That lattice "in the Chinese manner" was a small yet fatal fore-shadowing of the Chinese Pavilion at Brighton--of that temple, worthy of Pekin, wherein the Royal infant of threescore was wont to enshrine himself, not from the desecrating touch of the world, but even from the eyes of a curious people, who, having paid some millions toward manufacturing the most finished gentleman in Europe, had now and then a wish--an unregarded wish--to look at their expensive handiwork. What different prognostics have we in the natal day of our present Prince of Wales! What rational hopes from many circumstances that beset him. The 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.