He also wrote me. He was now U. S. Consul at Crefeld, near the lower Rhine.

“United States Consulate, Crefeld, May 28, 1879.

“My Dear Mr. Byers:​--​I have written my name in your book, and return it to you by to-day’s post. I beg you to believe that I have never performed that simple act with more pleasure. I only regret that the quality of the paper on page 91 rather limited the legible expression of my good will, and that I could not show as clearly as I would like my thanks to one who has written so appreciatingly of my hero.

“I might have added ‘fellow soldier’ to the inscription, but I fear that my year’s service against the Indians on the California frontier, when the regular troops were withdrawn to Eastern battlefields, would scarcely justify me in taking that title. But I want you to believe that my knowledge of men and camps enabled me to praise a hero understandingly.

“If you still feel under any obligation to me, you can discharge it very easily. I am anxious to know something about your vicinity, and the prices and quality of accommodations to be found there this summer. My doctor has ordered me to the mountains, for my neuralgia and dyspepsia, and I can procure a leave of absence of three or four weeks. I have thought of going to Switzerland with a member of my family who is studying painting in Düsseldorf, and I should therefore prefer some locality where she can sketch from nature. I want some quiet, pretty place, away from the beaten track of tourists​--​some little pension, not too expensive. Can you give me some information regarding prices, localities, etc., etc., and how early in the season it would be advisable to come?

“I shall look forward confidently to your telling me something as soon as you can.

“Yours very truly,
Bret Harte.”

This letter gratified me, as I now looked forward to the pleasure of having Mr. Harte with us in Switzerland. He wished a quiet place. Where in all the world was there so quiet and so lovely a spot as our own “Bocken,” on the lake, with the green hills about it and its views of snow mountains, and all close to beautiful Zurich. We were to spend our third summer there. So I proposed “Bocken” and also “Obstalden,” a hamlet we often went to in the higher Alps.

He took up with Bocken, however, and wrote:

“June 19, 1879.

“My Dear Mr. Byers:​--​Let me thank you for your two welcome letters and your book on Switzerland. You could not have sent me a volume more satisfactory to my present needs, nor one that could give me so strong a desire to know more of the author. My good genius evidently joined hands with the State Department in sending you to Switzerland ten years before me.

“Make the best arrangements you can for me at Bocken for about the 7th of July, the exact date you shall know later. You can, if you think it better, keep some hold on Obstalden. Dr. Van K---- yields his favorite Rigi, and thinks I can get strong at Bocken or Obstalden; such was the power of your letters on the highest medical wisdom of Düsseldorf.

“Nothing could be kinder than your invitation, but I fear that neither my cousin nor myself can permit you to add to our great obligations this suggestion of coming to you as guests. Let us come to Bocken like any other tourists, with the exception that we know we have already friends there to welcome us. My cousin, Miss C----, desires to thank your wife for her good intentions, and hopes to have the pleasure of sketching with her.

“I sent you yesterday the only book of mine that I could lay my hands on, a little volume in return for ‘Switzerland.’ There is something about mountains in it, but I fear your book is the more reliable and interesting.

“My cousin was greatly pleased with your suggestion of your wife’s sketching and aiding her in pursuit of the picturesque.

“Very truly,
Bret Harte.”

Delays set in, and he wrote again.

“July 23, 1879.

“My Dear Byers:​--​Are you losing your patience and beginning to believe that B. H. is ‘a light that never was on land or sea.’

“For the last week I have been trying to assist somebody, who has come out from the Custom House in N. Y., duly certified to by the State Department, and is ‘wanting to know, you know’ all about ‘market prices and prices current.’ But I think I should have scarcely staid for him, if the weather had not been at its worst, blowing a stiff gale for forty-eight hours at a time, and raining in the intervals.

“My present intention is to leave here Saturday, or Sunday, the 26th, but of course will telegraph you exactly when and how.

“Yours hopefully,
Bret Harte.”

At last, he and his cousin, Miss C----, a charming woman, who soon joined my wife in sketching excursions, reached Bocken. Bocken has enough big rooms for old knights of ye olden time to carouse in, but very few bedrooms for real folks to sleep in. So Mr. Harte and I, for a time, occupied a bedroom together in the annex. I was a gainer by the arrangement, for we sometimes lay awake half the night and more, whilst he related to me reminiscences of his early life in California and his literary and other experiences. They would fill a book, but I forbear. This much only I copy from my diary of the time.

August 8, 1879.​--​Bret Harte and his cousin reached us some days ago. He seems a sick man. He looks nothing like the pictures I had conjured up of him. He is forty-one years old, of medium height, strongly built, legs like an athlete, weighs about one hundred and seventy-five pounds, has fine head, a big nose, clear-cut features, clear good eyes, hair cropped short and perfectly gray, face full and fine; in short a very handsome man, and an exquisite in dress. He is neatness personified, and he seems to have brought a whole tailor’s shop of new clothes with him to this simple place, as he appears in a different suit daily, sometimes semi-daily.

There is little at the pension table that he can eat, for he has dyspepsia. So, as we have our own cook and kitchen, we have of late invited him and his cousin to dine with us. At noon, our table is set under the chestnut trees out on the terrace overlooking the blue lake. He can eat here. It is a wonderful spot to dine at with such a view before us.

