‘The Corsican Locust’ (West, September 1803) shows him hovering over a picnic party, saying: ‘Bless me, how comfortably these People live.’ The party consists of an Englishman, Irishman, and a Scotchman. The first has roast beef, plum-pudding, and a foaming tankard, before him, and, regarding the insect, says: ‘As sure as I’m alive, that Corsican locust smells the Roast Beef and Plumb pudding.’ Paddy has only ‘praties,’ but looks up at it, and asks: ‘Perhaps, my Jewel, ’tis a potatoe or two you want, but the divil a halfpeth do you get from me.’ The Scotchman, with his basin and spoon in his hands, thinks: ‘Perhaps the Cheeld would like a little o’ my Scotch Broth--but Sandy is too cunning for that.’ ‘The Grand Triumphal Entry of the Chief Consul into London’ is by an unknown artist (October 1, 1803). He is escorted by volunteer cavalry, and is seated, bareheaded and handcuffed, with his face towards the tail of a white horse,[86] his legs being tied under its belly. The horse is led by two volunteers, one of whom carries a flagstaff with the tricolour under the Union Jack, and on the summit is perched Boney’s huge hat, labelled ‘For Saint Pauls.’ One of the mob is calling out: ‘We may thank our Volunteers for this glorious sight.’ [Illustration: THE CORSICAN PEST, OR BELZEBUB GOING TO SUPPER.] Of ‘The Corsican Pest, or Belzebub going to supper,’ by Gillray (October 6, 1803), only a portion is given in the illustration, but nothing of moment is omitted. The following are the lines under this broadsheet:-- Buonaparte they say, aye good lack a day! With French Legions will hither come swimming, And like hungry Sharks, some night in the dark, Mean to frighten our Children and Women. Tol de rol. When these Gallic Foisters gape wide for our Oisters, Old Neptune will rise up with glee, Souse and Pickle them quick, to be sent to old Nick, As a treat from the God of the Sea. Tol de rol. Belzebub will rejoice at a Supper so nice, And make all his Devils feast hearty; But the _little tit bit_, on a fork, he would spit, The Consular Chief, Buonaparté! Tol de rol. Then each Devil suppose, closely stopping his nose, And shrinking away from the smell, ‘By Styx,’ they would roar, ‘such a damn’d Stink before Never entered the kingdom of Hell. Tol de rol. Full rotten the heart of the said Buonaparte, Corrupted his Marrow and Bones, French evil o’erflows, from his Head to his Toes, And disorder’d his Brains in his Sconce! Tol de rol. His pestiferous breath, has put Millions to Death, More baneful than Mad dog’s Saliva, More poisonous he, all kingdoms agree, Than the dire Bohan-Upas of Java-- Tol de rol.