LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Documents Biography Criticism

Samuel Rogers and his Contemporaries
Chapter VII. 1847-50.

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.
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Dr. Mackay’s ‘Breakfasts with Samuel Rogers’—Moore’s last Visit to London—Death of Dora Quillinan—Death of the Archbishop of York—The Flaxman Gallery—Letter from Crabb Robinson—The Grand Duke of Weimar at Rogers’s—Letters from Daniel Webster, Edward Everett, Mr. Ruskin, Bernard Barton, and Wordsworth—Correspondence with Peel, Hayward, John Forster, and Tennyson—Letter from Lord Brougham—An Old Man’s Talk at Broadstairs—Crabb Robinson on the Flaxman Gallery—Charles Dickens on Brighton—Lord Carlisle on Rogers—Introduction for M. Drouyn de l’Huys—Letters from Wm. H. Prescott, Edward Everett, George Ticknor, and Lord Glenelg—Death of Lord Jeffrey—Wordsworth’s Death—Letters from Charles Dickens, Lord Brougham, and George Bancroft.

In Dr. Mackay’s interesting memorials of a literary life, which he published in 1887, under the title of ‘Through the Long Day,’ he devotes a hundred and forty pages to ‘Breakfasts with Samuel Rogers.’ Like all other writers about Rogers, he makes mistakes about the facts of his life; for example, in the statement that he never proposed marriage to a lady till he was in his eighty-fifth year. My readers at least know of a lady to whom he proposed marriage in his youth, while the story of the later proposal is as ridiculous as Lady Morgan’s statement, made after his death, that he had proposed for Cecilia Thrale before she was fifteen. Dr. Mackay, however, describes graphically enough what came under
his own notice. The letter I have published in a previous chapter shows that he had been in communication with Rogers in 1834 or 1835, and in 1840 dedicated a volume to him. He describes him as in his seventy-eighth year when he first breakfasted with him, which would bring it to the second half of 1840. Rogers was then, as indeed he remained for another ten years, ‘in the full possession of all his mental faculties, with a remarkably tenacious and well-stored memory.’ The hour of breakfast was always ten, and the guests rarely rose from the table till one. Dr. Mackay tells us that he went with an image in his mind formed in accordance with the spiteful epigrams
Lord Byron and others had written on Rogers, but ‘was agreeably disappointed with the reality of his personal presence and the kindly suavity of his manners. He was certainly not handsome, and never could have been so; but just as certainly he was not ugly, in the disagreeable sense of the word, while his conversation differed in the pleasantest manner from that of many among his contemporaries from not assuming the wearisome shape of a monologue. He not only talked, but allowed others to talk.’ This agrees with what I have said elsewhere of the charm of Rogers’s breakfasts and dinners, that there was always general conversation, that the parties were never so large as to break up into groups, that there was no noise of confused chatter on the one hand, no weary monologue on the other, but a conversation in which all were interested, all might take part, and in which the host was treated with the deference and attention his age and position demanded.


On Dr. Mackay’s first visit, Campbell the poet and Gaspey the novelist were present, and the talk turned on Pope. Gaspey criticised Pope severely; Rogers defended him, and said his main fault was that he wrote too much. He said the same of Byron, on whom the talk turned. Dr. Mackay said of Byron ‘he was full of fire.’ ‘Yes,’ said Rogers, ‘he had fire, no doubt, but it was hellfire.’ Of Don Juan he said that Moore declared the account of the shipwreck to be taken from a small book, ‘The shipwreck of the “Juno.”’ ‘That,’ replied Dr. Mackay, ‘was written by William Mackay, my grand-uncle.’ He lent Rogers the book, and in returning it Rogers said he now fully agreed with Moore’s opinion. At another breakfast he met Lord Glenelg, Lord Robertson, Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Carruthers, and Mr. W. J. Fox. Lord Glenelg was newly ennobled, and Carruthers constantly addressed him as ‘My Lord’ and ‘your Lordship.’ ‘Don’t keep my-Lording him,’ said Rogers quietly across the table. ‘He’s much better than a Lord. He’s a very good fellow.’ At another breakfast Dr. Mackay met Sydney Smith, Daniel O’Connell, Sir Augustus D’Este, and W. Harrison Ainsworth. In the later summer of 1847, the guests were Mr. Disraeli and Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer. The conversation was chiefly political, for all saw that Louis Philippe was fast driving to the Revolution. Immediately before the Revolution broke out, Dr. Mackay was again at St. James’s Place, and the breakfast party included Louis Napoleon, Archbishop Whately, and Lord W. Pitt Lennox. Dr. Mackay was just back from Paris. Rogers asked, ‘Will the agitation subside?’ Not unless the King yields,’ replied Dr. Mackay. ‘He
won’t yield, I think,’ said Louis Napoleon, ‘he does not understand the seriousness of the case.’ Of the full talk at these and other breakfasts, there is an interesting account in Dr. Mackay’s book.

One of Moore’s latest letters to Rogers is published in Lord John Russell’s Life of Moore.

Thomas Moore to Samuel Rogers.
‘Sloperton: 23rd June, 1847.

‘My dear Rogers,—When, when are we again to meet? I was in hopes that those Irish friends of mine who, as you may remember, gave me lodging under their roof these last two summers in Albemarle Street would again have been at their post this summer and again made me their guest. But the state of Ireland compels them to stand to their post; and this is to me a sad disappointment, for I had set my heart, my dear old friend, on having a few more breakfasts with you (to say nothing of dinners) before “time and the hour has quite run out our day.”

‘Yours, my dear friend, most truly,
Thomas Moore.

‘I am sinking here into a mere vegetable.’

Samuel Rogers to Thomas Moore.
‘24th June, 1847.

‘My dear Moore,—There is a small house in a dark and narrow corner of London (Memory Hall, as it was once called by a reckless wight who has played many a freak there and now sleeps in Harrow Churchyard) where
you will be most welcome. So pray come and make it your home and stay there as long as you can.

‘To-morrow I leave it for three or four days, but I shall be there again on Tuesday the 29th of June, and pray come as soon as you can. Whether I am returned or not, you will be cordially and hospitably entertained. If somebody else comes with you, I shall be delighted. Pray persuade her.

‘Yours ever,
S. Rogers.’

