It is not necessary to seek it, but it would be unwise to refuse it. In the mean time I shall call attention to you in our columns occasionally,--briefly of course. I only proposed _T.-D._ with the idea you might have need of a medium to publish your opinions and ideas. But so long as the _Inter-Ocean_ takes an interest in you,--even without compensating you,--you have a right to congratulate yourself, as you are only beginning to make your voice heard in the wilderness. I shall bring your paper to Page Baker to-night,--who has just returned to town. Will send photo when I write again.

I would scarcely advise you to quote from my book. I am still too small a figure to attract any attention; and I think it would be best for you only to cite generally recognized authorities. Needless to say that I should feel greatly honoured and very grateful; but I think it would not be strictly to your interest to notice me until such time as I am recognized as a thinker, if such time shall ever arrive. With you it is very different;--your _cloth_--as we say in England--gives every gamin the right to review and praise you as a public teacher.

Yours very affectionately, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO W. D. O'CONNOR

NEW ORLEANS, February, 1883.

DEAR SIR,--Mr. Page M. Baker, managing editor of the _Times-Democrat_, to whose staff I belong, handed me your letter relative to the article on Gustave Dore--stating at the same time that it seemed to him the handsomest compliment ever paid to my work. I hasten to confirm the statement, and to thank you very sincerely for that delicate and nevertheless magistral criticism; for no one could have uttered a more forcible compliment in fewer words. As the author of a little volume of translations from Theophile Gautier I received a number of very encouraging and gratifying letters from Eastern literary men; but I must say that your letter upon my editorial gave me more pleasure than all of them, especially, perhaps, as manifesting an artistic sympathy with me in my admiration for the man whom I believe to have been the mightiest of modern artists.

Very gratefully and sincerely yours, LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO W. D. O'CONNOR

NEW ORLEANS, March, 1883.

MY DEAR MR. O'CONNOR,--My delay in answering your charming letter was unavoidable, as I have been a week absent from the city upon an excursion to the swampy regions of southern Louisiana, in company with Harpers' artist, for whom I am writing a series of Southern sketches. As I am already on good terms with the Harpers, your delicate letter to them cannot have failed to do me far more good than would have been the case had I been altogether unknown. I don't know how to thank you, but trust that I may yet have the pleasure of trying to do so verbally, if you ever visit New Orleans.

Your books came to hand; and do great credit to your skill--I am myself a compositor and have held the office of proof-reader in a large publishing house, where I tried to establish an English system of punctuation with indifferent success. Thus I can appreciate the work. As yet I have not had time to read much of the report, but as the Life-Saving Service has a peculiar intrinsic interest I will expect to find much to enjoy in the report before long.

You are partly right about Gautier, and, I think, partly wrong. His idea of work was to ill.u.s.trate with a mosaic of rare and richly-coloured words. But there is a wonderful tenderness, a nervous sensibility of feeling, an Oriental sensuousness of warmth in his creations which I like better than Victor Hugo's marvellous style. Hugo, like the grand Goth that he is, liked the horrible, the grotesqueness of tragic mediaevalism. Gautier followed the Greek ideal so potently presented in Lessing's "Laoc.o.o.n," and sought the beautiful only. His poetry is, I believe, matchless in French literature--an engraved gem-work of words.

Well, you can judge for yourself a little, by reading his two remarkable prose-fantasies--"Arria Marcella" and "Clarimonde"--in my translations of him, which you will receive from New York in a few days. Something evaporates in translation of course, and as the book was my first effort, there will be found divers inaccuracies and errors therein; but enough remains to give some idea of Gautier's imaginative powers and descriptive skill. Will also forward you paper you ask for.

I regret having to write very hurriedly, as I have a great press of work upon my hands. You will hear from me again, however, more fully. A letter to my address as above given will reach me sooner than if sent to the _Times-Democrat_ office.

Very gratefully your friend, L. HEARN.

TO W. D. O'CONNOR

NEW ORLEANS, August, 1883.

MY DEAR MR. O'CONNOR,--I had feared that I had lost a rare literary friend. Your charming letter undeceived me, and your equally charming present revealed you to me in a totally new light. I had imagined you as a delicate amateur only: I did not recognize in you a Master. And after I had read your two articles,--articles written in a fashion realizing my long-cherished dream of English in splendid Latin attire,--I felt quite ashamed of my own work. You have a knowledge, too, of languages unfamiliar to me, which I honestly envy, and which is becoming indispensable in the higher spheres of literary criticism--I mean a knowledge of Italian and German. As for your long silence, it only remains for me to say that your letter filled me with that sympathy which, in certain sad moments, expresses itself only by a silent and earnest pressure of the hand,--because any utterance would sound strangely hollow, like an echo in some vast dim emptiness.

