True Stories From History and Biography (6 page)

But the apostle resisted both the craft of the politician, and the
fierceness of the warrior.

"Treat these sons of the forest as men and brethren," he would say, "and
let us endeavor to make them Christians. Their forefathers were of that
chosen race, whom God delivered from Egyptian bondage. Perchance he has
destined us to deliver the children from the more cruel bondage of
ignorance and idolatry. Chiefly for this end, it may be, we were directed
across the ocean."

When these other visitors were gone, Mr. Eliot bent himself again over the
half written page. He dared hardly relax a moment from his toil. He felt
that, in the book which he was translating, there was a deep human, as
well as heavenly wisdom, which would of itself suffice to civilize and
refine the savage tribes. Let the Bible be diffused among them, and all
earthly good would follow. But how slight a consideration was this, when
he reflected that the eternal welfare of a whole race of men depended upon
his accomplishment of the task which he had set himself! What if his hands
should be palsied? What if his mind should lose its vigor? What if death
should come upon him, ere the work were done? Then must the red man wander
in the dark wilderness of heathenism for ever.

Impelled by such thoughts as these, he sat writing in the great chair,
when the pleasant summer breeze came in through his open casement; and
also when the fire of forest logs sent up its blaze and smoke, through the
broad stone chimney, into the wintry air. Before the earliest bird sang,
in the morning, the apostle's lamp was kindled; and, at midnight, his
weary head was not yet upon its pillow. And at length, leaning back in the
great chair, he could say to himself, with a holy triumph,—"The work is
finished!"

It was finished. Here was a Bible for the Indians. Those long lost
descendants of the ten tribes of Israel would now learn the history of
their forefathers. That grace, which the ancient Israelites had forfeited,
was offered anew to their children.

There is no impiety in believing that, when his long life was over, the
apostle of the Indians was welcomed to the celestial abodes by the
prophets of ancient days, and by those earliest apostles and evangelists,
who had drawn their inspiration from the immediate presence of the
Saviour. They first had preached truth and salvation to the world. And
Eliot, separated from them by many centuries, yet full of the same spirit,
had borne the like message to the new world of the West. Since the first
days of Christianity, there has been no man more worthy to be numbered in
the brotherhood of the apostles, than Eliot.

"My heart is not satisfied to think," observed Laurence, "that Mr. Eliot's
labors have done no good, except to a few Indians of his own time.
Doubtless, he would not have regretted his toil, if it were the means of
saving but a single soul. But it is a grievous thing to me, that he should
have toiled so hard to translate the Bible, and now the language and the
people are gone! The Indian Bible itself is almost the only relic of
both."

"Laurence," said his Grandfather, "if ever you should doubt that man is
capable of disinterested zeal for his brother's good, then remember how
the apostle Eliot toiled. And if you should feel your own self-interest
pressing upon your heart too closely, then think of Eliot's Indian Bible.
It is good for the world that such a man has lived, and left this emblem
of his life."

The tears gushed into the eyes of Laurence, and he acknowledged that Eliot
had not toiled in vain. Little Alice put up her arms to Grandfather, and
drew down his white head beside her own golden locks.

"Grandfather," whispered she, "I want to kiss good Mr. Eliot!"

And, doubtless, good Mr. Eliot would gladly receive the kiss of so sweet a
child as little Alice, and would think it a portion of his reward in
heaven.

Grandfather now observed, that Dr. Francis had written a very beautiful
Life of Eliot, which he advised Laurence to peruse. He then spoke of King
Philip's war, which began in 1675, and terminated with the death of King
Philip, in the following year. Philip was a proud, fierce Indian, whom Mr.
Eliot had vainly endeavored to convert to the Christian faith.

"It must have been a great anguish to the apostle," continued Grandfather,
"to hear of mutual slaughter and outrage between his own countrymen, and
those for whom he felt the affection of a father. A few of the praying
Indians joined the followers of King Philip. A greater number fought on
the side of the English. In the course of the war, the little community of
red people whom Mr. Eliot had begun to civilize, was scattered, and
probably never was restored to a flourishing condition. But his zeal did
not grow cold; and only about five years before his death he took great
pains in preparing a new edition of the Indian Bible."

