Neither his conversation nor writings
afforded evidence that he had done so. It is not easy, therefore, to
determine what the special attractions were that drew him out of London,
which he loved, into the adjoining country, where his walks oftenest lay.
At the time of Lamb's deliverance from office labor, he was living in
Colebrook Row. It was there that George Dyer, whose blindness and absence
of mind rendered it almost dangerous for him to wander unaccompanied about
the suburbs of London, came to visit him on one occasion. By accident,
instead of entering the house door, Dyer's aqueous instincts led him
towards the water, and in a moment he had plunged overhead in the New
River. I happened to go to Lamb's house, about an hour after his rescue
and restoration to dry land, and met Miss Lamb in the passage, in a state
of great alarm: she was whimpering, and could only utter, "Poor Mr. Dyer!
Poor Mr. Dyer!" in tremulous tones. I went up stairs, aghast, and found
that the involuntary diver had been placed in bed, and that Miss Lamb had
administered brandy and water, as a well-established preventive against
cold. Dyer, unaccustomed to anything stronger than the "crystal spring,"
was sitting upright in the bed, perfectly delirious.
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