LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Documents Biography Criticism

Samuel Rogers and his Contemporaries
Samuel Rogers to Sarah Rogers, 26 October 1808

Vol. I Contents
Chapter I. 1803-1805.
Chapter II. 1805-1809.
Chapter III. 1810-1812.
Chapter IV. 1813-1814.
Chapter V. 1814-1815.
Chapter VI. 1815-1816.
Chapter VII. 1816-1818.
Chapter VIII. 1818-19.
Chapter IX. 1820-1821.
Chapter X. 1822-24.
Chapter XI. 1825-1827.
Vol. II Contents
Chapter I. 1828-1830.
Chapter II. 1831-34.
Chapter III. 1834-1837.
Chapter IV. 1838-41.
Chapter V. 1842-44.
Chapter VI. 1845-46.
Chapter VII. 1847-50.
Chapter VIII. 1850
Chapter IX. 1851.
Chapter X. 1852-55.
Creative Commons License

Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
‘Brighton: 26 Oct. 1808.

‘When I received your kind letter, my dear Sarah, I felt a strong wish to answer it directly, but at that time Mrs. M. was writing, and I have since put it off from time to time—I am sure I don’t know why—for I never feel more pleasure than when I sit down to write to you. I did indeed fear you would be cruelly disappointed. [He then refers at some length to a picture about which this cruel disappointment had been experienced, and continues.] But the pen-drawing done in the Temple, slight as it is, is however something to remember by. It was done as you sat, and it tells you how you used to sit together, and there are some circumstances about it, my dear, dear Sarah, that would make me value it more than any picture. I rejoice to hear you are passing your time comfortably—pleasantly, I hope. Perhaps you have left Quarry Bank and are now at Cheadle. But I think it best to direct to Mrs. Greg’s, to whom pray remember me very affectionately. Henry, I thought, seemed to like his journey pretty well, though he made it very short, and caught cold at Brighton, as I have done.
I left town to go again to Leatherhead fair, which was very pretty, though the day was not so fine as last year. I dined afterwards at Norbury, and there met a Miss Barton, a cousin of
Mrs. Wm. Lock, who inquired very particularly after you. She had seen you, I believe, at Cheadle. Mrs. Lock’s booth cleared 50l. the first day. Mrs. Fox was there; she had come over from St. Anne’s. Miss Willoughby, she says, is very poorly. She says we must go to her fair next year—and, indeed, I wish now we had paid her a visit. The next night I dined and slept at Chart, Sir Charles Talbot’s, and the day afterwards came here, riding all the way (except one stage in a returned chaise). Alas! I met with a sad misfortune the other day. I was walking the poor old mare very near my lodgings, when down she came and cut her knees to the bone; but she kept her head erect, poor thing! so I felt little or no shock, and I am happy to think she has never thrown me in the fifteen years we have spent together. They say she will never do again, so I must look out for some place of rest for her, if she is not shot, like Golumpus and the other old worthies of the family. I have been here a fortnight to-morrow, and have a very small house in a street leading from the Marine Parade, which last is now very expensive, and which is very gay on a fine day.

‘Before our old house there now stands a group of asses and ponies for the idle and luxurious. My great resource is Lady Donegal and Miss Godfrey, with whom I pass most of my time, though I have twice dined with Lady Jersey, whose daughter is still lingering, very cheerful, but with no chance of recovery. Every evening she flatters herself that her feverish fit will not come on,
and then it comes. She does not leave her room. The weather has been sunshiny but very cold, but now it is very forlorn indeed, and nothing stirring but the winds and waves—a circumstance I am not sorry for, as I seldom stir out but to catch cold. I am now reading the Italian again, and am in the horrors of the Inquisition. I wish you were with me, but wishing does no good. I sometimes go to the music on the Parade, but, as you remember, it is a very cold place. Brighton at present is very full. The warmest place is the front of the Marine Library, and a never-failing scene of entertainment. The scarlet cloaks are innumerable. The
Grattans are at Worthing, where they went the week after they dined with us. Mr. G. is now with them. They come here as soon as lodgings are cheaper. S. Boddington has been there for six weeks with Grace, and has just taken a house here in the New Steyne. He is now in town, but she is here with her gourernante, and I have just been paying her a visit. She is really growing, I think, a fineish girl, but she has a bad cold just now, and is almost as deaf as her mother used to be. I have just received a letter from Wm. Maltby. He stands for Porson’s place at the Institution, “by the deliberate advice,” he says, “of those who are most likely to know the disposition of the electors.” He says he has daily communication with Henry on this subject. John Mallet was here last week, but is now gone.

Westall has been sketching boats and fishermen for a few days here; he went to-day. Lady Donegal goes on Friday, and I go on Monday to Glynde, a seat of Lord Hampden’s near Lewes, for three or, four days, and then return home. I once thought of Crewe and of
Cheadle, my dear
Sarah, but at present I feel chilly and frightened at the thoughts of such an expedition. When do you mean to come back to us? I hope the time won’t he long, but of the time exactly you are not unfortunately complete mistress. Pray remember me very particularly to all at Cheadle, about whom I feel just as warmly as I ever did, notwithstanding the letter which I thought it my duty to write when acting in my commercial character for others, as well as myself. The Prince is not here this season, but his stables are nearly finished, and are exactly like one of those Indian mausoleums in Daniel’s views. They are really very pretty, and are done by Porden, who is building Lord Grosvenor’s near you. Here is hunting, but I am now too old for even such a part as I used to take in it. We have had a most miserable supply of fish, but this place is now a town, shooting out in all directions but one, where the sea presents a small obstacle. The George Edisons are here. Farewell, my dear Sarah! Pray write to me in town, and believe me to be,

‘Ever yours,
Saml. Rogers.

Henry wants me to write to Parsons on his marriage: what am I to say?’