We have our breakfast in the corner room of the chateau, where the famous tile stove stands, with its pictures of Swiss history. The walls of the room have massive panels of old oak, and around them are low seats that open like chest lids. From the big, leaded windows of the room the view is as fine as on the terrace. Joining this corner is an immense banquet room​--​the knights’ hall of the olden times.

While sitting at the old, old table, sipping our coffee, we see the pretty steamers pass on the lake far below us, and towards Glarus we see the snowy Alps reflecting the morning sun.

Plain old Chateau Bocken was built centuries ago as a country home for the Burgomasters of Zurich. Those fellows of the olden time knew where the beautiful spots of earth were. I often think Bocken, in summer, the loveliest spot on earth. I am sure it is, for me. Evenings after supper on the terrace, we sit out there at the table with the lamps burning till bedtime. We have good times in talk and reminiscences. Harte is as fine a conversationalist as I ever knew. He uses the most choice and elegant language possible. This surprises one, on recalling that his famous California stories are so often in the dialect of the gold mines. His voice is fine, his speech extremely taking, and I think he has a good heart. When feeling well, he is a delightful companion​--​an interesting man​--​apart from his work and fame.

These evenings out on the terrace, we talk of the poets too. Each expresses his preference. Harte said almost the finest poem in the language is Browning’s “Bringing the Good News From Ghent to Aix.” He recited it with splendid feeling.

To me, Browning’s “Napoleon at Ratisbon” seemed almost equally good​--​a whole drama in a dozen lines or so.

I spoke of Harte’s own poem, the “Reveille.” His recital to us of how it was produced in San Francisco was in itself a picture of old war times, exciting in the extreme.

A great mass meeting was to be held in San Francisco one evening. Men were wanted to enlist​--​to go out and die for their country, in fact. Somebody must write a poem, said the Committee, and Thomas Starr King, the patriot orator, suggested the name of a young man employe at the Government mint. It was Bret Harte. The day of the evening came, and, with fear and doubting, Mr. Harte read his little poem to Mr. King. “I am sure it won’t do​--​It is not good enough,” he added deprecatingly, and with self-disappointment. “You don’t know,” answered Mr. King. “Let me read that poem aloud to you once.”

In his great, fine voice, he rendered the verses, till Harte himself was astonished with his own lines. Still, the judgment of a friend could be over partial.

Harte was almost afraid to go to the hall that night; but he went and crept up into the gallery. All San Francisco seemed to be present. It was a terribly exciting time. Would California rise up and be true to the Union, or only half true?

“I will read a poem,” said the magnificent King, after a while. “It is by Mr. Harte, a young man working in the Government mint.”

“Who’s Harte?” murmured half the audience. “Who’s he?”

The orator commenced, and ere he reached that great line, “For the great heart of the Nation, throbbing, answered, ‘Lord, we come,’” the entire audience were on their feet, cheering and in tears.

It was too much for the young poet to stay and witness. He thought he would faint. He slipped down the back stairs and out into the dark street, and walking there alone, wondered at the excitement over verses he had that morning feared to be valueless.

One can imagine a young man out there alone in the dark, for the first time hearing Fame’s trumpet sounding to him from the crowded theater.

August 15.​--​The days were passing in delight at Bocken. I come out from the consulate early in the afternoon. Occasionally I stay here all day, and then with Harte and his cousin we have little excursions in the vicinity.

Yesterday, I helped Mr. Harte read over the proof-sheets of his “Twins of Table Mountain.” We lay in hammocks and read. I do not think it approaches some of his former stories.

Miss C---- copies much for him, and he also occasionally dictates to her. I wonder that any one can write in that way.

The other afternoon I took him in to consult Dr. Cloetta, a distinguished professor and physician. The good doctor, who speaks but little English, put him on a lounge, examined him carefully, and said, “Mr. Harte, I think you got extension of the stomach.” Coming back on the boat, Harte laughed a good deal about this; cursed a little too.

August 18.​--​Mrs. Senator Sherman, of Washington, and two of her nieces, are stopping for a while in this part of Switzerland. A lieutenant of the navy is also with them. The other day we all took a notion to cross the country in a post diligence, and turn up at the Rigi.

We started from Bocken early in the morning. The driver was jolly and we had much fun. I only fear some of the peasants thought us tipsy, as we passed through their villages singing “Shoo Fly, Don’t Bother Me,” and like joyous American ditties. We had a big, red umbrella fastened above the diligence, and when we came to a hamlet the driver put his horses on the gallop and blew his bugle. Mrs. Sherman looked a bit serious over it all, but the noisier ones of the party were in command.

The hotel on the Rigi had not a single bed for us that night. “May we sleep on the hall floor?” innocently inquired Mr. Harte. “No,” answered the landlord. “Perhaps out on the doorsteps then?” continued Mr. Harte. “Just as you please,” said the keeper of the hostelry, crustily. “My beds, I tell you, are taken. I can do nothing for you.” “Yes, but​--​” went on Mr. Harte, with a knowing smile​--​“it is awfully cold and dark out there​--​suppose our little party orders a good champagne supper, with lots of chicken and etceteras, and sits at the table here all night. You wouldn’t mind that would you?” The landlord coughed a little cough.

