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Byron
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Samuel Rogers and his Contemporaries
Samuel Rogers to Sarah Rogers, 6 October 1821
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
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Preface
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.
Index
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‘Milan: 6 October, 1821.

‘My dear Sarah,—When I left you, I travelled on into the night—what could I do better? but to my great joy it cleared up soon, and I flattered myself you would have a better drive than you thought of. The next day too, was fine, though the morning was wet, so I hope you
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did pretty well—and found a letter to your mind from Bellesite. You must now be well on your road to Paris, and I hope your young lady—not a child by the way—has proved useful, if not entertaining. As for me, I slept the first night at Brieg, and the second at Domo; the Simplon lost none of its credit with me, but I am destined never to get to Domo d’Ossola in daylight, for something wrong in the carriage kept me at the Simplon an hour, and as I had tired horses from Brieg, I was later than we were before. The third day I breakfasted at Baveno—saw the islands in glorious weather, and slept at Arona in the very room you slept in and we passed the day in together. The next day I was waked by a great bustle, and found a full market, and ten or twelve large boats drawn up under the window. It was a most amusing scene, the day beautiful, and I wished much to stay in such a room, in such a place, but Como was to be seen, the weather might change, so I went off with great regret, and slept at Como after seeing an opera and a dance, and next morning at six set off, embarking on the lake. In the night my windows had given many signs of a great wind, but the morning was bright as the night had been starry, and I was told it was occasioned by snow falling in the mountains, and was a sure sign of fair weather—a sign fulfilled; for three finer days I never had than on the lake—I need not say how I wished for you. It is a noble lake—but a little too solemn for me—though the shores are peopled with Milanese villas and palaces like Richmond Hill. When you run under the shore the entertainment is endless. When you look up, or down, or across the lake you
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are awed and saddened. It is a Swiss lake with an Italian margin. The view from our window at Arona is more joyous, more truly Italian than anything at Como—but that Sharp never saw. His station at Bellaggio is a very noble one—I call it his, though it is in all the books. I was rewarded for leaving Arona. The weather changed the instant I left Como—and to-day I met Agar Ellis, the only acquaintance I have seen, in a heavy rain on his way thither from Milan, where he had been loving the sunshine. He has a dismal prospect. I arrived here half an hour ago. All the inns are full, but I have got a tolerable room in the Imperiale, and mean to stay three or four days, and then go to Venice. The Beaumonts—Sir G., Lady, and Mr. Beaumont—passed through Baveno for Rome, as they described themselves in the book there, on the 21 st Sept. So they could not have gone at all into Switzerland as we were told. You were afraid I should lose the vintage here, but it has not yet begun anywhere where I have passed; the autumn has been so cold and wet. Sharp’s burnings, it seems, have done very little for it. But the vineyards are very beautiful, and the trellises particularly; the black grapes hanging, as we saw them, in clusters.

‘Along the Lago Maggiore trellises are run out into the lake, ten or twelve yards over the water, and sometimes for a quarter of a mile together—a thing I don’t remember. I must say I like the people, and admire the country and the women more than ever, and I think I might have persuaded you to have ventured as far as Milan but for Mrs. Siddons. At Baveno I was accosted by one of our Swiss drivers, who was conducting an English
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family from Neuchatel to Milan, and would have been delighted to have had you back again. Farewell, my dear Sarah. I shall write home from Venice and shall then trouble you with some more lines for the press. I like your idea of troubling Miss Mallet better and better the more I think of it, and if you still approve of it, pray do so, and beg her, if she does not object to it, to apply to Mr. Rees confidentially, not letting him or anybody else into the secret; that is, engaging him not to reveal the circumstance of her applying to him about it, at the same time concealing my name from him—proposing to print 500 and no more; the booksellers to share the profits with the author—contract not to extend beyond that edition; the property then to revert to the author. If you have changed your mind about Miss Mallet, proceed as before. If they object to those terms, then let them publish it entirely for the author and at his risk. I hope you have found Henry at Paris. Maltby must be gone. Pray give my love to Patty, our fellow-traveller, and everybody when you write home. I have been afraid to touch the music. I thought it would give me more sadness than pleasure. If you write at Paris on or before the 15th, pray write to Venice. If afterwards, and before the 21st, to Bologna. After that to Florence.

‘I write a day after the limit you gave me, but hope it will not be too late. The figs are very good, but the peaches are Michaelmas ones, and I have taken an indifference to grapes. Lord Clare and Mr. Sneyd are at Venice. I hope you will fall in with the King, if he does not annoy you. He cannot take your horses. I
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have not yet taken a Courier and have gone on tolerably, murdering more Italian words than I did the whole of our journey. 5 o’clock.—I am just returned from a walk in the Cathedral—the only thing to be done this rainy day. Your inkstand has been of great use to me, as will be your maps. I am going to the Opera to-night—a new one, so I fear good for little. Patty, I fear, I shall not see for ages, as she must [have] left you before I return. They will be very anxious to have her home again to hear all about it. I shall tell Sir G. B. when I see him how desirous you were to catch him on his way. I hope you will find Henry. I think it will do you all good. My love to him and the party now at Brighton, as I conjecture. I shall not pester you often with such long letters—though I mean to write often.’