Twenty Years in Europe

CHAPTER XVII

1878

SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF MINE ABOUT GENERAL GRANT IN THE WAR-GRANT AT CHAMPION HILLS-SHERMAN’S LETTER ON CONFISCATION BY TAXATION IN AMERICA-SILVER NO “CURE ALL”-GRANT AT RAGATZ-I GIVE A BANQUET IN HIS HONOR AT ZURICH.

January, 1878.-To-day made New Year’s calls on some American friends; but it is not customary among the Swiss.

Received copies of my “Recollections of Grant and Sherman,” printed in the Philadelphia Times. It so happened that I had seen General Grant often in the Vicksburg campaign, and he personally directed a charge made by our brigade at the battle of Champion Hills. The battle had been going on for some time, when he rode up close behind the line of my regiment. He dismounted from his bay horse and stood within a few yards of where I was in the line, leaning on my gun. He was under a heavy fire of musketry, and we boys all feared for his life. There was some suspense, before the order to “charge” was given. My company stood there in line on the green grass, just as it did on the village green in Newton, the morning we started for the war. Grant leaned against his horse and smoked, and looked simply as a man would, who had a little piece of tough business before him to consider. Aides rode up to him and rode away. He spoke to them in a low voice, that even I, who was so close to him, could not hear. The awful musketry rattle of terrific combat was a little to the left and right of us, and there was no great noise immediately in our front; but well we all knew that ten thousand rebels were over there in the timber, waiting our advance. There was no cannonading of our line, as we stood there unresistingly, feeling the shots from their rifles, and firing not a shot in return. Grant was not quite ready. I saw him glance, I thought half pityingly, at a few of our wounded who were carried back past him, and he looked very close at one man near me who was shot in the leg and who limped past him to the rear. I think he recognized his face, but he did not speak to him. He spoke to none of us; there was no posing, no sword waving, or hat swinging. I have almost forgotten if he even had a sword on. None but those near by knew that he was within a mile of us. It was just a little plain business he was then looking after, but I know some of us wished he would go out of range of the bullets.

Shortly I saw our colonel walk back to him. There were a few nods and low words, and as the colonel passed me returning, he said to me: “I want you to act as Sergeant Major.” (I was with Company B). “Run to the left of the regiment and yell, ‘Fix bayonets.’” I ran as ordered, crying all the time “Fix bayonets.” Glancing back, I saw Grant mounting his horse. That instant I heard all the officers yelling, “Double quick!”-“Charge!”

We went into the woods and over the rough ground on the run, the bullets of the enemy all the time coming into us like hail. Suddenly, there was in front of us and all around us, a terrific roar of cannon. For nearly two mortal hours, we stood in battle line in that wood, and emptied our rifles into the rebel line of gray as fast as we could load them. They did not seem 200 yards away, though the battle smoke soon partly hid them. We carried muzzle-loading Whitney rifles and forty cartridges. In my regiment, every man’s cartridge box was emptied, and some of us took cartridges from the bodies of the dead. A third of my command were shot.

When it was all over and nearly dark, we were out on the Black river road, resting. General Grant came riding up to where our flags hung on the guns, and stopped. We all jumped up out of the dust to cheer; some one caught up the flag and held it in front of his horse. He simply smiled, and said to the colonel, “Good for the Fifth Iowa,” and then rode off into the darkness.

February, 1878.-Hard times is still the cry everywhere in Europe. A letter from General Sherman shows that now at last our people are finding out what the Civil War cost us, in the way of dollars and cents.

“Dear Byers: – I have just received your letter of January 3d, with your clipping from the London News, for which I am much obliged. I had previously received the letter of December 28th, which I had taken down to my rooms for the perusal of Mrs. Sherman, who is a more reliable correspondent than I am. She and Elly are here from St. Louis for a visit, and will probably remain all of February, to enjoy the social advantages of the capital, now at their height. Though everybody is crying at the hard times, yet extravagance in dress and living has not received a quietus. I wish it was otherwise, but no single man, or set of men, can change the habits of a people in a day or a season.

