States. Of course I must have read other histories, but these are the principal ones, and all the great ones, I guess. I wouldn’t be in any hurry at all to read Froude. There is great difference of opinion as to his merits. His history is not probably a perfectly fair estimate of the times it deals with. He is fearfully extended. His whole work of eight or ten volumes only covers a few years. The same may be said of Macaulay. The reputation of his history is on the decline. It is probably a brilliant but not a profound or remarkably just production. His whole 3,000 pages only cover a period of about fifteen years. I suppose, however, it is as interesting a history as ever was written. I look forward, of course, to reading Ruskin with great pleasure, and shall surely come to him before long. I do not find nearly as much time as usual to read this term. But that is as it should be. My studies ought to occupy most of my time. Hull is back here rooming. You remember him, don’t you? Hull is a mighty nice fellow. I have the jolliest times with him. You don’t often come across a much nicer fellow. Just such an experience as yours, the day you planned to do so much and accomplished so little, apparently, is mine constantly, so I know just how to sympathize with you. It is appalling to think how time can slip by and leave no trace. So poor old Prince is dead. Well! Well!
The other night I was sitting pensively at prayers, when I happened to cast my eye down among the seats in front of me, and whom do you think I saw? Jim Kyle! You may be sure that the Amen had hardly left the Prof.’s mouth when I found my way down, and gave him a hearty handshake. And you know what a hand he has, so you can imagine what sort of a shaking hands that was. I tell you I was glad to see him. It brought back a flood of old recollections. He was in town giving Thayer a little visit. I had a moment’s talk with him then, and the next evening he came up and spent about an hour or less at my room. He came again the next afternoon for a few minutes, and I showed him the Island pictures. I also went down to the Depot and saw him off. So that altogether I saw quite a little of him, though I wanted to see much more. He sent his kindest regards to you all whom he knows, and inquired after you. He was looking just as natural as life, doesn’t seem to me to have changed a bit. He is a splendid man, and I predict that he will make a grand success of life. What a hearty way of shaking hands he has. There is a nervous grip to his fingers that I like. I see that my enthusiasm is running beyond all bounds, so I will endeavor to curb it. He is settled over a kind of a collegiate institution in Utah, and also does some preaching. He is going to make a big thing of it. He says his home is in a lovely valley, which nothing reminds him of so much as some of the pictures I showed him. He seemed as glad to see me as I was him. I always knew I liked him, but I never knew I liked him so well. I tried to persuade him to come to Oberlin in 1883, telling him that I was going to import half my own family on that occasion. But he doesn’t know whether he can come or not. It is unfortunate that Auntie and Uncle were in New York, so as to miss his visit.
April 29.—Oh dear, here I have allowed the time to slip away until it is Saturday afternoon, half-past two o’clock, and my mail must go off this evening, I suppose. But I have been busy: first an essay to write and copy, then just as I got that off my hands, along comes Junior Ex., and that takes time wonderfully, then Dan Bradley wants a lot of stuff for the Review, and so it goes. This last job is just off my hands (I wrote a couple of editorials in Bible Class), and now I can turn to my home mail again—and a very slim one it will be this time, I fear. By the way, Reky tells me that Julia and Ida B. spoke of the small amount of writing I did. Does it seem to you at home that I don’t write much? If it does, I will write more. But I have thought that I wrote a good deal. I know that very commonly I have written home alone more than all the letters to me combined. I think since last summer I have averaged as much as twelve or thirteen sheets a mail. I know that often I have felt as though I wrote too much, and have stopped through sheer shame, because I covered so many sheets of paper to so little effect. I have supposed that lately I had written as much as any of the boys had ever done; because I remember distinctly our astonishment and joy at the longest letter Will ever wrote us (I think it was eight sheets of letter paper), and I have written about that amount two or three times.
