On Sunday, October 6th, half of riotous London followed the Foot Guards to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and applauded them as they entered the old abandoned play-house, which was converted by them into a barrack. A couple of days later all uproarious London was on the river, or in the streets, to witness the grand entry of the Venetian Ambassador. His Excellency and suite came in state barges from Greenwich to the Tower, and he passed in greater state still of coach and cavalry, from the Tower to his noble residence in _Thrift_ Street, Soho, as Frith Street was once called. The greetings which welcomed him on the part of those who hailed in his person an ally of King George, were as nothing compared with the unceasing thunder of hurrah-ing which saluted him as he rode, next day, in greatest state of all, to have audience of the sovereign. When his wife, as soon as she was installed in her house, in Soho, gave a masquerade which made everybody forget the perils of the time, there may have been people who distrusted her Popish principles, but no one doubted her taste, or objected to her politics. [Sidenote: _MONARCH AND MINISTERS._] Yet was there every now and then a cry of alarm. Messengers had seized a waggon load of cutlasses, and they were slow to believe that the weapons were not ordered by Pope and Pretender for the slaughter of Church-and-King men. They proved to have come to London in due course of trade. Persons who believed, nevertheless, in the existence of a conspiracy were gratified by the seizure of some Irish priests who indulged in the utterance of seditious words in public places. Zealots, of Jacobite proclivities, even had the assurance to contradict loyal preachers in their own pulpits, but afterwards found themselves in durance for their boldness. One day, Sir Robert Ladbroke astounded the Duke of Newcastle by rushing in to his office and announcing that he had had anonymous warning to leave his house, as Jacobite insurgents meant on a certain night to set fire to the city. Everywhere guards were doubled, and there was much fear. The king showed none. He stood for a couple of hours on the terrace at St. James’s, overlooking the park, to witness the manœuvres and the ‘march past’ of six regiments of trained bands, and he had an air as if he and danger were strangers. Moreover the Londoners were in a fever of delight with the other king,――the king of the city. On Lord Mayor’s day, Sir Richard Hoare was resolved that if he was to be the last Protestant Lord Mayor of London, people should remember him. On October 29th (old Lord Mayor’s day), he went from Guildhall to the Court of Exchequer, in the grandest coach ever seen, and he was accompanied by ‘a large body of associated gentlemen out of Fleet Street, completely clothed,’ as one, indeed, might expect they would be! [Sidenote: _NEWS IN PRIVATE LETTERS._]