Mr. Bierce is undoubtedly to be regarded as one of the vital personalities in the world of American letters; he seems to have been critic and inspirer of many Californian writers of wider popularity than he has ever attained. His personal fascination has evidently hypnotized those who have been in immediate contact with him. He seems to be the living center of the Bohemian Club in San Francisco. His works, however, while striking, are not extraordinary; and his genius has been warped by provincial adulation. If he were as great as his admirers maintain, it is almost unthinkable that his fame and fortune should never have penetrated beyond the esoteric coterie of those who have made him a cult.
AMBROSE BIERCE by Ella Sterling Cummins
From: The Story of the Files: A Review of California Writers and Literature, World’s Fair Commission of California, 1893
AMBROSE BIERCE. 1866-1893.
By Ella Sterling Cummins
In the files of certain Californian journals and magazines there runs a peculiar strain and quality of English which belongs to one man alone. It runs through the warp and woof like a glittering thread. First it appeared in the “Town Crier” of the News Letter, next in the ‘‘ Grizzly Papers’’ of the Overland Monthly, then in the early pages of the Argonaut, in a department called “Prattle,” and others called “Little Johnny” and ‘‘ Zambri, the Parsee.’’ In the Wasp this same pen leaves its glittering trail. And now in the Examiner there is a place set apart where this mind may sparkle and gleam at its own free will. While every one reads these epigrammatic sentences and witty paragraphs, and enjoys the keen, rapier-like cuts of satire and the masterly English, yet there are some who tremble and are afraid. Corrupt politicians not yet uncovered to the sight ol their fellow men, hypocritical philanthropists who are working for notoriety, self-worshiping egotists, pretenders of every description, and some times, poor little creatures, the ephemera of the hour, are caught on the point of this pen and thrust through. As there is more or less vanity abounding, and no one knows when his turn is coming next, it is no wonder these utterances are read with vague terror and fascination.
A mighty censor of Californian journalism has been Ambrose Bierce. His name is a power. He can make or unmake men and women by a word. In his writing he represents that standard which is required of the community in morals, manners, English and good taste. He extols the modest and brings down a pile-driver upon the head of the blatant. He proclaims what he considers to be genuine merit, and pours abhorrence upon what he considers to be pretension. Perhaps, sometimes, being only a mortal, he may use his power to “do up” a personal enemy. And perhaps, sometimes, being only human, he may flay the wrong person. But as a whole he represents in Californian journalism the nearest approach to a standard of opinion which is unbought and unsubsidized.
From this point of view, therefore, Mr. Bierce occupies a position in which he stands alone and unapproached. He was born in Ohio, and came to California in 1866. Of him Charles Edwin Markham says:
Bierce is our literary Atlas.
Mrs. Adele Chretien of the dramatic department of the Examiner says:
I look upon Bierce as a literary giant. I don’t think he really means to walk rough-shod over people any more than a lion means to be rough with a mouse. It is only that the lion wonders how anything so small can be alive, and he is amused at its antics.
To the volume of short stories entitled “Soldiers and Civilians,” the expression ‘‘sculptured description” has been applied. In his review of the work George Hamlin Fitch says:
This book is full of power, brimful of creative imagination, but it is absolutely lacking in pathos and tenderness. * * * Endowed with splendid, though morbid imagination, Mr. Bierce forces you to take an interest in subjects which would be simply repulsive without the glamor of his style and the charm of his narrative.
Of the volume entitled “Black Beetles in Amber,” Arthur McEwen says in review:
Ambrose Bierce has found San Francisco a microcosm, and in flaying the fools and pretenders and villains of this one town, he has flayed the fools and villains and pretenders of the world.
In review of this same volume J. O’Hara Cosgrave says:
The volume is without a replica in literature. Never has any one written such scathing satire. He exhausts the verbal possibilities of vituperation, and does so in verse that has the crystalline polish of Pope’s. Think of being gibbeted for posterity. That is what he has done for a handful of venial millionaires and corrupt officials. The form and style of these verses is so polished, so graceful, that they must live, and the day will come when they will form a commentary to the history of the State.” As a criticism he adds, That there is genius in the poems admits of no contradiction; but why immortalize pigmies? One might as well shoot at a mouse with a Winchester.
The beautiful tale of “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter” is a collaboration by G. A. Dantziger and Ambrose Bierce, Dr. Dantziger translating the germ of the story from the German of Richard Voss and elaborating upon it, and Mr. Bierce revising the context. Of this book George Hamlin Fitch says in review:
Great literary art is shown in the naive story of how the young neophyte unconsciously falls in love with the social pariah, the daughter of the hangman, and the tragic climax of this love is told in a way that will move even the careless reader.
