E-text prepared by Clare Boothby, Linda Cantoni, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/c/)
Transcriber's note:
Inconsistencies and idiosyncrasies of spelling, punctuation,
hyphenation, capitalization, and use of diacriticals are preserved
as they appear in the original text.
BOSWELL'S
CORRESPONDENCE
WITH THE HONOURABLE
ANDREW ERSKINE
AND HIS
JOURNAL OF A TOUR TO CORSICA
(Reprinted from the Original Editions)
Edited
With a Preface, Introduction, and Notes
by
GEORGE BIRKBECK HILL, D.C.L.
Author of "Dr. Johnson: His Friends and His Critics."
London:
Thos. De La Rue & Co.
1879
Printed by
Thomas De La Rue and Co., Bunhill Row,
London.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE i
LETTERS BETWEEN THE HONOURABLE ANDREW ERSKINE
AND JAMES BOSWELL, ESQ. 3
INTRODUCTION TO THE JOURNAL OF A TOUR TO CORSICA 101
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 125
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION 135
THE JOURNAL OF A TOUR TO CORSICA 137
APPENDIX 239
BOSWELL AND ERSKINE'S LETTERS.
PREFACE.
Boswell did not bring out his "Life of Johnson" till he was past his
fiftieth year. His "Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides" had appeared more
than five years earlier. While it is on these two books that his fame
rests, yet to the men of his generation he was chiefly known for his
work on Corsica and for his friendship with Paoli. His admiration for
Johnson he had certainly proclaimed far and wide. He had long been off,
in the words of his father, "wi' the land-louping scoundrel of a
Corsican, and had pinned himself to a dominie--an auld dominie who
keeped a schule and cau'd it an acaadamy." Nevertheless it was to
Corsica and its heroic chief that he owed the position that he
undoubtedly held among men of letters. He was Corsica Boswell and Paoli
Boswell long before he became famous as Johnson Boswell.
It has been shown elsewhere[1] what a spirited thing it was in this
young Scotchman to make his way into an island, the interior of which no
traveller from this country had ever before visited. The Mediterranean
still swarmed with Turkish corsairs, while Corsica itself was in a very
unsettled condition. It had been computed that, till Paoli took the rule
and held it with a firm hand, the state had lost no less than 800
subjects every year by assassination. Boswell, as he tells us in his
Journal, had been warned by an officer of rank in the British Navy, who
had visited several of the ports, of the risk he ran to his life in
going among these "barbarians." Moreover a state of hostility existed
between the Corsicans and the Republic of Genoa--which, the year before
Boswell's visit, had obtained the assistance of France. The interior of
the island was still held by Paoli, but many of the seaport towns were
garrisoned by the French and the Genoese. At the time of Boswell's visit
war was not being actively carried on, for the French commander had been
instructed merely to secure these points, and not to undertake offensive
operations against the natives. From the Journal that Boswell gives, we
see that when once he had landed he ran no risks; but it is not every
young man who, when out on his travels, leaves the safe and beaten round
to go into a country that is almost unknown, and to prove to others that
there also safety is to be found. With good reason did Johnson write to
him--"Come home and expect such welcome as is due to him whom a wise and
noble curiosity has led where perhaps no native of this country ever was
before." With scarcely less reason did Paoli say, "A man come from
Corsica will be like a man come from the Antipodes."
[Footnote 1: "Dr. Johnson: His Friends and His Critics." By George
Birkbeck Hill, D.C.L. Smith, Elder & Co.]
How strongly his journey and his narrative touched the hearts of people
at home may still be read in Mrs. Barbauld's fine lines on Corsica:--
"Such were the working thoughts which swelled the breast
Of generous Boswell; when with nobler aim
And views beyond the narrow beaten track
By trivial fancy trod, he turned his course
From polished Gallia's soft delicious vales,
From the grey reliques of imperial Rome,
From her long galleries of laureled stone,
Her chiseled heroes and her marble gods,
Whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world,
To animated forms of patriot zeal;
Warm in the living majesty of virtue;
Elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved;
By fortune nor subdued; nor awed by power."[2]
[Footnote 2: "Mrs. Barbauld's Poems," vol. i., p. 2. It is certainly
strange that Boswell, so far as I know, nowhere quotes these lines. He
was not wont to let the world remain in ignorance of any compliment that
had been paid him. I fear that he was rather ashamed at finding himself
praised by a writer who was not only a woman, but also was the wife of
"a little presbyterian parson who kept an infant boarding school."]
Gray was moved greatly by the account given of Paoli. "He is a man," he
wrote, "born two thousand years after his time." Horace Walpole had
written to beg him to read the book. "What relates to Paoli," he said,
"will amuse you much." What merely amused Walpole "moved" Gray
"strangely." It moved others besides him. Subscriptions were raised for
the Corsicans, and money and arms were sent to them from this country.
Boswell writes to tell his friend Temple--"I have hopes that our
Government will interfere. In the meantime, by a private subscription in
Scotland, I am sending this week £700 worth of ordnance." Other
subscriptions were forwarded which Paoli, as is told in a letter from
him published in the "Gentleman's Magazine,"[3] "applied to the support
of the families of those patriots who, abhorring a foreign yoke, have
abandoned their houses and estates in that part of the country held by
the enemy, and have retired to join our army."
[Footnote 3: "Gentleman's Magazine," vol. xxxix., p. 214.]
