Le Mercier’s will is dated, at Dorchester, Nov. 7, 1761. A codicil was added, at Boston, Feb. 3, 1764. He left his estate to his four children, “Andrew, Margaret, Jane, and my son Bartholomew, if living.” He enjoins upon his heirs the payment of Bartholomew’s debt to Thomas Hancock, for which he had become responsible, and which he had partly paid. By his will, he appointed Jane and Margaret to execute his will. In the codicil, he refers to the disordered state of Margaret’s mind, and appoints Zachariah Johonnot, in her stead, requesting him to be her guardian. The whole estate was appraised at £232. 18. 6. sterling.
Years rolled on: juxtaposition and intermarriage were Americanising these Huguenots, from month to month; and, ere long, they felt, less and less, the necessity of any separate place of worship. On the 7th of May, 1748, “Stephen Boutineau, the only surviving elder,” and others, among whom we recognize the Huguenot names of Johonnot, Packinett, Boudoin, and Sigourney, conveyed their church and land to Thomas Fillebrown, Thomas Handyside Peck, and others, trustees for the “new congregational church, whereof Mr. Andrew Croswell is pastor.” After a while, this church became the property of the Roman Catholics; and mass was first celebrated there, Nov. 2, 1788. The Catholics, in 1803, having removed to Franklin Place, the old Huguenot church was taken down; and, upon the site of it, a temple was erected, by the Universalists; showing incontrovertibly, thank God, that the soil was most happily adapted to toleration.
The reader fancies, perhaps, that I have forgotten Peter Faneuil. Not so: but I must linger a little longer with these Huguenots, who attempted a settlement in the Nipmug country. In the southwesterly part of Oxford, there rises a lofty hill, whose summit affords an extensive and delightful prospect. Beneath, at the distance of a mile, or more, lies the village of Oxford; and the scenery, beyond, is exceedingly picturesque. Upon this eminence, which now bears the name of Mayo’s Hill, are the well-defined remains of an ancient fort. Its construction is perfectly regular. The bastions are clearly marked; and the old well, constructed within the barrier, still remains. As recently, as 1819, says the Rev. Dr. Holmes, in his able and interesting account of the Huguenots, “grapevines were growing luxuriantly, along the line of this fort; and these, together with currant bushes, roses, and other shrubbery, nearly formed a hedge around it. There were some remains of an apple orchard. The currant and asparagus were still growing there.”
Such were the vestiges of these thirty families, who, in 1696, fled from a foe, not more savage and relentless, though less enlightened, than the murderers of Coligny, in 1572.
The Faneuils formed no part of these thirty families; but, not many years after the little Oxford colony was broken up, and the fugitive survivors had found their way to Boston, the Faneuils, one after another, seem to have been attracted hither, from those points of our country, where they first arrived, after the revocation of the edict of Nantes, in 1685, or from other, intermediate stations, to which they had removed.
There are not elements enough, I fear, for a very interesting memoir of Peter Faneuil. The materials, even for a brief account, are marvellously few, and far between; and the very best result, to be anticipated, is a warp and woof of shreds and patches.
But, if I am not much mistaken, I know more of Peter Faneuil, than Master Lovell ever wot of, though he delivered the funeral oration; and, albeit the sum total is very small, it seems but meet and right, that it should be given to the world. I think it would so be decided, by the citizens, if the vote were taken, this very day—in Faneuil Hall.
Our neighbors, all over the United States have heard of Faneuil Hall; and, though, of late years, since we have had a race, or breed, of mayors, every one of whom has endeavored to be worthier or more conceding than his predecessor, Faneuil Hall has been converted into a sort of omnibus without wheels; yet the glory of its earlier, and of some, among its latter days, is made, thank God, of that unchangeable stuff, that will never shrink, and cannot fade.
No man has ever heard of Faneuil Hall, who will not be pleased to hear somewhat of that noble-minded, whole-souled descendant of the primitive Huguenots—and such indeed he was—who came, as a stranger and sojourner here, and built that hall, at his own proper cost and charge, and gave it—the gift of a cheerful giver—to those, among whom he had come to dwell—and all this, in the midst of his days, in the very prime of his life, not waiting for the almond tree to flourish, and for desire to fail, and for the infirmities of age to admonish the rich man, that he must set his house in order, and could carry nothing with him, to those regions beyond.
Faneuil Hall has been called the Cradle of Liberty, so long and so often, that it may seem to savor of political heresy, to quarrel with the name—but, for the soul of me, I cannot help it. If it be intended to say, that Faneuil Hall is the birth place of Liberty, I am not aware of a single instance, on record, of a baby, born in a cradle. The proverbial use of the cradle has ever been to rock the baby to sleep; and Heaven knows our old fathers made no such use of Faneuil Hall, in their early management of the bantling; for it was an ever-wakeful child, from the very moment of its first, sharp, shrill, life cry.