[Ill.u.s.tration: [j.a.panese]]

I have made a mistake again. The _gane-bun-bun_ is not the greatest plague I was complaining of,--but the _fu-mushi_. There is yet another small one, I have not found out the name of. They make a whole room smell horribly. Some, however, call both the big _fu-mushi_ and the small creature by the same name--distinguishing them only as the green and the black. By the way, I will put a _fu-mushi_ in this letter, because they keep coming on the table so that I think it may be well to send one to Izumo, in the hopes of inducing the rest to emigrate.

All send kindest regards to you, and pray you to take good care of your health.

With every best wish, believe me ever,

Most faithfully, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO SENTARO NISHIDA

k.u.mAMOTO, 1893.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

DEAR NISHIDA,--It gave me much pleasure to get your last kind letter. There was much depth in your statement of the present instability being consequent upon the stagnation of three hundred years. As to the consequence, however, only two theories are possible.

The instability means--however it end--disintegration. Is the disintegration to be permanent?--or is there to be a re-integration?

That is what n.o.body can say. There is this, however. Usually a movement of disintegration represents something like this line,--the undulations signifying waves of reaction. This movement is downward, and ends in ruin. However, so far, the undulations in j.a.pan have been, I think, of a very different character,--something like this:--which would mean restoration of national solidity upon a much higher plane than before.

The doubt is whether a much larger movement of disintegration is not going on,--whose undulations are too large to be seen in a s.p.a.ce of thirty years.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

You have noticed that under all the surface waves of a sea, far vaster waves move--too large to be seen. They are only _felt_--upon _long_ voyages.

Mr. Senke has sent me a letter which I think is the most wonderfully kind and gracious letter anybody ever received in this whole world, and how to answer it at all, I don't know. He has also promised to send some souvenir; I am not quite sure what it is: I must _try_ to write him a nice letter when it comes. But Mr. Senke writes as an Emperor would write--with a grace for which there is no equivalent in Western speech at all; and whatever I try to do, it must seem vulgar and common beside the splendid courtesy of Mr. Senke's style.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO OCHIAI

k.u.mAMOTO, November, 1893.

DEAR OCHIAI,--I was very glad indeed to get your letter. It came while the school was closed--all the students having gone upon an excursion to Oita, so that I did not receive it until to-day (the 11th), when I went to the school to see if there were any letters for me.

Don't think any more about any mistakes you may have made;--everybody will forget them quickly: only think about what makes you happy. But as for Christianity, of course that is a matter for your own conscience; and I would not advise you at all unless you are in doubt. I can only tell you this,--that there are a great many different forms of what is called the Christian religion--a very great many. But what is called the "higher Christianity" is a pure code of ethics; and that code of ethics recognizes that in all civilized religions,--whether of j.a.pan, India, China, Persia, or Arabia,--there is _some_ eternal truth; because all religions agree in the deepest teaching about duty and conduct to one's fellow men; and therefore all are ent.i.tled to the respect of good men.

But in all religions also there are some things which even very good men cannot approve: that is not the fault of the true part of religion, but only the fault of social conditions--that is, the state of society. No state of society is yet perfect; and there can be no perfect religious system until all men become perfectly good. How to become good is, nevertheless, taught by all civilized religions. Nearly everything which is eternally true is taught by one as well as by the other; and therefore a society cannot throw away its religion on account of some errors in it. And each religion represents the experience of a nation with right and wrong--its knowledge of morality. But as society is constructed quite differently in different countries, the religion of one country may not be suited to another. That is why the introduction of a foreign religion may often be opposed by a whole people. For some things which are right in one country may not be right in another. It is not right in China or in j.a.pan to leave one's parents, and to neglect them when they are old. But in England and America and other countries, sons and daughters go away from their parents, and do not think it a duty to support them;--and there is no family relation in those countries such as there is in the Orient. And therefore many things in Western religion are not suited to the kinder and more benevolent life of j.a.pan. Also, some religions teach loyalty, and some do not. For j.a.pan to become strong, and to remain independent, it is very necessary that her people should remain very loyal. Her ancient religion teaches loyalty;--therefore it is still very useful to her. And that is why there is anger shown against some Christians who show no respect to that religion. They are not blamed for not believing in dogmas, but only for what seems to be not loyal.