Boswell's work met with a rapid sale. The copyright he sold to Dilly for
one hundred guineas. The publisher must have made no small gain by the
bargain, for a third edition was called for within a year. "My book,"
writes Boswell, "has amazing celebrity: Lord Lyttelton, Mr. Walpole,
Mrs. Macaulay, Mr. Garrick have all written me noble letters about it."
With his Lordship's letter he was so much delighted that in the third
edition he obtained leave to use it to "enrich" his book. Johnson
pronounced his Journal in a very high degree curious and delightful. It
is surprising that a work which thus delighted Johnson, moved Gray
strangely, and amused Horace Walpole, can now be met with only in old
libraries and on the shelves of a dealer in second-hand books. I doubt
whether a new edition has been published in the last hundred years. It
is still more surprising when we remember that it is the work of an
author who has written a book "that is likely to be read as long as the
English exists, either as a living or as a dead language." The
explanation of this, I take it, is to be found in the distinction that
Johnson draws between Boswell's Account of Corsica, which forms more
than two-thirds of the whole book, and the Journal of his Tour. His
history, he said, was like other histories. It was copied from books.
His Journal rose out of his own experience and observation. His history
was read, and perhaps read with eagerness, because at the time when it
appeared there was a strong interest felt in the Corsicans. In despair
of maintaining their independence, they had been willing to place
themselves and their island entirely under the protection of Great
Britain. The offer had been refused, but they still hoped for our
assistance. Not a few Englishmen felt with Lord Lyttelton when he
wrote--"I wish with you that our Government had shown more respect for
Corsican liberty, and I think it disgraces our nation that we do not
live in good friendship with a brave people engaged in the noblest of
all contests, a contest against tyranny." But in such a contest as this
Corsica was before long to play a different part. Scarcely four years
after Boswell from some distant hill "had a fine view of Ajaccio and its
environs," that town was rendered famous by the birth of Napoleon
Buonaparte.
With whatever skill Boswell's history had been compiled it could not
have lived. There were not, indeed, the materials out of which a history
that should last could have been formed. The whole island boasted of but
one printing press and one bookseller's shop. The feuds and wars of the
wild islanders might have lived in the songs of the poet, but were
little fit for the purposes of the historian. He who attempts to write
the history of such a people is almost forced to accept tradition for
fact, and to believe in their Arthurs and their Tells. The Corsicans
are, indeed, from time to time found in one or other of the great tracks
of European history. As Boswell says, their island had belonged to the
Phoenicians, the Etruscans, the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Goths,
and the Saracens. It had been conquered by France, and had been made a
gift from that kingdom to the Pope. It had been given by the Pope to the
Pisans, and from them had passed to the Republic of Genoa. It had
undergone strange and rapid revolutions, but they were those common
revolutions that befall a wild race that lives in the midst of powerful
neighbours.
Boswell, unsurpassed though he is as a biographer, admirable as he is as
a writer of a Journal, yet had little of the stuff out of which an
historian is made. His compilation is a creditable performance for a
young man who had but lately returned home from his travels. It
certainly adds nothing to the reputation of the author of the "Life of
Johnson." But while it lies overwhelmed with deserved neglect, it ought
not to drag down with it the Journal of his Tour. That portion of the
work is lively, is interesting, and is brief. It can be read with
pleasure now, as it was read with pleasure when it first appeared. But,
besides this, it is interesting to us as the early work of a writer
whose mind has been a puzzle to men of letters. Even should we accept
Macaulay's judgment on Boswell, and despise him as he despises him, yet
it must surely be worth while to examine closely the early writings of
an author, who has, "in an important department of literature,
immeasurably surpassed such writers as Tacitus, Clarendon, Alfieri, and
his own idol Johnson."[4] This Journal is like the youthful sketch of
some great artist. It exhibits the merits which, later on,
distinguished, in so high a degree the mature writer.
[Footnote 4: "Macaulay's Essays," vol. i., p. 377.]
Together with the "Journal of a Tour to Corsica," I am reprinting a
volume of letters that passed between Boswell and his friend The
Honourable Andrew Erskine. Lively and amusing though they often are,
yet I should not have proposed to republish them did not they throw
almost as much light on Boswell's character as the Journal throws light
on his powers as a writer. In his account of Corsica, there is a passage
in which, while describing the historian Petrus Cyrnaeus, he at the same
time describes himself. "The fourth book of Petrus Cyrnaeus," he says,
"is entirely taken up with an account of his own wretched vagabond life,
full of strange, whimsical anecdotes. He begins it very gravely:
'Quoniam ad hunc locum perventum est, non alienum videtur de Petri qui
haec scripsit vita et moribus proponere.' 'Since we are come thus far it
will not be amiss to say something of the life and manners of Petrus,
who writeth this history.' He gives a very excellent character of
himself, and, I dare say, a very faithful one. But so minute is his
narration, that he takes care to inform posterity that he was very
irregular in his method of walking, and that he preferred sweet wine to
hard. In short, he was a man of considerable parts, with a great
simplicity and oddity of character."
