to hear, and so, too, I presume, will the home folks. So, without further ado, I shall plunge into the subject, and if I get beyond my depth, as I probably shall, you may attribute it to the violence of the plunge. And first, why I—or we—had decided that I should come home. The reason is simply this. Our tickets for the steamer of Sept. 4th had to be handed in if we intended to return on that date. If this was not done we would probably be unable to get places later, as the boat was going to be crowded. Not handing in the ticket, then, was equivalent to a decision of the whole question—a decision to stay and study in Paris. The problem thus forced upon us, what could we do? Studying in Paris was (but is not now) a “glittering generality.” We did not know a solitary thing about it. Was there a single school of my grade in Paris? For any knowledge of ours to the contrary, the answer might have been no. If there were, could I study what I wanted, or would I be put through a course? When would the term begin? How long would it take me to learn French? What was the method of instruction pursued? and would I have to pass through the fiery ordeal of an examination? All these questions met with complete blankness for answer. Thus, a decision to stay would have been a “leap in the dark,” and all on the strength of an indefinite Parisian reputation. Besides, I was not sure that in any case it would be desirable to remain. Can you wonder, then, that my ticket went in for Sept. 4th. But why did I change my mind, is the next question? Well, all through the trip I had a great desire to stay over a little while and see more of the great cities of Paris and London. It seemed a great pity to come all the way over here, and then see so little of them. I might never have another opportunity. Then I wanted, too, some little time to rest and digest this tour, and not to rush right off to Oberlin into studying again. But the thing appeared impossible, as I was determined not to fall behind my class a single term. And so the question became, stay for aye, or go at once. And as no other conclusion seemed wise, the decision was—Go! Such, then, being my state of mind, I arrived at Paris Thursday August 27th in the full expectation of looking my last upon the shores of Europe on September 4th precisely. Naturally enough, I was carried away by the great city, and wished I were going to stay. Then Carrie decided to pitch her tent here, which increased my desire. I thought I could study French, and read French History, and learn lots about Art—and Paris. I thought, too, I could make up while here one or two of the studies of the Fall term at 0., and if I was successful at my French, it would not be necessary for me to take it at 0., and so I would not fall behind at all—a comforting and encouraging conclusion. Then Jim comes into the case, and fails to see the especial use of my staying unless I stay to study in the schools here. I tell him I would, but I don’t know anything about their old schools. But I am seized with a desire to do so if feasible. Then our conductor comes along, and we learn that the question must be decided at once. I rush off immediately and apostrophize Mr. Gray in search of information. He gives it, and it is satisfactory. I must, he says, go into a school for English boys for three months, and learn the French language. I may then be examined to enter the Lyceum. This decides me. I will at least (so it appears) learn French enough to save my two terms at Oberlin, and by taking one or two studies besides, I am certainly even with, if not ahead of, my friends at O. So whether at the end of that term I return, or stay and try for the Lyceum, I don’t drop behind my class. And so, Mother, there lies the solution of the whole problem, and I accepted it, and decided to stay. Since then I have learned that the Lyceum opens Oct. 6th, and of course if I can enter then, so much the better, though I don’t think I can learn French in five weeks. I suppose, unless the family object, and the information I may acquire in future prove unsatisfactory, that I shall stay a year. But only a year. I have no thought of staying longer, even should you be perfectly willing. When the folks at home hear that I expect to remain, if my ticket can be fixed (which I don’t know yet by any means), I think I hear the cry of disapproval which will at once arise. Brother Will will say that he thinks it will be decidedly injurious to me; George will ditto, or else be in doubt; and in any case there will be some discussion, I think, if my prospects for the future can arouse as much interest as that. At any rate the thing may attract some letters to me, and that part wont be disagreeable. But remember I don’t expect to stay long enough to have my character and mental tastes and habits moulded after French models. You will say at home that a man ought to be educated in the country in which he expects to live, and I suppose that may be true, but this will only be a small part of my education, and it is a splendid chance to spend some time in such a great art centre. I will try to learn a great deal about art, and I do want an opportunity to look at pictures at my leisure, and not be rushed through them as I have been. It seems to me almost a crime to study in such a place as O. A fine sunrise and sunset, grand and beautiful scenery, seem an important part of one’s education. In Paris, at least, I will be in a great and beautiful city, and will enjoy all the collateral advantages of the place, and can at least feel that I am on historic ground. I can say for myself, in conclusion, that in staying I have been moved only by the consideration of my own best good, educational and otherwise, and that any such subsidiary thing as the pleasure to be derived has been entirely overlooked. I may also say that in making the decision I have acted by the advice, and in accordance with the wishes of the family here, and, according to my light, have acted for the best. Father, I will study hard, and try to master the French. And now, Mother, don’t you worry about me; I shall try to be a good boy. Remember what you are always saying: —” Never mind, it will all come right.” And so it will. The only thing that I mind is not seeing you again. But if I don’t stay a year, I will see you before you go home, I hope. In any case, you know my dream has been for more than a year to make a long visit home before finishing my course, and if Father’s ship comes in, I shall do it, if he is willing: During my stay here I shall be homesick for Oberlin many times, I expect; but never mind, I shall see it again. Oh, how glad I was to hear that Lucius is better. Tell the dear boy that I hope he will soon be well and strong. Give my love to dear Aunt Mary and Uncle, and tell her not to work too hard. If she cares anything about it she will see me graduate at old O. yet, and I will hire a carriage to take her to the first church to hear my last speech.
With love,
HENRY.
HOTEL LEGER, No. 2 RUE THENARD,
PARIS, Sunday, Sept. 7, ’79.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
We are nicely settled here, at the address which you see at the head of this letter, in all respects a nice situation. We were entitled to two day’s board and lodging at the Hotel D’Albe instead of that which we were to receive from Henry Gaze & Son at London, before moving down here. So after Jim and Helen left us, Tuesday night, we stayed at the hotel till Wed. evening, and then departed for these diggings, where we have remained ever since. Dear Mother, I can never remember where my last letter to you left off, and so if I want to give you an account of my adventures, I never know where to begin, and consequently never do begin, which doesn’t bear so hard upon me as upon the poor unfortunate who has to read my effusions. But let me sail in someway, and perhaps I will tell you something you don’t know, and perhaps I wont. And to begin at last, the first fact that comes to mind, and impresses itself as interesting is that our grand European Tour is ended. The great affair which I looked forward to so, and which seemed a magnificent impossibility, is through with. I have done what I scarcely ever dared to hope to do—seen Europe; or, at least, have been through Europe and tried to see it. Another and a second fact is that it hasn’t done me the good that others may have hoped and that it ought to have done. And this will make Father feel bad. But it seems to me that I got as much and more good than most of the section. A third fact is that I don’t deserve to go to Europe. And this I feel most painfully. Why, here I have been in Europe two months, and haven’t learned what the chancel of a cathedral is. I had no business to stir out of 34 West College. I haven’t improved my time and opportunities well; I have not read at any and every chance that came along, and been attentive and observing enough; I haven’t appreciated the magnificent advantages of the situation, and taken advantage of it as I should have. In short, comparatively speaking, I have gone through Europe with eyes and ears closed. Every time Father spoke in his letters about how we would or ought to get so much good from the trip (and that was every time he wrote), I felt a little twinge because of these facts. Now, I know it will cause Father pain and disappointment to hear all this, and well it may, for
