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Rh Five-and-forty years ago I read a very dull dramatic piece called the Temple of Dullness, or some such thing. It is valuable by reason of a letter to the author from Mr. Southerne, giving an account of the poets of the day, and particularly of Dryden. I recollect that he censured Bishop Burnett for saying that Dryden was a “monster of impurity”—which respects his plays, not his morals; and in that sense the bishop is not far from his mark; for Limberham is more indecent than Etheredge’s She would if she could, was hooted from the stage in the reign of Charles II., and is now, as we know it in the (present) edition, freed from all obscenity. Such as it is in its purified state, I suppose that no British audience, even in the Haymarket during the summer, would hear it to an end.

Southerne says, “Dryden was a very modest man. Often have I ate cheese-cakes with him and Mrs. Ann Reeves.” Such, from my recollection, is what Southerne says. Your plan of memoirs is a good one. But I, as a much older man than you, say, “Quid brevi fortes I have felt the truth of this opera interrupta  [illegible] ingentes hang over me on every side. I have projected more than enough for a century, and no part of it will be performed. Should you choose the plan of memoirs [illegible] I can help you. My old correspondent, Guthrie, was very innocent. By talking on a subject he thought he understood it. I do not believe the anecdote of the [illegible] and I am sure that no vestige of it will be found in the Advocates’ Library.

A few more replies to applications appear in this year among his letters. Two of length from Lady Dryden; from Rev. Mr. Blakeway; John Kemble, who had been looking over Powell’s plays for an attack upon Dryden and tells him not to forget half-past five—the dinner-hour; from Bishop Percy, as to Dryden’s letters to Walsh; from Mr. Caldwell, and several others. None however were able to commu-