Chapter XV: Part 15

That reminds me to tell you of some obligations. You are never tired of telling me that I have been able to give you some literary pleasure. How many things did you not teach me during those evening chats in New York? It was you that first introduced me to the genius of Rudyard Kipling; and I have ever since remained a fervent worshipper. It was you who taught me to see the beauty of FitzGerald's translation, by quoting for me the stanza about the Moving Finger. And it was you who made me understand the extraordinary quaint charm of Ingelow's "High Tide"--since expounded to many a Japanese literary class....

But this is too long a letter from

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,-- ... I am getting quite strong, and hope soon to be strong, or nearly as strong, as before. The bleeding was from a bronchial tube,--so I have to be careful about getting cold. But my lungs are quite sound. For the sake of the lectures, it is better that I should wait a little longer in Japan. Most of them have been written twice; but I must write them all once more--to polish them. They will form a book, explaining Japan from the standpoint of ancestor-worship. They are suited only to a cultivated audience. If never delivered, they will still make a good book. The whole study is based upon the ancient religion. I have also something to say about your proposed "Juvenilia."

I think this would be possible:--

To include in one volume under the title of "Juvenilia"--(1) the translations from Théophile Gautier, revised; (2) "Some Chinese Ghosts;" (3) miscellaneous essays and sketches upon Oriental subjects, formerly contributed to the _T.-D_.; (4) miscellaneous sketches on Southern subjects, two or three, and fantasies,--with a few verses thrown in.

For this I should need to have the French texts to revise, etc. Perhaps I shall be able to make the arrangement, and so please you. But I badly need help in the direction of good opinion among people of power. The prospect of "nothing" in America is frightening. I should be glad to try England; but scholars are there plentiful as little fleas in Florida;--and the power of convention has the force of an earthquake. When one's own adopted country goes back on one--there is small chance at the age of fifty-three.

Ever most gratefully,
L. H.

I tried to join the Masons here--but it appears that no Japanese citizen is allowed to become a Mason--at least not in Japan. The Japanese Minister in London could do it; but he could not have done it here.

TO MRS. HIRN

JULY, 1903.

DEAR MRS. HIRN,--Your very kind letter from Italy is with me. I am sorry to know that you have met with so painful a trial since I last wrote to you. Indeed, I hope you will believe that I am sincerely and sympathetically interested in the personal happiness or sorrow of any who wish me well,--and you need never suppose me indifferent to the affairs of which you speak so unselfishly and so touchingly.

By this time, no doubt, you will have seen much of the fairest land of Europe, and will scarcely know what to do with the multitude of new impressions crowding in memory for special recognition. Perhaps Italy will tempt you to do something more than translate: one who becomes soul-steeped in that golden air ought to feel sooner or later the impulse to create. I wish I could find my way to Italy: when a child I spoke only Italian, and Romaic. Both are now forgotten.

Thanks for the magazine so kindly sent me, and thanks for your explanation of that rendering of "ewigt" as signifying endlessness in space as well as time. That, indeed, settles the matter about which I was in doubt.

It is a pleasure to know that you received "Kotto," and liked some things in it. I thought your list of selections for translation very nice,--with one exception. "The Genius of Japanese Civilization" is a failure. I thought that it was true when I wrote it; but already Japan has become considerably changed, and a later study of ancient social conditions has proved to me that I made some very serious sociological errors in that paper. For example, in feudal times, up to the middle of the last century, there was really no possibility of travelling (for common people at least) in Japan. Iron law and custom fettered men to the soil, like the serfs of mediæval Europe. My paper, unfortunately, implied the reverse. And that part of the paper relating to the travelling of Japanese common people is hopelessly wrong as regards the past. As regards the present, it requires modification.

Your remark about the hard touch in Bellesort's book is very just.... He was accompanied by his wife,--born in Persia, and able to talk Persian. She was keener even than he,--a very clever silent woman, attractive rather than sympathetic.... Bellesort has been travelling a great deal; and "La Société Japonaise" is his best volume of travel. His book on South America is cruel.

I am not sure whether you would care for Nitôbé's book "Bushidō"--a very small volume, or rather treatise upon the _morale_ of Samurai education. From a literary standpoint it would not tempt you: it is only a kind of "apology." But it is to some extent instructive....

I suppose that Dr. Hirn will meet Domenico Comparetti, the author of "The Traditional Poetry of the Finns." I gave a lecture lately on the poetical values of the "Kalewala," and I found that book of great use to me.

Please excuse my loquacity, and let me wish you and the doctor every happiness and success. Perhaps I shall write you again--from America. Only the gods know.

Sincerely yours,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, August, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--I am sorry for my dismal letter of the other day. I feel to-day much braver, and think that I can fight it out here in Japan. Anyhow, I have discovered that I have a fair chance of being able to live by my work--providing my health is good; and if I _must_ live by my pen, there is no place in the world where I can do so more cheaply than here. When my boy is bigger, I may be able to send him abroad. Unless I could make money in America, it were little use to drop two thousand dollars (Japanese money) for going and coming. Besides, out of those lectures in book-form I shall make some money....

