he King has seen the Prince [of Wales], and received him kindly, but
the Queen was present. Iron Pluto (as Burke called the Chancellor) wept
again when with the King; but what is much more remarkable, his Majesty
has not asked for Pitt, and did abuse him constantly during his frenzy.
The Chancellor certainly did not put him in mind of Pitt, whom he
detests; so there is a pretty portion of hatred to be quaffed amongst
them! and swallowed, if they can; yet _aurum potabile_ will make it sit
on their stomachs.

_"THE ARABIAN NIGHTS"--THE AENEID--BOCCALINI--ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE._

TO MISS BERRY.[1]

[Footnote 1: The lady to whom this letter is addressed was the elder of
two sisters who in 1787 came to reside with their father in Walpole's
neighbourhood. Both the sisters, according to his description of them,
were very accomplished and sufficiently good-looking. He gradually
became so enthusiastic in his regard for her, that he proposed to marry
her, old as he was, in order that he might have an excuse for leaving
her all his fortune; and he wrote the "Reminiscences of the Courts of
George I. and II.," which are among his published works, for the
amusement of the two sisters.]

STRAWBERRY HILL, _June_ 30, 1789.

Were there any such thing as sympathy at the distance of two hundred
miles, you would have been in a mightier panic than I was; for, on
Saturday se'nnight, going to open the glass case in the Tribune, my foot
caught in the carpet, and I fell with my whole weight (_si_ weight _y
a_) against the corner of the marble altar, on my side, and bruised the
muscles so badly, that for two days I could not move without screaming.
I am convinced I should have broken a rib, but that I fell on the cavity
whence two of my ribs were removed, that are gone to Yorkshire. I am
much better both of my bruise and of my lameness, and shall be ready to
dance at my own wedding when my wives return. And now to answer your
letter.

If you grow tired of the "Arabian Nights," you have no more taste than
Bishop Atterbury,[1] who huffed Pope for sending him them (or the
"Persian Tales"), and fancied he liked Virgil better, who had no more
imagination than Dr. Akenside. Read "Sinbad the Sailor's Voyages," and
you will be sick of Aeneas's. What woful invention were the nasty
poultry that dunged on his dinner, and ships on fire turned into
Nereids! A barn metamorphosed into a cascade in a pantomime is full as
sublime an effort of genius. I do