English Caricature and Satire on Napoleon I. Volume I (of 2)

Italian. I am precisely in the same position.

Swiss. And I.

The Pope. I once had a voice in the senate, but he has totally abridged my power.

Hanoverian, &c. We are one and all tired of his tyrannical usurpation.

John Bull. Then it appears to me no one will speak in his favour.

From the Court. Not one.

John Bull. Well then – what has the prisoner to say in his own defence?

Buonaparte. I am a man of few words, and leave my defence, entirely to my counsel.

The Devil, as Counsellor for the Prisoner. Mr. Bull, and Gentlemen of the Jury, I blush for the first time in my life; it is well known I am the father of lies and mischief, and have had the prisoner at the bar a considerable time in training, but he really goes so much beyond my abilities, that I entirely give up to the discretion of the Jury.

John Bull. I shall very briefly, gentlemen, sum up the evidence; you have heard a long and serious detail of the prisoner’s cruelties in different parts of the world. The conduct of our worthy countryman, Tom Mizen, you must all admire; you perceive there is not one person to speak in his favour; and even his old counsel the Devil will have nothing to do with him – I therefore leave him to your verdict.

The Jury, without leaving the Court, pronounced the prisoner Guilty.

John Bull then passed sentence, as follows:

Napoleon Buonaparte – after a fair trial, you have been found guilty of various high crimes and misdemeanours, in different parts of this world. I am a man that delights not in blood; I therefore sentence you to be turned over to the care of my trusty and beloved friend Mr. Pidcock, proprietor of the Wild beasts over Exeter ‘Change in the Strand; there to be publicly shewn to my fellow citizens, inclosed in an iron cage for three months; after the expiration of which time, I sentence you to be transported to your native town of Ajaccio in Corsica for three months, and, for the remainder of your life, to be hung up by your legs in the mines of Mexico.

Mr. Pidcock attended with a cage, and disposed of the prisoner according to his sentence; he appeared extremely hardened during the whole of the trial. The Court was uncommonly crowded.

‘Buonaparte’s Soliloquy at Calais, written and designed by G. M. Woodward,’ was published September 21, 1803. It is as follows: —

To go or not to go? that is the question; —Whether ’tis better for my views to sufferThe ease and quiet of yon hated rival,Or to take arms against the haughty people,And by invading, end them? T’ invade, – to fight, —No more! and by a fight, to say we endThe envy and the thousand jealous pangsWe now must bear with; ’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish’d. T’ invade – to fight —To fight? – perchance be beat: aye, there’s the rub;For in our passage hence what ills may come,When we have parted from our native ports,Must give us pause there’s the respectThat makes th’ alternative so hard a choice.For who would bear their just and equal laws,Their sacred faith, and general happiness,That shew in contrast black our tyrant sway,Our frequent breach of treaty, and the harmsDevouring armies on the people bring,When he himself could the dark shame removeBy mere invasion? Who would tamely viewThat happy nation’s great and thriving power,But that the dread of falling on their coast,(That firm and loyal country, from whose shoresNo enemy returns,) puzzles the will,And makes us rather bear the ills we have,Than fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;And enterprises of great pith and moment,With this regard, their currents turn awry,And lose the name of action.

‘The Fable of the Bundle of Faggots exemplified, or Bonaparte baffled,’ by an unknown artist (September 20, 1803), shows Napoleon unable to break the bundle of Britons. His foot rests on a heap of broken faggots, all conquered nations, but this is too hard a job for him, as he confesses: ‘Au diable! all I can do, they’ll neither bend or break.’

An unknown artist (September 1803) gave us, ‘A Peep at the Corsican Fairy.’ Here little Boney is chained to a table and padlocked by The British Navy. An Italian, Swiss, Dutchman, and Spaniard are looking curiously at him, thus making their remarks: ‘Monsieur John Bull, I think I have seen this little Gentleman before – he was with us in Italy.’ ‘We shall never forget him in Switzerland.’ ‘My frow once persuaded me to show our house, and he took possession of the whole premises.’ ‘By St. Diego, he is a curious little fellow.’ John Bull is showing him, and has a sweetmeat labelled ‘Malta’ in his hand: ‘Oh yes, sir, he is a great Traveller – but don’t come too near him; he is very cholerick; he put himself into a great passion with me about the sugar plumb I hold in my hand – indeed, if it was not for my little chain and padlock, I could not keep him in any sort of order.’

