
much the harder. What had become of their heap of stones!

"Why, Sam," said one to another, in great perplexity, "here's been some
witchcraft at work, while we were asleep. The stones must have flown
away through the air!"

"More likely they have been stolen!" answered Sam.

"But who on earth would think of stealing a heap of stones?" cried a
third. "Could a man carry them away in his pocket?"

The master-mason, who was a gruff kind of man, stood scratching his
head, and said nothing, at first. But, looking carefully on the ground,
he discerned innumerable tracks of little feet, some with shoes, and
some barefoot. Following these tracks with his eye, he saw that they
formed a beaten path towards the water-side.

"Ah, I see what the mischief is," said he, nodding his head. "Those
little rascals, the boys! they have stolen our stones to build a wharf
with!"

The masons immediately went to examine the new structure. And to say the
truth, it was well worth looking at, so neatly, and with such admirable
skill, had it been planned and finished. The stones were put together so
securely, that there was no danger of their being loosened by the tide,
however swiftly it might sweep along. There was a broad and safe
platform to stand upon, whence the little fishermen might cast their
lines into deep water, and draw up fish in abundance. Indeed, it almost
seemed as if Ben and his comrades might be forgiven for taking the
stones, because they had done their job in such a workmanlike manner.

"The chaps, that built this wharf, understood their business pretty
well," said one of the masons. "I should not be ashamed of such a piece
of work myself."

But the master-mason did not seem to enjoy the joke. He was one of those
unreasonable people, who care a great deal more for their own rights and
privileges, than for the convenience of all the rest of the world.

"Sam," said he, more gruffly than usual, "go call a constable."

So Sam called a constable, and inquiries were set on foot to discover
the perpetrators of the theft. In the course of the day, warrants were
issued, with the signature of a Justice of the Peace, to take the bodies
of Benjamin Franklin and other evil-disposed persons, who had stolen a
heap of stones. If the owner of the stolen property had not been more
merciful than the master-mason, it might have gone hard with our friend
Benjamin and his fellow-laborers. But, luckily for them, the gentleman
had a respect for Ben's father, and moreover, was amused with the spirit
of the whole affair. He therefore let the culprits off pretty easily.

But, when the constables were dismissed, the poor boys had to go through
another trial, and receive sentence, and suffer execution too, from
their own fathers. Many a rod I grieve to say, was worn to the stump, on
that unlucky night.

As for Ben, he was less afraid of a whipping than of his father's
disapprobation. Mr. Franklin, as I have mentioned before, was a
sagacious man, and also an inflexibly upright one. He had read much, for
a person in his rank of life, and had pondered upon the ways of the
world, until he had gained more wisdom than a whole library of books
could have taught him. Ben had a greater reverence for his father, than
for any other person in the world, as well on account of his spotless
integrity, as of his practical sense and deep views of things.

Consequently, after being released from the clutches of the law, Ben
came into his father's presence, with no small perturbation of mind.

"Benjamin, come hither," began Mr. Franklin, in his customary solemn and
weighty tone.

The boy approached, and stood before his father's chair, waiting
reverently to hear what judgment this good man would pass upon his late
offence. He felt that now the right and wrong of the whole matter would
be made to appear.

"Benjamin," said his father, "what could induce you to take property
which did not belong to you?"

"Why, father," replied Ben, hanging his head, at first, but then lifting
his eyes to Mr. Franklin's face, "if it had been merely for my own
benefit, I never should have dreamed of it. But I knew that the wharf
would be a public convenience. If the owner of the stones should build a
house with them, nobody will enjoy any advantage except himself. Now, I
made use of them in a way that was for the advantage of many persons. I
thought it right to aim at doing good to the greatest number."

"My son," said Mr. Franklin, solemnly, "so far as it was in your power,
you have done a greater harm to the public, than to the owner of the
stones."

"How can that be, father?" asked Ben.

