Among the early settlers of these United States, were some pious people, called Hugenots, who fled from the persecutions in France, under Louis the Fourteenth. It has been said, that wherever the elements of their character mingled with the New World, the infusion was salutary.
Industry, patience, sweet social affections, and piety, firm, but not austere, were the distinctive features of this interesting race. A considerable number of them, chose their abode in a part of the State of Massachusetts, about the year 1686, and commenced the labours inseparable from the formation of a new colony.
In their vicinity, was a powerful tribe of Indians, whom they strove to conciliate. They extended to them the simple rites of hospitality, and their kind and gentle manners, wrought happily upon the proud, yet susceptible nature of the aborigines.
But their settlement had not long assumed the marks of regularity and beauty, ere they observed in their savage neighbours, a reserved deportment. This increased, until the son of the forest, utterly avoided the dwellings of the new comers, where he had been pleased to accept a shelter for the night, or a covert for the storm.
Occasionally, some lingering one might be seen near the cultivated grounds, regarding the more skilfulagriculture of the white inhabitants with a dejected and lowering brow. It was rumoured that these symptoms of disaffection arose from the influence of an aged chief, whom they considered a prophet, who denounced the "pale intruders;" and they grieved that they should not have been more successful in conciliating their red brethren.
Three years had elapsed since the establishment of their little colony. Autumn was now advancing towards its close, and copse and forest exhibited those varied and opposing hues, which clothe in beauty and brilliance, the foliage of New England. The harvest was gathered in, and every family made preparation for the approach of winter.
Here and there groups of children might be seen, bearing homeward baskets of nuts, which they had gathered in the thicket, or forest. It was pleasant to hear their joyous voices, and see their ruddy faces, like bright flowers, amid wilds so lately tenanted by the prowling wolf, the fierce panther, and the sable bear.
In one of these nut-gatherings, a little boy and girl, of eight and four years old, the only children of a settler, whose wife had died on the voyage hither, accidentally separated from their companions. They had discovered on their way home, profuse clusters of the purple frost-grape, and entering a rocky recess to gain the new treasure, did not perceive that the last rays of the setting sun were fading away.
Suddenly they were seized by two Indians. The boy struggled violently, and his little sister cried to him for protection, but in vain. The long strides of their captors, soon bore them far beyond the bounds of the settlement. Night was far advanced, ere they halted. Then they kindled a fire, and offered the children some food.
The heart of the boy swelled high with grief and anger, and he refused to partake. But the poor little girl took some parched corn from the hand of the Indian, who held her on his knee. He smiled as he saw her eat the kernels, and look up in his face with a wondering, yet reproachless eye. Then they lay down to sleep, in the dark forest, each with an arm over his captive.
Great was the alarm in the colony, when those children returned not. Every spot was searched, where it was thought possible they might have lost their way. But, when at length their little baskets were found, overturned in a tangled thicket, one terrible conclusion burst upon every mind, that they must have been captured by Indians.
It was decided, that ere any warlike measures were adopted, the father should go peacefully to the Indian king, and demand his children. At the earliest dawn of morning, he departed with his companions. They met a friendly Indian, pursuing the chase, who had occasionally shared their hospitality and consented to be their guide.
They travelled through rude paths, until the day drew near a close. Then, approaching a circle of native dwellings, in the midst of which was a tent, they saw a man of lofty form, with a cornet of feathers upon his brow, and surrounded by warriors. The guide saluted him as his monarch, and the bereaved father, bowing down, addressed him:
"King of the red men, thou seest a father in pursuit of his lost babes. He has heard that your people will not harm the stranger in distress. So he trusts himself fearlessly among you. The king of our own native land, who should have protected us, became our foe. We fled from our dear homes, from the graves of our fathers.
"The ocean-wave brought us to this New World. We are a peaceful race, pure from the blood of all men. We seek to take the hand of our red brethren. Of my own kindred, none inhabit this wilderness save two little buds from a broken, buried stem.
"Last night, sorrow entered into my soul, because I found them not. Knowest thou, O king, if thy people have taken my babes? Knowest thou where they have concealed them? Cause them, I pray thee, to be restored to my arms. So shall the Great Spirit bless thine own tender plants, and lift up thy heart when it weigheth heavily in thy bosom."
