I was sometimes annoyed with many imitations of my poems by persons who knew no German, which were all attributed to me. A very pious Presbyterian publication, in alluding to something of the kind, said that "Mr. Leland, _because he is the author of Bret Harte_, thinks himself justified in publishing any trash of this description." I thought this a _very_ improper allusion for a clergyman, not to say libellous. In fact, many people really believed that Bret Harte was a _nom de plume_ or the title of a poem. And I may here say by the way that I never "wrote under" the pseudonym of Hans Breitmann in my life, nor called myself any such name at any time. It is simply the name of one of many _books_ which I have written. An American once insisting to me that I _should_ be called so from my work, I asked him if he would familiarly accost Mr. Lowell as "Josh Biglow." If there is anything in the world which denotes a subordinate position in the social scale or defect in education, it is the passion to call men "out of their names," and never feel really acquainted with any one until he is termed Tom or Jack. It is doubtless all very genial and jocose and sociable, but the man who shows a tendency to it should _not_ complain when his betters put him in a lower class or among the "lower orders." Once at a reception at George Boughton's, the artist, there was, as I heard, an elderly gentleman rushing about asking to see or be introduced to _Hart Bretmann_, whose works he declared he knew by heart, and with whom he was most anxious to become acquainted. Whether he ever discovered this remarkable conglomerate I do not know. I once made the acquaintance of an American at the Langham Hotel who declared that I had made life a burden to him. His name was H. Brightman, and being in business in New York, he never went to the Custom- House or Post-Office but what the clerks cried "Hans Brightman! of course. Yes, we have read about you, sir--in history."