No More Learning

Locke and Dugald Stewart, he was prevented by
Martin Burney, who observed, "If J was here, he would
undoubtedly be for having up those profound and redoubted
scholiasts Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus. " I said this might
be fair enough in him, who had read or fancied he had read the
original works; but I did not see how we could have any right
to call up those authors to give an account of themselves in per-
son, till we had looked into their writings.
"
By this time it should seem that some rumor of our whimsi-
cal deliberation had got wind, and had disturbed the irritabile
genus in their shadowy abodes; for we received messages from
several candidates that we had just been thinking of. Gray
declined our invitation, though he had not yet been asked; Gay
offered to come, and bring in his hand the Duchess of Bolton,
the original Polly; Steele and Addison left their cards as Captain
Sentry and Sir Roger de Coverley; Swift came in and sat down
without speaking a word, and quitted the room as abruptly;
Otway and Chatterton were seen lingering on the opposite side
of the Styx, but could not muster enough between them to pay
Charon his fare; Thomson fell asleep in the boat, and was rowed
back again; and Burns sent a low fellow, one John Barleycorn,
-an old companion of his who had conducted him to the other.
world, to say that he had during his lifetime been drawn out
of his retirement, as a show, only to be made an exciseman of,
and that he would rather remain where he was. He desired,
however, to shake hands by his representative; the hand thus
held out was in a burning fever, and shook prodigiously.
The room was hung round with several portraits of eminent
painters. While we were debating whether we should demand
speech with these masters of mute eloquence, whose features
――――――――


## p. 7129 (#527) ###########################################

WILLIAM HAZLITT
7129
were so familiar to us, it seemed that all at once they glided
from their frames, and seated themselves at some little distance
from us.
There was Leonardo, with his majestic beard and
watchful eye, having a bust of Archimedes before him; next him
was Raphael's graceful head turned round to the Fornarina; and
on his other side was Lucretia Borgia, with calm golden locks;
Michael Angelo had placed the model of St. Peter's on the table
before him; Correggio had an angel at his side; Titian was
seated with his Mistress between himself and Giorgioni; Guido
was accompanied by his own Aurora, who took a dice-box from.
him; Claude held a mirror in his hand; Rubens patted a beauti-
ful panther (led in by a satyr) on the head; Vandyke appeared
as his own Paris; and Rembrandt was hid under furs, gold
chains, and jewels, which Sir Joshua eyed closely, holding his
hand so as to shade his forehead. Not a word was spoken; and
as we rose to do them homage they still presented the same sur-
face to the view. Not being bond fide representations of living
people, we got rid of the splendid apparitions by signs and dumb
show. As soon as they had melted into thin air there was a
loud noise at the outer door, and we found it was Giotto, Cima-
bue, and Ghirlandaio, who had been raised from the dead by
their earnest desire to see their illustrious successors
"Whose names on earth
In Fame's eternal records live for aye! "
Finding them gone, they had no ambition to be seen after them,
and mournfully withdrew. "Egad! " said Lamb, "those are the
very fellows I should like to have had some talk with, to know
how they could see to paint when all was dark around them! "
"But shall we have nothing to say," interrogated G. J
"to the Legend of Good Women? " "Name, name, Mr. J—,"
cried Hunt in a boisterous tone of friendly exultation; "name
as many as you please, without reserve or fear of molestation! "
Jwas perplexed between so many amiable recollections that
the name of the lady of his choice expired in a pensive whiff of
his pipe; and Lamb impatiently declared for the Duchess of New-
castle. Mrs. Hutchinson was no sooner mentioned, than she car-
ried the day from the Duchess. We were the less solicitous on
this subject of filling up the posthumous lists of Good Women, as
there was already one in the room as good, as sensible, and in all
respects as exemplary, as the best of them could be for their
lives! "I should like vastly to have seen Ninon de l'Enclos, "


## p. 7130 (#528) ###########################################

7130
WILLIAM HAZLITT
said that incomparable person; and this immediately put us in
mind that we had neglected to pay honor due to our friends on
the other side of the Channel: Voltaire the patriarch of levity,
and Rousseau the father of sentiment; Montaigne and Rabelais,
great in wisdom and in wit; Molière, and that illustrious group
that are collected around him (in the print of that subject) to
hear him read his comedy of the 'Tartuffe' at the house of
Ninon; Racine, La Fontaine, Rochefoucauld, St. Evremont, etc.
"There is one person," said a shrill querulous voice, "I would
rather see than all these - Don Quixote! "
«<
"Come, come! " said Hunt, "I thought we should have no
heroes, real or fabulous. What say you, Mr. Lamb? are you
for eking out your shadowy list with such names as Alexander,
Julius Cæsar, Tamerlane, or Ghenghis Khan? "
"Excuse me,"
said Lamb; "on the subject of characters in active life, plotters
and disturbers of the world, I have a crotchet of my own, which
I beg leave to reserve. ". "No, no! come, out with your wor-
thies! " "What do you think of Guy Fawkes and Judas Iscar-
iot ? »
Hunt turned an eye upon him like a wild Indian, but
cordial and full of smothered glee. "Your most exquisite reason! "
was echoed on all sides; and A- — thought that Lamb had now
fairly entangled himself. Why, I cannot but think," retorted
he of the wistful countenance, "that Guy Fawkes, that poor flut-
tering annual scarecrow of straw and rags, is an ill-used gentleman.
I would give something to see him sitting pale and emaciated,
surrounded by his matches and his barrels of gunpowder, and
expecting the moment that was to transport him to Paradise
for his heroic self-devotion; but if I say any more, there is that
fellow Godwin will make something of it. And as to Judas
Iscariot, my reason is different. I would fain see the face of
him who, having dipped his hand in the same dish with the Son
of Man, could afterwards betray him. I have no conception of
such a thing; nor have I ever seen any picture (not even Leo-
nardo's very fine one) that gave me the least idea of it. ". "You
have said enough, Mr. Lamb, to justify your choice. "
-
"Oh! ever right, Menenius,-ever right! "
"There is only one other person I can ever think of after
this," continued Lamb, but without mentioning a Name that
once put on a semblance of mortality. "If Shakespeare was to
come into the room, we should all rise up to meet him; but if
that person was to come into it, we should all fall down and try
to kiss the hem of his garment! "