To the simplicity and oddity of character that Boswell shared with this
learned historian, there was certainly added not a little impudence. It
was an impudence that was lively and amusing; but none the less was it
downright impudence. We are amazed at the audacity with which two young
men ventured to publish to the world the correspondence which had passed
between them when they were scarcely of age. In fact, the earlier
letters were written when Boswell was but twenty. Their justification
only increases their offence. "Curiosity," they say, "is the most
prevalent of all our passions; and the curiosity for reading letters, is
the most prevalent of all kinds of curiosity. Had any man in the three
kingdoms found the following letters, directed, sealed, and adorned with
postmarks,--provided he could have done it honestly--he would have read
every one of them." There is this, however, that makes us always look
with a certain indulgence on Boswell. He never plays the hypocrite. He
likes praise, he likes to be talked about, he likes to know great
people, and he no more cares to conceal his likings than Sancho Panza
cared to conceal his appetite. Three pullets and a couple of geese were
but so much scum, which Don Quixote's squire whipped off to stay his
stomach till dinner-time. By the time Boswell was six-and-twenty he
could boast that he had made the acquaintance of Adam Smith, Robertson,
Hume, Johnson, Goldsmith, Wilkes, Garrick, Horace Walpole, Voltaire,
Rousseau, and Paoli. He had twice at least received a letter from the
Earl of Chatham. But his appetite for knowing great men could never be
satisfied. These might stay his stomach for a while, but more would be
presently wanted. At the time when he published this volume of Letters
he seems to have had some foresight into his future life. "I am
thinking," he says, "of the intimacies which I shall form with the
learned and ingenious in every science, and of the many amusing literary
anecdotes which I shall pick up." When fame did come upon him by his
book on Corsica, no one could have relished it more. "I am really the
_great man_ now," he writes to his friend Temple. "I have had David Hume
in the forenoon, and Mr. Johnson in the afternoon of the same day
visiting me. Sir John Pringle, Dr. Franklin, and some more company dined
with me to-day; and Mr. Johnson and General Oglethorpe one day, Mr.
Garrick alone another, and David Hume and some more _literati_ another,
dine with me next week. I give admirable dinners and good claret; and
the moment I go abroad again, which will be in a day or two, I set up my
chariot. This is enjoying the fruit of my labours, and appearing like
the friend of Paoli.... David Hume came on purpose the other day to tell
me that the Duke of Bedford was very fond of my book, and had
recommended it to the Duchess."
In the preface to the third edition, he says,--"When I first ventured to
send my book into the world, I fairly owned an ardent desire for
literary fame. I have obtained my desire: and whatever clouds may
overcast my days, I can now walk here among the rocks and woods of my
ancestors, with an agreeable consciousness that I have done something
worthy." It was about this time that, writing to the great Earl of
Chatham, he said--"I can labour hard; I feel myself coming forward, and
I hope to be useful to my country. Could your Lordship find time to
honour me now and then with a letter? I have been told how favourably
your Lordship has spoken of me. To correspond with a Paoli and a
Chatham, is enough to keep a young man ever ardent in the pursuit of
virtuous fame."[5]
[Footnote 5: "Chatham Correspondence," vol. iii., p. 246.]
A few months before his account of Corsica was published, he had fixed
upon the date of its publication as the period when he should steadily
begin that pursuit of virtuous fame, which now was to be secured by
correspondence with a Paoli and a Chatham. "I am always for fixing some
period," he wrote, "for my perfection, as far as possible. Let it be
when my account of Corsica is published; I shall then have a character
which I must support." Unhappily the time for his perfection was again
and again put off. Johnson, in speaking of Derrick, said--"Derrick may
do very well, as long as he can outrun his character; but the moment his
character gets up with him, it is all over." With Boswell, just the
opposite was the case. He soon acquired a character--a character which
he was bound to support. But he could never get up with it. The friend
of Paoli, the friend of Johnson, was, unhappily, given to drink. The gay
spirits and lively health of youth supported him for a while; but, even
in these early days, he was too often troubled with that depression of
spirit which follows on a debauch. But, as time passed on, and the habit
grew stronger upon him, his health began to give way, and his
cheerfulness of mind to desert him. He lived but four years after the
publication of his great work.
In the preface to the second edition of the "Life of Johnson" he shows
his delight in his fame. "There are some men, I believe, who have, or
think they have, a very small share of vanity. Such may speak of their
literary fame in a decorous state of diffidence. But I confess that I am
so formed by nature and by habit, that to restrain the effusion of
delight on having obtained such fame, to me would be truly painful. Why,
then, should I suppress it? Why, 'out of the abundance of the heart,'
should I not speak?" This preface bears the date of July 1, 1793. Only
ten days earlier he had written to tell Temple how he had been drinking,
and had been robbed. "The robbery is only of a few shillings; but the
cut on my head and bruises on my arms were sad things, and confined me
to bed in pain, and fever, and helplessness, as a child, many days....
This shall be a crisis in my life: I trust I shall henceforth be a
sober, regular man. Indeed, my indulgence in wine has, of late years
especially, been excessive.... Your suggestion as to my being carried
off in a state of intoxication, is awful. I thank you for it, my dear
friend. It impressed me much, I assure you." It was too late in life to
form resolutions. A year later he was again "resolved anew to be upon
his guard." In the May of 1795, he died, after an illness of great
suffering. To him might be applied some of the lines which the great
poet who lived so near him wrote as his own epitaph:--
"He keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name."
Boswell had, indeed, but little of that "prudent, cautious,
self-control," which, as Burns tells us, "is wisdom's root." It is a sad
thought that at the very same time the two most famous writers that
Ayrshire can boast, men whose homes were but a few miles apart, were at
the same time drinking themselves to death. Burns outlived Boswell
little more than a year.
