microscopic work in Zoology for $3.00, which I almost regret not having taken. But I tried it a day or two, and found it very trying to my eyes. However, I could work at home, where I could stop when my eyes hurt, and could work at odd intervals without injury. However, a good microscope costs. There is one at home, is there not? I know there used to be one in the family, for I remember looking through it. I have about decided not to take Analytical Chemistry next term (for which there is an extra fee of $10.00), and so I hope by careful management to be able to buy myself a new suit of clothes without exceeding my $25.00.
I understand there is being considerable effort made in this country to secure the abrogation of the treaty. There seems to be a spirit of opposition to it throughout the country, in New Orleans, in New York, and in California. The reminiscences, Father, of which you gave me the benefit in your last letter, I found very interesting indeed. The advice about exercise which I found in yours and in some of the other letters, I recognize as good, and hope to follow. I have done so already, by jumping, these last fine days, until I am very lame in my muscles. You will say that I have exceeded the bounds of moderation. I think not, but jumping is naturally very violent exercise. I do not intend to shut myself up in my room this spring, but will get out more, take tramps in the woods, and play ball a little perhaps. The objection to ball is that it takes too much time. However, I am not so fond of it, as to go beyond the bounds of moderation, I think. Now that I have left the Gymnasium, I have become convinced of its importance, and think that it is the very best exercise that I can take. Does not exhaust but thoroughly exercises. Sister Ellie will not forgive me for saying so.
Your Affectionate Son,
HENRY.
OBERLIN, Wednesday, March 15, ’82.
DEAR SISTER CARRIE,
This is supposed to be your birthday, and therefore I think the next thing to seeing you and giving you 23 pounds or kisses will be to write you a letter. The first remark that occurs to me as an appropriate one to the occasion is—tempus fugit, an affirmation which, though startlingly new, is, I think, one which no one will take the pains to deny. I ought to write you a cheerful letter, I suppose, but somehow do not seem to be in the mood. Life is certainly a wheel. Yesterday I was on the top and was happy. The sun was shining brightly, the air was warm and balmy, the buds were swelling, and the skies were clear. To-day I have got to the bottom of the wheel. The sky is sullen and gray, the air is raw and damp, the sun is hidden behind the clouds, and I have got the blues. It is thus that man responds to the changes in his circumstances. It is thus that matter rules mind. Like a little lake in the mountains which mirrors the snowy peaks and sky above it, his mind reflects his surroundings. But a breeze ripples the surface of the lake, and the scene painted in its depths becomes a “vision that hath perished.” There is no extra charge for this little sermon. We have been having a sensation in Oberlin over a big fire. Goodrich’s Book Store was destroyed with a number of other buildings on that corner. Goodrich and some of the others have built some temporary establishments on the corner of the campus. And now I must make a sad confession. I did not attend the fire. Ben woke me up, but I could not muster energy enough to crawl out of bed. My bed is in a nook where I could not see the reflection, and so I concluded that the fire was a one-horse affair, quite unworthy of the attention of a Junior. Quite a number of the girls in this house were there, Eva and Sarah among them. Sarah worked hard carrying books, like the good girl she always is. I wonder how you are spending to-day. I suppose your labors in the kitchen have long since been terminated by the reappearance of Ah. Yung.
March 31st.—The home mail has come. I have no heart to write anything. I dare not think of home now. My courage fails me and my heart sinks when I think of what has happened, of what may be happening now at home. Vacation was just beginning when the mail came. It was smaller than usual, and somehow I did not feel the usual thrill of joy. I might have known there was to be some bad news. I was feeling unusually happy, and was planning for a delightful vacation, with my books. It was all upset in a minute. Oh, Mother, I wish I could bear the pain for you. That wish comes from my heart. But it is easy to wish, and idle. I long to hurry home. But that is out of the question, as Ida has company—an uncle, Mr Hathaway, is to return with her as far as San Francisco, so of course I shall not. I wonder what I am to do next summer. I haven’t much more than time to hear before commencement, so you folks must tell me pretty quick. I am reading a good deal. I have abandoned (temporarily) pure literature, and am reading a little science, etc. Have been reading Edwards on The Freedom of the Will, and am now reading Darwin’s Origin of Species and Carpenter’s Mental Physiology. Both of these works are very interesting, especially the latter. Edwards also is very interesting, and a masterpiece of logic, though it does not help one to the solution of that vexed and difficult problem, since he practically proves that there is no such thing as the freedom of the will. He was a wonderful old fellow, that Jonathan Edwards, an incomparable logician, a man of wonderfully clear ideas, conscious of his power too, and yet humble withal. Tell Jamie that I have finished Lanfrey, and do not think him all he is cracked up to be. I think, to be sure, his portrait of Napoleon is correct, and will be changed in no essential feature. The grand lines will remain. But the background is too dark. The tone of the book is bitter, and it is written in the style of the stern accuser, not of the unimpassioned judge. As a Republican, during the second Empire, Lanfrey could hardly write without a tinge of feeling. He has too much to say, too, about the claims of History and the duties of Historians. The book, however, is a good one. I shall not write to Helen this mail, I am sorry to say. This will be the smallest mail but one that I have ever sent home. But how can I write about books and authors when Mother is so sick. I guess I will send the first sheet of this letter notwithstanding the jokes. But you need not let the rest read it.
Affectionately,
HENRY N. CASTLE.
OBERLIN, O., Tuesday, April 25, ’82.
DEAR SISTER HELEN AND ALL,
I suppose as I sit down to write this, Edward is passing through the southern part of the State with Ida B. and Julia. I am not to see them. I should have to board the train at midnight, and Edward agrees with me in thinking that it would not be at all wise to have Ida disturbed at that hour. Well, so geht es mit allen Geschicten. When this letter reaches Honolulu they will all be back safely in Honolulu. I am immensely relieved to hear such good news about Mother. I heard twice between mails, through the thoughtful kindness of Bowen. I long to see dear Mother so, and all of the dear ones at home. But, as Prof. White says, “This cannot be.” The home mail came yesterday morning right on time, and it is a fine full mail too, and brought such good news about Mother that it made me very happy. I acknowledge here all the letters, as I cannot answer all individually, this mail, and this is intended for a kind of general letter. The mail brought a long letter from Father, one from Hattie, and one from Carrie, a welcome postal in Jim’s unfamiliar hand, a delightful letter from Ethelwyn—which I thank you for, Ethelwyn, and promise to answer soon—and a long one from yourself, Helen. The mail was doubly welcome as I was not feeling well yesterday. Edward has come and gone. I saw very little of him. He was only here a few days, and he and Reky were off together about all the time. He was very kind, and it was delightful to have him here, only rather tantalizing not to see more of him. Reky has gone East with his father, and I suppose has enjoyed himself immensely. He will get back to Oberlin to-morrow. It is rather unfortunate that he should lose three weeks and a half of the term, but it ought not to prevent him from accomplishing anything. You speak of my going into the little brick house, Helen. I am not going with Uncle and Auntie. They cannot take any one. It is sad, but too true.
You ask what histories I have read besides English. I have read Gibbon, Guizot’s France, Carlyle’s French Revolution, Lanfrey’s Napoleon, Schiller’s Thirty Years’ War, Motley’s Dutch Republic twice, his History of the United Netherlands, Prescott’s Conquest of Mexico, and Conquest of Peru, Irving’s Mahomet and His Successors, and Conquest of Granada, Carlyle’s Early Kings of Norway,
