I heard that in the Stanford University in California, there are somewhat romantic conditions,--"no ceremonies," no humbug,--estimates only of "efficiency." Long ago I wrote the letter of application, and--like many a letter to you--posted the same in the ravening stove. "Too idyllic,"--I thought to myself,--"in the present state of evolution, no human inst.i.tution could be suffered to realize the ideals of that university!" If I were wrong or right--I should like to know.

But sufficient for this writing is the perfect selfishness thereof. My dear fairy G.o.d-sister, please do not take any painful trouble for me, _but_--if you can hit something with your moonshiny wand, during the next year or so, I shall be so glad! Even though I be not glad, I shall always be grateful for the last kind letter.

My best wishes to you in everything that you can imagine, you will be always sure of. "If wishes"--but, after all, there _is_ some human sweetness in these conventional phrases. They help one to utter a mood, or a sense of gratefulness for pleasure given.

LAFCADIO HEARN.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

TO YRJo HIRN

YAIDZU, August, 1902.

DEAR PROFESSOR,--Your kind letter of July 20th is with me....

I am so glad to hear that you are not likely to be obliged to leave Europe. It is perhaps the greatest possible misfortune for a man of culture to find himself obliged to withdraw from intellectual centres to a new raw country, where the higher mental life is still imperfectly understood. There are certain compensations, indeed,--such as larger freedom, and release from useless conventions, but these do not fully make up for the sterility of that American atmosphere in which the more delicate flowers of thought refuse to grow. I am delighted to think of your prospective pleasure in the Italian paradise.

I am writing to you from the little fishing-village of Yaidzu--where there are no tables or chairs.

Bellesort's book is a surprisingly good book in its way. It describes _only_ the disintegration of j.a.panese society--under the contact of Western ideas--the social putrefaction, the _degringolade_ of things. As a book dealing with this single unpleasant phase of j.a.panese existence, it is a very powerful book; and there are some touching pages in it.

It was I who gave Bellesort the story of the little boy who committed suicide when falsely accused of stealing a cake,--and he made good use of it.... I don't think that he is able to see the beautiful out of conventional limits; and he mostly confines himself to the directions in which he is strong. I am inclined to believe that his sympathies are clerical--that he presents Brunetiere and the Jesuit side of things.

However, his book is the best thing of its kind yet produced--the critical kind. It requires a special nervous structure, like that of Pierre Loti, to see the strange beauty of j.a.pan. Let me, however, advise you to read many times the charming book of the American, Percival Lowell,--"The Soul of the Far East." It is strange that Lowell should have written the very best book in the English language on the old j.a.panese life and character, and the most startling _astronomical_ book of the period,--"Mars,"--more interesting than any romance....

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TOKYO, September, 1902.

MY DEAR HENDRICK,--I had to wait several days before answering your letter,--as I felt too much pleased to venture writing for that length of time. And now, in answering, I shall have to talk a great deal about myself, and my own affairs,--which seems to me rather graceless.

All that you proposed, except two things, appear to me very good. But to put the question in the best _general_ way, I am convinced by long experience that I can do nothing profitable with publishers, except at such serious cost to health and to literary reputation as would be utterly prohibitive. What I have been able to do so far has been done mostly in dead opposition to publishers, and their advisers; and in the few cases where I tried to do what publishers wished I have made very serious mistakes.

Editorial work on a monthly or weekly paper, with a sympathetic head, who would let me have my own way, and use a typewriter--let me agree to furnish at fixed intervals certain material, while free to use the over-time as I pleased--would be good....

Of course, the main trouble about any kind of newspaper work is that it kills all opportunity for original literary work--but I could afford the sacrifice.

Certain branches of teaching admit of opportunity for literary work,--particularly those in which teaching rises to the dignity of the lecture....

The main result of holding a chair of English literature for six years has been to convince me that I know very little about English literature, and never could learn very much. I have learned enough, indeed, to lecture upon the general history of English literature, without the use of notes or books; and I have been able to lecture upon the leading poets and prose-writers of the later periods. But I have not the scholarship needed for the development and exercise of the critical faculty, in the proper sense of the term. I know nothing of Anglo-Saxon: and my knowledge of the relation of English literature to other European literature is limited to the later French and English romantic and realistic periods.