For the present, I think that I shall simply sit down, and work as hard as Zola,--though that is to compare a gnat to an eagle. It only remains for me to express to you all possible devotion of gratitude. If I had dreamed of the real state of things, I should long ago have begged you to do nothing for me in high places. I have tried to break out of my chrysalis too soon,--but, with the help of the gods, my wings will grow. To have even one well-wisher like you in America, is much;--and I have a friend or two in England, some in France, some in Denmark, Sweden, and Russia. _Non omnis moriar_ thus.

You will hear from me in print:--there I can give you pleasure, perhaps: I am not fit to write letters. But I am getting very strong again.

With reverential gratitude,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--I have your kindest note of June 16th, and am returning, with unspeakable thanks, the letters forwarded. I have written also to President Remsen and to President Taylor, as you wished me to do, directly.

You will be glad to hear that I am almost strong again; but I fear that I shall never be strong enough to lecture before a general public. Before a university audience I could do something, I believe; but the strain of speaking in a theatre would be rather trying. The great and devouring anxiety is for some regular employ--something that will assure me the means to live. With that certainty, I can do much. Lecturing will, I fear, be at best a most hazardous means of living. But it may help me to something permanent. I have now nearly completed twenty-one lectures: they will form eventually a serious work upon Japan, entirely unlike anything yet written. The substantial idea of the lectures is that Japanese society represents the condition of ancient Greek society a thousand years before Christ. I am treating of religious Japan,--not of artistic or economical Japan, except by way of illustration. Lowell's "Soul of the Far East" is the only book of the kind in English; but I have taken a totally different view of the causes and the evolution of things.

I am worried about my boy--how to save him out of this strange world of cruelty and intrigue. And I dream of old ugly things--things that happened long ago, I am alone in an American city; and I have only ten cents in my pocket,--and to send off a letter that I must send will take three cents. That leaves me seven cents for the day's food. Now, I am not hard up, by any means: I can wait another six months in Japan without anxiety. But the horror of being without employ in an American city appalls me--because I remember. All of which is written in haste to catch the mail. How good you are! I ought not to tell you of any troubles of mine--but _if_ I could not, what would have happened me?

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, October, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--I have had a charming letter from Vassar,--indicating that the president must be a charming person.

I have also--which surprised me--the most generous of letters from Sir William Van Horne, President of the C. P. R. R., agreeing to furnish me with means of transportation, both ways, to Montreal and back to Japan. I shall have to do some writing, probably; but that is a great chance, and I am grateful.

French friends have taken up the cudgels for me against the Japanese Government--unknown friends. The _Aurore_ had a 2-col. article entitled "_Ingratitude Nationale_," which somebody sent me from Italy. I am too much praised; but the reproach to Japan is likely to do me good. For I have really been badly treated, and the Government ought to be made ashamed.

I am _nearly_ quite well, though not quite as strong as I should wish. My lectures, recast into chapters, will form a rather queer book--perhaps make a quite novel impression.

I have a little daughter; and all that anxiety is past. (If I could only get quite strong, I could make a good fight for myself later on.) Anyhow, I see no great difficulty about an American trip, once the sharp cold is over; and I think you will be glad of this note from your troublesome but always grateful

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, December, 1903.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,-- ... Of course your critics have been kind. Other things of yours seemed to have a distinct quality; but this is your Self, the clearest and dearest best of you. It is so much alive that I cannot believe I have been reading a story: I thought that I knew and remembered all the people and all that they said--surely none of the life in those pages could have been imagined! I am puzzled by the brightness of the memories and the freshness of the feeling: the real world of self-seeking has such power to dull and numb that I cannot understand how you could have conserved the whole delightfulness of child-experience in spite of New York....

With me all the past is a blur--except the pain of it. It is not so much what one sees in your story, or what one hears folk say, that makes the thing so pleasing: it is rather the soft appeal made to one's moral understanding. I mean that I never imagined how good and brave and lovable those people were till you made me comprehend. And I felt about as "home-sick" as it is lawful for a Japanese citizen to feel. But I am afraid that your very own South is now of the past:--wherefore we can appreciate it incomparably more than when it was our every-day environment....

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO TANABE

TŌKYŌ, January, 1904.

DEAR MR. TANABE,--I received your kind New Year's greeting, and your good letter; and if I have delayed so long in replying, it has been only because, for some weeks past, I have not had five minutes to spare.

I was much touched by the sad news about your little girl,--and I can understand all that one does not write about such matters. Some nine years ago, I very nearly lost my little boy: we sat up with him night after night for weeks, always dreading that he was to be taken from us. Fortunately he was saved; but the pain of such an experience is not easily forgotten. As a general rule, the first child born to young parents is difficult to bring up. With the next, it is very different;--perhaps you will be more fortunate later on. One has to be brave about such matters. When Goethe was told of the death of his only son, he exclaimed: "Forward--over the dead!" and sat down to write, though the blow must have been terrible to him,--for he was a loving father.

I suppose that Mr. Ibaraki will soon be coming back to Japan. He deserves much success and praise;--for he had great obstacles to overcome as a student, and triumphed over them. I do not know who told him that I was going to England; but several persons were so--incorrectly--informed. Whether I shall go or not remains for the present undecided.

