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A Memoir of the Reverend Sydney Smith
Chapter X
Thomas Moore to Sydney Smith, 22 August 1843

Author's Preface
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Editor’s Preface
Letters 1801
Letters 1802
Letters 1803
Letters 1804
Letters 1805
Letters 1806
Letters 1807
Letters 1808
Letters 1809
Letters 1810
Letters 1811
Letters 1812
Letters 1813
Letters 1814
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Letters 1818
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Letters 1820
Letters 1821
Letters 1822
Letters 1823
Letters 1824
Letters 1825
Letters 1826
Letters 1827
Letters 1828
Letters 1829
Letters 1830
Letters 1831
Letters 1832
Letters 1833
Letters 1834
Letters 1835
Letters 1836
Letters 1837
Letters 1838
Letters 1839
Letters 1840
Letters 1841
Letters 1842
Letters 1843
Letters 1844
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Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
Bowood, August, Tuesday 22nd, 1843.
“My dear Sydney,

“You said, in your acknowledgment of my late versicles, that you had never been be-rhymed before. This startled me into the recollection that I had myself once before made free with you in that way; but where the evidence was of my presumption, I could not remember. The verses however, written some three or four years ago, have just turned up, and here they are for you. I forgot, by the bye, to tell you that, a day or two after my return from Combe Florey

* Sir Henry Holland’s youngest daughter.

(I like to write that name), I was persuaded to get into a gig with
Lady Kerry, and let her drive me some miles. Next day I found out that, but a day or two before, it had run away with her!—no bad taste, certainly, in the horse;—but it shows what one gets by consorting with young countesses and frisky ecclesiastics.*

“Yours ever,
“Thomas Moore.
* * * * * * *
“And still let us laugh, preach the world as it may,
Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow;
Heroics are very fine things in their way,
But the laugh, at the long-run, will carry it hollow.
“Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied,
And whose worship not even among Christians declines;
In our senates thou’st languish’d, since Sheridan died,
But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.
“Rare Sydney! thrice honour’d the stall where he sits,
And be his every honour he deigneth to climb at!
Had England a hierarchy form’d all of wits,
Whom, but Sydney, would England proclaim as its primate?
“And long may he flourish, frank, merry, and brave,
A Horace to feast with, a Pascal† to read!
While he laughs, all is safe; but, when Sydney grows grave,
We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.”