It is well known that Talleyrand was averse to the intended invasion of England, and some time in September 1803, Gillray produced ‘The Corsican Carcase Butcher’s Reckoning Day, New Style, No Quarter Day!’ a portion of which is here given. Talleyrand (his ecclesiastical status expressed by the cross on his partially military cocked hat) restrains Napoleon from invading England, although the Conqueror has on his seven-league boots. In the distance are the white cliffs of Albion, surrounded by ships of war, and a huge bull bellows defiance. At the open door the Russian bear looks in, enraging Napoleon almost to frenzy. On the ground is a coop full of foxes labelled ‘From Rome, not worth killing.’ ‘The Germanic Body’ lies in a sadly mutilated condition, having lost its head, feet, and hands; one of the latter – the right hand – lies close by, labelled ‘Hanover.’ A poor, lean, gaunt dog, ‘Prussia,’ is in a kennel ‘put up to fatten.’ The food provided for it is blood, or ‘Consular Whipt Syllabub.’ In a trough lie the bodies of six Mamelukes, ‘Jaffa Cross breeds,’ whose blood drains into a receptacle ‘Glory.’ On the walls are hung a sheep, ‘True Spanish Fleec’d’; a dead Monkey, ‘Native Breed’; an ass ‘from Switzerland,’ and a pig ‘from Holland.’

BONEY AND TALLEYThe Corsican Carcase Butcher’s Reckoning DayNew Style. No Quarter Day!1Says Boney the Butcher to Talley his man,One settling day as they reckon’d,‘Times are hard – ’twere a sin,Not to keep our hand in’ —Talley guessed at his thoughts in a second.2Then he reach’d the account book – turn’d over awhile;‘I have it – see here are the Dutch, Sir.’Boney cries ‘It appearsThat they’re much in arrears.’Quoth Talley ‘They don’t owe us much, Sir!’3‘Here’s Parma, Placentia; there’s Naples and Rome.’Talley smil’d ‘They are nothing but bone, Sir!’‘For the present pass Prussia;What think you of Russia?’‘’Twere as good that we let her alone, Sir!’4‘My ambition unsated, my fury unquenched,Let Europe now shake to her bases:For my banner unfurl’d,I defy all the world,And spit in th’ ambassadors’ faces.’5Seeing raw-head and bloody bones wondrous irate,Talley turn’d o’er the leaf with his finger;‘Here’s Hanover – if – ’‘If what?’ in a tiffCries Boney, ‘Tell Mortier to bring her.6‘Let her bleed till her life strings are ready to burst,To drain her let Massena shew you;The job being done,And all her fat run,We’ll give up her trunk to —you know who.7‘This will do for a breakfast – read on.’ Talley read,Each page they conn’d over and over,‘I can find nothing here;We must stop, Sir, I fear.’Boney scowl’d, and then pointed to Dover.8‘Shall I want employ – whilst a breed there existsSo sleek, and so tempting to slaughter?Reach my cleaver and steel,I’ll not sit at a meal —Till’ – Talley cries ‘Think of the Water.’9‘A soul such as mine, by the Koran I swear,Such childish impediment scorns, Sir;I will bait this great Bull,And his crest I will pull.’Cries Talley ‘Remember his horns, Sir.’10‘Psha! my mouth ’gins to water, and yearns for the feast,Such dainty, such delicate picking;By his horns I will seize him,Goad, worry, and teaze him:’Quoth Talley – ‘He’s given to kicking.’11‘Let him kick, let him toss, and for mercy implore,Be mine the proud task to refuse it;The fates shall obey,I will have my way;’Talley mutters, ‘I hope you won’t lose it.’12‘Sound the cleaver and marrow bones,’ Boney exclaims,‘Strait this herd in my power shall be, Sir;’‘Should you once reach the shore,’(Talley said somewhat lower,)‘You’ll soon be at top of the tree, Sir.’13‘Don’t jest with thy master, thou recreant knave!Am I, Sir, or am I, Sir, no king?By the Prophet I swear’ —‘Cry you mercy – forbear!’Quoth Talley, ‘I thought you were joking.’14‘Am I such a lover of jibes or of jests,Do I ever smile?’ Boney cried, ‘Sir;’‘No, that I may sayBut to blast or betray;’(But this, Talley uttered aside, Sir.)15He calls on Great Mahomet, swears by his beard,The Lama he begs to be civil;Now tells all his complaintsTo the Calendar Saints,And now sends them all to the Devil.16Thus prepared, he clasp’d firm the dread steel in his handAnd wielded his cleaver on high, Sir; —‘Oh thou Bull, thou Grand Bête!Oh thou barb of my Fate!This day thou most surely shalt die, Sir!’17Tho’ artful and cunning some madmen appear,The simplest expedient will turn ’em;Talley saw what he meant;On the schemes he was bent,And fully resolv’d to adjourn ’em.18Now Boney grown wilder, his eyes seem’d to start,And loudly began he to bellow;When Talley seized holdOf this hero so bold,And pinion’d the poor little fellow.19‘Oh, brave, great, and noble, magnanimous man!!!!!!To save thee thy servant is bound, Sir;The Sea it is deep,And the shores they are steep,Most certainly you will be drown’d, Sir.20‘Think how precious your life is to France and to me,Obey then your fate, and don’t mock it;Think what we shou’d do,Mighty Sir, without you,With our liberties all in your pocket.21‘Nay —sweet, gentle Sir’ (Boney kick’d with all might),‘Oh! – this chivalry’s quite out of fashion!’Talley had his own way,Not a word did Bo say,For speak he could not for his passion.22‘Dread Sir, your great project is worthy yourself,Your knife shall soon hit the bull’s throat, Sir,I’d only premise,Were I fit to advise,’Twould be better to order a boat, Sir.’23‘A boat, aye, a boat! why there’s reason in that,’Boney cries with a scowl of delight, Sir;For the truth must be told,He knew Talley of old,And felt in a devilish fright, Sir.24Boney thought that the boat was a much safer plan,He voted the counsel discreet, Sir;Quoth Talley ‘’Tis done,And the day is your own,Just – take – care – to avoid the Fleet, Sir.’25Talley cautiously then let the little man down,When the little man softened his features;Yet though little in size, Sir,His soul is as high, Sir,As the cross at the top of Saint Peter’s.26Little Boney shook hands then with Talley the good;(And thought how he best might dispatch him)Whilst Talley as meek,Kiss’d the Mussulman’s cheek,(And swore in his heart to o’er match him.)27They drank to their hopes – hob a nobb’d to their scheme,Which promis’d such royal diversion;Thus cordial they sat,And, in harmless chit chat,Sketch’d the plan of this water excursion.28When the boat will be ready we none of us know,Talley swears ’twill be here in a trice, Sir;But it must be confess’d,Boney’s not in such haste,Since he thought of the business twice, Sir.29Then a health to the Butcher! and life long enough,That he once of the Bull may a view get,For, whenever we meet,If he skulk from the Fleet,We will find him head quarters in Newgate.