That the same pen which is thrust through “the fools and villains and pretenders” of San Francisco, and which maintains a sustained note of condemnation from the first page to the last in “Black Beetles in Amber,” has moved through the pages of “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter,” seems at first sight unbelievable. And yet what is more natural after all than that the mind which extols the modest and flays the arrogant should be all the more capable of appreciating the charm of youth and innocence and purity. For of such a kingdom is Benedicta, the child of the brain of these two writers and the German across the seas — and a more beautiful character has never come into being within the covers of a book.
In regard to the subject of this sketch, Mrs. Atherton says in her sketch in the Cosmopolitan:
Ambrose Bierce sits alone on the top of a mountain and does work which twenty years ago would have given him instant fame. He has the best brutal imagination of any man in the English-speaking race; his sonnets are exquisitely dainty and tender; his fables are the wittiest that have been written in America. Poe never wrote anything more weirdly awful than “Chicamauga,’’ “My Favorite Murder” and “The Watcher by the Dead.” The reserve and cynical brutality of these stories produce an impression never attained by the most riotous imagination.
From E. H. Clough is quoted the following:
Brevity is the essential of modern literature. The American takes the lead in this nineteenth century characteristic, and the Californian who follows writing as a trade has always been pre-eminent in this literary method. And of all Californian writers Ambrose Bierce is beyond all cavil the best exponent of this manner. Mr. Bierce’s satire is purely intellectual. It depends upon no extraneous impulse. His sentences are permeated with the essence of his individuality, and every word he uses conveys a meaning that no other word could express so aptly. His virile power is apparent in his slightest effort, and it is the regret of his friends and admirers that he wastes so much time, energy and splendid ability upon the petty concerns of very small people. As a short story writer Mr. Bierce is unequaled. He is the peer of Robert Louis Stevenson in weird, shadowy effect, and the superior of that writer in expression. He is a master of English in everything and his vocabulary is as copious as that of any living writer. Moreover, he is an even writer. Judged by the standard of his best work, nothing that he publishes is poor. Some day Ambrose Bierce will be appreciated at the true worth of his genius — but not now — the light is too close — we cannot discern the form and substance distinctly.
As contrast to the other paragraphs a few are here quoted from W. C. Morrow:
About twenty years ago a young American went to London
, having served as an officer in the war of the Rebellion, and was engaged as a writer on Fun. Very soon the editors, amazed at the young man’s ability, conceived the idea that he “could write anything.” Accordingly they piled before him a great assortment of old wood cuts and asked him to “write things” to fit them. As a result he wrote a strange assortment of “things” that amazed and mystified Great Britain — wrote them to fit the old wood-cuts. The mysterious power of this extraordinary young man stirred higher London as no writer had done since the days of Swift. Behind the outlandish tales and fables of “Dod Grile,” written to fit old wood-cuts, every politician saw a teller of secrets, and every Pharisee of whatever kind felt a cruel finger upon a hidden ulcer. So great was the interest which “Dod Grile” aroused, that selections from his contributions to Fun were made and were published in a little boot entitled “Cobwebs From an Empty Skull,” embracing fables by “Zambri the Parsee,” queer dialogues conducted by the Philosopher, the Soldier and the Fool, and sundry stories. This remarkable book, which had a great sale in those days, is now out of print. There are probably less than half a dozen copies in California now, and one of them is in a great library in San Francisco. In all literature there is nothing like that extraordinary book; there is nothing whatever to compare with its humor, its wit, its satire, its elusive and shadowy philosophy — it would be pleasant to find the critic who can tell what the book is. We have “Dod Grile” here with us, and are so lacking in pride as to writhe when he makes mouths at us. His right name is Ambrose Bierce. — W. C. Morrow.
A still greater contrast, however, is here presented in several quotations from Mr. Bierce himself. Some one said of him the other day: “Oh, you can’t find his double anywhere.” But that he is of a dual nature himself there is no doubt. He can be as gentle as he is vindictive; he can be as sweet as he is bitter. To express this idea Charles Edwin Markham says:
His is a composite mind — a blending of Hafiz the Persian, Swift, Poe, Thoreau, with sometimes a gleam of the Galilean.
An instance of this contrasting quality of mind is here quoted — his epitaph upon a friend.
TO RALPH SMITH.
Light lie the earth upon his dear dead heart,
And dreams disturb him never;
Be deeper peace than Paradise his part,
Forever and forever.
Without eulogy or analysis or further explanation, is here presented a a poem which is great enough to speak for itself and for its author as well:
INVOCATION.
