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 art ; 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 feel that way I cannot advise you to meddle with it.
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.
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 same. The fact that they are a part of her mitigates neither their hatred nor their fear.
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.
Please give my love to all your people, and forgive my intolerably long letters or retaliate in kind.
Sincerely your friend,Ambrose Bierce.
St. Helena,August 15,1892.them class self
In timely illustration of some of this is an article by Ingersoll in the current North American Review 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 all 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 them . But, bless my soul! I did not mean to say all this.
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, de lusions) that you are required to forego. I know the abysmal ignorance of the world and human character which, as a girl, 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.
You ask me of journalism. It is so low a thing that it may 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 may be one of them; though that is not the purpose-in-chief, by much.
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 with reference to literature . 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.
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 call to write quite sure that it is not 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 help you.
With sincere regards to all your family, I am most truly your friend, Ambrose Bierce.
Your letters are very pleasing to me. I think it nice of you to write them.
St. Helena,August 17,1892.
It was not that I forgot to mail you the magazine that I mentioned; I could not find it; but now I send it.
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.