The Indian monarch, bending on him a piercing glance, said, "Knowest thou me? Look in my eyes! Look! Answer me! Are they those of a stranger?" The Hugenot replied that he had no recollection of having ever before seen his countenance.
"Thus it is with the white man. He is dim-eyed. He looketh on the garments, more than on the soul. Where your ploughs wound the earth, oft have I stood, watching your toil. There was no coronet on my brow. But I was a king. And you knew it not.
"I looked upon your people. I saw neither pride nor violence. I went an enemy, but returned a friend. I said to my warriors, do these men no harm. They do not hate Indians. Then our white-haired Prophet of the Great Spirit rebuked me. He bade me make no league with the pale faces, lest angry words should be spoken of me among the shades of our buried kings.
"Yet again I went where thy brethren have reared their dwellings. Yes, I entered thy house.And thou knowest not this brow!I could tell thine at midnight, if but a single star trembled through the clouds. My ear would know thy voice, though the storm were abroad with all its thunders.
"I have said that I was a king. Yet I came to thee an hungered. And thou gavest me bread. My head was wet with the tempest. Thou badest me to lie down on thy hearth, and thy son for whom thou mournest, covered me.
"I was sad in spirit. And thy little daughter whom thou seekest with tears, sat on my knee. She smiled when I told her how the beaver buildeth his house in the forest. My heart was comforted, for I saw that she did not hate Indians.
"Turn not on me such a terrible eye. I am no stealer of babes. I have reproved the people who took the children. I have sheltered them for thee. Not a hair of their heads is hurt. Thinkest thou that the red man can forget kindness? They are sleeping in my tent. Had I but a single blanket, it should have been their bed. Take them, and return unto thy people."
He waved his hand to an attendant, and in a moment the two children were in the arms of their father. The white men were hospitably sheltered for that night, and the twilight of the next day, bore upward from the rejoicing colony, a prayer for the heathen of the forest, and that pure praise which mingles with the music around the throne.
A Sea-king on the Danish shore,When the old time went by,Launch'd his rude ship for reckless deeds,Beneath a foreign sky.And oft on Albion's richer coast,Where Saxon Harold reign'd,With a fierce foe's marauding hate,Wild warfare he maintained.From hamlet-nook, and humble vale,Their wealth he reft away,And shamed not with his blood-red steel,To wake the deadly fray.But once within an islet's bay,While summer-twilight spreadA curtain o'er the glorious sun,Who sank to ocean's bed,He paus'd amid his savage trade,And gaz'd on earth and sea,While o'er his head a nest of doves,Hung in a linden tree.They coo'd and murmur'd o'er their young,A loving, mournful strain.And still the chirping brood essay'd,The same soft tones again.The sea-king on the rocky beach;Bow'd down his head to hear,Yet started on his iron brow,To feel a trickling tear.He mus'd upon his lonely home,Beyond the foaming main;For nature kindled in his breast,At that fond dovelet's strain.He listen'd till the lay declin'd,As slumber o'er them stole:"Home, home, sweet home!" methought they sang;It enter'd to his soul.He linger'd till the moon came forth,With radiance pure and pale,And then his hardy crew he rous'd,"Up! up! and spread the sail.""Now, whither goest thou, master bold?"No word the sea-king spake,But at the helm all night he stood,Till ruddy morn did break."See, captain, yon unguarded isle!Those cattle are our prey;"Dark grew their brows, and fierce their speech:No word he deign'd to say.Right onward, o'er the swelling wave,With steady prow he bore,Nor stay'd until he anchor'd fast,By Denmark's wave-wash'd shore."Farewell, farewell, brave men and true,Well have you serv'd my need;Divide the spoils as best ye may,Rich boon for daring deed."He shook them by the harden'd hand,And on his journey sped,Nor linger'd till through shades he saw,His long-forsaken shed.Forth came the babe, that when he left,Lay on its mother's knee;She rais'd a stranger's wondering cry:A fair-hair'd girl was she!His far-off voice that mother knew,And shriek'd in speechless joy,While, proudly, toward his arms she drewHis bashful, stripling boy.They bade the fire of pine burn bright,The simple board they spread;And bless'd and welcom'd him, as oneReturning from the dead.He cleans'd him of the pirate's sin,He donn'd the peasant's stole,And nightly from his labours came,With music in his soul."Father! what mean those words you speakOft in your broken sleep?The doves! the doves!you murmuring cry,And then in dreams you weep:"Father, you've told us many a tale,Of storm, and battle wild;Tell us the story of the doves,"The peasant-father smil'd:"Go, daughter, lure a dove to buildHer nest in yonder tree,And thou shalt hear the tender tone,That lured me back to thee."
