an immense deal of strutting, and more yet of pure affectation and bombast. I have my opinion of a man that talks of raising turnips in the passionate strains of Cicero’s Second Philippic, and yet much that I saw the other night was hardly better than that. Affectation, mannerism, stage tricks! The fact that Barrett overdid his part in the early part of the play, spoke commonplace things in a pompous way, etc., detracted from my enjoyment of the rest, because it made me suspect his acting in the latter parts. Otherwise I should have perhaps been enthusiastic over some of his acting. And indeed I am. But far more now, when I come to think it quietly over, than I was at the time. Indeed, when I think of it, it seems to me that he did some very fine acting. I noticed and admired some while there. Iago was very well played. Desdemona decently. But there was so much that was unnatural, so much that existed only on the stage. In spite of the footlights, the men and women behind them should be real men and women. Whereas one could hardly help exclaiming, “Do these men and women, and do these actions appear anywhere but here?” I said that I was doubtful as to the real value of theatrical representations. I am. Certainly the theatre is very sensational at the best. The opera still more so, and therefore of less value than the former. It seems to me probable that the theatre is not the “pulpit of all ages” just now. Or at least that that pulpit is occupied by a T. de Witt Talmage, and not a Henry Ward Beecher. It seems to me that the influence of those plays which have no literary value can be no better when acted than when read. For surely all the stage professes to do is to bring out the good that is in them (as well as the evil). Consequently if there is no good in them, they must be as injurious when played as when read. Now practically all the plays that appear on our stage, not Shakespeare’s, are worthless in a literary point of view. Consequently the bulk of the theatre’s present work is the diffusion of bad literature. A much worse mission than this I cannot conceive. You will observe that the above argument has force only against the theatre as it is. Not as it might be. It is no argument against the theatre per se. There are arguments against it, in itself, however. If one gets into full sympathy with the play, i.e., if he allows himself to be deceived by the scenery, etc., so as to believe for the time being in the reality of the events, and the actual personality of the actors, the tragedy naturally makes a powerful effect upon him. As in Paris, at a certain point in the piece, I shuddered violently, exactly the same physical effect involuntarily being produced in me, as the actor at the same moment so successfully counterfeited on the stage. Now I take this effect (upon the imagination, feelings, etc.) to be the legitimate object of theatrical representation. And yet I question whether this effect is a healthy one. Certainly to see the same awful tragedy enacted in real life would be a horrible, and an undesirable experience. And yet the effect produced upon the stage is kindred in its nature. However, this extreme effect is not produced upon the majority, and in any case I am inclined to think that the above argument can be answered. Yes, I think there is a valid answer to it, but I will not inflict it upon you. On the whole I think I am more favorably inclined to believe in the value of dramatic representation than when I went—or than when I returned. For the benefit I received after my return, I did receive great benefit from going. Not while there perhaps—that I am not fully decided upon—but after I returned, I made a point to read the play over the day after I got back, and I got more out of it than out of all the rest of my Shakespearian reading together. I got the dramatic part, the tragic part. Whole scenes which were before fragmentary, disjointed, and imperfectly understood, have now received a flood of light. Places that before had no more pathos in them than “bean porridge hot,” now almost move me to tears. And the play as a whole takes thorough hold of me. Yes, I have at last got a little insight into Shakespeare (all through seeing him played), and I am happy at the result. Yes, O Barrett, I owe thee a debt of gratitude, and I here discharge it. Thou hast shown me the greatness of Shakespeare, and I thank thee for it. Thou, thou and thy compeers, have removed from my eyes the mist that has blinded them, and revealed to their astonished gaze the wealth of that master mind. To thee I owe it, that I am brought within the sway of that kingly genius, and made to feel some part of the power of his wonderful enchantments. Your work it is, that I too am reached and blessed by the beneficent influences of that omnipresent mind. How shall I thank thee? (At the same time, my dear Mr Barrett, I may as well say that you ain’t such a very killing actor, and some of your performances I thought were utterly cussed.) Helen, you must forgive the above apostrophe; it is due to the baleful influence of De Quincey, of whom I have been taking a dose lately. By the way, Helen, you must read some of him. But my sheet has come to an end, and I will not discourage you by beginning another. Farewell.
HENRY.
OBERLIN, Thursday, Nov. 24, 1881.
DEAR HOME PEOPLE,
It is Thanksgiving Day, and I hardly think it can be better employed than in the way I am now doing it. I have been reading Green’s History, and wading painfully through Dante, and, oh yes, I have had the delightful pleasure of reading some of Milton’s short poems over again—L’Allegro, II Penseroso, Lycidas. But the sublime incomprehensibility of Dante’s Paradise has driven me, to your grief, to take refuge in this letter. This is hardly the traditional Thanksgiving Day. We have had unusually mild weather so far, and we have been even led to doubt whether winter were going to vouchsafe us his presence at all this year. However, the signs of his approach are in the air, in the shape of fine snow-flakes, and the wind blows as though he were coming to stay. In view of the latter fact I will open the damper of my stove. This stove has roared most pertinaciously all the morning, but without offering to give out the least degree of heat. A roaring fire may be cheerful, but I think it is regarded so for the heat which the roaring implies. This stove, however, disdains all such implications, and obstinately asserts its inalienable right of roaring without a suspicion of heat. However, it is warming me up in some way, and I will shut the damper again. Auntie and Uncle have gone to Berea to take their Thanksgiving dinner, and spend a few days, and have left Sarah and myself alone in our glory. You don’t know Sarah, but Bowen does. She continues to improve, Will. Brother Will has seen her too. Next term we are all going across the hall to board with Mrs Harvey. Auntie thinks she cannot keep house in the winter on account of the exposure which it necessitates. The wind howls outside and rattles the sash! Quite different is it where you are! I am a good way from home. However, we will have quite a family party in 1883, when Mother and Will Bowen, at least will be here, if not some of the others. What an occasion that will be! I shall be as “happy as a big sunflower, that nods and bends in the breezes.” And that time is not very far distant. Only one year from next June. I shall have to begin to write my little piece. My chances for graduating then are excellent. The Faculty are on the best of terms with me. I am a regular junior. I have no conditions. It is five dollars extra for chemistry in the Winter term, Father, and not ten. I shall elect it. And five or else ten in the Spring term. This term has well-nigh reached its close. Only three or four weeks after this. It has gone rapidly, as time always does. Though my scholarship has not improved, I am inclined to think that this term, on the whole, has been better spent than any since I came here, unless it may be some in the Middle Prep. year. I have read a great deal. I am keeping a diligent record or account of my reading, and propose to cast it all up at the end of the year. I had proposed to devote this year almost exclusively to historical reading, and with that in view have this term read Gibbon (unabridged), and am now reading Green.
Wednesday, December 7.—The letters from home came Monday, a splendid mail. They were as follows: two, long ones, from Father, of November 20th and 14th, three sheets from Mother, of the 9th, one from Helen, of the 15th, and another of October 30th. By the Lady Sampson came yesterday, ten pages from Bowen of the 11th, and a note from Carrie, and last, but not least, three sheets from Sister Hattie of November 13th. Wasn’t that a splendid mail? It made me happy to get such a big one. The Christmas cards were very acceptable. Thank you, Carrie and Helen, for them. The one with the pansies was lovely. I am constrained to say, “Pansies let my flowers be.” The large envelope containing the cards was almost to pieces. I almost wonder that any of its contents reached me. When Reky took it from the box, the letters nearly fell out. It was completely split on both sides. Helen and Mother both said that Jamie was going to write me. I received no letter, so that I am afraid there was one in that envelope, and that it