Boswell was fifty-four years old when he died. Greatly as he relished
wine, he relished fame still more. He had worked hard for fame, and he
had fairly earned it; but in its full flush his intemperance swept him
away. There can be little question that his first triumph in the field
of letters, his book on Corsica brought him far greater pleasure than
his "Life of Johnson," by which his name will live. Perhaps the happiest
day in his life was when, at the Shakespeare Jubilee, he entered the
amphitheatre in the dress of a Corsican chief. "On the front of his cap
was embroidered, in gold letters, "_Viva la Libertà_," and on the side
of it was a handsome blue feather and cockade, so that it had an elegant
as well as a warlike appearance." "So soon as he came into the room,"
says the account in the "London Magazine," written, no doubt, by
himself, "he drew universal attention." The applause that his "Life of
Johnson" brought him was, no doubt, far greater, but then, as I have
said, his health was breaking, and his fine spirits were impaired. He
who would know Boswell at his happiest--when he was, as Hume described
him, very good humoured, very agreeable, and very mad, must read his
volume of Letters, and the Journals of his Tours to Corsica and the
Hebrides.
LETTERS
BETWEEN
THE HONOURABLE
ANDREW ERSKINE,
AND
JAMES BOSWELL, Esq;
LONDON:
Printed by SAMUEL CHANDLER;
For W. FLEXNEY, near Gray's-Inn-Gate, Holborn.
MDCCLXIII.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Curiosity is the most prevalent of all our passions; and the curiosity
for reading letters, is the most prevalent of all kinds of curiosity.
Had any man in the three Kingdoms found the following letters, directed,
sealed, and adorned with postmarks,--provided he could have done it
honestly--he would have read every one of them; or, had they been
ushered into the world, from Mr. Flexney's shop, in that manner, they
would have been bought up with the greatest avidity. As they really once
had all the advantages of concealment, we hope their present more
conspicuous form will not tend to diminish their merit. They have made
ourselves laugh; we hope they will have the same effect upon other
people.
LETTERS.
[In a Memoir of James Boswell,[6] by the Rev. Charles Rogers,
a short account is given of the Hon. Andrew Erskine,
Boswell's correspondent. He was the youngest son of
Alexander, fifth Earl of Kellie. He served in the army for
some years. After his retirement he settled at Edinburgh.
"His habits were regular, but he indulged occasionally at
cards, and was partial to the game of whist. Having sustained
a serious loss at his favourite pastime, he became frantic,
and threw himself into the Forth and perished." Burns,
writing to his friend Thomson, October, 1793, says--"Your
last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy
news. Alas, poor Erskine! The recollection that he was a
coadjutor in your publication has, till now, scared me from
writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you."
"He was," adds Dr. Rogers, "of a tall, portly form, and to
the last wore gaiters and a flapped vest." By this last
description Dr. Rogers's readers may be pleasantly reminded
of an anecdote that is given for the first time, I believe,
in his book. "Dr. Johnson used to laugh at a passage in
Carte's 'Life of the Duke of Ormond,' where he gravely
observed that 'he was always in full dress when he went to
Court; too many being in the practice of going thither with
double lapells.'" As poor Erskine "wore to the last his
gaiters and a flapped vest," no doubt he had them on when he
drowned himself.--ED.]
[Footnote 6: "Boswelliana: The Commonplace Book of James Boswell." With
a Memoir and Annotations, by the Rev. Charles Rogers, LL.D. London:
Printed for the Grampian Club, 1874.]
* * * * *
LETTER I.
Auchinleck, Aug. 25, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--No ceremony, I beseech you. Give me your hand. How is my
honest Captain Andrew? How goes it with the elegant gentle Lady A----?
the lovely sighing Lady J----? and how, O how does that glorious
luminary Lady B---- do? You see I retain my usual volatility. The
Boswells, you know, came over from Normandy, with William the Conqueror,
and some of us possess the spirit of our ancestors the French. I do for
one. A pleasant spirit it is. _Vive la Bagatelle_, is the maxim. A light
heart may bid defiance to fortune. And yet, Erskine, I must tell you,
that I have been a little pensive of late, amorously pensive, and
disposed to read Shenstone's Pastoral on Absence, the tenderness and
simplicity of which I greatly admire. A man who is in love is like a man
who has got the tooth-ache, he feels most acute pain while nobody pities
him. In that situation am I at present: but well do I know that I will
not be long so. So much for inconstancy. As this is my first epistle to
you, it cannot in decency be a long one. Pray write to me soon. Your
letters, I prophecy, will entertain me not a little; and will besides be
extremely serviceable in many important respects. They will supply me
with oil to my lamps, grease to my wheels, and blacking to my shoes.
They will furnish me with strings to my fiddle, lashes to my whip,
lining to my breeches, and buttons to my coat. They will make charming
spurs, excellent knee buckles, and inimitable watch-keys. In short,
while they last I shall neither want breakfast, dinner, nor supper. I
shall keep a couple of horses, and I shall sleep upon a bed of down. I
shall be in France this year, and in Spain the next; with many other
particulars too tedious to mention. You may take me in a metaphorical
sense; but I would rather choose to be understood literally.
I am
Your most affectionate friend,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER II.
Kelly, Sept. 11, 1761.
HAIL! mighty Boswell! at thy awful name
The fainting muse relumes her sinking flame.
Behold how high the tow'ring blaze aspires,
While fancy's waving pinions fan my fires!
Swells the full song? it swells alone from thee;
Some spark of thy bright genius kindles me!