War-spirit! War-spirit! how gorgeous thy pathPale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath,The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpets' wild cry,While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er,Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore,Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,And history her annal emblazons with thine.War-spirit! War-spirit! thy secrets are known;I have look'd on the field when the battle was done,The mangled and slain in their misery lay,And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey,And the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,In those homes that the lov'd ones revisit no more.I have trac'd out thy march, by its features of pain,While famine and pestilence stalk'd in thy train,And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of hell;Death laudeth thy deeds, and in letters of flame,The realm of perdition engraveth thy name.War-spirit! War-spirit! go down to thy place,With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,Bid the rivers of blood thou hast open'd be dried,Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.
The years of my childhood passed away in contentment and peace. My lot was in humble and simple industry; yet my heart was full of gladness, though I scarcely knew why. I loved to sit under the shadow of the rugged rocks, and to hear the murmured song of the falling brook.
I made to myself a companionship among the things of nature, and was happy all the day. But when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down pensively; for I was alone, and had neither brother nor sister.
I was ever wishing for a brother who should be older than myself, into whose hand I might put my own, and say, "Lead me forth to look at the solemn stars, and tell me of their names." Sometimes, too, I wept in my bed, because there was no sister to lay her head upon the same pillow.
At twilight, before the lamps were lighted, there came up out of my bosom, what seemed to be a friend. I did not then understand that its name was Thought. But I talked with it, and it comforted me. I waited for its coming, and whatsoever it asked of me, I answered.
When it questioned me of my knowledge, I said, "I know where the first fresh violets of spring grow, and where the lily of the vale hides in its broad greensheath, and where the vine climbs to hang its purple clusters, and where the forest nuts ripen, when autumn comes with its sparkling frost.
"I have seen how the bee nourishes itself in winter with the essence of flowers, which its own industry embalmed; and I have learned to draw forth the kindness of domestic animals, and to tell the names of the birds which build dwellings in my father's trees."
Then Thought enquired, "What knowest thou of those who reason, and to whom God has given dominion over the beasts of the field, and over the fowls of the air?" I confessed, that of my own race I knew nothing, save of the parents who nurtured me, and the few children with whom I had played on the summer turf.
I was ashamed, for I felt that I was ignorant. So I determined to turn away from the wild herbs of the field, and the old trees where I had helped the gray squirrel to gather acorns, and to look attentively upon what passed among men.
I walked abroad when the morning dews were lingering upon the grass, and the white lilies drooping their beautiful heads to shed tears of joy, and the young rose blushing, as if it listened to its own praise. Nature smiled upon those sweet children, that were so soon to fade.
But I turned toward those whose souls have the gift of reason, and are not born to die. I said, "If there is joy in the plant that flourishes for a day, and in the bird bearing to its nest but a broken cherry, and in the lamb that has no friend but its mother, how much happier must they be, who are surrounded with good things, as by a flowing river, and who know that, though they seem to die, it is but to live for ever."
I looked upon a group of children. They wereuntaught and unfed, and clamoured loudly with wayward tongues. I asked them why they walked not in the pleasant paths of knowledge. And they mocked at me. I heard two who were called friends, speak harsh words to each other, and was affrighted at the blows they dealt.
I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He was built strongly, like the oak among trees; yet his steps were weak and unsteady as those of the tottering babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one dead. I marvelled that no hand was stretched out to raise him up.
I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it, with her little ones. They looked downcast, and sad at heart. Yet, methought it was famine and misery, more than sorrow for the dead, which had set on them such a yellow and shrivelled seal.
I said, "What can have made the parents not pity their children when they hungered, nor call them home when they were in wickedness? What made the friends forget their early love, and the strong man fall down senseless, and the young die before his time?" I heard a voice say, "Intemperance. And there is mourning in the land, because of this."
