Dear O’Connor,—I had not received your letter when I wrote mine. It pained me to hear of your having been ill, and especially ill in a way which I am peculiarly well qualified to understand—having been almost given up for dead some eight years ago. The same causes, the same symptoms—in every particular. Luckily for me I found a warmer climate, a city where literary competition was almost nothing, and men of influence who took an interest in my work, and let me have things my own way. Rest and cultivation of the animal part of me, and good care by a dear good woman, got me nearly well again. I am stronger than I ever was in some ways; but I have not the same recuperative vitality,—I cannot trust myself to any severe mental strain. “Sickness is health,” they say, for those who have received one of Nature’s severe corrections.
I mention my own case only to show that I understand yours, and to give you, if possible, the benefit of my experience. Long sleep is necessary, for two or three years. Do not be afraid to take ten, eleven, or twelve hours when you so feel inclined. I observe that the mind accomplishes more, and in a shorter time, after these protracted rests. Never work when you feel that little pain in the back of the head. Rare beefsteaks,—eggs just warmed,—and claret and water to stimulate appetite as often as possible, are important. Doctors can do little; you yourself can do a great deal. I think a few months, or even weeks, at the sea, would astonish you by the result. It did me. The abyss, out of which all mundane life is said to have been evolved,—the vast salt gulf of Creation,—seems still to retain its mysterious power: the Spirit still hovers over the Face of the Deep,—and the very breath of the ocean gives new soul to the blood.
You will already know what I think of your beautiful book, with all of which I heartily concur. But do not attempt to overwork any more. You ought not to trust yourself to do more than three or four hours’ work a day,—and even this application ought to be interrupted at intervals. I take a smoke every hour or so. The main thing—please do not doubt it—is plenty of nourishment, cultivation of appetite, and much sleep. Then Nature will right herself—slowly, though surely.
Do not write to me if it tires you. I know just how it is; I know also that you feel well toward me even if you have to keep silence. I will write whenever I think I can interest you,—and never fail to drop me a line if I can do anything to please you—just a line. I would not have been silent so long, had I even suspected you were ill. My own illness of eight years back was caused by years of night-work—16 hours a day. Several of my old comrades died at it. I quit—took courage to attempt a different class of work, and, as the French say, I have been able to re-make my constitution. I trust it won’t bore you, my writing all this: I understand so exactly how you have been that I am anxious to give all the suggestions I can.
I remain, dear O’Connor,
Very affectionately,
Lafcadio Hearn.
TO H. E. KREHBIEL
New Orleans, May, 1886.
Dear Krehbiel,—I think I shall soon be able to send you a Hindoo. Yes, a Hindoo,—with Orientally white teeth, the result of vegetal diet and Brahmanic abstemiousness—rather prognathous, I am sorry to say, and not therefore of purest Aryan breed. He may be a Thug, a Sepoy deserter, a Sikh drummed out of the army, a Brahmin who has lost caste, a Pariah thief, a member of the Left-hand or of the Right-hand caste (or other sections too horrible to name), a Jain, a half-breed Mongol Islamite from Delhi, a Ghoorkha, a professional fraud, a Jesuitic convert on trial ... I know not;—I send him to you with my best regard. You are large and strong; you can take care of yourself! I send him to the Tribune,—fearing the awful results of his visit to 305 West Fifty-fifth Street.