Moore was already beginning to fail. Though he had but just entered on his sixty-ninth year, and Rogers was just finishing his eighty-fourth, the elder poet was the stronger of the two. Moore had a week of great enjoyment and then returned to that happy cottage where the loving care of the best and most devoted of wives more than compensated for the brilliancy of his friend’s bachelor home. He wrote back—it is the last letter.

Thomas Moore to Samuel Rogers.
‘10th July, 1847.

‘My dear Rogers,—I am but just settling down into rural quiet after the week of gay doings with which you so kindly greeted me. Long, long, my dear friend, may you be able to keep up this spirit, not only in your own buoyant heart, but (as I found while with you) in the hearts of all those whom you draw within your chosen circle.

‘In this instance, too, I have brought home with me a double stock of pleasure, as your friend Bessy has heard
the whole proceedings from me, and in my narrative enjoyed a great part of my pleasure.

Thomas Moore.’

On the ninth of July, Dora Quillinan, Wordsworth’s only daughter, had died. Wordsworth and his wife had been in London in the spring, and had been hurried back by the news of her serious condition. They were with her two months watching her as she faded away, and this is the ‘long long trial’ of which Rogers speaks in a letter a few pages further on. On the 5th of November another friend was called away in the person of the Archbishop of York. Lord Radstock writes from the Palace at Bishopsthorpe—‘My dear friend,—We both had such regard for our dear archbishop that you should be made acquainted as soon as any of his friends with the loss we have sustained. His end, as his life, was perfect calm and peace without a sigh or struggle. . . What a blessing to have had the last glimpses of our dear friend! May our end be like his. God bless you.’

Rogers was at this time actively concerned in promoting the establishment of the Flaxman Gallery at University College. Miss Denman, Flaxman’s sister-in-law, had just offered to present his sculptures to the College, and all its friends and supporters felt that the offer should be accepted. Hence this letter.

Henry Crabb Robinson to Samuel Rogers.
‘10 Western Cottages, Brighton: 25th October, 1847.

‘My dear Sir,—You already know from Miss Denman that through the excellent management of Edwin Field
Flaxman remains have been rescued at a very small sacrifice. They are once more at her disposition. You know also what her anxious desire is—and I now think that that desire will be gratified, for she tells me that you take an interest in the matter and have expressed a wish to see me as soon as I return to London. I believe that that will be, at the latest, this day week. I will lose no time in seeing you, and I hope that it will suit your convenience to accompany me to the University College, where these things are warehoused now, but where I trust, with your aid, or rather through your instrumentality, they will one day constitute a Flaxman gallery.

‘When Miss Denman offered these remains to the Government, a sum was offered which, if money had been her object, would have been acceptable; but as the Government had no room to place them in (it was declared by the officers at the British Museum that they could not afford to take in anything but marble), they would certainly have been lost to the world, perhaps in a short time destroyed. Now, what the Government could not give, the University College can give, but unfortunately nothing else—house-room. The finances of the College are in such a sad state that, with all my solicitude, I could not, as a member of the council, vote for the diversion of any portion of our scanty means from their proper object, even for the flooring of the apartment under the dome, where they might be placed; the funds must be supplied elsewhere both for fitting up the apartment and repairing the models and casts.

‘When the negotiation took place with the Government, it was stated by the Council of the Royal Academy,
to whom the matter was referred, that it would cost 500l. to put the things in order, that is, repair, cleanse and paint;
Miss Denman says it may be done for 200l.; Mr. Atkinson says the dome may be put in a condition to receive them for 150l. But it will be safer to estimate the requisite sum at 500l. to 600l.

‘I cannot think that there will be any difficulty in raising the money. Edwin Field says the same, but we differ in our opinion as to the means of raising it. He would obtain subscriptions of 5l. or 10l. from the lawyers and artists. And he would give to each subscriber a cast from some favourite work. I would rather go to a few of the known patrons of art, such as Sir Robert Peel, Lord Northampton, &c., and I should expect that in sums of 100l. or 50l. the money might be easily procured. Many months ago, when I called on Watson the sculptor and hinted at this thought of forming a Flaxman gallery—but said nothing about sums—he said, if anything of the kind be done, let my name be put down for 50l. You will have the goodness to turn this over in your mind—and indeed, the whole business of the proposed gallery.

‘I called yesterday on Miss Rogers, and was struck by a great change in her appearance and in her talk also. She was wonderfully improved. My friends the Masqueriers desire their best remembrances to you.

‘Very truly yours,
H. C. Robinson.’

Some letters of this year are interesting for various reasons.

Lord Rowe to Samuel Rogers.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—The Hereditary Grand Duke of Weimar is anxious to pay you a visit. Will you allow me to ask whether it will be perfectly convenient to you to receive His Royal Highness at three o’clock this afternoon?

‘Ever most truly yours,
‘Marlboro’ House: Thursday.’

After his visit, the Grand Duke wrote a very flattering letter to Rogers, enclosing a specimen of Goethe’s handwriting. He said, ‘I on my part shall always esteem it a peculiar honour if I have the good fortune to live in the remembrance of the amiable and elegant poet who is justly and emphatically styled “The Poet of Memory.”’ Goethe’s lines sent as an autograph by the Grand Duke are—
Erlauchte Bettler hab’ ich gekannt,
Künstler und Philosophen genannt,
Doch kannt’ ich Niemand, ungeprahlt,
Der seine Zeche besser bezahlt.

Daniel Webster to Samuel Rogers.
‘Marshfield, Massachusetts: 14th June, 1847.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I have had the high pleasure of hearing from you, lately, through my friend Mr. Winthrop; and I now tender you a thousand congratulations on the continuance of your health, and a thousand good wishes for its further continuance. You are, my
dear sir, an essential element in my idea of London Society. I never think of it without finding you a prominent figure in the picture formed by memory; and
Mrs. Webster, and my daughter, and Mrs. Paige, all remember you with equal respect and equal gratitude for your kindness to us.

‘I give this letter to Mrs. Schuyler, a widow lady of intelligence and agreeable manners and conversation, and of highly respectable connexions with us. She goes abroad, with her and my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Miller of New York, and will probably visit the Continent as well as England. If the party find you in London, they will be anxious to see you, and I hope they may have an opportunity of paying you their respects. I may not depreciate Mrs. Schuyler’s veneration for female sovereignty, but I may venture to say, that next to the Queen there is no one in England she would be more delighted to see than Mr. Rogers.

