Chapter 3 my first love(1)

Now, as I prepare to embark on the most important work of my life, I recall the confessions I have read at various times from so-called "love masters."These boastful words shocked me, because I regarded "love" as a noble passion and respected it deeply.Moreover, it is inconceivable to me how a man who has really fallen into the tender trap of "love" can afterwards talk about it again and again. But it has been and will remain so.There are many who will always tell you with gusto how many booty they have conquered, and how cleverly they have captured it.This is quite like a ruthless hunter, always boasting about his brutal killing game, always laying out his disgusting details of the slaughterhouse.

I have always maintained that a man who swims in love (and whoever is in love must always be in love) has nothing to offer.Love is a passion so frank, so legitimate, so pure that no confession is required or tolerated from the one involved.One cannot help guessing, therefore, that there must be some betrayal, treachery, or strife in the statements I myself have made here of my own spiritual affairs, and perhaps some hint of something that disgraces love and its followers. , or something that would make a faultfinder blush—sadly, he's wrong. Not that I boast, I've never captured a trophy or felt like a hero.For many years, I have wandered in a pleasant garden, breathing fresh and sweet air, admiring the beautiful and charming scenery, and it is not a pleasure to walk there; .But now, I am determined to return to the pleasant garden of the past, and invite you to accompany me to visit the old place again, revisit the old love, and share the pleasure and old feelings of an old guy.

When I was a child, I was a serious child.Those sports which rejuvenate the passions of youth have little interest in me; outdoor games and physical exercises are especially disgusting to me.I was born in the South, but when I was six years old, I went to New Hampshire to live with my grandmother.At that time, my parents unfortunately fell victim to cholera.Moving from the warm and humid south to the cold and icy north made me uncomfortable, and this was the root cause of my frailty and sickness all my life. My grandmother encouraged me to quit the game, knowing in my heart that I would take to heart her old man's teaching: I am her faithful heir.She was determined to raise me as a Congregationalist.In principle, the Congregational Church cannot recognize any creed or any form of authority. The explanation of the doctrine is a testimony, not a rule of faith.At the same time, he refused to recognize the religious leadership of the British government and was persecuted by the government. ] the only professional preacher of the true faith, a plan which she had utterly failed in her own sons.For this reason, and many others, I declared at the young age of seven that I wanted to be a priest.This ambition was completely sincere at the time-so, my initial hobby was completely influenced by my grandmother.

Looking back on my first love now, it is as vivid as if it was yesterday.It was in the living room of our old house, sometime in the spring.The living room at that time had the same function as the place called "living room" today.I remember, the low ceiling, the great fireplace, with its long and wide mantelpieces, its iron wood-frames and brass baffles, and the tall wall clock with its cheerful full-moon face, and the bellows whistling all the time Gasp, the wax flower under the crystal ball in the corner, an allegorical painting of Solomon's Temple on the wall, another painting of little Samuel praying, high-backed hard chair, footstool with rich finishes, mirror set in gilt In an ebony frame.All this is fresh in my memory, tender as yesterday, and almost seventy years have passed since that day.

Of all these things, what I remember most is my grandmother's collection of books, the thick, dark mahogany shelves with the glass cleverly framed by the diamond-shaped doors.At that time, I was seven years old, and I had reached the age of reading and writing.Many "fountains of wisdom" throughout the ages have fallen prey to my insatiable appetite for publication.There is a story about a little boy who stole a pin, fell into self-blame and repentance, and finally became a good person.I feel as close to this clever enlightening story as if I wrote it myself.I can stutter and read Watts [Isaac Watts (1674-1748), English poet, revered by the church of all ages as the "father of hymns." ]'s fables and rhymes and Wesley [Charlie Wesley (1707-1788), a British poet, wrote nearly a thousand hymns. His brother John was a British religious leader and the founder of the Methodist Church. ]'s admonishing psalms, together with the annual reports of the American Pamphlet Society, revealed to me what my grandmother had hoped for me: how my judgment, my passion, would be shaped.But my heart is still free, and the gentle and persistent enthusiasm in my heart has never changed. It contains my joy, my inspiration, and my comfort, waiting for the arrival of my first love.

On a bookshelf farther away—it has three rows vertically and four horizontally—the old edition of "New England Primer" is stored. The version of the book appeared in the 1680s. For hundreds of years, almost every American child started to learn literacy through this booklet.It can be said that it is this little book that mainly focuses on religious teachings that has accompanied generations of American children through their childhood.Early editions of this book are very rare. ], an odd little square book with a thin, faded blue cardboard cover.Many times I have wondered if I should not decorate these baubles more luxuriously, in the latest fashion I have learned from my bookbinder.Truth be told, I often have the urge to swap out these plain old blueplate covers for supple moroccan leather, just to show my respect for rare edition books.One day I expressed this idea to my friend Judge Methuen, for I respected his judgment.