CE OF WALES.--HIS FUTURE TIMES.

A private letter from Hanover states that, precisely at twelve minutes to
eleven in the morning on the ninth of the present November, his Majesty
King ERNEST was suddenly attacked by a violent fit of blue devils. All the
court doctors were immediately summoned, and as immediately dismissed, by
his Majesty, who sent for the Wizard of the North (recently appointed
royal astrologer), to divine the mysterious cause of this so sudden
melancholy. In a trice the mystery was solved--Queen Victoria "was happily
delivered of a Prince!" His Majesty was immediately assisted to his
chamber--put to bed--the curtains drawn--all the royal household ordered
to wear list slippers--the one knocker to the palace was carefully tied
up--and (on the departure of our courier) half a load of straw was already
deposited beneath the window of the royal chamber. The sentinels on duty
were prohibited from even sneezing, under pain of death, and all things in
and about the palace, to use a bran new simile, were silent as the grave!

"Whilst there was only the Princess Royal there were many hopes. There was
hope from severe teething--hope from measles--hope from hooping-cough--but
with the addition of a Prince of Wales, the hopes of Hanover are below
par." But we pause. We will no further invade the sanctity of the sorrows
of a king; merely observing, that what makes his Majesty very savage,
makes hundreds of thousands of Englishmen mighty glad. There are now two
cradles between the Crown of England and the White Horse of Hanover.

We have a Prince of Wales! Whilst, however, England is throwing up its
million caps in rapture at the advent, let it not be forgotten to whom we
owe the royal baby. In the clamourousness of our joy the fact would have
escaped us, had we not received a letter from Colonel SIBTHORP, who
assures us that we owe a Prince of Wales entirely to the present cabinet;
had the Whigs remained in office, the infant would inevitably have been a
girl.

For our own part--but we confess we are sometimes apt to look too soberly
at things--we think her Majesty (may all good angels make her caudle!) is,
inadvertently no doubt, treated in a questionable spirit of compliment by
these uproarious rejoicings at the sex of the illustrious little boy, who
has cast, if possible, a new dignity upon Lord Mayor's day, and made the
very giants of Guildhall shoot up an inch taller at the compliment he has
paid them of vis