## p. 7131 (#529) ###########################################

7131
LAFCADIO HEARN
(1850-)
AFCADIO HEARN is a painter with the pen. He has the rare
gift of sympathetic observation, and the rarer gift of words
to express what he sees and feels. It is no exaggeration
to say that he is a great colorist, filling his canvas sometimes with
glowing hues, again with mists of pearl or opaline lights, and always
showing Nature's esoteric as well as her physical charms.
Although he is classed as an American author, Lafcadio Hearn was
born in Santa Maura, Ionian Islands, - the ancient Leucadia,- June
27th, 1850; the son of an Englishman and a
native Greek. After receiving his education
in England he came to America, and be-
came engaged in journalism in Cincinnati
and New Orleans. His first long story was
'Chita: A Memory of Last Island' (1889), a
marvelous description of the destruction
of L'Île Dernière, the fashionable watering-
place of the aristocratic families of Lou-
isiana. The book is full of remarkable
descriptive passages; as for example:-

LAFCADIO HEARN
"On the Gulf side of these islands you may
observe that the trees-when there are any trees
-all bend away from the sea; and even on bright
hot days, when the wind sleeps, there is some-
thing grotesquely pathetic in their look of agonized terror. A group of oaks
at Grande Isle I remember as especially suggestive: five stooping silhouettes
in line against the horizon line, fleeing women with streaming garments and
wind-blown hair,- bowing grievously and thrusting out arms desperately
northward so as to save themselves from falling. And they are being pur-
sued, indeed,- for the sea is devouring the land. "
Mr. Hearn had published previously Stray Leaves from Strange
Literatures,' a collection of stories from various sources, including
Egyptian, Indian, the Kalevala, and Talmud traditions. This was fol-
lowed by 'Some Chinese Ghosts,' which like the 'Stray Leaves' con-
sists of gems artistically cut and reset by a literary lapidary. In the
preface the author calls himself "a humble traveler, who, entering


## p. 7132 (#530) ###########################################

LAFCADIO HEARN
7132
the pleasure grounds of Chinese fancy, culls a few of the marvelous
flowers there growing,-a self-luminous hwa-wang, a black lily, a
phosphoric rose or two,-as souvenirs of his curious voyage. "
After Two Years in the West Indies' and 'Youma'— a story of
the fidelity of the "da" (nurse or bonne) to her little white charge
during the insurrection of Martinique-were published in 1890, Mr.
Hearn went to Japan, where he has since lived. He has taught in
various colleges, and has traveled extensively in remote places, giv-
ing the results of his thought, study, and observation in 'Out of the
East' (1894), Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan' (1895), and 'Kokovo'
(1896), the latter title meaning "the heart" in its most extended inter-
pretation. In all of these books Mr. Hearn shows his comprehension
of and sympathy with Oriental philosophy and art, myth, and tradition,
and paints in tender and vivid fashion the scenes and landscapes of
his adopted country.
Of mixed race, a fact which by modern theory is conducive to
rare gifts in the individual; one who has absorbed impressions from
picturesque lands and civilizations, and looked, as well, beneath the
surface to the deep sources of human action and feeling, and who
is able to express the romantic and the mystic, the brilliantly exotic,
with rare literary power,- Mr. Hearn is a striking figure in the Eng-
lish literature of the late nineteenth century.
THE STORM
From 'Chita: A Memory of Last Island. › Copyright 1889, by Harper &
Brothers
THR
HIRTY years ago, Last Island lay steeped in the enormous light
of even such magical days. July was dying: for weeks no
fleck of cloud had broken the heaven's blue dream of eter-
nity; winds held their breath; slow wavelets caressed the bland
brown beach with a sound as of kisses and whispers. To one
who found himself alone, beyond the limits of the village and
beyond the hearing of its voices, the vast silence, the vast light,
seemed full of weirdness. And these hushes, these transparencies,
do not always inspire a causeless apprehension: they are omens
sometimes-omens of coming tempest. Nature,-incomprehensi-
ble Sphinx! -before her mightiest bursts of rage ever puts forth
her divinest witchery, makes more manifest her awful beauty.
But in that forgotten summer the witchery lasted many
long days,- days born in rose-light, buried in gold. It was the


