When the reunion took place, many great characters sat upon the stage​--​Cox, Logan, Dodge, Howard, Sherman and many others of the great war heroes. At the tables sat hundreds whose names had been known in the Civil War.

The toasts consisted of stanzas from “Sherman’s March to the Sea.” They were elegantly painted by hand on white satin, on which also was traced in gold the route of that famous March. Each toast was responded to by the particular General who had commanded at the point described in the verse. General Sherman, as president, made the first speech.

He then introduced me to the audience, and I recited my poem, “The Tramp of Sherman’s Army,” with bugle strain accompaniment. Its reception showed that the enthusiasm for war ballads had not died out. Each morning of the reunion the officers of the Army of the Tennessee, preceded by a drum corps or a band, walked in line from the Burnett House over to the hall where they held their meetings. Though Sherman was there, and many other distinguished men, it was almost a sad and pathetic sight as they walked together in the middle of the street, death had so thinned the line and reduced the number! Some of the onlookers did not realize what men were marching there, what names for history, or that among that peaceful looking little band were veterans who had led great armies to battle.

*****

March, 1888.​--​With Mr. Harrison’s installation at the White House, I resolved to again, if possible, enter the service abroad. In the meantime, my military book of Iowa had not been a source of profit. One large edition sold, that was all. It seemed I was not alone in receiving no great income from war books. General Sherman, speaking of his own experience, wrote the following letter:

“New York, June 14, 1890.

“Dear Byers:​--​I have just received your letter, enclosing the programme of exercises for the 18th. I see so many boys nowadays, who were born after the war, that I am hardened. It so happens that my youngest, Cump, born at St. Louis, since the war, is being examined to-day for admission to the bar. I am also just back from West Point, where I saw the corps of cadets, about three hundred, strong, brawny boys, all born since the war, who now look up to me as a stray souvenir of a bygone age.

“I am sorry to learn that your book, ‘Iowa in War Times,’ has not proven more profitable. Your case is not exceptional, as I have good reason to know. So many expect me to present copies of my ‘Memoirs,’ ignorant of the fact that the publisher gets nine-tenths, the author one-tenth, so that when I present a copy it amounts to my buying it at 80 cents less than the common purchaser. My annual receipts from Sherman’s Memoirs don’t pay one-quarter of traveling expenses demanded at the Army Reunion each year. The same is true of Sheridan’s and other war books. Grant’s case is exceptional, because purchasers believe they contribute to the support of his family.

“Of course I know nothing of your prospects for a mission or consulate. I infer the present administration, like all others, must use offices to pay for active political work.

“Present me kindly to Mrs. Byers. Lizzie is now absent on a visit to her sister, Mrs. Thackera, at Cape May. Rachel is at home, and we generally have visitors.

“Sincerely your friend,
W. T. Sherman.”

Senator James F. Wilson, who had been a true friend in all the years that I had been in Europe, took me to the Executive Mansion one day, to introduce me to the President. It was a curious meeting that morning. I had never seen Mr. Harrison, and we waited with interest in the anteroom of his private office. The place was full of grave looking Senators. It might have been a funeral.

Mr. W. and I stood half an hour waiting among the rest. I wondered why the President’s door did not open. All the time there was a little low buzzing going on among some of the waiting ones, and I noticed a few slip up and whisper to a very sober looking little man, in a corner by the window. I supposed him to be a Senator. There would be some low talk with him, a stiff bow, and then some other Senator would slip up and go through the same performance. At last I whispered to Mr. Wilson, “Who is that man by the window?” “Why, that is the President,” he answered, to my complete astonishment. We had been in his presence all the time, and I had not known it. Now my attention was doubly fixed on him. Here was a quiet little man in the corner, ruling seventy millions of people. He seemed to indicate, by an extra glance, who might approach him next. I thought the Senators were all afraid of him, judging from the humble way in which they walked to the corner, and the very prompt manner in which they went away. There was not a smile on anybody’s face, and all was silence. Had they all been stepping up to take a last look at somebody’s corpse, the scene could not have been very different. If he actually promised some Senator something, there was no sign of the promise on his face.

After a while, he glanced over to Senator Wilson. We were but a few feet away. Mr. W. went up and spoke in a low voice, telling him, as I now know, something of the propriety of appointing men of experience to the service, and suggesting my name. Not a muscle moved on the President’s face. It is no go for me, I said to myself. Then Mr. Wilson said, a little louder: “Now, Mr. President, let me present Mr. Byers.” I heard him and stepped forward. I expressed the honor done me, and he mechanically took my hand; but, as if taking a second thought on the matter, he looked over my shoulder at somebody else, and, without saying a word, simply let go. My interview with the President of the United States was over. I laugh about it yet. “It did not promise much, did it?” I said to the Senator, as we went out. “Well, no, nothing extremely definite, or to count on,” replied Mr. Wilson. “But he never says much, and means much more than he says. He is icy with everybody, you saw that?” Yes, I thought I did. A year went by and I did not try it again. A place was offered me in South America, but I did not care for it. Then one morning Mr. Wilson said, “We will go and see Mr. Blaine.” The interview was absolutely the opposite of the one at the White House. Secretary Blaine had great esteem for the Iowa Senator, as did every one who knew him. He invited us both to come and visit him the next morning, at his private house. It was at the corner of Lafayette Square, opposite the Treasury. While we waited in the drawing-room I forgot for the moment what I had come for. I was only thinking of the singular history of that house.

Upstairs was the room where the attempt on Secretary Seward’s life was made, the night Lincoln was assassinated. Out there in front of the door, Key was killed by General Sickles. At this moment, the house was the home of the most noted living American statesman.