So I returned to my home, sorrowing; and had God given me a brother or a sister, I would have thrown my arms around their neck, and entreated, "Touch not your lips to the poison cup, and let us drink the pure water which God hath blessed, all the days of our lives."
Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy weeping, and I asked him why he wept. He answered, "Because my father went to the wars and is slain; he will return no more." I saw a mournful woman. The sun shone upon her dwelling. The honeysuckle climbedto its windows, and sent in its sweet blossoms to do their loving message. But she was a widow. Her husband had fallen in battle. There was joy for her no more.
I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside. Grief had made furrows upon his forehead, and his garments were thin and tattered. Yet he asked not for charity. And when I besought him to tell me why his heart was heavy, he replied faintly, "I had a son, an only one. From his cradle, I toiled, that he might have food and clothing, and be taught wisdom.
"He grew up to bless me. So all my labour and weariness were forgotten. When he became a man, I knew no want; for he cherished me, as I had cherished him. Yet he left me to be a soldier. He was slaughtered in the field of battle. Therefore mine eye runneth down with water, because the comforter that should relieve my soul returns no more."
I said, "Show me, I pray thee, a field of battle, that I may know what war means." But he answered, "Thou art not able to bear the sight." "Tell me, then," I entreated, "what thou hast seen, when the battle was done."
"I came," he said, "at the close of day, when the cannon ceased their thunder, and the victor and vanquished had withdrawn. The rising moon looked down on the pale faces of the dead. Scattered over the broad plain were many who still struggled with the pangs of death.
"They stretched out the shattered limb, yet there was no healing hand. They strove to raise their heads, but sank deeper in the blood which flowed from their own bosoms. They begged in God's name that we would put them out of their misery, and their piercing shrieks entered into my soul.
"Here and there horses, mad with pain, rolled and plunged, mangling with their hoofs the dying, or defacing the dead. And I remember the mourning for those who lay there; of the parents who had reared them, or of the young children who used to sit at home upon their knee."
Then I said, "Tell me no more of battle or of war, for my heart is sad." The silver-haired man raised his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his side.
And he prayed, "Lord, keep this child from anger, and hatred, and ambition, which are the seeds of war. Grant to all that own the name of Jesus, hearts of peace, that they may shun every deed of strife, and dwell at last in the country of peace, even in heaven."
Hastening home, I besought my mother, "Shelter me, as I have been sheltered, in solitude, and in love. Bid me turn the wheel of industry, or bring water from the fountain, or tend the plants of the garden, or feed a young bird and listen to its song, but let me go no more forth among the vices and miseries of man."
AT OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS.
I stood upon a breezy height, and markedThe rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scytheWith a forgiving fragrance, even in deathBlessing its enemies; and broad-armed treesFruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streamsThat cheered their sedgy banks.But at my feetWere vestiges, that turned the thoughts awayFrom all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stonesThat formed their fortress, who in earlier days,Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,And from the madness of a tyrant king,Were strewed around.Methinks, yon wreck stands forthIn rugged strength once more, and firmly guardsFrom the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flushOf purple vintage, found but welcome coldFrom thee, my native land! the wintry moanOf wind-swept forests, and the appalling frownOf icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them freeTo strike the sweet harp of the secret soul,And this was all their wealth. For this they blestThy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roofAt morn and night, or with the murmuring swellOf stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embraceYon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with themDidst brave the ocean surge.Say, drank thy germThe dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiledAn infant fibre, mid the fruitful mouldOf smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrinkFrom the fierce footsteps of a warlike trainBrother with brother fighting unto death,At fair Rochelle?Hast thou no tale for me?Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale,With whispered words.There was a gentle form,A fair, young creature, who at twilight hourOft brought me water, and would kindly raiseMy drooping head. Her eyes were dark and softAs the gazelle's, and well I knew her sighWas tremulous with love. For she had leftOne in her own fair land, with whom her heartFrom childhood had been twined.Oft by her side,What time the youngling moon went up the sky,Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower;He strove to win her to the faith he held,Speaking of heresy with flashing eye,Yet with such blandishment of tenderness,As more than argument dissolveth doubtWith a young pupil, in the school of love.Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloomOf persecution's cloud, and soon its stormBurst on the Huguenots.Their churches fell,Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack;And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat,In frowning espionage, troubling the sleepOf infant innocence.Stern war burst forth,And civil conflict on the soil of FranceWrought fearful things.The peasant's blood was ploughedIn with the wheat he planted, while from cliffsThat overhung the sea, from caves and dens,The hunted worshippers were madly drivenOut 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain,The anthem on their tongues.The coast was throngedWith hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid,Leading her little sister, in the stepsOf their afflicted parents, hasting leftThe meal uneaten, and the table spreadIn their sweet cottage, to return no more.The lover held her to his heart, and prayedThat from her erring people she would turnTo the true fold of Christ, for so he deemedThat ancient Church, for which his breast was cladIn soldier's panoply.But she, with tearsLike Niobe, a never-ceasing flood,Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep.And so, as years sped on with patient browShe bare the burdens of the wilderness,His image, and an everlasting prayer,Within her soul.And when she sank away,As fades the lily when its day is done,There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glanceOf earnest supplication, that the heartsSevered so long, might join, where bigot zealShould find no place.She hath a quiet bedBeneath yon turf, and an unwritten nameOn earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.
