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Page 6
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 ambition wholly sincere 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, 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 mahogany structure, 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;
wholly untouched 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.
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