The proud defender of his land, To aw’d and list’ning senates speaking;— But as his fingers touch’d the purse’s strings, The chinking metal made a magic sound, While hungry placemen gather’d fast around: And he, as if by chance or play, Or that he would their venal votes repay, The golden treasures round upon them flings. SIR ROBERT PEEL AND THE QUEEN. Upon the first interview of the Queen with Sir Robert Peel, her Majesty was determined to answer only in monosyllables to all he said; and, in fact, to make her replies an echo, and nothing more, to whatever he said to her. The following dialogue, which we have thrown into verse for the purpose of smoothing it—the tone of it, as spoken, having been on one side, at least, rather rough—ensued between the illustrious persons alluded to. HE.—Before we into minor details go, Do I possess your confidence or no? SHE.—No. HE.—You shall not vex me, though your treatment’s rough; No, madam, I am made of sterner stuff. SHE.—Stuff. HE.—Really, if thus your minister you flout, A single syllable he can’t get out. SHE.—Get out! HE.—But try me, madam; time indeed will show Unto what lengths to serve you I would go. SHE.—Go. HE.—We both have power,—’tis doubtful which is greater; These crooked words had better be made straighter. SHE.—Traighter (Traitor.) HE.—Farewell! and never in this friendly strain (My proffer’d aid foregone) I breathe again! SHE.—Gone. I breathe again! SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—NO. 2. I cannot rove with thee, where zephyrs float— Sweet sylvan scenes devoted to the loves!— For, oh! I have not got one decent coat, Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves. Gladly I’d wander o’er the verdant lawn, Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock; But can I show myself in gills so torn, Or brave the public gaze in such a stock? I know thou’lt answer me that love is blind, And faults in one it worships can’t perceive; It must be sightless, truly, not to find The hole that’s gaping in my threadbare sleeve. Farewell, my love—for, oh! by heaven, we part, And though it cost me all the pangs of hell. The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart, By calling after us—“There goes a swell!” A PRIVATE BOX. During the clear-out on Wednesday last in Downing-street, a small chest, strongly secured, was found among some models of balloting-boxes. It had evidently been forgotten for some years, and upon opening it, was found to contain the Whig promises of 1832. They were immediately conveyed to Lord Melbourne, who appeared much astonished at these resuscitation of the A man is covered with children. HOME OFFICE. [pg 94] THE LOST MEDICAL PAPERS OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. “It is somewhat remarkable,” observe the journals of the past week, “that the medical division of this scientific meeting has not contributed one single paper this year in furtherance of its object, although the communications from that section have usually been of a highly important character.”