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diff --git a/36218-h/36218-h.htm b/36218-h/36218-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..658571b --- /dev/null +++ b/36218-h/36218-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10748 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title>The Letters of Ambrose Bierce, by Ambrose Bierce.</title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.sidenote {position: absolute; + right: 88%; + font-size: smaller; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: right; + margin-top: 4em; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + clear: both; + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:35%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; + font-size: 95%; +} +.i1 {margin-left: 1em;} +.i2 {margin-left: 2em;} +.i10 {margin-left: 10em;} +.o1 {margin-left: -.4em;} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +span.pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + right: 2%; + font-size: 0.8em; + text-align: left; + color: #cccccc; + background: inherit; + font-weight: normal;} + +hr.c15 {width: 15%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +.left65 {margin-left: 65%;} +.flright {float: right;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 90%; +} + +.tnbox {margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + margin-bottom: 8em; + margin-top: auto; + text-align: center; + border: 1px solid; + padding: 1em; + color: black; + background-color: #f6f2f2; + width: 25em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Letters of Ambrose Bierce, by Ambrose Bierce + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Letters of Ambrose Bierce + With a Memoir by George Sterling + +Author: Ambrose Bierce + +Editor: Bertha Clark Pope + +Release Date: May 25, 2011 [EBook #36218] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF AMBROSE BIERCE *** + + + + +Produced by David Clarke, Melissa McDaniel and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tnbox"> +<p class="center"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p> +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. +Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original +document have been preserved.</p> +</div> + +<h1><i>The Letters of Ambrose Bierce</i></h1> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="369" height="534" alt="Portrait of Bierce" /> +</div> + +<h2><i>The</i><br /> +<i>Letters of Ambrose Bierce</i></h2> + +<p class="p4 center"><small>EDITED BY</small></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><big><b>Bertha Clark Pope</b></big></span></p> + +<p class="center"><small>WITH A MEMOIR BY</small></p> +<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><big><b>George Sterling</b></big></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/logoa.png" width="247" height="200" alt="Printer's Logo" /> +</div> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">San Francisco</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">The Book Club of California</span></p> + +<p class="center">1922</p> + +<p class="p6"><i>In reproducing these letters we have followed as nearly as possible the original +manuscripts. This inevitably has caused a certain lack of uniformity throughout +the volume, as in the case of the names of magazines and newspapers, which +are sometimes italicized and sometimes in quotation marks.</i>—<span class="smcap">The Editor.</span></p> + +<p class="center p6">COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE CALIFORNIA BOOK CLUB</p> + +<div class="figcenter p6"> +<img src="images/section.png" width="300" height="33" alt="new section" /> +</div> + +<hr class="c15" /> + +<h2 class="p2"><i>The Introduction</i></h2> +<p class="center p2"><big><b><i>by</i> <span class="smcap">Bertha Clark Pope</span></b></big></p> +<hr class="c15" /> + +<p><i>"The question that starts to the lips of ninety-nine readers<span class="pagenum">v</span> +out of a hundred," says Arnold Bennett, in a review +in the London </i><span class="smcap">New Age</span><i> in 1909, "even the +best informed, will assuredly be: 'Who is Ambrose Bierce?' +I scarcely know, but I will say that among what I may term +'underground reputations' that of Ambrose Bierce is perhaps +the most striking example. You may wander for years +through literary circles and never meet anybody who has +heard of Ambrose Bierce, and then you may hear some erudite +student whisper in an awed voice: 'Ambrose Bierce is +the greatest living prose writer.' I have heard such an opinion +expressed."</i></p> + +<p><i>Bierce himself shows his recognition of the "underground" +quality of his reputation in a letter to George Sterling: "How +many times, and during a period of how many years must +one's unexplainable obscurity be pointed out to constitute +fame? Not knowing, I am almost disposed to consider myself +the most famous of authors. I have pretty nearly ceased +to be 'discovered,' but my notoriety as an obscurian may be +said to be worldwide and everlasting."</i></p> + +<p><i>Anything which would throw light on such a figure, at once +obscure and famous, is valuable. These letters of Ambrose<span class="pagenum">vi</span> +Bierce, here printed for the first time, are therefore of unusual +interest. They are the informal literary work—the term +is used advisedly—of a man esteemed great by a small but +acutely critical group, read enthusiastically by a somewhat +larger number to whom critical examination of what they +read seldom occurs, and ignored by the vast majority of readers; +a man at once more hated and more adored than any on +the Pacific Coast; a man not ten years off the scene yet already +become a tradition and a legend; whose life, no less than his +death, held elements of mystery, baffling contradictions, problems +for puzzled conjecture, motives and meanings not +vouchsafed to outsiders.</i></p> + +<p><i>Were Ambrose Bierce as well known as he deserves to be, +the introduction to these letters could be slight; we should not +have to stop to inquire who he was and what he did. As it is, +we must.</i></p> + +<p><i>Ambrose Bierce, the son of Marcus Aurelius and Laura +(Sherwood) Bierce, born in Meiggs County, Ohio, June 24, +1842, was at the outbreak of the Civil War a youth without +formal education, but with a mind already trained. "My +father was a poor farmer," he once said to a friend, "and +could give me no general education, but he had a good library, +and to his books I owe all that I have." He promptly volunteered +in 1861 and served throughout the war. Twice, at +the risk of his life, he rescued wounded companions from the +battlefield, and at Kenesaw Mountain was himself severely +wounded in the head. He was brevetted Major for distinguished<span class="pagenum">vii</span> +services; but in after life never permitted the title to +be used in addressing him. There is a story that when the war +was over he tossed up a coin to determine what should be his +career. Whatever the determining auguries, he came at once +to San Francisco to join his favorite brother Albert—there +were ten brothers and sisters to choose from—and for a short +time worked with him in the Mint; he soon began writing +paragraphs for the weeklies, particularly the </i><span class="smcap">Argonaut</span><i> +and the </i><span class="smcap">News Letter</span><i>.</i></p> + +<p><i>"I was a slovenly writer in those days," he observes in a +letter forty years later, "though enough better than my neighbors +to have attracted my own attention. My knowledge of +English was imperfect 'a whole lot.' Indeed, my intellectual +status (whatever it may be, and God knows it's enough to +make me blush) was of slow growth—as was my moral. I +mean, I had not literary sincerity." Apparently, attention +other than his own was attracted, for he was presently editing +the </i><span class="smcap">News Letter</span><i>.</i></p> + +<p><i>In 1872 he went to London and for four years was on the +staff of </i><span class="smcap">Fun</span><i>. In London Bierce found congenial and stimulating +associates. The great man of his circle was George +Augustus Sala, "one of the most skilful, finished journalists +ever known," a keen satiric wit, and the author of a ballad of +which it is said that Swift might have been proud. Another +notable figure was Tom Hood the younger, mordantly humorous. +The satiric style in journalism was popular then; and +"personal" journals were so personal that one "Jimmy" +Davis, editor of the </i><span class="smcap">Cuckoo</span><i> and the </i><span class="smcap">Bat</span><i> successively, +found it healthful to remain some years in exile in France.<span class="pagenum">viii</span> +Bierce contributed to several of these and to </i><span class="smcap">Figaro</span><i>, the +editor of which was James Mortimer. To this gentleman +Bierce owed what he designated as the distinction of being +"probably the only American journalist who was ever employed +by an Empress in so congenial a pursuit as the pursuit +of another journalist." This other journalist was M. +Henri Rochefort, communard, formerly editor of </i><span class="smcap">La Lanterne</span><i> +in Paris, in which he had made incessant war upon +the Empire and all its personnel, particularly the Empress. +When, an exile, Rochefort announced his intention of renewing +</i><span class="smcap">La Lanterne</span><i> in London, the exiled Empress +circumvented him by secretly copyrighting the title, </i><span class="smcap">The +Lantern</span><i>, and proceeding to publish a periodical under +that name with the purpose of undermining his influence. +Two numbers were enough; M. Rochefort fled to Belgium. +Bierce said that in "the field of chromatic journalism" it +was the finest thing that ever came from a press, but of the +literary excellence of the twelve pages he felt less qualified +for judgment as he had written every line.</i></p> + +<p><i>This was in 1874. Two years earlier, under his journalistic +pseudonym of "Dod Grile," he had published his first +books—two small volumes, largely made up of his articles +in the San Francisco </i><span class="smcap">News Letter</span><i>, called </i>The Fiend's +Delight<i>, and </i>Nuggets And Dust Panned Out In California<i>. +Now, he used the same pseudonym on the title-page of +a third volume, </i>Cobwebs from an Empty Skull<i>. The +</i>Cobwebs<i> were selections from his work in </i><span class="smcap">Fun</span><i>—satirical +tales and fables, often inspired by weird old woodcuts given<span class="pagenum">ix</span> +him by the editors with the request that he write something +to fit. His journalistic associates praised these volumes liberally, +and a more distinguished admirer was Gladstone, who, +discovering the </i>Cobwebs<i> in a second-hand bookshop, voiced +his delight in their cleverness, and by his praise gave a certain +currency to Bierce's name among the London elect. But +despite so distinguished a sponsor, the books remained generally +unknown.</i></p> + +<p><i>Congenial tasks and association with the brilliant journalists +of the day did not prevent Bierce from being undeniably +hard up at times. In 1876 he returned to San Francisco, +where he remained for twenty-one years, save for a brief +but eventful career as general manager of a mining company +near Deadwood, South Dakota. All this time he got his +living by writing special articles—for the </i><span class="smcap">Wasp</span><i>, a weekly +whose general temper may be accurately surmised from its +name, and, beginning in 1886, for the </i><span class="smcap">Examiner</span><i>, in which +he conducted every Sunday on the editorial page a department +to which he gave the title he had used for a similar column +in </i><span class="smcap">The Lantern</span>—Prattle<i>. A partial explanation +of a mode of feeling and a choice of themes which Bierce developed +more and more, ultimately to the practical exclusion +of all others, is to be found in the particular phase through +which California journalism was just then passing.</i></p> + +<p><i>In the evolution of the comic spirit the lowest stage, that of +delight in inflicting pain on others, is clearly manifest in savages, +small boys, and early American journalism. It was exhibited +in all parts of America—Mark Twain gives a vivid<span class="pagenum">x</span> +example in his </i>Journalistic Wild Oats<i> of what it was in +Tennessee—but with particular intensity in San Francisco. +As a community, San Francisco exalted personal courage, +directness of encounter, straight and effective shooting. The +social group was so small and so homogeneous that any news +of importance would be well known before it could be reported, +set up in type, printed, and circulated. It was isolated by so +great distances from the rest of the world that for years no +pretense was made of furnishing adequate news from the +outside. So the newspapers came to rely on other sorts of interest. +They were pamphlets for the dissemination of the opinions +of the groups controlling them, and weapons for doing +battle, if need be, for those opinions. And there was abundant +occasion: municipal affairs were corrupt, courts weak +or venal, or both. Editors and readers enjoyed a good fight; +they also wanted humorous entertainment; they happily combined +the two. In the creative dawn of 1847 when the foundations +of the journalistic earth were laid and those two morning +stars, the </i><span class="smcap">Californian</span><i> of Monterey and the </i><span class="smcap">California +Star</span><i> of San Francisco, sang together, we find the +editors attacking the community generally, and each other +particularly, with the utmost ferocity, laying about them +right and left with verbal broad-axes, crow-bars, and such +other weapons as might be immediately at hand. The </i><span class="smcap">California +Star's</span><i> introduction to the public of what would, +in our less direct day, be known as its "esteemed contemporary" +is typical:</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>"We have received two late numbers of the </i><span class="smcap">Californian</span><i>, a<span class="pagenum">xi</span> +dim, dirty little paper printed in Monterey on the worn-out materials +of one of the old California </i><span class="smcap">WAR PRESSES</span><i>. It is published +and edited by Walter Colton and Robert Semple, the one a </i><span class="smcap">WHINING +SYCOPHANT</span><i>, and the other an </i><span class="smcap">OVER-GROWN LICK-SPITTLE</span><i>. +At the top of one of the papers we find the words 'please exchange.' +This would be considered in almost any other country a +bare-faced attempt to swindle us. We should consider it so now +were it not for the peculiar situation of our country which induces +us to do a great deal for others in order for them to do us a +little good.... We have concluded to give our paper to them this +year, so as to afford them some insight into the manner in which +a Republican newspaper should be conducted. They appear now +to be awfully verdant."</i></p> +</div> + +<p><i>Down through the seventies and eighties the tradition persisted, +newspapers being bought and read, as a historian of +journalism asserts, not so much for news as to see who was +getting "lambasted" that day. It is not strange, then, that +journals of redoubtable pugnacity were popular, or that editors +favored writers who were likely to excel in the gladiatorial +style. It is significant that public praise first came to +Bierce through his articles in the caustic </i><span class="smcap">News Letter</span><i>, +widely read on the Pacific Coast during the seventies. Once +launched in this line, he became locally famous for his fierce +and witty articles in the </i><span class="smcap">Argonaunt</span><i> and the </i><span class="smcap">Wasp</span><i>, and for +many years his column </i>Prattle<i> in the </i><span class="smcap">Examiner</span><i> was, in the +words of Mr. Bailey Millard, "the most wickedly clever, the +most audaciously personal, and the most eagerly devoured +column of </i>causerie<i> that ever was printed in this country."</i></p> + +<p><i>In 1896 Bierce was sent to Washington to fight, through<span class="pagenum">xii</span> +the Hearst newspapers, the "refunding bill" which Collis +P. Huntington was trying to get passed, releasing his Central +Pacific Railroad from its obligations to the government. +A year later he went again to Washington, where he remained +during the rest of his journalistic career, as correspondent +for the New York </i><span class="smcap">American</span><i>, conducting also for +some years a department in the </i><span class="smcap">Cosmopolitan</span><i>.</i></p> + +<p><i>Much of Bierce's best work was done in those years in San +Francisco. Through the columns of the </i><span class="smcap">Wasp</span><i> and the </i><span class="smcap">Examiner</span><i> +his wit played free; he wielded an extraordinary +influence; his trenchant criticism made and unmade reputations—literary +and otherwise. But this to Bierce was mostly +"journalism, a thing so low that it cannot be mentioned in +the same breath with literature." His real interest lay elsewhere. +Throughout the early eighties he devoted himself to +writing stories; all were rejected by the magazine editors to +whom he offered them. When finally in 1890 he gathered +these stories together into book form and offered them to the +leading publishers of the country, they too, would have none +of them. "These men," writes Mr. Bailey Millard, "admitted +the purity of his diction and the magic of his haunting +power, but the stories were regarded as revolting."</i></p> + +<p><i>At last, in 1891, his first book of stories, </i>Tales of Soldiers +and Civilians<i>, saw the reluctant light of day. It had this for +foreword:</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>"Denied existence by the chief publishing houses of the country, +this book owes itself to Mr. E. L. G. Steele, merchant, of this city, +[San Francisco]. In attesting Mr. Steele's faith in his judgment<span class="pagenum">xiii</span> +and his friend, it will serve its author's main and best ambition."</i></p> +</div> + +<p><i>There is Biercean pugnacity in these words; the author +flings down the gauntlet with a confident gesture. But it +cannot be said that anything much happened to discomfit +the publishing houses of little faith. Apparently, Bierce had +thought to appeal past the dull and unjust verdict of such +lower courts to the higher tribunal of the critics and possibly +an elect group of general readers who might be expected to +recognize and welcome something rare. But judgment was +scarcely reversed. Only a few critics were discerning, and +the book had no vogue. When </i>The Monk and the Hangman's +Daughter<i> was published by F. J. Schulte and Company, +Chicago, the next year, and </i>Can Such Things Be<i> by +The Cassell Publishing Company, the year following, a few +enthusiastic critics could find no words strong enough to describe +Bierce's vivid imagination, his uncanny divination +of atavistic terrors in man's consciousness, his chiseled perfection +of style; but the critics who disapproved had even +more trouble in finding words strong enough for their purposes +and, as before, there was no general appreciation.</i></p> + +<p><i>For the next twenty years Ambrose Bierce was a prolific +writer but, whatever the reason, no further volumes of stories +from his pen were presented to the world. </i>Black Beetles +in Amber<i>, a collection of satiric verse, had appeared the +same year as </i>The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter<i>; +then for seven years, with the exception of a republication +by G. P. Putnam's Sons of </i>Tales of Soldiers and Civilians<i> +under the title, </i>In the Midst of Life<i>, no books by Bierce.<span class="pagenum">xiv</span> +In 1899 appeared </i>Fantastic Fables<i>; in 1903 </i>Shapes of +Clay<i>, more satiric verse; in 1906 </i>The Cynic's Word +Book<i>, a dictionary of wicked epigrams; in 1909 </i>Write it +Right<i>, a blacklist of literary faults, and </i>The Shadow on +the Dial<i>, a collection of essays covering, to quote from the +preface of S. O. Howes, "a wide range of subjects, embracing +among other things, government, dreams, writers of dialect +and dogs"—Mr. Howes might have heightened his crescendo +by adding "emancipated woman"; and finally—1909 +to 1912—</i>The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce<i>, +containing all his work previously published in book form, +save the two last mentioned, and much more besides, all collected +and edited by Bierce himself.</i></p> + +<p><i>On October 2, 1913, Ambrose Bierce, having settled his +business affairs, left Washington for a trip through the southern +states, declaring in letters his purpose of going into Mexico +and later on to South America. The fullest account of his +trip and his plans is afforded by a newspaper clipping he +sent his niece in a letter dated November 6, 1913; through +the commonplaceness of the reportorial vocabulary shines out +the vivid personality that was making its final exit:</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>"Traveling over the same ground that he had covered with +General Hazen's brigade during the Civil War, Ambrose Bierce, +famed writer and noted critic, has arrived in New Orleans. Not +that this city was one of the places figuring in his campaigns, for +he was here after and not during the war. He has come to New +Orleans in a haphazard, fancy-free way, making a trip toward +Mexico. The places that he has visited on the way down have become<span class="pagenum">xv</span> +famous in song and story—places where the greatest battles +were fought, where the moon shone at night on the burial corps, +and where in day the sun shone bright on polished bayonets and +the smoke drifted upward from the cannon mouths.</i></p> + +<p><i>"For Mr. Bierce was at Chickamauga; he was at Shiloh; at +Murfreesboro; Kenesaw Mountain, Franklin and Nashville. +And then when wounded during the Atlanta campaign he was +invalided home. He 'has never amounted to much since then,' he +said Saturday. But his stories of the great struggle, living as +deathless characterizations of the bloody episodes, stand for what +he 'has amounted to since then.'</i></p> + +<p><i>"Perhaps it was in mourning for the dead over whose battlefields +he has been wending his way toward New Orleans that +Mr. Bierce was dressed in black. From head to foot he was +attired in this color, except where the white cuffs and collar +and shirt front showed through. He even carried a walking +cane, black as ebony and unrelieved by gold or silver. But his +eyes, blue and piercing as when they strove to see through the +smoke at Chickamauga, retained all the fire of the indomitable +fighter.</i></p> + +<p><i>"'I'm on my way to Mexico, because I like the game,' he said, +'I like the fighting; I want to see it. And then I don't think Americans +are as oppressed there as they say they are, and I want to +get at the true facts of the case. Of course, I'm not going into the +country if I find it unsafe for Americans to be there, but I want to +take a trip diagonally across from northeast to southwest by +horseback, and then take ship for South America, go over the +Andes and across that continent, if possible, and come back to +America again.</i></p> + +<p><i>"'There is no family that I have to take care of; I've retired +from writing and I'm going to take a rest. No, my trip isn't for +local color. I've retired just the same as a merchant or business<span class="pagenum">xvi</span> +man retires. I'm leaving the field for the younger authors.'</i></p> + +<p><i>"An inquisitive question was interjected as to whether Mr. +Bierce had acquired a competency only from his writings, but he +did not take offense.</i></p> + +<p><i>"'My wants are few, and modest,' he said, 'and my royalties +give me quite enough to live on. There isn't much that I need, +and I spend my time in quiet travel. For the last five years I +haven't done any writing. Don't you think that after a man has +worked as long as I have that he deserves a rest? But perhaps +after I have rested I might work some more—I can't tell, there +are so many things—' and the straightforward blue eyes took on +a faraway look, 'there are so many things that might happen between +now and when I come back. My trip might take several +years, and I'm an old man now.'</i></p> + +<p><i>"Except for the thick, snow-white hair no one would think him +old. His hands are steady, and he stands up straight and tall—perhaps +six feet."</i></p> +</div> + +<p><i>In December of that same year the last letter he is known +to have written was received by his daughter. It is dated +from Chihuahua, and mentions casually that he has attached +himself unofficially to a division of Villa's army, and +speaks of a prospective advance on Ojinaga. No further +word has ever come from or of Ambrose Bierce. Whether +illness overtook him, then an old man of seventy-one, and +death suddenly, or whether, preferring to go foaming over +a precipice rather than to straggle out in sandy deltas, he +deliberately went where he knew death was, no one can say. +His last letters, dauntless, grave, tender, do not say, though +they suggest much. "You must try to forgive my obstinacy +in not 'perishing' where I am," he wrote as he left Washington.<span class="pagenum">xvii</span> +"I want to be where something worth while is going +on, or where nothing whatever is going on." "Good-bye—if +you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone +wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty +good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease, or falling +down the cellar stairs. To be a Gringo in Mexico—ah, +that is euthanasia!" Whatever end Ambrose Bierce found +in Mexico, the lines of George Sterling well express what +must have been his attitude in meeting it:</i></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p><i>"Dream you he was afraid to live?<br /> +<span class="i1">Dream you he was afraid to die?</span><br /> +<span class="i1">Or that, a suppliant of the sky,</span><br /> +He begged the gods to keep or give?<br /> +Not thus the shadow-maker stood,<br /> +<span class="i1">Whose scrutiny dissolved so well</span><br /> +<span class="i1">Our thin mirage of Heaven or Hell—</span><br /> +The doubtful evil, dubious good....</i></p> +<p><i>"If now his name be with the dead,<br /> +<span class="i1">And where the gaunt agaves flow'r,</span><br /> +<span class="i1">The vulture and the wolf devour</span><br /> +The lion-heart, the lion-head,<br /> +Be sure that heart and head were laid<br /> +<span class="i1">In wisdom down, content to die;</span><br /> +<span class="i1">Be sure he faced the Starless Sky</span><br /> +Unduped, unmurmuring, unafraid."</i></p></div> + +<p><i>In any consideration of the work of Ambrose Bierce, a central +question must be why it contains so much that is trivial +or ephemeral. Another question facing every critic of Bierce, +is why the fundamentally original point of view, the clarity<span class="pagenum">xviii</span> +of workmanship of his best things—mainly stories—did not +win him immediate and general recognition.</i></p> + +<p><i>A partial answer to both questions is to be found in a certain +discord between Bierce and his setting. Bierce, paradoxically, +combined the bizarre in substance, the severely +restrained and compressed in form. An ironic mask covered +a deep-seated sensibility; but sensibility and irony were alike +subject to an uncompromising truthfulness; he would have +given deep-throated acclaim to Clough's</i></p> + +<p class="poem"><i> +<span class="o1">"But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man,</span><br /> +Let truth be truth, and life the thing it can."</i></p> + +<p><i>He had the aristocrat's contempt for mass feeling, a selectiveness +carried so far that he instinctively chose for themes +the picked person and experience, the one decisive moment of +crisis. He viewed his characters not in relation to other men +and in normal activities; he isolated them—often amid abnormalities.</i></p> + +<p><i>All this was in sharp contrast to the literary fashion obtaining +when he dipped his pen to try his luck as a creative +artist. The most popular novelist of the day was Dickens; +the most popular poet, Tennyson. Neither looked straight at +life; both veiled it: one in benevolence, the other in beauty. +Direct and painful verities were best tolerated by the reading +public when exhibited as instances of the workings of +natural law. The spectator of the macrocosm in action could +stomach the wanton destruction of a given human atom; one +so privileged could and did excuse the Creator for small mistakes +like harrying Hetty Sorrell to the gallow's foot, because<span class="pagenum">xix</span> +of the conviction that, taking the Universe by and +large, "He was a good fellow, and 'twould all be well." +This benevolent optimism was the offspring of a strange +pair, evangelicism and evolution; and in the minds of the +great public whom Bierce, under other circumstances and +with a slightly different mixture of qualities in himself, +might have conquered, it became a large, soft insincerity +that demanded "happy endings," a profuse broadness of +treatment prohibitive of harsh simplicity, a swathing of +elemental emotion in gentility or moral edification.</i></p> + +<p><i>But to Bierce's mind, "noble and nude and antique," this +mid-Victorian draping and bedecking of "unpleasant +truths" was abhorrent. Absolutely direct and unafraid—not +only in his personal relations but, what is more rare, in +his thinking—he regarded easy optimism, sure that God is +in his heaven with consequently good effects upon the world, +as blindness, and the hopefulness that demanded always +the "happy ending," as silly. In many significant passages +Bierce's attitude is the ironic one of Voltaire: "'Had not +Pangloss got himself hanged,' replied Candide, 'he would +have given us most excellent advice in this emergency; for +he was a profound philosopher.'" Bierce did not fear to bring +in disconcerting evidence that </i>a priori<i> reasoning may prove +a not infallible guide, that causes do not always produce the +effects complacently pre-argued, and that the notion of this +as the best of all possible worlds is sometimes beside the point.</i></p> + +<p><i>The themes permitted by such an attitude were certain to +displease the readers of that period. In </i>Tales of Soldiers<span class="pagenum">xx</span> +and Civilians<i>, his first book of stories, he looks squarely and +grimly at one much bedecked subject of the time—war; not +the fine gay gallantry of war, the music and the marching +and the romantic episodes; but the ghastly horror of it; +through his vivid, dramatic passages beats a hatred of war, +not merely "unrighteous" war, but all war, the more disquieting +because never allowed to become articulate. With +bitter but beautiful truth he brings each tale to its tragic +close, always with one last turn of the screw, one unexpected +horror more. And in this book—note the solemn implication +of the title he later gave it, </i>In the Midst of Life<i>—as well +as in the next, </i>Can Such Things Be<i>, is still another subject +which Bierce alone in his generation seemed unafraid +to consider curiously: "Death, in warfare and in the horrid +guise of the supernatural, was painted over and over. Man's +terror in the face of death gave the artist his cue for his wonderful +physical and psychologic microscopics. You could not +pin this work down as realism, or as romance; it was the +greatest human drama—the conflict between life and death—fused +through genius. Not Zola, in the endless pages of his +</i>Debâcle<i>, not the great Tolstoi in his great </i>War and Peace<i> +had ever painted war, horrid war, more faithfully than any +of the stories of this book; not Maupassant had invented out +of war's terrible truths more dramatically imagined plots.... +There painted an artist who had seen the thing itself, +and being a genius, had made it an art still greater.</i></p> + +<p><i>Death of the young, the beautiful, the brave, was the closing +note of every line of the ten stories of war in this book.<span class="pagenum">xxi</span> +The brilliant, spectacular death that came to such senseless +bravery as Tennyson hymned for the music-hall intelligence +in his </i>Charge of the Light Brigade<i>; the vision-starting, +slow, soul-drugging death by hanging; the multiplied, comprehensible +death that makes rivers near battlefields run +red; the death that comes by sheer terror; death actual and +imagined—every sort of death was on these pages, so painted +as to make Pierre Loti's </i>Book of Pity and Death<i> seem +but feeble fumbling."</i></p> + +<p><i>Now death by the mid-Victorian was considered almost +as undesirable an element in society as sex itself. Both must +be passed over in silence or presented decently draped. In +the eighties any writer who dealt unabashed with death +was regarded as an unpleasant person. "Revolting!" cried +the critics when they read Bierce's </i>Chickamauga<i> and +</i>The Affair at Coulter's Notch<i>.</i></p> + +<p><i>Bierce's style, too, by its very fineness, alienated his public. +Superior, keen, perfect in detail, finite, compressed—such +was his manner in the free and easy, prolix, rambling, multitudinous +nineteenth century.</i></p> + +<p><i>Bierce himself knew that although it is always the fashion +to jeer at fashion, its rule is absolute for all that, whether +it be fashion in boots or books.</i></p> + +<p><i>"A correspondent of mine," he wrote in 1887 in his </i><span class="smcap">Examiner</span><i> +column, "a well-known and clever writer, appears +surprised because I do not like the work of Robert Louis +Stevenson. I am equally hurt to know that he does. If he was +ever a boy he knows that the year is divided, not into seasons<span class="pagenum">xxii</span> +and months, as is vulgarly supposed, but into 'top time,' +'marble time,' 'kite time,' et cetera, and woe to the boy +who ignores the unwritten calendar, amusing himself according +to the dictates of an irresponsible conscience. I venture +to remind my correspondent that a somewhat similar +system obtains in matters of literature—a word which I beg +him to observe means fiction. There are, for illustration—or +rather, there were—James time, Howells time, Crawford +time, Russell time and Conway time, each epoch—named for +the immortal novelist of the time being—lasting, generally +speaking, as much as a year.... All the more rigorous is the +law of observance. It is not permitted to admire Jones in +Smith time. I must point out to my heedless correspondent +that this is not Stevenson time—that was last year." It was +decidedly not Bierce time when Bierce's stories appeared.</i></p> + +<p><i>And there was in him no compromise—or so he thought. +"A great artist," he wrote to George Sterling, "is superior +to his world and his time, or at least to his parish and his +day." His practical application of that belief is shown in a +letter to a magazine editor who had just rejected a satire he +had submitted:</i></p> + +<p><i>"Even </i>you<i> ask for literature—if my stories are literature, +as you are good enough to imply. (By the way, all the leading +publishers of the country turned down that book until they +saw it published without them by a merchant in San Francisco +and another sort of publishers in London, Leipsig and +Paris.) Well, you wouldn't do a thing to one of my stories!</i></p> + +<p><i>"No, thank you; if I have to write rot, I prefer to do it for<span class="pagenum">xxiii</span> +the newspapers, which make no false pretenses and are +frankly rotten, and in which the badness of a bad thing escapes +detection or is forgotten as soon as it is cold.</i></p> + +<p><i>"I know how to write a story (of 'happy ending' sort) for +magazine readers for whom literature is too good, but I will +not do so, so long as stealing is more honorable and interesting. +I have offered you ... the best that I am able to make; and +now you must excuse me." In these two utterances we have +some clue to the secret of his having ceased, in 1893, to publish +stories. Vigorously refusing to yield in the slightest degree +to the public so far as his stories were concerned, he +abandoned his best field of creative effort and became almost +exclusively a "columnist" and a satirist; he put his world to +rout, and left his "parish and his day" resplendently the +victors.</i></p> + +<p><i>All this must not be taken to mean that the "form and +pressure of the time" put into Bierce what was not there. +Even in his creative work he had a satiric bent; his early +training and associations, too, had been in journalistic satire. +Under any circumstances he undoubtedly would have +written satire—columns of it for his daily bread, books of +it for self-expression; but under more favorable circumstances +he would have kept on writing other sort of books +as well. Lovers of literature may well lament that Bierce's +insistence on going his way and the demands of his "parish" +forced him to overdevelop one power to the almost complete +paralysis of another and a perhaps finer.</i></p> + +<p><i>As a satirist Bierce was the best America has produced,<span class="pagenum">xxiv</span> +perhaps the best since Voltaire. But when he confined himself +to "exploring the ways of hate as a form of creative energy," +it was with a hurt in his soul, and with some intellectual +and spiritual confusion. There resulted a kink in his +nature, a contradiction that appears repeatedly, not only in +his life, but in his writings. A striking instance is found in +his article </i>To Train a Writer<i>:</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>"He should, for example, forget that he is an American and +remember that he is a man. He should be neither Christian nor +Jew, nor Buddhist, nor Mahometan, nor Snake Worshiper. To +local standards of right and wrong he should be civilly indifferent. +In the virtues, so-called, he should discern only the rough notes +of a general expediency; in fixed moral principles only time-saving +predecisions of cases not yet before the court of conscience. Happiness +should disclose itself to his enlarging intelligence as the end +and purpose of life; art and love as the only means to happiness. +He should free himself of all doctrines, theories, etiquettes, politics, +simplifying his life and mind, attaining clarity with breadth +and unity with height. To him a continent should not seem wide nor +a century long. And it would be needful that he know and have +an ever-present consciousness that this is a world of fools and +rogues, blind with superstition, tormented with envy, consumed +with vanity, selfish, false, cruel, cursed with illusions—frothing +mad!"</i></p> +</div> + +<p><i>Up to that last sentence Ambrose Bierce beholds this world +as one where tolerance, breadth of view, simplicity of life +and mind, clear thinking, are at most attainable, at least +worthy of the effort to attain; he regards life as purposive, +as having happiness for its end, and art and love as the +means to that good end. But suddenly the string from which<span class="pagenum">xxv</span> +he has been evoking these broad harmonies snaps with a +snarl. All is evil and hopeless—"frothing mad." Both views +cannot be held simultaneously by the same mind. Which was +the real belief of Ambrose Bierce? The former, it seems clear. +But he has been hired to be a satirist.</i></p> + +<p><i>On the original fabric of Bierce's mind the satiric strand +has encroached more than the design allows. There results +not only considerable obliteration of the main design, but +confusion in the substituted one. For it is significant that +much of the work of Bierce seems to be that of what he would +have called a futilitarian, that he seldom seems able to find +a suitable field for his satire, a foeman worthy of such perfect +steel as he brings to the encounter; he fights on all fields, +on both sides, against all comers; ubiquitous, indiscriminate, +he is as one who screams in pain at his own futility, +one who "might be heard," as he says of our civilization, +"from afar in space as a scolding and a riot." That Bierce +would have spent so much of his superb power on the trivial +and the ephemeral, breaking magnificent vials of wrath on +Oakland nobodies, preserving insignificant black beetles in +the amber of his art, is not merely, as it has long been, cause +of amazement to the critics; it is cause of laughter to the +gods, and of weeping among Bierce's true admirers.</i></p> + +<p><i>Some may argue that Bierce's failure to attain international +or even national fame cannot be ascribed solely to a +lack of concord between the man and his time and to the consequent +reaction in him. It is true that in Bierce's work is a +sort of paucity—not a mere lack of printed pages, but of the<span class="pagenum">xxvi</span> +fulness of creative activity that makes Byron, for example, +though vulgar and casual, a literary mountain peak. Bierce +has but few themes, few moods; his literary river runs clear +and sparkling, but confined—a narrow current, not the opulent +stream that waters wide plains of thought and feeling. +Nor has Bierce the power to weave individual entities and +situations into a broad pattern of existence, which is the distinguishing +mark of such writers as Thackeray, Balzac, +and Tolstoi among the great dead, and Bennett and Wells +among the lesser living. Bierce's interest does not lie in the +group experience nor even in the experience of the individual +through a long period. His unit of time is the minute, not the +month. It is significant that he never wrote a novel—unless +</i>The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter<i> be reckoned +one—and that he held remarkable views of the novel as a +literary form, witness this passage from </i>Prattle<i>, written in +1887:</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><i>"English novelists are not great because the English novel is +dead—deader than Queen Anne at her deadest. The vein is worked +out. It was a thin one and did not 'go down.' A single century from +the time when Richardson sank the discovery shaft it had already +begun to 'pinch out.' The miners of today have abandoned +it altogether to search for 'pockets,' and some of the best of them +are merely 'chloriding the dumps.' To expect another good novel +in English is to expect the gold to 'grow' again."</i></p> +</div> + +<p><i>It may well be that at the bottom of this sweeping condemnation +was an instinctive recognition of his own lack +of constructive power on a large scale.</i></p> + +<p><i>But an artist, like a nation, should be judged not by what<span class="pagenum">xxvii</span> +he cannot do, but by what he can. That Bierce could not paint +the large canvas does not make him negligible or even inconsiderable. +He is by no means a second-rate writer; he is a +first-rate writer who could not consistently show his first-rateness.</i></p> + +<p><i>When he did show his first-rateness, what is it? In all his +best work there is originality, a rare and precious idiosyncracy; +his point of view, his themes are rich with it. Above +all writers Bierce can present—brilliantly present—startling +fragments of life, carved out from attendant circumstance; +isolated problems of character and action; sharply +bitten etchings of individual men under momentary stresses +and in bizarre situations. Through his prodigious emotional +perceptivity he has the power of feeling and making us feel +some strange, perverse accident of fate, destructive of the +individual—of making us feel it to be real and terrible. +This is not an easy thing to do. De Maupassant said that +men were killed every year in Paris by the falling of tiles +from the roof, but if he got rid of a principal character in +that way, he should be hooted at. Bierce can make us accept +as valid and tragic events more odd than the one de Maupassant +had to reject. "In the line of the startling,—half +Poe, half Merimee—he cannot have many superiors," says +Arnold Bennett.... "A story like </i>An Occurrence at +Owl Creek Bridge<i>—well, Edgar Allan Poe might have +deigned to sign it. And that is something.</i></p> + +<p><i>"He possesses a remarkable style—what Kipling's would<span class="pagenum">xxviii</span> +have been had Kipling been born with any significance of the +word 'art'—and a quite strangely remarkable perception of +beauty. There is a feeling for landscape in </i>A Horseman in +the Sky<i> which recalls the exquisite opening of that indifferent +novel, </i>Les Frères Zemganno<i> by Edmond de Goncourt, +and which no English novelist except Thomas Hardy, +and possibly Charles Marriott, could match." The feeling for +landscape which Bennett notes is but one part of a greater +power—the power to make concrete and visible, action, person, +place. Bierce's descriptions of Civil War battles in his +</i>Bits of Autobiography<i> are the best descriptions of battle +ever written. He lays out the field with map-like clearness, +marshals men and events with precision and economy, but +his account never becomes exposition—it is drama. Real +battles move swiftly; accounts make them seem labored and +slow. What narrator save Bierce can convey the sense of +their being lightly swift, and, again and again the shock of +surprise the event itself must have given?</i></p> + +<p><i>This could not be were it not for his verbal restraint. In +his descriptions is no welter of adjectives and adverbs; +strong exact nouns and verbs do the work, and this means +that the veritable object and action are brought forward, not +qualifying talk around and about them. And this, again, +could not be were it not for what is, beyond all others, his +greatest quality—absolute precision. "I sometimes think," +he once wrote playfully about letters of his having been misunderstood, +"I sometimes think that I am the only man in the +world who understands the meaning of the written word. +Or the only one who does not." A reader of Ambrose Bierce<span class="pagenum">xxix</span> +comes almost to believe that not till now has he found a writer +who understands—completely—the meaning of the written +word. He has the power to bring out new meanings in well-worn +words, so setting them as to evoke brilliant significances +never before revealed. He gives to one phrase the +beauty, the compressed suggestion of a poem; his titles—</i>Black +Beetles in Amber<i>, </i>Ashes of the Beacon<i>, </i>Cobwebs +from an Empty Skull<i> are masterpieces in miniature. +That he should have a gift of coining striking words +naturally follows: in his later years he has fallen into his +"anecdotage," a certain Socialist is the greatest "futilitarian" +of them all, "femininies"—and so on infinitely. Often +the smaller the Biercean gem, the more exquisite the workmanship. +One word has all the sparkle of an epigram.</i></p> + +<p><i>In such skill Ambrose Bierce is not surpassed by any writer, +ancient or modern; it gives him rank among the few masters +who afford that highest form of intellectual delight, the +immediate recognition of a clear idea perfectly set forth in +fitting words—wit's twin brother, evoking that rare joy, the +sudden, secret laughter of the mind. So much for Bierce the +artist; the man is found in these letters. If further clue to +the real nature of Ambrose Bierce were needed it is to be +found in a conversation he had in his later years with a +young girl: "You must be very proud, Mr. Bierce, of all your +books and your fame?" "No," he answered rather sadly, +"you will come to know that all that is worth while in life +is the love you have had for a few people near to you."</i></p> + +<div class="figcenter p6"> +<img src="images/section.png" width="300" height="33" alt="new section" /> +</div> + +<hr class="c15" /> +<h2><i>A Memoir of Ambrose Bierce</i></h2> +<p class="p2 center"><big><b><i>by </i><span class="smcap">George Sterling</span></b></big></p> +<hr class="c15" /> + +<p><i>Though from boyhood a lover of tales of the terrible,<span class="pagenum">xxxiii</span> +it was not until my twenty-second year that I heard +of Ambrose Bierce, I having then been for ten +months a resident of Oakland, California. But in the fall of +the year 1891 my friend Roosevelt Johnson, newly arrived +from our town of birth, Sag Harbor, New York, asked me +if I were acquainted with his work, adding that he had been +told that Bierce was the author of stories not inferior in +awesomeness to the most terrible of Poe's.</i></p> + +<p><i>We made inquiry and found that Bierce had for several +years been writing columns of critical comment, satirically +named </i>Prattle<i>, for the editorial page of the Sunday +</i><span class="smcap">Examiner</span><i>, of San Francisco. As my uncle, of whose household I +had been for nearly a year a member, did not subscribe to that +journal, I had unfortunately overlooked these weekly contributions +to the wit and sanity of our western literature—an +omission for which we partially consoled ourselves by subsequently +reading with great eagerness each installment of +</i>Prattle<i> as it appeared. But, so far as his short stories were +concerned, we had to content ourselves with the assurance +of a neighbor that "they'd scare an owl off a tombstone."</i></p> + +<p><i>However, later in the autumn, while making a pilgrimage<span class="pagenum">xxxiv</span> +to the home of our greatly worshipped Joaquin Miller, we +became acquainted with Albert, an elder brother of Bierce's, +a man who was to be one of my dearest of friends to the day +of his death, in March, 1914. From him we obtained much +to gratify our not unnatural curiosity as to this mysterious +being, who, from his isolation on a lonely mountain above the +Napa Valley, scattered weekly thunderbolts on the fool, the +pretender, and the knave, and cast ridicule or censure on +many that sat in the seats of the mighty. For none, however +socially or financially powerful, was safe from the stab of +that aculeate pen, the venom of whose ink is to gleam vividly +from the pages of literature for centuries yet to come.</i></p> + +<p><i>For Bierce is of the immortals. That fact, known, I think, +to him, and seeming then more and more evident to some of +his admirers, has become plainly apparent to anyone who can +appraise the matter with eyes that see beyond the flimsy artifices +that bulk so large and so briefly in the literary arena. +Bierce was a sculptor who wrought in hardest crystal.</i></p> + +<p><i>I was not to be so fortunate as to become acquainted with +him until after the publication of his first volume of short +stories, entitled </i>Tales of Soldiers and Civilians<i>. That mild +title gives scant indication of the terrors that await the unwarned +reader. I recall that I hung fascinated over the book, +unable to lay it down until the last of its printed dooms had +become an imperishable portion of the memory. The tales are +told with a calmness and reserve that make most of Poe's +seem somewhat boyish and melodramatic by comparison. +The greatest of them seems to me to be </i>An Occurrence at<span class="pagenum">xxxv</span> +Owl Creek Bridge<i>, though I am perennially charmed by +the weird beauty of </i>An Inhabitant of Carcosa<i>, a tale of +unique and unforgettable quality.</i></p> + +<p><i>Bierce, born in Ohio in 1842, came to San Francisco soon +after the close of the Civil War. It is amusing to learn that +he was one of a family of eleven children, male and female, +the Christian name of each of whom began with the letter +"A!" Obtaining employment at first in the United States +Mint, whither Albert, always his favorite brother, had preceded +him, he soon gravitated to journalism, doing his first +work on the San Francisco </i><span class="smcap">News Letter</span><i>. His brother +once told me that he (Ambrose) had from boyhood been eager +to become a writer and was expectant of success at that pursuit.</i></p> + +<p><i>Isolated from most men by the exalted and austere habit +of his thought, Bierce finally suffered a corresponding exile +of the body, and was forced to live in high altitudes, which +of necessity are lonely. This latter banishment was on account +of chronic and utterly incurable asthma, an ailment +contracted in what might almost be termed a characteristic +manner. Bierce had no fear of the dead folk and their marble +city. From occasional strollings by night in Laurel Hill +Cemetery, in San Francisco, his spirit "drank repose," and +was able to attain a serenity in which the cares of daytime +existence faded to nothingness. It was on one of those strolls +that he elected to lie for awhile in the moonlight on a flat +tombstone, and awakening late in the night, found himself +thoroughly chilled, and a subsequent victim of the disease<span class="pagenum">xxxvi</span> +that was to cast so dark a shadow over his following years. +For his sufferings from asthma were terrible, arising often +to a height that required that he be put under the influence +of chloroform.</i></p> + +<p><i>So afflicted, he found visits to the lowlands a thing not to +be indulged in with impunity. For many years such trips +terminated invariably in a severe attack of his ailment, +and he was driven back to his heights shaken and harassed. +But he found such visits both necessary and pleasant on +occasion, and it was during one that he made in the summer +of 1892 that I first made his acquaintance, while he was +temporarily a guest at his brother Albert's camp on a rocky, +laurel-covered knoll on the eastern shore of Lake Temescal, +a spot now crossed by the tracks of the Oakland, Antioch +and Eastern Railway.</i></p> + +<p><i>I am not likely to forget his first night among us. A tent +being, for his ailment, insufficiently ventilated, he decided +to sleep by the campfire, and I, carried away by my youthful +hero-worship, must partially gratify it by occupying the +side of the fire opposite to him. I had a comfortable cot in my +tent, and was unaccustomed at the time to sleeping on the +ground, the consequence being that I awoke at least every +half-hour. But awake as often as I might, always I found +Bierce lying on his back in the dim light of the embers, his +gaze fixed on the stars of the zenith. I shall not forget the +gaze of those eyes, the most piercingly blue, under yellow +shaggy brows, that I have ever seen.