California's diverse literary tradition contains some of the finest work of nineteenth century American humorists. But perhaps none of these works are as spicy with satire as Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary.
Bierce is often characterized as a confirmed misanthrope, and no wonder, given the dim view of human nature that emerges in his dictionary, as in the definitions for two key words, the pronoun "I" and the noun "Railroad."
Central Pacific Railroad Trestle, 1868.
I is the first letter of the alphabet, the first word of the language, the first thought of the mind, the first object of affection. In grammar it is a pronoun of the first person and singular number. Its plural is said to be We, but how there can be more than one myself is doubtless clearer to the grammarians that it is to the author of this incomparable dictionary. Conception of two myselves is difficult, but fine. The frank yet graceful use of "I" distinguishes a good writer from a bad; the latter carries it with the manner of a thief trying to cloak his loot.
Railroad, n. The chief of many mechanical devices enabling us to get away from where we are to where we are no better off. For this purpose the railroad is held in highest favor by the optimist, for it permits him to make the transit with great expedition.
Many of Bierce's dictionary entries first appeared in the pages of the San Francisco weekly The Wasp. Some of these were selected for the version of The Devil's Dictionary that appeared in 1911 as part of Ambrose Bierce's Collected Works.
"Welsh Coast in Fog," Alfred Sisley, 1887. Larger.
Californians associate the word "smog" so strongly with the city of Los Angeles and its addiction to the automobile, that it's startling to discover the word in a completely different context.
Ambrose Bierce delighted in writing his own devilish definitions for common—and not so common—words. His satiric description of the word "fog" is particularly noteworthy.
Fog, n. A substance remaining after the last analysis of San Francisco atmosphere—the sewer-gas, dust, cemetery effluvium, disease germs and other ingredients having been eliminated. Of these, however, dust is the chief; and as Mr. Edmund Yates, by combining the words "smoke" and "fog," gave to the London atmosphere the graphic name of "smog," we, in humble imitation but with inferior felicity, may confer upon our own grumous environment the title of "dog."
"Fog," and many other notable entries, did not appear in the 1911 version of The Devil's Dictionary, but was added to an enlarged version that appeared in 1967.
"The Liberal Tipton," caricature of Senator Thomas W. Tipton, a lawyer, in Harper's Weekly, March 23, 1872, by Thomas Nast. Larger.
Ambrose Bierce was one of California's best known journalistic misanthropes, his disdain for the general run of humanity legendary even in his own time.
But Bierce had a particularly grim view of lawyers, as evidenced in this 1882 poem, "The Legatee."
In fair San Francisco a good man did dwell,
And he wrote out a will, for he didn't feel well.
Said he, "It is proper, when making a gift,
To stimulate virtue by comforting thrift."
So he left all his property, legal and straight,
To "the cursedest rascal in all of the State."
But the name he refused to insert, for, said he:
"Let each man consider himself legatee."
In due course of time that philanthropist died,
And all San Francisco, and Oakland beside—
Save only the lawyers—came each with his claim,
The lawyers preferring the manage the same.
Nowadays it's common—if not exactly universal—for women to use the title "ms," which like the masculine title "mr" conveys nothing of marital status and establishes an equal respect between the sexes. Of course, as sardonic wit Ambrose Bierce shows us, there's a simple and elegant alternative.
During his tenure as editor of the San Francisco weekly The Wasp, Bierce began a series of satiric dictionary definitions, one of which, poked fun at titles.
Miss, n. A title with which we brand unmarried women to indicate they are in the market. Miss, Misses (Mrs.) and Mister (Mr.) are the three most distinctly disagreeable words in the language, in sound and sense. Two are corrupitons of Mistress, the other of Master. In the general abolition of social titles in this our country they miraculously escaped to plague us. If we must have them let us be consistent and give one to the unmarried man. I venture to suggest Mush, abbreviated to Mh.
Bierce continued writing his satiric definitions, "in a desultory way and at long intervals," until 1906. He collected many of them into volume seven of his 1911 Collected Works under the title of The Devil's Dictionary.
In the late nineteenth century Californians believed—-with some justification-—that railroads thrived through political manipulation and bribery. Crusading journalists sometimes took on the railroads, but no writer was more tenacious than Civil War veteran Ambrose Bierce.
"Rail rogues" like Leland Stanford and Collis Huntington were often the target of Bierce's poison pen. When the shovel used to turn the first sod in the construction of the Central Pacific was shown at a New Orleans Exhibition, he was inspired to create "Ode to the Central Pacific Spade."
Ambrose Bierce, painting by J. H. E. Partington, date unknown.
