hired Bowen to black my boots, which job he performed to satisfaction. He has never offered to do it again, however, and so the boots have gone unblacked.
Your worthy son,
NOT ME!
ON THE ROAD SOMEWHERE.
I see the boys have been writing, and so I shall follow their example. With their usual kindness, they have said everything there was to say, and then left me the task of filling out the last two pages. They have behaved miserably on this trip. They have neglected my warnings and scorned my advice. Rex and I hope to reach Oberlin Tuesday, the 24th. In that case, we shall have some three weeks before the beginning of the term in which to prepare ourselves for examination. We both hope in that time, without working to the detriment of our appetites, to accomplish all that is necessary. Rex remains faithful to his traditions. He never sees anything to obliterate the memory of Papaikou. It seemed to be ever present with him, and weighed in the scale with it California, and all the rest of this great country seems very slight and small. We ride a great deal on top of the cars. And, thanks to Mr. Folsom’s timely suggestion, we have not broken our necks by jumping off the train backwards when running thirty or even twenty miles an hour. We have made heavy inroads upon the lunch so kindly provided, but we think it will last. We are expecting to reach Omaha Sunday afternoon at 4 P.M. When we fairly get there, we will feel near the end of our route. We manage to get very good bread, at moderately reasonably rates, along the road, and we occasionally piece out our meals with milk or coffee, though I must say we have little occasion to do so, so bountifully supplied is our basket. The time seems a little long sometimes, but some parts of the journey are very interesting.
With love,
HENRY.
We have just passed Tipton,—1146 miles from San Francisco.
OBERLIN, Sunday, Sept. 5, ’80
DEAR MOTHER,
I am sorry that I could not see more of you just before I came away. But you were so busy, and the time sped on so fast. However I hope that I shall “remember all your counsels,” as George would say. I look back to this year at the Islands with a great deal of pleasure, and the three years, or rather two and a half which must elapse before I see you again seem very short. For of course, Mother, you are coming again to this country, to see me graduate, and visit all your friends again. That is what I have always said, and I say it with a great deal of faith still.
Bowen, Rex, and I have just been out to Berea to see Chauncey’s people. I had my usual nice visit with Chauncey. I know Mother you admire him as much as I do. He is a magnificent man. A practical enthusiast, which is a rare combination. He is an optimist too. Always believes or hopes the best possible of everybody and everything, without shutting his eyes to any facts. His thoughts are strikingly original, and all his ideas are clear and well defined. With all this he is very jolly, and is enough to fill a whole house with sunshine. He has a nice wife too, who reminds me of you, Mother, and two beautiful children. Above all he is engaged in the work which has his whole heart. He is a happy man. Friday morning, we hired a buggy and drove out to Brunswick, to see Aunt Pamelia. We found her on the bed, as usual, I suppose.
We, Rex and I, only stayed about two hours, leaving Bowen there. We drove back to Berea. While in the latter place we had two delightful swims in the quarries. They are very good places to bathe. School begins a week from next Tuesday. I think that Rex and I will get along all right in our studies. I think I shall be examined this week in my Greek and Latin. I shall be all regular before long.
Thursday, September 16.
School began Tuesday. I am studying The Odyssey, Tacitus and German. I have been examined in Horace, Cicero, de Senectute, and The Memorabilia, tell Father, in all of which I have passed successfully. I shall be examined in another term of Greek in a day or two. So I shall soon be regular. Father can be perfectly easy in his mind about me. I shall do one term anyway of the mathematics this term, and perhaps both. I think I shall join a Society soon. I have read Felix Holt the Radical, tell Jim. It is just grand. George Eliot is hard to beat. Felix Holt is a splendid character, sturdy, independent, conscientious, with lofty motives, but a lowly heart. Not a character drawn in the Christian mould, though he is an excellent Christian, but after the model of some of the grand old heathen philosophers, only an improvement on them. The book is full of thought, acute and analytical. I take back Jim, what I said about George Eliot’s being a fatalist, teaching that to be virtuous is not to be happy, &c. I believe that a superficial judgement. I have been making the money fly lately, but I don’t think I have spent more than 18 cents foolishly. After some deliberation, I have come to the conclusion, contrary to Brother Will’s advice, that I will buy books that I want to own, when I come across an edition that suits me, and that I can get at a bargain. Especially poetry. I don’t want to be without my favorite poets, any more than a Christian would want to be without a Bible. Poetry is not a thing to draw from a library, read and return, but something to pick up at odd moments, read a little, think over and digest by degrees. If you try to cram it, it will choke you. On this principle I have bought Shelley, Mrs. Browning and Tennyson. I am taller than C. B. French now and am no longer conspicuous by my lack of size. Where am I going to spend my next summer vacation? School closes here so late that I can’t go and see Carrie graduate, so I want to run down in the winter holidays. Can I do it? I can get three weeks or more then. Just enough for a nice visit. Metcalf my classmate will teach me mathematics till I catch up, so that will be all right. This term is going to be very long—fourteen weeks. Love to all the folks.
Your feckshnit Son,
HENRY.
OBERLIN, Tuesday, Nov. 9, ’80.
DEAR FOLKS IN GENERAL,
I have been so busy during the last few weeks that I am afraid that I will not have much more than time for a word a sheet long or so. I suppose that means that I have not had time to write a letter along every day, and consequently, now I am pushed to it, there is nothing to say.
That is doubtless a pitiable state of affairs to get into, but there is no disguising the fact. Not that that is exactly my condition. The difficulty in this case is that there is too much to say, a tremendous jumble of events, nonsense and doings, that it would take a greater genius even than mine to unravel. I might indeed tell you that Garfield is elected. But that would hardly be news to you when you get to this letter. I might tell you that it caused rejoicing in Oberlin, but you know Oberlin politics. I might tell you that Oberlin was so convulsed with joy that it broke loose from all law and order, recitations, study and everything else, and indulged in a grand hullabaloo, and that I guess will surprise you, and that is true. We have had the jolliest times here during the last week that this town ever saw. Our class took the cake, the rag right off the bush. Lest you may not understand these rather enigmatical expressions, I will state that ’83 cleaned out all the other classes, left them way behind. Ours was the only class that could write on their banner, “solid for Garfield.” There is not a single Democrat in our class. I cannot tell you half of what has been done. But election day the College classes marched down with banners etc. to escort their voters to the polling place. Our ladies stayed out of German to fix us up, and we all had the figures “329” stuck in our hats. That is the precise sum which Garfield received from Oakes Ames, and which the Democrats use in their endeavour to implicate him in the “Credit Mobilier.” The Republicans have made a watchword of it. In the evening we met together and marched around town, serenading all the ’83 damsels, and when that arduous task was over with, we cooled ourselves off with some cider all around, up to Mert Thompson’s. Then we blew our horns and made a noise a while and went home. But the big day was the next. We went to Latin as usual at 9 in the morning. But about half past some horns began to be heard, grew louder, fainted away, then grew louder yet, and continued furiously. Every one knew that meant something.
