The Collected Letters of Henry Northrup Castle. Henry Northrup Castle

at last. I put it second. Her art there certainly reaches its height. It is consummate, far surpassing indeed “Adam Bede” in that respect. It is an exceedingly picturesque book too. The setting is very fine, not equal to “Adam Bede” in that however. I think the delineation of Savonarola’s character masterly, by far the finest single thing in George Eliot’s works. But the effect of the book on the first reading is too painful. I think that a defect. But I find that my opinion of it on the whole is continually rising, so that I presume it will eventually stand in my estimation first. Do not be alarmed, Father. I am not in the habit of reading novels. These few are the first I have read for a long time. And I intend them to be the last for some time to come. (Except Hypatia which I have almost finished.) In my plan of reading for this year no novels are included. I didn’t want to go to Winchendon when Julia was away and only the boys were there. So I waited in New York till Julia finished her various trips and then charged for Winchendon. I went up on the boat to New London and from there to Winchendon. I found Julia and Allan waiting for me. I could not guess who Allan was, as I didn’t expect to see him in glasses. He is an exceedingly handsome fellow, the best looking in the family by far. Everything was different from what I expected. Winchendon was twice as large a place as I expected, and you never told me it was pretty. I found Julia much better and jollier than I expected. I expected to find her on her back most of the time, whereas she seemed to be quite well about all the time I was there. Then when I got up to the house, I was greatly taken aback. You never told me in what a lovely situation the house stood. Why it was perfectly delightful. And then it is so rich inside. One would think it was the residence of the Queen of Sheba or any other rich nabob. You never told me that the house was an imitation Grecian temple and that it set the fashion for all the other houses in Winchendon, that the woods were right behind it, that Zed. White was a rich man, a justice of the peace, and could be governor of Mass, if he wanted to be (he says he could), and that the boys smoked in the parlor, and in the presence of ladies without offering any apology whatever. I had a delightful time while at Winchendon, and only wished that I had come sooner. I hadn’t been in the house more than ten minutes before I felt at home, which was certainly one of my most extraordinary experiences. The boys don’t stand on ceremony. I learned to like cream, and drank lots of milk. I enjoyed my visit with Julia exceedingly. Had some splendid talks with her. What a delightful ride it is over to Rindge. I looked for my great-grandparents’ graves twice but couldn’t find them. Nobody who knew where they were happened to go with me. The weather was very bad most of the time I was there, so that I spent a good deal of time in the house. But I enjoyed it very much. I read a volume of Gibbon through. Doré’s illustrations of the Ancient Mariner I like very much. I went up to Jo’s to dinner one day, saw his wife and the children, and looked through her albums of photographs of illustrious characters. I like “Aunt Aminda” very much. Julia mourned over Jim a good deal. In fact she poured out all her woes into my sympathizing bosom. I was delighted to find that she likes Honolulu so well. I had feared she was disgusted with it, on account of small pox, fever and the various accumulation of woes. But she does not seem to be. And oh, how we “reminisced” Europe together! We talked so fast the words all rolled out together, and Allan said he had not heard so much about our trip at all before. I had a nice time too in Allan’s studio, learning poetry out aloud, and making invidious criticisms on his work. It is astonishing how well he takes the hosts of ignorant criticisms so abundantly volunteered by his brothers. They tell him this ought to be so, and that ought to be different, as if they really knew more about his work than he did. I forgot to mention that Steve Bartlett was up there a day or two while I was. I liked him very much and would like to have seen more of him. A quiet gentlemanly fellow. I was very sorry to leave Winchendon. It seemed very much like home to me. I have actually been homesick for it since I left. I am afraid I won’t see it again very soon.

