Those were the days of his waning as a literary star in London life, a firmament in which he had shone for long. His Breitmann Ballads were an unexpected hit. They made the journalist famous. The author became known as “H. B.” on both sides of the water. History relates that cigars were called after them, they were the rage. Germany was indignant; France ecstatic.
Lying by me is a letter I received from “Hans Breitmann.” It displays his unvarying kindness and helpfulness towards younger people, always wanting to be doing something to employ their energetic mind and body. I had evidently made some proposal to him, and he says:
“Dear Friend,
“Short biographical sketches, as they are almost invariably given, are the veriest nutshells filled with ashes that literature yields. As regards to accuracy, you cannot obtain it by interviewing. It does not happen that once in twenty times—if ever—that the most practiced reporter succeeds in getting and giving even an average idea of a life. I have sat for this kind of portrait more than once. I once gave a professional collector of anecdotes six—and when they appeared in his book he had missed the point of five.
“The best I can do for you will be to write you a brief sketch of my rather varied and peculiar life—which I will do whenever you want to go to work on me. It is rather characteristic of the Briton that he or she does not invariably distinguish accurately in conversation what is printable from what is not. Once in talking with Frank Buckland about animals I mingled many Munchausenisms and ‘awful crammers’ with true accounts of our American fauna, etc. Fortunately he sent me a proof of his report! I almost—gasped—to think that any mortal man could swallow and digest such stories as he had put down as facts. Had they been published he would have appeared as the greatest fool and I as the grandest humbug—yea, as the ‘Champion Fraud’ of the age. I believe that he was seriously angered. Now the American knows the scum from the soup in conversation. I never dreamed that any human being out of an idiot asylum or a theological seminary could have believed in such ‘yarns’ as the great naturalist noted.
“I will do myself, however, the pleasure of interviewing you when I get a little relief from the work which at present prevents me from interviewing even my tailor.
“Yours faithfully,
“Charles G. Leland.”
Leland was a most talented man, if one may use the word, for talent itself is generally undefinable even through a magnifying glass.
AUTHOR’S HAND