At the head of the table sat the sister of our host, arrayed in the lank bombazine skirt, tight sleeves, and muslin cravat, which constituted the old-lady uniform of the past generation, and which in rare instances yet survives in the country.  Upon her right hand was placed the clergyman, Mr. Clifton, who came to dine every Monday,—­it being a convenient arrangement on account of the washing; and on her left was one Deacon Reyner, who kept the parish records, and was the local antiquary of the town.

One of the pleasantest diversions with which I am acquainted is a dinner among elderly people of character and originality, who are content to toss about the ball of conversation among themselves, and allow me to watch the game.  And in this way was I entertained on my arrival at Foxden; for Miss Hurribattle was directly at her ease, and had plenty to say; while the brother and sister were content to offer the best of everything, and did not attempt to draw me out of my silence.  I perceived they were thinking what a pity it was that Miss Hurribattle and myself had not the equality of age and temper that they had fancied for us; for I observed how they would follow the streaks of gray that straggled through the lady’s locks, and then glance at the neatly turned moustache upon which in those days I prided myself, and realize that their agreeable plans might be destined to disappointment.

I remember the conversation first fell upon a certain general history of the Prowley family that its present masculine representative had in preparation.

“By the way,” said Deacon Reyner, addressing the future historian on this head, “I have secured a correct copy of poor Prosody’s epitaph, as you asked me the other day.”

Miss Hurribattle, who looked as if she had some doubt whether poor Prosody was a man or an animal, returned a non-committal, “Indeed!  I am very glad of it,” but soon after added, “Was he a favorite dog?”

“A dog!” exclaimed the Colonel, whose family-history, dates and all, seemed to course his veins instead of blood, “he was my many times great uncle!  I have surely told you how Noah Prowllie, who came to New England in 1642, and is supposed to have settled at Foxden some years later, married Desire, daughter of the Reverend Jabez Pluck.  Being a rigid grammarian,—­a character sufficiently rare at that period,—­he named his three sons Orthography, Syntax, and Prosody,—­a proceeding that is understood to have offended the Reverend Jabez, who was naturally partial to the Scriptural nomenclature then in vogue.  His scruples, I regret to say, were more than justified in the conduct of his grandchildren.  Poor Orthography Prowllie was an idle fellow, who never got beyond making his mark upon paper, and consequently made none in the world; Syntax could never agree with anybody; while as for Prosody, poor fellow”——­

“It is enough to say that neither his verses nor his life would bear scanning!” said the Deacon, desiring to keep the conversation off unpleasant topics.