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.

"But you certainly had a poet in your family?" said Miss Hurribattle,
determined to repair her blunder by suggesting a potent cause of
congratulation.

"Indeed we had, Madam!" said the Colonel, with creditable emotion;
"though unfortunately none of his productions have come down to us. But
we have the highest contemporary testimony to his excellence in a copy
of verses prefixed to his posthumous discourse entitled 'The New Snare
of a Maypole, or Satan's own Trap for a Slippery Church.' The lines
were written by his colleague, the Reverend Exaltation Brymm, and are
certainly much to the purpose: I generally keep a copy of them in my
pocket-book."

"Oh, do read them, brother!" said Miss Prowley, with strong interest.

Thus adjured, the Colonel produced a piece of paper, put on his
spectacles, and read to this effect:--

"New Englande! weep: Thy tuncfull Prowllie's gone,
Who skillfully his Armour buckled on
Agaynst Phyllystine Scorn and Revelrie:
His Sword well-furbished was a Sight to see!
This littel Booke of his shall still be greene
While Sathan's Fangles lorden stand betweene:
Now Pet of Sinne boil up thy dolefull Skum!
Ye juggelling Quakers laugh: his Inkhorn's dumb.
He put XIII Pslames in ve