The shadows, owing doubtless to their intangible nature, have passed unscathed through the countless political changes and convulsions that have occurred during the three quarters of a century that they have inhabited a nook in the palace which has been alternately Cardinal, Royal, National, Imperial—all things by turn, and nothing long. They have lasted and thriven, as far as bodiless shades can thrive, under Republic and Empire, Directory and Consulate, Restoration and Citizen Monarchy, Republic, and Empire again. We fear it must be admitted that time-serving is at the bottom of this long impunity and prosperity. In the feverish days of the first Revolution, marionettes had _sans-culotte_ tendencies, with the exception of Polichinelle, who, mindful doubtless of his descent from Henry IV., played the aristocrat, and carried his head so high, that at last he lost it. M. Magnin passes hastily over this affecting phase in the career of his puppet friends, merely quoting a few lines from Camille Desmoulins, which bear upon the subject. “This selfish multitude,” exclaims the _Vieux Cordelier_, indignant at the apathetic indifference of the Parisians in presence of daily human hecatombs, “is formed to follow blindly the impulse of the strongest. There was fighting in the Carrousel and the Champ de Mars, and the Palais Royal displayed its shepherdesses and its Arcadia. Close by the guillotine, beneath whose keen edge fell crowned heads, on the same square, and at the same time, _they also guillotined Polichinelle_, who divided the attention of the eager crowd.” Punch, who had passed his life hanging the hangman, was at a nonplus in presence of the guillotine. He missed the running noose he was so skilful in drawing tight, and mournfully laid his neck in the bloody groove. Some say that he escaped, that his dog was dressed up, and beheaded in his stead, and that he himself reached a foreign shore, where he presently regained his freedom of speech and former jollity of character. M. Magnin himself is clearly of opinion that he is not dead, but only sleeps. “Would it not be well,” he asks, “to awaken him here in France? Can it be that the little Æsop has nothing new to tell us? Above all, do not say that he is dead. Polichinelle never dies. You doubt it? You do not know then what Polichinelle is? He is the good sense of the people, the brisk sally, the irrepressible laugh. Yes, Polichinelle will laugh, sing, and hiss, as long as the world contains vices, follies, and things to ridicule. You see very well that Polichinelle is not near his death. Polichinelle is immortal!”