</i></p> + +<p><i>After that, I saw him at his brother's home in Berkeley, at<span class="pagenum">xxxvii</span> +irregular intervals, and once paid him a visit at his own +temporary home at Skylands, above Wrights, in Santa Clara +County, whither he had moved from Howell Mountain, in +Napa County. It was on this visit that I was emboldened +to ask his opinion on certain verses of mine, the ambition to +become a poet having infected me at the scandalously mature +age of twenty-six. He was hospitable to my wish, and I was +fortunate enough to be his pupil almost to the year of his +going forth from among us. During the greater part of that +time he was a resident of Washington, D. C., whither he had +gone in behalf of the San Francisco </i><span class="smcap">Examiner</span><i>, to aid in +defeating (as was successfully accomplished) the Funding +Bill proposed by the Southern Pacific Company. It was on +this occasion that he electrified the Senate's committee by +repeatedly refusing to shake the hand of the proponent of +that measure, no less formidable an individual than Collis +P. Huntington.</i></p> + +<p><i>For Bierce carried into actual practice his convictions on +ethical matters. Secure in his own self-respect, and valuing +his friendship or approval to a high degree, he refused to +make, as he put it, "a harlot of his friendship." Indeed, he +once told me that it was his rule, on subsequently discovering +the unworth of a person to whom a less fastidious friend +had without previous warning introduced him, to write a +letter to that person and assure him that he regarded the +introduction as a mistake, and that the twain were thenceforth +to "meet as strangers!" He also once informed me that +he did not care to be introduced to persons whom he had<span class="pagenum">xxxviii</span> +criticized, or was about to criticize, in print. "I might get +to like the beggar," was his comment, "and then I'd have +one less pelt in my collection."</i></p> + +<p><i>In his criticism of my own work, he seldom used more than +suggestion, realizing, no doubt, the sensitiveness of the tyro +in poetry. It has been hinted to me that he laid, as it were, +a hand of ice on my youthful enthusiasms, but that, to such +extent as it may be true, was, I think, a good thing for a +pupil of the art, youth being apt to gush and become over-sentimental. +Most poets would give much to be able to obliterate +some of their earlier work, and he must have saved +me a major portion of such putative embarrassment. Reviewing +the manuscripts that bear his marginal counsels, +I can now see that such suggestions were all "indicated," +though at the time I dissented from some of them. It was one +of his tenets that a critic should "keep his heart out of his +head" (to use his own words), when sitting in judgment on +the work of writers whom he knew and liked. But I cannot +but think that he was guilty of sad violations of that +rule, especially in my own case.</i></p> + +<p><i>Bierce lived many years in Washington before making +a visit to his old home. That happened in 1910, in which +year he visited me at Carmel, and we afterwards camped +for several weeks together with his brother and nephew, +in Yosemite. I grew to know him better in those days, and +he found us hospitable, in the main degree, to his view of +things, socialism being the only issue on which we were not +in accord. It led to many warm arguments, which, as usual,<span class="pagenum">xxxix</span> +conduced nowhere but to the suspicion that truth in such +matters was mainly a question of taste.</i></p> + +<p><i>I saw him again in the summer of 1911, which he spent +at Sag Harbor. We were much on the water, guests of my +uncle in his power-yacht "La Mascotte II." He was a +devotee of canoeing, and made many trips on the warm and +shallow bays of eastern Long Island, which he seemed to +prefer to the less spacious reaches of the Potomac. He revisited +California in the fall of the next year, a trip on which +we saw him for the last time. An excursion to the Grand +Canyon was occasionally proposed, but nothing came of it, +nor did he consent to be again my guest at Carmel, on the +rather surprising excuse that the village contained too many +anarchists! And in November, 1913, I received my last +letter from him, he being then in Laredo, Texas, about to +cross the border into warring Mexico.</i></p> + +<p><i>Why he should have gone forth on so hazardous an enterprise +is for the most part a matter of conjecture. It may +have been in the spirit of adventure, or out of boredom, or he +may not, even, have been jesting when he wrote to an intimate +friend that, ashamed of having lived so long, and not +caring to end his life by his own hand, he was going across +the border and let the Mexicans perform for him that service. +But he wrote to others that he purposed to extend his +pilgrimage as far as South America, to cross the Andes, +and return to New York by way of a steamer from Buenos +Ayres. At any rate, we know, from letters written during +the winter months, that he had unofficially attached himself<span class="pagenum">xl</span> +to a section of Villa's army, even taking an active part +in the fighting. He was heard from until the close of 1913; +after that date the mist closes in upon his trail, and we are +left to surmise what we may. Many rumors as to his fate +have come out of Mexico, one of them even placing him in +the trenches of Flanders. These rumors have been, so far as +possible, investigated: all end in nothing. The only one that +seems in the least degree illuminative is the tale brought by +a veteran reporter from the City of Mexico, and published +in the San Francisco </i><span class="smcap">Bulletin</span><i>. It is the story of a soldier in +Villa's army, one of a detachment that captured, near the +village of Icamole, an ammunition train of the Carranzistas. +One of the prisoners was a sturdy, white-haired, +ruddy-faced Gringo, who, according to the tale, went before +the firing squad with an Indian muleteer, as sole companion +in misfortune. The description of the manner—indifferent, even +contemptuous—with which the white-haired +man met his death seems so characteristic of Bierce that +one would almost be inclined to give credence to the tale, +impossible though it may be of verification. But the date of +the tragedy being given as late in 1915, it seems incredible +that Bierce could have escaped observation for so long a +period, with so many persons in Mexico eager to know of his +fate. It is far more likely that he met his death at the hands +of a roving band of outlaws or guerrilla soldiery.</i></p> + +<p><i>I have had often in mind the vision of his capture by such +a squad, their discovery of the considerable amount of gold +coin that he was known to carry on his person, and his immediate<span class="pagenum">xli</span> +condemnation and execution as a spy in order that +they might retain possession of the booty. Naturally, such +proceedings would not have been reported, from fear of the +necessity of sharing with those "higher up." And so the veil +would have remained drawn, and impenetrable to vision. +Through the efforts of the War Department, all United +States Consuls were questioned as to Bierce's possible departure +from the country; all Americans visiting or residing +in Mexico were begged for information—even prospectors. +But the story of the reporter is the sole one that seems +partially credible. To such darkness did so shining and fearless +a soul go forth.</i></p> + +<p><i>It is now over eight years since that disappearance, and +though the likelihood of his existence in the flesh seems faint +indeed, the storm of detraction and obloquy that he always +insisted would follow his demise has never broken, is not +even on the horizon. Instead, he seems to be remembered with +tolerance by even those whom he visited with a chastening +pen. Each year of darkness but makes the star of his fame +increase and brighten, but we have, I think, no full conception +as yet of his greatness, no adequate realization of +how wide and permanent a fame he has won. It is significant +that some of the discerning admire him for one phase +of his work, some for another. For instance, the clear-headed +H. L. Mencken acclaims him as the first wit of America, +but will have none of his tales; while others, somewhat disconcerted +by the cynicism pervading much of his wit, place +him among the foremost exponents of the art of the short story.<span class="pagenum">xlii</span> +Others again prefer his humor (for he was humorist as +well as wit), and yet others like most the force, clarity and +keen insight of his innumerable essays and briefer comments +on mundane affairs. Personally, I have always regarded +Poe's </i>Fall of the House of Usher<i> as our greatest tale; close +to that come, in my opinion, at least a dozen of Bierce's stories, +whether of the soldier or civilian. He has himself stated +in </i>Prattle<i>: "I am not a poet." And yet he wrote poetry, +on occasion, of a high order, his </i>Invocation<i> being one of the +noblest poems in the tongue. Some of his satirical verse seems +to me as terrible in its withering invective as any that has +been written by classic satirists, not excepting Juvenal and +Swift. Like the victims of their merciless pens, his, too, will +be forgiven and forgotten. Today no one knows, nor cares, +whether or not those long-dead offenders gave just offense. +The grave has closed over accuser and accused, and the only +thing that matters is that a great mind was permitted to +function. One may smile or sigh over the satire, but one must +also realize that even the satirist had his own weaknesses, +and could have been as savagely attacked by a mentality +as keen as his own. Men as a whole will never greatly care +for satire, each recognizing, true enough, glimpses of himself +in the invective, but sensing as well its fundamental +bias and cruelty. However, Bierce thought best of himself +as a satirist.</i></p> + +<p><i>Naturally, Bierce carried his wit and humor into his immediate +human relationships. I best recall an occasion, +when, in my first year of acquaintance with him, we were<span class="pagenum">xliii</span> +both guests at the home of the painter, J. H. E. Partington. +It happened that a bowl of nasturtiums adorned the center +table, and having been taught by Father Tabb, the poet, +to relish that flower, I managed to consume most of them +before the close of the evening, knowing there were plenty +more to be had in the garden outside. Someone at last remarked: +"Why, George has eaten all the nasturtiums! Go +out and bring some more." At which Bierce dryly and justly +remarked: "No—bring some thistles!" It is an indication, +however, of his real kindness of heart that, observing my confusion, +he afterwards apologized to me for what he termed +a thoughtless jest. It was, nevertheless, well deserved.</i></p> + +<p><i>I recall even more distinctly a scene of another setting. +This concerns itself with Bierce's son, Leigh, then a youth +in the early twenties. At the time (</i>circa<i> 1894) I was a +brother lodger with them in an Oakland apartment house. +Young Bierce had contracted a liaison with a girl of his +own age, and his father, determined to end the affair, had +appointed an hour for discussion of the matter. The youth +entered his father's rooms defiant and resolute: within an +hour he appeared weeping, and cried out to me, waiting for +him in his own room: "My father is a greater man than +Christ! He has suffered more than Christ!" And the affair +of the heart was promptly terminated.</i></p> + +<p><i>One conversant with Bierce only as a controversionalist +and </i>censor morum<i> was, almost of necessity, constrained to +imagine him a misanthrope, a soured and cynical recluse. +Only when one was privileged to see him among his intimates<span class="pagenum">xliv</span> +could one obtain glimpses of his true nature, which +was considerate, generous, even affectionate. Only the waving +of the red flag of Socialism could rouse in him what +seemed to us others a certain savageness of intolerance. +Needless to say, we did not often invoke it, for he was an +ill man with whom to bandy words. It was my hope, at one +time, to involve him and Jack London in a controversy on +the subject, but London declined the oral encounter, preferring +one with the written word. Nothing came of the plan, +which is a pity, as each was a supreme exponent of his point +of view. Bierce subsequently attended one of the midsummer +encampments of the Bohemian Club, of which he was once +the secretary, in their redwood grove near the Russian river. +Hearing that London was present, he asked why they had +not been mutually introduced, and I was forced to tell him +that I feared that they'd be, verbally, at each other's throats, +within an hour. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Bierce. "Bring +him around! I'll treat him like a Dutch Uncle." He kept +his word, and seemed as much attracted to London as London +was to him. But I was always ill at ease when they +were conversing. I do not think the two men ever met again.</i></p> + +<p><i>Bierce was the cleanest man, personally, of whom I have +knowledge—almost fanatically so, if such a thing be possible. +Even during our weeks of camping in the Yosemite, he +would spend two hours on his morning toilet in the privacy +of his tent. His nephew always insisted that the time was +devoted to shaving himself from face to foot! He was also +a most modest man, and I still recall his decided objections<span class="pagenum">xlv</span> +to my bathing attire when at the swimming-pool of the Bohemian +Club, in the Russian River. Compared to many of those +visible, it seemed more than adequate; but he had another +opinion of it. He was a good, even an eminent, tankard-man, +and retained a clear judgment under any amount of potations. +He preferred wine (especially a dry </i>vin du pays<i>, usually +a sauterne) to "hard likker," in this respect differing +in taste from his elder brother. In the days when I first made +his acquaintance, I was accustomed to roam the hills beyond +Oakland and Berkeley from Cordonices Creek to Leona +Heights, in company with Albert Bierce, his son Carlton, +R. L. ("Dick") Partington, Leigh Bierce (Ambrose's surviving +son) and other youths. On such occasions I sometimes +hid a superfluous bottle of port or sherry in a convenient +spot, and Bierce, afterwards accompanying us on several +such outings, pretended to believe that I had such flagons +concealed under each bush or rock in the reach and breadth +of the hills, and would, to carry out the jest, hunt zealously +in such recesses. I could wish that he were less often unsuccessful +in the search, now that he has had "the coal-black +wine" to drink.</i></p> + +<p><i>Though an appreciable portion of his satire hints at misanthropy, +Bierce, while profoundly a pessimist, was, by his +own confession to me, "a lover of his country and his fellowmen," +and was ever ready to proffer assistance in the time +of need and sympathy in the hour of sorrow. His was a great +and tender heart, and giving of it greatly, he expected, or +rather hoped for, a return as great. It may have been by<span class="pagenum">xlvi</span> +reason of the frustration of such hopes that he so often broke +with old and, despite his doubts, appreciative friends. His +brother Albert once told me that he (Ambrose) had never been +"quite the same," after the wound in the head that he received +in the battle of Kenesaw Mountain, but had a tendency +to become easily offended and to show that resentment. +Such estrangements as he and his friends suffered are not, +therefore, matters on which one should sit in judgment. It +is sad to know that he went so gladly from life, grieved and +disappointed. But the white flame of Art that he tended for +nearly half a century was never permitted to grow faint +nor smoky, and it burned to the last with a pure brilliance. +Perhaps, he bore witness to what he had found most admirable +and enduring in life in the following words, the conclusion +of the finest of his essays:</i></p> + +<p><i>"Literature and art are about all that the world really +cares for in the end; those who make them are not without +justification in regarding themselves as masters in the House +of Life and all others as their servitors. In the babble and +clamor, the pranks and antics of its countless incapables, +the tremendous dignity of the profession of letters is overlooked; +but when, casting a retrospective eye into 'the dark +backward and abysm of time' to where beyond these voices +is the peace of desolation, we note the majesty of the few +immortals and compare them with the pygmy figures of their +contemporary kings, warriors and men of action generally—when +across the silent battle-fields and hushed </i>fora<i> where +the dull destinies of nations were determined, nobody cares<span class="pagenum">xlvii</span> +how, we hear</i></p> + +<p class="poem"><i> +<span class="i2">like ocean on a western beach</span><br /> +The surge and thunder of the Odyssey,</i></p> + +<p><i>then we appraise literature at its true value, and how little +worth while seems all else with which Man is pleased to +occupy his fussy soul and futile hands!"</i></p> + +<div class="figcenter p6"> +<img src="images/section.png" width="300" height="33" alt="new section" /> +</div> + +<hr class="c15" /> +<h2><i>The Letters of Ambrose Bierce</i></h2> +<hr class="c15" /> +<div class="sidenote"> +Angwin,<br /> +July 31,<br /> +1892.<br /> +</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>You will not, I hope, mind my saying that the first part<span class="pagenum">3</span> +of your letter was so pleasing that it almost solved the disappointment +created by the other part. For <i>that</i> is a bit discouraging. +Let me explain.</p> + +<p>You receive my suggestion about trying your hand * * * +at writing, with assent and apparently pleasure. But, alas, +not for love of the art, but for the purpose of helping God repair +his botchwork world. You want to "reform things," poor +girl—to rise and lay about you, slaying monsters and liberating +captive maids. You would "help to alter for the better +the position of working-women." You would be a missionary—and +the rest of it. Perhaps I shall not make myself +understood when I say that this discourages me; that in such +aims (worthy as they are) I would do nothing to assist you; +that such ambitions are not only impracticable but incompatible +with the spirit that gives success in art; that such +ends are a prostitution of art; that "helpful" writing is +dull reading. If you had had more experience of life I should +regard what you say as entirely conclusive against your +possession of any talent of a literary kind. But you are +so young and untaught in that way—and I have the +testimony of little felicities and purely literary touches +(apparently unconscious) in your letters—perhaps your +unschooled heart and hope should not be held as having<span class="pagenum">4</span> +spoken the conclusive word. But surely, my child—as +surely as anything in mathematics—Art will laurel no +brow having a divided allegiance. Love the world as much +as you will, but serve it otherwise. The best service you +can perform by writing is to write well with no care for +anything but that. Plant and water and let God give the +increase if he will, and to whom it shall please him.</p> + +<p>Suppose your father were to "help working-women" by +painting no pictures but such (of their ugly surroundings, +say) as would incite them to help themselves, or others to +help them. Suppose you should play no music but such as—but +I need go no further. Literature (I don't mean journalism) +is an <i>art</i>;—it is not a form of benevolence. It has nothing +to do with "reform," and when used as a means of reform +suffers accordingly and justly. Unless you can <i>feel</i> that way +I cannot advise you to meddle with it.</p> + +<p>It would be dishonest in me to accept your praise for +what I wrote of the Homestead Works quarrel—unless +you should praise it for being well written and true. I have +no sympathies with that savage fight between the two +kinds of rascals, and no desire to assist either—except to +better hearts and manners. The love of truth is good +enough motive for me when I write of my fellowmen. I +like many things in this world and a few persons—I like +you, for example; but after they are served I have no love +to waste upon the irreclaimable mass of brutality that we +know as "mankind." Compassion, yes—I am sincerely +sorry that they are brutes.</p> + +<p>Yes, I wrote the article "The Human Liver." Your criticism +is erroneous. My opportunities of knowing women's +feelings toward Mrs. Grundy are better than yours. They +hate her with a horrible antipathy; but they cower all the<span class="pagenum">5</span> +same. The fact that they are a part of her mitigates neither +their hatred nor their fear.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>After next Monday I shall probably be in St. Helena, but +if you will be so good as still to write to me please address +me here until I apprise you of my removal; for I shall intercept +my letters at St. Helena, wherever addressed. And +maybe you will write before Monday. I need not say how +pleasant it is for me to hear from you. And I shall want to +know what you think of what I say about your "spirit of +reform."</p> + +<p>How I should have liked to pass that Sunday in camp +with you all. And to-day—I wonder if you are there to-day. +I feel a peculiar affection for that place.</p> + +<p>Please give my love to all your people, and forgive my +intolerably long letters—or retaliate in kind.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely your friend,<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +August 15,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">I know, dear Blanche</span>, of the disagreement among men +as to the nature and aims of literature; and the subject is +too "long" to discuss. I will only say that it seems to me +that men holding Tolstoi's view are not properly literary +men (that is to say, artists) at all. They are "missionaries," +who, in their zeal to lay about them, do not scruple +to seize any weapon that they can lay their hands on; they +would grab a crucifix to beat a dog. The dog is well beaten, +no doubt (which makes him a worse dog than he was before) +but note the condition of the crucifix! The work of +these men is better, of course, than the work of men of +truer art and inferior brains; but always you see the possibilities—possibilities<span class="pagenum">6</span> +to <i>them</i>—which they have missed or +consciously sacrificed to their fad. And after all they do no +good. The world does not wish to be helped. The poor wish +only to be rich, which is impossible, not to be better. They +would like to be rich in order to be worse, generally speaking. +And your working woman (also generally speaking) +does not wish to be virtuous; despite her insincere deprecation +she would not let the existing system be altered if +she could help it. Individual men and women can be +assisted; and happily some are worthy of assistance. No +<i>class</i> of mankind, no tribe, no nation is worth the sacrifice +of one good man or woman; for not only is their average +worth low, but they like it that way; and in trying to help +them you fail to help the good individuals. Your family, +your immediate friends, will give you scope enough for all +your benevolence. I must include your<i>self</i>.</p> + +<p>In timely illustration of some of this is an article by Ingersoll +in the current <i>North American Review</i>—I shall send +it you. It will be nothing new to you; the fate of the philanthropist +who gives out of his brain and heart instead of +his pocket—having nothing in that—is already known to +you. It serves him richly right, too, for his low taste in loving. +He who dilutes, spreads, subdivides, the love which naturally +<i>all</i> belongs to his family and friends (if they are good) +should not complain of non-appreciation. Love those, help +those, whom from personal knowledge you know to be worthy. +To love and help others is treason to <i>them</i>. But, bless my +soul! I did not mean to say all this.</p> + +<p>But while you seem clear as to your own art, you seem +undecided as to the one you wish to take up. I know the +strength and sweetness of the illusions (that is, <i>de</i>lusions) +that you are required to forego. I know the abysmal ignorance +of the world and human character which, as a girl,<span class="pagenum">7</span> +you necessarily have. I know the charm that inheres in the +beckoning of the Britomarts, as they lean out of their +dream to persuade you to be as like them as is compatible +with the fact that you exist. But I believe, too, that if you +are set thinking—not reading—you will find the light.</p> + +<p>You ask me of journalism. It is so low a thing that it <i>may</i> +be legitimately used as a means of reform or a means of +anything deemed worth accomplishing. It is not an art; +art, except in the greatest moderation, is damaging to it. +The man who can write well must not write as well as he +can; the others may, of course. Journalism has many purposes, +and the people's welfare <i>may</i> be one of them; though +that is not the purpose-in-chief, by much.</p> + +<p>I don't mind your irony about my looking upon the unfortunate +as merely "literary material." It is true in so +far as I consider them <i>with reference to literature</i>. Possibly +I might be willing to help them otherwise—as your father +might be willing to help a beggar with money, who is not +picturesque enough to go into a picture. As you might be +willing to give a tramp a dinner, yet unwilling to play "The +Sweet Bye-and-Bye," or "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," to tickle +his ear.</p> + +<p>You call me "master." Well, it is pleasant to think of +you as a pupil, but—you know the young squire had to +watch his arms all night before the day of his accolade and +investiture with knighthood. I think I'll ask you to contemplate +yours a little longer before donning them—not +by way of penance but instruction and consecration. When +you are quite sure of the nature of your <i>call</i> to write—quite +sure that it is <i>not</i> the voice of "duty"—then let me +do you such slight, poor service as my limitations and the +injunctions of circumstance permit. In a few ways I can<span class="pagenum">8</span> +help you.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Since coming here I have been ill all the time, but it +seems my duty to remain as long as there is a hope that I +<i>can</i> remain. If I get free from my disorder and the fear of it +I shall go down to San Francisco some day and then try to +see your people and mine. Perhaps you would help me to +find my brother's new house—if he is living in it.</p> + +<p>With sincere regards to all your family, I am most truly +your friend,<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>Your letters are very pleasing to me. I think it nice of you +to write them.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +August 17,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>It was not that I forgot to mail you the magazine that I +mentioned; I could not find it; but now I send it.</p> + +<p>My health is bad again, and I fear that I shall have to +abandon my experiment of living here, and go back to the +mountain—or some mountain. But not directly.</p> + +<p>You asked me what books would be useful to you—I'm +assuming that you've repented your sacrilegious attitude +toward literature, and will endeavor to thrust your pretty +head into the crown of martyrdom otherwise. I may mention +a few from time to time as they occur to me. There is +a little book entitled (I think) simply "English Composition." +It is by Prof. John Nichol—elementary, in a few +places erroneous, but on the whole rather better than the +ruck of books on the same subject.</p> + +<p>Read those of Landor's "Imaginary Conversations" which +relate to literature.</p> + +<p>Read Longinus, Herbert Spencer on Style, Pope's "Essay +on Criticism" (don't groan—the detractors of Pope are not +always to have things their own way), Lucian on the writing<span class="pagenum">9</span> +of history—though you need not write history. Read +poor old obsolete Kames' notions; some of them are not half +bad. Read Burke "On the Sublime and Beautiful."</p> + +<p>Read—but that will do at present. And as you read don't +forget that the rules of the literary art are deduced from +the work of the masters who wrote in ignorance of them or +in unconsciousness of them. That fixes their value; it is +secondary to that of <i>natural</i> qualifications. None the less, +it is considerable. Doubtless you have read many—perhaps +most—of these things, but to read them with a view +to profit <i>as a writer</i> may be different. If I could get to San +Francisco I could dig out of those artificial memories, the +catalogues of the libraries, a lot of titles additional—and +get you the books, too. But I've a bad memory, and am +out of the Book Belt.</p> + +<p>I wish you would write some little thing and send it me +for examination. I shall not judge it harshly, for this I +<i>know</i>: the good writer (supposing him to be born to the +trade) is not made by reading, but by observing and experiencing. +You have lived so little, seen so little, that your +range will necessarily be narrow, but within its lines I +know no reason why you should not do good work. But it +is all conjectural—you may fail. Would it hurt if I should +tell you that I thought you had failed? Your absolute and +complete failure would not affect in the slightest my +admiration of your intellect. I have always half suspected +that it is only second rate minds, and minds below the +second rate, that hold their cleverness by so precarious a +tenure that they can detach it for display in words.</p> + +<p class="left65">God bless you, <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +August 28,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,<span class="pagenum">10</span></p> + +<p>I positively shall not bore you with an interminated +screed this time. But I thought you might like to know +that I have recovered my health, and hope to be able to +remain here for a few months at least. And if I remain well +long enough to make me reckless I shall visit your town +some day, and maybe ask your mother to command you +to let me drive you to Berkeley. It makes me almost sad +to think of the camp at the lake being abandoned.</p> + +<p>So you liked my remarks on the "labor question." That +is nice of you, but aren't you afraid your praise will get me +into the disastrous literary habit of writing for some <i>one</i> +pair of eyes?—your eyes? Or in resisting the temptation I +may go too far in the opposite error. But you do not see +that it is "Art for Art's sake"—hateful phrase! Certainly +not, it is not Art at all. Do you forget the distinction I +pointed out between journalism and literature? Do you +not remember that I told you that the former was of so +little value that it might be used for anything? My newspaper +work is in <i>no</i> sense literature. It is nothing, and only +becomes something when I give it the very use to which I +would put nothing literary. (Of course I refer to my editorial +and topical work.)</p> + +<p>If you want to learn to write that kind of thing, so as to +do good with it, you've an easy task. <i>Only</i> it is not worth +learning and the good that you can do with it is not worth +doing. But literature—the desire to do good with <i>that</i> will +not help you to your means. It is not a sufficient incentive. +The Muse will not meet you if you have any work for her +to do. Of course I sometimes like to do good—who does +not? And sometimes I am glad that access to a great number +of minds every week gives me an opportunity. But, +thank Heaven, I don't make a business of it, nor use in it<span class="pagenum">11</span> +a tool so delicate as to be ruined by the service.</p> + +<p>Please do not hesitate to send me anything that you may +be willing to write. If you try to make it perfect before you +let me see it, it will never come. My remarks about the +kind of mind which holds its thoughts and feelings by so +precarious a tenure that they are detachable for use by +others were not made with a forethought of your failure.</p> + +<p>Mr. Harte of the New England Magazine seems to want +me to know his work (I asked to) and sends me a lot of it +cut from the magazine. I pass it on to you, and most of it +is just and true.</p> + +<p>But I'm making another long letter.</p> + +<p>I wish I were not an infidel—so that I could say: "God +bless you," and mean it literally. I wish there <i>were</i> a God +to bless you, and that He had nothing else to do.</p> + +<p>Please let me hear from you. Sincerely,<span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +September 28,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I have been waiting for a full hour of leisure to write you +a letter, but I shall never get it, and so I'll write you anyhow. +Come to think of it, there is nothing to say—nothing +that <i>needs</i> be said, rather, for there is always so much that +one would like to say to you, best and most patient of +<i>sayees</i>.</p> + +<p>I'm sending you and your father copies of my book. Not +that I think you (either of you) will care for that sort of +thing, but merely because your father is my co-sinner in +making the book, and you in sitting by and diverting my +mind from the proof-sheets of a part of it. Your part, therefore, +in the work is the typographical errors. So you are in +literature in spite of yourself.</p> + +<p>I appreciate what you write of my girl. She is the best of<span class="pagenum">12</span> +girls to me, but God knoweth I'm not a proper person to +direct her way of life. However, it will not be for long. A +dear friend of mine—the widow of another dear friend—in +London wants her, and means to come out here next +spring and try to persuade me to let her have her—for a +time at least. It is likely that I shall. My friend is wealthy, +childless and devoted to both my children. I wish that in +the meantime she (the girl) could have the advantage of +association with <i>you</i>.</p> + +<p>Please say to your father that I have his verses, which I +promise myself pleasure in reading.</p> + +<p><i>You</i> appear to have given up your ambition to "write +things." I'm sorry, for "lots" of reasons—not the least +being the selfish one that I fear I shall be deprived of a +reason for writing you long dull letters. Won't you <i>play</i> +at writing things?</p> + +<p>My (and Danziger's) book, "The Monk and the Hangman's +Daughter," is to be out next month. The Publisher—I +like to write it with a reverent capital letter—is unprofessional +enough to tell me that he regards it as the very +best piece of English composition that he ever saw, and he +means to make the world know it. Now let the great English +classics hide their diminished heads and pale their +ineffectual fires!</p> + +<p>So you begin to suspect that books do not give you the +truth of life and character. Well, that suspicion is the beginning +of wisdom, and, so far as it goes, a preliminary +qualification for writing—books. Men and women are +certainly not what books represent them to be, nor what +<i>they</i> represent—and sometimes believe—themselves to be. +They are better, they are worse, and far more interesting.</p> + +<p>With best regards to all your people, and in the hope that<span class="pagenum">13</span> +we may frequently hear from you, I am very sincerely your +friend,<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>Both the children send their <i>love</i> to you. And they mean +just that.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +October 6,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I send you by this mail the current <i>New England Magazine</i>—merely +because I have it by me and have read all +of it that I shall have leisure to read. Maybe it will entertain +you for an idle hour.</p> + +<p>I have so far recovered my health that I hope to do a +little pot-boiling to-morrow. (Is that properly written with +a hyphen?—for the life o' me I can't say, just at this +moment. There is a story of an old actor who having +played one part half his life had to cut out the name of the +person he represented wherever it occurred in his lines: he +could never remember which syllable to accent.) My illness +was only asthma, which, unluckily, does not kill me +and so should not alarm my friends.</p> + +<p>Dr. Danziger writes that he has ordered your father's sketch +sent me. And I've ordered a large number of extra impressions +of it—if it is still on the stone. So you see I like it.</p> + +<p>Let me hear from you and about you.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely your friend,</p> +<p>I enclose Bib.<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +October 7,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Partington</span>,</p> + +<p>I've been too ill all the week to write you of your manuscripts, +or even read them understandingly.</p> + +<p>I think "Honest Andrew's Prayer" far and away the +best. <i>It</i> is witty—the others hardly more than earnest, +and not, in my judgment, altogether fair. But then you +know you and I would hardly be likely to agree on a point<span class="pagenum">14</span> +of that kind,—I refuse my sympathies in some directions +where I extend my sympathy—if that is intelligible. You, +I think, have broader sympathies than mine—are not only +sorry for the Homestead strikers (for example) but approve +them. I do not. But we are one in detesting their +oppressor, the smug-wump, Carnegie.</p> + +<p>If you had not sent "Honest Andrew's Prayer" elsewhere +I should try to place it here. It is so good that I hope +to see it in print. If it is rejected please let me have it again +if the incident is not then ancient history.</p> + +<p>I'm glad you like some things in my book. But you should +not condemn me for debasing my poetry with abuse; you +should commend me for elevating my abuse with a little +poetry, here and there. I am not a poet, but an abuser—that +makes all the difference. It is "how you look at it."</p> + +<p>But I'm still too ill to write. With best regards to all your +family, I am sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>I've been reading your pamphlet on Art Education. You +write best when you write most seriously—and your best +is very good.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +October 15,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I send you this picture in exchange for the one that you +have—I'm "redeeming" all those with these. But I asked +you to return that a long time ago. Please say if you like +this; to me it looks like a dude. But I hate the other—the +style of it.</p> + +<p>It is very good of your father to take so much trouble as +to go over and work on that stone. I want the pictures—lithographs—only +for economy: so that when persons for +whom I do not particularly care want pictures of me I +need not bankrupt myself in orders to the photographer.<span class="pagenum">15</span> +And I do not like photographs anyhow. How long, O Lord, +how long am I to wait for that sketch of <i>you</i>?</p> + +<p>My dear girl, I do not see that folk like your father and +me have any just cause of complaint against an unappreciative +world; nobody compels us to make things that the +world does not want. We merely choose to because the +pay, <i>plus</i> the satisfaction, exceeds the pay alone that we +get from work that the world does want. Then where is our +grievance? We get what we prefer when we do good work; +for the lesser wage we do easier work. It has never seemed +to me that the "unappreciated genius" had a good case to +go into court with, and I think he should be promptly non-suited. +Inspiration from Heaven is all very fine—the +mandate of an attitude or an instinct is good; but when A +works for B, yet insists on taking his orders from C, what +can he expect? So don't distress your good little heart with +compassion—not for me, at least; whenever I tire of pot-boiling, +wood-chopping is open to me, and a thousand other +honest and profitable employments.</p> + +<p>I have noted Gertrude's picture in the Examiner with a +peculiar interest. That girl has a bushel of brains, and her +father and brother have to look out for her or she will leave +them out of sight. I would suggest as a measure of precaution +against so monstrous a perversion of natural order that +she have her eyes put out. The subjection of women must +be maintained.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Bib and Leigh send love to you. Leigh, I think, is expecting +Carlt. I've permitted Leigh to join the band again, and +he is very peacocky in his uniform. God bless you. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">St. Helena,<br /> +November 6,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,<span class="pagenum">16</span></p> + +<p>I am glad you will consent to tolerate the new photograph—all +my other friends are desperately delighted with +it. I prefer your tolerance.</p> + +<p>But I don't like to hear that you have been "ill and +blue"; that is a condition which seems more naturally to +appertain to me. For, after all, whatever cause you may +have for "blueness," you can always recollect that you are +<i>you</i>, and find a wholesome satisfaction in your identity; +whereas I, alas, am <i>I</i>!</p> + +<p>I'm sure you performed your part of that concert creditably +despite the ailing wrist, and wish that I might have +added myself to your triumph.</p> + +<p>I have been very ill again but hope to get away from here +(back to my mountain) before it is time for another attack +from my friend the enemy. I shall expect to see you there +sometime when my brother and his wife come up. They +would hardly dare to come without you.</p> + +<p>No, I did not read the criticism you mention—in the +<i>Saturday Review</i>. Shall send you all the <i>Saturdays</i> that I +get if you will have them. Anyhow, they will amuse (and +sometimes disgust) your father.</p> + +<p>I have awful arrears of correspondence, as usual.</p> + +<p>The children send love. They had a pleasant visit with +Carlt, and we hope he will come again.</p> + +<p>May God be very good to you and put it into your heart +to write to your uncle often.</p> + +<p>Please give my best respects to all Partingtons, jointly +and severally.<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +November 29,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>Only just a word to say that I have repented of my assent +to your well-meant proposal for your father to write of <i>me</i>.<span class="pagenum">17</span> +If there is anything in my work in letters that engages his +interest, or in my <i>literary</i> history—that is well enough, and +I shall not mind. But "biography" in the other sense is +distasteful to me. I never read biographical "stuff" of +other writers—of course you know "stuff" is literary +slang for "matter"—and think it "beside the question." +Moreover, it is distinctly mischievous to letters. It throws +no light on one's work, but on the contrary "darkens +counsel." The only reason that posterity judges work with +some slight approach to accuracy is that posterity knows +less, and cares less, about the author's personality. It considers +his work as impartially as if it had found it lying +on the ground with no footprints about it and no initials +on its linen.</p> + +<p>My brother is not "fully cognizant" of my history, anyhow—not +of the part that is interesting.</p> + +<p>So, on the whole, I'll ask that it be not done. It was only +my wish to please that made me consent. That wish is no +weaker now, but I would rather please otherwise.</p> + +<p>I trust that you arrived safe and well, and that your +memory of those few stormy days is not altogether disagreeable. +Sincerely your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +December 25,<br /> +1892.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>Returning here from the city this morning, I find your +letter. And I had not replied to your last one before that! +But <i>that</i> was because I hoped to see you at your home. I +was unable to do so—I saw no one (but Richard) whom I +really wanted to see, and had not an hour unoccupied by +work or "business" until this morning. And then—it was +Christmas, and my right to act as skeleton at anybody's +feast by even so much as a brief call was not clear. I hope<span class="pagenum">18</span> +my brother will be as forgiving as I know you will be.</p> + +<p>When I went down I was just recovering from as severe +an attack of illness as I ever had in my life. Please consider +unsaid all that I have said in praise of this mountain, +its air, water, and everything that is its.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>It was uncommonly nice of Hume to entertain so good an +opinion of me; if you had seen him a few days later you +would have found a different state of affairs, probably; for +I had been exhausting relays of vials of wrath upon him +for delinquent diligence in securing copyright for my little +story—whereby it is uncopyrighted. I ought to add that +he has tried to make reparation, and is apparently contrite +to the limit of his penitential capacity.</p> + +<p>No, there was no other foundation for the little story +than its obvious naturalness and consistency with the +sentiments "appropriate to the season." When Christendom +is guzzling and gorging and clowning it has not time +to cease being cruel; all it can do is to augment its hypocrisy +a trifle.</p> + +<p>Please don't lash yourself and do various penances any +more for your part in the plaguing of poor Russell; he is +quite forgotten in the superior affliction sent upon James +Whitcomb Riley. <i>That</i> seems a matter of genuine public +concern, if I may judge by what I heard in town (and I +heard little else) and by my letters and "esteemed" +(though testy) "contemporaries." Dear, dear, how sensitive +people are becoming!</p> + +<p>Richard has promised me the Blanchescape that I have +so patiently waited for while you were practicing the art of +looking pretty in preparation for the sitting, so now I am +happy. I shall put you opposite Joaquin Miller, who is<span class="pagenum">19</span> +now framed and glazed in good shape. I have also your +father's sketch of me—that is, I got it and left it in San +Francisco to be cleaned if possible; it was in a most unregenerate +state of dirt and grease.</p> + +<p>Seeing Harry Bigelow's article in the <i>Wave</i> on women +who write (and it's unpleasantly near to the truth of the +matter) I feel almost reconciled to the failure of my gorgeous +dream of making a writer of <i>you</i>. I wonder if you +would have eschewed the harmless, necessary tub and +danced upon the broken bones of the innocuous toothbrush. +Fancy you with sable nails and a soiled cheek, +uttering to the day what God taught in the night! Let us +be thankful that the peril is past.</p> + +<p>The next time I go to "the Bay" I shall go to 1019 <i>first</i>.</p> + +<p>God bless you for a good girl.<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p class="p4">[First part of this letter missing.]</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Yes, I know Blackburn Harte has a weakness for the proletariat +of letters * * * and doubtless thinks Riley good +<i>because</i> he is "of the people," peoply. But he will have to +endure me as well as he can. You ask my opinion of Burns. +He has not, I think, been translated into English, and I do +not (that is, I can but <i>will</i> not) read that gibberish. I read +Burns once—that was once too many times; but happily +it was before I knew any better, and so my time, being +worthless, was not wasted.</p> + +<p>I wish you could be up here this beautiful weather. But +I dare say it would rain if you came. In truth, it is "thickening" +a trifle just because of my wish. And I wish I <i>had</i> +given you, for your father, all the facts of my biography<span class="pagenum">20</span> +from the cradle—downward. When you come again I +shall, if you still want them. For I'm worried half to death +with requests for them, and when I refuse am no doubt +considered surly or worse. And my refusal no longer serves, +for the biography men are beginning to write my history +from imagination. So the next time I see you I shall give +you (orally) that "history of a crime," my life. Then, if +your father is still in the notion, he can write it from your +notes, and I can answer all future inquiries by enclosing +his article.</p> + +<p>Do you know?—you will, I think, be glad to know—that +I have many more offers for stories at good prices, +than I have the health to accept. (For I am less nearly well +than I have told you.) Even the <i>Examiner</i> has "waked +up" (I woke it up) to the situation, and now pays me $20 a +thousand words; and my latest offer from New York is $50.</p> + +<p>I hardly know why I tell you this unless it is because you +tell me of any good fortune that comes to your people, and +because you seem to take an interest in my affairs such as +nobody else does in just the same unobjectionable and, in +fact, agreeable way. I wish you were my "real, sure-enough" +niece. But in that case I should expect you to pass +all your time at Howell Mountain, with your uncle and +cousin. Then I should teach you to write, and you could +expound to me the principles underlying the art of being +the best girl in the world. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +January 4,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>Not hearing from [you] after writing you last week, I fear +you are ill—may I not know? I am myself ill, as I feared. On +Thursday last I was taken violently ill indeed, and have but +just got about. In truth, I'm hardly able to write you, but<span class="pagenum">21</span> +as I have to go to work on Friday, <i>sure</i>, I may as well practice +a little on you. And the weather up here is Paradisaical. +Leigh and I took a walk this morning in the woods. +We scared up a wild deer, but I did not feel able to run it +down and present you with its antlers.</p> + +<p>I hope you are well, that you are all well. And I hope +Heaven will put it into your good brother's heart to send +me that picture of the sister who is so much too good for +him—or anybody.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, and always, God bless you. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>My boy (who has been an angel of goodness to me in my +illness) sends his love to you and all your people.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin, Cal.,<br /> +January 14,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Partington</span>,</p> + +<p>You see the matter is this way. You can't come up here +and go back the same day—at least that would give you +but about an hour here. You must remain over night. Now +I put it to you—how do you think I'd feel if you came and +remained over night and I, having work to do, should have +to leave you to your own devices, mooning about a place +that has nobody to talk to? When a fellow comes a long +way to see me I want to see a good deal of him, however <i>he</i> +may feel about it. It is not the same as if he lived in the +same bailiwick and "dropped in." That is why, in the present +state of my health and work, I ask all my friends to +give me as long notice of their coming as possible. I'm sure +you'll say I am right, inasmuch as certain work if undertaken +must be done by the time agreed upon.</p> + +<p>My relations with Danziger are peculiar—as any one's +relations with him must be. In the matter of which you +wished to speak I could say nothing. For this I must ask<span class="pagenum">22</span> +you to believe there are reasons. It would not have been +fair not to let you know, before coming, that I would not +talk of him.</p> + +<p>I thought, though, that you would probably come up to-day +if I wrote you. Well, I should like you to come and pass +a week with me. But if you come for a day I naturally want +it to be an "off" day with me. Sincerely yours,<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +January 23,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I should have written you sooner; it has been ten whole +days since the date of your last letter. But I have not been +in the mood of letter writing, and am prepared for maledictions +from all my neglected friends but you. My +health is better. Yesterday I returned from Napa, where I +passed twenty-six hours, buried, most of the time, in fog; +but apparently it has not harmed me. The weather here +remains heavenly. * * *</p> + +<p>If I grow better in health I shall in time feel able to extend +my next foray into the Lowlands as far as Oakland +and Berkeley.</p> + +<p>Here are some fronds of maiden-hair fern that I have just +brought in. The first wild flowers of the season are beginning +to venture out and the manzanitas are a sight to see.</p> + +<p>With warmest regards to all your people, I am, as ever, +your most unworthy uncle, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +February 5,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>What an admirable reporter you would be! Your account +of the meeting with Miller in the restaurant and of the +"entertainment" are amusing no end. * * * By the way, +I observe a trooly offle "attack" on me in the Oakland<span class="pagenum">23</span> +<i>Times</i> of the 3rd (I think) * * * (I know of course it +means me—I always know that when they pull out of +their glowing minds that old roasted chestnut about +"tearing down" but not "building up"—that is to say, +effacing one imposture without giving them another in +place of it.) The amusing part of the business is that he +points a contrast between me and Realf (God knows +there's unlikeness enough) quite unconscious of the fact +that it is I and no other who have "built up" Realf's reputation +as a poet—published his work, and paid him for it, +when nobody else would have it; repeatedly pointed out its +greatness, and when he left that magnificent crown of sonnets +behind him protested that posterity would know California +better by the incident of his death than otherwise—not +a soul, until now, concurring in my view of the verses. +Believe me, my trade is not without its humorous side.