"Because," answered his father, "in building your wharf with stolen
materials, you have committed a moral wrong. There is no more terrible
mistake, than to violate what is eternally right, for the sake of a
seeming expediency. Those who act upon such a principle, do the utmost
in their power to destroy all that is good in the world."

"Heaven forbid!" said Benjamin.

"No act," continued Mr. Franklin, "can possibly be for the benefit of
the public generally, which involves injustice to any individual. It
would be easy to prove this by examples. But, indeed, can we suppose
that our all-wise and just Creator would have so ordered the affairs of
the world, that a wrong act should be the true method of attaining a
right end? It is impious to think so! And I do verily believe, Benjamin,
that almost all the public and private misery of mankind arises from a
neglect of this great truth--that evil can produce only evil--that good
ends must be wrought out by good means."

"I will never forget it again," said Benjamin, bowing his head.

"Remember," concluded his father, "that, whenever we vary from the
highest rule of right, just so far we do an injury to the world. It may
seem otherwise for the moment; but, both in Time and in Eternity, it
will be found so."

To the close of his life, Ben Franklin never forgot this conversation
with his father; and we have reason to suppose, that in most of his
public and private career, he endeavored to act upon the principles
which that good and wise man had then taught him.

After the great event of building the wharf, Ben continued to cut
wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for about two years. But, as he had no
love for that occupation, his father often took him to see various
artisans at their work, in order to discover what trade he would prefer.
Thus Ben learned the use of a great many tools, the knowledge of which
afterwards proved very useful to him. But he seemed much inclined to go
to sea. In order to keep him at home, and likewise to gratify his taste
for letters, the lad was bound apprentice to his elder brother, who had
lately set up a printing-office in Boston.

Here he had many opportunities of reading new books, and of hearing
instructive conversation. He exercised himself so successfully in
writing composition, that, when no more than thirteen or fourteen years
old, he became a contributor to his brother's newspaper. Ben was also a
versifier, if not a poet. He made two doleful ballads; one about the
shipwreck of Captain Worthilake, and the other about the pirate Black
Beard, who not long before, infested the American seas.

When Ben's verses were printed, his brother sent him to sell them to the
town's-people, wet from the press. "Buy my ballads!" shouted Benjamin,
as he trudged through the streets, with a basketful on his arm. "Who'll
buy a ballad about Black Beard? A penny a piece! a penny a piece! who'll
buy my ballads?"

If one of those roughly composed and rudely printed ballads could be
discovered now, it would be worth more than its weight in gold.

In this way our friend Benjamin spent his boyhood and youth, until, on
account of some disagreement with his brother, he left his native town
and went to Philadelphia. He landed in the latter city, a homeless and
hungry young man, and bought three-pence worth of bread to satisfy his
appetite. Not knowing where else to go, he entered a Quaker
meeting-house, sat down, and fell fast asleep. He has not told us
whether his slumbers were visited by any dreams. But it would have been
a strange dream, indeed, and an incredible one, that should have
foretold how great a man he was destined to become, and how much he
would be honored in that very city, where he was now friendless, and
unknown.

So here we finish our story of the childhood of Benjamin Franklin. One
of these days, if you would know what he was in his manhood, you must
read his own works, and the history of American Independence.


"Do let us hear a little more of him!" said Edward; "not that I admire
him so much as many other characters; but he interests me, because he
was a Yankee boy."

"My dear son," replied Mr. Temple, "it would require a whole volume of
talk, to tell you all that is worth knowing about Benjamin Franklin.
There is a very pretty anecdote of his flying a kite in the midst of a
thunder-storm, and thus drawing down the lightning from the clouds, and
proving that it was the same thing as electricity. His whole life would
be an interesting story, if we had time to tell it."

"But, pray, dear father, tell us what made him so famous," said George.
"I have seen his portrait a great many times. There is a wooden bust of
him in one of our streets, and marble ones, I suppose, in some other
places. And towns, and ships of war, and steamboats, and banks, and
academies, and children, are often named after Franklin. Why should he
have grown so very famous?"

