Grandfather's Chair: Nathaniel Hawthorne Tells Mary Dyer’s Story

Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in 1804 in Salem, Massachusetts. He became one of the most renowned authors of the nineteenth century. A friend to fellow writers and transcendentalists Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Louisa May Alcott, their shared philosophy sometimes colored his writing. But his writing was more influenced by Salem. He was embarrassed by his strange hometown that was so branded by its past. So he moved away in 1850 never to return—except in his writing. And there he returned repeatedly. Hawthorne’s embarrassment went beyond Salem the place. Indeed he felt a personal responsibility; his own family had had a hand in its most regrettable incidents. His ancestor William Hathorne had sat in judgment of persecuted Quakers and that ancestor’s son, John, had been a magistrate sitting as judge at the Salem Witch Trials. Thus, Hawthorne’s writings (most notably The Scarlet Letter) sometimes attempt to atone for the errors of his family’s past by calling attention to Puritan leaders’ failings. Such is the case with one of his least known books. Often this book is not even to be found in the listings of his writings. It’s a remarkable volume, written for children, that tells the story of New England through the fictionalized journeys of a single chair. The full title of the book is The Whole History Of Grandfather's Chair or True Stories From New England History, 1620-1808. It was first published in 1841. Our interest in this book, Grandfather's Chair for short, is that, in its pages we find the story of Mary Dyer, my ninth-great-grandmother. It is that tale that follows (the text is in the public domain): WHEN his little audience next assembled round the chair, Grandfather gave them a doleful history of the Quaker persecution, which began in 1656, and raged for about three years in Massachusetts. He told them how, in the first place, twelve of the converts of George Fox, the first Quaker in the world, had come over from England. They seemed to be impelled by an earnest love for the souls of men, and a pure desire to make known what they considered a revelation from Heaven. But the rulers looked upon them as plotting the downfall of all government and religion. They were banished from the colony. In a little while, however, not only the first twelve had returned, but a multitude of other Quakers had come to rebuke the rulers and to preach against the priests and steeple-houses. Grandfather described the hatred and scorn with which these enthusiasts were received. They were thrown into dungeons; they were beaten with many stripes, women as well as men; they were driven forth into the wilderness, and left to the tender mercies of wild beasts and Indians. The children were amazed to hear that the more the Quakers were scourged, and imprisoned, and banished, the more did the sect increase, both by the influx of strangers and by converts from among the Puritans. But Grandfather told them that God had put something into the soul of man, which always turned the cruelties of the persecutor to naught. He went on to relate that, in 1659, two Quakers, named William Robinson and Marmaduke Stephenson, were hanged at Boston. A woman had been sentenced to die with them, but was reprieved on condition of her leaving the colony. Her name was Mary Dyer. In the year 1660 she returned to Boston, although she knew death awaited her there; and, if Grandfather had been correctly informed, an incident had then taken place which connects her with our story. This Mary Dyer had entered the mint-master's dwelling, clothed in sackcloth and ashes, and seated herself in our great chair with a sort of dignity and state. Then she proceeded to deliver what she called a message from Heaven, but in the midst of it they dragged her to prison. "And was she executed?" asked Laurence. "She was," said Grandfather. "Grandfather," cried Charley, clinching his fist, "I would have fought for that poor Quaker woman!" "Ah, but if a sword had been drawn for her," said Laurence, "it would have taken away all the beauty of her death." It seemed as if hardly any of the preceding stories had thrown such an interest around Grandfather's chair as did the fact that the poor, persecuted, wandering Quaker woman had rested in it for a moment. The children were so much excited that Grandfather found it necessary to bring his account of the persecution to a close. "In 1660, the same year in which Mary Dyer was executed," said he, "Charles II was restored to the throne of his fathers. This king had many vices; but he would not permit blood to be shed, under pretense of religion, in any part of his dominions. The Quakers in England told him what had been done to their brethren in Massachusetts; and he sent orders to Governor Endicott to forbear all such proceedings in future. And so ended the Quaker persecution—one of the most mournful passages in the history of our forefathers."

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