## p. 7133 (#531) ###########################################

LAFCADIO HEARN
7133
height of the season. The long myrtle-shadowed village was
thronged with its summer population; the big hotel could hardly
accommodate all its guests; the bathing-houses were too few
for the crowds who flocked to the water morning and evening.
There were diversions for all: hunting and fishing parties, yacht-
ing excursions, rides, music, games, promenades. Carriage wheels
whirled flickering along the beach, seaming its smoothness noise-
lessly, as if muffled. Love wrote its dreams upon the sand.
Then one great noon, when the blue abyss of day seemed to
yawn over the world more deeply than ever before, a sudden
change touched the quicksilver smoothness of the waters— the
swaying shadow of a vast motion. First the whole sea circle
appeared to rise up bodily at the sky; the horizon curve lifted to
a straight line; the line darkened and approached,- a monstrous
wrinkle, an immeasurable fold of green water, moving swift as a
cloud shadow pursued by sunlight. But it had looked formidable
only by startling contrast with the previous placidity of the
open: it was scarcely two feet high; it curled slowly as it neared
the beach, and combed itself out in sheets of woolly foam with a
low, rich roll of whispered thunder. Swift in pursuit another
followed- a third a feebler fourth; then the sea only swayed
a little, and stilled again. Minutes passed, and the immeasur-
able heaving recommenced-one, two, three, four-seven long
swells this time; and the Gulf smoothed itself once more. Irreg-
ularly the phenomenon continued to repeat itself, each time with
heavier billowing and briefer intervals of quiet, until at last the.
whole sea grew restless, and shifted color and flickered green;
the swells became shorter and changed form. Then from horizon
to shore ran one uninterrupted heaving, one vast green swarming
of snaky shapes, rolling in to hiss and flatten upon the sand.
Yet no single cirrus speck revealed itself through all the violet
heights; there was no wind! You might have fancied the sea
had been upheaved from beneath.
And indeed, the fancy of a seismic origin for a windless surge
would not appear in these latitudes to be utterly without founda-
tion. On the fairest days a southeast breeze may bear you an
odor singular enough to startle you from sleep,-a strong, sharp
smell as of fish-oil; and gazing at the sea, you might be still
more startled at the sudden apparition of great oleaginous patches
spreading over the water, sheeting over the swells. That is, if
you had never heard of the mysterious submarine oil wells, the
―――――――
______


## p. 7134 (#532) ###########################################

LAFCADIO HEARN
7134
volcanic fountains, unexplored, that well up with the eternal
pulsing of the Gulf Stream.
But the pleasure-seekers of Last Island knew there must have
been a "great blow" somewhere that day. Still the sea swelled;
and a splendid surf made the evening bath delightful. Then
just at sundown a beautiful cloud bridge grew up and arched
the sky with a single span of cottony pink vapor, that changed
and deepened color with the dying of the iridescent day. And
the cloud bridge approached, stretched, strained, and swung round
at last to make way for the coming of the gale,-even as the
light bridges that traverse the dreamy Têche swing open when
luggermen sound through their conch-shells the long, bellowing
signal of approach.
Then the wind began to blow, with the passing of July. It
blew from the northeast,- clear, cool. It blew in enormous sighs,
dying away at regular intervals, as if pausing to draw breath.
All night it blew; and in each pause could be heard the answer-
ing moan of the rising surf,- as if the rhythm of the sea molded
itself after the rhythm of the air,-as if the waving of the water
responded precisely to the waving of the wind,-a billow for
every puff, a surge for every sigh.
The August morning broke in a bright sky; the breeze still
came cool and clear from the northeast. The waves were run-
ning now at a sharp angle to the shore; they began to carry
fleeces, an innumerable flock of vague green shapes, wind-driven
to be despoiled of their ghostly wool. Far as the eye could fol-
low the line of the beach, all the slope was white with the great
shearing of them. Clouds came, flew as in a panic against the
face of the sun, and passed. All that day and through the night
and into the morning again the breeze continued from the north-
east, blowing like an equinoctial gale.
Then day by day the vast breath freshened steadily, and the
waters heightened. A week later sea-bathing had become peril-
ous; colossal breakers were herding in, like moving leviathan
backs, twice the height of a man. Still the gale grew, and the
billowing waxed mightier, and faster and faster overhead flew the
tatters of torn cloud. The gray morning of the 9th wanly lighted
a surf that appalled the best swimmers: the sea was one wild
agony of foam, the gale was rending off the heads of the waves
and veiling the horizon with a fog of salt spray. Shadowless and
gray the day remained; there were mad bursts of lashing rain.


