Now I remember promising to write about going to New York.
'Tis winter. My lizard blood freezes at the thought. In my room it is 71°: that is cold for us. New York in winter signifieth for such as me--Dissolution,--eternal darkness and worms. Transformation of physical and vital forces of L. H. into the forces of innumerable myriads of worms! "And though a man live many years, and rejoice in them all--yet let him remember the Days of Darkness,--for they shall be many!" No: March, April, or May! But you say,--"Then it will be the same old story, and seasons will cycle, and generations pass away, and yet he will not come." Yet there are symptoms of my coming: little spider-threads of literary weaving with New York are thickening. When the rope is strong, I can make my bridge.--Think of the trouble I would have with my $1800 of books, and all my other truck. Alas! I have an anchor!
My friend Matas has returned. He tells me delightful things about Spanish music, and plays for me. He also tells me much concerning Cuban and Mexican music. He says these have been very strongly affected by African influence--full of contretemps. He tried to explain about the accompaniments of Havanen and Mexican airs having peculiar interresemblances of a seemingly _dark_ origin--the bass goes all the time something like _Si, Mi, Si,--si, mi, si_. "See me?--see?" that's how I remembered it. But he has given me addresses, and I will be able to procure specimens.
DEAR O'CONNOR,--Please, if feeling free enough from other and more important labours, write to me, let me have a few lines from you--telling me how you are, and how the years pass.
With me they have been somewhat uneventful--except, indeed, that your wish to see me succeed with the Harpers has been realized: I have become a contributor to the _Magazine_, and am going to have the honour of a short sketch of myself in it,--of course, in connection with the New Southern Literary Movement. And I will also soon have the pleasure of sending you a new production, just got, or getting out by a Boston house,--my "Chinese Ghosts;" brief studies in poetical prose, if you like. They may amuse you in a leisure moment.
I am soon going to run away to Florida, and perhaps the West Indies, for a romantic trip--a small literary bee in search of inspiring honey. There is a good market for books on Florida; and I may be able to get one out this next winter. You will like my sketch in _Harper's_ when it appears, as it deals with topics in which you are directly interested professionally,--Gulf-coasts and shifting dunes, sands, winds and tides, storms, and valiant saving of life. I think I am beginning to learn how to do good work.