Our Government approved his course at Berlin by appointing him Minister to St. Petersburg, but he declined. Sargent, on coming home, was talked of for the Presidency. An abler man, a purer patriot, a clearer headed statesman, is not often thought of for that exalted post. _June 30, 1883._--On the 29th of March I went to America on the “Wieland.” Had thirteen days at sea and twelve of them storm and hurricane. The ship was an old rat trap, on her last voyage before repairs. I did not know this until we were in the middle of the ocean. A young German, a gilded youth, the son of Prince ----, was on board with me, proposing to try gay life a few years in America. One day he asked me if the American shop girls were all “fast,” as in certain continental cities, and if young men were interfered with for ruining them. I observed that there was a difficulty; these girls mostly had brothers who would shoot such a scoundrel on sight. The princelet became pensive all at once, and seemed to be reflecting that his visions of fun in the United States were turning all to fog. * * * * * Just before my return to Switzerland, I happened to be in Washington again. It was the day set for the public funeral of the author of “Home, Sweet Home.” Corcoran, the Washington banker, was paying all the expenses, and a warship had brought the poet’s remains home from Africa. The President and the Cabinet and all the dignitaries in Washington, as well as many invited guests, took part. Howard Payne had been a consul at the time of his death. I was asked to participate in the ceremony, and went as one of the staff of General Hancock. The ceremonies commenced in the Corcoran Art Gallery. It was an impressive occasion. I felt very strange, standing there close by the little white coffin that contained all that was left of the sweet singer. President Arthur was one of the pall bearers. At the cemetery there were long rows of elevated seats for the participants. I recall sitting beside General Hancock and looking with interest on the magnificent figure of the Gettysburg hero. He certainly was the most splendid looking military man I ever saw anywhere. A statue of Payne was unveiled at the grave, and a chorus of five hundred voices sang “Home, Sweet Home.” A storm was threatening and black clouds hung over the scene. Just as the flag was being drawn aside from the marble face, the sun suddenly came out through a rift in the clouds, while at the very same instant a myriad of yellow butterflies fluttered and clustered about the poet’s face. The vast multitude present saw it, and were moved to exclamations of delight. I visited my home out West, and returned on the “Hammonia.” My old school-fellow, J. D. Edmundson, went along. We had then, and more than once afterward, good times together, excursioning among the Swiss Alps.