SOURCE: Lucas, E. V. “George Dyer.” In The Life of Charles Lamb, Vol. 1, pp. 174-203. London: Methuen, 1920.

[In the following excerpt, Lucas discusses the circumstances surrounding Dyer's second volume of poetry, and the reworked preface for it, as well as other observations on Dyer's oeuvre.]

Dyer's principal work was scholarly or serious; but he had his lighter moments too, when he wrote verses, some of them quite sprightly, and moved socially from house to house. In the letter to Southey on page 172 we have seen something of George Dyer's attitude to poetry. The subject is continued in a letter to Wordsworth, some years later. “To G. D. a poem is a poem. His own as good as anybodie's, and God bless him, anybodie's as good as his own, for I do not think he has the most distant guess of the possibility of one poem being better than another. The Gods by denying him the very faculty itself of discrimination have effectually cut off every seed of envy in his bosom. But with envy, they excided Curiosity also, and if you wish the copy again, which you destined for him, I think I shall be able to find it again for you—on his third shelf, where he stuffs his presentation copies, uncut. …” Lamb adds that he recently gave Dyer his Works, and without any scruple rescued the copy after a little while and made it over to John Stoddart.

Dyer's principal verses are to be found in his Poems, 1800. This book originally was to consist of two volumes, one containing poetry and the other criticism; but its author altered and changed his plan, and it was ultimately sent to the printers in one volume with sixty-eight pages of preface. And then occurred a tragedy, for just after the book was ready Dyer suddenly realised that he had committed himself in this preface to a principle in which he did not really believe. Lamb tells the story in a letter to Manning in December, 1800:—

“At length George Dyer's phrenesis has come to a crisis; he is raging and furiously mad. I waited upon the heathen, Thursday was a se'nnight; the first symptom which struck my eye and gave me incontrovertible proof of the fatal truth was a pair of nankeen pantaloons four times too big for him, which the said Heathen did pertinaciously affirm to be new.

“They were absolutely ingrained with the accumulated dirt of ages; but he affirmed them to be clean He was going to visit a lady that was nice about those things, and that's the reason he wore nankeen that day. And then he danced, and capered, and fidgeted, and pulled up his pantaloons, and hugged his intolerable flannel vestment closer about his poetic loins; anon he gave it loose to the zephyrs which plentifully insinuate their tiny bodies through every crevice, door, window or wainscot, expressly formed for the exclusion of such impertinents. Then he caught at a proof sheet, and catched up a laundress's bill instead—made a dart at Blomfield's Poems, and threw them in agony aside. I could not bring him to one direct reply; he could not maintain his jumping mind in a right line for the tithe of a moment by Clifford's Inn clock. He must go to the printer's immediately—the most unlucky accident—he had struck off five hundred impressions of his Poems, which were ready for delivery to subscribers, and the Preface must all be expunged. There were eighty pages of Preface, and not till that morning had he discovered that in the very first page of said Preface he had set out with a principle of Criticism fundamentally wrong, which vitiated all his following reasoning. The Preface must be expunged, although it cost him £30—the lowest calculation, taking in paper and printing! In vain have his real friends remonstrated against this Midsummer madness. George is as obstinate as a Primitive Christian—and wards and parries off all our thrusts with one unanswerable fence;—‘Sir, it's of great consequence that the world is not misled!’”. …

The history of Dyer's unfortunate poetical project is, I think, worth telling with some precision. The first notification that I can find is in the Monthly Magazine for October, 1796, where this statement occurs:—

Mr. George Dyer, with whose poetical talents the public are well acquainted, is preparing a course of publications—satires, odes, and elegies; two of which will shortly make their appearance, under the titles of Poets' Fate and “Poetic Sympathies.”

That was at the beginning of Lamb's acquaintance with G. D. Two years later, in November, 1798, the same magazine contained this announcement:—

Mr. Dyer, in consequence of unforeseen engagements, and the advice of his friends, has been obliged to alter the plan of his Poetical Publication:—instead of three volumes at a guinea, two only, consisting of poems and poetical essays, will be published at twelve shillings. The first volume will appear next month.

Further delay occurred. No volumes, either at three for a guinea or two for twelve shillings, made their appearance; instead, in the Monthly Magazine for June, 1799, the following letter was printed:—

G. Dyer presents respects to the subscribers to his poems, and informs them, with great concern, that the publication is delayed till the winter season. All the reasons of this delay could not with propriety be announced here, but shall be fully detailed in the preface to his poems. For the present, he must content himself with saying, that by unforeseen engagements, and by extending his plan beyond his original intention, he cannot get out the first volume, till the greater part of his subscribers will have left town for the summer; a time very inauspicious to publications of this nature. After mature deliberation, therefore, he thinks it most adviseable to print his two volumes at the same time; and his criticisms, extended as they are to an unexpected length, will form a distinct volume, comprehending free remarks on every species of poetry, and illustrations from the mythology of different nations. This arrangement, he apprehends, will less encumber the poems, and be more useful and agreeable to those persons for whose service this volume is intended. Such persons, however, as are not pleased with this arrangement may have their subscription-money returned, if they will have the goodness to apply to the bookseller where any subscription has been paid, or to the author himself, if the money was paid to him. Such other persons as choose to favour this work with their encouragement, are informed, that names are still received by the booksellers announced in his advertisement.

