Aha, old Crusoe!  I see thee now in yonder case smiling out upon me as cheerily as thou didst smile those many years ago when to a little boy thou broughtest the message of Romance!  And I do love thee still, and I shall always love thee, not only for thy benefaction in those ancient days, but also for the light and the cheer which thy genius brings to all ages and conditions of humanity.

My Uncle Cephas’s library was stored with a large variety of pleasing literature.  I did not observe a glut of theological publications, and I will admit that I felt somewhat aggrieved personally when, in answer to my inquiry, I was told that there was no ``New England Primer’’ in the collection.  But this feeling was soon dissipated by the absorbing interest I took in De Foe’s masterpiece, a work unparalleled in the realm of fiction.

I shall not say that ``Robinson Crusoe’’ supplanted the Primer in my affections; this would not be true.  I prefer to say what is the truth; it was my second love.  Here again we behold another advantage which the lover of books has over the lover of women.  If he be a genuine lover he can and should love any number of books, and this polybibliophily is not to the disparagement of any one of that number.  But it is held by the expounders of our civil and our moral laws that he who loveth one woman to the exclusion of all other women speaketh by that action the best and highest praise both of his own sex and of hers.

I thank God continually that it hath been my lot in life to found an empire in my heart—­no cramped and wizened borough wherein one jealous mistress hath exercised her petty tyranny, but an expansive and ever-widening continent divided and subdivided into dominions, jurisdictions, caliphates, chiefdoms, seneschalships, and prefectures, wherein tetrarchs, burgraves, maharajahs, palatines, seigniors, caziques, nabobs, emirs, nizams, and nawabs hold sway, each over his special and particular realm, and all bound together in harmonious cooperation by the conciliating spirit of polybibliophily!

Let me not be misunderstood; for I am not a woman-hater.  I do not regret the acquaintances—­nay, the friendships—­I have formed with individuals of the other sex.  As a philosopher it has behooved me to study womankind, else I should not have appreciated the worth of these other better loves.  Moreover, I take pleasure in my age in associating this precious volume or that with one woman or another whose friendship came into my life at the time when I was reading and loved that book.

The other day I found my nephew William swinging in the hammock on the porch with his girl friend Celia; I saw that the young people were reading Ovid. ``My children,’’ said I, ``count this day a happy one.  In the years of after life neither of you will speak or think of Ovid and his tender verses without recalling at the same moment how of a gracious afternoon in distant time you sat side by side contemplating the ineffably precious promises of maturity and love.’’