The supper was ordered, and before it was half over our host bethought himself. He said he had just got a telegram from Prince ---- and his suite, who had engaged the four finest rooms in the house. The Prince could not come. We could have the Prince’s rooms, all of them. “Hurrah for the Prince of ----,” we all cried, clinking our glasses to him. The fact was, and we knew it, the telegraph office had not been open since 6 o’clock. All the same, we had the finest rooms and a moderate bill. And the next day one of the nieces was engaged to the young lieutenant. So a good deed prospers.

“You will not mind telling us why you did not give us the rooms in the first place, will you?” said Mr. Harte to the host next morning, as he settled the bill for the party. “We know, you know, that you got no telegram at all from the Prince.” “Frankly,” said the landlord, “it was because Americans don’t often order wine. My profit’s in my wine and if none is ordered, better the rooms remain empty. But you folks are not Americans, I know by the many bottles.” Nevertheless, it was Mr. Harte’s good nature that won the day for us, or rather the night.

We were up too late for the “Sunrise on the Rigi” next morning; but the splendid view of a dozen blue lakes and snow white mountains all around us, repaid the party for the trip.

Mrs. Sherman liked the Rigi for its own lonesome heights. Mr. Harte praised the whole wonderful scene; the Lieutenant looked into the blue eyes of Miss ----, and all were satisfied.

August 30, 1879.​--​When we got back from the Rigi to Bocken, Mr. Harte proposed that we go for a week to Obstalden, that picturesque hamlet hung above the Wallensee. We ourselves had spent parts of three summers there. It is indeed a characteristic Alpine village. It is on the side of a mountain. The wonderful little Wallensee, blue as a summer’s sky, lies 2,000 feet below it. Behind it rise majestic mountains. It is all green grass up there, even up to the very doors and windows of the brown, hewn log houses. A little white highway winds up to the village from the lake, while the rest of the roads are simple, narrow goat paths. They lead about over the grass from house to house, and from the village up to the higher Alps, where the village boys herd goats and cows from sunrise till evening. The peasant women all weave silk, and this necessitates the great number of long windows in their ham-brown cabins. The men are almost as brown as their houses, and live to be a hundred years old. I never saw so many very old people in my life. They live on bread and milk and cheese, with a little sour wine. Some of these centenarians are Alpine guides, and I have had them carry my overcoat and haversack and escort me up high mountains with the nimbleness of a boy of twenty. I was ashamed to have them lug things for me, a member of the Alpine Club, but they insisted.

American tourists don’t find Obstalden. The hamlet is kept a close secret among a few Swiss and Germans, who want only picturesque scenes and very simple life. It was a great favor that a friend told me about it, and got the little village inn to always give me the refusal of a room or two.

I had learned Mr. Harte’s tastes, after his coming to Bocken. They were not for the utterly simple life of mountain villages, after all, and my wife and I protested against his going to Obstalden. But go he would and we had to accompany him.

When we got there, the little hotel was overflowing with people. It held but a dozen guests. The keeper of the inn offered to sit up that night, and let Miss C---- and my wife have his room. But at last he thought of the village pastor’s wife, and she took in the two ladies. He tried to get a room in a peasant’s house for Mr. Harte and me. It was impossible. We could walk about all night, at the imminent risk of falling off a couple of thousand feet or so, or we could sleep in a peasant’s hayloft.

Many of Mark Twain’s famous “Chamois” were likely to be hopping around in that little hayloft. Mr. Harte hesitated a little​--​wished he had never heard of Obstalden. He wore one of his newest, swellest suits, and the situation “gave him pause.” At last he nimbly climbed up the ladder. I followed, and without much undressing in the dark, we were soon under a big coverlet, where to me, for a novelty, the sweet hay was better than any sheets ever made.

Mr. Harte found it all “mighty tough” and “mighty rough.” He had wanted, he said in his letter “a little inexpensive simplicity,” but this was too much for anything​--​a couple of representatives of the great United States, and one of them a New York exquisite, tucked away in a hay mow above the goats and cattle. Obviously, he had not been a mountaineer, fine as had been his tales of the rough life in California.

That was something I always wondered at​--​how Bret Harte could write such splendid touching tales of “hard cases,” being himself so much the reverse of all the characters he depicted. It was the genius of his character that had done it all. Some men take in at a glimpse, and can perfectly describe what others must experience for a lifetime, to be able to tell anything about.

We lay awake much of that summer night, in the hay mow, but the “poetry” of the thing was all wasted on Mr. Harte. We heard the solitary watchman of the village, who with his lantern walked about in the darkness, cry to the sleepers: “Twelve o’clock, and all is well.” That solitary watchman’s occupation did touch Mr. Harte. It is indeed a singular life, going around there alone all the night, the towering pinnacles of the rocks on one hand, the depths of the valley and the lake below on the other, the flash of waterfalls close by, the thunder of distant falling avalanches. Never a night in three hundred years but some watchman has gone about the byways of Obstalden with his lantern, calling aloud the hours.

A tin cup, and a little mountain rill that laughed its way through the village, afforded Mr. Harte and myself our opportunities for morning toilettes. Mr. Harte’s new clothes had been pressed in the hay-mow, but not always in the right direction. We met the ladies at the breakfast table of the inn. Mr. Harte’s narrative to them of the adventures of the night made a hearty laugh. Never did a breakfast of brown bread and butter, with good coffee, hot milk and wild honey, taste better. The table was set out on the terrace. The blue lake was far, far below us. On its opposite shore, the perpendicular rocks, a mile high, shut in the loveliest water in Switzerland.