"But softly, Sir," I hear you cry,
"This wild bombast is rather dry:
I hate your d----n'd insipid song,
That sullen stalks in lines so long;
Come, give us short ones like to Butler,
Or, like our friend Auchinleck[7] the cutler."
A Poet, Sir, whose fame is to support,
Must ne'er write verses tripping pert and short:
Who ever saw a judge himself disgrace,
By trotting to the bench with hasty pace?
I swear, dear Sir, you're really in the wrong;
To make a line that's good, I say, James, make it long.
[Footnote 7: Pronounced "Affleck."--ED.]
You see, Sir, I have quite the best of the argument; and indeed I was
determined not to give it up, till you acknowledged yourself vanquished;
so to verse I go again, tooth and nail.
How well you talk of glory and the guards,
Of fighting heroes, and their great rewards!
Our eyes behold you glow with martial flame,
Our ears attend the never-ceasing theme.
Fast from your tongue the rousing accents flow,
And horror darkens on your sable brow!
We hear the thunder of the rolling war,
And see red vict'ry shouting from her car!
You kindly took me up, an awkward cub,
And introduced me to the Soaping-Club;[8]
Where ev'ry Tuesday eve our ears are blest
With genuine humour, and with genuine jest:
The voice of mirth ascends the list'ning sky,
While, "soap his own beard, every man," you cry.
Say, who could e'er indulge a yawn or nap,
When Barclay roars forth snip, and Bainbridge snap?[9]
Tell me how I your favours may return;
With thankfulness and gratitude I burn.
I've one advice, oh! take it I implore!
Search out America's untrodden shore;
There seek some vast Savannah rude and wild,
Where Europe's sons of slaughter never smil'd,
With fiend-like arts, insidious to betray
The sooty natives as a lawful prey.
At you th' astonish'd savages shall stare,
And hail you as a God, and call you fair:
Your blooming beauty shall unrivall'd shine,
And Captain Andrew's whiteness yield to thine.[10]
[Footnote 8: The Soaping-Club--a Club in Edinburgh, the motto of which
was, "Every Man soap his own Beard;" or, "Every Man indulge his own
Humour." Their game was that facetious one, Snip, Snap, Snorum.]
[Footnote 9: Barclay and Bainbridge, two members of this Club.]
[Footnote 10: "And Captain Andrew's whiteness, &c." The writers of these
Letters, instead of being rivals in wit, were rivals in complexion.]
In reality, I'm under vast obligations to you. It was you who first made
me thoroughly sensible (indeed I very readily believed it) of the
excellencies of my own Poetry; and about that time, I made two wonderful
discoveries, to wit, that you was a sensible man, and that I was a good
poet; discoveries which I dare say are yet doubted by some incredulous
people. Boswell, I shall not praise your letter, because I know you have
an aversion at being thought a genius, or a wit. The reluctance with
which you always repeat your Cub,[11] and the gravity of countenance
which you always assume upon that occasion, are convincing proofs of
this assertion. You hate flattery, too, but in spite of your teeth I
must tell you, that you are the best Poet, and the most humorous
letter-writer I know; and that you have a finer complexion, and dance
better than any man of my acquaintance. For my part, I actually think
you would make an excellent champion at the approaching coronation.[12]
What though malevolent critics may say you are too little, yet you are a
Briareus in comparison of Tydeus the hero of Statius's Thebais; and if
he was not a warrior, then am I, Andrew Erskine, Lieutenant in the 71st
regiment, blind of one eye, hump-backed, and lame in both legs. We all
tired so much of the Highlands, that we had not been there three weeks
before we all came away again. Lady B---- is gone a-visiting, and the
rest of us are come to Kelly. It was most unaccountable in me to leave
New-Tarbat; for nowhere will you meet with such fine ingredients for
poetical description. However, we are all going back again when Mr.
M---- comes from London; so some time in October you may expect a most
cordial invitation. This is all at present (according to the simple but
eloquent expression of the vulgar) from your sincere friend,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
[Footnote 11: In March, 1762, Boswell published "The Cub at Newmarket: a
Tale." (Dodsley).--ED.]
[Footnote 12: George III. was crowned on September 22nd, of this
year.--ED.]
* * * * *
LETTER III.
Auchinleck, Sept. 14, 1761.
Dear Captain Andrew! Poet of renown!
Whether the chairmen of Edina's town
You curious draw, and make 'em justly speak,
To use a vulgar phrase, _as clean's a leek_;
Or smart Epistles, Fables, Songs you write,
All put together handsome trim and tight;
Or when your sweetly plaintive muse does sigh,
And elegiac strains you happy try;
Or when in ode sublime your genius soars,
Which guineas brings to Donaldson by scores;
Accept the thanks of ME, as quick as sage,
Accept sincerest thanks for ev'ry page,
For ev'ry page?--for ev'ry single line
Of your rich letter aided by the Nine.[13]
[Footnote 13: The rest of Boswell's verses--more than a hundred in
number--the reader will thank me for omitting.--ED.]
* * * * *
You are now so heartily tired, that it would be absolutely barbarous to
stun your ears any longer; only give me leave to tell you in one good
round sentence, that your prose is admirable, and that I am just now (at
three o'clock in the morning) sitting over the poor pale remnant of a
once glorious blazing fire, and feasting upon it, till I am all in a
_Lather_.