</p> + +<p>Leigh and I went down to the waterfall yesterday. It was +almost grand—greater than I had ever seen it—and I +took the liberty to wish that you might see it in that state. +My wish must have communicated itself, somehow, though +imperfectly, to Leigh, for as I was indulging it he expressed +the same wish with regard to Richard.</p> + +<p>I wish too that you might be here to-day to see the swirls +of snow. It is falling rapidly, and I'm thinking that this +letter will make its way down the mountain to-morrow +morning through a foot or two of it. Unluckily, it has a +nasty way of turning to rain.</p> + +<p>My health is very good now, and Leigh and I take long +walks. And after the rains we look for Indian arrow-heads +in the plowed fields and on the gravel bars of the creek. My +collection is now great; but I fear I shall tire of the fad +before completing it. One in the country must have a fad<span class="pagenum">24</span> +or die of dejection and oxidation of the faculties. How happy +is he who can make a fad of his work!</p> + +<p>By the way, my New York publishers (The United States +Book Company) have failed, owing me a pot of money, of +which I shall probably get nothing. I'm beginning to cherish +an impertinent curiosity to know what Heaven means to do +to me next. If your function as one of the angels gives you +a knowledge of such matters please betray your trust and +tell me where I'm to be hit, and how hard.</p> + +<p>But this is an intolerable deal of letter.</p> + +<p>With best regards to all good Partingtons—and I think +there are no others—I remain your affectionate uncle by +adoption, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>Leigh has brought in some manzanita blooms which I +shall try to enclose. But they'll be badly smashed.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +February 14,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My Dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I thank you many times for the picture, which is a monstrous +good picture, whatever its shortcomings as a portrait +may be. On the authority of the great art critic, Leigh +Bierce, I am emboldened to pronounce some of the work +in it equal to Gribayedoff at his best; and that, according +to the g. a. c. aforesaid, is to exhaust eulogium. But—it +isn't altogether the Blanche that I know, as I know her. +Maybe it is the hat—I should prefer you hatless, and so +less at the mercy of capricious fortune. Suppose hats were +to "go out"—I tremble to think of what would happen to +that gorgeous superstructure which now looks so beautiful. +O, well, when I come down I shall drag you to the hateful +photographer and get something that looks quite like +you—and has no other value.</p> + +<p>And I mean to "see Oakland and die" pretty soon. I have<span class="pagenum">25</span> +not dared go when the weather was bad. It promises well +now, but I am to have visitors next Sunday, so must stay +at home. God and the weather bureau willing, you may be +bothered with me the Saturday or Sunday after. We shall see.</p> + +<p>I hope your father concurs in my remarks on picture +"borders"—I did not think of him until the remarks had +been written, or I should have assured myself of his practice +before venturing to utter my mind o' the matter. If it +were not for him and Gertrude and the <i>Wave</i> I should +snarl again, anent "half-tones," which I abhor. Hume tried +to get me to admire his illustrations, but I would not, so far +as the process is concerned, and bluntly told him he would +not get your father's best work that way.</p> + +<p>If you were to visit the Mountain now I should be able +to show you a redwood forest (newly discovered) and a +picturesque gulch to match.</p> + +<p>The wild flowers are beginning to put up their heads to +look for you, and my collection of Indian antiquities is +yearning to have you see it.</p> + +<p>Please convey my thanks to Richard for the picture—the +girlscape—and my best regards to your father and all +the others.</p> +<p class="left65">Sincerely your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +February 21,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm very sorry indeed that I cannot be in Oakland Thursday +evening to see you "in your glory," arrayed, doubtless, +like a lily of the field. However glorious you may be in +public, though, I fancy I should like you better as you used +to be out at camp.</p> + +<p>Well, I mean to see you on Saturday afternoon if you are +at home, and think I shall ask you to be my guide to<span class="pagenum">26</span> +Grizzlyville; for surely I shall never be able to find the +wonderful new house alone. So if your mamma will let you +go out there with me I promise to return you to her instead +of running away with you. And, possibly, weather +permitting, we can arrange for a Sunday in the redwoods +or on the hills. Or don't your folks go out any more o' +Sundays?</p> + +<p>Please give my thanks to your mother for the kind invitation +to put up at your house; but I fear that would be +impossible. I shall have to be where people can call on me—and +such a disreputable crowd as my friends are would ruin +the Partingtonian reputation for respectability. In your new +neighborhood you will all be very proper—which you could +hardly be with a procession of pirates and vagrants pulling +at your door-bell.</p> + +<p>So—if God is good—I shall call on you Saturday afternoon. +In the meantime and always be thou happy—thou +and thine. Your unworthy uncle, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +March 18,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>It is good to have your letters again. If you will not let +me teach you my trade of writing stories it is right that you +practice your own of writing letters. You are mistress of +that. Byron's letters to Moore are dull in comparison with +yours to me. Some allowance, doubtless, must be made for +my greater need of your letters than of Byron's. For, truth +to tell, I've been a trifle dispirited and noncontent. In that +mood I peremptorily resigned from the <i>Examiner</i>, for one +thing—and permitted myself to be coaxed back by Hearst, +for another. My other follies I shall not tell you. * * *</p> + +<p>We had six inches of snow up here and it has rained +steadily ever since—more than a week. And the fog is of<span class="pagenum">27</span> +superior opacity—quite peerless that way. It is still raining +and fogging. Do you wonder that your unworthy uncle +has come perilously and alarmingly near to loneliness? Yet +I have the companionship, at meals, of one of your excellent +sex, from San Francisco. * * *</p> + +<p>Truly, I should like to attend one of your at-homes, but I +fear it must be a long time before I venture down there +again. But when this brumous visitation is past I can <i>look</i> +down, and that assists the imagination to picture you all in +your happy (I hope) home. But if that woolly wolf, Joaquin +Miller, doesn't keep outside the fold I <i>shall</i> come down and +club him soundly. I quite agree with your mother that his +flattery will spoil you. You said I would spoil Phyllis, and +now, you bad girl, you wish to be spoiled yourself. Well, you +can't eat four Millerine oranges.—My love to all your family. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +March 26,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Partington</span>,</p> + +<p>I am very glad indeed to get the good account of Leigh +that you give me. I've feared that he might be rather a bore +to you, but you make me easy on that score. Also I am +pleased that you think he has a sufficient "gift" to do +something in the only direction in which he seems to care +to go.</p> + +<p>He is anxious to take the place at the <i>Examiner</i>, and his +uncle thinks that would be best—if they will give it him. +I'm a little reluctant for many reasons, but there are considerations—some +of them going to the matter of character +and disposition—which point to that as the best arrangement. +The boy needs discipline, control, and work. +He needs to learn by experience that life is not all beer and +skittles. Of course you can't quite know him as I do. As to<span class="pagenum">28</span> +his earning anything on the <i>Examiner</i> or elsewhere, that cuts +no figure—he'll spend everything he can get his fingers on +anyhow; but I feel that he ought to have the advantage +of a struggle for existence where the grass is short and the +soil stony.</p> + +<p>Well, I shall let him live down there somehow, and see +what can be done with him. There's a lot of good in him, +and a lot of the other thing, naturally.</p> + +<p>I hope Hume has, or will, put you in authority in the +<i>Post</i> and give you a decent salary. He seems quite enthusiastic +about the <i>Post</i> and—about you.</p> + +<p>With sincere regards to Mrs. Partington and all the Partingtonettes, +I am very truly yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +April 10,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Partington</span>,</p> + +<p>If you are undertaking to teach my kid (which, unless +it is entirely agreeable to you, you must not do) I hope you +will regard him as a pupil whose tuition is to be paid for like +any other pupil. And you should, I think, name the price. +Will you kindly do so?</p> + +<p>Another thing. Leigh tells me you paid him for something +he did for the <i>Wave</i>. That is not right. While you let him +work with you, and under you, his work belongs to you—is +a part of yours. I mean the work that he does in your +shop for the <i>Wave</i>.</p> + +<p>I don't wish to feel that you are bothering with him for +nothing—will you not tell me your notion of what I should +pay you?</p> + +<p>I fancy you'll be on the <i>Examiner</i> pretty soon—if you wish.</p> + +<p>With best regards to your family I am sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +April 10,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,<span class="pagenum">29</span></p> + +<p>As I was writing to your father I was, of course, strongly +impressed with a sense of <i>you</i>; for you are an intrusive kind +of creature, coming into one's consciousness in the most +lawless way—Phyllis-like. (Phyllis is my "type and example" +of lawlessness, albeit I'm devoted to her—a Phyllistine, +as it were.)</p> + +<p>Leigh sends me a notice (before the event) of your concert. +I hope it was successful. Was it?</p> + +<p>It rains or snows here all the time, and the mountain +struggles in vain to put on its bravery of leaf and flower. +When this kind of thing stops I'm going to put in an application +for you to come up and get your bad impressions of +the place effaced. It is insupportable that my earthly paradise +exist in your memory as a "bad eminence," like Satan's +primacy.</p> + +<p>I'm sending you the <i>New England Magazine</i>—perhaps I +have sent it already—and a <i>Harper's Weekly</i> with a story +by Mrs. * * *, who is a sort of pupil of mine. She used to +do bad work—does now sometimes; but she will do great +work by-and-by.</p> + +<p>I wish you had not got that notion that you cannot learn +to write. You see I'd like you to do <i>some</i> art work that I +can understand and enjoy. I wonder why it is that no note +or combination of notes can be struck out of a piano that +will touch me—give me an emotion of any kind. It is not +wholly due to my ignorance and bad ear, for other instruments—the +violin, organ, zither, guitar, etc., sometimes affect +me profoundly. Come, read me the riddle if you know. +What have I done that I should be inaccessible to your +music? I know it is good; I can hear that it is, but not feel +that it is. Therefore to me it is not.</p> + +<p>Now that, you will confess, is a woeful state—"most<span class="pagenum">30</span> +tolerable and not to be endured." Will you not cultivate +some art within the scope of my capacity? Do you think +you could learn to walk on a wire (if it lay on the ground)? +Can you not ride three horses at once if they are suitably +dead? Or swallow swords? Really, you should have some +way to entertain your uncle.</p> + +<p>True, you can talk, but you never get the chance; I always +"have the floor." Clearly you must learn to write, +and I mean to get Miller to teach you how to be a poet.</p> + +<p>I hope you will write occasionally to me,—letter-writing +is an art that you do excel in—as I in "appreciation" of +your excellence in it.</p> + +<p>Do you see my boy? I hope he is good, and diligent in his +work.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You must write to me or I shall withdraw my avuncular +relation to you.</p> + +<p>With good will to all your people—particularly Phyllis—I +am sincerely your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin, Calif.,<br /> +April 16,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Partington</span>,</p> + +<p>I think you wrong. On your own principle, laid down in +your letter, that "every man has a right to the full value +of his labor"—pardon me, good Englishman, I meant +"laboUr"—you have a right to your wage for the labo<sup><span style="font-size: 1.2em;">ṷ</span></sup>r +of teaching Leigh. And what work would <i>he</i> get to do but +for you?</p> + +<p>I can't hold you and inject shekels into your pocket, but +if the voice of remonstrance has authority to enter at your +ear without a ticket I pray you to show it hospitality.</p> + +<p>Leigh doubtless likes to see his work in print, but I hope +you will not let him put anything out until it is as good as +he can make it—nor then if it is not good <i>enough</i>. And<span class="pagenum">31</span> +that whether he signs it or not. I have talked to him about +the relation of conscience to lab-work, but I don't know +if my talk all came out at the other ear.</p> + +<p>O—that bad joke o' mine. Where do you and Richard +expect to go when death do you part? You were neither of +you present that night on the dam, nor did I know either +of you. Blanche, thank God, retains the old-time reverence +for truth: it was to her that I said it. Richard evidently +dreamed it, and you—you've been believing that confounded +<i>Wave</i>! Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin,<br /> +April 18,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I take a few moments from work to write you in order +(mainly) to say that your letter of March 31st did not go +astray, as you seem to fear—though why <i>you</i> should care +if it did I can't conjecture. The loss to me—that is probably +what would touch your compassionate heart.</p> + +<p>So you <i>will</i> try to write. That is a good girl. I'm almost +sure you can—not, of course, all at once, but by-and-by. +And if not, what matter? You are not of the sort, I am sure, +who would go on despite everything, determined to succeed +by dint of determining to succeed.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>We are blessed with the most amiable of all conceivable +weathers up here, and the wild flowers are putting up their +heads everywhere to look for you. Lying in their graves +last autumn, they overheard (<i>under</i>heard) your promise to +come in the spring, and it has stimulated and cheered them +to a vigorous growth.</p> + +<p>I'm sending you some more papers. Don't think yourself +obliged to read all the stuff I send you—<i>I</i> don't read it.</p> + +<p>Condole with me—I have just lost another publisher—by<span class="pagenum">32</span> +failure. Schulte, of Chicago, publisher of "The Monk" +etc., has "gone under," I hear. Danziger and I have not +had a cent from him. I put out three books in a year, and +lo! each one brings down a publisher's gray hair in sorrow +to the grave! for Langton, of "Black Beetles," came to +grief—that is how Danziger got involved. "O that mine +enemy would <i>publish</i> one of my books!"</p> + +<p>I am glad to hear of your success at your concert. If I +could have reached you you should have had the biggest +basket of pretty vegetables that was ever handed over the +footlights. I'm sure you merited it all—what do you <i>not</i> +merit?</p> + +<p>Your father gives me good accounts of my boy. He <i>must</i> +be doing well, I think, by the way he neglects all my commissions.</p> + +<p>Enclosed you will find my contribution to the Partington +art gallery, with an autograph letter from the artist. You +can hang them in any light you please and show them to +Richard. He will doubtless be pleased to note how the +latent genius of his boss has burst into bloom.</p> + +<p>I have been wading in the creek this afternoon for pure +love of it; the gravel looked so clean under the water. I +was for the moment at least ten years younger than your +father. To whom, and to all the rest of your people, my +sincere regards, Your uncle, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Angwin, Cala.,<br /> +April 26,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I accept your sympathy for my misfortunes in publishing. +It serves me right (I don't mean the sympathy does) for +publishing. I should have known that if a publisher cannot +beat an author otherwise, or is too honest to do so, he will<span class="pagenum">33</span> +do it by failing. Once in London a publisher gave me a +check dated two days ahead, and then (the only thing he +could do to make the check worthless)—ate a pork pie and +died. That was the late John Camden Hotten, to whose +business and virtues my present London publishers, Chatto +and Windus, have succeeded. They have not failed, and they +refuse pork pie, but they deliberately altered the title of +my book.</p> + +<p>All this for your encouragement in "learning to write." +Writing books is a noble profession; it has not a shade of +selfishness in it—nothing worse than conceit.</p> + +<p>O yes, you shall have your big basket of flowers if ever I +catch you playing in public. I wish I could give you the +carnations, lilies-of-the-valley, violets, and first-of-the-season +sweet peas now on my table. They came from down near +you—which fact they are trying triumphantly and as hard +as they can to relate in fragrance.</p> + +<p>I trust your mother is well of her cold—that you are all +well and happy, and that Phyllis will not forget me. And +may the good Lord bless you regularly every hour of every +day for your merit, and every minute of every hour as a +special and particular favor to Your uncle, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Berkeley,<br /> +October 2,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I accept with pleasure your evidence that the Piano is not +as black as I have painted, albeit the logical inference is +that I'm pretty black myself. Indubitably I'm "in outer +darkness," and can only say to you: "Lead, kindly light." +Thank you for the funny article on the luxury question—from +the funny source. But you really must not expect me +to answer it, nor show you wherein it is "wrong." I cannot<span class="pagenum">34</span> +discern the expediency of you having any "views" at all +in those matters—even correct ones. If I could have my +way you should think of more profitable things than the +(conceded) "wrongness" of a world which is the habitat of +a wrongheaded and wronghearted race of irreclaimable savages. +* * * When woman "broadens her sympathies" they +become annular. Don't.</p> + +<p>Cosgrave came over yesterday for a "stroll," but as he +had a dinner engagement to keep before going home, he was +in gorgeous gear. So I kindly hoisted him atop of Grizzly +Peak and sent him back across the Bay in a condition impossible +to describe, save by the aid of a wet dishclout for +illustration.</p> + +<p>Please ask your father when and where he wants me to +sit for the portrait. If that picture is not sold, and ever +comes into my possession, I shall propose to swap it for +yours. I have always wanted to lay thievish hands on that, +and would even like to come by it honestly. But what +under the sun would I do with either that or mine? Fancy +me packing large paintings about to country hotels and +places of last resort!</p> + +<p>Leigh is living with me now. Poor chap, the death of his +aunt has made him an orphan. I feel a profound compassion +for any one whom an untoward fate compels to live +with <i>me</i>. However, such a one is sure to be a good deal +alone, which is a mitigation.</p> + +<p>With good wishes for all your people, I am sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Berkeley,<br /> +December 27,<br /> +1893.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm sending you (by way of pretext for writing you) a +magazine that I asked Richard to take to you last evening,<span class="pagenum">35</span> +but which he forgot. There's an illustrated article on gargoyles +and the like, which will interest you. Some of the +creatures are delicious—more so than I had the sense to +perceive when I saw them alive on Notre Dame.</p> + +<p>I want to thank you too for the beautiful muffler before I +take to my willow chair, happy in the prospect of death. +For at this hour, 10:35 p. m., I "have on" a very promising +case of asthma. If I come out of it decently alive in a week +or so I shall go over to your house and see the finished portrait +if it is "still there," like the flag in our national +anthem.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Oakland,<br /> +July 31,<br /> +1894.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>If you are not utterly devoured by mosquitoes perhaps +you'll go to the postoffice and get this. In that hope I write, +not without a strong sense of the existence of the clerks in +the Dead Letter Office at Washington.</p> + +<p>I hope you are (despite the mosquitoes) having "heaps" +of rest and happiness. As to me, I have only just recovered +sufficiently to be out, and "improved the occasion" by going +to San Francisco yesterday and returning on the 11:15 boat. +I saw Richard, and he seemed quite solemn at the thought +of the dispersal of his family to the four winds.</p> + +<p>I have a joyous letter from Leigh dated "on the road," +nearing Yosemite. He has been passing through the storied +land of Bret Harte, and is permeated with a sense of its +beauty and romance. When shall you return? May I hope, +then, to see you?</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>P.S. Here are things that I cut out for memoranda. On +second thought <i>I</i> know all that; so send them to you for the<span class="pagenum">36</span> +betterment of your mind and heart. <span class="flright">B.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">San Jose,<br /> +October 17,<br /> +1894.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Blanche</span>,</p> + +<p>Your kindly note was among a number which I put into +my pocket at the postoffice and forgot until last evening +when I returned from Oakland. (I dared remain up there +only a few hours, and the visit did me no good.)</p> + +<p>Of course I should have known that your good heart would +prompt the wish to hear from your patient, but I fear I was +a trifle misanthropic all last week, and indisposed to communicate +with my species.</p> + +<p>I came here on Monday of last week, and the change has +done me good. I have no asthma and am slowly getting +back my strength.</p> + +<p>Leigh and Ina Peterson passed Sunday with me, and +Leigh recounted his adventures in the mountains. I had +been greatly worried about him; it seems there was abundant +reason. The next time he comes I wish he would +bring you. It is lovely down here. Perhaps you and Katie +can come some time, and I'll drive you all over the valley—if +you care to drive.</p> + +<p>If I continue well I shall remain here or hereabout; if not +I don't know where I shall go. Probably into the Santa +Cruz mountains or to Gilroy. If I could have my way I'd +live at Piedmont.</p> + +<p>Do you know I lost Pin the Reptile? I brought him along +in my bicycle bag (I came the latter half of the way bike-back) +and the ungrateful scoundrel wormed himself out and +took to the weeds just before we got to San Jose. So I've +nothing to lavish my second-childhoodish affection upon—nothing +but just myself.</p> + +<p>My permanent address is Oakland, as usual, but <i>you</i> may<span class="pagenum">37</span> +address me here at San Jose if you will be so good as to +address me anywhere. Please do, and tell me of your triumphs +and trials at the Conservatory of Music. I do fervently +hope it may prove a means of prosperity to you, for, +behold, you are The Only Girl in the World Who Merits +Prosperity!</p> + +<p>Please give my friendly regards to your people; and so—Heaven +be good to you.<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">San Jose,<br /> +October 28,<br /> +1894.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">O, Best of Poets</span>,</p> + +<p>How have you the heart to point out what you deem an +imperfection in those lines. Upon my soul, I swear they are +faultless, and "moonlight" is henceforth and forever a +rhyme to "delight." Also, likewise, moreover and furthermore, +a — is henceforth —; and — are forever —; +and to — shall be —; and so forth. +You have established new canons of literary criticism—more +liberal ones—and death to the wretch who does not accept +them! Ah, I always knew you were a revolutionist.</p> + +<p>Yes, I am in better health, worse luck! For I miss the beef-teaing +expeditions more than you can by trying.</p> + +<p>By the way, if you again encounter your fellow practitioner, +Mrs. Hirshberg, please tell her what has become of +her patient, and that I remember her gratefully.</p> + +<p>It is not uninteresting to me to hear of your progress in +your art, albeit I am debarred from entrance into the temple +where it is worshiped. After all, art finds its best usefulness +in its reaction upon the character; and in that work I can +trace your proficiency in the art that you love. As you become +a better artist you grow a nicer girl, and if your music +does not cause my tympana to move themselves aright, yet +the niceness is not without its effect upon the soul o' me.<span class="pagenum">38</span> +So I'm not so <i>very</i> inert a clod, after all.</p> + +<p>No, Leigh has not infected me with the exploring fad. I +exhausted my capacity in that way years before I had the +advantage of his acquaintance and the contagion of his +example. But I don't like to think of that miserable mountain +sitting there and grinning in the consciousness of having +beaten the Bierce family.</p> + +<p>So—apropos of my brother—<i>I</i> am "odd" after a certain +fashion! My child, that is blasphemy. You grow hardier +every day of your life, and you'll end as a full colonel yet, +and challenge Man to mortal combat in true Stetsonian +style. Know thy place, thou atom!</p> + +<p>Speaking of colonels reminds me that one of the most +eminent of the group had the assurance to write me, asking +for an "audience" to consult about a benefit that she—<i>she!</i>—is +getting up for my friend Miss * * *, a glorious +writer and eccentric old maid whom you do not know. +* * * evidently wants more notoriety and proposes to shine +by Miss * * * light. I was compelled to lower the temperature +of the situation with a letter curtly courteous. Not +even to assist Miss * * * shall my name be mixed up with +those of that gang. But of course all that does not amuse +you.</p> + +<p>I wish I could have a chat with you. I speak to nobody +but my chambermaid and the waiter at my restaurant. By +the time I see you I shall have lost the art of speech altogether +and shall communicate with you by the sign language.</p> + +<p>God be good to you and move you to write to me sometimes.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p class="p4">[First part of this letter missing.]<span class="pagenum">39</span></p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You may, I think, expect my assistance in choosing between +(or among) your suitors next month, early. I propose +to try living in Oakland again for a short time beginning +about then. But I shall have much to do the first few days—possibly +in settling my earthly affairs for it is my determination +to be hanged for killing all those suitors. That seems +to me the simplest way of disembarrassing you. As to me—it +is the "line of least resistance"—unless they fight.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>So you have been ill. You must not be ill, my child—it +disturbs my Marcus Aurelian tranquillity, and is most selfishly +inconsiderate of you.</p> + +<p>Mourn with me: the golden leaves of my poplars are now +underwheel. I sigh for the perennial eucalyptus leaf of +Piedmont.</p> + +<p>I hope you are all well. Sincerely your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">San Jose,<br /> +November 20,<br /> +1894.</div> + +<p class="p4">Since writing you yesterday, dear Blanche, I have observed +that the benefit to * * * is not abandoned—it is to +occur in the evening of the 26th, at Golden Gate Hall, San +Francisco. I recall your kind offer to act for me in any way +that I might wish to assist Miss * * *. Now, I will not have +my name connected with anything that the * * * woman and +her sister-in-evidence may do for their own glorification, +but I enclose a Wells, Fargo & Co. money order for all the +money I can presently afford—wherewith you may do as +you will; buy tickets, or hand it to the treasurer in your +own name. I know Miss * * * must be awfully needy to +accept a benefit—you have no idea how sensitive and suspicious<span class="pagenum">40</span> +and difficult she is. She is almost impossible. But +there are countless exactions on my lean purse, and I must +do the rest with my pen. So—I thank you.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">18 Iowa Circle,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 1,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>This is just a hasty note to acknowledge receipt of your +letter and the poems. I hope to reach those pretty soon and +give them the attention which I am sure they will prove to +merit—which I cannot do now. By the way, I wonder why +most of you youngsters so persistently tackle the sonnet. +For the same reason, I suppose, that a fellow always wants +to make his first appearance on the stage in the rôle of +"Hamlet." It is just the holy cheek of you.</p> + +<p>Yes, Leigh prospers fairly well, and I—well, I don't know +if it is prosperity; it is a pretty good time.</p> + +<p>I suppose I shall have to write to that old scoundrel +Grizzly,<a name="fnanchor_1" id="fnanchor_1"></a><a href="#footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> to give him my new address, though I supposed +he had it; and the old one would do, anyhow. Now that his +cub has returned he probably doesn't care for the other +plantigrades of his kind.</p> + +<p>Thank you for telling me so much about some of our companions +and companionesses of the long ago. I fear that not +all my heart was in my baggage when I came over here. +There's a bit of it, for example, out there by that little lake +in the hills.</p> + +<p>So I may have a photograph of one of your pretty sisters. +Why, of course I want it—I want the entire five of them; +their pictures, I mean. If you had been a nice fellow you +would have let me know them long ago. And how about<span class="pagenum">41</span> +that other pretty girl, your infinitely better half? You +might sneak into the envelope a little portrait of <i>her</i>, lest I +forget, lest I forget. But I've not yet forgotten.</p> + +<p>The new century's best blessings to the both o' you. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>P.S.—In your studies of poetry have you dipped into +Stedman's new "American Anthology"? It is the most notable +collection of American verse that has been made—on +the whole, a book worth having. In saying so I rather pride +myself on my magnanimity; for of course I don't think he +has done as well by me as he might have done. That, I +suppose, is what every one thinks who happens to be alive +to think it. So I try to be in the fashion. <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_1" id="footnote_1" href="#fnanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Albert Bierce.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">18 Iowa Circle,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 19,<br /> +1901. </div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I've been a long while getting to your verses, but there +were many reasons—including a broken rib. They are +pretty good verses, with here and there <i>very</i> good lines. I'd +a strong temptation to steal one or two for my "Passing +Show," but I knew what an avalanche of verses it would +bring down upon me from other poets—as every mention +of a new book loads my mail with new books for a month.</p> + +<p>If I ventured to advise you I should recommend to you +the simple, ordinary meters and forms native to our language.</p> + +<p>I await the photograph of the pretty sister—don't fancy +I've forgotten.</p> + +<p>It is 1 a. m. and I'm about to drink your health in a glass +of Riesling and eat it in a pâte.</p> + +<p>My love to Grizzly if you ever see him. Yours ever, <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 23,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My Dear Doyle</span>,<span class="pagenum">42</span></p> + +<p>Your letter of the 16th has just come and as I am waiting +at my office (where I seldom go) I shall amuse myself by +replying "to onct." See here, I don't purpose that your +attack on poor Morrow's book shall become a "continuous +performance," nor even an "annual ceremony." It is not +"rot." It is not "filthy." It does not "suggest bed-pans,"—at +least it did not to me, and I'll wager something that +Morrow never thought of them. Observe and consider: If +his hero and heroine had been man and wife, the bed-pan +would have been there, just the same; yet you would not +have thought of it. Every reader would have been touched +by the husband's devotion. A physician has to do with +many unpleasant things; whom do his ministrations disgust? +A trained nurse lives in an atmosphere of bed-pans—to +whom is her presence or work suggestive of them? I'm +thinking of the heroic Father Damien and his lepers; do +you dwell upon the rotting limbs and foul distortions of his +unhappy charges? Is not his voluntary martyrdom one of +the sanest, cleanest, most elevating memories in all history? +Then it is <i>not</i> the bed-pan necessity that disgusts +you; it is something else. It is the fact that the hero of the +story, being neither physician, articled nurse, nor certificated +husband, nevertheless performed <i>their</i> work. He ministered +to the helpless in a natural way without authority +from church or college, quite irregular and improper and +all that. My noble critic, there speaks in your blood the +Untamed Philistine. You were not caught young enough. +You came into letters and art with all your beastly conventionalities +in full mastery of you. Take a purge. Forget +that there are Philistines. Forget that they have put their +abominable pantalettes upon the legs of Nature. Forget +that their code of morality and manners (it stinks worse<span class="pagenum">43</span> +than a bed-pan) does <i>not</i> exist in the serene altitude of great +art, toward which you have set your toes and into which I +want you to climb. I know about this thing. I, too, tried to +rise with all that dead weight dragging at my feet. Well, I +could not—now I could if I cared to. In my mind I do. It +is not freedom of act—not freedom of living, for which I +contend, but freedom of thought, of mind, of spirit; the +freedom to see in the horrible laws, prejudices, custom, +conventionalities of the multitude, something good for +them, but of no value to you <i>in your art.</i> In your life and +conduct defer to as much of it as you will (you'll find it convenient +to defer to a whole lot), but in your mind and art +let not the Philistine enter, nor even speak a word through +the keyhole. My own chief objection to Morrow's story is +(as I apprised him) its unnaturalness. He did not dare to +follow the logical course of his narrative. He was too cowardly +(or had too keen an eye upon his market of prudes) +to make hero and heroine join in the holy bonds of <i>bed</i>lock, +as they naturally, inevitably and rightly would have done +long before she was able to be about. I daresay that, too, +would have seemed to you "filthy," without the parson +and his fee. When you analyze your objection to the story +(as I have tried to do for you) you will find that it all crystallizes +into that—the absence of the parson. I don't envy +you your view of the matter, and I really don't think you +greatly enjoy it yourself. I forgot to say: Suppose they had +been two men, two partners in hunting, mining, or exploring, +as frequently occurs. Would the bed-pan suggestion +have come to you? Did it come to you when you read of the +slow, but not uniform, starvation of Greeley's party in the +arctic? Of course not. Then it is a matter, not of bed-pans, +but of sex-exposure (unauthorized by the church), of prudery—of<span class="pagenum">44</span> +that artificial thing, the "sense of shame," of +which the great Greeks knew nothing; of which the great +Japanese know nothing; of which Art knows nothing. Dear +Doctor, do you really put trousers on your piano-legs? +Does your indecent intimacy with your mirror make you +blush?</p> + +<p>There, there's the person whom I've been waiting for +(I'm to take her to dinner, and I'm not married to even so +much of her as her little toe) has come; and until you offend +again, you are immune from the switch. May all your +brother Philistines have to "Kiss the place to make it +well."</p> + +<p>Pan is dead! Long live Bed-Pan!</p> + +<p class="left65">Yours ever, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington,<br /> +February 17,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I send back the poems, with a few suggestions. You grow +great so rapidly that I shall not much longer dare to touch +your work. I mean that.</p> + +<p>Your criticisms of Stedman's Anthology are just. But +equally just ones can be made of any anthology. None of +them can suit any one. I fancy Stedman did not try to +"live up" to his standard, but to make <i>representative</i>, +though not always the <i>best</i>, selections. It would hardly do +to leave out Whitman, for example. <i>We</i> may not like him; +thank God, we don't; but many others—the big fellows +too—do; and in England he is thought great. And then +Stedman has the bad luck to know a lot of poets personally—many +bad poets. Put yourself in his place. Would +you leave out me if you honestly thought my work bad?</p> + +<p>In any compilation we will all miss some of our favorites—and<span class="pagenum">45</span> +find some of the public's favorites. You miss +from Whittier "Joseph Sturge"—I the sonnet "Forgiveness," +and so forth. Alas, there is no universal standard!</p> + +<p>Thank you for the photographs. Miss * * * is a pretty +girl, truly, and has the posing instinct as well. She has the +place of honor on my mantel. * * * But what scurvy knave +has put the stage-crime into her mind? If you know that +life as I do you will prefer that she die, poor girl.</p> + +<p>It is no trouble, but a pleasure, to go over your verses—I +am as proud of your talent as if I'd made it.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>[over]</p> + +<p>About the rhymes in a sonnet:</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Rhymes in a Sonnet"> +<col width="50" /><col width="100" /><col width="260" /> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">"Regular", or</td><td align="center">"English"</td><td align="center">Modern</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">Italian form</td><td align="center">form</td><td align="center">English</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">(Petrarch):</td><td align="center">(Shakspear's):</td><td align="center">1</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">1</td><td align="center">1</td><td align="center">2</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">2</td><td align="center">2</td><td align="center">2</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">2</td><td align="center">1</td><td align="center">1</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">1</td><td align="center">2</td><td align="center">1</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">1</td><td align="center">3</td><td align="center">2</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">2</td><td align="center">4</td><td align="center">2</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">2</td><td align="center">3</td><td align="center">1</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">1</td><td align="center">4</td><td align="center">Two or three</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">3</td><td align="center">5</td><td align="center">rhymes; any</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">4</td><td align="center">6</td><td align="center">arrangement</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">5</td><td align="center">5</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">3</td><td align="center">6</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">4</td><td align="center">7</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"></td><td align="center">5</td><td align="center">7</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p>There are good reasons for preferring the regular Italian +form created by Petrarch—who knew a thing or two; and +sometimes good reasons for another arrangement—of the +sestet rhymes. If one should sacrifice a great thought to be +like Petrarch one would not resemble him. <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 2,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,<span class="pagenum">46</span></p> + +<p>I am sending to the "Journal" your splendid poem on +Memorial Day. Of course I can't say what will be its fate. +I am not even personally acquainted with the editor of the +department to which it goes. But if he has not the brains to +like it he is to send it back and I'll try to place it elsewhere. +It is great—great!—the loftiest note that you have struck +and <i>held</i>.</p> + +<p>Maybe I owe you a lot of letters. I don't know—my correspondence +all in arrears and I've not the heart to take it up.</p> + +<p>Thank you for your kind words of sympathy.<a name="fnanchor_2" id="fnanchor_2"></a><a href="#footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> I'm hit +harder than any one can guess from the known facts—am +a bit broken and gone gray of it all.</p> + +<p>But I remember you asked the title of a book of synonyms. +It is "Roget's Thesaurus," a good and useful book.</p> + +<p>The other poems I will look up soon and consider. I've +made no alterations in the "Memorial Day" except to +insert the omitted stanza. </p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_2" id="footnote_2" href="#fnanchor_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Concerning the death of his son Leigh.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington,<br /> +May 9,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I send the poems with suggestions. There's naught to say +about 'em that I've not said of your other work. Your +"growth in grace" (and other poetic qualities) is something +wonderful. You are leaving my other "pupils" so +far behind that they are no longer "in it." Seriously, you +"promise" better than any of the new men in our literature—and +perform better than all but Markham in his +lucid intervals, alas, too rare.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington,<br /> +May 22,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,<span class="pagenum">47</span></p> + +<p>I enclose a proof of the poem<a name="fnanchor_3" id="fnanchor_3"></a><a href="#footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>—all marked up. The poem +was offered to the Journal, but to the wrong editor. I would +not offer it to him in whose department it could be used, +for he once turned down some admirable verses of my +friend Scheffauer which I sent him. I'm glad the Journal is +<i>not</i> to have it, for it now goes into the Washington Post—and +the Post into the best houses here and elsewhere—a +good, clean, unyellow paper. I'll send you some copies with +the poem.</p> + +<p>I think my marks are intelligible—I mean my <i>re</i>marks. +Perhaps you'll not approve all, or anything, that I did to +the poem; I'll only ask you to endure. When you publish in +covers you can restore to the original draft if you like. I had +not time (after my return from New York) to get your +approval and did the best and the least I could.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>My love to your pretty wife and sister. Let me know how +hard you hate me for monkeying with your sacred lines.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">Yes, your poem recalled my "Invocation" as I read it; +but it is better, and not too much like—hardly like at all +except in the "political" part. Both, in that, are characterized, +I think, by decent restraint. How * * * would, at +those places, have ranted and chewed soap!—a superior +quality of soap, I confess. <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_3" id="footnote_3" href="#fnanchor_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> "Memorial Day"</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">1825 Nineteenth St.,<br /> +N. W.,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 30, 1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I am glad my few words of commendation were not unpleasing +to you. I meant them all and more. You ought to +have praise, seeing that it is all you got. The "Post," like<span class="pagenum">48</span> +most other newspapers, "don't pay for poetry." What a +damning confession! It means that the public is as insensible +to poetry as a pig to—well, to poetry. To any sane +mind such a poem as yours is worth more than all the other +contents of a newspaper for a year.</p> + +<p>I've not found time to consider your "bit of blank" yet—at +least not as carefully as it probably merits.</p> + +<p>My relations with the present editor of the Examiner are +not unfriendly, I hope, but they are too slight to justify +me in suggesting anything to him, or even drawing his +attention to anything. I hoped you would be sufficiently +"enterprising" to get your poem into the paper if you cared +to have it there. I wrote Dr. Doyle about you. He is a dear +fellow and you should know each other. As to Scheffauer, +he is another. If you want him to see your poem why not +send it to him? But the last I heard he was very ill. I'm +rather anxious to hear more about him.</p> + +<p>It was natural to enclose the stamps, but I won't have +it so—so there! as the women say.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">1825 Nineteenth St.,<br /> +N. W.,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +July 15,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>Here is the bit of blank. When are we to see the book? +Needless question—when you can spare the money to pay +for publication, I suppose, if by that time you are ambitious +to achieve public inattention. That's my notion of +encouragement—I like to cheer up the young author as he +sets his face toward "the peaks of song."</p> + +<p>Say, that photograph of the pretty sister—the one with a +downward slope of the eyes—is all faded out. That is a +real misfortune: it reduces the sum of human happiness<span class="pagenum">49</span> +hereabout. Can't you have one done in fast colors and let +me have it? The other is all right, but that is not the one +that I like the better for my wall. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 16,<br /> +1901.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I enclose the poems with a few suggestions. They require +little criticism of the sort that would be "helpful." As to +their merit I think them good, but not great. I suppose you +do not expect to write great things every time. Yet in the +body of your letter (of Oct. 22) you do write greatly—and +say that the work is "egoistic" and "unprintable." If it<a name="fnanchor_4" id="fnanchor_4"></a><a href="#footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> +were addressed to another person than myself I should say +that it is "printable" exceedingly. Call it what you will, +but let me tell you it will probably be long before you write +anything better than some—many—of these stanzas.</p> + +<p>You ask if you have correctly answered your own questions. +Yes; in four lines of your running comment:</p> + +<p>"I suppose that I'd do the greater good in the long run by +making my work as good poetry as possible."</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Of course I deplore your tendency to dalliance with the +demagogic muse. I hope you will not set your feet in the +dirty paths—leading nowhither—of social and political +"reform".... I hope you will not follow * * * in making +a sale of your poet's birthright for a mess of "popularity." +If you do I shall have to part company with you, as I have +done with him and at least <i>one</i> of his betters, for I draw the +line at demagogues and anarchists, however gifted and however +beloved.</p> + +<p>Let the "poor" alone—they are oppressed by nobody but<span class="pagenum">50</span> +God. Nobody hates them, nobody despises. "The rich" love +them a deal better than they love one another. But I'll not +go into these matters; your own good sense must be your +salvation if you are saved. I recognise the temptations of +environment: you are of San Francisco, the paradise of ignorance, +anarchy and general yellowness. Still, a poet is not +altogether the creature of his place and time—at least not +of his to-day and his parish.</p> + +<p>By the way, you say that * * * is your only associate +that knows anything of literature. She is a dear girl, but +look out for her; she will make you an anarchist if she can, +and persuade you to kill a President or two every fine +morning. I warrant you she can pronounce the name of +McKinley's assassin to the ultimate zed, and has a little +graven image of him next her heart.</p> + +<p>Yes, you can republish the Memorial Day poem without +the <i>Post's</i> consent—could do so in "book form" even if the +<i>Post</i> had copyrighted it, which it did not do. I think the +courts have held that in purchasing work for publication in +his newspaper or magazine the editor acquires no right in +it, <i>except for that purpose</i>. Even if he copyright it that is +only to protect him from other newspapers or magazines; +the right to publish in a book remains with the author. +Better ask a lawyer though—preferably without letting +him know whether you are an editor or an author.</p> + +<p>I ought to have answered (as well as able) these questions +before, but I have been ill and worried, and have written +few letters, and even done little work, and that only of the +pot-boiling sort.</p> + +<p>My daughter has recovered and returned to Los Angeles.</p> + +<p>Please thank Miss * * * for the beautiful photographs—I +mean for being so beautiful as to "take" them, for doubtless<span class="pagenum">51</span> +I owe their possession to you.</p> + +<p>I wrote Doyle about you and he cordially praised your +work as incomparably superior to his own and asked that +you visit him. He's a lovable fellow and you'd not regret +going to Santa Cruz and boozing with him.</p> + +<p>Thank you for the picture of Grizzly and the cub of him.</p> + +<p>Sincerely yours, with best regards to the pretty ever-so-much-better +half of you,<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>P.S. * * * * * * * * * * *</p> + +<p><a name="footnote_4" id="footnote_4" href="#fnanchor_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> "Dedication" poem to Ambrose Bierce.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 15,<br /> +1902.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>Where are you going to stop?—I mean at what stage of +development? I presume you have not a "whole lot" of +poems really writ, and have not been feeding them to me, +the least good first, and not in the order of their production. +So it must be that you are advancing at a stupendous +rate. This last<a name="fnanchor_5" id="fnanchor_5"></a><a href="#footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> beats any and all that went before—or I +am bewitched and befuddled. I dare not trust myself to say +what I think of it. In manner it is great, but the greatness +of the theme!—that is beyond anything.</p> + +<p>It is a new field, the broadest yet discovered. To paraphrase +Coleridge,</p> + +<p class="poem">You are the first that ever burst<br /> +Into that silent [unknown] sea—</p> + +<p>a silent sea <i>because</i> no one else has burst into it in full song. +True, there have been short incursions across the "border," +but only by way of episode. The tremendous phenomena of +Astronomy have never had adequate poetic treatment, +their meaning adequate expression. You must make it your +own domain. You shall be the poet of the skies, the prophet<span class="pagenum">52</span> +of the suns. Don't fiddle-faddle with such infinitesimal and +tiresome trivialities as (for example) the immemorial squabbles +of "rich" and "poor" on this "mote in the sun-beam." +(Both "classes," when you come to that, are about equally +disgusting and unworthy—there's not a pin's moral difference +between them.) Let them cheat and pick pockets and +cut throats to the satisfaction of their base instincts, but do +thou regard them not. Moreover, by that great law of change +which you so clearly discern, there can be no permanent +composition of their nasty strife. "Settle" it how they will—another +beat of the pendulum and all is as before; and ere +another, Man will again be savage, sitting on his naked +haunches and gnawing raw bones.