GEORGE DYER is
an Archimedes, and an Archimagus, and a
Tycho Brahe, and a Copernicus; and thou art the darling of the
Nine, and midwife to their wandering babe also! We take tea with that learned
poet and critic on Tuesday night, at half-past five, in his neat library; the
repast will be light and Attic, with criticism. If thou couldst contrive to
wheel up thy dear carcase on the Monday, and after dining with us on tripe,
calves’ kidneys, or whatever else the Cornucopia of St. Clare may be
willing to pour out on the occasion, might we not adjourn together to the
Heathen’s—thou with thy Black Backs and I with some innocent volume of
the Bell Letters—Shenstone, or the like?
It would make him wash his old flannel gown (that has not been washed to my
knowledge since it has been his—Oh the long time!) with
tears of joy. Thou shouldst settle his scruples and unravel his cobwebs, and
sponge off the sad stuff that weighs upon his dear wounded pia mater; thou
shouldst restore light to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public;
Parnassus should shower her civic crowns upon thee for saving the wits of a
citizen! I thought I saw a lucid interval in George the
other night—he broke in upon my studies just at tea-time, and brought with him
Dr. Anderson, an old gentleman who
ties his breeches’ knees with packthread, and boasts that he has been
disappointed by ministers. The Doctor wanted to see me; for, I being a Poet, he
thought I might furnish him with a copy of verses to suit his “Agricultural Magazine.” The
Doctor, in the course of the conversation, mentioned a poem called “Epigoniad” by one
Wilkie, an epic poem, in which there
is not one tolerable good line all through, but every incident and speech
borrowed from Homer.
George had been sitting inattentive seemingly to what
was going on—hatching of negative quantities—when, suddenly, the name of his
old friend Homer stung his pericranicks, and, jumping up,
he begged to know where he could meet with Wilkie’s
work. “It
| 1800 | DR. ANDERSON | 187 |
