Delphi Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Illustrated)
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To the perils herein pointed out authors are peculiarly exposed. The world has apparently agreed that he who writes for publication shall write for nothing else. I have heard men of decent life and social repute gravely defend the thesis that the public has a right to all that an author has written; and as his letters are likely to be rather more interesting than those of one who works at another trade, they are held to have a value disproportionate to the mere fame of their writer. We all concede the virtue of abstention from theft of a paste jewel, but a real diamond I — that is another matter.
The people are not pigs; the author of their favorite personal letters need not have a great personal renown. If he has uttered a sufficient body of private correspondence they are willing to forgive him for their inattention to his public work. Their purveyors are even more liberal in the matter: they do not insist on an excellent epistolary style nor anything of that kind. An intimate “human document” in ailing syntax is quite as available for their purpose as one baring the heart of a grammarian. The Filial Correspondence of George Ade is foredoomed to as sharp a competition among dealers as The Love Letters of Professor Harry Thurston Peck, Stylist.
It may be thought that all this is a cry from the deep and dark of a great fear. Not so; since I became a public writer I have never engaged in a correspondence in which it has not been distinctly understood that my letters were never to be printed. Only through an impossible treachery can the public ever have the happiness and profit of reading them. As to love-letters I am clean-handed: all mine have been written in honorable payment for favors and, as Conscience is my willing witness, I never meant one word of them.
A BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
AWAY up in the heart of the Allegheny mountains, in Pocahontas county, West Virginia, is a beautiful little valley through which flows the east fork of the Greenbrier river. At a point where the valley road intersects the old Staunton and Parkersburg turnpike, a famous thoroughfare in its day, is a post office in a farm house. The name of the place is Travelers’ Repose, for it was once a tavern. Crowning some low hills within a stone’s throw of the house are long lines of old Confederate fortifications, skilfully designed and so well “preserved” that an hour’s work by a brigade would put them into serviceable shape for the next civil war. This place had its battle — what was called a battle in the “green and salad days” of the great rebellion. A brigade of Federal troops, the writer’s regiment among them, came over Cheat mountain, fifteen miles to the westward, and, stringing its lines across the little valley, felt the enemy all day; and the enemy did a little feeling, too. There was a great cannonading, which killed about a dozen on each side; then, finding the place too strong for assault, the Fédérals called the affair a reconnaissance in force, and burying their dead withdrew to the more comfortable place whence they had come. Those dead now lie in a beautiful national cemetery at Grafton, duly registered, so far as identified, and companioned by other Federal dead gathered from the several camps and battlefields of West Virginia. The fallen soldier (the word “hero” appears to be a later invention) has such humble honors as it is possible to give.
His part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the Summer hills
Is that his grave is green.
True, more than a half of the green graves in the Grafton cemetery are marked “Unknown,” and sometimes it occurs that one thinks of the contradiction involved in “honoring the memory” of him of whom no memory remains to honor; but the attempt seems to do no great harm to the living, even to the logical.
A few hundred yards to the rear of the old Confederate earthworks is a wooded hill. Years ago it was not wooded. Here, among the trees and in the undergrowth, are rows of shallow depressions, discoverable by removing the accumulated forest leaves. From some of them may be taken (and reverently replaced) small thin slabs of the split stone of the country, with rude and reticent inscriptions by comrades. I found only one with a date, only one with full names of man and regiment. The entire number found was eight.
In these forgotten graves rest the Confederate dead — between eighty and one hundred, as nearly as can be made out. Some fell in the “battle;” the majority died of disease. Two, only two, have apparently been disinterred for reburial at their homes. So neglected and obscure in this campo santo that only he upon whose farm it is — the aged postmaster of Travelers’ Repose — appears to know about it Men living within a mile have never heard of it. Yet other men must be still living who assisted to lay these Southern soldiers where they are, and could identify some of the graves. Is there a man, North or South, who would begrudge the expense of giving to these fallen brothers the tribute of green graves? One would rather not think so. True, there are several hundreds of such places still discoverable in the track of the great war. All the stronger is the dumb demand — the silent plea of these fallen brothers to what is “likest God within the soul.”
