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A Memoir of the Reverend Sydney Smith
Letters 1803
Sydney Smith to Francis Jeffrey, [December 1803]

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
Letters 1815
Letters 1816
Letters 1817
Letters 1818
Letters 1819
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
Creative Commons License

Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
London (no date, presumed 1803 or 1804).
My dear Jeffrey,

I believe I have transmitted to you, for this number, as much as will make two sheets, which was the amount I promised. I would have been better than my promise, but for reasons unfortunately too good. We shall be most truly glad to see you in England,
but what will become of the articles in your absence? for, situated as you are, your whole life is a crisis.

Mrs. Sydney is pretty well and slowly recovering from her shock,* of which your kindness and your experience enable you to ascertain the violence. Children are horribly insecure: the life of a parent is the life of a gambler.

I have seen Erskine. Murray will tell you how he appears to me; but a man coming from Dunse to London is of course stunned, and he must be a very impudent, or a very wonderful man if he is not. Do you know anybody who would go out Professor to a Russian University?—about £800 per annum, coals and candles gratis, and travelling expenses allowed, if sent to Siberia. A perfect deadness in the literary world. Your friend Mackintosh sails early in January, to the universal sorrow of his friends.

The Swintons are come to town, and are to bring me your portrait, as large as life I presume, as Mr. Swinton says in his note, I will put in my pocket a little parcel I have for you. You see I am as impertinent as ever, and I assure you, my dear Jeffrey, as affectionate towards you.

Sydney Smith.