by woods of oak and pine, intersected by crooked roads, which led to towns and villages near us.  The inland scenery was tame; no hill or dale broke its dull uniformity.  Cornfields and meadows of red grass walled with gray stone, lay between the village and the border of the woods.  Seaward it was enchanting—­beautiful under the sun and moon and clouds.  Our family had lived in Surrey for years.  Probably some Puritan of the name of Morgeson had moved from an earlier settlement, and, appropriating a few acres in what was now its center, lived long enough upon them to see his sons and daughters married to the sons and daughters of similar settlers.  So our name was in perpetuation, though none of our race ever made a mark in his circle, or attained a place among the great ones of his day.  The family recipes for curing herbs and hams, and making cordials, were in better preservation than the memory of their makers.  It is certain that they were not a progressive or changeable family.  No tradition of any individuality remains concerning them.  There was a confusion in the minds of the survivors of the various generations about the degree of their relationship to those who were buried, and whose names and ages simply were cut in the stones which headed their graves.  The meum and tuum of blood were inextricably mixed; so they contented themselves with giving their 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—­Live
d—­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.