## p. 7135 (#533) ###########################################

LAFCADIO HEARN
7135
Evening brought with it a sinister apparition, looming through a
cloud-rent in the west-a scarlet sun in a green sky.
His san-
guine disk, enormously magnified, seemed barred like the body
of a belted planet. A moment, and the crimson spectre van-
ished, and the moonless night came.
Then the wind grew weird. It ceased being a breath; it
became a voice moaning across the world, hooting, uttering
nightmare sounds,-Whoo! -whoo! -whoo! -and with each stu-
pendous owl-cry the mooing of the waters seemed to deepen,
more and more abysmally, through all the hours of darkness.
From the northwest the breakers of the bay began to roll high
over the sandy slope, into the salines; the village bayou broad-
ened to a bellowing flood. So the tumult swelled and the turmoil
heightened until morning-a morning of gray gloom and whis-
tling rain. Rain of bursting clouds and rain of wind-blown brine
from the great spuming agony of the sea.
The steamer Star was due from St. Mary's that fearful morn-
ing. Could she come? No one really believed it,— no one. And
nevertheless men struggled to the roaring beach to look for her,
because hope is stronger than reason.
Even to-day, in these Creole islands, the advent of the steamer
is the great event of the week. There are no telegraph lines,
no telephones: the mail packet is the only trustworthy medium of
communication with the outer world, bringing friends, news, let-
ters. The magic of steam has placed New Orleans nearer to
New York than to the Timbaliers, nearer to Washington than to
Wine Island, nearer to Chicago than to Barataria Bay. And
even during the deepest sleep of waves and winds, there will
come betimes to sojourners in this unfamiliar archipelago a feel-
ing of lonesomeness that is a fear, a feeling of isolation from the
world of men,- totally unlike that sense of solitude which haunts
one in the silence of mountain heights, or amid the eternal
tumult of lofty granitic coasts: a sense of helpless insecurity.
The land seems but an undulation of the sea-bed; its highest
ridges do not rise more than the height of a man above the
salines on either side; the salines themselves lie almost level with
the level of the flood-tides; the tides are variable, treacherous,
mysterious. But when all around and above these ever-changing
shores the twin vastnesses of heaven and sea begin to utter the
tremendous revelation of themselves as infinite forces in conten-
tion. then indeed this sense of separation from humanity appalls.


## p. 7136 (#534) ###########################################

7136
LAFCADIO HEARN
Perhaps it was such a feeling which forced men, on the tenth
day of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six, to hope against
hope for the coming of the Star, and to strain their eyes towards
far-off Terrebonne. "It was a wind you could lie down on,” said
my friend the pilot.
"Great God! " shrieked a voice above the shouting of the
storm, "she is coming! " It was true. Down the Atchafalaya, and
thence through strange mazes of bayou, lakelet, and pass, by a
rear route familiar only to the best of pilots, the frail river craft
had toiled into Caillou Bay, running close to the main shore;
and now she was heading right for the island, with the wind aft,
over the monstrous sea. On she came, swaying, rocking, plun-
ging, with a great whiteness wrapping her about like a cloud, and
moving with her moving,-a tempest-whirl of spray; ghost-white
and like a ghost she came, for her smoke-stacks exhaled no visi-
ble smoke the wind devoured it!
The excitement on shore became wild; men shouted them-
selves hoarse; women laughed and cried. Every telescope and
opera-glass was directed upon the coming apparition; all won-
dered how the pilot kept his feet; all marveled at the madness.
of the captain.
But Captain Abraham Smith was not mad. A veteran Ameri-
can sailor, he had learned to know the great Gulf as scholars
know deep books by heart; he knew the birthplace of its tem-
pests, the mystery of its tides, the omens of its hurricanes. While.
lying at Brashear City he felt the storm had not yet reached its
highest, vaguely foresaw a mighty peril, and resolved to wait no
longer for a lull. "Boys," he said, "we've got to take her out
in spite of hell! " And they "took her out. " Through all the
peril, his men stayed by him and obeyed him. By mid-morning
the wind had deepened to a roar,-lowering sometimes to a
rumble, sometimes bursting upon the ears like a measureless
and deafening crash. Then the captain knew the Star was run-
ning a race with Death. "She'll win it," he muttered; "she'll
stand it. Perhaps they'll have need of me to-night. "
She won! With a sonorous steam chant of triumph the brave
little vessel rode at last into the bayou, and anchored hard by
her accustomed resting-place, in full view of the hotel, though
not near enough to shore to lower her gang-plank.
But she had sung her swan song. Gathering in from the
northeast, the waters of the bay were already marbling over the


## p. 7137 (#535) ###########################################

LAFCADIO HEARN
7137
salines and half across the island; and still the wind increased its
paroxysmal power.
Cottages began to rock. Some slid away from the solid props
upon which they rested. A chimney tumbled. Shutters were
wrenched off; verandas demolished. Light roofs lifted, dropped
again, and flapped into ruin. Trees bent their heads to the
earth. And still the storm grew louder and blacker with every
passing hour.
The Star rose with the rising of the waters, dragging her
anchor. Two more anchors were put out, and still she dragged
-dragged in with the flood, twisting, shuddering, careening in
her agony.
Evening fell; the sand began to move with the
wind, stinging faces like a continuous fire of fine shot; and fren-
zied blasts came to buffet the steamer forward, sideward. Then
one of her hog-chains parted with a clang like the boom of a
big bell.
Then another! - Then the captain bade his men to
cut away all her upper works, clean to the deck. Overboard
into the seething went her stacks, her pilot-house, her cabins -
and whirled away. And the naked hull of the Star, still drag-
ging her three anchors, labored on through the darkness, nearer
and nearer to the immense silhouette of the hotel, whose hundred
windows were now all aflame. The vast timber building seemed
to defy the storm. The wind, roaring round its broad verandas,
hissing through every crevice with the sound and force of steam,
appeared to waste its rage. And in the half-lull between two ter-
rible gusts there came to the captain's ears a sound that seemed
strange in that night of multitudinous terrors - - a sound of music!
ALMOST every evening throughout the season there had been
dancing in the great hall; there was dancing that night also.
The population of the hotel had been augmented by the advent
of families from other parts of the island, who found their sum-
mer cottages insecure places of shelter; there were nearly four
hundred guests assembled. Perhaps it was for this reason that
the entertainment had been prepared upon a grander plan than
usual, that it assumed the form of a fashionable ball. And all
those pleasure-seekers, representing the wealth and beauty of
the Creole parishes,- whether from Ascension or Assumption, St.
Mary's or St. Landry's, Iberville or Terrebonne, whether inhabit-
ants of the multicolored and many-balconied Creole quarter of
the quaint metropolis, or dwellers in the dreamy paradises of the
XII-447