Precursor of our woes, historic spade,
What dismal records burn upon thy blade?
On thee I see the maculating stains
Of passengers' commingled blood and brains;
In this red rust a widow's curse appears,
And here an orphan tarnished thee with tears;
Upon thy handle sanguinary bands
Reveal the clutching of thine owner's hands
When first he wielded thee with vigor brave
To cut a sod and dig a people's grave—
(For they who are debauched are dead and ought,
In God's name, to be hid from sight and thought.)
Within thee, as within a magic glass,
I seem to see a foul procession pass—
Judges with ermine dragging in the mud
And spotted here and there with guiltless blood;
Gold-greedy legislators jingling bribes,
Kept editors and sycophantic scribes;
Liars in swarms and plunderers in tribes.
They fade away before the night's advance,
And fancy figures thee a devil's lance
Gleaming portentous through the misty shade,
While ghosts of murdered virtues shriek around thy blade.
Ambrose Bierce's career as journalist, poet, and fiction writer came to a mysterious end, when in 1914 he crossed the border during the Mexican revolution. No one knows for certain what became of him.
"Oscar Wilde, The Modern Messiah," The Wasp, March 31, 1882. Larger.
Such is the hunger of Californians for the sublime that the Golden State has been a cordial host to performers, artists, and writers eager to share their insights into the fine arts. But even the most cordial host takes offense when visting artists get a little full of themselves.
Ambrose Bierce attended a lecture given by the distinguished aesthete Oscar Wilde, who deigned to instruct San Franciscans on art appreciation, a lecture Bierce characterized as "mere verbal ditch water."
That sovereign of insufferables, Oscar Wilde, has ensued with his opulance of twaddle and his penury of sense. He has mounted his hind legs and blown crass vapidities through the bowel of his neck, to the capital edificaton of circumjacent fools and foolesses, fooling with their foolers. He has tossed off the top of his head and uttered himself in copious overflows of ghastly bosh. The ineffable dunce has nothing to say and says it--says it with a liberal embellishment of bad delivery, embroidering it with reasonless vulgarities of attitude, gesture and attire. There was never an imposter so hateful, a blockhead so stupid, a crank so variously and offensively daft.
. . . . He makes me tired.
Ambrose Bierce was never shy about sharing his opinions with his readers, as this 1882 article from the San Francisco Wasp aptly demonstrates.
The honesty and good-sense of public officials has long been the subject of California writing, which often has taken the form of satire or parody.
During the time that Ambrose Bierce was editor of the San Francisco weekly, The Wasp, he took special pleasure in making sure readers were constantly reminded of the shortcomings of government officials and others who profited from the public treasury, as in this 1882 parodic version of Samuel F. Smith's "America" (My Country, 'Tis of Thee).
"Growth of Our National Flag," History of the US, illustration, 1885. Larger.
My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of felony,
Of thee I sing—
Land where my fathers fried
Young witches and applied
Whips to the Quaker's hide
And made him spring.
My knavish country, thee,
Land where the thief is free,
Thy laws I love;
I love thy thieving bills
That tap the people's tills;
I love thy mob whose will's
All laws above.
Let Federal employees
And rings rob all they please,
The whole year long.
Let office-holders make
Their piles and judges rake
Our coin. For Jesus' sake,
Let's all go wrong!
Though perhaps best known today for his wickedly witty Devil's Dictionary, in his own time, Ambrose Bierce's verse delighted his contemporaries, making him one of the best-known writers of his era.
From ghost stories to crime novels to muckraking fiction, California writers have created some of our best American narratives. But, according to one our better known California authors, not every writer who picks up a pen should be encouraged.
Ambrose Bierce was himself a consumate writer of short stories. Perhaps that's why his satirical definition of the art form included a jab at writers with lower standards than his.
STORY, n. A narrative, commonly untrue. The truth of the stories here following has, however, not been successfully impeached.
One evening Mr. Rudolph Block, of New York, found himself seated at dinner alongside Mr. Percival Pollard, the distinguished critic.
"Mr. Pollard," said he, "my book, The Biography of a Dead Cow, is published anonymously, but you can hardly be ignorant of its authorship. Yet in reviewing it you speak of it as the work of the Idiot of the Century. Do you think that fair criticism?"
"I am very sorry, sir," replied the critic, amiably, "but it did not occur to me that you really might not wish the public to know who wrote it."
Orignially written for the San Francisco weekly The Wasp, many of Ambrose Bierce's forays into lexicography eventually comprised The Devil's Dictionary, the first version appearing in 1911.
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