I cannot stop yet. Allow me a few more words. I live here in a remote
corner of an old ruinous house, where my ancestors have been very
jovial. What a solemn idea rushes on my mind! They are all gone; I must
follow. Well, and what then? Let me shift about to another subject. The
best I can think of is a sound sleep. So good night, and believe me,
Yours,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER IV.
Auchinleck, Oct. 10, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--Had Philip of Macedon been saddle-sick with riding up and
down the country after his unruly son Alexander, and been waiting in
extreme pain, till the surgeon of the next village brought him emollient
relief, he could not have been more impatient than I am for a return to
my last letter. I thought, indeed, that my firing so great a gun, would
have produced a speedy and a suitable echo, and I had no doubt of at
least being paid the interest of a sum so very large. I now give you
fair warning, that if something is not speedily done in this affair, I
shall be obliged to take very disagreeable methods. From this way of
talking, I begin to fancy myself a Schoolmaster; a character next to
that of a giant, most terrible to tender minds. Don't think to escape
the rod. Don't think your dignity as a poet will save you from it. I
make no question, but what that acrimonious pedagogue George Buchanan
has often applied it to his pupil, and he you know was a poet and a king
into the bargain. I have been reading the Rosciad. You see my very
studies have tended towards flagellation. Upon my word Churchill[14]
does scourge with a vengeance; I should not like to come under his
discipline. He is certainly a very able writer. He has great power of
numbers.
[Footnote 14: Churchill's "Rosciad" had been published in March of this
year.--ED.]
"In manly tides of verse he rolls along."[15]
[Footnote 15:
"In manly tides of sense they roll'd along."
--"The Rosciad."--ED.]
I desire, Erskine, once again, that you may write without delay,
otherwise, I shall no longer be
Your affectionate friend,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER V.
Kelly, Nov. 1, 1761.
Dear BOSWELL,--If you could conceive the many twitches of conscience I
have felt upon your account, the agitations, the compunctions, the
remorses, you would certainly forgive me. However, I was beginning to
turn callous against all suggestions of writing to you, when your last
letter arrived, which like the day of judgment, made my transgressions
stare me full in the face. Indolence and unwearied stupidity have been
my constant companions this many a day; and that amiable couple, above
all things in the world detest letter-writing. Besides, I heard you was
just going to be married, and as a poet, I durst not approach you
without an Epithalamium, and an Epithalamium was a thing, which at that
time I could not compass. It was all in vain, that Cupid and Hymen, Juno
and Luna, offered their assistance; I had no sort of employment for
them.
When you and I walked twice round the meadow upon the subject of
matrimony, I little thought that my difference in opinion from you,
would have brought on your marriage so soon; for I can attribute it to
no other cause: From this I learn that contradiction is of use in
society; and I shall take care to encourage that humour, or rather
spirit, in myself. As this is the first marriage I ever made, I expect
great congratulations, especially from you.
I have been busy furbishing up some old pieces for Donaldson's[16]
second volume: I exceed in quantity, twenty Eustace Budgels, according
to your epistle. Pray what is become of the Cub? Is Dodsley to sell you
for a shilling, or not? I have written one or two new things, an Ode to
Pity, and an Epistle to the great Donaldson, which is to be printed: The
subject was promising, but I made nothing of it. I must give over
poetry, and copy epistles out of that elegant treatise the Complete
Letter-Writer. D---- is gone to London, his parting advice to his sister
was, to keep the key of the coals herself; so I suppose he intends to
keep up his fire, this winter, in parliament, and not to go over the
coals with the ministry.
[Footnote 16: Donaldson, an Edinburgh bookseller, was bringing out a
collection of Original Poems, by the Rev. Mr. Blacklock, and other
Scotch gentlemen. Erskine was the editor.--ED.]
Lady A---- and I set out for New-Tarbat to-morrow. Could you come? Let
nothing but wedlock detain you. Oh, Boswell! the soporific effluvia of a
hearty dinner cloud all my faculties. I'm as dull as the tolling in of
the eighth-hour bell, or a neighbour in the country, that pays you an
annual visit. At this present moment, I'm astonished how anybody can be
clever; and your letter in heroic verse seems more amazing to me than if
the King of Britain was to send an express for me, to dance a hornpipe
before him, or the King of Prussia was to declare in a manifesto, that I
was the occasion of the present war. I detest the invention of writing;
and nothing could reconcile me to it, but that I can assure you at this
distance, that I am yours sincerely,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
There's a genteel conclusion for you. When you come to Edinburgh, I'll
settle an unintermitting correspondence with you.
* * * * *
LETTER VI.
Edinburgh, Nov. 17, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--Much much concern does it give me, to find that you have
been in such bad spirits as your last most grievously indicates. I
believe we great geniuses are all a little subject to the sorcery of
that whimsical demon the spleen, which indeed we cannot complain of,
considering what power of enchantment we ourselves possess, by the sweet
magic of our flowing numbers. I would recommend to you to read Mr.
Green's[17] excellent poem upon that subject. He will dispel the clouds
and enliven you immediately. Or if that should not do, you may have
recourse to Xenophon's method, which was boiling potatoes, and pelting
the cats with them, an infallible receipt to promote risibility.
[Footnote 17: Matthew Green (1696-1737). Author of "The Spleen."--ED.]
So you too have listened to the report of my marriage, and must forsooth
display a pretty vein of jocularity upon the mournful occasion. Did you
really believe it? If you did, you will never be able to astonish me
with any thing else that is wonderful in your creed, for I shall reckon
your judgment at least three stanzas worse than formerly.
