What work Bierce did for the San Francisco journals immediately upon his return must have been under a pen name. There is no mention of him in any of the early journals until June 24th, 1876, when there appears a letter to the editor of The News-Letter from “A. G. Bierce” dated in San Francisco, enclosing Bierce’s version of the poem “Dies Iræ.” He might have done, and probably did do, a good deal of free-lancing during these months in an effort to reëstablish himself in journalism, but whatever work he did, it is buried to-day in a manner that would defy exhumation.
Bierce found, upon his return to the coast, that conditions had radically changed during his absence. The impossible prosperity of the sixties had abated and the spectre of unemployment stalked the state. Thousands had been lured to the coast by fabulous yarns of gold, only to be stripped of their earnings and property. When the boom subsided, they naturally cried for work. But, in the meantime, a new class of laborers had preëmpted the field. The Chinese had been shipped into the country by the thousands to work on the Central Pacific Railroad under the supervision of Crocker, the labor-boss of the famous Stanford-Huntington-Hopkins group. When Bierce left for the West in 1866, he saw the eastern section of the trans-continental railroad at work in Nebraska and he met the western construction unit at Dutch Flats. When the work was well under way, it is said that “Charlie” Crocker had approximately ten thousand Chinese at work on the western division.
This cheap labor was effective at the time, although no one seemed to realize that the Chinese intended to stay in America after the road was completed. There had been slight demonstrations against the Chinese as early as 1854, but popular feeling did not reach its crest until after the railroad was constructed. The situation was somewhat alleviated by the Burlingame Treaty in 1868, which secured certain rights to the Chinese. But with the panic of 1873, there came a serious economic depression and the unthinking immediately attributed this condition to the presence of the coolie, who has ever since been a favorite scapegoat. The economic depression culminating in the panic was due to causes that bore no relation to the fact that Chinese were employed in large numbers; it was simply a period of post-boom depression, a common phenomenon in California. The collapse of the Bank of California, which, under the leadership of William C. Ralston, was the leading financial institution of the state, precipitated the panic. It was most seriously felt during 1876 and was accompanied with a sharp depression in the mining stocks which had driven California wild with the fever of speculation during the late sixties. Out of this period of doubt and misgiving, of economic depression and unemployment, came the figure of Denis Kearney.
This young Irishman had been a drayman in San Francisco, in the early days, and had secured some training in oratory at a “Lyceum of Self-Culture.” With this meager background, his demagoguery could not be other than the dangerous, incendiary stuff that it was. Kearney began to whip the crowds of unemployed into frenzies of wrath. So keen did the agitation become that during the winter of 1877 a business men’s vigilance committee was formed, analogous to the earlier Vigilante Committee, and headed by the redoubtable William Coleman. This committee was styled “The Pick-Handle Brigade” from the weapon found most productive of orderliness. Kearney, and his lieutenants, delivered their blood-curdling harangues before mobs that gathered on the vacant sand lots near the city hall. Hence the movement was later known as Sandlotism. It was during the first few weeks in 1877 that Kearney led a mob to burn the mansions on Nob Hill, but, like most of Kearney’s enterprises, this worthy architectural reform failed of consummation. To make a bad condition worse, several journals of the day, notably The Chronicle and The Call, seeing a chance to win popular favor, took up the cause of Kearney, and with the aid of these billows the movement was converted into a hurricane. The Workingmen’s Party of California (“W. P. C.”) was formed and it seemed as though Kearney might gain control of the state.
