lost. Both these sins lie on my conscience, so that it would appear as though my goose were cooked. But so we are constructed in this world; a sad jumble of contradictions. However, I think this is a fine world, and it is nobody’s fault but our own that it is not even better than it is, so I am not going to complain. I forgot to say that the Latin this term is rather nice too. We read first some of the “Satires of Juvenal.” And now we have just finished reading selections from Pliny’s Letters. They are pleasant, and very curious reading. The familiar letters of a cultivated Roman of 1800 years ago ought to be interesting, and they are. We have read his letters about the destruction of Pompeii, and the Christians. One letter to a friend relating two or three well authenticated ghost stories, and asking whether he believed in these things at all, was really quite a curiosity. Next term we are going to have the Greek orators. I hope to get great enjoyment out of that. But “we can’t most always sometimes tell,” etc. That feeling Helen, that you speak of, whenever a steamer goes off or a train, I used to have but have got over it. When Will left last night for the long trip across the continent, I told him that I did not envy him the journey. I am pretty well contented. There is nothing like being interested in your work to make one so. I am convinced that I love my home as well as Reky, but I very rarely frame the words “I wish I were home.” It is a test of a well-stored mind to be able to find employment, and not be bored in the most unfortunate circumstances. Waiting in a railroad Depot for instance, Macaulay found ample protection from ennui in his magnificent memory, which contained the treasures of literature. For my part, I think a lover of books and of natural scenery ought to be happy in Honolulu, especially if there are cultured family and friends. Of course it depends entirely upon what you care most for in this world. The three things named above are what I chiefly want. I care neither for the bustling activity of the City, nor for general society. Friendship indeed I want, but that is very rare. Outside of my own family, there are few indeed who either would care to claim, or whom I would admit to that sacred companionship. And perhaps those few would be as likely to be found in Honolulu as in New York. So I could be happy in Honolulu. Is Baedeker’s Switzerland anywhere around the house at home? You sent me the Paris. The Switzerland was the one I chiefly wanted. I want to amuse myself picking out my future route in that lovely land.
By the way, what do you folks regard as the ideal mail, so far as length is concerned? It always seems to me that when I write more than ten sheets, I am trespassing on your time. And certainly if I should write twenty-three as Reky does, I would regard it as an abuse of your patience not be tolerated. But I suppose it makes a great deal of difference about being the oldest son. When the oldest boy goes away to school, it is a more momentous event than when the youngest does, custom by that time having worn away the novelty of the thing. As to the advice you have given me, Helen, I am sincerely always glad to receive it, and generally find it pat. I do remember the view from the Pali, Helen, distinctly. It is exceedingly fine, but is not perfectly colored. The green, I think, is too light. I suppose it is too late to advise you not to read the Wandering Jew, but if it is not too late, why then I advise you not to read it. I admired it at the time, but do not now, and certainly think you will find much better reading for years to come. As I privately think, forever. But I will not press my views too far on that point. Also as to Green’s History. I do like it very much indeed, and I suppose it is a valuable history. I am now reading it (the larger history). But I advise you, unless you have got too far along with it, to drop it and read Gibbon first. You need not be alarmed at the size of that work. It is not very long, and is certainly very interesting indeed, more so by far than I have found Green yet. The object of reading it first, is that it is an excellent introduction to modern history, and should be read as a preliminary to reading English and French history. Prof. Smith takes that view of the matter. I have finished Gibbon, and have spent about two months reading him. But I have not been able to put very much time on it, and then I read slower than you do. He is delightful in every way. When I finished, it seemed as though I had lost an old friend. The style, there is some difference of opinion about among critics, but I liked it immensely. It is splendid reading, no use talking, and some of the chapters read like a novel. The only objection to reading it before Green, is that the latter seems poor in comparison. But I suppose his method is better than Gibbon’s. His method, i.e., in dwelling more fully on the manners of the people. That idea I suppose originated with Macaulay in 1850, etc., while Gibbon wrote a hundred years ago. Gibbon is impartial to all but the Christians, exact, laborious in research, careful, with a dignified and magnificent style, artificial certainly, and possibly affected, but still majestic, while the work is interspersed with pleasing and suggestive reflections, and covers a long, interesting and extremely important period of history. It is the standard work on the subject not only in English but in all languages. Read it, my dear, and share with me the pleasure that I have enjoyed.
With much love,
BRO. HENRY.
OBERLIN, Saturday, November 12, ’81.
DEAR HATTIE,
I have been under the impression all the time lately that you owed me a letter, but on giving the subject a little meditation, I have concluded that the reverse is true. But do not be alarmed, this isn’t to bulldoze a letter out of you. You needn’t write unless you want to. It is simply to tell you that when you wrote so often, I enjoyed it ever so much, and have missed your letters proportionately when they stopped. I have a full sense, however, that you have already written me at least three times as much as I deserve, and perhaps more. So that you are under no obligation, human or divine, to write me one little word more. Besides, I suppose you are not able. I have been very sorry indeed to learn that your health is even worse than usual. What a world of trouble this is. As I look it over now, I can only remember two bits of good news from home since I returned here. All the rest has been uniformly bad. Those two are Father’s health being so much better than it was when Carrie first went home, and Helen’s, which I understand is considerably improved of late. Oh yes, Will tells me that Mother has excellent health, and is preparing to settle down into a green old age. Well, there is a good deal to be thankful for yet. And you can have one consolation—you people who have sickness and trouble in this world are really the most blessed after all. For there will be no sickness and no trouble in heaven, but the rich heritage of character and patience which they have given you will remain. Just think what a millionaire you will be in heaven. You alone will be able to support the whole family. I think I will be a pensioner of yours in the next world. For I shall be a pauper sure, and may have to go to the poorhouse unless I borrow a little of your credit. I am laying up no “treasure in heaven.” It is curious to think what sudden changes in the social scale there would be if we should all die at once. How many, who now live in style on Fifth Avenue, would be compelled to live very modestly on a retired street? How many rags would change to royal attire? How many princes’ clothes to rags? The boy that blacks my boots might be my patron. What a change there would be in the market. How low would sink Vanderbilt’s railroad stock, and how precious some would become that are now far below par. In fact, I think there would be some very curious social changes. Perhaps our ideas of “good society” would change somewhat, and we might find virtue and goodness more important essentials to that society than culture and wealth and taste. How ridiculous it seems that practical men should lay themselves out to get rich here, when they know perfectly well that they can only enjoy it a few years at most, and then must become bankrupt. Whereas they know it is their privilege to acquire wealth that will endure, and which they can enjoy always, if they only will take the trouble to get it. The first, too, they may not be able to get. Their efforts may fail. The disaster of an hour may sweep away the acquisitions of years. But the other they are sure of, if they try for it. Their efforts for that kind will never be in vain. And when they get it, it is safe. They never can lose it. They never can diminish it. It is theirs for ever. But you have read all about this in the Bible. “Moth and rust,” etc. Why should I repeat it? It is trite. I do it simply to prove to you that I am cut out for a minister. An awful bad one to be sure, but still a minister. All I have to do, for instance, to the above, is to add a text of Scripture to it, expand it, and it would make a very inferior, but most indubitable, sermon on the deceitfulness of riches—a new subject which I have originated. Having now convinced you of my methodistical propensities, I will change the