“Those who clamor for a silver coinage think it will cure all evils, but I am sure no measure that can be concocted by our legislators can change the state of facts, which is the necessary result of the war. Wages and prices of all things necessary, rose to a standard far above the real value. Now all must come down, and each class struggles to go right along as before, demanding that others must make the necessary sacrifices. Meantime also states, counties and municipalities have ‘improved’ by spending borrowed money, which must now be paid, principal or interest. The cost of Government, like all other things, has increased. Local taxation, to meet this cost and interest, is a burden heavier than property can bear, so that real property now everywhere, instead of being a source of income, is the very reverse, and I do not know but that all real property in this great land is ‘confiscate.’ I know that all my property that used to pay me some revenue is now unable to pay its own taxes. I do not see how silver coinage is going to mend this, but such is now the cry, and in some form or other the experiment will be tried. Our papers keep us well advised as to the progress of the war in Turkey, and I have a good map at hand, which enables me to follow the movements of the several columns pretty well.

“I am glad to learn that Mrs. Byers is in better health, and that you content yourself with what you have, for want of better. I hope ere your return to us, things will mend and prosperity once more return to Iowa and the West.

September 21, 1878.-Yesterday, while up on the Rigi, I received this telegram from General Grant:

“I accept your invitation for Monday.

It was in reply to an invitation of mine to a dinner party that I wished to give in his honor at Zurich. He had been stopping at Ragatz for some weeks, that beautiful resort on the upper Rhine.

A Swiss paper had this little item the other day: “Among the crowd of fashionables at the resort of Ragatz, one does not notice a certain smallish, plain looking, sturdy man, who takes long walks alone, and who lives the simplest, least conspicuous life of any one there. No wonder few know who the quiet gentleman is. His name, possibly, is not even on the hotel register, but he is the first man in the great sister Republic beyond the sea. It is U. S. Grant.”

September 25, 1878.-Had another telegram from General Grant on the 22d, saying he would reach Zurich at 12:36 next morning. I took train and met him at Horgen. Mr. Corning, the Vice Consul, went with me. Mrs. Grant was with her husband. No one on the train seemed to know of their presence. We found them sitting alone in a little, first class coupé. I had flowers for Mrs. Grant, and they both received us very kindly. We rode together to Zurich and talked only about Ragatz and the pretty scenes they had just passed. Mrs. Grant was especially enthusiastic over the picturesque journey.

A great crowd assembled about the station where we entered. General Grant took my arm and walked to the carriage. Mr. Corning escorted Mrs. Grant. Just as the General was stepping into the carriage, a rough-looking fellow suddenly ran up, caught the General’s arm and cried out, “You are going to speak to me, hain’t you?” There was a momentary fright, and thought of assassination, among all of us. A policeman jumped forward, swinging a club, to arrest him. “Don’t you never mind,” the man cried out in English to the policeman. “I’m one of Grant’s old soldiers.” The policeman halted, seeing the General smile and reach his hand to the apparent ruffian. “Yes, General, I was with you and Johnny Logan at Vicksburg,” the excited man exclaimed, “and look here.” He commenced rolling up his sleeve and showed a wrist shot half in two. The sight of that soldier’s wound sent a quick thrill through every one of us. “The past of the nation was speaking there.”

The ceremony of the occasion was all forgotten. Had there been room, Mrs. Grant would have taken him into the carriage. For myself, I could have gladly walked, to let this wounded hero ride with his General. “Come and see me at my hotel,” said General Grant, “and we will talk it all over.” Again, he shook the stranger soldier’s hand, and the horses started.

“Three cheers for General Grant,” cried the soldier, swinging his hat to the crowd, that answered in a loud Swiss huzza.

In the afternoon, Mr. Nicholas Fish, the American Minister, who had come down from the capital to be at my dinner, went with me to the hotel, and we took the General driving about the town. Mrs. Grant preferred to rest. We went up on the terrace in front of the University, where is spread out to view one of the fairest sights in the world. The city lay below us, in front the chain of the Albis hills, to the left the blue lake, and beyond it the snow mountains.

The General was impressed with the view, but he was getting used to grand scenes in Switzerland; they are everywhere. He looked in silence. Shortly, he commenced talking about the spires and towers of the city below us; asked the name of almost every one of them, and spent a long time studying out the meaning of certain big, red letters on the roof of an orphan asylum under the terrace. He would not give that up. He asked the different German names for such things, how they were spelled, and finally guessed the riddle that neither I nor Mr. Fish (both knowing German) had been able to explain. This noticing everything and trying to solve it, is even to a greater extent a trait of General Sherman’s. May it not be genius’ method of intuitively making things its own?

He examined carefully the architecture of the University building, and talked with Mr. Fish about his father, the ex-Secretary of State. There was also a little reference to his own youth at West Point, not far away from the Fish’s country home.

