 | LEGEND OF OXFORD. Sketches |  |
2. LEGEND OF OXFORD.
Wild woodland, and savannahs wide and waste,—
Rude country of rude dwellers.”
Southey's Madoc.
Possibly it may be unknown, except to a few
antiquarians, that the beautiful town of Oxford, in
Massachusetts, was originally a colony of French
Protestants. They first taught its forests the sound
of the woodman's axe, and extended to its roving
and red-browed sons, the hand of amity.
Wherever the Huguenot character mingled in the
political formation of this Western World, its infusion
was bland, and salutary. Industry, patience,
cheerful endurance of evil, ardent social affections,
and a piety firm but not austere, were its distinctive
features. In their gentle community, Age did not
lay aside its sympathies with Youth, or feel exiled
from its sweet companionship. The white hair of
wisdom gave no death-signal to cheerfulness. The
grandsire, with his snowy temples, was still the favorite
and delighted associate of his blooming descendants.
The religion from whose root such fruits
sprang, made it no part of its theory to dismiss the
smile, or call in moroseness as an adjunct, or robe
that consecrated day by a frown on his works, instead
of pronouncing them “very good.” Still the
elements of their piety, combined without sternness
or ostentation, an inflexible adherence to duty, and
a spirit, “faithful unto death, for conscience sake.”
The loss of half a million of such inhabitants to
France, was a consequence of the persecutions of
Louis XIV. His long-cherished intolerance took the
form of madness, in the revocation of the Edict of
Nantz. The expulsion of multitudes of his most
unoffending and loyal subjects, justified the strong
metaphor of Queen Christina,—“France is a diseased
man, submitting to the amputation of his limbs,
to cure what a gentle regimen might conquer.”
The sufferings of the Protestants from the misguided
zeal of their monarch, have left deep traces
on the annals of History. Their worship of God
obstructed, their churches demolished, their Pastors
silenced, imprisoned, or led to martyrdom, an insolent
soldiery made the inmates of their peaceful
homes, licensed to every outrage by a commission
to convert the heretics, and finally their children
torn from them, and committed to the tutelage and
discipline of monks, prepared them for the fatal climax,—the
abolition of that Edict of Henry of Navarre,
which, a century before, had guarantied the
safety of their ancestors. The repeal of this royal
act of protection, in December, 1685, removed the
last barrier between them and the raging flood which
expected a repetition of the horrors of St. Bartholomew.
Flight from the beloved land of their birth, seemed
the only alternative. Even to this painful resort,
obstacles were opposed by the despot, who forgot that
one requisition of a king was to be the father of his
people. Soldiers were stationed to intercept their
progress, and prevent their embarkation. They
were driven literally, to take shelter in “dens, and
caves of the earth.” Fathers were forced to immure
their families in damp and pestilental caverns, whence
they issued, the very shadows of themselves. Delicate
females, whom the winds had never roughly
visited, wandered, half-clad, amid the chills of winter,
or implored at the peasant's hut a temporary
refuge. Mothers, in the recesses of dreary forests,
hushed their wailing infants, lest their cries of misery
should guide the search of some brutal captor.
The sea-ports were thronged with fugitives, in
every guise and garb of wretchedness. Rochelle
for weeks overflowed with the exiles of Languedoc
and Roussillon, of Gascoigne and Dauphiné. There
might be seen the aged, with hurrying, tottering
steps,—the matron, matured in the lap of indulgence,
—with crowds of wandering and miserable babes.
They came under covert of midnight, or drenched
by the storm: neither fatigue, nor menace, deterred
them. “Let us go,” they exclaimed, with frantic
gestures. “We leave to you our pleasant homes and
little ones; we know not whither,—But in God's
name, let us go.” The cry of Israel, in the house
of Egyptian bondage, seemed to re-echo through
the beautiful vales of France: though no majestic
prophet adjured the ruthless tyrant, in the name of
the Lord,—“Let my people go, that they may
serve me.”
Hundreds of thousands conquered every obstacle,
and effected their escape. Favor in foreign lands
was extended to them, and that pity was shown by
strangers, which their own kindred and king denied.
Our New World profited by this prodigality of
the Old. Those whom she cast out as “despised,
broken vessels, in whom there was no pleasure,”
added cement, and symmetry and strength to our
magnificent temple of freedom. Their descendants,
scattered and incorporated widely among the people
of these United States, still bear the mantle of ancestral
virtue. It would seem that they inherit some
share in the blessing of their fathers, who going forth,
like the Patriarch, “not knowing whither they went,
found their faith accounted as righteousness.”
It was in the depth of the winter of 1686, that a
ship tossed by contending storms, and repeatedly
repulsed from the bleak New-England coast, was
seen slowly entering the harbor of Boston. It was
thronged with Huguenot families, who, haggard from
the sufferings of their protracted voyage, were eager
to obtain refuge and repose.
Scarcely more than three-score years had elapsed
since the footsteps of the Pilgrim-Fathers first explored
the dreary rocks and trackless wilds of Plymouth.
Persecution for righteousness' sake, the
abandonment of their own loved land, their perils
on the ocean, and in the wilderness, those toils, privations
and hardships, with which they gladly purchased
“freedom to worship God,” were still within
the memory of the living. The echo of those hymns
of “lofty cheer, with which they shook the depths
of the desert gloom,” was still treasured in the bosoms,
and swelled in the domestic sanctuary, of
their descendants. A class of sympathies was therefore
in active exercise, which insured the welcome
of the tempest-tost aliens. The few hoary-headed
pilgrims who survived, could not fail to regard with
peculiar emotion, those spirits with whom their own
had strong affinity.
This colony of Huguenots was attended by their
Pastor, the Reverend Pierre Daillé, a descendant of
the learned John Daillé, distinguished as an author,
and especially by the work, entitled “An Apology
for the Reformed Churches.” Father Daillé, as he
was styled by his flock, more from the filial love
they bore him, than from any seniority of age, was
a man of exquisite sensibility, tempered by the meekness
of the Gospel which he preached, and whose
pure precepts he consistently exemplified. His deportment
evinced that true politeness which springs
from regard for the feelings of others, and a benenevolent
invariably conciliated those with whom he associated,
and the use he made of the influence thus acquired,
was to call forth the better feelings of their nature,
to elevate their standard of principle or practice,
and to recommend the religion of Jesus his Master.
Among those who gave to him, and his people, the
warm welcome of the Western World, it was not
surprising that he should discover a delightful reciprocity
in Elliot, the venerable apostle of the Indians.
Laying aside the classical superiority which he attained
at the University of Cambridge, in his native
land, he had been the patient translator of the Scriptures,
into the barbarous dialect of the sons of the
forest. There was in his demeanor, that perfect
gentleness, and self-renunciation, which inspires even
the savage breast with love. Though at this time
82 years of age, he still continued his mission of
mercy to those destitute beings, often partaking of
their coarse fare, and stretching himself, at night,
upon the cold, earthern floors of their miserable
habitations. But amid the self-denying calmness
of his deportment, those who looked deeply into his
eye, might discern some cast of that quiet and determined
courage, which had so often quelled the fiercest
chieftains, and ruled those paroxysms of anger which
threatened his death, by the unmoved reply,—“I am
about God's work:—he will take care of me.”
At one of his early interviews with Father Daillé,
he introduced a red-browed man, on whose arm he
of the forest, and my son in the faith.” This was
Hiacomes, his first Indian convert to the Gospel,
whom he had himself ordained as Pastor over a native
church in Martha's Vineyard, and whose example
and ministrations justified that high confidence.
He was a man of commanding presence,—grave,
slow of speech, and so erect and vigorous, that it
was difficult to believe that almost fourscore winters
had passed over him. With them also came the
Reverend John Mayhew, whose lofty forehead, and
intellectual features, were lighted up with an undying
benevolence for the poor aborigines; the accomplished
Dudley, recently appointed to the office of
Governor, and pleased, perhaps proud, of that “brief
authority;” Michael Wigglesworth, the allegorical
poet, with the most unpoetical name; and Increase
Mather, the stately President of Harvard College,
conscious of the dignity that he sustained, and full
of power to sustain it nobly. His voice, which in
the fervid denunciations of pulpit eloquence, was
said to have the force of thunder, adapted itself melodiously
to the tones of conversation, and the expressions
of friendship. He was sometimes accompanied
by his son, the future author of the “Magnalia
Christi Americana,” then a young man of 23,
in whose intelligent countenance and restless glance
might be traced that love of knowledge which neutralizes
the toil of the severest study,—that latent
superstition which was to spring up as an earnest
that deep-rooted benevolence which adopted even in
boyhood, the motto, “never to be in company with
any person, without endeavoring to do him some
good.” The acquaintance and friendship of such
men, and others, whom our limits will not allow
us to mention, breathed with soothing and strengthening
influence over the hearts of the exiles from
France.
Boston, at the period of which we speak, exhibited
none of the rudiments of its present magnificence.
Its population of between 3 and 4,000, were principally
intent on the necessary means of subsistence.
