But the sentiment has likewise its moral quality.  The figure of that first ancestor, invested by family tradition with a dim and dusky grandeur, was present to my boyish imagination as far back as I can remember.  It still haunts me, and induces a sort of home-feeling with the past, which I scarcely claim in reference to the present phase of the town.  I seem to have a stronger claim to a residence here on account of this grave, bearded, sable-cloaked, and steeple-crowned progenitor—­who came so early, with his Bible and his sword, and trode the unworn street with such a stately port, and made so large a figure, as a man of war and peace—­a stronger claim than for myself, whose name is seldom heard and my face hardly known.  He was a soldier, legislator, judge; he was a ruler in the Church; he had all the Puritanic traits, both good and evil.  He was likewise a bitter persecutor; as witness the Quakers, who have remembered him in their histories, and relate an incident of his hard severity towards a woman of their sect, which will last longer, it is to be feared, than any record of his better deeds, although these were many.  His son, too, inherited the persecuting spirit, and made himself so conspicuous in the martyrdom of the witches, that their blood may fairly be said to have left a stain upon him.  So deep a stain, indeed, that his dry old bones, in the Charter-street burial-ground, must still retain it, if they have not crumbled utterly to dust!  I know not whether these ancestors of mine bethought themselves to repent, and ask pardon of Heaven for their cruelties; or whether they are now groaning under the heavy consequences of them in another state of being.  At all events, I, the present writer, as their representative, hereby take shame upon myself for their sakes, and pray that any curse incurred by them—­as I have heard, and as the dreary and unprosperous condition of the race, for many a long year back, would argue to exist—­may be now and henceforth removed.

Doubtless, however, either of these stern and black-browed Puritans would have thought it quite a sufficient retribution for his sins that, after so long a lapse of years, the old trunk of the family tree, with so much venerable moss upon it, should have borne, as its topmost bough, an idler like myself.  No aim that I have ever cherished would they recognise as laudable; no success of mine—­if my life, beyond its domestic scope, had ever been brightened by success—­would they deem otherwise than worthless, if not positively disgraceful.  “What is he?” murmurs one grey shadow of my forefathers to the other.  “A writer of story books!  What kind of business in life—­what mode of glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation—­may that be?  Why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler!” Such are the compliments bandied between my great grandsires and myself, across the gulf of time!  And yet, let them scorn me as they will, strong traits of their nature have intertwined themselves with mine.