and the labour itself was immensely instructive. If any man wishes to be well informed, let him work on a cyclopædia. As I could read several languages, I was additionally useful at times. The greatest conciseness of style is required for such work. In German cyclopædias this is carried to a fault.
After a while I began to find that there was much more money to be made outside the Cyclopædia than in it. William H. Hurlbut, whom I had once seen so nearly shot, had been the “foreign editor” of the New York Times. Mr. Henry Raymond, its proprietor, had engaged a Mr. Hammond to come after some six months to take his place, and I was asked to fill it ad interim. I did so, so much to Mr. Raymond’s satisfaction, that he much regretted when I left that he had not previously engaged me. He was always very kind to me. He said that now and then, whenever he wanted a really superior art criticism, I should write it. He was quite right, for there were not many reporters in New York who had received such an education in æsthetics as mine. When Patti made her début in opera for the first time, I was the only writer who boldly predicted that she would achieve the highest lyrical honours or become a “star” of the first magnitude. Apropos of Hurlbut, I heard many years after, in England, that a certain well-known litterateur, who was not one of his admirers, having seen him seated in close tête-à-tête with a very notorious and unpopular character, remarked regretfully, “Just to think that with one pistol-bullet both might have been settled!” Hurlbut was, even as a boy, very handsome, with a pale face and black eyes, and extremely clever, being facile princeps, the head of every class, and extensively read. But there was “a screw loose” somewhere in him. He was subject, but not very frequently, to such fits of passion or rage, that he literally became blind while they lasted. I saw him one day in one of these throw his arms about and stamp on the ground, as if unable to behold any one. I once heard a young lady in New York profess
unbounded admiration for him, because “he looked so charmingly like the devil.” For many years the New York Herald always described him as the Reverend Mephistopheles Hurlbut. There was another very beautiful lady who afterwards died a strange and violent death, as also a friend of mine, an editor in New York, both of whom narrated to me at very great length “a grotesque Iliad of the wild career” of this remarkable man.
It never rains but it pours. Frank Leslie, who had been with me on Barnum’s Illustrated News, was now publishing half-a-dozen periodicals and newspapers, and offered me a fair price to give him my mornings. I did so. Unfortunately, my work was not specified, and he retained his old editors, who naturally enough did not want me, although they treated me civilly enough. One of these was Thomas Powell, who had seen a great deal of all the great English writers of the last generation. But there was much rather shady, shaky Bohemianism about the frequenters of our sanctum, and, all things considered, it was a pity that I ever entered it.
Und noch weiter. There was published in New York at that time (1860) an illustrated comic weekly called Vanity Fair. There was also in the city a kind of irregular club known as the Bohemians, who had been inspired by Murger’s novel of that name to imitate the life of its heroes. They met every evening at a lager-beer restaurant kept by a German named Pfaff. For a year or two they made a great sensation in New York. Their two principal men were Henry Clapp and Fitz-James O’Brien. Then there were Frank Wood and George Arnold, W. Winter, C. Gardette, and others. Wood edited Vanity Fair, and all the rest contributed to it. There was some difficulty or other between Wood and Mr. Stephens, the gérant of the weekly, and Wood left, followed by all the clan. I was called in in the emergency, and what with writing myself, and the aid of R. H. Stoddard, T. B. Aldrich, and a few more, we made a very creditable
appearance indeed. Little by little the Bohemians all came back, and all went well.
Now I must here specify, for good reasons, that I held myself very strictly aloof from the Bohemians, save in business affairs. This was partly because I was married, and I never saw the day in my life when to be regarded as a real Bohemian vagabond, or shiftless person, would not have given me the horrors. I would have infinitely preferred the poorest settled employment to such life. I mention this because a very brilliant and singular article entitled “Charles G. Leland l’ennemi des Allemands” (this title angered me), which appeared in the Revue des Deux Mondes in 1871, speaks of me by implication as a frequenter of Pfaff’s, declaring that I there introduced Artemus Ward to the Bohemian brotherhood, and that it was entirely due to me that Mr. Browne was brought out before the American World. This is quite incorrect. Mr. Browne had made a name by two or three very popular sketches before I had ever seen him. But it is very true that I aided him to write, and suggested and encouraged the series of sketches which made him famous, as he himself frankly and generously declared, for Charles Browne was at heart an honest gentleman, if there ever was one; which is the one thing in life better than success.
Mr. Stephens realising that I needed an assistant, and observing that Browne’s two sketches of the Showman’s letter and the Mormons had made him well known, invited him to take a place in our office. He was a shrewd, naïf, but at the same time modest and unassuming young man. He was a native of Maine, but familiar with the West. Quiet as he seemed, in three weeks he had found out everything in New York. I could illustrate this by a very extraordinary fact, but I have not space for everything. I proposed to him to continue his sketches. “Write,” I said, “a paper on the Shakers.” He replied that he knew nothing about them. I had been at Lenox, Massachusetts, where I had often gone to New Lebanon and seen their strange worship and dances,
and while on the Illustrated News had had a conference with their elders on an article on the Shakers. So I told him what I knew, and he wrote it, making it a condition that I would correct it. He wrote the sketch, and others. He was very slow at composition, which seemed strange to me, who was accustomed to write everything as I now do, currente calamo (having written all these memoirs, so far, within a month—more or less, and certainly very little more). From this came his book.
When he wrote the article describing his imprisonment, there was in it a sentence, “Jailor, I shall die unless you bring me something to eat!” In the proof we found, “I shall die unless you bring me something to talk.” He was just going to correct this, when I cried, “For Heaven’s sake, Browne, let that stand! It’s best as it is.” He did so, and so the reader may find it in his work.