Grandfather\'s Chair
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Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Grandfather\'s Chair
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14 THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR
or
TRUE STORIES FROM NEW ENGLAND HISTORY, 1620-1808
by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
CONTENTS.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
PART I.
I. GRANDFATHER AND THE CHILDREN AND THE CHAIR
II. THE PURITANS AND THE LADY ARBELLA
III. A RAINY DAY
IV. TROUBLOUS TIMES
V. THE GOVERNMENT OF NEW ENGLAND
VI. THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS
VII. THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS
VIII. THE INDIAN BIBLE
IX. ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND
X. THE SUNKEN TREASURE
XI. WHAT THE CHAIR HAD KNOWN
APPENDIX. EXTRACTS FROM THE LIFE OF JOHN ELIOT
PART II.
I. THE CHAIR IN THE FIRELIGHT
II. THE SALEM WITCHES
III. THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL
IV. COTTON MATHER
V. THE REJECTED BLESSING
VI. POMPS AND VANITIES
VII. THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER
VIII. THE OLD FRENCH WAR AND THE ACADIAN EXILES.
IX. THE END OF THE WAR
X. THOMAS HUTCHINSON
APPENDIX. ACCOUNT OF THE DEPORTATION OF THE ACADIANS
PART III.
I. A NEW YEAR’S DAY
II. THE STAMP ACT
III. THE HUTCHINSON MOB
IV. THE BRITISH TROOPS IN BOSTON
V. THE BOSTON MASSACRE
VI. A COLLECTION OF PORTRAITS
VII. THE TEA PARTY AND LEXINGTON
VIII. THE SIEGE OF BOSTON
IX. THE TORY'S FAREWELL
X. THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE
XI. GRANDFATHER'S DREAM
APPENDIX. A LETTER FROM GOVERNOR HUTCHINSON
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
IN writing this ponderous tome, the author's desire has been to describe
the eminent characters and remarkable events of our annals in such a
form and style that the YOUNG may make acquaintance with them of their
own accord. For this purpose, while ostensibly relating the adventures
of a chair, he has endeavored to keep a distinct and unbroken thread of
authentic history. The chair is made to pass from one to another of
those personages of whom he thought it most desirable for the young
reader to have vivid and familiar ideas, and whose lives and actions
would best enable him to give picturesque sketches of the times. On its
sturdy oaken legs it trudges diligently from one scene to another, and
seems always to thrust itself in the way, with most benign complacency,
whenever an historical personage happens to be looking round for a seat.
There is certainly no method by which the shadowy outlines of departed
men and women can be made to assume the hues of life more effectually
than by connecting their images with the substantial and homely reality
of a fireside chair. It causes us to feel at once that these characters
of history had a private and familiar existence, and were not wholly
contained within that cold array of outward action which we are
compelled to receive as the adequate representation of their lives. If
this impression can be given, much is accomplished.
Setting aside Grandfather and his auditors, and excepting the adventures
of the chair, which form the machinery of the work, nothing in the
ensuing pages can be termed fictitious. The author, it is true, has
sometimes assumed the license of filling up the outline of history with
details for which he has none but imaginative authority, but which, he
hopes, do not violate nor give a false coloring to the truth. He
believes that, in this respect, his narrative will not be found to
convey ideas and impressions of which the reader may hereafter find it
necessary to purge his mind.
The author's great doubt is, whether he has succeeded in writing a book
which will be readable by the class for whom he intends it. To make a
lively and entertaining narrative for children, with such unmalleable
material as is presented by the sombre, stern, and rigid characteristics
of the Puritans and their descendants, is quite as difficult an attempt
as to manufacture delicate playthings out of the granite, rocks on which
New England is founded.
GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR.
PART I.
1620-1692.
CHAPTER I.
GRANDFATHER AND THE CHILDREN AND THE CHAIR.
GRANDFATHER had been sitting in his old arm-chair all that pleasant
afternoon, while the children were pursuing their various sports far off
or near at hand, Sometimes you would have said, "Grandfather is asleep;"
hut still, even when his eyes were closed, his thoughts were with the
young people, playing among the flowers and shrubbery of the garden.
