‘Polish Diet with French Desert’ is the title of a caricature published December 8, 1812. It represents Bonaparte spitted, and being roasted before an enormous fire, on which is being cooked a frying-pan full of frogs, which, however, jump out of it into the fire. A Westphalian bear is turning the spit and jeering at the poor victim. ‘How do you like _Benningsen baisting_, Master Boney? and your Frogs?’ This ‘Benningsen baisting’ is being very liberally supplied to Boney by a gigantic Russian, who holds a huge ladleful of it in one hand, whilst with the other he grasps a red-hot poker of Russian iron. This ferocious Cossack says, ‘I’ll Roast--Beast (baste)--Dish--& Devour you! He smoaks Brother Bruin--another turn and he is done.’ Poor Napoleon, in his agony, calls out, ‘Our situation may be fun to you, Mr. Bear--but Death to us.’ [Illustration: GENERAL FROST SHAVEING LITTLE BONEY.] The following shows the estimation in which Bonaparte’s bulletins were held by the English. In December 1812 G. Cruikshank gave his idea of ‘Boney hatching a Bulletin, or Snug Winter Quarters.’ With the exception of one Frenchman, who wears pieces of board for snow-shoes, and who exclaims, ‘By Gar, he is almost lost!!’ Boney and all his army are up to their necks in snow. A general asks him, ‘Vat de devil shall ve say in de Bulletin?’ Boney replies, ‘Say!!!! why say we have got into comfortable Winter Quarters, and that the weather is very fine, and will last 8 days longer. Say we have got plenty of Soup Maigre, plenty of Minced Meat--Grill’d Bears fine eating--driving _Cut-us-off_ to the Devil. Say we shall be at home at Xmas to dinner--give my love to darling--dont let John Bull know that I have been Cow poxed--tell a good lie about the Cossacks. D--n it, tell anything but the truth.’ [Illustration: RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.] There was another version of ‘The Valley of the Shadow of Death,’ published December 18, 1812, but it is not so good as that by Gillray already given (September 24, 1808):-- By conflagrations always harass’d, No man was ever so embarrass’d; He sought in vain a lurking place, Destruction star’d him in the face; Hemm’d in--he sought for peace in vain-- No peace could Bonaparte obtain; He swore, when peace he could not get, The Russians were a barb’rous set. Intending now to change his rout, He sent Murat on the look out; Murat, tho’, met with a defeat, Which play’d the deuce with Nap’s retreat. How great was Bonaparte’s despair! He raved, he swore, he tore his hair-- His troops were absolutely frozen, No man was sure he had his nose on. The Cossacks, too, made rude attacks, And laid some hundreds on their backs; So, in the midst of an affray, Nap thought it best to run away.