</p> + +<p>Yes, circumstances make the "rich" what they are. And +circumstances make the poor what <i>they</i> are. I have known +both, long and well. The rich—<i>while</i> rich—are a trifle +better. There's nothing like poverty to nurture badness. +But in this country there are no such "classes" as "rich" +and "poor": as a rule, the wealthy man of to-day was a +poor devil yesterday; the poor devils of to-day have an +equal chance to be rich to-morrow—or would have if they +had equal brains and providence. The system that gives +them the chance is not an oppressive one. Under a really +oppressive system a salesman in a village grocery could not +have risen to a salary of one million dollars a year because +he was worth it to his employers, as Schwab has done. +True, some men get rich by dishonesty, but the poor commonly +cheat as hard as they can and remain poor—thereby +escaping observation and censure. The moral difference between +cheating to the limit of a small opportunity and +cheating to the limit of a great one is to me indiscernable. +The workman who "skimps his work" is just as much a<span class="pagenum">53</span> +rascal as the "director" who corners a crop.</p> + +<p>As to "Socialism." I am something of a Socialist myself; +that is, I think that the principle, which has always coexisted +with competition, each safeguarding the other, may +be advantageously extended. But those who rail against +"the competitive system," and think they suffer from it, +really suffer from their own unthrift and incapacity. For +the competent and provident it is an ideally perfect system. +As the other fellows are not of those who effect permanent +reforms, or reforms of any kind, pure Socialism is the dream +of a dream.</p> + +<p>But why do I write all this. One's opinions on such matters +are unaffected by reason and instance; they are born of +feeling and temperament. There is a Socialist diathesis, as +there is an Anarchist diathesis. Could you teach a bulldog +to retrieve, or a sheep to fetch and carry? Could you make +a "born artist" comprehend a syllogism? As easily persuade +a poet that black is not whatever color he loves. Somebody +has defined poetry as "glorious nonsense." It is not an altogether +false definition, albeit I consider poetry the flower +and fruit of speech and would rather write gloriously than +sensibly. But if poets saw things as they are they would +write no more poetry.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, I venture to ask you: <i>Can't</i> you see in the +prosperity of the strong and the adversity of the weak a +part of that great beneficent law, "the survival of the +fittest"? Don't you see that such evils as inhere in "the +competitive system" are evils only to individuals, but +blessings to the race by gradually weeding out the incompetent +and their progeny?</p> + +<p>I've done, i' faith. Be any kind of 'ist or 'er that you will, +but don't let it get into your ink. Nobody is calling you to<span class="pagenum">54</span> +deliver your land from Error's chain. What we want of you +is poetry, not politics. And if you care for fame just have +the goodness to consider if any "champion of the poor" +has ever obtained it. From the earliest days down to Massanielo, +Jack Cade and Eugene Debs the leaders and +prophets of "the masses" have been held unworthy. And +with reason too, however much injustice is mixed in with +the right of it. Eventually the most conscientious, popular +and successful "demagogue" comes into a heritage of infamy. +The most brilliant gifts cannot save him. That will +be the fate of Edwin Markham if he does not come out o' +that, and it will be the fate of George Sterling if he will not +be warned.</p> + +<p>You think that "the main product of that system" (the +"competitive") "is the love of money." What a case of the +cart before the horse! The love of money is not the product, +but the root, of the system—not the effect, but the cause. +When one man desires to be better off than another he +competes with him. You can abolish the system when you +can abolish the desire—when you can make man as Nature +did <i>not</i> make him, content to be as poor as the poorest. Do +away with the desire to excel and you may set up your +Socialism at once. But what kind of a race of sloths and +slugs will you have?</p> + +<p>But, bless me, I shall <i>never</i> have done if I say all that +comes to me.</p> + +<p>Why, of course my remarks about * * * were facetious—playful. +She really is an anarchist, and her sympathies are +with criminals, whom she considers the "product" of the +laws, but—well, she inherited the diathesis and can no +more help it than she can the color of her pretty eyes. But +she is a child—and except in so far as her convictions make<span class="pagenum">55</span> +her impossible they do not count. She would not hurt a +fly—not even if, like the toad, it had a precious jewel in its +head that it did not work for. But I am speaking of the +* * * that <i>I</i> knew. If I did not know that the anarchist +leopard's spots "will wash," your words would make me +think that she might have changed. It does not matter +what women think, if thinking it may be called, and * * * +will never be other than lovable.</p> + +<p>Lest you have <i>not</i> a copy of the verses addressed to me I +enclose one that I made myself. Of course their publication +could not be otherwise than pleasing to me if you care to do +it. You need not fear the "splendid weight" expression, +and so forth—there is nothing "conceited" in the poem. +As it was addressed to me, I have not criticised it—I <i>can't</i>. +And I guess it needs no criticism.</p> + +<p>I fear for the other two-thirds of this latest poem. If you +descend from Arcturus to Earth, from your nebulae to your +neighbors, from Life to lives, from the measureless immensities +of space to the petty passions of us poor insects, won't +you incur the peril of anti-climax? I doubt if you can touch +the "human interest" after those high themes without an +awful tumble. I should be sorry to see the poem "peter +out," or "soak in." It would be as if Goethe had let his +"Prologue in Heaven" expire in a coon song. You have +reached the "heights of dream" all right, but how are you +to stay there to the end? By the way, you must perfect +yourself in Astronomy, or rather get a general knowledge of +it, which I fear you lack. Be sure about the pronunciation +of astronomical names.</p> + +<p>I have read some of Jack London's work and think it +clever. Of Whitaker I never before heard, I fear. If London +wants to criticise your "Star poem" what's the objection?<span class="pagenum">56</span> +I should not think, though, from his eulogism of * * *, that +he is very critical. * * *</p> + +<p>Where are you to place Browning? Among thinkers. In +his younger days, when he wrote in English, he stood among +the poets. I remember writing once—of the thinker: "There's +nothing more obscure than Browning except blacking." I'll +stand to that.</p> + +<p>No, don't take the trouble to send me a copy of these +verses: I expect to see them in a book pretty soon. * * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_5" id="footnote_5" href="#fnanchor_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> "The Testimony of the Suns."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 31,<br /> +1902.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I am glad to know that you too have a good opinion of +that poem.<a name="fnanchor_6" id="fnanchor_6"></a><a href="#footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> One should know about one's own work. Most +writers think their work good, but good writers know it. +Pardon me if I underrated your astronomical knowledge. +My belief was based on your use of those names. I never +met with the spelling "Betelgeux"; and even if it is correct +and picturesque I'd not use it if I were you, for it does not +quite speak itself, and you can't afford to jolt the reader's +attention from your thought to a matter of pronunciation. +In my student days we, I am sure, were taught to say +Procy´on. I don't think I've heard it pronounced since, and +I've no authority at hand. If you are satisfied with Pro´cyon +I suppose it is that. But your pronunciation was Aldeb´aran +or your meter very crazy indeed. I asked (with an interrogation +point) if it were not Aldeba´ran—and I think it is. +Fomalhaut I don't know about; I thought it French and +masculine. In that case it would, I suppose, be "ho," not +"hote."</p> + +<p>Don't cut out that stanza, even if "clime" doesn't seem<span class="pagenum">57</span> +to me to have anything to do with duration. The stanza is +good enough to stand a blemish.</p> + +<p>"Ye stand rebuked by suns who claim"—I was wrong in +substituting "that" for "who," not observing that it would +make it ambiguous. I merely yielded to a favorite impulse: +to say "that" instead of "who," and did not count the +cost.</p> + +<p>Don't cut out <i>any</i> stanza—if you can't perfect them let +them go imperfect.</p> + +<p>"Without or genesis or end."<br /> +"Devoid of birth, devoid of end."</p> + +<p>These are not so good as</p> + +<p>"Without beginning, without end";—I submit them to +suggest a way to overcome that identical rhyme. All you +have to do is get rid of the second "without." I should not +like "impend."</p> + +<p>Yes, I vote for Orion's <i>sword</i> of suns. "Cimetar" sounds +better, but it is more specific—less generic. It is modern—or, +rather, less ancient than "sword," and makes one think +of Turkey and the Holy Land. But "sword"—there were +swords before Homer. And I don't think the man who +named this constellation ever saw a curved blade. And yet, +and yet—"cimetar of suns" is "mighty catchin'."</p> + +<p>No, indeed, I could not object to your considering the +heavens in a state of war. I have sometimes fancied I could +hear the rush and roar of it. Why, a few months ago I began +a sonnet thus:</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"Not as two erring spheres together grind,</span><br /> +With monstrous ruin, in the vast of space,<br /> +Destruction born of that malign embrace—<br /> +Their hapless peoples all to death consigned—" etc.</p> + +<p>I've been a star-gazer all my life—from my habit of being<span class="pagenum">58</span> +"out late," I guess; and the things have always seemed to +me <i>alive</i>.</p> + +<p>The change in the verses <i>ad meum</i>, from "<i>thy</i> clearer +light" to "<i>the</i> clearer light" may have been made modestly +or inadvertently—I don't recollect. It is, of course, no +improvement and you may do as you please. I'm uniformly +inadvertent, but intermittently modest.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>A class of stuff that I can't (without "trouble in the office") +write my own way I will not write at all. So I'm writing +very little of anything but nonsense. * * *</p> + +<p>With best regards to Mrs. Sterling and Miss Marian I am</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p>Leigh died a year ago this morning. I wish I could stop +counting the days.</p> + +<p><a name="footnote_6" id="footnote_6" href="#fnanchor_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> "The Testimony of the Suns."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 15,<br /> +1902.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>All right—I only wanted you to be <i>sure</i> about those +names of stars; it would never do to be less than sure.</p> + +<p>After all our talk (made by me) I guess that stanza would +better stand as first written. "Clime"—climate—connotes +temperature, weather, and so forth, in ordinary speech, but +a poet may make his own definitions, I suppose, and compel +the reader to study them out and accept them.</p> + +<p>Your misgiving regarding your inability to reach so high +a plane again as in this poem is amusing, but has an element +of the pathetic. It certainly is a misfortune for a +writer to do his <i>best</i> work early; but I fancy you'd better +trust your genius and do its bidding whenever the monkey +chooses to bite. "The Lord will provide." Of course you +have read Stockton's story "His Wife's Deceased Sister."<span class="pagenum">59</span> +But Stockton gets on very well, despite "The Lady or the +Tiger." I've a notion that you'll find other tragedies among +the stars if earth doesn't supply you with high enough +themes.</p> + +<p>Will I write a preface for the book? Why, yes, if you think +me competent. Emerson commands us to "hitch our wagon +to a star?" and, egad! here's a whole constellation—a universe—of +stars to draw mine! It makes me blink to think +of it.</p> + +<p>O yes, I'd like well enough to "leave the Journal," but—</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +July 10,<br /> +1902.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>If rejection wounded, all writers would bleed at every pore. +Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done. Of course I +shall be glad to go over your entire body of work again and +make suggestions if any occur to me. It will be no trouble—I +could not be more profitably employed than in critically +reading you, nor more agreeably.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Of course your star poem has one defect—if it is a defect—that +limits the circle of understanding and admiring +readers—its lack of "<i>human</i> interest." We human +insects, as a rule, care for nothing but ourselves, and think +that is best which most closely touches such emotions and +sentiments as grow out of our relations, the one with +another. I don't share the preference, and a few others do +not, believing that there are things more interesting than +men and women. The Heavens, for example. But who +knows, or cares anything about them—even knows the +name of a single constellation? Hardly any one but the<span class="pagenum">60</span> +professional astronomers—and there are not enough of +them to buy your books and give you fame. I should be +sorry not to have that poem published—sorry if you did +not write more of the kind. But while it may impress and +dazzle "the many" it will not win them. They want you to +finger their heart-strings and pull the cord that works their +arms and legs. So you must finger and pull—too.</p> + +<p>The Château Yquem came all right, and is good. Thank +you for it—albeit I'm sorry you feel that you must do +things like that. It is very conventional and, I fear, +"proper." However, I remember that you used to do so +when you could not by any stretch of imagination have felt +that you were under an "obligation." So I guess it is all +right—just your way of reminding me of the old days. +Anyhow, the wine is so much better than my own that I've +never a scruple when drinking it.</p> + +<p>Has "Maid Marian" a photograph of me?—I don't +remember. If not I'll send her one; I've just had some +printed from a negative five or six years old. I've renounced +the photograph habit, as one renounces other habits when +age has made them ridiculous—or impossible.</p> + +<p>Send me the typewritten book when you have it complete.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington,<br /> +August 19,<br /> +1902.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I suppose you are in Seattle, but this letter will keep till +your return.</p> + +<p>I am delighted to know that I am to have "the book" so +soon, and will give it my best attention and (if you still +desire) some prefatory lines. Think out a good title and I +shall myself be hospitable to any suggestion of my dæmon<span class="pagenum">61</span> +in the matter. He has given me nothing for the star poem +yet.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You'll "learn in suffering what you teach in song," all +right; but let us hope the song will be the richer for it. It +<i>will</i> be. For that reason I never altogether "pity the sorrows" +of a writer—knowing they are good for him. He +needs them in his business. I suspect you must have shed a +tear or two since I knew you.</p> + +<p>I'm sending you a photograph, but you did not tell me if +Maid Marian the Superb already has one—that's what I +asked you, and if you don't answer I shall ask her.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Yes, I am fairly well, and, though not "happy," content. +But I'm dreadfully sorry about Peterson.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">I am about to break up my present establishment and +don't know where my next will be. Better address me "Care +N. Y. American and Journal Bureau, Washington, D. C."</p> + +<p>You see I'm still chained to the oar of yellow journalism, +but it is a rather light servitude.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Address me at<br /> +1321 Yale Street,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 20,<br /> +1902.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I fancy you must fear by this time that I did not get the +poems, but I did. I'll get at them, doubtless, after awhile, +though a good deal of manuscript—including a couple of +novels!—is ahead of them; and one published book of bad +poems awaits a particular condemnation.</p> + +<p>I'm a little embarrassed about the preface which I'm to +write. I fear you must forego the preface or I the dedication. +That kind of "coöperation" doesn't seem in very good<span class="pagenum">62</span> +taste: it smacks of "mutual admiration" in the bad sense, +and the reviewers would probably call it "log-rolling." Of +course it doesn't matter too much what the reviewers say, +but it matters a lot what the intelligent readers think; and +your book will have no others. I really shouldn't like to +write the preface of a book dedicated to me, though I did +not think of that at first.</p> + +<p>The difficulty could be easily removed by <i>not</i> dedicating +the book to me were it not that that would sacrifice the +noble poem with my name atop of it. That poem is itself +sufficiently dedicatory if printed by itself in the forepages +of the book and labeled "Dedication—To Ambrose +Bierce." I'm sure that vanity has nothing to do, or little +to do, with my good opinion of the verses. And, after all, +they <i>show</i> that I have said <i>to you</i> all that I could say to the +reader in your praise and encouragement. What do you +think?</p> + +<p>As to dedicating individual poems to other fellows, I have +not the slightest hesitancy in advising you against it. The +practice smacks of the amateur and is never, I think, pleasing +to anybody but the person so honored. The custom has +fallen into "innocuous desuetude" and there appears to be +no call for its revival. Pay off your obligations (if such there +be) otherwise. You may put it this way if you like: The +whole book being dedicated to me, no part of it <i>can</i> be +dedicated to another. Or this way: Secure in my exalted +position I don't purpose sharing the throne with rival (and +inferior) claimants. They be gam doodled!</p> + +<p>Seriously—but I guess it is serious enough as it stands. +It occurs to me that in saying: "no part of it <i>can</i> be dedicated +to another" I might be understood as meaning: "no +part of it <i>must</i> be," etc. No; I mean only that the dedication<span class="pagenum">63</span> +to another would contradict the dedication to me. The +two things are (as a matter of fact) incompatible.</p> + +<p>Well, if you think a short preface by me preferable to the +verses with my name, all right; I will cheerfully write it, +and that will leave you free to honor your other friends if +you care to. But those are great lines, and implying, as they +do, all that a set preface could say, it seems to me that they +ought to stand.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Maid Marian shall have the photograph.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">1321 Yale Street,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 1,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>You are a brick. You shall do as you will. My chief reluctance +is that if it become known, or <i>when</i> it becomes known, +there may ensue a suspicion of my honesty in praising you +and <i>your</i> book; for critics and readers are not likely to look +into the matter of dates. For your sake I should be sorry to +have it thought that my commendation was only a log-rolling +incident; for myself, I should care nothing about it. +This eel is accustomed to skinning.</p> + +<p>It is not the least pleasing of my reflections that my +friends have always liked my work—or me—well enough +to want to publish my books at their own expense. Everything +that I have written could go to the public that way +if I would consent. In the two instances in which I did consent +they got their money back all right, and I do not doubt +that it will be so in this; for if I did not think there was at +least a little profit in a book of mine I should not offer it to +a publisher. "Shapes of Clay" <i>ought</i> to be published in +California, and it would have been long ago if I had not<span class="pagenum">64</span> +been so lazy and so indisposed to dicker with the publishers. +Properly advertised—which no book of mine ever has +been—it should sell there if nowhere else. Why, then, do +<i>I</i> not put up the money? Well, for one reason, I've none to +put up. Do you care for the other reasons?</p> + +<p>But I must make this a condition. If there is a loss, <i>I</i> am +to bear it. To that end I shall expect an exact accounting +from your Mr. Wood, and the percentage that Scheff. purposes +having him pay to me is to go to you. The copyright +is to be mine, but nothing else until you are entirely recouped. +But all this I will arrange with Scheff., who, I take +it, is to attend to the business end of the matter, with, of +course, your assent to the arrangements that he makes.</p> + +<p>I shall write Scheff. to-day to go ahead and make his contract +with Mr. Wood on these lines. Scheff. appears not to +know who the "angel" in the case is, and he need not, +unless, or until, you want him to.</p> + +<p>I've a pretty letter from Maid Marian in acknowledgment +of the photograph. I shall send one to Mrs. Sterling +at once, in the sure and certain hope of getting another. It +is good of her to remember my existence, considering that +your scoundrelly monopoly of her permitted us to meet so +seldom. I go in for a heavy tax on married men who live +with their wives.</p> + +<p>"She holds no truce with Death <i>or</i> Peace" means that +with <i>one</i> of them she holds no truce; "nor" makes it mean +that she holds no truce with <i>either</i>. The misuse of "or" (its +use to mean "nor") is nearly everybody's upsetting sin. So +common is it that "nor" instead usually sounds harsh.</p> + +<p>I omitted the verses on "Puck," not because Bunner is +dead, but because his work is dead too, and the verses +appear to lack intrinsic merit to stand alone. I shall perhaps<span class="pagenum">65</span> +omit a few more when I get the proofs (I wish you +could see the bushels I've left out already) and add a few +serious ones.</p> + +<p>I'm glad no end that you and Scheff. have met. I'm fond +of the boy and he likes me, I think. He too has a book of +verses on the ways, and I hope for it a successful launching. +I've been through it all; some of it is great in the matter of +thews and brawn; some fine.</p> + +<p>Pardon the typewriter; I wanted a copy of this letter.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The New York<br /> +"American" Bureau,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 13,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>It is good to hear from you again and to know that the +book is so nearly complete as to be in the hands of the publishers. +I dare say they will not have it, and you'll have to +get it out at your own expense. When it comes to that I +shall hope to be of service to you, as you have been to me.</p> + +<p>So you like Scheff. Yes, he is a good boy and a good friend. +I wish you had met our friend Dr. Doyle, who has now +gone the long, lone journey. It has made a difference to me, +but that matters little, for the time is short in which to +grieve. I shall soon be going his way.</p> + +<p>No, I shall not put anything about the * * * person into +"Shapes of Clay." His offence demands another kind of +punishment, and until I meet him he goes unpunished. I +once went to San Francisco to punish him (but that was in +hot blood) but * * * of "The Wave" told me the man was +a hopeless invalid, suffering from locomotor ataxia. I have +always believed that until I got your letter and one from +Scheff. Is it not so?—or <i>was</i> it not? If not he has good +reason to think me a coward, for his offence was what men<span class="pagenum">66</span> +are killed for; but of course one does not kill a helpless person, +no matter what the offence is. If * * * lied to me I am +most anxious to know it; he has always professed himself a +devoted friend.</p> + +<p>The passage that you quote from Jack London strikes me +as good. I don't dislike the word "penetrate"—rather like +it. It is in frequent use regarding exploration and discovery. +But I think you right about "rippling"; it is too lively +a word to be outfitted with such an adjective as "melancholy." +I see London has an excellent article in "The +Critic" on "The Terrible and Tragic in Fiction." He knows +how to think a bit.</p> + +<p>What do I think of Cowley-Brown and his "Goosequill"? +I did not know that he had revived it; it died several years +ago. I never met him, but in both Chicago and London +(where he had "The Philistine," or "The Anti-Philistine," +I do not at the moment remember which) he was most kind +to me and my work. In one number of his magazine—the +London one—he had four of my stories and a long article +about me which called the blushes to my maiden cheek like +the reflection of a red rose in the petal of a violet. Naturally +I think well of Cowley-Brown.</p> + +<p>You make me sad to think of the long leagues and the +monstrous convexity of the earth separating me from your +camp in the redwoods. There are few things that I would +rather do than join that party; and I'd be the last to strike +my tent and sling my swag. Alas, it cannot be—not this +year. My outings are limited to short runs along this coast. +I was about to set out on one this morning; and wrote a +hasty note to Scheff in consequence of my preparations. In +five hours I was suffering from asthma, and am now confined +to my room. But for eight months of the year here I<span class="pagenum">67</span> +am immune—as I never was out there.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You will have to prepare yourself to endure a good deal of +praise when that book is out. One does not mind when one +gets accustomed to it. It neither pleases nor bores; you +will have just no feeling about it at all. But if you really +care for <i>my</i> praise I hope you have quoted a bit of it at the +head of those dedicatory verses, as I suggested. That will +give them a <i>raison d'être</i>.</p> + +<p>With best regards to Mrs. Sterling and Katie I am sincerely +yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">P.S.—If not too much trouble you may remind Dick +Partington and wife that I continue to exist and to remember +them pleasantly.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">N. Y. "American"<br /> +Bureau,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +[July, 1903].</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Scheff</span>:</p> + +<p>I got the proofs yesterday, and am returning them by this +mail. The "report of progress" is every way satisfactory, +and I don't doubt that a neat job is being done.</p> + +<p>The correction that you made is approved. I should have +wanted and expected you to make many corrections and +suggestions, but that I have had a purpose in making this +book—namely, that it should represent my work at its average. +In pursuance of this notion I was not hospitable even +to suggestions, and have retained much work that I did not +myself particularly approve; some of it trivial. You know +I have always been addicted to trifling, and no book from +which trivialities were excluded would fairly represent me.</p> + +<p>I could not commend this notion in another. In your work +and Sterling's I have striven hard to help you to come as +near to perfection as we could, because perfection is what +you and he want, and as young writers ought to want, the<span class="pagenum">68</span> +character of your work being higher than mine. I reached +my literary level long ago, and seeing that it is not a high +one there would seem to be a certain affectation, even a +certain dishonesty, in making it seem higher than it is by +republication of my best only. Of course I have not carried +out this plan so consistently as to make the book dull: I +had to "draw the line" at that.</p> + +<p>I say all this because I don't want you and Sterling to +think that I disdain assistance: I simply decided beforehand +not to avail myself of its obvious advantages. You +would have done as much for the book in one way as you +have done in another.</p> + +<p>I'll have to ask you to suggest that Mr. Wood have a man +go over all the matter in the book, and see that none of the +pieces are duplicated, as I fear they are. Reading the titles +will not be enough: I might have given the same piece two +titles. It will be necessary to compare first lines, I think. +That will be drudgery which I'll not ask you to undertake: +some of Wood's men, or some of the printer's men, will do +it as well; it is in the line of their work.</p> + +<p>The "Dies Irae" is the most earnest and sincere of religious +poems; my travesty of it is mere solemn fooling, which +fact is "given away" in the prose introduction, where I +speak of my version being of possible service in the church! +The travesty is not altogether unfair—it was inevitably +suggested by the author's obvious inaccessibility to humor +and logic—a peculiarity that is, however, observable in all +religious literature, for it is a fundamental necessity to the +religious mind. Without logic and a sense of the ludicrous a +man is religious as certainly as without webbed feet a bird +has the land habit.</p> + +<p>It is funny, but I am a "whole lot" more interested in<span class="pagenum">69</span> +seeing your cover of the book than my contents of it. I +don't at all doubt—since you dared undertake it—that +your great conception will find a fit interpreter in your +hand; so my feeling is not anxiety. It is just interest—pure +interest in what is above my powers, but in which <i>you</i> can +work. By the way, Keller, of the old "Wasp" was <i>not</i> the +best of its cartoonists. The best—the best of <i>all</i> cartoonists +if he had not died at eighteen—was another German, +named Barkhaus. I have all his work and have long cherished +a wish to republish it with the needed explanatory +text—much of it being "local" and "transient." Some day, +perhaps—most likely not. But Barkhaus was a giant.</p> + +<p>How I envy you! There are few things that would please +me so well as to "drop in" on you folks in Sterling's camp. +Honestly, I think all that prevents is the (to me) killing +journey by rail. And two months would be required, going +and returning by sea. But the rail trip across the continent +always gives me a horrible case of asthma, which lasts for +weeks. I shall never take <i>that</i> journey again if I can avoid +it. What times you and they will have about the campfire +and the table! I feel like an exile, though I fear I don't look +and act the part.</p> + +<p>I did not make the little excursion I was about to take +when I wrote you recently. Almost as I posted the letter I +was taken ill and have not been well since.</p> + +<p>Poor Doyle! how thoughtful of him to provide for the +destruction of my letters! But I fear Mrs. Doyle found +some of them queer reading—if she read them.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Great Scott! if ever they begin to publish mine there will +be a circus! For of course the women will be the chief sinners, +and—well, they have material a-plenty; they can<span class="pagenum">70</span> +make many volumes, and your poor dead friend will have +so bad a reputation that you'll swear you never knew him. +I dare say, though, you have sometimes been indiscreet, +too. <i>My</i> besetting sin has been in writing to my girl friends +as if they were sweethearts—the which they'll doubtless +not be slow to affirm. The fact that they write to me in the +same way will be no defense; for when I'm worm's meat I +can't present the proof—and wouldn't if I could. Maybe it +won't matter—if I don't turn in my grave and so bother +the worms.</p> + +<p>As Doyle's "literary executor" I fear your duties will be +light: he probably did not leave much manuscript. I judge +from his letters that he was despondent about his work and +the narrow acceptance that it had. So I assume that he did +not leave much more than the book of poems, which no +publisher would (or will) take.</p> + +<p>You are about to encounter the same stupid indifference +of the public—so is Sterling. I'm sure of Sterling, but don't +quite know how it will affect <i>you</i>. You're a pretty sturdy +fellow, physically and mentally, but this <i>may</i> hurt horribly. +I pray that it do not, and could give you—perhaps have +given you—a thousand reasons why it <i>should</i> not. You are +still young and your fame may come while you live; but +you must not expect it now, and doubtless do not. To me, +and I hope to you, the approval of one person who knows +is sweeter than the acclaim of ten thousand who do not—whose +acclaim, indeed, I would rather not have. If you do +not <i>feel</i> this in every fibre of your brain and heart, try to +learn to feel it—practice feeling it, as one practices some +athletic feat necessary to health and strength.</p> + +<p>Thank you very much for the photograph. You are growing +too infernally handsome to be permitted to go about<span class="pagenum">71</span> +unchained. If I had your "advantages" of youth and comeliness +I'd go to the sheriff and ask him to lock me up. That +would be the honorable thing for you to do, if you don't +mind. God be with you—but inattentive.</p> + +<p class="smcap right">Ambrose Bierce.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Aurora,<br /> +Preston Co.,<br /> +West Virginia,<br /> +August 15,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I fear that among the various cares incident to my departure +from Washington I forgot, or neglected, to acknowledge +the Joaquin Miller book that you kindly sent me. I +was glad to have it. It has all his characteristic merits and +demerits—among the latter, his interminable prolixity, the +thinness of the thought, his endless repetition of favorite +words and phrases, many of them from his other poems, his +mispronunciation, his occasional flashes of prose, and so forth.</p> + +<p>Scheff tells me his book is out and mine nearly out. But +what of yours? I do fear me it never will be out if you rely +upon its "acceptance" by any American publisher. If it +meets with no favor among the publisher tribe we must +nevertheless get it out; and you will of course let me do what +I can. That is only tit for tat. But tell me about it.</p> + +<p>I dare say Scheff, who is clever at getting letters out of +me—the scamp!—has told you of my being up here atop +of the Alleghenies, and why I <i>am</i> here. I'm having a rather +good time. * * * Can you fancy me playing croquet, cards, +lawn—no, thank God, I've escaped lawn tennis and golf! +In respect of other things, though, I'm a glittering specimen +of the Summer Old Man.</p> + +<p>Did <i>you</i> have a good time in the redwoods?</p> + +<p>Please present my compliments to Madame (and Mademoiselle) +Sterling. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Aurora,<br /> +West Virginia,<br /> +September 8,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,<span class="pagenum">72</span></p> + +<p>I return the verses with a few suggestions.</p> + +<p>I'm sorry your time for poetry is so brief. But take your +pencil and figure out how much you would write in thirty +years (I hope you'll live that long) at, say, six lines a day. +You'll be surprised by the result—and encouraged. Remember +that 50,000 words make a fairly long book.</p> + +<p>You make me shudder when you say you are reading the +"Prattle" of years. I haven't it and should hardly dare to +read it if I had. There is so much in it to deplore—so much +that is not wise—so much that was the expression of a +mood or a whim—so much was not altogether sincere—so +many half-truths, and so forth. Make allowances, I beg, +and where you cannot, just forgive.</p> + +<p>Scheff has mentioned his great desire that you join the +Bohemian Club. I know he wants me to advise you to do +so. So I'm between two fires and would rather not advise +at all. There are advantages (obvious enough) in belonging; +and to one of your age and well grounded in sobriety +and self-restraint generally, the disadvantages are not so +great as to a youngster like Scheff. (Of course he is not so +young as he seems to me; but he is younger by a few years +and a whole lot of thought than you.)</p> + +<p>The trouble with that kind of club—with any club—is +the temptation to waste of time and money; and the +danger of the drink habit. If one is proof against these a +club is all right. I belong to one myself in Washington, and +at one time came pretty near to "running" it.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>No, I don't think Scheff's view of Kipling just. He asked +me about putting that skit in the book. It <i>was</i> his view and, +that being so, I could see no reason for suppressing it in +deference to those who do not hold it. I like free speech,<span class="pagenum">73</span> +though I'd not accord it to my enemies if I were Dictator. +I should not think it for the good of the State to let * * * +write verses, for example. The modern fad Tolerance does +not charm me, but since it is all the go I'm willing that my +friends should have their fling.</p> + +<p>I dare say Scheff is unconscious of Kipling's paternity in +the fine line in "Back, back to Nature":</p> + +<p class="poem">"Loudly to the shore cries the surf upon the sea."</p> + +<p>But turn to "The Last Chanty," in "The Seven Seas," fill +your ears with it and you'll write just such a line yourself.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>God be decent to you, old man. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Aurora,<br /> +West Virginia,<br /> +September 12,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I have yours of the 5th. Before now you have mine of +<i>some</i> date.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm glad you like London; I've heard he is a fine fellow +and have read one of his books—"The Son of the Wolf," I +think is the title—and it seemed clever work mostly. The +general impression that remains with me is that it is always +winter and always night in Alaska.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>* * * will probably be glad to sell his scrap-book later, to +get bread. He can't make a living out of the labor unions +alone. I wish he were not a demgagoue and would not, as +poor Doyle put it, go a-whoring after their Muse. When he +returns to truth and poetry I'll receive him back into favor +and he may kick me if he wants to.</p> + +<p>No, I can't tell you how to get "Prattle"; if I could I'd +not be without it myself. You ask me when I began it in the<span class="pagenum">74</span> +"Examiner." Soon after Hearst got the paper—I don't +know the date—they can tell you at the office and will +show you the bound volumes.</p> + +<p>I have the bound volumes of the "Argonaut" and "Wasp" +during the years when I was connected with them, but my +work in the "Examiner" (and previously in the "News +Letter" and the London "Fun" and "Figaro" and other +papers) I kept only in a haphazard and imperfect way.</p> + +<p>I don't recollect giving Scheff any "epigram" on woman +or anything else. So I can't send it to you. I amuse myself +occasionally with that sort of thing in the "Journal" +("American") and suppose Hearst's other papers copy +them, but the "environment" is uncongenial and uninspiring.</p> + +<p>Do I think extracts from "Prattle" would sell? I don't +think anything of mine will sell. I could make a dozen +books of the stuff that I have "saved up"—have a few +ready for publication now—but all is vanity so far as profitable +publication is concerned. Publishers want nothing +from me but novels—and I'll die first.</p> + +<p>Who is * * *—and why? It is good of London to defend +me against him. I fancy all you fellows have a-plenty of defending +me to do, though truly it is hardly worth while. All +my life I have been hated and slandered by all manner of +persons except good and intelligent ones; and I don't greatly +mind. I knew in the beginning what I had to expect, and +I know now that, like spanking, it hurts (sometimes) but +does not harm. And the same malevolence that has surrounded +my life will surround my memory if I am remembered. +Just run over in your mind the names of men who +have told the truth about their unworthy fellows and about +human nature "as it was given them to see it." They are<span class="pagenum">75</span> +the bogie-men of history. None of them has escaped vilification. +Can poor little I hope for anything better? When +you strike you are struck. The world is a skunk, but it has +rights; among them that of retaliation. Yes, you deceive +yourself if you think the little fellows of letters "like" you, +or rather if you think they will like you when they know +how big you are. They will lie awake nights to invent new +lies about you and new means of spreading them without +detection. But you have your revenge: in a few years they'll +all be dead—just the same as if you had killed them. Better +yet, you'll be dead yourself. So—you have my entire +philosophy in two words: "Nothing matters."</p> + +<p>Reverting to Scheff. What he has to fear (if he cares) is +not incompetent criticism, but public indifference. That +does not bite, but poets are an ambitious folk and like the +limelight and the center of the stage. Maybe Scheff is different, +as I know you are. Try to make him so if he isn't. +* * * Wise poets write for one another. If the public happens +to take notice, well and good. Sometimes it does—and +then the wise poet would a blacksmith be. But this +screed is becoming an essay.</p> + +<p>Please give my love to all good Sterlings—those by birth +and those by marriage. * * *</p> + +<p>My friends have returned to Washington, and I'm having +great times climbing peaks (they are knobs) and exploring +gulches and cañons—for which these people have no +names—poor things. My dreamland is still unrevisited. +They found a Confederate soldier over there the other day, +with his rifle alongside. I'm going over to beg his pardon.</p> + +<p class="left65">Ever yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.<br /> +[Postmarked<br /> +October 12,<br /> +1903.]</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,<span class="pagenum">76</span></p> + +<p>I have Jack London's books—the one from you and the +one from him. I thank you and shall find the time to read +them. I've been back but a few days and find a brace of +dozen of books "intitualed" "Shapes of Clay." That the +splendid work done by Scheff and Wood and your other +associates in your labor of love is most gratifying to me +should "go without saying." Surely <i>I</i> am most fortunate +in having so good friends to care for my interests. Still, +there will be an aching void in the heart of me until <i>your</i> +book is in evidence. Honest, I feel more satisfaction in the +work of you and Scheff than in my own. It is through you +two that I expect my best fame. And how generously you +accord it!—unlike certain others of my "pupils," whom I +have assisted far more than I did you.</p> + +<p>My trip through the mountains has done my health +good—and my heart too. It was a "sentimental journey" +in a different sense from Sterne's. Do you know, George, +the charm of a new emotion? Of course you do, but at my +age I had thought it impossible. Well, I had it repeatedly. +Bedad, I think of going again into my old "theatre of +war," and setting up a cabin there and living the few days +that remain to me in meditation and sentimentalizing. But +I should like you to be near enough to come up some Saturday +night with some'at to drink. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">N. Y. Journal Office,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +October 21,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Sterling</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm indebted to you for two letters—awfully good ones. +In the last you tell me that your health is better, and I can +see for myself that your spirits are. This you attribute to +exercise, correctly, no doubt. You need a lot of the open +air—we all do. I can give myself hypochondria in forty-eight<span class="pagenum">77</span> +hours by staying in-doors. The sedentary life and abstracted +contemplation of one's own navel are good for +Oriental gods only. We spirits of a purer fire need sunlight +and the hills. My own recent wanderings afoot and horseback +in the mountains did me more good than a sermon. +And you have "the hills back of Oakland"! God, what +would I not give to help you range them, the dear old things! +Why, I know every square foot of them from Walnut Creek +to Niles Cañon. Of course they swarm with ghosts, as do all +places out there, even the streets of San Francisco; but I +and my ghosts always get on well together. With the female +ones my relations are sometimes a bit better than they were +with the dear creatures when they lived.</p> + +<p>I guess I did not acknowledge the splendidly bound +"Shapes" that you kindly sent, nor the Jack London books. +Much thanks.</p> + +<p>I'm pleased to know that Wood expects to sell the whole +edition of my book, but am myself not confident of that.</p> + +<p>So we are to have your book soon. Good, but I don't like +your indifference to its outward and visible aspect. Some +of my own books have offended, and continue to offend, +in that way. At best a book is not too beautiful; at worst it +is hideous. Be advised a bit by Scheff in this matter; his +taste seems to me admirable and I'm well pleased by his +work on the "Shapes"; even his covers, which I'm sorry to +learn do not please Wood, appear to me excellent. I approved +the design before he executed it—in fact chose it +from several that he submitted. Its only fault seems to me +too much gold leaf, but that is a fault "on the right side." +In that and all the rest of the work (except my own) experts +here are delighted. I gave him an absolutely free hand +and am glad I did. I don't like the ragged leaves, but he<span class="pagenum">78</span> +does not either, on second thought. The public—the reading +public—I fear does, just now.</p> + +<p>I'll get at your new verses in a few days. It will be, as always +it is, a pleasure to go over them.</p> + +<p>About "Prattle." I should think you might get help in +that matter from Oscar T. Schuck, 2916 Laguna St. He +used to suffer from "Prattle" a good deal, but is very +friendly, and the obtaining it would be in the line of his +present business.</p> + +<p>How did you happen to hit on Markham's greatest two +lines—but I need not ask that—from "The Wharf of +Dreams"?</p> + +<p>Well, I wish I could think that those lines of mine in +"Geotheos" were worthy to be mentioned with Keats' +"magic casements" and Coleridge's "woman wailing for +her demon lover." But I don't think any lines of anybody +are. I laugh at myself to remember that Geotheos, never +before in print I believe, was written for E. L. G. Steele to +read before a "young ladies' seminary" somewhere in the +cow counties! Like a man of sense he didn't read it. I don't +share your regret that I have not devoted myself to serious +poetry. I don't think of myself as a poet, but as a satirist; +so I'm entitled to credit for what little gold there may be +in the mud I throw. But if I professed gold-throwing, the +mud which I should surely mix with the missiles would +count against me. Besides, I've a preference for being the +first man in a village, rather than the second man in Rome. +Poetry is a ladder on which there is now no room at the +top—unless you and Scheff throw down some of the chaps +occupying the upper rung. It looks as if you might, but I +could not. When old Homer, Shakspeare and that crowd—building +better than Ozymandias—say: "Look on my<span class="pagenum">79</span> +works, ye mighty, and despair!" I, considering myself specially +addressed, despair. The challenge of the wits does +not alarm me.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>As to your problems in grammar.</p> + +<p>If you say: "There is no hope <i>or</i> fear" you say that <i>one</i> +of them does not exist. In saying: "There is no hope <i>nor</i> +fear" you say that <i>both</i> do not exist—which is what you +mean.</p> + +<p>"Not to weary you, I shall say that I fetched the book +from his cabin." Whether that is preferable to "I will say" +depends on just what is meant; both are grammatical. The +"shall" merely indicates an intention to say; the "will" +implies a certain shade of concession in saying it.</p> + +<p>It is no trouble to answer such questions, <i>nor</i> to do anything +else to please you. I only hope I make it clear.</p> + +<p>I don't know if all my "Journal" work gets into the +"Examiner," for I don't see all the issues of either paper. +I'm not writing much anyhow. They don't seem to want +much from me, and their weekly check is about all that I +want from them.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>No, I don't know any better poem of Kipling than "The +Last Chanty." Did you see what stuff of his Prof. Harry +Thurston Peck, the Hearst outfit's special literary censor, +chose for a particular commendation the other day? Yet +Peck is a scholar, a professor of Latin and a writer of merited +distinction. Excepting the ability to write poetry, the +ability to understand it is, I think, the rarest of intellectual +gifts. Let us thank "whatever gods may be" that we have +it, if we haven't so very much else.</p> + +<p>I've a lovely birch stick a-seasoning for you—cut it up<span class="pagenum">80</span> +in the Alleghanies.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +October 29,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I return the verses—with apology for tardiness. I've been +"full up" with cares.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I would not change "Religion" to "Dogma" (if I were +you) for all "the pious monks of St. Bernard." Once you +begin to make concessions to the feelings of this person or +that there is no place to stop and you may as well hang up +the lyre. Besides, Dogma does not "seek"; it just impudently +declares something to have been found. However, +it is a small matter—nothing can destroy the excellence of +the verses. I only want to warn you against yielding to a +temptation which will assail you all your life—the temptation +to "edit" your thought for somebody whom it may +pain. Be true to Truth and let all stand from under.</p> + +<p>Yes, I think the quatrain that you wrote in Col. Eng's +book good enough to go in your own. But I'd keep "discerning," +instead of substituting "revering." In art discernment +<i>carries</i> reverence.</p> + +<p><i>Of course</i> I expect to say something of Scheff's book, but +in no paper with which I have a present connection can I +regularly "review" it. Hearst's papers would give it incomparably +the widest publicity, but they don't want "reviews" +from me. They have Millard, who has already reviewed +it—right well too—and Prof. Peck—who possibly +might review it if it were sent to him. "Prof. Harry Thurston +Peck, care of 'The American,' New York City." Mention +it to Scheff. I'm trying to find out what I can do.</p> + +<p>I'm greatly pleased to observe your ability to estimate<span class="pagenum">81</span> +the relative value of your own poems—a rare faculty. "To +Imagination" is, <i>I</i> think, the best of all your short ones.</p> + +<p>I'm impatient for the book. It, too, I shall hope to write +something about. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Navarre Hotel and<br /> +Importation Co.,<br /> +Seventh Avenue<br /> +and 38th St.,<br /> +New York,<br /> +December 26,<br /> +1903.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>A thousand cares have prevented my writing to you—and +Scheff. And this is to be a "busy day." But I want to say +that I've not been unmindful of your kindness in sending +the book—which has hardly left my pocket since I got it. +And I've read nothing in it more than once, excepting the +"Testimony." <i>That</i> I've studied, line by line—and "precept +by precept"—finding in it always "something rich +and strange." It is greater than I knew; it is the greatest +"ever"!</p> + +<p>I'm saying a few words about it in tomorrow's "American"—would +that I had a better place for what I say and +more freedom of saying. But they don't want, and won't +have, "book reviews" from me; probably because I will +not undertake to assist their advertising publishers. So I +have to disguise my remarks and work up to them as parts +of another topic. In this case I have availed myself of my +favorite "horrible example," Jim Riley, who ought to be +proud to be mentioned on the same page with you. After +all, the remarks may not appear; I have the <i>littlest</i> editor +that ever blue-penciled whatever he thought particularly +dear to the writer. I'm here for only a few days, I hope.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I want to say that you seem to me greatest when you +have the greatest subject—not flowers, women and all +that,—but something above the flower-and-woman belt—something +that you see from altitudes from which <i>they</i> are unseen<span class="pagenum">82</span> +and unsmelled. Your poetry is incomparable with that +of our other poets, but your thought, philosophy,—that is +greater yet. But I'm writing this at a desk in the reading +room of a hotel; when I get home I'll write you again.