CHAPTER XXXVII

INVASION SQUIBS – VOLUNTEERS

‘The Corsican Locust’ (West, September 1803) shows him hovering over a picnic party, saying: ‘Bless me, how comfortably these People live.’ The party consists of an Englishman, Irishman, and a Scotchman. The first has roast beef, plum-pudding, and a foaming tankard, before him, and, regarding the insect, says: ‘As sure as I’m alive, that Corsican locust smells the Roast Beef and Plumb pudding.’ Paddy has only ‘praties,’ but looks up at it, and asks: ‘Perhaps, my Jewel, ’tis a potatoe or two you want, but the divil a halfpeth do you get from me.’ The Scotchman, with his basin and spoon in his hands, thinks: ‘Perhaps the Cheeld would like a little o’ my Scotch Broth – but Sandy is too cunning for that.’

‘The Grand Triumphal Entry of the Chief Consul into London’ is by an unknown artist (October 1, 1803). He is escorted by volunteer cavalry, and is seated, bareheaded and handcuffed, with his face towards the tail of a white horse,85 his legs being tied under its belly. The horse is led by two volunteers, one of whom carries a flagstaff with the tricolour under the Union Jack, and on the summit is perched Boney’s huge hat, labelled ‘For Saint Pauls.’ One of the mob is calling out: ‘We may thank our Volunteers for this glorious sight.’

