Noah—he lived in a tropical climate, did he not?—had left over from his supply in the ark, and I am not anxious to try them. It is possible that I may be mistaken, however.
My sheet is coming to an end, and my ideas never had a beginning, so I will cease to bore you.
Affectionately yours,
HENRY.
OBERLIN, OHIO, May 6, ’78.
DEAR SISTER MARY,
I believe your birthday is approaching, and I am able to give you nothing better than to bore you with a letter—a pretty thin present, I think, especially from such a poor hand at letter-writing as I am; but I will do my best, and you can take this juvenile spurt at what it is worth. We had a lecture from a gentleman by the name of Mr Phillips a few weeks ago for Thursday lecture. We have had a good many missionary addresses lately, all interesting, this being no exception. He spoke upon the missionary field in India, and told us a good many interesting and funny stories, so that the lecture was very interesting and entertaining. One of these stories was about the degradation of women there. The children, that is, the girls, they never send to school, regarding them as entirely incapable of learning. They would about as soon think of sending a cow to school as a girl. Sensible! Don’t you think so? It is one of the most repulsive things to me, of anything in this world, to see every single day girls—yes, girls—beat the boys in Latin. It makes the hot blush of shame mantle high on my cheek, to see my sex so put to shame by paltry girls. I think girls should keep their proper place, I do! (Hem!) But to return to my story. Some missionary finally succeeded in persuading some parents to let their girls go to school for an experiment, and two girls went. Well, after a while, there was a general examination of all the schools, and four or five hundred boys were assembled, and those two girls. Well, those two girls spelt down the whole five hundred boys. One girl stood until there were about five boys left standing, and then went down. The other girl spelt them all down. Disgusting fact! A fact repulsive, exceedingly repulsive, to my feelings as an individual of the superior sex. Women, as I said before, should be kept down. They are an inferior class anyhow. Another story that he told us was as follows: Monkeys are among their gods. One time a whole troop of these came down into a village and commenced to eat up all the cucumbers and other vegetables in the gardens. The people dared not touch them themselves, but they entreated Mr Phillips and his father to drive them away. Whereupon Mr Phillips went out with his gun, and made great havoc among them. When he was through, a little boy came up to him and said that he had not killed them all, the patriarch of the whole tribe was left, and he must be sure and kill him for he bit the boys. He found him at the top of a large tree, and shot him dead. When he fell down, the boys were delighted, and fell to beating his body. Mr Phillips said it reminded him of the boys, who, having killed a dog that made away with sheep, pounded him with clubs. On being remonstrated with, and told that it was cruel to do so, and asked why they did it, they replied that they wanted him to know that there was punishment after death. This brought down the house.
Your Affectionate Brother,
HENRY.
NEW YORK CITY, Friday, June 27, ’79.
DEAR, DARLING, LONESOME, DESERTED MOTHER,
How are you, way off in that lonesome, out-of-the-way, poky place? Are you, though desolate, “yet all undaunted, in that desert land enchanted, in that home by horror haunted? Tell me, tell me, I implore. Is there, is there balm in Gilead? Tell me, truly, I implore, etc.” Or are you lonesome, and not at all “undaunted,” and have you found the “balm” reputed to be in Gilead a minus, or having the virtues of ordinary “patent medicine”? I sadly fear that the latter is the correct view of the case. Possibly you miss even such a little “dead-beat” (the old word again) as I am. If so, I suppose, on the principle that Byron illustrates in saying: “My very chains and I grew friends,” “I learned to love despair,” “Even I regained my freedom with a sigh,” etc.
However, I am not there to abuse you any longer, Mother. I probably will not be for some time to come. Our preparations are well nigh all made, for, as you know, we start to-morrow. I have my valise yet to pack, but everything is lying out on the bed, ready to be put in. I have bought all the things that I needed, I believe. I find my new slippers a great comfort. They are plain black ones, and cost 1 dollar and 25 cents. I got four new shirts of different patterned bosoms, costing 2 dollars apiece. They will be finished and sent up to-night. Jim’s ditto. He, as you know, got six, costing the same apiece as mine. I have also new undershirts, drawers, collars, cuffs, handkerchiefs, sleeve buttons, etc. I find that I can wear Jim’s hat, which is too small for him, by putting in some paper, and am so saved the necessity of getting a new one.
Jim and I went over to the city the other day, and saw Dr Coan and Miss Philips, and liked both very much. We also visited the new Catholic cathedral, which is still in process of construction. It is a magnificent affair, second only to European ditto, 330 feet high, and of about the same length, and built, as is usual, in the form of a cross. Standing in the central aisle, you look straight up 112 feet to the roof, supported by magnificent columns, adorned in the Corinthian style and forming Gothic arches at the top. There was an altar there, which is said to have cost 100,000 dollars, adorned with various statues and most magnificently carved. The glass of the windows was covered with brilliant paintings of no mean merit, I understand, though I am no judge, of course, on such matters. The “holy water” impressed me as decidedly dirty and somewhat stagnant, and I was puzzled to know wherein its holiness consisted. If it may be taken as an average specimen of its kind, why, something or anything deliver me from holy water! You certainly may get just such as that in any old pool. While we were in there, some workmen who, as they went forward, made some kind of rude courtesy to the altar, furnished quite a study. I wish that I might have dissected their mental states at the time, to see if there was any sort of worship in their hearts as they bent their knees, but “the fates of men and of Gods” did not allow me the privilege. But “Such is life,” ‘tis, etc.
And now, Mother, you must not stay in Oberlin all this summer. It is a “flying in the face of Providence.” It is your duty to improve your opportunities, and you have numberless ones. You will be lonely there. Come East, and you will not be lonely. But loneliness induces weeping, and I know it says somewhere in the Bible, “Weep not,” or something of that kind. It also says, “Enter not into temptation.” The logical deduction is that, by staying in Oberlin, you are deliberately and basely entering into temptation to weep. Therefore, do not stay in Oberlin. Go West or East, but do not be stationary, that must not be. Remember the immortal lines of the lamented Whittier. “Of all sad words I ever see, the saddest are these, This must not be.” So, Mother, I hope you will be convinced. “Consider your ways and be wise,” always remembering that being wise does not mean staying in Oberlin. If you will not do anything else, do what Father spoke of in his last. Go to a hygienic establishment and get strong—strong as an OX. And, Mother, do not work too hard, when you get home. Do not! When I come home for you, as previously planned, two or three years hence, when I have cultivated with due care a precocious young mustache, so as to appear to the home folks with becoming dignity, I want to, nay, I expect, to find you strong, moderately so at least, and now do not disappoint me. I know I have abused you here in the United States (and no one is more sorry for it than I am), and have kept you from getting strong, but you will not find it so there at home. They will treat you well, so you must get strong. I, or rather we, think very strongly of staying in Europe, if Father approves the plan, studying, so I do not know when I will see you again. In fact, if nothing happens to prevent, the chances are about even that I study in Paris next year. And so, Mother, good-bye, for how long I do not know, but remember what I have said. Good-bye!
Lovingly,
HENRY.
P.S. — When this reaches you, I will be several hundred miles away on the Atlantic. My course lies eastward, yours westward. Space cannot be annihilated. If I stay in Europe, we will be separated by half a world. But we will see each other again. I hope I will not be seasick.—H.
LONDON, INNS OF COURT HOTEL,
Sunday, July 13, ’79.
DEAR MOTHER,
The