</p> + +<p>I'm concerned about your health, of which I get bad reports. +Can't you go to the mesas of New Mexico and round +up cattle for a year or two—or do anything that will permit, +or compel, you to sleep out-of-doors under your favorite +stars—something that will <i>not</i> permit you to enter a +house for even ten minutes? You say no. Well, some day +you'll <i>have</i> to—when it is too late—like Peterson, my +friend Charley Kaufman and so many others, who might +be living if they had gone into that country in time and +been willing to make the sacrifice when it would have done +good. You can go <i>now</i> as well as <i>then</i>; and if now you'll +come back well, if then, you'll not only sacrifice your salary, +"prospects," and so forth, but lose your life as well. I <i>know</i> +that kind of life would cure you. I've talked with dozens of +men whom it did cure.</p> + +<p>You'll die of consumption if you don't. Twenty-odd years +ago I was writing articles on the out-of-doors treatment for +consumption. Now—only just now—the physicians are +doing the same, and establishing out-of-door sanitaria for +consumption.</p> + +<p>You'll say you haven't consumption. I don't say that you +have. But you will have if you listen to yourself saying: "I +can't do it." * * *</p> + +<p>Pardon me, my friend, for this rough advice as to your +personal affairs: I am greatly concerned about you. Your life +is precious to me and to the world. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 8,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Thank you so much for the books and the inscription—which<span class="pagenum">83</span> +(as do all other words of praise) affects me with a sad +sense of my shortcomings as writer and man. Things of +that kind from too partial friends point out to me with a +disquieting significance what I ought to be; and the contrast +with what I am hurts. Maybe you feel enough that +way sometimes to understand. You are still young enough +to profit by the pain; <i>my</i> character is made—<i>my</i> opportunities +are gone. But it does not greatly matter—nothing +does. I have some little testimony from you and Scheff and +others that I have not lived altogether in vain, and I know +that I have greater satisfaction in my slight connection +with your and their work than in my own. Also a better +claim to the attention and consideration of my fellow-men.</p> + +<p>Never mind about the "slow sale" of my book; I did not +expect it to be otherwise, and my only regret grows out of +the fear that some one may lose money by the venture. <i>It +is not to be you.</i> You know I am still a little "in the dark" as +to what <i>you</i> have really done in the matter. I wish you +would tell me if any of your own money went into it. The +contract with Wood is all right; it was drawn according to +my instructions and I shall not even accept the small royalty +allowed me if anybody is to be "out." If <i>you</i> are to be +out I shall not only not accept the royalty, but shall reimburse +you to the last cent. Do you mind telling me about +all that? In any case don't "buy out Wood" and don't pay +out anything for advertising nor for anything else.</p> + +<p>The silence of the reviewers does not trouble me, any +more than it would you. Their praise of my other books +never, apparently, did me any good. No book published in +this country ever received higher praise from higher sources +than my first collection of yarns. But the book was never a<span class="pagenum">84</span> +"seller," and doubtless never will be. That <i>I</i> like it fairly +well is enough. You and I do not write books to sell; we +write—or rather publish—just because we like to. We've +no right to expect a profit from fun.</p> + +<p>It is odd and amusing that you could have supposed that +I had any other reason for not writing to you than a fixed +habit of procrastination, some preoccupation with my +small affairs and a very burdensome correspondence. Probably +you <i>could</i> give me a grievance by trying hard, but if +you ever are conscious of not having tried you may be sure +that I haven't the grievance.</p> + +<p>I should have supposed that the author of "Viverols" +and several excellent monographs on fish would have understood +your poems. (O no; I don't mean that your Muse +is a mermaid.) Perhaps he did, but you know how temperate +of words men of science are by habit. Did you send a +book to Garrett Serviss? I should like to know what he +thinks of the "Testimony." As to Joaquin, it is his detestable +habit, as it was Longfellow's, to praise all poetry submitted +to him, and he said of Madge Morris's coyote poem +the identical thing that he says of your work. Sorry to disillusionize +you, but it is so.</p> + +<p>As to your health. You give me great comfort.* * * But it +was not only from Scheff that I had bad accounts of you and +"your cough." Scheff, indeed, has been reticent in the +matter, but evidently anxious; and you yourself have +written despondently and "forecasted" an early passing +away. If nothing is the matter with you and your lungs +some of your friends are poor observers. I'm happy to have +your testimony, and beg to withdraw my project for your recovery. +You whet my appetite for that new poem. The lines</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast,</span><br /><span class="pagenum">85</span> +Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon"</p> + +<p>give me the shivers. Gee! they're awful! Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 5,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You should not be irritated by the "conspiracy of silence" +about me on the part of the "Call," the "Argonaut" and +other papers. Really my enemies are under no obligation to +return good for evil; I fear I should not respect them if they +did. * * *, his head still sore from my many beatings of +that "distracted globe," would be a comic figure stammering +his sense of my merit and directing attention to the excellence +of the literary wares on my shelf.</p> + +<p>As to the pig of a public, its indifference to a diet of pearls—<i>our</i> +pearls—was not unknown to me, and truly it does not +trouble me anywhere except in the pocket. <i>That</i> pig, too, is +not much beholden to me, who have pounded the snout of +it all my life. Why should it assist in the rite? Its indifference +to <i>your</i> work constitutes a new provocation and +calls for added whacks, but not its indifference to mine.</p> + +<p>The Ashton Stevens interview was charming. His finding +you and Scheff together seems too idyllic to be true—I +thought it a fake. He put in quite enough—too much—about +me. As to Joaquin's hack at me—why, that was +magnanimity itself in one who, like most of us, does not +offset blame against praise, subtract the latter from the +former and find matter for thanks in the remainder. You +know "what fools we mortals be"; criticism that is not all +honey is all vinegar. Nobody has more delighted than I in +pointing out the greatness of Joaquin's great work; but nobody +than I has more austerely condemned * * *, his vanity<span class="pagenum">86</span> +and the general humbugery that makes his prose so insupportable. +Joaquin is a good fellow, all the same, and you +should not demand of him impossible virtues and a reach of +reasonableness that is alien to him.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I have the books you kindly sent and have planted two or +three in what I think fertile soil which I hope will produce a +small crop of appreciation.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>And the poem!<a name="fnanchor_7" id="fnanchor_7"></a><a href="#footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> I hardly know how to speak of it. No +poem in English of equal length has so bewildering a wealth +of imagination. Not Spenser himself has flung such a profusion +of jewels into so small a casket. Why, man, it takes +away the breath! I've read and reread—read it for the expression +and read it for the thought (always when I speak +of the "thought" in your work I mean the meaning—which +is another thing) and I shall read it many times more. +And pretty soon I'll get at it with my red ink and see if I +can suggest anything worth your attention. I fear not.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_7" id="footnote_7" href="#fnanchor_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> "A Wine of Wizardry."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">"New York<br /> +American"<br /> +Office,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 29,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I wrote you yesterday. Since then I have been rereading +your letter. I wish you would not say so much about what I +have done for you, and how much it was worth to you, and +all that. I should be sorry to think that I did not do a little +for you—I tried to. But, my boy, you should know that I +don't keep that kind of service <i>on sale</i>. Moreover, I'm +amply repaid by what <i>you</i> have done for <i>me</i>—I mean with<span class="pagenum">87</span> +your pen. Do you suppose <i>I</i> do not value such things? +Does it seem reasonable to think me unpleasured by those +magnificent dedicatory verses in your book? Is it nothing +to me to be called "Master" by such as you? Is my nature +so cold that I have no pride in such a pupil? There is no +obligation in the matter—certainly none that can be suffered +to satisfy itself out of your pocket.</p> + +<p>You greatly overestimate the sums I spend in "charity." +I sometimes help some poor devil of an unfortunate over +the rough places, but not to the extent that you seem to +suppose. I couldn't—I've too many regular, constant, +<i>legitimate</i> demands on me. Those, mostly, are what keep +me poor.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Maybe you think it odd that I've not said a word in print +about any of your work except the "Testimony." It is not +that I don't appreciate the minor poems—I do. But I don't +like to scatter; I prefer to hammer on a single nail—to +push one button until someone hears the bell. When the +"Wine" is published I'll have another poem that is not +only great, but striking—notable—to work on. However +good, or even great, a short poem with such a title as +"Poesy," "Music," "To a Lily," "A White Rose," and so +forth, cannot be got into public attention. Some longer and +more notable work, of the grander manner, may <i>carry</i> it, +but of itself it will not go. Even a bookful of its kind will +not. Not till you're famous.</p> + +<p>Your letter regarding your brother (who has not turned +up) was needless—I could be of no assistance in procuring +him employment. I've tried so often to procure it for others, +and so vainly, that nobody could persuade me to try any +more. I'm not fond of the character of suppliant, nor of<span class="pagenum">88</span> +being "turned down" by the little men who run this Government. +Of course I'm not in favor with this Administration, +not only because of my connection with Democratic +newspapers, but because, also, I sometimes venture to dissent +openly from the doctrine of the divinity of those in +high station—particularly Teddy.</p> + +<p>I'm sorry you find your place in the office intolerable. +That is "the common lot of all" who work for others. I +have chafed under the yoke for many years—a heavier +yoke, I think, than yours. It does not fit my neck anywhere. +Some day perhaps you and I will live on adjoining ranches +in the mountains—or in adjoining caves—"the world forgetting, +by the world forgot." I have really been on the +point of hermitizing lately, but I guess I'll have to continue +to live like a reasonable human being a little longer until I +can release myself with a conscience void of offense to my +creditors and dependents. But "the call of the wild" +sounds, even in my dreams.</p> + +<p>You ask me if you should write in "A Wine of Wizardry" +vein, or in that of "The Testimony of the Suns." Both. I +don't know in which you have succeeded the better. And I +don't know anyone who has succeeded better in either. To +succeed in both is a marvelous performance. You may say +that the one is fancy, the other imagination, which is true, +but not the whole truth. The "Wine" has as true imagination +as the other, and fancy into the bargain. I like your +grandiose manner, and I like the other as well. In terms of +another art I may say—rear great towers and domes. +Carve, also, friezes. But I'd not bother to cut single finials +and small decorations. However exquisite the workmanship, +they are not worth your present attention. If you +were a painter (as, considering your wonderful sense of<span class="pagenum">89</span> +color, you doubtless could have been) your large canvases +would be your best.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I don't care if that satire of Josephare refers to me or not; +it was good. He may jump on me if he wants to—I don't +mind. All I ask is that he do it well.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I passed yesterday with Percival Pollard, viewing the +burnt district of Baltimore. He's a queer duck whom I like, +and he likes your work. I'm sending you a copy of "The +Papyrus," with his "rehabilitation" of the odious Oscar +Wilde. Wilde's work is all right, but what can one do with +the work of one whose name one cannot speak before +women?</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 19,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>The "belatedness" of your letter only made <i>me</i> fear that +<i>I</i> had offended <i>you</i>. Odd that we should have such views of +each other's sensitiveness.</p> + +<p>About Wood. No doubt that he is doing all that he can, +but—well, he is not a publisher. For example: He sent +forty or fifty "Shapes" here. They lie behind a counter at +the bookseller's—not even <i>on</i> the counter. There are probably +not a dozen persons of my acquaintance in Washington +who know that I ever wrote a book. Now <i>how</i> are even +these to know about <i>that</i> book? The bookseller does not advertise +the books he has on sale and the public does not go +rummaging behind his counters. A publisher's methods are +a bit different, naturally.</p> + +<p>Only for your interest I should not care if my books sold<span class="pagenum">90</span> +or not; they exist and will not be destroyed; every book will +eventually get to <i>somebody</i>.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>It seems to be a matter for you to determine—whether +Wood continues to try to sell the book or it is put in other +hands if he is ever tired of it. Remember, I don't care a rap +what happens to the book except as a means of reimbursing +you; I want no money and I want no glory. If you and +Wood can agree, do in all things as you please.</p> + +<p>I return Wood's letters; they show what I knew before: +that the public and the librarians would not buy that book. +Let us discuss this matter no more, but at some time in +the future you tell me how much you are out of pocket.</p> + +<p><i>Your</i> book shows that a fellow can get a good deal of glory +with very little profit. You are now famous—at least on +the Pacific Coast; but I fancy you are not any "for'arder" +in the matter of wealth than you were before. I too have +some reputation—a little wider, as yet, than yours. Well, my +work sells tremendously—in Mr. Hearst's newspapers, at +the price of a small fraction of one cent! Offered by itself, in +one-dollar and two-dollar lots, it tempts nobody to fall over +his own feet in the rush to buy. A great trade, this of ours!</p> + +<p>I note with interest the "notices" you send. The one by +Monahan is amusing with its gabble about your "science." +To most men, as to him, a mention of the stars suggests +astronomy, with its telescopes, spectroscopes and so forth. +Therefore it is "scientific." To tell such men that there is +nothing of science in your poem would puzzle them greatly.</p> + +<p>I don't think poor Lang meant to do anything but his +best and honestest. He is a rather clever and rather small +fellow and not to be blamed for the limitations of his insight. +I have repeatedly pointed out in print that it requires<span class="pagenum">91</span> +genius to discern genius at first hand. Lang has written +almost the best, if not quite the best, sonnet in the language—yet +he is no genius.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Why, of course—why should you not help the poor devil, +* * *; I used to help him myself—introduced him to the +public and labored to instruct him. Then—but it is unspeakable +and so is he. He will bite your hand if you feed +him, but I think I'd throw a crust to him myself.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>No, I don't agree with you about Homer, nor "stand for" +your implied view that narrative poetry is not "pure +poetry." Poetry seems to me to speak with a thousand +voices—"a various language." The miners have a saying: +"Gold is where you find it." So is poetry; I'm expecting to +find it some fine day in the price list of a grocery store. I +fancy <i>you</i> could put it there.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>As to Goethe, the more you read him, the better you +will love Heine.</p> + +<p>Thank you for "A Wine of Wizardry"—amended. It +seems to me that the fake dictum of "Merlin-sage" (I don't +quite perceive the necessity of the hyphen) is better than +the hackneyed Scriptural quotation. It is odd, but my +recollection is that it was the "sick enchantress" who cried +"unto Betelgeuse a mystic word." Was it not so in the copy +that I first had, or do I think so merely because the cry of +one is more lone and awful than the cry of a number?</p> + +<p>I am still of the belief that the poem should have at least +a few breaks in it, for I find myself as well as the public +more or less—I, doubtless, less than the public—indisposed +to tackle solid columns of either verse or prose. I told<span class="pagenum">92</span> +you this poem "took away one's breath,"—give a fellow, +can't you, a chance to recover it now and again.</p> + +<p class="poem">"Space to breathe, how short soever."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done, on earth as it +is in San Francisco. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 11,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>To begin at the beginning, I shall of course be pleased to +meet Josephare if he come this way; if only to try to solve +the problem of what is in a fellow who started so badly and +in so short a time was running well, with a prospect of +winning "a place." Byron, you know, was the same way +and Tennyson not so different. Still their start was not so +bad as Josephare's. I freely confess that I thought him a +fool. It is "one on me."</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I wonder if a London house would publish "Shapes of +Clay." Occasionally a little discussion about me breaks out +in the London press, blazes up for a little while and "goes +up in smoke." I enclose some evidences of the latest one—which +you may return if you remember to do so. The letter +of "a deeply disappointed man" was one of rollicking +humor suggested by some articles of Barr about me and a +private intimation from him that I should publish some +more books in London.</p> + +<p>Yes, I've dropped "The Passing Show" again, for the +same old reason—wouldn't stand the censorship of my +editor. I'm writing for the daily issues of The American, +mainly, and, as a rule, anonymously. It's "dead easy" +work.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>It is all right—that "cry unto Betelgeuse"; the "sick enchantress"<span class="pagenum">93</span> +passage is good enough without it. I like the +added lines of the poem. Here's another criticism: The +"Without" and "Within," beginning the first and third +lines, respectively, <i>seem</i> to be antithetic, when they are not, +the latter having the sense of "into," which I think might, +for clearness, be substituted for it without a displeasing +break of the metre—a trochee for an iambus.</p> + +<p>Why should I not try "The Atlantic" with this poem?—if +you have not already done so. I could write a brief note +about it, saying what <i>you</i> could not say, and possibly winning +attention to the work. If you say so I will. It is impossible +to imagine a magazine editor rejecting that amazing +poem. I have read it at least twenty times with ever increasing +admiration.</p> + +<p>Your book, by the way, is still my constant companion—I +carry it in my pocket and read it over and over, in the +street cars and everywhere. <i>All</i> the poems are good, though +the "Testimony" and "Memorial Day" are supreme—the +one in grandeur, the other in feeling.</p> + +<p>I send you a criticism in a manuscript letter from a friend +who complains of your "obscurity," as many have the candor +to do. It requires candor to do that, for the fault is in +the critic's understanding. Still, one who understands Shakspeare +and Milton is not without standing as a complaining +witness in the court of literature.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>My favorite translation of Homer is that of Pope, of +whom it is the present fashion to speak disparagingly, as it +is of Byron. I know all that can be said against them, and +say <i>some</i> of it myself, but I wish their detractors had a little +of their brains. I know too that Pope's translations of The +Iliad and The Odyssey are rather paraphrases than translations.<span class="pagenum">94</span> +But I love them just the same, while wondering +(with you, doubtless) what so profoundly affected Keats +when he "heard Chapman speak out loud and bold." Whatever +it was, it gave us what Coleridge pronounced the best +sonnet in our language; and Lang's admiration of Homer +has given us at least the next best. Of course there must be +something in poems that produce poems—in a poet whom +most poets confess their king. I hold (with Poe) that there +is no such thing as a <i>long</i> poem—a poem of the length of an +Epic. It must consist of poetic passages connected by <i>recitativo</i>, +to use an opera word; but it is perhaps better for that. +If the writer cannot write "sustained" poetry the reader +probably could not read it. Anyhow, I vote for Homer.</p> + +<p>I am passing well, but shall soon seek the mountains, +though I hope to be here when Scheff points his prow this +way. Would that you were sailing with him!</p> + +<p>I've been hearing all about all of you, for Eva Crawford +has been among you "takin' notes," and Eva's piquant +comments on what and whom she sees are delicious reading. +I should suppose that <i>you</i> would appreciate Eva—most +persons don't. She is the best letter writer of her sex—who +are all good letter writers—and she is much beside. I +may venture to whisper that you'd find her estimate of +your work and personality "not altogether displeasing."</p> + +<p>Now that I'm about such matters, I shall enclose a note +to my friend Dr. Robertson, who runs an insanery at Livermore +and is an interesting fellow with a ditto family and a +library that will make you pea-green with envy. Go out +and see him some day and take Scheff, or any friend, along—he +wants to know you. You won't mind the facts that he +thinks all poetry the secretion of a diseased brain, and that +the only reason he doesn't think all brains (except his own)<span class="pagenum">95</span> +diseased is the circumstance that not all secrete poetry.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Seriously, he is a good fellow and full of various knowledges +that most of us wot not of.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 14,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I have a letter from * * *, who is in St. Louis, to which +his progress has been more leisurely than I liked, considering +that I am remaining away from my mountains only to +meet him. However, he intimates an intention to come in a +week. I wish you were with him.</p> + +<p>I am sending the W. of W. to Scribner's, as you suggest, +and if it is not taken shall try the other mags in the order +of your preference. But it's funny that you—<i>you</i>—should +prefer the "popular" magazines and wish the work "illustrated." +Be assured the illustrations will shock you if you +get them.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I understand what you say about being bored by the persons +whom your work in letters brings about your feet. +The most <i>contented</i> years of my life lately were the two or +three that I passed here before Washington folk found out +that I was an author. The fact has leaked out, and although +not a soul of them buys and reads my books some of them +bore me insupportably with their ignorant compliments +and unwelcome attentions. I fancy I'll have to "move on."</p> + +<p>Tell Maid Marian to use gloves when modeling, or the +clay will enter into her soul through her fingers and she +become herself a Shape of Clay. My notion is that she +should work in a paste made of ashes-of-roses moistened<span class="pagenum">96</span> +with nectar.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">P.S. Does it bore you that I like you to know my friends? +Professor * * *'s widow (and daughter) are very dear to +me. She knows about you, and I've written her that I'd ask +you to call on her. You'll like them all right, but I have +another purpose. I want to know how they prosper; and +they are a little reticent about that. Maybe you could ascertain +indirectly by seeing how they live. I asked Grizzly +to do this but of course he didn't, the shaggy brute that +he is. <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Haines' Falls,<br /> +Greene Co., N. Y.,<br /> +August 4,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I haven't written a letter, except on business, since leaving +Washington, June 30—no, not since Scheff's arrival +there. I now return to earth, and my first call is on you.</p> + +<p>You'll be glad to know that I'm having a good time here +in the Catskills. I shall not go back so long as I can find an +open hotel.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I should like to hear from you about our—or rather +your—set in California, and especially about <i>you</i>. Do you +still dally with the Muse? Enclosed you will find two damning +evidences of additional incapacity. <i>Harper's</i> now have +"A Wine of Wizardry," and they too will indubitably turn +it down. I shall then try <i>The Atlantic</i>, where it should have +gone in the first place; and I almost expect its acceptance.</p> + +<p>I'm not working much—just loafing on my cottage +porch; mixing an occasional cocktail; infesting the forests, +knife in hand, in pursuit of the yellow-birch sapling that<span class="pagenum">97</span> +furnishes forth the walking stick like yours; and so forth. I +knocked off work altogether for a month when Scheff came, +and should like to do so for <i>you</i>. Are you never going to +visit the scenes of your youth?</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>It is awfully sad—that latest visit of Death to the heart +and home of poor Katie Peterson. Will you kindly assure +her of my sympathy?</p> + +<p>Love to all the Piedmontese. Sincerely yours, +<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Haines' Falls,<br /> +Greene Co., N. Y.,<br /> +August 27,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>First, thank you for the knife and the distinction of membership +in the Ancient and Honorable Order of Knifers. I +have made little use of the blades and other appliances, but +the corkscrew is in constant use.</p> + +<p>I'm enclosing a little missive from the editor of <i>Harper's</i>. +Please reserve these things awhile and sometime I may ask +them of you to "point a moral or adorn a tale" about that +poem. If we can't get it published I'd like to write for some +friendly periodical a review of an unpublished poem, with +copious extracts and a brief history of it. I think that would +be unique.</p> + +<p>I find the pictures of Marian interesting, but have the self-denial +to keep only one of them—the prettiest one of course. +Your own is rather solemn, but it will do for the title page +of the Testimony, which is still my favorite reading.</p> + +<p>Scheff showed me your verses on Katie's baby, and Katie +has since sent them. They are very tender and beautiful. I +would not willingly spare any of your "personal" poems—least +of all, naturally, the one personal to me. Your success +with them is exceptional. Yet the habit of writing them is<span class="pagenum">98</span> +perilous, as the many failures of great poets attest—Milton, +for example, in his lines to Syriack Skinner, his lines +to a baby that died a-bornin' and so forth. The reason is +obvious, and you have yourself, with sure finger, pointed +it out:</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"Remiss the ministry they bear</span><br /> +<span class="i1">Who serve her with divided heart;</span><br /> +<span class="i1">She stands reluctant to impart</span><br /> +Her strength to purpose, end, or care."</p> + +<p>When one is intent upon pleasing some mortal, one is less +intent upon pleasing the immortal Muse. All this is said +only by way of admonition for the future, not in criticism +of the past. I'm a sinner myself in that way, but then I'm +not a saint in any way, so my example doesn't count.</p> + +<p>I don't mind * * * calling me a "dignified old gentleman"—indeed, +that is what I have long aspired to be, but have +succeeded only in the presence of strangers, and not always +then. * * *</p> + +<p>(I forgot to say that your poem is now in the hands of the +editor of the Atlantic.)</p> + +<p>Your determination to "boom" me almost frightens me. +Great Scott! you've no notion of the magnitude of the task +you undertake; the labors of Hercules were as nothing to +it. Seriously, don't make any enemies that way; it is not +worth while. And you don't know how comfortable I am in +my obscurity. It is like being in "the shadow of a great +rock in a weary land."</p> + +<p>How goes the no sale of Shapes of Clay? I am slowly saving +up a bit of money to recoup your friendly outlay. +That's a new thing for me to do—the saving, I mean—and +I rather enjoy the sensation. If it results in making a +miser of me you will have to answer for it to many a<span class="pagenum">99</span> +worthy complainant.</p> + +<p>Get thee behind me, Satan!—it is not possible for me to +go to California yet. For one thing, my health is better here +in the East; I have utterly escaped asthma this summer, +and summer is my only "sickly season" here. In California +I had the thing at any time o' year—even at Wright's. +But it is my hope to end my days out there.</p> + +<p>I don't think Millard was too hard on Kipling; it was no +"unconscious" plagiarism; just a "straight steal."</p> + +<p>About Prentice Mulford. I knew him but slightly and +used to make mild fun of him as "Dismal Jimmy." That +expressed my notion of his character and work, which was +mostly prose platitudes. I saw him last in London, a member +of the Joaquin Miller-Charles Warren Stoddard-Olive +Harper outfit at 11 Museum Street, Bloomsbury Square. +He married there a fool girl named Josie—forget her other +name—with whom I think he lived awhile in hell, then +freed himself, and some years afterward returned to this +country and was found dead one morning in a boat at Sag +Harbor. Peace to the soul of him. No, he was not a faker, +but a conscientious fellow who mistook his vocation.</p> + +<p>My friends have returned to Washington, but I expect to +remain here a few weeks yet, infesting the woods, devastating +the mountain larders, supervising the sunsets and +guiding the stars in their courses. Then to New York, and +finally to Washington. Please get busy with that fame o' +yours so as to have the wealth to come and help me loaf.</p> + +<p>I hope you don't mind the typewriter—<i>I</i> don't.</p> + +<p>Convey my love to all the sweet ladies of your entourage and +make my compliments also to the Gang. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington,<br /> +October 5,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,<span class="pagenum">100</span></p> + +<p>Your latest was dated Sept. 10. I got it while alone in the +mountains, but since then I have been in New York City +and at West Point and—here. New York is too strenuous +for me; it gets on my nerves.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Please don't persuade me to come to California—I mean +don't <i>try</i> to, for I can't, and it hurts a little to say nay. +There's a big bit of my heart there, but—O never mind the +reasons; some of them would not look well on paper. One of +them I don't mind telling; I would not live in a state under +union labor rule. There is still one place where the honest +American laboring man is not permitted to cut throats and +strip bodies of women at his own sweet will. That is the +District of Columbia.</p> + +<p>I am anxious to read Lilith; please complete it.</p> + +<p>I have another note of rejection for you. It is from * * *. +Knowing that you will not bank on what he says about the +Metropolitan, I enclose it. I've acted on his advising and +sent the poem. It is about time for it to come back. Then I +shall try the other magazines until the list is exhausted.</p> + +<p>Did I return your Jinks verses? I know I read them and +meant to send them back, but my correspondence and my +papers are in such hopeless disorder that I'm all at sea on +these matters. For aught I know I may have elaborately +"answered" the letter that I think myself to be answering +now. I liked the verses very temperately, not madly.</p> + +<p>Of course you are right about the magazine editors not +knowing poetry when they see it. But who does? I have not +known more than a half-dozen persons in America that +did, and none of them edited a magazine.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>No, I did not write the "Urus-Agricola-Acetes stuff,"<span class="pagenum">101</span> +though it was written <i>for</i> me and, I believe, at my suggestion. +The author was "Jimmy" Bowman, of whose death +I wrote a sonnet which is in Black Beetles. He and I used +to have a lot of fun devising literary mischiefs, fighting +sham battles with each other and so forth. He was a clever +chap and a good judge of whiskey.</p> + +<p>Yes, in The Cynic's Dictionary I did "jump from A to +M." I had previously done the stuff in various papers as +far as M, then lost the beginning. So in resuming I re-did +that part (quite differently, of course) in order to have the +thing complete if I should want to make a book of it. I +guess the Examiner isn't running much of it, nor much of +anything of mine.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I like your love of Keats and the early Coleridge.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The N. Y.<br /> +American Office,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +October 12,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Davis</span>,</p> + +<p>The "bad eminence" of turning down Sterling's great +poem is one that you will have to share with some of your +esteemed fellow magazinists—for examples, the editors of +the Atlantic, Harper's, Scribner's, The Century, and now +the Metropolitan, all of the élite. All of these gentlemen, I +believe, profess, as you do not, to know literature when +they see it, and to deal in it.</p> + +<p>Well I profess to deal in it in a small way, and if Sterling +will let me I propose some day to ask judgment between +them and me.</p> + +<p>Even <i>you</i> ask for literature—if my stories are literature, +as you are good enough to imply. (By the way, all the leading +publishers of the country turned down that book until<span class="pagenum">102</span> +they saw it published without them by a merchant in San +Francisco and another sort of publishers in London, +Leipzig and Paris.) Well, you wouldn't do a thing to one of +my stories!</p> + +<p>No, thank you; if I have to write rot, I prefer to do it for +the newspapers, which make no false pretences and are +frankly rotten, and in which the badness of a bad thing +escapes detection or is forgotten as soon as it is cold.</p> + +<p>I know how to write a story (of the "happy ending" sort) +for magazine readers for whom literature is too good, but I +will not do so so long as stealing is more honorable and interesting.</p> + +<p>I've offered you the best stuff to be had—Sterling's +poem—and the best that I am able to make; and now you +must excuse me. I do not doubt that you really think that +you would take "the kind of fiction that made 'Soldiers +and Civilians' the most readable book of its kind in this +country," and it is nice of you to put it that way; but +neither do I doubt that you would find the story sent a +different kind of fiction and, like the satire which you return +to me, "out of the question." An editor who has a +preformed opinion of the kind of stuff that he is going to get +will always be disappointed with the stuff that he does get.</p> + +<p>I know this from my early experience as an editor—before +I learned that what I needed was, not any particular +kind of stuff, but just the stuff of a particular kind of +writer.</p> + +<p>All this without any feeling, and only by way of explaining +why I must ask you to excuse me.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 6,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,<span class="pagenum">103</span></p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Yes, I got and read that fool thing in the August Critic. +I found in it nothing worse than stupidity—no malice. +Doubtless you have not sounded the deeper deeps of stupidity +in critics, and so are driven to other motives to +explain their unearthly errors. I know from my own experience +of long ago how hard it is to accept abominable +criticism, obviously (to the criticee) unfair, without attributing +a personal mean motive; but the attribution is nearly +always erroneous, even in the case of a writer with so many +personal enemies as I. You will do well to avoid that weakness +of the tyro. * * * has the infirmity in an apparently +chronic form. Poets, by reason of the sensibilities that +<i>make</i> them poets, are peculiarly liable to it. I can't see any +evidence that the poor devil of the Critic knew better.</p> + +<p>The Wine of Wizardry is at present at the Booklovers'. +It should have come back ere this, but don't you draw any +happy augury from that: I'm sure they'll turn it down, and +am damning them in advance.</p> + +<p>I had a postal from * * * a few days ago. He was in Paris. +I've written him only once, explaining by drawing his attention +to the fact that one's reluctance to write a letter +increases in the ratio of the square of the distance it has to +go. I don't know why that is so, but it is—at least in my +case.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Yes, I'm in perfect health, barring a bit of insomnia at +times, and enjoy life as much as I ever did—except when +in love and the love prospering; that is to say, when it was +new.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, +<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 8,<br /> +1904.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>This is the worst yet! This jobbernowl seems to think<span class="pagenum">104</span> +"The Wine of Wizardry" a story. It should "arrive" and +be "dramatic"—the denouement being, I suppose, a particularly +exciting example of the "happy ending."</p> + +<p>My dear fellow, I'm positively ashamed to throw your +pearls before any more of these swine, and I humbly ask +your pardon for having done it at all. I guess the "Wine" +will have to await the publication of your next book.</p> + +<p>But I'd like to keep this fellow's note if you will kindly +let me have it. Sometime, when the poem is published, I +shall paste it into a little scrap book, with all the notes of +rejection, and then if I know a man or two capable of +appreciating the humor of the thing I can make merry over +it with them.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +My permanent<br /> +address,<br /> +February 18,<br /> +1905.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>It's a long time since the date of your latest letter, but +I've been doing two men's work for many weeks and have +actually not found the leisure to write to my friends. As it +is the first time that I've worked really hard for several +years I ought not to complain, and don't. But I hope it will +end with this session of Congress.</p> + +<p>I think I did not thank you for the additional copies of +your new book—the new edition. I wish it contained the +new poem, "A Wine of Wizardry." I've given up trying to +get it into anything. I related my failure to Mackay, of +"Success," and he asked to be permitted to see it. "No," I +replied, "you too would probably turn it down, and I will +take no chances of losing the respect that I have for you." +And I'd not show it to him. He declared his intention of +getting it, though—which was just what I wanted him to<span class="pagenum">105</span> +do. But I dare say he didn't.</p> + +<p>Yes, you sent me "The Sea Wolf." My opinion of it? +Certainly—or a part of it. It is a most disagreeable book, +as a whole. London has a pretty bad style and no sense of +proportion. The story is a perfect welter of disagreeable incidents. +Two or three (of the kind) would have sufficed to +<i>show</i> the character of the man Larsen; and his own self-revealings +by word of mouth would have "done the rest." +Many of these incidents, too, are impossible—such as that +of a man mounting a ladder with a dozen other men—more +or less—hanging to his leg, and the hero's work of rerigging +a wreck and getting it off a beach where it had stuck for +weeks, and so forth. The "love" element, with its absurd +suppressions and impossible proprieties, is awful. I confess +to an overwhelming contempt for both the sexless lovers.</p> + +<p>Now as to the merits. It is a rattling good story in one +way; something is "going on" all the time—not always +what one would wish, but <i>something</i>. One does not go to +sleep over the book. But the great thing—and it is among +the greatest of things—is that tremendous creation, Wolf +Larsen. If that is not a permanent addition to literature, it +is at least a permanent figure in the memory of the reader. +You "can't lose" Wolf Larsen. He will be with you to the +end. So it does not really matter how London has hammered +him into you. You may quarrel with the methods, +but the result is almost incomparable. The hewing out and +setting up of such a figure is enough for a man to do in one +life-time. I have hardly words to impart my good judgment +of <i>that</i> work.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>That is a pretty picture of Phyllis as Cleopatra—whom I +think you used to call "the angel child"—as the Furies<span class="pagenum">106</span> +were called Eumenides.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm enclosing a review of your book in the St. Louis +"Mirror," a paper always kindly disposed toward our little +group of gifted obscurians. I thought you might not have +seen it; and it is worth seeing. Percival Pollard sends it me; +and to him we owe our recognition by the "Mirror."</p> + +<p>I hope you prosper apace. I mean mentally and spiritually; +all other prosperity is trash.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 17,<br /> +1905.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I've reached your letter on my file. I wonder that I did, +for truly I'm doing a lot of work—mostly of the pot-boiler, +newspaper sort, some compiling of future—probably +<i>very</i> future—books and a little for posterity.</p> + +<p>Valentine has not returned the "Wine of Wizardry," but +I shall tell him to in a few days and will then try it on the +magazines you mention. If that fails I can see no objection +to offering it to the English periodicals.</p> + +<p>I don't know about Mackay. He has a trifle of mine which +he was going to run months ago. He didn't and I asked it +back. He returned it and begged that it go back to him for +immediate publication. It went back, but publication did +not ensue. In many other ways he has been exceedingly +kind. Guess he can't always have his way.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I read that other book to the bitter end—the "Arthur +Sterling" thing. He is the most disagreeable character in +fiction, though Marie Bashkirtseff and Mary McLean in +real life could give him cards and spades. Fancy a poet, or<span class="pagenum">107</span> +any kind of writer, whom it hurts to think! What the devil +are his agonies all about—his writhings and twistings and +foaming at all his mouths? What would a poem by an intellectual +epileptic like that be? Happily the author spares +us quotation. I suppose there are Arthur Sterlings among +the little fellows, but if genius is not serenity, fortitude and +reasonableness I don't know what it is. One cannot even +imagine Shakespeare or Goethe bleeding over his work and +howling when "in the fell clutch of circumstance." The +great ones are figured in my mind as ever smiling—a little +sadly at times, perhaps, but always with conscious inaccessibility +to the pinpricking little Titans that would storm +their Olympus armed with ineffectual disasters and pop-gun +misfortunes. Fancy a fellow wanting, like Arthur Sterling, +to be supported by his fellows in order that he may +write what they don't want to read! Even Jack London +would gag at such Socialism as <i>that</i>.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm going to pass a summer month or two with the Pollards, +at Saybrook, Conn. How I wish you could be of the +party. But I suppose you'll be chicken-ranching then, and +happy enough where you are. I wish you joy of the venture +and, although I fear it means a meagre living, it will probably +be more satisfactory than doubling over a desk in your +uncle's office. The very name Carmel Bay is enchanting. +I've a notion I shall see that ranch some day. I don't quite +recognize the "filtered-through-the-emasculated-minds-of-about-six-fools" +article from which you say I quote—don't +remember it, nor remember quoting from it.</p> + +<p>I don't wonder at your surprise at my high estimate of +Longfellow in a certain article. It is higher than my permanent +one. I was thinking (while writing for a newspaper,<span class="pagenum">108</span> +recollect) rather of his fame than of his genius—I had to +have a literary equivalent to Washington or Lincoln. Still, +we must not forget that Longfellow wrote "Chrysaor" +and, in narrative poetry (which you don't care for) "Robert +of Sicily." Must one be judged by his average, or may +he be judged, on occasion, by his highest? He is strongest +who can lift the greatest weight, not he who habitually +lifts lesser ones.</p> + +<p>As to your queries. So far as I know, Realf <i>did</i> write his +great sonnets on the night of his death. Anyhow, they were +found with the body. Your recollection that I said they +were written before he came to the Coast is faulty. Some +of his other things were in print when he submitted them +to me (and took pay for them) as new; but not the "De +Mortuis."</p> + +<p>I got the lines about the echoes (I <i>think</i> they go this way:</p> + +<p class="poem"><span class="i10">"the loon</span><br /> +Laughed, and the echoes, huddling in affright,<br /> +Like Odin's hounds went baying down the night")<br /></p> + +<p>from a poem entitled, I think, "The Washers of the +Shroud." I found it in the "Atlantic," in the summer of +1864, while at home from the war suffering from a wound, +and—disgraceful fact!—have never seen nor heard of it +since. If the magazine was a current number, as I suppose, +it should be easy to find the poem. If you look it up tell me +about it. I don't even know the author—had once a vague +impression that it was Lowell but don't know.</p> + +<p>The compound "mulolatry," which I made in "Ashes of +the Beacon," would not, of course, be allowable in composition +altogether serious. I used it because I could not at +the moment think of the right word, "gyneolatry," or +"gynecolatry," according as you make use of the nominative<span class="pagenum">109</span> +or the accusative. I once made "caniolatry" for a +similar reason—just laziness. It's not nice to do things o' +that kind, even in newspapers.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I had intended to write you something of "beesness," but +time is up and it must wait. This letter is insupportably +long already.</p> + +<p>My love to Carrie and Katie. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Army and Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 16,<br /> +1905.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Bailey Millard is editor of "The Cosmopolitan Magazine," +which Mr. Hearst has bought. I met him in New +York two weeks ago. He had just arrived and learning from +Hearst that I was in town looked me up. I had just recommended +him to Hearst as editor. He had intended him for +associate editor. I think that will give you a chance, such as +it is. Millard dined with me and I told him the adventures +of "A Wine of Wizardry." I shall send it to him as soon as +he has warmed his seat, unless you would prefer to send it +yourself. He already knows my whole good opinion of it, +and he shares my good opinion of you.</p> + +<p>I suppose you are at your new ranch, but I shall address +this letter as usual.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>If you hear of my drowning know that it is the natural +(and desirable) result of the canoe habit. I've a dandy +canoe and am tempting fate and alarming my friends by +frequenting, not the margin of the upper river, but the +broad reaches below town, where the wind has miles and +miles of sweep and kicks up a most exhilarating combobbery. +If I escape I'm going to send my boat up to Saybrook,<span class="pagenum">110</span> +Connecticut, and navigate Long Island Sound.</p> + +<p>Are you near enough to the sea to do a bit of boating now +and then? When I visit you I shall want to bring my canoe.</p> + +<p>I've nearly given up my newspaper work, but shall do +something each month for the Magazine. Have not done +much yet—have not been in the mind. Death has been +striking pretty close to me again, and you know how that +upsets a fellow.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, +<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington,<br /> +June 16,<br /> +1905.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm your debtor for two good long letters. You err in +thinking your letters, of whatever length and frequency, +can be otherwise than delightful to me.</p> + +<p>No, you had not before sent me Upton Sinclair's article +explaining why American literature is "bourgeois." It is +amusingly grotesque. The political and economical situation +has about as much to do with it as have the direction +of our rivers and the prevailing color of our hair. But it is of +the nature of the faddist (and of all faddists the ultra socialist +is the most untamed by sense) to see in everything +his hobby, with its name writ large. He is the humorist of +observers. When Sinclair transiently forgets his gospel of +the impossible he can see well enough.</p> + +<p>I note what you say of * * * and know that he did not use +to like me, though I doubt if he ever had any antipathy to +you. Six or eight years ago I tackled him on a particularly +mean fling that he had made at me while I was absent from +California. (I think I had not met him before.) I told him, +rather coarsely, what I thought of the matter. He candidly +confessed himself in the wrong, expressed regret and has +ever since, so far as I know, been just and even generous<span class="pagenum">111</span> +to me. I think him sincere now, and enclose a letter which +seems to show it. You may return it if you will—I send it +mainly because it concerns your poem. The trouble—our +trouble—with * * * is that he has voluntarily entered into +slavery to the traditions and theories of the magazine +trade, which, like those of all trades, are the product of +small men. The big man makes his success by ignoring +them. Your estimate of * * * I'm not disposed to quarrel +with, but do think him pretty square.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Bless you, don't take the trouble to go through the Iliad +and Odyssey to pick out the poetical parts. I grant you +they are brief and infrequent—I mean in the translation. +I hold, with Poe, that there are no long poems—only +bursts of poetry in long spinnings of metrical prose. But even +the "recitativo" of the translated Grecian poets has a charm +to one that it may not have to another. I doubt if anyone +who has always loved "the glory that was Greece"—who +has been always in love with its jocund deities, and +so forth, can say accurately just how much of his joy in +Homer (for example) is due to love of poetry, and how +much to a renewal of mental youth and young illusions. +Some part of the delight that we get from verse defies +analysis and classification. Only a man without a memory +(and memories) could say just what pleased him in poetry +and be sure that it was the poetry only. For example, I +never read the opening lines of the Pope Iliad—and I don't +need the book for much of the first few hundred, I guess—without +seeming to be on a sunny green hill on a cold windy +day, with the bluest of skies above me and billows of pasture +below, running to a clean-cut horizon. There's nothing +in the text warranting that illusion, which is nevertheless<span class="pagenum">112</span> +to me a <i>part</i> of the Iliad; a most charming part, too. It all +comes of my having first read the thing under such conditions +at the age of about ten. I <i>remember</i> that; but how +many times I must be powerfully affected by the poets +<i>without</i> remembering why. If a fellow could cut out all that +extrinsic interest he would be a fool to do so. But he would +be a better critic.</p> + +<p>You ought to be happy in the contemplation of a natural, +wholesome life at Carmel Bay—the "prospect pleases," +surely. But I fear, I fear. Maybe you can get a newspaper +connection that will bring you in a small income without +compelling you to do violence to your literary conscience. +I doubt if you can get your living out of the ground. But I +shall watch the experiment with sympathetic interest, for +it "appeals" to me. I'm a trifle jaded with age and the +urban life, and maybe if you can succeed in that other sort +of thing I could.