Then the half-frenzied shape of Mary Dyer, the persecuted Quaker woman, clad in sackcloth and ashes would have rested in it for a moment.

Then the holy, apostolic form of Eliot would have sanctified it.

Then would have arisen, like the shade of departed Puritanism, the venerable dignity of the white-bearded Governor Bradstreet.

Lastly, on the gorgeous crimson cushion of Grandfather's chair would have shone the purple and golden magnificence of Sir William Phips.

But all these, with the other historic personages, in the midst of whom the chair had so often stood, had passed, both in substance and shadow, from the scene of ages.