"London, Feb. 28, 1797.

20, Prospect Place, Newington b.u.t.ts.

... Here I am travelling on in the labyrinth of the law; and though I had rather make books myself than read the best lawyer's composition, I am getting on cheerfully, and steadily, and well.

While you are amusing yourself with mathematics, and I lounging over the law, the political and commercial world are all in alarm and confusion. I cannot call myself a calm witness of all this, for I sit by the fireside, hear little about it, think less, and see nothing; 'all hoping, and expecting all in patient faith.' Tranquillity of mind is a blessing too valuable to sacrifice for all the systems man has ever established. My day of political enthusiasm is over. I know what is right, and as I see that everything is wrong, care more about the changing of the wind, lest it should make the chimney smoke, than for all the empires of Europe...."

"London, 1797.

My dear friend,

... I physiognomise everything, even the very oysters may be accurately judged by their sh.e.l.ls. I discovered this at Lisbon, where they are all deformed, hump-backed, and good for nothing. Is it not possible by the appearance of a river to tell what fish are in it? In the slow sluggish stream you will find the heavy chub. In the livelier current, the trout and the pike. If a man loves prints you have an excellent clue to his character; take for instance, the inventory of mine at College:--Four views of the ruins at Rome; Charles Fox; Belisarius; Niobe; and four Landscapes of Poussin; and Claude Lorraine. These last are of constant source of pleasure. I become acquainted with the inhabitants in every house, and know every inch of ground in the prospect. They have formed for me many a pleasant day-dream. I can methodise these into a little poem. I am now settled; my books are organised; and this evening I set off on my race.

We have a story of a ghost here, who appears to the watchman,--the spirit of a poor girl, whose life was abandoned, and her death most horrible. I am in hopes it may prove _true!_ as I have a great love for apparitions.

They make part of the poetical creed. Fare you well.

Sincerely yours,

To Joseph Cottle.

Robert Southey."

"London, March 6, 1797.

... I am inclined to complain heavily of you, Cottle. Here am I committing grand larceny on my time, in writing to you; and you, who might sit at your fire, and write me huge letters, have not found time to fill even half a sheet. As you may suppose, I have enough of employment.

I work like a negro at law, and therefore neglect nothing else, for he who never wastes time has always time enough.

I have to see many of the London lions, or literati, George Dyer is to take me to Mary Hayes, Miss Christal, and Taylor, the Pagan, my near neighbour. You shall have my physiognomical remarks upon them. I hate this city more and more, although I see little of it. You do not know with what delight I antic.i.p.ate a summer in Wales, and I hope to spend the summer of the next year there, and to talk Welsh most gutturally. I shall see Meirion this week, whose real name is William Owen. He is the author of the new Welsh dictionary, a man of uncommon erudition, and who ought to esteem me for Madoc's sake. Fare you well. Remember me to all friends.

G.o.d bless you.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Southey."

"... Perhaps you will be surprised to hear, that of all the lions of literati that I have seen here, there is not one whose countenance has not some unpleasant trait. Mary Imlay is the best, infinitely the best.

The only fault in it, is an expression somewhat similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke display; an expression indicating superiority, not haughtiness, not conceit, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and though the lid of one of them is affected by a slight paralysis, they are the most meaning I ever saw.

Her complexion is dark, sun-burnt, and her skin a little cracked, for she is near forty, and affliction has borne harder on her than years; but her manners are the most pleasing I ever witnessed, they display warm feeling, and strong understanding; and the knowledge she has acquired of men and manners, ornaments, not disguises, her own character. I have given an unreserved opinion of Mrs. Barbauld to Charles Danvers.

While I was with George Dyer one morning last week, Mary Hayes and Miss Christal entered, and the ceremony of introduction followed. Mary Hayes writes in the New Monthly Magazine, under the signature of M. H., and sometimes writes nonsense there about Helvetius. She has lately published a novel, 'Emma Courtney,' a book much praised and much abused. I have not seen it myself, but the severe censure pa.s.sed on it by persons of narrow mind, have made me curious, and convinced me that it is at least an uncommon book. Mary Hayes is an agreeable woman and a G.o.dwinite. Now if you will read G.o.dwin's book with attention, we will determine between us, in what light to consider that sectarian t.i.tle. As for G.o.dwin himself, he has large n.o.ble eyes, and a nose,--oh, most abominable nose! Language is not vituperative enough to express the effect of its downward elongation.

He loves London, literary society, and talks nonsense about the collision of mind, and Mary Hayes echoes him.

But Miss Christal, have you seen her Poems? A fine, artless, sensible girl. Now, Cottle, that word sensible must not be construed here in its dictionary acceptation. Ask a Frenchman what it means, and he will understand it, though, perhaps, he can by no circ.u.mlocution explain its French meaning. Her heart is alive. She loves poetry. She loves retirement. She loves the country. Her verses are very incorrect, and the literary circle say, she has no genius, but she has genius, Joseph Cottle, or there is no truth in physiognomy. Gilbert Wakefield came in while I was disputing with Mary Hayes upon the moral effects of towns. He has a most critic-like voice, as if he had snarled himself hoa.r.s.e. You see I like the women better than the men. Indeed they are better animals in general, perhaps because more is left to nature in their education.

Nature is very good, but G.o.d knows there is very little of it left.

I wish you were within a morning's walk, but I am always persecuted by time and s.p.a.ce. Robert Southey, and law, and poetry, make up an odd kind of tri-union. We jog on easily together, and I advance with sufficient rapidity in Blackstone, and 'Madoc.' I hope to finish my poem, and to begin my practice in about two years.

G.o.d bless you.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

"... I am running a race with the printers again: translating a work from the French: 'Necker on the French Revolution,' vol. II. Dr. Aikin and his son translate the 1st volume. My time is wholly engrossed by the race, for I run at the rate of sixteen pages a day; as hard going as sixteen miles for a hack horse. About sixteen days more will complete it.

There is no necessity for my residing in London till the close of the autumn. Therefore after keeping the next term, which may be kept the first week in May, I intend to go into the country for five months; probably near the sea, at the distance of one day's journey from London, for the convenience of coming up to keep the Trinity Term. This will not increase my expenses, though it will give me all the pleasure of existence which London annihilates. G.o.d bless you,

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

"My dear Cottle,

... George Dyer gave me what he calls his 'Crotchet,' and what I call an indifferent poem. Said he to me, 'I could not bring in Wordsworth, and Lloyd, and Lamb, but I put them in a note.' That man is all benevolence.

If, which is probable, we go to Hampshire, I shall expect to see you there. It is an easy day's ride from Bristol to Southampton; but I shall lay before you a correct map of the road when all is settled.

I have seen your Dr. Baynton's book. It is vilely written; but the theory, seems good, (that of bandaging wounded legs) My friend Carlisle means to try it at the Westminster Hospital. I was somewhat amused at seeing a treatise on sore legs, printed on wove paper, and hot pressed.

I met Townsend, the Spanish traveller, a few days since at Carlisle's. He flattered me most unpleasantly on 'Joan of Arc.' Townsend is much taller than I am, and almost as thin. He invited me to Pewsey, and I shall breakfast with him soon. He is engaged in a work of immense labour; the origin of languages. I do not like him; he is too polite to be sincere.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

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 circ.u.mstance concerning George Dyer, which Charles Lamb had told him, the last time he pa.s.sed 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, antic.i.p.ating 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 carca.s.s snug in bed, and, after stuffing him for a week, sent him home as plump as a partridge."