## p. 7138 (#536) ###########################################

7138
LAFCADIO HEARN
Têche, mingled joyously, knowing each other, feeling in some
sort akin; whether affiliated by blood, connaturalized by caste, or
simply interassociated by traditional sympathies of class sentiment
and class interest. Perhaps in the more than ordinary merriment
of that evening something of nervous exaltation might have been
discerned, something like a feverish resolve to oppose apprehen-
sion with gayety, to combat uneasiness by diversion.
But the
hours passed in mirthfulness; the first general feeling of depres
sion began to weigh less and less upon the guests: they had
found reason to confide in the solidity of the massive building;
there were no positive terrors, no outspoken fears; and the new
conviction of all had found expression in the words of the host
himself, "Il n'y a rien de mieux à faire que de s'amuser! " Of
what avail to lament the prospective devastation of cane-fields,
to discuss the possible ruin of crops? Better to seek solace in
choregraphic harmonies, in the rhythm of gracious motion and of
perfect melody, than hearken to the discords of the wild orches-
tra of storms; wiser to admire the grace of Parisian toilets, the
eddy of trailing robes with its fairy foam of lace, the ivorine
loveliness of glossy shoulders and jeweled throats, the glimmer-
ing of satin-slippered feet, than to watch the raging of the flood
without, or the flying of the wrack.
་
So the music and the mirth went on: they made joy for them-
selves, those elegant guests; they jested and sipped rich wines;
they pledged, and hoped, and loved, and promised, with never a
thought of the morrow, on the night of the tenth of August,
eighteen hundred and fifty-six. Observant parents were there,
planning for the future bliss of their nearest and dearest; moth-
ers and fathers of handsome lads, lithe and elegant as young
pines, and fresh from the polish of foreign university training;
mothers and fathers of splendid girls whose simplest attitudes
were witcheries. Young cheeks flushed; young hearts fluttered
with an emotion more puissant than the excitement of the dance;
young eyes betrayed the happy secret discreeter lips would have
preserved. Slave-servants circled through the aristocratic press,
bearing dainties and wines, praying permission to pass in terms
at once humble and officious,—always in the excellent French
which well-trained house-servants were taught to use
on such
occasions.
Night wore on: still the shining floor palpitated to the feet
of the dancers; still the pianoforte pealed, and still the violins
-
—


## p. 7139 (#537) ###########################################

LAFCADIO HEARN
7139
sang; and the sound of their singing shrilled through the dark-
ness, in gasps of the gale, to the ears of Captain Smith, as he
strove to keep his footing on the spray-drenched deck of the
Star.
"Christ! " he muttered,-" a dance! If that wind whips round
south, there'll be another dance! But I guess the Star will stay. "
Half an hour might have passed; still the lights flamed calmly,
and the violins trilled, and the perfumed whirl went on.
And suddenly the wind veered!
Again the Star reeled, and shuddered, and turned, and began
to drag all her anchors. But she now dragged away from the
great building and its lights,-away from the voluptuous thunder
of the grand piano, even at that moment outpouring the great
joy of Weber's melody orchestrated by Berlioz, 'L'Invitation à
la Valse,' with its marvelous musical swing!
"Waltzing! ” cried the captain. "God help them! God help
us all now! The Wind waltzes to-night, with the Sea for his
partner! »
Oh the stupendous Valse Tourbillon! Oh the mighty Dancer!
One-two-three! From northeast to east, from east to south-
east, from southeast to south; then from the south he came,
whirling the Sea in his arms.
Some one shrieked in the midst of the revels,—some girl who
found her pretty slippers wet. What could it be? Thin streams
of water were spreading over the level planking, curling about
the feet of the dancers. What could it be? All the land had
begun to quake, even as but a moment before the polished floor
was trembling to the pressure of circling steps; all the building
shook now; every beam uttered its groan. What could it be?
There was a clamor, a panic, a rush to the windy night.
Infinite darkness above and beyond; but the lantern beams
danced far out over an unbroken circle of heaving and swirling
black water. Stealthily, swiftly, the measureless sea flood was
rising.
"Messieurs mesdames, ce n'est rien. Nothing serious, ladies,
1 assure you. Mais nous en avons vu bien souvent, les inonda-
*ions comme celle-ci; ça passe vite! The water will go down in
few hours, ladies: it never rises
le moindre danger, je vous dis!
what is that? »
higher than this; il n'y a pas
Allons! il n'y a- My God!