We went down the terrace steps. Now I noticed that Grant was growing old. His elasticity of movement was all gone. He was getting stoop shouldered, too.

He told me of a stone quarry he had, I think in Jersey. “On the continued profits of that,” he said, “depends whether I shall stay very long abroad, or go back home.”

To the dinner that night, I had invited some representative members of the Swiss army, press, learned professions, etc. Colonel Voegli was there; Dr. Willi, the friend of Wagner; Gottfried Kinkel, the professor and poet; Orelli, the banker; Feer, of the Swiss Senate; Vogt, the journalist; Mr. Fish, the American Minister; Mayor Roemer and others.

It was a gentlemen’s dinner. Mrs. Grant remained in her room, after a brief glance at the table and the flowers downstairs.

It was an ideal place for a happy party. Inside the room the Swiss and American colors were blended, and some of the French dishes were rebaptized with American names for the occasion.

Outside, the almost tropical garden reached out into the lake. There was no music in the rooms, but almost every one present made a little speech. General Grant not only answered to the toast in his honor, but in a second speech proposed Switzerland, and especially Zurich, which he had heard spoken of as a “Swiss Athens.” At no time did I ever see him in such good spirits. The table was not so large but all could plainly hear. Numbers of the guests addressed remarks and inquiries about our country to General Grant. He answered kindly, and proposed many questions of his own, until conversation became extremely lively. In short, his reputation for being no talker was smashed all to pieces that evening. He talked much, and he talked well, and was very happy; so were all of us. The two Republics were one around that table, and we were all democrats. General Grant drank wine with the rest of us, but with moderation. President Hayes, he related to me, had a great reputation for drinking absolutely nothing but water. “It is a mistake,” said the General, and he told me how at a dinner at the White House, the night before the inauguration, President Hayes emptied his wine glass very much in the way that all other people did, who had no reputations for total abstinence. He was amused at some of the French-American names on the menu at his plate. I interpreted some of them for him, and, after the dinner, put his menu with its pretty picture of the lake into my breast pocket, as a little souvenir of the occasion.

We separated at midnight, and the next morning some of the same guests and myself escorted him and Mrs. Grant to their train for Paris.

CHAPTER XVIII

1878

THE ST. GOTHARD TUNNEL-I DESCRIBE IT FOR HARPER’S MAGAZINE-ITS COST-A GREAT SCARE IN THE TUNNEL.

October, 1878.-The great tunnel through the St. Gothard Alps is reaching completion. Nothing like it was ever accomplished before in the world. It happens that Mr. Hellwag, the chief engineer of the stupendous undertaking, is a personal friend, and he gave me every facility for visiting it. His courtesy and hints have helped me in preparing my article for Harper’s (October) Magazine. Hellwag is already famous as the builder of the tunnels for the Brenner pass. He is also the inventor of the Auger, or Spiral tunnel system, by which railway trains reach high elevations up tunnel slopes, winding around and up the inside of mountains. He gave me letters and permits to go everywhere, and, so far as I know, I am the first American to have been inside the tunnel.

The undertaking of this tunnel is something vast. It takes the surplus cash of three governments to build it, Italy, Germany and Switzerland.

The line reaches from Lake Luzern in Switzerland to Lake Maggiore in Italy, one hundred and eight miles. One hundred and twenty thousand feet of this is tunneled through mountains of granite. The longest tunnel in the series is 48,936 feet. Few of the smaller tunnels are less than 7,000 feet long.

It was thought one hundred and eighty-seven million francs would pay for it, but two hundred and eighty-nine millions are now required. It is the usual blundering in figures that comes with most public enterprises. This particular blundering has bankrupted thousands of innocent people who have bought shares. The extra money is now raised, however, and the awful barrier of granite peaks and fields of snow and ice, between Italy and Switzerland, is to be overcome by skill of man.

There was no road over the Gothard for five hundred years, and not until a century ago was a vehicle of any kind ever seen up there. Even now, the wagon road is one of great peril, as I have myself experienced, a whole sledge load of us once barely missing being overwhelmed by an avalanche that fell a hundred feet ahead of us. There were granite boulders in that slide of snow, big as our horses, and the thing fell without a warning, and with a crash that was stupendous. Many lives have been lost in this pass; half the year, even now, it is abandoned entirely to the winds that howl among its mountains of desolation.

