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Page 17
CHAPTER IX.
The children were now accustomed to assemble round Grandfather's chair,
at all their unoccupied moments; and often it was a striking picture to
behold the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath of young
people around him. When he talked to them, it was the past speaking to
the present,--or rather to the future, for the children were of a
generation which had not become actual. Their part in life, thus far,
was only to be happy, and to draw knowledge from a thousand sources. As
yet, it was not their time to do.
Sometimes, as Grandfather gazed at their fair, unworldly countenances, a
mist of tears bedimmed his spectacles. He almost regretted that it was
necessary for them to know any thing of the past, or to provide aught
for the future. He could have wished that they might be always the
happy, youthful creatures, who had hitherto sported around his chair,
without inquiring whether it had a history. It grieved him to think that
his little Alice, who was a flower-bud fresh from paradise, must open
her leaves to the rough breezes of the world, or ever open them in any
clime. So sweet a child she was, that it seemed fit her infancy should
be immortal!
But such repinings were merely flitting shadows across the old man's
heart. He had faith enough to believe, and wisdom enough to know, that
the bloom of the flower would be even holier and happier than its bud.
Even within himself,--though Grandfather was now at that period of life,
when the veil of mortality is apt to hang heavily over the soul,--still,
in his inmost being, he was conscious of something that he would not
have exchanged for the best happiness of childhood. It was a bliss to
which every sort of earthly experience,--all that he had enjoyed or
suffered, or seen, or heard, or acted, with the broodings of his soul
upon the whole,--had contributed somewhat. In the same manner must a
bliss, of which now they could have no conception, grow up within these
children, and form a part of their sustenance for immortality.
So Grandfather, with renewed cheerfulness, continued his history of the
chair, trusting that a profounder wisdom than his own would extract,
from these flowers and weeds of Time, a fragrance that might last beyond
all time.
At this period of the story, Grandfather threw a glance backward, as far
as the year 1660. He spoke of the ill-concealed reluctance with which
the Puritans in America had acknowledged the sway of Charles the Second,
on his restoration to his father's throne. When death had stricken
Oliver Cromwell, that mighty protector had no sincerer mourners than in
New England. The new king had been more than a year upon the throne
before his accession was proclaimed in Boston; although the neglect to
perform the ceremony might have subjected the rulers to the charge of
treason.
During the reign of Charles the Second, however, the American colonies
had but little reason to complain of harsh or tyrannical treatment. But
when Charles died, in 1685, and was succeeded by his brother James, the
patriarchs of New England began to tremble. King James was a bigoted
Roman Catholic, and was known to be of an arbitrary temper. It was
feared by all Protestants, and chiefly by the Puritians, that he would
assume despotic power, and attempt to establish Popery throughout his
dominions. Our forefathers felt that they had no security either for
their religion or their liberties.
The result proved that they had reason for their apprehensions. King
James caused the charters of all the American colonies to be taken away.
The old charter of Massachusetts, which the people regarded as a holy
thing, and as the foundation of all their liberties, was declared void.
The colonists were now no longer freemen; they were entirely dependent
on the king's pleasure. At first, in 1685, King James appointed Joseph
Dudley, a native of Massachusetts, to be president of New England. But
soon afterwards, Sir Edmund Andros, an officer of the English army,
arrived, with a commission to be governor-general of New England and New
York.
The king had given such powers to Sir Edmund Andros, that there was now
no liberty, nor scarcely any law, in the colonies over which he ruled.
The inhabitants were not allowed to choose representatives, and
consequently had no voice whatever in the government, nor control over
the measures that were adopted. The counsellors, with whom the governor
consulted on matters of state, were appointed by himself. This sort of
government was no better than an absolute despotism.
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