No lofty spires pointed in their glory of architecture
to Him, whose pavilion is above the cloud, and whose
dwelling is in the humblest heart. No liberally endowed
institutions, no mansions of surpassing splendor,
then evinced that like ancient Tyre, her “merchants
were princes, and her traffickers the honorable
of the earth.” Yet even then, in the intellectual
cast of her sons, in her deep and sober reverence for
knowledge, in her establishment of an University
almost coeval with the first breath of her own political
existence, might be seen those elements of
thought and action, which have since made her to
America, what Athens was to Greece. The hospitality
with which she still detains the step of the
traveller, and quickens his admiration of her beautiful
localities, was at this early period in vigorous
exercise. It had somewhat of that added fervor,
where community of danger inspires strong fellow-feelings,
and simplicity of life banishes the ceremony
that chills the heart, and the luxury that renders it
imbecile.
During the winter that the Huguenots thus enjoyed
shelter and sympathy from their new-found
brethren, preparations were in progress for their
obtaining a more permanent home. These negotiations
eventually terminated in the purchase of a
tract of land, in the county of Worcester, about
thirty miles from Boston, recommended both by
native fertility, and beauty of situation. The stream,
whose line of crystal variegates with its graceful
windings those vales of verdure, received from the
emigrants the name of French River; but why
they gave their new residence the appellation of
Oxford, in preference to one fraught with the mellifluent
tones and romantic recollections of their own
delightful land, history does not inform us. Perhaps
at the moment of baptizing this lodge in the wilderness,
their torn hearts wished to lave in the waters
of Lethe, the hand that had wounded them. Perhaps
they deemed it wise, to stifle emotions, which
were too tender and torturing for their peace. Or
perhaps, some claim of unrecorded gratitude prompted
the name of their adoption. Suffice it to say,
that Oxford, or, as some traditions assert, New-Oxford,
was the nomenclature of their infant settlement.
At the earliest indications of the broken sway of
possession of the territory, and to erect temporary
habitations for their families. Spring had somewhat
advanced, ere the more delicate part of the
community followed. The young turf was springing,
and the silver leaf of the willow had hung out
its banner.
On the hardships and privations appointed them,
they entered with a patience and cheerfulness which
nothing could subdue. They rejoiced to find a
temple where God might be worshipped, free from
the tyranny of man, though that temple was amid
forests, which the step of civilization had never
explored. Those who had been nurtured amid the
genial breathing of a luxuriant clime, who had imbibed
the fragrance of the vine-flower in their infant
slumbers, went forth to daily labor, amid tangled
thickets, where the panther and wolf howled, and
nightly returned to their rude cabins, with a smile
of gratitude, “an everlasting hymn within their
souls.”
Among the early cares of the colonists, was the
erection of a fort, as a place of refuge, in case of
an attack from the native dwellers of the forest.
They found themselves borderers upon the territory
of a powerful tribe, and stories of the cruelty of
Indian warfare, which had occupied a prominent
place among the winter evening tales of their friends
in Boston, had made deep impression upon the minds
of an imaginative people. Political motives, therefore,
led them, while they stood prepared for
evil, to make every effort to soothe and conciliate
their savage neighbors. They extended to them,
at every opportunity, the simple rites of hospitality,
and their bland and gentle manners apparently won
the friendship of those proud, yet susceptible aborigines.
In the lapse of a year after the arrival of the
Huguenots, their settlement began to assume the
features of regularity. Its simple abodes equalled
the number of families, and an air of neatness and
even of comfort, pervaded them. Each dwelling
had a small spot, allotted to horticulture, from whose
broken surface, newly exposed to the free action of
the sun, the seeds of France might be seen timidly
emerging, and striving to become naturalized in a
foreign soil. In a large field, held as common
property, the maize had already appeared in straight
and stately ranks, its intervals enlivened by the varied
hues of the bright bean-blossom. Lycurgus
might here have seen illustrated his favourite plan
of the Laconian brotherhood, where without contention,
each should give his labor to the earth, and
without jealousy apportion its treasures. The natives,
seeking for game in the neighboring thickets, frequently
paused to regard the movements of the new
settlers. But it did not escape their observation,
that the simple expressions of amity with which
their arrival had been welcomed, soon subsided into
of stupid wonder, or decided aversion. At length
the son of the forest utterly avoided the habitations
of his white neighbors, where he had sometimes
accepted a shelter for the night, or a covert from the
storm. Still he might be seen with a dejected brow,
lingering near their cultivated fields, and regarding
their more skilful operations of agriculture, with an
ill-defined emotion. This was by some explained
as the result of envy, by others of hatred, infused
by the powaws, who continually impressed the idea
that these pale intruders would eventually root the
red man out of his father's land. Yet these symptoms
of disaffection, however variously interpreted,
were ominous; and the resolution was unanimous,
to preserve the most conciliatory deportment, yet to
take every precaution for safety, and not to go unarmed
even to daily labor. Thus the musket was
the companion of the implements of rural toil, as
in the days of Nehemiah the restorers of Jerusalem
wrought “every man with one hand upon the wall,
and with the other held his spear, having his sword
girded by his side.”
It was after sunset on a summer's day in 1687,
as the colonists were returning from the field, that
a party of natives was observed to approach, apparently
with an intention of cutting off their communication
with their abodes. Continuing to reject
every attempt at parley, and bearing on their dark
brows the sullen purpose of vengeance, they passed
possession of the rising grounds in the neighborhood
of the fort. A momentary council was held
among the emigrants, who were compelled to perceive
that their destruction was meditated. Conscious
that they embodied the effective strength of the colony,
and that on their present decision its existence depended,
they were anxious to avoid rashness, and
yet not to testify such regard for their personal
safety, as might give to the watchful foe, an appearance
of timidity. They observed that they were
greatly outnumbered, but that only a few of their
enemies were provided with fire-arms, the remainder
carrying bows and tomahawks. Three muskets
were immediately fired in rapid succession, according
to a previous agreement, as a signal for the females
and children to take refuge in the fort, if
their husbands and fathers should be attacked at a
distance from home. Then forming into a solid body,
they marched onward with a firm step, having their
pieces loaded, but not deeming it expedient to hazard
the first assault. Each silently revolved the desolation
that would ensue, upon their fall, to the infant
settlement, the peaceful fire-side, and those dearer
than life.
Yet with unshrinking bravery they approached
their terrible opponents, and in silent aspirations invoked
that Being, with whom it is “nothing to save,
whether by many, or by them who have no help.”
The shifting lines of the enemy became stationary,
several large trees, behind which they could be sheltered,
according to their mode of warfare. Many
of the warriors were already stationed behind these
fortifications, while the remainder intercepted the
path along which the Huguenots were advancing
toward their homes. This post, though chosen by
these sons of nature without knowledge of tactics,
was highly advantageous. Their fire in front, upon
those who ascended the hill, would be greatly annoying;
on the right, their marksmen sheltered by
trees might take deadly aim with little danger of
retaliation, while on the left, a thick forest, obstructed
by underwood, promised to baffle the flight of
fugitives. In the rear, at the distance of half a mile,
lay the fort, where they might, after vanquishing
their protectors, wreak on the helpless ones the vengeance
of extermination. Already they viewed the
objects of their hatred as within their grasp, and a
murmur of savage joy ran through their ranks, preparatory
to the yell of battle. They silently singled
out their victims for the triumph and for the stake,
and deemed the blood of their invaders would be a
just and grateful offering to the spirits of their
fathers, angry, even amid fields of light, that their
sons could tamely resign their heritage. The Christians
had begun to ascend the hill. They were within
thirty paces of those who sought their destruction.
Yet they paused, ere the fatal conflict should send
into eternity they knew not how many souls. Every
earth. In one deep, solemn response, their mingled
voices broke forth,—“Deliver us, O Jehovah! from
the hand of the unrighteous, and cruel man: for
thou art our hope, O God! thou art our trust from
our youth.” They rose and advanced, with souls
prepared either for victory or death. But the perilous
enterprise was arrested by a mysterious form, rushing
from the dark forest on the left of their path. He
seemed of more than mortal height, and his flowing
robes were girt about his loins, with a broad bloodred
cincture. On his head was a resemblance of
the ancient helmet, surmounted with lofty and sable
plumes. In his right hand a sword flashed with ineffable
brightness, and his left bore a blazing torch,
which illumined his pale countenance, yet faded
beneath the lightning of his awful eye. He exclaimed,
as he approached the little flock of Christians,—
“The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!”
Pointing onward with his dazzling blade, they
followed him mechanically, as if the shade of Conde
or Coligny had arisen from the grave to lead them
to victory. The Indians stood as if transfixed with
horror, until this mysterious being confronted them
face to face.
There was a pause of fearful silence, and then he
uttered, in a tone which seemed to shake the hills, a
few terrible words in an unknown tongue. But they
were intelligible to the enemy, who were in an instant
overwhelmed with astonishment and fear. At
to its utmost tension, dropt the trembling arrow,
and the uplifted tomahawk sank from the hand of
the nerveless warrior. The whole body of savages
turned in flight. Still a voice of thunder arrested
their breathless speed.