Perhaps it is better that you should not think a great deal about religious questions until you become old enough to study scientific philosophy--because these questions ought to be studied in relation to society, in relation to history, in relation to law, in relation to national character, and in relation to science. Therefore they are very difficult. But if you should like to read the highest thoughts of Western people about _modern_ religious ideas, I can send you some little books which will show you that the highest religion agrees with the highest science. What I mean by the highest religion is the belief in eternal laws of right conduct. However, as I said, to think about these questions at all requires great study and much knowledge. I think the best advice I can give you in a general way is this,--Do not believe a new thing told you because it is told you; but think for yourself, and follow your own heart when you are in doubt. But remember that the _old_ things taught you have been valuable to society--and have been useful for thousands of years--so that we cannot despise them.

I send you a book of old Greek stories to read. Perhaps it will interest you. You will see from the stories how different the old Greek life was from modern life in many things. You must tell me, too, what books you like to read--novels, history, etc.; perhaps I shall be able to send you some from time to time.

Study well, and never be discouraged;--think only how to make yourself a n.o.ble and perfect man. And remember the best men in public life have generally been those who made plenty of mistakes and got into plenty of trouble when they were boys.

And never, _never_ be afraid--except of your own heart.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

k.u.mAMOTO, November, 1893.

DEAR HENDRICK,--I have been waiting several weeks to tell you of an event which occurred later than I expected. Last night my child was born,--a very strong boy, with large black eyes; he looks more like a j.a.panese, however, than like a foreign boy. He has my nose, but his mother's features in some other respects, curiously blended with mine.

There is no fault with him; and the physicians say, from the form of his little bones, that he promises to become very tall. A cross between European and j.a.panese is nearly always an improvement when both parents are in good condition; and happily the old military caste to which my wife belongs is a strong one. She is quite well.--Still, I had my anxiety, and the new experience brought to me for a moment, with extraordinary force, the knowledge of how sacred and terrible a thing maternity is, and how even religion cannot hedge it about sufficiently with protection. Then I thought with astonishment of the possibility that men could be cruel to women who bore their children; and the world seemed very dark for a moment. When it was all over, I confess I felt very humble and grateful to the Unknowable Power which had treated us so kindly,--and I said a little prayer of thanks, feeling quite sure it was not foolish to do so.

If ever you become a father, I think the strangest and strongest sensation of your life will be hearing for the first time the thin cry of your own child. For a moment you have the strange feeling of being double; but there is something more, quite impossible to a.n.a.lyze--perhaps the echo in a man's heart of all the sensations felt by all the fathers and mothers of his race at a similar instant in the past. It is a very tender, but also a very ghostly feeling.

Now the kind dull veil that Nature keeps during most of a life stretched between it and such extraordinary glimpses of the Unknown, is drawn again. The world is the same nearly as before; and I can plan. The little man will wear sandals and dress like a j.a.panese, and become a good little Buddhist if he lives long enough. He will not have to go to church, and listen to stupid sermons, and be perpetually tormented by absurd conventions. He will have what I never had as a child,--natural physical freedom.

Your two late letters were full of interest and beauty, and you are getting most surprising glimpses of life. I have long had in my mind the idea of a chapter on "Morbid Individuality"--taking issue with Lowell's position in "The Soul of the Far East." Instances like those you have cited are very telling as proofs. The story of the father also is wonderful--absolutely wonderful,--a beautiful surprise of human nature.

What also much impressed me in your letter was the feeling of sadness the spectacle of the great Exposition gave you. But I scarcely think it was due to any reminiscences of boyhood--not simply because of its being certainly a feeling infinitely too complex to have sprung out of a single relative experience in the past (your confession of inability to a.n.a.lyze it, and the statement of others who had the same feeling, would show that),--but also because, if you reflect on other experiences of a totally different kind, you will find they give the same sensation. The first sight of a colossal range of mountains; the awful beauty of a peak like Chimborazo or Fuji; the majesty of an enormous river; the vision of the sea in speaking motion; and, among human spectacles, a military sight, such as the pa.s.sing-by of a corps of fifty thousand men, will give also a feeling of sadness. You will feel something like it standing in the choir of the Cathedral of Cologne; and you will feel something like it while watching in the night, from some mighty railroad centre, the rushing of glimmering trains,--bearing away human lives to unknown destinies beyond the darkness.

Probably, as Schopenhauer said, the vision of mountains has the effect of producing sadness, because the sense of their antiquity awakens sudden recognition of the shortness of human life. But I do not think it is a mere individual feeling. It is a feeling we share with countless dead who live in us, and who saw the same mountains,--perhaps felt the same way. Besides, there should be a religious ancestral feeling there--since mountains have ever been the abode of G.o.ds, and the earliest places of worship and of burial. And I think there is. You do not laugh when you look at mountains--nor when you look at the sea.

