THE INDIAN BIBLE

The Whole History of Grandfather's Chair

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

THE INDIAN BIBLE, THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR by Nathaniel Hawthorne



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 the Indian Bible.

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 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 anything that earth could offer.

Sometimes, while thus at work, he was visited by learned men, who
desired to know what literary undertaking Mr. Eliot 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 bab-
ble 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," would he say; "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 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 councillors 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
corselet beneath it, accompanied the governor and councillors. 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.

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 forever.

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, has 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."

"Oh 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 anything 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."