“Stay!—Hear what the Great Spirit saith. If
ye lift your hand against one of these my servants,
if ye hurt a hair of the head of any belonging unto
them, your flesh shall be given as meat to the beasts
of the earth, and to the fowls of heaven, and your
souls shall never enter the abodes of your fathers.—
Remember,—and begone!”
Scarcely was the permission accorded, ere the
surrounding hills were covered with the flying fugitives.
Their native agility, quickened by terror,
regarded no obstacle of rock, thicket, or stream.
The majestic being reared high his flaming torch, and
beheld their departure. Not one turned to look back,
so deep was their dread of that fearful countenance,
and tremendous tone. Bending his piercing glance
upon those whom he had rescued, he read the most
intense traces of gratitude, astonishment, and awe,
and heard the repeated yet half-suppressed inquiry,
—“Who is our deliverer?”
A voice of majesty answered:
“I am the pillar of cloud, and the pillar of flame,
sent before you in this wilderness, by the Eternal.
Gaze not thus, attempt not to pursue my path, lest,
like the wretches who prest upon the base of Sinai,
and darkness, and tempest. Veil your eyes, and
bow your faces in the dust, while I pass on my
way.”
They obeyed, and from a greater distance, the
same deep tone was heard to command—
“When you reach your homes, and find those
eyes tearful with joy, which might have been closed
in blood, give glory to the God of Israel.”
When the ransomed band raised their heads from
the earth, some thought that they saw the firmament
glowing as with a path of living flame. But
others said it was the ray of the full moon, which
lifting from the horizon her broad disk of pale gold,
tinged the mountain-tops and forests with the same
hue, then gradually faded into silver, as a bride
covers her heightened complexion with a snowy veil.
The extreme excitement of this sudden danger and
unaccountable deliverance, did not permit the colonists
to discover, until their arrival at their habitations,
that one of their number was missing. Then,
the wife of Laurens, holding her babe in her arms,
was seen vainly inquiring for her husband.
They explored the paths which had been traversed,
they returned to the field where they had labored.
But no trace was to be found, save his cartridge-box,
lying near the spot where he had toiled. It was
then evident that he had not been with them in their
scene of peril, and dismay marked every countenance.
Conjecture was busy in her darkest forms
effective strength of the colony gathered in consultation.
The boldest proposed immediate pursuit, and
reclaiming the captive by force of arms, during the
season of consternation which then prevailed among
the Indians. The more cautious suggested the danger
of invading their territory with such inferiority
of numbers, as might involve not only their own
destruction, but the extinction of the colony. The
result of their council, was to send an embassy to
Boston, requesting the Governor to demand of the
Indian king their captive brother, or to grant them
military aid in effecting his rescue.
A day of intense anxiety was endured in that little
settlement. But on the ensuing morning, ere the
sun had dispersed the cloud of vapor that encompassed
the valley, a shout of joy burst wildly from
many voices. The lost brother had been discovered
hasting toward his home. Only a short interval
transpired, ere he was surrounded by a throng of
kindred and friends, welcoming him with wondering
rapture, and demanding his adventures. His heart
was full, and his lip trembled as he spoke.
“When we departed from the field, after our last
day's labor, I had not proceeded far in your company,
before I discovered that my cartridge-box was
left behind. Without mentioning the circumstance,
I ran to fetch it, expecting to rejoin you, ere I should
be missed. As I leaped the inclosure, I received a
blow on the head from an Indian, who was lurking
I endeavored to arise, but found myself in the power
of four natives, who had deprived me of my weapons.
With threatening gestures, they hurried me onward.
A great part of the night we travelled, through almost
impenetrable woods. Then they halted, and
a fire was kindled. They kindly offered me a portion
of the rude viands on which they fed. Then
they lay down to sleep, after pinioning me securely,
and appointing a sentinel, with a loaded musket.
Soon they fell into slumber; but for me, though sorely
wearied, there was no forgetfulness. The flame,
sometimes blazing high, then suddenly declining,
cast a wavering light upon the grim faces and dishevelled
locks of those whose captive I was, whose
victim I might soon be. Their athletic limbs, stretched
supinely, gave evidence of great strength, while
their dark, red brows, distorted in dreams, seemed
as if the Spirit of Evil had visibly set his seal there.
When, sickening at the scene, I looked upward, there
was the full, cloudless moon, gilding the crest of the
wide forest, and gliding down its deep arches, to visit
the earth, like the eye of Heaven, beholding a world
of sin, itself continuing pure.
But I could not raise my thoughts in the sublime
offices of devotion. They hovered wildly around
this beloved spot, and her who, I knew, was sleepless
for my sake. I remembered you all, my friends,
and fancied that I heard your voices, and saw your
search for the lost one. Then it seemed as if an
could destroy my foes, and pass through their blood
to my home, and to you. Then, attempting to start
up, my pinioned limbs painfully admonished me, and
I grieve to say, that the prayer with which I strove
to solace myself, was more in bitterness, than in
humble trust.
Suddenly, the trampling of many feet destroyed
my reverie. A body of Indians approached, hastily
and in disorder. They conversed eagerly with my
captors, in their own language. I imagined, by their
wild gestures, that they were detailing some warlike
expedition, and a horrible suspicion took hold of me.
I feared that they had fallen like wolves upon our
peaceful fold, and shuddered lest I might discover on
their raiment, stains of the blood that was most dear
to me. At every change of attitude, my straining
eyes followed with terror, lest they should display
some fair-haired scalp. From their impassioned action,
I could gain nothing, save broken delineations
of some conflict, in which the madness of astonishment
predominated.
A prey to the most afflicting suspense, I was hurried
onward to the residence of their king. It was
surrounded by a number of dwellings, constructed
in their arbor-like manner and thatched with matting.
There I saw, in the midst of a few warriors, the
king of the Nipmucks and Narragansetts. He was
tall, with a coronet of white feathers on his head,
conversation with an aged man, whose eye was
fixed and severe. This was the ancient prophet,
greatly reverenced by the surrounding tribes. After
the large party of Indians had related their story
with strong gesticulation, my captors led me forward,
and the king regarded me with a penetrating
glance.
“Hast thou shed the blood of Indians?” he inquired.
I answered in the negative, and added that
we were a peaceful people, considering all men as
our brethren. He stood for some time in silence,
gravely scrutinizing me. Then he addressed the
prophet, still speaking in English.
“Seest thou cause, why this prisoner should not
be set at liberty?”
“Seest thou cause!”—exclaimed the old man
indignantly, and extending his hand in rhetorical
action. “The cause is on the sky.—It hath told thee
in thunder, that wherever the foot of the pale race
comes, the red man must perish. The cause is
written on the earth,—in the blood of our warriors.
It is upon the air,—in the red blaze of our wigwams.
And thou art a king of the Narragansetts, and
dost ask of me if there is any cause why a white
man should die?”
“Think not that I forget the slaughter of my people,”
said the king:—“But they were the hands of
Englishmen, that dropped with their blood. What
have this man, or his brethren, done? They are of
They only mark furrows upon the green earth, and
the corn rises. I myself have been in their dwellings,
but not as a king. I went thither as the fox,
and they were before me like doves, without guile.
I was weary, and they spread for me a bed. They
believed that I slumbered. But my eye, like the
eagle's, was upon all their ways. They spake no
evil of Indians. No—in their prayers they asked
good things for us, of their Great Spirit. There is
no bitterness in their hearts, towards red men. Son
of Wisdom, why should we lift our hand against the
innocent?”
“Thou art deceived, son of Philip!” answered
the Prophet. “They are moles, mining around thine
habitation. Their path is in silence and in darkness,
and thy heart is simple as the babe. Ere thou art
aware, thou shalt struggle like the fish in the net,
and who can deliver thee? The crested snake
cometh forth boldly, and the poisonous adder worketh
her way beneath the matted grass. Are they
not both the offspring of the deadly serpent? This
man, and his brethren, and they who have long
slaughtered us, are all of one race. They are but
the white foam of that ocean, which the Great Spirit
hath troubled in his wrath. Art thou the son of
Philip, standing still, till its billows sweep thee,
and thy nation, away? That lion-hearted monarch
was not so. Rivers of blood flowed before him in
battle. Even now, his soul is angry at the sight of
me. Its brow was like thine, O king, but frowns
of vengeance made it terrible. His eye was dark
like thine, but the lightning of the brave made its
glance awful. His voice was hoarse and hollow,
as if it rose from the sepulchre. Ice entered into
my blood, as its tones smote my ear. `I cannot
rest,' it said. `White men multiply, and become
as the stars of heaven. My people fade away like
the mist, when the sun ariseth. On their own land,
they have become strangers. My son hideth, with
the remnant of his tribe, in the borders of another
nation. They call him King. Why doth he not
dare to set his feet, where his father's throne stood?
I see cities there, and temples to a God whom our
fathers knew not. Our canoes ride no longer on
the tides of the Narragansett. Proud sails are there,
whiter than the curl of its waters. Doth the son
of Philip sleep? Tell him, if he be a king, to write
it in blood, on the grave where my bones moulder.