‘Yours, with true and cordial attachment,
Daniel Webster.

‘We desire our very best regards to Miss Rogers.’

Edward Everett to Samuel Rogers.
‘Cambridge: 30th June, 1847.

‘My dear and kind Friend,—When you know the gentleman who offers you this note, you will excuse me for again taking the liberty of addressing to you a letter of recommendation. Mr. Hillard is one of our best scholars, best writers, and best men. A lawyer by profession, there is as sweet an Ovid lost in him as in
Murray. He has lately been lecturing before the Lowell Institute, to admiring audiences of 2,000, on the life and times of
Milton. Does not this give him a right to see the assignment of “Paradise Lost”? But what I most wish is that he should see you, and communicate to you, vivâ voce, the assurance of our unaltered and most affectionate regard. Mr. Hillard is the professional associate of Mr. Charles Sumner, and well known to all your American friends, at least in New England. Harding has got home, but I hear nothing from him.

‘Adieu, dear Mr. Rogers. Let me at least once a year see a few lines of that beautiful writing of yours, though I do not need it to keep you constantly in the most cherished recollection.

‘Semper et totus tuus,
Edward Everett.

‘May I ask you to make our kindest remembrances to Miss Rogers?’

Edward Everett to Samuel Rogers.
‘Cambridge: 15th Dec., 1847.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I cannot allow the year to close, as it will before you get this, without sending you a world of kind remembrance and love, and wishing for you the continued enjoyment of your serene and happy age. I felt for you, on receiving the news of the dear and honoured Archbishop’s decease, as I did also last year when Mr. Grenville was taken from you. I knew how much you would feel their loss. But you did not, I know, repine; you had enjoyed their society so long
that you could not murmur at being called to resign it; and after all, to one who looks forward with anything like a strong practical Faith to the clearing up of the Great Mystery of our being, months and years are but seconds on the dial plate, on the morning of some eventful day.

‘I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your kindness in allowing Mr. Harding to paint your portrait, which, to my vexation and surprise, I have not yet seen. Mr. Harding was allowed by me to take a copy, and having been much from home since his return last summer, and having with the dilatoriness of artists delayed his work, he has at length gone off to Washington and taken you along with him, to be the ornament of his studio there. I cannot lament that your likeness should be seen in Washington, as it will, by many of the most distinguished persons in this country, who pass the winter there: but it is with no small annoyance that I forego the pleasure of gazing upon your friendly countenance in the meantime. But spring will come and bring me the pleasing sight.

‘Would that it would do so in reality; but that train I must not pursue.

‘Adieu, my dear Mr. Rogers, and believe me ever affectionately yours,

Edward Everett.

‘My wife and daughter send their kindest remembrance and a cordial happy new year.’

Another letter is in the style which only one Englishman writes.

Mr. Ruskin to Samuel Rogers.
‘Denmark Hill: 17th Dec., 1847.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I only returned to town on Monday, and to wait on you to-morrow will be the first, as it is always the happiest, of my duties. I have been where
‘The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty;
not even then without regretful thoughts of the better freedom of “St. James’s Grove at blush of day.”—Ever my dear Sir, believe me faithfully and respectfully yours,

J. Ruskin.’

A characteristic letter from the Quaker poet recalls the memory of a man who at one time enjoyed considerable popularity, and who is not now by any means forgotten.

Bernard Barton to Samuel Rogers.
‘My hand hath lost its cunning,
My eyes are growing dim,
So my Muse’s fount stops running,
With this tiny Birthday hymn.
‘Woodbridge: 3rd Feb., 1848.

‘My dear Friend,—Thy praise nearly forty years ago reconciled me to my first poetical efforts. Do I hope too much in desiring to obtain it for what may prove my last? I expect I shall provoke a smile from thee in
talking of old age at sixty-four; but forty years of clerkship and hardship joined together have well-nigh used me up and worn me out.

‘Believe me ever respectfully thine,

B. Barton.’

Perhaps the following extract from a letter of Mrs. Kemble’s may account for the origin of the rumour that he had made an offer of marriage in his eighty-fifth year—

‘9th Feb., 1848.

‘Dear old Rogers came yesterday, and sat with me some time; and talking over my various difficulties with me, said I had much better go and live with him, and take care of his house for him. It’s a pretty house, but I’m afraid it would be no sinecure to be his housekeeper.’

Wordsworth writes from amidst the domestic troubles to which reference has been already made.

William Wordsworth to Samuel Rogers.

‘My dear Friend,—I have just received the enclosed, which I hope you will be so kind as to peruse. It is from Mr. Carrick, a miniature painter, who took my portrait when I met him not long ago at his native place, Carlisle. If you could comply with his wish I should be gratified, and should deem it an honour to be associated with you in this way. You preserve your health, I hope, in this severe March weather. You and your dear sister have both the good wishes of those that remain of this afflicted family.


‘Believe me, my friend of nearly half a century, very affectionately and faithfully yours,

William Wordsworth.
‘Rydal Mount: 16th March, 1848.

‘P.S. On second thoughts it is not worth while troubling you to read Mr. Carrick’s letter, which was simply that I might strengthen his application that you would be so kind as to give him a little of your time.’

Samuel Rogers to William Wordsworth.

‘My dear Friend,—You must be very sure that I could not hesitate for a moment to consent to such a fellowship as you propose, or to any testimonial of a friendship so long and so uninterrupted as ours. What delightful days have we passed together, walking and sitting wherever we were, and more especially among the rocks and waters of your enchanting country. Oh that they were to come over again!

‘You may well conceive how much you were in my mind during your long, long trial. Pray remember me to those who remain with you, her dear dear mother and aunt, and pray believe me to be your grateful and affectionate friend,

Samuel Rogers.

‘My sister desires me to say everything for her to you and to them. She is still, alas, on her couch, but all day long in the air, and in other respects the same as ever,’1

1 She had had an attack of paralysis.


He had received four years before a similar letter from Sir Robert Peel.

Sir Robert Peel to Samuel Rogers.
‘Whitehall: 2nd July, 1844.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I am building at Drayton Manor a gallery for the reception of that collection of portraits which I have formed of the eminent men of my own time. My collection is not confined to men distinguished in political life. It includes the portraits of Byron, Southey, Wordsworth, Chantrey, Cuvier, Walter Scott, &c.