The tunnel was not quite finished when I was there. The boring machines inside are worked by compressed air, furnished by enormous air compressors outside. These also force air in for ventilation. They compress air also for the peculiar locomotives that are moved by air, not steam.

My guide and I got on the front platform of one of these air engines, and were shot into the tunnel for miles through a black cloud of smoke and gas that I thought would kill me, or cause me to fall off the engine. It was Cimmerian darkness. The engineer said: “You shall now see a glimpse of the bowels of hell.” I saw nothing for miles, and then suddenly we came to the weird lights, the big air machines boring into the granite walls, and the half-naked workmen. It was a gruesome picture in there, with the yellow lights, the racket of the machines, and the occasional explosion of dynamite. The water in places burst from the rocks in streams as big as my arm, and with force enough to knock the workmen from their feet. At one spot, the torrent broke through fine crevices, at the rate of four thousand gallons a minute. A special canal was made under the railroad tracks, to carry this river of water out of the tunnel.

I was greatly impressed, not only by the scene inside, but to think that at that moment avalanches were falling five thousand feet above our heads, storms were raging among the cold peaks up there, and a rapid mountain river was rushing right along over us. It seemed a perilous place. Indeed, it was often feared that some mighty torrent might be struck suddenly, some day, and destroy every life in the tunnel.

Far in, where the compressed air left the pipes, the ventilation seemed better, but it would kill most men to stay in there at all for any length of time. It is well known that the health of these unfortunate workmen is being ruined. An early death stares every one of them in the face.

Something is always threatening to happen, and my conductor relates an incident that shows how easily alarm sets in. He was one day walking along in the half darkness, inspecting something near the mouth of the tunnel, when he heard far behind him what sounded like the tramping of a herd of buffalo, or the bursting of a torrent. Suddenly, he saw quick moving lights and heard human voices. Whatever it could be, exploding gas, demons, or torrent, it was rushing towards him like an avalanche. He jumped into a niche at the side of the tunnel, to save his life. Then he heard the cry, “The mine, the mine! run for your life!” He, too, then ran till he broke down and saw the terrible army of half-naked, begrimed men, with the coal lamps on their heads, rush by him in terror. A jutting rock had saved his life, but the herd of men, still screaming “gas,” “the mine,” “run, run!” tumbled over each other and tramped each other down, till the mouth of the tunnel was reached.

When my informant picked himself up, and went down to the company’s offices, he found the whole crowd gesticulating and talking loudly. There had been no “explosion”-no “mine”-no “gas.” It was simply a strike. The leaders had adopted this plan to scare everybody out of the tunnel.

The next day, and the next, the strikers refused to either work or disperse. They were trying “the dog in the manger” system of the United States strikers, neither working nor letting work. A regiment of militia was sent there, and, unlike American militia, did their duty. A very few musket volleys, and the poor, deluded strikers went away, though a good many staid there in their blood.

CHAPTER XIX

1879

AMERICAN ARTISTS AT MUNICH-I MEET MARK TWAIN-TAKE HIM TO AN ARTISTS’ CLUB-CONVERSATIONS WITH HIM-BEER DRINKING-HE READS THE ORIGINAL OF “WHAT I KNOW ABOUT THE GERMAN LANGUAGE”-WE ENTERTAIN THE AMERICANS AT ZURICH-A LETTER FROM GENERAL SHERMAN-CONFEDERATES MORE POPULAR THAN UNION MEN-SHERMAN READY TO SURRENDER.

February 1, 1879.-Spent part of January in Munich, and very much of the time among the studios of the American artists. There are not less than fifty of our countrymen here, either practicing art or learning it.

Frank Duveneck (later widely known) had a large class of devoted students, who were also his followers in a style of painting peculiar to himself. There was a strong belief that he was a man of genius, but he spent much time teaching, when he ought to have been painting. Duveneck’s students followed him later to Florence, where I saw them again.

Chase was also at Munich at this time. I can imagine no city more desirable for a student of art. The social atmosphere breathes of art; the galleries, of course, are unsurpassed. There are plenty of teachers-and models are plenty, and all very cheap.

I was introduced to Carl Piloty, head of the Academy of Arts. It was on the street a friend and I met him. The day was cold, the wind blowing. There could be little conversation. He wore a big paletot wrapped about him, and his face and head were so covered that I could not tell what he looked like. Saw him the same evening on the platform in the academy, posing models for the students. There was great enthusiasm for him.