Tell him, if he be my son, to sheath his spear in the
breast of every white man, till the soul of his father
is satisfied.' The spirit vanished, and the blackness
of midnight glowed like a gush of blood. I have
spoken its message unto thee, king of a perishing
race. Yonder is a victim, provided by the Great
Spirit. Bid it soothe the sorrowing shade of thy
father.”
The forest echoed to the furious voice of the incensed
prophet. The king covered his face with
he said,—“Take him, and do with him what ye will.
It is not the king, but the prophet, that demandeth
his blood.”
I would have spoken, but he walked hastily away.
The old man gazed after him with a reproachful eye,
and then spoke rapidly to the people, in their own
language, giving, as I supposed, directions for my
death. I observed him closely, to discover whether
argument or supplication might be hazarded. But
in his stern, stony features, there dwelt no touch of
human sympathy. The victim might as well have
hoped to propitiate the Druid, whose pitiless hand
grasped the sacrificial blade. I suffered them to lead
me away, in silence.
They conducted me to a level spot, from whence
the trees had been partially cleared, as if by fire. I
believed this to be the place of execution. They
desired me to sit, and the women and children flocked
around me. Yet I saw not upon their brows
aught of hatred or exultation. Some were strongly
marked with pity. Even the little ones regarded
me with melancholy attention. Towards noon, a
plentiful repast was brought me. It would seem
that they had put in requisition all their culinary
skill, to furnish my last feast on earth. Fish, birds,
and the flesh of the deer, with cakes baked in the
ashes, and parched corn, varied the banquet. They
spread it before me, and retired to some distance,
taught by Nature the simple politeness of not disturbing
for my hands and face, and the children, venturing
nearer, decked my hair with wild flowers. I felt
that they were adorning the victim for the altar, yet
I could not but look on them with kindness, for their
guileless manners and simple ceremonies served to
soothe apprehension, though they might not nourish
hope. The men consulted in groups. Probably,
the arrangements for my martyrdom occupied
them. Yet they displayed neither the impatience
to hasten it, nor the savage triumph, that I had
been taught to expect from descriptions of similar
scenes.
At the decline of day, they stripped a small tree
of its boughs, and cut off its trunk at the distance
of six or seven feet from the earth. As the shades
of evening deepened, they kindled a large fire,
around which they began to dance, with dissonant
music, and violent gesticulation. Becoming excited
almost to madness, they approached and bound me
to the tree.
Hitherto, I had but imperfectly realized my doom.
Illusions of escape and of deliverance had been flitting
through my imagination. Even when the
branches were heaped around that were to consume
me, I could not dismiss these illusions. They put
fire to the encircling fuel. It was green, and the
thick smoke almost suffocated me. Horrible visions
swam before my eyes. Unutterable thoughts rushed
through my brain. My soul could not bid adieu
of wild emotion, like a reeling bark before the tempest.
I strove to recall the instructions of my revered
pastor, but Memory was a wreck, amid the billows
of Fate.
Before me was a steep hill, interspersed with rocks
and thickets. There my eyes fixed, until every
bush seemed to cluster with fiery faces. At length,
on the summit of that precipice, where dark clouds
rested, a light shone, above the brightness of the
moon. A form, of more than mortal height, came
gliding thence, in a path of living flame. In its
right hand glittered the semblance of a sword, and
on its left came forth fire, which seemed to kindle
the firmament. I thought I beheld the King of Terrors.
I wished that I could welcome his approach.
The fearful form came nearer. It stood before
me. Awful tones, in an unknown tongue, proceeded
from its lips. At their sound, my foes shrieked
and fled. Like the host of Israel, at the terrible
voice from the flames of Sinai, they could not endure
that “those words should be spoken to them a second
time.”
I was writhing before the scorching flame. A
hand of power loosened my bonds. “Follow me,”
said a tremendous voice; “but gaze not on me, lest
thou perish.” I obeyed, and shading my eyes with
my hand, walked in the path of light, that gleamed
before me. I trembled, lest I might accidentally
look upon one, whom “no man can see and live.”
It seemed that the way was long, but my mind
was in that state when the unities of time and space
are annihilated. I thought that the drapery of a
diseased intellect enveloped me, or that I had already
passed the gulf of death, and was gliding through
the region of disembodied spirits. But still before
me moved, in mysterious majesty, that “pillar of
cloud, and pillar of flame.” At length, we stood
upon the banks of a river, which I recollected to
have crossed soon after my capture. The difficulty
which we had encountered in fording it, was the
first circumstance that perfectly restored my senses
from their stupor, after the stroke that prostrated me.
“Pass through the stream,” said the same tremendous
voice. I shuddered at its tone. “Pass
through the stream. If its waters oppose thee, ask
aid of Him who taught the wavering disciple to
walk upon the sea. When thou reachest the shore,
kneel, and pay thy vows to Jehovah.”
I plunged into the swollen waters. Thrice, their
current thwarted me. Once, I found myself beyond
my depth, and exhaustion came over me. I spake
to my Redeemer. Still the pure ray of that mysterious
light gleamed around me, till I gained the
opposing shore in safety. There I knelt, in obedience
to the command of my deliverer. My heart
was full of unutterable aspirations. When they
ceased, I arose, but there was no longer any brightness
in my path. I saw that the night had fled, and
the gray dawn trembled in the east.
As I drew near these beloved abodes, the apprehensions
which had distressed me, at the return and
mysterious recital of the Indian warriors, again resumed
their sway. How shall I describe the rapture,
with which the light of morning gave to my view,
the smoke curling in peaceful volumes above these
trees! I seemed to surmount the space that divided
me from you, as the swift-winged bird cleaves the
air. Methought I could pour out existence to
Him who had preserved it, in one unending hymn
of joy.
Friends, ask me neither for explanation nor comment.
I have given you the truth, as it dwells in
my soul. Bewildered, I scarcely know what to say,
save that I stand here among you, look on faces
that are dear, and know that God, by some mysterious
messenger, hath snatched me from destruction.”
As he ceased, his friends thronged around him,
with the most affectionate congratulations. Little
children, who had often wept during the narrative,
pressed near, that they might lay their hand upon
one, who had witnessed such marvellous things.
The pastor came forward into the centre of the
circle, as a father enters among his children. Laying
his hand solemnly on the head of Laurens, he said,
“This, my son, was dead and is alive again, was
lost and is found.” They understood his inference
unspoken, and kneeling upon the green turf, joined
the holy man, in fervent thanksgiving to their
Almighty Protector.
To this scene of pious gratitude, succeeded a recital
of the danger and preservation of the colony,
to which the rescued brother listened with intense
interest and deep astonishment. Features of similarity
were recognized in the mysterious being who
had effected this double deliverance, though a highly
excited imagination had, in the case of Laurens, invested
him with more of supernatural influence.
Those events long supplied the colony with a subject
for the hour of twilight musing and midnight
vigil, a theme for the wonder of childhood, the terror
of superstition, the conjecture and speculation
of all. But the lapse of years drew the curtain
from this mystery, by revealing the history of the
regicide Judges.
After the restoration of Charles the Second to the
throne of England, and his execution of several of
the judges by whom his father had been condemned,
most of the others fled to foreign climes. Three
of them sought refuge on the shores of New-England.
Massachusetts and Connecticut alternately
afforded them protection. A cave in the neighborhood
of New-Haven was frequently their abode, and
their piety and dignity of manner propitiated the
favor and respect of the people.
When it was understood in Great Britain, that the
Colonels Whalley, Dixwell, and Goffe, had escaped
to New-England, they were demanded by the king.
But the colonists continued to shelter them. The
Governor of Connecticut, and the settlement of New-Haven,
cabinet of James II., by their persevering republicanism,
and incipient spirit of independence.
In 1687, Sir Edmund Andrus, a sycophant of the
House of Stuart, in its vacillating and vindictive
policy, entered New-England, with the authority
and disposition of a petty tyrant. Arriving at Hartford,
he demanded the Charter of Connecticut. Suddenly,
in the room where the consultation was held,
the lights were extinguished, and the important
parchment disappeared. A bold and cautious hand
deposited it in the hollow heart of an oak,—which
henceforward acquired imperishable fame, and still
flourishes in vigorous and green old age.
Sir Edmund Andrus, proceeding to New-Haven
fixed his suspicious eye on a stranger whom he accidentally
encountered, and pronounced to be one
of the regicides in disguise. He instituted a strict
search for the man, but both vigilance, and bribe,
proved ineffectual. This was indeed Col. Dixwell,
who, with his associates, had been “hunted as a partridge
on the mountains.” Having for a long previous
period been unmolested, he occasionally ventured
to walk in the streets, and even to attend public
worship. Reading in the eagle glance of the
haughty minion, that he was singled out for immolation,
he instantly withdrew, and was long invisible
to his most faithful adherents. Sometimes caverns
afforded him refuge; at others, he threw himself
on the good faith of strangers, and found concealment.
of Oxford was among his favorite retreats, and
the date of the events which we have just recorded,
corresponds with this period of his flight and
seclusion.
