At The Library Table

<p></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(255 255 255 1); color: rgba(15 17 17 1)>Excerpt </span></p><p></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(255 255 255 1); color: rgba(15 17 17 1)>Mind I am not talking of inhabitants of Boston Massachusetts. It may be that my notions are derived wholly from my New York environment. A New Yorker appears to think that it is an evidence of weakness to allow any one to find out that books are dear to him and seems to be as loath to confess the passion as he would be to proclaim at the club or upon the house-tops his fond attachment to the lady of his choice. In the goodly number of years during which I have trodden the pavements and availed of the facilities of transit afforded by the street-railways of the city whereof we are justly proud I do not remember hearing the subject of books or of things pertaining to books discussed or even referred to by any of my neighbors. But recently in Boston while walking on Boylston Street I passed two lads who were still in their later teens and distinctly heard one of them say the Latin derivation of that word is-I lost the rest of it. In New York he would have been uttering something in the vulgar argot used by the youth of our times-preserved and fostered by the newspaper-about de cops or de Giants or the superiority of some novel brand of cigarettes. They would have blushed for shame to be discovered in the possession of any knowledge of such discreditable matters as Latin or derivations of any description. The gospel of doing things has been preached to them so strenuously that they have long since forgotten if they ever knew that there is any virtue in knowing things.</span></p><p></p>