True Stories From History and Biography (5 page)

Then the servants, at Captain Hull's command, heaped double handfulls of
shillings into one side of the scales, while Betsey remained in the other.
Jingle, jingle, went the shillings, as handful after handful was thrown
in, till, plump and ponderous as she was, they fairly weighed the young
lady from the floor.

"There, son Sewell!" cried the honest mint-master, resuming his seat in
Grandfather's chair. "Take these shillings for my daughter's portion. Use
her kindly, and thank Heaven for her. It is not every wife that's worth
her weight in silver!"

The children laughed heartily at this legend, and would hardly be
convinced but that Grandfather had made it out of his own head. He assured
them faithfully, however, that he had found it in the pages of a grave
historian, and had merely tried to tell it in a somewhat funnier style. As
for Samuel Sewell, he afterwards became Chief Justice of Massachusetts.

"Well, Grandfather," remarked Clara, "if wedding portions now-a-days were
paid as Miss Betsey's was, young ladies would not pride themselves upon an
airy figure as many of them do."

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 nought.

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, clenching 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 the Second was restored to the throne of his fathers. This king
had many vices; but he would not permit blood to be shed, under pretence
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."

Grandfather then told his auditors, that, shortly after the above
incident, the great chair had been given by the mint-master to the Rev.
Mr. John Eliot. He was the first minister of Roxbury. But besides
attending to his pastoral duties there, he learned the language of the red
men, and often went into the woods to preach to them. So earnestly did he
labor for their conversion, that he has always been called the apostle to
the Indians. The mention of this holy man suggested to Grandfather the
propriety of giving a brief sketch of the history of the Indians, so far
as they were connected with the English colonists.

A short period before the arrival of the first Pilgrims at Plymouth, there
had been a very grievous plague among the red men; and the sages and
ministers of that day were inclined to the opinion, that Providence had
sent this mortality, in order to make room for the settlement of the
English. But I know not why we should suppose that an Indian's life is
less precious, in the eye of Heaven, than that of a white man. Be that as
it may, death had certainly been very busy with the savage tribes.

In many places the English found the wigwams deserted, and the corn-fields
growing to waste, with none to harvest the grain. There were heaps of
earth also, which, being dug open, proved to be Indian graves, containing
bows and flint-headed spears and arrows; for the Indians buried the dead
warrior's weapons along with him. In some spots, there were skulls and
other human bones, lying unburied. In 1633, and the year afterwards, the
smallpox broke out among the Massachusetts Indians, multitudes of whom
died by this terrible disease of the old world. These misfortunes made
them far less powerful than they had formerly been.

For nearly half a century after the arrival of the English, the red men
showed themselves generally inclined to peace and amity. They often made
submission, when they might have made successful war. The Plymouth
settlers, led by the famous Captain Miles Standish, slew some of them in
1623, without any very evident necessity for so doing. In 1636, and the
following year, there was the most dreadful war that had yet occurred
between the Indians and the English. The Connecticut settlers, assisted by
a celebrated Indian chief, named Uncas, bore the brunt of this war, with
but little aid from Massachusetts. Many hundreds of the hostile Indians
were slain, or burnt in their wigwams. Sassacus, their sachem, fled to
another tribe, after his own people were defeated; but he was murdered by
them, and his head was sent to his English enemies.

From that period, down to the time of King Philip's war, which will be
mentioned hereafter, there was not much trouble with the Indians. But the
colonists were always on their guard, and kept their weapons ready for the
conflict.

"I have sometimes doubted," said Grandfather, when he had told these
things to the children, "I have sometimes doubted whether there was more
than a single man, among our forefathers, who realized that an Indian
possesses a mind and a heart, and an immortal soul. That single man was
John Eliot. All the rest of the early settlers seemed to think that the
Indians were an inferior race of beings, whom the Creator had merely
allowed to keep possession of this beautiful country, till the white men
should be in want of it.

"Did the pious men of those days never try to make Christians of them?"
asked Laurence.

"Sometimes, it is true," answered Grandfather, "the magistrates and
ministers would talk about civilizing and converting the red people. But,
at the bottom of their hearts, they would have had almost as much
expectation of civilizing a wild bear of the woods, and making him fit for
paradise. They felt no faith in the success of any such attempts, because
they had no love for the poor Indians. Now Eliot was full of love for
them, and therefore so full of faith and hope, that he spent the labor of
a lifetime in their behalf."

"I would have conquered them first, and then converted them," said
Charley.

