George Cruikshank's Omnibus. George Cruikshank

      In contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,

      The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting:

      And Earth, like the Lady enchanted in Comus,

      Fix'd fast to her chair

      With a dignified air,

      Is expecting to sit for a century there;

      Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,

      How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus.

      "Keep moving," we know, was the cry long ago;

      But now, never hare was "found sitting," I swear,

      Like the crowds who repair

      To old Cavendish Square,

      And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair.

      In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!

      And all are on tiptoe, the high and the low,

      To sit in that glass-cover'd blue studio;

      In front of those boxes, wherein when you look

      Your image reversed will minutely appear,

      So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,

      So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,

      As none ever wore

      In a mirror before;

      Or the depths of a glassy and branch-shelter'd brook,

      That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.

      Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled

      "Apelles of flowers,"

      Now mixes his showers

      Of sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;

      Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.

      His agent on earth, when your attitude's right,

      Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place,

      Just seizes one moment of favouring light,

      And utters three sentences—"Now it's begun,"—

      "It's going on now, sir,"—and "Now it is done;"

      And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your face

      On a silvery plate,

      Unerring as fate,

      Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,

      A little resembling an elderly print.

      "Well, I never!" all cry; "it is cruelly like you!"

      But Truth is unpleasant

      To prince and to peasant.

      You recollect Lawrence, and think of the graces

      That Chalon and Company give to their faces;

      The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!

      III.—THE CRITICISMS OF THE SITTERS—THE MORAL.

      "Can this be me! do look, mama!"

      Poor Jane begins to whimper;

      "I have a smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!

      This gives me quite a simper."

      Says Tibb, whose plays are worse than bad,

      "It makes my forehead flat;"

      And being classical, he'll add,

      "I'm blow'd if I'm like that."

      Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true;

      "Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.

      Extremely like me—every feature—but

      That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!"

      Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid;

      Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;

      Owns that o'er this some traits of truth are sprinkled;

      But views the brow with anger—"Why, it's wrinkled!"

      "Like me!" cries Sir Turtle; "I'll lay two to one

      It would only be guess'd by my foes;

      No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,

      Which accounts for these spots on my nose."

      "A likeness!" cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers;

      "Yes, the wig, throat and forehead I spy,

      And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,

      But it gives me a cast in the eye!"

      Thus needs it the courage of old Cousin Hotspur,

      To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;

      Yet Self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur

      So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!

      And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,

      Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;

      And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking

      The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,

      To witness the frights

      Which shadows and lights

      Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.

      For there, while you sit up,

      Your countenance lit up,

      The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;

      And your portrait's a patch, with its bright and its black,

      Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,

      Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.

      Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,

      And still they mount up, stair by stair;

      And every morn, by the hurry and hum,

      Each seeking a prize in the lottery there,

      You fancy the "last day of drawing" has come. L. B.

      [All the World and his Wife must recollect that they are not figuring before a mere mortal artist with whom they may all the while laugh and chat. Here you must sit mute and motionless. You may wink; you may perhaps just put on a smile; but you must not laugh; for if you do, one half of your head will go off!]

      COMMENTARY upon the late—"New Police Act" by which it appears that … …

      Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank—June 1^st 1841.

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PUNCH v. LAW.

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      I was dozing over the last half-dozen glasses of a bowl of punch (the rest of the club having departed) when the waiter at the British came into the coffee-room to