Your beautiful little book came like a valued supplement to an edition of "Leaves of Gra.s.s" in my library. I have always _secretly_ admired Whitman, and would have liked on more than one occasion to express my opinion in public print. But in journalism this is not easy to do. There is no possibility of praising Whitman unreservedly in the ordinary newspaper, whose proprietors always tell you to remember that their paper "goes into respectable families," or accuse you of loving obscene literature if you attempt controversy. Journalism is not really a literary profession. The journalist of to-day is obliged to hold himself ready to serve any cause,--like the _condottieri_ of feudal Italy, or the free captains of other countries. If he can enrich himself sufficiently to acquire comparative independence in this really _nefarious_ profession, then, indeed, he is able freely to utter his heart's sentiments and indulge his tastes, like that aesthetic and wicked Giovanni Malatesta whose life Yriarte has written.

I do not think that I could ever place so lofty an estimate upon the poet's work, however, as you give,--although no doubt rests in my mind as to your critical superiority. I think that Genius must have greater attributes than mere creative power to be called to the front rank,--the thing created must be beautiful; it does not satisfy me if the material be rich. I cannot content myself with ores and rough jewels. I want to see the gold purified and wrought into marvellous fantastic shapes; I want to see the jewels cut into roses of facets, or turned as by Greek cunning into faultless witchery of nude loveliness. And Whitman's gold seems to me in the ore: his diamonds and emeralds in the rough. Would Homer be Homer to us but for the billowy roar of his mighty verse,--the perfect cadence of his song that has the regularity of ocean-diapason? I think not. And did not all the t.i.tans of antique literature polish their lines, chisel their words, according to severest laws of art? Whitman's is indeed a t.i.tanic voice; but it seems to me the voice of the giant beneath the volcano,--half stifled, half uttered,--roaring betimes because articulation is impossible.

Beauty there is, but it must be sought for; it does not flash out from hastily turned leaves: it only comes to one after full and thoughtful perusal, like a great mystery whose key-word may only be found after long study. But the reward is worth the pain. That beauty is cosmical--it is world-beauty;--there is something of the antique pantheism in the book, and something larger too, expanding to the stars and beyond. What most charms me, however, is that which is most earthy and of the earth. I was amused at some of the criticisms--especially that in the _Critic_--to the effect that Mr. Whitman might have some taste for natural beauty, etc., _as an animal has_! Ah! that was a fine touch! Now it is just the animalism of the work which const.i.tutes its great force to me--not a brutal animalism, but a _human_ animalism, such as the thoughts of antique poets reveal to us: the inexplicable delight of being, the intoxication of perfect health, the unutterable pleasures of breathing mountain-wind, of gazing at a blue sky, of leaping into clear deep water and drifting with a swimmer's dreamy confidence down the current, with strange thoughts that drift faster. Communion with Nature teaches philosophy to those who love that communion; and Nature imposes silence sometimes, that we may be forced to think:--the men of the plains say little. "You don't feel like talking out there," I heard one say: "the silence makes you silent." Such a man could not tell us just what he thought under that vastness, in the heart of that silence: but Whitman tells us for him. And he also tells us what we ought to think, or to remember, about things which are not of the wilderness but of the city. He is an animal, if the _Critic_ pleases, but a human animal--not a camel that weeps and sobs at the sight of the city's gates. He is rude, joyous, fearless, artless,--a singer who knows nothing of musical law, but whose voice is as the voice of Pan. And in the violent magnetism of the man, the great vital energy of his work, the rugged and ingenuous kindliness of his speech, the vast joy of his song, the discernment by him of the Universal Life,--I cannot help imagining that I perceive something of the antique sylvan deity, the faun or the satyr. Not the distorted satyr of modern cheap cla.s.sics: but the ancient and G.o.dly one, "inseparably connected with the worship of Dionysus," and sharing with that divinity the powers of healing, saving, and foretelling, not less than the orgiastic pleasures over which the androgynous G.o.d presided.

I see great beauty in Whitman, great force, great cosmical truths sung of in mystical words; but the singer seems to me nevertheless _barbaric_. You have called him a bard. He is! But his bard-songs are like the improvisations of a savage skald, or a forest Druid: immense the thought! mighty the words! but the music is wild, harsh, rude, primaeval. I cannot believe it will endure as a great work endures: I cannot think the bard is a creator, but only a precursor--only the voice of one crying in the wilderness--_Make straight the path for the Great Singer who is to come after me!_... And therefore even though I may differ from you in the nature of my appreciation of Whitman I love the soul of his work, and I think it a duty to give all possible aid and recognition to his literary priesthood. Whatsoever you do to defend, to elevate, to glorify his work you do for the literature of the future, for the cause of poetical liberty, for the cause of mental freedom. Your book is doubly beautiful to me, therefore: and I believe it will endure to be consulted in future times, when men shall write the "History of the Literary Movement of 1900," as men have already written the "Histoire du Romantisme."

