Part 15

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.

Early Recollections.

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 green sheath, 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 were untaught 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 climbed to 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."

Huguenot Fort,

AT OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS.

I stood upon a breezy height, and marked The rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn, And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe With a forgiving fragrance, even in death Blessing its enemies; and broad-armed trees Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams That cheered their sedgy banks.

But at my feet Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones That 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 forth In rugged strength once more, and firmly guards From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France, Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold From thee, my native land! the wintry moan Of wind-swept forests, and the appalling frown Of icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them free To strike the sweet harp of the secret soul, And this was all their wealth. For this they blest Thy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roof At morn and night, or with the murmuring swell Of stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise. Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embrace Yon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with them Didst brave the ocean surge.

Say, drank thy germ The dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiled An infant fibre, mid the fruitful mould Of smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrink From the fierce footsteps of a warlike train Brother 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 hour Oft brought me water, and would kindly raise My drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh Was tremulous with love. For she had left One in her own fair land, with whom her heart From 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 doubt With a young pupil, in the school of love. Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloom Of persecution's cloud, and soon its storm Burst 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 sleep Of infant innocence.

Stern war burst forth, And civil conflict on the soil of France Wrought fearful things.

The peasant's blood was ploughed In with the wheat he planted, while from cliffs That overhung the sea, from caves and dens, The hunted worshippers were madly driven Out 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain, The anthem on their tongues.

The coast was thronged With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid, Leading her little sister, in the steps Of their afflicted parents, hasting left The meal uneaten, and the table spread In their sweet cottage, to return no more. The lover held her to his heart, and prayed That from her erring people she would turn To the true fold of Christ, for so he deemed That ancient Church, for which his breast was clad In soldier's panoply.

But she, with tears Like Niobe, a never-ceasing flood, Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep. And so, as years sped on with patient brow She 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 glance Of earnest supplication, that the hearts Severed so long, might join, where bigot zeal Should find no place.

She hath a quiet bed Beneath yon turf, and an unwritten name On 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 at Oxford, 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, in this, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 ruined tower. 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.