Back to Caesar’s life returning, with a soul for ever yearning, Towards the steps his promise-spurning prototype had trod before. But the silence was soon broken; through the stillness came a token Life had moved again, or spoken on the other side the door. “Surely I’ve no trusty servant,” said he, “to deny my door Now De Morny is no more.” Rising, of some trespass certain, slow he draws the purple curtain, On whose folds the bees uncertain look like wasps, and nothing more: Open flings the chamber portal, with a chill which stamps him mortal. Can his senses be the sport all of his eyes! For there before He sees an eagle perching on a bust of Janus at the door: A bleeding bird, and nothing more. Deep into the darkness peering, not in fear, but only fearing Adrien’s vulgar indiscretions, Marx[2] of eaves-dropping in store: “Though thy wings are torn and bleeding,” said he, with a voice of pleading: “Thou’rt a bird of royal breeding: thou hast flown from foreign shore.” Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.” Started with the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken, “Silence,” said he, “never utter memories of that field of gore, Where your poor Imperial master, whom imperious disaster Followed fast, was tortured faster, till his heart one burden bore: Till the dirges of his hope, this melancholy burden bore―― Never see Carlotta more.” Then upon the velvet sinking, he betook himself to thinking How he’d forced the murdered Prince to leave his quiet home of yore; How he’d made him wield a sceptre, which no erudite preceptor Might have told would soon be wept or lost on that forbidding shore, Where earth cries for retribution, where for justice stones implore. Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.” “Wretch!” he cried, “some fiend hath sent thee, by that mocking voice he lent thee Conscience-driven accusations rising up at every pore―― Must my master-mind so vaunted, ever hence be spectre haunted―― Must I see that form undaunted, dying still at Matamore?” Quoth the Eagle, “Evermore.” “Prophet!” shrieked he, “thing of evil! Here we fear nor God nor Devil! Wing thee to the House of Hapsburg! Up to Austria’s heaven soar, Leave no bloody plume as token, of the lies my soul has spoken, Leave my iron will unbroken! Wipe the blood before my door! Dost thou think to gnaw my entrails with thy beak for evermore?” Quoth the Eagle, “Jusqu’à Mort.” The above parody appeared in _The Tomahawk_ after the execution, on June 19, 1867, of the Emperor Maximilian in Mexico. “The Craven” was intended for Napoleon III., to whose Government _The Tomahawk_ was bitterly opposed. ―――――――― THE TAILOR. I.