Of course the real philosophy of "Undine" is the development of what Germans call "the Mother-Soul" in a young girl. By marriage and maternity certain beautiful qualities of character are suddenly evolved, which had remained invisible before. The book is a parable--that is why it has become a world-classic.

What you tell me about your reading puzzles me a little. One must read, I suppose, whatever one can get in the way of English books at Kanazawa. Still, if my advice be worth anything, I should especially recommend you to avoid most of the current novel literature--except as mere amusement. The lasting books are few; but one can read them over so many times, with fresh pleasure every time. I should think, however, that Stevenson would both please and profit you,--the last of the great nineteenth-century story-tellers.

May all happiness and success come to you is the sincere wish of

Y. KOIZUMI.

TO ERNEST CROSBY

TŌKYŌ, August, 1904.

DEAR MR. CROSBY,--A namesake of yours, a young lieutenant in the United States Army, first taught me, about twenty years ago, how to study Herbert Spencer. To that Crosby I shall always feel a very reverence of gratitude; and I shall always find myself inclined to seek the good opinion of any man bearing the name of Crosby.

I received recently a copy of _The Whim_ containing some strictures upon the use of the word "regeneration," in one of my articles, as applied to the invigorating and developing effects of militancy in the history of human societies. I am inclined to agree with you that the word was ill-chosen; but it seems to me that your general attitude upon the matter is not in accordance with evolutional truth. Allow me to quote from Spencer:--

"The successive improvements of the organs of sense and motion, and of the internal coördinating apparatus, which uses them, have indirectly resulted from the antagonisms and competitions of organisms with one another. A parallel truth is disclosed on watching how there evolves the regulating system of a political aggregate, and how there are developed those appliances for offence and defence put in action by it. Everywhere the wars between societies originate governmental structures, and are causes of all such improvements in these structures as increase the efficiency of corporate action against environing societies."

The history of social evolution, I think, amply proves that the higher conditions of civilization have been reached, and could have been reached, only through the discipline of militancy. Until human nature becomes much more developed than it is now, and the sympathies incomparably more evolved, wars will probably continue; and however much we may detest and condemn war as moral crime, it will be scarcely reasonable to declare that its results are purely evil,--certainly not more reasonable than to assert that to knock down a robber is equally injurious to the moral feelings of the robber and to the personal interest of the striker. As for "regeneration"--the Reformation, the development of European Protestantism and of intellectual liberty, the French Revolution, the Independence of the United States (to mention only a few instances of progress), were rendered possible only by war. As for Japan--immediately after her social organization had been dislocated by outside pressure,--and at a time when serious disintegrations seemed likely,--the results of the war with China were certainly invigorating. National self-confidence was strengthened, national discords extinguished, social disintegrations checked, the sentiment of patriotism immensely developed. To understand these things, of course, it is necessary to understand the Japanese social organization. What holds true of one form of society, as regards the evil of war, does not necessarily hold true of another.

Yours faithfully,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

I have reopened the envelope to acknowledge your interesting sketch of Edward Carpenter.... What an attractive personality.

But I fear that I must shock you by my declaration of non-sympathy with much of the work of contemporary would-be reformers. They are toiling for socialism; and socialism will come. It will come very quietly and gently, and tighten about nations as lightly as a spider's web; and then there will be revolutions! Not sympathy and fraternity and justice--but a Terror in which no man will dare to lift his voice.

No higher condition of human freedom ever existed than what America enjoyed between--let us say, 1870 and 1885. To effect higher conditions, a higher development of human nature would have been necessary. Where have American liberties now gone? A free press has ceased to exist. Within another generation publishers' syndicates will decide what the public shall be allowed to read. A man can still print his thoughts in a book, though not in any periodical of influence; within another twenty years he will write only what he is told to write. It is a pleasure to read the brave good things sometimes uttered in prints like the _Conservator_ or _The Whim_; but those papers are but the candlesticks in which free thought now makes its last flickering. In the so-called land of freedom men and women are burnt at the stake in the presence of Christian churches--for the crime of belonging to another race. The stake reëstablished for the vengeance of race-hatred to-day, may to-morrow be maintained for the vengeance of religious hate--mocking itself, of course, under some guise of moral zeal. Competition will soon be a thing of the past; and the future will be to your stock-companies, trusts, and syndicates. The rule of the many will be about as merciful as a calculating-machine, and as moral as a lawn-mower. What socialism means really no one seems to know or care. It will mean the most insufferable oppression that ever weighed upon mankind.

Here are gloomy thoughts for you! You see that I cannot sympathize with the Whitmanesque ideal of democracy. That ideal was the heart-felt expression of a free state that has gone by. It was in itself a generous dream. But social tendencies, inevitable and irresistible, are now impelling the dreamers to self-destruction. The pleasure that in other times one could find in the literature of humanity, of brotherhood, of pity, is numbed to-day by perception of the irresistible drift of things.

Ever faithfully yours,
L. HEARN.