"Your question is a reasonable one, George," answered his father. "I
doubt whether Franklin's philosophical discoveries, important as they
were, or even his vast political services, would have given him all the
fame which he acquired. It appears to me that Poor Richard's Almanac did
more than any thing else towards making him familiarly known to the
public. As the writer of those proverbs, which Poor Richard was supposed
to utter, Franklin became the counsellor and household friend of almost
every family in America. Thus, it was the humblest of all his labors
that has done the most for his fame."

"I have read some of those proverbs," remarked Edward; "but I do not
like them. They are all about getting money, or saving it."

"Well," said his father, "they were suited to the condition of the
country; and their effect, upon the whole, has doubtless been
good,--although they teach men but a very small portion of their
duties."




CHAPTER IX.


Hitherto, Mr. Temple's narratives had all been about boys and men. But,
the next evening, he bethought himself that the quiet little Emily would
perhaps be glad to hear the story of a child of her own sex. He
therefore resolved to narrate the youthful adventures of Christina of
Sweden, who began to be a Queen at the age of no more than six years. If
we have any little girls among our readers, they must not suppose that
Christina is set before them as a pattern of what they ought to be. On
the contrary, the tale of her life is chiefly profitable as showing the
evil effects of a wrong education, which caused this daughter of a king
to be both useless and unhappy.

Here follows the story.


QUEEN CHRISTINA.

BORN 1626. DIED 1689.

In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city of Sweden, there was
born, in 1626, a little princess. The king, her father, gave her the
name of Christina, in memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been in
love. His own name was Gustavus Adolphus; and he was also called the
Lion of the North, because he had gained greater fame in war than any
other prince or general then alive. With this valiant king for their
commander, the Swedes had made themselves terrible to the Emperor of
Germany and to the King of France, and were looked upon as the chief
defence of the Protestant religion.

The little Christina was by no means a beautiful child. To confess the
truth, she was remarkably plain. The queen, her mother, did not love her
so much as she ought; partly, perhaps, on account of Christina's want of
beauty, and also, because both the king and queen had wished for a son,
who might have gained as great renown in battle as his father had.

The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond of the infant princess.
When Christina was very young, she was taken violently sick. Gustavus
Adolphus, who was several hundred miles from Stockholm, travelled night
and day, and never rested until he held the poor child in his arms. On
her recovery, he made a solemn festival, in order to show his joy to the
people of Sweden and express his gratitude to Heaven. After this event,
he took his daughter with him in all the journeys which he made through
his kingdom.

Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy little girl. When she
was two years old, the king and herself, in the course of a journey,
came to the strong fortress of Colmar. On the battlements were soldiers
clad in steel armor, which glittered in the sunshine. There were
likewise great cannons, pointing their black mouths at Gustavus and
little Christina, and ready to belch out their smoke and thunder; for
whenever a king enters a fortress it is customary to receive him with a
royal salute of artillery.

But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and his daughter, as they
were about to enter the gateway.

"May it please your Majesty," said he, taking off his steel cap and
bowing profoundly, "I fear that if we receive you with a salute of
cannon, the little princess will be frightened almost to death."

Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and was indeed apprehensive
that the thunder of so many cannon might perhaps throw her into
convulsions. He had almost a mind to tell the captain to let them enter
the fortress quietly, as common people might have done, without all this
head-splitting racket. But no; this would not do.

"Let them fire," said he, waving his hand. "Christina is a soldier's
daughter, and must learn to bear the noise of cannon."

So the captain uttered the word of command, and immediately there was a
terrible peal of thunder from the cannon, and such a gush of smoke that
it enveloped the whole fortress in its volumes. But, amid all the din
and confusion, Christina was seen clapping her little hands, and
laughing in an ecstasy of delight. Probably nothing ever pleased her
father so much as to see that his daughter promised to be fearless as
himself. He determined to educate her exactly as if she had been a boy,
and to teach her all the knowledge needful to the ruler of a kingdom and
the commander of an army.