They were honest and courageous foemen, having little in common with the political madmen who persuaded them to their doom and the literary bearers of false witness in the aftertime. They did not live through the period of honorable strife into the period of vilification — did not pass from the iron age to the brazen — from the era of the sword to that of the tongue and pen. Among them is no member of the Southern Historical Society. Their valor was not the fury of the non-combatant; they have no voice in the thunder of the civilians and the shouting. Not by them are impaired the dignity and infinite pathos of the Lost Cause. Give them, these blameless gentlemen, their rightful part in all the pomp that fills the circuit of the summer hills.
1903.
THE BATTLE OF NASHVILLE
An Attack of General Debility
First published in the Wasp (San Francisco), July 14, 1883.
A line in last Tuesday’s dispatches, to the effect that a French colony in Senegal has been attacked by typhus fever, recalls an incident of the civil war. After the battle of Nashville I happened to be serving on the staff of the illustrious General Sam Beatty, of Ohio. His command was at one time greatly scattered in pursuit of the enemy, who retired sullenly, and one brigade of it held a peculiarly exposed position some ten miles from General Sam’s headquarters. There was a telegraph, however, and one day the commander of this brigade sent the general a dispatch which read thus: “Please relieve me; I am suffering from an attack of General Debility.” “The ablest cavalry officer in the Confederate army,” said my honored chief, showing me the telegram. “I served under him in Mexico.” And he promptly prescribed three regiments of infantry and a battery of Rodman guns.
I was directed to pilot that expedition to the scene of the disaster to our arms. I never felt so brave in all my life. I rode a hundred yards in advance, prepared to expostulate single-handed with the victorious enemy at whatever point I might encounter him. I dashed forward through every open space into every suspicious looking wood and spurred to the crest of every hill, exposing myself recklessly to draw the Confederates’ fire and disclose their position. I told the commander of the relief column that he need not throw out any advance guard as a precaution against an ambuscade — I would myself act in that perilous capacity, and by driving in the rebel skirmishers gain time for him to form his line of battle in case I should not be numerically strong enough to scoop up the entire opposition at one wild dash. I begged him, however, to recover my body if I fell.
There was no fighting: the forces of General Debility had conquered nobody but the brigade commander — his troops were holding their ground nobly, reading dime novels and playing draw poker pending the arrival of our succoring command. The official reports of this affair explained, a little obscurely, that there had been a misunderstanding; but my unusual gallantry elicited the highest commendation in general orders, and will never, I trust, be forgotten by a grateful country.
ON BLACK SOLDIERING
First published in the San Francisco Examiner, June 5, 1898.
A skeptical correspondent asks me for a
n opinion of the fighting qualities of our colored regiments. Really I had thought the question settled long ago. The Negro will fight and fight well. From the time when we began to use him in civil war, through all his service against Indians on the frontier, to this day he has not failed to acquit himself acceptable to his White officers. I the more cheerfully testify to this because I was at one time a doubter. Under a general order from the headquarters of the Army, or possibly from the War Department, I once in a burst of ambition applied for rank as a field officer of colored troops, being then a line officer of white troops. Before my application was acted on I had repented and persuaded myself that the darkies would not fight; so when ordered to report to the proper board of officers, with a view to gratification of my wish, I “backed out” and secured “influence” which enabled me to remain in my humbler station. But at the battle of Nashville it was borne in upon me that I had made a fool of myself. During the two days of that memorable engagement the only reverse sustained by our arms was in an assault upon Overton Hill, a fortified salient of the Confederate line on the second day. The troops repulsed were a brigade of Beatty’s division and a colored brigade of raw troops which had been brought up from a camp of instruction at Chattanooga. I was serving on Gen. Beatty’s staff, but was not doing duty that day, being disabled by a wound — just sitting in the saddle and looking on. Seeing the darkies going in on our left I was naturally interested and observed them closely. Better fighting was never done. The front of the enemy’s earthworks was protected by an intricate abatis of felled trees denuded of their foliage and twigs. Through this obstacle a cat would have made slow progress; its passage by troops under fire was hopeless from the first — even the inexperienced black chaps must have known that. They did not hesitate a moment: their long lines swept into that fatal obstruction in perfect order and remained there as long as those of the white veterans on their right. And as many of them in proportion remained until borne away and buried after the action. It was as pretty an example of courage and discipline as one could wish to see. In order that my discomfiture and humiliation might lack nothing of completeness I was told afterward that one of their field officers succeeded in forcing his horse through a break in the abatis and was shot to rags on the slope on the parapet. But for my abjuration of faith in the Negroes’ fighting qualities I might perhaps have been so fortunate as to be that man!
