You mustn’t be discouraged if you don’t understand all he says. Nobody does that I know of. Because he is not profound merely, but he is mystical, which makes him incomprehensible. But if you don’t happen to enjoy him now, lay him aside, and don’t let it trouble you; you will get to him by-and-by. That is my experience. When I can’t understand him I drop him, expecting that what I don’t understand now will become clear by-and-by. I like Milton better and better. I now rejoice to be able to say that I prefer him to every other English poet, and hope that he will yield first place in my imagination only to Shakespeare. Notice this passage. Speaking of an angel he says that he was thrown from heaven by angry Jove—
“Sheer o’er the crystal battlements; from morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer’s day; and with the setting sun
Dropped from the zenith like a falling star
On Lemnos, the Ægæan Isle.”
What a pity that he should have hashed in so much theology. Paradise Lost contains about as much truck as any poem I know of, except the Prelude. I think Macaulay is right. If Milton had only written the first four books of Paradise Lost he would be the greatest of all poets save Shakespeare. But the last eight books are too much cumbered with theological disquisitions. I have seen it predicted that Milton’s heaven and God, etc., would militate against the endurance of his poem. But why should they? We don’t accept Homer’s mythology as true, and yet this does not threaten his permanence. Why should Milton’s theology? It cannot possibly affect his poetic beauties. What you said about home, Helen, in your last was excellent. And so you are at Kohala. I hope you will be happy and not homesick. It isn’t fun to be homesick. However, I find the real source of homesickness, as of almost all my ailments, is in an uneasy conscience. O for a strong will; a powerful determination that nothing can shake; an energy that overleaps all obstacles! What are all the intricacies of the locomotive, its wheels and piston rods, and polished brass, what are they all worth—without the steam? Without that it stands useless on the track for ever. I agree with you perfectly, Helen, when you say we never know what we may do under certain circumstances. I feel more and more that as long as a man is not shaping his life on the foundation of principle, he is never safe, not even for a moment. He is liable to commit any crime. For as he does not recognize the moral life in the conduct of his life, any sin will be consistent with his practice, however much it may be opposed to his theory. It is trite to say that there are horrible depths as well as lofty heights in man. I enjoy your descriptions of scenery, etc., more than I can tell. And now you have gone to Kohala I shall expect to gain a more vivid idea of that place than I have ever had before. You must tell me just what kind of a place it is, what kind of a house, what sort of a room you have, what kind of a view you get from your window, and what books you have taken with you. We have had a few cold days this winter, and accordingly a few fine nights. It is wonderful some of these winter nights. They are like one solid crystal. The air seems the very essence of purity, and the stars shine so brightly. I have come to the conclusion that the two most beautiful sights in the whole world are two which can be seen everywhere every day. The clouds in the daytime, and the stars at night. So one has no business to complain of the place where he is. In the Sahara, to be sure, I suppose one can see no clouds. But then the stars are always visible at night. Not a cloud to hide them; not a house, or a tree, or a mound, to break the circle of the horizon, —” the ring dial of the heavens,” as Carlyle calls it. As for reading, do not for a moment suppose that I read any better than you do, or forget any less. It is not so. It is one of my great trials that I read so inattentively and carelessly. But here is the bottom of my fifth sheet, and as one of my friends has suggested that if I wrote home a postal a month it would be sufficient, I guess I will at least stop now.
Affectionately,
HENRY N. CASTLE.
OBERLIN, Wednesday, March 1, ’82.
DEAR HOME FOLKS,
Here it is Wednesday afternoon, and no home mail yet. It is enough, as the poet feelingly remarks, to make a horse leave his oats. We cannot imagine what the trouble is. There are no floods and no snow that we know of. Perhaps the steamer has encountered a storm, perhaps she has broken her shaft, perhaps she didn’t stop at Honolulu on account of fever or small-pox, or some new unheard-of ailment, or perhaps the volcano has put an end to the Sandwich Islands, as in Jules Verne’s Mysterious Island, and the steamer cannot find you. All these hypotheses are cheering, especially the last, but they do not comfort us for the loss of the letters. Perhaps they will come on this noon’s train. We have just had a pleasant visit from Jennie Pond. She is a good girl and a smart one, and it is a great relief to talk with her. Minnie Mawhir (?) has also been down here, and they have had a grand ceremony at the First Church to start them off on their mission. By them I mean, Mr and Mrs S., F., and Minnie, who are now all going to Africa in a few days. Mr F. and Mr S. both spoke, and then Minnie, who completely eclipsed both the gentlemen. Her speech was touching and simple, and a model of good taste. Prof. Smith and Mr Brand also made addresses. The meeting was a good one, though it could not compare with the Ordination Service they had for some young men last spring. I sat with Jennie, and was a great trial to her, for I made ten puns during the evening, which was almost more than she could bear. I had others in reserve, but withheld them, out of consideration for her feelings. But I paid excellent attention during the service, and enjoyed it very much. It is about time to enquire what I am to do next summer vacation. Tempus fugit. This term is almost gone. I did not make a striking success of manual labor last vacation, that is sure—I am not extraordinarily muscular. There is also another question which I must agitate. How many members of the family is Bowen to escort to Oberlin in 1883, the grand Jubilee year of the College? I shall adorn (???? etc.) the occasion with a speech. How fine it would be to have Father sitting on the front seat. I would make him hear every word. He has given me this grand chance to make a man of myself. I owe it all to him, and I would like to make my little speech all to him. Mother, of course, is to be there, that was all arranged long ago, and perhaps it would be a good idea to import the whole family. When we consider what the merits of the speech will probably be, it does not seem too much to expect.
Affectionately,
HENRY N. CASTLE.
OBERLIN, Saturday, March 4, ’82.
DEAR FATHER,
At last the home mail has come. We have waited for it until our patience was well-nigh exhausted, and of all the various theories that we had devised to account for the delay, the only one we did not think of, was that of a change in the time-table. But the mail was abundant enough when it did get here to compensate for all delays. Six sheets from Helen, six pages from Carrie, a sheet from Mother, one from Hattie, and one from Will, with a large closely-written one from yourself were all, I believe. Since this morning the world has looked brighter to me than it has for several days past, and that is saying a good deal too, for we have enjoyed some of the most glorious of days this week. The thermometer at 64° in the shade. I never saw clouds of such strange and curious shapes. All day yesterday and the day before, it was a study to watch their shifting figures in the sky, never for a moment the same. School is nearly through for this term, and then comes a vacation of about ten days, and then school again. Have I spoken of my studies this term? They are in Latin—a comedy of Plautus, and a portion of the philosophical works of Lucretius. The first was very amusing, full of real fun, with here and there a pun interspersed. The latter is also interesting, because it is amusing to hear gravely expounded the absurd theories which have been replaced by the demonstrated systems of modern science, and also because here and there through the poem are scattered bursts of genuine poetry. Just now the Professor keeps us digging at the philosophy, instead of reading passages where he forgets his foolish theories and writes what is worth reading. But the Professor doesn’t know good poetry from a ball of Dutch cheese. The other studies, Chemistry and Zoology, are both very interesting. The latter would be especially
