this unequivocally shouted preference of a Prince of Wales. Nevertheless,
we are happy to say, the pretty, good-tempered Princess Royal (she is
_not_ blind, as the Tories once averred; but then the Whigs were _in_)
still laughs and chirrups as if nothing had happened. Nay, as a proof of
the happy nature of the infant (we beg to say that the fact is copyright,
as we purchased it of the reporter of _The Observer_), whilst, on the
ninth instant, the chimes of St. Martin's were sounding merrily for the
birth of the Prince, the Princess magnanimously shook her coral-bells in
welcome of her dispossessing brother!

Independently of the sensation made in the City by the new glory that has
fallen upon the ninth of November (it is said that Sir PETER LAURIE has
been so rapt by the auspicious coincidence, that he has done nothing since
but talk and think of "the Prince of Wales"--that on Wednesday last he
rebuked an infant beggar with, "I've nothing for you, _Prince of
Wales_")--independently of the lustre flung upon the new Lord Mayor and
the Lord Mayor just out--who will, it is said, both be caudle-cup
baronets, the occasion has given birth to much deep philosophy on the part
of our contemporaries--so deep, that there is no getting to the end of it,
and has also revived much black-letter learning connected with the birth
of every Prince of Wales, from the first to the last--and, therefore,
certainly not least--new-comer.

An hour or so after George the Fourth was born, we are told that the
waggons containing the treasure of the _Hermione_, a Spanish galleon,
captured off St. Vincent by three English frigates, entered St. James's
street, escorted by cavalry and infantry, with trumpets sounding, the
enemy's flags waving over the waggons, and the whole surrounded by an
immense multitude of spectators. Now here, to the vulgar mind, was a happy
augury of the future golden reign of the Royal baby. He comes upon the