But Gustavus should have remembered that Providence had created her to
be a woman, and that it was not for him to make a man of her.

However, the king derived great happiness from his beloved Christina. It
must have been a pleasant sight to see the powerful monarch of Sweden
playing in some magnificent hall of the palace with this merry little
girl. Then he forgot that the weight of a kingdom rested upon his
shoulders. He forgot that the wise Chancellor Oxenstiern was waiting to
consult with him how to render Sweden the greatest nation of Europe. He
forgot that the Emperor of Germany and the King of France were plotting
together how they might pull him down from his throne.

Yes; Gustavus forgot all the perils and cares and pompous irksomeness of
a royal life, and was as happy, while playing with his child, as the
humblest peasant in the realm of Sweden. How gayly did they dance along
the marble floor of the palace, this valiant king, with his upright,
martial figure, his warworn visage, and commanding aspect, and the
small, round form of Christina, with her rosy face of childish
merriment! Her little fingers were clasped in her father's hand, which
had held the leading-staff in many famous victories. His crown and
sceptre were her playthings. She could disarm Gustavus of his sword,
which was so terrible to the princes of Europe.

But alas! the king was not long permitted to enjoy Christina's society.
When she was four years old, Gustavus was summoned to take command of
the allied armies of Germany, which were fighting against the Emperor.
His greatest affliction was the necessity of parting with his child; but
people in such high stations have but little opportunity for domestic
happiness. He called an assembly of the Senators of Sweden, and confided
Christina to their care, saying that each one of them must be a father
to her, if he himself should fall in battle.

At the moment of his departure Christina ran towards him, and began to
address him with a speech which somebody had taught her for the
occasion. Gustavus was busied with thoughts about the affairs of the
kingdom, so that he did not immediately attend to the childish voice of
his little girl. Christina, who did not love to be unnoticed,
immediately stopped short, and pulled him by the coat.

"Father," said she, "why do not you listen to my speech?"

In a moment, the king forgot every thing, except that he was parting
with what he loved best in all the world. He caught the child in his
arms, pressed her to his bosom, and burst into tears. Yes; though he was
a brave man, and though he wore a steel corselet on his breast, and
though armies were waiting for him to lead them to battle,--still, his
heart melted within him, and he wept. Christina, too, was so afflicted
that her attendants began to fear that she would actually die of grief.
But probably she was soon comforted; for children seldom remember their
parents quite so faithfully as their parents remember them.

For two years more, Christina remained in the palace at Stockholm. The
queen, her mother, had accompanied Gustavus to the wars. The child,
therefore, was left to the guardianship of five of the wisest men in the
kingdom. But these wise men knew better how to manage the affairs of
state, than how to govern and educate a little girl so as to render her
a good and happy woman.

When two years had passed away, tidings were brought to Stockholm which
filled everybody with triumph and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes
had won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But alas! the warlike king of
Sweden, the Lion of the North, the father of our little Christina,--had
been slain at the foot of a great stone, which still marks the spot of
that hero's death.

Soon after this sad event, a General Assembly, or Congress, consisting
of deputations from the nobles, the clergy, the burghers, and the
peasants of Sweden was summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was for the
purpose of declaring little Christina to be Queen of Sweden, and giving
her the crown and sceptre of her deceased father. Silence being
proclaimed, the Chancellor Oxenstiern arose.

"We desire to know," said he, "whether the people of Sweden will take
the daughter of our dead king, Gustavus Adolphus, to be their Queen."

When the Chancellor had spoken, an old man with white hair, and in
coarse apparel, stood up in the midst of the assembly. He was a peasant,
Lars Larrson by name, and had spent most of his life in laboring on a
farm.

"Who is this daughter of Gustavus?" asked the old man. "We do not know
her. Let her be shown to us."