TO MRS. WETMORE

TŌKYŌ, September, 1904.

DEAR MRS. WETMORE,--To see your handwriting again upon the familiar blue envelope was a great pleasure; and what the envelope contained, in the same precious text, was equally delightful ... excepting some little words of praise which I do not deserve, and which you ought not to have penned. At least they might have been altered so as to better suggest your real meaning--for you must be aware that as to what is usually termed "life" I have less than no knowledge, and have always been, and will always remain, a dolt and a blunderer of the most amazing kind....

I left the dedication of the "Miscellany" untouched,--because the book is not a bad book in its way, and perhaps you will later on find no reason to be sorry for your good opinions of the writer. I presume that you are far too clever to believe more than truth,--and I stand tolerably well in the opinion of a few estimable people, in spite of adverse tongues and pens.

That little story of which you tell me the outline was admirable as an idea. I wish that you had sent me a copy of it. But you never sent me any of your writings, after I departed from New York--except that admirable volume of memories and portraits. Of course, that paper about the morals of the insect-world was intended chiefly (so far as there was any intention whatever) to suggest to some pious people that the philosophy of Evolution does not teach that the future must belong to the strong and selfish "blond beast," as Nietzsche calls him--quite the contrary. Renan hinted the same fact long ago; but he did not, perhaps, know how English biologists had considered the ethical suggestion of insect-sociology.

In spite of all mishaps, I did tolerably well last year--chiefly through economy;--made money instead of losing any. I have a professorship in Count Okuma's university (small fees but ample leisure); and I was able to take my boys to live with the fishermen for a month--on fish, rice, and sea-water (with sake, of course, for their sire). I have got strong again; and can use the right arm as well as ever for swimming....

The "rejected addresses" will shortly appear in book-form. The book is not what it ought to be--everything was against me--but it ought to suggest something to somebody. I don't like the work of writing a serious treatise on sociology. It requires training beyond my range; and I imagine that the real sociologist, on reading me, must smile--

"as a Master smiles at one
That is not of his school, nor any school,
Save that where blind and naked Ignorance
Delivers brawling judgement, unashamed,
On all things, all day long."...

I ought to keep to the study of birds and cats and insects and flowers, and queer small things--and leave the subject of the destiny of empires to men of brains. Unfortunately, the men of brains will not state the truth as they see it. If you find any good in the book, despite the conditions under which it was written, you will recognize your share in the necessarily ephemeral value thereof.

May all good things ever come to you, and abide.

Yours faithfully always,
LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO H. FUJISAKI

SEPTEMBER 26, 1904.[4]

DEAR CAPTAIN,--Your most welcome letter reached us to-day. It was a great pleasure to receive it, and to know that you are well and strong. You have often been in my thoughts and dreams. And, of course, we have been anxious about you. But the gods seem to be taking good care of you; and your position is, from our point of view, supremely fortunate. That a bright future is before you, I cannot doubt,--in spite of the chances of war.

[4] The day of Hearn's death.

As you see the papers here, it will not be worth while to send you any general news. As for local news,--things are very quiet, just as when you were here. But many men of Ōkubo-mura have been summoned to the front. Nearly all the young gardeners, fruit-sellers, _kurumaya_, etc., have been called. So the district is, perhaps, a little more lonesome. We had regiments stationed here for a while. When the soldiers were going away, they gave toys to the children of the neighbourhood. To Kazuo they gave a little clay-model of a Russian soldier's head, and one said: "When we come back, we will bring you a real one." We prize that funny little gift, as a souvenir of the giver and the time.

Summer was dry, hot, and bright--we had very little rain after July. But during July,--the early part,--it used to rain irregularly, in a strange way;--and with the rain there was much lightning. Several persons in Tōkyō were killed by the lightning. I imagined that the war had something to do with the disturbed state of the atmosphere. After a heavy rain we generally had the news of a victory; so, when it began to rain hard, I used to say, "Ah! the Russians are in trouble again!"

We went to Yaidzu for about twenty days, and got strong and brown. Iwao was positively black when he returned. He learned to swim a little, and was able to cross the river on his back--where it was quite deep;--but the sea was rather too rough for him. We found that seventeen men of Yaidzu had been summoned to the war,--including several pleasant acquaintances.

Your good mother writes to us; and all your household seem to be as well and as happy as could be expected,--considering the natural anxieties of the war. Even for me, a stranger, the war has been trying; it was a long time before I could get used to the calling of the newspaper-lads, selling extras (_gogwai_). But the people of Tōkyō have been very cheerful and brave. Nobody seems to have any doubt as to the results of the campaign.

I am still hoping to see you next spring, or at latest in summer. For this hope, however, I have no foundation beyond the idea that Russia will probably find, before long, that she must think of something else besides fighting with Japan. The commercial powers of the world are disturbed by her aggression; and industrial power, after all, is much more heavy than all the artillery of the Czar. Whatever foreign sympathy really exists is with Japan. In any event Russia must lose Manchuria, I fancy.

What strange and unimagined experiences you must have been passing through. Since the time of the great war between France and Germany, there were never such forces opposed to each other as those that met at Liaoyang. It seems to me a wonderful thing that I am able to send a letter to the place of so vast a contest.

