True Stories From History and Biography by Nathaniel Hawthorne Read Free Book Online Page A

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