Up on top of those walls of rock, on a little green plateau, we could see the town of Amden. Nothing like it in the world. Not a horse nor a carriage up there. It is reached by a stone stairway, zigzagging along the face of the rocks. Everything the people buy or sell is lugged up and down this wonderful stairway on peasants’ shoulders.

In the afternoon, Mr. Harte’s attention was riveted on a curious procession of row boats, slowly crossing the lake in our direction. One of the boats was entirely covered with garlands and white flowers. It was a village funeral, said our landlord. They don’t have ground enough for a graveyard up there in Amden; so they bury their people this side of the lake.

“There is your story,” I said to Mr. Harte​--​“the wonderful stairway​--​the lake funeral​--​the town on the high rocks.”

“Yes​--​all right,” he answered; “but, somehow, I never have luck with material I don’t find out for myself. I must suggest it myself.” I recalled Bayard Taylor’s saying, “there is no satisfaction in even a pint of hot water which has been heated by somebody else.” I am afraid I heated this water, not very hot. The story will never be written.

That evening we visited the “goat village,” not far away, and watched hundreds and hundreds of goats, led by a young mountaineer, with a great bunch of Alpine roses tied to his staff, and a wreath of roses on his hat. He was coming down from the grassy slopes of a mountain. He was whistling and singing all the way. It was a picturesque sight. The “goat village” is composed of scores of little huts or pens, each one big enough for a single goat. It was interesting to see how each goat knew its own hut among the many, and hurried into it to be milked.

In a very few days Mr. Harte had had enough of Alpine simplicity, though we had secured a room in the inn.

Far down below us on the lake lay pretty Wesen. It looked more civilized, and he would try it there. When he was shown his room in the Wesen inn, and strolled into the little drawing-room, what was his surprise to notice lying among the books on the table, “the Works of Bret Harte.”

This was fame​--​away off in an Alpine village of Switzerland to find his name was known, his books read.

When he told me, I recalled that other first night in San Francisco​--​the applauding assembly​--​the unknown poet out in the street in the dark.

Mr. Harte soon came back to us at Bocken, and on the 26th we accompanied him on his way to his home in Germany, as far as the Falls of the Rhine.

But we stopped first in Zurich. As it was his birthday, we had a little good-bye dinner together in the Tonhalle by the lake, and did all we could for his “health” with a bottle of “Mumm’s extra dry.”

That he might be right over the Rhine Falls by moonlight, the host of the Laufen Castle gave him the room with the balconies above the water. It was beautiful, but the noise of the falls kept Harte awake all night.

In the morning we said good-bye and parted, he for Crefeld via the Black Forest, and we for Bocken.

Yesterday I got this letter from him:

“Crefeld, Aug. 27, 1879.

“My Dear Mr. Byers:​--​We arrived here safely last night. Of course, the railways did not connect as you said they would, and of course, we did not go where you promised we should, but we got to Düsseldorf within twelve hours of the schedule time set and are thankful. Only let me beg you to post yourself a little on Swiss railroads before you travel yourself. Your knowledge does well enough for a guide to old experienced travelers like us!!! but it won’t do for a simple, guileless, believing nature like your own. And don’t let the landlord of the Chateau ‘Laufen’ cook up a route for you.

“Our ride through the Black Forest was a delicious revelation. I should say it was an overture to Switzerland, had I entered Switzerland from its borders, but coming from Switzerland, I could not but think it was really finer than the Alps in everything that makes the picturesque, and that Switzerland would have been a disappointment afterwards. It was very like the California ‘foothills’ in the mountain ranges, and the long dashes of red soil and red road​--​so unlike the glare and dazzle of the white Swiss turnpikes​--​were very effective. I wanted much to stop at Freiberg, still more at a certain ruined castle and ‘pension’ called Hombeck, which was as picturesque as Castle Laufen, minus the noise of ‘factory wheels and fulling mills’ from these awful rapids. Heidelberg was a sensation, with its castle that quite dwarfs the Rhine River (as all these things do by comparison when one travels) and we could have stayed here two or three days and enjoyed ourselves.

“The weather has changed back to the old wet season that we thought we had left behind us when we turned our faces Southward. It is dull and rainy. Nevertheless as soon as I get some work off my hands that has accumulated here I shall try the seaside for my hoped-for rehabilitation.

“My cousin sends her regards. I suppose she will write or has written to Mrs. Byers. I hope you will not give up your Rhine trip (with a suitable guide) and that we may see you in Düsseldorf soon.

“With my best regards to Mrs. Byers,

“Very truly yours,
Bret Harte.”

September 29, 1879.​--​We are just home from a ten days’ trip up and down the Moselle River, that neglected Cinderella sister of the Rhine. It is more beautiful than the Rhine itself. It has more pretty hills and mountains on its shores; its villages are more picturesque; its ruins of castles more numerous; its wines as good. Parts of our journey we went in a row boat, often we walked along the shores. At Cochem, we visited friends and had a good time. We also went to the magnificent “Elz,” the only German castle Louis XIV’s invaders failed to find and destroy. It is among the dark wooded hills, miles back from the Moselle River. Nothing like it to-day in Germany. Heidelberg is a ruin. Elz is a perfect castle of the Middle Ages. Portcullis, gate, tower, moat, walls and halls, stone floors, fireplaces, tapestries and furniture, as they were centuries ago. Everything has been left, and the owner of Elz keeps all the surroundings in the spirit of the olden time, even to the troops of hounds.