Under these circ.u.mstances you might well ask how I could fill my chair.

The fact is that I never made any false pretences, and never applied for the post. I realized my deficiencies; but I soon felt where I might become strong, and I taught literature as the expression of emotion and sentiment,--as the representation of life. In considering a poet I tried to explain the quality and the powers of the emotion that he produces.

In short, I based my teaching altogether upon appeals to the imagination and the emotions of my pupils,--and they have been satisfied (though the fact may signify little, because their imagination is so unlike our own).

Should I attempt to lecture on literature in America, I should only follow the same lines--which are commonly held to be illegitimate, but in which I very firmly believe there are great possibilities. Subjects upon which I think that I have been partly successful are such as these:--

The signification of Style and Personality.

Respective values of various styles. Error of the belief that one method is essentially superior to another.

Physiological signification of the true Realism--as ill.u.s.trated by the Norse writers and, in modern times, by Flaubert and Maupa.s.sant.

Psychological signification of Romantic methods.

Metaphysical poetry of George Meredith: ill.u.s.trating the application of the Evolutional Philosophy to Ethics.

D. G. Rossetti and Christina Rossetti.

The Poetical Prose and the Poetry of Charles Kingsley.

Four great masters of modern prose: Carlyle, Ruskin, De Quincey, Froude.

The mystical element in modern lyric verse. (I use the term "mystical"

in the meaning of a blending of the religious with the pa.s.sional emotion.)

Of the truth and the ideal beauty in Tolstoi's Theory of Art.

"Beyond man:"--a chapter upon the morality of insect-communities,--suggesting the probable lines of ethical evolution.

Very heterogeneous, this list; but I have purposely made it so. I have had to lecture upon hundreds of subjects, without ever having had the time to write a lecture. (I have to lecture here twelve hours a week, on four different subjects--and to do one's best is out of the question.

The authorities never pay the slightest attention to what the professor does; _but they hold him strictly responsible for the success of his lectures!_) ...

I think that I have hinted ways in which I might be able to make myself useful--i. e., in the teaching of certain literary values.--There is also the subject of Composition (method, independently of grammatical and rhetorical rules). The hard experience of writing certain kinds of books ought to be of some practical worth. The art of what _not_ to say,--the art of focussing effects,--the means of avoiding imitation (even of the unconscious order), and of developing a literary personality;--these can be talked of, I think, without a knowledge of Greek or Sanscrit. I really think that I could do some good by lecturing on these things--though conscious of having often failed in the very directions that I should recommend.

One thing more, I must not forget to say. I cannot be separated from my boy--not even for twenty-four hours. I have taught him about three hours a day every day for several years. When he becomes a little older, I may be able to let him attend a _day_-school; but at present, I imagine that this would be difficult. I feel handicapped; but it can't be helped, and the race is for him.

Summary: As a cog in a wheel I should probably break off. As a personal equation I might have some worth. And I can wait a full year for a chance.

Your letter was a wonderful event for me--a great and happy surprise.

The Fairy Queen also wrote me a beautiful letter (I suppose that all she does is beautiful): I had to read it many times to learn the full charm of it. I have lost all power to write a nice letter of thanks--feel stupid.

We have a nice home a little out of Tokyo--to which I should not be ashamed to invite you, or even the Fairy Queen: only, you would have to take off your shoes, for it is a j.a.panese house.

I shall try to atone later on for the great length of this weary scrawl: how tired you must be after reading it! All happiness to you. Be sure that, whether I win or fail, I shall never be able to even tell you how sincerely and deeply I remain grateful for that letter.

Y. KOIZUMI, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK

TOKYO, 1902.

DEAR HENDRICK,--I am glad to hear that you are a strong and successful swimmer in that awful sea of struggle, and that your home is happy.

Having two little ones, you can understand now what the j.a.panese call _Mono no aware_,--weirdly translated by Aston as "the Ah-ness of things."[3]

[3] More literally, "the pity of things."