‘Will you have the great kindness to let me fill up the void which I feel there is in this series of illustrious men, by giving to some artist who may be worthy of it a commission for your portrait?

‘I will employ for this purpose (it you are enabled to accede to this request) whomever you may prefer, and shall feel greatly obliged by your compliance with this wish on my part, which is prompted by very sincere feelings of respect and personal esteem.

‘Believe me, my dear Mr. Rogers, most faithfully yours,

Robert Peel.”

Sir Robert Peel informs me that the portrait was painted by Lucas, and now hangs in the gallery at Drayton Manor. Some other letters from Peel, chiefly written during his administration from 1841 to 1846, are not of much interest except as showing Rogers’s relation to the statesmen and the politics of his day. In
one of them, Peel says the
Queen has approved a grant of 200l. a year to Mr. Tytler, the historian. Mr. Hayward writes once or twice to send him pamphlets, of one of which he says that if the Bishop of London comes to dine with him, he must ‘place it where Sydney Smith placed Archdeacon Wrangham’s.’ On Easter Monday, 1848, John Forster sends his book about Goldsmith, with the assurance, ‘should you ever be able to look into it and chance to find a passage that you can read with pleasure, I shall be very happy and proud indeed.’ Lord Lovaine sends him a letter from Mr. Tupper, who had seen Rogers and Lockhart in his pew at Albury Church, and who is thereupon moved to write a sonnet of which the first line is—
Nothing of thee shall perish, rare old Man.

Mrs. Jameson writes on various occasions to say that she is coming to study some objects of art in his rooms. One time it is to see the two volumes of Ghiberti’s gates and Lasinio’s engravings after Ghirlandajo; another to take a sketch of ‘a glory of cherubim and seraphim in a little French miniature you possess, it hangs up in your back drawing-room,’ and so forth. There is some correspondence in 1848 with Croker about difficulties in Pope, part of which is published in Croker’s Correspondence (vol. iii., pages 186 and 187). Croker writes in 1849 to ask him whereabouts in St. James’s Street the St. James’s Coffee House stood, where was the Cocoa Tree (afterwards a club), and where Almack’s Club. Speaking of Moore, who was then very ill, Croker says, ‘Poor fellow, he and I began our acquaintance in College fifty-three years ago; he was in the class above me.’ Lord
Aberdeen had been asked to dinner when he had for a month been five hundred miles away. ‘Is it not a strange specimen of the world in which we live,’ he asks, ‘that one of the persons whom I most highly value and regard’ should thus invite him? Empson, editor of ‘The Edinburgh Review,’ whom he had reconciled to a friend, writes (without date), ‘My dear Friend,—Blessed are the peacemakers,—and I trust you will sleep well tonight with this blessing on your pillow—better than hops.’ Crabb Robinson writes to ask for his name to the Flaxman Gallery subscription, and to say how he enjoyed a breakfast party, ‘You lived quite in the past age all the time.’ Hallam, in an affectionate letter, gives him all the details of his daughter’s engagement. So is the old man’s age compassed about with troops of friends. Brougham writes—

Lord Brougham to Samuel Rogers,
‘Brougham:’ Monday [1850].

‘My dear R.,—Since I received yours I have no news, except that Lady Malet came down, having called, but not being let in. Lady Jersey is over in Germany on a king-hunting excursion; she goes to Hanover, Berlin, and Weimar. Madame Bury’s book, “Germania,” is very clever, but she also is a king-hunter and an ultra legitimist. Her hatred of the new and ridiculous republic has driven her (as is the way of women) into the opposite extreme.

‘“Young Italy,” by Baillie Cochrane, is clever and really not ill written. He came with his nice wife (D. of Rutland’s granddaughter) to see me at Cannes. So he
must needs call me Lælius 1 in his book. I knew I was wise, but not exactly that my wisdom was so meek as
Horace describes—
‘Mitis sapientia Læli.
Lady Williams passed here the other day, but had a sketching niece, who took her soon away to Keswick, where they have seen only rain to draw. Here we have had vile and cold weather. Consider well your movements, of which I before wrote.

‘Yours ever truly,
H. Brougham.’

There are two letters from W. H. Prescott, full of respect and regard, and another from Edward Everett telling him ‘we all take a great deal of comfort in your portrait,’ and adding ‘it hangs by the fireside in our family room, with Lord Aberdeen on the other side, as a pendant. Although you and he in former times were not brother Whigs, I am sure you render full justice to his conciliatory policy as Foreign Minister, and will not object to being made with him one of the joint tutelary geniuses of my domestic altar.’

In the summer he was again at Broadstairs, and his nephew, Henry Sharpe, who was also there with his family, puts on record a little more of the old man’s, family talk.

1 ‘Lælius is attached to the spot (his house at Cannes) not merely on account of its charms of Nature and climate, but because it is endeared to him by many associations and the memory of the loved and lost. Moreover, the whole of the more modern portion of Cannes claims his paternity.’—Young Italy, ch. i.


William [Sharpe] wrote to me from Swanage asking me to come to him there, but why should he want me to leave this place that I have known these forty years, to go to one that I know nothing about? He said he was proud of having been shaken by the hand by every great man in England in his time, only Pitt he had not known, “but Pitt was not a great man.” Fox sent for him when he was dying. Many reconciliations had taken place in his house, Jeffrey and Moore, Moore and Byron, Parr and Mackintosh, and others. When Jeffrey’s review of Moore’s poems appeared, Moore said he must fight him. He came to St. James’s Place and said, “I have challenged Jeffrey, can you lend me pistols?” He would not, and sent him to William Spencer. Spencer mentioned it to several people, and when they met on the ground the next morning they were stopped by the Bow Street officers and arrested. “I went early to Spencer to learn what had happened and found that he had just got a note from Moore from Bow Street, asking him to come and bail him. ‘But,’ said Spencer, ‘I never go out till four.’ It was then nine, so I went to Bow Street and bailed him, and Horner gave bail for Jeffrey. The quarrel was then referred to me and Horner, and we called in General FitzGerald as umpire. After hearing the circumstances he said: ‘Mr. Jeffrey is not called upon to go out again.’ If I had reported it in the same words to Moore, he would have challenged him again, but I kept my own counsel and they were reconciled.”

