_Of course_ I expect to say something of Scheff's book, but in no paper with which I have a present connection can I regularly "review" it. Hearst's papers would give it incomparably the widest publicity, but they don't want "reviews" from me. They have Millard, who has already reviewed it--right well too--and Prof. Peck--who possibly might review it if it were sent to him. "Prof. Harry Thurston Peck, care of 'The American,' New York City." Mention it to Scheff. I'm trying to find out what I can do. I'm greatly pleased to observe your ability to estimate the relative value of your own poems--a rare faculty. "To Imagination" is, _I_ think, the best of all your short ones. I'm impatient for the book. It, too, I shall hope to write something about. Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE. [Navarre Hotel and Importation Co., Seventh Avenue and 38th St., New York, December 26, 1903.] DEAR GEORGE, A thousand cares have prevented my writing to you--and Scheff. And this is to be a "busy day." But I want to say that I've not been unmindful of your kindness in sending the book--which has hardly left my pocket since I got it. And I've read nothing in it more than once, excepting the "Testimony." _That_ I've studied, line by line--and "precept by precept"--finding in it always "something rich and strange." It is greater than I knew; it is the greatest "ever"! I'm saying a few words about it in tomorrow's "American"--would that I had a better place for what I say and more freedom of saying. But they don't want, and won't have, "book reviews" from me; probably because I will not undertake to assist their advertising publishers. So I have to disguise my remarks and work up to them as parts of another topic. In this case I have availed myself of my favorite "horrible example," Jim Riley, who ought to be proud to be mentioned on the same page with you. After all, the remarks may not appear; I have the _littlest_ editor that ever blue-penciled whatever he thought particularly dear to the writer. I'm here for only a few days, I hope. * * * * * I want to say that you seem to me greatest when you have the greatest subject--not flowers, women and all that,--but something above the flower-and-woman belt--something that you see from altitudes from which _they_ are unseen and unsmelled. Your poetry is incomparable with that of our other poets, but your thought, philosophy,--that is greater yet. But I'm writing this at a desk in the reading room of a hotel; when I get home I'll write you again.