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 la cut finger,         Like gentlemen;         We merely throw downstairs.