I don't think you missed very much of my work in the _T.-D._ I have not been doing so well. The great heat makes one's brain languid, barren, dusty. Then I have been making desperate efforts to do some magazine work. Thanks for your praise of "The Pipes of Hameline." I wish, indeed, that I could drag myself out of this newspaper routine,--even though slowly, like a turtle struggling over uneven ground. Journalism dwarfs, stifles, emasculates thought and style. As for my translation of Gautier, it has many grave errors I am ashamed of, but it is not castrated. My pet stories in it are "Clarimonde" and "Arria Marcella."

Victor Hugo was indeed the Arthur of the Romantic Movement, and Gautier was but one of his knights, though the best of them--a Lancelot. I think his "Emaux et Camees" surpa.s.s Hugo's work in word-chiselling, in goldsmithery; but Hugo's fancy overarches all, like the vault of the sky. His prose is like the work of Angelo--the paintings in the Sistine Chapel, the figures described by Emilio Castelar as painted by flashes of lightning. He is one of those who appear but once in five hundred years. Gautier is not upon Hugo's level. But while Hugo wrought like a Gothic sculptor, largely, weirdly, wondrously, Gautier could create mosaics of word-jewelry without equals. The work is small, delicate, elfish: it will endure as long as the French language, even though it figure in the Hugo architecture only as arabesque-work or stained gla.s.s or inlaid pavement.

Oh yes! you will catch it for those articles! you will have the fate of every champion of an unpopular cause,--thorns at every turn, which may turn into roses.

I hope to see you some day. Will always have time to write. Sometimes my letter may be short; but not often. Believe me, sincerely,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO JOHN ALBEE

NEW ORLEANS, 1883.

DEAR SIR,--Your very kind letter, forwarded to me by Mr. Worthington, was more of an encouragement and comfort than you, perhaps, even desired. One naturally launches his first literary effort with fear and trembling; and at such a time kind or unkind words may have a lasting effect upon his future hopes and aims.

The little stories were translated five years ago, in the intervals of rest possible to s.n.a.t.c.h during reportorial duty on a Western paper. I was then working fourteen hours a day. Subsequently I was four years vainly seeking a publisher.

Naturally enough, the stories are not even now all that I could wish them to be; but I trust that before long I may escape so far from the treadmill of daily newspaper labour as to produce something better in point of literary execution. It has long been my aim to create something in English fiction a.n.a.logous to that warmth of colour and richness of imagery hitherto peculiar to Latin literature. Being of a meridional race myself, a Greek, I _feel_ rather with the Latin race than with the Anglo-Saxon; and trust that with time and study I may be able to create something different from the stone-grey and somewhat chilly style of latter-day English or American romance.

This may seem only a foolish hope,--unsubstantial as a ghost; but with youth, health and such kindly encouragement as you have given me, I believe that it may yet be realized. Of course a little encouragement from the publishers will also be necessary. Believe me very gratefully yours,

LAFCADIO HEARN.

TO H. E. KREHBIEL

NEW ORLEANS, September, 1883.

DEAR KREHBIEL,--I trust you will be able to read the hideously written music I sent you in batches,--according as I could find leisure to copy it. The negro songs are taken from a most extraordinary book translated into French from the Arabic, and published at Paris by a geographical society. The author was one of those errant traders who travel yearly through the desert to the Soudan, and beyond into Timbuctoo occasionally, to purchase slaves and elephants' teeth from those almost unknown Arab sultans or negro kings who rule the black ant-hills of Central Africa. I have only yet obtained the great volume relating to Ouaday; the volume on Darfour is coming. Perron, the learned translator, in his "Femmes Arabes" (published at Algiers), gives some curious chapters on ancient Arab music which I must try to send you one of these days. The j.a.panese book--a rather costly affair printed in gold and colours--is rapidly becoming scarce. I expect soon to have some Hindoo music; as I have a subscription for a library of folk-lore and folk-lore music of all nations, of which only 17 volumes are published so far--Elzevirians. These mostly relate to Europe, and contain much Breton, Provencal, Norman, and other music. But there will be several volumes of Oriental popular songs, etc. Some day, I was thinking, we might together get up a little volume on the musical legends of all nations, introducing each legend by appropriate music.

