  LETTER NO. 1. Buffalo, N. Y., July 1, 1891. To Martha Heath, Friend:—You said that someone would surely print it, and I write you this to say that after four publishers had most politely rejected the manuscript, the fifth has written me saying the story does not amount to much; in fact, that I have no literary style, but as the book is so out of the general run they concluded to accept it. They sent me a check for $300.00 which they say is a bonus, and after the first 5,000 copies are sold they propose to pay me a royalty. So you see even if I have lost my place at Hustler’s, I am not destitute, so I will not accept your offer of a loan. You and Grimes (dear old Grimes) are the only persons in all this great city who have stood by me in my trouble. If you had presented me with a box of candy I would thank you, but for all the kindness I have received, prompted by your outspoken and generous nature, I offer not a single word. Words, in times like these, to such as you, are of small avail, my heart speaks. You say you dislike awfully to see those last five chapters in print, and so will I, my dear. Little did we think when I began this book that the story would have such an ending; but, Martha, I am not writing a pretty novel, but simple truth just as the facts occurred. I offer no excuse nor apology, but will simply give you this from Charles Kingsley’s “Alton Locke:” Scene: A street corner in London, on one hand a gin palace, opposite a pawn shop—those two monsters who feed on the vitals of the poor—all about is abject wretchedness. Locke stops, sighs and says, “Oh, this is so very unpoetic.” Sandy Mackaye replies, “What, man, no poetry here! Why, what is poetry but chapters lifted from the drama of life, and what is the drama if not the battle between man and circumstance, and shall not man eventually conquer? I will show you too in many a garret where no eye but that But right will conquer, dearest, and the goodness that has never been weighed in the balances, nor tried in the fire, how do you know it is goodness at all? It may only be namby-pamby—wishy-washy—goody-goody, who knows? We are all in God’s hand, sister, and the bad is the stuff sent, on which to try our steel. Yours ever, Aspasia. LETTER NO. 2. July 3, 1891. To Pygmalion Woodbur, Esq., Attorney-at-Law. Sir:—I have received your letter warning me that if I use your name in a certain book of local history (said book entitled The Man) that you will cause my arrest for malicious libel, and also sue me for damages. To this I can only say that the book is now in the hands of the electrotypers, and I am not inclined to change a line in it, on your suggestion, even if I could. Please believe me, when I say, that I bear you no ill-will and have no desire to injure you or place you in a wrong light before the public, what I have written being but truth penned without exaggeration or coloring. I make no apology or excuse. What I have written I have written. Yours, etc., Aspasia Hobbs. LETTER NO. 3. Buffalo, N. Y., July 3, 1891. To John Bilkson, of Hustler & Co., Sir:—Your registered letter of June 30th, received, wherein you state that you have no further use for my services, and that whereas you generally give an employee Although I have made no request for such recommendation, I regret your conscience will not allow you to supply it. You remember the scene of five years ago in your office? No one knows a word of this, and never will, unless you tell it (which I hardly think you care to do). You swore then you would get even with me—is your vengeance now satisfied? I have no malice toward you—I cannot afford to have against anyone—although I must say that your action in deducting from my wages the price of one set of false teeth purchased from Dr. Poole is not exactly right. You know, Mr. Bilkson, you lost those teeth purely through accident and no one regretted the occurrence more than I. With best wishes for the continued prosperity of Hustler & Co., I remain, Yours, as ever, Aspasia Hobbs. THE MAN. |
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