‘He said the poems which were most popular were those which contained no allusions to subjects that
required much learning in the reader, and particularly if in addition they had a religious tendency. This it was which made
Cowper so much read.

‘He repeated some lines which he had written when about eighteen, on meeting his sisters and some schoolfellows (one was Miss Denison, afterwards the Marchioness Conyngham) in Queen Elizabeth’s Walk, Stoke Newington.1 He also repeated a couplet out of a Prologue which he had written for a play that was acted at Ramsgate, when he chanced to be there a great many

1 He was nearly twenty-two when the lines were written. They are published in the autobiography of his nephew, Samuel Sharpe, contained in his Life, pp. 21, 22.

To a Party of Young Ladies who were sitting on a Bench in Queen Elizabeth’s Walk at Eight o’clock last Thursday Night.
‘Evening had flushed the clear blue sky,
The birds had sung themselves to sleep,
When I presumed, I don’t know why,
In old Queen Bess’s walk to peep.
‘And there was she: her belles and beaux
In ruffs and high-crowned hats were there!
But soon, as you may well suppose,
The vision melted into air.
‘When, hark! Soft voices through the shade
Announced a little fairy train,
And once, methought, sweet music played;
I wished to see, but wished in vain.
‘For something whispered in my ear,
“Away, away! At this still hour
Queen Mab with all her court is here,
And he who looks will feel her power.”
‘I shut my eyelids at the sound,
And found, what every youth will find,
That he who treads on sacred ground
Is sure to leave his wits behind.
‘Saturday, 14th May, 1785.’
years ago. He said that now that he was old and felt he was so soon to leave the world, he looked at everything so very differently and saw so much more in things than he used to do. People have not time to think when they are, as it is called, fighting the battle of life. Looking at the North Foreland lighthouse in one of our walks, he said, “Ah, that used formerly to remind me of going to Paris and the opera and the Louvre, but there is nobody there now. Within these few months I have lost
Mr. Locke of Norbury, who was always to be seen at the Louvre, and who knew the Raphaels and the Titians better than any of them. And Mr. Grenville. And Lord Ashburton.” (I did not like to ask him whether he never intended to go to Paris again, he is eighty-five). He thought every man ought to have a pursuit, such as the writing a book, which gave an interest to life such as was not known without it. People thought they could not write because they were not Newtons or Bacons, but every man could be what he liked.

‘Having a wonderful memory himself, he said people only did not remember the beautiful parts of the things they read because they did not attend to them. He treasured up in his mind the most exquisite lines that he met with, and repeated them to himself as he lay awake at night, or as he walked on Hampstead Heath, and he was the better for them all his life. And then he repeated passages—the nurse recognising Ulysses, from Cowper’s Homer; “Me, me, adsum qui feci,” &c., from Virgil; touching epitaphs that he had read in churchyards, &c.


‘He mentioned with acrimony a review by Moore of his “Jacqueline,” appealing to us for our opinion of the passages that had been sneered at—
‘Oh, rather, rather hope to bind
The ocean wave, the mountain wind,
Or fix thy foot upon the ground
To stop the planet rolling round—
which he considered rather a fine thought, and named the person from whom he had got it. “Then what was Jacqueline to do?” which was thought trifling.

‘He said my aunt complained of Maltby’s being dull, that he always talked of Dr. Johnson. “I like to hear about Dr. Johnson, and so do you; I wish we had him here. Is it better to hear how Lady Trumpery is gone to town, or that Mrs. Fiddle Faddle had a party last week?”

‘The lines in his poems “To the Youngest Daughter of Lady Jersey,” he said, were addressed to Lady Harriet Villiers, now the wife of Dr. Bathurst, Bishop of Bath and Wells, “and she is as proud as Lucifer of them.” I said I had not known that. “No, because you did not care; nobody cares. I have not put the name of every right honourable to whom I have addressed any lines.” He very much blamed Dr. Bathurst for laying out so much of his money in restoring Wells Cathedral, so that he is now a poor man, while nobody thanks him for it.

‘He praised the Duchess of York very much; he used to be a great deal with her at Oatlands. Once at a dinner party there, as the ladies retired from table, the Duchess said something in passing to “Monk” Lewis,
which almost brought tears into his eyes. When she was gone, Lewis exclaimed, “She is so kind, so good!” To which Colonel Townsend replied, “Oh, never mind, man; she meant nothing by it.”

‘When Lord Byron was at Florence he gave Moore the manuscript of his memoirs, telling him to keep it and publish it after his death for the benefit of his (Moore’s) son. Moore sold the manuscript to Murray—having first shown it about to all the world. When Byron died, the executors having heard of the memoirs, came to Moore to induce him to destroy them. He appointed them to meet him at Murray’s, taking Mr. Luttrell with him as a friend and adviser. He was there persuaded to throw the manuscript into the fire. “He did not consult me,” said Mr. Rogers, “because he knew I should not have let him destroy them. He had no right to do it; and he had great difficulty in raising the money to repay Murray.”

‘When Sir James Mackintosh died and his son undertook to write his life, he applied to many friends of his father for any letters they might have. Among others to Sydney Smith, who replied that he had none, that from principle he destroyed all letters except business letters. Mr. Rogers blamed him very much. “He ought, then, never to read any letters that were published. I wrote him one once which I was sure he would not destroy, and his wife told me he did not.”

‘He said he kept a great many letters and some of them he often read. His own papers, that is, unimportant poems, attempts and first sketches, he should burn before his death, as he did not wish any person to
publish those things which he had not thought worthy of it.

‘A certain clergyman received a summons from Blomfield, Bishop of London, to attend at London House in consequence of representations that had been made to him as to his conduct. The clergyman asked the name of his accuser; the bishop replied he was not bound to give it, and would not. A few days after the visit, the clergyman wrote to the bishop: “My Lord, I called at London House on such a day, but instead of your Lordship, I was shown up to a conceited, impudent coxcomb, who abused me for half an hour without ceasing. When next I call there, I hope I may have the honour of seeing your Lordship.” This I had from the bishop to whom Dr. Blomfield told it.’

Sir Robert Peel said to me one day, sitting by me at dinner, “My father used to say to me, ‘Robert, I will not leave you a penny if you do not make yourself minister.’” His sister has told me the same thing.

