KUMAMOTO, December, 1894.
DEAR HENDRICK,--Of course I shall teach the "Jungle Book" to the little
fellow, when he gets big enough. How pretty of you to send it. I sent
some little prints--don't know if you like them; in an album they would
perhaps interest your friends who have not been in Japan. I shall look
out for seeds for you regularly hereafter.
About Emerson. Last spring I got a pretty edition of him from H. M.
& Co. and I digested him. He is only suggestive, but wondrously so at
times, as in his poems. As a suggester he will always be great. The talk
about his truisms must depend upon the knowledge of the speaker. Emerson
will be large or small,--commonplace or profound,--according to the
reader's knowledge of the thought of the age.
My reading out here has been pretty heavy. I have had to digest a
good deal of Buddhist and Chinese stuff, of course. My philosophical
favourites are still Spencer and Huxley, Lewes and Fiske and Clifford.
I made Kipling's acquaintance out here (I mean his books), and told you
what I think of him. Next to Kipling I like Stevenson. But I have really
read very little of anything new. Browning is a pet study still. Somehow
I have tired of Tennyson--don't exactly know why.
The labour of a mother is something which, I imagine, no man without a
child can understand. We big folks forget what our own mothers did for
us,--and we have no real chance to see all that other mothers do. My
whole family are always caring for the boy: his interest and necessities
rule the whole house,--but the mother!! for a single hour she has no
rest with him (Japanese give the breast for two years)--no sleep except
when he allows it,--and yet it all is joy for her. How they have already
taught him Japanese politeness, how to prostrate himself before his
father the first thing in the morning and last at night,--to ask for
things, putting his hands in the proper way,--to smile,--to know the
names of things before he can pronounce them,--I can't understand.
Angel-patience and love alone could have done it. I want her to wean
him--but she won't hear of it; and the old grandmother gets angry at the
mere idea. It is only in home-relation that people are true enough to
each other,--show what human nature is--the beauty of it, the divinity
of it. We are otherwise all on our guard against each other. I cannot
say how happy I think you are--you can see Souls without armour or
mail,--loving you. That is the joy of life, after all--isn't it?