Wendell Holmes to meet her.  I wrote to Sarah Bernhardt what the result of my interview was and gave the invitation.  She sent back a short “I will come.”  The next afternoon I met her at Mr. Longfellow’s.  When we were drinking our tea she said, “Cher M. Longfellow, I would like so much to have made your bust, but I am so occupied that I really have not the time.”  And he answered her in the most suave manner, “I would have been delighted to sit for you, but, unfortunately, I am leaving for the country to-morrow.”  How clever people are!

Mr. Longfellow speaks French like a native.  He said:  “I saw you the other evening in ‘Phedre.’  I saw Rachel in it fifty years ago, but you surpass her.  You are magnificent, for you are plus vivante.  I wish I could make my praises vocal—­chanter vos louanges.”

“I wish that you could make me vocal,” she said.  “How much finer my Phedre would be if I could sing, and not be obliged to depend upon some horrible soprano behind the scenes!”

“You don’t need any extra attraction,” Mr. Longfellow said.  “I wish I could make you feel what I felt.”

“You can,” she said, “and you do—­by your poetry.”

“Can you read my poetry?”

“Yes.  I read your ‘He-a-vatere.’”

“My—­Oh yes—­’Hiawatha.’  But you surely do not understand that?”

“Yes, yes, indeed I do,” she said. “Chaque mot.”

[Illustration:  HENRY W. LONGFELLOW]

[Illustration: 
JAMES G. BLAINE
When Speaker of the House of Representatives.]

“You are wonderful,” he said, and fearing that she might be tempted to recite “chaque mot” of his “Hiawatha,” hastened to present Mr. Holmes, who was all attention.

At last the tea-party came to an end.  We all accompanied her to her carriage, and as she was about to get in she turned with a sudden impulse, threw her arms round Mr. Longfellow’s neck, and said, “Vous etes adorable,” and kissed him on his cheek.  He did not, seem displeased, but as she drove awray he turned to me and said, “You see I did need a chaperon.”

Johan has just come home from Boston, bringing incredible stories about having talked in a machine called telephone.  It was nothing but a wire, one end in Boston and the other end in Cambridge.  He said he could hear quite plainly what the person in Cambridge said.  Mr. Graham Bell, our neighbor, has invented this.  How wonderful it must be!  He has put up wires about Boston, but not farther than Cambridge—­yet.  He was ambitious enough to suggest Providence.  “What!” cried the members of the committee.  “You think you can talk along a wire in the air over that distance?” “Let me just try it,” said Bell.  “I will bear half the expense of putting up the wire if you will bear the other half.”

He was ultra-convinced of his success when, on talking to his brother in Cambridge from Boston in order to invite him to dinner, adding, “Bring your mother-in-law,” he heard, distinctly but feebly, the old lady’s voice:  “Good gracious!  Again!  What a bore!”