I stood upon a breezy height, and markedThe rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scytheWith a forgiving fragrance, even in deathBlessing its enemies; and broad-armed treesFruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streamsThat cheered their sedgy banks.But at my feetWere vestiges, that turned the thoughts awayFrom all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stonesThat formed their fortress, who in earlier days,Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,And from the madness of a tyrant king,Were strewed around.Methinks, yon wreck stands forthIn rugged strength once more, and firmly guardsFrom the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flushOf purple vintage, found but welcome coldFrom thee, my native land! the wintry moanOf wind-swept forests, and the appalling frownOf icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them freeTo strike the sweet harp of the secret soul,And this was all their wealth. For this they blestThy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roofAt morn and night, or with the murmuring swellOf stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embraceYon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with themDidst brave the ocean surge.Say, drank thy germThe dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiledAn infant fibre, mid the fruitful mouldOf smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrinkFrom the fierce footsteps of a warlike trainBrother with brother fighting unto death,At fair Rochelle?Hast thou no tale for me?Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale,With whispered words.There was a gentle form,A fair, young creature, who at twilight hourOft brought me water, and would kindly raiseMy drooping head. Her eyes were dark and softAs the gazelle's, and well I knew her sighWas tremulous with love. For she had leftOne in her own fair land, with whom her heartFrom childhood had been twined.Oft by her side,What time the youngling moon went up the sky,Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower;He strove to win her to the faith he held,Speaking of heresy with flashing eye,Yet with such blandishment of tenderness,As more than argument dissolveth doubtWith a young pupil, in the school of love.Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloomOf persecution's cloud, and soon its stormBurst on the Huguenots.Their churches fell,Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack;And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat,In frowning espionage, troubling the sleepOf infant innocence.Stern war burst forth,And civil conflict on the soil of FranceWrought fearful things.The peasant's blood was ploughedIn with the wheat he planted, while from cliffsThat overhung the sea, from caves and dens,The hunted worshippers were madly drivenOut 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain,The anthem on their tongues.The coast was throngedWith hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid,Leading her little sister, in the stepsOf their afflicted parents, hasting leftThe meal uneaten, and the table spreadIn their sweet cottage, to return no more.The lover held her to his heart, and prayedThat from her erring people she would turnTo the true fold of Christ, for so he deemedThat ancient Church, for which his breast was cladIn soldier's panoply.But she, with tearsLike Niobe, a never-ceasing flood,Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep.And so, as years sped on with patient browShe bare the burdens of the wilderness,His image, and an everlasting prayer,Within her soul.And when she sank away,As fades the lily when its day is done,There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glanceOf earnest supplication, that the heartsSevered so long, might join, where bigot zealShould find no place.She hath a quiet bedBeneath yon turf, and an unwritten nameOn earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.
When Louis Fourteenth, by the revocation of the Edict of Nantz, scattered the rich treasure of the hearts of more than half a million of subjects to foreign climes, this Western World profited by his mad prodigality. Among the wheat with which its newly broken surface was sown, none was more purely sifted than that which France thus cast away. Industry, integrity, moderated desires, piety without austerity, and the sweetest domestic charities, were among the prominent characteristics of the exiled people.