‘A man should be careful to let the nurses and people about his children when young be persons who speak English with a good accent; a nurse with a provincial dialect will give a whole family habits which they cannot get over all their lives. A man bringing up a family in the country should send for a nurse from town. You should always praise your servants or children when they do well, it makes them good, as they wish to deserve the praise; they feel they have a character to lose. A father should have engravings after Raphael and the other great masters hanging about in the rooms where his children are, to accustom them early to what is beautiful.
A taste for the beautiful should be cultivated when young.

‘Persons who marry and have families are exposed to many pains and cares that the single have not, but on the whole the balance is very much in their favour. A man is very silly to go through life and know nothing of the relations of a father and a husband.’

Crabb Robinson was staying with Masquerier at Brighton when, in November, Rogers and his sister went thither to Harewood House. She was recovering, and though she had lost the power of conversation she could listen. The scheme for the Flaxman Gallery, in which Robinson was interested, rather hung fire, and he wrote—

Henry Crabb Robinson to Samuel Rogers.
‘10 Western Cottages [November, 1848].

‘My dear Sir,—Masquerier and I are to dine with you on Tuesday, I am aware; yet I send you the accompanying paper of subscriptions to the Flaxman Gallery. The amount far exceeds what I expected to raise—and this will give you pleasure—at the same time the cost of the repairs and putting up exceeds to a still greater extent my expectation, and therefore I must beg for a continuance of those active exertions of the friends of fine art which have been already so successful. I was quite startled when I saw for a moment Lady Chantrey at your house, for I had intended to ask your advice, what would be the most decorous manner of requesting that lady to add her name to our body?

‘It is impossible for any one to have set so noble an example in making a present of all the works of her late
honoured husband, not to rejoice in seeing that example followed. Besides, that very act showed that she partook of the liberal spirit of
Sir Francis. Had he been alive when I first undertook to assist Miss Denman in her anxious endeavours to preserve the works of her revered parent by adoption, he was one of the first persons I should have applied to; and I am sure that he would have relieved the Academy from the reproach which must attach to it if the subscription be now closed as far as its members are concerned. Of the amount—between 650l. and 660l.—only 20 guineas have been contributed by members of the Academy. I believe this has been in part from ignorance and partly because the statue of Flaxman by Watson has been confounded with a subscription to the gallery. The statue has been given to us—and a most acceptable and appropriate present it has been, but it will add to our outlay, as we of course have to add a pedestal to it.

‘You are not perhaps aware that we have only about 100l. on hand, and therefore it will not be possible for us to put up all the works unless we have a much larger addition to the subscription than we have any right to expect. We shall, therefore, go on putting up the pieces which may be deemed the most valuable, in the fittest places as the means may be from time to time supplied. I am not without hopes that we may obtain a large subscription from the Academy in its corporate capacity—but this is mere hope and surmise on my part.

‘I am, dear Sir, faithfully yours,
H. C. Robinson.’

They had met with Dickens in this visit to Brighton. After they had left, with his promise to call when he was in London, he sent a copy of ‘Mary Barton,’ and this letter.

Charles Dickens to Samuel Rogers.
‘Brighton: Eighteenth February, 1849.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I was detained on Monday—I mean Wednesday, last—first by business with Bradbury and Evans, and afterwards at the Literary Fund, until I was more than due at the railway. My servant stands charged to bring you “Mary Barton” to-morrow. If I had had a spare moment before I came away, I should have brought it myself.

Kate and her sister send you their loves. Brighton is just as you left it. The people, in carriages, on horseback, and afoot, jingling up and down the esplanade under the windows like gay little toys; and the great hoarse ocean roaring unheeded beyond them, and now and then breaking with a deep boom upon the beach, as if it said sullenly, “Won’t anybody listen?” But nobody does; and away they all go, jingling up and down again, until the sun sets, and then go home to dinner.

‘Ever faithfully yours,

Lord Carlisle says in his journal—

May 25th.—Breakfasted with Rogers. It was a beautiful morning, and his house, view, and garden looked lovely. It was extremely pleasant. Mahon tried
to defend
Clarendon, but was put down by Hallam and Macaulay. Macaulay was very severe on Cranmer. Then we all quoted a good deal; Macaulay (as I had heard him before) four very fine lines from the “Tristia,” as being so contrary to their usual whining tone, and of even a Miltonic loftiness of sentiment—
‘En ego, quum patriâ caream vobisque domoque,
Raptaque sint, adimi quse potuere, mihi,
Ingenio tamen ipse meo comitorque fruorque:
Cæsar in hoc potuit juris habere nihil.

‘I think we must have rather shot beyond Rogers sometimes.’

Here is another of the letters of introduction which were constantly arriving at his door—

G. de Berardin to Samuel Rogers.
‘Paris, Hôtel de l’Empire, Rue Neuve St. Augustin:
‘10th July, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—On being appointed French Ambassador in London, Monsr. Drouyn de Lhuys, the late Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Republic, I anticipate his desire to make your estimable acquaintance by taking upon me to inform you of this wish of his Excellency. Would it be too much presumption of me to beg of you to pay him an early visit at Hertford House? I have had occasion to speak great deal of you with my friend Mr. Drouyn, who knows the author of “The Pleasures of Memory” well enough by reputation, and naturally, when he may have an opportunity, he longs for the pleasure of making his personal acquaintance.


Monsr. Drouyn is very well versed in the English literature, and I feel satisfied you will both be delighted with your reciprocal conversation.

‘Madame Drouyn de Lhuys is a charming and accomplished lady, and she does too well the honours of a diplomatic saloon not to revive all the festivities, for too long laid in abeyance, of Hertford House.

‘Accept, my dear Sir, my best wishes for your welfare, as well as the assurance of the perfect consideration with which I have the honor to be, my dear Sir, yours very devotedly,

‘G. de Berardin.’

Another letter of introduction from Edward Everett, one of thanks from Prescott, and one from Ticknor sending his ‘History of Spanish Literature,’ show how his American friends kept him in mind. The two former are worth giving.

William H. Prescott to Samuel Rogers.
‘Nahant: 30th July, 1849.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I cannot let this steamer sail without thanking you for your kindness to my son when in London. He is now, I suppose, in Switzerland, where he passes the summer months. I knew, from the interest you have ever expressed for his father, that you would receive him kindly; but I feel truly grateful that you should have allowed him to have so much of your society, and such free admission to your hospitable house. A young man like him can bring little to society but the qualities of a good listener; and I trust he has
employed them well to garner up the stores for future reminiscences.

