when I unexpectedly met with three old MSS., for which, in a
particular manner, I return my thanks, beseeching Thee to

continue the same protection to me, a poor, helpless sinner,''
etc.

Another prayer of Hearne's, illustrative of his faith in
dependence upon Divine counsel, was made at the time Hearne was

importuned by Dr. Bray, commissary to my Lord Bishop of London,
``to go to Mary- Land'' in the character of a missionary. ``O

Lord God, Heavenly Father, look down upon me with pity,'' cries
this pious soul, ``and be pleased to be my guide, now I am

importuned to leave the place where I have been educated in the
university. And of Thy great goodness I humbly desire Thee to

signify to me what is most proper for me to do in this affair.''
Another famous man who made a practice of reading books as he

walked the highways was Dr. Johnson, and it is recorded that he
presented a curious spectacle indeed, for his shortsightedness

compelled him to hold the volume close to his nose, and he
shuffled along, rather than walked, stepping high over shadows

and stumbling over sticks and stones.
But, perhaps, the most interesting story illustrative of the

practice of carrying one's reading around with one is that which
is told of Professor Porson, the Greek scholar. This human

monument of learning happened to be travelling in the same coach
with a coxcomb who sought to air his pretended learning by

quotations from the ancients. At last old Porson asked:
``Pri'thee, sir, whence comes that quotation?''

``From Sophocles,''quoth the vain fellow.
``Be so kind as to find it for me?'' asked Porson, producing a

copy of Sophocles from his pocket.
Then the coxcomb, not at all abashed, said that he meant not

Sophocles, but Euripides. Whereupon Porson drew from another
pocket a copy of Euripides and challenged the upstart to find the

quotation in question. Full of confusion, the fellow thrust his
head out of the window of the coach and cried to the driver:

``In heaven's name, put me down at once; for there is an old
gentleman in here that hath the Bodleian Library in his pocket!''

Porson himself was a veritable slave to the habit of reading in
bed. He would lie down with his books piled around him, then

light his pipe and start in upon some favorite volume. A jug of
liquor was invariably at hand, for Porson was a famous drinker.

It is related that on one occasion he fell into a boosy slumber,
his pipe dropped out of his mouth and set fire to the bed-

clothes. But for the arrival of succor the tipsy scholar would
surely have been cremated.

Another very slovenly fellow was De Quincey, and he was devoted
to reading in bed. But De Quincey was a very vandal when it came

to the care and use of books. He never returned volumes he
borrowed, and he never hesitated to mutilate a rare book in order

to save himself the labor and trouble of writing out a quotation.
But perhaps the person who did most to bring reading in bed into

evil repute was Mrs. Charles Elstob, ward and sister of the Canon
of Canterbury (circa 1700). In his ``Dissertation on

Letter-Founders,'' Rowe Mores describes this woman as the
``indefessa comes'' of her brother's studies, a female student in

Oxford. She was, says Mores, a northern lady of an ancient
family and a genteel fortune, ``but she pursued too much the drug

called learning, and in that pursuit failed of being careful of
any one thing necessary. In her latter years she was tutoress in

the family of the Duke of Portland, where we visited her in her
sleeping-room at Bulstrode, surrounded with books and dirtiness,

the usual appendages of folk of learning!''
There is another word which Cicero uses --for I have still

somewhat more to say of that passage from the oration ``pro
Archia poeta''--the word ``rusticantur,'' which indicates that

civilization twenty centuries ago made a practice of taking books
out into the country for summer reading. ``These literary

pursuits rusticate with us,'' says Cicero, and thus he presents
to us a pen- picture of the Roman patrician stretched upon the

cool grass under the trees, perusing the latest popular romance,
while, forsooth, in yonder hammock his dignifiedspouse swings

slowly to and fro, conning the pages and the colored plates of
the current fashion journal. Surely in the telltale word

``rusticantur'' you and I and the rest of human nature find a
worthy precedent and much encouragement for our practice of

loading up with plenty of good reading before we start for the
scene of our annual summering.

As for myself, I never go away from home that I do not take a
trunkful of books with me, for experience has taught me that

there is no companionship" target="_blank" title="n.伴侣关系；友谊">companionship better than that of these friends, who,
however much all things else may vary, always give the same

response to my demand upon their solace and their cheer. My
sister, Miss Susan, has often inveighed against this practice of

mine, and it was only yesterday that she informed me that I was
the most exasperating man in the world.

However, as Miss Susan's experience with men during the
sixty-seven hot summers and sixty-eight hard winters of her life

has been somewhat limited, I think I should bear her criticism
without a murmur. Miss Susan is really one of the kindest

creatures in all the world. It is her misfortune that she has
had all her life an insanepassion for collecting crockery, old

pewter, old brass, old glass, old furniture and other trumpery of
that character; a passion with which I have little sympathy. I

do not know that Miss Susan is prouder of her collection of all
this folderol than she is of the fact that she is a spinster.

This latter peculiarity asserts itself upon every occasion
possible. I recall an unpleasant scene in the omnibus last

winter, when the obsequious conductor, takingadvantage of my
sister's white hair and furrowed cheeks, addressed that estimable

lady as ``Madam.'' I'd have you know that my sister gave the
fellow to understand very shortly and in very vigorous English

(emphasized with her blue silk umbrella) that she was Miss Susan,
and that she did not intend to be Madamed by anybody, under any

condition.
IV

THE MANIA OF COLLECTING SEIZES ME
Captivity Waite never approved of my fondness for fairy

literature. She shared the enthusiasm which I expressed whenever
``Robinson Crusoe'' was mentioned; there was just enough

seriousness in De Foe's romance, just enough piety to appeal for
sympathy to one of Captivity Waite's religious turn of mind.

When it came to fiction involving witches, ogres, and flubdubs,
that was too much for Captivity, and the spirit of the little

Puritan revolted.
Yet I have the documentary evidence to prove that Captivity's

ancestors (both paternal and maternal) were, in the palmy
colonial times, as abject slaves to superstition as could well be

imagined. The Waites of Salem were famous persecutors of
witches, and Sinai Higginbotham (Captivity's great-great-

grandfather on her mother's side of the family) was Cotton
Mather's boon companion, and rode around the gallows with that

zealous theologian on that memorable occasion when five young
women were hanged at Danvers upon the charge of having tormented

little children with their damnable arts of witchcraft. Human
thought is like a monstrouspendulum: it keeps swinging from one

extreme to the other. Within the compass of five generations we
find the Puritan first an uncompromising believer in demonology

and magic, and then a scoffer at everything involving the play of
fancy.

I felt harshly toward Captivity Waite for a time, but I harbor
her no ill-will now; on the contrary, I recall with very tender

feelings the distant time when our sympathies were the same and
when we journeyed the pathway of early youth in a companionship" target="_blank" title="n.伴侣关系；友谊">companionship

sanctified by the innocence and the loyalty and the truth of
childhood. Indeed, I am not sure that that early friendship did

not make a lastingimpression upon my life; I have thought of
Captivity Waite a great many times, and I have not unfrequently

wondered what might have been but for that book of fairy tales
which my Uncle Cephas sent me.

She was a very pretty child, and she lost none of her comeliness