Our anxiety increases every day. We inquire of every one the news. We wait with impatience for the newspapers, and when we receive them are disappointed; not finding in them what we wish. They, to besure, speak of the sitting of the _Vienna Congress_; and we have been expecting, every day, that this political old hen had hatched out her various sort of eggs. We expected that her motley brood would afford us some fun. Here we expected to see a young hawk, and there a goslin, and next a strutting turkey, and then a dodo, a loon, an ostrich, a wren, a magpie, a cuckoo, and a wag-tail. But the old continental hen has now set so long, that we conclude that her eggs are addled, and incubation frustrated. During all this time, the Gallick cock is on his roost at Elba, with his head under his wing. We but now and then get a sight of Cobbett's Political Register; and when we do, we devour it, and destroy it, before it comes to the knowledge of our Ceroebrus. This writer has a manner _sui generis_, purely his own; but it is somewhat surprising, how he becomes so well informed of the actual state of things, and of the feelings and opinions of both parties in our country. His acuteness, his wit, his logic, and his surliness, form, altogether, a curious portraiture of an English politician. We, now and then, get sight of American papers; but they are almost all of them _federal_ papers, and contain matter more hostile to our government than the _English_ papers. The most detestable paper printed in London, is called, "_The Times_;" and that is often thrown in our way; but even this paper is not to be compared to the "Federal Republican," printed at Washington or Georgetown, or to the Boston federal papers. When such papers are shown to us by the English here we are fairly brought up, and know not what to say.