Something had to be done about Kearney. It was this necessity that gave birth to The Argonaut. Its founder, Frank Pixley, was a most interesting character. He was a bit of the soldier and pioneer, and had once been United States District Attorney in San Francisco. Ambitious politically and possessing an overpowering lust for money, he was yet a man of courage. He decided to run Denis Kearney out of San Francisco, and to make the place most uncomfortable for the Irish Catholics generally. With this end in mind, he founded The Argonaut. But at the time he established the journal he was scarcely literate. A young man once sent in a poem to the publication which was accepted. A few days after its appearance, the poet met Mr. Pixley and thanked him for printing his “sonnet.” Pixley stared at the poet with incredulous eyes and said: “What’s a sonnet?” Having no experience as a journalist, Pixley needed an editor. He associated with him a very brilliant journalist, Fred Somers, who went east in later years to found Current Literature. Somers, in turn, selected Bierce as managing editor. This selection was inevitable. Bierce fitted every requirement: he had a name on the coast as a great satirical journalist, and, moreover, he possessed the halo of a “London” reputation. He stood far above the rank and file of the profession on the coast and he was, at the moment, unemployed.
The first issue of The Argonaut appeared March 25th, 1877, and in this initial number appeared “The Prattler,” a column by “Bierce.” With almost the first issue, Bierce became virtually sole editor. Much dispute has raged on the coast as to whether Bierce ever actually “edited” The Argonaut. It is true that the masthead of the paper, during this period, carried the names “Frank Pixley and Fred Somers, Editors.” But Bierce himself once stated that he had edited the magazine, relating the circumstances, and neither Somers nor Pixley denied his statement. Then, too, “The Elite Directory” published in 1879 by The Argonaut Publishing Company, a subsidiary of the press, listed Bierce as “associate editor of The Argonaut.” It is quite apparent that Pixley was too busy to edit the paper, as was Fred Somers, who was interested in several private enterprises at the time, such as the little journal Figaro. Then too, there is the significant fact that one can literally see Bierce’s hand, throughout the early issues, in every department of the magazine.
“The Prattler” was the most important feature of the paper and was paraded, for a time, on the first page. The name of “Prattle” had been taken from Rochefort’s journal The Lantern, but in the first few issues Bierce called his column “The Prattler” and then changed it to “Prattle” and such it remained for practically twenty-five years. Bierce left little doubt in the minds of his readers as to what his editorial aims were, for he wrote in the first issue: “It is my intention to purify journalism in this town by instructing such writers as it is worth while to instruct, and assassinating those that it is not.” San Francisco was sorely in need of just this kind of treatment for, in truth, its journalism had fallen to a low level. The quality of its journalism in the fifties and sixties, when presses sprang up by the twenties overnight, was sprightly and full of charm. But, by 1877, this early enthusiasm had waned and “Mike” De Young was teaching his competitors that it was folly to devote any money or time to improving the quality of journalism. De Young belonged to those early precursors of modern journalism who, in an effort to be understood by the mob, talked so barbarically low that they became unintelligible.
These were busy days for Bierce. He wrote his two columns of “Prattle” every week, edited the paper, and wrote in addition numerous poems and articles, besides reprinting from time to time some of his “Parsee Fables.” It was about this time, too, that he began to publish those ghastly animal humorous stories of his, in childish dialect, called “Little Johnny and his Menagerie.” That Bierce could have written such stupid drivel has always remained a mystery. If Swift had written Boz it could not have been more surprising.
Bierce’s work for The Argonaut contained some droll remarks. For example, he noted that an insane woman had been found sleeping in a cemetery. The incident drew from him this comment: “Mary’s preference for lodging with
dead men is, I confess, indefensible, — she may not be demented; she is indisputably unique.” He noticed the name Clitus Babcock in the press of the day and had the temerity to remark: “Clitus Babcock — for whose first name might be substituted a work which, it is hoped, no one will have the hardihood to suggest.” It was during this period, too, that he wrote one of the most ruthless lines about “lovely woman” that he was ever to pen: “A woman in love is like a pig, which having firm standing ground roots it up, and if cast into deep water cuts its throat with its toes.”
There were many amusing incidents that grew out of remarks that Bierce made in “Prattle.” Many of these were exciting as well as amusing, and succeeded in keeping San Francisco’s more intelligent residents vastly entertained. Sometimes the unfortunate local poet — there was no one Bierce hated so much as a “local” poet — would retaliate. One of them, Hector Stuart, struck back at his tormentor by writing these verses:
“Here low in the dust,
As dry as a crust,
Lies Bierce, who befuddled newspapers;
Well-prized for his nob,
Very dear as a bob,
And noisome as Butcher Town vapors.