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>As to * * * the Superb. Isn't Sag Harbor somewhere near +Saybrook, Connecticut, at the mouth of the river of that +name? I'm going there for a month with Percival Pollard. +Shall leave here about the first of July. If Sag Harbor is +easily accessible from there, and * * * would care to see +me, I'll go and call on her. * * * But maybe I'd fall in love +with her and, being now (alas) eligible, just marry her +alive!—or be turned down by her, to the unspeakable +wrecking of my peace! I'm only a youth—63 on the 24th +of this month—and it would be too bad if I got started +wrong in life. But really I don't know about the good taste +of being jocular about * * *. I'm sure she must be a serious +enough maiden, with the sun of a declining race yellow +on her hair. Eva Crawford thinks her most lovable—and<span class="pagenum">113</span> +Eva has a clear, considering eye upon you all.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm going to send up my canoe to Saybrook and challenge +the rollers of the Sound. Don't you fear—I'm an expert +canoeist from boyhood. * * *</p> +<p class="left65">Sincerely, +<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 3,<br /> +1905.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I have at last the letter that I was waiting for—didn't +answer the other, for one of mine was on the way to you.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You need not worry yourself about your part of the business. +You have acted "mighty white," as was to have been +expected of you; and, caring little for any other feature of +the matter, I'm grateful to you for giving my pessimism +and growing disbelief in human disinterestedness a sound +wholesome thwack on the mazzard.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Yes, I was sorry to whack London, for whom, in his character +as author, I have a high admiration, and in that of +publicist and reformer a deep contempt. Even if he had +been a personal friend, I should have whacked him, and +doubtless much harder. I'm not one of those who give their +friends carte blanche to sin. If my friend dishonors himself +he dishonors me; if he makes a fool of himself he makes a +fool of me—which another cannot do.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Your description of your new environment, in your other +letter, makes me "homesick" to see it. I cordially congratulate +you and Mrs. Sterling on having the sense to do what +I have always been too indolent to do—namely as you +please. Guess I've been always too busy "warming both<span class="pagenum">114</span> +hands before the fire of life." And now, when</p> + +<p class="poem">"It sinks and I am ready to depart,"</p> + +<p>I find that the damned fire was in <i>me</i> and ought to have +been quenched with a dash of cold sense. I'm having my +canoe decked and yawl-rigged for deep water and live in +the hope of being drowned according to the dictates of my +conscience.</p> + +<p>By way of proving my power of self-restraint I'm going +to stop this screed with a whole page unused.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, as ever, +<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 3,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I don't know why I've not written to you—that is, I +don't know why God made me what I have the misfortune +to be: a sufferer from procrastination.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I have read Mary Austin's book with unexpected interest. +It is pleasing exceedingly. You may not know that I'm +familiar with the <i>kind</i> of country she writes of, and reading +the book was like traversing it again. But the best of her is +her style. That is delicious. It has a slight "tang" of archaism—just +enough to suggest "lucent sirups tinct with +cinnamon," or the "spice and balm" of Miller's sea-winds. +And what a knack at observation she has! Nothing escapes +her eye. Tell me about her. What else has she written? +What is she going to write? If she is still young she will do +great work; if not—well, she <i>has</i> done it in that book. But +she'll have to hammer and hammer again and again before +the world will hear and heed.</p> + +<p>As to me I'm pot-boiling. My stuff in the N. Y. American<span class="pagenum">115</span> +(I presume that the part of it that you see is in the Examiner) +is mere piffle, written without effort, purpose or care. +My department in the Cosmopolitan is a failure, as I told +Millard it would be. It is impossible to write topical stuff +for a magazine. How can one discuss with heart or inspiration +a thing that happens two months or so before one's +comments on it will be read? The venture and the title +were Hearst's notion, but the title so handicaps me that I +can do nothing right. I shall drop it.</p> + +<p>I've done three little stories for the March number (they +may be postponed) that are ghastly enough to make a pig +squeal.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 12,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>First, about the "Wine," I dislike the "privately printed" +racket. Can you let the matter wait a little longer? Neale +has the poem, and Neale is just now inaccessible to letters, +somewhere in the South in the interest of his magazine-that-is-to-be. +I called when in New York, but he had flown +and I've been unable to reach him; but he is due here on +the 23rd. Then if his mag is going to hold fire, or if he +doesn't want the poem for it, let Robertson or Josephare +have a hack at it.</p> + +<p>Barr is amusing. I don't care to have a copy of his remarks.</p> + +<p>About the pirating of my stories. That is a matter for +Chatto and Windus, who bought the English copyright of +the book from which that one story came. I dare say, +though, the publication was done by arrangement with +them. Anyhow my interests are not involved.</p> + +<p>I was greatly interested in your account of Mrs. Austin.<span class="pagenum">116</span> +She's a clever woman and should write a good novel—if +there is such a thing as a good novel. I won't read novels.</p> + +<p>Yes, the "Cosmopolitan" cat-story is Leigh's and is to +be credited to him if ever published in covers. I fathered it +as the only way to get it published at all. Of course I had +to rewrite it; it was very crude and too horrible. A story +may be terrible, but must not be horrible—there is a difference. +I found the manuscript among his papers.</p> + +<p>It is disagreeable to think of the estrangement between +* * * and his family. Doubtless the trouble arises from his +being married. Yes, it is funny, his taking his toddy along +with you old soakers. I remember he used to kick at my +having wine in camp and at your having a bottle hidden +away in the bushes.</p> + +<p>I had seen that group of you and Joaquin and Stoddard +and laughed at your lifelike impersonation of the Drowsy +Demon.</p> + +<p>I passed the first half of last month in New York. Went +there for a dinner and stayed to twelve. Sam Davis and +Homer Davenport were of the party.</p> + +<p>Sam was here for a few days—but maybe you don't know +Sam. He's a brother to Bob, who swears you got your +Dante-like solemnity of countenance by coming into his +office when he was editing a newspaper.</p> + +<p>You are not to think I have thrown * * * over. There +are only two or three matters of seriousness between us +and they cannot profitably be discussed in letters, so they +must wait until he and I meet if we ever do. I shall mention +them to no one else and I don't suppose he will to anyone +but me. Apart from these—well, our correspondence +was disagreeable, so the obvious thing to do was to put an +end to it. To unlike a friend is not an easy thing to do, and<span class="pagenum">117</span> +I've not attempted to do it.</p> + +<p>Of course I approve the new lines in the "Wine" and if +Neale or anybody else will have the poem I shall insert +them in their place. That "screaming thing" stays with +one almost as does "the blue-eyed vampire," and is not +only visible, as is she, but audible as well. If you go on +adding lines to the poem I shall not so sharply deplore our +failure to get it into print. As Mark Twain says: "Every +time you draw you fill."</p> + +<p>The "Night in Heaven" is fine work in the grand style +and its swing is haunting when one gets it. I get a jolt or +two in the reading, but I dare say you purposely contrived +them and I can't say they hurt. Of course the rhythm recalls +Kipling's "The Last Chanty" (I'm not sure I spell +the word correctly—if there's a correct way) but that is +nothing. Nobody has the copyright of any possible metre +or rhythm in English prosody. It has been long since anybody +was "first." When are you coming to Washington to +sail in my canoe? Sincerely yours, +<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 5,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I've been in New York again but am slowly recovering. I +saw Neale. He assures me that the magazine will surely +materialize about June, and he wants the poem, "A Wine +of Wizardry," with an introduction by me. I think he +means it; if so that will give it greater publicity than what +you have in mind, even if the mag eventually fail. Magazines +if well advertised usually sell several hundred thousand +of the first issue; the trick is to keep them going. Munsey's +"Scrap Book" disposed of a half-million. * * *</p> + +<p>* * * was to start for a few weeks in California about +now. I hope you will see him. He is not a bad lot when convinced<span class="pagenum">118</span> +that one respects him. He has been treated pretty +badly in this neck o' the woods, as is every Western man +who breaks into this realm of smugwumps.</p> + +<p>My benediction upon Carmelites all and singular—if any +are all.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">Doubleday, Page & Co. are to publish my "Cynic's Dictionary."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 20,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I write in the hope that you are alive and the fear that +you are wrecked.<a name="fnanchor_8" id="fnanchor_8"></a><a href="#footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<p>Please let me know if I can help—I need not say how +glad I shall be to do so. "Help" would go with this were I +sure about you and the post-office. It's a mighty bad business +and one does not need to own property out there to be +"hit hard" by it. One needs only to have friends there.</p> + +<p>We are helpless here, so far as the telegraph is concerned—shall +not be able to get anything on the wires for many +days, all private dispatches being refused.</p> + +<p>Pray God you and yours may be all right. Of course anything +that you may be able to tell me of my friends will be +gratefully received.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_8" id="footnote_8" href="#fnanchor_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> The San Francisco earthquake and fire had occurred April 18, 1906.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 6,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Your letter relieves me greatly. I had begun to fear that +you had "gone before." Thank you very much for your +news of our friends. I had already heard from Eva Croffie. +Also from Grizzly.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Thank you for Mr. Eddy's review of "Shapes." But he is +misinformed about poor Flora Shearer. Of course I helped<span class="pagenum">119</span> +her—who would not help a good friend in adversity? But +she went to Scotland to a brother long ago, and at this time +I do not know if she is living or dead.</p> + +<p>But here am I forgetting (momentarily) that awful wiping +out of San Francisco. It "hit" me pretty hard in many +ways—mostly indirectly, through my friends. I had rather +hoped to have to "put up" for you and your gang, and am +a trifle disappointed to know that you are all right—except +the chimneys. I'm glad that tidal wave did not come, but +don't you think you'd better have a canoe ready? You +could keep it on your veranda stacked with provisions and +whiskey.</p> + +<p>My letter from Ursus (written during the conflagration) +expresses a keen solicitude for the Farallones, as the fire +was working westward.</p> + +<p>If this letter is a little disconnected and incoherent know, +O King, that I have just returned from a dinner in Atlantic +City, N. J. I saw Markham there, also Bob Davis, Sam +Moffett, Homer Davenport, Bob Mackay and other San +Franciscans. (Can there be a San Franciscan when there is +no San Francisco? I don't want to go back. Doubtless the +new San Francisco—while it lasts—will be a finer town +than the old, but it will not be <i>my</i> San Francisco and I +don't want to see it. It has for many years been, to me, full +of ghosts. Now it is itself a ghost.)</p> + +<p>I return the sonnets. Destruction of "Town Talk" has +doubtless saved you from having the one on me turned +down. Dear old fellow, don't take the trouble to defend my +memory when—or at least until—</p> + +<p class="poem"><span class="i2">"I am fled</span><br /> +From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell."</p> + +<p>I'm not letting my enemies' attitude trouble me at all. On<span class="pagenum">120</span> +the contrary, I'm rather sorry for them and their insomnia—lying +awake o' nights to think out new and needful lies +about me, while I sleep sweetly. O, it is all right, truly.</p> + +<p>No, I never had any row (nor much acquaintance) with +Mark Twain—met him but two or three times. Once with +Stoddard in London. I think pretty well of him, but doubt +if he cared for me and can't, at the moment, think of any +reason why he <i>should</i> have cared for me.</p> + +<p>"The Cynic's Dictionary" is a-printing. I shall have to +call it something else, for the publishers tell me there is a +"Cynic's Dictionary" already out. I dare say the author +took more than my title—the stuff has been a rich mine +for a plagiarist for many a year. They (the publishers) +won't have "The Devil's Dictionary." Here in the East +the Devil is a sacred personage (the Fourth Person of the +Trinity, as an Irishman might say) and his name must not +be taken in vain.</p> + +<p>No, "The Testimony of the Suns" has not "palled" on +me. I still read it and still think it one of the world's greatest +poems.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Well, God be wi' ye and spare the shack at Carmel,</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 11,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Your poem, "A Dream of Fear" was so good before that +it needed no improvement, though I'm glad to observe that +you have "the passion for perfection." Sure—you shall +have your word "colossal" applied to a thing of two dimensions, +an you will.</p> + +<p>I have no objection to the publication of that sonnet on<span class="pagenum">121</span> +me. It may give my enemies a transient feeling that is disagreeable, +and if I can do that without taking any trouble +in the matter myself it is worth doing. I think they must +have renewed their activity, to have provoked you so—got +up a new and fascinating lie, probably. Thank you for putting +your good right leg into action themward.</p> + +<p>What a "settlement" you have collected about you at +Carmel! All manner of cranks and curios, to whom I feel +myself drawn by affinity. Still I suppose I shall not go. I +should have to see the new San Francisco—when it has +foolishly been built—and I'd rather not. One does not care +to look upon either the mutilated face of one's mashed +friend or an upstart imposter bearing his name. No, <i>my</i> +San Francisco is gone and I'll have no other.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You are wrong about Gorky—he has none of the "artist" +in him. He is not only a peasant, but an anarchist and an +advocate of assassination—by others; like most of his +tribe, he doesn't care to take the risk himself. His "career" +in this country has been that of a yellow dog. Hearst's +newspapers and * * * are the only friends that remain to +him of all those that acclaimed him when he landed. And +all the sturdy lying of the former cannot rehabilitate him. +It isn't merely the woman matter. You'd understand if you +were on this side of the country. I was myself a dupe in the +matter. He had expressed high admiration of my books (in +an interview in Russia) and when his Government released +him from prison I cabled him congratulations. O, my!</p> + +<p>Yes, I've observed the obviously lying estimates of the +San Franciscan dead; also that there was no earthquake—just +a fire; also the determination to "beat" the insurance +companies. Insurance is a hog game, and if they (the companies)<span class="pagenum">122</span> +can be beaten out of their dishonest gains by +superior dishonesty I have no objection; but in my judgment +they are neither legally nor morally liable for the half +that is claimed of them. Those of them that took no earthquake +risks don't owe a cent.</p> + +<p>Please don't send * * *'s verses to me if you can decently +decline. I should be sorry to find them bad, and my loathing +of the Whitmaniacal "form" is as deep as yours. Perhaps +I should find them good otherwise, but the probability +is so small that I don't want to take the chance.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I've just finished reading the first proofs of "The Cynic's +Word Book," which Doubleday, Page & Co. are to bring +out in October. My dealings with them have been most +pleasant and one of them whom I met the other day at +Atlantic City seems a fine fellow.</p> + +<p>I think I told you that S. O. Howes, of Galveston, Texas, +is compiling a book of essays and sich from some of my +stuff that I sent him. I've left the selection entirely to him +and presented him with the profits if there be any. He'll +probably not even find a publisher. He has the work about +half done. By the way, he is an enthusiastic admirer of you. +For that I like him, and for much else.</p> + +<p>I mean to stay here all summer if I die for it, as I probably +shall. Luck and love to you.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 20, 1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Cahill</span>,</p> + +<p>I am more sorry than I can say to be unable to send you +the copy of the Builder's Review that you kindly sent <i>me</i>. +But before receiving your note I had, in my own interest,<span class="pagenum">123</span> +searched high and low for it, in vain. Somebody stole it +from my table. I especially valued it after the catastrophe, +but should have been doubly pleased to have it for you.</p> + +<p>It was indeed a rough deal you San Franciscans got. I +had always expected to go back to the good old town some +day, but I have no desire to see the new town, if there is to +be one. I fear the fire consumed even the ghosts that used +to meet me at every street corner—ghosts of dear dead +friends, oh, so many of them!</p> + +<p>Please accept my sympathy for your losses. I too am a +"sufferer," a whole edition of my latest book, plates and +all, having gone up in smoke and many of my friends being +now in the "dependent class." It hit us all pretty hard, I +guess, wherever we happened to be.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C,<br /> +August 11,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>If your neighbor Carmelites are really "normal" and +respectable I'm sorry for you. They will surely (remaining +cold sober themselves) drive you to drink. Their sort +affects <i>me</i> that way. God bless the crank and the curio!—what +would life in this desert be without its mullahs and +its dervishes? A matter of merchants and camel drivers—no +one to laugh with and at.</p> + +<p>Did you see Gorky's estimate of us in "Appleton's"? +Having been a few weeks in the land, whose language he +knows not a word of, he knows (by intuition of genius and +a wee-bit help from Gaylord Wilshire and his gang) all +about us, and tells it in generalities of vituperation as applicable +to one country as to another. He's a dandy bomb-thrower,<span class="pagenum">124</span> +but he handles the stink-pot only indifferently +well. He should write (for "The Cosmopolitan") on "The +Treason of God."</p> + +<p>Sorry you didn't like my remarks in that fool "symposium." +If I said enough to make it clear that I don't care a +damn for any of the matters touched upon, nor for the fellows +who <i>do</i> care, I satisfied my wish. It was not intended +to be an "argument" at all—at least not on my part; I +don't argue with babes and sucklings. Hunter is a decentish +fellow, for a dreamer, but the Hillquit person is a humorless +anarchist. When I complimented him on the beauty of his +neck and expressed the hope of putting a nice, new rope +about it he nearly strangled on the brandy that I was putting +down it at the hotel bar. And it wasn't with merriment. +His anarchist sentiments were all cut out.</p> + +<p>I'm not familiar with the poetry of William Vaughan +Moody. Can you "put me on"?</p> + +<p>I'm sending you an odd thing by Eugene Wood, of Niagara +Falls, where I met him two or three years ago. I'm sure +you will appreciate it. The poor chap died the other day +and might appropriately—as he doubtless will—lie in a +neglected grave. You may return the book when you have +read it enough. I'm confident you never heard of it.</p> + +<p>Enclosed is your sonnet, with a few suggestions of no importance. +I had not space on it to say that the superfluity +of superlatives noted, is accentuated by the words "west" +and "quest" immediately following, making a lot of +"ests." The verses are pleasing, but if any villain prefer +them to "In Extremis" may he bite himself with a Snake!</p> + +<p>If you'll send me that shuddery thing on Fear—with the +"clangor of ascending chains" line—and one or two others +that you'd care to have in a magazine, I'll try them on<span class="pagenum">125</span> +Maxwell. I suspect he will fall dead in the reading, or possibly +dislocate the jaw of him with a yawn, but even so you +will not have written in vain.</p> + +<p>Have you tried anything on "Munsey"? Bob Davis is the +editor, and we talked you over at dinner (where would you +could have been). I think he values my judgment a little. * * *</p> + +<p>I wish I could be blown upon by your Carmel sea-breeze; +the weather here is wicked! I don't even canoe.</p> + +<p>My "Cynic" book is due in October. Shall send it to you.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +September 28,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Both your letters at hand.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Be a "magazine poet" all you can—that is the shortest +road to recognition, and all our greater poets have travelled +it. You need not compromise with your conscience, however, +by writing "magazine poetry." You couldn't.</p> + +<p>What's your objection to * * *? I don't observe that +it is greatly worse than others of its class. But a fellow who +has for nigh upon twenty years written for yellow newspapers +can't be expected to say much that's edifying on +that subject. So I dare say I'm wrong in my advice about +the <i>kind</i> of swine for your pearls. There are probably more +than the two kinds of pigs—live ones and dead ones.</p> + +<p>Yes, I'm a colonel—in Pennsylvania Avenue. In the +neighborhood of my tenement I'm a Mister. At my club +I'm a major—which is my real title by an act of Congress. +I suppressed it in California, but couldn't here, where I run +with the military gang.</p> + +<p>You need not blackguard your poem, "A Visitor," though<span class="pagenum">126</span> +I could wish you had not chosen blank verse. That form +seems to me suitable (in serious verse) only to lofty, not +lowly, themes. Anyhow, I always expect something pretty +high when I begin an unknown poem in blank. Moreover, it +is not your best "medium." Your splendid poem, "Music," +does not wholly commend itself to me for that reason. May +I say that it is a little sing-songy—the lines monotonously +alike in their caesural pauses and some of their other +features?</p> + +<p>By the way, I'd like to see what you could do in more unsimple +meters than the ones that you handle so well. The +wish came to me the other day in reading Lanier's "The +Marshes of Glynn" and some of his other work. Lanier did +not often equal his master, Swinburne, in getting the most +out of the method, but he did well in the poem mentioned. +Maybe you could manage the dangerous thing. It would be +worth doing and is, therefore, worth trying.</p> + +<p>Thank you for the Moody book, which I will return. He +pleaseth me greatly and I could already fill pages with +analyses of him for the reasons therefore. But for you to say +that he has <i>you</i> "skinned"—that is magnanimity. An excellent +thing in poets, I grant you, and a rare one. There is +something about him and his book in the current "Atlantic," +by May Sinclair, who, I dare say, has never heard of +<i>you</i>. Unlike you, she thinks his dramatic work the best of +what he does. I've not seen that. To be the best it must be +mighty good.</p> + +<p>Yes, poor White's poetry is all you say—and worse, but, +faith! he "had it in him." What struck me was his candid +apotheosis of piracy on the high seas. I'd hate the fellow +who hadn't some sneaking sympathy with that—as Goethe +confessed to some sympathy with every vice. Nobody'll ever<span class="pagenum">127</span> +hear of White, but (pray observe, ambitious bard!) he isn't +caring. How wise are the dead!</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>My friend Howes, of Galveston, has, I think, nearly finished +compiling his book of essaylets from my stuff. Neale +has definitely decided to bring out "The Monk and the +Hangman's Daughter." He has the plates of my two luckless +Putnam books, and is figuring on my "complete works," +to be published by subscription. I doubt if he will undertake +it right away.</p> + +<p><i>Au reste</i>, I'm in good health and am growing old not altogether +disgracefully.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington,<br /> +October 30,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm pained by your comments on my book. I always feel +that way when praised—"just plunged in a gulf of dark +despair" to think that I took no more trouble to make the +commendation truer. I shall try harder with the Howes +book.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I can't supply the missing link between pages 101 and 102 +of the "Word Book," having destroyed the copy and +proofs. Supply it yourself.</p> + +<p>You err: the book is getting me a little glory, but that +will be all—it will have no sale, for it has no slang, no +"dialect" and no grinning through a horse-collar. By the, +way, please send me any "notices" of it that you may +chance to see out there.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I've done a ghost story for the January "Cosmopolitan," +which I think pretty well of. That's all I've done for more<span class="pagenum">128</span> +than two months.</p> + +<p>I return your poem and the Moody book. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington,<br /> +December 5,<br /> +1906.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Your letter of Nov. 28 has just come to my breakfast +table. It is the better part of the repast.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>No, my dictionary will not sell. I so assured the publishers.</p> + +<p>I lunched with Neale the other day—he comes down here +once a month. His magazine (I think he is to call it "The +Southerner," or something like that) will not get out this +month, as he expected it to. And for an ominous reason: +He had relied largely on Southern writers, and finds that +they can't write! He assures me that it <i>will</i> appear this winter +and asked me not to withdraw your poem and my remarks +on it unless you asked it. So I did not.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>In your character of bookseller carrying a stock of my +books you have a new interest. May Heaven promote you +to publisher!</p> + +<p>Thank you for the Moody books—which I'll return soon. +"The Masque of Judgment" has some great work in its +final pages—quite as great as anything in Faust. The passages +that you marked are good too, but some of them +barely miss being entirely satisfying. It would trouble you +to find many such passages in the other book, which is, +moreover, not distinguished for clarity. I found myself +frequently prompted to ask the author: "What the devil +are you driving at?"</p> + +<p>I'm going to finish this letter at home where there is less<span class="pagenum">129</span> +talk of the relative military strength of Japan and San +Francisco and the latter power's newest and most grievous +affliction, Teddy Roosevelt.</p> + +<p class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</p> + +<p class="p2">P.S. Guess the letter is finished.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 27,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I suppose I owe you letters and letters—but you don't +particularly like to write letters yourself, so you'll understand.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Hanging before me is a water-color of a bit of Carmel +Beach, by Chris Jorgensen, for which I blew in fifty dollars +the other day. He had a fine exhibition of his Californian +work here. I wanted to buy it all, but compromised +with my desire by buying what I could. The picture has a +sentimental value to me, apart from its artistic.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I am to see Neale in a few days and shall try to learn +definitely when his magazine is to come out—if he knows. +If he does not I'll withdraw your poem. Next month he is +to republish "The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter," +with a new preface which somebody will not relish. I'll send +you a copy. The Howes book is on its travels among the +publishers, and so, doubtless, will long continue.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 5,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Our letters "crossed"—a thing that "happens" oftener +than not in my correspondence, when neither person has +written for a long time. I have drawn some interesting inferences +from this fact, but have no time now to state<span class="pagenum">130</span> +them. Indeed, I have no time to do anything but send you +the stuff on the battle of Shiloh concerning which you +inquire.</p> + +<p>I should write it a little differently now, but it may entertain +you as it is.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="center p2">* * *</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington,<br /> +February 21,<br /> +1907</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>If you desert Carmel I shall destroy my Jorgensen picture, +build a bungalow in the Catskills and cut out California +forever. (Those are the footprints of my damned +canary, who will neither write himself nor let me write. +Just now he is perched on my shoulder, awaiting the command +to sing—then he will deafen me with a song without +sense. O he's a poet all right.)</p> + +<p>I entirely approve your allegiance to Mammon. If I'd had +brains enough to make a decision like that I could now, at +65, have the leisure to make a good book or two before I go +to the waste-dump. * * * Get yourself a fat bank account—there's +no such friend as a bank account, and the +greatest book is a check-book; "You may lay to that!" as +one of Stevenson's pirates puts it.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>No, sir, your boss will not bring you East next June; or if +he does you will not come to Washington. How do I know? +I don't know how I know, but concerning all (and they are +many) who were to come from California to see me I have +never once failed in my forecast of their coming or not coming. +Even in the case of * * *, although I wrote to you, and +to her, as if I expected her, I <i>said</i> to one of my friends:<span class="pagenum">131</span> +"She will not come." I don't think it's a gift of divination—it +just happens, somehow. Yours is not a very good example, +for you have not said you were coming, "sure."</p> + +<p>So your colony of high-brows is re-establishing itself at +the old stand—Piedmont. * * * But Piedmont—it must +be in the heart of Oakland. I could no longer shoot rabbits +in the gulch back of it and sleep under a tree to shoot more +in the morning. Nor could I traverse that long ridge with +various girls. I dare say there's a boulevard running the +length of it,</p> + +<p class="poem">"A palace and a prison on each hand."</p> + +<p>If I could stop you from reading that volume of old +"Argonauts" I'd do so, but I suppose an injunction would +not "lie." Yes, I was a slovenly writer in those days, +though enough better than my neighbors to have attracted +my own attention. My knowledge of English was imperfect +"a whole lot." Indeed, my intellectual status (whatever +it may be, and God knows it's enough to make me +blush) was of slow growth—as was my moral. I mean, I +had not literary sincerity.</p> + +<p>Yes, I wrote of Swinburne the distasteful words that you +quote. But they were not altogether untrue. He used to set +my teeth on edge—could <i>not</i> stand still a minute, and kept +you looking for the string that worked his legs and arms. +And he had a weak face that gave you the memory of chinlessness. +But I have long renounced the views that I once +held about his poetry—held, or thought I held. I don't +remember, though, if it was as lately as '78 that I held +them.</p> + +<p>You write of Miss Dawson. Did she survive the 'quake? +And do you know about her? Not a word of her has reached<span class="pagenum">132</span> +me. Notwithstanding your imported nightingale (upon +which I think you should be made to pay a stiff duty) your +Ina Coolbrith poem is so good that I want to keep it if you +have another copy. I find no amendable faults in it. * * *</p> + +<p>The fellow that told you that I was an editor of "The +Cosmopolitan" has an impediment in his veracity. I simply +write for it, * * *, and the less of my stuff the editor uses +the better I'm pleased.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>O, you ask about the "Ursus-Aborn-Gorgias-Agrestis-Polyglot" +stuff. It was written by James F. ("Jimmie") +Bowman—long dead. (See a pretty bad sonnet on page 94, +"Shapes of Clay.") My only part in the matter was to suggest +the papers and discuss them with him over many mugs +of beer.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>By the way, Neale says he gets almost enough inquiries +for my books (from San Francisco) to justify him in republishing +them.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>That's all—and, as George Augustus Sala wrote of a chew +of tobacco as the price of a certain lady's favors, "God +knows it's enough!" <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 23,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I have your letter of the 13th. The enclosed slip from the +Pacific Monthly (thank you for it) is amusing. Yes, * * * +is an insufferable pedant, but I don't at all mind his pedantry. +Any critic is welcome to whack me all he likes if he +will append to his remarks (as * * * had the thoughtfulness +to do) my definition of "Critic" from the "Word +Book."</p> + +<p>Please don't bother to write me when the spirit does not<span class="pagenum">133</span> +move you thereto. You and I don't need to write to each +other for any other reason than that we want to. As to +coming East, abstain, O, abstain from promises, lest you +resemble all my other friends out there, who promise +always and never come. It would be delightful to see you +here, but I know how those things arrange themselves without +reference to our desires. We do as we must, not as we +will.</p> + +<p>I think that uncle of yours must be a mighty fine fellow. +Be good to him and don't kick at his service, even when +you feel the chain. It beats poetry for nothing a year.</p> + +<p>Did you get the "Shiloh" article? I sent it to you. I sent +it also to Paul Elder & Co. (New York branch) for their +book of "Western Classics," and hope it will meet their +need. They wanted something, and it seemed to me as +good, with a little revision, as any of my stuff that I control. +Do you think it would be wise to offer them for republication +"In the Midst of Life"? It is now "out of print" +and on my hands.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm glad of your commendation of my "Cosmopolitan" +stuff. They don't give me much of a "show"—the editor +doesn't love me personally as he should, and lets me do +only enough to avert from himself the attention of Mr. +Hearst and that gentleman's interference with the mutual +admiration game as played in the "Cosmopolitan" office. +As I'm rather fond of light work I'm not shrieking.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You don't speak of getting the book that I sent, "The +Monk and the Hangman's Daughter"—new edition. 'Tisn't +as good as the old. * * *</p> + +<p>I'm boating again. How I should like to put out my prow<span class="pagenum">134</span> +on Monterey Bay.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 8,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>Your letter, with the yerba buena and the spray of redwood, +came like a breeze from the hills. And the photographs +are most pleasing. I note that Sloot's moustache is +decently white at last, as becomes a fellow of his years. I +dare say his hair is white too, but I can't see under his hat. +And I think he never removes it. That backyard of yours is +a wonder, but I sadly miss the appropriate ash-heaps, tin +cans, old packing-boxes, and so forth. And that palm in +front of the house—gracious, how she's grown! Well, it has +been more than a day growing, and I've not watched it +attentively.</p> + +<p>I hope you'll have a good time in Yosemite, but Sloots is +an idiot not to go with you—nineteen days is as long as +anybody would want to stay there.</p> + +<p>I saw a little of Phyllis Partington in New York. She told +me much of you and seems to be fond of you. That is very +intelligent of her, don't you think?</p> + +<p>No, I shall not wait until I'm rich before visiting you. +I've no intention of being rich, but do mean to visit you—some +day. Probably when Grizzly has visited <i>me</i>. Love to +you all. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Army and Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 25,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>So * * * showed you his article on me. He showed it to +me also, and some of it amused me mightily, though I +didn't tell him so. That picture of me as a grouchy and disappointed +old man occupying the entire cave of Adullam is<span class="pagenum">135</span> +particularly humorous, and so poetic that I would not for +the world "cut it out." * * * seems incapable (like a good +many others) of estimating success in other terms than +those of popularity. He gives a rather better clew to his own +character than to mine. The old man is fairly well pleased +with the way that he has played the game, and with his +share of the stakes, thank'ee.</p> + +<p>I note with satisfaction <i>your</i> satisfaction with my article +on you and your poem. I'll correct the quotation about the +"timid sapphires"—don't know how I happened to leave +out the best part of it. But I left out the line about "harlot's +blood" because I didn't (and don't) think a magazine +would "stand for it" if I called the editor's attention to it. +You don't know what magazines are if you haven't tested +them. However, I'll try it on Chamberlain if you like. And +I'll put in "twilight of the year" too.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>It's pleasing to know that you've "cut out" your clerical +work if you can live without it. Now for some great poetry! +Carmel has a fascination for me too—because of your letters. +If I did not fear illness—a return of my old complaint—I'd +set out for it at once. I've nothing to do that would +prevent—about two day's work a month. But I'd never +set foot in San Francisco. Of all the Sodoms and Gomorrahs +in our modern world it is the worst. There are not ten +righteous (and courageous) men there. It needs another +quake, another whiff of fire, and—more than all else—a +steady tradewind of grapeshot. When * * * gets done +blackguarding New York (as it deserves) and has shaken +the dung of San Francisco from his feet I'm going to "sick +him onto" that moral penal colony of the world. * * *</p> + +<p>I've two "books" seeking existence in New York—the<span class="pagenum">136</span> +Howes book and some satires. Guess they are cocks that +will not fight.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">I was sixty-five yesterday.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +July 11,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I've just finished reading proofs of my stuff about you +and your poem. Chamberlain, as I apprised you, has it +slated for September. But for that month also he has slated +a longish spook story of mine, besides my regular stuff. +Not seeing how he can run it all in one issue, I have asked +him to run your poem (with my remarks) and hold the +spook yarn till some other time. I <i>hope</i> he'll do so, but if he +doesn't, don't think it my fault. An editor never does as +one wants him to. I inserted in my article another quotation +or two, and restored some lines that I had cut out of +the quotations to save space.</p> + +<p>It's grilling hot here—I envy you your Carmel.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I guess several of your good letters are unanswered, as +are many others of other correspondents. I've been gadding +a good deal lately—to New York principally. When I want +a royal good time I go to New York; and I get it.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>As to Miller being "about the same age" as I, why, no. +The rascal is long past seventy, although nine or ten years +ago he wrote from Alaska that he was "in the middle +fifties." I've known him for nearly thirty years and he +can't fool me with his youthful airs and tales. May he live<span class="pagenum">137</span> +long and repent.</p> + +<p>Thank you for taking the trouble to send Conan Doyle's +opinion of me. No, it doesn't turn my head; I can show you +dozens of "appreciations" from greater and more famous +men. I return it to you corrected—as he really wrote it. +Here it is:</p> + +<p>"Praise from Sir Hugo is praise indeed." In "Through +the Magic Door," an exceedingly able article on short +stories that have interested him, Conan Doyle pays the following +well-deserved tribute to Ambrose Bierce, whose +wonderful short stories have so often been praised in these +columns: "Talking of weird American stories, have you +ever read any of the works of Ambrose Bierce? I have one +of his books before me, 'In the Midst of Life.' This man +(has) had a flavor quite his own, and (is)<a name="fnanchor_9" id="fnanchor_9"></a><a href="#footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> was a great +artist. It is not cheerful reading, but it leaves its mark upon +you, and that is the proof of good work."</p> + +<p>Thank you also for the Jacobs story, which I will read. +As a <i>humorist</i> he is no great thing.</p> + +<p>I've not read your Bohemian play to a finish yet, * * *. +By the way, I've always wondered why they did not "put +on" Comus. Properly done it would be great woodland +stuff. Read it with a view to that and see if I'm not right. +And then persuade them to "stage it" next year.</p> + +<p>I'm being awfully pressed to return to California. No San +Francisco for me, but Carmel sounds good. For about how +much could I get ground and build a bungalow—for one? +That's a pretty indefinite question; but then the will to go +is a little hazy at present. It consists, as yet, only of the +element of desire. * * *</p> + +<p>The "Cosmopolitan," with your poem, has not come to<span class="pagenum">138</span> +hand but is nearly due—I'm a little impatient—eager to +see the particular kind of outrage Chamberlain's artist has +wrought upon it. He (C.) asked for your address the other +day; so he will doubtless send you a check.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Now please go to work at "Lilith"; it's bound to be great +stuff, for you'll have to imagine it all. I'm sorry that anybody +ever invented Lilith; it makes her too much of an historical +character.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>"The other half of the Devil's Dictionary" is in the fluid +state—not even liquid. And so, doubtless, it will remain.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_9" id="footnote_9" href="#fnanchor_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> (has) and (is) crossed out by A. B.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +September 7,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm awfully glad that you don't mind Chamberlain's yellow +nonsense in coupling Ella's name with yours. But +when you read her natural opinion of your work you'll +acquit her of complicity in the indignity. I'm sending a few +things from Hearst's newspapers—written by the slangers, +dialecters and platitudinarians of the staff, and by some of +the swine among the readers.</p> + +<p>Note the deliberate and repeated lying of Brisbane in +quoting me as saying the "Wine" is "the greatest poem +ever written in America." Note his dishonesty in confessing +that he has commendatory letters, yet not publishing a +single one of them. But the end is not yet—my inning is to +come, in the magazine. Chamberlain (who professes an enthusiastic +admiration of the poem) promises me a free hand +in replying to these ignorant asses. If he does not give it to +me I quit. I've writ a paragraph or two for the November<span class="pagenum">139</span> +number (too late now for the October) by way of warning +them what they'll get when December comes. So you see +you must patiently endure the befouling till then.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Did you notice in the last line of the "Wine" that I restored +the word "smile" from your earlier draft of the +verses? In one of your later (I don't remember if in the last) +you had it "sigh." That was wrong; "smile" seems to me +infinitely better as a definition of the poet's attitude toward +his dreams. So, considering that I had a choice, I chose it. +Hope you approve.</p> + +<p>I am serious in wishing a place in Carmel as a port of +refuge from the storms of age. I don't know that I shall +ever live there, but should like to feel that I can if I want +to. Next summer I hope to go out there and spy out the +land, and if I then "have the price" (without sacrificing +any of my favorite stocks) I shall buy. I don't care for the +grub question—should like to try the simple life, for I +have already two gouty finger points as a result of the other +kind of life. (Of course if they all get that way I shan't +mind, for I love uniformity.) Probably if I attempted to +live in Carmel I should have asthma again, from which I +have long been free.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Army and Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +October 9,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Morrow</span>,</p> + +<p>Whether you "prosper" or not I'm glad you write instead +of teaching. I have done a bit of teaching myself, but as the +tuition was gratuitous I could pick my pupils; so it was a +labor of love. I'm pretty well satisfied with the results.</p> + +<p>No, I'm not "toiling" much now. I've written all I care<span class="pagenum">140</span> +to, and having a pretty easy berth (writing for The Cosmopolitan +only, and having no connection with Mr. +Hearst's newspapers) am content.</p> + +<p>I have observed your story in Success, but as I never never +(sic) read serials shall await its publication in covers before +making a meal of it.</p> + +<p>You seem to be living at the old place in Vallejo Street, so +I judge that it was spared by the fire. I had some pretty +good times in that house, not only with you and Mrs. Morrow +(to whom my love, please) but with the dear Hogan +girls. Poor Flodie! she is nearly a sole survivor now. I +wonder if she ever thinks of us.</p> + +<p>I hear from California frequently through a little group of +interesting folk who foregather at Carmel—whither I shall +perhaps stray some day and there leave my bones. Meantime, +I am fairly happy here.</p> + +<p>I wish you would add yourself to the Carmel crowd. You +would be a congenial member of the gang and would find +them worth while. You must know George Sterling: he is +the high panjandrum and a gorgeously good fellow. Go get +thee a bungalow at Carmel, which is indubitably the +charmingest place in the State. As to San Francisco, with +its labor-union government, its thieves and other impossibilities, +I could not be drawn into it by a team of behemoths. +But California—ah, I dare not permit myself to +remember it. Yet this Eastern country is not without +charm. And my health is good here, as it never was there. +Nothing ails me but age, which brings its own cure.</p> + +<p>God keep thee!—go and live at Carmel.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +October 29,<br /> +1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">James D. Blake, Esq.</span>,<br /><span class="pagenum">141</span> +<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>:</p> + +<p>It is a matter of no great importance to me, but the republication +of the foolish books that you mention would +not be agreeable to me. They have no kind of merit or +interest. One of them, "The Fiend's Delight," was published +against my protest; the utmost concession that the +compiler and publisher (the late John Camden Hatten, +London) would make was to let me edit his collection of my +stuff and write a preface. You would pretty surely lose +money on any of them.</p> + +<p>If you care to republish anything of mine you would, I +think, do better with "Black Beetles in Amber," or +"Shapes of Clay." The former sold well, and the latter +would, I think, have done equally well if the earthquake-and-fire +had not destroyed it, including the plates. Nearly +all of both books were sold in San Francisco, and the sold, +as well as the unsold, copies—I mean the unsold copies of +the latter—perished in the fire. There is much inquiry for +them (mainly from those who lost them) and I am told +that they bring fancy prices. You probably know about +that better than I.</p> + +<p>I should be glad to entertain proposals from you for their +republication—in San Francisco—and should not be exacting +as to royalties, and so forth.</p> + +<p>But the other books are "youthful indiscretions" and are +"better dead." Sincerely yours, +<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 28,1907.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Please send me a copy of the new edition of "The Testimony." +I borrowed one of the first edition to give away, +and want to replace it. Did you add the "Wine" to it? I'd<span class="pagenum">142</span> +not leave off the indefinite article from the title of that; it +seems to dignify the tipple by hinting that it was no ordinary +tope. It may have been witch-fermented.</p> + +<p>I don't "dislike" the line: "So terribly that brilliance +shall enhance"; it seems merely less admirable than the +others. Why didn't I tell you so? I could not tell you <i>all</i> I +thought of the poem—for another example, how I loved +the lines:</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"Where Dawn upon a pansy's breast hath laid</span><br /> +A single tear, and <i>whence the wind hath flown<br /> +And left a silence</i>."</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm returning you, under another cover (as the ceremonial +slangers say) some letters that have come to me and +that I have answered. I have a lot more, most of them +abusive, I guess, that I'll dig out later. But the most pleasing +ones I can't send, for I sent them to Brisbane on his +promise to publish them, which the liar did not, nor has he +had the decency to return them. I'm hardly sorry, for it +gave me good reason to call him a peasant and a beast of +the field. I'm always grateful for the chance to prod somebody.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I detest the "limited edition" and "autograph copies" +plan of publication, but for the sake of Howes, who has +done a tremendous lot of good work on my book, have assented +to Blake's proposal in all things and hope to be able +to laugh at this brilliant example of the "irony of fate." +I've refused to profit in any way by the book. I want +Howes to "break even" for his labor.</p> + +<p>By the way, Pollard and I had a good time in Galveston, +and on the way I took in some of my old battlefields. At +Galveston they nearly killed me with hospitality—so<span class="pagenum">143</span> +nearly that Pollard fled. I returned via Key West and +Florida.</p> + +<p>You'll probably see Howes next Summer—I've persuaded +him to go West and renounce the bookworm habit for some +other folly. Be good to him; he is a capital fellow in his odd, +amusing way.</p> + +<p>I didn't know there was an American edition of "The +Fiends' Delight." Who published it and when?</p> + +<p>Congratulations on acceptance of "Tasso and Leonora." +But I wouldn't do much in blank verse if I were you. It +betrays you (somehow) into mere straightaway expression, +and seems to repress in you the glorious abundance of +imagery and metaphor that enriches your rhyme-work. +This is not a criticism, particularly, of "Tasso," which is +good enough for anybody, but—well, it's just <i>so</i>.</p> + +<p>I'm not doing much. My stuff in the Cosmo. comes last, +and when advertisements crowd some of it is left off. Most +of it gets in later (for of course I don't replace it with more +work) but it is sadly antiquated. My checks, though, are +always up to date. Sincerely<a name="fnanchor_10" id="fnanchor_10"></a><a href="#footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_10" id="footnote_10" href="#fnanchor_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> I can almost say "sinecurely."