True Stories From History and Biography (22 page)

"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."

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!"

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,—

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!"