The Collected Letters of Henry Northrup Castle. Henry Northrup Castle

to which I supposed I would be driven, because there was nothing else available. But I have felt more and more lately that it was not what I wanted. My tastes are inclined to something more literary—either to something directly literary, or to the ministry. The latter would suit me excellently, i.e., the life would. An easy, scholarly, sedentary, studious life, affording abundant opportunity for reading and enjoyment of that kind, seems almost ideal. But horrors!—visiting parishioners—that does not suit my tastes. I would not preach more than one sermon a week; I would have a kind of general Church Bible Class instead of the second service. I would not confine myself closely to religious topics, but would not hesitate to preach on any subject which bore on reform of any kind. I would try to make myself an intellectual and literary leader, rather than a merely religious one. I would try chiefly to lead the thought of the community, and would not spend my strength on revivals, but on reading-rooms. I would aim to get young men interested in good books, and try to make them feel the value of their opportunities. But, alas, I shall never be a minister. Moral questions interesting me more than any others, and a sedentary life being to my tastes, I conclude that I am cut out for the ministry. But unfortunately in these days, they won’t allow a man to enter that profession unless he will swear that he believes certain things. And they choose just the things he don’t believe. Then again, they expect a minister to be the best Christian in his parish, to furnish an exemplary example, etc. Another absurd requirement, to which I am quite unwilling to conform. So that it seems that I am shut out from the ministry. Then I am too much of an epicurean to care to starve as a literary man. I have a horror of going around among police stations looking up the details of a murder, as the reporter of a newspaper. I despise newspaper literature too much to care to swell the volume of it. As a merchant, no doubt, I would ruin myself and any one unfortunate enough to be my partner, in three months, by the indiscriminate exercise of my business talent. So that I do not see anything for it but to be a lawyer. One of these half-starved ones, most likely. And yet I dread the thought. It seems to me a sharp lawyer must often have it to say to himself, “Thanks to my skilful manipulation of the case, justice was not done.” Or, “If it had not been for my ability this scoundrel would have been punished.” I do not want to flatter my intellect at the expense of my character in that way. This may not be the case, but I cannot well see how it can be otherwise. Then my talents are not those of a lawyer. I could not cross-question a witness. However, I suppose it will all come right, especially if I take two years in Germany to think about it. Why in Germany, you ask? Why not in America as well? Because that we are educated in two ways: first, as the result of our own aims and studies; second, by what we drink in unconsciously from our surroundings. The last is by far the most important. The first is insignificant in comparison. It is for this second chiefly that I would go to Germany. That is not so either. But what I would say is that I don’t need the American atmosphere. I have been brought up in it. I want to breathe the atmosphere of another civilization, and be broadened thereby. It is to be in Germany, not to study there, that is of primary importance. If I should spend a couple of years there, the whole course of my life would be influenced by it. It would widen my whole horizon. Nothing like looking at a thing from two sides, both to learn something about it, and to acquire a liberal habit of mind. I wish to test my American ideas. Two years in Germany will make a bright spot for a lifetime. The memory of a life, of an experience so different, will always serve to correct and enlarge my ideas when they become narrowed by sticking to one place for a quarter of a century. In fact, six 10 reasons why I wish to go to Germany come out quite clearly in my mind from what has been said:—

      1. To breathe a foreign atmosphere and learn to understand the spirit of a great civilization.

      2. To learn the German language.

      3. To become acquainted with German literature and philosophy.

      4. To study.

      5. To enjoy the advantages of foreign travel.

      6. To acquire a knowledge of art.

      Of these objects only one, the fourth, would be equally well secured by remaining in this country. To accomplish the other five I wish to go to Germany, and take Helen with me. You might consult Frank Damon about it. You need not be at all afraid that I will get spoiled by having my doubts confirmed in an atheistical atmosphere. I get more orthodox every day. I don’t go a cent on infidels, they are a great nuisance. Sometimes when I see how some perfect idiots profess to be infidels, it makes me disgusted to think that I ever had the smallest difficulty about believing. For instance, when I hear that G. T. has religious difficulties, it makes me fervently wish to become a deacon of the Church at once, so as to get out of bad company. Bowen can tell you who G. T. is, so I will not expand on his character. To be an unbeliever brings one into low company. It is curious how sinners try to take refuge from their sin in denying the existence of a God. It is a good argument for belief in one, that men deny Him when they are in an unhealthy moral state, associating belief in Him with healthy moral conditions. As for me, my views on the subject are as sound as could be desired. Carlyle says a fine thing, “From of old, doubt was but half a magician; she evokes the spectres which she cannot quell.” I am reading his French Revolution. It is fine. With love to all,

      Affectionately your Brother,

      HENRY N. CASTLE.

      OBERLIN, Sunday, Feb. 26, ’82.

      DEAR SISTER HELEN,

      You see I have got some new paper, of our old-fashioned family kind. It is not quite as thin as the other, still I think I can still afford to write all I please. Home letters to-morrow, if fate favors, when I hope, for one thing, for a long letter from you, and also for one from Carrie, who has relapsed into total unconsciousness of my existence. This is the first word I have written home this time. It looks as though my mail would not be of the largest. The weather (to introduce a new theme) has been cold for a couple of days, just to remind us that it was February, but has now become decent again, though somewhat unsettled. Ben McMichael and I have built ourselves an observatory on the top of the house, where we go to observe the stars. It is good and strong, with ropes and boards, and chimneys and nails; and is a splendid place, for this is an awful high house, and we can see clear down to the horizon all around. There we stretch ourselves out on our backs and gaze up into the sky. I take the astronomical map, and by the light of Reky’s dark lantern look up the constellations, and give directions to Ben, who finds them in the heavens. Isn’t that splendid? Think of it, lying ‘way up on that high roof, in the darkness, flat on our backs, gazing up at the stars. One night we learned three or four new constellations. New to us, that is. How many thousand ages they have shone in the heavens, no one knows. It is a splendid way of passing time, with the old names of the Grecian mythology, and the Arabic names of single stars; it links you with the thought of all past ages. Reminds you of Milton—” As when the glass of Galileo, less assured, observes imagined lands and regions in the moon.” It has its drawbacks, however. Last time we were up there, the neighbors couldn’t see us, but they could the light from the dark lantern, and they came rushing in to tell the Deacon that his house was afire, whereupon there was a great commotion, of which we, the innocent cause, were all unconscious, alone on our lofty perch, far above the tumult of the world below. Next morning, however, we heard of it, and the Deacon forbade us to go up there again, ostensibly on account of some supposed, hypothetical, possible, remote, imaginary damage to the shingles. So there is an end to that happiness. However, we shall have to do something to protect the shingles. We can’t lose our observatory. Wasn’t Galileo persecuted, and can we expect less? This term is almost passed. Four weeks more only, and then vacation. I have not managed to read much this term, but hope to do considerable yet. I have finished Guizot’s History of France, as possibly I mentioned last mail. It is just moderate. Very interesting in places. Somewhat dull in others. But it is full and complete, and that is a merit. I am glad I read it. The style when I first began I thought below the average, but I got accustomed to it before proceeding very far. It is finely illustrated, which is a great merit, and seems to be a fair-minded work. You would never know from it that the author was a Protestant. There is no trace of bitterness or partizanship. I have the greatest fun arguing with the young ladies downstairs upon the subject of music, and the advantages of studying it. You know I am red-hot on this subject, as I am on that of education generally. I regard it as a shameful waste of time for these three