"_Pampeluna, Oct. 1._ "An event has just occurred which will doubtless change the dynasty of the Spanish succession before I have finished my letter. At eleven o'clock this morning, several officers were amusing themselves at picquet in a coffee-house. One having played the king, another cried out, 'Ay, the king! _Vivat_! Down with the Queen! Don Carlos for ever!' This caused a frightful sensation, and the National Guards are now on their way to blockade the house. "_One o'clock_, P.M.--The National Guards have joined the Carlists, and the regulars are at this moment flying to arms. "_Two o'clock_.--The royal troops are defeated, and Don Carlos is now being proclaimed King of Spain, &c." (FROM ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT.) "_Madrid, Oct. 2._ "The nominal reign of Don Carlos, commenced at Pampeluna, has been but of short duration. A diversion has taken place in favour of the husband of the Queen Regent--Munos, who, having been a private soldier, is thought by his rank and file camaradoes to have a prior claim to Don Carlos. They have revolted to a man, and the Carlists tremble in their boots. "_Six o'clock_, A.M.--The young Queen has fled the capital--Munos is our new King, and his throne will no doubt be consolidated by a vigorous ministry. "_Seven o'clock_, A.M.--News has just arrived from Pampeluna that the Carlists are so disgusted with the counter-revolution, that a counter-counter-revolution having taken place amongst the shopkeepers, in favour of the Queen Regent, the Carlists have joined it. After all, the Queen Mother will doubtless permanently occupy the throne--at least for a day or two. "_Eight o'clock_.--News has just arrived from Biscay of a new revolt, extending through all the Basque provinces; and they are only waiting for some eligible pretender to come forward to give to this happy country another ruler. Advices from all parts are indeed crowded with reports of a rebellious spirit, so that a dozen revolutions a-week may be assuredly anticipated during the next twelvemonth." * * * * * SONGS OF THE SEEDY.--No. 4. And must we part?--well, let it be; 'Tis better thus, oh, yes, believe me; For though I still was true to thee, Thou, faithless maiden, wouldst deceive me. Take back this written pledge of love, No more I'll to my bosom fold it; The ring you gave, your faith to prove, I can't return--because I've sold it! I will not ask thee to restore Each _gage d'armour_, or lover's token, Which I had given thee before The links between us had been broken. They were not much, but oh! that brooch, If for my sake thou'st deign'd to save it, For that, at least, I must encroach,-- It wasn't mine, although I gave it.