"I do wish Grandfather," cried Charley, "you would tell us all about the
battles in King Philip's war."

"O, no!" exclaimed Clara. "Who wants to hear about tomahawks and scalping
knives!"

"No, Charley," replied Grandfather, "I have no time to spare in talking
about battles. You must be content with knowing that it was the bloodiest
war that the Indians had ever waged against the white men; and that, at
its close, the English set King Philip's head upon a pole."

"Who was the captain of the English?" asked Charley.

"Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church,—a very famous warrior,"
said Grandfather. "But I assure you, Charley, that neither Captain Church,
nor any of the officers and soldiers who fought in King Philip's war, did
any thing a thousandth part so glorious, as Mr. Eliot did, when he
translated the Bible for the Indians."

"Let Laurence be the apostle," said Charley to himself, "and I will be the
captain."

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.

"The people suffered much wrong, while Sir Edmund Andros ruled over them,"
continued Grandfather, "and they were apprehensive of much more. He had
brought some soldiers with him from England, who took possession of the
old fortress on Castle Island, and of the fortification on Fort Hill.
Sometimes it was rumored that a general massacre of the inhabitants was to
be perpetrated by these soldiers. There were reports, too, that all the
ministers were to be slain or imprisoned."

"For what?" inquired Charley.

"Because they were the leaders of the people, Charley," said Grandfather.
"A minister was a more formidable man than a general, in those days. Well;
while these things were going on in America, King James had so misgoverned
the people of England, that they sent over to Holland for the Prince of
Orange. He had married the king's daughter, and was therefore considered
to have a claim to the crown. On his arrival in England, the Prince of
Orange was proclaimed king, by the name of William the Third. Poor old
King James made his escape to France."

Grandfather told how, at the first intelligence of the landing of the
Prince of Orange in England, the people of Massachusetts rose in their
strength, and overthrew the government of Sir Edmund Andros. He, with
Joseph Dudley, Edmund Randolph, and his other principal adherents, were
thrown into prison. Old Simon Bradstreet, who had been governor, when King
James took away the charter, was called by the people to govern them
again.

"Governor Bradstreet was a venerable old man, nearly ninety years of age,"
said Grandfather. "He came over with the first settlers, and had been the
intimate companion of all those excellent and famous men who laid the
foundation of our country. They were all gone before him to the grave; and
Bradstreet was the last of the Puritans."

Grandfather paused a moment, and smiled, as if he had something very
interesting to tell his auditors. He then proceeded:

"And now, Laurence,—now, Clara,—now, Charley,—now, my dear little
Alice,—what chair do you think had been placed in the council chamber, for
old Governor Bradstreet to take his seat in? Would you believe that it was
this very chair in which grandfather now sits, and of which he is telling
you the history?"

"I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!" cried Charley, after a shout of
delight. "I thought Grandfather had quite forgotten the chair."

"It was a solemn and affecting sight," said Grandfather, "when this
venerable patriarch, with his white beard flowing down upon his breast,
took his seat in his Chair of State. Within his remembrance, and even
since his mature age, the site where now stood the populous town, had been
a wild and forest-covered peninsula. The province, now so fertile, and
spotted with thriving villages, had been a desert wilderness. He was
surrounded by a shouting multitude, most of whom had been born in the
country which he had helped to found. They were of one generation, and he
of another. As the old man looked upon them, and beheld new faces
everywhere, he must have felt that it was now time for him to go, whither
his brethren had gone before him."

"Were the former governors all dead and gone?" asked Laurence.

"All of them," replied Grandfather. "Winthrop had been dead forty years.
Endicott died, a very old man, in 1665. Sir Henry Vane was beheaded in
London, at the beginning of the reign of Charles the Second. And Haynes,
Dudley, Bellingham and Leverett, who had all been governors of
Massachusetts, were now likewise in their graves. Old Simon Bradstreet was
the sole representative of that departed brotherhood. There was no other
public man remaining to connect the ancient system of government and
manners with the new system, which was about to take its place. The era of
the Puritans was now completed."