TO MME. BERNHARDT 

 My dear Madame Bernhardt,— I have been very nigh addressing this ode To the winner of the Derby. But, on second thoughts, I said, "No, no—never!" (Non, non, jamais, in fact.) "Not while we have in our midst One of whom I wot, For is it meet That the charming Mme. Bernhardt Should return to her interesting country Possessed of the impression that the bas Anglais Have a greater feeling for le sport Than for the arts dramatiques, Or whatever you call 'em? Non, non, a thousand times, non!" Ah, Madame, believe me, I love my country— La patrie, la patrie, la patrie, you know: It is a fine country when you understand it, And I would have my beautiful Bernhardt Take away with her Nothing but splendid memories of it. I was exceedingly glad To read in the papers the other morning That in the opinion of the critics dramatiques Anglais, Or whatever you call 'em, Madame had done herself proud At the Lyceum Theatre the other evening. One critic dramatique Anglais, Or whatever you call him, Wrote of Madame thus: "Such passages, Wherein the eaglet is borne away On a flight of adoration for the dead eagle, Recur throughout the play: They are, in fact, its keynote, And Mme. Bernhardt Declaimed them with superb intensity. The famous voice has lost its golden notes, But its power to thrill remains, She runs the gamut of the emotions With all the grace and dexterity Of A PROFESSOR." Madame Bernhardt, You will perceive That the critics dramatiques Anglais, Or whatever you call 'em, Write of nobody That they do not adorn; My beautiful B., You are a made woman, You have all the grace and dexterity Of A PROFESSOR. O happiness! O crown and fulfilment of a life-time devoted to Ar-rt! Your cup, my quenchless one, Is at length heaped up, Like Benjamin's, And it runs over! Heaven bless us all! And in conclusion, my dear Mme. Bernhardt, Will you do me the honour to allow me to explain That in the event of any young enthusiast from Paris Calling round at any of our newspaper offices With a view to getting satisfaction From the person who accuses you Of having all the skill and dexterity Of A PROFESSOR, He (the young enthusiast from Paris) Will do himself no good, Because in my dear country, dear Madame Bernhardt, We do not fight the duel à la cut finger, Like gentlemen; We merely throw downstairs. 

 

 

   TO SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT 

 My dear Sir William Harcourt,— (I have not time to get up your other distinguished 

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