I shall try to send you something to read of the kind you mention. My boys are writing to you--Kazuo in English; Iwao in his native language. May all good fortune be with you is the sincere wish of your friend,

Y. KOIZUMI.

CONCLUSION

With Mrs. Hearn's quaint and tender record of Lafcadio Hearn's last days, his "Life and Letters" may fitly conclude.

* * * * *

About 3 P. M. Sept. 19th, 1904, as I went to his library I found him walking to and fro with his hands upon the breast. I asked him: "Are you indisposed?" Husband: "I got a new sickness." "What is your new sickness?" Husband: "The heart-sickness." I: "You are always over anxious." At once I sent for our doctor Kizawa with a jinrikisha furnished with two riksha men. He would not let myself and children see his painful sight, and ordered to leave him. But I stayed by him. He began writing. I advised him to be quiet. "Let me do as I please," he said, and soon finished writing. "This is a letter addressed to Mr. Ume. Mr. Ume is a worthy man. He will give you a good counsel when any difficulty happen to you. If any greater pain of this kind comes upon me I shall perhaps die," he said; and then admonished me repeatedly and strongly that I ought to keep myself healthy and strong; then gave me several advices, hearty, earnest, and serious, with regard to the future of children, concluding with the words, "Could you understand?" Then again he said: "Never weep if I die. Buy for my coffin a little earthen pot of three or four cents worth; bury me in the yard of a little temple in some lonesome quarter. Never be sorry. You had better play cards with children. Do not inform to others of my departure. If any should happen to inquire of me, tell him: 'Ha! he died sometime ago. That will do.'" I eagerly remonstrated: "Pray, do not speak such melancholy things. Such will never happen." He said: "This is a serious matter." Then saying "It cannot be held," he kept quiet.

A few minutes passed; the pain relaxed. "I would like to take bath," he said. He wanted cold bath; went to the bath-room and took a cold bath. "Strange!" he said, "I am quite well now." He recovered entirely, and asked me: "Mamma San! Sickness flew away from me. Shall I take some whiskey?" I told him: "I fear whiskey will not be good for heart. But if you are so fond of it I will offer it to you mixed with some water." Taking up the cup, he said: "I shall no more die." He then told me for the first time that a few days ago he had the same experience of pain. He lay down upon the bed then with a book. When the doctor arrived at our house, "What shall I do?" he said. Leaving the book, he went out to the parlour, and said "Pardon me, doctor. The sickness is gone." The doctor found no bad symptom, and jokes and chattering followed between them.

He was always averse to take medicine or to be attended by a doctor. He would never take medicine if I had not been careful; and if I happen to be late in offering him medicine he would say: "I was glad thinking you had forgot." If not engaged in writing, he used to walk in meditation to and fro in the room or through the corridor. So even in the time of sickness he would not like to remain quiet in confinement.

One day he told me in gladness: "Mamma San! I am very pleased about this." I asked him what it was. "I wrote this newspaper article: 'Lafcadio Hearn disappeared from the world.' How interesting! The world will see me no more--I go away in secret--I shall become a hermit--in some remote mountain, with you and with Kazuo."

It was a few days before his departure. Osaki, a maid, the daughter of Otokitsu of Yaidzu, found a blossom untimely blooming in one of the branches of cherry-tree in the garden. She told me about that. Whenever I saw or heard anything interesting I always told it to him; and this proved his greatest enjoyment. A very trifling matter was in our home very often highly valued. For instance, as the following things:--

To-day a young shoot appeared on a musa basjoo in the garden.

Look! an yellow butterfly is flying there.

In the bamboo bushes, a young bamboo-sprout raised its head from the earth.

Kazuo found a mound made by ants.

A frog is just staying on the top of the hedge.

From this morning the white, the purple, and the red blossoms of the morning-glory began to bloom, etc., etc.

Matters like those had great importance in our household. These things were all reported to him. They were great delight for my husband. He was pleased innocently. I tried to please him with such topics with all my heart. Perhaps if any one happened to witness, it would have seemed ridiculous. Frogs, ants, butterflies, bamboo-sprouts, morning-glory,--they were all the best friends to my husband.

Now, the blossom was beautiful to look. But I felt all at once my bosom tremble for some apprehension of evil, because the untimely bloom is considered in Japan as a bad omen. Anyhow I told him of the blossom. He was interested as usual. "Hello!" he said, and immediately approaching to the railing, he looked out at the blossom. "Now my world has come--it is warm, like spring," said he; then after a pause, "but soon it will become cold and that blossom will die away." This blossom was upon the branch till the 27th, when toward the evening its petals scattered themselves lonesomely. Methought the cherry-tree, which had Hearn's warmest affection for these years, responded to his kindness and bade good-bye to him.

Hearn was an early riser; but lest he should disturb the sleep of myself and children, he was always waiting for us and keeping quiet in the library, sitting regularly upon the cushion and smoking with a charcoal-brazier before him, till I got up and went to his library.

