Hume is so annoyed at his late defeat at Leeds, that he vows he will never make use of the word Tory again as long as he lives.  Indeed, he proposes to expunge the term from the English language, and to substitute that which is applied to, his own party.  In writing to a friend, that “after the inflammatory character of the oratory of the Carlton Club, it is quite supererogatory for me to state (it being notorious) that all conciliatory measures will be rendered nugatory,” he thus expressed himself:—­“After the inflamma_whig_ character of the ora_whig_ of the nominees of the Carlton Club, it is quite supereroga_whig_ for me to state (it being no_whig_ous) that all concilia_whig_ measures will be rendered nuga_whig_.”

NATIVE SWALLOWS.

A correspondent to one of the daily papers has remarked, that there is an almost total absence of swallows this summer in England.  Had the writer been present at some of the election dinners lately, he must have confessed that a greater number of active swallows has rarely been observed congregated in any one year.

LORD MELBOURNE TO “PUNCH.”

My dear PUNCH,—­Seeing in the “Court Circular” of the Morning Herald an account of a General Goblet as one of the guests of her Majesty, I beg to state, that till I saw that announcement, I was not aware of any other general gobble it than myself at the Palace.

Yours, truly, MELBOURN

* * * * *

A RAILROAD NOVEL

DEAR PUNCH,—­I was much amused the other day, on taking my seat in the Birmingham Railway train, to observe a sentimental-looking young gentleman, who was sitting opposite to me, deliberately draw from his travelling-bag three volumes of what appeared to me a new novel of the full regulation size, and with intense interest commence the first volume at the title-page.  At the same instant the last bell rang, and away started our train, whizz, bang, like a flash of lightning through a butter-firkin.  I endeavoured to catch a glimpse of some familiar places as we passed, but the attempt was altogether useless.  Harrow-on-the-Hill, as we shot by it, seemed to be driving pell-mell up to town, followed by Boxmoor, Tring, and Aylesbury—­I missed Wolverton and Weedon while taking a pinch of snuff—­lost Rugby and Coventry before I had done sneezing, and I had scarcely time to say, “God bless us,” till I found we had reached Birmingham.  Whereupon I began to calculate the trifling progress my reading companion could have made in his book during our rapid journey, and to devise plans for the gratification of persons similarly situated as my fellow-traveller.  “Why,” thought I, “should literature alone lag in the age of steam?  Is there no way by which a man could be made to swallow Scott or bolt Bulwer, in as short a time as it now takes him to read