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!’’