The interesting condition of Her Majesty is a source of the most agonising suspense to the Lord Mayors of London and Dublin, who, if a Prince of Wales is not born before their period of office expires, will lose the chance of being created baronets. According to rumour, the baby--we beg pardon, the scion of the house of Brunswick--was to have been born--we must apologise again; we should say was to have been added to the illustrious stock of the reigning family of Great Britain--some day last month, and of course the present Lord Mayors had comfortably made up their minds that they should be entitled to the dignity it is customary to confer on such occasions as that which the nation now ardently anticipates. But here we are at the beginning of November, and no Prince of Wales. We have reason to know that the Lord Mayor of London has not slept a wink since Saturday, and his lady has not smiled, according to an authority on which we are accustomed to rely, since Thursday fortnight. Some say it is done on purpose, because the present official is a Tory; and others insinuate that the Prince of Wales is postponed in order that there may be an opportunity of making Daniel O'Connell a baronet. Others suggest that there will be twins presented to the nation! one on the night of the 8th of November, the other on the morning of the 9th, so as to conciliate both parties; but we are not disposed at present to pronounce a decided opinion on this part of the question. We know that politics have been carried most indelicately into the very heart of the Royal Household; but we hope, for the honour of all parties, that the confinement of the Queen is not to be made a matter of political arrangement. If it is, we can only say that it will be most indecent, we might almost venture to say unbecoming; but our dislike to the use of strong language is well known, or at least it ought to be. If there are any other particulars, we shall give them in a second edition; that is to say, if we should have anything to add, and should think it worth while to publish another impression for the purpose of stating it. * * * * * SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.--No. 10. You talk of love--I would believe Thy words were truth; Nor deem that thou wouldst e'er deceive My artless youth: But when we part, Within my heart A small voice whispers low-- Beware! Beware! Fond girl, the snare! it's all no go! You talk of love--yet would betray The heart you seek, And smile upon its slow decay, If 'twould not break. In vain you swear That I am fair, That heaven is on my lip! I know each vow Is worthless now; [Illustration: YOU'VE MISS'D YOUR TIP.] * * * * * THE TWO NEW EQUITY JUDGES.