He heard the voice of Laurence, who had taken possession of a heap of
decayed branches which the gardener had lopped from the fruit-trees, and
was building a little hut for his cousin Clara and himself. He heard
Clara's gladsome voice, too, as she weeded and watered the flower-bed
which had been given her for her own. He could have counted every
footstep that Charley took, as he trundled his wheelbarrow along the
gravel-walk. And though' Grandfather was old and gray-haired, yet his
heart leaped with joy whenever little Alice came fluttering, like a
butterfly, into the room. Sire had made each of the children her
playmate in turn, and now made Grandfather her playmate too, and thought
him the merriest of them all.
At last the children grew weary of their sports. because a summer
afternoon is like a long lifetime to the young. So they came into the
room together, anti clustered round Grandfather's great chair. Little
Alice, who was hardly five years old, took the privilege of the
youngest, and climbed his knee. It was a pleasant thing to behold that
fair and golden-haired child in the lap of the old man, and to think
that, different as they were, the hearts of both could be gladdened with
the same joys.
"Grandfather," said little Alice, laying her head back upon his arm, "I
am very tired now. You must tell me a story to make me go to sleep."
"That is not what story-tellers like," answered Grandfather, smiling.
"They are better satisfied when they can keep their auditors awake."
"But here are Laurence, and Charley, and I," cried cousin Clara, who was
twice as old as little Alice. "We will all three keep wide awake. And
pray, Grandfather, tell us a story about this strange-looking old
chair."
Now, the chair in which Grandfather sat was made of oak, which had grown
dark with age, but had been rubbed and polished till it shone as bright
as mahogany. It was very large and heavy, and had. a back that rose high
above Grandfather's white head. This back was curiously carved in open
work, so as to represent flowers, and foliage, and other devices, which
the children had often gazed at, but could never understand what they
meant. On the very tip-top of the chair, over the head of Grandfather
himself, was a likeness of a lion's head, which had such a savage grin
that you would almost expect to hear it growl and snarl.
The children had seen Grandfather sitting in this chair ever since they
could remember anything. Perhaps the younger of them supposed that he
and the chair had come into the world together, and that both had always
been as old as they were now. At this time, however, it happened to be
the fashion for ladies to adorn their drawing-rooms with the oldest and
oddest chairs that could be found. It seemed to cousin Clara that, if
these ladies could have seen Grandfather's old chair, they would have
thought it worth all the rest together. She wondered if it were not even
older than Grandfather himself, and longed to know all about its
history.
"Do, Grandfather, talk to us about this chair," she repeated.
"Well, child," said Grandfather, patting Clara's cheek, "I can tell you
a great many stories of my chair. Perhaps your cousin Laurence would
like to hear them too. They would teach him something about the history
and distinguished people of his country which he has never read in any
of his schoolbooks."
Cousin Laurence was a boy of twelve, a bright scholar, in whom an early
thoughtfulness and sensibility began to show themselves. His young fancy
kindled at the idea of knowing all the adventures of this venerable
chair. He looked eagerly in Grandfather's face; and even Charley, a
bold, brisk, restless little fellow of nine, sat himself down on the
carpet, and resolved to be quiet for at least ten minutes, should the
story last so long.
Meantime, little Alice was already asleep; so Grandfather, being much
pleased with such an attentive audience, began to talk about matters
that happened long ago.
CHAPTER II.
THE PURITANS AND THE LADY ARBELLA,
BUT before relating the adventures of the chairs found it necessary to
speak of circumstances that caused the first settlement of New England.
For it will soon be perceived that the story of this remarkable chair
cannot be told without telling a great deal of the history of the
country.
So Grandfather talked about the Puritans, {Foot Note: It is more precise
to give the name of Pilgrims to those Englishmen who went to Holland and
afterward to Plymouth. They were sometimes called Separatists because
they separated themselves from the church of England, sometimes
Brownists after the name of one of their eminent ministers. The Puritans
formed a great political as well as religious party in England, and did
not at first separate themselves from the church of England, though
those who came to this country did so at once.} as those persons were
called who thought it sinful to practise certain religious forms and
ceremonies of the Church of England. These Puritans suffered so much
persecuted in England that, in 1607, many of them went over to Holland,
and lived ten or twelve years at Amsterdam and Leyden. But they feared
that, if they continued there much longer, they should cease to be
England, and should adopt all the manners, and ideas, and feelings of
the Dutch. For this and other reasons, in the year 1620 they embarked on
board the ship Mayflower, and crossed the ocean, to the shores of Cape
Cod. There they made a settlement, and called it Plymouth, which,
though now a part of Massachusetts, was for a long time a colony by
itself. And thus was formed the earliest settlement of the Puritans in
America.
