George Cruikshank's Omnibus. George Cruikshank

      —It may justly be doubted whether the figure thus looking down upon a pyramid of skulls, is indeed "the man of thousand thrones"—whether he does "thus survive." The design is one of those that "show men as they ought to be, not as they are." That opening of the coffin at St. Helena opens up a world of curiosity, of wonder, and alarm. All the spectators were awed and astounded at the absence of the great Dictator of the Grave—Change! All the beholders were stricken to marble, or melted into water-drops, to see Death looking like Life; to survey the pale and placid features of the Emperor, expressing the serenity of repose, not the workings of decay—to witness a sign of power beyond that which ordinary clay may boast, and to feel that a "divinity did hedge" indeed the hero-king, in preserving all that was mortal of the exiled chief from the ravages of the worm. There lay the Emperor Napoleon—(he was recognised then by the authorities, and should the parties meet in the Shades, even George the Fourth can no longer style him General Buonaparte)—there lay the Emperor—not simply in his habit as he lived, but in the very flesh which he took with him out of Longwood. There was the positive and unwasted substance—and there too was the seeming spirit. The eyes only were wanting to give it reality and consciousness. The Mighty Watcher had fallen asleep, but who could say that he never again was to wake up? The restless Visionary had sunk, torpid, into a dream of years. The Monarch had abdicated the throne of Life without finally crossing its confines. At best, the spectacle presented an extraordinary compromise with the insatiate Destroyer. The Archer had for once half-missed his aim.

      Now, it will be remembered that Fauntleroy was considered to bear a decided resemblance to Napoleon—a very respectable "likeness-done-in-this-style" sort of portrait—and Fauntleroy, as we all hear, is said to be alive still! Somebody has remarked—in fact we remarked it ourselves—that on dit is French for "a lie;" and so it may be in this particular: still the coincidence is curious. Even the likeness of Napoleon is associated with things living; but Napoleon himself has been seen, recognised, identified—looking like life itself—sleeping, sightless, but not dead.

      We have all been reminded lately of the manner in which his return from Elba was announced in the Moniteur. It will bear repetition here:—"1st announcement—The demon has escaped from banishment: he has run away from Elba. 2d—The Corsican dragon has landed at Cape Juan. 3d.—The tiger has shown himself at Gap—the troops are advancing from all sides, in order to arrest his progress—he cannot possibly escape. 4th—The monster has really advanced as far as Grenoble—we know not to what treachery to ascribe it. 5th—The tyrant is actually at Lyons. Fear and terror seized all at his appearance. 6th—The usurper has ventured to approach the capital to within sixty hours' march. 7th—Buonaparte is advancing by forced marches—but it is impossible he should reach Paris. 8th—Napoleon will reach under the walls of Paris to-morrow. 9th—The Emperor is at Fontainbleau. 10th—Yesterday evening his Majesty the Emperor made his public entry, and arrived at the palace of the Tuileries—nothing can exceed the universal joy!" What would be his reception now, were he—as he escaped so strangely from Elba, and worked his way still more strangely from under the willow of St. Helena—were he to wake where he is! The people cried Vive l'Empereur as the coffin that held him was borne by. And truly the Emperor yet lives in France!

      [As for me, who have skeletonised him prematurely, paring down the Prodigy even to his hat and boots, I have but "carried out" a principle adopted almost in my boyhood, for I can scarcely remember the time when I did not take some patriotic pleasure in persecuting the great Enemy of England. Had he been less than that, I should have felt compunction for my cruelties; having tracked him through snow and through fire, by flood and by field, insulting, degrading, and deriding him everywhere, and putting him to several humiliating deaths. All that time, however, he went on "overing" the Pyramids and the Alps, as boys "over" posts, and playing at leap-frog with the sovereigns of Europe, so as to kick a crown off at every spring he made—together with many crowns and sovereigns into my coffers. Deep, most deep, in a personal view of matters, are my obligations to the Agitator—but what a Debt the country owes to him!]

PHOTOGRAPHIC PHENOMENA, OR THE NEW SCHOOL OF PORTRAIT-PAINTING.

       Table of Contents

      "Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur!"—Henry IV.

      "My lords, be seated."—Speech from the Throne.

      I.—INVITATION TO SIT.

      Now sit, if ye have courage, cousins all!

      Sit, all ye grandmamas, wives, aunts, and mothers;

      Daughters and sisters, widows, brides, and nieces;

      In bonnets, braids, caps, tippets, or pelisses,

      The muff, mantilla, boa, scarf, or shawl!

      Sit all ye uncles, godpapas, and brothers,

      Fathers and nephews, sons, and next of kin,

      Husbands, half-brother's cousin's sires, and others;

      Be you as Science young, or old as Sin:

      Turn, Persian-like, your faces to the sun!

      And have each one

      His portrait done,

      Finish'd, one may say, before it's begun.

      Nor you alone,

      Oh! slight acquaintances! or blood relations!

      But sit, oh! public Benefactors,

      Whose portraits are hung up by Corporations.

      Ye Rulers of the likeness-loving nations,

      Ascend you now the Photographic throne,

      And snatch from Time the precious mornings claim'd

      By artists famed

      (In the Court Circular you'll find them named).

      Sit too, ye laurell'd Heroes, whom detractors

      Would rank below the statesman and the bard!

      Sit also, all ye Actors,

      Whose fame would else die with you, which is hard:

      Whose Falstaffs here will never Slenders prove.

      So true the art is!

      M.P.'s, for one brief moment cease to move;

      And you who stand as Leaders of great Parties,

      Be sitting Members!

      Ye intellectual Marchers, sit resign'd!

      And oh! ye Authors, men of dazzling mind,

      Perchance with faces foggy as November's,

      Pray sit!

      Apollo turned R.A.

      The other day,

      Making a most decided hit.

      They say.

      Phœbus himself—he has become a Shee!

      (Morning will rank among the Knights full soon)

      And while the Moon,

      Who only draws the tides, is clean outdone,

      The Stars are all astonishment to see

      Earth—sitting for her portrait—to the Sun!

      II.—THE PROCESS OF THE PORTRAITURE.

      It's all very fine, is it not, oh! ye Nine?

      To tell us this planet is going too fast,

      On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:

      Instead of collision,