But it was too late. Signor Oddo, an unoffending Italian dentist, who, after a quarter of a century passed in curing the toothache of successive Beys of Tunis, had come to settle in Marseilles, was one of the first to be knocked down and brutally kicked. He at last escaped with his life by a miracle, but only to break up his establishment and seek refuge in Naples. Several Italians and Frenchmen were killed, and Italy’s cup of vengeance fairly ran over. Anti-French demonstrations spread from one end of the Peninsula to the other; and the word “Marseilles” has become the watchword of Italian _vendetta_, effacing the memory of half a century of friendship, and blotting out the recollection of Magenta and Solferino. Behind the real grievance of the riots of Marseilles the militant policy of Signor Maccio will be forgotten. Two weeks later the French fleet was bombarding the city of Sfax in Southern Tunis, and three parts of the Regency were in open revolt. The French papers were not the only ones to realise the grim humour of the whole business. A few verses from _Punch_, in explanation of a cartoon in which the Republic of Peace is seen trying on the garb of war, sums up the first epoch of the French Invasion with caustic correctness:— _France (trying on Casque) loquitur_— BECOMES me! _La République c’est la paix?_ Oh yes, precisely. And yet this Mars-like headpiece, I must say, Fits rather nicely. _Revanche? La Guerre? La Gloire?_ Powder and Steel? Oh never, never! I do thank Heaven that I no longer feel War’s scarlet fever. I chose this fashion, and have no desire For hasty changing, Only just now and then dress does require Some re-arranging. _I_ grow pugnacious? Such reports are wild, Mendacious rumours; Although of course I’m not to be reviled By rascal Kroumirs. Fancy! I’m not a _Caquet Bonbec_ quite, A barnyard scratcher; And if _la France_ had a desire to fight, How few could match her! That Bey’s a bit too bounceable; he’ll find Swelling brings dizziness. The Powers? Perhaps they will be pleased to mind Their proper business. Confound—— But stay—no temper; that an old Imperial lune is, But which of them will have the cheek to scold Concerning Tunis? The notion stirs my blood, makes my tint turn, My voice swell louder; They think me tame? Then I _shall_ have to burn A little powder; A shot or two perhaps might tend to strengthen My moral fibres, And cause the physiognomies to lengthen Of foreign gibers. Eh? What? That Circular of SAINT-HILAIRE Causes hilarity? Disgusting! Foreign critics, I declare, Are void of charity. I’ve been a Saint in patience all men know— Almost _too_ saintly; Astonished Europe thinks my blood must flow Feebly and faintly— Let those who doubt me read the declaration