Chapter III: In College

The transition from school to college was very pleasant to him. “I am having a grand time,” he wrote; “heaps of pleasant occupation; just enough work in getting my lessons to make it interesting, and manly fellows to associate with, who have some experience of life, in place of those narrow-minded little scatter-wits of ---- School memory. Up here you hear the question, How can he write? or, Is he a deep man? Is he a solid scholar, or a mere dig? Is he a fellow of principle? etc., etc., instead of, Is he handsome? Does he dress well? How much money has he? or, Will he stand treat? My mind has a chance to get well waked up.”

By nature he was full of energy; and full occupation was essential to his happiness.

In his Bible he had pasted the following extract from Sir Fowell Buxton: “The longer I live, the more I am certain that the great difference between men, between the feeble and the powerful, the great and the insignificant, is _energy_,--invincible determination; a purpose once fixed, and then ‘death or victory.’ That quality will do anything that can be done in this world; and no talents, no circumstances, no opportunities, will make a two-legged creature a man without it.”

Into his endeavors to get the full benefit of out-door exercise he carried this energy, while on the Hudson River, and also at Williamstown. He delighted in the scenery among our mountains, and often went on rambles of five, ten, and sometimes twenty miles or more. He was a close observer of nature, and often indulged in lively descriptions of what he saw.

Never was a son or brother more affectionately eager to return to his beloved ones at home; but after a week or ten days’ solace in their society, such was the inexorable demand of big nature for some useful employment, that he could not bring himself to remain without it. In December, 1862, his first college vacation, he offered his services to the Christian Commission, and was sent to the Army of the Potomac, in which he labored, at Camp Convalescent, and at Falmouth, acceptably and heartily, for nearly six weeks.

From Camp Convalescent he wrote: “I have now made fair trial of camp-life, and find it, in some respects, inferior to home-life. Nevertheless, we make ourselves pretty comfortable. We go round camp in the day-time, distributing and talking with the men: also in the hospitals we read and pray with the soldiers. We have a prayer-meeting in our tent every morning at half-past nine. It is a very pleasant meeting; our tent is quite filled--twenty men or more. The men here are well off for food, clothing, and fuel, but they want some one to look after their souls.”

From Falmouth he wrote: “I am leading a queer life. Last night I slept in a car on some hay. I am well, but not accomplishing all I should like to; in fact, it would take a month or a year to learn this business. It requires business faculty, knowledge of men, a warm heart, or rather warm love for Christ, and for telling others about him. Mere machine labor don’t tell on souls. I feel as if I needed more of Christ in my own heart to be useful in a high degree to others. We have been doing what we could for the poor fellows leaving in the cars; that is, the wounded, who are sent off by hundreds every day for Washington.”

Returning to Camp Convalescent, he wrote again: “Shall I come home? I don’t know; I am feeling my way along. I am interested, I hope much profited, by the work here. There are nine thousand men, with no one to care for their souls. The officers are not unfriendly. We are getting a church tent; we have good meetings, and seem blessed. Perhaps I am taking it too easily and too comfortably.

“‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.’ A gentleman came out to see us day before yesterday, with his wife and child. It was too dark to return to Alexandria. As Mr. E. was away, I put the gentleman and his child into Mr. E.’s cot, and his wife into my own, and left them to enjoy them. I slept in our church tent, with a board floor; some boughs and three army blankets for a bed, and a log of wood for a pillow. Practice makes perfect. I gave them some breakfast, and sent them on their way rejoicing.”

Soon after this he returned to college; and through manifold trials, arising from the weakness of his eyes, endeavored to hold on in the prosecution of his studies. In September he wrote: “The freshman class is great and populous, like the cities of the Anabasis. They are no striplings, but bearded men, who have gone to church in black coats, and gone afield in overalls for ten years of their lives. Their class president is a venerable chap with huge black beard and ample proportions--one whose face seems to say, ‘I have beheld the generations of men, lo, these many years.’ Nevertheless, ’66 put them through on Saturday night, causing them to sing songs and make speeches on tables which ever and anon disappeared from under them. I don’t believe in _hazing_; and I think our men will be unable to do more of it, because the freshmen are finding out that they are stronger than we are.”

November 11, 1863, he wrote as follows: “I have been thinking over my past life since my eyes have troubled me. As well as I can reckon, it was in the spring of 1858 they first gave out--the result of reading while recovering from a fever. I left school and went to Michigan. In the autumn I went back to school, and found my eyes improved as cold weather came on, and I went on for two years. I next broke down in the spring of 1860, and went into a store. In the fall of 1861 I went to the military school, and found my eyes but little better. I have gone through ’62 and ’63 in the same way; and now I find myself looking forward to the sixth spring since the first annoyance, and what are my prospects? They are as weak as ever, and I have not averaged over two hours and a half of studying this term. Can I hope that they will be any better next spring and summer? Can I hope that they will permanently improve in college and literary life? May I not hope to save my eyes by abandoning literary pursuits? I am not discouraged: I feel sufficiently buoyant; but I wish to exercise a manly judgment; above all, to please my Maker. If a sea voyage of _five years_ would cure me, I think it would be, perhaps, advisable.”

The army, the sea, and the woods of Maine offered their several inducements. After counseling with the experienced, he decided to begin with lumbering; and, failing of advantage there, to make a second trial of farm life. He did both, employing ten months, with only partial improvement.