ing her mother
and grandfather into society."

A weird menu was at the side of each plate; it was in French--on
account, I suppose, of the Lesseps. One of the items was _L'estomac de
dinde a l'ambassadrice, pommes sautees_. Mr. John Hay, who sat next to
me, remarked, ironically, "Why do they not write their menu in plain
English?"

"I think," I answered, "that it is better in French. How would 'turkey
to an ambassadress's stomach' or 'jumped potatoes' sound?"

He could find no answer to this.

Madame Lesseps confided to me in our coffee-cups that she and her
husband were in "Vasheengton _en touristes, mais aussi, ils avaient des
affaires_." The _affaires_ are no less than the Panama Canal.

CAMBRIDGE, _Summer, 1879_.

Ole Bull (the great violinist) has taken James Russell Lowell's house
in Cambridge. He is remarried, and lives here with his wife and
daughter. He has a magnificent head, and that broad, expansive smile
which seems to belong to geniuses. Liszt had one like it.

He and Mrs. Bull come here often on Sunday evenings, and sometimes he
brings his violin. Mrs. B. accompanies him, and he plays divinely.
There is no violinist on earth that can compare with him. There may be
many who have as brilliant a technique, but none who has his _feu
sacre_ and the tremendous magnetism which creates such enthusiasm that
you are carried away. The sterner sex pretend that they can resist him,
but certainly no woman can.

He is very proud of showing the diamond in his bow which was given to
him by the King of Sweden.

He loves to tell the story of King Frederick VII. of Denmark, who said
to him: "Where did you learn to play the violin? Who was your teacher?"

Ole Bull answered, "Your Majesty, the pine forests of Norway and the
beautiful _fjords_ taught me!"

The King, who had no feeling for such high-flown sentiments, turned to
one of his _aides-de-camp_ and said, "_Sikken vroevl_"--the Danish for
"What rubbish!"

Mr. John Owen (Mr. Longfellow's shadow) swoops down on us occasionally
on the wings of poesy. I don't always comprehend the poesy, and
sometimes would like to cut the wings, but Owen can't be stopped. Every
event is translated into verse; even my going to Newport by the
ten-o'clock train, which sounds prosy enough, inspires him, and the
next morning he comes in with a poem. Then we see it in the _Boston
Advertiser_, evening edition.

[Illustration:
OLE BULL
From a photograph taken in New York in 188