What effect does the sudden sight of an extraordinarily beautiful person have upon you? I mean the very _first_. Is it not an effect of sadness? a.n.a.lyze it; and perhaps you will find yourself involuntarily thinking of _death_.

What has the effect of any great beauty--of art, or poetry or utterance--no matter what the subject? Is it cheerful? No, it is very sad. But why? Perhaps partly because of the consciousness of the _exceptional_ character of that beauty,--therefore the sudden contrast between the tender dream-world of art and goodness, and the hideous goblin realities of the world we know. At all events the sadness is certainly the ancient sadness,--the sadness of life, which must, for reasons we cannot learn, begin and end with an agony.

Now at the Exposition you had all the elements for what Clifford would call a "cosmic emotion" of sadness. Vastness, which forced the knowledge of individual weakness; beauty, compelling the memory of impermanency; force, suggesting weakness also; and prodigious effort,--calling for the largest possible exertion of human sympathy, and love, and pity, and sorrow. That you should feel like crying then, does you honour: that is the tribute of all that is n.o.blest in you to the eternal Religion of Human Suffering.

Dear H., I have not slept last night: I am going to rest a little;--good-bye for a short time, with love to you.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO SENTARO NISHIDA

k.u.mAMOTO, November, 1893.

DEAR NISHIDA,--A few days ago there came from Kizuki a little box addressed to me,--from Mr. Senke; and opening it, I found therein the robe of a _Kokuzo_--all black silk with the sacred _mon_ of the temple worked into the silk. Accompanying the robe were two poems, very beautifully written upon vari-coloured paper. The robe was very curious in itself, and of course most precious as a souvenir. I hesitated to write at once; for I could not answer Mr. Senke's magnificent letter in a worthy way at all. It was a very long letter, written on fine paper and in large handsome characters. I have now tried to reply, but my answer reads very shabbily compared with Mr. Senke's gracious style.

I found I had forgotten, in writing you the other day, to speak about Kompira, as you asked me. What a pity I had not known about the real temple of Kompira, which I did not see at all. Yes, I did find the place interesting and very beautiful. But it was interesting because of the quaint shops and streets and customs; and it was beautiful _because the day happened to be very beautiful_. The vast blue light coloured everything,--walls, timbers, awnings, draperies, dresses of pilgrims; and the cherry-trees were one blaze of snowy blossoms; and the horizon was clear as crystal. In the distance towered Sanuki-Fuji,--a cone of amethyst in the light. I wished I could teach in some school at Kompira _uchimachi_, and stay there always.

I like little towns. To live at Tadotsu, or at Hishi-ura in Oki, or at Yunotsu in Iwami, or at Daikon-shimain Naka-umi, would fill my soul with joy. I cannot like the new j.a.pan. I dislike the officials, the imitation of foreign ways, the airs, the conceits, the contempt for Tempo, etc.

Now to my poor mind, all that was good and n.o.ble and true was Old j.a.pan: I wish I could fly out of Meiji forever, back against the stream of Time, into Tempo, or into the age of the Mikado Yuriaku,--fourteen hundred years ago. The life of the old fans, the old _byobu_, the tiny villages--that is the _real_ j.a.pan I love. Somehow or other, k.u.mamoto doesn't seem to me j.a.pan at all. I hate it.

Ever with best regards, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO SENTARO NISHIDA

k.u.mAMOTO, November, 1893.

DEAR NISHIDA,--Both of your letters were as interesting as they were kind. They revealed to me much more than I had been able to learn from the newspapers. I am more than sorry for that terrible destruction and suffering in the _Ken_; but when I think of Okayama, again, I cannot help thinking that the good fortune, which seems especially to belong to Matsue, has not yet deserted her. And the Governor seems to be a first-cla.s.s man. I like that story of his action with the rice-dealers.

But really, the people are very patient. In some Western countries, notably in parts of America, it would have been more than dangerous for men to have acted so selfishly; and they would be in any case afterwards "boycotted," and obliged perhaps to leave the city. It is a great pity they were not made to suffer for such atrocious meanness. When I think of the chrysanthemums in your garden, and read your extraordinary story about catching fish in it, I can realize what a tremendous loss there must have been through all the rice-country. Certainly Matsue is fortunate to have escaped as she did.