To wander through this castle is like reading Scott’s novels, only here all is old German. No wonder the French never found the castle. Even we, with a guide, blundered right on to it, before we knew we were within miles of it. We heard dogs baying, looked, and there among the rocks and woods saw the lofty walls and towers. We had no passes allowing us to enter, but our guide had a brother among the men in charge, and we were shown across the bridge and moat.

I know no spot, castle, or ruin, in Europe, where one feels himself so absolutely back in the Middle Ages. While in there, I forgot there were such things as gunpowder, railways, gas and cannon. The walls were hung with spears, swords, bows and battle clubs.

Another of the perfect works of olden times visited by us on the Moselle was the ancient gateway at the City of Treves. This “Porta Nigra” impressed me much. I think there is nothing to equal it, even in Rome. Many of the works of the Romans, built in this German town, are in better preservation than anything in the “Eternal City.” Some of them are just as grand. The town itself is only a feeble reminder of the great, old times, when seven different Roman Emperors made this town their residence.

There is one church here, the “Liebfrauen Kirche,” exquisite in its beauty, that stands as the most perfect specimen of Gothic architecture remaining in the world. It is indeed “a thing of beauty” and a “joy;” if not forever, for at least five hundred years, and it may last a thousand years to come. The “Holy Coat of Christ” is kept here in the Cathedral. It is claimed to have been brought here by Helena, the mother of Constantine. I can see no reason why this may not be true. Relics of a million times’ less significance have been preserved by men for ages. Nothing would be so easily traced and cared for, from century to century, as a relic that half mankind revered as holy.

November, 1879.​--​We are again at our home in Zurich, 7 Centralhof. We are anxious for a long visit to Italy, and I have asked for a leave. Mr. Harte thinks to go along with us.

“November 9, 1879.

“My Dear Mr. Byers:​--​I have your welcome letter of the 7th, and hasten to say that two words by telegraph from Mr. Seward give me my leave of absence. With this in my pocket, I am in no hurry, knowing that I can rush off at any moment, when Crefeld becomes unbearable. When the Rhine fog gathers thickest, and the office lights are lit at 3 P. M. and neuralgia becomes lively, I clutch the telegram and smile a ghostly smile.

“And we may meet, after all, where the sun shines. The doctor here tells me I must go to upper Italy, say Bellagio on the Lake of Como. But there is a time to think of that. Let me know when you get your leave. You will get it of course.

“My cousin had a dismal voyage home, tempestuous weather and seasickness nearly all the time. She writes rather sadly from New York, where she has found her brother-in-law hopelessly ill, and her sister in great distress. Her quiet life in Düsseldorf makes that busy city seem strange to her, and I hope when she gets to Washington she may shake off her sadness. I have written to her urging her, if she have the slightest feeling of ‘homesickness’ for Europe again, to start off with her sister Jessie and come back to me at once. I hope she certainly will in the spring, for it is terribly lonely here.

“Tell Mrs. Byers to stop this shooting of Parthian arrows from Obstalden. I am not so very particular, but if we travel in Italy together, we must certainly have more than one bedroom for us three. I know I am fastidious as to location, but I’d let that go. I’d stick out for two bedrooms, if we had to telegraph a week ahead. If Mrs. Byers and myself are to quarrel in this way we must all have separate apartments, and two wash bowls.

“I forgot to ask you to procure me a book of Swiss photographic views for about eight or ten francs. It is for a child’s present and I leave the selection entirely to yourself. Will you charge your soul with it, and credit me with the enclosed.

“Yours ever,
B. H.”

And later he writes:

“November 23, 1879.

“My Dear Mr. Byers:​--​A line to thank you for the album. It was a great bargain at 10 R. M. And yet people talk of the impractical, unbusiness-like character of the literary mind.

“I am still here, but knowing that I can go when I can stand things no longer, I put up with an india-ink washed sky, a dismal twilight that lasts eight hours, and stands for ‘day’ to the Rhenish perception, and find some work. I have just ‘turned off’ a story longer than the ‘Twins,’ and did it in spite of neuralgia and ’extension.’

“I see by a telegram to the Daily London News that Mr. Seward has resigned, and Colonel John Hay takes his place as Assistant Secretary of State. Hay is a good fellow, was in the diplomatic service once, is an accomplished, well-mannered gentleman of whom any American might be proud, and only a few years ago earned his bread by literary labors as editorial writer on the Tribune, besides being the author of ‘Jim Bludsoe’ and ‘Little Breeches,’ as you, of course, know. He married a rich wife and is quite independent of the office.

“All this ought to presage some intellectual discrimination of the deserts and needs of certain other literary men in the service. But we shall see. Certainly you will get your leave of absence now.

“When you have made up your mind to go, let me know. Meantime give my best regards to your wife.

“Yours ever,
Bret Harte.”

July 1, 1879.​--​The business of the Consulate goes smoothly on. I have good assistants and no little leisure. Besides, Zurich is so centrally located that in a few hours I can travel to the most interesting spots of Europe. Germany, France, Italy are only a little journey off, the first but a couple of hours’ ride away. The scenery here is delightful, the climate moderate.

“What would you like if you could choose,” said a Swiss to me at my tea table the other night. “Nothing,” I replied, “only to stay here forever.” “You are content,” he answered. “I envy you​--​you are a happy man​--​the first one I ever saw!”

