June 11, 2003

My mother’s ancestors came to South Carolina in 1610 from France, where, as Huguenots, they had suffered merciless persecution at the hands of the Catholics. In 1685, Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, which had for 90 years been French Protestants’ only protection, flimsy though it was. An ancestor of mine, safely ensconced in Charleston, had this to say:

Ah, my children! The blood-soaked soil of France cries to heaven for vengeance, and vengeance it will have! Just as surely as righteous Abel’s blood, crying from the earth to God for vengeance upon his murderer, brought down the curse upon Cain, so will a lasting curse rest upon France. Mark well what I say to you! France, guilty France, will never again be blessed with peace, prosperity, and quiet; but, on the contrary, trouble, violence, and revolution after revolution will vex and rend those who have thus troubled and murdered the people of God. Therefore, my dear children, never do you return to France—keep yourselves clear of it, if you would keep clear of the fearful curse that hangs over it.

I’m not sure whether he was talking about the infrequency of French bathing or Disneyland Paris, but it’s nice to know that at least one of my forebears understood the importance of a good curse.

Confidential to David (TEFL Smiler): Dessverre, saa forsto jeg din kommentering. Saa, mens jeg er veldig takknemlig for ditt arbeide, skal jeg fortsette aa proeve.