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 19,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I have just come upon a letter of yours that I got at Galveston +and (I fear) did not acknowledge. But I've written +you since, so I fancy all is well.</p> + +<p>You mention that sonnet that Chamberlain asked for. +You should not have let him have it—it was, as you say, +the kind of stuff that magazines like. Nay, it was even +better. But I wish you'd sent it elsewhere. You owed it to +me not to let the Cosmopolitan's readers see anything of<span class="pagenum">144</span> +yours (for awhile, at least) that was less than <i>great</i>. Something +as great as the sonnet that you sent to McClure's +was what the circumstances called for.</p> + +<p>"And strict concern of relativity"—O bother! that's not +poetry. It's the slang of philosophy.</p> + +<p>I am still awaiting my copy of the new "Testimony." +That's why I'm scolding.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 18,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm an age acknowledging your letter; but then you'd +have been an age writing it if you had not done it for +"Sloots." And the other day I had one from him, written +in his own improper person.</p> + +<p>I think it abominable that he and Carlt have to work so +hard—at <i>their</i> age—and I quite agree with George Sterling +that Carlt ought to go to Carmel and grow potatoes. +I'd like to do that myself, but for the fact that so many +objectionable persons frequent the place: * * *, * * * and +the like. I'm hoping, however, that the ocean will swallow +* * * and be unable to throw him up.</p> + +<p>I trust you'll let Sloots "retire" at seventy, which is +really quite well along in life toward the years of discretion +and the age of consent. But when he is retired I know that +he will bury himself in the redwoods and never look upon +the face of man again. That, too, I should rather like to do +myself—for a few months.</p> + +<p>I've laid out a lot of work for myself this season, and +doubt if I shall get to California, as I had hoped. So I shall +never, never see you. But you might send me a photograph.</p> + +<p>God be with you. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +July 11,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4">N.B. If you follow the pages you'll be able to make <i>some</i><span class="pagenum">145</span> +sense of this screed.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">My dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I am sorry to learn that you have not been able to break +your commercial chains, since you wish to, though I don't +at all know that they are bad for you. I've railed at mine +all my life, but don't remember that I ever made any good +use of leisure when I had it—unless the mere "having a +good time" is such. I remember once writing that one's +career, or usefulness, was about ended when one thought +less about how best to do his work than about the hardship +of having to do it. I might have said the hardship of having +so little leisure to do it. As I grow older I see more and more +clearly the advantages of disadvantage, the splendid urge +of adverse conditions, the uplifting effect of repression. +And I'm ashamed to note how little <i>I</i> profited by them. I +wasn't the right kind, that is all; but I indulge the hope +that <i>you</i> are.</p> + +<p>No I don't think it of any use, your trying to keep * * * +and me friends. But don't let that interfere with your +regard for him if you have it. We are not required to share +one another's feelings in such matters. I should not expect +you to like my friends nor hate my enemies if they seemed +to you different from what they seem to me; nor would I +necessarily follow <i>your</i> lead. For example, I loathe your +friend * * * and expect his safe return because the ocean +will refuse to swallow him.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I congratulate you on the Gilder acceptance of your sonnet, +and on publication of the "Tasso to Leonora." I don't +think it your best work by much—don't think any of your +blank verse as good as most of your rhyme—but it's not a<span class="pagenum">146</span> +thing to need apology.</p> + +<p>Certainly, I shall be pleased to see Hopper. Give me his +address, and when I go to New York—this month or the +next—I'll look him up. I think well of Hopper and trust +that he will not turn out to be an 'ist of some kind, as most +writers and artists do. That is because they are good feelers +and poor thinkers. It is the emotional element in them, not +the logical, that makes them writers and artists. They have, +as a rule, sensibility and no sense. Except the <i>big</i> fellows.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Neale has in hand already three volumes of the "Collected +Works," and will have two more in about a month; +and all (I hope) this year. I'm revising all the stuff and cutting +it about a good deal, taking from one book stuff for +another, and so forth. If Neale gets enough subscriptions +he will put out all the ten volumes next year; if not I shall +probably not be "here" to see the final one issued.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Glad you think better of my part in the Hunter-Hillquit +"symposium." <i>I</i> think I did very well considering, first, +that I didn't care a damn about the matter; second, that I +knew nothing of the men I was to meet, nor what we were +to talk about, whereas they came cocked and primed for +the fray; and, third, that the whole scheme was to make a +Socialist holiday at my expense. Of all 'ists the Socialist is +perhaps the damnedest fool for (in this country) he is +merely the cat that pulls chestnuts from the fire for the +Anarchist. His part of the business is to talk away the +country's attention while the Anarchist places the bomb. +In some countries Socialism is clean, but not in this. And +everywhere the Socialist is a dreamer and futilitarian.</p> + +<p>But I guess I'll call a halt on this letter, the product of an<span class="pagenum">147</span> +idle hour in garrulous old age.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +August 7,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Cahill</span>,</p> + +<p>Your note inquiring about "Ashes of the Beacon" interests +me. You mention it as a "pamphlet." I have no knowledge +of its having appeared otherwise than as an article +in the Sunday edition of the "N. Y. American"—I do not +recall the date. If it has been published as a pamphlet, or +in any other form, separately—that is by itself—I should +like "awfully" to know by whom, if <i>you</i> know.</p> + +<p>I should be pleased to send it to you—in the "American"—if +I had a copy of the issue containing it, but I have not. It +will be included in Vol. I of my "Collected Works," to be +published by the Neale Publishing Company, N. Y. That +volume will be published probably early next year.</p> + +<p>But the work is to be in ten or twelve costly volumes, and +sold by subscription only. That buries it fathoms deep so +far as the public is concerned.</p> + +<p>Regretting my inability to assist you, I am sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +August 14,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I am amused by your attitude toward the spaced sonnet, +and by the docility of Gilder. If I had been your editor I +guess you'd have got back your sonnets. I never liked the +space. If the work naturally divides itself into two parts, as +it should, the space is needless; if not, it is worse than that. +The space was the invention of printers of a comparatively +recent period, neither Petrarch nor Dante (as Gilder points<span class="pagenum">148</span> +out) knew of it. Every magazine has its own <i>system</i> of +printing, and Gilder's good-natured compliance with your +wish, or rather demand, shows him to be a better fellow, +though not a better poet, than I have thought him to be. +As a victory of author over editor, the incident pleases.</p> + +<p>I've not yet been in New York, but expect to go soon. I +shall be glad to meet Hopper if he is there.</p> + +<p>Thank you for the article from "Town Talk." It suggests +this question: How many times, and covering a period of +how many years, must one's unexplainable obscurity be +pointed out to constitute fame? Not knowing, I am almost +disposed to consider myself the most famous of authors. I +have pretty nearly ceased to be "discovered," but my +notoriety as an obscurian may be said to be worldwide and +apparently everlasting.</p> + +<p>The trouble, I fancy, is with our vocabulary—the lack of +a word meaning something intermediate between "popular" +and "obscure"—and the ignorance of writers as to +the reading of readers. I seldom meet a person of education +who is not acquainted with some of my work; my clipping +bureau's bills were so heavy that I had to discontinue my +patronage, and Blake tells me that he sells my books at one +hundred dollars a set. Rather amusing all this to one so +widely unknown.</p> + +<p>I sometimes wonder what you think of Scheff's new book. +Does it perform the promise of the others? In the dedicatory +poem it seems to me that it does, and in some others. +As a good Socialist you are bound to like <i>that</i> poem because +of its political-economic-views. I like it despite them.</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"The dome of the Capitol roars</span><br /> +With the shouts of the Caesars of crime"</p> + +<p>is great poetry, but it is not true. I am rather familiar with<span class="pagenum">149</span> +what goes on in the Capitol—not through the muck-rakers, +who pass a few days here "investigating," and then +look into their pockets and write, but through years of personal +observation and personal acquaintance with the men +observed. There are no Caesars of crime, but about a dozen +rascals, all told, mostly very small fellows; I can name them +all. They are without power or influence enough to count +in the scheme of legislation. The really dangerous and mischievous +chaps are the demagogues, friends of the pee-pul. +And they do all the "shouting." Compared with the Congress +of our forefathers, the Congress of to-day is as a flock +of angels to an executive body of the Western Federation +of Miners.</p> + +<p>When I showed the "dome" to * * * (who had been +reading his own magazine) the tears came into his voice, +and I guess his eyes, as he lamented the decay of civic +virtue, "the treason of the Senate," and the rest of it. He +was so affected that I hastened to brace him up with whiskey. +He, too, was "squirming" about "other persons' +troubles," and with about as good reason as you.</p> + +<p>I think "the present system" is not "frightful." It is all +right—a natural outgrowth of human needs, limitations +and capacities, instinct with possibilities of growth in goodness, +elastic, and progressively better. Why don't you +study humanity as you do the suns—not from the viewpoint +of time, but from that of eternity. The middle ages +were yesterday, Rome and Greece the day before. The individual +man is nothing, as a single star is nothing. If this +earth were to take fire you would smile to think how little +it mattered in the scheme of the universe; all the wailing of +the egoist mob would not affect you. Then why do you +squirm at the minute catastrophe of a few thousands or<span class="pagenum">150</span> +millions of pismires crushed under the wheels of evolution. +Must the new heavens and the new earth of prophecy and +science come in <i>your</i> little instant of life in order that you +may not go howling and damning with Jack London up +and down the earth that we happen to have? Nay, nay, +read history to get the long, large view—to learn to think +in centuries and cycles. Keep your eyes off your neighbors +and fix them on the nations. What poetry we shall have +when you get, and give us, The Testimony of the Races!</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I peg away at compilation and revision. I'm cutting-about +my stuff a good deal—changing things from one +book to another, adding, subtracting and dividing. Five +volumes are ready, and Neale is engaged in a "prospectus" +which he says will make me blush. I'll send it to you when +he has it ready.</p> + +<p>Gertrude Atherton is sending me picture-postals of +Berchtesgaden and other scenes of "The Monk and the +Hangman's Daughter." She found all the places "exactly +as described"—the lakes, mountains, St. Bartolomae, the +cliff-meadow where the edelweiss grows, and so forth. The +photographs are naturally very interesting to me.</p> + +<p class="left65">Good night. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Army and Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +September 12,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Cahill</span>,</p> + +<p>Thank you for your good wishes for the "Collected +Works"—an advertisement of which—with many blushes!—I +enclose.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">P.S.—The "ad" is not sent in the hope that you will be<span class="pagenum">151</span> +so foolish as to subscribe—merely to "show" you. The +"edition de luxe" business is not at all to my taste—I +should prefer a popular edition at a possible price.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">New York,<br /> +November 6,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Your letter has just been forwarded from Washington. +I'm here for a few days only—"few days and full of trouble," +as the Scripture hath it. The "trouble" is mainly +owling, dining and booze. I'll not attempt an answer to +your letter till I get home.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm going to read Hopper's book, and if it doesn't show +him to be a * * * or a * * * I'll call on him. If it does I +won't. I'm getting pretty particular in my old age; the +muck-rakers, blood-boilers and little brothers-of-the-bad +are not congenial.</p> + +<p>By the way, why do you speak of my "caning" you. I did +not suppose that <i>you</i> had joined the innumerable caravan +of those who find something sarcastic or malicious in my +good natured raillery in careless controversy. If I choose to +smile in ink at your inconsistency in weeping for the woes +of individual "others"—meaning other <i>humans</i>—while +you, of course, don't give a damn for the thousands of lives +that you crush out every time you set down your foot, or +eat a berry, why shouldn't <i>I</i> do so? One can't always remember +to stick to trifles, even in writing a letter. Put on +your skin, old man, I may want to poke about with my +finger again.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 11,<br /> +1908.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,<span class="pagenum">152</span></p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm still working at my book. Seven volumes are completed +and I've read the proofs of Vol. I.</p> + +<p>Your account of the "movement" to free the oppressed +and downtrodden river from the tyranny of the sand-bar +tickled me in my lonesome rib. Surely no colony of reformers +ever engaged in a more characteristic crusade against +the Established Order and Intolerable Conditions. I can +almost hear you patting yourselves on your aching backs +as you contemplated your encouraging success in beating +Nature and promoting the Cause. I believe that if I'd been +there my cold heart and indurated mind would have +caught the contagion of the Great Reform. Anyhow, I +should have appreciated the sunset which (characteristically) +intervened in the interest of Things as They Are. I +feel sure that whenever you Socialers shall have found a +way to make the earth stop "turning over and over like a +man in bed" (as Joaquin might say) you will accomplish +all the reforms that you have at heart. All that you need is +plenty of time—a few kalpas, more or less, of uninterrupted +daylight. Meantime I await your new book with impatience +and expectation.</p> + +<p>I have photographs of my brother's shack in the redwoods +and feel strongly drawn in that direction—since, as +you fully infer, Carmel is barred. Probably, though, I shall +continue in the complicated life of cities while I last.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 9,<br /> +1909.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I've been reading your book—re-reading most of it—"every +little while." I don't know that it is better than<span class="pagenum">153</span> +your first, but to say that it is as good is praise enough. +You know what I like most in it, but there are some things +that you <i>don't</i> know I like. For an example, "Night in +Heaven." It Kipples a bit, but it is great. But I'm not +going to bore you with a catalogue of titles. The book is <i>all</i> +good. No, not (in my judgment) all, for it contains lines +and words that I found objectionable in the manuscript, +and time has not reconciled me to them. Your retention of +them, shows, however, that you agree with me in thinking +that you have passed your 'prentice period and need no +further criticism. So I welcome them.</p> + +<p>I take it that the cover design is Scheff's—perhaps because +it is so good, for the little cuss is clever that way.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I rather like your defence of Jack London—not that I +think it valid, but because I like loyalty to a friend whom +one does not believe to be bad. (The "thick-and-thin" loyalty +never commended itself to me; it is too dog-like.) I +fail, however, to catch the note of penitence in London's +narratives of his underlife, and my charge of literary stealing +was not based on his primeval man book, "Before +Adam."</p> + +<p>As to * * *, as he is not more than a long-range or short-acquaintance +friend of yours, I'll say that I would not +believe him under oath on his deathbed. * * * The truth +is, none of these howlers knows the difference between a +million and a thousand nor between truth and falsehood. I +could give you instances of their lying about matters here +at the capital that would make even your hair stand on +end. It is not only that they are all liars—they are mere +children; they don't know anything and don't care to, nor,<span class="pagenum">154</span> +for prosperity in their specialties, need to. Veracity would +be a disqualification; if they confined themselves to facts +they would not get a hearing. * * * is the nastiest futilitarian +of the gang.</p> + +<p>It is not the purpose of these gentlemen that I find so +very objectionable, but the foul means that they employ to +accomplish it. I would be a good deal of a Socialist myself +if they had not made the word (and the thing) stink.</p> + +<p>Don't imagine that I'll not "enter Carmel" if I come out +there. I'll visit you till you're sick of me. But I'd not <i>live</i> +there and be "identified" with it, as the newspapers would +say. I'm warned by Hawthorne and Brook Farm.</p> + +<p>I'm still working—a little more leisurely—on my books. +But I begin to feel the call of New York on the tympani of +my blood globules. I must go there occasionally, or I should +die of intellectual torpor. * * * "O Lord how long?"—this +letter. O well, you need not give it the slightest attention; +there's nothing, I think, that requires a reply, nor merits +one.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 6,<br /> +1909.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Did you see Markham's review of the "Wine" in "The +N. Y. American"? Pretty fair, but—if a metrical composition +full of poetry is not a poem what is it? And I wonder +what he calls Kubla Khan, which has a beginning but +neither middle nor end. And how about The Faerie Queene +for absence of "unity"? Guess I'll ask him.</p> + +<p>Isn't it funny what happens to critics who would mark +out meters and bounds for the Muse—denying the name +"poem," for example, to a work because it is not like some<span class="pagenum">155</span> +other work, or like one that is in the minds of them?</p> + +<p>I hope you are prosperous and happy and that I shall +sometimes hear from you.</p> + +<p>Howes writes me that the "Lone Hand"—Sydney—has +been commending you.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +October 9,<br /> +1909.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I return the poems with a few random comments and suggestions.</p> + +<p>I'm a little alarmed lest you take too seriously my preference +of your rhyme to your blank—especially when I +recall your "Music" and "The Spirit of Beauty." Perhaps +I should have said only that you are not so <i>likely</i> to write +well in blank. (I think always of "Tasso to Leonora," +which I cannot learn to like.) Doubtless I have too great +fondness for <i>great</i> lines—<i>your</i> great lines—and they occur +less frequently in your blank verse than in your rhyme—most +frequently in your quatrains, those of sonnets included. +Don't swear off blank—except as you do drink—but +study it more. It's "an hellish thing."</p> + +<p>It looks as if I <i>might</i> go to California sooner than I had +intended. My health has been wretched all summer. I need +a sea voyage—one <i>via</i> Panama would be just the thing. +So if the cool weather of autumn do not restore me I shall +not await spring here. But I'm already somewhat better. +If I had been at sea I should have escaped the Cook-Peary +controversy. We talk nothing but arctic matters here—I +enclose my contribution to its horrors.</p> + +<p>I'm getting many a good lambasting for my book of essays. +Also a sop of honey now and then. It's all the same to me;<span class="pagenum">156</span> +I don't worry about what my contemporaries think of me. +I made 'em think of <i>you</i>—that's glory enough for one. +And the squirrels in the public parks think me the finest +fellow in the world. They know what I have in every +pocket. Critics don't know that—nor nearly so much.</p> + +<p>Advice to a young author: Cultivate the good opinion of +squirrels.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +November 1,<br /> +1909.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>European criticism of your <i>bête noir</i>, old Leopold, is entitled +to attention; American (of him or any other king) is +not. It looks as if the wretch may be guilty of indifference.</p> + +<p>In condemning as "revolutionary" the two-rhyme sestet, +I think I could not have been altogether solemn, for (1) +I'm something of a revolutionist myself regarding the sonnet, +having frequently expressed the view that its accepted +forms—even the number of lines—were purely arbitrary; +(2) I find I've written several two-rhyme sestets myself, +and (3), like yours, my ear has difficulty in catching the +rhyme effect in a-b-c, a-b-c. The rhyme is delayed till the +end of the fourth line—as it is in the quatrain (not of the +sonnet) with unrhyming first and third lines—a form of +which I think all my multitude of verse supplies no example. +I confess, though, that I did not know that Petrarch +had made so frequent use of the 2-rhyme sestet.</p> + +<p>I learn a little all the time; some of my old notions of +poetry seem to me now erroneous, even absurd. So I <i>may</i> +have been at one time a stickler for the "regular" three-rhymer. +Even now it pleases my ear well enow if the three +are not so arranged as to elude it. I'm sorry if I misled you. +You'd better 'fess up to your young friend, as I do to you—if<span class="pagenum">157</span> +I really was serious.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Of course I should be glad to see Dick, but don't expect +to. They never come, and it has long been my habit to ignore +every "declaration of intention."</p> + +<p>I'm greatly pleased to know that you too like those lines +of Markham that you quote from the "Wharf of Dreams." +I've repeatedly told him that that sonnet was his greatest +work, and those were its greatest lines. By the way, my +young poet, Loveman, sends me a letter from Markham, +asking for a poem or two for a book, "The Younger Choir," +that he (M.) is editing. Loveman will be delighted by your +good opinion of "Pierrot"—which still another magazine +has returned to me. Guess I'll have to give it up.</p> + +<p>I'm sending you a booklet on loose locutions. It is vilely +gotten up—had to be so to sell for twenty-five cents, the +price that I favored. I just noted down these things as I +found them in my reading, or remembered them, until I had +four hundred. Then I took about fifty from other books, and +boiled down the needful damnation. Maybe I have done too +much boiling down—making the stuff "thick and slab." +If there is another edition I shall do a little bettering.</p> + +<p>I should like some of those mussels, and, please God, shall +help you cull them next summer. But the abalone—as a +Christian comestible he is a stranger to me and the tooth +o' me.</p> + +<p>I think you have had some correspondence with my +friend Howes of Galveston. Well, here he is "in his habit +as he lives." Of the two figures in the picture Howes is the +one on top.<a name="fnanchor_11" id="fnanchor_11"></a><a href="#footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> Good night. <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_11" id="footnote_11" href="#fnanchor_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Howes was riding on a burro.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 29,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Here are your fine verses—I have been too busy to write<span class="pagenum">158</span> +to you before. In truth, I've worked harder now for more +than a year than I ever shall again—and the work will +bring me nor gain nor glory. Well, I shall take a rest pretty +soon, partly in California. I thank you for the picture card. +I have succumbed to the post-card fashion myself.</p> + +<p>As to some points in your letter.</p> + +<p>I've no recollection of advising young authors to "leave +all heart and sentiment out of their work." If I did the context +would probably show that it was because their time +might better be given to perfect themselves in form, +against the day when their hearts would be less wild and +their sentiments truer. You know it has always been my +belief that one cannot be trusted to feel until one has +learned to think—and few youngsters have learned to do +that. Was it not Dr. Holmes who advised a young writer +to cut out every passage that he thought particularly good? +He'd be sure to think the beautiful and sentimental passages +the best, would he not? * * *</p> + +<p>If you mean to write really "vituperative" sonnets (why +sonnets?) let me tell you <i>one</i> secret of success—name your +victim and his offense. To do otherwise is to fire blank +cartridges—to waste your words in air—to club a vacuum. +At least your satire must be so personally applicable +that there can be no mistake as to the victim's identity. +Otherwise he is no victim—just a spectator like all others. +And that brings us to Watson. His caddishness consisted, +not in satirizing a woman, which is legitimate, but, first, in +doing so without sufficient reason, and, second, in saying +orally (on the safe side of the Atlantic) what he apparently +did not dare say in the verses. * * *</p> + +<p>I'm enclosing something that will tickle you I hope—"The<span class="pagenum">159</span> +Ballade of the Goodly Fere." The author's<a name="fnanchor_12" id="fnanchor_12"></a><a href="#footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> father, +who is something in the Mint in Philadelphia, sent me several +of his son's poems that were not good; but at last came +this—in manuscript, like the others. Before I could do +anything with it—meanwhile wearing out the paper and +the patience of my friends by reading it at them—the old +man asked it back rather peremptorily. I reluctantly sent +it, with a letter of high praise. The author had "placed" it +in London, where it has made a heap of talk.</p> + +<p>It has plenty of faults besides its monotonous rhyme +scheme; but tell me what you think of it.</p> + +<p>God willing, we shall eat Carmel mussels and abalones in +May or June. Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_12" id="footnote_12" href="#fnanchor_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Ezra Pound.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 7,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>My plan is to leave here before April first, pass a few days +in New York and then sail for Colon. If I find the canal +work on the Isthmus interesting I may skip a steamer from +Panama to see it. I've no notion how long it will take to +reach San Francisco, and know nothing of the steamers +and their schedules on the Pacific side.</p> + +<p>I shall of course want to see Grizzly first—that is to say, +he will naturally expect me to. But if you can pull him +down to Carmel about the time of my arrival (I shall write +you the date of my sailing from New York) I would gladly +come there. Carlt, whom I can see at once on arriving, can +tell me where he (Grizzly) is. * * *</p> + +<p>I don't think you rightly value "The Goodly Fere." Of +course no ballad written to-day can be entirely good, for it +must be an imitation; it is now an unnatural form, whereas +it was once a natural one. We are no longer a primitive<span class="pagenum">160</span> +people, and a primitive people's forms and methods are not +ours. Nevertheless, this seems to me an admirable ballad, +as it is given a modern to write ballads. And I think you +overlook the best line:</p> + +<p class="poem">"The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue."</p> + +<p>The poem is complete as I sent it, and I think it stops +right where and as it should—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"I ha' seen him eat o' the honey comb</span><br /> +Sin' they nailed him to the tree."</p> + +<p>The current "Literary Digest" has some queer things +about (and by) Pound, and "Current Literature" reprints +the "Fere" with all the wrinkles ironed out of it—making +a "capon priest" of it.</p> + +<p>Fo' de Lawd's sake! don't apologise for not subscribing +for my "Works." If you did subscribe I should suspect that +you were "no friend o' mine"—it would remove you from +that gang and put you in a class by yourself. Surely you +can not think I care who buys or does not buy my books. +The man who expects anything more than lip-service from +his friends is a very young man. There are, for example, a +half-dozen Californians (all loud admirers of Ambrose +Bierce) editing magazines and newspapers here in the +East. Every man Jack of them has turned me down. They +will do everything for me but enable me to live. Friends +be damned!—strangers are the chaps for me.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I've given away my beautiful sailing canoe and shall +never again live a life on the ocean wave—unless you have +boats at Carmel.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +Easter Sunday.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Here's a letter from Loveman, with a kindly reference to<span class="pagenum">161</span> +you—that's why I send it.</p> + +<p>I'm to pull out of here next Wednesday, the 30th, but +don't know just when I shall sail from New York—apparently +when there are no more dinners to eat in that town +and no more friends to visit. May God in His infinite mercy +lessen the number of both. I should get into your neck o' +woods early in May. Till then God be with you instead. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">Easter Sunday.<br /> +[Why couldn't He stay put?]</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 29,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm "all packed up," even my pens; for to-morrow I go +to New York—whence I shall write you before embarking.</p> + +<p>Neale seems pleased by your "permission to print," as +Congressmen say who can't make a speech yet want one in +the Record, for home consumption.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Guerneville, Cal.,<br /> +May 24,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>You will probably have learned of my arrival—this is my +first leisure to apprise you.</p> + +<p>I took Carlt and Lora and came directly up here—where +we all hope to see you before I see Carmel. Lora remains +here for the week, perhaps longer, and Carlt is to come up +again on Saturday. Of course you do not need an invitation +to come whenever you feel like it.</p> + +<p>I had a pleasant enough voyage and have pretty nearly +got the "slosh" of the sea out of my ears and its heave out<span class="pagenum">162</span> +of my bones.</p> + +<p>A bushel of letters awaits attention, besides a pair of +lizards that I have undertaken to domesticate. So good +morning.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Key Route Inn,<br /> +Oakland,<br /> +June 25,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>You'll observe that I acted on your suggestion, and am +"here."</p> + +<p>Your little sisters are most gracious to me, despite my +candid confession that I extorted your note of introduction +by violence and intimidation.</p> + +<p>Baloo<a name="fnanchor_13" id="fnanchor_13"></a><a href="#footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> and his cubs went on to Guerneville the day of +their return from Carmel. But I saw them.</p> + +<p>I'm deep in work, and shall be for a few weeks; then I +shall be off to Carmel for a lungful of sea air and a bellyful +of abalones and mussels.</p> + +<p>I suppose you'll be going to the Midsummer Jinks. Fail +not to stop over here—I don't feel that I have really seen +you yet.</p> + +<p>With best regards to Carrie.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_13" id="footnote_13" href="#fnanchor_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Albert Bierce.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Laguna Vista,<br /> +Oakland,<br /> +Sunday, July 24,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Supposing you to have gone home, I write to send the +poem. Of course it is a good poem. But I begin to want to +hear your larger voice again. I want to see you standing +tall on the heights—above the flower-belt and the bird-belt. +I want to hear,<span class="pagenum">163</span></p> + +<p class="poem"><span class="i2">"like Ocean on a western beach,</span><br /> +The surge and thunder of the Odyssey,"</p> + +<p>as you <i>Odyssate</i>.</p> + +<p>I <i>think</i> I met that dog * * * to-day, and as it was a choice +between kicking him and avoiding him I chose the more +prudent course.</p> + +<p>I've not seen your little sisters—they seem to have tired +of me. Why not?—I have tired of myself.</p> + +<p>Fail not to let me know when to expect you for the Guerneville +trip. * * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Laguna Vista,<br /> +October 20,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4">I go back to the Inn on Saturday.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>It is long since I read the Book of Job, but if I thought it +better than your addition to it I should not sleep until I +had read it again—and again. Such a superb Who's Who in +the Universe! Not a Homeric hero in the imminence of a personal +encounter ever did so fine bragging. I hope you will +let it into your next book, if only to show that the "inspired" +scribes of the Old Testament are not immatchable +by modern genius. You know the Jews regard them, not +as prophets, in our sense, but merely as poets—and the +Jews ought to know something of their own literature.</p> + +<p>I fear I shall not be able to go to Carmel while you're a +widow—I've tangled myself up with engagements again. +Moreover, I'm just back from the St. Helena cemetery, +and for a few days shall be too blue for companionship.</p> + +<p>"Shifted" is better, I think (in poetry) than "joggled." +You say you "don't like working." Then write a short +story. That's work, but you'd like it—or so I think.<span class="pagenum">164</span> +Poetry is the highest of arts, but why be a specialist?</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Army and Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +November 11,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>It is nice to hear from you and learn that despite my rude +and intolerant ways you manage to slip in a little affection +for me—you and the rest of the folk. And really I think I +left a little piece of my heart out there—mostly in Berkeley. +It is funny, by the way, that in falling out of love with +most of my old sweethearts and semi-sweethearts I should +fall <i>in</i> love with my own niece. It is positively scandalous!</p> + +<p>I return Sloot's letter. It gave me a bit of a shock to have +him say that he would probably never see me again. Of +course that is true, but I had not thought of it just that +way—had not permitted myself to, I suppose. And, after +all, if things go as I'm hoping they will, Montesano will +take me in again some day before he seems likely to leave +it. We four may see the Grand Cañon together yet. I'd like +to lay my bones thereabout.</p> + +<p>The garments that you persuaded me were mine are not. +They are probably Sterling's, and he has probably damned +me for stealing them. I don't care; he has no right to dress +like the "filthy rich." Hasn't he any "class consciousness"? +However, I am going to send them back to you by +express. I'll mail you the paid receipt; so don't pay the +charge that the company is sure to make. They charged +me again for the two packages that you paid for, and got +away with the money from the Secretary of my club, +where they were delivered. I had to get it back from the +delivery man at the cannon's mouth—34 calibre.</p> + +<p>With love to Carlt and Sloots,<span class="pagenum">165</span></p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +November 14,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>You asked me about the relative interest of Yosemite and +the Grand Cañon. It is not easy to compare them, they are +so different. In Yosemite only the magnitudes are unfamiliar; +in the Cañon nothing is familiar—at least, nothing +would be familiar to you, though I have seen something +like it on the upper Yellowstone. The "color scheme" is +astounding—almost incredible, as is the "architecture." +As to magnitudes, Yosemite is nowhere. From points on +the rim of the Cañon you can see fifty, maybe a hundred, +miles of it. And it is never twice alike. Nobody can describe +it. Of course you must see it sometime. I wish our +Yosemite party could meet there, but probably we never +will; it is a long way from here, and not quite next door to +Berkeley and Carmel.</p> + +<p>I've just got settled in my same old tenement house, the +Olympia, but the club is my best address.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +November 29,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>Thank you very much for the work that you are doing +for me in photography and china. I know it is great work. +But take your time about it.</p> + +<p>I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving at Upshack. +(That is my name for Sloots' place. It will be understood +by anyone that has walked to it from Montesano, carrying<span class="pagenum">166</span> +a basket of grub on a hot day.)</p> + +<p>I trust Sterling got his waistcoat and trousers in time to +appear at his uncle's dinner in other outer garments than a +steelpen coat. * * * I am glad you like (or like to have) +the books. You would have had all my books when published +if I had supposed that you cared for them, or even +knew about them. I am now encouraged to hope that +some day you and Carlt and Sloots may be given the light +to see the truth at the heart of my "views" (which I have +expounded for half a century) and will cease to ally yourselves +with what is most hateful to me, socially and politically. +I shall then feel (in my grave) that perhaps, after all, +I knew how to write. Meantime, run after your false fool +gods until you are tired; I shall not believe that your hearts +are really in the chase, for they are pretty good hearts, and +those of your gods are nests of nastiness and heavens of +hate.</p> + +<p>Now I feel better, and shall drink a toddy to the tardy +time when those whom I love shall not think me a perverted +intelligence; when they shall not affirm my intellect +and despise its work—confess my superior understanding +and condemn all its fundamental conclusions. Then we will +be a happy family—you and Carlt in the flesh and Sloots +and I in our bones.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>My health is excellent in this other and better world than +California.</p> + +<p>God bless you. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 22,<br /> +1910.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Carlt</span>,</p> + +<p>You had indeed "something worth writing about"—not +only the effect of the impenitent mushroom, but the final<span class="pagenum">167</span> +and disastrous overthrow of that ancient superstition, +Sloots' infallibility as a mushroomer. As I had expected to +be at that dinner, I suppose I should think myself to have +had "a narrow escape." Still, I wish I could have taken my +chance with the rest of you.</p> + +<p>How would you like three weeks of nipping cold weather, +with a foot of snow? That's what has been going on here. +Say, tell Sloots that the front footprints of a rabbit-track</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/tracksa.png" width="66" height="23" alt="rabbit tracks" /> +</div> + +<p>are made by the animal's hind feet, straddling his forelegs. +Could he have learned that important fact in California, +except by hearsay? Observe (therefore) the superiority of +this climate.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 26,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>I have just received a very affectionate letter from * * * +and now know that I did her an injustice in what I carelessly +wrote to you about her incivility to me after I had +left her. It is plain that she did not mean to be uncivil in +what she wrote me on a postal card which I did not look at +until I was in the train; she just "didn't know any better." +So I have restored her to favor, and hope that you will consider +my unkind remarks about her as unwritten. Guess +I'm addicted to going off at half-cock anyhow.</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 3,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>I have the Yosemite book, and Miss Christiansen has the +Mandarin coat. I thank you very much. The pictures are +beautiful, but of them all I prefer that of Nanny bending +over the stove. True, the face is not visible, but it looks like<span class="pagenum">168</span> +you all over.</p> + +<p>I'm filling out the book with views of the Grand Cañon, +so as to have my scenic treasures all together. Also I'm trying +to get for you a certain book of Cañon pictures, which I +neglected to obtain when there. You will like it—if I get it.</p> + +<p>Sometime when you have nothing better to do—don't be +in a hurry about it—will you go out to Mountain View +cemetery with your camera and take a picture of the grave +of Elizabeth (Lily) Walsh, the little deaf mute that I told +you of? I think the man in the office will locate it for you. +It is in the Catholic part of the cemetery—St. Mary's. +The name Lily Walsh is on the beveled top of the headstone +which is shaped like this:</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/headstone.png" width="109" height="115" alt="headstone" /> +</div> + +<p>You remember I was going to take you there, but never +found the time.</p> + +<p>Miss Christiansen says she is writing, or has written you. +I think the coat very pretty.</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 15,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>As to the "form of address." A man passing another was +halted by the words: "You dirty dog!" Turning to the +speaker, he bowed coldly and said: "Smith is my name, +sir." <i>My</i> name is Bierce, and I find, on reflection, that I like +best those who call me just that. If my christen name were +George I'd want to be called <i>that</i>; but "Ambrose" is fit +only for mouths of women—in which it sounds fairly well.</p> + +<p><i>How</i> are you my master? I never read one of your poems +without learning something, though not, alas, how to make<span class="pagenum">169</span> +one.</p> + +<p>Don't worry about "Lilith"; it will work out all right. As +to the characters not seeming alive, I've always fancied the +men and women of antiquity—particularly the kings, and +great ones generally—should not be too flesh-and-bloody, +like the "persons whom one meets." A little coldness and +strangeness is very becoming to them. I like them to <i>stalk</i>, +like the ghosts that they are—our modern passioning +seems a bit anachronous in them. Maybe I'm wrong, but +I'm sure you will understand and have some sympathy +with the error.</p> + +<p>Hudson Maxim takes medicine without biting the spoon. +He had a dose from me and swallowed it smiling. I too gave +him some citations of great poetry that is outside the confines +of his "definition"—poetry in which are no tropes +at all. He seems to lack the <i>feel</i> of poetry. He even spoils +some of the "great lines" by not including enough of the +context. As to his "improvements," fancy his preference +for "the fiercest spirit of <i>the warrior host</i>" to "the fiercest +spirit <i>that fought in Heaven</i>"! O my!</p> + +<p>Yes, Conrad told me the tale of his rescue by you. He +gave me the impression of hanging in the sky above billows +unthinkably huge and rocks inconceivably hard.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Of course I could not but be pleased by your inclusion of +that sonnet on me in your book. And, by the way, I'm +including in my tenth volume my <i>Cosmopolitan</i> article on +the "Wine" and my end of the controversy about it. All the +volumes of the set are to be out by June, saith the publisher. +He is certainly half-killing me with proofs—mountains +of proofs! * * *</p> + +<p>Yes, you'll doubtless have a recruit in Carlt for your<span class="pagenum">170</span> +Socialist menagerie—if he is not already a veteran exhibit. +Your "party" is recruited from among sore-heads only. +There are some twenty-five thousand of them (sore-heads) +in this neck o' woods—all disloyal—all growling at the +Government which feeds and clothes them twice as well as +they could feed and clothe themselves in private employment. +They move Heaven and Earth to get in, and they +never resign—just "take it out" in abusing the Government. +If I had my way nobody should remain in the civil +service more than five years—at the end of that period all +are disloyal. Not one of them cares a rap for the good of the +service or the country—as we soldiers used to do on thirteen +dollars a month (with starvation, disease and death +thrown in). Their grievance is that the Government does +not undertake to maintain them in the style to which they +choose to accustom themselves. They fix their standard of +living just a little higher than they can afford, and would +do so no matter what salary they got, as all salary-persons +invariably do. Then they damn their employer for not enabling +them to live up to it.</p> + +<p>If they can do better "outside" why don't they go outside +and do so; if they can't (which means that they are +getting more than they are worth) what are they complaining +about?</p> + +<p>What this country needs—what every country needs +occasionally—is a good hard bloody war to revive the vice +of patriotism on which its existence as a nation depends. +Meantime, you socialers, anarchists and other sentimentaliters +and futilitarians will find the civil-service your best +recruiting ground, for it is the Land of Reasonless Discontent. +I yearn for the strong-handed Dictator who will swat +you all on the mouths o' you till you are "heard to cease."<span class="pagenum">171</span> +Until then—How? (drinking.)</p> + +<p class="left65">Yours sincerely, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 19,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>Every evening coffee is made for me in my rooms, but I +have not yet ventured to take it from <i>your</i> cup for fear of +an accident to the cup. Some of the women in this house +are stark, staring mad about that cup and saucer, and the +plate.</p> + +<p>I am very sorry Carlt finds his position in the civil service +so intolerable. If he can do better outside he should resign. +If he can't, why, that means that the Government is doing +better for him than he can do for himself, and you are not +justified in your little tirade about the oppression of "the +masses." "The masses" have been unprosperous from time +immemorial, and always will be. A very simple way to escape +that condition (and the <i>only</i> way) is to elevate oneself +out of that incapable class.</p> + +<p>You write like an anarchist and say that if you were a +man you'd <i>be</i> one. I should be sorry to believe that, for I +should lose a very charming niece, and you a most worthy +uncle.</p> + +<p>You say that Carlt and Grizzly are not Socialists. Does +that mean that <i>they</i> are anarchists? I draw the line at +anarchists, and would put them all to death if I lawfully +could.</p> + +<p>But I fancy your intemperate words are just the babbling +of a thoughtless girl. In any case you ought to know from +my work in literature that I am not the person to whom to +address them. I carry my convictions into my life and conduct, +into my friendships, affections and all my relations +with my fellow creatures. So I think it would be more considerate<span class="pagenum">172</span> +to leave out of your letters to <i>me</i> some things that +you may have in mind. Write them to others.</p> + +<p>My own references to socialism, and the like, have been +jocular—I did not think you perverted "enough to hurt," +though I consider your intellectual environment a mighty +bad one. As to such matters in future let us make a treaty +of silence.</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 1,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Ruth</span>,</p> + +<p>It is pleasant to know that the family Robertson is "seeing +things" and enjoying them. I hate travel, but find it +delightful when done by you, instead of me. Believe me, I +have had great pleasure in following you by your trail of +words, as in the sport known as the "paper chase."</p> + +<p>And now about the little story. Your refusal to let your +father amend it is no doubt dreadfully insubordinate, but I +brave his wrath by approval. It is <i>your</i> work that I want to +see, not anybody's else. I've a profound respect for your +father's talent: as a litérateur, he is the best physician that +I know; but he must not be coaching my pupil, or he and I +(as Mark Twain said of Mrs. Astor) "will have a falling +out."</p> + +<p>The story is not a story. It is not narrative, and nothing +occurs. It is a record of mental mutations—of spiritual +vicissitudes—states of mind. That is the most difficult +thing that you could have attempted. It can be done acceptably +by genius and the skill that comes of practice, as +can anything. You are not quite equal to it—yet. You +have done it better than I could have done it at your age, +but not altogether well; as doubtless you did not expect to +do it. It would be better to confine yourself at present to +simple narrative. Write of something done, not of something<span class="pagenum">173</span> +thought and felt, except incidentally. I'm sure it is in +you to do great work, but in this writing trade, as in other +matters, excellence is to be attained no otherwise than by +beginning at the beginning—the simple at first, then the +complex and difficult. You can not go up a mountain by a +leap at the peak.</p> + +<p>I'm retaining your little sketch till your return, for you +can do nothing with it—nor can I. If it had been written—preferably +typewritten—with wide lines and margins I +could do something <i>to</i> it. Maybe when I get the time I +shall; at present I am swamped with "proofs" and two +volumes behind the printers. If I knew that I should <i>see</i> +you and talk it over I should rewrite it and (original in +hand) point out the reasons for each alteration—you +would see them quickly enough when shown. Maybe you +will all come this way.</p> + +<p>You are <i>very</i> deficient in spelling. I hope that is not incurable, +though some persons—clever ones, too—never do +learn to spell correctly. You will have to learn it from your +reading—noting carefully all but the most familiar words.</p> + +<p>You have "pet" words—nearly all of us have. One of +yours is "flickering." Addiction to certain words is an "upsetting +sin" most difficult to overcome. Try to overcome it +by cutting them out where they seem most felicitous.</p> + +<p>By the way, your "hero," as you describe him, would not +have been accessible to all those spiritual impressions—it +is <i>you</i> to whom they come. And that confirms my judgment +of your imagination. Imagination is nine parts of the +writing trade. With enough of <i>that</i> all things are possible; +but it is the other things that require the hard work, the +incessant study, the tireless seeking, the indomitable will. +It is no "pic-nic," this business of writing, believe me. Success<span class="pagenum">174</span> +comes by favor of the gods, yes; but O the days and +nights that you must pass before their altars, prostrate and +imploring! They are exacting—the gods; years and years +of service you must give in the temple. If you are prepared +to do this go on to your reward. If not, you can not too +quickly throw away the pen and—well, marry, for example.</p> + +<p class="poem">"Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring."</p> + +<p><i>My</i> vote is that you persevere.</p> + +<p>With cordial regards to all good Robertsons—I think +there are no others—I am most sincerely your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 20,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>Thank you for the pictures of the Sloots fire-place and +"Joe Gans." I can fancy myself cooking a steak in the one, +and the other eating one better cooked.</p> + +<p>I'm glad I've given you the Grand Cañon fever, for I +hope to revisit the place next summer, and perhaps our +Yosemite bunch can meet me there. My outing this season +will be in Broadway in little old New York. That is not as +good as Monte Sano, but the best that I can do.