Or give to meat the time of play?
While ev'ry trout gulps down a hook,
And poor dumb beasts harsh butchers slay?
Why seek the dull, sauce-smelling gloom,
Of the beef-haunted dining room;
Where D----r gives to every guest
With lib'ral hand whate'er is best;
While you in vain th' insurance must invoke
To give security you shall not choke?
* * * * *
LETTER IX.
New-Tarbat, Dec. 3, 1761.
Dear BOSWELL,
EV'N now intent upon thy Ode,
I plunge my knife into the beef,
Which, when a cow--as is the mode--
Was _lifted_ by a Highland thief.
Ah! spare him, spare him, circuit Lords!
Ah hang him not in hempen cords;
Ah save him in his morn of youth
From the damp-breathing, dark[23] tolbooth,
Lest when condemn'd and hung in clanking chains,
His body moulder down white-bleached with winter rains!
[Footnote 23: Tolbooth Prison.]
But let not me intermeddle with your province; to parody the ode to
midnight, could only be thought of and executed by the mirth-moving,
humour-hunting, raillery-raising James Boswell. You must send me the
rest of your Gluttony by the return of the post, even though it should
prove the night of the Beard-soaping Club. Did you ever suspect me of
believing your marriage? No, I always said from the beginning, there was
nothing in it; I can bring twenty witnesses to prove it, who shall be
nameless; indeed if you had been married, I don't know but the same
gentlemen might have been prevailed upon to vouch for me that I
frequently declared my firm persuasion of it; these kind of witnesses
have multiplied greatly of late years, to the eternal credit of many a
person's surprising sagacity; but if you want to see this subject
pursued and treated with accuracy, peruse Doctor Woodward's Treatise of
Fossils, particularly his remarks upon the touchstone.
I am glad to hear you are returned to town, and once more near that seat
of learning and genius Mr. Alexander Donaldson's shop. You tell me you
are promoted to be his corrector of the press; I wish you also had the
office of correcting his children, which they very much want; the eldest
son, when I was there, never failed to play at taw all the time, and my
queue used frequently to be pulled about; you know, upon account of its
length it is very liable to these sort of attacks; I am thinking to cut
it off, for I never yet met with a child that could keep his hands from
it: and here I can't forbear telling you, that if ever you marry and
have children, our acquaintance ceases from that moment, unless you
breed them up after the manner of the great Scriblerus, and unless they
be suckled with soft verse, and weaned with criticism.
Write me when the volume will be published, and what sort of figure you
think it will make, particularly how James Boswell and Andrew Erskine
will appear; I know you will mix your opinion with a good deal of
partial praise, as you are one of those extraordinary authors that have
a love for their own works, and also one of those still more
extraordinary ones that can flatter another. I find fault with one or
two things in your letters; I could wish you wrote in a smaller hand,
and that when you end a sentence in the beginning of a line, you would
begin the next sentence in the same line.
Dear Boswell, go to Donaldson and tell him he is a most inhuman
miscreant, and deserves, as he is a Printer, to be pressed to death;
then thunder in his ear that he has not sent Captain Erskine his
Critical Review.
Lady B---- entreats that you would come here and spend the Christmas
holidays; she has sent for two Highland bards to entertain you, and I
have a wash-ball and a stick of pomatum much at your service: we are
all, thank God, in general pretty clear of the Itch just now, and most
of us not near so lousy as we used to be, so I think you may venture. I
received your letter ten days after the date, though it only came from
Edinburgh; I had wrote you one some little time before, directed to the
Parliament-Close, have you got it? That you may never want Odes of mine
to parody, I enclose you one to Fear,[24] nothing like it you will
observe since the time of Pindar.
[Footnote 24: This Ode is not worth reprinting.--ED.]
And now, my dear dear Boswell, I conclude, having, as I hope for mercy,
not one word more to say, which I believe is often the case of many an
enormous genius.
Farewell. Yours, &c.,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER X.
Edinburgh, Dec. 8, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--It is a very strange thing, that I James Boswell, Esq.,
"who am happily possessed of a facility of manners,"--(to use the very
words of Mr. Professor Smith,[25] which upon honour were addressed to
me. I can produce the Letter in which they are to be found) I say it is
a very strange thing that I should ever be at a loss how to express
myself; and yet at this moment of my existence, that is really the case.
May Lady B---- say unto me, "Boswell, I detest thee," if I am not in
downright earnest.