CHAPTER XXII
1880–1881

A LITTLE STAY BY THE MEDITERRANEAN​--​AM OFFERED A POSITION IN CHINA​--​AN ARTICLE ON THE SWISS RHINE​--​ALSO ONE ON MY EXPERIENCES IN THE REBEL ARMY​--​TWO LETTERS FROM GENERAL SHERMAN​--​GRANT AND THE PRESIDENCY​--​SAYS THE BARE NARRATIVE OF MY ESCAPE FROM PRISON WOULD BE AN EPIC​--​BANQUET AT THE LEGATION​--​I WRITE FOR THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE AN EXPOSE OF HOW CERTAIN EUROPEAN COMMUNITIES SENT PAUPERS TO THE UNITED STATES​--​AM VIOLENTLY ATTACKED FOR IT BY MANY AMERICAN JOURNALS AND REPRIMANDED BY STATE DEPARTMENT​--​SWISS GOVERNMENT COMPLAINS​--​INVESTIGATION FOLLOWS​--​I AM JUSTIFIED​--​LETTER FROM SHERMAN AS TO HIS SON TOM​--​VISIT AMERICA​--​SECRETARY BLAINE COMPLIMENTS ME​--​THE PRESS CHANGES ITS TONE AND NEW LAWS ARE ADOPTED AS TO IMMIGRATION IN UNITED STATES AND SWITZERLAND​--​TRIBUNE SAYS EDITORIALLY, “MR. BYERS DESERVES THE THANKS OF THE AMERICAN PEOPLE”​--​A LITTLE VISIT TO THE POET LONGFELLOW, AND THE ALCOTTS; ALSO TO THE AUTHOR OF “AMERICA.”

March, 1880.​--​During a recent leave of absence I saw the Italian cities for the second time. We also spent some weeks at San Remo, by the Mediterranean, taking little foot excursions to Monte Carlo and Nice over the celebrated Cornici road. This lofty highway of Napoleon’s, above the sea, is the finest foot excursion in Italy.

While at Florence I wrote “Philip,” and at Prato I secured the beautiful censer described in the verses. The days now go by quickly enough, as many reports are asked for by the department, and the leisure goes in writing verses or articles for the magazines.

March 30 had this from General Sherman:

“Washington, D. C., March 17, 1880.

“Dear Byers:​--​I was glad to receive your interesting letter from San Remo, Italy, a place I well remember on our drive from Nice to Genoa. I remarked the same thing that you did, that gorgeous scenery of sea and shore, of sheltered vales and olive-clad hills, with the snow-capped Pyrenees behind, seemed lost on the dirty, beggarly natives. Were it not for the English and American traveler, the Corniche would be poor indeed. All accounts from Europe and California describe the past winter as very severe, whilst here in Washington and indeed in all the country east of the Mississippi there has been no winter at all. January and February were like the same months in Louisiana. We had last week a little spurt of snow, but now the sun shines warm and bright, the grass is green, and the trees begin to show leaves, whilst crocuses and lilacs are almost purple with their buds. I fear we have not had winter enough to make a healthy and profitable summer.

“Elly will be married to Mr. Thackera, of the Navy, in May, and Minnie will come on the first time since her marriage. She now has four children, two boys and two girls, all healthy, strong children. For some years she has occupied a suite of rooms at Windsor Flats in the city of St. Louis, but she has just removed to a house I possess in the suburbs, with five acres of lawn, orchard and garden. She writes that they are very comfortable, and I propose to go out and see for myself about April 1. The rest of our family is here, Tom alone excepted, and we continue about as usual.

“Politics are beginning to buzz. Grant is still in Mexico, but will return via Texas next week. I suppose we may assume that he wants to be President again, and will probably be the Republican candidate. Whom the Democrats will choose, is hard to guess.

“I will look to the article you name in Harper’s. Mrs. Sherman always reads your letters.

“Ever your friend,
W. T. Sherman.”

This month’s Harper has my article on “The Swiss Rhine,” illustrated by Mrs. Byers, and the May Atlantic will have my “Ten Days in the Rebel Army.” This is the story of the time I escaped from the Macon prison, and went into the Rebel Army in disguise. The desperate venture came near costing me my life when I was taken, as our own generals had been executing rebels for similar action in our own army a short time before.

This is my eleventh year in the foreign service. I like the life and the duties, and the country I happen to be stationed in. It is also a gratification to have it said that I stand well with the Department at Washington. This is indicated by my being offered other and better posts than this. A recent letter tells me, if I wish it, I may have my choice of General Consulates in China or Japan. My preferences are for life in Europe; besides, we now have our friends here, and know the people, the language, and the customs.

June 14.​--​Our anniversary. Celebrate it by going to Bürglen, the birthplace of William Tell. Made sketches and had a good time.

A cottage inn stands on the spot where Tell was born. I asked the young woman who answered the door bell if Mr. Tell were at home. She laughed and answered, “No, but I am Mrs. Tell.”

An American friend joined us there, and, with “Mrs. Tell,” we all sang songs and waltzed half the night to the music of a cracked piano, played by one of “Mrs. Tell’s” sisters.

Received a letter last week from General Sherman. He regrets Grant’s having to scramble for the Presidency.

“Washington, D. C., May 11, 1880.

