The winter of his marriage Elim departed for college--his father was a
just man, who had felt obscurely that some reparation was due Elim;
education was the greatest privilege of which Meikeljohn could
conceive, so, at sacrifices that all grimly accepted, Elim was sent to
Cambridge. There, when he had been graduated, he remained--there were
already more at the Meikeljohn home than their labor warranted--
assistant to the professor of philosophy and letters.
Elim again opened the paper before him and spread it severely on the
table. The supposititious letter, "Two, Linden Row," opened in proper
form and spelling, addressed to "Dearest Elizabeth." Its progress,
however, soon wabbled, its periods degenerated into a confusion. It
endeavored to be casual, easy, but he judged it merely trivial. At one
paragraph, despite his resolution of critical impersonality, his
interest deepened:
"On Thursday we have to have ready a Theme to send off to Harvard. Of
course, every Thursday morning We, with one accord, begin to make
excuses. Well, the Dread Day rolls around to-morrow, and consequently I
am deep in the Slough of Despond. My only consolation is that our
Geniuses can't write regularly, but then the mood to write never
possesses me.... This week, in writing a comparison between Hamlet and
Antonio, I did succeed in jotting down something, but unfortunately I
found that I had said the same many times before, only about different
heroes.
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