Being a man of native address, and military enterprise,
he had previously mingled, though unknown,
in scenes of conflict with the aborigines. Their
traits of character had interested him as a study,
and having become acquainted with some words of
their language, it was said that he made use of them,
together with a wild and imposing suit of apparel,
a blazing torch, and a sword which had served in
the wars of Cromwell, to accomplish such results
as those which we have related. It was also said
that Father Daillé had visited him in his subterranean
retreat, and been intrusted confidentially with
his agency in these occurrences, and with other parts
of his history. Be that as it may, Col. Dixwell, who
was a man of superior talents, and religious sensibility,
and, as the quaint writers of that age assert,
“possessed of manifest great education,” took pleasure
in evincing, as far as his precarious situation
admitted, his grateful sympathies in the welfare
of a people who had saved him from the scaffold.
The settlement at Oxford continued gradually and
steadily to attain prosperity. An air of neatness
and comfort pervaded its rustic dwellings. In the
vicinity of many of them, the vines of France
striving to sustain existence with the smiles of a less
genial sun. The pastor, who had led his flock into
foreign folds, shared in all their concerns with a sympathy
and zeal that knew no declension. In their
secular affairs he aided with his advice, in their sicknesses
he sat by their bed, combining the skill of the
temporal healer with the higher offices of the spiritual
physician. Piety was not worn by him, only
as a sabbath garb. Every day he wrapped its mantle
around his spirit. It attended him in his domestic
duties, in all his companionship with men. It was
like an undying lamp, of the mildest radiance, ever
beaming on his path, and enlightening the steps of
others. No one could be long in his presence, without
perceiving that his heart was above. Yet this
was not evinced by moroseness, or contempt of
earthly cares, or sternness towards weaker spirits,
but by a gentle and powerful influence, which elevated
the thoughts and affections of those around.
In his visits to his people, the unrestrained flow of
discourse prompted every heart to pour itself out to
him. Little children gathered near him, and learned
to associate the name of their Redeemer with the
sacred lips that told them of his love. Amid the
unchecked pleasure of this parochial intercourse, the
simple raising of his benign eye to Heaven, was
understood by his confiding and affectionate people,
as a signal for the spirit to commune with
its Father, if it were only through the aspiration of
a moment.
In his partner, he found a congenial mind, and a
helper in every toil. Though her education and
manners might have qualified her to move in courts,
she found no greater delight than in zealously aiding
her husband in his responsible duties, particularly
in the instruction of the children of the community,
and the comfort of disease and affliction. Accustomed
to the pursuits and accomplishments of
refined society, the only recreation in which she now
indulged herself, was the culture of a few flowers;
and one of the highest gratifications which they furnished
her, was sometimes to lay them, in all their
beauty and breathing fragrance, upon the pillow of
the sick. The same benevolence induced her to turn
her knowledge of the physiology of plants to practical
use. A part of her garden was devoted to the rearing
of medicinal herbs, and her skill in their application
enabled her often to alleviate physical suffering.
Yet no diseases of a serious nature had hitherto appeared
among them, notwithstanding the influence of a
comparatively severe climate, might have been expected
to put in requisition the more efficient aids
of medical science. But their state of society forcibly
illustrated, how industry, moderated desires,
and habitual cheerfulness, promote health of body, as
well as health of mind.
Somewhat more than three years had elapsed,
since the establishment of the colony. The autumn
of 1690 was advancing towards its close. Copse
and forest exhibited those varied and opposing hues,
the foliage of New-England. The harvest was completed,
and every family was in preparation for the
claims of a cold and dreary season. Children might
still be seen, bearing toward their habitations, baskets
of those nuts, which were to vary the banquet
of their winter evenings. The elastic atmosphere
gave vigor to their spirits, and their little voices
clamored joyously and incessantly. It was pleasant
to see their healthful and innocent faces, like bright
flowers amid those wilds, so lately tenanted by the
copper-colored Indian, and the sable bear.
Among these happy groups, were the beautiful
children of St. Maur;—Antoiné, a boy of eight, and
Elisé, four years younger. They were peculiarly
dear to their father, from the circumstance of his
having the sole charge of them. Their mother,
whose delicate frame had been exhausted by the
hardships of persecution, died during her voyage to
America. The passage had been rude and boisterous,
and the fearful tempests which marked their
approach to a wintry coast, annihilated that feeble
hope of her recovery, which affection had cherished.
During a violent storm, while the ship tossed as if
the deep were about to engulf her, that pale mother
sat the whole night, with her infant on her bosom.
She was not willing to transfer it to other arms.
Her eyes were fixed upon it:—their long and tender
glance seemed to say,—“It is the last time.” When
the morning dawned, she kissed the baby, and laid
long as he lived, that she clasped her cold hands
upon his little head, and said faintly,—“The cup
that my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?”
—and that in a few moments she was stretched out,
motionless, and dead.
It was not wonderful that St. Maur should regard
these motherless ones, the companions of his exile,
with extreme tenderness,—that he should desire to
watch over them every moment. With his permission
to join their companions, in nut-gathering, he
mingled an injunction to return home before sunset.
Delighted with their enlivening occupation, they saw
with regret the sun declining toward the west, but,
obedient to their father's command, took leave of
their companions, and departed from the forest. On
their homeward path, they discovered profuse clusters
of the purple forest-grape, and entered a rocky
recess to gather the additional treasure. Suddenly,
they were seized by two Indians. Antoiné struggled
violently, and every feature was convulsed with
anger. His little sister stretched out her hands to
him for protection, but in vain. When the first tumult
of surprise had subsided, the keen eye of the
boy took note of every angle in the path, every brook
that they forded, every hill that was ascended, determining,
if possible, to effect an escape. He was
grieved that darkness so soon prevented his observation
of the country.
The night was considerably advanced, ere the
the children some of the food which they carried
with them. The heart of Antoiné swelled high,
and he refused to partake. But the little girl took
some parched corn, and sat on the knee of the rude
Indian. He smiled, when he saw her eat the kernels,
and look up in his face with a trusting, reproachless
eye. Then they lay down to sleep, each with a captive
in his arms.
Antoiné wisely restrained his impatience, and remained
perfectly still, until the grasp that confined
him relaxed, and deeper breathing denoted slumber.
Then, scarcely daring to breathe, he crept away
from the side of his captor. Softly rising on his
feet, he looked on the sleeping group. Nothing was
heard, save the crackling of the fire, which blazed
up high and bright in the forest, and the distant growling
and moaning of a bear, as if bereaved of her
cubs. The heart of a child at the lone hour of midnight,
who had never before been separated from the
side of a parent, might well shudder at a scene so
awful. But new and strange courage enkindled, when
he recollected that he was the sole protector of his little
sister, and that their father was now miserable for
their loss.
The innocent child lay sleeping upon the damp
ground, her head resting upon the shoulder of the
dark, red man. She seemed like a rosebud broken
from its stalk, and dropped in some dismal vault,
where the slimy snake gliding from its nest, enfolds
lay among the long, black locks of the Indian, and
her ruby lips were slightly parted by her soft and
quiet breathing.
Her brother, brushing away the thick, dark curls
that clustered around his forehead, bent over her.
He wished to snatch her from durance, and bear her
to her home. He espied a tomahawk, and seized it.
Terrible designs took possession of his mind. He
believed that he could cleave the skull of the sleeping
Indians. At that moment, his guard awoke.
What was his astonishment at beholding a child,
whom he had deemed incapable of meditating resistance,
armed with a deadly weapon, and his dark
eyes flashing with all a warrior's spirit! He could
not but gaze on him for a moment with admiration,
for the son of the forest respects valor in a foe, and
to the sight of the brave he was beautiful.
Disarming, and securely pinioning the infant warrior,
he again stretched himself upon his bed of turf.
Antoiné struggled vainly, and at length, overcome
with fatigue and sorrow, mourned himself into a
broken slumber. Yet in his dreams, he incessantly
started and complained, sometimes exclaiming,—“Oh
my poor father,”—or, “See! see! they have murdered
the child.”
When it was discovered in the colony, that the
children of St. Maur had not returned, alarm and
sympathy became general. Every spot was explored,
where it was supposed possible that they might
every direction, to glimmer and recede like the lamp
of the fire-fly; and for hours, upland and valley resounded
with their names. But when their little
baskets were found overturned, and their contents
scattered in disorder, one terrible conclusion burst
upon every mind, that they must have been captured
by Indians.
With the dawn of morning, the men of the colony
were assembled at the door of St. Maur. Many of
them bore arms, anxious to go immediately and demand
the lost. Their pastor was already there,
consulting with the agonized father. The gestures
of St. Maur were strong, and his voice fervent in
argument, but the countenance of the sacred teacher
was fixed, as one who prevails. At length, Father
Daillé, advancing, said,—
“It is decided that only St. Maur and myself, go,
and require our lost babes of the savage king. If
it be true, as we have supposed, that some germ of
goodness still dwells in the hearts of this fierce people,
they will listen to a sorrowing father, and a man
of God. Go to your homes, and pray, that we
may find favor in his sight. We give you thanks
for your sympathy, but resistance unto blood might
end in the destruction of our colony. It might fail
to restore the lambs who are lost: it might lay our
whole fold desolate. Return to your homes, my
children. Not by the sword, or the bow can ye
aid us, but by the uplifting of humble hearts and
faithful hands.”