Of ‘The Corsican Pest, or Belzebub going to supper,’ by Gillray (October 6, 1803), only a portion is given in the illustration, but nothing of moment is omitted. The following are the lines under this broadsheet: —

Buonaparte they say, aye good lack a day!With French Legions will hither come swimming,And like hungry Sharks, some night in the dark,Mean to frighten our Children and Women.Tol de rol.When these Gallic Foisters gape wide for our Oisters,Old Neptune will rise up with glee,Souse and Pickle them quick, to be sent to old Nick,As a treat from the God of the Sea.Tol de rol.Belzebub will rejoice at a Supper so nice,And make all his Devils feast hearty;But the little tit bit, on a fork, he would spit,The Consular Chief, Buonaparté!Tol de rol.Then each Devil suppose, closely stopping his nose,And shrinking away from the smell,‘By Styx,’ they would roar, ‘such a damn’d Stink beforeNever entered the kingdom of Hell.Tol de rol.Full rotten the heart of the said Buonaparte,Corrupted his Marrow and Bones,French evil o’erflows, from his Head to his Toes,And disorder’d his Brains in his Sconce!Tol de rol.His pestiferous breath, has put Millions to Death,More baneful than Mad dog’s Saliva,More poisonous he, all kingdoms agree,Than the dire Bohan-Upas of Java —Tol de rol.By the favour of Heaven, to our Monarch is givenThe power to avert such dire evil,His subjects are ready, all Loyal and Steady,To hurl this damn’d Pest to the Devil.Tol de rol.

An unknown artist (October 11, 1803) gives us ‘The Ballance of Power or the Issue of the Contest.’ The hand of Providence is holding the balance, and John Bull, whose good qualities are named ‘Valour, Justice, Honor, Integrity, Commerce, Firmness, Trade, Heroism, Virtue,’ is rapidly ascending; and, according to his own account, ‘There’s a sweet little Cherub that sits up aloft, will take care of the fate of John Bull. But poor Boney, with a heavy burden on his back of ‘Shame, Disgrace, Obloquy, Cruelty, Murder, Plunder, Rapine, Villainy, and Hypocrisy,’ is sinking into the earth, which emits flames to consume him.

‘Thoughts on Invasion, both sides the water,’ by Charles (October 11, 1803), shows us the English coast defended by volunteers. John Bull, laughing, is seated in a chair, under which is a cornucopia, running over with corn, wine, beef, and all kinds of provisions. The old boy is chuckling: ‘I can’t help laughing at the thought of Invasion, but there is no knowing what a mad man may attempt, so I’ll take care to have my coast well lined, and I think 80,000 such men as me, able to eat all the Boney rascals in France, and if they mean Invasion, I have sent a Specimen of Bombs into Calais!’ The ships are shown in the act of bombarding that place, while Boney sits very miserable, with a tricolour foolscap on his head, moaning: ‘I wish I had never promis’d to Invade this terrible John Bull, but how shall I avoid it, with Credit to myself and honour to the French Nation? and this bombarding Calais gives me the Bl – Blu – Blue Devils.’ A blue devil behind him is saying: ‘You must go now, Boney, as sure as I shall have you in the end.’

‘The little Princess and Gulliver’ is by Ansell (October 21, 1803), and, of course, the Gulliver is Napoleon, whom a Brobdingnagian princess (Charlotte of Wales) has plunged into a basin of water, and, with her fist, keeps beating him as he rises to the top, saying: ‘There you impertinent, boasting, swaggering pigmy – take that. You attempt to take my Grandpapa’s Crown indeed, and plunder all his subjects; I’ll let you know that the Spirit and Indignation of every Girl in the Kingdom is roused at your Insolence.’

‘The Centinel at his Post, or Boney’s peep into Walmer Castle!!’ (Ansell, October 22, 1803) shows Boney, with a boat-load of troops, arrived on the English Coast, but they are at once disconcerted by the appearance of the sentinel, Pitt, who challenges, ‘Who goes there?’ With abject fear depicted on the countenance of Bonaparte and his followers, the former exclaims: ‘Ah! Begar – dat man alive still. Turn about, Citoyens – for there will be no good to be done – I know his tricks of old!!’