‘He is too young to travel with the most advantage, but he is not so young as I was, when, in 1816-17, I made the same tour. But, though I enjoyed it right well, I feel now that I saw only the outside of things. I ought to go again to see the inside. And I have been on the point of doing so more than once; but, when I attempt it, I find I am like Gulliver when he tried to rise up in Lilliput, and a thousand little ties pinioned him down. I have not quite so many ties, thank Heaven! but enough, it seems, to pinion me, and keep me from wandering; so my migrations are rarely further than those of the Vicar of Wakefield. The town in winter, a cottage on the cliffs for the sea-breeze in the dog-days—where I am now writing—and my old paternal acres in the autumn, bring round the year; while I find myself idly busy with spinning the historic yarn, and of rather an indifferent staple, I fear, of late. But enough of myself.

‘We have all been occupied the last year, on this side of the Atlantic, with looking and speculating on what you are doing on the other. Such a trastorno of kingdoms and popedoms as was never seen the like! But things seem to be coming now more into the old track. I trust, however, that important results will remain, both in the awakening of the minds of men and in the reform of ancient abuses. We have all admired the composure with which your little island rode out the storm—or rather the squall—which for a moment seemed to threaten her. Long may she brave every
storm that assails her, and lead the civilization of the Old World, as her Anglo-Saxon progeny lead that of the New!

‘I suppose you know Boston is to send you another Minister next autumn. Our town seems to be selected as the nursery for the English mission. It is quite a compliment to us. The Minister now appointed, Mr. Lawrence, is quite a different sort of person from his predecessors—Bancroft and Everett. He represents the industry and material interests of the nation. He made his own way in the world, and has employed his large fortune in a very liberal manner. One of his last acts has been to establish a Scientific School at Cambridge, to which he has given ten thousand pounds, with the purpose, it is understood, of doubling the sum. Besides the donation, he prepared a plan for the organization of the institution, which did his head as much credit as his heart. He has shown an enlightened spirit always; and his knowledge of the interests of the country, especially ts financial and economical relations, is extensive. You will not find in him, however, the elegant literary culture which belongs to his predecessors.

Mr. Bancroft will retire on his history, I suppose—as harmless an occupation as diplomacy. Everett has wearied of his academic life, and is passing his days in glorious otium at Cambridge. Yet he has too busy and sensitive a mind to relish the far niente.

‘With my best wishes for your health and happiness, I remain, my dear Mr. Rogers,

‘Very sincerely yours,
Wm. H. Prescott.
Edward Everett to Samuel Rogers.
‘Cambridge: 3rd Sept. 1849.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—It is such an age since I have written to you that I am really under obligations to my honored friend, the Chief Justice of Massachusetts, who has asked of me for his son-in-law, Mr. Herman Melville, the favor of one or two letters to London. This gentleman (I am sorry to say) is not known to me personally. He is known to you and the entire reading world by his “Typee” and “Omoo,” and another work of the same class, which I have not yet seen. I understand Mr. Melville’s character to be altogether such as warrants me in commending him to your kind notice. His brother, who was Secretary of Legation under Mr. M’Lane, was, I think, known to you. Few of our writers have been as successful at home as Mr. Herman Melville, and I am happy to perceive that his productions are well known on your side of the water.

Mr. Melville is going to pass a few months in England and France, and while he is in London I want him to see a few of those choicest spirits, who even at the present day increase the pride which we feel in speaking the language of Shakespeare and Milton. In a word, my dear friend, I want you to admit him to the freedom of No. 22 St. James’s Place.

‘I need not tell you how constantly we think of you, how often we speak of you, how regularly we do the honors of your portrait to all who come to us. I should be delighted to hear, under your own hand and seal, the confirmation of the good accounts I have of you from
others; and I pray you to believe me, my dear
Mr. Rogers, with the strongest attachment, sincerely yours,

Edward Everett.’

Of a different kind is a letter from Lord Glenelg, one of the few I find in Rogers’s correspondence in which there are references to questions of doctrinal theology.

Lord Glenelg to Samuel Rogers.
‘Boulogne-sur-Mer: 10th Oct., 1849.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I cannot help writing a line to ask how your cold is, and to report progress. Thanks to you, I was most comfortably lodged and entertained at Mr. Wright’s. . . . He enquired much about you, and regretted your not coming there this year.

‘I heard the beautiful music and saw the noble Cathedral, with its very fine crypt. ‘I saw also the Augustine College. On Monday, I crossed, at Folkstone, a very rough but glorious sea, and an excellent passage. Here I am at the Hôtel de Londres—a very good hotel. I have some friends here, the Osbornes (Mrs. O. is sister-in-law to the Duchess of Somerset). I hope to leave this to-morrow. May I beg you for one line only, to say your cold is better, or, as I trust, quite gone, and address it to me here; it will be forwarded to me. I remembered your advice about the blanket, a most useful measure. I also paid yesterday my devoirs to the house where the author of “Gil Blas” died.

‘I was much struck with the letter you showed me last Saturday from Mr. H. Drummond. I allude to it only to express my entire assent to his declarations as to
the only resource and consolation of immortal beings: under the countless and severe sufferings of this life, namely, the atonement made by our divine Saviour, and his infinite compassion. I do not presume to speak of myself as Drummond has a right to do of his own case, but I speak of what I have seen in several remarkable instances.

‘I did not mean to be so long on this, but you will forgive me, and ascribe it to the sincere affection and gratitude I must ever cherish for you.

‘Believe me, my dear Mr. Rogers, yours ever,


A fragment of another letter from the same writer, without date, but certainly of another year—in all probability 1850—shows again the regard entertained for Rogers by his friends.

Lord Glenelg to Samuel Rogers.

‘. . . half-past four, and crossing the saloon to see what o’clock it was, and looking out, was perfectly overwhelmed by Mont Blanc all splendid with the rising sun; no vapours had yet gathered round him, all was glorious majesty, ridges radiant, depths deeper, in short, worthy of your Muse. It was so grand and beautiful a vision that I could not help awaking my fair companions; they were entranced. I can find no words to describe what we saw. I watched it in every advancing stage of the sun, successively opening new ridges, with varying light. On Monday we came to Vevay; one of the most beautiful of days. You know the magnificence of the
lake. The day before yesterday we reached this place in a very heavy rain. Yesterday we intended to commence a three days’ tour in the Oberland, but the rain has been so heavy and incessant, and the country so completely involved in the mist, and the prospects of the weather so gloomy, that we must wait here, which is unfortunate, as we are limited in time.

