It was a time when the mob was accustomed to speak pretty plainly. What a contrast is this pedestrian ramble by night, to dress for Mrs. Chichester’s masquerade, to the state procession of the Regent into the city, where he twice dined--once at an entertainment given by the merchants, and once at a banquet given by the lord mayor and corporation! On the latter occasion especially his passage from Temple Bar nearly to the dinner-table itself was assailed by most uncomplimentary vociferations on the part of the populace. Their most general cry was, ‘Where’s your wife?’--and that portion of the mob which apparently consisted of women was loudest in its unsavoury exclamations against the Vicegerent of the kingdom. He dined with what appetite he might, and he made the Lord Mayor (Domville), according to ancient custom when kings sat at the board of a first magistrate, a baronet; but he registered a vow, which he never broke, that never again would he condescend to be a guest among citizens to whose table he could not pass without running the gauntlet through the scourge of vile tongues that attacked him on his way. His mother, Queen Charlotte, did subsequently honour a lord mayor with her presence; but at her, too, the loud popular tongue wagged so insolently that the royal lady, although she courageously concealed her alarm, became indisposed on her return home, where she was first seized with those cruel spasmodic attacks which ultimately overcame her strength and surrendered her to death.