Royal infant, we are told, is suckled by a person "named Brough, formerly
a _housemaid_ at Esher." From this very fact, will not the Royal child
grow up with the consciousness that he owes his nourishment even to the
very humblest of the people? Will he not suck in the humanising truth with
his very milk?

And then for the Spanish treasure--"hard food for Midas"--that threw its
jaundiced glory about the cradle of George the Fourth; what is that to the
promise of plenty, augured by the natal day of our present Prince? Comes
he not on the ninth of November? Is not his advent glorified by the
aromatic clouds of the Lord Mayor's kitchen?--Let every man, woman, and
child possess themselves of a _Times_ newspaper of the 10th ult.; for
there, in genial companionship with the chronicle of the birth of the
Prince, is the luscious history of the Lord Mayor's dinner. We quit
Buckingham Palace, our mind full of our dear little Queen, the Royal baby,
Prince Albert--(who, as _The Standard_ informs us subsequently, bows
"bare-headed" to the populace,)--the Archbishop of Canterbury, Doctor
Locock, the Duke of Wellington, and the monthly nurse, and immediately
fall upon the civic "general bill of fare,"--the real turtle at the City
board.

Oh, men of Paisley--good folks of Bolton--what promise for ye is here!
Turkeys, capons, sirloins, asparagus, pheasants, pine-apples, Savoy cakes,
Chantilly baskets, mince pies, preserved ginger, brandy cherries, a
thousand luscious cakes that "the sense aches at!" What are all these
gifts of plenty, but a glad promise that in the time of the "sweetest
young Prince," that on the birth-day of that Prince just vouchsafed to us,
all England will be a large Lord Mayor's table! Will it be possible for
Englishmen to dissassociate in their minds the Prince of Wales and the
Prince of good Fellows? And whereas the reigns of other potentates are