There are two caricatures on the same subject, one attributed to Gillray, but signed C.L.S. (October 25, 1803), the other by I. Cruikshank, to which the same date is attributed. One is evidently copied from the other, for the motif is the same in both. I prefer the former, and therefore describe it. It is called ‘French Volunteers marching to the Conquest of Great Britain, dedicated (by an Eye Witness) to the Volunteers of Great Britain.’ A mounted officer leads a gang of chained, handcuffed, and pinioned, scarecrow-looking conscripts, some of them so weak that they have to be carried in paniers on donkey-back, or drawn on a trolley; whilst a poor, dilapidated, ragged wretch, also chained by the neck, and with his hands tied behind him, brings up the rear of the procession.

‘John Bull guarding the Toy Shop’ (J. B., October 29, 1803) shows a shop-window containing such toys as the India House, St. James’s, the Bank, Custom House, Tower, and the Treasury. Little Boney, with his handkerchief to his eyes, is weeping, and crying: ‘Pray, Mr. Bull, let me have some of the Toys, if ’tis only that little one in the Corner’ (the Bank). But John Bull, who is in full regimentals, and armed with his gun, replies, in his rough, insular way: ‘I tell you, you shan’t touch one of them – so blubber away and be d – d.’

The volunteer force was a great factor in face of the Invasion, and it was computed to number 350,000 men.86 We know, in our own times, that, at a mere whisper of invasion, men enrolled themselves as volunteers by thousands, and we have never heard that whisper repeated. The enthusiasm of the citizen army was very great, and twice in October 1803 (on the 26th 14,500 men, and on the 28th about 17,000), the King reviewed these volunteers in Hyde Park. It will be curious briefly to note some particulars respecting the pay and clothing of volunteers. They are taken from the circular papers of regulations which were sent from Lord Hobart’s office to the Lords Lieutenant of the different counties.

8. When not called out on actual service, constant pay to be allowed for 1 Sergeant and 1 Drummer per Company, at the same rates as in the disembodied Militia; the pay of the Drummer to be distributed at the discretion of the Commandant; pay (as disembodied Militia) for the rest of the Sergeants and Drummers, and for the Corporals and private men, to be allowed for two days in the week, from the 25th of February to the 24th of October, and for one day in the week from the 25th day of October to the 24th of February, both inclusive, being 85 days pay per annum, but for effectives only, present under arms, on each respective day. Pay may, however, be charged for persons absent by sickness, for a period not exceeding three months, on the Commanding Officer’s Certificate to that effect. Sergeants 1/6, Corporals ½, Drummers and Privates 1/.

9. If a Corps, or any part thereof, shall be called upon, in case of any riot or disturbance, the charge of constant pay to be made for such services must be at the rates before specified, and must be supported by a Certificate from his Majesty’s Lieutenant, or the Sheriff of the County; but, if called out in case of actual Invasion, the Corps is to be paid and disciplined in all respects as the Regular Infantry, the Artillery Companies excepted, which are then to be paid as the Royal Artillery.

10. The whole to be clothed in Red, with the exception of the Corps of Artillery, which may have Blue clothing, and Rifle Corps, which may have Green, with black belts.

Allowance for Clothing

and to be repeated at the end of three years; the Sergeant Major, and 1 Sergeant, and 1 Drummer per Company, to have clothing annually.

11. An annual allowance to be made for each Company in lieu of every contingent expense heretofore defrayed by Government, viz. £25 for companies of 50 Private men, with an additional allowance of £5 for every 10 Private Men beyond that number.

There is an amusing caricature (October 18, 1803) illustrating Talleyrand’s disinclination to the projected invasion of England.

In his ‘Voyage to Brobdingnag,’ Lemuel Gulliver, speaking of his enemy the King’s Dwarf, says: ‘He had before served me a scurvy trick, which set the queen a-laughing, although at the same time she was heartily vexed, and would have immediately cashiered him, if I had pot been so generous as to intercede. Her majesty had taken a marrow-bone upon her plate, and, after knocking out the marrow, placed the bone again in the dish erect, as it stood before; the dwarf, watching his opportunity when Glumdalclitch was gone to the sideboard, mounted the stool that she stood on to take care of me at meals, took me up in both hands, and squeezing my legs together, wedged them into the marrow bone above my waist, where I stuck for some time, and made a very ridiculous figure. I believe it was near a minute before any one knew what was become of me; for I thought it below me to cry out. But, as princes seldom get their meat hot, my legs were not scalded, only my stockings and breeches in a sad condition. The dwarf, at my entreaty, had no other punishment than a sound whipping.’

