The late George Dyer, referred to by Mr. Southey, was an University man
who exercised his talents chiefly in writing for the Periodicals. His
chief work was "The History of the Halls and Colleges of Cambridge." He
published also several small works. The Poem, referred to above, was
complimentary, in which he noticed most of his literary friends. The way
in which he "brought in" the author of the "Pleasures of Memory" was,
very properly putting wit before wealth,
"Was born a banker, and then rose a bard,"
George Dyer was sincere, and had great simplicity of manners, so that he
was a favourite with all his friends. No man in London encouraged so much
as he did, Bloomfield, the author of the "Farmer's Boy;" and he was
equally prepared with kind offices for every body. He had some odd
fancies, one of which was, that men ought to live more sparingly and
drink plenty of water-gruel. By carrying this wholesome precept on one
occasion, rather too far, he unhappily reduced himself to death's door.
Charles Lamb told me, that having once called on him, at his room in
Clifford's Inn, he found a little girl with him, (one of his nieces) whom
he was teaching to sing hymns.
Mr. Coleridge related to me a rather ludicrous circumstance concerning
George Dyer, which Charles Lamb had told him, the last time he passed
through London. Charles Lamb had heard that George Dyer was very ill, and
hastened to see him. He found him in an emaciated state, shivering over a
few embers. "Ah!" said George, as Lamb entered, "I am glad to see you.
You wont have me here long. I have just written this letter to my young
nephews and nieces, to come immediately and take a final leave of their
uncle." Lamb found, on inquiry, that he had latterly been living on
water-gruel, and a low starving diet, and readily divined the cause of
his maladies. "Come," said Lamb, "I shall take you home immediately to my
house, and I and my sister will nurse you." "Ah!" said George Dyer, "it
wont do." The hackney coach was soon at the door, and as the sick man
entered it, he said to Lamb, "Alter the address, and then send the letter
with all speed to the poor children." "I will," said Lamb, "and at the
same time call the doctor."
George Dyer was now seated by Charles Lamb's comfortable fire, while Lamb
hastened to his medical friend, and told him that a worthy man was at his
house who had almost starved himself on water-gruel. "You must come,"
said he, "directly, and prescribe some kitchen stuff, or the poor man
will be dead. He wont take any thing from me; he says, 'tis all useless."
Away both the philanthropists hastened, and Charles Lamb, anticipating
what would be required, furnished himself, on the road, with a pound of
beef steaks. The doctor now entered the room, and advancing towards his
patient, felt his pulse, and asked him a few questions; when, looking
grave, he said, "Sir, you are in a very dangerous way," "I know it Sir, I
know it Sir," said George Dyer. The Dr. replied, "Sir, yours is a very
peculiar case, and if you do not implicitly follow my directions, you
will die of atrophy before to-morrow morning. It is the only possible
chance of saving your life. You must directly make a good meal off
beef-steaks, and drink the best part of a pot of porter." "Tis too late,"
said George, but "I'll eat, I'll eat." The doctor now withdrew, and so
nicely had Lamb calculated on results, that the steaks were all this time
broiling on the fire! and, as though by magic, the doctor had scarcely
left the room, when the steaks and the porter were both on the table.
Just as George Dyer had begun voraciously to feast on the steaks, his
young nephews and nieces entered the room crying. "Good bye, my dears,"
said George, taking a deep draught of the porter. "You wont see me much
longer." After a few mouthfuls of the savoury steak, he further said, "be
good children, when I am gone." Taking another draught of the porter, he
continued, "mind your books, and don't forget your hymns." "We wont,"
answered a little shrill silvery voice, from among the group, "we wont,
dear Uncle." He now gave them all a parting kiss; when the children
retired in a state of wonderment, that "sick Uncle" should be able to eat
and drink so heartily. "And so," said Lamb, in his own peculiar
phraseology "at night, I packed up his little nipped carcass snug in bed,
and, after stuffing him for a week, sent him home as plump as a
partridge."
"April, 26, 1797.
"... I have finished Necker this morning, and return again to my regular
train of occupation. Would that digging potatoes were amongst them! and
if I live a dozen years, you shall eat potatoes of my digging: but I must
think now of the present.
Some Mr. ---- sent me a volume of his poems, last week. I read his book:
it was not above mediocrity. He seems very fond of poetry and even to a
superstitious reverence of Thompson's 'old table,' and even of Miss
Seward, whose MS. he rescued from the printer. I called on him to thank
him, and was not sorry to find him not at home. But the next day a note
arrived with more praise. He wished my personal acquaintance, and 'trusts
I shall excuse the frankness which avows, that it would gratify his
feelings to receive a copy of 'Joan of Arc, from the author.' I thought
this, to speak tenderly, not a very modest request, but there is a
something in my nature which prevents me from silently displaying my
sentiments, if that display can give pain, and so I answered his note,
and sent him the book. He writes sonnets to Miss Seward, and Mr. Hayley;
enough to stamp him 'blockhead.'
Carlisle and I, instead of our neighbours' 'Revolutionary Tribunal,' mean
to erect a physiognomical one, and as transportation is to be the
punishment, instead of guillotining, we shall put the whole navy in
requisition to carry off all ill-looking fellows, and then we may walk
London streets without being jostled. You are to be one of the Jury, and
we must get some good limner to take down the evidence. Witnesses will be
needless. The features of a man's face will rise up in judgment against
him; and the very voice that pleads 'Not Guilty,' will be enough to
convict the raven-toned criminal.
I sapped last night with Ben. Flower, of Cambridge, at Mr. P.'s, and
never saw so much coarse strength in a countenance. He repeated to me an
epigram on the dollars which perhaps you may not have seen.
To make Spanish dollars with Englishmen pass,
Stamp the head of a fool, on the tail of an ass.[54]
This has a coarse strength rather than a point. Danvers tells me that you
have written to Herbert Croft. Give me some account of your letter. Let
me hear from you, and tell me how you all are, and what is going on in
the little world of Bristol. God bless you.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey.
"... We dine with Mary Wolstoncroft (now Godwin) to-morrow. Oh! he has a
foul nose! I never see it without longing to cut it off. By the by, Dr.
Hunter (the murderer of St. Pierre) [55] told me that I had exactly
Lavater's nose, to my no small satisfaction, for I did not know what to
make of that protuberance, or promontory of mine. I could not compliment
him. He has a very red drinking face: little good humoured eyes, with the
skin drawn up under them, like cunning and short-sightedness united. I
saw Dr. Hunter again yesterday. I neither like him, nor his wife, nor his
son, nor his daughter, nor any thing that is his. To night I am to meet
Opie. God bless you. Edith's love.
Yours affectionately,