erning "absorption and
emotion, the illusions of existence, and happiness as the equivalent of
annihilation," maintaining that Buddhism was wiser than the wisest of
occidental faiths. He astonished the readers of the _Item_ by weird and
mystical articles on the subject of the Orient and oriental creeds,
considerably increasing the sale of the little paper, and drawing
attention, amongst cultured circles in New Orleans, to his own genius.

The routine of his life at this time is given in letters written to his
"old Dad" and his friend, Krehbiel.

The same ascetic scorn for material comfort, heritage of his oriental
ancestry, seems to have distinguished him at this period in New Orleans,
as later in Japan. The early cup of coffee, the morning's work at the
office, "concocting devilment" for the _Item_, his Spanish lessons with
Jose de Jesus y Preciado, the "peripatetic blasphemy," as he named him
afterwards, dinner at a Chinese restaurant for an infinitesimal sum, an
hour or two spent at second-hand book-stalls, and home to bed. There is,
I am told, an individual, Armand Hawkins by name, owner of an ancient
book-store at New Orleans, still alive, who remembers the curious little
genius, with his prominent eyes, wonderful knowledge on all sorts of
out-of-the-way subjects recounted in a soft, musical voice, who used to
come almost daily to visit his book-store. He it was who enabled Hearn
to get together the library about which there has been so much
discussion since his death. Next to his love of buying old books,
Hearn's great indulgence seems to have been smoking, not cigars, but
pipes of every make and description.

The glimpses we get of him from his own letters and from reminiscences
collected from various people in New Orleans all give the same
impression. A Bohemian love of vagabondage, picking up impressions here
and there, some of which were set down in pencil, some in ink; as far as
his eyesight would permit, many were the sketches made at this time.
None of them have been preserved, except the very clever Mephistophelian
one sent to Mr. Watkin and reproduced in the volume entitled "Letters
from the Raven." "He was a gifted creature," says a lady who knew him at
this time. "He came fluttering in and out of our house like a shy moth,
and was adored by my children."

He had no ambitions, no loves, no anxieties, sometimes a vague unrest
without a motive, sometimes a feeling as if his heart were winged and
trying