When one is intent upon pleasing some mortal, one is less intent upon pleasing the immortal Muse. All this is said only by way of admonition for the future, not in criticism of the past. I'm a sinner myself in that way, but then I'm not a saint in any way, so my example doesn't count. I don't mind * * * calling me a "dignified old gentleman"--indeed, that is what I have long aspired to be, but have succeeded only in the presence of strangers, and not always then. * * * (I forgot to say that your poem is now in the hands of the editor of the Atlantic.) Your determination to "boom" me almost frightens me. Great Scott! you've no notion of the magnitude of the task you undertake; the labors of Hercules were as nothing to it. Seriously, don't make any enemies that way; it is not worth while. And you don't know how comfortable I am in my obscurity. It is like being in "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." How goes the no sale of Shapes of Clay? I am slowly saving up a bit of money to recoup your friendly outlay. That's a new thing for me to do--the saving, I mean--and I rather enjoy the sensation. If it results in making a miser of me you will have to answer for it to many a worthy complainant. Get thee behind me, Satan!--it is not possible for me to go to California yet. For one thing, my health is better here in the East; I have utterly escaped asthma this summer, and summer is my only "sickly season" here. In California I had the thing at any time o' year--even at Wright's. But it is my hope to end my days out there. I don't think Millard was too hard on Kipling; it was no "unconscious" plagiarism; just a "straight steal." About Prentice Mulford. I knew him but slightly and used to make mild fun of him as "Dismal Jimmy." That expressed my notion of his character and work, which was mostly prose platitudes. I saw him last in London, a member of the Joaquin Miller-Charles Warren Stoddard-Olive Harper outfit at 11 Museum Street, Bloomsbury Square. He married there a fool girl named Josie--forget her other name--with whom I think he lived awhile in hell, then freed himself, and some years afterward returned to this country and was found dead one morning in a boat at Sag Harbor. Peace to the soul of him. No, he was not a faker, but a conscientious fellow who mistook his vocation. My friends have returned to Washington, but I expect to remain here a few weeks yet, infesting the woods, devastating the mountain larders, supervising the sunsets and guiding the stars in their courses. Then to New York, and finally to Washington. Please get busy with that fame o' yours so as to have the wealth to come and help me loaf. I hope you don't mind the typewriter--_I_ don't. Convey my love to all the sweet ladies of your entourage and make my compliments also to the Gang. Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE. [Washington, October 5, 1904.] DEAR GEORGE,