[Footnote 25: Adam Smith. Boswell had attended his classes on Moral
Philosophy, when a student in the University of Glasgow.--ED.]
Mankind are such a perverse race of beings, that they never fail to lay
hold of every circumstance tending to their own praise, while they let
slip every circumstance tending to their censure. To illustrate this by
a recent example, you see I accurately remember Mr. Smith's beautiful, I
shall even grant you just compliment, but have quite forgot his severe
criticism on a sentence so clumsily formed, as to require an _I say_ to
keep it together; which I myself candidly think much resembles a pair of
ill-mended breeches.
Having a mind, Erskine, to open a sluice of happiness upon you, I must
inform you that I have lately got you an immensity of applause from men
of the greatest taste. You know I read rather better than any man in
Britain; so that your works had a very uncommon advantage. I was pleased
at the praise which you received. I was vain of having such a
correspondent. I thought I did not envy you a bit, and yet, I don't
know, I felt somehow, as if I could like to thresh you pretty heartily:
however, I have one comfort, in thinking that all this praise would not
have availed you a single curl of Sir Cloudesley Shovel's periwig,[26]
had not I generously reported it to you: so that in reality you are
obliged to me for it.
[Footnote 26: "Sir Cloudesley Shovel's monument has very often given me
great offence: instead of the brave, rough English Admiral, which was
the distinguishing character of that plain, gallant man, he is
represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long
periwig, and reposing himself upon velvet cushions under a canopy of
state."--The "Spectator," No. 26.--ED.]
The second volume of the Poems will not be published till January.
Captain Erskine will make a very good figure. Boswell a decent one.
Lady B---- intreats me to come and pass the Christmas holidays with her:
guess, O guess! what transport I felt at reading that. I did not know
how to contain my elevation of spirits. I thought myself one of the
greatest geniuses in Europe. I thought I could write all sorts of books,
and work at all handicraft trades. I imagined that I had fourscore
millions of money out at interest, and that I should actually be chosen
Pope at the next election. I obtest you, my friend, in the warmest
spirit of love to return to her Ladyship my most sincere thanks, and
tell her that when the planets permit us to meet, she herself shall
judge how richly I can express my gratitude.
Although I am a good deal of a Don Quixote, yet I feel myself averse to
so long a journey. Believe me, I am as sweetly indolent as any genius in
all his Majesty's dominions, so that for my own incitement I must
propose the following scheme. You Captain Andrew shall, upon Monday the
28th day of this present month, set out from New-Tarbat in Mr. M----'s
chaise, and meet me at Glasgow, that evening. Next day shall we both in
friendly guise get into the said chaise, and drive with velocity to your
present habitation, where I shall remain till the Monday sennight; on
which day I shall be in like manner accompanied back to Glasgow, from
thence to make my way as well as I can, to the Scottish metropolis. I
have told the story of my scheme rather awkwardly; but it will have its
advantages; I shall have a couple of days more of your classical
company, and somewhat less to pay, which to a Poet is no slender
consideration.
I shall chaise it the whole way. Thanks to the man who first invented
that comfortable method of journeying. Had it not been for that, I dare
say both you and I would have circumscribed our travels within a very
few miles. For my own part, I think to dress myself in a great-coat and
boots, and get astride a horse's back, and be jolted through the mire,
perhaps in wind and rain, is a punishment too severe for all the
offences which I can charge myself with. Indeed I have a mortal
antipathy at riding, and that was the true reason for my refusing a
regiment of dragoons which the King of Prussia offered me at the
beginning of this war. I know indeed the Marischal Duke de Belleisle in
his Political Testament,[27] has endeavoured to persuade the world that
it was owing to my having a private amour with a Lady of distinction in
the Austrian court, but that minister was too deeply immersed in
state-intrigues, to know much about those of a more tender nature. The
tumultuous hurry of business and ambition, left no room in his mind for
the delicious delicacy of sentiment and passion, so very essential to a
man of gallantry.
[Footnote 27: "Avez-vous lu le _Testament politique du Maréchal de
Belle-Isle_? C'est un ex-capucin de Rouen, nommé jadis Maubert, fripon,
espion, escroc, menteur et ivrogne, ayant tous les talens de moinerie,
qui a composé cet impertinent ouvrage."--Voltaire, Nov. 27, 1761.--ED.]
