in, I shall do it, if he is willing: During my stay here I shall be homesick for Oberlin many times, I expect; but never mind, I shall see it again. Oh, how glad I was to hear that Lucius is better. Tell the dear boy that I hope he will soon be well and strong. Give my love to dear Aunt Mary and Uncle, and tell her not to work too hard. If she cares anything about it she will see me graduate at old O. yet, and I will hire a carriage to take her to the first church to hear my last speech.
With love,
HENRY.
HOTEL LEGER, No. 2 RUE THENARD,
PARIS, Sunday, Sept. 7, ’79.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
We are nicely settled here, at the address which you see at the head of this letter, in all respects a nice situation. We were entitled to two day’s board and lodging at the Hotel D’Albe instead of that which we were to receive from Henry Gaze & Son at London, before moving down here. So after Jim and Helen left us, Tuesday night, we stayed at the hotel till Wed. evening, and then departed for these diggings, where we have remained ever since. Dear Mother, I can never remember where my last letter to you left off, and so if I want to give you an account of my adventures, I never know where to begin, and consequently never do begin, which doesn’t bear so hard upon me as upon the poor unfortunate who has to read my effusions. But let me sail in someway, and perhaps I will tell you something you don’t know, and perhaps I wont. And to begin at last, the first fact that comes to mind, and impresses itself as interesting is that our grand European Tour is ended. The great affair which I looked forward to so, and which seemed a magnificent impossibility, is through with. I have done what I scarcely ever dared to hope to do—seen Europe; or, at least, have been through Europe and tried to see it. Another and a second fact is that it hasn’t done me the good that others may have hoped and that it ought to have done. And this will make Father feel bad. But it seems to me that I got as much and more good than most of the section. A third fact is that I don’t deserve to go to Europe. And this I feel most painfully. Why, here I have been in Europe two months, and haven’t learned what the chancel of a cathedral is. I had no business to stir out of 34 West College. I haven’t improved my time and opportunities well; I have not read at any and every chance that came along, and been attentive and observing enough; I haven’t appreciated the magnificent advantages of the situation, and taken advantage of it as I should have. In short, comparatively speaking, I have gone through Europe with eyes and ears closed. Every time Father spoke in his letters about how we would or ought to get so much good from the trip (and that was every time he wrote), I felt a little twinge because of these facts. Now, I know it will cause Father pain and disappointment to hear all this, and well it may, for he will feel that he has wasted $500 on me. But I don’t think it is quite as bad as that. I know that a trip like this ought to do me a world of good. I don’t think it has done me that good, and so I know there is something wrong about it, but just where I have failed I can’t tell, except, of course, that I should have learned a great deal about art and architecture, and acquired a great deal of general information, and read a great deal, none of which things I have done. But, my goodness, that’s enough. When I read that sentence over I see it counts up fearfully. O dear! A fourth fact is that the trip has done me some good, I think, notwithstanding this discouraging aspect of affairs. And a fifth and last fact is that it has not done me the harm I feared. I thought that to go to Europe when I knew so little, to tread upon historic ground and not even know that it was historic; to see ancient cities, which, standing upon their intrinsic merits as cities, are rather seedy, and not know what makes them interesting, nay immortal, what great deeds made them holy ground, &c., &c., &c.; to do all this, I say, would do me more harm than good; and, I think, perhaps some others shared my opinion. But I don’t think it has. To be sure the halo and gloss and magic which hung about the word Europe has been dispelled (the same magic that made me think when a youngster that the United States was of course a thousand times better a place than the islands) for I have discovered that life is life the world over, and that Europe is prosaic and real, as well as any other country. But in return for the valueless conception I have of course lost for ever, I receive one based upon the solid merits of the case. So I feel comforted in regard to that. In regard to the Section, you know that we, or at least I have been much disappointed as to the people with whom we were to travel. I expected that they would be fearfully cultured, so aristocratic and nice, and “hightoned,” that I wouldn’t dare to go within six blocks of them. But that, I need hardly say, has not been the case. As a company, they have been chiefly noticeable for ignorance and lack of culture. But what do I care? The fact that they were such would spoil many people’s enjoyment of the trip. Mine it does not even affect. Isn’t that fortunate? Even odious people are matters of indifference to me, as long as they leave me alone. I came to Europe to see itself and not them. But never mind. When I parted from them at Paris, I was actually sorry to see them go—I suppose because I had had such pleasant times in their company. When they were all gone, we six or eight who were left went into the hotel parlor, and we felt lonely; at least, I know I did. There seemed to be nobody around. The place was deserted. The next night Jim and Helen took up their departure. And then we felt alone indeed. Who can tell what a day or an hour may bring forth? When they left us, less than a week ago, I did not expect to see Jim for a year, and Helen nobody knows how long. But now, if things go smoothly, I suppose we shall see them both again and yourself in less than a month. And that brings me at last to the subject on account of which this letter is written,—our return home. We were all settled here, with our rooms taken for a month, when the home letters came, saying we could not stay. We have telegraphed to London to see if we can obtain places on the steamer of the 18th, and shall leave then if possible. If impossible, then by the first on which we can get passage. I am very glad and very sorry to return. Glad, because inclination takes me home. Sorry because I feel that it is best for me to stay. O dear, if we only knew what takes us home. Is it expense? We can live here cheaper than we do in Oberlin. Carrie’s tuition in the Conservatory would be—nothing. It must be that we are in danger of being thrown on our own resources, and that, I suppose, had better be in America than here. I had commenced to study French, and had made a very little progress. It seems a pity to go away, and see so little of Paris and London. And then, if we return, all the time that we have stayed over is sheer lost time. I will have just so much more work to make up. I should have been dreadfully lonely and homesick in Paris, but it will be just as bad, if not worse in O. I wish Metcalf would room with me. Love to Auntie and Uncle, and yourself a good share.
HENRY.
OBERLIN, O., Sunday, October 5th, ’79.
DEAR SISTERS, CARRIE AND HELEN,
Both of your letters were duly received, and were very welcome. I have been so busy since I arrived that I have put off writing and even acknowledging your letters until Sunday, when I would have a little time. Hattie and I had a very pleasant trip together, and arrived at O. on time I believe. Our sleeping berths were adjoining, and a gentleman who had the one under me kindly offered to exchange with Hattie, so we had a gay old time. Our train was a very long one, and when I got off at O., ours being the rear car, I had quite a little walk up to the depot. I kept my eyes wide open, for I thought possibly, as Carrie suggested, that accident might have brought some of my friends down to the train. I was quite certain that I recognised Fred’s hat and the back of his head, sailing off with one of his friends; but I didn’t sing out, for I wasn’t certain it was he. But it was, I afterwards found. When I got up on the depot, I saw French’s hat and the back of his head and coat. I rushed up, and addressing my remarks to his back, said that this was somebody I knew. He turned round, and gave a yell, and immediately I found myself launched among a crowd of friends and acquaintances. There was French, Metcalf, half-a-dozen other classmates, and Prof. White. George Mead was there, too. Immediately they marched me off, French exhorting me to come up to his house, and telling me that my bed wasn’t made. We went up to Uncle’s and found lights all out and family all in bed earlier than usual. After making considerable noise on the porch, and hearing, laughter in Auntie’s and Uncle’s room (now Jennie Harrold’s), we concluded not to ring the bell, and sailed off to French’s for the night, where Metcalf rooms with his cousin. The latter was away at Elyria, and so I slept with M. Came up in the morning, and surprised the family. Breakfasted with Auntie. Dined with Mrs. Harvey. Those young ladies are fearful, and