d 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