I think, Erskine, in this scheme of mine, I am playing a very sure game,
for you must either indulge me in every article which I have mentioned,
or entertain me with a plentiful dish of well drest apologies. I beg it
of you, however, don't put yourself to any inconvenience; indeed I might
have saved myself the trouble of making this request, for you are that
kind of man that I believe you would not put yourself to an
inconvenience to be made a Lieutenant-General. Pray shall we not see you
here this winter at all? You ought to come and eat the fruit of your
labours. I remain your most affectionate friend,
JAMES BOSWELL.
I shall rouse Donaldson as you desire. I shall rouse him like a peal of
thunder.
I wonder what you will all think of this proposal of mine for delivering
myself in Folio. Ten days make a period, as I use to say. They bear some
proportion to the whole of life. Write instantly.
* * * * *
LETTER XI.[28]
[Footnote 28: This Letter was occasioned by seeing an Ode to Tragedy,
written by a Gentleman of Scotland, and dedicated to James Boswell,
Esq., advertised in the Edinburgh Newspapers. It afterwards appeared
that the Ode was written by Mr. Boswell himself.]
New-Tarbat, Dec. 13, 1761.
Dear BOSWELL,--An Ode to Tragedy by a gentleman of Scotland, and
dedicated to you! had there been only one spark of curiosity in my whole
composition, this would have raised it to a flame equal to the general
conflagration. May G----d d----n me, as Lord Peter says,[29] if the edge of
my appetite to know what it can be about, is not as keen as the best
razor ever used by a member of the Soaping-Club. Go to Donaldson, demand
from him two of my franks, and send it me even before the first post:
write me, O write me! what sort of man this author is, where he was
born, how he was brought up, and with what sort of diet he has been
principally fed; tell me his genealogy, like Mr. M----; how many miles
he has travelled in post-chaises, like Colonel R----; tell me what he
eats, like a cook; what he drinks, like a wine-merchant; what shoes he
wears, like a shoe-maker; in what manner his mother was delivered of
him, like a man-midwife; and how his room is furnished, like an
upholsterer; but if you happen to find it difficult to utter all this in
terms befitting Mr. M----, Colonel R----, a cook, a wine-merchant, a
shoemaker, a man-midwife, and an upholsterer, Oh! tell it me all in your
own manner, and in your own incomparable style.
[Footnote 29: In the "Tale of a Tub."--ED.]
Your scheme, Boswell, has met with--but the thoughts of this Ode-writing
gentleman of Scotland again come across me,--I must now ask, like the
Spectator,[30] is he fat or lean, tall or short, does he use spectacles?
what is the length of his walking-stick? has he a landed estate? has he
a good coal-work?--Lord! Lord! what a melancholy thing it is to live
twenty miles from a post-town! why am I not in Edinburgh? why am I not
chained to Donaldson's shop?
[Footnote 30: "I have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book with
pleasure, till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair
man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with
other particulars of the like nature that conduce very much to the right
understanding of an author."--"The Spectator," No. 1.--ED.]
I received both your letters yesterday, for we send to the Post-house
but once a week: I need not tell you how I liked them; were I to
acquaint you with that, you would consecrate the pen with which they
were written, and deify the inkhorn: I think the outside of one of them
was adorned with the greatest quantity of good sealing-wax I ever saw,
and my brother A---- and Lady A----, both of whom have a notable
comprehension of these sort of things, agree with me in this my opinion.
Your Ode to Gluttony[31] is altogether excellent; the descriptions are
so lively, that mistaking the paper on which they were written, for a
piece of bread and butter spread with marmalade, I fairly swallowed the
whole composition, and I find my stomach increased three-fold since that
time; I declare it to be the most admirable whet in the world, superior
to a solan goose, or white wine and bitters; it ought to be hung up in
every cook's shop in the three kingdoms, engraved on pillars in all
market places, and pasted in all rooms in all taverns.
[Footnote 31: He refers to the continuation of this Ode, which I have
omitted in the present Edition.--ED.]