Among the various settlements made by the Huguenots, at different periods upon our shores, that atOxford, in Massachusetts, has the priority in point of time. In 1686, thirty families with their clergyman, landed at Fort Hill, in Boston. There they found kind reception and entertainment, until ready to proceed to their destined abode. This was at Oxford, in Worcester county, where an area of 12,000 acres was secured by them, from the township of eight miles square which had been laid out by Governor Dudley. The appearance of the country, though uncleared, was pleasant to those who counted as their chief wealth, "freedom to worship God." They gave the name of French River to a stream, which, after diffusing fertility around their new home, becomes a tributary of the Quinabaug, in Connecticut, and finally merged in the Thames, passes on to Long Island Sound.
Being surrounded by the territory of the Nipmug Indians, their first care was to build a fort, as a refuge from savage aggression. Gardens were laid out in its vicinity, and stocked with the seeds of vegetables and fruits, brought from their own native soil. Mills were also erected, and ten or twelve years of persevering industry, secured many comforts to the colonists, who were much respected in the neighbouring settlements, and acquired the right of representation in the provincial legislature.
But the tribe of Indians by whom they were encompassed, had, from the beginning, met with a morose and intractable spirit, their proffered kindness. A sudden, and wholly unexpected incursion, with the massacre of one of the emigrants and his children, caused the breaking up of the little peaceful settlement, and the return of its inmates to Boston. Friendships formed there on their first arrival, and the hospitality that has ever distinguished that beautiful city, turned the hearts of the Huguenots towards it as a refuge, inthis, their second exile. Their reception, and the continuance of their names among the most honoured of its inhabitants, proved that the spot was neither ill-chosen, nor uncongenial. Here, their excellent pastor, Pierre Daille, died, in 1715. His epitaph, and that of his wife, are still legible in the "Granary Burying Ground." He was succeeded by Mr. Andrew Le Mercier, author of a History of Geneva. Their place of worship was in School Street, and known by the name of the French Protestant Church.
About the year 1713, Oxford was resettled by a stronger body of colonists, able to command more military aid; and thither, in process of time, a few of the Huguenot families resorted, and made their abode in those lovely and retired vales.
A visit to this fair scenery many years since, was rendered doubly interesting, by the conversation of an ancient lady of Huguenot extraction. Though she had numbered more than fourscore winters, her memory was particularly retentive, while her clear, black eye, dark complexion, and serenely expressive countenance, displayed some of the striking characteristics of her ancestral clime, mingled with that beauty of the soul which is confined to no nation, and which age cannot destroy. This was the same Mrs. Butler, formerly Mary Sigourney, whose reminiscences, the late Rev. Dr. Holmes, the learned and persevering annalist, has quoted in his "Memoir of the French Protestants."
With her family, and some other relatives, she had removed from Boston to Oxford, after the revolutionary war, and supposed that her brother, Mr. Andrew Sigourney, then occupied very nearly, if not the same precise locality, which had been purchased by their ancestor, nearly 150 years before. During the voyageto this foreign clime, her grandmother was deprived by death of an affectionate mother, while an infant only six months old. From this grandmother, who lived to be more than eighty, and from a sister six years older, who attained the unusual age of ninety-six, Mrs. Butler had derived many legends which she treasured with fidelity, and related with simple eloquence. Truly, the voice of buried ages, spake through her venerated lips. The building of the fort; the naturalization of French vines and fruit-trees in a stranger soil; the consecrated spot where their dead were buried, now without the remaining vestige of a stone; the hopes of the rising settlement; the massacre that dispersed it; the hearth-stone, empurpled with the blood of the beautiful babes of Jeanson; the frantic wife and mother snatched from the scene of slaughter by her brother, and borne through the waters of French River, to the garrison at Woodstock; all these traces seemed as vivid in her mind, as if her eye had witnessed them. The traditions connected with the massacre, were doubtless more strongly deepened in her memory, from the circumstance that the champion who rescued his desolated sister from the merciless barbarians, was her own ancestor, Mr. Andrew Sigourney, and the original settler of Oxford.
