which usually excite the ardor of youth. To out-of-door games
and exercises I had particular aversion. I was born in a

southern latitude, but at the age of six years I went to live
with my grandmother in New Hampshire, both my parents having

fallen victims to the cholera. This change from the balmy
temperature of the South to the rigors of the North was not

agreeable to me, and I have always held it responsible for that
delicate health which has attended me through life.

My grandmother encouraged my disinclination to play; she
recognized in me that certain seriousness of mind which I

remember to have heard her say I inherited from her, and she
determined to make of me what she had failed to make of any of

her own sons--a professional expounder of the only true faith of
Congregationalism. For this reason, and for the further reason

that at the tender age of seven years I publicly avowed my desire
to become a clergyman, an ambitionwhollysincere at that time--

for these reasons was I duly installed as prime favorite in my
grandmother's affections.

As distinctly as though it were but yesterday do I recall the
time when I met my first love. It was in the front room of the

old homestead, and the day was a day in spring. The front room
answered those purposes which are served by the so-called parlor

of the present time. I remember the low ceiling, the big
fireplace, the long, broad mantelpiece, the andirons and fender

of brass, the tall clock with its jocund and roseate moon, the
bellows that was always wheezy, the wax flowers under a glass

globe in the corner, an allegorical picture of Solomon's temple,
another picture of little Samuel at prayer, the high, stiff-back

chairs, the foot-stool with its gayly embroidered top, the mirror
in its gilt-and-black frame--all these things I remember well,

and with feelings of tender reverence" target="_blank" title="n.尊敬；敬畏；尊严">reverence, and yet that day I now
recall was well-nigh threescore and ten years ago!

Best of all I remember the case in which my grandmother kept her
books, a mahoganystructure, massive and dark, with doors

composed of diamond-shaped figures of glass cunningly set in a
framework of lead. I was in my seventh year then, and I had

learned to read I know not when. The back and current numbers of
the ``Well- Spring'' had fallen prey to my insatiable appetite

for literature. With the story of the small boy who stole a pin,
repented of and confessed that crime, and then became a good and

great man, I was as familiar as if I myself had invented that
ingenious and instructive tale; I could lisp the moral numbers of

Watts and the didactic hymns of Wesley, and the annual reports of
the American Tract Society had already revealed to me the sphere

of usefulness in which my grandmother hoped I would ultimately
figure with discretion and zeal. And yet my heart was free;

whollyuntouched of that gentle yet deathless passion which was
to become my delight, my inspiration, and my solace, it awaited

the coming of its first love.
Upon one of those shelves yonder--it is the third shelf from the

top, fourth compartment to the right--is that old copy of the
``New England Primer,'' a curious little, thin, square book in

faded blue board covers. A good many times I have wondered
whether I ought not to have the precious little thing sumptuously

attired in the finest style known to my binder; indeed, I have
often been tempted to exchange the homely blue board covers for

flexible levant, for it occurred to me that in this way I could
testify to my regard for the treasured volume. I spoke of this

one day to my friend Judge Methuen, for I have great respect for
his judgment.

``It would be a desecration,'' said he, ``to deprive the book of
its original binding. What! Would you tear off and cast away

the covers which have felt the caressing pressure of the hands of
those whose memory you revere? The most sacred of sentiments

should forbid that act of vandalism!''
I never think or speak of the ``New England Primer'' that I do

not recall Captivity Waite, for it was Captivity who introduced
me to the Primer that day in the springtime of sixty-three years

ago. She was of my age, a bright, pretty girl--a very pretty, an
exceptionally pretty girl, as girls go. We belonged to the same

Sunday-school class. I remember that upon this particular day
she brought me a russet apple. It was she who discovered the

Primer in the mahogany case, and what was not our joy as we
turned over the tiny pages together and feasted our eyes upon the

vivid pictures and perused the absorbingly interesting text!
What wonder that together we wept tears of sympathy at the

harrowing recital of the fate of John Rogers!
Even at this remote date I cannot recall that experience with

Captivity, involving as it did the wood-cut representing the
unfortunate Rogers standing in an impossible bonfire and being

consumed thereby in the presence of his wife and their numerous
progeny, strung along in a pitiful line across the picture for

artistic effect--even now, I say, I cannot contemplate that
experience and that wood-cut without feeling lumpy in my throat

and moist about my eyes.
How lasting are the impressions made upon the youthful mind!

Through the many busy years that have elapsed since first I
tasted the thrilling sweets of that miniature Primer I have not

forgotten that ``young Obadias, David, Josias, all were pious'';
that ``Zaccheus he did climb the Tree our Lord to see''; and that

``Vashti for Pride was set aside''; and still with many a
sympathetic shudder and tingle do I recall Captivity's

overpowering sense of horror, and mine, as we lingered long over
the portraitures of Timothy flying from Sin, of Xerxes laid out

in funeral garb, and of proud Korah's troop partly submerged.
My Book and Heart

Must never part.
So runs one of the couplets in this little Primer-book, and right

truly can I say that from the springtime day sixty-odd years ago,
when first my heart went out in love to this little book, no

change of scene or of custom no allurement of fashion, no demand
of mature years, has abated that love. And herein is exemplified

the advantage which the love of books has over the other kinds of
love. Women are by nature fickle, and so are men; their

friendships are liable to dissipation at the merest provocation
or the slightest pretext.

Not so, however, with books, for books cannot change. A thousand
years hence they are what you find them to-day, speaking the same

words, holding forth the same cheer, the same promise, the same
comfort; always constant, laughing with those who laugh and

weeping with those who weep.
Captivity Waite was an exception to the rule governing her sex.

In all candor I must say that she approached closely to a
realization of the ideals of a book--a sixteenmo, if you please,

fair to look upon, of clear, clean type, well ordered and well
edited, amply margined, neatly bound; a human look whose text, as

represented by her disposition and her mind, corresponded
felicitously with the comeliness of her exterior. This child was

the great-great-granddaughter of Benjamin Waite, whose family
was carried off by Indians in 1677. Benjamin followed the party

to Canada, and after many months of search found and ransomed the
captives.

The historian has properly said that the names of Benjamin Waite
and his companion in their perilous journey through the

wilderness to Canada should ``be memorable in all the sad or
happy homes of this Connecticut valley forever.'' The child who

was my friend in youth, and to whom I may allude occasionally
hereafter in my narrative, bore the name of one of the survivors

of this Indian outrage, a name to be revered as a remembrancer of
sacrifice and heroism.

II
THE BIRTH OF A NEW PASSION

When I was thirteen years old I went to visit my Uncle Cephas.
My grandmother would not have parted with me even for that

fortnight had she not actually been compelled to. It happened
that she was called to a meeting of the American Tract Society,

and it was her intention to pay a visit to her cousin, Royall
Eastman, after she had discharged the first and imperative duty

she owed the society. Mrs. Deacon Ranney was to have taken me
and provided for my temporal and spiritual wants during