Four strong men upon their shoulders Bore the vanquish’d bear in triumph; Upright sat he on the seat, Like a sickly bathing patient. And behind, as if related To the dead bear, went Lascaro With Uraca; right and left she Bow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d. And the Mayor’s Assistant gave them Quite a speech before the town hall, When the grand procession got there, And he spoke on many subjects,-- As, for instance, on the increase Of the navy, on the press, On the weighty beetroot question, On the curse of party spirit. After fully illustrating Louis Philippe’s special merits, He proceeded to the bear, And Lascaro’s great achievement. “Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker, As with his tricolour’d sash he Wiped the sweat from off his forehead, “Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro! “Thou who bravely hast deliver’d “France and Spain from Atta Troll, “Thou’rt the hero of both countries, “Pyrenean Lafayette!” When Lascaro in this manner Heard officially his praises, In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he, And quite blush’d with satisfaction, And in very broken accents, One word o’er another stumbling, Gave he utt’rance to his thanks For this most exceeding honour! Every one with deep amazement Gazed upon this sight unwonted, And the aged women mutter’d In alarm, beneath their breath: “Why, Lascaro has been laughing! “Why, Lascaro has been blushing! “Why, Lascaro has been speaking! “He, the dead son of the witch!”-- Atta Troll that very day was Flay’d, and then they sold by auction His poor skin. A furrier bought it For one hundred francs, hard money. He most beautifully trimm’d it With a lovely scarlet border, And then sold it for just double What it cost him in the first place. Juliet then became its owner At third hand, and in her bedroom Lies it now in Paris, serving As a rug beside her bed. O, with naked feet how often Have I stood at night upon this Earthly brown coat of my hero, On the skin of Atta Troll! And o’ercome by sad reflections, Schiller’s words I then remember’d: “What in song shall be immortal “Must in actual life first die!”[38] CAPUT XXVI. Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor Mumma Is a woman! Frailty Is her name! Alas! all women Are as frail as any porcelain. When by fate’s hand she was parted From her glorious noble husband, She by no means died of sorrow, Nor succumb’d to her affliction. On the contrary, she gaily Went on living, went on dancing As before, with ardour wooing For the public’s daily plaudits. Finally she found a solid Situation, and provision For the whole of life, at Paris In the famed _Jardin des Plantes_.