The Essays
A caricature of Bierce from a London periodical
LIST OF ESSAYS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE SHADOW ON THE DIAL
CIVILIZATION
THE GAME OF POLITICS
SOME FEATURES OF THE LAW
ARBITRATION
INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT
CRIME AND ITS CORRECTIVES
THE DEATH PENALTY
RELIGION
IMMORTALITY
OPPORTUNITY
CHARITY
EMANCIPATED WOMAN
THE OPPOSING SEX
THE AMERICAN SYCOPHANT
A DISSERTATION ON DOGS
THE ANCESTRAL BOND
THE RIGHT TO WORK
THE RIGHT TO TAKE ONESELF OFF
AIMS AND THE PLAN
THE BLACKLIST
ASHES OF THE BEACON
THE PRUDE IN LETTERS AND LIFE
THE BEATING OF THE BLOOD
THERE ARE CORNS IN EGYPT
A REEF IN THE GABARDINE
ENTER A TROUPE OF ANCIENTS, DANCING
CAIRO REVISITED
JAPAN WEAR AND BOMBAY DUCKS
IN THE BOTTOM OF THE CRUCIBLE
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE
THEY ALL DANCE
LUST, QUOTH’A!
OUR GRANDMOTHERS’ LEGS
CIVILIZATION
THE GIFT O’ GAB
NATURA BENIGNA
THE DEATH PENALTY
IMMORTALITY
EMANCIPATED WOMAN
A MAD WORLD
EPIGRAMS OF A CYNIC
SOME PRIVATIONS OF THE COMING MAN
CIVILIZATION OF THE MONKEY
THE SOCIALIST — WHAT HE IS, AND WHY
GEORGE THE MADE-OVER
JOHN SMITH’S ANCESTORS
THE MOON IN LETTERS
COLUMBUS
THE RELIGION OF THE TABLE
REVISION DOWNWARD
THE ART OF CONTROVERSY
IN THE INFANCY OF “TRUSTS”
POVERTY, CRIME AND VICE
DECADENCE OF THE AMERICAN FOOT
THE CLOTHING OF GHOSTS
SOME ASPECTS OF EDUCATION
THE REIGN OF THE RING
FIN DE SIECLE
TIMOTHY H. REARDEN
THE PASSING OF THE HORSE
NEWSPAPERS
A BENIGN INVENTION
ACTORS AND ACTING
THE VALUE OF TRUTH
SYMBOLS AND FETISHES
DID WE EAT ONE ANOTHER?
THE BACILLUS OF CRIME
THE GAME OF BUTTON
SLEEP
CONCERNING PICTURES
MODERN WARFARE
CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR
ON PUTTING ONE’S HEAD INTO ONE’S BELLY
THE AMERICAN CHAIR
ANOTHER “COLD SPELL”
THE LOVE OF COUNTY
DISINTRODUCTIONS
THE TYRANNY OF FASHION
BREACHES OF PROMISE
THE TURKO-GRECIAN WAR
CATS OF CHEYENNE
THANKSGIVING DAY
THE HOUR AND THE MAN
MORTUARY ELECTROPLATING
THE AGE ROMANTIC
THE WAR EVERLASTING
ON THE USES OF EUTHANASIA
THE SCOURGE OF LAUGHTER
THE LATE LAMENTED
DETHRONEMENT OF THE ATOM
DOGS FOR THE KLONDIKE
MONSTERS AND EGGS
MUSIC
MALFEASANCE IN OFFICE
FOR STANDING ROOM
THE JEW
WHY THE HUMAN NOSE HAS A WESTERN EXPOSURE
ON A MOUNTAIN
WHAT I SAW OF SHILOH
A LITTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA
THE CRIME AT PICKETT’S MILL
FOUR DAYS IN DIXIE
WHAT OCCURRED AT FRANKLIN
WAY DOWN IN ALABAM
WORKING FOR AN EMPRESS
ACROSS THE PLAINS
THE MIRAGE
A SOLE SURVIVOR
THE NOVEL
ON LITERARY CRITICISM
STAGE ILLUSION
THE MATTER OF MANNER
ON READING NEW BOOKS
ALPHABETES AND BORDER RUFFIANS
TO TRAIN A WRITER
AS TO CARTOONING
THE S. P. W.
