"For two hundred years and over—two hundred years, to be sure, would not take you very far back into the past of the Old World; but it is a long time on this continent, and carries you back to the very beginning of the New World; to express it by the rule of three, 1620 : America :: 1066 : England—for over two hundred years, I was going to say, my simple ancestors have lived quiet, honest lives here; and in the little graveyard, over the way, whose shining marbles seem to look in at every window of the house, I have an acre or so of relatives, while among those living in the neighborhood I have kindred in every condition of life. That thin, afflicted-looking widow, who never seems cool in summer and always looks frost-bitten in winter, who manages the dank, little store you saw on the corner, and who don't manage a dirty little son—the sole bequest of her departed lord—she is a Tompkins. You remember the store. There were three sticks of candy, a paper of buttons and some chignon nets in the window, with the sign, "If you don't see what you want, ask for it." Then the intensely respectable rector, who looks so like the old family horse he drives that I wonder his groom don't sometime insist on harnessing him—he is the Rev. Aaron Tompkins.
"Nearly everything I ever heard of my forefathers happened in this house; and here all their modest little romances, comedies, and tragedies, for many a year, have been acted to their end; and the funerals and marriages of my kin have saddened or rejoiced these rooms time and again. Just in that corner of the room opposite you, my great uncle, through whom I inherit this place, was born; and there he lay when he died. He was ninety years old at the time of his death. A moment before he closed his eyes for the last time, speaking slowly, as though he were thinking aloud, and smiling, he murmured, in that kindly voice that to this day the poor creatures about here bless: 'He hath made me to lie down in green pastures. He hath led me beside the still waters.' Then, after his gentle life, he fell asleep, just as quietly as ever he did near a hundred years before in his mother's arms; and they did not know at first that he was dead. Dear uncle Phil; the ground, I know, lies lightly over your body; and in the spring the violets open their sweet eyes above your grave, and seem to tell of the youth and love you carried in your heart for nearly a century.
"Some time, my boy, I must tell you more about the kind old man.
"Now, it is a foolish thing to know or care anything about one's ancestors. As for me, I was 'born free and equal;' I was reared in a glorious democracy; and, thanks to the tax-payers of this State, of which generous fellowship I hope to be a more prominent member, I have received a 'good common school education.' In consequence, I ought to know better than to remember I ever had father, grandfather, or great-grandfather—still less trouble my head about them. Yet I must say that I think it is comfortable to have one's ancestors where one knows they were out of mischief; and to feel quite sure that none of them were ever hanged, or ever deserved hanging. I know of very few men who have been hanged whose blood I would wish to carry in my veins. Hanging is the civilized method of observing a barbarous custom; and, since it has come in vogue, the victims of the death penalty have rarely been martyrs—have usually been Bridget Durgans and Anton Probsts. Speaking generally, therefore, I say that I am gratified that none of the Tompkinses were ever hanged.
"Of course every man must stand on his own feet; but the son of healthy parents is more likely to have sound feet to stand on; and a man may well feel, not proud (for pride must be based on merit, not on fortune), but phased, that