In the name of every thing that is upside down, what could the people
mean by marrying me? If they had boiled me into portable soup, or
hammered me into horse-shoes, I should not have been greatly surprised.
A man who has so deeply pondered on the wonders daily presented to our
view, and who has experienced so many vicissitudes of fortune, as I have
done, can easily make allowance for stranger things than these. But I
own their matrimonial system exceeds my comprehension.
Happy is it for the world that this affair did not take place. An event
so prodigious must have been attended with very alarming consequences.
For my own part, I tremble when I think of it. Damocles, Nero, and
Richard the Third, would have appeared amiable princes in comparison of
me. Wherever I went I should have carried horror and devastation,
sparing neither sex nor age. All, all should have been sacrificed to my
relentless cruelty. Donaldson is busy printing his second volume. I have
mustered up a few verses for him, some old, some new. I will not boast
of _them_. But I'll tell you one thing; the volume will be pretty free
from typographical errors: I have the honour to correct the
proof-sheets. My Cub is now with Dodsley. I fancy he will soon make his
appearance in public. I long to see him in his Pall-Mall[18] habit:
Though I'm afraid he will look a little awkward. Write to me often. You
shall have the best answers I can give you.
I remain, yours,
JAMES BOSWELL.
[Footnote 18: Dodsley's shop was in Pall Mall.--ED.]
* * * * *
LETTER VII.
New-Tarbat, Nov. 23, 1761.
Dear BOSWELL,--As we never hear that Demosthenes could broil
beef-steaks, or Cicero poach eggs, we may safely conclude, that these
gentlemen understood nothing of cookery. In like manner it may be
concluded, that you, James Boswell, and I Andrew Erskine, cannot write
serious epistles. This, as Mr. Tristram[19] says, I deny; for this
letter of mine shall contain the quintessence of solidity; it shall be a
piece of boiled beef and cabbage, a roasted goose, and a boiled leg of
pork and greens: in one word, it shall contain advice; sage and mature
advice. Oh! James Boswell! take care and don't break your neck; pray
don't fracture your skull, and be very cautious in your manner of
tumbling down precipices: beware of falling into coal-pits, and don't
drown yourself in every pool you meet with. Having thus warned you of
the most material dangers which your youth and inexperience will be
ready to lead you into, I now proceed to others less momentary indeed,
but very necessary to be strictly observed. Go not near the
Soaping-Club, never mention Drury-lane Playhouse; be attentive to those
Pinchbeck buckles which fortune has so graciously given you, of which I
am afraid you're hardly fond enough; never wash your face, but above all
forswear Poetry: from experience I can assure you, and this letter may
serve as a proof, that a man may be as dull in prose as in verse; and as
dullness is what we aim at, prose is the easiest of the two. Oh! my
friend! profit by these my instructions; think that you see me studying
for your advantage, my reverend locks over-shadowing my paper, my hands
trembling, and my tongue hanging out, a figure of esteem, affection and
veneration. By Heavens! Boswell! I love you more--But this, I think, may
be more conveniently expressed in rhyme
More than a herd of swine a kennel muddy,
More than a brilliant belle polemic study,
More than fat Falstaff lov'd a cup of sack,
More than a guilty criminal the rack,
More than attorneys love by cheats to thrive,
And more than witches to be burnt alive.
[Footnote 19: The first two volumes of Tristram Shandy were published
towards the end of 1759.--ED.]
I begin to be afraid that we shall not see you here this winter; which
will be a great loss to you. If ever you travel into foreign parts, as
Machiavel used to say, everybody abroad will require a description of
New-Tarbat[20] from you. That you may not appear totally ridiculous and
absurd, I shall send you some little account of it. Imagine then to
yourself what Thomson would call an interminable plain,[21] interspersed
in a lovely manner with beautiful green hills. The Seasons here are only
shifted by Summer and Spring. Winter with his fur cap and his cat-skin
gloves, was never seen in this charming retreat. The Castle is of Gothic
structure, awful and lofty: there are fifty bed-chambers in it, with
halls, saloons, and galleries without number. Mr. M----'s father, who
was a man of infinite humour, caused a magnificent lake to be made, just
before the entry of the house. His diversion was to peep out of his
window, and see the people who came to visit him, skipping through
it;--for there was no other passage--then he used to put on such huge
fires to dry their clothes, that there was no bearing them. He used to
declare, that he never thought a man good company till he was half
drown'd and half burnt; but if in any part of his life he had narrowly
escaped hanging (a thing not uncommon in the Highlands) he would
perfectly doat upon him, and whenever the story was told him, he was
ready to choke himself. But to return. Everything here is in the grand
and sublime style. But, alas! some envious magician, with his d----d
enchantments, has destroyed all these beauties. By his potent art, the
house with so many bed-chambers in it, cannot conveniently lodge above a
dozen people. The room which I am writing in, just now, is in reality a
handsome parlour of twenty feet by sixteen; though in my eyes, and to
all outward appearance, it seems a garret of six feet by four. The
magnificent lake is a dirty puddle; the lovely plain, a rude wild
country cover'd with the most astonishing high black mountains: the
inhabitants, the most amiable race under the sun, appear now to be the
ugliest, and look as if they were over-run with the itch. Their delicate
limbs, adorned with the finest silk stockings, are now bare, and very
dirty; but to describe all the transformations would take up more paper
than Lady B---- from whom I had this, would choose to give me. My own
metamorphosis is indeed so extraordinary, that I must make you
acquainted with it. You know I am really very thick and short,
prodigiously talkative and wonderfully impudent. Now I am thin and tall,
strangely silent, and very bashful. If these things continue, who is
safe? Even you, Boswell, may feel a change. Your fair and transparent
complexion may turn black and oily; your person little and squat; and
who knows but you may eternally rave about the King of Great Britain's
guards;[22] a species of madness, from which good Lord deliver us!