In the morning of Sept. 26th--the sad, last day--as I went to his library about 6.30 A. M., he was already quietly sitting as usual on the cushion. "Ohayō gozaimasu" (good-morning) I said. He seemed to be thinking over something, but upon my salutation he said his "good-morning," and told me that he had an interesting dream last night, for we were accustomed to tell each other when we had a pleasant dream. "What was it," I asked. He said: "I had a long, distant journey. Here I am smoking now, you see. Is it real that I travelled or is it real that I am smoking? The world of dream!..." Thus saying he was pleased with himself.

Before going to bed, our three boys used to go to his library and say in English: "Papa! Good-night! Pleasant dream!" Then he says in Japanese: "Dream a good dream," or in English: "The same to you."

On this morning when Kazuo, before leaving home for school, went to him, and said a "good-morning," he said: "Pleasant dream." Not knowing how to say, Kazuo answered: "The same to you."

About eleven o'clock in the morning, while walking to and fro along the corridor, he looked into my sitting-room and saw the picture hung upon the wall of alcove. The picture entitled "Morning Sun," represented a glorious, but a little mistic, scene of seashore in the early morning with birds thronging. "A beautiful scenery! I would like to go to such a land," he remarked.

He was fond of hearing the note of insects. We kept _matsu mushi_ (a kind of cricket) this autumn. Toward evening the plaintive notes which matsu mushi made at intervals made me feel unusually lonesome. I asked my husband how it sounded to him. He said: "That tiny creature has been singing nicely. It's getting cold, though. Is it conscious or unconscious that soon it must die? It's a pity, indeed." And, in a lonesome way, he added: "Ah, poor creature! On one of these warm days let us put him secretly among the grasses."

Nothing particularly different was not to be observable in all about him that day through. But the single blossom of untimely cherry, the dream of long journey he had, and the notes of matsu mushi, all these make me sad even now, as if there had existed some significance about them. At supper he felt sudden pain in the breast. He stopped eating; went away to his library; I followed him. For some minutes, with his hands upon his breast, he walked about the room. A sensation of vomiting occurred to him. I helped him, but no vomiting. He wanted to lie on bed. With his hands on breast, he kept very calm in bed. But, in a few minutes after, he was no more the man of this side of the world. As if feeling no pain at all, he had a little smile about his mouth.

APPENDIX

The following was one of Hearn's general lectures at the University of Tōkyō as it was taken down at the time of its delivery by T. Ochiai, one of his students. It contains, together with some characteristic literary opinions, striking evidence of the curious felicity of Hearn's method of approach to the Japanese mind.

NAKED POETRY

Before beginning the regular course of literary lectures this year, I want to make a little discourse about what we may call Naked Poetry--that is, poetry without any dress, without any ornament, the very essence or body of poetry unveiled by artifice of any kind. I use the word artistically, of course--comparing poetry to an artistic object representing either a figure or a fact in itself, without any accessories.

Now for a few words about poetry in general. All the myriad forms of verse can be classed in three divisions without respect to subject or method. The highest class is the poetry in which both the words, or form, and the emotion expressed are equally admirable and super-excellent. The second division in importance is that kind of poetry in which the emotion or sentiment is the chief thing, and the form is only a secondary consideration. The third and least important class of poetry is that in which the form is everything, and the emotion or sentiment is always subordinated to it. Now scarcely any modern poem of great length entirely fulfils the highest condition. We have to go back to the old Greek poetry to find such fulfilment. But the second class of poetry includes such wonderful work as the poetry of Shakespeare. The third class of poetry is very fairly represented in English literature by the work of Pope and the dead classic school. To-day--I mean at this moment in England--the tendency is bad: it is again setting in the direction of form rather than of sentiment or thought.

This will be sufficient to explain to you what I shall [mean] in future lectures by speaking of perfect poetry, or second class poetry, or inferior poetry, independently of qualifications. But I must also ask you to accept my definition of the word poetry--though it is somewhat arbitrary. By poetry, true poetry, I mean, above all, that kind of composition in verse which deeply stirs the mind and moves the heart--in another word, the poetry of feeling. This is the true _literary signification_ of poetry; and this is why you will hear some kinds of prose spoken of as great poetry,--although it is not in any way like verse; an important difference of the kind above referred to has been recognized, I am told, by Japanese poets.

They have, at all events, declared that a perfect poem should leave something in the mind,--something not said, but suggested,--something that makes a thrill in you after reading the composition. You will therefore be very well able to see the beauty of any foreign verses which can fulfil this condition with very simple words. Of course when academic language, learned words, words known only to Greek or Latin scholars, are used, such poetry is almost out of the question. Popular language, in English at least, is the best medium for emotional poetry of certain kinds. But even without going to dialect, or descending to colloquialisms, great effects can be produced with very plain common English--provided that the poet sincerely feels. Here is a tiny but very famous little verse, which I would call an example of naked poetry--pure poetry without any kind of ornament at all. It has only rhymes of [one] syllable; but even if it had no rhymes at all it would still be great poetry. And what is more, I should call it something very much resembling in quality the spirit of Japanese poetry. However, you can judge for yourselves:--

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing:
What a little thing
To remember for years--
To remember with tears!

