just what work they are going to do during my absence as to translation, prose, grammar, &c., &c., so that I shall not suffer the usual disadvantages attending one’s taking the classics, away from the place where he eventually studies. For I shall do exactly the work done by my class during my absence, so that on my return I will meet them on an equal footing. When I get home I shall study by myself every day, accomplishing just the amount of work daily necessary to get through the term’s work prescribed for the class, or I may have a tutor for, say, an hour and a half a day for my three studies, as may seem best. If it may not seem feasible to make up such a study as University Algebra, I can easily make up something else, as French, alone. Such, in brief, is my plan. Now, as a fundamental proposition, I must convince you first that the thing is possible, practicable, and will be done, as I have planned it. And, of course, the only thing in the way, the obstacle which everybody will mention, is myself. I will (they will say) get lazy, and not study. Without the stimulus of rivalry and marks, one will get careless, and the result will be that the whole aircastle will end in smoke, like us children’s peach orchard. (Do you remember?) I freely acknowledge that such is the weakness of human nature, that such objections to a plan like the present one are not entirely groundless; but to assert them as a reason for not adopting the plan is an insult to one’s manhood. Justly, perhaps. Perhaps that is putting it too strong, but at least it is to say that one is without moral stamina, and utterly destitute of strength of character. Such reasoning will do for village school children, who study because they are made to; but, really, to assert that an intelligent thinking student, who studies for the sake of an education, will not and cannot study without the whip and spur, is rather bad. It is a shameful fact that. more of us do not, to be sure, and I am weak and failing more than any; but systematic loafing is a violation of conscience and principle with me now, as well as of wisdom and policy. (Q.E.D.) Second, I must prove that it will not do me any harm to thus absent myself from my class for a year. I will in the first place do just as good or better work there than here. And here it is hot, and dusty, and dry, and ugly. I am commencing to feel more and more the importance of beauty as a developing element in a man’s education. There I will have it, here I will not. There I will be happy, and here at best I will not be happy, perhaps live a negative life. So far as it will be pleasant at all, it will be so by the burying of memories, and careless, thoughtless forgetfulness; and Mother, I don’t want to forget. But if I live here I will forget. A new life will grow up and hide the old; and the old I love, and don’t want hidden. Then I am young and small still, and have never been separated from you. There I will be at home with all the folks, and next year I might return with better courage. But I am getting tired of writing, and so will condense and finish soon.
There are dozens of other better arguments that I could bring forward, but I will wait. I want to go home. I never wanted to come here at all, you know, after I heard the news. I am tired, and homesick, and lonely; not this moment, perhaps, for we live in the present, and this moment I am forgetful and unrealising. We live in the present, and as we hurry along the present becomes quickly the past, and is seen no more. At rare intervals, when one feels sick or lonely, he catches glimpses of the past, and is startled to see the many, many gravestones, all bathed in ghostly moonlight. I dread those times.
And now I come to the last great objection, like the Alps to Hannibal’s army, apparently insuperable. I mean, of course, the expense. All that I have hitherto said has been merely preliminary, to convince you first that the only obstacle was the expense; and second, that otherwise the plan is highly desirable. And about this obstacle I have nothing to say; I leave it to you. If there is any cheaper method of getting across the continent, I would gladly employ it, provided it does not take more than ten days or so to go across, and on the steamer I would almost as leave take second cabin as first, so far as mere accommodation goes, or steerage for that matter. Of course I should not enjoy the company, but any other objections, except those on the score of accommodation (and I don’t mind roughing it), merely arise from false pride, and that I want to put behind me. I suppose there is no time to communicate with Father, but I want to write to brother Will, as the next best thing. For some time I have been idly wishing that I might go home, and the idea kept taking more and more definite shape, until it suddenly occurred to me to act, and write to brother Will. But I wanted to write to you first, so I would like an immediate answer, please, which I shall anxiously await. If you approve, will you all—Jim, Carrie, Helen, Mother—write to Will, and interview him on the subject? Tell him about L.B.: I can’t. Please answer immediately.
In great haste, and with much love,
HENRY.
OBERLIN, O., Monday, Oct. 13, ’79.
MY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER,
I think that I will write you a letter now, as I have not done so for several days, and I think you may like to hear how I am getting on.
I suppose when this letter reaches you Jim and Miss White may already be married, or else just engaged in tying the knot. Just write and tell me when it occurs, will you, I shall be pleased to hear.
Cousin Roxy with her daughter was in town a few hours last night, and gave me a short call. I told her about the prospects of the family, and told her Jim’s intentions, both upon Miss White and on the Islands, and she wants you to stop there, but I don’t see how you can, and especially extended a most cordial invitation to Jim and Julia to stop and give them a call, but I don’t see how they can do that either. I suppose before this you must have received my letter about going home, and oh, how I fear decided against me. Remember, Mother, that I will joyfully go second cabin or steerage on the steamer, and emigrant train across the continent, if feasible. Then possibly I might get a position in Honolulu at which I might earn something and which would not interrupt my studies. Just such a position, in short, as I had in Will’s office. There I got $2 a week and had time to study and read. I had to open the office in the morning, sweep out and dust, stay in the office while Will was gone, and run errands. Quite likely my position was a sinecure, but anyway such an one or one with even considerably more to do at the same wages, would make me for the year one hundred dollars in; a good item to set against the terrible travelling expenses. Again, if you keep house, I will in the first place get my room for nothing, for Father would not rent it, and in the second place the only difference of expenditure by being there in the eating line would be the bare cost of the raw material: bread, butter, milk, meat, salt, and that would be very little. How much more of those would you buy? I think I may safely put it at a dollar a week. You would pay your cook the same, were I present or absent. Every expense would be the same except the raw materials. Board and room then for $1 a week. Here I pay $4, year in and year out. For the year that I would be at home then, there is a clear saving of $150: $3 a week for fifty-two weeks; another nice item to put against the terrible travelling expenses.
So you see, dear Mother, that it may not cost so much more for me to go home, after all. And now let me remind you folks that if you approve of my plan, you will besiege brother Will with letters in my favor. Be on my side with all your might, if you can conscientiously be so. I mean for all of you to write; Jim, Carrie, Helen, yourself and Julia, if you would like to. Uncle and Aunt expect to leave here Wednesday morning. But they will hope to see you, Helen, Jim and Julia in Chicago. Please give my love to all the family. I wish that I might be there at the wedding, and then again I don’t, for I should be scared half to death. What shall I do at my own, I wonder? I shall have to put it off, or perhaps I won’t have any.
With love,
HENRY.
P. S.—You spelt your “tos” and your “toos” wrong the other day. You thought you didn’t, you know.
H. N. C.
PAPAIKOU, Tuesday, January 27, ’80.
DEAR MOTHER,
My pen is rusty—persistently refuses to write, my ink is pale in all respects, and I don’t
