“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.”
CHAPTER XI. GRANDFATHER’S DREAM.
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 his 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 Grandfather’s Dream.
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.