The ambassadors to a savage monarch, pressed
the hands of their friends and departed. They met
an Indian pursuing the chase, who had occasionally
shared their hospitality, and consented to become
their guide. After travelling till the evening shades
approached, they encountered a number of warriors,
attended by one who seemed to exercise the functions
of Chief. His eyes were fixed on the earth,
like one addicted to melancholy thought, and as he
raised his brow, it exhibited deep furrows of age
and sorrow. His glance was unspeakably stern,
as if it suddenly met objects of disgust, or hatred.
“Our Prophet,” said the guide, bending low in
reverence. “He understands your language. He
can interpret the will of the Great Spirit. Our people
fear him.”
Father Daillé respectfully accosted him,—“Prophet
of the Great Spirit, we come in peace. We
are told that thou revealest hidden things. Canst
thou tell us aught of two wandering babes? When
last the sun sank behind the mountain, we gathered
our lambs into the fold, but these came not. If, in
thy visions, thou hast heard the cry of the lost, we
pray thee to guide a mourning father, where he may
once more shelter them in his arms.”
The Prophet remained silent for several minutes,
haughtily surveying them. Then in a hoarse, hollow
tone, he replied—
“What should the red man know of the offspring
of his enemies?—What! but to appoint to the sword,
for the burning, into the flame?”
“Hath thy Great Spirit,” said the Pastor, “any
delight in the blood of babes? The God whom we
worship, saith from heaven, that `He hath no pleasure
in the death of him that dieth.”'
“Go your way,” said the hoary Prophet, “go
your way, and teach white men not to swear falsely,
and not to steal from the sons of the forest, the lands
that their fathers gave. Go, and when thou hast
taught them these things, tell me the words of thy
God, and I will hear thee. Since the eye of the pale
race first looked upon us, we have had no rest. We
ask only to hunt in our own woods, to guide the
canoe over our own waters, as we have done from
the beginning. But you breathe upon us with thunder-blasts,
you pour poison into our veins, you pursue
us, till we have no place even to spread out our
blankets. We die. But we may not hide even in the
grave. From thence, ye cast out our bones. Ye
disturb the ashes of our fathers. Why do ye tell
us that your God hath made us brethren? Your
words and your ways war together. They are as
the flame and the waters. One riseth up to heaven,
and the other quencheth it.”
The meek Christian answered,—“All white men
obey not the truth. When they seek to do good,
evil overtakes them, and their hearts are weak. Is
it not so with some of our red brethren? Yet we
despise not the words of thy Great Spirit, because
some of his followers are false.”
While they were conversing, a man of a noble
countenance approached, who by his coronet of
feathers seemed to be the king, and St. Maur addressed
him.
“King of the Red Men, thou seest a father in
pursuit of his babes. He trusts himself fearlessly
with you, for he has heard that your people will not
harm the stranger in distress. The king of our own
native land, who should have protected us, turned to
be our foe. We fled from our dear homes, and from
the graves of our fathers. The ocean-waves 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 and buried stem. Last night, bitter
sadness was on my pillow, because I found them
not. If thou knowest, O king, where thy people
have concealed them, I pray thee to restore them to
my lonely arms. So shall the Great Spirit shed
pure dew upon thy tender plants, and lift up thy
heart when it weigheth heavily in thy bosom.”
The Indian monarch bent on the speaker a scrutinizing
glance, and inquired—
“Knowest thou this brow?—Look in my eyes,
and answer me,—are they those of the stranger?”
St. Maur, regarding him attentively, replied,—“I
have no knowledge of thy countenance, save what
this hour bringeth me.”
“Thus is it ever with the white man. He is
garments. Where your ploughs wound the earth,
I have oft stood, watching your toil. There was no
coronet upon my brow. But I was a king, though
your people knew it not. I saw among them neither
violence, nor pride. I went thither as an enemy,
but returned a friend. I said to my warriors, `Do
these men no harm. They are not like the English.
They do not hate Indians.' The Prophet of our great
Spirit rebuked me. He brought me angry words
from the shade of my buried fathers.
“Again I sought the spot where thy brethren dwell.
Yes,—I entered thy house. And thou knowest not
this brow! I could read thine at midnight, though
but a single star trembled through the thick cloud.
My ear would remember thy voice, though the loud
storm was abroad with its thunders. I came to thy
home hungry. Thou gavest me bread. My head
was wet with the tempest. Thou badest me to lie
down beside thy hearth. Thy son, for whom thou
mournest, covered me with a blanket. I was heavy
in spirit, and thy little daughter whom thou seekest
sat on my knee, and smiled when I told her how
the beaver buildeth his house in the forest. My
heart was comforted. It said, she does not hate
Indians, for she looked on my face, as the lamb
turneth to the shepherd. Now, why dost thou fix
on me such a terrible eye? Thinkest thou that I
could tear one hair from the head of thy babes?
Thinkest thou that the red man forgetteth kindness?
should ever have harmed them, and when I had but
one blanket, it should have been their bed. Yet I
will not hide them from thee. I know a father's
heart. Take thy babes, and return unto thy people.”
He waved his hand, and two warriors ran toward
the royal tent. In a moment, Antoiné and Elisé
were in the arms of their father. The twilight of
the next day bore upward from the rejoicing colony,
a prayer for the heathen of the forest, and that hymn
of devout thanksgiving which mingles with the music
around the throne.
The bordering aborigines now desisted from interference
with the settlement at Oxford. The offices
of hospitality were renewed, and it appeared that
quietness and confidence had been again restored.
Doubtless, the native urbanity of the manners of
France, pervaded, with a softening and conciliating
influence, even the savage breast.
An industrious and intellectual community, thus
suffered to be at rest, and expand itself, began to
examine its resources, and to balance them with its
wants. The elders, sensible of the value of education,
for Louis 14th, amid all his faults, had taught
his realm the reverence of Knowledge, dreaded lest
their descendants should forfeit that privilege, or,
relapsing into a rude state of society, forget to estimate
it. Therefore, they continually endeavored
to inspire the young with a reverence for letters.
The few books which they retained, in their sudden
own cultivated minds, were held in faithful stewardship
for the rising generation. The winter evening
fire-side was a perpetual school. Knowledge planted
by the hand of affection in the hallowed sanctuary
of home, is wont to take deeper root, than “seed
sown by the way-side.” Parents, who write with
their own pencils, lines of heaven upon the fresh
tablet of their children's souls, who trust not to the
hand of hirelings, their first, holiest, most indelible
impressions, will usually find less than others to blot
out, when the scroll is finished, and to mourn for
when they read it in eternity.
In the establishment of a system of education,
the pastor was a guide, an adjunct, and a counsellor.
The instruction of youth, he had ever considered as
one of the most sacred departments of his office.
Since their removal to this new land, he felt it as
involving peculiarly the felicity and even safety of
his people. Apart therefore from the religious instruction
which he delighted to impart, he statedly
convened the youth for examination in the various
departments of science, and by brief and lucid lectures
imparted explanation, heightened curiosity, and encouraged
perseverance. Ambition was thus strongly
excited, and the processes of agricultural labor were
lightened and elevated by intellectual discussions.
He had the satisfaction of seeing his beloved charge
initiated into the rudiments of that general knowledge
which gives liberality to thought, and also of
obtaining over their opinions and affections.
Madame Daillé extended the same benevolent care
to the young females. Thrice a week, she assembled
them around her. The studies which had been
assigned to them, and their different grades of proficiency,
then passed under her strict observation; and
with a union of tact and tenderness, she often closed
these interviews with some historical fact, or concise
story, illustrating a moral principle, reproving the
errors that she discovered, or enforcing the precepts
of piety. To gain her approbation, was deemed a
sufficient reward for every effort, and her frown was
deprecated like the rebuke of conscience. It was
impossible that an intercourse of this nature should
subsist, without visible benefit from her superior
intelligence and accomplishments; and it was
remarked that these young Huguenot females
evinced a courtesy of manner, and correctness of
style, which are usually acquired only among the
more polished classes. Yet she was far from so
refining the minds of her pupils as to induce dislike
to those domestic duties which devolve upon their
sex. She was aware, that in an infant colony,
they were severe in their nature and of imperative
necessity. Her instructions required their faithful
and cheerful performance. Pointing to the fields of
flax, whose blossoms tinged with a fine blue, the fair
vale around them, she expatiated on the excellence of
those arts which could render that beautiful plant so
Hence the distaff, the loom and the needle were
deemed the legitimate companions of the books that
gave knowledge, or of those domestic and social
enjoyments to which both industry and knowledge
were consecrated.
To the energy which toil bestows and the contemplative
habits which seclusion induces, the
Huguenots added the softening influences of music.
