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A Memoir of the Reverend Sydney Smith
Letters 1836
Sydney Smith to Lady Grey, 2 February 1836

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
Combe Florey, Feb. 1st, 1836.
My dear Lady Grey,

I write a line to say that my tributary cheese is only waiting in Somersetshire, because you are waiting in Northumberland; and it will come to town to be eaten, as soon as it is aware that you are there to eat it. I hope that Lord Grey and you are well; no easy thing, seeing that there are about fifteen hundred diseases to which man is subject.

Without having thought much about them (and, as I have no part to play, I am not bound to think about
them), I like all the Whigs have done. I only wish them to bear in mind, that the consequences of giving so much power to the people have not yet been tried at a period of bad harvest and checked manufactures. The prosperity of the country during all these changes has been without example.

Mrs. Sydney and I have been leading a Darby-and-Joan life for these last two months, without children. This kind of life might have done very well for Adam and Eve in Paradise, where the weather was fine, and the beasts as numerous as in the Zoological Gardens, and the plants equal to anything in the gardens about London; but I like a greater variety.

Mackintosh kept all his letters. He had a bundle of mine, which his son returned to me. I found a letter written thirty-five years ago, giving an account of my first introduction to Lord and Lady Holland. I sent it to Lady Holland, who was much amused by it. Your grateful and affectionate friend,

Sydney Smith.

P.S.—I had no idea that, in offering my humble caseous tribute every year, I should minister in so great a degree to my own glory. I bought the other day some Cheshire cheese at Cullam’s, in Bond-street, desiring him to send it to Mr. Sydney Smith’s. He smiled, and said, “Sir, your name is very familiar to me.” “No,” I replied, “Mr. Cullam, I am not Sir Sidney Smith, but Mr. Sydney Smith.” “I am perfectly aware of it,” he said; “I know whom I am addressing; I have often heard of the cheeses you send to Lord Grey.” So you see there is no escaping from fame.