</p> + +<p>You must have had a good time with the Sterlings, and +doubtless you all suffered from overfeeding.</p> + +<p>Carlt's action in denuding the shaggy pelt of his hands +meets with my highest commendation, but you'd better +look out. It may mean that he has a girl—a Jewess descended +from Jacob, with an hereditary antipathy to anything +like Esau. Carlt was an Esaurian.</p> + +<p>You'll have to overlook some bad errors in Vol. V of the +C. W. I did not have the page proofs. Some of the verses +are unintelligible. That's the penalty for philandering in<span class="pagenum">175</span> +California instead of sticking to my work.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 28,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I've been having noctes ambrosianæ with "The House of +Orchids," though truly it came untimely, for I've not yet +done reading your other books. Don't crowd the dancers, +please. I don't know (and you don't care) what poem in it +I like best, but I get as much delight out of these lines as +out of any:</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"Such flowers pale as are</span><br /> +Worn by the goddess of a distant star—<br /> +Before whose holy eyes<br /> +Beauty and evening meet."</p> + +<p>And—but what's the use? I can't quote the entire book.</p> + +<p>I'm glad you did see your way to make "Memory" a +female.</p> + +<p>To Hades with Bonnet's chatter of gems and jewels—among +the minor poetic properties they are better (to my +taste) than flowers. By the way, I wonder what "lightness" +Bonnet found in the "Apothecary" verses. They seem to +me very serious.</p> + +<p>Rereading and rerereading of the Job confirm my first +opinion of it. I find only one "bad break" in it—and that +not inconsistent with God's poetry in the real Job: "ropes +of adamant." A rope of stone is imperfectly conceivable—is, +in truth, mixed metaphor.</p> + +<p>I think it was a mistake for you to expound to Ned Hamilton, +or anybody, how you wrote the "Forty-third Chapter," +or anything. When an author explains his methods of<span class="pagenum">176</span> +composition he cannot expect to be taken seriously. Nine +writers in ten wish to have it thought that they "dash off" +things. Nobody believes it, and the judicious would be +sorry to believe it. Maybe you do, but I guess you work +hard and honestly enough over the sketch "dashed off." +If you don't—do.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>With love to Carrie, I will leave you to your sea-gardens +and abalones.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">I'm off to Broadway next week for a season of old-gentlemanly +revelry.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 2,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>In packing (I'm going to New York) I find this "Tidal" +typoscript, and fear that I was to have returned it. Pray +God it was not my neglect to do so that kept it out of the +book. But if not, what did keep it out? Maybe the fact that +it requires in the reader an uncommon acquaintance with +the Scriptures.</p> + +<p>If Robertson publishes any more books for you don't let +him use "silver" leaf on the cover. It is not silver, cannot +be neatly put on, and will come off. The "Wine" book is +incomparably better and more tasteful than either of the +others. By the way, I stick to my liking for Scheff's little +vignette on the "Wine."</p> + +<p>In "Duandon" you—<i>you</i>, Poet of the Heavens!—come +perilously near to qualifying yourself for "mention" in a +certain essay of mine on the blunders of writers and artists +in matters lunar. You must have observed that immediately +after the full o' the moon the light of that orb takes +on a redness, and when it rises after dark is hardly a +"towering glory," nor a "frozen splendor." Its "web" is +not "silver." In truth, the gibbous moon, rising, has something<span class="pagenum">177</span> +of menace in its suggestion. Even twenty-four (or +rather twenty-five) hours "after the full" this change in +the quality and quantity of its light is very marked. I don't +know what causes the sudden alteration, but it has always +impressed me.</p> + +<p>I feel a little like signing this criticism "Gradgrind," but +anyhow it may amuse you.</p> + +<p>Do you mind squandering ten cents and a postage stamp +on me? I want a copy of <i>Town Talk</i>—the one in which you +are a "Varied Type."</p> + +<p>I don't know much of some of your poets mentioned in +that article, but could wish that you had said a word about +Edith Thomas. Thank you for your too generous mention +of me—who brought you so much vilification!</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote"> Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 29,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Ruth,</span></p> + +<p>You are a faithful correspondent; I have your postals +from Athens and Syracuse, and now the letter from Rome. +The Benares sketch was duly received, and I wrote you +about it to the address that you gave—Cairo, I think. As +you will doubtless receive my letter in due time I will not +now repeat it—further than to say that I liked it. If it had +been accompanied by a few photographs (indispensable +now to such articles) I should have tried to get it into some +magazine. True, Benares, like all other Asiatic and European +cities, is pretty familiar to even the "general reader," +but the sketch had something of the writer's personality in +it—the main factor in all good writing, as in all forms of +art.</p> + +<p>May I tell you what you already know—that you are<span class="pagenum">178</span> +deficient in spelling and punctuation? It is worth while to +know these things—and all things that you can acquire. +Some persons can not acquire orthography, and I don't +wonder, but every page of every good book is a lesson in +punctuation. One's punctuation is a necessary part of one's +style; you cannot attain to precision if you leave that matter +to editors and printers.</p> + +<p>You ask if "stories" must have action. The name "story" +is preferably used of narrative, not reflection nor mental +analysis. The "psychological novel" is in great vogue just +now, for example—the adventures of the mind, it might be +called—but it requires a profounder knowledge of life and +character than is possible to a young girl of whatever talent; +and the psychological "short story" is even more difficult. +Keep to narrative and simple description for a few +years, until your wings have grown. These descriptions of +foreign places that you write me are good practice. You are +not likely to tell me much that I do not know, nor is that +necessary; but your way of telling what I do know is sometimes +very interesting as a study of <i>you</i>. So write me all you +will, and if you would like the letters as a record of your +travels you shall have them back; I am preserving them.</p> + +<p>I judge from your letter that your father went straight +through without bothering about me. Maybe I should not +have seen him anyhow, for I was away from Washington +for nearly a month.</p> + +<p>Please give my love to your mother and sister, whom, of +course, you are to bring here. I shall not forgive you if you +do not.</p> + +<p>Yes, I wish that you lived nearer to me, so that we could +go over your work together. I could help you more in a few +weeks <i>that</i> way than in years <i>this</i> way. God never does anything<span class="pagenum">179</span> +just right.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +July 31,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>Thank you for that Times "review." It is a trifle less +malicious than usual—regarding <i>me</i>, that is all. My publisher, +Neale, who was here last evening, is about "taking +action" against that concern for infringement of his copyright +in my little book, "Write It Right." The wretches +have been serving it up to their readers for several weeks as +the work of a woman named Learned. Repeatedly she uses +my very words—whole passages of them. They refused +even to confess the misdeeds of their contributrix, and persist +in their sin. So they will have to fight.</p> + +<p>* * * I have never been hard on women whose hearts go +with their admiration, and whose bodies follow their hearts—I +don't mean that the latter was the case in this instance. +Nor am I very exacting as to the morality of my men +friends. I would not myself take another man's woman, +any more than I would take his purse. Nor, I trust, would +I seduce the daughter or sister of a friend, nor any maid +whom it would at all damage—and as to <i>that</i> there is no +hard and fast rule.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>A fine fellow, I, to be casting the first stone, or the one-hundredth, +at a lovelorn woman, weak or strong! By the +way, I should not believe in the love of a strong one, wife, +widow or maid.</p> + +<p>It looks as if I may get to Sag Harbor for a week or so in +the middle of the month. It is really not a question of expense, +but Neale has blocked out a lot of work for me. He +wants two more volumes—even five more if I'll make 'em. +Guess I'll give him two. In a week or so I shall be able to<span class="pagenum">180</span> +say whether I can go Sagharboring. If so, I think we should +have a night in New York first, no? You could motor-boat +up and back.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="flright smcap">Ambrose Bierce.</span><a name="fnanchor_14" id="fnanchor_14"></a><a href="#footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_14" id="footnote_14" href="#fnanchor_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Addressed to George Sterling at Sag Harbor, Long Island.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +Monday,<br /> +August 7,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>In one of your letters you were good enough to promise +me a motorboat trip from New York to Sag Harbor. I can +think of few things more delightful than navigating in a +motorboat the sea that I used to navigate in an open canoe; +it will seem like Progress. So if you are still in that mind +please write me what day <i>after Saturday next</i> you can meet +me in New York and I'll be there. I should prefer that you +come the day before the voyage and dine with me that +evening.</p> + +<p>I always stay at the Hotel Navarre, 7th avenue and 38th +street. If unable to get in there I'll leave my address there. +Or, tell me where <i>you</i> will be.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">If the motorboat plan is not practicable let me know and +I'll go by train or steamer; it will not greatly matter. <span class="flright">A. B.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +Tuesday,<br /> +August 8,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Kindly convey to young Smith of Auburn my felicitations +on his admirable "Ode to the Abyss"—a large theme, +treated with dignity and power. It has many striking passages—such, +for example, as "The Romes of ruined +spheres." I'm conscious of my sin against the rhetoricians +in liking that, for it jolts the reader out of the Abyss and<span class="pagenum">181</span> +back to earth. Moreover, it is a metaphor which belittles, +instead of dignifying. But I like it.</p> + +<p>He is evidently a student of George Sterling, and being in +the formative stage, cannot—why should he?—conceal +the fact.</p> + +<p>My love to all good Californians of the Sag Harbor colony.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +November 16,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>It is good to know that you are again happy—that is to +say, you are in Carmel. For your <i>future</i> happiness (if success +and a certain rounding off of your corners would bring +it, as I think) I could wish you in New York or thereabout. +As the Scripture hath it: "It is not good for a man to be in +Carmel"—<i>Revised Inversion</i>. I note that at the late election +California damned herself to a still lower degradation +and is now unfit for a white man to live in. Initiative, referendum, +recall, employers' liability, woman suffrage—yah!</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>But you are not to take too seriously my dislike of * * *<a name="fnanchor_15" id="fnanchor_15"></a><a href="#footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> +I like him personally very well; he talks like a normal human +being. It is only that damned book of his. He was here +and came out to my tenement a few evenings ago, finding +me in bed and helpless from lumbago, as I was for weeks. I +am now able to sit up and take notice, and there are even +fears for my recovery. My enemies would say, as Byron +said of Lady B., I am becoming "dangerously well again."</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>As to harlots, there are not ten in a hundred that are such +for any other reason than that they wanted to be. Their<span class="pagenum">182</span> +exculpatory stories are mostly lies of magnitude.</p> + +<p>Sloots writes me that he will perhaps "walk over" from +the mine to Yosemite next summer. I can't get there much +before July first, but if there is plenty of snow in the mountains +next winter the valley should be visitable then. Later, +I hope to beguest myself for a few days at the Pine Inn, +Carmel. Tell it not to the Point Lobos mussel!</p> + +<p>My love to Carrie.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_15" id="footnote_15" href="#fnanchor_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Excised by G. S.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 27,<br /> +1911.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>As you do not give me that lady's address I infer that you +no longer care to have me meet her—which is a relief to me.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Yes, I'm a bit broken up by the death of Pollard, whose +body I assisted to burn. He lost his mind, was paralyzed, +had his head cut open by the surgeons, and his sufferings +were unspeakable. Had he lived he would have been an +idiot; so it is all right—</p> + +<p class="poem">"But O, the difference to me!"</p> + +<p>If you don't think him pretty bright read any of his last +three books, "Their Day in Court," "Masks and Minstrels," +and "Vagabond Journeys." He did not see the +last one—Neale brought down copies of it when he came +to Baltimore to attend the funeral.</p> + +<p>I'm hoping that if Carlt and Lora go to Wagner's mine +and we go to Yosemite, Lora, at least, will come to us out +there. We shall need her, though Carrie will find that +Misses C. and S. will be "no deadheads in the enterprise"—to +quote a political phrase of long ago. As to me, I shall +leave my ten-pounds-each books at home and, like St.<span class="pagenum">183</span> +Jerome, who never traveled with other baggage than a +skull, be "flying light." +My love to Carrie.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 5,<br /> +1912.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>It is good to hear from you again, even if I did have to +give you a hint that I badly needed a letter.</p> + +<p>I am glad that you are going to the mine (if you go)—though +Berkeley and Oakland will not be the same without +you. And where can I have my mail forwarded?—and be +permitted to climb in at the window to get it. As to pot-steaks, +toddies, and the like, I shall simply swear off eating +and drinking.</p> + +<p>If Carlt is a "game sport," and does not require "a dead-sure +thing," the mining gamble is the best bet for him. +Anything to get out of that deadening, hopeless grind, the +"Government service." It kills a man's self-respect, atrophies +his powers, unfits him for anything, tempts him to +improvidence and then turns him out to starve.</p> + +<p>It is pleasant to know that there is a hope of meeting you +in Yosemite—the valley would not be the same without +you. My girls cannot leave here till the schools close, about +June 20, so we shall not get into the valley much before +July first; but if you have a good winter, with plenty of +snow, that will do. We shall stay as long as we like. George +says he and Carrie can go, and I hope Sloots can. It is likely +that Neale, my publisher, will be of my party. I shall hope +to visit your mine afterward.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>My health, which was pretty bad for weeks after returning +from Sag Harbor, is restored, and I was never so young<span class="pagenum">184</span> +in all my life.</p> + +<p>Here's wishing you and Carlt plenty of meat on the bone +that the new year may fling to you.</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +February 14,<br /> +1912.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm a long time noticing your letter of January fifth, +chiefly because, like Teddy, "I have nothing to say." +There's this difference atwixt him and me—I could say +something if I tried.</p> + +<p>* * * I'm hoping that you are at work and doing something +worth while, though I see nothing of yours. Battle +against the encroaching abalone should not engage all your +powers. That spearing salmon at night interests me, though +doubtless the "season" will be over before I visit Carmel.</p> + +<p>Bear Yosemite in mind for latter part of June, and use +influence with Lora and Grizzly, even if Carlt should be +inhumed in his mine.</p> + +<p>We've had about seven weeks of snow and ice, the mercury +around the zero mark most of the time. Once it was 13 +below. You'd not care for that sort of thing, I fancy. Indeed, +I'm a bit fatigued of it myself, and on Saturday next, +God willing, shall put out my prow to sea and bring up, I +hope, in Bermuda, not, of course, to remain long.</p> + +<p>You did not send me the Weininger article on "Sex and +Character"—I mean the extract that you thought like +some of my stuff.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +April 25,<br /> +1912.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,<span class="pagenum">185</span></p> + +<p>I did not go to Bermuda; so I'm not "back." But I did go +to Richmond, a city whose tragic and pathetic history, of +which one is reminded by everything that one sees there, +always gets on to my nerves with a particular dejection. +True, the history is some fifty years old, but it is always +with me when I'm there, making solemn eyes at me.</p> + +<p>You're right about "this season in the East." It has indeed +been penetential. For the first time I am thoroughly +disgusted and half-minded to stay in California when I go—a +land where every prospect pleases, and only labor unions, +progressives, suffragettes (and socialists) are vile. No, I don't +think I could stand California, though I'm still in the mind +to visit it in June. I shall be sorry to miss Carrie at Carmel, but +hope to have the two of you on some excursion or +camping trip. We <i>want</i> to go to Yosemite, which the girls +have not seen, but if there's no water there it may not be +advisable. Guess we'll have to let you natives decide. How +would the Big Trees do as a substitute?</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Girls is pizen, but not necessarily fatal. I've taken 'em in +large doses all my life, and suffered pangs enough to equip +a number of small Hells, but never has one of them paralyzed +the inner working man. * * * But I'm not a poet. +Moreover, as I've not yet put off my armor I oughtn't to +boast.</p> + +<p>So—you've subscribed for the Collected Works. Good! +that is what you ought to have done a long time ago. It is +what every personal friend of mine ought to have done, for +all profess admiration of my work in literature. It is what +I was fool enough to permit my publisher to think that +many of them would do. How many do you guess have +done so? I'll leave you guessing. God help the man with<span class="pagenum">186</span> +many friends, for <i>they</i> will not. My royalties on the sets +sold to my friends are less than one-fourth of my outlay in +free sets for other friends. Tell me not in cheerful numbers +of the value and sincerity of friendships.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>There! I've discharged my bosom of that perilous stuff +and shall take a drink. Here's to you.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +June 5,<br /> +1912.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear George</span>,</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>Thank you for the poems, which I've not had the time to +consider—being disgracefully busy in order to get away. +I don't altogether share your reverence for Browning, but +the primacy of your verses on him over the others printed +on the same page is almost startling. * * *</p> + +<p>Of course it's all nonsense about the waning of your +power—though thinking it so might make it so. My notion +is that you've only <i>begun</i> to do things. But I wish you'd go +back to your chain in your uncle's office. I'm no believer in +adversity and privation as a spur to Pegasus. They are +oftener a "hopple." The "meagre, muse-rid mope, adust +and thin" will commonly do better work when tucked out +with three square meals a day, and having the sure and +certain hope of their continuance.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm expecting to arrive in Oakland (Key Route Inn, +probably) late in the evening of the 22d of this month and +dine at Carlt's on the 24th—my birthday. Anyhow, I've +invited myself, though it is possible they may be away on +their vacation. Carlt has promised to try to get his "leave"<span class="pagenum">187</span> +changed to a later date than the one he's booked for.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">P.S.—Just learned that we can not leave here until the +19th—which will bring me into San Francisco on the 26th. +Birthday dinner served in diner—last call!</p> + +<p>I've <i>read</i> the Browning poem and I now know why there +was a Browning. Providence foresaw you and prepared him +for you—blessed be Providence! * * *</p> + +<p>Mrs. Havens asks me to come to them at Sag Harbor—and +shouldn't I like to! * * * Sure the song of the Sag +Harbor frog would be music to me—as would that of the +indigenous duckling.</p> +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +December 19,<br /> +1912.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Cahill</span>,</p> + +<p>I thank you for the article from <i>The Argonaut</i>, and am +glad to get it for a special reason, as it gives me your address +and thereby enables me to explain something.</p> + +<p>When, several years ago, you sent me a similar article I +took it to the editor of The National Geographical Magazine +(I am a member of the Society that issues it) and suggested +its publication. I left it with him and hearing nothing +about it for several months called at his office <i>twice</i> for +an answer, and for the copy if publication was refused. +The copy had been "mislaid"—lost, apparently—and I +never obtained it. Meantime, either I had "mislaid" your +address, or it was only on the copy. So I was unable to +write you. Indirectly, afterward, I heard that you had left +California for parts to me unknown.</p> + +<p>Twice since then I have been in San Francisco, but confess<span class="pagenum">188</span> +that I did not think of the matter.</p> + +<p>Cahill's projection<a name="fnanchor_16" id="fnanchor_16"></a><a href="#footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> is indubitably the right one, but you +are "up against" the ages and will be a long time dead +before it finds favor, or I'm no true pessimist.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_16" id="footnote_16" href="#fnanchor_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> The Butterfly Map of the World.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia<br /> +Apartments,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 17,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Ruth</span>,</p> + +<p>It's "too bad" that I couldn't remain in Oakland and +Berkeley another month to welcome you, but I fear it will +"have to go at that," for I've no expectation of ever seeing +California again. I like the country as well as ever, but I +<i>don't</i> like the rule of labor unions, the grafters and the suffragettes. +So far as I am concerned they may stew in their +own juice; I shall not offer myself as an ingredient.</p> + +<p>It is pleasant to know that you are all well, including +Johnny, poor little chap.</p> + +<p>You are right to study philology and rhetoric. Surely +there must be <i>some</i> provision for your need—a university +where one cannot learn one's own language would be a +funny university.</p> + +<p>I think your "Mr. Wells" who gave a course of lectures +on essay writing may be my friend Wells Drury, of Berkeley. +If so, mention me to him and he will advise you what +to do.</p> + +<p>Another good friend of mine, whom, however I did not +succeed in seeing during either of my visits to California, is +W. C. Morrow, who is a professional teacher of writing and +himself a splendid writer. He could help you. He lives in +San Francisco, but I think has a class in Oakland. I don't +know his address; you'll find it in the directory. He used to<span class="pagenum">189</span> +write stories splendidly tragic, but I'm told he now teaches +the "happy ending," in which he is right—commercially—but +disgusting. I can cordially recommend him.</p> + +<p>Keep up your German and French of course. If your +English (your mother speech) is so defective, think what +<i>they</i> must be.</p> + +<p>I'll think of some books that will be helpful to you in your +English. Meantime send me anything that you care to that +you write. It will at least show me what progress you make.</p> + +<p>I'm returning some (all, I think) of your sketches. Don't +destroy them—yet. Maybe some day you'll find them +worth rewriting.</p> + +<p class="left65">My love to you all. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia,<br /> +Euclid and 14th Sts.,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +January 20,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Cahill</span>,</p> + +<p>It is pleasant to know that you are not easily discouraged +by the croaking of such ravens as I, and I confess that the +matter of the "civic centre" supplies some reason to hope +for prosperity to the Cahill projection—which (another +croak) will doubtless bear some other man's name, probably +Hayford's or Woodward's.</p> + +<p>I sent the "Argonaut" article to my friend Dr. Franklin, +of Schenectady, a "scientific gent" of some note, but have +heard nothing from him.</p> + +<p>I'm returning the "Chronicle" article, which I found interesting. +If I were not a writer without an "organ" I'd have +a say about that projection. For near four years I've been +out of the newspaper game—a mere compiler of my collected +works in twelve volumes—and shall probably never +"sit into the game" again, being seventy years old. My +work is finished, and so am I.</p> + +<p>Luck to you in the new year, and in many to follow.<span class="pagenum">190</span></p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia<br /> +Apartments,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +I prefer to get my<br /> +letters at this address.<br /> +Make a memorandum<br /> +of it.<br /> +January 28,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>I have been searching for your letter of long ago, fearing +it contained something that I should have replied to. But I +don't find it; so I make the convenient assumption that it +did not.</p> + +<p>I'd like to hear from you, however unworthy I am to do +so, for I want to know if you and Carlt have still a hope of +going mining. Pray God you do, if there's a half-chance of +success; for success in the service of the Government is +failure.</p> + +<p>Winter here is two-thirds gone and we have not had a +cold day, and only one little dash of snow—on Christmas +eve. Can California beat that? I'm told it's as cold there as +in Greenland.</p> + +<p>Tell me about yourself—your health since the operation—how +it has affected you—all about you. My own health +is excellent; I'm equal to any number of Carlt's toddies. By +the way, Blanche has made me a co-defendant with you in +the crime (once upon a time) of taking a drop too much. I +plead not guilty—how do <i>you</i> plead? Sloots, at least, +would acquit us on the ground of inability—that one +<i>can't</i> take too much. * * *</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, your avuncular, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +March 20,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Ruth</span>,</p> + +<p>I'm returning your little sketches with a few markings +which are to be regarded (or disregarded) as mere suggestions. +I made them in pencil, so that you can erase them if +you don't approve. Of course I should make many more if<span class="pagenum">191</span> +I could have you before me so that I could explain <i>why</i>; in +this way I can help you but little. You'll observe that I +have made quite a slaughter of some of the adjectives in +some of your sentences—you will doubtless slaughter some +in others. Nearly all young writers use too many adjectives. +Indeed, moderation and skill in the use of adjectives +are about the last things a good writer learns. Don't use +those that are connoted by the nouns; and rather than +have all the nouns, or nearly all, in a sentence outfitted +with them it is better to make separate sentences for some +of those desired.</p> + +<p>In your sketch "Triumph" I would not name the "hero" +of the piece. To do so not only makes the sketch commonplace, +but it logically requires you to name his victim too, +and her offense; in brief, it commits you to a <i>story</i>.</p> + +<p>A famous writer (perhaps Holmes or Thackeray—I don't +remember) once advised a young writer to cut all the passages +that he thought particularly good. Your taste I think +is past the need of so heroic treatment as that, but the advice +may be profitably borne in memory whenever you are +in doubt, if ever you are. And sometimes you will be.</p> + +<p>I think I know what Mr. Morrow meant by saying that +your characters are not "humanly significant." He means +that they are not such persons as one meets in everyday +life—not "types." I confess that I never could see why +one's characters <i>should</i> be. The exceptional—even "abnormal"—person +seems to me the more interesting, but I +must warn you that he will not seem so to an editor. Nor to +an editor will the tragic element seem so good as the cheerful—the +sombre denouement as the "happy ending." One +must have a pretty firm reputation as a writer to "send in" +a tragic or supernatural tale with any hope of its acceptance.<span class="pagenum">192</span> +The average mind (for which editors purvey, and +mostly possess) dislikes, or thinks it dislikes, any literature +that is not "sunny." True, tragedy holds the highest and +most permanent place in the world's literature and art, but +it has the divvel's own time getting to it. For immediate +popularity (if one cares for it) one must write pleasant +things; though one may put in here and there a bit of +pathos.</p> + +<p>I think well of these two manuscripts, but doubt if you +can get them into any of our magazines—if you want to. +As to that, nobody can help you. About the only good +quality that a magazine editor commonly has is his firm +reliance on the infallibility of his own judgment. It is an +honest error, and it enables him to mull through somehow +with a certain kind of consistency. The only way to get a +footing with him is to send him what you think he wants, +not what you think he ought to want—and keep sending. +But perhaps you do not care for the magazines.</p> + +<p>I note a great improvement in your style—probably no +more than was to be expected of your better age, but a distinct +improvement. It is a matter of regret with me that I +have not the training of you; we should see what would +come of it. You certainly have no reason for discouragement. +But if you are to be a writer you must "cut out" the +dances and the teas (a little of the theater may be allowed) +and <i>work</i> right heartily. The way of the good writer is no +primrose path.</p> + +<p>No, I have not read the poems of Service. What do I +think of Edith Wharton? Just what Pollard thought—see +<i>Their Day in Court</i>, which I think you have.</p> + +<p>I fear you have the wanderlust incurably. I never had it +bad, and have less of it now than ever before. I shall not<span class="pagenum">193</span> +see California again.</p> + +<p>My love to all your family goes with this, and to you all +that you will have. <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Army and<br /> +Navy Club,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 22,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Editor</span> "<span class="smcap">Lantern</span>",<a name="fnanchor_17" id="fnanchor_17"></a><a href="#footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p> + +<p>Will I tell you what I think of your magazine? Sure I will.</p> + +<p>It has thirty-six pages of reading matter.</p> + +<p>Seventeen are given to the biography of a musician,—German, +dead.</p> + +<p>Four to the mother of a theologian,—German, peasant-wench, +dead.</p> + +<p>(The mag. is published in America, to-day.)</p> + +<p>Five pages about Eugene Field's ancestors. All dead.</p> + +<p>17 + 4 + 5 = 26.</p> + +<p>36 - 26 = 10.</p> + +<p>Two pages about Ella Wheeler Wilcox.</p> + +<p>Three-fourths page about a bad poet and his indifference +to—German.</p> + +<p>Two pages of his poetry.</p> + +<p>2 + ¾ + 2 = 4¾.</p> + +<p>10 - 4¾ = 5¼. Not enough to criticise.</p> + +<p>What your magazine needs is an editor—presumably +older, preferably American, and indubitably alive. At least +awake. It is your inning.</p> + +<p class="left65">Sincerely yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<p><a name="footnote_17" id="footnote_17" href="#fnanchor_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> The editor was Curtis J. Kirch ("Guido Bruno") and the weekly had a brief career +in Chicago. It was the forerunner of the many Bruno weeklies and monthlies, later +published from other cities.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +May 31,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>You were so long in replying to my letter of the century +before last, and as your letter is not really a reply to anything +in mine, that I fancy you did not get it. I don't recollect,<span class="pagenum">194</span> +for example, that you ever acknowledged receipt of +little pictures of myself, though maybe you did—I only +hope you got them. The photographs that you send are +very interesting. One of them makes me thirsty—the one +of that fountainhead of good booze, your kitchen sink.</p> + +<p>What you say of the mine and how you are to be housed +there pleases me mightily. That's how I should like to live, +and mining is what I should like again to do. Pray God you +be not disappointed.</p> + +<p>Alas, I cannot even join you during Carlt's vacation, for +the mountain ramble. Please "go slow" in your goating +this year. I <i>think</i> you are better fitted for it than ever before, +but you'd better ask your surgeon about that. By the +way, do you know that since women took to athletics their +peculiar disorders have increased about fifty per cent? You +can't make men of women. The truth is, they've taken to +walking on their hind legs a few centuries too soon. Their +in'ards have not learned how to suspend the law of gravity. +Add the jolts of athletics and—there you are.</p> + +<p>I wish I could be with you at Monte Sano—or anywhere.</p> + +<p>Love to Carlt and Sloots.</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +September 10,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>Your letter was forwarded to me in New York, whence I +have just returned. I fancy you had a more satisfactory +outing than I. I never heard of the Big Sur river nor of +"Arbolado." But I'm glad you went there, for I'm hearing +so much about Hetch Hetchy that I'm tired of it. I'm helping +the San Francisco crowd (a little) to "ruin" it.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I'm glad to know that you still expect to go to the mine. +Success or failure, it is better than the Mint, and you ought<span class="pagenum">195</span> +to live in the mountains where you can climb things whenever +you want to.</p> + +<p>Of course I know nothing of Neale's business—you'd +better write to him if he has not filled your order. I suppose +you know that volumes eleven and twelve are not included +in the "set."</p> + +<p>If you care to write to me again please do so at once as I +am going away, probably to South America, but if we have +a row with Mexico before I start I shall go there first. I +want to see something going on. I've no notion of how long +I shall remain away.</p> + +<p>With love to Carlt and Sloots,</p> + +<p class="left65">Affectionately, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +September 10,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Joe</span>,<a name="fnanchor_18" id="fnanchor_18"></a><a href="#footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p> + +<p>The reason that I did not answer your letter sooner is—I +have been away (in New York) and did not have it with +me. I suppose I shall not see your book for a long time, for I +am going away and have no notion when I shall return. I +expect to go to, perhaps across, South America—possibly +via Mexico, if I can get through without being stood up +against a wall and shot as a Gringo. But that is better than +dying in bed, is it not? If Duc did not need you so badly I'd +ask you to get your hat and come along. God bless and +keep you.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p><a name="footnote_18" id="footnote_18" href="#fnanchor_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> To Mrs. Josephine Clifford McCrackin, San Jose, California.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Washington, D. C.,<br /> +September 13,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Joe</span>,</p> + +<p>Thank you for the book. I thank you for your friendship—and +much besides. This is to say good-by at the end of a +pleasant correspondence in which your woman's prerogative +of having the last word is denied to you. Before I could<span class="pagenum">196</span> +receive it I shall be gone. But some time, somewhere, I +hope to hear from you again. Yes, I shall go into Mexico +with a pretty definite purpose, which, however, is not at +present disclosable. You must try to forgive my obstinacy +in not "perishing" where I am. I want to be where something +worth while is going on, or where nothing whatever +is going on. Most of what is going on in your own country +is exceedingly distasteful to me.</p> + +<p>Pray for me? Why, yes, dear—that will not harm either +of us. I loathe religions, a Christian gives me qualms and a +Catholic sets my teeth on edge, but pray for me just the +same, for with all those faults upon your head (it's a nice +head, too), I am pretty fond of you, I guess. May you live +as long as you want to, and then pass smilingly into the +darkness—the good, good darkness.</p> + +<p class="left65">Devotedly your friend, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">The Olympia,<br /> +Euclid Street,<br /> +Washington, D. C.,<br /> +October 1,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>I go away tomorrow for a long time, so this is only to say +good-bye. I think there is nothing else worth saying; <i>therefore</i> +you will naturally expect a long letter. What an intolerable +world this would be if we said nothing but what is +worth saying! And did nothing foolish—like going into +Mexico and South America.</p> + +<p>I'm hoping that you will go to the mine soon. You must +hunger and thirst for the mountains—Carlt likewise. So do +I. Civilization be dinged!—it is the mountains and the +desert for me.</p> + +<p>Good-bye—if you hear of my being stood up against a +Mexican stone wall and shot to rags please know that I +think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats<span class="pagenum">197</span> +old age, disease, or falling down the cellar stairs. To be a +Gringo in Mexico—ah, that is euthanasia!</p> + +<p>With love to Carlt, affectionately yours, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Laredo, Texas,<br /> +November 6,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">My dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>I think I owe you a letter, and probably this is my only +chance to pay up for a long time. For more than a month I +have been rambling about the country, visiting my old +battlefields, passing a few days in New Orleans, a week in +San Antonio, and so forth. I turned up here this morning. +There is a good deal of fighting going on over on the Mexican +side of the Rio Grande, but I hold to my intention to +go into Mexico if I can. In the character of "innocent bystander" +I ought to be fairly safe if I don't have too much +money on me, don't you think? My eventual destination is +South America, but probably I shall not get there this year.</p> + +<p>Sloots writes me that you and Carlt still expect to go to +the mine, as I hope you will.</p> + +<p>The Cowdens expect to live somewhere in California +soon, I believe. They seem to be well, prosperous and +cheerful.</p> + +<p>With love to Carlt and Sloots, I am affectionately yours,<span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<p class="p2">P.S. You need not believe <i>all</i> that these newspapers say +of me and my purposes. I had to tell them <i>something</i>.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<div class="sidenote">Laredo, Texas,<br /> +November 6,<br /> +1913.</div> + +<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Dear Lora</span>,</p> + +<p>I wrote you yesterday at San Antonio, but dated the letter +here and today, expecting to bring the letter and mail it +here. That's because I did not know if I would have time +to write it here. Unfortunately, I forgot and posted it,<span class="pagenum">198</span> +with other letters, where it was written. Thus does man's +guile come to naught!</p> + +<p>Well, I'm here, anyhow, and have time to explain.</p> + +<p>Laredo was a Mexican city before it was an American. It +is Mexican now, five to one. Nuevo Laredo, opposite, is +held by the Huertistas and Americans don't go over there. +In fact a guard on the bridge will not let them. So those +that sneak across have to wade (which can be done almost +anywhere) and go at night.</p> + +<p>I shall not be here long enough to hear from you, and +don't know where I shall be next. Guess it doesn't matter +much.</p> + +<p class="left65">Adios, <span class="smcap flright">Ambrose.</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter p6"> +<img src="images/section.png" width="300" height="33" alt="new section" /> +<span class="pagenum">199</span> +</div><hr class="c15" /> +<h2><i>Extracts from Letters</i></h2> +<hr class="c15" /> + +<p>You are right too—dead right about the poetry of Socialism; +and you might have added the poetry of wailing about +the woes of the poor generally. Only the second- and the +third-raters write it—except "incidentally." You don't +find the big fellows sniveling over that particular shadow-side +of Nature. Yet not only are the poor always with us, +they always <i>were</i> with us, and their state was worse in the +times of Homer, Virgil, Shakspeare, Milton and the others +than in the days of Morris and Markham.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p>But what's the use? I have long despaired of convincing +poets and artists of anything, even that white is not black. +I'm convinced that all you chaps ought to have a world to +yourselves, where two and two make whatever you prefer +that it <i>should</i> make, and cause and effect are remoulded +"more nearly to the heart's desire." And then I suppose I'd +want to go and live there too.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p>Did you ever know so poor satire to make so great a row +as that of Watson? Compared with certain other verses +against particular women—Byron's "Born in a garret, in a +kitchen bred"; even my own skit entitled "Mad" (pardon +my modesty) it is infantile. What an interesting book +might be made of such "attacks" on women! But Watson<span class="pagenum">200</span> +is the only one of us, so far as I remember, who has had the +caddishness to <i>name</i> the victim.</p> + +<p>Have you seen Percival Pollard's "Their Day in Court"? +It is amusing, clever—and more. He has a whole chapter +on me, "a lot" about Gertrude Atherton, and much else +that is interesting. And he skins alive certain popular gods +and goddesses of the day, and is "monstrous naughty."</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p>As to * * *'s own character I do not see what that has +to do with his criticism of London. If only the impeccable +delivered judgment no judgment would ever be delivered. +All men could do as they please, without reproof or dissent. +I wish you would take your heart out of your head, old +man. The best heart makes a bad head if housed there.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p>The friends that warned you against the precarious nature +of my friendship were right. To hold my regard one +must fulfil hard conditions—hard if one is not what one +should be; easy if one is. I have, indeed, a habit of calmly +considering the character of a man with whom I have fallen +into any intimacy and, whether I have any grievance +against him or not, informing him by letter that I no +longer desire his acquaintance. This, I do after deciding +that he is not truthful, candid, without conceit, and so +forth—in brief, honorable. If any one is conscious that he +is not in all respects worthy of my friendship he would better +not cultivate it, for assuredly no one can long conceal +his true character from an observant student of it. Yes, my +friendship is a precarious possession. It grows more so the +longer I live, and the less I feel the need of a multitude of +friends. So, if in your heart you are conscious of being any<span class="pagenum">201</span> +of the things which you accuse <i>me</i> of being, or anything +else equally objectionable (to <i>me</i>) I can only advise you to +drop me before I drop you.</p> + +<p>Certainly you have an undoubted right to your opinion +of my ability, my attainments and my standing. If you +choose to publish a censorious judgment of these matters, +do so by all means: I don't think I ever cared a cent for +what was printed about me, except as it supplied me with +welcome material for my pen. One may presumably have a +"sense of duty to the public," and the like. But convincing +one person (one at a time) of one's friend's deficiencies is +hardly worth while, and is to be judged differently. It +comes under another rule. * * *</p> + +<p>Maybe, as you say, my work lacks "soul," but my life +does not, as a man's life is the man. Personally, I hold that +sentiment has a place in this world, and that loyalty to a +friend is not inferior as a characteristic to correctness of +literary judgment. If there is a heaven I think it is more +valued there. If Mr. * * * (your publisher as well as mine) +had considered you a Homer, a Goethe or a Shakspeare a +team of horses could not have drawn from <i>me</i> the expression +of a lower estimate. And let me tell you that if you are +going through life as a mere thinking machine, ignoring the +generous promptings of the heart, sacrificing it to the +brain, you will have a hard row to hoe, and the outcome, +when you survey it from the vantage ground of age, will +not please you. You seem to me to be beginning rather +badly, as regards both your fortune and your peace of +mind.</p> + +<p class="center">* * *</p> + +<p>I saw * * * every day while in New York, and he does not +know that I feel the slightest resentment toward you, nor<span class="pagenum">202</span> +do I know it myself. So far as he knows, or is likely to know +(unless you will have it otherwise) you and I are the best of +friends, or rather, I am the best of friends to you. And I +guess that is so. I could no more hate you for your disposition +and character than I could for your hump if you had +one. You are as Nature has made you, and your defects, +whether they are great or small, are your misfortunes. I +would remove them if I could, but I know that I cannot, +for one of them is inability to discern the others, even when +they are pointed out.</p> + +<p>I must commend your candor in one thing. You confirm +* * * words in saying that you commented on "my seeming +lack of sympathy with certain modern masters," which +you attribute to my not having read them. That is a conclusion +to which a low order of mind in sympathy with the +"modern masters" naturally jumps, but it is hardly +worthy of a man of your brains. It is like your former lofty +assumption that I had not read some ten or twelve philosophers, +naming them, nearly all of whom I had read, and +laughed at, before you were born. In fact, one of your most +conspicuous characteristics is the assumption that what a +man who does not care to "talk shop" does not speak of, +and vaunt his knowledge of, he does not know. I once +thought this a boyish fault, but you are no longer a boy. +Your "modern masters" are Ibsen and Shaw, with both of +whose works and ways I am thoroughly familiar, and both +of whom I think very small men—pets of the drawing-room +and gods of the hour. No, I am not an "up to date" +critic, thank God. I am not a literary critic at all, and never, +or very seldom, have gone into that field except in pursuance +of a personal object—to help a good writer (who is +commonly a friend)—maybe you can recall such instances—or<span class="pagenum">203</span> +laugh at a fool. Surely you do not consider my work +in the Cosmopolitan (mere badinage and chaff, the only +kind of stuff that the magazine wants from me, or will +print) essays in literary criticism. It has never occurred to +me to look upon myself as a literary critic; if you <i>must</i> +prick my bubble please to observe that it contains more of +your breath than of mine. Yet you have sometimes seemed to +value, I thought, some of my notions about even poetry. * * *</p> + +<p>Perhaps I am unfortunate in the matter of keeping +friends; I know, and have abundant reason to know, that +you are at least equally luckless in the matter of making +them. I could put my finger on the very qualities in you +that make you so, and the best service that I could do you +would be to point them out and take the consequences. +That is to say, it would serve you many years hence; at +present you are like Carlyle's "Mankind"; you "refuse to +be served." You only consent to be enraged.</p> + +<p>I bear you no ill will, shall watch your career in letters +with friendly solicitude—have, in fact, just sent to the +* * * a most appreciative paragraph about your book, +which may or may not commend itself to the editor; most +of what I write does not. I hope to do a little, now and then, +to further your success in letters. I wish you were different +(and that is the harshest criticism that I ever uttered of +you except to yourself) and wish it for your sake more than +for mine. I am older than you and probably more "acquainted +with grief"—the grief of disappointment and +disillusion. If in the future you are convinced that you have +become different, and I am still living, my welcoming hand +awaits you. And when I forgive I forgive all over, even the +new offence.</p> + +<p>Miller undoubtedly is sincere in his praise of you, for with<span class="pagenum">204</span> +all his faults and follies he is always generous and usually +over generous to other poets. There's nothing little and +mean in him. Sing ho for Joaquin!</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p>If I "made you famous" please remember that you were +guilty of contributory negligence by meriting the fame. +"Eternal vigilance" is the price of its permanence. Don't +loaf on your job.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/newlettera.png" width="70" height="13" alt="end of letter" /> +</div> + +<p>I have told her of a certain "enchanted forest" hereabout +to which I feel myself sometimes strongly drawn as a fitting +place to lay down "my weary body and my head." (Perhaps +you remember your Swinburne:</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<span class="o1">"Ah yet, would God this flesh of mine might be</span><br /> +Where air might wash and long leaves cover me!<br /> +Ah yet, would God that roots and stems were bred<br /> +Out of my weary body and my head.")</p> + +<p>The element of enchantment in that forest is supplied by +my wandering and dreaming in it forty-one years ago when +I was a-soldiering and there were new things under a new +sun. It is miles away, but from a near-by summit I can +overlook the entire region—ridge beyond ridge, parted by +purple valleys full of sleep. Unlike me, it has not visibly +altered in all these years, except that I miss, here and there, +a thin blue ghost of smoke from an enemy's camp. Can you +guess my feelings when I view this Dream-land—my +Realm of Adventure, inhabited by memories that beckon +me from every valley? I shall go; I shall retrace my old +routes and lines of march; stand in my old camps; inspect +my battlefields to see that all is right and undisturbed. I +shall go to the Enchanted Forest.</p> + +<p class="center p6"><b>PRINTED BY</b></p> +<p class="center"><b>JOHN HENRY NASH AT SAN FRANCISCO</b></p> +<p class="center"><b>IN DECEMBER MDCCCCXXII</b></p> +<p class="center"><b>THE EDITION CONSISTS OF FOUR HUNDRED</b></p> +<p class="center"><b>AND FIFTEEN COPIES</b></p> +<p class="center"><b>FOUR HUNDRED ARE NUMBERED</b></p> +<p class="center"><b>AND FOR SALE</b></p> +<p class="center"><b>No. 208</b></p> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Letters of Ambrose Bierce, by Ambrose Bierce + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF AMBROSE BIERCE *** + +***** This file should be named 36218-h.htm or 36218-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/2/1/36218/ + +Produced by David Clarke, Melissa McDaniel and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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