es in snow,
and out of the nostrils of the snow fiend [General Frost] issue blasts
labelled "North," "East," "Snow," and "Sleet." Seven days later on, we
meet with a roughly-executed cartoon, _Polish Diet with French Dessert_,
wherein we see Napoleon basted by General Benningsen, the spit being
turned by a Russian bear. This caricature, no doubt, has reference to
the disastrous defeat by Benningsen of the French advanced guard, thirty
thousand strong, under Murat, on the 18th of October, 1812, when fifteen
hundred prisoners, thirty-eight cannon, and the whole of the baggage of
the corps, besides other trophies, fell into the victors' hands.

The retreat from Moscow is referred to in a satire published by Thomas
Tegg on the 7th of March, 1813, labelled, _The Corsican Bloodhound beset
by the Bears of Russia_; wherein Napoleon is represented as a mongrel
bloodhound with a tin kettle tied to his tail, closely pursued by
Russian bears. Various papers are flying out of the kettle, labelled
"Oppression," "Famine," "Frost," "Destruction," "Death," "Horror,"
"Mortality," "Annihilation." "Push on, my lads," says one of the
pursuers. "No grumbling; keep scent of him; no sucking of paws this
winter, here is food for the bears in all the Russias." The emperor, in
truth, had the narrowest escape from being made a prisoner by the
Cossacks, a fact alluded to in another caricature published by Tegg in
June, 1813, entitled, _Nap nearly Nab'd, or a Retreating Jump just in
time_. Here, the emperor and one of his marshals are depicted leaping
out of window, at the very moment when a Cossack with his lance appears
outside the palings. "Vite," says the marshal, in the peculiar _patois_
adopted by the English caricaturists of the early part of the century,
"Courez, mon Empereur, ce Diable de Cossack, dey spoil our dinner!!!"

THE BULLETIN.

Napoleon collected his marshals around him at Smorgoni, on the 5th of
December, 1812, and dictated a bulletin which developed the horrors of
the retreat, and explained to them his reasons for returning to Paris.
"I quit you," he said, "but go to seek three hundred thousand men." He
then proceeded to lay the blame on the King of Westphalia, and his
trusted and tried friend the Duc d'Abrantes; alleged that English
torches had turned Moscow into a heap of ashes; and added (with greater
truthfulness) that the cold had done the rest of the mischief. He
entrusted the command to Murat, and bidding them farew