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.
[Illustration: Olive Trees by the Mediterranean.--_Page 189._]
[Illustration: Monaco and Monte Carlo.--_Page 189._]
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.
* * * * *
Yesterday evening, was taken to see Mr. Blaine, the new Secretary
of State. His selection is regarded as adding great power to the
administration.
I went with General Sherman to Blaine’s home on Fifteenth Street. He
entered the dooryard just as we came, and greeted us on the steps. I
was in great doubt as to how he would receive me, knowing the attacks
on me in the press, and the “reprimand” from his own department.
“You have been giving our country some information on the emigration
question,” he said to me, as he hung his overcoat up in the hall.
This was followed by an ominous silence, and we all walked into the
drawing-room, and were presented to Mrs. Blaine, who was just leaving.
The Secretary walked to the open fire-place, turned his back to it,
and, addressing me, said: “Mr. Byers, I want you to understand that I
consider that in this pauper emigration matter you have done a good
thing--and I am going to support you in it.”
“You can give me the information I want,” he continued, later in the
conversation, and invited me to come and see him on the following
Monday.
I think the conversation helped Mr. Blaine to make up his mind to send
a certain strong letter abroad.
* * * * *
_May, 1881._--When at Washington, I was invited to prepare the
Decoration Day poem. I wrote “The Nation’s Dead.” The President and
many distinguished people were present at its recital.
As I could not be present to read my poem personally, some one
suggested that the distinguished Robert Ingersoll should be invited
to read it. General Sherman, in a letter to me, objected in strong
language. Ingersoll was a friend of his, but he regarded it manifestly
improper for an infidel to be delivering poems over the graves of
American soldiers.
* * * * *
Before sailing, I visited at the Allen home and school, West Newton.
James T. Allen had been one of my best friends in Europe. The school
was somewhat on the plan of the celebrated Beust school at Zurich; that
is, fewer textbooks and better teachers.
I had a letter to the poet Longfellow, and Mr. Allen suggested that
we go over to Cambridge on Sunday afternoon. My letter was from Mr.
Longfellow’s nephew.
The poet came into the little drawing-room with a full blown red rose
in his buttonhole. He took me by the hand and welcomed me very kindly.
I commenced to apologize for coming on Sunday. “Tut--tut,” said he, “no
apology; I hope we are not so puritanical as not to want to see our
friends on a Sunday.” And then we sat down and talked about his nephew
who had been in Switzerland. His language was vivacious, his eye clear,
his cheeks rosy, his hair perfectly white. I was surprised to see how
small was his figure, for I had always thought of Longfellow as a tall
man with a great Leonine head; his pictures make him so.
[Illustration: Vecchio Palace, Florence.]
I could not wholly help a glance around the famous room. I am sure
he saw it, for he offered to show me some of the things that he knew
I had read about. They were not bought bric-a-brac, but souvenirs, or
else things his poetry and life had immortalized. Somehow he seemed to
me a man to love--simple, pure and beautiful as his verses.
I also had letters to Mr. Bronson Alcott, the transcendentalist
philosopher. He received me one morning in a very cordial manner. It
was in his library. We talked of books and something of his life. I had
just been out to the battlefield of Lexington, looked at the bronze
monument of the “Minute Man” there, and was so struck with the verse
on it as to commit it to memory. “And Mr. Emerson wrote it,” I said,
somewhat uncertain as to my memory. “Certainly, certainly,” said Mr.
Alcott. “Of course, that is Mr. Emerson’s. We Americans don’t half
know what a poet we have in Mr. Emerson.” He went to the book shelves
and brought a volume of Emerson’s poems, presented to him, with this
particular poem marked in it, and showed it with evident pride.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
Shortly, he proposed to take a walk. He would show me the town, the old
elms, the old, old graveyard and the famous Lecture Hall, “and then,”
said he, “we will swing around and call on Mr. Emerson.”
He showed me all about, talking, as only Mr. Alcott could talk. When
we reached the unpretentious frame building called the Lecture Hall,
in the edge of the bushes, I reflected what great things had been said
there, what ideas given wing, and now I felt sure I was about to be
overwhelmed with deep philosophy. Nothing of the kind. He spent a full
half hour telling me about the cost of the wooden structure and its
course of building, from the underpinning to the top of the chimney.