Meantime, those of the Puritans who remained in England continued to
suffer grievous persecution on account of their religious opinions. They
began to look around them for some spot where they might worship God,
not as the king and bishops thought fit, but according to the dictates
of their own consciences. When their brethren had gone from Holland to
America, they bethought themselves that they likewise might find refuge
from persecution there. Several gentlemen among them purchased a tract
of country on the coast of Massachusetts Bay, and obtained a charter
from King Charles, which authorized them to make laws for the settlers.
In the year 1628 they sent over a few people, with John Endicott at
their bead, to commence a plantation at Salem. {Foot Note: The Puritans
had a liking for Biblical names for their children, and they sometimes
gave names out of the Bible to places, Salem means Peace. The Indian
name was Naumkeag.} Peter Palfrey, Roger Conant, and one or two more had
built houses there in 1626, and may be considered as the first settlers
of that ancient town. Many other Puritans prepared to follow Endicott.
"And now we come to the chair, my dear children,'' said Grandfather.
"This chair is supposed to have been made of an oak-tree which grew in
the park of the English Earl of Lincoln between two and three centuries
ago. In its younger days it used, probably, to stand in the hall of the
earl's castle. I)o not you see the coat of arms of the family of Lincoln
carved in the open work of the back? But when his daughter, the Lady
Arbella, was married to a certain Mr. Johnson, the earl gave her this
valuable chair."
"Who was Mr. Johnson?" inquired Clara.
"He was a gentleman of great wealth, who agreed with the Puritans in
their religious opinions," answered Grandfather. "And as his belief was
the same as theirs, he resolved that he would live and die with them.
Accordingly, in the month of April, 1630, he left his pleasant abode and
all his comforts in England, and embarked, with Lady Arbella, on board
of a ship bound for America."
As Grandfather was frequently impeded by the questions and observations
of his young auditors, we deem it advisable to omit all such prattle as
is no( essential to the story. We have taken some pains to find out
exactly what Grandfather said, and here offer to our readers, as nearly
as possible in his own words, the story of the Lady Arbella.
The ship in which Mr. Johnson and his lady embarked, taking
Grandfather's chair along with them, was called the Arbella, in honor of
the lady herself. A fleet of ten or twelve vessels, with many hundred
passengers, left England about the same time; for a multitude of people,
who were discontented with the king's government and oppressed by the
bishops, were flocking over to the New World. One of the vessels in the
fleet was that same Mayflower which had carried the Puritan Pilgrims to
Plymouth. And now, my children, I would have you fancy yourselves in the
cabin of the good ship Arbella; because, if you could behold the
passengers aboard that vessel, you would feel what a blessing and honor
it was for New England to have such settlers. They were the best men and
women of their day.
Among the passengers was John Winthrop, who had sold the estate of his
forefathers, and was going to prepare a new home for his wife and
children in the wilderness. He had the king's charter in his keeping,
and was appointed the first governor of Massachusetts. Imagine him a
person of grave and benevolent aspect, dressed in a black velvet suit,
with a broad ruff around his neck, and a peaked beard upon his chin.
{Foot Note: There is a statue representing John Winthrop in Scollay
Square in Boston. He holds the charter in his hand, and a Bible is under
his arm.} There was likewise a minister of the gospel whom the English
bishops had forbidden to preach, but who knew that he should have
liberty both to preach and pray in the forests of America. He wore a
black cloak, called a Geneva cloak, and had a black velvet cap, fitting
close to his head, as was the fashion of almost all the Puritan
clergymen. In their company came Sir Richard Saltonstall, who had been
one of the five first projectors of the new colony. He soon returned to
his native country. But his descendants still remain in New England; and
the good old family name is as much respected in our days as it was in
those of Sir Richard.
Not only these, but several other men of wealth and pious ministers were
in the cabin of the Arbella. One had banished himself forever from the
old hall where his ancestors had lived for hundreds of years. Another
had left his quiet parsonage, in a country town of England. Others had
come from the Universities of Oxford or Cambridge, where they had gained
great fame for their learning. And here they all were, tossing upon the
uncertain and dangerous sea, and bound for a home that was more
dangerous than even the sea itself. In the cabin, likewise, sat the Lady
Arbella in her chair, with a gentle and sweet expression on her face,
but looking too pale and feeble to endure the hardships of the
wilderness.