“Clifford's Inn, May 20, 1799.”

Dyer was now pledged to two volumes of poetry and preface, and we must suppose him actively engaged upon them thenceforward, for in 1800 the first volume was ready. “Poems by George Dyer” was the simple title. It was the preface to this volume which, when 500 copies were printed, suddenly confronted its author with a fallacy that led to his phrenesis. The half-burnt cancelled preface (Lamb called Dyer “Cancellarius Major”), bound up with the Poems, 1801, and other works, from Lamb's shelves, is in the British Museum, where the curious may study it. “Snatch'd out of the fire” is Lamb's comment in the margin. I am entirely at a loss to discover what the fallacy is, for the first page is practically reproduced in its entirety in the revised preface of 1802. Nor does a comparison of the two prefaces otherwise yield any discrepancy amounting (to the best of my belief, but such researches are very difficult to make thoroughly) to a false principle. The first omitted passage, on the second (not the first) page of the 1800 preface, is this:—

A sufficient degree of generosity is found in the world to encourage a useful pursuit, and even an attempt to please: the violence of party cannot controul it; nor will it be overrated by the manœuverings of pride, or the feebleness of ignorance.

Can it be this benevolent opinion which poor G. D. discovered to be a fatal error?

The result at any rate was the suppression of the edition; surely one of those pacific acts of heroism which never receive recognition. Comic as the situation is—the flat, impossible poet declaring that the world must not be misled—it has its nobility, too, and very real pathos.

The luckless preface is very long and very discursive. It examines the nature of lyrical poetry, it analyses the poetic character, it exposes falsehoods told of Dyer by the critics and quidnuncs, it explains Dyer's attitude to his friends. One passage I must quote:—

“With regard to the ladies, whose names are mentioned in this or a former volume, let it be publicly understood, as it has always been privately, that my language has been the expression of simple, though sincere, respect. To a powerful affection, many years indulged, and to a fondness for retirement, I am certainly indebted for a revival of some poetical feelings: when the heart is most subdued, it sometimes loves to worship in silence. These feelings may, perhaps, since have broken out into verse; but while immediately under the influence of that softness, I made no rebuses, and sent about no poetical billets doux; a confession, it is true, not of a very gallant poet: but reasons present themselves for my acknowledging, that, in print, just enough is delivered to secure me from the imputation of insincerity, and no more. The mention of names may, perhaps, by some be considered imprudent; but the moral and intellectual qualities that entitle one sex to respect or esteem, will, also, justly entitle the other: and where a writer acts not without reasons, and where, by the parties concerned, those reasons are not disapproved, there is no ground for censure.”

The volume, without its preface, appeared again in 1801, and again publication was interrupted. At last, in 1802, the waiting world had the work—in two small volumes, with the original preface in much the same form, and the following explanation of the change of shape:—

“It was distantly suggested by friends, well qualified to have spoken with more freedom, that the undertaking to write three volumes of poems, and those mostly lyrical, would prove at once very arduous, and very unprofitable; and, that I had set myself no easy task, I could not be quite ignorant; well aware as I was, that through the whole range of poetry, no form required such frequent sacrifice to the graces, as what I was then attempting. The extent of the plan, also, was at least equal to the degree of elegance required in the treatment of the subject. In the ardour of my pursuit, the arts and sciences were made to pass in review before me. Statesmen, patriots, and heroes, poets, critics, and private friends, were each to receive some tribute of esteem, or some expressions of respect: and even amid these flights of fancy, critical remarks were intended on every branch of poetic composition. Thus extensive was the plan! So little do we know our weakness!”

Of Dyer's poetry there is little to say. It is just so many sober words in metre. His “Stanzas Meditated in the Cloisters of Christ's Hospital,” from which Lamb quotes at the end of his first essay on the school (in the Gentleman's Magazine in 1813), is among his best poems. The farthest swing of his poetical pendulum in the other direction is perhaps the comic paean, in the sapphic measure, in praise of snuff and tobacco, beginning:—

I've gŏt th' hēad-āche: gīve mě thěn, bōy thě snūff-box,
Fīll'd wĭth Hōare's bēst snūff, ă rěvīvĭng mīxture,
Bēst ŏf āll snūffs: thāt wĭll rělīeve mě mōre than
                    Strāsbŭrgh ōr Hārdham's.