I was anxious to move on and be sure to have our call on Mr. Emerson.
We really started once, but immediately Mr. Alcott recalled something
about the wonderful “Hall” he had not shown me, and we went back.
At last we started in earnest, and reached the white frame house that
neighbors and friends of Mr. Emerson had built in place of the one
destroyed by fire.
“Mr. Emerson is at home, I suppose,” said Mr. Alcott to the girl who
answered the door bell. “Yes,” said she, “that is, he has just this
moment left for Boston.” I was a bit disappointed, and I think Mr.
Alcott was, but he made up for it in fine and kindly talk, and we went
back to the library. There was an invitation to stay to lunch, but
the hour for my train back to Newton interfered. He gave me a fine
photograph of himself. Mr. Alcott was a great and powerful looking man.
He had an immense head and face, shaggy eyebrows, and clear deep eyes.
He was tall and large in body. His voice was gentle and his manners
were delightful and simple.
“Now, is there nothing I can do for you?” he said, as I was about to
take my leave. “Thank you, Mr. Alcott,” I answered, “and yet it would
be a pleasure if I could have the honor of meeting your daughter.”
“Bless me,” he cried, jumping up; “don’t you know Louise? Louise!” he
called out at the top of his voice, “Louise, come in here.” There was
no answer. “Come on,” he said; “we’ll hunt her up,” and away we started
through the rooms of the house on a chase for the famous woman.
We found her in morning gown, with carpet sweeper in hand, dusting one
of the chambers. She was as kindly and simple as her father. She could
not hear well, but she was very vivacious and full of fun. She asked
me to go with her all about the house, looking at this souvenir and
that, as if she herself were not at that moment the greatest sight of
all. She dwelt especially on some pictures on the wall that a sister
had painted in Paris. My stay abroad must have fitted me to know about
paintings, she insisted. These were indeed interesting and good.
As we were talking, two young fellows ran over the stile and out into
the street. Mr. Alcott gleefully nudged me on the arm, and said, “Look,
the ‘little men.’” We all looked. Miss Alcott smiled and said, “Yes,
they are the boys.”
The train was just starting as I reached it at the station, and there
I had a glimpse of a tall, intellectual-looking man crossing the
platform, apparently looking for some other train. He carried a little
hand bag. I heard a passenger next me say, “There is Mr. Emerson.”
* * * * *
Mr. Allen took me to Newton Center, to see the famous Dr. Smith, author
of the song “America.” It was dark when we called. His daughter went to
fetch matches, and was no little surprised on coming back to find the
gas burning brightly. Mr. A. had lighted a match on his shoe and found
the gas lamp. Shortly, Dr. Smith came in. Though old and partially
deaf, his face was kind and his eyes bright. He liked to talk with us
about his past, and told us much concerning the origin of his famous
song. I thought his home old and dingy for so famous a man. The people
of America could well afford to give him a palace. His song has done
more to preserve the American Union than any army ever did. He was
interested about music in Switzerland, and asked me to tell him what
effect the mountains have on the Swiss character. I told him to judge
by their songs. No country in the world has so many music festivals,
so many singing clubs. “And the songs they sing?” inquired the doctor.
“They are mostly about their country, their mountains, their lakes,
their rivers,” I answered. At a great musical contest last year,
attended by ten thousand people, forty-six songs were sung in chorus.
Nineteen of these were about the Alps, or hymns to nature. Seven were
about Switzerland, two or three about the Rhine, and ten were love
songs.
It was a Sunday evening and we feared to prolong our visit.
* * * * *
After I had reached my post at Zurich, a New Yorker wrote me to send
him a book printed in the Swiss language. I had seen but few. There
is a Swiss language, all the uneducated speak it; so do many of the
cultivated, when among themselves, but not among strangers. It is also
spoken much in the family circle. It has many dialects, and some of
them are older than the German language itself. An occasional newspaper
is printed in these dialects, but books rarely.