Every morning and evening the Lady Arbella gave up her great chair to
one of the ministers, who took his place in it and read passages from
the Bible to his companions. And thus, with prayers, and pious
conversation, and frequent singing of hymns, which the breezes caught
from their lips and scattered far over the desolate waves, they
prosecuted their voyage, and sailed into the harbor of Salem in the
month of June.
At that period there were but six or eight dwellings in the town; and
these were miserable hovels, with roofs of straw and wooden chimneys.
The passengers in the fleet either built huts with bark and branches of
trees, or erected tents of cloth till they could provide themselves with
better shelter. Many of them went to form a settlement at Charlestown.
It was thought fit that the Lady Arbella should tarry in Salem for a
time; she was probably received as a guest into the family of John
Endicott. He was the chief person in the plantation, and had the only
comfortable house which the new-comers had beheld since they left
England. So now, children, you must imagine Grandfather's chair in the
midst of a new scene.
Suppose it a hot summer's day, and the lattice-windows of a chamber in
Mr. Endicott's house thrown wide open. The Lady Arbella, looking paler
than she did on shipboard, is sitting in her chair, and thinking
mournfully of far-off England. She rises and goes to the window. There,
amid patches Of garden ground and cornfield, she sees the few wretched
hovels of the settlers, with the still ruder wigwams and cloth tents of
the passengers who had arrived in the same fleet with herself. Far and
near stretches the dismal forest of pine-trees, which throw their black
shadows over the whole land, and likewise over the heart of this poor
lady.
All the inhabitants of the little village are busy. One is clearing a
spot on the verge of the forest for his homestead; another is hewing the
trunk of a fallen pine-tree, in order to build himself a dwelling; a
third is hoeing in his field of Indian corn. Here comes a huntsman out
of the woods, dragging a bear which he has shot, and shouting to the
neighbors to lend him a hand. There goes a man to the sea-shore, with a
spade and a bucket, to dig a mess of clams, which were a principal
article of food with the first settlers. Scattered here and there are
two or three dusky figures, clad in mantles of fur, with ornaments of
bone hanging from their ears, and the feathers of wild birds in their
coal-black hair. They have belts of shellwork slung across their
shoulders, and are armed with bows and arrows, and flint-headed spears.
These are an Indian sagamore and his attendants, who have come to gaze
at the labors of the white men. And now rises a cry that a pack of
wolves have seized a young calf in the pasture; and every man snatches
up his gun or pike and runs in chase of the marauding beasts.
Poor Lady Arbella watches all these sights, and feels that this New
World is fit only for rough and hardy people. None should be here but
those who can struggle with wild beasts and wild men, and can toil in
the heat or cold, and can keep their hearts firm against all
difficulties and dangers. But she is not of these. Her gentle and timid
spirit sinks within her; and, turning away from the window, she sits
down in the great chair and wonders whereabouts in the wilderness her
friends will dig her grave.
Mr. Johnson had gone, with Governor Winthrop and most of the other
passengers, to Boston, where he intended to build a house for Lady
Arbella and himself. Boston was then covered with wild woods, and had
fewer inhabitants, even, than Salem. During her husband's absence, poor
Lady Arbella felt herself growing ill, and was hardly able to stir from
the great chair. Whenever John Endicott noticed her despondency he
doubtless addressed her with words of comfort. "Cheer up, my good lady!"
he would say.
"In a little time you will love this rude life of the wilderness as I
do." But Endicott's heart was as bold and resolute as iron, and he could
not understand why a woman's heart should not be of iron too.
Still, however, he spoke kindly to the lady, and then hastened forth to
till his cornfield and set out fruit-trees, or to bargain with the
Indians for furs, or perchance to oversee the building of a fort. Also,
being a magistrate, he had often to punish some idler or evil doer, by
ordering him to be set in the stocks or scourged at the whipping-post.
Often, too, as was the custom of the times, he and Mr. Higginson, the
minister of Salem, held long religious talks together. Thus John
Endicott was a man of multifarious business, and had no time to look
back regretfully to his native land. He felt himself fit for the New
World and for the work that he had to do, and set himself resolutely to
accomplish it.
What a contrast, my dear children, between this bold, rough, active man,
and the gentle Lady Arbella, who was fading away, like a pale English
flower, in the shadow of the forest! And now the great chair was often
empty, because Lady Arbella grew too weak to arise from bed.
