_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.