When he lived long enough
He belched his last puff,
And burst like a wad of gun-cotton;
Now here he doth lie,
Turned to a dirt pie,
Like all that he scribbled — forgotten.”
Bierce did not answer for a week or so and then he wrote this comment: “Concerning my epitaph by Hector S. Stuart, it is perhaps sufficient to say that I ought to be willing to have my name at the top of it if he is willing to have his at the bottom. As to Mr. Stuart’s opinion that my work will be soon forgotten, I can assure him that that view of the matter is less gloomy to me than it ought to be to him. I do not care for fame, and he does; and his only earthly chance of being remembered is through his humble connection with what I write.” Arrogant prophecy? and yet how extremely true! Bierce was clear headed and knew the worth of some of the things that he was writing, just as he realized very keenly his limitations, as I will have occasion to show a little later.
He returned to Stuart in a later issue, with these words: “Oh, Stuart, Stuart! — let not these dumb dead bones speak to thy hot blood in vain! In some incalculable distant age, after my scurvy prose shall have been forgotten, and before thy noble verse shall come to be read, how wilt thou like some delving antiquary to spade us out of our little mound — the dunghill upon which we fought and fell — the fingers of thy mouldy frame gripping the neck of mine? there in the blaze of the world’s eyes, dead in a deathless feud, two mortals immortally implacable! Why, man, it will look like murder. Stuart, let us be friends; throw down thy pen forever, and give me thy nose.” This Stuart, along with one Fred Emerson Brooks, suffered under Bierce’s withering blasts for years. Yet nothing could daunt their poetic ardor. They would write verse despite devils and tormentors. Finally Bierce seemed to weary of the chase and wrote: “Perseverance is, indeed, reckoned amongst our virtues, but then it is also one of the vices of local poets. Have they stopped writing? Have they shut down the back windows of their souls and ceased for even a week to pour a deluge of bosh upon the earth? Who began this thing? As the steel-trap said to the fox.”
I have related how men who deemed themselves insulted by some remark in “Prattle,” would walk into the office of The News-Letter and demand satisfaction. Perhaps the most amusing incident of this sort occurred while Bierce was on The Argonaut. It seems that one evening in October, 1878, a man by the name of Henry Widmer, who was an orchestra leader at the Baldwin Theater in San Francisco, entered the office of The Argonaut and asked Bierce if he was the author of certain lines in a prior issue of the paper. Bierce replied that he was; whereupon the man slapped him across the face. As well might he have thrown a match in a tank of gasoline, for Bierce immediately drew his gun and would have killed the man but for the timely intervention of Frank Pixley. Later Widmer gave an interview to The Chronicle, owned by “Mike” De Young, in which he called Bierce a coward. To this Bierce replied:
“Mr. Henry Widmer has not thought it expedient to act upon my studiously respectful suggestion that he disavow the insulting falsehoods published concerning me in his name. Moreover, I can prove him their author, — that he devoted the life which I mercifully spared to systematic defamation of my character and conduct. I, therefore, take this opportunity to remind those who have the misfortune to know him, and inform those who have not, that he has the distinguished honor to be, not a man of principle, but a ruffian; not a man of truth, but a liar; not a man of courage, but a coward. — In order that there may be no mistake as to what member of the canaille I mean, I will state that I refer to Fiddler Widmer, the charming blackguard.”
Such incidents were not isolated. “Prattle” was a rather exciting experience for the entire community and it remained so for many years.