"Ah, Charley, there spoke the very spirit of our forefathers!" replied
Grandfather. "But Mr. Eliot had a better spirit. He looked upon them as
his brethren. He persuaded as many of them as he could, to leave off their
idle and wandering habits, and to build houses, and cultivate the earth,
as the English did. He established schools among them, and taught many of
the Indians how to read. He taught them, likewise, how to pray. Hence they
were called 'praying Indians.' Finally, having spent the best years of his
life for their good, Mr. Eliot resolved to spend the remainder in doing
them a yet greater benefit."

"I know what that was!" cried Laurence.

"He sat down in his study," continued Grandfather, "and began a
translation of the Bible into the Indian tongue. It was while he was
engaged in this pious work, that the mint-master gave him our great chair.
His toil needed it, and deserved it."

"O, Grandfather, tell us all about that Indian Bible!" exclaimed Laurence.
"I have seen it in the library of the Athenæum; and the tears came into my
eyes, to think that there were no Indians left to read it."

As Grandfather was a great admirer of the Apostle Eliot, he was glad to
comply with the earnest request which Laurence had made, at the close of
the last chapter. So he proceeded to describe how good Mr. Eliot labored,
while he was at work upon

My dear children, what a task would you think it, even with a long
lifetime before you, were you bidden to copy every chapter and verse, and
word, in yonder great family Bible! Would not this be a heavy toil? But if
the task were, not to write off the English Bible, but to learn a
language, utterly unlike all other tongues,—a language which hitherto had
never been learned, except by the Indians themselves, from their mothers'
lips,—a language never written, and the strange words of which seemed
inexpressible by letters;—if the task were, first, to learn this new
variety of speech, and then to translate the Bible into it, and to do it
so carefully, that not one idea throughout the holy book should be
changed,—what would induce you to undertake this toil? Yet this was what
the Apostle Eliot did.

It was a mighty work for a man, now growing old, to take upon himself. And
what earthly reward could he expect from it? None; no reward on earth. But
he believed that the red men were the descendants of those lost tribes of
Israel of whom history has been able to tell us nothing, for thousands of
years. He hoped that God had sent the English across the ocean, Gentiles
as they were, to enlighten this benighted portion of his once chosen race.
And when he should be summoned hence, he trusted to meet blessed spirits
in another world, whose bliss would have been earned by his patient toil,
in translating the Word of God. This hope and trust were far dearer to
him, than any thing that earth could offer.

Sometimes, while thus at work, he was visited by learned men, who desired
to know what literary undertaking Mr. Elliot had in hand. They, like
himself, had been bred in the studious cloisters of a university, and were
supposed to possess all the erudition which mankind has hoarded up from
age to age. Greek and Latin were as familiar to them as the babble of
their childhood. Hebrew was like their mother tongue. They had grown gray
in study; their eyes were bleared with poring over print and manuscript by
the light of the midnight lamp.

And yet, how much had they left unlearned! Mr. Eliot would put into their
hands some of the pages, which he had been writing; and behold! the
gray-headed men stammered over the long, strange words, like a little
child in his first attempts to read. Then would the apostle call to him an
Indian boy, one of his scholars, and show him the manuscript, which had so
puzzled the learned Englishmen.

"Read this, my child," said he, "these are some brethren of mine, who
would fain hear the sound of thy native tongue."

Then would the Indian boy cast his eyes over the mysterious page, and read
it so skilfully, that it sounded like wild music. It seemed as if the
forest leaves were singing in the ears of his auditors, and as if the roar
of distant streams were poured through the young Indian's voice. Such were
the sounds amid which the language of the red man had been formed; and
they were still heard to echo in it.

The lesson being over, Mr. Eliot would give the Indian boy an apple or a
cake, and bid him leap forth into the open air, which his free nature
loved. The apostle was kind to children, and even shared in their sports,
sometimes. And when his visitors had bidden him farewell, the good man
turned patiently to his toil again.

No other Englishman had ever understood the Indian character so well, nor
possessed so great an influence over the New England tribes, as the
apostle did. His advice and assistance must often have been valuable to
his countrymen, in their transactions with the Indians. Occasionally,
perhaps, the governor and some of the counsellors came to visit Mr. Eliot.
Perchance they were seeking some method to circumvent the forest people.
They inquired, it may be, how they could obtain possession of such and
such a tract of their rich land. Or they talked of making the Indians
their servants, as if God had destined them for perpetual bondage to the
more powerful white man.

Perhaps, too, some warlike captain, dressed in his buff-coat, with a
corslet beneath it, accompanied the governor and counsellors. Laying his
hand upon his sword hilt, he would declare, that the only method of
dealing with the red men was to meet them with the sword drawn, and the
musket presented.