I have nearly finished a collection of Oriental stories from all sorts of queer sources,--the Sanscrit, Buddhist, Talmudic, Persian, Polynesian, Finnish literatures, etc.,--which I shall try to publish.

But their having been already in print will militate against them.

Couldn't get a publisher for the fantastics, and I am, after all, glad of it; for I feel somewhat ashamed of them now. I have saved a few of the best pieces, which will be rewritten at some future time if I succeed in other matters. Another failure was the translation of Flaubert's "Temptation of Saint Anthony," which no good publisher seems inclined to undertake. The original is certainly one of the most exotically strange pieces of writing in any language, and weird beyond description. Some day I may take a notion to print it myself. At present I am also busy with a dictionary of Creole Proverbs (this is a secret), four hundred or more of which I have arranged; and, by the way, I have quite a Creole library, embracing the Creole dialects of both hemispheres. I have likewise obtained favour with two firms, Harpers', and Scribners'--both of whom have recently promised to consider favourably anything I choose to send in. You see I have my hands full; and an enormous ma.s.s of undigested matter to a.s.similate and crystallize into something.

So much about myself, in reply to your question.... Your Armenian legend was very peculiar indeed. There is nothing exactly like it either in Baring-Gould's myths ("Mountain of Venus") or Keightley's "Fairy Mythology," or any of the Oriental folk-lore I have yet seen. The ghostly sweetheart is a universal idea, and the phantom palace also; but the biting of the finger is a delightful novelty. Many thanks for the pretty little tale.

I don't think you will see me in New York this winter. I shudder at the bare idea of cold. Speak to me of blazing deserts, of plains smoking with volcanic vapours, of suns ten times larger, and vast lemon-coloured moons,--and venomous plants that writhe like vipers and strangle like boas,--and clouds of steel-blue flies,--and skeletons polished by ants,--and atmospheres heavy as those of planets nearer to the solar centre!--but hint not to me of ice and slush and snow and black-frost winds. Why can't you come down to see me? I'll show you nice music: I'll enable you to note down the musical cries of the Latin-faced venders of herbs and _gombo feve_ and _calas_ and _latanir_ and _patates_.

If you can't come, I'll try to see you next spring or summer; but I would rather be whipped with scorpions than visit a Northern city in the winter months. In fact few residents here would dare to do it,--unless well used to travelling. Some day I must write something about the physiological changes produced here by climate. In an article I wrote for _Harper's_ six months ago, and which ought to appear soon (as I was paid for it), you will observe some brief observations on the subject; but the said subject is curious enough to write a book about. By the way, I have become scientific--I write nearly all the scientific editorials for our paper, which you sometimes see, no doubt. Farney ought to spend a few months here: it would make him crazy with joy to perceive those picturesquenesses which most visitors never see.

I thought I would go to Cincinnati next week or so; but I'm afraid it's too cold now. If I do go, I'll write you.

As to your protest about correspondence, I think you're downright wrong; but I won't renew the controversy. Anyhow I suppose we keep track of each other, with affectionate curiosity. I am quite sorry you missed my friend Page Baker: he is a splendid type,--you would have become fast friends at once. Never mind, though! if you ever come down here, we'll make you enjoy yourself in earnest. Please excuse this rambling letter.

Your Creolized friend, LAFCADIO HEARN.

P. S. By the bye, have you the original music of the Muezzin's call,--as called by the first of all Muezzins, Blal the Abyssinian, to whom it was taught by Our Lord Mohammed? Blal the black Abyssinian, whose voice was the mightiest and sweetest in Islam. In those first days, Blal was persecuted as the slave of the persecuted Prophet of G.o.d. And in the "Gulistan," it is told how he suffered. But after Our Lord had departed into the chamber of Allah,--and the tawny hors.e.m.e.n of the desert had ridden from Medina even to the gates of India, conquering and to conquer,--and the young crescent of Islam, slender as a sword, had waxed into a vast moon of glory that filled the world,--Blal still lived with that wonderful health of years given unto the people of his race. But he only sang for the Kalif. And the Kalif was Omar. So, one day, it came to pa.s.s, that the people of Damascus, whither Omar had travelled upon a visit, begged the Caliph, saying: "O Commander of the Faithful, we pray thee that thou ask Blal to sing the call to prayer for us, even as it was taught him by Our Lord Mohammed." And Omar requested Blal. Now Blal was nearly a century old; but his voice was deep and sweet as ever. And they aided him to ascend the minaret. Then, into the midst of the great silence burst once more the mighty African voice of Blal,--singing the _Adzan_, even as it has still been sung for more than twelve hundred years from all the minarets of Islam:

"G.o.d is Great!

G.o.d is Great!

I bear witness there is no other G.o.d but G.o.d!