On March 6, 1813, appeared ‘The Wags of Paris or Downfall of Nap the Great. “But the circumstance said to have annoyed the Emperor most, was, some Wags of Paris taking of Dogs, and for sev’ral nights together, tied Tin Kettles to their tails, and labels round their necks, with the words ‘Run away from Moscow,’ & giving them liberty, they ran with velocity, and fury, in various directions, to the great Entertainment of the Parisians.” _Courier 1 Mar. 1813._’ One of these dogs has got between Napoleon’s legs, and is throwing him down, while he calls out, ‘Sacré Dieu!! Plot Anglais!! Not a Dog in Paris but shall feel my Vengeance!! Shoot! hang them all! Not the Empress’s Favorite shall escape. D--d John Bull--d--d Russian bears, not content with hunting Me from the _frightful climate_, but sends Mad Dogs to Hunt Me in my own Capital!!!’ The Governor of Paris replies, ‘Sire, be pacified. All the Dogs in Paris shall be tried by a Military Commission for a Conspiracy against your Sacred Majesty. All John Bull’s bull dogs shall be destroyed! Pomeranian Danish Mastiffs & all but your Majesty’s own breed of _Blood hounds_.’ ‘Anticipation for _Boney_--or, a Court Martial on the Cowardly Deserter from the Grand Army,’ by G. Cruikshank (March 6, 1813), is an imaginary scene of what might happen, did the Emperor meet with his deserts. The Parisian mob have the upper hand, and a cobbler has been proclaimed Emperor in his stead. Before this awful being, Boney is dragged by a ferocious butcher, who, with an enormous axe in one hand, holds in the other the halter which encircles the neck of poor trembling Boney, who is on his knees, with upraised, supplicating hands. The _sans-culotte_ Emperor Crispin is seated in a chair, on a _haut pas_; a cap of liberty, on a pole, behind him. In one hand he holds a hammer, and one foot rests on a lapstone. Pointing to the wretched culprit, he says, ‘Well! you are found guilty of cowardly deserting from the grand army, and, by repairing here with your cobbling defence, you have done a d--d bad job for yourself, and, as your time waxes near its end, I would have you prepare your Sole for your Last. So off with his head, Mr. Butcher.’ The butcher looks unutterable things at Boney, saying, ‘Ah, D--n you we’ll cut off your head, and your Tail too!’ The poor craven wretch, with streaming eyes, and upstanding hair, pitifully supplicates that at all events his head should be spared. But the yelling mob cry out, ‘Off with his head.’ ‘Aye, Aye, he has butchered Millions.’ And the women and children scream, ‘Where’s my husband, wretch?’ ‘Where’s my Father?’ ‘Where’s my Daddy?’ &c.