A 19th century Christmas gift, defense of an Anglo-Saxon Primer, in praise of Jesus in the Greek, and a much-needed mention of mid-century etiquette
At first glance after taking this photo, I decided that I had apparently begun this series on hopeless ground. Twelve inches of books of interest to approximately no one outside this author and a handful of outliers to society who think that the Attic Greek middle aorist is exciting. Sure, Woodrow Wilson’s History of the American People there on the right has not exactly eclipsed the mainstream, but I think only middle-aged history buffs that consider Churchill’s multi-volume History of the English-Speaking Peoples light reading would be invigorated at the sight. Good chance that, in fewer years than I would like to think, I’ll be middle-aged and crack its wood-scented covers to fantastic glee and think how much like my father I am, and happy to be so.
But I continued to stare at the photo—there was no need to retrieve the books as I know them all so well—and I started to see more interest in them than I first suspected. For the purpose of pleasing a more general public, I might discard Smyth’s phenomenal grammar book, the Latin dictionary of trade paperback caliber, Clyde Pharr’s Homeric Greek, the slim student’s Anglo-Saxon primer, and even my prized little volume on Latin etymology (without which I could not continue to wholesomely live); and these for only resting within what would today be a specialist's domain. But what is left would be a gem to really anyone possessing, in my opinion, the semblance of a brain.
From the left, I point out the Greek New Testament. Anyone unimpressed with the power of the Christian Bible has never read the NT in Koine Greek. One does not need to be a religious devotee of Jesus to have his or her vigor aroused at the actions of the man depicted in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. His words in the Greek demonstrate a passion and vitality that tends to flatten in modern English translations, and which I cannot due justice in this brief essay.
And I have long considered the opening words of John 1:1...
In the beginning was the word
...of course, in the Bible within this twelve inches of shelf (for those that are sticklers about this sort of thing) it is...
Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος
...to be an essential component of my intellectual M.O.
On second thought, I cannot pass up a brief mention of Henry Sweet’s little red Anglo-Saxon Primer. Henry Sweet contributed as much as anyone to the popularization of Old English studies or at least widespread understanding of the importance of the language to English civilization and Germanic philology, yet he never attained a professorial position. His outrageous phonetic authority was the inspiration for the character of Henry Higgins in Pygmalion. This little volume itself is quite special, as it was given to me by my Old English professor and mentor throughout my undergraduate years at Rice University, Dr. Douglas Mitchell.
Following the tracks of Douglas, my possession of the incredible Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities is his responsibility. Edited by William Smith and published in 1859, this guidebook to the objects and customs of the Greek and Roman world has given me the freedom to literally dispose of other reference books covering classical antiquity. The book was purchased by me essentially by accident. Douglas had encouraged me to acquire a similar book, but one that addressed Greek and Roman mythology and religion—and which he commonly brought to class—but I ordered this from Amazon and have never regretted the error.
The book is one meant to be read. It appears to have accepted the assignment with diligence. The spine has been replaced with a weathered, dark khaki tape, upon which only the name of the book has been retained: glued to the spine in approximately the same spot it would have been originally. The boards, of faux red marble design, are destitute at the corners as if burned. Still tight, however, are the edges of the pages, the golden paper still shiny and reflective as though a polished stone mass like antique Roman dolabra.
The book appears to have been the gift of a widow, Miss Marjorie Aborn, to Western Reserve University. The Ex Libris fixture within the front board denotes the university library and the giver: given, it must be assumed, before 1967, when WRU became Case Western. There is also a handwritten dedication on the first page of the volume, from Andrew J. Rickoff to Frank Aborn. The precious dictionary saw first service as a Christmas gift in 1874.
Mr. Rickoff, I can state with utmost certainty, was a notable superintendent of schools in Cleveland in the second half of the 19th century, who it appears was responsible for a great period of improvements in the education system and schooling facilities in the city. Within Mr. Rickoff’s school system. Mr. Aborn was a master drawing instructor who also published manuals on drawing instruction. It is possible, but possibly not confirmable, that inspiration for some of his classical approach to drawing was issued in part from the very volume now on my shelves.
Lastly, and wedged between the Bible and the Old English, are two small publications, one being How to Take the Fog out of Writing. This is a small, blue book, like a rather thick pamphlet, that is curiously and wholly from the 60s. Published in 1964, it was certainly an object that my mother purchased to guide her through high school English at Menlo High School in Menlo, Iowa. The little red beside this is a 25-cent “purse book” by the name modern etiquette, in all lower case, which, according to the editors, is “a way of everyday life, not merely a set of rules for formal occasions.” It was apparently revolutionary for its time, for it took into consideration the changing lives of Americans in the 1960s.
Just as many other customs and styles have changed radically in the past fifty years, so, too, have many of the rules for correct and gracious behavior. For example, modern etiquette takes into consideration that most homes are servantless, that many wives work, that teen-agers have greater freedom than ever before—that, to sum up, life in the 1960’s is faster, more informal and freer than at any time in history.
The contents are only what you would expect: the same tips as today, though few etiquette guides published in 2010 would provide expert advice on how to tip a cigarette girl. If they did, I doubt their suggestion would be in the range of 10 to 25 cents per purchase.
The emotional pull, and general gravitas, of this twelve inches must be said to come from the dictionary and the primer, although any book on classical language in my library is the direct result of Douglas’ influence and the repercussions of his instruction resonate on every shelf.
But I have to admit that diving into my mother’s little high school writing and etiquette guides have touched me in the deepest way. I find myself wistful for childhood summers spent at my grandmother’s in Menlo, and the plans she and I made for me to spend a year with her and attend school. Now that I am a parent, I can see why my mother and father shot down that idea without discussion—how could they live without me for so long?—but part of me still wishes that I could have spent a year in the little, little town and visited the farm and lived in the quiet, quiet house on the peaceful street and gone to the Methodist Church where I was baptized and every week put a penny on the train tracks behind my grandmother’s house. I would have kept the flattened coins in a can and given the rattling prize to my child or children, a time that is now upon me. Even as a child, I longed for the chance to live multiple lives, so that I could do everything: like take a year off as an adolescent to frolic in rural Iowa with my grandmother.
Today is her 100th birthday, and the retirement home staff have caught her once again sneaking out of bed at night to do her laundry and fold the lunch menus for the next day. I’ve just moved 1500 miles away from her and could not travel back for the celebration. I love her, and find these relics of life in Menlo fifty years ago to be hard tugs on those little strings suspending my heart in my chest.
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