Mr. Putney's influence was not due to his public utterances, for he did not seek platform prominence. But his constant adherence to high ideals of faithfulness, conscientiousness, and efficiency outside and in the classroom, and his personal helpfulness to many an individual student are among the legacies which many of us have been privileged to share from his long and abundantly fruitful life.
George L. Leonard, '83.
A Human Humanist
"Are you willing to write an appreciation of what his influence in those early days meant to you?"
So the letter read, telling me of the Charles E. Putney memorial. And shall I be frank enough to add that for a moment the question rather floored me? For while youth is very susceptible to influences, of many sorts, youth is not much more conscious of them than the beanstalk of the pole. Yet almost immediately it came back to me that a few days before that letter arrived, a group of men were chatting in a Washington club—among other things, about the value and results of formal education. And, agreeing that few people ever pick up at school or college anything which in later life they can put their finger on, that for many people the so-called higher education is a pure waste of time, I added, "The only man who ever taught me anything was a Greek teacher I had at a preparatory school in Vermont."
That Greek teacher was Mr. Putney. Perhaps Greek is no longer taught at the Academy. I don't know. It is not the fashion nowadays. But I am somewhat concerned that it has ceased to be the fashion. And the foundation of the feeling I have about it was laid, in great part, at St. Johnsbury. On that, at any rate, I can put my finger. It may not have been Mr. Putney who first sowed in the mind of one of his pupils the consciousness that history is a very long drawn out affair; that it did not begin in A. D. 1776, or in A. D. 1492, or even in A. D. 1. For before that pupil trod the banks of the Passumpsic he happened to have visited the shores of the Ægean. To him, consequently, the Anabasis and Homer were more real than otherwise they might have seemed—though Mr. Putney had the gift of making those old stories real.
But of one thing I am quite sure. Mr. Putney gave me my first sense of language as a living and growing organism, come from far beginnings; and he first made me see in the English language, in particular, a stream of many confluents. This is the chief reason why it seems to me a disaster that the classics are passing out of fashion. For with them all true understanding of our rich and noble tongue seems fated to pass out of fashion. To be too much bound to the past is of course an unhappy thing. Each generation must live by and largely for itself. Yet does it not profit a man to be aware that knowledge is an ancient and gradual accumulation, to gain an outlook upon the cycles of history and upon the human experiments that have succeeded or failed, to be able to trace the sources of this or that element in science, in law, in art? And how shall he really know the language he speaks without some acquaintance with the languages which have chiefly enriched it—not only French and German, but Latin and Greek as well?
This Mr. Putney had the art of making his pupils feel. I remember how he used to pick words to pieces and squeeze out for us the inner essence of their meaning. One example in particular has always stuck in my memory: pernicious. And I can still hear Mr. Putney's voice translating it for us: "Most completely full of that which produces death." That word has had an interest for me ever since—akin to the respect which Henry James later instilled into me for the adjective poignant, which he declared should be used only once or twice in a lifetime. What is more, I have never lost the habit Mr. Putney enticed us to form, of picking words to pieces for ourselves. There is no better way of extracting shades of meaning. But that way is closed to those who have no Greek.