Putting Things in Books

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

I ONCE had a prejudice against a habit indulged in by some otherwise sensible people—the habit of putting things in books. I mean pressed flowers, Christmas cards, locks of hair, kodak pictures, and all such tokens and trinkets. I could give logical reasons for my disapproval. I declared that the practice was injurious to the book and disrespectful to the author. Worse than that, it was demoralizing to the reader, leading him into side excursions of romance,and inducing stray thoughts and day-dreams. How unjust, to the patient historian as well as to me, that I should be distracted from a study of the Peloponnesian war by the discovery of a snapshot picture reminding me that on such a day, in such a place, — and then would follow a train of personal reminiscences entirely devoid of historical dignity. Who would wish to pick up a Hamlet and find it a crinkled herbarium of shattering fernsand mocking four-leaf clovers? Or who would gam high inspiration from a Paradise Lost that served as a scrap-book for clippings of newspaper poems and old political badges? Such interpolations produced on me the same unhappy effect as literature texts of my student days, with the lines almost obscured by my worshipful transcribing of professorial comment, — horizontal, perpendicular, interlined, and curvilinear, and mainly unreadable. Now, kind librarian, give me volumes with nothing on the pages except what the inspired authors, the talented editors, and the intelligent printers, have placed there. And let me find no stumbling-blocks between the leaves.

Of course I admitted one exception to my rule. The big family Bible was properly a repository, where we might find anything, from father’s old school report-cards — how we gloated over his low marks in grammar and in deportment!— to mother’s recipe for sponge-cake. It really did not seem sacrilegious that we should find in the Biblea bunch of the parrot’s tail-feathers, the disappearance of which, long before, had been a tearful mystery to one small girl. Indeed, I still think that the big Book was an ideal place in which to put things. The binding would stand any strain, being made to last a century; and the reader was safe from demoralizing influences, — for in those days there was no reader. The era of flexible leather having arrived, the ponderous Bible was brought forth only when a marriage or birth or death was to be chronicled; or at Thanksgiving, to improvise a high chair for the baby. If, upon such an occasion, some one should suggest turning the leaves of the Bible, what strange and precious old things might come to light! Even in the days when I nursed my prejudice, I could have joined with spirit in such an exploring. I also appreciated the story of a lady who, under pressure of great need, found in the Bible a fivedollar bill left there in prosperous days. Such beneficence was appropriate in a Book full of providential things. But does any one find five-dollar bills in common books? Should any rightminded reader wish to find them there? Nothing else in the world would so distract the thoughts, thwarting the efforts of any story-teller. No, the family Bible was in a class by itself. Liberties could be permitted with it that I, for one, would not allow with any other book.

Thus I argued, and, like Horatio, did in part believe. But now I come as a sinner to repentance. It seems to me that I shall not merely look with approval upon the habit I formerly disliked, but that I myself shall some day go to my treasure-boxes and transfer their precious contents to books I may never again open.

My change of heart came in this wise. A dear friend, dying, bequeathed to me her small library. I wondered, when I first touched the volumes, if I should ever be able to regard them as mere books, or to read the gayest of them without sadness. The loved name was written in a delicate, old-fashioned hand on every inside cover. But still more sadly remindful were the numerous mementos and keepsakes lying between the pages; for my friend had put things in books. In nearly every volume I found pressed flowers, remembrance-cards, or the notes and questions of the student and teacher, all reminding me of the friend who was gone. And yet, when I came upon pieces of lace, soft curls of a baby’s hair, strips of yellow ribbon, — her favorite color, — I felt that I could hear her speak and see her smile again. I welcomed all the little keepsakes; for in no other way could my friend have left me so much of herself.

One evening I took from among these gift books the translation of the Iliad, wishing to rest my mind and perhaps learn a new thing. Idly turning the leaves, I dislodged two folded letters, slightly yellowed by time. I opened them, —and what to me then were the grievous woes of heroes, the schemes of gods and goddesses? The very headings of the letters would draw my attention from any ancient tale. One was ‘Concord, Mass.,’ and the other, ‘Oak Knoll, Danvers, Mass.’ It has never been my fortune to see the land my fathers trod. Familiarity has bred no contempt. Hence there is no figure of speech in all Homer that has for me the power of suggestion which lies in the name ‘Concord.’ That message, I thought, in a flash of joy, might be from one of several persons whose letters might well be kept in the Iliad. I decided, after speculation, that the signature was ‘A. Bronson Alcott.’ But there was no mystery about the other name. It was ‘John G. Whittier.’

Though the script of Whittier was so readable, I should not have known or guessed his real meaning without the help of Mr. Alcott’s letter, most of which I at last deciphered. Both letters were written in August, 1882. They were replies to two young ladies who had asked advice regarding a course of reading. Mr. Alcott gives the conventional bookman’s answer, urging that they read Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton, Wordsworth, — and Emerson, at all events. He says, ‘Emerson’s prose is perhaps the most suggestive and profitable reading of modern authors.’ Then follows a statement that seems to be, ‘Thoreau is hardly up’; but after much study I am inclined to read it, ‘Thoreau is worthy also.'

It was surely a rare privilege to find the brief note from Whittier. I used to doubt the statement of biographers that the poet had a fine gift of humor; but now, when I look at the gentle, serious face in the engravings, I seem to see a hint of smiles. The letter reads:

OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, MASS,

8th Mo. 12th, 1882.

MY DEAR FRIENDS, —

When a boy I heard of a venerable Quaker preacher who held a meeting not far from us. He had a large congregation who waited patiently for an hour, while the preacher sat in silence. At last he said, ‘Friends, enough has been said; the thing is to do,' and dismissed the meeting. Reading your sensible well-considered letter I think you do not need advice. ‘Enough has been said,’ you know enough; but as the Quaker preacher said, ‘the thing is to do.' That with Divine help you may live wisely, happily, and usefully, is the wish of your old friend,

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

No more of Hector and Achilles that evening! Here was‘metal more attractive.’ All my arguments against the habit of putting things in books were doubly proved, — and then forgotten. What matter if my attention was distracted, and poor old Homer was neglected? What matter if the two letters had been lost in the Iliad for perhaps a quarter of a century? It was not for me to object on that score, since there the letters lay, in my hands. I saw that I could not maintain my miserable little prejudice against a habit capable of bringing me such delight . I was ready to accept the whole system; nay, even to adopt it. Perhaps an unconditional surrender was not required as my penance; I admit it was very illogical, for probably I shall never again find such rare treasure between the leaves of any book. But there is a blessed state of mind when one throws logic to the winds, and gives allegiance to a cause right from the heart; and I was in that state of mind.

Yet in spite of my own conversion, I shall attempt no proselyting. This habit of putting things in books is admirable only in those who practice it unconsciously and indiscriminately. Commonness would rob it of all its delicacy and charm. I would not wish to see it become a fad, or the cornerstone of a sect. But for me there is no escape. The message is written, ‘Enough has been said; the thing is to do.’ I have just found two four-leaf clovers, and I go to place one of them in my newest copy of Hamlet, and the other in the Iliad, with the two fine old letters.