children the old Christian names which were carved on the headstones,
and which, in time, added a still more profound darkness to the
anti-heraldic memory of the Morgesons. They had no knowledge of
that treasure which so many of our New England families are boastful
of--the Ancestor who came over in the Mayflower, or by himself, with
a grant of land from Parliament. It was not known whether two or three
brothers sailed together from the Old World and settled in the New.
They had no portrait, nor curious chair, nor rusty weapon--no old
Bible, nor drinking cup, nor remnant of brocade.

_Morgeson_--_Born_--_Lived_--_Died_--were all their archives. But
there is a dignity in mere perpetuity, a strength in the narrowest
affinities. This dignity and strength were theirs. They are still
vital in our rural population. Occasionally something fine is their
result; an aboriginal reappears to prove the plastic powers of nature.

My great-grandfather, Locke Morgeson, the old man whose head I saw
bound in a red handkerchief, was the first noticeable man of the name.
He was a scale of enthusiasms, ranging from the melancholy to the
sarcastic. When I heard him talked of, it seemed to me that he was
born under the influence of the sea, while the rest of the tribe
inherited the character of the landscape. Comprehension of life, and
comprehension of self, came too late for him to make either of value.
The spirit of progress, however, which prompted his schemes benefited
others. The most that could be said of him was that he had the
rudiments of a Founder.

My father, whose name was Locke Morgeson also, married early. My
mother was five years his elder; her maiden name was Mary Warren. She
was the daughter of Philip Warren, of Barmouth, near Surrey. He was