The Letters of Ambrose Bierce, With a Memoir by George Sterling

by Ambrose Bierce

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That is a pretty picture of Phyllis as Cleopatra—whom I think you used to call "the angel child"—as the Furies were called Eumenides.

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I'm enclosing a review of your book in the St. Louis "Mirror," a paper always kindly disposed toward our little group of gifted obscurians. I thought you might not have seen it; and it is worth seeing. Percival Pollard sends it me; and to him we owe our recognition by the "Mirror."

I hope you prosper apace. I mean mentally and spiritually; all other prosperity is trash.

Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Washington, D. C.,
April 17,
1905.

Dear George,

I've reached your letter on my file. I wonder that I did, for truly I'm doing a lot of work—mostly of the pot-boiler, newspaper sort, some compiling of future—probably very future—books and a little for posterity.