Other narrations she had also preserved, of the troubles that preceded the flight of the exiles from France, and of the obstacles to be surmounted, ere that flight could be accomplished. The interruptions from the soldiery to which they were subject, after having been shut out from their own churches, induced them to meet for Divine worship in the most remote places, and to use books of psalms and devotion, printed in so minute a form, that they might be concealed in their bosoms, or in their head-dresses. One of these antiquevolumes, is still in the possession of the descendants of Gabriel Bernon, a most excellent and influential man, who made his permanent residence at Providence, though he was originally in the settlement at Oxford.
Mrs. Butler mentioned the haste and discomfort in which the flight of their own family was made. Her grandfather told them imperatively, that they must go, and without delay. The whole family gathered together, and with such preparation as might be made in a few moments, took their departure from the house of their birth, "leaving the pot boiling over the fire!" This last simple item reminds of one, with which the poet Southey deepens the description of the flight of a household, and a village, at the approach of the foe.
"The chestnut loaf lay broken on the shelf."
Another Huguenot, Henry Francisco, who lived to the age of more than one hundred, relates a somewhat similar trait of his own departure from his native land. He was a boy of five years old, and his father led him by the hand from their pleasant door. It was winter, and the snow fell, with a bleak, cold wind. They descended the hill in silence. With the intuition of childhood, he knew there was trouble, without being able to comprehend the full cause. At length, fixing his eyes on his father, he begged, in a tremulous voice, to be permitted "just to go back, and get his little sled," his favourite, and most valued possession.
A letter from the young wife of Gabriel Manigault, one of the many refugees who settled in the Carolinas, is singularly graphic. "During eight months we had suffered from the quartering of the soldiers among us, with many other inconveniences. We therefore resolved on quitting France by Night. We left the soldiers in their beds, and abandoned our house with itsfurniture. We contrived to hide ourselves in Dauphiny for ten days, search being continually made for us; but our hostess, though much questioned, was faithful and did not betray us."
These simple delineations, more forcibly than the dignified style of the historian, seem to bring to our ears the haughty voice of Ludovico Magno, in his instrument revoking the edict of Henry IV.: "We do most strictly repeat our prohibition, unto all our subjects of the pretended reformed religion, that neither they, nor their wives, nor children, do depart our kingdom, countries, or lands of our dominion, nor transport their goods and effects, on pain, for men so offending, of their being sent to the gallies, and of confiscation of bodies and goods, for the women."
The information derived from this ancient lady, who, in all the virtues of domestic life, was a worthy descendant of the Huguenots, added new interest to their relics, still visible, among the rural scenery of Oxford. On the summit of a high hill, commanding an extensive prospect, are the ruins of the Fort. It was regularly constructed with bastions, though most of the stones have been removed for the purposes of agriculture. Within its enclosure are the vestiges of a well. There the grape vine still lifts its purple clusters, the currant its crimson berries, the rose its rich blossoms, the asparagus its bulbous head and feathery banner.
To these simple tokens which Nature has preserved, it might be fitting and well, were some more enduring memorial added of that pious, patient, and high-hearted race, from whom some of the most illustrious names in different sections of our country, trace their descent with pleasure and with pride.
I have seen a man in the glory of his days, in the pride of his strength. He was built like the strong oak, that strikes its root deep in the earth; like the tall cedar, that lifts its head above the trees of the forest.
He feared no danger, he felt no sickness; he wondered why any should groan or sigh at pain. His mind was vigorous like his body. He was perplexed at no intricacy, he was daunted at no obstacle. Into hidden things he searched, and what was crooked he made plain.
He went forth boldly upon the face of the mighty deep. He surveyed the nations of the earth. He measured the distances of the stars, and called them by their names. He gloried in the extent of his knowledge, in the vigour of his understanding, and strove to search even into what the Almighty had concealed.
And when I looked upon him, I said with the poet, "What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god!"
I returned, but his look was no more lofty, nor his step proud. His broken frame was like some ruinedtower. His hairs were white and scattered, and his eye gazed vacantly upon the passers by. The vigour of his intellect was wasted, and of all that he had gained by study, nothing remained.
He feared when there was no danger, and when there was no sorrow, he wept. His decaying memory had become treacherous. It showed him only broken images of the glory that was departed.
