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, besides John Abbot’s histories of the different European 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