      I went from Winchendon to Worcester, and stayed over a day with Hugo Frear. I had a good visit. Walter has gone to Yale. The best man in our class, Ed. Bosworth, has also gone there. I was only in Boston a few hours and didn’t see anything. I was in at Little, Brown & Co’s., and looked at the books, however. I saw the finest copy of Wordsworth of any poet I ever saw—a beautiful book, elegantly and strongly bound, with gilt edges that were gilt edges, flexible covers, good print and paper, complete in one handy volume, and illustrated with photographs of the real places. They looked beautiful—better than any photos I ever saw, and far nicer than any engraving. I longed for it. The price was $10—out of my reach now. I shall own it some day, however. I got back to Oberlin in time to do my moving, and get settled, buy my books, etc. School began with prayers Tuesday the 13th. I have been kept from classes two days by my sore throat, and have got my lessons at home; but the throat is now well, and this morning (Sat. Sept. 17th) I went to class. My eyes have ceased that trick of spontaneous weeping, and in general, I think I am in pretty fair spirits and health for work.

      Dear folks, how I do run on. If I don’t stop here I will never have done, and the burden of my song will be like Tennyson’s Brook, “But I go on for ever.” Lest I should weary you with that monotonous repetition, I will sign myself at once

      Yours affectionately,

      HENRY.

      OBERLIN, Sunday, Sept. 25th, ’81.

      DEAR PEOPLE,

      I must sit right down and start a letter home this minute, while I feel enthusiastic. What a country this is for storms. We have just had a splendid one. The difficulty is that at home it never blows when it rains very hard. Here it does. It began a few minutes ago, after thundering a while, to rain very hard. The wind blew the rain so that it swept over the earth in white drifts or clouds. At the same time some big hailstones came rattling down on the roof. They would jump several feet into the air when they struck, and then go rolling down the roof to the ground. The storm was perfectly exhilarating. It made me perfectly happy while it lasted. It only lasted ten or fifteen minutes, then the sun broke through the clouds in the west, and made the drops flash while it was still raining quite hard. How bright and delightful the green of the trees looked when the sun shone on them after their bath. The whole thing reminded me of Bryant; moreover, it was a peculiarly American storm. I never saw anything just like it anywhere else, which proves that Bryant is a genuine American poet; a fact which I discovered some time since. You see the chain of reasoning, don’t you? We have felt terribly about Garfield. It was a personal loss. You out there only hearing once a month, can have little idea of how it has been with us who have the daily paper. The anxious waiting, the hope and then despair, the deep discouragement at bad news, then hope again, as there was an unexpected rally. It was a wonderful struggle, a heroic fight, and after eleven weeks’ resistance, to have it end so seems too much to bear. We had no idea how much our hearts were in it all until the end came. No more daily bulletins, no more anxious questions morning and evening, “How is the President?” We felt as if some great interest had suddenly gone out of life and left nothing to supply the empty place. “All was ended now, the hope and the fear and the sorrow; all the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing, all the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience.” Garfield I think was the youngest man who ever sat in the President’s Chair. He was only 49 when he died. I am very sorry now that I didn’t go down to Mentor at the time of Garfield’s election, and so will Bowen be no doubt when he knows that it was our last chance. Well, I must stop and go to church.

      October 2.

      Sunday has come around again, and I take up my pen again. I have resigned my Junior Ex. and I feel happier in consequence than I have felt for a long time. It is really astonishing what a burden it has taken from my mind. I am not troubled with homesickness nearly so much, and am a great deal lighter-hearted and better satisfied with life in general. I resigned on account of my eyes and my general health. Those were the reasons I stated, but the fact is I didn’t feel like sacrificing time to a vain and useless honor, which might be so much more profitably spent in a course of reading, and I think I was right. If I had kept that Junior Ex. on top of my other duties, class work and society work, I wouldn’t have been able to do much reading this year. And certainly I cannot afford to sacrifice my reading to anything that is not very valuable. I am reading Gibbon; have read 400 pages in the second volume. I own the work in five volumes, the last being devoted to notes, bound in half Russia, gilt tops, printed on good paper and tolerably decent print. The whole cost $2.67.