One little story which would never die, might suffice,--or a volume of little stories. Stories, fiction: that is all the public care about.

Not essays, however clever,--nor vagaries, nor travels,--but stories about something common to all life under the sun. And this is just the very hardest of all earthly things to do. I might write an essay on some topic of which I am now quite ignorant,--by studying the subject for the necessary time. But a story cannot be written by the help of study at all: it must come from outside. It must be a "sensation" in one's own life,--and not peculiar to any life or any place or time.

I have been studying the "will" and "shall" carefully, and think that I shall be able to avoid serious mistakes hereafter. It is difficult, however, for me to get the "instantaneous sense"--so to speak--of their correct use. The line between "intention" and "future sequence" I can't well define.

I can't help fearing that what you mean by "justice and temperateness"

in writing means that you want me to write as if I were you, or at least to measure sentence or thought by your standard. This, of course, would render frank correspondence impossible,--as it does even now to some extent. If I write well of a thing one day, and badly another--I expect my friend to discern that both impressions are true, and solve the contradiction--that is, if my letters are really wanted. For absolute "justice and temperateness," one can find them in the pages of Herbert Spencer--but you would then discern that even _la raison peut fatiguer a la longue_. I should suppose the interest of letters not to be in the text, but in the writer. Am I wrong?

L. H.

TO BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN

KOBE, April, 1895.

DEAR CHAMBERLAIN,--In writing to you, of course, I've not been writing a book--but simply setting down the thoughts and feelings of the moment as they come. I write a book exactly the same way; but all this has to be smoothed, ordinated, corrected, toned over twenty times before a page is ready. It strikes me, however, that the first raw emotion or fancy, which is the base of all, has its value between men who understand each other. You, on the other hand,--differently const.i.tuted,--write a letter as you would write a book. You collect and mould the thought instinctively and perhaps unconsciously before setting it on paper.

I'm not quite such an American radical as you think in consequence; for I confess to a belief in the value of aristocracies--a very strong belief. On the other hand, the reality of the thing to the man is its relation to him personally. Don't you think your comfort in all sorts and conditions may be due to your personal independence of those sorts and conditions? It is like Rufz's statement that "the first relations between men are delicious"--so long as you are in n.o.body's way, and have capacity to please, you have the bright side turned to you. (Again, there is this question: Are you sure the side you see and like is not the artificial side? I don't say it is, but there are possibilities.) My own dislike of mercantile people in all countries is based upon experiences of the contrary sort. But how can men, trained from childhood to watch for and to take all possible advantage of human weakness, remain a morally superior cla.s.s. That they don't, needs no argument; and that the poorest people in all countries are the most moral and self-sacrificing needs no argument either. Both are acknowledged and indisputable facts in sociology,--in the study of civilized races, at least. When to this marrow-bred sense of morality is superadded the courtesy you yourself in a former letter declared without parallel, I see nothing extravagant in the statement that a j.a.panese _hyakusho_ is more of a gentleman than an English merchant can be--if gentleness means delicate consideration for others, by means of which virtue no man can succeed in life.

I should like to know any story of heroism--sorry not to be near you to coax you for an outline of it. Every fact of goodness makes one better, and an author richer, to know it. There are good heroes and heroines in all walks of life, indeed,--though all walks of life do not necessarily lead to goodness. Indeed, there are some which teach that goodness is foolishness,--but all won't believe it is true.

The extraordinary wastefulness of foreign life is a fact that strikes one hard after life in the interior. Men work like slaves for no other earthly reason than that conventions require them to live beyond their means; and those who are free to live as they wish live on a scale that seems extravagant in the extreme. All goes right in the end, but I have not yet escaped the sensation of imagining one life devouring a hundred for mere amus.e.m.e.nt. Here is a man who spends, to my knowledge, more than $500 a week for mere amus.e.m.e.nt. He lives, therefore, at the rate of more than 1000 j.a.panese lives. I'm not disputing his right: but in the eternal order of things the whirligig of time must bring in strange revenges....