Then Christina was brought into the hall, and placed before the old
peasant. It was strange, no doubt, to see a child--a little girl of six
years old--offered to the Swedes as their ruler, instead of the brave
king, her father, who had led them to victory so many times. Could her
baby fingers wield a sword in war? Could her childish mind govern the
nation wisely in peace?

But the Swedes do not appear to have asked themselves these questions.
Old Lars Larrson took Christina up in his arms, and gazed earnestly into
her face. He had known the great Gustavus well; and his heart was
touched, when he saw the likeness which the little girl bore to that
heroic monarch.

"Yes," cried he, with the tears gushing down his furrowed cheeks, "this
is truly the daughter of our Gustavus! Here is her father's brow!--here
is his piercing eye! She is his very picture. This child shall be our
queen!"

[Illustration]

Then all the proud nobles of Sweden, and the reverend clergy, and the
burghers, and the peasants, knelt down at the child's feet, and kissed
her hand.

"Long live Christina, queen of Sweden!" shouted they.

Even after she was a woman grown, Christina remembered the pleasure
which she felt in seeing all these men at her feet, and hearing them
acknowledge her as their supreme ruler. Poor child! she was yet to learn
that power does not insure happiness. As yet, however, she had not any
real power. All the public business, it is true, was transacted in her
name; but the kingdom was governed by a number of the most experienced
statesmen, who were called a Regency.

But it was considered necessary that the little queen should be present
at the public ceremonies, and should behave just as if she were in
reality the ruler of the nation. When she was seven years of age, some
ambassadors from the Czar of Muscovy came to the Swedish court. They
wore long beards, and were clad in a strange fashion, with furs, and
other outlandish ornaments; and as they were inhabitants of a
half-civilized country, they did not behave like other people. The
Chancellor Oxenstiern was afraid that the young queen would burst out
a-laughing, at the first sight of these queer ambassadors; or else that
she would be frightened by their unusual aspect.

"Why should I be frightened?" said the little queen;--"and do you
suppose that I have no better manners than to laugh? Only tell me how I
must behave; and I will do it."

Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were introduced; and Christina
received them, and answered their speeches, with as much dignity and
propriety as if she had been a grown woman.

All this time, though Christina was now a queen, you must not suppose
that she was left to act as she pleased. She had a preceptor, named John
Mathias, who was a very learned man, and capable of instructing her in
all the branches of science. But there was nobody to teach her the
delicate graces and gentle virtues of a woman. She was surrounded almost
entirely by men; and had learned to despise the society of her own sex.
At the age of nine years, she was separated from her mother, whom the
Swedes did not consider a proper person to be entrusted with the charge
of her. No little girl, who sits by a New England fireside, has cause to
envy Christina, in the royal palace at Stockholm.

Yet she made great progress in her studies. She learned to read the
classical authors of Greece and Rome, and became a great admirer of the
heroes and poets of old times. Then, as for active exercises, she could
ride on horseback as well as any man in her kingdom. She was fond of
hunting, and could shoot at a mark with wonderful skill. But dancing was
the only feminine accomplishment with which she had any acquaintance.

She was so restless in her disposition, that none of her attendants
were sure of a moment's quiet, neither day nor night. She grew up, I am
sorry to say, a very unamiable person, ill-tempered, proud, stubborn,
and, in short, unfit to make those around her happy, or to be happy
herself. Let every little girl, who has been taught self-control, and a
due regard for the rights of others, thank heaven that she has had
better instruction than this poor little queen of Sweden.

At the age of eighteen, Christina was declared free to govern the
kingdom by herself, without the aid of a regency. At this period of her
life, she was a young woman of striking aspect, a good figure and
intelligent face, but very strangely dressed. She wore a short habit of
gray cloth, with a man's vest over it, and a black scarf around her
neck, but no jewels, nor ornaments of any kind.

Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her appearance, there was
something in her air and manner that proclaimed her as the ruler of a
kingdom. Her eyes, it is said, had a very fierce and haughty look. Old
General Wrangel, who had often caused the enemies of Sweden to tremble
in battle, actually trembled himself, when he encountered the eyes of
the queen. But it would have been better for Christina if she could have
made people love her, by means of soft and gentle looks, instead of
affrighting them by such terrible glances.

And now I have told you almost all that is amusing or instructive, in
the childhood of Christina. Only a few more words need be said about
her; for it is neither pleasant nor profitable to think of many things
that she did, after she grew to be a woman.

When she had worn the crown a few years, she began to consider it
beneath her dignity to be called a queen, because the name implied that
she belonged to the weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to be
proclaimed KING, thus declaring to the world that she despised her own
sex, and was desirous of being ranked among men. But in the
twenty-eighth year of her age, Christina grew tired of royalty, and
resolved to be neither a king nor a queen any longer. She took the crown
from her head, with her own hands, and ceased to be the ruler of Sweden.
The people did not greatly regret her abdication; for she had governed
them ill, and had taken much of their property to supply her
extravagance.

Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Christina left Sweden and
travelled over many of the countries of Europe. Everywhere, she was
received with great ceremony, because she was the daughter of the
renowned Gustavus, and had herself been a powerful queen. Perhaps you
would like to know something about her personal appearance, in the
latter part of her life. She is described as wearing a man's vest, a
short gray petticoat, embroidered with gold and silver, and a black wig,
which was thrust awry upon her head. She wore no gloves, and so seldom
washed her hands that nobody could tell what had been their original
color. In this strange dress, and, I suppose, without washing her hands
or face, she visited the magnificent court of Louis the Fourteenth.

She died in 1689. None loved her while she lived, nor regretted her
death, nor planted a single flower upon her grave. Happy are the little
girls of America, who are brought up quietly and tenderly, at the
domestic hearth, and thus become gentle and delicate women! May none of
them ever lose the loveliness of their sex, by receiving such an
education as that of Queen Christina!

       *       *       *       *       *

Emily, timid, quiet, and sensitive, was the very reverse of little
Christina. She seemed shocked at the idea of such a bold and masculine
character as has been described in the foregoing story.

"I never could have loved her," whispered she to Mrs. Temple; and then
she added, with that love of personal neatness, which generally
accompanies purity of heart:--"It troubles me to think of her unclean
hands!"

"Christina was a sad specimen of womankind, indeed," said Mrs. Temple.
"But it is very possible for a woman to have a strong mind, and to be
fitted for the active business of life, without losing any of her
natural delicacy. Perhaps, some time or other, Mr. Temple will tell you
a story of such a woman."

It was now time for Edward to be left to repose. His brother George
shook him heartily by the hand, and hoped, as he had hoped twenty times
before, that to-morrow or the next day, Ned's eyes would be strong
enough to look the sun right in the face.

"Thank you, George," replied Edward, smiling; "but I am not half so
impatient as at first. If my bodily eyesight were as good as yours,
perhaps I could not see things so distinctly with my mind's eye. But now
there is a light within which shows me the little Quaker artist, Ben
West, and Isaac Newton with his windmill, and stubborn Sam Johnson, and
stout Noll Cromwell, and shrewd Ben Franklin, and little Queen Christina
with the Swedes kneeling at her feet. It seems as if I really saw these
personages face to face. So I can bear the darkness outside of me pretty
well."

When Edward ceased speaking, Emily put up her mouth and kissed him as
her farewell for the night.

"Ah, I forgot!" said Edward, with a sigh. "I cannot see any of your
faces. What would it signify to see all the famous people in the world,
if I must be blind to the faces that I love?"

"You must try to see us with your heart, my dear child," said his
mother.

Edward went to bed, somewhat dispirited, but quickly falling asleep, was
visited with such a pleasant dream of the sunshine and of his dearest
friends that he felt the happier for it all the next day. And we hope to
find him still happy when we meet again.


THE END.




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