You seem to doubt in your first letter, if ever Captain Erskine was
better entertained by the great Donaldson, than you was lately; banish
that opinion, tell it not in Gath; nor publish it in Askalon; repeat it
not in John's Coffee-house, neither whisper it in the Abbey of
Holyrood-House; no, I shall never forget the fowls and oyster sauce
which bedecked the board: fat were the fowls, and the oysters of the
true pandour or croat kind; then the apple pie with raisins, and the
mutton with cauliflower, can never be erased from my remembrance; I may
forget my native country, my dear brothers and sisters, my poetry, my
art of making love, and even you, O Boswell! but these things I can
never forget; the impression is too deep, too well imprinted ever to be
effaced; I may turn Turk or Hottentot, I may be hanged for stealing a
bag to adorn my hair, I may ravish all sorts of virgins, young and old,
I may court the fattest Wapping landlady, but these things I can never
forget; I may be sick and in prison, I may be deaf, dumb, and may lose
my memory, but these things I can never forget.
And now, Boswell, I am to acquaint you, that your proposal is received
with the utmost joy and festivity, and the scheme, if I live till
to-morrow fortnight, will be put in execution. The New-Tarbat chaise
will arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening the 28th of December, drove by
William. Captain Andrew's slim personage will slip out, he will enquire
for James Boswell, Esq.; he will be shewn into the room where he is
sitting before a large fire, the evening being cold, raptures and poetry
will ensue, and every man will soap his own beard; every other article
of the proposals will be executed as faithfully as this; but to speak
very seriously, you must be true to your appointment, and come with the
utmost regularity upon the Monday; think of my emotions at Græme's, if
you should not come; view my melancholy posture; hark! I rave like Lady
Wishfort,[32] no Boswell yet, Boswell's a lost thing. I must receive a
letter from you before I set out, telling me whether you keep true to
your resolution, and pray send me the Ode to Tragedy: I beg you'll bring
me out in your pocket my Critical Review, which you may desire Donaldson
to give you; but above all, employ Donaldson to get me a copy of
Fingal,[33] which tell him I'll pay him for; I long to see it.
[Footnote 32: In "The Way of the World," by Congreve.--ED.]
[Footnote 33: The first volume of Macpherson's "Fingal" was published
this winter.--ED.]
There are some things lately published in London, which I would be glad
to have, particularly a Spousal Hymn on the marriage of the King and
Queen, and an Elegy on viewing a ruined Pile of Buildings; see what you
can do for me; I know you will not take it ill to be busied a little for
that greatest of all Poets Captain Andrew.
The sluice of happiness you have let in upon me, has quite overflowed
the shallows of my understanding; at this moment I am determined to
write more and print more than any man in the kingdom, except the great
Dr. Hill, who writes a Folio every month, a Quarto every fortnight, an
Octavo every week, and a Duodecimo every day.[34] Hogarth has
humourously represented a brawny porter almost sinking to the ground
under a huge load of his works. I am too lazy just now to copy out an
Ode to Indolence, which I have lately written; besides, it's fitting I
reserve something for you to peruse when we meet, for upon these
occasions an exchange of Poems ought to be as regular as an exchange of
prisoners between two nations at war. Believe me, dear Boswell, to be
yours sincerely,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
[Footnote 34: "Would you believe, what I know is fact, that Dr. Hill
earned fifteen guineas a week by working for wholesale dealers? He was
at once employed on six voluminous works of Botany, Husbandry, &c.,
published weekly."--Horace Walpole, date of Jan. 3, 1761.--ED.]
P.S.--Pray write me before I set out for Glasgow.--The Ode to Tragedy,
by a gentleman of Scotland, good now! wonderful!
* * * * *
LETTER XII.
Edinburgh, Saturday, Dec. 14, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--If my scheme takes, you must alter it. Thursday the 24th
must be the day of our meeting, as I am obliged to return hither on
Saturday the 2nd of January. This is really a curious way of employing
you; however, you will gain something by it; you will acquire a
particular exactness in knowing the days of the month, a science too
much neglected in these degenerate days, but a science which was
cultivated with a glorious ardour in Greece and Rome, and was no doubt
the cause of their flourishing so much in every respect.
I am yours sincerely,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER XIII.
Edinburgh, Dec. 17, 1761.
Dear ERSKINE,--Had you but hinted a method of conveyance sooner than by
the first post, sooner should the Ode to Tragedy have saluted your
longing eyes.
