NEW ORLEANS, 1880
39 Constance St.
New Orleans
Friend Krehbiel:
I was so glad to hear from you.
Hereafter you had better address me in care of Major Wm M. Robinson 308 Baronne, as I have moved into the rear portion of a dilapidated French house in a dilapidated part of the city, and do not know whether my letters would come there safely or not.
I would not on any account have put you to so much trouble about the clipping, had I known the difficulty you had in finding it. But I will put myself to a little trouble for you sometime or other.
Your letter gave me much amusement. I wish I could have been present at that Chinese concert. It must have been the funniest thing of the kind ever heard of in Cincinnati.
Do not fail to remember me kindly to the Gazette boys,—especially Feldwisch & Tunison. I have heard nothing of newspaper life in Cincinnati for a long time; and when you have time please tell me what changes, accidents, etc. have transpired since my departure.
It gives me malicious pleasure to inform you that my vile and improper book will probably be published in a few months. Also that the wickedest story of the lot,—“King Candaules”—is being published as a serial in one of the New Orleans papers, with delightful results of shocking people. I will send you copies of them when complete.
I am interested in your study of Assyrian archæology. It is a pity there are so few good works on the subject. Layard’s unabridged works are very extensive; but I do not remember seeing them in the Cincinnati Library. Rawlinson, I think, is more interesting in style and more thorough in research. The French are making fine explorations in this direction.
I find frequent reference made to Overbeck’s Pompeji, a German work as containing valuable information on antique music, drawn from discoveries at Herculaneum & Pompeii; also to Mazois, a great French writer upon the same subject. I have not seen them; but I fancy you would find some valuable information in them regarding musical instruments. I suppose you have read Sir William Gell’s Pompeiiana,—at least the abridged form of it.—You know the double flutes &c of the ancients are preserved in the museum of Naples. In the Cincinnati Library is a splendid copy of the work on Egyptian antiquities prepared under Napoleon I, wherein you will find colored prints—from photographs—of the musical instruments found in the catacombs and hypogea. But I do not think there are many good books on the subject of Assyrian antiquities there. Vickers could put you in the way of getting better works on the subject than are in the library, I believe.
You will master these things much more thoroughly than ever I shall—although I love them. I have only attempted, however, to photograph the rapports of the antiquities in my mind, like memories of a panoramic procession; while to you, the procession will not be one of shadows, but of splendid facts, with the sound of strangely ancient music and the harmonious tread of sacrificial bands,—all preserved for you through the night of ages. And the life of vanished cities and the pageantry of dead faiths will have a far more charming reality for you,—the Musician,—than ever for me,—the Dreamer.
I can’t see well enough yet to do much work. I have written an essay upon luxury and art in the time of Elagabalus; but now that I read it over again, I am not satisfied with it, and fear it will not be published. And by the way—I request, and beg, and entreat, and supplicate, and petition, and pray that you will not forget about Mephistopheles. Here—in the sweet perfume laden air, and summer of undying flowers,—I feel myself moved to write the musical romance whereof I spake unto you in the days that were.
I can’t say that things look very bright here otherwise. The prospect is dark as that of stormy summer night, with feverish pulses of lightning in the far sky-border,—the lightning signifying hopes and fantasies. But I shall stick to my pedestal of faith in literary possibilities like an Egyptian colossus with a broken nose, seated solemnly in the gloom of its own originality.
Times are not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under a lava-flood of taxes and frauds and maladministrations so that it has become only a study for archaeologists. Its condition is so bad, that when I write about it as I intend to do soon, nobody will believe I am telling the truth. But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes, than to own the whole state of Ohio.
I have not seen anybody from Cincinnati as yet. I am highly moral and virtuous here. I am as chaste as a monk of the Thebaid desert. The climate is voluptuous and the women are simply perfection and heaven and houris, but like the sailing Ulysses, I close my eyes and stuff up my ears, and pay no attention to them. It is delightful to make a virtue of necessity. I am getting so accustomed to saintliness from compulsion, that I shall certainly ere long become a saint in fact.
Once in a while I feel the spirit of restlessness upon me, when the Spanish ships come in from Costa Rica and the islands of the West Indies. I fancy that some day, I shall wander down to the Levee, and creep on board, and sail away to God knows where. I am so hungry to see those quaint cities of the Conquistadores and to hear the sandalled sentinels crying through the night—Sereno alerto!—sereno alerto!—just as they did two hundred years ago.
I send you a little bit of prettiness I cut out of a paper. Ah!—that is style, is it not?—and fancy and strength and height and depth. It is just in the style of Richter’s “Titan.”
Major sends his compliments. I must go to see the Carnival nuisance. Remember me to anybody who cares about it, and believe me always
faithfully yours
L Hearn