True Stories From History and Biography (23 page)

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.

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.

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."