At length it comes! it comes! Hark! with what lofty music do the spheres
proclaim its triumphal entry into the majestic edifice at Tarbat! Behold
the family gathered around it in a sort of quadrangular figure! Heavens!
what a picture of curiosity! what a group of eager expectants! They show
their teeth, they rub their hands, they kick the floor! But who is this
the fire of whose look flames infinitely beyond the rest? It is Captain
Andrew! It is! it is! ye Gods! he seizes! he opens! he reads! Let us
leave him. I can no more. It would stretch the strings too far to
proceed. You must know I purposely neglected to send the Ode myself, and
likewise prevented Donaldson from sending it immediately when it was
published, in order to give full play to your impatience. I considered
what amazing effects it must produce upon Captain Erskine, to find in
one advertisement, An Ode to Tragedy--A Gentleman of Scotland--Alexander
Donaldson--and James Boswell, Esq. How far my conjecture was just, your
last letter does most amply testify.
The author of the Ode to Tragedy, is a most excellent man: he is of an
ancient family in the west of Scotland, upon which he values himself not
a little. At his nativity there appeared omens of his future greatness.
His parts are bright, and his education has been good. He has travelled
in post-chaises, miles without number. He is fond of seeing much of the
world. He eats of every good dish, especially apple-pie. He drinks old
hock. He has a very fine temper. He is somewhat of an humorist, and a
little tinctured with pride. He has a good manly countenance, and he
owns himself to be amorous. He has infinite vivacity, yet is observed at
times to have a melancholy cast. He is rather fat than lean, rather
short than tall, rather young than old. His shoes are neatly made, and
he never wears spectacles. The length of his walking-stick is not as yet
ascertained; but we hope soon to favour the republic of letters with a
solution of this difficulty, as several able mathematicians are employed
in its investigation, and for that purpose have posted themselves at
different given points in the Cannongate, so that when the gentleman
saunters down to the Abbey of Holyrood-house, in order to think on
ancient days, on King James the Fifth, and on Queen Mary, they may
compute its altitude above the street, according to the rules of
geometry.
I hope you have received a line from me fixing Thursday the 24th, as the
day of our meeting. I exult in the prospect of felicity that is before
us. Fingal and your Critical Review shall accompany me. I will not
anticipate your pleasure in reading the Highland bard; only take my word
for it, he will make you feel that you have a soul. I shall remember
your other commissions. Continue to trust me till you find me negligent.
I beg it of you, for once, be a Frenchman, and in the character of
Boswell, kneel, supplicate, worship Lady B----. I remain, your
affectionate Friend,
JAMES BOSWELL.
* * * * *
LETTER XIV.
New-Tarbat, Dec. 16, 1761.
Dear BOSWELL,--Swift as pen can scratch, or ink can flow, as floods can
rush, or winds can blow, which you'll observe is a very pretty rhyme, I
sit down on a chair which has really a very bad bottom, being made of
wood, and answer your epistle which I received this moment; it is dated
on Saturday the 14th, which was really the 12th, according to the
computation of the best chronologists: this is a blunder which Sir Isaac
Newton would never have excused; but I a man no less great, forgive it
from my soul; and I here declare, that I will never upbraid you with it
in any company or conversation, even though that conversation should
turn upon the quickest and most pleasant method of swallowing oysters,
when you know I might very naturally introduce it.
I confess it is singularly silly in me to turn the page in this manner,
and that I should have followed your example, or rather ensample, as
some great judges of style usually write it. I see by the newspapers,
that Fingal is to be published at Edinburgh in a few days, pray bring it
with you.
I will undoubtedly meet you at Glasgow on the 24th day of the month,
being exactly that day which precedes Christmas, as was ingeniously
observed by Mr. Sheridan in his fourth Lecture;[35] and I hear he is
going to publish a whole volume of discoveries all as notable as this,
which I imagine will exceed his lectures greatly.
[Footnote 35: "Course of Lectures on Elocution," by Thomas Sheridan,
M.A. London, 1762.--ED.]
Pray now be faithful to this appointment, and so I commit this letter to
the guidance of Providence, hoping that it will not miscarry, or fail of
being duly delivered.
Believe me yours sincerely,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
* * * * *
LETTER XV.
New-Tarbat, Jan. 10, 1762.
Dear BOSWELL,--The storms of night descended, the winds rolled along the
clouds with all their ghosts, around the rock the dark waves burst, and
shewed their flaming bosoms, loud rushed the blast through the leafless
oaks, and the voice of the spirit of the mountains was heard in our
halls; it was Saturday, when lo! at once the postman came, mighty was
his striding in the kitchen, and strong was his voice for ale. In
short, I have as yet received no letter from you, and great is my wonder
and astonishment, even Donaldson has not sent me my Critical Review;
would to God he had one rap from Fingal's sword of Luno.