During this harangue Cranfield gazed fixedly at the speaker, as if he beheld something mysterious and unearthly in his pompous little figure, and as if the squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage instead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, velvet breeches and silk stockings. Nor was his wonder without sufficient cause, for the flourish of the squire's staff, marvellous to relate, had described precisely the signal in the air which was to ratify the message of the prophetic sage whom Cranfield had sought around the world.
“And what,” inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a tremor in his voice — ”what may this office be which is to equal me with kings and potentates?”
“No less than instructor of our village school,” answered Squire Hawkwood, “the office being now vacant by the death of the venerable Master Whitaker after a fifty years' incumbency.”
“I will consider of your proposal,” replied Ralph Cranfield, hurriedly, “and will make known my decision within three days.”
After a few more words the village dignitary and his companions took their leave. But to Cranfield's fancy their images were still present, and became more and more invested with the dim awfulness of figures which had first appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shown themselves in his waking moments, assuming homely aspects among familiar things. His mind dwelt upon the features of the squire till they grew confused with those of the visionary sage and one appeared but the shadow of the other. The same visage, he now thought, had looked forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops; the same form had beckoned to him among the colonnades of the Alhambra; the same figure had mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of the Great Geyser. At every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of the dreamy messenger of destiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important, little-great man of the village. Amid such musings Ralph Cranfield sat all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing and vaguely answering his mother's thousand questions about his travels and adventures. At sunset he roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elm tree, his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand pointing downward at the half-obliterated inscription.
As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeams threw his shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadow walked among distant objects, so had there been a presentiment stalking in advance of him throughout his life. And when he drew near each object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still it proved to be one of the familiar recollections of his infancy and youth. Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the more transitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gone days. A company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and refreshed him with their fragrant breath. “It is sweeter,” thought he, “than the perfume which was wafted to our ship from the Spice Islands.” The round little figure of a child rolled from a doorway and lay laughing almost beneath Cranfield's feet. The dark and stately man stooped down, and, lifting the infant, restored him to his mother's arms. “The children,” said he to himself, and sighed and smiled — ”the children are to be my charge.” And while a flow of natural feeling gushed like a well-spring in his heart he came to a dwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. A sweet voice which seemed to come from a deep and tender soul was warbling a plaintive little air within. He bent his head and passed through the lowly door. As his foot sounded upon the threshold a young woman advanced from the dusky interior of the house, at first hastily, and then with a more uncertain step, till they met face to face. There was a singular contrast in their two figures — he dark and picturesque, one who had battled with the world, whom all suns had shone upon and whom all winds had blown on a varied course; she neat, comely and quiet — quiet even in her agitation — as if all her emotions had been subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life. Yet their faces, all unlike as they were, had an expression that seemed not so alien — a glow of kindred feeling flashing upward anew from half-extinguished embers.
“You are welcome home,” said Faith Egerton.
But Cranfield did not immediately answer, for his eye had, been caught by an ornament in the shape of a heart which Faith wore as a brooch upon her bosom. The material was the ordinary white quartz, and he recollected having himself shaped it out of one of those Indian arrowheads which are so often found in the ancient haunts of the red men. It was precisely on the pattern of that worn by the visionary maid. When Cranfield departed on his shadowy search, he had bestowed this brooch, in a gold setting, as a parting gift to Faith Egerton.
“So, Faith, you have kept the heart?” said he, at length.
“Yes,” said she, blushing deeply; then, more gayly, “And what else have you brought me from beyond the sea?”
“Faith,” replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the fated words by an uncontrollable impulse, “I have brought you nothing but a heavy heart. May I rest its weight on you?”
“This token which I have worn so long,” said Faith, laying her tremulous finger on the heart, “is the assurance that you may.”
“Faith, Faith!” cried Cranfield, clasping her in his arms; “you have interpreted my wild and weary dream!”
Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find the mysterious treasure he was to till the earth around his mother's dwelling and reap its products; instead of warlike command or regal or religious sway, he was to rule over the village children; and now the visionary maid had faded from his fancy, and in her place he saw the playmate of his childhood.
Would all who cherish such wild wishes but look around them, they would oftenest find their sphere of duty, of prosperity and happiness, within those precincts and in that station where Providence itself has cast their lot. Happy they who read the riddle without a weary world-search or a lifetime spent in vain!
GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR
This collection of New England tales was first published in 1840.
The 1840 title page
CONTENTS
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART I. 1620-1692.
CHAPTER I. GRANDFATHER AND THE CHILDREN AND THE CHAIR.
CHAPTER II. THE PURITANS AND THE LADY ARBELLA.
CHAPTER III. A RAINY DAY.
CHAPTER IV. TROUBLOUS TIMES.
CHAPTER V. THE GOVERNMENT OF NEW ENGLAND.
CHAPTER VI. THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS.
CHAPTER VII. THE QUAKERS AND THE INDIANS.
CHAPTER VIII. THE INDIAN BIBLE.
CHAPTER IX. ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND.
CHAPTER X. THE SUNKEN TREASURE.
CHAPTER XI. WHAT THE CHAIR HAD KNOWN.
APPENDIX TO GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART I.
EXTRACTS FROM THE LIFE OF JOHN ELIOT,
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART II. 1692-1763.
CHAPTER I. THE CHAIR IN THE FIRELIGHT.
CHAPTER II. THE SALEM WITCHES.
CHAPTER III. THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL.
CHAPTER IV. COTTON MATHER
CHAPTER V. THE REJECTED BLESSING.
CHAPTER VI. POMPS AND VANITIES.
CHAPTER VII. THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER.
CHAPTER VIII. THE OLD FRENCH WAR AND THE ACADIAN EXILES
CHAPTER IX. THE END OF THE WAR.
CHAPTER X. THOMAS HUTCHINSON.
APPENDIX TO GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART II.
ACCOUNT OF THE DEPORTATION OF THE ACADIANS.
GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART III. 1763-1803.
CHAPTER I. A NEW-YEAR'S DAY.
CHAPTER II. THE STAMP ACT.
CHAPTER III. THE HUTCHINSON MOB.
CHAPTER IV. THE BRITISH TROOPS IN BOSTON.
CHAPTER V. THE BOSTON MASSACRE.
CHAPTER VI. A COLLECTION OF PORTRAITS.
CHAPTER VII. THE TEA PARTY AND LEXINGTON.
CHAPTER VIII. THE SIEGE OF BOSTON.
CHAPTER IX. THE TORY'S FAREWELL.
CHAPTER X. THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE.
CHAPTER XI. GRANDFATHER'S DREAM.
APPENDIX TO GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR: PART III.
A LET
TER FROM GOVERNOR HUTCHINSON NARRATING THE DOINGS OF THE MOB.
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, 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 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. 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.”
Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated) Page 239