Your letter has just been forwarded from Washington. I'm here for a
few days only--"few days and full of trouble," as the Scripture hath
it. The "trouble" is mainly owling, dining and booze. I'll not attempt
an answer to your letter till I get home.
* * * * *
I'm going to read Hopper's book, and if it doesn't show him to be a
* * * or a * * * I'll call on him. If it does I won't. I'm getting
pretty particular in my old age; the muck-rakers, blood-boilers and
little brothers-of-the-bad are not congenial.
By the way, why do you speak of my "caning" you. I did not suppose
that _you_ had joined the innumerable caravan of those who find
something sarcastic or malicious in my good natured raillery in
careless controversy. If I choose to smile in ink at your
inconsistency in weeping for the woes of individual "others"--meaning
other _humans_--while you, of course, don't give a damn for the
thousands of lives that you crush out every time you set down your
foot, or eat a berry, why shouldn't _I_ do so? One can't always
remember to stick to trifles, even in writing a letter. Put on your
skin, old man, I may want to poke about with my finger again.
* * * * *
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Washington, D. C.,
December 11, 1908.]