## p. 7140 (#538) ###########################################

7140
LAFCADIO HEARN
For a moment there was a ghastly hush of voices. And
through that hush there burst upon the ears of all a fearful and
unfamilar sound, as of a colossal cannonade-rolling up from the
south with volleying lightnings. Vastly and swiftly, nearer and
nearer it came, a ponderous and unbroken thunder roll, terrible as
the long muttering of an earthquake.
The nearest mainland, across mad Caillou Bay to the sea
marshes, lay twelve miles north; west, by the Gulf, the nearest
solid ground was twenty miles distant. There were boats, yes!
but the stoutest swimmer might never reach them now!
Then rose a frightful cry: the hoarse, hideous, indescribable
cry of hopeless fear; the despairing animal cry man utters when
suddenly brought face to face with Nothingness, without prepara-
tion, without consolation, without possibility of respite.
« Sauve
qui peut! " Some wrenched down the doors; some clung to the
heavy banquet tables, to the sofas, to the billiard tables; during
one terrible instant, against fruitless heroisms, against futile gen-
erosities, raged all the frenzy of selfishness, all the brutalities of
panic. And then-then came, thundering through the blackness,
the giant swells, boom on boom! One crash! the huge frame
building rocks like a cradle, seesaws, crackles. What are human
shrieks now? the tornado is shrieking! Another! chandeliers
splinter; lights are dashed out; a sweeping cataract hurls in; the
immense hall rises, oscillates, twirls as upon a pivot, crepitates,
crumbles into ruin. Crash again! the swirling wreck dissolves
into the wallowing of another monster billow; and a hundred
cottages overturn, spin in sudden eddies, quiver, disjoint, and
melt into the seething.
So the hurricane passed, tearing off the heads of the pro-
digious waves to hurl them a hundred feet in air, heaping up
the ocean against the land, upturning the woods.
Bays and
passes were swollen to abysses; rivers regorged; the sea marshes
were changed to raging wastes of water. Before New Orleans
the flood of the mile-broad Mississippi rose six feet above high-
est water-mark. One hundred and ten miles away, Donaldson-
ville trembled at the towering tide of the Lafourche. Lakes
strove to burst their boundaries. Far-off river steamers tugged
wildly at their cables, shivering like tethered creatures that hear
by night the approaching howl of destroyers. Smoke-stacks were
hurled overboard, pilot-houses torn away, cabins blown to frag-
ments.


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And over roaring Kaimbuck Pass, over the agony of Caillou
Bay, the billowing tide rushed unresisted from the Gulf, tear-
ing and swallowing the land in its course, plowing out deep-sea
channels where sleek herds had been grazing but a few hours
before, rending islands in twain, and ever bearing with it,
through the night, enormous vortex of wreck and vast wan drift
of corpses.
But the Star remained. And Captain Abraham Smith, with
a long, good rope about his waist, dashed again and again into
that awful surging to snatch victims from death,-clutching at
passing hands, heads, garments, in the cataract-sweep of the seas;
saving, aiding, cheering, though blinded by spray and battered by
drifting wreck, until his strength failed in the unequal struggle
at last, and his men drew him aboard senseless, with some beau-
tiful half-drowned girl safe in his arms. But well-nigh twoscore
souls had been rescued by him; and the Star stayed on through
it all.
Long years after, the weed-grown ribs of her graceful skele-
ton could still be seen, curving up from the sand-dunes of Last
Island, in valiant witness of how well she stayed.
DAY breaks through the flying wrack, over the infinite heav-
ing of the sea, over the low land made vast with desolation. It
is a spectral dawn; a wan light, like the light of a dying sun.
The wind has waned and veered; the flood sinks slowly
back to its abysses, abandoning its plunder, scattering its pit-
eous waifs over bar and dune, over shoal and marsh, among
the silences of the mango swamps, over the long low reaches of
sand grasses and drowned weeds, for more than a hundred miles.
From the shell reefs of Pointe-au-Fer to the shallows of Pelto
Bay the dead lie mingled with the high-heaped drift; from their
cypress groves the vultures rise to dispute a share of the feast
with the shrieking frigate-birds and squeaking gulls. And as the
tremendous tide withdraws its plunging waters, all the pirates of
air follow the great white-gleaming retreat-a storm of billowing
wings and screaming throats.
And swift in the wake of gull and frigate-bird the Wreckers
come, the Spoilers of the dead,- savage skimmers of the sea,
hurricane-riders wont to spread their canvas pinions in the face
of storms; Sicilian and Corsican outlaws, Manila men from the


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7142
marshes, deserters from many navies, Lascars, marooners, refu-
gees of a hundred nationalities, fishers and shrimpers by name,
smugglers by opportunity, wild channel-finders from obscure bay-
ous and unfamiliar chénières, all skilled in the mysteries of
these mysterious waters beyond the comprehension of the oldest
licensed pilot.
There is plunder for all, birds and men. There are drowned
sheep in multitude, heaped carcasses of kine. There are casks of
claret and kegs of brandy and legions of bottles bobbing in the
surf. There are billiard tables overturned upon the sand; there
are sofas, pianos, footstools and music-stools, luxurious chairs,
lounges of bamboo. There are chests of cedar, and toilet tables
of rosewood, and trunks of fine stamped leather stored with pre-
cious apparel. There are objets de luxe innumerable. There
are children's playthings: French dolls in marvelous toilets, and
toy carts, and wooden horses, and wooden spades, and brave little
wooden ships that rode out the gale in which the great Nautilus
went down. There is money in notes and in coin-in purses, in
pocket-books, and in pockets; plenty of it! There are silks, sat-
ins, laces, and fine linen to be stripped from the bodies of the
drowned, and necklaces, bracelets, watches, finger-rings and fine
chains, brooches and trinkets. "Chi bidizza! Oh! chi bedda
mughieri! Eccu, la bidizza! " That ball-dress was made in Paris.
by - But you never heard of him, Sicilian Vicenzu.
"Che bella sposina! " Her betrothal ring will not come off,
Giuseppe: but the delicate bone snaps easily; your oyster-knife
can sever the tendon. "Guardate! chi bedda picciota! " Over
her heart you will find it, Valentino-the locket held by that
fine Swiss chain of woven hair-"Caya manan! " And it is not
your quadroon bondsmaid, sweet lady, who now disrobes you
so roughly: those Malay hands are less deft than hers; but she
slumbers very far away from you, and may not be aroused from
her sleep. "Na quita mo! dalaga! -na quita maganda! " Juan,
the fastenings of those diamond ear-drops are much too com-
plicated for your peon fingers: tear them out! -"Dispense, chu-
lita! "
Suddenly a long, mighty silver trilling fills the ears of all;
there is a wild hurrying and scurrying; swiftly, one after another,
the overburdened luggers spread wings and flutter away.
Thrice the great cry rings rippling through the gray air, and
over the green sea, and over the far-flooded shell reefs, where the