Sometimes a provincial ballad, or a national air,
warbled by those who had learned them as cradle-melodies
in their own vine-clad realm, would touch
like the Ranz des Vaches, the fountain of tears.
Yet it was seldom that they indulged in these enervating
recollections. Music of a sacred character,
was their choice. It might be called one of their
occupations. It entered into Education as a science.
It walked hand in hand with domestic toil. It mingled
with the labors of the field. It sanctified the
bridal festivity, and blessed the cradle dream. It
aided the sick, to suffer and be still, and breathed
out its dirge-like consolation when the dying went
“downward to his dust.” It was at every family
altar, morning and evening, when prayer unfolded
its wing, and in their rustic church it heightened the
thrill of devotion, and gladdened the holiness of the
Sabbath.
It had been the ambition of Father Daillé that his
whole congregation, from the infant to him of hoary
hairs, should be qualified to lift up in unison, the
hear those accordant voices swelling forth from their
temple in the wilderness, while the echo of the surrounding
woods prolonged the cadence, and fostered
the stranger melody.
Thus peaceful and happy were the colonists of
Oxford. Competence and health sprang up as the
fruits of industry, and the union of physical with
intellectual labor, was found to be neither impracticable
nor ungraceful. There came no vision of
wealth to inflate their imagination, no poison of ambition
to corrode their hearts. They dwelt together
in guileless and trusting brotherhood, and the pastor
and Patriarch daily praised the Eternal Sire, that
one soul of harmony and love seemed infused into
all his children.
This was the aspect of the settlement, in the spring
of 1700. It is with sorrow that we darken this
scene of more than Arcadian felicity. It has been
mentioned that the greater part of the lands comprehended
in the original purchase were held in
undivided, undisputed possession; that the harvest
was apportioned without jealousy, and the herds
drew nutriment from a common pasture. Ten years
of peace and amicable intercourse with the aborigines
had lulled their apprehensions, and with their
increase of prosperity and of numbers, came an
increasing demand for the means of subsistence.
It was therefore deemed expedient to reduce to cultivation
a large expanse of land, at some distance
one fine vernal morning, the whole effective strength
of the colony was gathered. Their toil on the hitherto
unbroken soil, was animated by a common interest,
and enlivened by conversation which partook
of fraternal sympathy. Father Daillé, who, like
pastor Oberlin, took a personal interest in all that
regarded his people, reminded them that the ensuing
day was the fourteenth anniversary of their colonial
existence, and heightened their emotions of gratitude
by contrasting the comforts of their present simplicity
of life, with the sorrows, persecutions, and
fears from which they had escaped.
Suddenly, the report of muskets in the direction
of their distant homes, filled every heart with consternation.
Hastening toward their abodes, with
agonized speed, many a husband and father was
met by those dearest to him, communicating intelligence,
that the Indians had been among them.
As a fearful proof that their visit had not been in
friendship, the body of Jeanson, one of the most
esteemed of their number, lay weltering in blood,
upon the green turf that skirted his threshold. They
entered his house, and saw that the work of savage
vengeance was perfect. Not one had been spared.
The mother, with the infant that she would gladly
have died to shelter, lay a lifeless wreck, with its
mangled form clasped firmly in her arms. Two
other innocents whose heads had been dashed against
the hearth-stone, where they had been nurtured, left
extinction of a whole family.
The astonishment and grief of the colonists, it
would be in vain to describe. A part rushed in the
direction where the spoilers were said to have disappeared,
and the remainder considering this as the
prelude of a general attack, removed all the women
and children to the fort. At night they were joined
by their friends in arms, who had through the day
vainly sought to track, or to obtain information of
the murderers. But they had learned, in the course
of their pursuit, the alarming fact, that the king, the
tried and faithful friend of the colony was no more,
—that he had been assassinated for his attachment
to the whites, by his own people, instigated by the infuriated
prophet. Sentinels were placed, as the darkness
deepened, and the elders met in consultation.
It would seem that only three Indians had been
seen on this errand of death. They started from an
adjoining thicket, just as Jeanson, who had been
detained at home later than his associates, was departing
to join them. His destruction, and that of
his family, was the work of but a few moments, and
they disappeared, ere the distant protectors could be
summoned, or even the settlement generally alarmed.
“We will again pursue them, with the dawn of
morning,” said Bethu, the nearest neighbor of the
dead. “We will press, with arms in our hands,
through the line of their fiercest warriors, and demand
those blood-stained barbarians of their prophet.
us with suffering our brother to fall unavenged.”
Boudineau spoke next,—an elder whose hair was
silvered. “Their mode of warfare is as peculiar
as their habits of life. They avoid every encounter
of regular and open battle. Who can pursue them
into their wilds with effect, or even with rational
hope of return? While we strive to carry retribution
into their miserable wigwams, will they not
suddenly fall upon the precious pledges we leave
behind, and extinguish our light for ever? Have we
any mode of defence, but perpetual vigilance, and
never losing sight of our habitations?”
“Who,” exclaimed Pintard, “can endure this species
of oppression, this spiritless submission to an abject
foe, this everlasting dying to avoid death? If we are
to live the lives of cowards, it were better to do so
among civilized men, than to teach the free-born
spirits of France to shudder and watch the skulking
steps of savages, those links between animal nature
and humanity.”
“Our fallen brother,” said Sejournié, “could not
have awakened the personal hatred of the natives,
he who was even proverbially peaceful and amiable.
May we not therefore suppose that the situation of
his house being on the outskirts of the settlement,
induced the murderers to select it, as affording facilities
for their purpose, with the least danger of retaliation?
Is it not also probable that the absence
of the men of the colony was known to them, and
If there was no individual enmity, this
fearful deed marks latent hostility to the whole, and
a hostility distinguished by that cunning which predominates
in their character. May we not consider
this unprovoked act, as the beginning of a series of
the same complexion? The murder of the pacific
king, and the predominance of the prophet's influence,
give us fearful premonition of what we are to
expect.”
“Let us,” said Rollin, “resign these lands, and
incorporate ourselves with some larger colony. Our
force is inadequate to cope with the tribes upon our
boundary. It is better to bear the charge of pusillanimity,
which this measure might involve, than to
have our blood wasted drop by drop, by a foe not
tangible, who springs like a lion from the thicket, or
breaks with his war-whoop upon the midnight dream,
or desolates the fire-side and the cradle, if the father
forsakes it but for a moment.”
“We came to these wilds,” said Boudoin, “to worship
God freely, and to live in peace with man: yet
we still seem to be in warfare, or in dread of it, or
as a city besieged. While we thus stand in armor,
the toils by which we gain subsistence must languish
or be laid aside. So, that the death which we
ward off by the sword, comes by famine. To a people
of peaceful creed, this military watchfulness, and
sleepless dread, and continual declension, rob fleeting
life of its value.”
All expressed their opinions, as varying judgment
or different tides of emotion dictated, and then, according
to their patriarchal form of government, appealed
to the pastor as umpire. He spoke deliberately,
as one who felt the importance of every
word:
“We know that the tribes upon our borders are
formidable in their combination. Their king has,
under God, been the bond of peace between us and
them. That bond is severed for ever. We owe a
tear to his memory, for his friendship to white men
has cost him his life. The counsel of Moloch has
prevailed; the fierce and vindictive prophet is stirring
up his people to the utter extermination of our
colony. The blood-hounds of savage war are doubtless
to be let loose upon our peaceful settlement. The
disaster which has now convened us, in mournful
consultation, is, we have reason to believe, only the
precursor of the storm—the first blast of the hurricane.
It would seem, therefore, the dictate of wisdom,
if not of necessity, to return to that happy city
which first sheltered us, when as exiles we sought
this New World. We shall there find that safety,
which we must here purchase at the expense of blood
too precious; perhaps, which we are even too few
in numbers to secure to the helpless ones, who have
trustingly followed us to this wilderness. We may
there, by other employments, as well as those of
agriculture, gain subsistence for those who depend
on us; and these lands may eventually be disposed
that may more readily command the aid of the government,
in repelling aggressions of the aborigines.
Brethren, and sons, I have spoken my opinion. But
I am free to confess, that I have spoken it under the
pressure of emotion. I am this night as a father
bereaved of his children. My decision is made in
sorrow. Ye, whose hearts are less bowed down,
decide in this matter. Judge, and we will abide by
your decision, and may the spirit of unerring wisdom
preside in your council.”
He covered his face with his hands, and spoke no
more, till they ended their consultation. They protracted
it, till the morning shone full and fair upon
the green hill, and the rough, gray stones of the fort
where they were assembled. After canvassing every
argument, and discussing every point of feeling, the
decision of the majority was in favor of immediate
removal. The opinion was unanimous, that in order
to avoid a recurrence of savage depredation, no
delay should take place, except for unavoidable preparation
and the obsequies of the departed.
The succeeding day drew near its close, when,
bearing the bodies of the slaughtered family, the
whole colony in solemn procession entered the humble
building which had served for a church. When
the dead were stretched out, side by side, in that
sacred tenement, the wailing was deep and universal.