It reads like nothing in particular until you get to the last line;--then the whole picture comes suddenly into your mind with a shock, and you understand. It is an exile's memory of home, one instant of childhood shining out in memory, after all the rest of memory has become dark. So it is very famous, and really wonderful--although there is no art in it at all. It is simple as a song.

Now English poetry contains very few inspirations like that--which, by the way, was the work of an Irishman, William Allingham. The remarkable thing about it is the effect made by so small a thing. But we have a few English poets who touched the art of divine simplicity--of pure emotion independent of form; and one of these was Kingsley. You know several of his songs which show this emotional power; but I am not sure whether you know "Airly Beacon."

"Airly Beacon" is a little song; but it is the story of the tragedy of life--you never can forget it after once reading it. And you have no idea what you are reading until you come to the last line. I must tell you that the place for "Airly Beacon" is a high place in Scotland,--from the top of which a beautiful view can be obtained,--and it is called Airly Beacon because in ancient time a signal-fire, or beacon-fire, used to be lighted upon it. Bearing this in mind you will be better able to judge the effect of the poem. I must also remind you that in England and America young girls are allowed a great deal of liberty in regard to what is called "courtesy" [courting?], that is to say, being wooed, or made love to under promise of marriage. The idea is that a girl should have sufficient force of will to be able to take care of herself when alone with a man. If she has not--then she might have [to] sing the song of Airly Beacon. But _perhaps_ the girl in this case was not so importunate [unfortunate?]; we may imagine that she became a wife and very early a widow. The song does not say.

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon
While my love climbed up to me.

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the weary haunt for me,
All alone on Airly Beacon,
With his baby on my knee!

The great test as to whether verse contains real poetry, emotional poetry, is this: Can it be translated into the prose of another language and still make it appear emotional? If it can, then the true poetry is there; if it cannot, then it is not true poetry, but only verse. Now a great deal of famous Western poetry will really bear this test. The little poem that I have just quoted to you will bear it. So will some of the best work of each of our greatest poets. Those of you who study German know something about the wonderful poems of Heine. You know they are very simple in form and musical. Well, the best foreign translation of them is a translation into French prose. Here, of course, the rhyme is gone, the muse is gone, but the real, essential poetry--the power to touch the heart--remains. Do you remember the little poem in which the poet describes the soldier, the sentry on guard at the city-gate? He sees the soldier standing in the light of the evening sun, performing the military exercises all by himself, just to pass the time. He shoulders his gun as if in receiving invisible orders, presents, takes aim. Then, the poet suddenly exclaims,--"I wish he would shoot me dead!"

The whole power of the little composition is in that exclamation; he tells us all that he means, and all that he feels. To a person unhappy, profoundly unhappy, even the most common sights and sounds of life give him thoughts and wishes in relation to death. Now, a little poem like that loses very little, loses scarcely anything by a littler [_sic_] translation; it is what I have called naked poetry;--it does not depend upon the ornaments of expression, all the decoration of rhyme, in order to produce its effect. Perhaps you will say that this essence of poetry may also be found occasionally in prose. That is true;--there is such a thing as poetry in prose, but it is also true that measure and rhyme greatly intensify the charm of emotional expression.

Suppose we now take something more elaborate for an example--this celebrated little poem written many years ago by an Oxford student, and now known everywhere. I call it more elaborate, only because the workmanship as to form is much more:

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the whole world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
FRANCIS BOURDILLON.

An ancient Greek might have written something like that; it has the absolute perfection of some of those emotional little pieces of [the] Greek anthology--two thousand and even three thousand years old. The comparison of stars to eyes is very old. In every Western literature the stars have been called the eyes of the night; and still we call the sun the Eye of the Day, just as the Greeks did. Innumerable as are the stars of the night, they cannot be seen at all when the sun has well risen. They are not able to make light and joy in the world; and when the sun sets, everything becomes dark and colourless. Then the poet says that human love is to human life what the sun is to the world. It is not by reason, but by a feeling that we are made happy. The mind cannot make us happy as the heart can. Yet the mind, like the sky, "has a thousand eyes"--that is to say, a thousand different capacities of knowledge and perception. It does not matter. When the person that we really love is dead the happiness of life ceases for us; emotionally our world becomes dark as the physical world becomes when the sun has set.

Certainly the perfect verse and rhyme help the effect; but they are not at all necessary to the beauty of the thing. Translate that into your own language in prose; and you will see that very little is lost; for the first two lines of the first stanza exactly balance the first two lines of the second stanza; and the second two lines of the first stanza balance the second two lines of the second stanza; therefore even in prose the composition must assume a charming form, no matter what language it is rendered in.

But it does not follow at all that because a short composition in verse contains a great deal of meaning or happens to be very cleverly constructed, you can call it a real poem. Verses that only surprise by cleverness, by tricks of good words, have a very little value. They may be pretty; they give you a kind of pleasure, that is a small graceful object. But if they do not touch the heart as well as the head, I should never call them real poetry. For example, there is a French verse which has been translated into English more than a thousand times--always differently and yet never successfully. The English _Journal of Education_ this year asked for translations of it, and more than five hundred were sent in. None of them were satisfactory, though some of them were very clever.

