the greater part of his life, he "lived in a garret, on crusts of bread." Death he considered as nothing but "going from one room to another." He died with his pencil in his hand, making a likeness of his wife, and chanting pleasant songs. Died, she said, "like an angel." And George Dyer--a pet acquaintance of Lamb's--what a character was he! A bundle of contradictions if ever there was one. Poor and always struggling, but never envious, and utterly without hatred of the rich. A poet whose poetry was to himself "as good as anybody's, and anybody's as good as his own." A bachelor, his life was solitary, but he never thought of his solitude, till it was suggested to him by an observing, sympathizing widow, who kindly and generously consented to share it with him--her fourth husband! He is characterized by one of his literary friends as "one of the best creatures morally that ever breathed." He was a ripe scholar, but to the end of his days (and he lived to be eighty-five) he was a bookseller's drudge. He made indexes, corrected the press, and occasionally gave lessons in Greek and Latin. Simple and kind, he repeatedly gave away his last guinea. He was the author of the Life and Writings of Robert Robinson, which was pronounced by Wordsworth and Samuel Parr one of the best biographies in the language. The charm of the book is that Robinson's peculiar humor was wholly unappreciated by the simple-minded biographer. Robinson was a fine humorist; Dyer had absolutely no sense of humor. It was when he was on his way from Lamb's to Mrs. Barbauld's, that, in his absent-mindedness, he walked straight into New River, and was with difficulty saved from drowning. (Young, one of Fielding's intimate friends, who sat for the portrait of Parson Adams, was another such character. He also "supported an uncomfortable existence by translating for the booksellers from the Greek," overflowed with benevolence and learning, and was noted for his absence of mind. He had been chaplain of a regiment during Marlborough's wars; and "meditating one evening upon the glories of nature, and the goodness of Providence, he walked straight into the camp of the enemy; nor was he aroused from his reverie till the hostile sentinel shouted, 'Who goes there?' The commanding officer, finding that he had come among them in simplicity and not in guile, allowed him to return, and lose himself, if he pleased, in meditations on his danger and deliverance.") It is said that certain roguish young ladies, Dyer's cousins, lacking due reverence for learning and poetry, were wont to heap all sorts of meats upon the worthy gentleman's plate at dinner, he being lost in conversation until near the close of the repast, when he would suddenly recollect himself and fall to till he had finished the whole. Talfourd, speaking of Lamb and Dyer, says, "No contrast could be more vivid than that presented by the relations of each to the literature they both loved,--one divining