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-donein-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. 7thBuonaparte is advancing by forced marches-but it is impossible he should reach Paris. 8th-Napoleon will reach under the walls of Paris tomorrow. 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 crueltics; 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!]

"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.

Phoebus 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, and chances of splitting
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.

66

"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!

look

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
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 Phoebus 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.