La vie est vaine:
Un peu d'amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis--bonjour!

La vie est brêve:
Un peu d'espoir,
Un peu de rêve,
Et puis--bonsoir!

Life is vain: a little love, a little hate, and then--good-bye!
Life is brief: a little hope, a little dreaming, and then--good-night!

Of course, this requires no explanation, the French work is astonishingly clever, simple as it looks: the same thing cannot be done in the English language so well. As I have told you, at least a thousand English writers have tried to put it into English verse. So you will see that it is very famous. But is it poetry? I should certainly say that it is not. It is not poetry, because it consists only of a few commonplaces stated in a mocking way--in the tone of a clever man trifling with a serious subject. They do not really touch us. And they do not bear the test of translation. Put into English, what becomes of them? They simply dry up. The English reader might well exclaim, "We have heard of that before, in much better language." But let us take one verse of a Scotch song by Robert Burns which is known the whole world over, and which was written by a man who always wrote out of his own [heart].

"We two have paddled in the brook
From morning sun till noon,
But seas between us broad have roared
Since old lang syne."

When I put that into English, the music is gone, and the beauty of several dialect-words, such as "dine" (meaning the dinner hour, therefore the midday), and the melody have disappeared. Still the poetry remains. Two men in some foreign country, after years of separation, and one reminds the other of childhood days when both played in the village brook from the sunrise until dinner-time--so much delighted by the water! Only a little brook, one says;--but the breadth of oceans, the width of half the world, has been between us since that time. Now, anybody who, as a boy, loved to play or swim in the stream of his native village with other boys, can feel what the poet means; whether he be a Japanese or a Scotchman makes no difference at all. That is poetry.

And now, so much having been said on the subject of the emotional essence of poetry, I want to tell you that in the course of such lectures on poetry as we shall have in the course of the academic year, I shall try always to keep these facts before you and to select for our reading only those things which contain the thought of poetry that will bear the test of translation. Much of our English poetry will not do this. I think, for example, that it is a great mistake to set before Japanese students such 18th century birth [work?] as the verse of Pope. As verse it is perhaps the most perfect of the English language, as poetry it is nothing at all. The essence of poetry is not in Pope, nor is it to be found in most of the 18th century school.

That was an age in which it was the fashion to keep all emotion suppressed. But Pope is a useful study for English classes in England, because of what English students can take from it through the mere study of form, of compact and powerful expression with very few words. Here, the situation is exactly converse. The value of foreign poetry to you cannot be in the direction of form. Foreign form cannot be reproduced in Japanese any more than French can be produced into English. The value of foreign poetry is in what makes the soul, the heart, the heart of all poetry:--feeling and imagination. Foreign feeling and foreign imagination may help to add something to the beauty and the best quality of future Japanese poetry. There I think the worth of study may be very great. But when foreign poetry means nothing but correct verse, you might as well waste no time upon it; as there is much great poetry which has good form as well as strong feeling.

INDEX

Adulteration, in food and morals, II: 139-141.

Æsthetics, Y. Hirn's study of, II: 20, 21.

Africa, musical aptitudes of races of, I: 284, 353;
transplantation of melodies of, to America, 356, 380, 411.

Ahriman, the Persian Spirit of Darkness, II: 118, 126.

Akizuki, teacher of Chinese at Kumamoto, I: 125; II: 66, 67, 73, 119,
177.

Albee, John, I: 83;
letters from Hearn to, I: 276,277; II: 358-361;
his Prose Idyls, 360.

Albee, Mrs. John, I: 358, 359, 360.

Alden, Henry Mills, I: 286, 378, 405, 428.

Alexander the Great, I: 161.

Allen, Grant, Hearn's comment on, I: 394.

Allen, James Lane, II: 377.

Allingham, William, II: 522;
a verse by, 521.

Amaron, lyrics of, I: 368.

Ama-terasu-Omi-Kami, II: 25.

Amenomori, Nobushige, I: 128, 139, 159; II: 217, 346, 353, 380, 390,
391, 392, 394;
photograph of, 376.

Amicis, Edmondo de, his Cuore, I: 456; II: 102.

Amiel, Henri Frédéric, his Journal Intime, II: 400.

Ancestors, worship of, II: 28.

Andersen, Hans, Hearn's comment on, II: 251.

Angelinus, I: 256.

Anglo-American alliance, II: 384.

Anglo-Saxon race, future of, II: 137.

Antæus, II: 454.

Antilles. _See_ West Indies.

Apes, treatment of, on board ship, I: 413, 414.

Apollo, Temple of, at Levkas, I: 3.

Apollonius of Tyana, I: 321, 322.

Arabia, hero-stories of, I: 234, 237.

Aristocracies, value of, II: 248.

Arnold, Edwin, I: 282, 335, 454;
his Light of Asia, 291;
Hearn's opinion of, 319;
his translation of the story of Nala, 402.

Arnold, Matthew, Hearn's comments on, I: 318, 319.