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.
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 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 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 God, neither did he fear or serve
him. As I passed 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.
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