CAMBRIDGE, June, 1877.

My dear Sister,—­Sarah Bernhardt is playing in Boston now, much to Boston’s delight.  I went to see her at the Tremont House, where she is staying.  She looked enchanting, and was dressed in her most characteristic manner, in a white dress with a border of fur.  Fancy, in this heat!  She talked about Paris, her latest successes, asked after Nina, and finally—­what I wanted most to know—­her impressions of America.

This is her first visit.  I found that she seemed to be cautious about expressing her opinions.  She said she was surprised to see how many people in America understood French.  “Really?” I answered.  “It did not strike me so the other evening when I heard you in ’La Dame aux Camelias.’” “I don’t mean the public,” she replied.  “It apparently understands very little, and the turning of the leaves of the librettos distracts me so much that I sometimes forget my role.  At any rate, I wait till the leaves have finished rustling.  But in society,” she added, “I find that almost every one who is presented to me talks very good French.”  “Well,” I answered, “if Boston didn’t speak French I should be ashamed of it.”  She laughed.  “Sometimes,” she said, “they do make curious mistakes.  I am making note of all I can remember.  They will be amusing in the book I am writing.  A lady said to me, ’What I admire the most in you, madame, c’est votre temperature.’” She meant “temperament.”  “What did you answer to that?” I asked.  “I said, ’Oui, madame, il fait tres chaud,’ which fell unappreciated.”

She is bored with reporters, who besiege her from morning till night.  One—­a woman—­who sat with note-book in hand for ages ("une eternite” she said) reporting, the next day sent her the newspaper in which a column was filled with the manner she treated her nails.  Not one word about “mon art”!  “Some of my admirateurs” she said, “pay their fabulous compliments through an interpreter.”  She thought this was ridiculous.  When I got up to leave she said, “Chere madame, you know Mr. Longfellow?” “Yes,” I replied, “very well.”  “Could you not arrange that I might make his bust?  You can tell him that you know my work, and that I can do it if he will let me.”

I told her that I would try.  She was profuse in her thanks in anticipation, but, alas!  Mr. Longfellow, when I spoke to him, turned a cold shoulder on the idea.  He begged me to assure Sarah Bernhardt nothing would have given him more pleasure, but, with a playful wink, “I am leaving for Portland in a few days, and I am afraid she will have left Boston when I come back”—­thus cutting the Gordian (k)_not_ with a snap.  But, evidently regretting his curtness, he said, “Tell her if she is at liberty to-morrow I will offer her a cup of tea.”  Then he added:  “You must come and chaperon me.  It would not do to leave me alone with such a dangerous and captivating visitor.”  He invited Mr. Howells and Oliver