I could relate many unpublished anecdotes of Rogers, but they lose their
piquancy when one attempts to narrate them. There was so much in his
appearance, in that cadaverous, unchanging countenance, in the peculiar
low, drawling voice, and rather tremulous accents in which he spoke. His
intonations were very much those one fancies a ghost would use if forced
by some magic spell to give utterance to sounds. The mild venom of every
word was a remarkable trait in his conversation. One might have compared
the old poet to one of those velvety caterpillars that crawl gently and
quietly over the skin, but leave an irritating blister behind. To those,
like myself, who were _sans_ consequence, and with whom he feared no
rivalry, he was very good-natured and amiable, and a most pleasant
companion, with a fund of curious anecdote about everything and
everybody. But woe betide those in great prosperity and renown; they
had, like the Roman emperor, in Rogers the personification of the slave
who bade them "remember they were mortal."
At an evening party many years since at Lady Jersey's every one was
praising the Duke of B----, who had just come in, and who had lately
attained his majority. There was a perfect chorus of admiration to this
effect: "Everything is in his favour--he has good looks, considerable
abilities, and a hundred thousand a year.
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