The king and court were present and were witnesses of the demonstration; but while they savoured the incense, M. d’Herville, who had come over, Ambassador Extraordinary from France, to notify the death of Louis XIV., glided among the gay throng, and whispered to some of the masks whom he recognised, that London must not suppose that all was over. ‘The Chevalier’s retreat from Perth,’ said the Envoy, ‘is all a feint. It was concocted in France, only to prolong the time till the Regent of France can succour him openly!’ The next day, this whispered secret found loud and angry, or joyful expression, in London, according to the political feeling of the reporter. A few days later, the public had to speak on a subject of much more peaceful tendency. Sir Isaac Newton, accompanied by Dr. Clarke, had gone to St. James’s, and was received graciously by the Princess, in her own apartment, where Sir Isaac explained to her Highness and her ladies his system of philosophy. The Princess took great interest in the venerable octogenarian; and it was at her request that he drew up his ‘Abstract of a Treatise on Ancient Chronology.’ [Sidenote: _ADDISON, ON THE PRINCESS OF WALES._] On the 1st of March, the spirit of loyalty was further developed. It was the birthday of the Princess of Wales, and Addison seized the opportunity to overwhelm that lady with the most fulsome praise,――in the current number of the ‘Freeholder.’ According to the writer, she was the most beautiful, most religious, and most virtuous lady of her time. Her mirth was without levity, her wit without ill-nature; and then, as if the writer was mocking himself as well as the subject of his praise――the Princess’s delicacy was said to be on a par with her husband’s virtue――a touch of satire which happened to be perfectly true. On that day, too, church steeples rang peals of congratulations. ‘It was observable,’ said the Whig papers, ‘that the High-Church Wardens were very sparing of their bells; though they need not spare their ropes for the use of their friends, since there’s enough to be had for _their_ service elsewhere.’ Lord Lumley, Master of the Horse, and eldest son of the Earl of Scarborough, distinguished himself by his loyal liberality. In front of his house, in Gerrard Street, Soho, as soon as night set in, an enormous bonfire of faggots was kindled. Three barrels of ale and beer were broached in the street, and thirst with means to quench it caused Jacobites to pass for Whigs, or to fraternise with them in drinking the health of the Princess. From the windows of the houses of the Earl of Manchester and of other peers, and from those of the house of the Ambassador from Morocco, gazed spectators of various hue and quality. The street was a highly fashionable street; but perhaps a little descending from its highest quality, as Lord Manchester’s house is occasionally described, for the benefit of enquirers, as ‘next to the Soup Shop.’ [Sidenote: _NITHSDALE IN DISGUISE._]