Yesterday our Junior Exhibition came off, and I will enclose a programme of the exercises. Yesterday morning Ben called me downstairs, where we found Reky making merry over a mock programme! I will enclose a copy of that also. Keep it carefully, as I may not be able to secure another. You, Bowen, will be especially interested in it. It is highly edifying. We do not suspect the Sophomores, but our beloved ex-classmates, J. C. M. and Mr P. The whole thing doesn’t trouble me a bit, and wouldn’t a whit more if I were one of the speakers. Indeed, I believe I should rather enjoy it, especially if I happened to have a good piece. I got as much fun out of it as any one as it was, and made money out of it too. I sold three of the mock programmes, and got 35 cents for them. You see they were distributed in the night, and our boys got hold of almost all of them. They got wind of it somehow, and ran all over town, and managed to get almost all of them by morning. I was appointed one of the boys to parade up and down the streets near the church to see that none of the programmes were distributed or sold, and while so doing I embraced the opportunity to sell one myself for 15 cents. How’s that for an example of corruption in high places? Think of it, a Junior selling mock programmes on his own class! Such degradation is sad—sad! But after all they would have them, and why shouldn’t a man turn an honest penny? You will be especially edified, Bowen, by the motto. Your prediction seems to have come true. But I have discoursed enough on this sad subject. Turn, my muse, to happier themes. Sing of parties at Prof. Ellis’s, of happy Juniors and bewitching third-years, of the delights of biscuits and sliced ham, cake and ice cream, and of all the sweet joys of social converse. I am ashamed to say that I did not attend the party in the evening. It is a disgrace. I never could have had a better chance, and at the Ellises too. But I could not muster up my courage. So I missed it. I must go into society, there is no use talking. I have got to come to it. Somehow or other, I do not seem to have much to say. It ought not to be so, because this month seems to have been quite eventful—mock programmes, Kyle, Reky’s moving, Longfellow’s death —which, I believe, I haven’t expanded on, a fire which really didn’t amount to much, and which I have not mentioned before, Edward’s visit, etc., etc.; notwithstanding them all, I am at the end of my rope, and there is nothing left for me to do but to hang myself. I am going to send a whole load of things this time. A programme of Alpha Zeta Special Quarterly for one. It was that occasion which made my reputation. You will see the criticism on it in the Review. I was merely elected in place of a Senior who had resigned, as the only available man, the only Seniors left being an old stick about forty years old (name Wood) and a colored fellow, who was not available. I have had the misfortune to be elected Society Editor of the Review, and also one of the orators for the Contest. But the first evil will end at the close of this term, and I will expire with the other next winter. I have learned to take things easy, Bowen, and so these woes do not trouble me much—astonishingly little in fact. Not long ago every thought of them would have given me a horrible sinking at the stomach. I felt sorry yesterday that I had resigned my Junior Ex. It would have tickled my vanity to be one of the speakers, while the inducement which led me to resign, viz., hatred of the worry, no longer has any influence over me. That thirst for honors from which a year ago I was so free, has now attacked me. Not that I have much of it in comparison with others. It is not a fever with me, as with some. But in comparison with my condition about one year ago to-day (the day of the Junior Ex. election), I have a touch of it. O that I might have a thirst for real honor, instead of for these vain and empty titles, which my mind tells me are as meaningless and worthless as the popular favor ever is—that popular favor which passes over true worth to fix upon and exalt those qualities which are conspicuous, not noble. I guess I will send you my Review, Helen, as I have a couple of extra ones, and you may be interested to see what I write. My editorials are hastily written and bungling, and make but a poor appearance beside the graceful sentences and smooth style of Miss McKelvey, with whom I divide the labor of the department. As to our Junior Ex., all the language orations were excellent, better than any I ever remember to have heard. I am afraid, Father, that I shall not send any account home this mail, but I will try to get one in next month. I should like very much to go to Chatauqua, and will look the subject up. I have noticed some of the subjects of the lecture courses. Most of them I should not care to attend, but some I should judge would be very valuable—for instance,
