 
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 Like most strangers, we visited the famous breweries, and at the “Hof Brauerei” waded around over the wet, stone floors and helped ourselves to beer, as was the custom. The place was full of loud-talking people, with many soldiers among them, some sitting at tables with schooners of beer before them, others carrying their beer glasses about with them as they gesticulated together in groups. A band played all the time. It was to me a wet, noisy, half-lighted, disagreeable place; but it was “the thing” to go there and help yourself to the world-renowned beer. This brewery, too, is a great place, where one can see German types of many curious kinds, and know what German beer-drinking really is. As we came out into the court, we were near being drowned by some careless employee’s turning loose several barrels of dirty water, from a spout over the doorway. Some soldiers in the vicinity laughed at the speed with which we escaped the flood of beer and water. Out in the street we noticed a not uncommon Munich sight. It was a little parade of University students in open carriages. They wore their corps uniforms of high boots, jaunty caps, and ribbon across the breast. Some of them held aloft a schooner of beer. The front seat, or the place of honor, in each carriage was occupied by a stately bull-dog, arrayed in ribbons and brass collar. The great bronze foundry was a place that entertained us greatly. The method of casting statues and monuments was explained to us, and the copies of noted American figures they had cast at different times, now in the exhibition room, made us feel very proud. It was a group of great men who long ago won for our country the respect of the world. There is not a spot in America, or elsewhere, where one can see more of American The sights of the city were not so different from the sights of other cities. King Otto drove by us a time or two on his way to that wonderful palace of his, with its gardens and lake and swans, and all that, up in the top of the building. One of his Cabinet had spent a summer with us at Obstalden, in Switzerland. His family invited us to a little lunch, where we could talk much about the King; but it had to be in a complimentary way, for these good people saw nothing of what everybody else saw?--?that is, that he was a very unique personage, and probably going crazy. All the world, though, has been glad that he was sane enough to give it Wagner, for without Otto’s long and splendid patronage, Wagner’s music would still have been “a music of the future.” One of King Otto’s freaks is his wonderful fairy castle, built high up in the Bavarian Alps. When the snow is deep on the mountains, and the wind blows, he goes sleigh-riding late at night, and quite alone, in his wonderful sleigh. This sleigh is a gorgeous little coupÉ on runners. Inside, it is all cushions, luxury and shining lights. Outside, it is illuminated too, and when the mountaineers hear the jingling of bells late at midnight, and see the apparition passing, they cross themselves, and say: “God keep King Otto in his right mind.” We heard Wagner’s operas given by his own trained orchestra, almost nightly. They were so long as to be absolutely fatiguing, and made me wonder if this craze for his music is not in part affectation. Enough is enough of anything. We went to bed nights, tired to death; but “it was the thing” to hear Wagner to the end, so we heard. I think few things interested me so much in Munich as to stand and look at the river Iser. It was full, and dark, When dark as Winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly. Later, as a souvenir of the visit, we bought a little painting by Wex, representing a pretty scene on the upper Iser River. One of the pleasant incidents of the Munich visit was the meeting with Mark Twain. I copy a few lines from my diary: Saw Mark Twain several times, and one night had the pleasure of taking him to the American Artists’ Club. The young men had insisted on my asking him to come and make a speech. I went to his apartments, near my own, and together we walked clear across the city. It must have been miles, but I was glad of it. He talked all the way, not with the humor that has made him famous, but in an earnest, thoughtful, sincere mood. He told me how he did his literary work, when in Munich. “I hire a room,” said he, “away off in some obscure quarter of the town, far away from where we live; where no one, not even Mrs. Clemens, could find me. The people who let the room do not know who I am. I go there mornings, stay all day, and work till evening. When at my book-writing, I never sleep a wink, no matter how many days or weeks the undertaking. It is now two weeks since I have slept one single hour.” I wondered such a life was not killing him. As we trudged along under the lamp lights of the streets, we had much small talk of the West, of the time when he was young and when he was “roughing it.” I amused him by relating how I kept a copy of his “Roughing It” at the consulate, to lend to travelers who came along with the “hypo” and like afflictions. Castle Chillon. Something was said of certain American writers, recently “Dickens could well afford to write nice letters to Bret Harte,” said he, “for he has no more faithful admirer and student, and he has adopted the Englishman’s style. Why not? He could not find a better model, and even as great a genius as Balzac boasted of his dependence on the style of Victor Hugo. Solomon, when he said there was nothing new, meant also there were no new literary styles under the sun, either.” My own belief is that Bret Harte’s short California sketches are better than anything Dickens ever wrote. When we reached the new art room that night, the artists and students were already assembled, and were sitting at a couple of long tables, drinking beer and smoking. An enormous schooner full of beer stood at every plate, and the smoke in the room was almost thick enough to slice up and carry out. The students all rose as we entered, and gave Mark Twain a little cheer. As he hung his overcoat up in the corner, he took from the pocket an enormous roll of manuscript. The young men saw it, and possibly began to tremble a little. “Don’t be alarmed,” he cried out, holding the mighty roll up to their view. “I don’t intend to read all this.” The place of honor at the center of one of the tables was waiting him, and the largest beer schooner of all stood in front of it. I was amazed to see him empty it almost before he sat down. “Let’s have some beer, gentlemen,” he said laughing, and schooner after schooner came and disappeared. The paper was “What I Know About the German Language.” It was the first time this now famous bit of humor saw the light. It did not seem to me so very funny in itself, but his way of reading it made it exceedingly droll. The smoke, and the beer, and the jokes went on till midnight. In fact, these beer drinking Americans could beat a Heidelberg students’ “Kneipe” all to pieces, and Mark Twain did not propose to be left wholly in the rear. At last, we all shook hands and started homewards. It was a good hour’s walk he and I had before us, but the cool night air was refreshing. For my own part, I was glad to get out of the dense smoke, and have a chance to talk alone with the humorist. I liked Mark Twain. He is a small, slight man, with big, blue eyes and a great shock of reddish hair. He has a habit of saying “Thank you kindly.” He has youth yet, lots of money and a very pretty wife. February 23.?--?On coming back from Munich, wrote a paper about the Iser. Also wrote for the Atlantic Monthly the account of my experiences inside Atlanta. Last evening we had all the Americans who are in town at our home, celebrating Washington’s birthday. A few Swiss and German friends were also with us?--?among the Germans the family of Director Witt. These were among our first and truest friends abroad. We have spent whole summers together at Bocken, Wangensbach and elsewhere, and we are god parents to one of the little girls. Numbers of guests made speeches last night. Sure it is, the flag never seems so dear to Americans as when they can touch it with their hands in a foreign land. Kinkel, the poet, and his wife and son also, were present. April, 1879.?--?There are a million Northern soldiers still living in the United States who were true to the Union, and yet the United States Senate elects a clerk whose principal General Sherman writes thus of the situation:
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