“Dear Byers:​--​I received in good time your kind letter of April 3, and laid it one side for attention after Elly’s wedding. Meantime, the clock came all safe and right, and I acknowledged its receipt of the merchant in New York through whom it came.

“The wedding came off all right at the appointed time, Wednesday, May 5th, and the young couple are now at Niagara, and will return next week via Boston and Philadelphia. Mr. Thackera is a fine young naval officer of excellent reputation, and Elly is the best of my children for such a vagrant life.

“I know that you receive the papers and telegrams and that it would be idle for me to attempt any news of public events. We are, as you well know, in the very throes of a Presidential canvass, which in itself constitutes a revolution. Grant is still a candidate, but instead of being nominated by acclamation, will have to scramble for it, a thing I cannot help but regret, as his career heretofore is so splendid that I cannot help feeling it impaired by common politics. He could so nobly rest on his laurels, but his family and his personal dependents prod him on, and his best friends feel a delicacy about offering advice not asked.

“We are now residing in a rented house​--​No. 817​--​Fifteenth Street, in the best possible neighborhood, and at rates better than to purchase. I look on St. Louis as my ultimate home, and don’t want to be embarrassed with property here. I own two most excellent houses in St. Louis. One is now occupied by Minnie and her family, and the other is leased to good tenants who will take good care of it till we need it.

“We are all in good health, that is, all my immediate family, but my aide, Colonel Audenreid, whom you must well remember, is at this moment dangerously ill of some liver complaint. The doctor assures me that we ought not to be alarmed, but I cannot help it, for he has been a month in bed, and I discover no signs of reaction.

“My best love to Mrs. Byers and the children. My aide, Colonel Tourtelotte, is now abroad and will see you.

“Yours truly,
W. T. Sherman.”

August 15.​--​Another interesting letter from General Sherman came to-day:

“Washington, D. C., Aug. 1, 1880.

“Dear Byers:​--​I was absent all of July, making a tour to the Northwest as far as Bismarck. On my return I found your two letters. One about Colonel Audenreid’s death, which I have put into an envelope along with many others of the same kind for poor Mrs. Audenreid, when she is in a condition to be comforted by the sympathy of friends. The other letter of July 13 is now before me for answer. I really don’t know where to look for that pamphlet about the burning of Columbia, when you and I testified, and this being midsummer, everybody is out of town, and I am at a loss whom to consult to hunt it up. Was it the Committee on the Conduct of the War in session as the war closed, or later? I have a faint memory of testifying, but must beg you to write your article absolutely fresh, just as it remains in your mind, or as noted in any memoranda you possess. I am sure you could make a magazine article of infinite interest, painting your individual capture, imprisonment, hopes, fears, numerous escapes, concealment, etc., etc., the arrival of my army in Columbia, and your supreme joy both for yourself and country, at so happy a termination of your imprisonment. The bare narrative would be an epic, but you can dress it up without risking errors or controversy. Contemporaneous documents, of which thousands exist, will always take precedence of magazine articles at this late day, but Homer’s Iliad is as fresh to-day as when penned, so of Robinson Crusoe. If I can find what you want I will send, but beg you not to wait. I must go September 1, with the President and a select party, to California, Oregon, etc., to be gone all of October, so I will have little time.

“I don’t observe the least possible excitement about the Presidential election, and hope, as you say, one candidate or the other will obtain a decisive majority with as little force or fraud as possible. Hancock’s nomination by the Democrats gives assurances that even if the Democrats succeed, the Union will be safe. He is unquestionably patriotic, and has a stronger character and more ability than political enemies concede. Garfield is a man of unquestioned ability and force.

Yours,
W. T. Sherman.”

October 19, 1880.​--​Two days ago Mr. Nicholas Fish, our Minister, invited us to a diplomatic dinner at Bern. The Spanish Minister and his wife were present, as also one or two gentlemen of the Swiss Cabinet, and all the Consuls in Switzerland.

The Fish family live in a pretty villa in the outskirts of the capital, with splendid views from their terrace. The Minister is the ideal diplomat, trained by long service, accomplished, cautious and conservative. The standing of the family at the Swiss capital is very high.

Before the banquet, two sweet children came into the drawing-room for awhile, a boy and a girl of the family.6

Spent Sunday also with Mr. Fish’s family, and drove about the queer old town with its arcades, its bear pit, its rushing waters and its glorious mountain views from the terrace.

October 24.​--​For years I have been observing the character of the immigration from Europe to the United States. Much of it is very bad. It came to my certain knowledge, too, that hundreds of paupers, drunkards, criminals and insane people were absolutely being taken out of workhouses and jails at different places on the continent, and shipped across the sea to us at the expense of local authorities, who found it cheaper to send them to America than to provide for them at home. It did not seem possible, but a very little investigation proved its truth. As if by accident, numerous cases happened right within my own district. I protested, and, in some cases, compelled the return of paupers after they had reached the sea coast. But the traffic went right on, and every day’s investigation revealed more of the extent of the imposition on the American Government. Our country is rapidly filling up with the off-scourings of Europe. There are plenty of good emigrants, but also an awful population of thriftless beggars and tramps invading the United States. Worst of all, nobody in America seems to believe a word of it. Our Government looks on supinely, our people welcome emigration of course, little dreaming of the chaff and the straw that come with the wheat. Nobody’s attention can be secured to what is going on. Some weeks since I determined to make a public statement.

