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.
* * *
Since coming here I have been ill all the time, but it seems my duty to remain as long as there is a hope that I can remain. If I get free from my disorder and the fear of it I shall go down to San Francisco some day and then try to see your people and mine. Perhaps you would help me to find my brother's new house—if he is living in it.
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.
Dear Blanche,