I go to give you of them a short description. The first picture is the Acropolis, under the domination of the Florentines at the end of the fourteenth century. What perfume of poetry antique! What costumes! That has the air of an account of Boccaccio, of a picture of Botticelli. One sees there the figures of Angelico, the colours of Veronese. It is an Alma-Teddama of the middle age. And when Mistress Bernhardt and her following, all resplendent of costume, are assembled upon the scene, one can see realised a group from the Decameron. And the second picture, and the third, and the fourth? Can I say more of them? They are superb. In the fourth there is a cypress high of six yards, there, alone, at the middle of the scene. One says he is natural. That may be. In any case he is marvellous. But the fifth picture, it is sublime! One cannot more! It is the last word of the modern theatre! It wants me the words, it wants me the place for to speak of it. Shikspir alone would have could to render justice to this picture so ravishing.
As to the action of the piece, you will desire to know something. Frankly I tell you I observed it not. In the middle of this luxury of decorations there wander here and there some persons, dressed at the mode the most beautiful, who speak in effect not too shortly. There are veritable discourses—how say you "conférences"?—on florentine history, of the most interestings, but a little long. The brave Frenchmans pronounce the Italian names in good patriots. They imitate not the accent of our perfidious neighbours of the Triple Alliance. Ah no! They say them as in french. And what names! Acciajuoli! It is like a sneeze. And Mistress Bernhardt is gentle, caressing, passionate, contemptuous, and terrible turn to turn; she murmurs softly, and at the fine she screams. And Mister Guitry is severe and menacing; he speaks at low voice, and at the fine he shouts. But after all what is that that is that that? One thinks not to it. The decorations, the costumes! See there that which one regards, that which one applauds, that which one shall forget never!
Be willing to agree the assurance of my high consideration.
Strapontin.
MAYEN-AISY-NOW!
Misther Punch, Sorr,—Frinchmen are that consaited they think no one can invint anything but thimselves. It's as well known as the story of Mulligan's leather breeches that the first Earl of Mayo inwinted Mayernase sauce (ah! bother the spellin' now), and called it after himself and his eldest son, Lord Naas; faix, there ye have it, Mayonaas; and isn't it called Paddy Bourke's butther to this day all over County Kildare; and many a bite of could salmon have I ate wid that same; and don't believe, Sorr, thim that tell you it's onwholesome, for, if you'll get the laste sup of the crathur wid it, it's just as harmless as new milk from the cow; and shure it's meself that ought to know, bein' cook to a lady that has the best blood of ould Ireland in her body; and her husband—God help him, poor man!—is an Englishman; but we can't be all perfect, and whin I make thim sauces to his taste he just sends me out a glass of wine, wid his compliments, and wid mine to your honour,
I remane your honour's obadient Servant,
Betsey Durney.