A paper read by Spencer before the Anthropological Society, on the subject of the Method of Comparative Psychology, came into my hands the other day. It was only four or five pages--so I could read it. What a magnificent teaching for an essay on j.a.panese psychology! I may try to take up the theme some day. There are some terrible suggestions, however--such as that the j.a.panese indifference to abstract ideas is not indifference, but incapacity to form general ideas. The language would seem to confirm the suggestion.

P. S. I should like to discuss the "heredity and evolution" topic of child-feeling, but fear to weary you with my scribble. Indeed I wrote a long letter, but concluded not to send to-day. You are quite right about the inherited feeling of the impulse to martial play: the new toy would represent subjectively some slight modifications of inherited pleasure as regards colour, form, and noise,--but the inherited feeling remains the chief factor in the matter. A mask of _o taf.u.ku_ as a toy would not effect modifications in the quality of certain inherited impressions, but only accentuate them, and accentuate others innumerable faintly connected with them.

Ever, with regret that I cannot write more for the moment, yours faithfully,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN

KOBE, 1895.

DEAR CHAMBERLAIN,--I might one of these days get a job in Loochoo, when the country becomes richer,--and explore ghostology. The ghost-business must be simply immense: it must be immense anywhere that the dead are better housed than the living. Of old I felt sure that if the Egyptian demotic texts were translated, the ghostly side of that literature would be amazing--for just the same reason. Well, they have been translated; and the ghost-stories are without parallel. a.s.syrian ghostology is also very awful; but we don't know much about their necropoles,--for whatever those were, they were of perishable stuff.

As I told the Houghton firm I had a volume of philosophical fairy-tales in mind, and wanted to read Andersen again, they sent me four volumes; ... the old charm comes back with tenfold force, and makes me despair.

How great the art of the man!--the immense volume of fancy,--the magical simplicity--the astounding force of compression! This isn't mere literary art; it is a soul photographed and phonographed and put, like electricity, in storage. To write like Andersen, one must be Andersen.

But the fountain of his inspiration is unexhausted, and I hope to gain by drinking from it. I read, and let the result set up disturbances interiorly. Disturbances emotional I need. I have had no sensations since leaving Kyushu.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

KOBE, April, 1895.

DEAR HENDRICK,-- ... Apparently the war is over; and we are glad,--with due apprehension. Possibilities are ugly. The doom of foreign trade in j.a.pan has, I think, begun to be knelled. In twenty-five years more the foreign merchants will be represented here by agents chiefly. The anti-foreign feeling is strong. I am not sure but it is just. Only--the innocent pay, not the guilty.

As for me, I must confess that I am only happy out of the sight of foreign faces and the hearing of English voices. Not quite happy, though--I am always worried for the future. I drew the lots of the G.o.ds: they replied yesterday at Kiyomizu in Holy Kyoto: "All you wish you shall have, but not until you are very old." H'm! Is that Delphic? Can I become very old?

No: Kazuo is not a j.a.panese rendering of Lafcadio. It signifies only "First of the Excellent," or "Best of the Peerless Ones," but it does serve for both purposes to the imagination.

As I watch the little fellow playing, all the dim vague sensations of my own childhood seem to come back to me. I comprehend by unexpected retrospection!

My eye is not yet quite well. But I expect it will last for some years more.

Best thanks for that admirable and timely letter of advice. Of course I shall follow it absolutely. Wish I had the advantage of being closer to my loved adviser,--for more reasons than one.

L. H.

TO PAGE M. BAKER

KOBE, April, 1895.

DEAR PAGE,--I paid 35c. postage the other day on a huge envelope the superscription whereof filled my soul with joy. I know it is mean to mention the 35c.; but I do this on purpose,--that I may be properly revenged. Opening the envelope I found a very dear letter, for which I am more than grateful,--_and two pieces of pasteboard, for which I am not grateful at all_. The promised photo had never been put into the envelope,--only the envelope,--only the pasteboards. The two envelopes had never been opened. And the why and the wherefore of the thing I am at a loss to discern. But as you did not stop sending the paper to k.u.mamoto for eight months after I had vainly prayed for a change of address, I suppose that you simply forgot in both cases....