Ode VIII. in Book IV. of Dyer's Poetics, 1812, has a certain simple charm, but is chiefly interesting as exhibiting its author in nautical attire. I quote two stanzas:—

“The Sailor”

The author expresses grateful feelings to an honest landlady and her daughter, for kind attentions during his short stay with them near Hamilton, in Argyleshire; but pleads against their solicitations for his longer continuance. He wore the dress of a Sailor at this time, and writes under that character.

My dame, you view a sailor brave,
          Hastening far hence to plough the seas,
To quit for the rude boisterous wave,
          The babbling bourn, the whispering trees:
The mavis calls; the laverocks ring
          Their music thro' the heav'ns so clear:
Nature's full chorus seems to sing,
          Still, happy loiterer, linger here.
But, dame, you view a sailor brave,
And he must plough the ocean wave. …
Your Peggy's eye is dew-drop bright;
          Her smiling cheek is lily fair;
Her feet as hare's move soft and light,∗
          Her voice as blackbird's loud and clear:
Oh! she goes near to wound my heart,
          As oft she sings her “Highland Laddie”:
So quickly, dame, must I depart,
          And keep my heart still tight and steady:
For, dame, you view a sailor brave;
Quick he must plough the ocean wave.

Footnotes were a special weakness of Dyer's. Here is the last stanza, with its additaments, of a poem on “The Triumph of Poetry,” in his Poetics:—

Oh! might I view again, with ravish'd sight,
          As when with candid Anderson(1) I stray'd,
          And all the wonder-varying scene survey'd,
Sea, hills, and city fair, from Calton's(2) height;
          And hear (for Scotland's rhimes, ah! soon may fail(3)),
                    Some Ednam bard awake the trembling string;(4)
          Some tuneful youth(5) of charming Tiviotdale;
                    Some Kelso songstress(6) love's dear raptures sing.
Language may fail, but love shall never die,
Till beauty fails to charm, till love forgets to sigh.

.....

∗ It is scarcely necessary to observe here, than an allusion is made to the barefooted lasses of Scotland:

                    “Here view two barefoot beauties clean and clear.”

Allan Ramsay's “Gentle Shepherd.”

¹ Dr. Robert Anderson, Editor of the Works of the British Poets and author of a valuable Life of Dr. Smollet.

² Calton Hill, whence a view, at once romantic and sublime, is taken of the city of Edinburgh, of the Firth of Forth, and the hills of Fifeshire on the opposite coast.

³ Such, at least, is the opinion of some judicious persons in Scotland.

⁴ Ednam is near Kelso, in Berwickshire, near which the little river Eden flows, from which the village takes its name. Ednam is the native place of Thomson, the author of the Seasons.

⁵ Alludes to a pedestrian tour made in this pastoral and truly classical country, and in some part of the north of England, with a gentleman of great talents, now eminently distinguished at Calcutta, for his extraordinary skill in the Asiatic languages. See an Essay on the Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chinese Nations, in Vol. X. of the Asiatic Researches, by John Leyden, M.D.

⁶ The Scotch melodies, sung to the Scotch airs, and by the female voice, constitute, as must be supposed, one of the charms of this delightful country.

I wonder which of his poems Dyer read to the other patients at Dr. Graham's earth-bath establishment (as he did when he was being treated there), his audience, like himself, being half-buried in the garden, all around him. What a picture!

Best among Dyer's prose works were his Memoirs on the Life and Writings of Robert Robinson and his History of the University and Colleges of Cambridge. He wrote, moreover, countless articles, reviews and biographies for periodicals, pamphlets on religious questions, and “all that was original” in James Valpy's edition of the classics, in 141 volumes, 1809-1831. He also travelled from library to library collecting materials for a bibliographical work, which was never published. Dyer showed Hazlitt “with some triumph” two fingers of which he had lost the use in copying out manuscripts of Procrus and Plotinus in a fine Greek hand.

W. C. Hazlitt recorded that Miss Lamb and Mrs. Hazlitt once made a plan pleasantly to surprise Dyer by mending his arm-chair, which had a hundred holes in it. These they sewed up. Dyer's horror may be imagined when it is recorded that in every one of those gaping wounds he kept a book.

“He hangs,” said William Hazlitt, “like a film and cobweb upon letters, or like the dust on the outside of knowledge, which should not too rudely be brushed aside.” And Lamb summed up his labours in the following words in “Oxford in the Vacation” in 1820: “D. has been under-working for himself ever since;—drudging at low rates for unappreciating booksellers,—wasting his fine erudition in silent corrections of the classics, and in those unostentatious but solid services to learning, which commonly fall to the lot of laborious scholars, who have not the art to sell themselves to the best advantage. … If his muse of kindness halt a little behind the strong lines, in fashion in this excitement-craving age, his prose is the best of the sort in the world, and exhibits a faithful transcript of his own healthy natural mind, and cheerful innocent tone of conversation.”