November 30, 1880.​--​Every mail, these days, brings me marked American newspapers, with articles abusing me for my exposé of pauper immigration, in the New York Tribune of November 12, 1880. It seems the larger part of the American press regards me as misrepresenting facts, and as a common disturber.

Dozens of letters filled with violent abuse, also come to me, and from Chicago come letters even threatening my life, should I ever put foot in the United States.

Even the conservative State Department has been influenced to send me what the newspapers call “a severe reprimand” and threatens my removal from office.

Nothing but my past good record saved me. “In a Consul of less meritorious services,” says the official dispatch, “it would be considered sufficient cause for removal.”

Committees went to the Secretary of State, and demanded my dismissal, anyway. It seems I have brought enmity on my head from every direction.

The Swiss papers have copied the American attacks, and join in the malicious abuse and misrepresentation. My article is misrepresented, and I am regarded an enemy of Switzerland. Some of the German press join in the howl, and even Bismarck has been asked to make representations to our Government.

The Swiss representative at Washington complains to his government about me, and asks investigation. The Swiss government in quick time entered its complaint. This is my chance, for I have only told the truth, and have in my hands a hundred things to prove it, though at the present moment they have made me the most disliked man in Switzerland. There seems simply to be no “let up” to the misrepresentations concerning this article. Those who know the inside facts, are naturally indignant that I have exposed them.

I have gone on accumulating testimony, showing how scandalously our American hospitality has been abused by certain communities shipping their paupers and scoundrels to us.

Yesterday an emigration agent offered to furnish me the names of four hundred paupers whom he alone had been hired to ship to the United States.

In Italy, the other day, a great train load of poverty-stricken and perfectly ignorant immigrants were started off for the United States. They numbered one thousand. There was not a dollar apiece in the whole crowd.

February 9, 1881.​--​Here and there, a Swiss newspaper has looked into the matter of my Tribune letters for itself, and with shame admits that the leading charges in my exposé are true.

Our Minister, Mr. Fish, at the request of the Department, also investigates me and my exposé, and a few days ago announced to Washington “that the statements made by Consul Byers, and objected to by the Swiss Government, are correct.”

So all this storm of abuse has been unwarranted. Mr. Fish did me the compliment to add in his dispatch “that instead of being unfriendly to the Swiss, he (Mr. Byers) has done much to encourage and cherish good relations between the two countries. He is one of the ablest and most experienced consular officers in the service and has for nearly twelve years performed his duties with integrity, ability and faithfulness.”

This report of me from a superior officer is a little set-off to the “reprimand” and to the five hundred howling newspapers in the United States.

I am now getting letters of thanks from many people who appreciate my trying to do my country an honest service. Many of the newspapers, too, both at home and abroad, have commenced seeing “a new light,” now that overwhelming evidence as to the facts is printed in pamphlet form by Minister Fish, and submitted to Congress.

Many that attacked me a month or so ago, now praise. The New York Tribune has stood by me through it all, and now editorially says: “He deserves the thanks of the American people.”7 What a change from a few weeks ago!

January 17.​--​General Sherman writes me an interesting letter about his son Tom, and regrets that he is not in an active career.

“Washington, D. C., Jan. 2, 1881.

“Dear Byers:​--​I was very glad to receive yours of November 25, for it assured me of your general well-being, that your family enjoyed health and a fair share of this world’s blessings, and that your thoughts and feelings turned toward this, your native land. Our newspapers are so full of current news and gossip, and the telegraph so swift, and steamers so regular that letters are stripped of the interest they once possessed. I cannot hope to tell you of anything public, and in private everything seems to me so commonplace that I imagine you can, without being told, know that I and my family continue pretty much as when you were last with us. My daughter Elly is married to Lieutenant Thackera, of the Navy, now on duty in Boston, supervising the construction of modern guns. I was there last week to visit her, and instead of the child I am wont to consider her, I found her a full developed woman. Minnie is at St. Louis with four children, one of them staying with us here in Washington, and all my girls are grown. The youngest boy, now fourteen, is tall, slender, red haired, and is said to resemble me in form and quality. My oldest son, Tom, is also here with us on a New Year’s visit. He is some sort of a Catholic divine, not a priest, but employed in one of the Catholic educational establishments near Baltimore. This is all directly antagonistic to my ideas of right. He ought to be in some career to assist us, and to take part in the great future of America. I feel as though his life were lost, and am simply amazed he does not see it as I do. Mrs. Sherman and the rest are as well as usual, and we are drifting along with public events toward that end which we now can foresee. If you come back I hope to see you often, and hope you, too, will sooner or later embark in the live questions of the future. Anything which comes from you I always read with interest, whether a letter or magazine article. Give my best love to Mrs. Byers, and believe me always,

“Affectionately, your friend,
“W. T. Sherman.”

March, 1881.​--​On the 11th of last month, we left Zurich for Liverpool, and sailed to New York on the 15th. Reached Washington in time to see the inauguration of President Garfield. It snowed on the night of the 3d, and the Washington streets were cold and miserable on the evening of the 4th. There were great crowds of people at the East front of the Capitol, and everybody was touched when the oath was taken, as Garfield turned around and kissed his aged mother.

The street parade was fine, but the weather cold. Thousands probably died from diseases contracted while viewing the ceremonies.