as that. I know that a trip like this ought to do me a world of good. I don’t think it has done me that good, and so I know there is something wrong about it, but just where I have failed I can’t tell, except, of course, that I should have learned a great deal about art and architecture, and acquired a great deal of general information, and read a great deal, none of which things I have done. But, my goodness, that’s enough. When I read that sentence over I see it counts up fearfully. O dear! A fourth fact is that the trip has done me some good, I think, notwithstanding this discouraging aspect of affairs. And a fifth and last fact is that it has not done me the harm I feared. I thought that to go to Europe when I knew so little, to tread upon historic ground and not even know that it was historic; to see ancient cities, which, standing upon their intrinsic merits as cities, are rather seedy, and not know what makes them interesting, nay immortal, what great deeds made them holy ground, &c., &c., &c.; to do all this, I say, would do me more harm than good; and, I think, perhaps some others shared my opinion. But I don’t think it has. To be sure the halo and gloss and magic which hung about the word Europe has been dispelled (the same magic that made me think when a youngster that the United States was of course a thousand times better a place than the islands) for I have discovered that life is life the world over, and that Europe is prosaic and real, as well as any other country. But in return for the valueless conception I have of course lost for ever, I receive one based upon the solid merits of the case. So I feel comforted in regard to that. In regard to the Section, you know that we, or at least I have been much disappointed as to the people with whom we were to travel. I expected that they would be fearfully cultured, so aristocratic and nice, and “hightoned,” that I wouldn’t dare to go within six blocks of them. But that, I need hardly say, has not been the case. As a company, they have been chiefly noticeable for ignorance and lack of culture. But what do I care? The fact that they were such would spoil many people’s enjoyment of the trip. Mine it does not even affect. Isn’t that fortunate? Even odious people are matters of indifference to me, as long as they leave me alone. I came to Europe to see itself and not them. But never mind. When I parted from them at Paris, I was actually sorry to see them go—I suppose because I had had such pleasant times in their company. When they were all gone, we six or eight who were left went into the hotel parlor, and we felt lonely; at least, I know I did. There seemed to be nobody around. The place was deserted. The next night Jim and Helen took up their departure. And then we felt alone indeed. Who can tell what a day or an hour may bring forth? When they left us, less than a week ago, I did not expect to see Jim for a year, and Helen nobody knows how long. But now, if things go smoothly, I suppose we shall see them both again and yourself in less than a month. And that brings me at last to the subject on account of which this letter is written,—our return home. We were all settled here, with our rooms taken for a month, when the home letters came, saying we could not stay. We have telegraphed to London to see if we can obtain places on the steamer of the 18th, and shall leave then if possible. If impossible, then by the first on which we can get passage. I am very glad and very sorry to return. Glad, because inclination takes me home. Sorry because I feel that it is best for me to stay. O dear, if we only knew what takes us home. Is it expense? We can live here cheaper than we do in Oberlin. Carrie’s tuition in the Conservatory would be—nothing. It must be that we are in danger of being thrown on our own resources, and that, I suppose, had better be in America than here. I had commenced to study French, and had made a very little progress. It seems a pity to go away, and see so little of Paris and London. And then, if we return, all the time that we have stayed over is sheer lost time. I will have just so much more work to make up. I should have been dreadfully lonely and homesick in Paris, but it will be just as bad, if not worse in O. I wish Metcalf would room with me. Love to Auntie and Uncle, and yourself a good share.
HENRY.
OBERLIN, O., Sunday, October 5th, ’79.
DEAR SISTERS, CARRIE AND HELEN,
Both of your letters were duly received, and were very welcome. I have been so busy since I arrived that I have put off writing and even acknowledging your letters until Sunday, when I would have a little time. Hattie and I had a very pleasant trip together, and arrived at O. on time I believe. Our sleeping berths were adjoining, and a gentleman who had the one under me kindly offered to exchange with Hattie, so we had a gay old time. Our train was a very long one, and when I got off at O., ours being the rear car, I had quite a little walk up to the depot. I kept my eyes wide open, for I thought possibly, as Carrie suggested, that accident might have brought some of my friends down to the train. I was quite certain that I recognised Fred’s hat and the back of his head, sailing off with one of his friends; but I didn’t sing out, for I wasn’t certain it was he. But it was, I afterwards found. When I got up on the depot, I saw French’s hat and the back of his head and coat. I rushed up, and addressing my remarks to his back, said that this was somebody I knew. He turned round, and gave a yell, and immediately I found myself launched among a crowd of friends and acquaintances. There was French, Metcalf, half-a-dozen other classmates, and Prof. White. George Mead was there, too. Immediately they marched me off, French exhorting me to come up to his house, and telling me that my bed wasn’t made. We went up to Uncle’s and found lights all out and family all in bed earlier than usual. After making considerable noise on the porch, and hearing, laughter in Auntie’s and Uncle’s room (now Jennie Harrold’s), we concluded not to ring the bell, and sailed off to French’s for the night, where Metcalf rooms with his cousin. The latter was away at Elyria, and so I slept with M. Came up in the morning, and surprised the family. Breakfasted with Auntie. Dined with Mrs. Harvey. Those young ladies are fearful, and my progress with them is slow. But I don’t quail so much now. Uncle William is here, and Auntie had me to supper with them last night. Has invited me again for to-night. I see almost nothing of Auntie, never seeing her unless I go down on purpose for a visit. Tell Mother not to hurry herself for me, but to stay in N. Y. as long as she wants. And, Carrie, don’t let me affect your plans at all. I don’t mind being here alone. I am not nervous at all nights, and the fear of being so has always been the cause of some of my objections to being alone. Besides, perhaps I shant stay here. I don’t want to, though I suppose I must. The place is haunted). and I cannot bear it. It is like living in a grave. But no more of that. I have felt very strange, and like a fish out of water since I have been here. I didn’t open the closet door in the front room here until this morning. That in the back room I haven’t opened at all. I haven’t moved or touched a single chair in either room, except the one I sit in, I have moved up to the table. I haven’t unpacked my valise, nor opened my trunk. And have only very lately opened the table drawers. I seem like a person in a dream. When I did open my drawer, I found a letter for me there from Walter Frear. Soon after yours, Helen came. Then one from Miss Berry, and then Carrie’s and Jim’s postal. So I have been favoured in the matter of letters. I fear I wont have time to answer them all, and I don’t feel like writing either. Give my love to Mother and all the folks, and my aloha to Julia when you happen to be writing, please. Ask Mother whether I shall go to hear Joseph Cooke. He lectures here on Mormonism next Friday night. If you answer at once there will be time for me to hear before then. So be sure and do it.
Yours truly,
HENRY.
OBERLIN, O., October 9, ’79.
MY DEAR BROTHER JIM, AND FAMILY IN GENERAL,—CARRIE, HELEN, MOTHER,
I take up my pen with considerable hesitation to attack a subject which I likewise dubiously approach. I mean, in brief, that I should like mighty well to go home with you, or on the steamer next afterward, i.e., the December steamer. This may be, and probably is, a wild dream—a hopeless chimera. If so, all that is necessary is that you should tell me so. Of course there are endless difficulties in the way of the accomplishment of this fancy of mine. In the first place, as a fundamental thing, I must convince all of you members of the family that my plan, in the first place, is not an improbable one ; I must convince you that I can and will carry it out. And so for my plan. I propose to go home first, accomplishing this term’s work here, either with you or on the steamer after. I propose to stay at the islands till next fall or until the winter term of the Sophomore year. I propose