As to Bierce’s other literary work at this time, there is little to be said. He was too busy with editorial duties to do much writing. But he would write an occasional poem and several stories appeared in The Argonaut, among them: “Night Doings at Deadman’s” and “The Famous Gilson Bequest.” Judged even by Bierce’s standards, these are not exceptional stories. They show the obvious influence of Bret Harte in their effort to be whimsical about the pioneer. Some of his other work at this time was, however, interesting. He wrote for The Argonaut a series of articles on prosody which revealed an amazingly accurate and precise knowledge of the subject. The articles were the primer in versification for many a budding poet. Then, too, in a regular department, he was publishing selections of French epigrams, the work of La Rochefoucauld, A. de la Salle, Stendhal, and others. It is undeniable that he studied the work of these men with great care and that he modeled his wit after theirs. Also, Emma Frances Dawson was making translations of E. T. A. Hoffman’s stories of horror and the supernatural, and that Bierce read these yarns with care is borne out by an examination of his later work.
While on The Argonaut, Bierce became a party to an amusing literary hoax. His co-conspirators were T. A. Harcourt, who had formerly contributed to The News-Letter, and William Rulofson, a well-known photographer in San Francisco. The idea for the book was largely Rulofson’s and he wrote most of the manuscript, which Bierce corrected, with Harcourt participating to some extent in the plot. There have been many conflicting statements about the authorship of “The Dance of Death,” but the version I give is based upon Bierce’s own account of the matter, published in the San Francisco Examiner, February 5th, 1888. The book purported to be a fierce attack on the seductive influence of the waltz, and it created a tremendous furore on the coast. Bierce stirred up considerable comment about the book by writing a vicious review of it in “Prattle” in which he said: “‘The Dance of Death’ is a highhanded outrage, a criminal assault upon public modesty, an indecent exposure of the author’s mind! From cover to cover it is one sustained orgasm of a fevered imagination — a long revel of intoxicated propensities. And this is the book in which local critics find a satisfaction to their minds and hearts! This is the poisoned chalice they are gravely commending to the lips of good women and pure girls! Their asinine praises may perhaps have this good effect: William Herman (the pen name used by Rulofson) may be tempted forth, to disclose his disputed identity and father his glory. Then he can be shot.”
Such propaganda must have been very efficacious, for “The Dance of Death” sold 18,000 copies in seven months, and was actually endorsed by a Methodist Church Conference! An answer to so provocative a book might have been expected and it was soon forthcoming in “The Dance of Life” by Mrs. J. Milton Bowers. Of this book Bierce wrote in his characteristically tender style: “It is the most resolute, hardened, and impenitent nonsense ever diffused by a daughter of the gods divinely dull.” Vincent Starrett, in his admirable “Bibliography,” intimates that Bierce might have written this book himself and advances some interest
ing evidence to support the theory. But I see no reason for doubting Bierce’s statement, made years later in The Examiner, that the book was actually written by the wife of Dr. Bowers. T. A. Harcourt, a fellow member of the Bohemian Club, and Bierce’s colleague in this enterprise, was an interesting character. He wrote some admirable verse in his day, and did some early translations of Zola. Shortly after collaborating on “The Dance of Death,” his wife deserted him and ran away with another man. Harcourt grew bitter and morose and proceeded to drink himself to death. He anticipated the slow decay of alcoholism by jumping out a window and committing suicide. It was of him that Bierce wrote the lines:
“Thus my friend, —
Still conjugating with each failing sense
The verb ‘to die’ in every mood and tense,
Pursued his awful humor to the end.
When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke
From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled,
And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.”
About 1880, Fred Somers, one of the proprietors of The Argonaut, resigned from the staff and sold out his interest in the magazine to become editor of The Californian, the most ambitious of Western literary magazines. He induced Bierce to write a series of articles on the dance, carrying on the controversy begun by the two books. These articles appeared under the general head of “On With the Dance!”, beginning with February, 1880, and were written under the nom de plume of “Bashi Bazourk.” Later Bierce collected them for republication in his “Collected Works” (Volume VIII). They constitute some of the most downright drivel that he was ever guilty of having written. Along with the regrettable “Little Johnnie” stories, they represent a dark blotch on an otherwise remarkably even record of performance.
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 350