Then the goodly galleon suddenly
    Dropped anchor close to the barren strand,
  And various cargoes, all for me,
    Laid on the bosom of my land.

  O friend! her cargoes were thy love,
    The stately ship thy presence fair;
  Her pointed sails, like wings above,
    Shall fill with praises and with prayer.

* * * * *

BETROTHAL BY PROXY:  A ROMANCE OF GENEALOGY.

CHAPTER I.

Ye who listen with impatience to the Reports of Historical Societies and have hitherto neglected to subscribe to an Antiquarian Journal, ye who imagine that there can be no intelligent and practical reply to the cui bono? shake of the head which declines to supply the funds for a genealogical investigation, attend to the history of my adventure in Foxden.

There!—­I like to begin with the Moral; for no sensible man will leave the point and purpose of his testimony to the languid curiosity of a spent reader.  Dr. Johnson never did so; and who am I to question his literary infallibility?  So if you do not take kindly to the solemn rumble of the Johnsonese mail-coach of a sentence in which we set out, receive the purport of it thus:  It is of advantage to be on good terms with one’s ancestors:  Also; men absorbed in this practical present may be all the better for a little counter irritation with the driest twigs of the family-tree.

And now, Why did I marry Miss Hurribattle? I am sure I had no intention of doing so.  In the first place, when about eighteen years of age, I had firmly determined never to marry anybody.  Then there were so many nice tea-ing families in the Atlantic city whose principal street was decorated by my modest counsellor’s sign, that I really must excuse the rather unpleasant wonder of several friends at my out-of-the-way selection.  That a somewhat experienced advocate, who had resisted for three years the fascinations of city belle-ship, should spend the legal vacation in a visit to an old gentleman he never saw before, and return affianced to a lady nobody had ever heard of,—­I own there was something temptingly discussible in the circumstance; and knowing that fine relish for personal topics which distinguishes the American conversazione, how could I hope to escape?  At first, it was a little awkward, when I went to a party, to see people who were talking together glance at me and murmur on with increased interest.  Sometimes, when the wave of talk retreated a little, I would catch the prattle of some retiring rill to this effect:  “But who are these Hurribattles?  What an odd name!  I wonder if that had anything to do with it.”

The querist, whoever he or she might be, had unconsciously struck upon the explanation of the whole matter.  Yes, it was the name:  it had a great deal to do with it.  And if you will allow me to step back a little into the past, and thence begin over again in good storyteller fashion, I will endeavor to make you understand how it all came about.