About the little j.a.panese dress. Now the matter of a little girl's dress is much more complicated than I can tell you--if you want the real thing. Do you wish for a winter, spring, summer, or autumn dress?--for these are quite necessary distinctions. Do you wish for a holiday dress?--a ceremonial dress?--an every-day dress? The winter ceremonial dress for a girl of good family is very expensive, for it consists of silk skirt, _koshimaki_ (body under-petticoat), and four or five heavily wadded silk robes one over the other,--with _obi_, etc. The _obi_ is the most costly part of the dress--may run to 30 or even 50 yen: it ought to cost at least 20. The summer dress is light, and much cheaper. I think you ought to get a suit for about (yen) 60-70. Of course, no suits are ready-made. The dress must be made to order; and even the girdle worked up. To tie the girdle will be difficult,--unless a j.a.panese shows you the method.

If you want only a common cotton suit, which is very, very pretty, it would be quite cheap. But I suppose you want the fashionable dress, and that is as dear as you care to pay. Prices may range up into the hundreds. Boys' dresses--even winter dresses--are not so dear, but my little fellow's ceremonial dress,--the overdress alone,--cost $27 without counting the adjuncts. Boys' soft _obi_ cost, however, only 3 or 4 yen; and girls' _obi_ five or six times as much. Shoes (sandals) and stockings are cheap. The _geta_ could scarcely be managed by a Western child. The straw sandal (_zori_), with velvet thong, is easy and pleasant to wear. I have heard of _silk tabi_, but never saw any, and I think they are worn only by _geisha_, etc. White cotton _tabi_ are the prettiest; and I have heard that white silk _tabi_ never look really white,--so the coloured _tabi_ would be better in silk. But everybody wears the white cotton _tabi_, and nothing could be prettier than a little foot in this cleft envelope.

The colours of the dress of a girl are much brighter than those of boys'

dresses; but they change every additional year of the girl's life. They are covered with designs, generally symbolical,--full of meanings, but meaningless to Western eyes. The finest textures used--c.r.a.pe--silk, etc.--shrink and suffer immensely by washing; for such dresses as you would want are not worn every day--nor at school or in play.

You see the subject is really very complex, and requires years to learn much about. Only a native in any case can be relied on for choice, etc. The suits of "j.a.panese clothes" usually bought by foreigners in j.a.pan, to take home to their friends, are made to order just to sell to foreigners, and are not j.a.panese at all--no j.a.panese would wear them.

For the man as for the woman the rules of dress are very strict, and vary precisely according to the age of the wearer.

For a little girl two years old, you would not need a _hakama_,--divided skirt. Such _hakama_ are worn by little school-girls, and are usually sky-blue. They are not, like the men's fashionable _hakama_, made of Sendai silk. The _hakama_ of a high official may be very expensive.

I think what you want could be got for about $40 (American money, including all costs), unless you want a winter dress. It would be very heavy, and likely to make the little one too warm, for this climate is not like that of New Orleans. The chief cost is the _obi_,--the broad stiff heavy silk girdle.

Thanks for the sweet things you said about my little boy. He was born November 16th, '93;--so he is younger than your little angel by four or five months. Mrs. Baker was right. Trust a mother's eye to decide all such problems! And say all the kindest and wisest and prettiest things you can to Mrs. Baker for her kindest message....

LAFCADIO HEARN.

P. S. What you wrote about Constance is very beautiful. No man can possibly know what life means, what the world means, what anything means, until he has a child and loves it. And then the whole universe changes,--and nothing will ever again seem exactly as it seemed before.

TO BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN

KOBE, May, 1895.

DEAR CHAMBERLAIN,--I received your kind letter shortly after returning from Kyoto, where I have been living in an old samurai _yashiki_ transformed into a hotel.

I am quite sorry your eyes are troubling you; and indeed I should sincerely advise you to get away from all temptation to reading or writing for some months. Considering how much your translation of that ballad signified in the matter of personal kindness under such circ.u.mstances, I cannot but feel pain,--though you will not be sorry to hear that you made a sketch possible, ent.i.tled "A Street-Singer," sent to H. M. & Co. towards the construction of a new book now under way.