PORTRAITS OF ELDERLY AUTHORS
WIT AND HUMOR
WORD CHANGES AND SLANG
THE RAVAGES OF SHAKSPEARITIS
ENGLAND’S LAUREATE
HALL CAINE ON HALL CAINING
VISIONS OF THE NIGHT
EDWIN MARKHAM’S POEMS
THE KREUTZER SONATA
EMMA FRANCES DAWSON
MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF
A POET AND HIS POEM
AN INSURRECTION OF THE PEASANTRY
MONTAGUES AND CAPULETS
A DEAD LION
THE SHORT STORY
WHO ARE GREAT?
POETRY AND VERSE
THOUGHT AND FEELING
THE PASSING OF SATIRE
SOME DISADVANTAGES OF GENIUS
OUR SACROSANCT ORTHOGRAPHY
THE AUTHOR AS AN OPPORTUNITY
ON POSTHUMOUS RENOWN
THE CRIME OF INATTENTION
FETISHISM
OUR AUDIBLE SISTERS
THE NEW PENOLOGY
THE NATURE OF WAR
HOW TO GROW GREAT
A WAR IN THE ORIENT
A JUST DECISION
THE LION’S DEN
A FLOURISHING INDUSTRY
THE RURAL PRESS
TO ELEVATE THE STAGE
PECTOLITE
LA BOULANGERE
A DUBIOUS VINDICATION
THE JAMAICAN MONGOOSE
A POSSIBLE BENEFACTOR
WARLIKE AMERICA
WRITERS OF DIALECT
ON KNOWING ONE’S BUSINESS — AN INSTANCE
A TRADE OF REFUGE
THE DEATH PENALTY
A ROLLING CONTINENT
A MONUMENT TO ADAM
HYPNOTISM
AT THE DRAIN OF THE WASHBASIN
GODS IN CHICAGO
FOR LAST WORDS
THE CHAIR OF LITTLE EASE
A GHOST IN THE UNMAKING
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
FAT BABIES AND FATE
CERTAIN AREAS OF OUR SEAMY SIDE
FOR BREVITY AND CLARITY
GENIUS AS A PROVOCATION
A BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
THE BATTLE OF NASHVILLE
ON BLACK SOLDIERING
LIST OF ESSAYS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A BENIGN INVENTION
A BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
A DEAD LION
A DISSERTATION ON DOGS
A DUBIOUS VINDICATION
A FLOURISHING INDUSTRY
A GHOST IN THE UNMAKING
A JUST DECISION
A LITTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA
A MAD WORLD
A MONUMENT TO ADAM
A POET AND HIS POEM
A POSSIBLE BENEFACTOR
A REEF IN THE GABARDINE
A ROLLING CONTINENT
A SOLE SURVIVOR
A TRADE OF REFUGE
A WAR IN THE ORIENT
ACROSS THE PLAINS
ACTORS AND ACTING
ADVICE TO OLD MEN
AIMS AND THE PLAN
ALPHABETES AND BORDER RUFFIANS
AN INSURRECTION OF THE PEASANTRY
ANOTHER “COLD SPELL”
ARBITRATION
AS TO CARTOONING
ASHES OF THE BEACON
AT THE DRAIN OF THE WASHBASIN
BREACHES OF PROMISE
CAIRO REVISITED
CATS OF CHEYENNE
CERTAIN AREAS OF OUR SEAMY SIDE
CHARITY
CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR
CIVILIZATION
CIVILIZATION
CIVILIZATION OF THE MONKEY