The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac | Page 6

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.
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.