What, O my esteemed parent, what can
a brave but devout and demon-fearing nation do when opposed to a people
who are quite prepared to die without first leaving an adequate
posterity to tend their shrines and offer incense? Assuredly, as a
neighbouring philosopher once had occasion to remark, using for his
purpose a metaphor so technically-involved that I must leave the
interpretation until we meet, "It may be war, but it isn't cricket."
The inevitable outcome, naturally, is that the Island must be the
wandering-place of myriads of spirits possessing no recognised
standing, and driven by want--having none to transmit them
offerings--to the most degraded subterfuges. It is freely admitted
that there is scarcely an ancient building not the abode of one or
more of these abandoned demons, doubtless well-disposed in the first
instance, and capable of becoming really beneficent Forces until they
were driven to despair by obstinate neglect. A society of very
honourable persons (to which this one has unobtrusively contributed a
gift), exists for the purpose of searching out the most distressing
and meritorious cases among them, and removing them, where possible,
to a more congenial spot. The remarkable fact, to this person's mind,
is, that with the air and every available space around absolutely
packed with demons (as certainly must be the prevailing state of
things), the manifestations of their malignity and vice are, if
anything, rather less evident here than in our own favoured country,
where we do all in our power to satisfy their wants.
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