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 1880.]

CAMBRIDGE.

A Dane, a friend of Johan’s, who had come to America to write a book on American institutions, asked the consul to find him a quiet boarding-house in a quiet street.  The consul knew of exactly such a retreat, and directed the Professor to the place.  It was not far from the Revere House.  He arrived there in the evening, unpacked his treasures, congratulating himself on his cozy quarters and his nice landlady, who asked such a modest price that he jumped at it.