Meantime, her husband had pitched upon a spot for their new home. He
returned from Boston to Salem, travelling through the woods on foot, and
leaning on his pilgrim's staff. His heart yearned within him; for he was
eager to tell his wife of the new home which he had chosen. But when he
beheld her pale and hollow cheek, and found how her strength was wasted,
he must have known that her appointed home was in a better land. Happy
for him then--happy both for him and her--if they remembered that there
was a path to heaven, as well from this heathen wilderness as from the
Christian land whence they had come. And so, in one short month from her
arrival, the gentle Lady Arbella faded away and died. They dug a grave
for her in the new soil, where the roots of the pine-trees impeded their
spades; and when her bones had rested there nearly two hundred years,
and a city had sprung up around them, a church of stone was built upon
the spot.
Charley, almost at the commencement of the foregoing narrative, had
galloped away, with a prodigious clatter, upon Grandfather's stick, and
was not yet returned. So large a boy should have been ashamed to ride
upon a stick. But Laurence and Clara had listened attentively, and were
affected by this true story of the gentle lady who had come so far to
die so soon. Grandfather had supposed that little Alice was asleep; but
towards the close of the story, happening to look down upon her, he saw
that her blue eyes were wide open, and fixed earnestly upon his face.
The tears had gathered in them, like dew upon a delicate flower; but
when Grandfather ceased to speak, the sunshine of her smile broke forth
again.
"Oh, the lady must have been so glad to get to heaven!" exclaimed little
Alice. "Grandfather, what became of Mr. Johnson?" asked Clara.
"His heart appears to have been quite broken," answered Grandfather;
"for he died at Boston within a month after the death of his wife. He
was buried in the very same tract of ground where he had intended to
build a dwelling for Lady Arbella and himself. Where their house would
have stood, there was his grave."
"I never heard anything so melancholy," said Clara.
"The people loved and respected Mr. Johnson so much," continued
Grandfather, "that it was the last request of many of them, when they
died, that they might be buried as near as possible to this good man's
grave. And so the field became the first burial ground in Boston. When
you pass through Tremont Street, along by King's Chapel, you see a
burial-ground, containing many old grave-stones and monuments. That was
Mr. Johnson's field."
"How sad is the thought," observed Clara, "that one of the first things
which the settlers had to do, when they came to the New World, was to
set apart a burial-ground!"
"Perhaps," said Laurence, "if they had found no need of burial-grounds
here, they would have been glad, after a few years, to go back to
England."
Grandfather looked at Laurence, to discover whether he knew how profound
and true a thing he had said.
CHAPTER III.
A RAINY DAY.
NOT long after Grandfather had told the story of his great chair, there
chanced to be a rainy day. Our friend Charley, after disturbing the
household with beat of drum and riotous shouts, races up and down the
staircase, overturning of chairs, and much other uproar, began to feel
the quiet and confinement within doors intolerable. But as the rain came
down in a flood, the little fellow was hopelessly a prisoner, and now
stood with sullen aspect at a window, wondering whether the sun itself
were not extinguished by so much moisture in the sky.
Charley had already exhausted the less eager activity of the other
children; and they had betaken themselves to occupations that did not
admit of his companionship. Laurence sat in a recess near the book-ease,
reading, not for the first time, the Midsummer Night's Dream. Clara was
making a rosary of beads for a little figure of a Sister of Charity, who
was to attend the Bunker Hill fair and lend her aid in erecting the
Monument. Little Alice sat on Grandfather's footstool, with a picture-
book in her hand; and, for every picture, the child was telling
Grandfather a story. She did not read from the book (for little Alice
had not much skill in reading), but told the story out of her own heart
and mind.
Charley was too big a boy, of course, to care anything about little
Alice's stories, although Grandfather appeared to listen with a good
deal of interest. Often in a young child's ideas and fancies, there, is
something which it requires the thought of a lifetime to comprehend. But
Charley was of opinion that, if a story must be told, it had better be
told by Grandfather than little Alice.
"Grandfather, I want to hear more about your chair," said he.
Now, Grandfather remembered that Charley had galloped away upon a stick
in the midst of the narrative of poor Lady Arbella, and I know not
whether he would have thought it worth while to tell another story
merely to gratify such an inattentive auditor as Charley. But Laurence
laid down his book and seconded the request. Clara drew her chair nearer
to Grandfather; and little Alice immediately closed her picture-book and
looked up into his face. Grandfather had not the heart to disappoint
them.
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