There was also a squib about the same master and man: —

BUONAPARTEANDTALLEYRAND

It is well known that Monsieur Talleyrand always objected to the Invasion of England, as a mad Attempt, that must end in the destruction of the Invaders. Having been favoured with a Note of a Conversation between him and the Chief Consul on this Subject, I have attempted, for the Entertainment of my Countrymen, to put it into Rhyme.

A. S.BUONAPARTETalleyrand, what’s the state of my great preparation,To crush, at one stroke, this vile, insolent nation,That baffles my projects, my vengeance derides,Blasts all my proud hopes, checks my arrogant strides.Boasts a Press unrestrained, points its censure at Me,And while Frenchmen are Slaves, still presumes to be free?TALLEYRANDIn a Month, Sire, or less, your magnanimous host,Their standards shall fix on the rude British Coast.BUONAPARTE’Tis well – let the troops be kept hungry and bare,To make them more keen – for that Island’s good fare.Give them drafts upon London, instead of their pay,And rouse them to ravish, burn, plunder, and slay.Prepare, too, —some draughts, for the sick and the lame;You know what I mean.TALLEYRANDAs in Syria?BUONAPARTEThe same!That England I hate, and its armies subdued,The slaughter of Jaffa shall there be renew’d.Not a wretch that presumes to oppose, but shall feelThe flames of my fury, the force of my steel.Their daughters, and wives, to my troops I consign;So shall vengeance, sweet vengeance, deep-glutted, be mine,Their children —TALLEYRANDWhat! massacre them, my dread Lord?BUONAPARTEWhy not? with me Pity was never the word!That island once conquer’d, the world is my own,And its ruins shall furnish the base of my throne.TALLEYRANDWhat a project! how vast! – yet allow me one word;Sir, the English are brave, and can wield well the sword.In defence of their freedom, their King, and their soil,Not a man but would dare the most perilous toil.Should our troops but appear, they will rush to the field,And will die on the spot to a man e’er they yield.In defence of their honour, their women will fight,And their navy, triumphant, still sails in our sight.BUONAPARTEHush, hush, say no more lest some listeners should hear,And our troops should be taught these fierce Britons to fear.They are brave; and my soldiers have felt it – what then?Our numbers are more – to their five, we are ten.Say their sailors are skilful, oak hearted, and true,One army may fail, yet another may do.And though thousands should fatten the sharks in the sea,There are thousands remaining, to perish for me.In a night, or a fog, we will silent steal over,And surprise unexpected, the Castle of Dover.Then to gull the poor dupes of that navy bound land,You have lies ready coin’d —’tis your trade, at command.We will tell them, and swear it, our sole end and aim,Is to make them all equally rich – all the same.I see by your smile you interpret my meaning,That where my troops reap, they leave nothing for gleaning.They soar at a palace, they swoop to a cot,And plunder – not leaving one bone for the pot.Now, Sir, to your duty, your business prepare,Leave the rest to my Genius, my fortune, my care.[Exit Buonaparte, Talleyrand looking after him.TALLEYRANDYour fortune, I fear, Sir, will play you a trick: —Notwithstanding his vaunts, he is touch’d to the quick.What folly! what madness, this project inspires,To conquer a nation, whom liberty fires.Even now from their shores, loudly echoed, I hearThe song of defiance appalling mine ear.Their spirit once rous’d, what destruction awakes!What vengeance, the wretched invaders o’ertakes.Prophetic, I plead, but my warning is vain,Ambition still urges, and maddens his brain:Fired with hopes of rich booty, his soldiers all burn,They may go, some may land, but not one will return.

J. B. (November 5, 1803) produced ‘Boney in time for Lord Mayors Feast.’ At this banquet a sailor produces Napoleon chained, and with a collar round his neck. He thus introduces him: ‘Here he is, please your Honors. We caught him alive, on the Suffolk Coast. He was a little queerish at first, but a few Stripes at the Gangway soon brought him about. I told him he was just in time for the Lord Mayor’s Show. What does your honor think of him for the Man in Armour?’ The Lord Mayor, glass in hand, says: ‘Ay, you see how we live at this end of the town, but you get no Roast beef here, Master Boney – Let him have plenty of Soup Maigre – and in the evening take him up to the Ball Room for the amusement of the Ladies – Come, heres the glorious Ninth of November.’