[Footnote 1:  In a previous letter Walpole mentions that Vertue (the engraver) had disputed the subject of this picture, because the face of the King did not resemble other pictures of him; but Walpole was convinced of the correctness of his description of it, because it does resemble the face on Henry’s shillings, “which are more authentic than pictures.”]

Burnet, who was more a judge of characters than statues, mentions the resemblance between Tiberius and Charles II.; but, as far as countenances went, there could not be a more ridiculous prepossession; Charles had a long face, with very strong lines, and a narrowish brow; Tiberius a very square face, and flat forehead, with features rather delicate in proportion.  I have examined this imaginary likeness, and see no kind of foundation for it.  It is like Mr. Addison’s Travels,[1] of which it was so truly said, he might have composed them without stirring out of England.  There are a kind of naturalists who have sorted out the qualities of the mind, and allotted particular turns of features and complexions to them.  It would be much easier to prove that every form has been endowed with every vice.  One has heard much of the vigour of Burnet himself; yet I dare to say, he did not think himself like Charles II.

[Footnote 1:  It is Fielding who, in his “Voyage to Lisbon,” gave this character to Addison’s “Travels.”]

I am grieved, Sir, to hear that your eyes suffer; take care of them; nothing can replace the satisfaction they afford:  one should hoard them, as the only friend that will not be tired of one when one grows old, and when one should least choose to depend on others for entertainment.  I most sincerely wish you happiness and health in that and every other instance.

BIRTH OF THE PRINCE OF WALES—­THE CZARINA—­VOLTAIRE’S HISTORICAL CRITICISMS—­IMMENSE VALUE OF THE TREASURES BROUGHT OVER IN THE “HERMIONE."

TO SIR HORACE MANN.

ARLINGTON STREET, Aug. 12, 1762.

A Prince of Wales [George IV.] was born this morning; the prospect of your old neighbour [the Pretender] at Rome does not improve; the House of Hanover will have numbers in its own family sufficient to defend their crown—­unless they marry a Princess of Anhalt Zerbst.  What a shocking tragedy that has proved already!  There is a manifesto arrived to-day that makes one shudder!  This northern Athaliah, who has the modesty not to name her murdered husband in that light, calls him her neighbour; and, as if all the world were savages, like Russians, pretends that he died suddenly of a distemper that never was expeditious; mocks Heaven with pretensions to charity and piety; and heaps the additional inhumanity on the man she has dethroned and assassinated, of imputing his death to a judgment from Providence.  In short, it is the language of usurpation and blood, counselled and apologised for by clergymen!  It is Brunehault[1] and an archbishop!