it would be a treat to me to read that play. Manning has read it, so has
Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family; but I could not get him to betray his
trust by giving me a sight of it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of
those virtuous vices. I have just lit upon a most beautiful fiction of
hell punishments, by the author of "Hurlothrumbo," a mad farce. The
inventor imagines that in hell there is a great caldron of hot water, in
which a man can scarce hold his finger, and an immense sieve over it,
into which the probationary souls are put.

"And all the little souls
Pop through the riddle holes."

Mary's love to Mrs. Coleridge--mine to all.

N.B.--I pays no Postage.--

George Dyer is the only literary character I am happily acquainted with.
The oftener I see him, the more deeply I admire him. He is goodness
itself. If I could but calculate the precise date of his death, I would
write a novel on purpose to make George the hero. I could hit him off to
a hair.

George brought a Dr. Anderson to see me. The Doctor is a very pleasant
old man, a great genius for agriculture, one that ties his
breeches-knees with Packthread, & boasts of having had disappointments
from ministers. The Doctor happened to mention an Epic Poem by one
Wilkie, called the "Epigoniad," in which he assured us there is not one
tolerable line from beginning to end, but all the characters, incidents,
&c., are verbally copied from _Homer_. George, who had been sitting
quite inattentive to the Doctor's criticism, no sooner heard the sound