‘May I beg you to have a line written to me, poste restante, Baden-Baden.

‘Believe me, ever yours affectionately,

Death was making rapid havoc with the old man’s early companions. Nearly all whom he had known the best when he set up housekeeping in St. James’s Place were gone, and now Moore was laid aside, and the new year soon brought the news that Moore’s old antagonist Jeffrey was no more. It was conveyed in a note from his son-in-law.

William Empson to Samuel Rogers.
‘Moray Place: Monday (28th Jan. 1850).

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—A three days’ illness, apparently slight in its causes and symptoms, deprived us, at six o’clock on Saturday evening, of our dear friend. Millar was not alarmed, nor Christison, until four and twenty hours before his death. He suffered no pain, but from the sense of increasing weakness. Wine and brandy (he took nothing else) had no effect on his pulse or system. What there was of illness was a feverish cold, accompanied by a slight bronchial cough.


Mrs. Jeffrey and Charlotte are bearing up against this sudden and terrible calamity as well as their friends can reasonably expect.

‘Your long and continued friendship will make you interested in these sad particulars. He often spoke of you as the last of his early London friends: and you know with what a sense of your kindness, I am

‘Ever yours,
W. Empson.’

Jeffrey and Rogers had been friends for more than forty years. After the King of Clubs was founded in the first year of the century, Jeffrey was one of the early additions to it, and one of Rogers’s first efforts as a peace-maker was in effecting a lasting reconciliation between Jeffrey and Moore. He was ten years younger than Rogers. Only three months later death came nearer still. Wordsworth, his friend of nearly half a century, as he describes himself in a letter on a previous page, was called away. He had completed his eightieth year on the 7th of April, but the shadow of death was already upon him. Sixteen days later he died. Less than a year before he had spoken of Southey as having had the misfortune to outlive his faculties; in this respect Wordsworth was happier than either Southey or Rogers. He had full possession of his faculties almost to the last. Such a death, at such a full age, was the fit ending of a poet’s life. All his friends, Rogers among them, felt with Manoah, ‘Nothing is here for tears.’ To Rogers, it was only one more finger pointing along the inevitable road. He could not but reflect that he was nearly seven
years older than his venerable friend. The death was communicated to him in two letters.

John Wordsworth to Samuel Rogers.
‘Rydal Mount: Tuesday.

‘My dear Sir,—As my Father’s oldest son, I write to you as his oldest, perhaps, living friend, to inform you that he expired this day at a quarter to 12 o’clock.

‘My best prayer for you is that your latter end may be like his; it was tranquil, and without much previous suffering; he was himself to the last. I have had running in my head with regard to it and him what Lucan puts into the mouth of Brutus respecting Cato—
‘Minimas rerum discordia turbat,
Pacem summa tenent.

‘Believe me, dear Mr. Rogers, with much regard and esteem, yours very faithfully,

J. Wordsworth.’
Edward Quillinan to Samuel Rogers.
‘Loughrigg Holme, Rydal: 23rd April, 1850.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—You would be prepared from my last note for the melancholy communication I have now to make. My dear father expired at 12 o’clock this day. He passed away calmly, and almost imperceptibly to those around him.

‘Believe me, my dear Sir, yours always faithfully,

Edward Quillinan.’

Three letters will bring this chapter to a close.

Charles Dickens to Samuel Rogers.
‘Devonshire Terrace: Thursday evening, Eighteenth April, 1850.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I am poor in words—but not in heart—to thank you for the beautiful mark of your remembrance which you left for me to-day. Believe me, I shall prize it all my life, and set no common store by it for your sake.

‘Anything I could write would read coldly to me, with such a token of your friendship and regard lying on my table. I could thank you better in a few lines of your own immortal verse, but somehow I am better satisfied to give no expression to all that I affectionately feel towards you. Your kind and generous imagination may be trusted with it safely.

‘Ever faithfully yours,
Charles Dickens.’
Lord Brougham to Samuel Rogers.
‘Paris: Monday [no date].

‘My dear R.,—I write to you now in case I should be prevented to-morrow by the hurry of new arrivals. I write to impress as strongly as I can on you the imprudence of exposing yourself to cold. I called the other day before one, and found you gone out to walk on a very cold day. Now when you have been ill of a bad cold, this was the very worst thing you could do. Old Dr. Brownrigg of Cumberland, a friend of Dr. Black and all our famous men, said to a man who told him he “had nothing but a cold.” “Nothing but a cold! Would you
have the plague?” And so it is to all persons advanced in life. I have taken more pains against that than any other malady, and I do most strongly urge you to do the same thing yourself.

‘I have seen the Hollands and Normanbys and Arago—no one else. I dine at Holland’s to-day and Luttrell is to be there.

‘Things are quiet for the hour—or week—or month. But no one has the very least confidence in them. I wish you were going with me on Sunday to philosophis in Provence with a fine sun and dry air. Adieu.

‘Yours ever most sincerely,
H. Brougham.’
Mr. Bancroft to Samuel Rogers.
‘New York: 15th May, 1850.

‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—Were I in London, I know very well you would allow me to bring a friend to you. And the distance of three thousand miles seems only to draw me nearer to you, each mile as I passed it being a witness to the regret with which I parted from cherished friends in England. Mrs. De Witt Clinton, the widow of our Governor Clinton, who deservedly ranked among our most distinguished statesmen and was the father of the internal policy which makes the State of New York so great, visits Europe, and if she finds you in good health, I hope you will do me the favour to receive her visit as you would so kindly have done if I had been in London to accompany her. No one in New York is more respected than Mrs. Clinton, and she is our near friend.


‘The fruitful hours that we passed with you dwell in our memories; and Mrs. Bancroft deputed me to write this note commending our friend to you, for had she begun to write to you of the pleasant mornings we passed with you, I know not when she would have come to an end.

‘Let me wish you health, and long-continued life, and everything that can make life happy.

‘I am, dear Mr. Rogers, ever most truly your obliged friend,

George Bancroft.’