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.