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7143
sheet-lightning of breakers,- and over
huge white flashes are,
the weird wash of corpses coming in.
It is the steam-call of the relief boat, hastening to rescue the
living, to gather in the dead.
The tremendous tragedy is over!
MY FIRST DAY IN THE ORIENT
From Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan. Copyright 1894, by Lafcadio Hearn.
Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers, Boston
"TERA
ERA? " queries Cha, with his immense white hat in his hand,
as I resume my seat in the jinrikisha at the foot of the
steps. Which no doubt means, Do I want to see any more
temples? Most certainly I do: I have not yet seen Buddha.
"Yes, tera, Cha. "
And again begins the long panorama of mysterious shops and
tilted eaves, and fantastic riddles written over everything. I have
no idea in what direction Cha is running. I only know that the
streets seem to become always narrower as we go, and that some
of the houses look like great wicker-work pigeon cages only, and
that we pass over several bridges before we halt again at the
foot of another hill. There is a lofty flight of steps here also,
and before them a structure which I know is both a gate and a
symbol; imposing, yet in no manner resembling the great Bud-
dhist gateway seen before. Astonishingly simple all the lines of
it are: it has no carving, no coloring, no lettering upon it; yet it
has a weird solemnity, an enigmatic beauty. It is a torii.
"Miya," observes Cha. Not a tera this time, but a shrine of
the gods of the more ancient faith of the land,—a miya.
I am standing before a Shinto symbol; I see for the first
time-out of a picture at least―a torii. How describe a torii
to those who have never looked at one even in a photograph or
engraving? Two lofty columns, like gate pillars, supporting hori-
zontally two cross-beams, the lower and lighter beam having its
ends fitted into the columns a little distance below their summits;
the uppermost and larger beam supported upon the tops of the
columns, and projecting well beyond them to right and left.
That is a torii: the construction varying little in design, whether
made of stone, wood, or metal. But this description can give no
correct idea of the appearance of a torii, of its majestic aspect, of


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7144
LAFCADIO HEARN
its mystical suggestiveness as a gateway. The first time you see
a noble one, you will imagine perhaps that you see the colossal
model of some beautiful Chinese letter towering against the sky;
for all the lines of the thing have the grace of an animated ideo-
graph,- have the bold angles and curves of characters made with
four sweeps of a master brush.
Passing the torii, I ascend a flight of perhaps one hundred
stone steps, and find at their summit a second torii, from whose
lower cross-beam hangs festooned the mystic shimenawa. It is
in this case a hempen rope of perhaps two inches in diameter
through its greater length, but tapering off at either end like a
snake. Sometimes the shimenawa is made of bronze, when the
torii itself is of bronze; but according to tradition it should be
made of straw, and most commonly is. For it represents the
straw rope which the deity Futo-tama-no-mikoto stretched behind
the Sun goddess, Ama-terasu-oho-mi-Kami, after Ame-no-ta-jikara-
wo-no-Kami the Heavenly-hand-strength god had pulled her out,
as is told in that ancient myth of Shinto which Professor Cham-
berlain has translated. And the shimenawa, in its commoner and
simpler form, has pendent tufts of straw along its entire length
at regular intervals, because originally made, tradition declares,
of grass pulled up by the roots, which protruded from the twist
of it.
Advancing beyond this torii, I find myself in a sort of park
or pleasure ground on the summit of the hill. There is a small
temple on the right: it is all closed up; and I have read so much
about the disappointing vacuity of Shinto temples that I do not
regret the absence of its guardian. And I see before me what
is infinitely more interesting: a grove of cherry-trees covered
with something unutterably beautiful,- a dazzling mist of snowy
blossoms clinging like summer cloud fleece about every branch
and twig; and the ground beneath them and the path before me
are white with the soft, thick, odorous snow of fallen petals.
Beyond this loveliness are flower-pots surrounding tiny shrines;
and marvelous grotto-work, full of monsters,—dragons and myth-
ologic beings chiseled in the rock; and miniature landscape work
with tiny groves of dwarf trees, and liliputian lakes, and micro-
scopic brooks and bridges and cascades. Here also are swings
for children. And here are belvederes, perched on the verge of
the hill, where from the whole fair city, and the whole smooth
bay speckled with fishing-sails no bigger than pin-heads, and the


