Of course I cannot know much about it now, but I am almost sure of having been in Malta as a child. At a later time my father, who was long there, told me queer things about the old palaces of the knights, and a story about a monk who, on the coming of the French, had the presence of mind to paint the gold chancel-railing with green paint. Southern Italy and the Mediterranean islands are especially fitted for classical scholars, like Symonds; but what a world of folk-lore also is there still ungathered! I should think that, next to Venice, Malta must be the most romantic spot in Europe.
I see your paper on Loochoo must have been much more than what you said of it,—viz., that only some snuffy German would read it. Or was the London report about the paper on Loochoo which I have? (There must be a wonderful ghost-world in those islands,—though it would be quite hard to get at: probably three years’ work.)
You can’t imagine my feeling of reaction in the matter of Japanese psychology. It seems as if everything had quite suddenly become clear to me, and utterly void of emotional interest: a race primitive as the Etruscan before Rome was, or more so, adopting the practices of a larger civilization under compulsion,—five thousand years at least emotionally behind us,—yet able to suggest to us the existence of feelings and ideals which do not exist, but are simulated by something infinitely simpler. Wonder if our own highest things have not grown up out of equally simple things. The compulsion first—then the sense of duty become habit, automatic, the conviction expanding into knowledge of ethical habit,—then the habit creating conviction,—then relations,—then the capacity for general ideas. But all the educational system now seems to me farcical and wrong,—except in mere dealing with facts apparent to common sense. There are no depths to stir, no race-profundities to explore: all is like a Japanese river-bed, through which the stones and rocks show up all the year round,—and is never filled but in time of cataclysm and destruction.
Ever faithfully,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN
Kōbe, March, 1895.
Dear Chamberlain,—Of course send back the Taylor and Pater—if you don’t care for them. I myself was very much disappointed in Pater. Perhaps my liking for Taylor is connected with boyish recollections of his facile charm: even Longfellow cannot greatly thrill me now. And may I make a confession?—I can’t endure any more of Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley—having learned the gems of them by heart. I really prefer Dobson and Watson and Lang. Of Wordsworth Watson sings,—
“It may be thought has broadened since he died!”
Well, I should smile! His deepest truths have become platitudes.