The father smitten in full strength,—the mother,
with her youngest born strained to her bosom
forms, whose exceeding beauty was remembered by
all,—lay in silent and awful repose.
The man of God waited until the first waves of
agony were broken. Furrows of painful thought
were upon his brow, but his bearing was like one
whose heart is in heaven. When there was silence,
he stretched forth his hand to the people.
“Ye know, that this is the fourteenth birth-day
of our village. We hoped to have celebrated it with
songs of festivity. Now, our melody is mingled
with the voices of those who weep. The sweet incense
that we would have offered at the altar, is
heavy with the odor of bitter herbs. Yet He who
hath caused mourning, is also the God of compassion.
He will not break the leaf driven before the
tempest.
“Many thoughts press upon me to be spoken. But
ye cannot bear them now. Ye come as the Israelites
to their passover, with loins girded and staves
in your hands, as men in haste for a journey. But
go not forth despairing, though ye pass beneath the
cloud. Take the Ark of the Covenant upon your
shoulders. Let the wing of the cherubims overshadow
you. Arise and depart, for this is not your
rest.
“Scene of our Refuge!—when our own land cast
us out,—thou little Zoar, where we prayed that we
might enter from the storm of the Lord,—vales,
where the sounds of our industry have arisen,—forests,
happiness, every year more dear, hallowed by the
interchange of joy,—the voice of supplication,—we
bid you all adieu! Holy Church!—consecrated by
our united prayers, our sacred symphonies,—our
hopes that rested not upon this earth, we bid thee
farewell, in the name of the Lord. Wherever we
wander, though our tears should drop in the fountains
of strange waters, never will we forget thee,
our Zion in the wilderness. Lifeless remains of the
brave and the beautiful, the virtuous and the beloved,
—severed branches—crushed blossoms—what shall
we say?—Ah! how often will our mourning hearts
recall your images, as they once were, as they now
are, stretched in ruins before us.
Souls of our departed friends!—if ye have attained
that heaven where the storm beateth not, where
tears are wiped from all eyes for ever,—if from that
clime of bliss, ye behold us compassed with infirmity
and woe, teach us how slight all the thorns, the
tempests of this pilgrimage, seem to you, now you
are at rest. My children, what awaits it where we
pitch our tents for the brief remnant of this shadowy
life?—what avails it, if the angel who removeth their
curtains in a moment, but find the spirit ready to meet
its God?”
He ceased,—and the services of devotion rose in
low and solemn response among the people. Parents
knelt among their children, and with one voice invoked
and blessed the King of kings. The memory
on the soul's high aspiration, as the pure flame disperseth
the smoke with its heavenward spire. Hands
hardened with labor, and brows pale with watching,
the tender, tearful eyes of the mother and the babe,
were alike raised upward, while they gave thanks to
the Father of Mercies.
A pause of silence ensued, and every head was
bowed, while the unuttered individual orison ascended.
They arose, and still the pause continued.
The people lingered for their wonted benediction.
“Part we hence,” said the pastor, “part we hence,
without one sacred melody? While the fountain of
breath is unsealed, shall it not give praise to the
Preserver?”
He designated a plaintive anthem, from the seventh
of Job. It burst forth harmoniously, but soon
the dirge-like tones became tremulous. After the
strain “Oh, remember that my life is wind,” the
cadence was protracted, as if all melody had ceased.
Still faintly, the music revivified:—“As the cloud
is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that goeth
down to the grave shall come up no more. He shall
return no more to his house, the places that have
known him shall know him no more.”
The pastor listened as one who hears for the last
time, sounds most dear. But the thrilling strain with
which the anthem closes, commenced so feebly, as
to be scarce audible. It trembled, like the sighs of
a broken harp,—it faltered,—one or two quivering
the wail of sorrow rose up in its stead. Music could
no longer contend against the tumultuous tide of
grief.
The man of God stood up, and blessed the people,
and led the way to the church-yard. There, upon
the fresh, vernal turf, each coffin was laid by its open
cell. Kneeling among the graves, he poured forth
fervent supplications, like the Prophet of Israel, lifting
his censer between the dead and the living. Tears
were upon all faces, as the bodies were deposited in
their narrow house. Children sobbed aloud, and
groans burst even from manly bosoms, as the earth,
falling upon the coffins, sent forth that hollow sound,
which he who hath paid the last duties to the beloved
dead, hath felt in his inmost soul, but never
described.
The patriarchal teacher spoke, and into every tone
his overflowing heart poured the feeling that it was
for the last time.
“Graves of our friends!—those that have been
long sealed, and those now enriched with new treasure,
we thought that our bones should here have
rested with you. Looking upon your turf-covering,
how often have we said, `Here shall we also be gathered
unto our people!' Jehovah humbleth the fore-sight
of man. He may not even point out where his
bed shall be, when the wasted clay falleth like a fretted
garment.
“Graves of our friends!—We part from you to return
your sacred mounds, nor our tears nourish your
greenness. Keep what we have intrusted to you,
safe in your cold embrace, until summoned to restore
it, by the voice of the archangel, and the trump
of God.
“My children! what were man without the promise
of the resurrection? How could he endure,
when the grave whelms his joys, but for the sure
hope of eternal life? How could he dare to lay
down in the dreary tomb, in all the misery and sinfulness
of his nature, but for the merits of his Redeemer?
Ah! what would be now our mourning,
if forced to ask in uncertainty and anguish, who will
roll us away the stone from the door of these sepulchres?
“Stricken and sorrowing flock, turn again unto the
Shepherd of your souls. He hath smitten, and he
alone can heal. He hath dispersed, but shall again
gather you into his fold. He hath troubled the waters
that were at rest. But the angel of mercy still
waiteth there,—the wounded spirits shall be made
whole.”
They turned from the place of sepulchres, and the
next sun saw their simple habitations desolate. Not
a sound of rural labor was heard there. No children
were seen searching for the violets which early
spring had awakened. Scarcely the striking of the
Arab tents, produces a more profound silence, or a
wider solitude. The sons of the forest roamed at
fox found in their ruins a covert for her young.
Nothing now remains of the history of the Huguenots,
but a few statistical facts. The romance
of their legendary lore, terminated with the abdication
of their colony. From the year 1700, they became
incorporated with the inhabitants of Boston.
Their habits conciliated respect and regard, and their
character is still maintained by their descendants.
In 1713, the lands which they had vacated were
occupied by a second colony, who still retained for
their settlement and for the river that environs it, the
names of their Huguenot baptism. The pastor Daillé,
beloved almost to adoration by his flock, and revered
by all around for his example of amiable and consistent
piety, was taken to his reward, in the year
1715. His successor in the sacred office was the
Reverend Andrew de Mercier, author of the “Church
History of Geneva, with a political and geographical
account of that Republic.” The church, which it
was the care of this religious people to erect soon
after their removal to Boston, was situated where the
present Universalist Church, in School-Street, now
stands, and is designated in the records of that date,
as the “French Protestant Church.”
May I be forgiven for adding one more matter of
fact, as an additional witness to the integrity of my
Legend? In the Granary Burying-Ground in Boston,
two lowly graves still legibly bear the simple
inscription of the “Reverend Pierre Daillé, and
of Oxford, that we gather the strongest evidence of
the truth of this narration, and most visibly commune
with the images of a race, whose serene patience,
and unwavering faith, render them models
of primitive devotion. There, a gray-haired man
has long pointed the traveller to a deep hollow in
the turf, and told him, “This is the spot where the
house of Jeanson stood, the French Protestant, who
with his whole family were here massacred by the
Indians.”
The most aged inhabitants of that pleasant region
assert, that within their remembrance, the empurpled
hearth-stone, on which the heads of those beautiful
babes were dashed, was still seen, resisting with
its indelible record the action of the elements, long
after every other wreck of the dwelling had perished.
But among the most striking vestiges of this
interesting people, are the ruins of the Fort constructed
for their defence, and bearing the antiquity
of a century and a half. There, within a quadrangle
of ninety feet, whence the stones have been principally
removed in the processes of agriculture, may
be still traced, the well, from whence they drew
water in their rude, foreign home. Asparagus, from
the original germs of France, annually lifts its bulbous
head and its feathery banner, to attest the identity
of its perished plants. Fruit-trees, said to be
descendants from their ancient nurseries, still flourish,
and are entwined by the coarse vines, and enlivened
of our country, fondly striving to naturalize the
strangers.
There are probably some, who will doubt the
truth of this narrative, and still more, who will turn
from the simple vestiges of its veracity with indifference.
But there are others of a different class, who
could not wander amid those disjointed stones, once
the rude barrier against the ruder savage, nor explore
through matted grass the paths of those persecuted
and peaceful emigrants, nor reclining beneath
the shades so often hallowed by their prayers,
recall their firmness in danger,—their chastened joy
in prosperity,—their serene and saint-like patience,
in affliction,—without feeling like the Law-giver of
Israel, constrained to “put their shoes from their
feet, because the ground on which they stand is
holy.”
Hartford, November 30, 1833.
| LEGEND OF OXFORD. Sketches | |