His house was to him like a strange land, and his friends were counted as enemies. He thought himself strong and healthful, while his feet tottered on the verge of the grave.
He said of his son, "he is my brother;" of his daughter, "I know her not." He even inquired what was his own name. And as I gazed mournfully upon him, one who supported his feeble frame and ministered to his many wants, said to me, "Let thine heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen an end of all perfection."
I have seen a beautiful female, treading the first stages of youth, and entering joyfully into the pleasures of life. The glance of her eye was variable and sweet, and on her cheek trembled something like the first blush of morning; her lips moved, and there was melody; and when she floated in the dance, her light form, like the aspen, seemed to move with every breeze.
I returned; she was not in the dance. I sought her among her gay companions, but I found her not. Her eye sparkled not there, the music of her voice was silent. She rejoiced on earth no more.
I saw a train, sable, and slow paced. Sadly they bore toward an open grave what once was animated and beautiful. As they drew near, they paused, and a voice broke the solemn silence.
"Man, that is born of a woman, is of few days, andfull of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and never continueth in one stay."
Then they let down into the deep, dark pit, that maiden whose lips, but a few days since, were like the half-blown rosebud. I shuddered at the sound of clods falling upon the hollow coffin.
Then I heard a voice saying, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." They covered her with the damp soil, and the uprooted turf of the valley, and turned again to their own homes.
But one mourner lingered to cast himself upon the tomb. And as he wept, he said, "There is no beauty, nor grace, nor loveliness, but what vanisheth like the morning dew. I have seen an end of all perfection."
I saw a fair white dwelling, behind shady trees. Flowers were cultivated around it. The clustering vine wreathed above its door, and the woodbine looked in at its windows. A mother was there fondling her young babe. Another, who had just learned to lisp its first wishes, sat on the father's knee. He looked on them all with a loving smile, and a heart full of happiness.
I returned, the flowers had perished, the vine was dead at the root. Weeds towered where the woodbine blossomed, and tangled grass sprung up by the threshold where many feet used to tread. There was no sound of sporting children, or of the mother singing to her babe.
I turned my steps to the church-yard. Three new mounds were added there. That mother slept between her sons. A lonely man was bowing down there, whose face I did not see. But I knew his voice, when he said in his low prayer of sorrow, "Thou hast made desolate all my company." The tall grass rustled andsighed in the cold east wind. Methought it said, "See, an end of all perfection."
I saw an infant with a ruddy brow, and a form like polished ivory. Its motions were graceful, and its merry laughter made other hearts glad. Sometimes it wept, and again it rejoiced, when none knew why. But whether its cheeks dimpled with smiles, or its blue eye shone more brilliant through tears, it was beautiful.
It was beautiful, because it was innocent. And careworn and sinful men admired, when they beheld it. It was like the first blossom which some cherished plant has put forth, whose cup sparkles with a dew-drop, and whose head reclines upon the parent stem.
Again I looked. It had become a child. The lamp of reason had beamed into his mind. It was simple, and single-hearted, and a follower of the truth. It loved every little bird that sang in the trees, and every fresh blossom. Its heart danced with joy, as it looked around on this good and pleasant world.
It stood like a lamb before its teachers, it bowed its ear to instruction, it walked in the way of knowledge. It was not proud, or stubborn, or envious; and it had never heard of the vices and vanities of the world. And when I looked upon it, I remembered our Saviour's words, "Except ye become as little children, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven."
I saw a man whom the world calls honourable. Many waited for his smile. They pointed to the fields that were his, and talked of the silver and gold which he had gathered. They praised the stateliness of his domes, and extolled the honour of his family.
But the secret language of his heart was, "By my wisdom have I gotten all this." So he returned no thanks to God, neither did he fear or serve him. As I passed along, I heard the complaints of the labourerswho had reaped his fields, and the cries of the poor, whose covering he had taken away.
The sound of feasting and revelry was in his mansion, and the unfed beggar came tottering from his door. But he considered not that the cries of the oppressed were continually entering into the ears of the Most High.
And when I knew that this man was the docile child whom I had loved, the beautiful infant on whom I had gazed with delight, I said in my bitterness, "I have seen an end of all perfection." So I laid my mouth in the dust.
THE END.