[Footnote 20: New-Tarbat, a wild seat in the western Highlands of
Scotland, surrounded with mountains.]
[Footnote 21:
"Far smoking o'er the interminable plain."
--Thomson's "Seasons."--Spring.--ED.]
[Footnote 22: Boswell in a letter to his friend Temple, dated May 1st
1761, had thus described himself. "A young fellow whose happiness was
always centred in London, ... who had got his mind filled with the most
gay ideas--getting into the Guards, being about Court, enjoying the
happiness of the _beau monde_, and the company of men of genius,
&c."--ED.]
I have often wondered, Boswell, that a man of your taste in music,
cannot play upon the Jew's harp; there are some of us here that touch it
very melodiously, I can tell you. Corelli's solo of _Maggie Lauder_, and
Pergolesi's sonata of _The Carle he came o'er the Craft_, are
excellently adapted to that instrument; let me advise you to learn it.
The first cost is but three halfpence, and they last a long time. I have
composed the following ode upon it, which exceeds Pindar as much as the
Jew's harp does the organ.
ODE UPON A JEW'S HARP.
I.
SWEET instrument! which fix'd in yellow teeth,
So clear so sprightly and so gay is found,
Whether you breathe along the shore of Leith,
Or Lowmond's lofty cliffs thy strains resound;
Struck by a taper finger's gentle tip,
Ah softly in our ears thy pleasing murmurs slip!
II.
Where'er thy lively music's found,
All are jumping, dancing round:
Ev'n trusty William lifts a leg,
And capers like sixteen with Peg;
Both old and young confess thy pow'rful sway,
They skip like madmen and they frisk away.
III.
Rous'd by the magic of the charming air,
The yawning dogs forego their heavy slumbers;
The ladies listen on the narrow stair,
And Captain Andrew straight forgets his numbers.
Cats and mice give o'er their battling,
Pewter plates on shelves are rattling;
But falling down the noise my lady hears,
Whose scolding drowns the trump more tuneful than the spheres!
Having thus, Boswell, written you a most entertaining letter, with which
you are highly pleased; to your great grief I give over in these or the
like words, your affectionate friend,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER VIII.
Edinburgh, Dec. 2, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--Notwithstanding of your affecting elegy on the death of
two pigs, I am just now returned from eating a most excellent one with
the most magnificent Donaldson. I wish you would explain to me the
reason of my being so very hard-hearted as to discover no manner of
reluctance at that innocent animal's being brought to table well
roasted. I will confess to you, my friend, that I fed upon it with no
small alacrity--neither do I feel any pangs of remorse for having so
done. The reason perhaps lies so deep as to elude our keenest
penetration;--at the same time give me leave to offer my conjecture,
which you may have by a little transmutation of a vulgar adage, in such
manner as to obtain at one and the same time (so to speak) not only a
strong reason for my alleged inhumanity, but also an apparent pun, and
a seeming paradox; all which you have for the small and easy charge of
saying, The belly has no bowels.
I do assure you the imperial sovereign of Pope's head, Caledonian
Dodsley, Scottish Baskerville, and captain general of collective bards,
entertained us most sumptuously; I question much if captain Erskine
himself ever fared better; although I was the only author in the
company, which I own surprised me not a little. Donaldson is undoubtedly
a gentleman perfectly skilled in the art of insinuation. His dinners are
the most eloquent addresses imaginable. For my own part, I am never a
sharer in one of his copious repasts, but I feel my heart warm to the
landlord, and spontaneously conceive this expressive soliloquy,--Upon my
word I must give him another hundred lines.
Now, my dear Captain, tell me how is it with you, after reading this?
With what feeling are you most strongly possessed? But as this depends a
good deal upon the time of the day at which you receive my epistle, I
shall make no farther inquiry.
Thus, Sir, have I unbosomed the big exultation which possessed me upon
occasion of what some of the fathers would call _splendidum prandium_;
Englished thus, a splendid dinner.
Are not you all this time very much astonished, nay, somewhat piqued,
that I have as yet made no mention of your last, notwithstanding of the
wonderful enchantments which you relate, the sagacious advices which you
give, and the ode to a Jew's harp, which you add. Forgive me, good
Captain. Blame Donaldson. Write to me whenever you have any thing that
you wish to say, and believe me,
Yours,
JAMES BOSWELL.
P.S. Are not you very proud of your Ode to Midnight? Lord K---- calls it
the best Poem in the English language. But it will not be long so. For
in imitation of it I have written an Ode to Gluttony, of which take two
stanzas.
I.
HAIL Gluttony! O let me eat
Immensely at thy awful board,
On which to serve the stomach meet,
What art and nature can afford.
I'll furious cram, devoid of fear,
Let but the roast and boil'd appear;
Let me but see a smoking dish,
I care not whether fowl or fish;
Then rush ye floods of ale adown my throat,
And in my belly make the victuals float!
II.