True Stories From History and Biography (8 page)

"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!"

"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.

"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.