My Dear F., -- I scribble hastily at office. Frank wants my letter presently. I and sister are just returned from Paris! [1] We have eaten frogs. It has been such a treat! You know our monotonous general tenor. Frogs are the nicest little delicate things, -- rabbity flavored. Imagine a Lilliputian rabbit! They fricassee them; but in my mind, dressed seethed, plain, with parsley and butter, would have been the decision of Apicius. Paris is a glorious, picturesque old city. London looks mean and new to it, as the town of Washington would, seen after _it._ But they have no St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey. The Seine, so much despised by Cockneys, is exactly the size to run through a magnificent street; palaces a mile long on one side, lofty Edinburgh stone (oh, the glorious antiques! ) houses on the other. The Thames disunites London and Southwark. I had Talma to supper with me. He has picked up, as I believe, an authentic portrait of Shakspeare. He paid a broker about L40 English for it.
It is painted on the one half of a pair of bellows, -- a lovely picture, corresponding with the Folio head. The bellows has old carved _wings_ round it and round the visnomy is inscribed, as near as I remember, not divided into rhyme, -- I found out the rhyme, --
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
