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_ Brilliant and magnetic as are these two studies by Ambrose Bierce, and
especially significant as coming from one who was a boy soldier in the
Civil War, they merely reflect one side of his original and many-faceted
genius. Poet, critic, satirist, fun-maker, incomparable writer of fables
and masterly prose sketches, a seer of startling insight, a reasoner
mercilessly logical, with the delicate wit and keenness of an Irving or
an Addison, the dramatic quality of a Hugo, - all of these, and still in
the prime of his powers; yet so restricted has been his output and so
little exploited that only the judicious few have been impressed.
Although an American, he formed his bent years ago in London, where he
was associated with the younger Hood on Fun. There he laid the
foundation for that reputation which he today enjoys: the distinction of
being the last of the scholarly satirists. With that training he came to
San Francisco, where, in an environment equally as genial, his talent
grew and mellowed through the years. Then he was summoned to New York to
assist a newspaper fight against a great railroad, since the conclusion
of which brilliant campaign eastern journalism and magazine work have
claimed his attention.
Two volumes, "The Fiend's Delight" and "Cobwebs from an Empty Skull"
titles that would damn modern books - were collections published years
ago from his work on London Fun. Their appearance made him at once the
chief wit and humorist of England, and, combined with his satirical work
on Fun, led to his engagement by friends of the exiled Eugénie to
conduct a periodical against her enemies, who purposed to make her
refuge in England untenable by means of newspaper attacks. It is easy to
imagine the zest with which the chivalrous Bierce plunged into
preparations for the fight. But the struggle never came; it was
sufficient to learn that Bierce would be the Richmond; the attack upon
the stricken ex-empress was abandoned.
When he was urged in San Francisco, years afterward, to write more of
the inimitable things that filled those two volumes, he said that it was
only fun, a boy's work. Only fun! There has never been such delicious
fun since the beginning of literature, and there is nothing better than
fun. Yet it held his own peculiar quality, which is not that of American
fun, - quality of a brilliant intellectuality: the keenness of a rapier,
a teasing subtlety, a contempt for pharisaism and squeamishness, and
above all a fine philosophy. While he has never lost his sense of the
whimsical, the grotesque, the unusual, he - unfortunately, perhaps -
came oftener to give it the form of pure wit rather than of cajoling
humor. Few Americans know him as a humorist, because his humor is not
built on the broad, rough lines that are typically American. It belongs
to an older civilization, yet it is jollier than the English and bolder
than the French.
At all times his incomparable wit and satire has appealed rather to the
cultured, and even the emotional quality of his fiction is frequently so
profound and unusual as to be fully enjoyed only by the intellectually
untrammelled. His writing was never for those who could only read and
feel, not think.
Another factor against his wider acceptance has been the infrequency and
fragmentary character of his work, particularly his satire. No sustained
fort in that field has come from him. His satire was born largely of a
transient stimulus, and was evanescent. Even his short stories are,
generally, but blinding flashes of a moment in a life. He laughingly
ascribes the meagerness of his output to indolence; but there may be a
deeper reason, of which he is unconscious. What is more dampening than a
seeming lack of appreciation? "Tales of Soldiers and Civilians" had a
disheartening search for an established publisher, and finally was
brought out by an admiring merchant of San Francisco. It attracted so
much critical attention that its re-publication was soon undertaken by a
regular house.
Had Bierce never produced anything but these prose tales, his right to a
place high in American letters would nevertheless be secure, and of all
his work, serious or otherwise, here is his greatest claim to popular
and permanent recognition. No stories for which the Civil War has
furnished such dramatic setting surpass these masterpieces of short
fiction, either in power of description, subtlety of touch or literary
finish. It is deeply to be regretted that he has not given us more such
prose.
W. C. Morrow. _
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