quarterly fee, the state physician may now, in the magnanimity of his
soul, prescribe new life for moribund John Bull. Whether he has resolved
within himself to emulate the generous dealing of kindred professors--of
those sanative philosophers, whose benevolence, stamped in modest
handbills, "crieth out in the street," exclaiming "No cure no pay,"--we
know not; certain we are, that such is not the old Tory practice. On the
contrary, the healing, with Tory doctors, has ever been in an inverse
ratio to the reward. Like the faculty at large, the Tories have flourished
on the sickness of the patient. They have, with _Falstaff_, "turned
diseases to commodity;" their only concern being to keep out the
undertaker. Whilst there's life, there's profit,--is the philosophy of the
Tory College; hence, poor Mr. Bull, though shrunk, attenuated,--with a
blister on his head, and cataplasms at his soles,--has been kept just
alive enough to pay. And then his patience under Tory treatment--the
obedience of his swallow! "Admirable, excellent!" cried a certain doctor
(we will not swear that his name was not PEEL), when his patient pointed
to a dozen empty phials. "Taken them all, eh? Delightful! My dear sir, you
are _worthy_ to be ill." JOHN BULL having again called in the Tories, is
"worthy to be ill;" and very ill he will be.

The tenacity of life displayed by BULL is paralleled by a case quoted by
LE VAILLANT. That naturalist speaks of a turtle that continued to live
after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity stuffed _with
cotton_. Is not England, with spinning-jenny PEEL at the head of its
affairs, in this precise predicament? England may live; but inactive,
torpid; unfitted for all healthful exertion,--deprived of its grandest
functions--paralyzed in its noblest strength. We have a Tory Cabinet, but
where is the _brain_ of statesmanship?

Now, however, there are no Tories. Oh, no! Sir ROBERT PEEL is a