Goddess of Liberty! Lo, thou
Whose tearless eyes behold the chain,
And look unmoved upon the slain,
Eternal peace upon thy brow, —
Before whose shrine the races press,
Thy perfect favor to implore
(The proudest tyrant asks no more,
The ironed anarchist no less), —
Whose altar-coals that touch the lips
Of prophets kindle, too, the brand
By Discord flung with wanton hand
Among the houses and the ships, —
Upon whose tranquil front the star
Burns bleak and passionless and white,
Its cold inclemency of light
More dreadful than the shadows are, —
Thy name we do not here invoke
Our civic rites to sanctify:
Enthroned in thy remoter sky,
Thou heedest not our broken yoke.
Thou carest not for such as we:
Our millions die to serve thee still
And secret purpose of thy will.
They perish — what is that to thee?
The light that fills the patriot’s tomb
Is not of thee. The shining crown
Compassionately offered down
To those who falter in the gloom
And fall, and call upon thy name,
And die desiring—’tis the sign
Of a diviner love than thine,
Rewarding with a richer fame.
To Him alone let freemen cry
Who hears alike the victor’s shout,
The song of faith, the moan of doubt,
And bends Him from His nearer sky.
God of my country and my race!
So greater than the gods of old —
So fairer than the prophets told
Who dimly saw and feared Thy face, —
Who didst but half reveal thy will
And gracious ends to their desire,
Behind the dawn’s advancing fire
Thy tender day-beam veiling still, —
To whom the unceasing suns belong,
And deed is one with consequence, —
To whose divine inclusive sense
The moan is blended with the song, —
Whose laws, imperfect and unjust,
Thy just and perfect purpose serve:
The needle, howsoe’er it swerve,
Still warranting the sailor’s trust, —
God, lift Thy hand and make us free:
Perfect the work Thou hast designed.
O strike away the chains that bind
Our souls to our idolatry!
The liberty Thy love hath given
We thank Thee for. We thank Thee for
Our great dead father’s holy war
Wherein our manacles were riven.
We thank Thee for the stronger stroke
Ourselves delivered and incurred
When — Thine incitement half unheard —
The chains we riveted we broke.
We thank Thee that beyond the sea
The people, growing ever wise,
Turn to the west their serious eyes
And dumbly strive to be as we.
As when the sun’s returning flame
Upon the Egyptian statue shone,
And struck from the enchanted stone
The music of a mighty fame,
Let Man salute the rising day
Of liberty, but not adore.
‘Tis Opportunity — no more —
A useful, not a sacred, ray.
It bringeth good, it bringeth ill,
As he possessing shall elect.
He maketh it of none effect
Who worketh not within Thy will.
O give us more or less, as we
Shall serve the right or serve the wrong.
Confirm our freedom but so long
As we are worthy to be free.
But when (O distant be the time I)
Majorities in passion draw
Insurgent swords to murder Law,
And all the land is red with crime,
Or — nearer menace ! — when the band
Of feeble spirits cringe and plead
To the gigantic strength of Greed,
And fawn upon his iron hand:
Nay, when the steps to power are worn
In hollows by the feet of thieves,
And Mammon sits among the sheaves
And chuckles while the reapers mourn —
Then stay Thy miracle! replace
The broken throne, repair the chain,
Restore the interrupted reign
And veil again thy patient face.
Lo! here upon the world’s extreme
We stand with lifted arms and dare
By thine eternal name to swear
Our country, which so fair we deem —
Upon whose hills — a bannered throng —
The spirits of the dawn display
Their flashing lances all the day
And hears the sea’s pacific song —
Shall be so ruled in right and grace
That men shall say: “O drive afield
The lawless eagle from the shield,
And call an angel to the place!”
— Ambrose Bierce.
Biercian Texts
Sierra Mojada, a Mexican city in the north-eastern state of Coahuila. Oral tradition in the area claims t
hat Bierce was executed by firing squad in the town cemetery. In October 1913, Bierce, aged 71, departed Washington, D.C., for a tour of his old Civil War battlefields. His sudden vanishing in Coahuila has since become one of the most famous disappearances in literary history.
LIST OF BIERCIAN ARTICLES AND REVIEWS
New England Magazine Article, 1893
Personal Memories of Ambrose Bierce by Bailey Millard
Ambrose Bierce by R. F. Dibble
Ambrose Bierce by Forrest Crissey
The Mystery of Ambrose Bierce by Richard Barry
The Mystery of Ambrose Bierce
Bierce: The Warrior Writer by H. M. East, Jr.
The Mexican Review. I.
The Mexican Review. II.
Ambrose Bierce’s Death Charged to Villa Band
New England Magazine Article, 1893
From: New England Magazine, May 1893, page 7
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 332