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far, faint, high promontories reaching into the sea, are all visible
in one delicious view, blue-penciled in a beauty of ghostly haze
indescribable.
Why should the trees be so lovely in Japan? With us, a plum
or cherry tree in flower is not an astonishing sight; but here it
is a miracle of beauty so bewildering that, however much you
may have previously read about it, the real spectacle strikes you
dumb. You see no leaves,-only one great filmy mist of petals.
Is it that the trees have been so long domesticated and caressed
by man in this land of the gods that they have acquired souls,
and strive to show their gratitude, like women loved, by making
themselves more beautiful for man's sake? Assuredly they have
mastered men's hearts by their loveliness, like beautiful slaves; -
that is to say, Japanese hearts: apparently there have been some
foreign tourists of the brutal class in this place, since it has been
deemed necessary to set up inscriptions in English announcing
that "It is forbidden to injure the trees. "
"Tera?
"Yes, Cha, tera. "
But only for a brief while do I traverse Japanese streets.
The houses separate, become scattered along the feet of the hills;
the city thins away through little valleys, and vanishes at last
behind; and we follow a curving road overlooking the sea.
Green hills slope steeply down to the edge of the way on the
right; on the left, far below, spreads a vast stretch of dun sand
and salty pools to a line of surf so distant that it is discernible
only as a moving white thread. The tide is out; and thou-
sands of cockle-gatherers are scattered over the sands, at such
distances that their stooping figures, dotting the glimmering sea-
bed, appear no larger than gnats. And some are coming along
the road before us, returning from their search with well-filled
baskets, girls with faces almost as rosy as the faces of English
girls.
―
As the jinrikisha rattles on, the hills dominating the road
grow higher. All at once Cha halts again before the steepest
and loftiest flight of steps I have yet seen.
I climb and climb and climb, halting perforce, betimes, to
ease the violent aching of my quadriceps muscles; reach the top
completely out of breath; and find myself between two lions of
stone, one showing his fangs, the other with jaws closed. Before
me stands the temple, at the farther end of a small bare plateau


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LAFCADIO HEARN
surrounded on three sides by low cliffs- a small temple, looking
very old and gray. From a rocky height to the left of the build-
ing a little cataract tumbles down into a pool, ringed in by a
palisade. The voice of the water drowns all other sounds. A
sharp wind is blowing from the ocean; the place is chill even
in the sun, and bleak, and desolate, as if no prayer had been
uttered in it for a hundred years.
Cha taps and calls, while I take off my shoes upon the worn
wooden steps of the temple, and after a minute of waiting we
hear a muffled step approaching and a hollow cough behind the
paper screens. They slide open, and an old white-robed priest
appears, and motions me with a low bow to enter. He has a
kindly face, and his smile of welcome seems to me one of the
most exquisite I have ever been greeted with. Then he coughs
again, so badly that I think if I ever come here another time I
shall ask for him in vain.
I go in, feeling that soft, spotless, cushioned matting beneath
my feet with which the floors of all Japanese buildings are cov
ered. I pass the indispensable bell and lacquered reading-desk;
and before me I see other screens only, stretching from floor to
ceiling. The old man, still coughing, slides back one of these
upon the right and waves me into the dimness of an inner sanc-
tuary, haunted by faint odors of incense. A colossal bronze lamp,
with snarling gilded dragons coiled about its columnar stem, is
the first object I discern; and in passing it, my shoulder sets
ringing a festoon of little bells suspended from the lotus-shaped
summit of it. Then I reach the altar, gropingly, unable yet to
distinguish forms clearly. But the priest, sliding back screen
after screen, pours in light upon the gilded brasses and the
inscriptions: and I look for the image of the deity or presiding
spirit between the altar groups of convoluted candelabra. And
I see only a mirror, a round pale disk of polished metal, and
my own face therein; and behind this mockery of me a phantom
of the far sea.
Only a mirror! Symbolizing what? illusion? or that the uni-
verse existed for us solely as the reflection of our own souls?
or the old Chinese teaching that we must seek the Buddha only
in our own hearts? Perhaps some day I shall be able to find
out all these things.
As I sit on the temple steps, putting on my shoes preparatory
to going, the kind old priest approaches me again, and bowing,


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presents a bowl. I hastily drop some coins in it, imagining it
to be a Buddhist alms-bowl, before discovering it to be full of
hot water. But the old man's beautiful courtesy saves me from
feeling all the grossness of my mistake. Without a word, and
still preserving his kindly smile, he takes the bowl away, and
returning presently with another bowl, empty, fills it with hot
water from a little kettle, and makes a sign to me to drink.
Tea is most usually offered to visitors at temples; but this
little shrine is very, very poor; and I have a suspicion that the
old priest suffers betimes for want of what no fellow-creature
should be permitted to need. As I descend the windy steps to
the roadway I see him still looking after me, and I hear once
more his hollow cough.
Then the mockery of the mirror recurs to me. I am begin-
ning to wonder whether I shall ever be able to discover that
which I seek-outside of myself! That is, outside of my own.
imagination.
The sun is gone; the topaz light is gone: and Cha stops to
light his lantern of paper, and we hurry on again, between two
long lines of painted paper lanterns suspended before the shops;
so closely set, so level those lines are, that they seem two
interminable strings of pearls of fire. And suddenly a sound-
solemn, profound, mighty-peals to my ears over the roofs of
the town: the voice of the tsurigane, the great temple bell of
Nungiyama.
-
All too short the day seemed. Yet my eyes have been
so long dazzled by the great white light, and so confused by
the sorcery of that interminable maze of mysterious signs which
made each street vista seem a glimpse into some enormous
grimoire, that they are now weary even of the soft glowing of
all these paper lanterns, likewise covered with characters that
look like texts from a book of magic. And I feel at last the
coming of that drowsiness which always follows enchantment.


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