Olive Leaves Part 23

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 voyage to 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 ma.s.sacre that dispersed it; the hearth-stone, empurpled with the blood of the beautiful babes of Jeanson; the frantic wife and mother s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 ma.s.sacre, were doubtless more strongly deepened in her memory, from the circ.u.mstance 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 wors.h.i.+p 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 antique volumes, 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 its furniture. 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 cl.u.s.ters, 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 ill.u.s.trious names in different sections of our country, trace their descent with pleasure and with pride.

"I have seen an end of all Perfection."

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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d!"

I returned, but his look was no more lofty, nor his step proud. His broken frame was like some ruined tower. His hairs were white and scattered, and his eye gazed vacantly upon the pa.s.sers 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, and full 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 cl.u.s.tering 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s rustled and sighed 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 G.o.d, neither did he fear or serve him. As I pa.s.sed along, I heard the complaints of the labourers who 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.